#way to make this as inconvenient and as difficult impossible

[daydreaming-in-daisies]

this is actually the most annoying thing i've ever read in my life.

[dreamauri]

♪ — 𝗢𝗡𝗘 𝗠𝗢𝗥𝗘 𝗣𝗥𝗢𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗠 lando norris x fem! gallery coordinator! reader ( fluff ) fic summary . . . Because men yearn too, and Lando is the biggest yearner of them all. He spends his time chasing you, waiting for the right moment, and his reckless charm pulls you in, making you crave him despite your initial resistance. Now, you’re the one chasing him, unable to resist the pull he’s had on you all along (3.7k words)

( my master list | more of lando norris ) ( requests )

You had no time for problems. Your life was already a balancing act on a tightrope stretched too thin, weighed down by responsibilities, expectations, and the little inconveniences that piled up like clutter in the corners of your mind. Another problem wasn’t just unwelcome—it was unthinkable.

Especially problems that came from dating.

And Lando? Lando was a problem you couldn’t afford.

You met him months ago. At first, he was just another customer—harmless, fleeting, nothing worth remembering. Then he became a donor, his generosity slipping through the cracks of your carefully maintained distance. And then, somehow, he became something else. Something of a problem you didn’t mind having. Unfortunately.

“You should stop sending me flowers,” you told him, the phone wedged between your ear and shoulder as you carefully set down the last of four pots of deep orange roses he had delivered to your studio. Their petals were impossibly soft, almost weightless beneath your fingers, like the whisper of silk sheets in the morning. The color was rare, difficult to find. A mystery, like so many things about him.

“Should I?” Lando’s voice hummed through the speaker, his smirk practically audible.

He was probably in a paddock somewhere, another race weekend stealing him away to some distant city, but you never bothered to check where. He never made you feel like he was gone.

“You don’t seem to mind,” he added, and damn him, he wasn’t wrong.

You liked the way he chased. How he lingered in the periphery like a shadow, always watching, always waiting. How he learned your coffee order without asking, walked you to your car without expectation, showed up at your events unannounced but never unwelcome. He played the part of something dangerous but never reckless, his obsession carefully measured, wrapped in velvet and tied with a bow.

You weren’t stupid.

Lando Norris would be a problem if you let him be.

So, you didn’t. Not entirely. But you never let him go either.

Not yet.

“—Hello.”

Lando’s voice cut through the conversation like the effortless glide of a brush on canvas, his presence slipping in behind you before you even had the chance to react. His arm curled around your waist, pulling you close with the kind of ease that suggested he belonged there. That he always had.

You looked up, startled. You hadn’t expected him to be here. Then again, Lando had a habit of showing up in places you didn’t expect him to be.

The gallery was dimly lit, warm and intimate, each painting strategically placed under soft golden light. But the atmosphere shifted the moment Lando appeared. You felt it in the way the man you had been speaking with suddenly stiffened, his polite smile faltering as his eyes flicked between you and the driver who was now entirely too close, entirely too relaxed.

Lando wasn’t invited tonight. You hadn’t extended an invitation, assuming he’d be flying back to England for post-race debriefs. Yet, here he was, standing beside you like he’d been meant to all along.

Not that he was unwelcome.

“Excuse us,” Lando said smoothly, his posh British accent adding a sharper edge to his words as he pulled you away without waiting for permission. He plucked the flute of champagne from your hand, bringing it to his lips in one effortless motion, downing the expensive bubbles in a single gulp. Then, without a second thought, he wiped his mouth against the sleeve of his suit, glancing around as if daring someone to stop him.

His eyes flicked back to you. “You were letting him touch you.”

You blinked, caught between amusement and exasperation. “He’s a curator,” you defended, a playful smile tugging at your lips.

Lando scoffed, scrunching his nose in visible disagreement. He turned toward the nearest painting, pretending to admire it—but you knew better. He wasn’t interested in the brushwork, the composition, or even the story behind it. His gaze lingered lower. He was looking at the price tag.

“He wants to fuck you,” Lando corrected bluntly, his voice low, even, certain.

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head as you turned your attention to the painting instead of him. “So do you.”

“The difference is,” Lando started, squeezing your waist just enough to make you look back at him, “you let me.”

His confidence was unwavering, his gaze sharp as it locked onto yours.

You only smirked, meeting him with the same quiet arrogance.

Lando held your stare for a beat longer before turning back to the artwork. He gestured toward it with a tilt of his chin. “I want this one.”

You raised an eyebrow. He didn’t have the space for it in his apartment, and you both knew it. But the aesthetic matched, and the price was high—high enough that most buyers would hesitate. Not him.

Maybe he bought it to impress you. Maybe he did it just to keep you on your toes, knowing the most expensive pieces were the hardest to sell. Or maybe, just maybe, it was another unspoken way of marking his presence.

Because every time he showed up uninvited, he left with the most expensive painting in the room.

And every time, he won.

Lando is becoming a problem.

And he knows it.

It doesn’t stop him from showing up at your apartment, though—loose-limbed, lazy-eyed, a bag of takeout in one hand and a set of sketches in the other. Your sketches. The ones you’d left at his place after he’d dragged you back to his apartment following a night out clubbing.

You barely have the door open before he’s stepping inside, flashing you that smile. The one that always manages to worm its way past your defenses.

“Hi.” He greets you like he belongs here. Like he always has. “You forgot these.”

It’s an excuse. You both know it. The sketches weren’t important enough for him to make a trip across the city, but that’s never stopped him before. He likes having reasons to see you. He likes pushing the line of what’s invited and what’s not.

You sigh, shutting the door as you watch him toe off his shoes, making himself at home. He sets the takeout down on the counter before wandering into your kitchen, moving through the space with a familiarity that should annoy you. It doesn’t.

You still haven’t said a word by the time he reappears, two plates in hand, already dividing up the food he’s brought. He hands you a plate before sinking onto the couch beside you—so close there’s no space left between your bodies.

You glance at him, amused, but shake your head and start eating anyway. There’s no point in telling him off. He never listens.

Lando makes himself even more comfortable, grabbing the remote and flipping through Netflix like it’s his own account.

“You should teach me how to draw,” he says suddenly, as if the thought had just occurred to him.

You snort. “I should teach you manners.”

Without missing a beat, you reach forward, smudging a bit of dipping sauce onto the tip of his nose with your finger.

Lando blinks, unfazed. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he catches your wrist before you can pull away. His grip is gentle, but firm enough to keep you still. His ridiculous green eyes lock onto yours, holding your gaze steady as he leans in—

And licks the sauce off your fingertip.

The room shifts. Your breath catches.

The look he gives you is almost challenging, a silent dare lingering between you.

You don’t back down. Instead, you tilt your head, fingers curling under his jaw as you lean in, closing the distance between you with a kiss.

Lando hums in approval, smiling against your lips.

He might be a problem.

“I really ought to teach you some manners.” You scoff, swatting Lando’s bicep as he stood in front of you.

He only grinned wider, the picture of unbothered charm, holding a tray of coffee in one hand and a bouquet of orange roses in the other. Instead of answering, he lifted the flowers, hiding his face behind them in a poor attempt to suppress his laughter. His shoulders shook slightly, his teeth sinking into his lower lip as if that would stop the amusement from spilling over.

You rolled your eyes, swatting at his bicep again. Unfairly solid, as usual. He made no effort to dodge, letting you land the hit with that same insufferable smile. His stupid mullet, his stupid dimples—yes, he was attractive, but that wasn’t the point. He couldn’t just show up at your studio uninvited. What would your co-workers think? Worse, what if rumors started? People might assume you were the latest addition to the ever-growing list of paddock WAGs. You could not have that.

Lando was a problem.

And the worst part? He knew it.

When your little lecture finally came to an end, he peeked out from behind the roses, offering one of the coffee cups as a peace offering. You narrowed your eyes but took it anyway, muttering under your breath. He knew your order perfectly, down to the extra shot of espresso, the exact amount of sugar. How could you stay mad at him?

“Give me that.” You huffed, snatching the bouquet from his other hand and setting it on your desk.

You’d come to realize, over time, that orange roses weren’t just a nod to his team. They meant desire. Fascination. Enthusiasm.

Desire.

That asshole.

“You could always tell me to leave,” Lando mused, tilting his head, amusement twinkling in his ridiculous green eyes.

“Fuck off,” you muttered. Then, contradicting yourself entirely, you grabbed his bicep and dragged him toward the door. “You want lunch, right? Let’s go.”

Lando laughed but followed without resistance, letting you lead him outside.

Telling him to fuck off while pulling him along was irony at its finest.

Lando couldn’t keep himself off you for even a second.

If it wasn’t one hand on you, it was both. He was always there—holding your waist, resting a palm on the small of your back, wrapping an arm around you from behind. Like a tether, like gravity itself.

Lando had attachment issues.

They used to velcro him to his karting seat, and now he velcroed himself to you.

The event was private, exclusive, the kind of gala that required an invitation—one you actually had, unlike a certain Brit, who had a habit of showing up uninvited. But when Lando told you they’d be auctioning vintage art pieces, he knew your curiosity would win out. He knew you’d say yes.

Still, out of all the art in the room, the only masterpiece Lando was interested in was you. If his constant proximity wasn’t proof enough, the way he was looking at you certainly was—like he wanted to bite you, just for the sake of it.

Which, knowing him, wouldn’t be out of the question.

“This is so pretty,” you whispered, admiring a particular painting on display.

Lando hummed in agreement, though he wasn’t looking at the artwork. The only thing he deemed pretty in that moment was you—draped in the satin dress he’d bought specifically for tonight. Not that you didn’t have suitable dresses of your own. He just wanted to put you in papaya.

His hand slid along the inside of your thigh, fingers curling against your skin through the slit of your dress, giving a firm squeeze before pulling your chair closer to his own.

Attachment issues.

You ended up going home with the painting you’d been eyeing.

Shoes and heels were discarded on the floor as Lando lifted the frame from the wall beside the dinner table, making space for the new piece. He barely had time to step back and admire it before his hands were on you again, arms winding around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

Then, just as he’d helped you into the dress earlier that evening—

He took his time taking you out of it.

You don’t understand Lando’s eyes.

They say a person’s eyes are a gateway to their soul, but Lando’s are something else entirely. Not hollow—no, there’s someone home—but dark. Watching you with something heavy, something obsessive, something that clings to his every thought like ivy wrapping around brick.

It isn’t romance. Not in the soft, poetic sense.

It’s devotion. The kind that erodes. The kind that will eat him alive one day.

He sits at the edge of your bed, hunched forward, those dark eyes fixed on you as you sit at your vanity. The P1 Singapore trophy rests in your hands, cold and gleaming under the soft light. You admire it, running your fingers along the engraved lettering, wearing nothing but a satin robe.

“Can I keep it?” The question slips out before you even register it.

“Whatever you want, it’s yours,” Lando answers without hesitation. He’s already moving, crossing the room in a few strides, crouching beside you. His lips find your neck in a soft kiss, breath warm against your skin. “Whatever it is in this world you want, it’s yours.”

You smile, biting your lip as you meet his gaze.

Those dark eyes.

“And if I tell you I want you to leave?” you ask, turning to face him fully.

Lando flinches. It’s small, but it’s there. A microsecond of vulnerability before he straightens, exhaling as he runs a hand through his curls.

“I’ll leave.” His voice is rougher now, giving in too easily as he gathers his clothes off the floor, his movements stiff.

“But I didn’t tell you to leave.” Your voice is softer this time. “I said if.”

He freezes mid-step, groaning as he tilts his head back in frustration.

“Stop toying with me, please,” he mutters, looking at you with a glare that doesn’t hold.

Because it fades the second he sees you again, admiring his trophy, your fingers tracing over the smooth metal with something soft in your expression.

Lando watches you.

And just like that, he’s ruined for you all over again.

You don’t remember inviting Lando.

When you decided to go out drinking and clubbing with your friends, you were pretty sure Lando Norris wasn’t part of the plan. And yet, here he is, holding you against his chest, arms wrapped around you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away.

He must still have your location on Snapchat or whatever app he secretly stalks you on, because somehow, some way, he found you.

You don’t mind, though. Not when he’s this warm against your back, laughing softly in your ear. You’ve never heard this chuckle from him before—it must be a drunk Lanny thing, this odd, clingy affection. You’re not sure how much either of you had to drink, but the way he lifts your hand, pressing kiss after kiss to the back of it, makes you giggle.

You lean your head back on his shoulder, letting go of his hand, only for Lando to tighten his grip around you, lips trailing down your neck instead.

“Come home with me,” he shouts over the music, voice low and full of something unspoken. “I want to show you something.”

Not that he really gives you a choice.

You barely get a chance to respond before he’s pulling you along, weaving through the sweaty crowd with your wrist in his grasp. But whatever he planned to show you is long forgotten by the time you reach his apartment.

Because the laughs turn into kisses. The kisses turn into moans. And the moans turn into him fucking you against the wall.

Lando is an experience. A little bit of everything you crave, wrapped into one maddeningly intoxicating man—nicely built, painfully loyal, stupidly funny, unfairly good-looking, and completely, devastatingly obsessed with you.

And that look in his eyes? That dark, hungry look as he sheds his clothes and practically rips your dress down its zipper? That’s what ruins you.

He traps you against the wall, body pressed against yours, heat radiating off him in waves. Fabric tears as he forces it off your body, and then he’s lifting you up by your thighs, a smile curling at his lips as his nose brushes yours.

You smile back, cupping his face as you kiss him sweetly, a stark contrast to the way he’s about to ruin you.

Clumsily, he adjusts you above him, and you feel the stretch as he sinks into you—slow, torturous, unbearable.

A whimper slips from your lips as he presses harder against you, bracing you against the wall before he starts to move. Your arms slip from his neck to his back, nails digging in, marking him up like you own him.

You don’t see his face when you lean your head onto his shoulder, watching where your bodies join, but if you did—you’d see that dark, crazed look in his eyes. The kind that swallows him whole as he nibbles and sucks on your skin like a man starved.

Like he’s never wanted anything more in his life.

Because he doesn’t want you anywhere else. Not against the wall. Not out there with your friends. Just here. In his arms. Moaning his name like it’s the only word you know.

And it takes a few rounds—because Lando is nothing if not thorough—before you remember the reason you came to his apartment in the first place.

You lay naked on the couch, catching your breath, staring at a painting on his wall. You recognize it. One from your gallery.

Before you can ask, Lando reappears, setting a white box in front of you.

You lift a brow. He just gestures for you to open it.

So you do.

And you scream.

Lando flinches, but his grin only widens as you pull out the dress, hugging it to your chest like it’s a lifeline.

You’re up in an instant, jumping up and down, running back and forth, nearly tripping over yourself in excitement. Lando just watches, lounging back on the couch, cheek propped up on his fist, drinking in your every move.

“Are you going to keep screaming, or are you going to put it on?” he teases.

You squeal again, fumbling to pull it on.

It’s a wedding dress.

Not just any wedding dress—the last one your favorite designer ever made before they passed, intricately sewn with pearls and jewels, a masterpiece in fabric form. You weren’t planning to get married anytime soon, but the dress was too beautiful not to admire. You’d sketched it, opened it on your phone more times than you could count—Lando must’ve noticed.

His eyes soften as he helps you into it, watching as you jump in place, giggling.

“Well?” He makes a motion with his finger. “Give me a spin.”

You do.

And he sighs, shaking his head like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

Without thinking, you launch yourself into his arms.

Lando doesn’t catch you. Not fully.

He stumbles back, landing flat on the carpet with you on top of him.

You don’t care. You pepper his face with kisses, grinning wildly, dress fanning around you like a dream.

Forgetting, for just a moment, that you aren’t even dating him.

Lando sat in the McLaren unit, chewing on his lunch with little appetite. It was the season finale in Abu Dhabi, and his thoughts were more occupied by you than the race ahead. His fingers hovered over his phone, but there was nothing but silence on your end. No responses. No acknowledgment of the flowers he’d sent, no replies to his texts. His mind ran wild, wondering if you’d received them or—worse—if you were upset with him. How was he supposed to know?

His gaze flicked back to the screen, but the numbers and stats blurred as his mind returned to you. The silence was unbearable.

That’s when the movement caught his eye. He glanced up, instinctively furrowing his brows at the sight of his trainer’s mischievous smile. Something was off, but before he could ask, a pair of hands were suddenly covering his eyes from behind.

He recognized those giggles immediately—soft, melodic, like a song only he knew. A grin tugged at his lips as he pulled the hands away, not caring for the surprise but savoring the moment. And there you were, standing in front of him, eyes sparkling with amusement as you giggled down at him.

Lando’s mouth went slack. His heart hammered. It was like a dream—or maybe he was dreaming. No, this was real. You were here.

He jumped to his feet so quickly that his chair screeched across the floor. The words to speak vanished in his throat, his brain struggling to process your sudden appearance. His mouth worked silently, like he didn’t quite believe it himself.

“I was gonna ask you to guess who, but I guess you knew,” you teased, stepping into his chest with a mischievous grin. You kissed his cheek softly, and his pulse quickened.

Lando blinked, still in disbelief. Usually, it was him chasing you around, showing up uninvited to see you. But now, here you were—chasing him. It was doing something to his heart, something he couldn’t put into words.

Before he could stop himself, his arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, holding you tight as if he was afraid you might disappear the moment he let go. His face buried in your neck, his breath shaky, his voice coming out almost a whisper, “What are you doing here?”

You leaned back slightly, eyes twinkling as you looked up at him. "I’ve come to watch you win," you said, your voice a soft promise, your smile radiant and warm.

Lando’s smile softened, his chest swelling with pride as he pressed a sweet kiss to your lips. But before he could say anything else, you pulled back, your words dancing against his lips like a melody.

“My boyfriend’s going to win this race," you said proudly, "and we’re going to go home with a trophy.”

At that, Lando’s heart skipped a beat. A proud, excited “fuck yes” slipped from his lips as he squeezed you tighter in his arms, kissing your temple like it was the only place he wanted to be. The weight of your words—the truth of them—settled deep inside him.

What’s one more problem anyway?

Lando was your problem now.

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

Can you write modern Jace being a blind king? Those glasses looks THICK. Maybe reader come to his dorm and see him with his glasses?

Request: Roommates college au where there’s a mixup with the dorms and they end up in the same dorm. Imagine rooming with Jace? He’d be so cute and maybe a little nerdy idk. She moves out but they become friends…and then more than friends

The second request has been sitting in my ask for a long time (sorry). I watched Insidious: The Red Door the other day and it gave me inspiration for it (I had planned to add smut in this one but it didn't end up fitting and my laptop didn't save a few of the scenes I had written so I had to rewrite them...not as good or cute as the first time)

my taglists are here + you can send requests here at any time

—

When you arrived at your assigned dorm, there were already people there. One was a boy with curly hair, and the other a woman with white-blond hair. Their backs were all turned, so they didn’t see you come in with your suitcase. 

‘’No, Mom, you don't have to do that. I can do it myself,’’ he said, trying to stop her from unpacking a box. ‘’Classes don’t start until Monday.’’ 

‘’But I want to help you settle in,’’ she insisted, taking a lamp out of the box and setting it on the nightstand. ‘’My first boy is leaving for college. This is difficult for me, Jace. Let me at least help you with your bed. No one makes a bed better than a mother.’’  

Jace sighed in defeat and moved out of her way so she could make his bed. ‘’Okay. Thanks, Mom.’’ 

She grabbed sheets from another box and began making the bed. ‘’Where are your brothers and father? Taking the last boxes out of the car shouldn’t take so long. I hope they didn’t get lost on campus.’’

You watched them with jealousy, wishing your parents had dropped you off at college too. It was a rite of passage for freshman students. But you understood that your parents had jobs they could not take days off from. 

You stood there for a moment before clearing your throat to announce your presence. ‘’This is room 309?’’

Jace’s mom looked up first, giving you a kind smile. ‘’Oh, hello there. Yes, this is 309. Are you looking for someone?’’ 

‘’No. Eh, this is my dorm,’’ you said with a frown, holding your paper in your hand. ‘’It says 309.’’ 

Jace turned around, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. ‘’That’s impossible, there must be a mistake. This is a boys hall, and boys and girls aren’t supposed to room together. It’s nothing against you, I personally don’t see a problem rooming with a girl. It’s just…not permitted.’’

‘’I know. But it says here that this is my dorm.’’ 

‘’Let me see that paper, sweetheart.’’ The blond woman looked at your paper, her eyes reading the information slowly. ‘’Oh, no. You’re right. There must be a mistake on the college’s part.’’

‘’You should go to the housing office,’’ Jace suggested with the same kind smile as his mother. ‘’They’ll switch you to another hall.’’

You nodded. ‘’I’m gonna go and see if they can solve this issue. Can I leave my suitcase here?’’ 

‘’Of course.’’ 

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・° 

The line outside the housing office was crazy due to the hoard of students coming back, so you didn't get back to your dorm until well later in the evening. There were no voices coming from inside your dorm, meaning Jace's family must have left. 

You knocked before coming in, not wanting to walk in on something you should not be seeing. But Jace did not hear you, laying on his bed with a book and headphones on. You didn’t take him for a reader, nor a glasses wearer. 

‘’What did they say at housing?’’ he asked, taking down his headphones and shutting his book. 

You walked over to the empty bed and fell down on it, exhausted. ‘’They basically said sorry for the inconvenience and that I gotta sleep here tonight. But I’ll get a new room tomorrow, so it’s not a permanent thing.’’ 

Jace hummed. ‘’Do you need help settling for the night?’’ 

You shook your head, standing. ‘’No. I’m just gonna get my pillow and blanket, and change into pajamas. There’s no point unpacking when I move again tomorrow.’’ 

Your suitcase was heavy, so you lowered it on the floor and grabbed your pillow and blanket, then rummaged through your suitcase for your pajamas. As you held up your shorts and a tee shirt, you remembered that this was a boys' hall, meaning the bathrooms would be full of boys.

Jace seemed to read your mind. ‘’Eh, I can turn around so you can change,’’ he offered. ‘’I promise I’m not gonna look. I can even take off my glasses if you want, I’m blind as a mile without them.’’

You chuckled at his offer. What a gentleman, you noted. Making sure you feel comfortable during this inconvenience. ‘’That's okay. Just turning around is fine."

He nodded and turned his back to you, facing the wall. ‘’You’re in art school?’’ he asked, making conversation as you changed so it would be less awkward. ‘’I've seen your sketchbook and art supplies beside your suitcase. Not that I snooped through your things. I promise I didn’t.’’ 

‘’Yeah,’’ you replied, pulling your shirt over your head and unclasping your bra. It felt daunting to be topless in the same room as an almost-stranger, but you tried to not think too much about it. ‘’And you’re in...?'

''Political science,’’ he finished. ‘’My grandfather went to this university, so I’m following his footsteps. I’m also taking a side class in History for personal pleasure.’’

Political science was not what you expected him to say, but it made sense. With his glasses, he had the politician look — minus the sweats and tee shirt. 

What kind of weirdo takes a history class for fun? 

‘’I know what you’re thinking — history is boring. But I love learning about the past civilisations and how ancient monuments were built, it’s so fascinating. Like the Moai Statues, the Giza pyramids or the Colosseum of Rome.’’

‘’Have you ever visited one of them?’’ You slipped into your pajamas, and threw your dirty clothes on top of your suitcase. 

His lips curled into an excited grin. ‘’I have! Last year, my family and I went to Italy and my dad took me and my brother Luke to see the Colosseum. It was magnificent. I took pictures. Do you want to see?’’ 

‘’Sure.’’ 

You sat back on your bed and Jace turned back around, reaching to grab his ipad to show you the pictures he took. His passion for history could be heard as he talked about the Colosseum, telling you facts you had never heard of. Eventually, the pictures came to an end, and Jace accidentally swiped too far, showing you a picture of his brothers and him making faces in Italy. 

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・° 

You didn’t think so many people would be up early on a Saturday. The queue at the campus café was insane. All for a coffee and a bagel. 

As you walked across the quad, trying to get to the bookstore to get everything you needed for Monday, flyers were being shoved into your face, advertising for clubs, frat parties and sorority houses who were scouting for new members. You were not interested in any, but they were not taking no for answer.

A neon party? What year were they stuck into? 

You threw all the invitations in the trash.  

On your way back from the bookstore, you received an email from the housing office with your new dorm information. You could move in immediately, but needed to stop by for your new key. 

So that's what you did. 

You couldn’t wait to get to your new dorm and finally shower. 

‘’You’re already going?’’ Jace asked, coming in with a paper bag containing lunch from the café you went to this morning. 

You nodded, finishing zipping up your suitcase. ‘’I’m not going too far, though. I’m just a floor up, right above you, so if you jerk off or have a girl over, remember that I can hear all.’’

Jace’s cheeks turned a shade of pink, getting flustered.

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・° 

Although you had moved out, you found yourself standing outside your old dorm a few days later. 

‘’Howdy roomie,’’ you said when Jace opened. ‘’Let’s go out, I’m hungry.’’ 

Before he could say anything, you stepped in as if it was still your dorm and sat on the empty bed that used to be yours. They must not have found him a new roommate. On the desk, you noticed Jace’s laptop was opened along with his textbook. 

The brunet frowned, clearly confused by your presence. ‘’Eh, what are you doing here?’’ 

‘’Taking my roommate out for pizza?’’ you replied. You had not eaten since that granola bar at lunch and your stomach was screaming. 

‘’We’re not roommates anymore.’’ 

You rolled your eyes. It was a minor detail. ‘’I know, but you’re the person I’ve spent the most time with since getting here and I don’t feel like going out to eat alone. Please, Jace,’’ you said, pouting to put all chances on your side. 

He was taken back. This wasn’t a common occurrence for him. A girl knocking on his door and asking him out — platonically or not. 

His frown disappeared, and a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. ‘’Fine,’’ he sighed. ‘’I’ll put on my shoes.’’

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・° 

Getting pizza after class on Wednesday became a weekly rendez-vous. You sat at the same table, ordered the same toppings — pepperoni with extra cheese and red bell peppers —, and talked about anything but school. You made it an official rule on your fourth date when Jace spent the whole time biting his fingers and worrying about a paper that was due at the end of the week. 

Pizza dates were your special time to unwind and stop thinking of schoolwork.

As you both settled into your usual spot, hair slightly damp from the drizzle outside. Early autumn rain was the worst. The weather was too warm to carry around a jacket, but when you didn’t have one, rain would randomly start pouring. 

You took a second slice of pizza and glanced at Jace. ‘’I’m gonna need your help for a project for my art class.’’ 

His eyes widened slightly, and he quickly swallowed his bite of pizza. ‘’Nope!’’ 

You frowned at his immediate refusal. ‘’You don’t want to help me?’’ 

‘’No! That’s not that,’’ he assured. ‘’Didn’t we make a rule that we would not be speaking of school while eating pizza? You’re breaking your own rule,’’ he pointed out. 

You sighed dramatically, leaning back in the booth. ‘’I know… But Mrs. Rosenberg told us this afternoon that we needed a model for our proportion piece and I didn’t want to forget about it. All you have to do is sit and look pretty while I draw you.’’ 

Jace raised an eyebrow. ‘’Oh, so you think I’m pretty?’’ he teased, stuffing a huge bite of pizza in his mouth before you could swat his arm.

You rolled your eyes and took a bite of your own slice. ‘’So, will you be my model?’’

He thought about it, a slight pout on his lips. ‘’What’s in it for me?’’

‘’Extra time with your favorite roommate?’’ 

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・° 

‘’Is this okay? I have a red polo somewhere. Maybe it would look better?’’ Jace asked as you laid out your art material on the second, unused, desk. 

You shook your head, and started propping up your small easel. ‘’You’re perfect like this.’’ 

He nodded slowly, his cheeks flushing a bit as he settled into position by the desk lamp you had priorly angled. The silence between you was comfortable as you began tracing Jace's features on your canvas, and you took a moment to really look at him — his curly hair, the faint freckles across his aquiline nose, the highlight of his pouty lips, and the way his fingers fidgeted with the hem of his tee shirt.

He was nervous. You immediately picked on it when you came in with your canvas and art supplies. His demeanor was different than usual. 

‘’Can you move your head slightly to the left?’’

Jace complied, the dull yellow light of the lamp hitting exactly where you wanted it. Now, you could see all the angles and edges of his face. 

‘’Yes! That’s perfect!’’

You continued tracing the contrasts and outlines of your model's face, eyebrows knitted together in concentration. Jace found it cute, but he kept it to himself. 

The afternoon passed. You painted and mixed colors on your palette, lost in your creative bubble while Jace was trying his best to keep his posture...which was starting to ache. Sitting completely straight for hours was more difficult than he thought.

As you were working on his complexion, you stole glances at your ex-roommate, trying to get every detail on your canvas, and noticed him shifting slightly, uncomfortable. 

‘’You know,’’ you began, breaking the silence. ‘’You don’t have to stay completely still like a statue. Feel free to move a little or adjust. I'll tell you if it doesn't work for me.’’

Jace gave a small laugh, the sound light and nervous. ‘’I’m not really used to this… Playing the model.’’

‘’I think you're doing good. Just...a bit stiff.’’

You continued painting him until the sun began to set, then called for a much deserved snack break. Jace pulled out a pack of Oreos from the snack box in his closet and your eyes turned into hearts. They were your favorite. 

‘’You really know the way to a girl’s heart,’’ you said as you took a third cookie from the pack. 

Jace smiled at you, pleased to see you enjoying them. He took a fifth one and chewed slowly as crumbs fell on his shirt. Oreos were messy. ‘’My mom sent them to me in a care package last week. I need my sugar to stay focused when I stay up late doing schoolwork.’’ 

Your heart melted at the sweet attention from Jace’s mother.  

‘’How is the painting going?’’  

‘’It’s coming together nicely. But it won’t be finished tonight. Painting takes a while. Especially portraits,’’ you replied. ‘’I need to get every little detail right. From that one curl that’s almost poking you in the eye to the dust of freckles on your nose.’’ 

The brunet’s cheeks flushed a bit at your words. He was not sure what to do with the feeling bubbling up in his stomach. Was this a compliment? Gods, he sucked with girls. 

You stayed in Jace’s dorm until one of you began yawning and it was time to call it a night. He helped you put your painting supplies away and even offered to clean your brushes in the boys’ bathrooms. This guy was a true sweetheart. 

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°

The following afternoon, you approached Jace's dorm, your painting supplies tucked under your arm. A lot of students used their Sunday to do their laundry, so you hoped he was there. You should have texted him before coming.

You were about to knock, fist raised, when you paused at the door, hearing the faint sound of a facetime conversation coming from inside. 

‘’She’s not my girlfriend. Shut up, Luke,’’ Jace's voice came through, tinged with frustration.

You could imagine his cheeks heating up. 

‘’You go on dates all the time…and you said she was cute, and talented, and funny,'' Luke's voice, younger and teasing, said, recalling everything. 

You should feel ashamed for eavesdropping on a conversation about you, but you couldn’t help but smile to yourself, butterflies filling your stomach. Jace had talked to his brother about you? If Luke assumed you were his girlfriend, he must have talked about you more than once. 

‘’We’re just friends. I don’t have time for a girlfriend anyway. I have a lot of schoolwork,’’ Jace interrupted, his tone firm but slightly defensive.

‘’Nerd,’’ Luke snickered. 

You didn’t meet him on moving day, but you assumed he was the kind of brother who loved to tease his siblings. From what Jace had told you, he was quite the little troublemaker. 

A few doors down, a guy walked out of his dorm with a bag of dirty clothes and sweatpants low on his hips, and stared you down as you stood in the corridor. He was walking your way, so you took this as your cue to knock on Jace’s door. The sound echoed throughout the quiet corridor, louder than you intended.

‘’Ohh is that your girlfriend?’’ 

‘’No, it's...pizza delivery. Tell Mom I’ll call her tonight,’’ he added in a softer tone. 

You heard movement inside and soon Jace opened the door, greeting you with his usual bright smile. He had glasses and gray sweats on, meaning he had likely not left his dorm at all today. 

 ‘’Hey, you’re here! I was starting to think you made other plans…’’ Jace said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. 

‘’Never,’’ you replied, walking past him and setting your things down like yesterday. ‘’Besides, I need to bring in my final piece Wednesday morning and I still have a lot left to paint. It would have been a poor choice to not come.’’ 

Behind you, Jace nodded. ‘’Eh, should I change into the shirt I had yesterday? Because I slept in and didn’t do laundry.’’ 

You shook your head. ‘’The color of your shirt does not matter. I’m still painting your pretty face.’’ 

Jace smiled and rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly; it was a nervous habit he had, you had discovered. ‘’I’ll go sit at my spot, then.’’ 

‘’Have you taken a peak while I was not there?’’ you asked as you placed the canvas and easel in front of your chair. 

You glanced over at him, half-expecting a guilty grin, but he shook his head, his dark curls bouncing slightly. ‘’No. I want to be surprised.’’ 

You finished setting your stuff up quietly. 

The sky was gray today, clouds hanging heavy as if threatening rain, so you were thankful for the artificial light you chose to use yesterday. Natural light is great, but frustrating as it changes with time and weather. 

When you began mixing colors and painting, you felt Jace’s shy gaze on you. His eyes would dart away when you almost caught him, pretending to be interested in something else, only to glance back at you a moment later. It was a silent game, one that made you smile every time you almost caught him.

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・° 

About an hour into your painting, rain started to fall heavily and the sky began to shake with thunder. It echoed loudly around the room, causing the lights to flash. 

You were used to rain and thunderstorms, so you didn't think this one was strong enough to cause a power outage, but after an especially loud crack of thunder, the whole dorm went dark. 

‘’I guess that’s our cue to stop for today,’’ you said with a small laugh, barely able to see your canvas in front of you. You sighed, slightly frustrated by the interruption, and put your brush down on the easel.

Jace moved to his window, seeing the pouring rain and an impressive lightning flashing in the distance. ''Looks like it's not going to let up anytime soon.'' He glanced at your face, but was blinded by the brightness of your phone’s light. 

You quickly apologized, laughing. ‘’I didn't mean to do that,’’ you promised.

He glared at you and went back to his bed, rubbing his eyes. ‘’It’s worse with my glasses. I can’t see.’’ 

You laughed harder, directing the light to the ceiling so no one would be blinded by it. ‘’Do you think the university has a generator?’’

‘’For the academic buildings, not the residences. It would take a massive one to provide power to the whole campus,’’ Jace explained, finally starting to get his vision back. ‘’We’re stuck in the dark until it gets back.’’ 

You sighed and abandoned your side to move and sit on Jace’s bed. You could have gone back to your dorm, but you would be sitting alone in the dark. He turned his head to look at you, noticing you sitting on the edge of his bed, and moved back to make more room for you. You smiled, a silent ‘thank you’.

Thankfully, it was only mid-November, so it was not that cold. But it will get cold eventually if the power goes out for too long…

After a few hours, the power was not back. And the room had gotten a little cold, so Jace offered you one of his hoodies. It was gray and felt like a blanket on you. And it smelled like him — woodsy and comforting. 

Through this long darkness and silence, you found yourself thinking about the conversation you heard when you came to his dorm. You figured it was heavily influenced by the hoodie enveloping you. 

‘’Jace?’’ 

He hummed, sitting in his corner against his pillows. 

The words vomited out before you could stop them. ‘’Why did you tell your brother that you didn’t have time for a girlfriend when you spend all your free time with me?’’ 

The brunet was taken aback by your question. He looked like a kid caught with his hand in a cookie jar. ‘’W-what?’’ he stammered, his cheeks flaming. ‘’How do you know—’’ 

‘’I heard you on the phone earlier. I didn't mean to listen, I just…did.’’

Jace cleared his throat and spoke quietly, his voice strained and embarrassed. ‘’You weren’t supposed to hear that...’’ He looked away from you, avoiding your gaze. ''What else have you heard?'' 

A lump of guilt knotted inside your stomach for putting him on the spot like this. ''Not much. A guy walked out of his dorm and was staring me down, so I knocked on your door to get away,'' you explained in truth. 

There was a moment of silence as Jace picked at his fingers. He was still embarrassed, but he needed to push it to the side and make something useful out of it. ‘’I told Luke I didn’t have time for a girlfriend because I don’t know how to have a girlfriend. I mean, I do know the principle. I just…don’t know how to talk to girls.’’

You smiled, finding his honesty adorable. ‘’You’re talking to me now,’’ you said with a hint of amusement hiding behind your words.

‘’And it’s exactly the problem. We’re just talking,’’ he muttered more to himself than to you. 

‘’Would you like us to do more than talking?’’ you asked flirtatiously, extending an invisible hand for Jace to grasp. 

Slowly, his gaze shifted back to you. ‘’It depends what you mean by more than talking…’’ 

There was another loud crack of thunder, echoing and shaking the walls. The loud noise made Jace jump slightly, nervous from the proximity between you. He tried to brush it off, but you grinned and inched closer to cup his face. 

''Tell me if you want me to stop.'' 

His eyes found yours and he gripped the blanket, needing something to grab to take his nerves off. ''I don't want you to stop.''

You leaned closer, your hand still on his cheek, and pressed your lips onto his. The touch of your lips sent a jolt of electricity up Jace's spine.  He gasped, having never felt so much from a simple kiss, and kissed you back without hesitation, his lips plush but chapped against yours. 

More lightning pierced the horizon outside the window, but you were too lost in each other's lips to notice. Jace's hand that was not grabbing the blanket came to rest on your hip to pull you a little closer. He was gentle and inexperienced, you could feel it in the way he was touching you. 

You pulled away to catch your breath, but a needy whine left his lips, grabbing your hip with more force and pulling you back in. He was not done kissing you.

When night came and the power finally returned, you didn’t go to your dorm. You borrowed one of Jace’s tee shirts and slid under the covers with him. You both had classes at 8am, so you simply laid together, Jace’s head on your chest while you gently rubbed his back and slowly fell asleep.

—

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[intheemptymirror]

drunk dazed !

drunk-roommate!sunghoon x roommate!reader

summary: you never would’ve expected sunghoon— resident ice prince— to be the clingy type of drunk

genre: fluff

warnings: mentions of drinking, sunghoon is drunk (duh), sunghoon and reader aren’t dating but they definitely have a crush/lil somethin goin on, you and sunghoon are roommates, you take sunghoons clothes off but it’s in a non sexual manner, he asks you to help him change, ooc sunghoon

a/n: i would consider myself an engene but i think they’re one of the groups i’m more of a casual fan about if that makes any sense? like i like their music and i consume their content and i have a bias and everything but they’re not one of my MAIN-main groups yknow? but i still love them and wanted to write something for them and i got this idea about how cute it would be if sunghoon was like clingy n stuff so here we are. tbh i don’t love this fic but i just wanted it done and i thought that even if i don’t like it maybe someone out there will. i have a jay fic idea in the works too so if you like enhypen that’ll be out eventually too ;)

if somebody bet you twenty bucks that sunghoon was the clingy type drunk, you would’ve paid them right then and there.

but here you were.

for the past few years you guys had been friends, you don’t think you could remember a time you ever saw him drunk. a little tipsy, sure, but never drunk. and then after you became roommates— which meant spending even more time around each other than before— you still hadn’t seen him get to that state. you had always just assumed he either had a scary high tolerance to alcohol or just didn’t like alcohol all that much.

sunghoon had gone out with the rest of the enhypen boys for a couple of drinks that night, which wasn’t anything unusual or new. what was unusual and new was the extent to which sunghoon drank himself. when he walked out the door three hours ago you weren’t expecting to get a phone call from jay telling you to come pick up your very drunk, very clingy best friend. having to carry a practically incapacitated grown man down the streets of seoul for fifteen minutes and then up a flight of stairs wasn’t a scenario you thought about very often but it was as hard as you would’ve originally imagined.

“y/nnie!” sunghoon whined out into your ear, his weight heavy against your back. a feeling that you would normally find comfort in was now a bit of an inconvenience. you huff out a bit of air and incoherently grumble a bit in what most would consider barely a response, but sunghoon didn’t seem to pay much mind as he pressed himself impossibly further into you. it felt like his whole goal was to make this as difficult as possible, as if gravity was dragging his body down to the ground and wanted to take you with him. you trip over your feet but manage to stay somewhat upright, which only makes sunghoon giggle.

you finally managed to stumble your way down the hall to your apartment door, stopping to catch your breath for a moment. as you stood still and panted with your eyes mindlessly locked onto the small apartment numbers on the door, sunghoon took the opportunity to nudge his nose into your cheek, his dark hair tickling the soft skin of your face. the sensation suddenly snapped you out of whatever trance you were in, making your body jolt slightly before you started the process of trying to open the door. you’re not sure why you were so eager to get sunghoon physically away from you while at the same time wanting him to stay attached to you forever. maybe your fast beating heart was from the physical exertion sunghoon put you through; maybe it was from the emotional. you didn’t have time to dwell on it now.

you grunted as you tried to shift sunghoon’s weight on your back so you could reach the keys sitting in your back pocket. he must’ve thought you were trying to get him off when you started to move because he let out a whine before gripping onto the front of your shirt in his large hands and tightening his arms around your neck to keep himself on you, which only threw your balance off and made you stumble back. you caught yourself before letting out an exasperated groan. “you’re making this really difficult, yknow.” sunghoon simply giggled in response and poked your cheek with his pointer finger, moving his head to press his face flat into the side of yours.

“you’re making this really difficult,” he slurs out his words. you rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help the small smile and soft laugh that escaped your lips.

“that makes no sense,” you say more to yourself than to him as you finally manage to slide your hand into your back pocket to fish out the apartment keys before unlocking the door and stumbling into the entry way, the sound of your bodies knocking into the wall disturbing the serenity of yours and sunghoon’s (and probably your neighbors) apartment. you somehow managed to slip your shoes off without falling to the wood floor before hauling sunghoon off to his room.

you turn your back to the mattress and completely let go of his weight, letting him flop onto the bed unceremoniously. he let out a grunt as his back hit the sheets, his arm pathetically coming up to try and reach for you once more. you huffed and turned to watch over him for a moment with your hands on your hips while you caught your breath. you watched him paw at the air in search for you before you grasped onto his hand to gently sit him up. he went silent as he tiredly blinked up at you, his pretty, brown eyes practically staring you down.

his intense gaze started to make you nervous, reminding you of a cat watching its owner. his eyes never wavered as he watched you walk over to his closet and rummage around it for a moment before pulling out a plain white t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants before dropping it onto the bed next to him. “get changed, i’ll leave the room.” as you start to walk away, sunghoon gently grasped your wrist in his hand, stopping you in your tracks. your eyes widen and lips part in surprise as you look between his half-lidded eyes, then to where his hand is making contact with your skin, then back again.

“help me,” he mumbles out. you open your mouth to deny his request, but upon seeing how he slightly sways side to side from intoxication and exhaustion you decide it would just be easier (and probably safer) to help him. “please.”

you study his face for any sign of hesitation before you slowly nod. “okay.” you step closer, standing between his legs as he stares up at you. your heart rate spikes at the sight of his flushed face and cute moles and messy hair and gorgeous eyes with their attention completely on you. you blink a few times to snap yourself out of the trance he’s put you in before your shaky hands hesitantly reach for the hem of the shirt he has on.

“lift your arms up.” you direct him once you’ve taken the fabric in your grasp to which he complies immediately, limply throwing his arms up into the air. you tug the shirt up— it gets stuck to which he thrashes around a bit to get it undone— and over his head before tossing it into the laundry basket sat in the corner of his room. you try not to stare too hard at the expanse of bare skin suddenly available to you, averting your eyes and swallowing harshly to calm yourself down. you choose not to say anything else before reaching for the black jeans he has on, hooking your fingers through the belt loops to tug him to a standing position. he stumbles slightly before balancing out and giggling, standing like a mannequin waiting to be dressed. which in a way, he kind of was.

you unhook his belt and tug his pants off gently before quickly grabbing the pair of sweats and crouching down to help him step into each leg of the pants. you’re glad you were too focused on getting him into them without him falling to focus on the fact that he had been practically naked in front of you for a few moments. you stand back up and tell him to lift up his arms once more, slipping the shirt on— without getting it stuck this time— and watching the moles that dotted his body disappear underneath the cloak of white fabric. throughout this whole process, his eyes hadn’t left your figure even once.

finally having him dressed in clean clothes, you usher him to get into bed, pulling back the covers and gently nudging him onto the mattress. he follows your direction with little resistance, little hums escaping his mouth here and there as he watched you pull up the soft covers and tuck him in gently. “comfortable?” he does a close eyed nod and smiles softly in response. you smile and nod in return. “good,” you whisper.

“i’m gonna go get you some water,” you brush his hair off of his forehead and make barely any moves to leave the room, but are stopped by him sitting upright so fast it was as if he was coming back from the dead and his hands shooting out to grab your arm.

“no!” sunghoon lets out a whine of protest, his eyebrows furrowed and eyes starting to gloss over with tears, his bottom lip jutted out in a pout as it starts to tremble. you’re completely caught off guard by his reaction, even more so when he starts to tug you back towards him until your knees are knocking against the bed. “don’t go, don’t leave me,”

you think you can hear your heart breaking at the sight, the feeling of it clenching uncomfortably in your chest overwhelming. you smile softly at him and reach out your free hand to pet his head in an attempt to soothe him, his lashes fluttering and head leaning into your palm at the sensation. “i’m just gonna go get you some water. you won’t even notice that i’m gone.”

“i always notice when you’re gone.” sunghoon’s voice rings out so clear and suddenly he looks the most sober he’s been the entire night. his vulnerability; it catches you off guard, but you can’t help but like the way it feels coming from him. it’s silent for a few moments more as you let the words he’s said sink into your brain. “just stay with me,” he whispers, as if afraid that if he speaks too loud, the fragile, glass-like state of whatever it is you two are in will shatter under his words.

you blink at him a few times before nodding softly. “okay,” you whisper back. sunghoon pulls back the covers before he guides you onto the open space he’s left you, laying down and tugging the blanket over your shoulders. after he deems you properly tucked in, he rests his cheek on his hands and stares. you both study each other in the moonlit room, your features somehow more ethereal in the soft glow. “you should go to sleep. you don’t want a hangover in the morning,” you whisper.

“i will in a minute,” he whispers back. you can see the cogs turning in his head, as if he was debating both for and against himself in his mind. you realize what that look was for though when the bed dips slightly under his weight as he shuffles closer to you, his arm coming up to rest heavy on your waist. “just let me do this,” he slides his other arm under your head before pulling you until you were pressed against his body. he lets out a sigh into the quiet night as his body finally seems to fully relax, the feeling of you against him helping his hyped up state from the clubbing and alcohol dissipate. he tucks your head underneath his chin, his hand mindlessly rubbing back and forth on your back, lulling you into a sleepy state as well.

you press yourself closer to him and bring your arms to wrap around his torso to hold him in return as you let your eyes flutter shut. “goodnight, sunghoon.”

“goodnight, y/n.” he replies, his breathing evening out as he drifts off to sleep. you smile to yourself before you drift off shortly after, meeting him once more in your dreams.

[nariism]

ೃ⁀➷ ALL I WANT ✧.*

a/n: tooth-rotting fluff !! this is so so mushy and soft. kissing and some touchiness but nothing too crazy i think. also this is unedited brainrot i wrote at 2:30am so enjoy ... <3

Neuvillette has never told you that he loves you.

The words are always there— resting heavy behind his teeth just waiting to burst out at the most inconvenient times, and yet he's never brought himself to say them.

You don’t need the words to prove his devotion to you anyways, already aware that there is no other soul in the world able to hold him the way you do. But he’s always wanted to say it, stopped only by his own fears.

Immortality is a funny thing. In a thousand years you could be nothing but a distant memory for him, gentle whispers in the back of his mind or ghostly touches wisping over his skin.

The idea of losing you terrifies him, but he knows the loss well and knows to keep his heart safeguarded somewhere deep within himself. I love you are words he only murmurs into your skin while you sleep, or chanted in his head when you hold him.

However, you’ve been proving it difficult to resist ever since you moved in with him.

There's nothing extravagant about the way you wake up, nothing extraordinary or strange. You wake up like any Fontainian would: cold and gloomy and complaining about the weather.

Despite how ordinary it all is, it doesn't stop him from spending the first few minutes of the day admiring your face before he inevitably has to get out of bed to get ready for work.

Mornings are his always favourite; the slow stirrings of the day like a calm before the storm. Those few minutes are precious to him more than anything in the world, where he can do nothing but kiss your sleeping face awake and keep you wrapped up in his arms.

You've recently made it your routine to follow him out of bed a few minutes later. He hasn't found out why exactly until today.

He doesn't even need to turn around to know it all— every part of you memorized and carved into each muscle and filling any thoughts that cross his mind.

The slow shuffling of your feet across the room; the quiet yawn that makes him smile because he can imagine your face; the bumping of your body into the back of his in your clumsy state.

It's all comfortable. Familiar. You.

"Morning..." You mumble, arms wrapping around his waist and nose buried against his back.

"Seems someone slept well," he hums.

Your arms squeeze his waist a little tighter. "Because you keep the bed so warm."

"I see. Is that the only reason you decided to crawl out of bed this morning?" He asks with a little lift of amusement, placing his mug down and watching the ripples stir in his coffee.

"No," you lie rather blatantly, and he laughs in a way that makes your heart flutter. "....Shut up."

"It’s quite rude to say that to the Iudex, no?"

"Shut up," you huff again. Your hands carefully climb under the hem of his shirt and explore the expanse of his skin. The cold this exacts on him makes him stop in his motions. He shivers before finally turning around to catch your wrists.

You frown, gently knocking your face back into his body— his chest this time, where you can hear his heart beating.

"Not my fault you're so warm."

Neuvillette only sighs, scooping you fully into his arms and leaning back onto the counter so you can rest your weight against him.

And he knows every part of you like this too: a memory chained to his beating heart. A second life breathed into him meant only to remember you this way.

He knows you're cranky because the sun just rose and here you are, already shuffling around the cold house since he left his side of the bed empty. He knows that you're impossibly perfect in his arms— a piece of a puzzle hand-crafted for him to hold. He knows that it will be sunny today.

You are everything. Everything.

He pulls you away by the shoulders, nose brushing against yours as he leans in close to kiss you. There's a pause just before your lips meet— an apprehension in his actions. He sighs, shaky and nervous.

"I love you."

Then he kisses you slow and sweet, the same way he has always savoured that feeling twisting in his heart at the very thought of you. Enduring and knowing, lacking any more hesitation because he knows this is exactly what he wants and where he needs to be.

You're blinking at him dumbly when he pulls away, lips parted in such a cute way that he wants to lean in again.

"I must be hearing things because I swear you just said–"

"I love you," he repeats quietly, suddenly feeling embarrassed by his confession yet unable to contain the words anymore.

Your expression twists in wonder and for a moment he can't help but think that you're the most beautiful person in the world. In the centuries that he's been wandering Fontaine, he's never been so sure of one thing:

"I love you," he says for a third time in full confidence. His lips crash into yours again in a frenzy, a flurry of emotions swirling in his stomach and so many thoughts screaming in his ears that he can't think straight.

When he stops for air he doesn't fully leave you, mouth still married to you as he kisses along your cheek to your jaw. You laugh, arms circling around his neck.

"Can you say it again?"

And he will. He would say it a million times just to see you smile like that again.

© ALABOADOA 2023 — please do not translate or post my works to other platforms.

🏷️ @saetoshi hi my beautiful

[sonnycampbellsmith]

Pairing: Bucky x Male Reader

Synopsis: Bucky wants your jacket (takes place before Falcon and The Winter Soldier)

Tag(s): Fluff, Allusion to smut, Cursing

********

You flipped the page of the magazine you were holding, actively ignoring the brooding figure standing in the corner of your living room.

Not too long ago, you moved in with your boyfriend. The one and only James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes aka The Winter Soldier.

Surprisingly it was Bucky that branched out the idea of the two of you living together after being a couple for almost six years. Not inclusive of Bucky’s time in Wakanda being cryogenically frozen and the five year gap after the snap.

You never once pushed him for more, understanding that it’s a completely new world for him. The two of you started off rocky, to say the least, which you never faulted him for but every now and then Bucky would unconsciously rub over the scar on the side of your abdomen whenever the both of you would be relaxing in each other’s embrace.

Bucky was already a little iffy about being so openly romantic with another man considering that he’s a man out of a time where homosexuality was frowned upon, so the thought of asking you to move in with him was a big step and incredibly daunting.

However, the mental picture of the you waking up every morning in his arms made the almost impossible question, the easiest ask he had ever made.

Living with someone was a new experience that you had a slightly difficult time adjusting to. Being with Bucky was worth it but you were in and out foster homes for most of your teenage years, you were used to being alone.

Maybe that’s what drew the two of you together, two lonely souls finding love at the most unexpected and slightly inconvenient time of your lives.

So you moved into Bucky’s apartment and the rest was history. The two of you even adopted a gorgeous white kitten named Alpine and the three of you were one happy family.

Until you came face to face with Bucky’s secret weapon that makes you squirm every time.

The “Pout of Death” as you so lovingly called Bucky’s face when he doesn’t get what he wants from you.

Doesn’t matter what the situation was, Bucky would always win. You’d question yourself as to why you would ever say no to this man when he somehow ends up doing whatever he wants.

He pouted when you didn’t let him go under your shirt to rest his head on your stomach. You somehow ended up with him under it anyway and a stretched out shirt.

He pouted when you pulled away from him in the middle of the night because his body heat was like a furnace. You decided to no longer have blankets or wear anything but your underwear to bed.

He pouted when he woke up one morning in bed alone, only to find you in the shower by yourself before tugging the shower curtain open harshly making you jump before stepping into the shower with you. Honestly you planned that and the reward was delicious.

However, you’ve decided to put your foot down or rather “shields up” this time with the way you were holding the magazine up to your face and blocking him out of your line of sight.

“Why not?” You heard your boyfriend ask you for the fifth time in the last thirty minutes.

Rolling your eyes and flipping the page of your magazine, you sighed out a response. “Because I said so.”

Bucky huffed in frustration. “But I want it”

“No, you can’t have it. It’s mine, Bucky.” You explained to him.

A jacket. Bucky wanted your leather jacket that you had for years, it was still clean and well-maintained since you bought it with your own money that you earned when you first started working as an agent of SHIELD.

Bucky pouted again, frustrated that it wasn’t working on you. He had half a mind to rip the magazine out of your hands but he would never try to upset you just to get what he wanted.

“Please”

“No”

“Pretty please”

“No”

“Sweetheart.”

“Don’t sweetheart me, James.”

James.

Okay, Bucky’s definitely getting on your nerves now. So he springs up another plan of action, that he knew would definitely work.

He slowly made his way towards where you were sitting on the living room couch, got on his knees and laid his head on your lap.

The reaction was instant with the way your hand automatically shot out and lightly scratched his scalp.

He smirked as soon as he heard you sigh and put the magazine down before lifting his head up so he could rest his chin on your thighs and make eye contact.

You looked down at him and was glad he at least stopped pouting so the both of you could have a proper conversation regarding your jacket that he’s been hounding you for the past half an hour.

As you continued to play with his hair that he had shortened soon after you moved in together, you reluctantly asked. “Baby, why do you want my jacket all of a sudden? It’s a tight fit on you.”

At that, Bucky’s smirked turned into a sheepish smile. “Because it smells like you the most.”

Your face felt like it was burning and you could tell the other man was absolutely loving it with how he was grinning like a maniac.

“I’m gonna go away for a few days to go see Sam and I’ll be missing you all the way. I’m gonna wear it everywhere I go as a reminder that you’re always with me even when you’re not physically there.”

You feel his hands rub your legs soothingly and you groaned in defeat. The dry cleaners are gonna hit you with a hefty bill as soon as they see your jacket covered in all the grease and dirt that you know your dear boyfriend’s gonna end up with his shenanigans.

“Okay.” You finally relented.

Bucky perked up. “Okay?”

You nodded but then gasped in shocked when you felt Bucky’s mouth kiss the inside of your thigh. You then felt him get up from his position at your legs and lovingly went up to kiss your lips properly but his hands were still on your legs as he gently pushes them open so he could get in between them.

“Really Bucky? Now?” Bucky only hummed in response before making quick work of both your pants and boxers, leaving you naked. He gently lifts your legs over his shoulders while leaving a trail of kisses, each kiss making you whine with the slight burn left from the scruff of his beard.

A gasp was drawn out of you when Bucky made eye contact and proceeded to leave a gentle love bite on your inner thigh, sucking it red before soothing it with his tongue.

He smirked down at your panting figure. “I love you so much doll, thank you so much for the jacket. I’m gonna eat you out now sweetheart, gonna do that thing with my tongue that you love so much and then we’re gonna go to the bedroom where I’m gonna fuck you so deeply that you’ll be feeling me inside you for all the days that I’m gone.”

He leans down to kiss you again before heading south to where his price was. If you had known this was the outcome, you’d probably have given up your jacket sooner.

“Oh…Bucky”

**************

Author’s note:

Obviously we get to see him in both the blue and maroon jackets in the show but I like to make up the fact that the maroon is actually his because he kept seeing you wear the blue one so he made a similar one to match yours because he’s sappy like that

[so-long-soldier-writes]

One of Those Days

poly!mikaelsons x reader | request

summary: between the constant fighting and city clamor, you're overstimulated from the minute you wake up. you try to isolate until you feel better, but sometimes, that only makes things worse. luckily, your loving vampire partners are always there for you.

tags: sensory issues, mental health, overstimulation, arguing, mild emotional hurt / comfort

word count: ~2.6k

a/n: requested by @asexualaromosafezone - i am SO SORRY this took me literal months to complete. a couple days ago, i suddenly remembered i never filled it and finished it asap. i hope you like it, and again, so many apologies!

Sometimes, you wake up, and can immediately tell it’ll be a hard day. The sun has barely risen, yet there’s already a million noises coming through your window. Chatters of people having their morning walks, car horns from those too impatient to let them cross, the distant clang of a dropped pot, and-

“REBEKAHHH!”

-Klaus, yelling for his sister. At seven in the morning. 

“What the bloody hell are you shouting for?! I’m right here!”

You sigh, glad that mystery solved quickly.

There’s probably a few more minutes until your alarm rings, so instead of getting up a little earlier, you opt to enjoy your last minutes of peace. Though you soon realize that’s impossible, given your circumstances. On top of the city sounds, there’s a bird right outside your window, and when you try to turn away from it, the tag on your blanket itches the inside of your thigh. 

“Ugh!” You toss the blanket off. 

Your alarm sounds not a second later. 

With a slap to your phone and then another to your forehead, you decide to just get ready for the day. Luckily, not much is planned. Marcel still has control over the city, and with you being human, your Mikaelson hosts don’t want you outside at all. 

See, you live with the family of original vampires. You used to be a Mystic Falls’ resident, but then after developing a close connection with the siblings, decided to move to New Orleans with them and get a fresh start. You were tired of the small town life, and while the big city can be overwhelming at times, you’ll never get sick of the culture it has to offer. Besides, living with the most powerful family makes you happier than you ever believed you could be. 

As much as you love them, though, they can be a pain. Like when Klaus can’t find his sister, but forgets a whisper would summon her just as effectively. Instead, he has to wake up the whole quarter, and inconvenience you with a headache. When you reach the dining room that day, you slump your head on the table. 

“Everything alright, darling?” Kol’s voice floats over your head, making you aware of his presence. 

“Tired.”

“Is your bed comfortable enough? Do you need more blankets?”

You haven’t been in the city long, and his consideration warms your heart. 

“Oh, I’m okay. I’m very comfy. Just haven’t gotten used to the city yet.”

“Ah, I understand.”

His attention drifts to his sister. You busy yourself with a plate of food and ignore how tired you feel. When Elijah sits beside you, you offer a smile, but don’t say anything. The man, polite as ever, does the same. Though while two of the siblings are quiet, the other two aren’t. Klaus and Rebekah are still on the same topic from earlier. They bounce off each other quickly, childish banter turning into an argument.

You try to eat in peace and ignore them, but it’s difficult. And it doesn’t help that you’ve been feeling down lately, anyway. It’s rather unexplainable, the way you feel. Some days you’d rather stay in bed all day than face the world. Your whole body could be begging for you to get up and get things done, but you just can’t. No matter how hard you fight your own mind, sometimes there’s no winning the raging war. 

To make matters worse, you’re always hypersensitive when you find yourself in these low moods. Every little thing is overstimulating and there’s no pause button. This morning, you didn’t even get a chance to wake up before the sounds started. (Thanks, Klaus.) You roll your eyes in your head, annoyed. 

“Hey.” A poke to your shoulder startles you, making you jump. “You okay?” 

“Ooh, you caught me off guard.”

“Sorry,” Kol smiles, “you in deep thought, or rolling your eyes at Klaus’ statement?”

“Uh…” You bite your lip. You were rolling your eyes about Klaus, but missed whatever statement it was that he just made. “What did he say?”

“That he was on his way to have a little chat with Marcel. That will go swimmingly.”

“Oh.” You snort and decide to joke. “Both.”

Kol grins at you, but then, thankfully, leaves you alone again. 

After breakfast, you retreat back into your room, not in the mood to face the day. If Klaus is really going to start shit with Marcel, it’ll be an intense day. You’ve never met the current king of the French Quarter, but Elijah’s told stories. Marcel and the family used to be close, but then, like all their other relationships, ties ended drastically. 

“But not with you, of course,” he had promised. “You’re our girl.”

You were skeptical for a moment. Who wouldn’t be, knowing the Mikaelsons? But then Klaus approached you from behind with a kiss to your hair and confirmed his brother’s words,

“As long as we have your loyalty, you’ll always have ours.”

You could see the truth in his statement. Everyone who ended up on their bad side had betrayed them in some way. So, as long as you didn’t repeat others’ mistakes; as long as you kept your trust in the family, you would be considered family. And ever since the day you first grew close, you have been their family. 

You’re close with all of the siblings. Elijah, first, when you couldn’t take your eyes off him at Damon’s dinner party. Then Rebekah, and then Kol, when he undaggered. Even Finn, before his untimely death - thanks to Matt, your good friend now worst enemy. Klaus took the longest to trust you, and you can’t blame him for having trust issues, but once he realized how much his siblings adored you, he was quick to accept your place with them. 

Now, the five of you live together, nine hundred miles from your hometown. It’s certainly a change, but every day with them is an adventure.

Like today, you suddenly think, overhearing Elijah’s footsteps in the hallway. Today has definitely been one of those days. 

“Y/N?” He stops outside your door.

“Mhm?”

“Can I come in?”

“Sure.”

Elijah opens the door, but doesn’t fully enter your room. He looks you up and down before smiling. “I just thought you seemed sad earlier and wanted to check on you. Is everything okay?”

“Oh!” You put on a brave face to mask the tiredness you feel internally. “Yeah, I’m just out of sorts today. It’s nothing.”

“Are you sure? Because if someone’s bothering you, that’s something we can take care of.”

“No, no, I promise. It’s all just me. Just having a day.”

“You’re positive?” He asks for confirmation again.

“Have I ever lied to you, ‘Lijah?”

He looks down at his shoes, embarrassed. “No, you haven’t. I apologize for doubting you.”

“It’s okay,” you step closer to him, resting against the door frame. “No need to apologize. But I swear, I just… woke up on the wrong side of the bed or something. New Orleans is a loud city. I’m still adjusting.”

“Okay. Well, call if you need anything. Even the smallest thing.”

“I will.”

“Oh, and be careful in the off-chance that Marcel storms in here. There’s a fight brewing in the quarter.”

“I’ll keep an eye out.”

“Better yet, stay inside for the day. So you’re not in harm’s way at all.”

“Okay, ‘Lijah.”

He smiles at you, then kisses your hand. “Now, I need to neutralize my brother. But I needed to make sure our girl was okay first.”

“She’s okay. Go deal with him.”

Elijah straightens his collar before speeding off to no doubt defend his brother in a fight. You love Klaus, but man, does he get angry. And then from anger, comes pure rage, then absolute chaos. Once situations escalate that far, the whole block better hide if they want to keep their hearts in their chest. 

You sigh, thinking of the carnage that may come. You’re not sure you can deal with his anger issues today, especially not coupled with those of Marcel. Of all the days they have to fight, it’s the one that you might snap, too, if he raises his voice one more time. 

Suddenly, your bed looks like the perfect oasis away from the mess behind your door. A good pillow over the ears might prevent an impending meltdown. You crawl into it at once and let your body melt into the mattress. 

You hadn’t lied to Elijah, though you hadn’t given him the full truth, either. Yes, you are, in general, okay. Not necessarily today, but at that moment, you were. Also yes, you’re not feeling great today, partly because of all the city noise. And, finally, yes, most of it is just you and your body not in the mood to be awake. Though Klaus is contributing, just a little bit, to your mental distress today. Elijah would understand, of course, but then he’d have a talk with his brother about it, and you really didn’t want to burden either of them in that way, so you put on a smile and didn’t mention it. You’d bet Elijah knows the full truth, and knows why you won’t admit it, but he respects you if you don’t want to talk about it. That’s one of the reasons you love him so much. 

You get a couple hours of rest until your slumber is interrupted by a new knock on your door. It’s not soft, like Elijah’s, so it must be one of the younger two. 

“Oh no,” you mutter, wondering what it must be now.

“Y/N?” Rebekah’s voice comes from the other side. “Are you awake?”

“I am now.” 

She opens the door as you reply. “Oh what the bloody hell are you still doing in bed?”

“Sleeping.”

“Obviously! Come watch a movie with Kol and I! We’d love your company.”

“An actual movie, or the public display of violence happening outside in the quarter?”

“We haven’t decided yet!” She grabs your hand. “Come on!”

You yawn. “I’m gonna pass today, I’m not up for it.”

“Awh, Y/N! It won’t be as fun without you!”

“I have a headache, Bex,” you fib. 

“Do you want some blood for that?”

“Does that even work like that?”

She shrugs, “not sure.”

You cuddle into your pillow. “Another time, okay?”

The girl smiles, then leans forward to kiss your head. “Okay. If you change your mind, come find us.”

“I will. Thank you.”

“Dinner’s at seven. Will you be there?”

“Yeah,” you promise, “I should be better by then.”

You are not, in fact, better by then. If anything, your foul mood progressed into an actual headache within thirty minutes of Rebekah leaving. Shouts throughout the city managed to penetrate the thin glass of your windows, and you could hear almost everything as Klaus heckled the current king. For hours, it went on, until the sun went down and they assumedly put it off for another day. By seven o’clock, you were able to sneak in another nap, but you still felt way overstimulated from the day’s events. 

Not to mention the fact that you spent all day in bed. Sometimes, you’re overstimulated by too much going on, but today you partly did it to yourself by hiding away all day. The guilt of avoiding everyone weighs on your chest. Rebekah had invited you to a movie; Elijah went out of his way to check up on you, and you had more or less dismissed them both. A bitter taste sits in your mouth when you think about it. Water doesn’t wash it out.

Hopefully dinner will. 

For the first ten minutes, the night passes peacefully. Most of the conversation is focused between the meal and the movie the two had watched. The events of the day, seemingly, are left in the past.

But then, of course, Kol has to make a comment on something he overheard that he thought was funny. And that set Klaus off into a spewing of anger. He’s pissed at Marcel, but now, also, at Kol for bringing it up. Elijah puts his face in his hands, and Rebekah sends both a huge eye roll. 

What was a moment of much-appreciated silence is now a yelling match. After five minutes, you reach your breaking point. 

“Why do you feel the need to comment on that, Kol? It was so insignificant, but you’ve felt the need to bring it up, and now I’m reminded of how much Marcel has done to piss me off!”

“I didn’t mean to make you upset, bloody hell! I thought it was funny!”

“It wasn’t funny to me when he was spitting in my face! I-”

“Oh my god! Are you ever not arguing?!” You suddenly shout. 

The table goes silent and all eyes are on you. A needle could be dropped and it would be heard across the quarter. 

“I’m sorry,” you apologize quickly, embarrassed.

“Love,” Elijah puts a hand on your shoulder, “are you alright?”

At his touch, you flinch. He retracts his hand quickly, but doesn’t move his body away from its proximity to yours. 

Klaus, although upset at the interruption, notices this and calms a little. “Everything okay, Y/N?”

“I’m fine. It’s nothing.”

“That little outburst didn’t sound like nothing.”

“I’m just stressed.”

“Darling, what’s got you all upset? Tell us and we’ll sort it out now.”

“It’s no one, Kol, I’m just not feeling well.”

“Still have a headache, sweetheart?” Rebekah asks. 

“You have a headache?” Klaus butts in. 

The assortment of questions makes you drop your head. It nearly hits the table, but Elijah grabs your frame before you can fall. Tears form in your eyes, visibly. 

“I’m just really overstimulated today. I woke up weird and this city is loud, and then there was all the fighting all day long, and then I hid in my room all day, but then I felt bad about hiding, and now I’m making you all worried because I can’t get my shit under control!”

“And that’s your fault, how?” Elijah asks, “you cannot blame yourself for the way you feel.”

“But I need to handle my emotions better. I’m sorry.”

“No apologies necessary, love,” Klaus adds, “I certainly haven’t helped, fighting with children all day.”

“Niklaus,” Elijah warns, but Klaus doesn’t argue with him this time. 

“I should’ve stayed with you when you said you had a headache.”

“Don’t blame yourself either, Bex. It’s not your fault.”

“But we could’ve cuddled,” she frowns.

“It’s okay. I got a nap, and it helped a little. I just need to get used to my life being different now. None of you are at fault.”

“Nor are you,” the eldest reminds, “it’s been quite a day for us all.”

Kol clears his throat, “say, after dinner, if you feel up to it, we could all watch a movie and cuddle around you? I think some comfort is much needed.”

“Sure,” you agree, “but I might fall asleep during it.”

“That’s quite alright,” he smiles. He then stands up to hug you, but when his arms wrap around your neck, you freeze.

“Not yet, please. I’m still a bit stressed.”

He gives you a wink. “Of course, darling. Let me know when you’re ready.”

Klaus flicks his napkin across the table. He’s folded it into the shape of a heart. “We love you. You know that, right?”

You take the heart, kiss it, and put it in your pocket. “I do. I love you all, too. Thanks for understanding.”

[r-memberme]

in the eyes of the beholder | k.m

⎯⎯"That’s a dreadful attempt at impressionism," he comments one evening, arms crossed as he studies your canvas. "Your brushstrokes lack conviction. Have you even looked at a Monet before?"

warnings: none I think, student(18+) x teacher trope, professor klaus mikaelson

The first time you meet Professor Mikaelson, he is a storm wrapped in silk. His voice, smooth as oil paint dragged across canvas, fills the lecture hall as he leans against the desk, flipping through the syllabus with a sort of detached amusement. The dim lighting casts sharp shadows across his features, highlighting cheekbones sculpted like marble, the kind of face you would have studied in an atelier centuries ago.

"Welcome to Advanced Art Theory," he says, accent laced with something old and unplaceable. "For those of you expecting an easy semester filled with pleasant musings about color theory and brushstroke techniques, you are in for a rather rude awakening. Art is a beast. And we," his eyes flick across the room, pausing when they meet yours, "are here to tame it."

There is something in his gaze—piercing, assessing, an artist considering his subject. You sit up a little straighter.

It doesn’t take long to learn that Klaus Mikaelson is a paradox.

He is sharp edges and honeyed words, a professor who will critique a student’s work with ruthless precision and then soften his remarks with an amused, "Don’t pout, love, you’ll thank me when you’re not making a mockery of chiaroscuro." He moves through the studio like he owns the air inside it, hands clasped behind his back, occasionally reaching out to adjust an easel, a canvas, a hesitant brushstroke.

You expect to be intimidated. And at first, you are. But you are also intrigued.

Over the weeks, you find yourself lingering after class, asking questions just to hear his thoughts. He humors you at first, then engages in earnest, eyes glinting with something dangerously close to enjoyment. Your discussions turn playful—your polite 'Professor Mikaelson' gradually replaced by the more teasing 'sir' when he’s being particularly overbearing.

"That’s a dreadful attempt at impressionism," he comments one evening, arms crossed as he studies your canvas. "Your brushstrokes lack conviction. Have you even looked at a Monet before?"

You roll your eyes. "Oh, I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware you studied under the Impressionists personally. Must have slipped my mind."

A slow smirk curls his lips. "Careful, love. You’re dangerously close to earning yourself an impossible assignment."

But there’s no real bite to his words, only amusement. And when he leans over your shoulder, reaching past you to adjust the angle of your brush, his proximity sends heat curling in your stomach.

You think you might be in trouble.

You tilt your head, feigning innocence. "Oh? And what exactly does an impossible assignment entail?"

His eyes flicker with something unreadable, mischief curling at the edges. "Perhaps a week spent painting only in shadows, no outlines, no corrections. Or maybe replicating Caravaggio’s technique in a medium of my choosing—something inconvenient, like ink on silk."

You scoff, folding your arms. "You’re just making things up now."

"Am I?" he murmurs, stepping closer, gaze steady on yours. "Art should be difficult. Uncomfortable. Otherwise, what’s the point?"

You hate that he has a way of making even a challenge sound poetic. His voice settles into your skin like a brushstroke you can’t quite smooth out, lingering even after he steps back.

༊*·˚

The following week, you find a single sheet of silk stretched taut across your workstation, along with a set of ink brushes. No note, but none is needed.

You glance across the room to find Klaus watching from his desk, a slow smirk playing at his lips. When he catches your eye, he lifts a brow as if to say, "Well? Get to work."

And so, you do. You lose yourself in the fluidity of the ink, the way it refuses to be controlled, how each stroke must be intentional because there are no second chances. It is maddening, but it is also exhilarating.

At some point, Klaus drifts over, hands clasped behind his back as he watches your progress. "Not bad," he muses. "I expected more cursing."

You exhale sharply. "Don’t tempt me."

He chuckles, leaning against the edge of your desk. "See, love? Perhaps there’s hope for you yet."

You shake your head, biting back a smile. You should be irritated, but there is something intoxicating about his attention, the way he pushes you—not just to be better, but to think, to feel, to understand the soul of the work beyond technique.

You realize, with a quiet sort of inevitability, that you are falling in love with the process.

༊*·˚

The studio is quiet now. The other students have packed up, voices fading down the corridor, the scent of oil paint and turpentine lingering in the air. You gather your brushes, sliding them carefully into your case, the slow rhythm of your movements grounding you after the intensity of the lesson.

Across the room, Klaus stands by the window, hands in his pockets, gaze lost in the ink-black sky beyond. He hasn’t left yet, though you expected him to.

"You worked late today," he muses, breaking the silence.

You glance up, offering a small shrug. "I wanted to finish. The ink dries too quickly if I stop halfway."

He hums, pushing away from the window. His footsteps are soft against the hardwood floor as he approaches, stopping just beside your table. "And did it turn out as you hoped?"

You hesitate, looking down at the silk stretched before you. The piece is bold, fluid, imperfect in the way ink always is. "I don’t know yet," you admit. "I think I like it, but I need to look at it tomorrow."

His lips twitch, as if pleased by your answer. "Good. An artist who loves their work too quickly has no room to grow."

You glance at him, playful. "So, you never love anything immediately?"

Klaus tilts his head, considering. "No," he says finally, voice lower, quieter. "But some things… some things demand attention the moment you lay eyes on them."

His gaze lingers a beat too long, something warm and unreadable flickering behind it.

You clear your throat, turning back to your brushes. "Well, you’ll be pleased to know I haven’t fallen in love with my own work just yet."

He chuckles, the sound deep, amused. "Then you’re already a step ahead of most."

For a moment, there’s only the distant hum of the campus beyond the windows, the two of you standing amidst the stillness of the empty studio. Then Klaus exhales softly, reaching past you to pluck a stray charcoal stick from your supply kit, rolling it between his fingers.

"You should go home, love," he says, almost gently. "The ink will still be here tomorrow."

You nod, though you don’t move right away. He doesn’t either.

The silence stretches, heavy with something unspoken. A challenge, an invitation, a line drawn so delicately it would take only the slightest push to cross.

Klaus tilts his head slightly, watching you with that same unreadable expression he wears when studying a half-finished painting—curious, considering. Then, with an exhale, he steps back, setting the charcoal down beside your brushes. "Get some rest," he murmurs, softer now. "I'll see you tomorrow."

You gather the last of your things, slipping your bag over your shoulder, and when you finally turn to leave, you can still feel the weight of his gaze following you to the door.

༊*·˚

The next time you walk into class, you feel his presence before you even see him.

Klaus Mikaelson stands near the front of the room, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a smudge of charcoal darkening the side of his hand. He looks at ease yet entirely in control, his attention flickering from a student’s canvas to the delicate sculpture someone else is attempting. Then, as if drawn by some unseen thread, his gaze lifts—and lands on you.

It’s brief, a flicker of recognition, but it sets something alight beneath your skin.

You swallow, moving to your workstation. As you unpack your supplies, you hear the slow, deliberate cadence of his footsteps. He doesn’t stop at the other students, doesn’t pause to critique the half-finished portraits or the stiff, hesitant sketches. No, his path leads directly to you.

"Good morning, love," he murmurs when he finally reaches your side. His voice is smooth, almost lazy, but there’s something keen behind it—something awake.

You glance up. "Professor," you return, measured, careful.

His lips twitch. He sees right through you.

For a moment, he simply looks at your canvas, at the beginning strokes of a new composition. Then, with an air of casual authority, he reaches past you and plucks a pencil from your desk. His fingers brush against yours, fleeting but deliberate.

"Try shifting the angle here," he says, voice low. He leans in slightly, his scent—paint, parchment, something faintly spiced—curling into the space between you. "It’ll give the composition more movement."

You hesitate. Not because he’s wrong—he never is—but because his proximity makes it hard to think. Still, you follow his instruction, adjusting the linework as he watches.

"Better," he murmurs, and you swear you can hear the hint of a smirk in his voice.

The rest of class continues as usual—or at least, it should. But now you’re hyper-aware of him. The way he moves around the room, how his fingers linger on the edges of pages, his critique softer with some, sharper with others. The way he always seems to end up near you, some part of him hovering at the edge of your awareness.

It’s maddening.

And then, just when you think you’ve imagined it all, he proves you haven’t.

"Stay a moment," Klaus says as the rest of the students begin packing up.

Your breath catches, but you school your expression into something neutral. "Why?"

He tilts his head, amused. "You don’t trust me?"

"Not even slightly."

He laughs, the sound low and warm. "Good. That’s the first intelligent thing you’ve said all semester."

You roll your eyes but remain in your seat as the last of the students file out. The door swings shut behind them, leaving the two of you in the hush of the empty studio.

Klaus doesn’t speak immediately. Instead, he moves toward the supply cabinet, retrieving something from within. When he turns back, you see a stack of aged sketchbooks in his hands. He sets them down on your desk, fingers tapping lightly against the topmost one.

"These belonged to an old mentor of mine," he says. "Brilliant artist, dreadful disposition. You’d have hated him."

You arch a brow. "And yet, you’re giving me his work?"

"Because you’ll learn from it. And because I suspect you’ll appreciate what he saw in the world."

Curious, you reach out, flipping open the first page. Immediately, you’re met with stunningly raw sketches—figures in motion, landscapes captured in the space of mere seconds. The energy in them is breathtaking.

You exhale slowly. "These are incredible."

Klaus shifts his weight, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yes, well. I’d like to hear your thoughts. Perhaps over… coffee?"

Your heart skips. "Coffee?"

"Yes, I—" He exhales, then tries again. "I mean, purely for academic purposes, of course. A discussion. About art. And… other things. If you’d like."

His usual confidence is nowhere to be found, and the sight of him—charming, powerful Klaus Mikaelson, tripping over his words—sends warmth flooding through you.

You let the silence stretch for a moment before finally offering him a small, knowing smile. "I’d like that."

His shoulders relax, relief flickering across his face before he schools his expression. "Good. Well then. Next class, we’ll discuss your thoughts. And… perhaps a little more."

You nod, tucking the sketchbooks under your arm as you stand. "Guess I better get to studying then."

Klaus huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Indeed, love. Indeed."

thank you to anon for the req! <3 loved writing this one (im love painting and drawing so it really made me feel at home).

Do tell me if it needs more parts! <3

taglist: @ohapple@myworldrightnow@deactiveblogx@witch-of-letters @xtwistedchaosx @liataylorsversion @pardonmydelayyy

[sgiandubh]

Anon rebelde.

Menudo giro de guion para las antis, Sam y Cait juntos en un evento para fans donde no están obligados por Starz a participar, ya sabes, ese tipo de eventos con dinero de por medio que sus acérrimas fans siempre han afirmado que Cait no hace porque ella no es de esa clase de engañabobos como es Sam, siempre pensando en como hacer caja a costa de los bolsillos del fandom. Con eso demuestran que ya han pasado página de un fandom tóxico y empeñado en hacerlos parecer menos que compañeros de trabajo para hacer lo que les place, nadie haría ascos a una Venecia carnavalesca, sacándoles de paso ese dedo medio que tan bien saben utilizar y que creo que de aquí en adelante van a usar mucho más.

Dear (returning) Anon Rebelde,

Una vez más, llego muy tarde a responder a tu interesantísimo comentario. Sin embargo, esta vez, me atrevo a decir que lo hice por buenas razones: simplemente, encontré tu comentario provocativamente alentador. Me hizo pensar aún más en el asunto de Venecia, sobre el que ya se han mencionado muchas cosas. Sin embargo, faltaba algo, y ese algo es una perspectiva cultural más amplia. Pero, antes que nada, traduzcamos lo que me enviaste:

'What a plot twist for the antis, Sam and Cait together at a fan event where they are not forced by Starz to participate, you know, those kinds of events involving money her Stans have always claimed Cait doesn't do, because she's not that kind of con artist like Sam, always thinking about how to make money at the expense of the fandom's pockets. With that they show that they have already turned the page on a toxic fandom bent on making them look less than coworkers, and do whatever they like to do. Nobody would turn down a carnivalesque Venice, and they chose this giving the fandom that middle finger they know how to use so well, and that I think they will use a lot more from now on.'

Everything you wrote, dear Anon Rebelde, and then some more. If I weren't one of their favorite targets, I could even feel #sorry for this entire bunch of #silly people, who are now legitimately freaking out in public silence and inbox mischief. All of this just because their basic, binary tropes (S is a cheap scammer, C is an intangible saint) are seemingly being shaken to the core by what yes, is a very interesting and ironic plot twist. Granted, this is still an OL-ish related event, but it is just not your usual sort of event (a con, a panel, a promo-related interview) and it happens just as shooting is now completely over. It will be very difficult for all those people who are probably dumbfounded (and not in a good way) by this, to forget they were barking with great confidence no later than last week, that S and C will NEVER DO ANYTHING ELSE TOGETHER, that SHE WAS WAY OVER OL AND THAT PEASANT, that HE WILL DISAPPEAR INTO ALCOHOLIC OBLIVION AND SHE WILL OH, THE PLACES SHE'LL GO ON HER OWN. It turns out the opposite seems to happen and it goes to show spitting upwards is never a great idea, lest it would land on your own head. Therefore, we are met with a lot of sobriety and zero comments on those Mordorian outlets: when it's inconvenient - minimize, minimize, minimize and hope for better days (hooker, Tracula, Alphabet Fitness Harem, Orange Influencer, Brazilian fan with an agenda, etc).

Granted, this is not 'fair Verona', but literary tropes are very powerful and magic, like that, and it is almost impossible not to think about what happened there, 'when ancient grudge broke to new mutiny' (I hope I remember it correctly, as I write this). In other words, it is impossible not to think about the ballo in maschera at the Capulet's mansion, even if the official theme of the event is (oh, the irony!) Casanova's Venice (half of Mordor has no idea who that fine gentleman was, LOL). It also goes without saying the entire thing will probably look rather like Baz Luhrmann's interpretation...

... than the very aesthetically pleasing, but totally stiff Zeffirelli version:

Granted, this is happening in the context of the (nowadays) very touristy Venetian carnival, a horrific hullaballoo few people, snobbery put aside, really and honestly enjoy. But it is exactly the irony of this that seemed perhaps the most important of it all. In a form of poetic justice, the pretext is Carnival, that almost ridiculous, nonsensical, borrowed time of collective foolishness. You'd even be tempted to not think twice, yet there is nothing more dead serious and subversive than Carnival itself, and it has been like this since the Roman Saturnalia feast, when slaves turned into masters and masters into slaves, if only for a crazy day. Its deep meaning is not really about allowing freeform fornication in dark alleys and a brief respite before the long, austere dullness of Lent. Its deep meaning is, perhaps above anything else, about a giant, collective middle finger to what is perceived as oppressive, absurd and coercing authority. Since I suppose those fine minds across the street never read Bakhtin's Rabelais and His World, where everything is explained with luminous clarity, they will have to either believe me or shite over the same inbox you sent your comment to, first thing in the morning. Sometimes, truth seeps through chaos. Sometimes, things are not what they seem to be. Oh, the irony!

I am not even saying SC are aware of the...uhm... metaphorical implications of their choice to attend a rather profitable event. I am pretending to even ignore the fact that at such events, the invited co-presenters or hosts are, more often than not, real life couples, too. All I am saying (since apparently I have to thoroughly, boringly explain absolutely everything I write) is that this tiny coincidental detail gave me pause and a contented chuckle.

And with all this, I still haven't watched that Paley panel. Will do, in reasonable time. Thank you for dropping by, Anon Rebelde - it is always a stimulating pleasure.

[the-worrier-of-light]

Antimony

Who would you be if you didn’t—couldn't—exist?

After an accident involving a faulty regulator, Antimony came to a harrowing realization��nobody recognized her. Friends and family alike greeted her as a stranger. She quickly found that the true extent of the situation was even worse: once any conversation ended, she was immediately forgotten as if she never existed. To all of Solution Nine, she was no more than a temporary hallucination, instantly erased.

...Or more precisely, almost all of Solution Nine.

---

Credits become significantly more difficult to earn when nobody remembers your existence. Most jobs were impossible for Antimony, since employers wouldn't recognize her once the task was complete. For a while, selling whatever junk she managed to scavenge in face-to-face transactions was her only viable source of income.

Eventually, though, Antimony found it was far more efficient to simply steal whatever she needed. Thanks to her condition, she could take anything, anywhere—even directly from a shopkeep's hands—with no repercussions, so long as she could get away... and she had always been a damn good runner. On the rare occasions she did get caught, it was only a minor inconvenience; the Sentries would confine her, leave, then return to a cell holding an anonymous citizen with no criminal record. Whatever strange affliction had befallen her, it extended even to Everkeep's internal databanks.

Sometimes, to keep life interesting, Antimony would target the same establishment day after day. Though they couldn't remember her, they could remember the crime, and Antimony made a game of setting off the countermeasure-du-jour.

One day, after the fourth successful heist that week from a True-Vue convenience store, Antimony sank to the curb to enjoy her ill-gotten snacks. Even from a couple of blocks away, she could still hear the shop's freshly installed alarms shrieking uselessly in the distance. She grinned and popped a fruit pellet into her mouth.

"Gimme some of that," commanded a gruff little voice, somewhere over Antimony's shoulder. She turned to find a Milalla's outstretched palm making grabby hands at her spoils.

She rolled her eyes. "Buzz off, kid."

The Milalla let out a defiant huff, and said, "You're the kid here, punk, and I'm going to take a share of the goods, unless you'd rather me let the Sentries know about your little operation."

Antimony froze, and the fruit pellet on its way to her mouth clattered to the pavement below. "You—you've been watching me?"

"As if it's hard; you're stealing in broad daylight! Frankly, I don't know how you keep getting away with it, but whatever your secret is, you shouldn't be wasting it on... shitty convenience store food." The Milalla had helped himself to the snack bag and was frowning at its contents.

"That's... not possible," Antimony whispered. When the Milalla gave her an incredulous look, she continued, "Nobody knows who I am! Ever! If you've been watching me, that would mean you can remember me..."

"Riiight... Okay, on second thought, keep your snacks," he said, taking a cautious step back. "I thought you had talent, kid, but maybe you've just got a couple of screws loose."

Antimony's eyes widened as he turned to leave. "No—wait! Please... just, here—let me prove it to you!"

He stopped, then looked back. Antimony braced for the blank stare of a stranger, but his face showed only an apprehensive little frown. She could have wept with relief at that. Instead, she sprang to her feet.

"Wanna see a neat party trick?"

---

Antimony and her companion made their way down the street, convenience store coffees in hand. No alarms were screeching after her this time. The Milalla's eyebrows were furrowed as he stared at the steaming cup.

"He smiled at you! Told you to 'come again,' even!"

Antimony shrugged. "Like I said, nobody remembers me, ever. You're the first person I've met who has. Ever since I became... like this, anyway." A thought occurred to her, and she blinked. "I'm Antimony, by the way. Sorry, didn't think to introduce myself—there's usually no point in it."

She looked down at the Milalla, and for the first time, really looked at him. Behind round little glasses, his sharp green eyes were lined with the beginnings of minute wrinkles, and she felt like an ass for calling him a kid. Despite his rough demeanor, his clothes were decently made and well-tailored. And yet, there was something about his appearance that seemed... off; she was having trouble placing it. Eventually, she realized what was missing.

"Wait, where's your regulator?" she asked.

He chuckled, "In my line of work, s'best to avoid plugging a tracking device into your skull." He held out a tiny hand. "Name's Kenek."

[berrywinner]

May I have some huddy angst? I barely see huddy content because of the overwhelming amount of wilhouse content :') thank youuu

In another life...

Summary: After their breakup, House and Cuddy haven’t been able to go back to normality. Tension keeps building until it explodes.

House couldn't take it anymore. Working with her, seeing her everywhere, it was impossible. The woman who had made him fall in love, the woman to whom he had shown himself vulnerable, the woman who had destroyed him again. He knew he had always been self-destructive, it was in his nature, but this time he was not only disappointed in himself but also in his expectations.

For some absurd reason, he believed that she would buy every part of him, that she would take the broken, sarcastic mess and still find something worth holding onto. She had already done it for more years than she could even count. But she was right. She couldn’t keep up with his problems too. She couldn’t accept him for who he was, not indefinitely.

Every day he saw her walking around the hospital, the familiar sound of her heels echoing down the hallway, her perfect shape in those skirts that made it impossible to look away. She was a constant reminder of what he couldn’t have, what he’d broken.

He was going crazy.

He couldn’t stand the tension anymore, not the good kind of tension that sparked mischief or desire, but the heavy, suffocating kind that made him want to scream just to shatter it. And one day, it finally happened.

It was late. The hospital was quieter, the hallways mostly empty. He found her in her office, staring at her laptop, her brow furrowed in that way he knew meant she was reading something frustrating.

He didn’t knock.

“Are you here to gloat or to make my life more difficult?” she asked without looking up.

“Neither,” he said flatly.

She sighed and finally looked up. Her eyes were tired. But still beautiful. God, why did they still have to be beautiful?

“Well?” she snapped.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he said. His voice was rough.

She closed the laptop slowly. “Do what?”

“This,” he gestured between them, “this...thing where we pretend we don’t hate each other.”

Her jaw tightened. “I don’t hate you.”

“Well, congratulations. I hate you.”

She stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. “You don’t hate me, House. You hate yourself.”

“Oh, thank you for the psychoanalysis, Dr. Cuddy,” he shot back. ���Let me return the favor: You didn’t leave because of me. You left because you’re a coward.”

Her eyes flashed. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” He limped closer, leaning on his cane like it was the only thing holding him up. Maybe it was. “You couldn’t handle it. You couldn’t handle loving someone broken. You knew what I was from the beginning, but the second it became inconvenient, you bolted.”

She was breathing hard. “I tried, House. I tried harder than anyone ever has. But you push everyone away. You test, and you manipulate, and you destroy. And then you act surprised when people finally give up.”

“Oh, so it’s my fault you couldn’t love me enough?”

“No!” she nearly shouted. “It’s your fault you never let me!”

There was silence. Thick, heavy, suffocating silence.

House swallowed. His throat was dry. “I let you in more than I’ve ever let anyone in. And you still left.”

“I left because I had to survive you!” she said, her voice breaking. “Do you know what it’s like to love someone who’s determined to ruin themselves? To watch them hurt themselves and everyone around them and still keep hoping they’ll choose you over their pain? And they never do.”

He closed his eyes for a second. “I didn’t ask you to save me.”

“I wanted to save you,” she whispered.

“That’s the problem,” he muttered. “I never needed saving. I needed someone who’d stay even when I didn’t deserve it.”

She let out a bitter laugh. “And that’s not fair. It’s not fair to ask someone to drown with you, House.”

He looked at her then, really looked. Her face was flushed with anger and emotion, but her eyes… her eyes still had that softness he remembered.

“I thought you were different,” he said quietly.

“I thought you could change,” she replied.

They stood there, the weight of all their years between them.

“You think I didn’t want to make it work?” she asked. “You think I didn’t imagine a life with you? Waking up next to you every morning, even with all the chaos and the pain and the mess. I wanted that. I wanted you.”

“Then why didn’t you fight harder?”

She looked at him, tears threatening. “Because I was losing. And I couldn’t afford to lose myself too.”

He clenched his jaw. “I never asked you to.”

“You didn’t have to. You were taking pieces of me without even noticing.”

He turned away for a second, running a hand through his hair. “You’re not blameless in this, Cuddy. You built me up and tore me down. You pushed and pulled and made me think I could be… more. But I can’t. This is who I am.”

“I know,” she whispered.

“And you hate me for it.”

“No,” she said softly. “I hate that I still love you for it.”

His heart stopped for a moment.

They stared at each other, raw and exposed.

“I thought I could turn you into someone you’re not,” she admitted. “And I’m sorry for that. But I never stopped loving you.”

He swallowed hard. “I never stopped either.”

The tension between them shifted, it was still heavy, but now it crackled with something else.

Longing.

Regret.

Hope.

She took a small step forward. He didn’t move.

“Maybe,” she said softly, “in another life.”

He shook his head. “No. Maybe in this one.”

They stood there, just a few feet apart, breathing the same air, both too stubborn and too afraid to close the distance.

But in their eyes… in their eyes was the truth they couldn’t say out loud.

It wasn’t over.

Not yet.

Maybe soon.

House's words hung in the air, heavy and hopeful.

"No. Maybe in this one."

Cuddy felt her breath catch in her throat. For a split second, she wanted to believe it. She wanted to throw caution away and close the distance between them. To touch his face, to feel that scruff beneath her fingers, to let him kiss her like he used to, as if she was the only person in the world who mattered.

But reality crashed in like a cold wave.

She shook her head slowly, her eyes glistening.

“No,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “In another life.”

House stiffened. His expression didn’t change, but his eyes darkened, just for a moment, in that subtle way she had always recognized as pain. He wouldn’t show it, not really. Not House. But she knew it was there.

He gave a slight nod, as if he’d expected it. Maybe he had. Maybe they both had.

She bit her lip. But as she looked at him, standing there in her office, that same cynical, impossible, brilliant man, she knew the truth.

She wouldn’t get over him.

Not in a month. Not in a year. Probably not ever.

She’d tried. God, how she’d tried. She’d gone on dates, forced herself to move forward, pretended that life could continue without that chaos, without that electricity that first time. But nothing measured up. No one made her feel the way he did. That's exactly why she left Lucas.

He was a storm, and she’d spent so long trying to stand in the calm, but nothing about the calm ever felt alive.

And now here he was again, standing right in front of her, offering that impossible thing: another chance.

She couldn’t take it.

Her hands trembled slightly, so she crossed her arms to hide it.

“You should go,” she said softly.

House didn’t move. He just looked at her with those piercing blue eyes, seeing right through her, as he always had.

“Okay,” he said finally.

He turned and walked to the door, his cane tapping quietly on the tile.

Her heart twisted.

He paused in the doorway. “You know,” he said, not turning around, “I don’t believe in other lives. Just this one.”

He left.

The door clicked shut.

Cuddy let out a shaky breath and slowly sat down at her desk, feeling like all the air had been sucked out of the room.

She stared at the closed door, her vision blurring with tears she refused to let fall.

Maybe in another life, she had said.

But she knew the truth.

She would love him for a long, long time.

And part of her knew... he’d love her too.

Even if they never got it right.

Even if it always ended in pieces.

They would never really be over.

Not completely.

And maybe, just maybe, they both knew they’d find each other again.

Because storms always come back.

And so did they.

[liamket]

AYO TIME FOR LU UPDATE COMMENTARY YESSSSSSSS

Well i mean, thats the best way of explaining Zelda dungeons, and thats also the thing that makes me love them, great things

Finding the object of the dungeon is one of the main objetives before anythng else, the majority of cases because without it it is impossible to keep going foward

Also holy shit the cane of Pac's design is so beautiful i love it i've been staring at it for a while now its so beautiful

that right there

is Hyrule's special sense for hidden things. Inside his dungeons its more difficult to navigate because of the lack of a map and compass, so he had to learn ways to identify secret rooms and hidden traps

Lucky guess my ass you literally went straight up to where the wall was you know so many things and never acknowledge it i love u rulie

Something that i have learned while playing a lot of the games is that if they give you the map almost at the start it means that the dungeon will be the next thing you will be seeing in your dreams/nightmares (points to snowpeak mansion in tp.)

HE DID THE THING YEAHHH

Beautiful reference i love it

I saw a lot of people pointing out that Legend at the start was really playfull and then started acting more serious and stressed, mostly towards Wild. He's the one together with Wars that has no experience in dungeons, the rest at least know how to manage by themselves, but Wild is a completly different story. Yeah he had shrines and the Divine Beasts, but compared to a real dungeon, filled with traps and full of monsters, going too confident could put in danger his life. And Legend Does Not want That.

As I already stated, Legend does not want to see one of his brothers get in trouble or injured by a dungeon trap if he can help it. He doesn't want to sound too overprotective or that he's exaggerating a little, but he can't really help it, he almost lost one of his brothers, specifically one of the ones that he's most close with

Wind knows how it feels, he has been in that same situation a lot of times. And Sky knows that too. At least Wild now understands how Wind felt that time that he stepped in front of him to recieve a blow in one of the first chapters

Again, Legend is now on his Vet mode, he's the one with most experience and will do anything on his power to avoid any accidents during their stay in this dungeon

the fact that Legend doesn't seem too amused with Wild's small atempt to calm the ambient shows more what i just said. There is no more room for playfully jokes or goofin around, the situation is more delicated and everyone should act acording to it.

Wars is still a little angry with Wild about his impulsive metods, and inside a dungeon like this he will not let the same situation happend again

this is meme material. beautiful.

Four knows this really well, he has gotten competitive even with himself during dungeon exploring, so it makes sense that he will be the one pointing this out. At least if they split up this could be less of a problem and more of a small inconvenient

Now my fav parts without any further context as always!

Small note but the fact that this is the Nervious Scratching The Back Of His Head™ thing that almost all Links do is a little but cool detail, i love it

there was a lot of Hyrule im well feed thanks to this update yesss

art as always belongs to @linkeduniverse !

[sasster]

Renovations

Hey guys! Hi! [doc]

—

Were he a notch higher on the go big or go home scale, and if the universe would have allowed for it, Persep might have blown his dreadful apartment building and all of the poor bastards it housed off of the face of Alternia.

They’d probably have thanked him for that too, but something about the smothering desperation that the place was steeped in made it difficult to actually want to do away with. It would have been enjoyable, even, if he weren’t just as miserable as the rest of them.

Instead of putting them all out of their misery once he’d had enough of the place, he instead decided to go out and set some much neglected plans in motion.

Finding a hive in his preferred setting, a heavily forested area as far away from civilization as to not be an inconvenient trek back as he could get, was the easy part. Apart from city-dwellers, trolls tended to want their territories a decent distance  from other trolls. As far they could get them, really. And after a handful of perigees as a city-dweller himself, he would have found a way to put his new hive on the green moon if it meant never seeing another unwanted soul in his space again.

That would have made the next phase of his plan way too difficult though and he always prided himself on his ability to remain practical.

Persep had hoped that the hive he found would be an abandoned one, considering that his change in status from ghost to reaper meant that killing anyone was a new and frustrating impossibility, but scaring the former owner away was easy enough. He was young and, by his own admission once Persep’d bared his fangs, didn’t want any problems.

The hardest part was getting the structure up to the standards of his old hive, the beautiful and towering omen that it was before that party of ingrates reduced it to ash. It was a marvelous place of stone and nightmares. Edgy by anyone else's standards. This new one was much smaller by comparison, hidden amongst the cover of the treeline instead of standing dauntingly above it. The mid-blood he menaced out of it had neither the funds nor ambition that he’d had when it was time to construct.

There’d be no room for a gruesome collection of lifesized 1:1 ration puppets or a maze of halls within to stalk and disorient his guests. Not even any space for a vivisection table without disrupting the delicate balance of the hive's two bedrooms and living room.

Much of the hive was decorated to his tastes, at least. His collections of old artifacts weren’t what they used to be, but he made do, and of course the look wouldn’t be complete without the porcelain dolls he loved so much that made direct eye contact with the observer from whatever angle they approached from. Those soulless glass eyes painted the rooms and halls a shade of dread that cured his heart of the homesickness plaguing it since his return.

The renovations were not fully complete until he finished the second bedroom, though: soft pastel walls peppered with floating shelves full of books that staggered along a wall to a window he’d made certain to force and break the lock on. His plan required that his guest be comfortable after all, but in no position to make daring escapes.

Persep admired the circular bed and its canopy that rested near the window, delighted with the fruits of his labor. A bedroom that came to him in a dream, now complete and waiting for its occupant to come and make use of the vanity, dresser, and table he’d painstakingly arranged from memory.

A thank you would be appreciated, he thought, once his guest arrived.

Thumbing the glassy rock in his pocket, he smiled to himself, satisfied that he’d taken all of the necessary steps to see a deal fulfilled at long last.

And so he left his new home, stopping once he was outside to take in the exterior of all his hard work, then headed off toward the House of Restoration with an uncharacteristic pep in his step.

—

One of the better results of having a vagabond soul meant that traveling by the cover of Alternia’s blistering sun was of little consequence to him. As much as he enjoyed creeping in the shadows and flirting around the fringes of the consciousness of the layman, he didn’t fancy the idea of moving about in conditions that provided for that irritating Roatus kid to be up and about, making things much more difficult than they had to be. He liked the idea of Arkiro being fast asleep or otherwise occupied with whatever the daylife had to offer him.

Persep arrived at the church steps as the sun was approaching its apex, painting the landscape in its eye-searing rays. Just as he was going to learn how good the building’s sun-proofing systems were, the ornate handle on the front door turned and it was pushed slightly ajar from the inside. Someone carefully stepped out into the light, making certain not to open the door too wide as to let in too much sun, then closed it gently behind herself to mitigate any slam.

Persep felt himself grin at the familiar sight of her tail, fanned out as she closed her eyes and soaked in the warmth that the sun bathed the world in.

What luck.

He bounded forward eagerly, grin only widening in his fervor, to stand directly between Nymira and her sunbath. 

She furrowed her brows first at the sudden shade, then frowned. When she opened her eyes again horror joined the symphony of emotions clouding her features. If he had to guess, he would think she’d wandered out here in some sort of daze.

The corners of her mouth twitched, and she had enough sense to focus her gaze beyond his face despite the obvious discomfort stirring within her.

He said nothing for a moment, basking in the situation for just a short while.

Nymira took the time to try and get her way back into the church, only partially getting the door open before Persep made quick work of leaning forward with a hand pressed firmly against it, letting his own weight force it shut.

“Why the rush, Dreamer? No time for an old friend?” As soon as he broke the silence, her attention snapped back to him, still focused on anything but his eyes.

Smart girl.

“Why are you here?” She questioned, no doubt fighting to keep the fear out of her voice.

“We’ve much to discuss. Business matters to attend.” 

Nymira sniffed, a small indignant sound, and crossed her arms over her chest. “I am not looking to bargain with you again.”

“No?” He practically laughed, his mirth only barely held back. “Good thing you’ve yet to fulfill your end of the last one.”

He watched her resolve waver, his statement lingering in the air between them. She furrowed her brows again, horror quickly replaced by bewilderment, and dropped her hands to silently count her fingers by tapping them against her thighs.

“I went home,” she finally said, “Our dealings are finished.”

“‘Whatever you want,’” he echoed her promise. “I have yet to receive what I want, Godling.”

She hesitated, then made to take a step back, only managing to press herself against the door. “That is not what I meant… You know that wasn’t what I meant..”

“I’ll be collecting now.”

She made herself small against the door, voice ever smaller. “No…”

“That really isn’t how this works.” He warned, leaning in to further loom in the space she left behind.

Like a wild animal, her eyes darted around from his face to the space behind him either searching for an exit or someone to call out to. Then, with no warning at all, she reared back and drove her foot directly into his shin.

The smug look left his face in that instant, he hissed some expletives under his breath without letting up from the door, so she took her chances darting down the church steps, away from him.

Persep recovered faster than she expected, letting out another string of curses before giving chase, and tangling a hand in her hair to pull her back just as she cleared the bottom step. “I see you weren’t raised to play nice.” He gritted, fighting to get the fidgety goddess under control. “Will we be doing this the easy way?”

Nymira, stubborn as she can be, kicked back as hard as she could, striking him in the same leg as her first assault. When his grip loosened up, she made another run for it.

 “Shame on me for being polite.” He bemoaned, making quick work of running after her as she put distance between them and her only solace. Disoriented by fear though, she did not get very far before he was able to get his nails into her shoulder and turn her back to face him with such force she had no choice but to stop. 

The purple light emanating from his eyes spilled a ross her face and poisoned her features as they finally made eye contact. “The hard way it is.”

[yuurei20]

Hello! I know all the students at NRC use the dark mirror for going certain places during events and going back home on holidays. However, is there any instances where they mention how they get back to NRC? I do know both Ace and Deuce came back on boat and bus but is that the same for everyone? can they cast portals to come back through the mirror?

Also, thank you for all the hard work you put into this blog!♥️

Hello hello!! Thank you so much for this question, you are too kind! ^^♡

On the subject of transporting to NRC from outside of NRC, these are the only references I have been able to find: Halloween, Book 4 and Book 7!

Ace says that they had to take public transportation back to the school in Book 4 because "the mirror gate wasn't open," and in Halloween he says, "the school mirrors let us go home and back instantly for holidays and stuff," but I am not sure we have heard anything about logistics!

Ortho says, "People often use mirrors, crystals, and basins for magic-based transportation and communication."

During Spectral Soiree Leona explains that mirrors are often used in magical artifacts, listing the examples of the Dark Mirror, the Hall of Mirrors, and the viewglasses. We know that the viewglasses require at least two mirrors to work, and Malleus transports the students via the Dark Mirror using the mirror that is the disco ball.

This makes it sounds as though maybe a mirror should be required for returning to NRC, much in the same way that a mirror is required for leaving it, but the students tend to appear in curious places for mirrors to be:

They show up just outside an abandoned cottage in the prologue and for Vargas Camp, and on what appears to be the outskirts of Epel's village for the Harveston event.

They then appear in the middle of city centers for Firelit Sky, White Rabbit, Tapis Rouge and Tamashina, while they step directly into a lecture hall at Noble Bell College.

Is it possible that all those city centers, the outskirts of Harveston, the outside of that abandoned cottage and the lecture hall all have a mirror set up specifically for mirror-based transportation?

It might not be impossible!

The Dark Mirror is "one of Night Raven College's most prized magical artifacts," requiring Crowley's permission to use.

Being so well guarded, setting up similar mirrors in public spaces might be unlikely, but it seems that the Dark Mirror is special (according to Vargas), doing more things than teleportation.

Maybe the mirrors in places like the woods and Clocktower Square (assuming they exist) are more generic?

I found a recent Twst Soku thread on this same topic, where some interesting points were made!

In the first novel a ghost tells Yuuya that "high-quality mirrors can be used for transportation." So maybe any mirror at all will do, so long as it is of a certain quality?

If that is the case, it would explain why the students appeared where they did in Firelit Sky, Harveston, etc.: they were the most convenient locations for Kalim and Jamil to introduce the city, for Epel to show off his village's orchards, etc., but maybe they could've teleported directly into their own bedrooms if they'd chosen to?

But that introduces a different question:

Jade, Floyd and Azul do not go home in Book 4 because of ice floes that make travel difficult--but why do they need to travel at all? Do they live an inconveniently far distance from the local transportation-mirror?

If any mirror can be used, does this mean that they do not have mirrors at home? We know that underwater-mirror-travel is possible because of Book 3, where characters go to both Octavinelle dorm and the Coral Sea via mirror.

Things might still be vague as of this post, but it is almost conspicuous how the game, manga and novel have all expertly avoided answering this question 👀

Commenters in the Twstsoku thread above generally seem to agree that it might be something of a bus-stop situation, with public mirrors that can access NRC during pre-determined time slots, but I do not think anything is official at this time!

Looking forward to an answer one day :>

[treeckos-for-arson]

my hot take of the day is that paul doesn’t not like musicals. i don’t know how it’s taken me 5+ years to come to this conclusion, but hear me out. i rewatched tgwdlm twice this weekend and my brain is vibrating on paul matthews frequency. my soul is one with his. my hypothesis wraps up everything that’s bothered me about paul’s character in a neat little bow: paul likes musicals, even if he doesn’t think he does.

the jokes have been circulating from the start, how paul knows the words to moana better than anyone else, how he has seen every musical mentioned in the show (he didn’t directly say he’s seen hamilton and mamma mia, but he at the very least knows the difference in the pop cultural relevance of the two). paul claims that he was forced to see godspell and brigadoon, but that doesn’t account for the other shows he’s seen, one of which he’s canonically watched enough times to know the words better than his coworkers/the average musical-hating ccrp employee.

i’ve heard speculation that paul goes to see every musical just to criticize it. but i don’t think that’s the case. i think paul has repressed his love of musicals. maybe he thinks he hates them, and thinks he watches them to critique them, but deep down he’s lying to himself and he knows it.

this is evidenced by “let it out,” specifically the lines: “i’ve become what i hated / or maybe i never did.” unlike the first verse, where there’s a clear distinction between the lines sung by paul vs pokey, i find it much more difficult to tell who’s singing in the second verse. i imagine this was an intentional acting choice on jon’s part, symbolizing that as pokey gets a firmer grip on paul he has access to more of his repressed memories, feelings, and desires. his words become more seamlessly infused with paul’s real thoughts. he identifies that paul has never hated musicals and makes him acknowledge it to himself and the audience.

so what caused paul to repress his love of musicals? he tells us directly—the moment that made him hate musicals was when he was bussed over to hatchetfield high to watch their production of brigadoon, because sycamore didn’t have a theater program. look, there is No Way that the entire student body of sycamore high was bussed over to see brigadoon: first, it would have been after school hours, and impossible (or at least a very strange thing) to make mandatory; second, the average high school production is, what, 2-4 nights? no way there would have been enough seats for all of sycamore; third, arranging the bus situation would have been far too inconvenient and expensive. i could go on, but my point is, going to see brigadoon was a voluntary action on high schooler!paul’s part. my guess is that it was only the students who actively wanted to be in a theater program who were taken to see brigadoon. that leads me to the conclusion: paul was an aspiring theater kid in high school, and you can’t tell me otherwise.

it was the experience of watching emma and the hatchetfield high kids perform brigadoon, longing to be onstage with them in the spotlight, and knowing he wasn’t going to get that opportunity in high school that made him start repressing his love of musicals. but (and i don’t have evidence for this, it’s just speculation) it’s post-high school, when he realized he was never going to get to be in a musical, that sealed that commitment to repression. whether he went to college and auditioned and didn’t get any roles for lack of practice, or joined the workforce and got his dream crushed out of him by the monotony of ccrp, paul distanced himself from the object of his desire by pretending that, actually, he never really wanted it. he pretended so hard he started to believe it. he began watching musicals “ironically.” he listened to the moana soundtrack because he “liked making fun of it.” he’d “rather do anything” than go watch mamma mia. he was “forced” to see godspell, and he “hated it.” godspell, more like god-awful, amirite?

(and don’t get me started on the little we see of him in black friday—what do you mean you don’t like those “musical commercials,” paul?? are you trying to say the kars 4 kids jingle is comparable to a full-length musical?? do you not listen to music at all, paul??? or are you overgeneralizing your hatred of musicals to cover your ass?? yet you can sing when you realize it’s possibly the final minutes of your life and there’s no hope to be found but in song? answer me paul. ANSWER ME.)

i’ve seen it hypothesized that pokey gives each character what they want before he kills them. paul is no exception. paul finally gets what he wants: to be in a musical. not just to be in a musical, but to play the leading role. to sing before an audience. to be the hero, sacrificing himself to save the day. i think it’s possible that, if ever paul genuinely stops liking musicals, it’s after pokey’s invasion begins. i mean, i certainly would stick to silent films for the rest of my life after getting caught up in that, so i don’t blame him. paul’s panic is visceral in every song sequence—but it’s not because he doesn’t like musicals, it’s for the obvious reason that Holy Fuck Something Is Wrong With These People Think About The Implications.

this has turned into an absolute essay, so tl;dr: paul likes musicals. if anything, paul loves musicals. paul was so broken by his inability to be in musicals as a kid that he made himself believe he hated them so all the missed opportunities would hurt less. all of the overexaggerated musical hating that we see on screen is overcompensation. he can fool the audience. he can fool himself. he can even fool me for 5+ years. but he can’t fool pokey.

[fictionsoul]

Stars, fire and you

Idol Fem!reader x Yesung

Synopsis: A friendship of years and you have a sudden reunion due to a program that will record every detail of your interaction, Yesung gladly accepts the invitation without knowing what fate has in store for you two.

Warnings: Slow burn, possible grammar mistakes, use of "(Y/N)", written with female pronouns

w/c: 5.9k

Stars, fire and you

Kpop was not yet a success, the Korean wave was not yet in sight and despite so many inconveniences with the country's economy you were rehearsing in a makeshift studio waiting for a chance to debut.

You had already seen so many kids come and go, leaving everything in that room with their throats burning from the effort and their feet aching from the exhausting hours of rehearsal. Despite witnessing it all, you continued on your way.

Dancing, singing and modeling, all these activities were performed under precise instructions to obtain a good result. Every day the routine was the same, the only thing that changed was the number of people who continued to walk that pat even if they could not see the end.

Although the different students would end up being your rivals looking for their own debut, you managed to establish strong bonds with several of them. Hyoyeon and Yesung were two great people who helped you in your professional growth, unfortunately one of them debuted first leaving you aside after fulfilling his dream.

A few years later it was Hyoyeon's turn to make his big debut and that's how you decided to leave the career to look for a better place that would allow you to achieve that goal.

A fledgling agency welcomed you into their ranks until they finally gathered the members of your small group to make their debut.

Soon you were on stage with your group singing and dancing on different stages to promote the fact that you had finally made your debut.

And even though you had made your long-awaited debut, it only continued to make it more and more difficult to get together with your friends from your trainee days.

Maybe sometimes promotion dates crossed between the three groups, but rehearsal and performance times made it impossible to live together backstage.

Leading an idol's life reduced your social life to a minimum, if not to say zero. The day would have to take more than twenty-four hours to be able to go out and chat with your friends, if they could still be considered as such.

At some music festivals the three managed to coincide and did nothing more than wish each other good luck from a distance so as not to provoke the wrath of their respective fandoms. If they saw you talking to Yesung their fans would go crazy and if they saw you with Hyo the media would probably end up digging into your past to talk about how you gave up on SM.

You had no choice but to ride out the dynamics so as not to affect the careers of any of you.

Presentation after presentation, comeback after comeback, the course of your careers continued until the new generations began to lead the charts of the season, until your fandoms stopped growing, until the entertainment programs no longer required your presence in the conduction.

It was then that an invitation came to your agency, one in which they requested your participation in a digital transmission program in which they would show what your life was like off stage.

The basis of that program was to make a special with idols from the second generation of kpop, and since you had been a regular on some variety programs, the production saw potential in what you could tell to entertain the audience.

"Should I follow a script for this?" you asked once you attended the meeting with the staff of that curious production.

"We will give some points to fulfill to facilitate the flow of the program. To do the first chapter we will record a bit of your daily routine when you have no activities."

Your mind was racing to think of the kinds of things you could do to generate interest. There was so much material to do that your mind was overwhelmed without even agreeing to record the program.

"Will the taping be done from dawn to dusk? I'll have to prepare my home for the cameramen," you commented, laughing and excited to get back to recording some content to please your fans.

"Currently only cameras are set up in various places in your home and only two cameramen are assigned to do short interviews and to follow you when you leave the house."

Without so much production present it would be easier to show you as you were, without trying to pretend you didn't see the cameramen like in the old variety shows.

"How long should they stay recording?"

"It will be a week of content that will be divided into two weekly broadcast episodes for a month. We will need two days of regular content, then three days of your life among your friends and finally another two doing the work you normally do."

"That's okay, just in a month I'll have to attend some red carpet hosting dates. It would be nice to have the rest of the content before then."

That program was right up your alley. You had just planned to go visit some museum exhibits with Yesung and you had also agreed to go camping so he could record content for Yessay. It would be like killing two birds with one stone.

You didn't have to think about it too much, it even seemed that everything was coming at the right time when you could have your time to record that content.

Now you just needed to talk to Yesung to find out if he would be willing to help you with those recordings so that he could talk to his agency about it, after all he was still under SM's wing.

Perhaps that request would be the biggest hitch in your plan and the possible cause of having to plan a way to get one of the former members of your group instead. But you didn't want to torture yourself with it, you just wanted to enjoy the good weather and let things fall into place so they wouldn't become a new worry.

Maybe it was a stroke of luck or maybe a sign of fate, but as soon as you entered your car the phone started ringing due to an incoming call.

It was Yesung.

Your heart raced and your hands tightened on the steering wheel, but you shook your head and cleared your throat to get rid of the sudden tension. That had never happened to you before but you decided to ignore it for the moment. You were planning to talk to him anyway.

"I was about to call you," you replied, feeling slightly short of breath and a strange dryness in your throat. "I need to meet with you."

You ignored that feeling again, forcing yourself to keep it in the back of your mind. The last thing you needed was to process new emotions. You had a job to do and you had to complete it as soon as possible.

"I have a favor to ask. Shall I meet you at my brother's coffee shop? Not the mouserabbit, I'm talking about the armoire," he offered in a hurried voice, as if he were running somewhere in a suden hurry.

"All right. I'll be there in an hour."

"I'll try to get there as soon as possible. If you don't see me there, tell my mom to take you to the back room so we won't disturb."

"Got it. Be careful on your way."

He didn't answer and the call came to an end.

He was so busy arranging the last details of the song he was composing that he didn't realize what time it was. He had arranged with his brother that he would arrive to cover for him during the store closing because he had to attend an expo on coffee shop and barista stuff.

So now he was running slightly late to the mouserabbit hoping his brother wasn't furious about that little slip up.

The stairs of that other coffee shop had always seemed peculiar to you, more so was the door at the entrance that led to the front of another wooden door.

It was a curious entrance, the shape of the double doors of a closet were there, aging and giving that vintage touch to the establishment. When you opened one of them and finally entered the cafeteria its aromas enveloped you with the warmth to which you were already accustomed.

The space was smaller than the mouserabbit, and that gave it the intimate atmosphere that characterized it. Normally the idol liked to meet in that space because of the comfort that you could have inside or outside on the terrace.

"Darling, come here," Yesung's mother spoke to you as she came out from between the coffee machines to greet you with a hug. "I didn't know you were coming. You should have called me."

"It was a last-minute plan. Do you need an extra pair of hands?"

"Not at all. Have a seat, I'll let Jong Woon know you're here."

"No need," you said almost shouting, it was a strange shriek that alerted the singer's mother. "He asked me to meet him here. I will wait."

That lady of advanced age but with an enviable youth and vitality gave you a kind smile, although her eyes reflected a certain air of curiosity. Something in that look told you that she had noticed something she wouldn't dare to ask.

"In that case, go have a seat while I prepare some coffee to make the wait more pleasant."

That kind woman had always been sweet to you, attentive enough to make you feel welcome wherever she was.

"What's new? Has Jong Woon gotten you in trouble again?" she asked, placing two coffee cups on the metal table where they placed their most frequently used products.

"I'm the one who wants to get him in trouble," your voice lowered its tone as if you were going to tell him your biggest secret, "I'll ask him to appear with me in a program."

"What program?" Yesung whispered, interrupting the chatter.

Instinctively you leaned back suddenly away from Yesung. Your slightly flushed face made the scene look as if you had been caught doing something improper.

The singer's mother tapped her son on the shoulder as she brought her hand to her chest in a futile attempt to calm her pounding heart.

"One of these days you're going to end up killing me," the woman cried in a lousy attempt to contain her laughter.

Yesung hugged his mother and tenderly kissed her forehead while articulating "I love you too" just for her to hear. He then reached out and playfully ruffled your hair, ruining your hairstyle.

Nevertheless, you offered him a smile and raised your mug and made a bridle in the air as part of a welcoming greeting.

"You didn't answer my question (Y/N), what program do you want me to participate in?" he insisted, taking his place on the seat next to you. "Will you let me record it for Yessay?" his hand moved nimbly to the plate of cookies and he managed to pinch one before receiving your blow on his hand.

"It will be a collaboration," you smiled smugly to explain the plan, "You'll record the camping trip for Yessay and I'll record for a show at the same time. The theme is a whole week in the life of a second generation idol."

"I bet the funniest ones turned down the invitation," he scoffed.

"You're a fool. I'm fun and I have an unknown life," you absentmindedly bit into one of the cookies and let out a groan of pleasure at the nutty taste. "I'll ask your brother for the recipe for this wonder."

"You offend me, why don't you ask me instead?"

"Because knowing you I'd end up in the hospital for food poisoning."

Again you bit into the cookie and then drank some coffee. Your lips curved into a smile of pleasure, the same smile that a kitten would put on when it had just licked its entire bowl of milk.

The idol inspected your movements and rolled his eyes as soon as you returned to praise the dessert made by his brother.

"Back to the subject of the program…" he encouraged, returning you to the reason why you were there.

"Right, the program. Since I'm so interesting they'll record my life in a day with nothing to do, then we'll do some chapters about camping and finally some chapters about a day's work as an idol."

"I bet they'll be bored to see how you spend your time alone at home."

"Of course not, I'm fun. Remember that time when the mouse got into the bedroom area?"

Yesung let out a loud laugh as he remembered the whole event that had unleashed the fear and lack of control among the youngsters as they tried to chase the little animal away.

"Seeing you trying to climb on poor Donghae's back is still one of my favorite memories."

"See? I can be entertaining without even trying."

"So are we going to reschedule the campout date?"

"No" you took a sip of your coffee before it cooled completely "but we will add two cameramen into the equation. I'll take care to warn production that we'll be recording your content for YouTube at the same time."

The idol nodded distractedly as he watched you munch on that cookie, enjoying the nutty flavor on your palate again. Then, unconsciously, he moved his hand towards your face and with his fingers shook the breadcrumbs that had remained on your lips.

Your first reaction was to be petrified, staring at him with wide eyes, but it was more impressive to see that the idol returned the same look of disbelief, as if that gesture had been made involuntarily.

He quickly shook his hands against the fabric of his pants and cleared his throat to break the awkward silence that had been sown between the two of you.

"So you'll talk to your agency and the team helping you with the channel?" You continued speaking as if nothing had happened, pushing those memories to the back of your mind again.

"Yes, I will arrange that tomorrow and I hope to be confirming everything to you before the end of the day."

"Now tell me you'll give me the recipe for these cookies because I don't think I can get out of this seat without it."

"What I'm going to give you is more work with a collaboration I want to do with you for a digital single."

You had to blink a little faster to get your ideas in place.

Despite the long friendship you both boasted, this was the first time he was asking you for a collaboration. He could choose from a handful of singers and yet he had selected you to work with him.

"Are you serious?" you asked still in disbelief.

"Sure, I spoke to the agency this afternoon and they gave me carte blanche to select an artist and you are the right person."

His words touched your heart with warmth. It was one thing to know that your voice was good and quite another to be told by your best friend that your voice was a perfect match for his. With the voice of who you thought was the best performer in the industry.

"You're going to make me cry," you muttered, curving your mouth down, grimacing as if those tears were really going to come out, "that's the nicest thing you've said to me so far."

"It'll have to be enough to replace the cookie recipe."

"It is. Are you going to walk me home or would you rather stay here?"

"I'll walk you home."

When you arrived at the apartment, the producer's representative was already waiting for you outside, asking for your approval for the installation of the recording cameras inside the house.

Seeing that printed sheet in front of you made you more aware that you would have a whole team reviewing your daily activity during those days until they obtained enough material to fill a full hour of content that would cause interest among viewers.

Seeing you tense, Yesung rested his hand on the small of your back giving you some reassurance and support. That warm gesture had the desired effect and the idol earned a smile from you by instilling a little more confidence in you.

That confidence evaporated the day you woke up once the cameras had been installed three weeks after the permits were signed.

Doing your normal life couldn't be a challenge because you went through the same routine every day anyway. Things didn't have to go wrong.

At least that's what you told yourself over and over again until you put the coffee pot on and it sparked and the light in your apartment went out.

"What is this," you asked, unplugging the electrical appliance, "did it short-circuited?"

With disbelief you inspected the coffee maker without finding any damage, only the slight aroma of burnt plastic, product of the electric shock.

"Come on (Y/N), let's call a technician."

You quickly looked up the contact number on your phone, but there was no technician you could trust because your house had never had a problem.

It was then that Yesung became your first choice for help. He had a couple of coffee shops, he must have known a technician who could help you with your little problem.

You dialed the number and waited patiently, but there was no answer. You made a second attempt and again to no avail. Giving up, you sent him a message to let him know you were coming to his home because you needed his help.

As you left your home one of the two cameramen intercepted you asking a couple of questions to talk about how your morning had gone.

How else could you describe it but disastrous? You hadn't had breakfast yet, there was no electricity at home and you had to bother your best friend to fix the problem.

"This morning seems complicated, but I'm going to see someone who can solve my problems."

While you took a seat behind the wheel, the cameramen were positioned in the back seats avoiding the cameras interrupting your field of vision.

The ride was quiet, so quiet that you almost forgot your companions until one of them let out a scream when out of nowhere your phone started ringing.

"Are you in home?" you asked with extreme gentleness. An exaggerated tone that the idol took as a warning signal.

"I'm getting ready to leave, tell me what you need and if I can I'll bring it to you at home."

On the other end of the phone there was the sound of a couple of boxes falling and then the idol's shout followed by his brother's infectious laughter.

"Is everything all right?"

"Jong Jin just dropped some stuff. Have you started your recordings yet?"

"Yes. I've got company."

"Did you have breakfast?"

The laughter inside the car was immediate at the question, it was as if he could read your mind at that moment.

"Wait till I get there, there's a whole funny story behind my fast. I'll be there soon."

It was you who ended the call as you maneuvered around the slight curve that led to the subway parking lot of the building where the idol resided.

Unlike most buildings, that one had ample space designated for green areas and small spaces to play with some pets. Clearly that had been one of the reasons why your friend had decided to settle there with his family.

The cameramen didn't leave your side the whole way up the stairs to Yesung's apartment. Sometimes you struggled to pretend they weren't there, but it was impossible when they were less than half a meter away.

When you were in front of the door you had to knock on it. In other circumstances you would have entered the password you knew perfectly, but then the public might start unfounded rumors and you didn't want to get his name caught up in something like that because of an oversight.

Yesung opened the door wide and received you kindly with a nice and neat breakfast on the table, a gesture that you were grateful for because your stomach twisted with happiness at the sight of the idol and you attributed it to the lack of food.

"Are you going to tell me the story of why you didn't have breakfast?" the idol asked, unable to contain his curiosity.

While you and Yesung enjoyed your breakfast, you began to tell the events of your great awakening without forgetting any little detail. After all he would see it as soon as the program started broadcasting.

The singer from time to time intervened adding funny comments to your story, making fun of what happened and also helping you to find an explanation to your problem.

Little by little the atmosphere between the two of you became light and friendly, just as it had always been. But to the cameramen the room seemed uncomfortable, with a special aura that seemed to change around you, as if you were isolated from the rest of the world.

The camera was a faithful witness as his hand slowly slid down until his fingertips reached yours, absentmindedly fiddling and caressing. When you laughed at one of his jokes his smile curved into a wistful gesture.

You were not indifferent. The lens caught the exact moment when you slapped the palm of your hand against his shoulder, letting it rest there longer than necessary. It was like a small caress, a discreet and intimate gesture.

Clearly the production would leave that moment unedited for the public to judge the situation.

That was one of the many shots that existed between the two, because even after breakfast he took you to your apartment and waited there until the technician showed up. Some elements of the production made comments about the great friendship between the two of them.

The fire crackled on the logs and branches arranged in a makeshift fire, they were just the pieces of wood that Yesung and you had gone to collect in the surroundings.

You were in the middle of nowhere, in a place surrounded by nature where insects kept chirping and the hooting of owls filled the comfortable silence between the two of you.

You were wearing a knitted sweater, an article made of thick worsted that was intended to protect you from the cold. Yesung wore a thick jacket that seemed to shelter him comfortably.

The cool wind filled the air dispersing the scent of grass and smoke, as you enjoyed the moment settled into a pair of folding chairs Yesung had packed.

"You should chat or do something else, I don't think we have enough material for the channel," urged someone from Yesung's production team after they had been hovering around you hoping to get a good scene for the show.

"Okay," the singer stood up and walked to the inside of the tent to bring out the food they would prepare. "Do you want ramen or shall we grill meat?!"

"Let's share the meat with the team, I don't think we can all make it with two packets of ramen," you commented, observing the five people accompanying you.

Sometimes you found it stressful trying to ignore what was going on around you to focus on the recording of the program. You couldn't pretend those five people weren't there because all the time they had a lens pointed at you.

"While we're all waiting, could you tell us what Yesung is like when he's with you? Give me some material for the program, I bet many people will be wondering about it" mentioned the director of Yessay's channel.

"He's a very sweet person, he's always trying to help me in any way he can. I even made him drive at midnight once because I attended a program where we were required to drink and I couldn't get home."

"So he's a protective friend?"

"More than that, he's my emotional support. He was there when my group disbanded and he was the one who encouraged me to continue my solo career" a melancholic smile formed on your face and your gaze drifted to Yesung, who was still arranging things to cook the meat. "Don't tell him this," you whispered, "but thanks to him I could be happy again."

Your words astonished those who managed to hear them. You did not say it lightly, no, that statement was as true as the sun rises in the East.

Inevitably your eyes fixed on the person who was clouding your thoughts and for the first time you allowed yourself to bring back those feelings that you had been pressing not to look for another meaning.

Yesung was not only a friend or a companion in adventures, but you had also realized that he was the person who could hold your heart in his hands and care for it or shatter it, and being aware of this frightened you.

The stars in the firmament shimmered, twinkling in the same way that intrusive feeling did in your heart. It was something bright and warm, a feeling that grew heavier as it settled inside you.

The singer walked over to the campfire, placing the steel grill grate over it and scattering the plastic packets with the protected meat inside on the grass.

"I'll go get a couple of stones to use as a base," Yesung commented, shaking his hands to get rid of the dirt that covered them.

"I'll go with you."

You took a flashlight and walked beside him, illuminating the path to prevent both of you from stumbling over rocks or plants. You didn't want the atmosphere to be ruined by laughters.

The walk took longer than expected, the silence stretched between the two of you tensing the atmosphere around you. The words yo refused to say were beginning to weigh and manifest themselves in small accidental brushes.

Yesung lost count of the number of times he thought he was ready to talk about it. You were still debating whether holding his hand to keep from falling would be seen as normal.

Then he was the one who opened his palm and closed it around yours. His fingers clung to yours but without intertwining them, the way a mother holds her child's hand to cross the street.

Your cheeks were tinged with pink, a pure, innocent hue that went unnoticed by the singer. Yesung was going through the same thing, trying to hide his embarrassment behind the bangs that fell over his face.

"Be careful, you might trip," he said quietly.

He had to clear his throat to adjust the tone of his voice.

"Thank you. I haven't seen any stones that look useful," you murmured, remembering why you had left the campsite.

"Let's go this other way."

Without letting go of your hand he guided you to where the grass was less overgrown hoping to find there what you had gone to look for in the first place.

You spent more minutes searching until they finally found four stones that could use perfectly. At least now both could go back to the rest of the people knowing that by now they would be doubting if you had gone only to get that or if you had escaped for another circumstance.

"There you are. I was about to dial security to report a couple missing," joked the channel manager.

"We're not a couple!" you shouted in alarm.

"We didn't get lost!" Yesung clarified at the same time as you.

The blush on both of your faces intensified, provoking laughter from the cameramen who had been accompanying you all the way. When you tried to walk to leave the stones, Yesung's hand stopped you, forcing you to return to your place. Your hands were still holding on.

You stifled a scream and shook your hand to undo the grip so you could escape to the campfire in search of a better place to hide your face.

"Let's put the grill on the fire and roast the meat. I'm starting to get hungry."

"Me too, we need to hurry."

Being able to keep your hands and mind occupied prevented you from exploring emotions that you were not willing to tolerate at that moment. So you put all your efforts into getting the means to prepare the meal ready.

Suddenly you went from being a mere spectator to being the cook for the whole team. You roasted, served and distributed the meat as if you were born to do it, even Yesung was amazed at your dexterity for these tasks.

"Remind me to hire you for the group's anniversary party," Yesung joked, observing how you moved to arrange the meat on the grill.

"With pleasure. I'm just warning you that I don't give discounts. Open your mouth" with the gloves you took a piece of food and held it in front of the singer's mouth so he could taste the cooking and seasoning of that little piece of meat.

"It was perfect," he whispered, licking his lip, tasting the flavor of the meat.

Unconsciously your sight stopped more than necessary in that point of his face and you were about to imitate his gesture if one of the cameramen didn't call you to know if you had already eaten something.

The night progressed more and more amidst laughter, funny anecdotes and the cold wind that threatened to drop lower and lower.

Due to the low temperatures the staff took their blankets out of the tents to give themselves a little extra warmth. You wanted to do the same but you were afraid that the insects would climb on them and then take them to sleep inside the tent.

Little by little the tiredness began to take its toll, forcing everyone to go and rest inside the tents. So it was until only the two of you were left. Yesung and you still had unfinished business.

Your head rested on his shoulder while he supported your weight preventing you from falling sideways. The two of you shared the intimacy of that environment as the fire cast light and shadow against your faces framing your features one by one. Then Yesung raised his arm and wrapped it around your shoulders to keep you close to him.

Your body tensed but his touch made you relax immediately. You had shared moments like this for so long it was impossible to count them, but now it felt different, now it seemed more special.

You sighed and let your heart dance nervously inside you. You could feel the silence becoming tense, you could guess that sooner or later that subject was going to come up and chaos would be inevitable.

"(Y/N)" he whispered.

Your name on his lips had a different flavor. It was not the way he said it –which was sweeter than usual– but the sigh that accompanied it along with the slight tremor in his voice.

Suddenly the air changed and became warm and heavy. An abrupt contrast to the cold of just a few seconds ago.

"You feel it too?" you murmured without leaving his side, all the time keeping your head resting on his shoulder. You were afraid to see the rejection in his eyes if you made eye contact with him.

"Did we change?"

His doubt complemented yours but you still couldn't give an answer. The line was too thin and the ground suddenly seemed too fragile to walk on.

"I guess so. Let's wait for the recording to finish."

And without another word you stood up and walked towards the tent to establish some distance from him. You knew that sooner or later he would have to enter that place because you had agreed to spend the night sharing that space, but the more time you could have to sleep the better it would be for both of you.

Despite the whirlwind of thoughts that was now your head, you managed to fall asleep, it was so fast and unexpected that you didn't even notice the moment when Yesung lay down next to you with his back to you.

The rest of the night passed in silence and with greater tranquility. The sleep in your bodies had managed to put aside the worries in your minds to put you to sleep peacefully.

It was the trill of birds that forced you to open your eyes. In the city those sounds did not welcome you like the horn of some motorcycle in the middle of its daily deliveries.

You stretched your arms and turned on your tummy to stretch your back as if you were a newly awakened cat. You crunched each of your vertebrae enjoying the lumbar relaxation.

Yesung sighed in the middle of sleep and whispered your name leaving you frozen on the spot. Your eyes went to his face, attentively scanning each of his features, studying his gestures in the middle of that comfortable intimacy that the enclosed space provided.

Her short, dark eyelashes caressed his cheekbones; his eyes were closed lightly and without any sign of stress on them, his half-open lips sometimes moved to articulate a word but without any sound.

His skin was soft. The skin of an idol who was constantly undergoing strict beauty treatments.

Your hand moved to his face and you took the liberty of caressing his cheek. The touch of your skin made him sigh and you quickly moved your hand away. Yesung moved to lie on his side, his face looking in your direction but his eyes still closed as he was immersed in that deep sleep.

Again your eyes traveled to his half-open lips and your fingertips traced the line of his lips gently, as if you were running a feather over his pink skin, avoiding interrupting his sleep.

It was inevitable that you moved your face closer to his in an attempt to kiss him, but you stopped to think about it a second time. You shouldn't do it, you knew, but you couldn't wait until the recording was over, not when you were both alone and the view he was giving you was almost heavenly.

You retraced your path and your face stopped mere inches from his, then he opened his eyes and the spell was broken. Your eyes widened in surprise, but then Yesung smiled with glee and placed his hand on the back of your neck to prevent you from moving away.

"If you don't do it, I'll have to do it," he said in that raspy voice of having just awakened.

And then he drew your face to his to get rid of the distance that separated both of you.

His lips joined yours in a firm and tender kiss, it wasn't rushed or fiery. It was a tender and delicate contact. Something that urged you to savor every sensation and every second until the moment passed like an exhalation.

"Good morning," he murmured with a smile on his lips.

And after that the screams of Yessay's director were heard from outside the tent, where she had stayed with half her body inside and the camera in hand as soon as none of you answered her call.

"Don't you dare to upload that take," you implored in panic as you buried your face in your hands to hide your shame.

"I can't say for sure. You'll have to keep an eye on the channel," Yesung interjected, laughing at your reaction.

That intimate moment immediately turned into a battlefield as you struggled to snatch the camera from the director and threatened Yesung with death if they dared to publish what had just happened.

A small reminder that requests are open, if you don't feel good sending messages in english, you cand send your request in spanish too (since I can work properly with that language).

If you only wanna fangirling or make any question my messages are open for you too.