#Crystalline Enchantment

[mtg-cards-hourly]

Crystalline Resonance

"As a boulder diverts a stream, the crystals bend life around them." —Rielle, the Everwise

Artist: Joe Slucher TCG Player Link Scryfall Link EDHREC Link

[dazedandconfused-15]

Heaven's in your eyes (Part 1)

This is to answer a request I received from an anonymous user a couple of months ago “Billy asks shy reader out and is protective over her”, for some reason I can't directly respond to their post still getting used to Tumblr. Sorry for taking a while to write this one. Anyway, I got a little bit carried away and turned it into a short fic, I just loved the whole concept. I’ll definitely post a part 2. Comments and constructive opinions are always appreciated 🩷

Pairing: Billy Hargrove x Female Reader

Summary: Life in Hawkins is dull and lonely, especially after your mom abandoned your family, leaving you even more isolated amidst school rumors. Already shy and with few friends, you find solace in your solitude—until Billy Hargrove, the intriguing new boy from California, comes into the picture. To your surprise, Billy seems to seek you out, finding ways to talk to you despite the odds. Never in a million years would you have imagined forming such an unexpected bond with someone.

Link to: Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

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You have always watched him from a distance.

There was something magnetic about him. Where he was, energy swirled.

You have never spoken to him. He’s something inaccessible to you. He hangs out with the popular crowd. Yet, unlike all of them, he doesn’t seem to pretend. He doesn’t show off. He naturally exudes an aura that makes him alluring. He’s not just what could be called "hot." No, he’s beautiful. When you first saw him in the school hallways, you could swear that for a second, your heart stopped. He was playing with his lighter, walking with an assured stride in the direction of his classroom with Jason Carver. He was a palette of contrasting colors that stood out in perfect harmony. His tanned face was framed by long, golden curls that almost fell over his shoulders. He looked straight ahead as he listened to the boy at his side with his red mouth stretched into a smirk that revealed white teeth. His cupid bow was dusted with stubble. It was no surprise that most of the girls looked at him with no shame, the shyest ones glancing up as soon as he passed them. That California boy did not look like a boy. He looked like a man. You could tell by the way he was built, the black leather jacket hugging his broad shoulders, the muscular legs in his denim jeans.

You had realized that you were staring openly at him when he passed by you and, probably feeling the weight of your gaze on him, his eyes had met yours. There, something had happened inside you. His eyes were the purest blue you had ever seen. They were crystalline. But it was the long dark lashes that gave his gaze something expressive and unique. They were the embodiment of what is called a piercing gaze. It was a unique paradox: as angelic as it was rough in outline. Awakening from your enchantment, you lowered your gaze with an abrupt jerk of your head and resumed putting your books away in the locker, feeling your cheeks on fire and your heart beating wildly.

That was the only time you had even a remote semblance of contact with him. 

As you rush to your English literature class a month later, rounding the corner of the hallway, the last thing you expect is to bump into him. You let out an "ouch" as you collide with his hard chest, your notes and pencil case tumbling to the ground in the chaos. It's only when you raise your eyes in a flurry of apologies that you realize who you've bumped into. You swallow, kneeling and picking up your notes hastily. 

"You alright?"

"Yes. Yes." the notes slip through your shaking fingers.

His hands appear in your field of vision, and when you accidentally touch them, an electric shock almost makes you wince. He helps you pick them up, then raises to his feet and holds them to you. You thank him, thinking about what else you could say to avoid making the situation awkward. His baby blue shirt matches the color of his eyes. He’s even prettier from closer. 

"We’re in History class together, right?

His question surprises you. You didn't think he would remember you. You didn't think he would notice you.

"Yes. That's right."

He holds out his hand, his heavy-lidded gaze on you. "Billy."

You shake his hand, introducing yourself. His hand is large and his grip his firm, but gentle at the same time. That touch makes your stomach tangle. You can't believe he is talking to you.

"You're new, right?" you ask. You know fully well that he arrived here a month ago. You know full well that he is from California. He probably knows that you know, but he doesn't say anything about it

"Yes. Moved here last month."

“Oh, okay. Welcome to Hawkins, then.” you say gently as you absently tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. 

“Thanks.”

There’s a beat of silence, him probably waiting for you to say something else. You point at the door down the hallway, starting to walk away. “I ah, I have to go to class. Sorry.”

And you walk away, no, you scurry away, almost escaping him, feeling a pang of embarrassment as you replay the scene later in your head, regretting how abruptly you left without saying more. 

You don’t cross paths with him again after that. However, you are clearly more aware of his presence during history classes even though you don’t interact again. 

In recent months, you've adopted a strategy of minimizing your visibility as much as possible. It’s not always easy. That Thursday is one of the hard days. Mr. Jensen, the new history teacher, makes his way through the rows of desks, collecting permission slips signed by parents for the upcoming day trip he has organized to Indianapolis. 

"Ah, I don't seem to have your permission slip yet," he inquires gently as he sees you empty-handed. "Did you forget to bring it today?" 

Feeling the eyes of everyone on you, your cheeks flush with embarrassment as you shake your head, your voice barely above a whisper. You hate all of this attention on you. "I, um, I haven't been able to get it signed yet. My dad's been working double shifts, and I haven't caught him at home."

“I understand,” the teacher says, “But I need to give all the signed papers to the principal by tomorrow. Is it possibly to get it signed today? By your mother, perhaps?”

Before you could answer, Tommy Hagan's voice pierces the air, his tone laced with mockery. "She's probably halfway across the country by now, cozying up with some other guy."

You don’t even turn to look at him. You saw it coming. It’s been five months since she left now. Hawkins is a small town, so the news spread quickly. You shift uncomfortably in your seat, avoiding eye contact with your classmates as you feel the weight of their curious gazes. 

"I uh...I just," you try to ignore Tommy's comment, resting your eyes on the professor whose eyebrows are furrowed in confusion. "I'll tell my dad tonight. He's just been really busy. I will bring it to class tomorrow."

“If he comes back with the milk.” snickers Tommy. 

You stiffen instantly without wanting to, which the teacher doesn’t fail to notice.

“That's enough, Mr. Hagan. Comments like that have no place in my classroom.” he snaps as his eyes darken, his jaw set. His expression softens as he turns to you. “Don't worry about the permission slip for now. We'll make sure you're included."

As the professor returns to his seat, your eyes remain fixed on the spot where the desk is chipped, absently touching it with your fingernail. Your body fails to relax as you fight to ignore the burning in your throat, careful not to blink, your vision blurred for a few moments. But Tommy's yelp draws your attention and you turn your head to your left, where he is sitting next to Billy. 

“What was that for, man?”

Tommy is rubbing his shoulder, his face scrunched up in pain and a mixture of disbelief and confusion on his face. Billy stares straight ahead, his face cold and hard. 

"What the fuck is your problem?" he eventually mutters under the teacher’s explanation. However, it sounds more like a statement than a question.

As you go back to stare at your desk, your throat is still burning but your vision is clear again. You wonder if what Billy said was because of Tommy's comments. Why would he defend you? 

The rest of the class passes in a blur of confusion and unanswered questions. Tommy's hurtful words echo in your mind, leaving you shaken and upset, the sting of their cruelty lingering long after the bell rings.

***

On the morning of the school trip, you are tempted to call the school and say you are sick, but your father comes back from the plant later in the morning and will see that you are actually fine. Also, Mr. Jensen might suspect that something is going on. Only, the idea of spending the day with the whole class, but feeling more alone than you are when you're at school, doesn't appeal to you. You've never been very outgoing. Since your mother left, the armor that covered you has only thickened, alienating you from the rest of the world. To this day you have received no answers. She left overnight without warning. You never received a call. You knew that things had not been going well between your parents for some time. Or rather, your mother kept complaining about how being in Hawkins was suffocating her, how she was no longer happy. The pain was slowly becoming coated with resentment. She had abandoned you and your father as if nothing had happened, as if years of living together had counted for nothing. As if being a family had cost nothing. Arriving on the ground floor and finding the kitchen light off had now become a habit, not an odd occurrence. Other things had become routine: the unaccustomed silence in your house, the TV once perpetually on now always off, the teapot once always in use was now in the kitchen drawer. 

Once on the school bus, you spend your time looking out the window and counting the trees on the distant hills. You can feel the wind blowing outside, the rain pelting cruelly on the window. A crack lets a trickle of air through, making you shiver and clench tighter in your jacket. The ride at least passes quietly, no one talking to you or bothering you. Tommy Hagan keeps his comments to himself, too busy jabbering in the back of the bus with his band of friends. You can hear the occasional shrillness in the voice of Carol Perkins, his girlfriend. 

You spend almost the entire morning in the Indiana Historical Society, following the professor through the corridors of the museum. You stay in the background, drowning out the guide's voice and looking at the paintings hanging on the wall. As you change rooms, you realize that you are not the only one who has remained aloof. Billy Hargrove lingers to your side at the back of the row of students, his hands tucked into his leather jacket. You try not to be affected by his presence, suddenly self-conscious of the way you walk and breathe. You still remember what he told Tommy Hagan the week before. You are increasingly convinced that he defended you. As the class spreads in different directions, everyone observing something different and speaking lowly in small groups you realize he’s still here, on your side.  As you ponder if you should say something, or just assume that he’s walking behind on his own, he catches you off guard. 

“Kinda boring, huh?” 

“Yeah, a little," you respond, offering him a small smile that probably looks like a grimace. "History isn't my cup of tea."

“Mine neither,” his gaze scans the display cases lining the wall on your left. “Beats being seated all day in class, though.”

“Definitely,” you nod in agreement as you slowly cross through another room. Desperately trying to fill the silence, you come up with the first thing that crosses your mind. “I’ve been here before.”

“The museum?” 

“Indianapolis,” you say. You hesitate before finishing your thoughts. “My grandma lived here. I spent some weekends at hers.” 

Billy hums. He sniffs, then retrieves some chewing gums from his back pocket. He unwraps one. “How’s the city?” 

“It’s great. Oh, thank you.” you softly say as you take the gum he’s offering you. “There are some nice parks.” 

He pops the chewing gum in his mouth. “We have quite a few in San Diego too.

You turn toward him, curiosity overcoming your shyness. “You lived in San Diego?”

“Yes. Big change of scenery.”

“I can imagine.” your gaze wanders to the antique objects displayed in a glass case. “I’ve seen pictures, it looks incredible.” memories of your dad's album, from when he was young, flood your mind – images of palm trees swaying in the breeze, golden beaches stretching for miles, and endless blue skies that seemed to merge seamlessly with the ocean. 

“That’s something else, yeah. Honestly, I couldn’t complain at all.” 

“I wish I could see California,” you say a little dreamily. 

“I can take you one day.”

Your throat feels suddenly dry. So you let out a nervous giggle, avoiding his gaze, assuming he is joking. Fortunately, the professor calls your attention back. It's lunchtime and he tells you that you are free to go wherever you want, as long as you are outside the museum within four hours. You told your father the school would pay for the student's lunch because you know times are tough. He insisted on giving you ten dollars in case you need it.

You walk down the steps of the museum looking around and thinking about where you could make all this time go. It's going to be long. You know a few restaurants, but you know that your pocket money is clearly not enough to eat there. A gust of wind brings the smell of smoke to your nostrils, and out of the corner of your eye, you see Billy stop beside you. His eyes take in your surroundings.

“So, you told me you know the city.”

“Huh, yes,” you answer, a little lost. “Not all of it, but most of it, like downtown.”

Billy exhales the smoke he’s been holding in his mouth.  “Are we downtown?” 

You look around, recognizing the skyscrapers in the distance. "Yes," you point to the skyline to your right, figuring he simply wants to ask you for information so he knows where to go with his friends. "It's over there."

“Sweet. You hungry?” 

The silence that passes between the two of you makes him turn toward you, waiting for your response. So you rush to answer, ignoring the way his piercing blue eyes make you feel self-conscious.

“Yes. Yes, a little bit,” then you ask him, unsure: “...are you?”

“Starving.” he resumes walking down the stairs again, and you follow him, trying to figure out if he really means what you think he means. Some classmates are already leaving in different directions. “You know someplace to eat?” 

“I do. But I don’t have enough. In case you want to go together. If that’s what you were offering.” You add, mentally slapping yourself. Why does everything you say have to come across as weird? Besides, you just admitted that you are practically out of money. “I can show you, though.”

Billy shakes his head, shifting in his leather jacket. “Nah, don’t worry about it. It’s on me.” 

“No, really, I can't let you do that," you insist, your voice tinged with concern. "I mean, I appreciate it, but I can't just let you pay for me."

Billy turns to you, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes as he exhales the smoke sideways. "Come on, it's no big deal," he reassures you. "Consider it my way of saying thanks for showing me around. Besides, it's not like I'm short on cash."

You hesitate for a moment. But ultimately, you know that accepting his offer would ease the burden on your wallet. With a resigned sigh, you nod in agreement. "Okay, if you insist," you concede, offering him a small smile. "But just this once.”

You wanna immediately grimace at your pathetic implication that there would be another time, but Billy doesn’t seem to notice anyway.

He just winks at you. And even if he’s not smiling or anything, it still makes your stomach flip. "Deal," he says. "Now, lead the way."

As you walk beside each other through the park later on, you relish in what surrounds you, not even realizing the silence that has settled between the two of you because it feels so natural. Some people are jogging, there are some families too, or people walking alone headed who knows where. The birds are chirping in the trees that are alongside the walk. You spot a squirrel scurrying up the trunk of one of them, its fluffy tail waving wildly. The late afternoon sun is shining right in front of you, hitting your skin in a gentle caress. Spring is gradually unfurling its colors, bringing with it a glimmer of warmth that has been absent from your life lately. In the midst of the cold and desolation that settled in after your mother's departure, this glimpse of light offers a tentative promise of renewal, a small beacon of hope amid the darkness that has enveloped you and your father. You glance at Billy, realizing that in the short span of your conversation, he's frequently reached for a cigarette. Yet, even during the moments when he abstained, like in the museum and at the restaurant, his mouth was never empty. It was either occupied by a mint, a bite of burger, the straw of his milkshake, or eventually a toothpick found on the table. 

“So, uhm, have you been somewhere else besides San Diego or Hawkins?” you venture. 

“Nope”, he answers, the “p” resounding loudly. He looks around, one hand in his jacket pocket as the other one holds the cigarette on his side. “Never moved from Cali. I was born in Santa Barbara. Then moved to San Diego when I was ten.”

You hum in acknowledgment. “Is Santa Barbara close to the ocean?”

“It is. I’ve always lived by the ocean.” 

You turn to him, enthusiasm laced in your voice as you get carried away in the conversation. “So you know how to surf?” 

Billy chuckles, nodding as he brings the cigarette to his lips. “I do, yeah. Surfed every day.” 

“Wow.” you breathe, your mind wandering away. “It must be…like an adrenaline rush.”

As Billy exhales the smoke, you don’t miss the nostalgic glint flickering in his eyes, but it’s gone as quickly as it came. "Yeah, it's something else. There's nothing quite like catching a wave, feeling the power of the ocean beneath you."

“I’ve heard it’s hard to learn.” you muse softly. 

The rhythmic sound of your footsteps punctuates the conversation. Billy stays silent for a few seconds, probably lost in his thoughts. Then he shrugs. “To be honest, I was on the surfboard since I was a child, so must’ve been natural for me. But yeah, it generally is.

“I can only imagine," you respond, a sense of longing in your voice. You’ve only seen this kind of landscape in pictures or on TV.  "Must have been amazing growing up with that kind of freedom."

Billy's sigh is loud as he exhales a plume of smoke, his gaze drifting towards the horizon. "It was. Surfing was my escape, you know? Whenever things got tough, I could just grab my board and disappear into the waves."

What he says lightens some curiosity in you. You wonder what he means by that. You wonder what he went through, what his past was like. There’s something really intriguing about him. But you refrain from asking more, aware of how little you know each other. Besides, you can’t help but notice the little twitch of his jaw muscles as he says it. 

"It’s always been books for me.” you offer. “They have this way of transporting you to another world, making you forget about everything else."

Billy nods in understanding. “What kinda books you read?”

“Oh,” you look at your shoes as you feel suddenly vulnerable. You almost feel ashamed of your taste in books, but you know you shouldn’t. “A bit of everything, really. I’m reading a Dostoevsky one right now.

“Dostoevsky, huh? Pretty heavy stuff.”

“You’ve read some of him before?

“I read Dream of a Ridiculous Man. A long time ago though.” 

“Oh,” you breathe, recalling how challenging it was to finish it when you read it a couple of months ago. Reading books by Dostoevsky, especially that one, has been both a cathartic and enlightening experience. They made you feel less alone in your pain. “Did you like it?”

“Yeah, it’s kinda controversial.” he grimaces. “It’s a fucking depressing book. But... it's like... there's something about it that just... resonates, you know what I mean? Like, you read it and... it's like looking into a mirror, but... the reflection's all twisted and weird. I don't know if that makes any sense.” he shrugs. 

It couldn’t make more any sense to you. For the first time, you feel understood in that sense. It's a relief to know that you're not alone in finding meaning within its pages. His words resonate deeply with you. 

“I totally get it. That’s part of the reason why I like his books.” 

The subtle revelation hangs in the air with the rhythmic sound of your footsteps on the concrete path. You hope he’s not reflecting on your words too much, aware of what you’ve implied. Your own thoughts go on what he said. Why did Billy resonate so much with the book? What if there’s something everybody can relate to, even people who haven’t experienced anything bad in life?

“You?” he then asks. “Always been in Hawkins?”

“Born and raised.” you nod. Then you add, a bit sheepishly: “Nothing like California, unfortunately.” 

Billy snorts, flicking his cigarette. “What’s there to do in summer?”

“Oh uh. Nothing much. We have a public pool.” you offer, looking at him. 

Billy takes a drag, his eyes trailing on the path in front of both of you.

“We have Lover’s Lake too,” you add. “It’s quite nice, actually. People spend the day there and have barbecues or campfires.” 

“Yeah, I’ve heard about that one,” he says. “You guys party by the lake during summer or something like that.” 

“Yes.” then you keep quiet for a few breaths, imagining he’s probably heard it from one of his friends from the basketball team. They’re usually to host parties or organize them. It always involves loads of alcohol and ends up in big scandals. You feel the urge to correct him. “Not me, though. I don’t, uh…I don’t party.” 

You feel his eyes on you. “Makes sense.”

You look up at him in question. 

“Didn’t see you at the Halloween party.”

“The one hosted by Tina Williams?” you soon look away as soon as you meet his gaze. “I didn’t know you…you noticed.”

“Would’ve sure as hell noticed if you were there.”

As Billy's words settle in, you feel a warmth spreading through you, starting from the tips of your ears and flushing your cheeks crimson. His simple compliment catches you off guard, igniting a whirlwind of emotions within you. You find yourself struggling to meet his gaze, your eyes flickering away as you search for some semblance of composure. None of this makes sense. The mere fact that he recognized your absence at the party, that he shared lunch with you, that he's now walking beside you in the park—it all feels inexplicable. You're accustomed to blending into the background, being an outcast in the bustling halls of the school. You're no stranger to the whispers that swirl around you, painting you as the outsider, the comments about your situation at home, the subtle jabs at your circumstances. The silence between you stretches, pregnant with unspoken thoughts. 

“You alright?” you hear him ask.

You slow down, lingering to a stop as you realize Billy has stopped walking too. He looks down at you with a hint of curiosity, the sun caressing his golden skin and reflecting in his eyes, becoming like polished, crystalline gems. That’s when you notice little details you haven’t paid attention to before. The scar cutting through his right eyebrow, the pattern of freckles dusting his nose. 

“I guess I’m just a little confused,” you admit. 

Billy exhales the smoke from his nostrils, his gaze effortlessly fixed intensely on you. “Why is that?”

“I just…” you try to not avoid his gaze. “Why are you here with me?”

The corners of his eyes crinkle in amusement and what looks like genuine confusion. “Why wouldn’t I?”

His question is so simple it takes you off guard. Makes you question your reasoning. As you’re at a loss for words, you feel a blush slowly creeping down your cheeks. 

Billy’s lips slowly curve into a smile, somewhat teasing. “You really have pretty eyes, you know that?”

You’re positively sure you’re as red as a lobster now, a little whine escaping your lips as embarrassment settles over you. It’s the most instinctual reaction. It makes him chuckle, and makes you awkwardly laugh in response, because what else can you do? He tilts his head to the side, trying to meet your avoiding eyes. 

“How about that? I’m here with you ‘cause of your pretty eyes”. 

“I really don’t think they’re that special.” you shake your head, still laughing. 

You’re not that innocent to not realise he’s openly flirting with you. You’re not surprised, because just looking at him is enough. You’ve also heard things about him and some girls at high school. What surprises you, is that he’s flirting with you. You don’t have that much experience in the love department, but there’s something sincere and genuine in the way he’s doing it now. There’s something soft in his eyes that tells you he’s sincere.

“Well, it’s a shame,” he says, that’s when you realise how much closer you are to each other. You can tell by how you can smell the tobacco and his cologne, his silver earring shining as it catches the sun. He tilts his head again, this time catching your gaze as you muster the courage to lock eyes with him. “’Cause you have beautiful eyes.”

“Thank you,” you mumble with a shy smile, nodding your head slightly. You swear you can hear your heartbeat in your ears. 

You feel like you want to return the compliment because his eyes are the reason why your heart is reacting the way it does. But then again, you’re too shy to do that, and a tiny part of you thinks it would make things weird or would end up having you vulnerable because you don’t know for sure if his compliment is fueled by real interest in you. 

“I just don’t hang out with anyone, trust me.”

As a distant church bells toll four times, their echoes drifting across the park, a subtle reminder of the passing time washes over you both. The realization settles in that it’s time for you to go. You should be back in front of the museum in half an hour. 

Luckily, Billy saves you from answering as he breaks eye contact and looks up beyond your shoulder, where the church is. “We should go,” he says.

As you walk back to the museum, you think about his words. Now you realize that you didn’t see him hanging around Tommy Hagan lately. In particular, today on the bus, the latter was seated with his girlfriend and hung out with two other members of the basketball team. Billy was somewhere else the whole time.

When you two reach the museum, the teacher is already counting everyone to make sure the whole class is there. Billy joins his mates, elbowing one of them in a friendly gesture. You didn’t fail the notice the looks most of your classmates shot at you when he saw you two arrive together. The teacher draws the class's attention back to the trip, prompting feedback and reflections from everyone.

What you don’t expect either once on the bus, is feeling someone sitting on the empty seat next to yours. Billy gets comfortable, making it seem something so normal as he stretches his long legs as far as the cramped quarters allow. His thigh brushes against yours and your heart jumps a little in your ribcage, but a few minutes later you start to relax. You can’t help the feeling of warmth spreading through your chest as you take in his choice to sit deliberately next to you. You don’t need to fill the silence, or at least not as strongly as a few hours ago. You’re also quite tired. As you venture a glance in his direction, Billy’s eyes are closed. It seems you’re not the only one feeling tired. His arms are crossed over his chest but his facial features are totally relaxed now that he’s dozing off, his head resting against the seat. His hair seems soft at the touch, a curl falling unruly on his forehead. You feel the distant urge to wrap it around your finger, brush it from his face. There is a difference between now and when he’s fully awake: his expression softened, his gaze peaceful, and his features relaxed. It's a stark contrast from the demeanor you've observed from a distance, where his smile is more wolfish, his facial muscles tense, and his eyes often distant or bored. You force yourself to look away from him, setting your gaze on the window. As the rhythmic hum of the bus lulls you into a state of drowsiness, you feel your eyelids grow heavy. The warmth of the moment envelops you, and soon, you find yourself dozing off as well. 

Once you get off the bus, you wrap your arms around your waist as you shiver. The weather is distinctly different. It seems to have been raining all day. The sky is darkening. School buses cannot take you home because there is no bus stop near your house. Forest Hill Trailer Park is in the isolated part of Hawkins. There is no one from the high school living there, so you can't ask anyone for a ride. It's not like anyone would have offered anyway. You've always walked to and from school, in total it takes you forty minutes. As you start to walk away from the bus, you hear footsteps behind you and Billy is at your side, effortlessly catching up with you. You realize his car is parked a few steps away from you. The gleaming navy blue Camaro stands out among the other cars, ‘CALIFORNIA’ on the license plate.

You take the opportunity to thank him before he can dart away and you will probably never exchange another word again.

“Hey,” you start, turning to look at him. “I just wanted to thank you for paying at lunch today.”

Billy plays with the lighter, making it bounce in his hand. “It’s nothing. How are you getting home?”

“Oh, I’m walking.” you point your thumb at the road on your left.

“Come on. I’ll drive you.”

Your mouth opens and closes stupidly, then your brain finally decides to cooperate. Accepting his offer feels like taking advantage of his kindness. You don't want to do this. “I…it’s not a long walk, don’t worry about it.”

“It’s probably gonna rain soon.” he points at the sky, walking past you and toward the parked car.

“You don’t have to.” you insist, guilt filling my stomach as he opens the passenger door for you.

“I know.” he chuckles. 

The soft thrumming of a rock song fills the air, the bass pulsing gently as Billy lowers the volume as soon as he turns the engine on. The interior of the Camaro envelops you in a world that feels distinctly his. The smell of leather fills your senses, mingling with the faint scent of his cologne. It's clear that he takes immense pride in his car and the care and attention he devotes to it reflects on the interior. The leather seats feel soft and smooth. There's not a speck of dust anywhere, even in the corners. A pair of aviators rests on the dashboard. 

You give him directions, your voice cutting through the quiet ambiance of the car. He nods in acknowledgment, his gaze focused on the road ahead. His left arm casually drapes against the window, while his other hand firmly grasps the top of the steering wheel. 

“It’s quite a walk,” he observes as the Camaro speeds through the road surrounded by the woods. 

“Yeah…”

You’re thinking of asking him to stop before getting to Forest Hill, but it’s pouring and you don’t have an umbrella. As you get closer and closer, anxiety starts rippling through you. You shake the feeling out of your head. You’re being ridiculous, there’s nothing to be ashamed about. Additionally, you barely know him. You try and distract yourself, asking him about where he lives instead.

“Cherry Lane. You know where it is?” 

“Yes, it’s a nice and quiet area. It’s not that far from school either,” you observe.

Billy absently scratches his chin, the glint of a silver braided ring catching your eye. “Yeah. It’s quiet, that’s for sure.” 

You find yourself wondering about its significance. Does it have one? You've heard numerous accounts of Billy's involvement in fights at parties, tales of the severe injuries sustained by those who crossed him, and the ferocity of his punches. How many times has that ring been tainted with someone else's blood? Despite the rumors surrounding his aggressive behavior, your interactions with Billy have always been positive. He's consistently shown kindness to you.

Billy turns left, veering off the main road onto a narrow side road, the tires crunching on the gravelly dirt path that winds its way towards Forest Hills. The rain drums insistently against the car, a steady rhythm punctuating the silence between you.

The first trailer emerges into view, its weather-beaten exterior casting a shadow of foreboding over your already uneasy mind. Despite your discomfort, you muster the courage to speak up, directing Billy to continue driving until the end of the road.

You steal a furtive glance at him, searching for any hint of judgment in his expression, but Billy remains impassive. There's no trace of surprise or disdain in his features. His gaze lingers on the scene before you, studying it with a detached curiosity that seems to characterize his view of Hawkins as a whole.

“Thanks again for today, really. I wanna pay you back,” you venture as he slows down.

Billy waves a dismissive hand before settling it on the gear shift, smoothly transitioning into first gear. “I told you it’s no big deal. Wouldn’t have offered otherwise.”

You worry at your lip, still not totally convinced. You glance at him. “I know that. But it doesn’t sound fair. It’s important to me.”

Billy's gaze shifts to the road ahead as he seemingly considers your words. "If you really wanna make it up to me," he starts, his voice trailing off for a moment before he continues, "How about you show me around Hawkins sometime?"

You blink, caught off guard by his suggestion. "Show you around Hawkins?"

"Yeah," he nods, resting his forearm loosely on the steering wheel as he gestures while he talks. "I've only been here a short while, and I don't really know my way around outside downtown yet. Like, all the places you talked to me about. The lake, the quarry."

The idea appeals to you, though the thought of spending more time with him outside of school never crossed your mind. The fact of spending time with him in the first place was out off the charts for you. "Sure, I could do that," you reply, a tentative smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "I mean, I'm not exactly a tour guide, but I could show you some cool spots. Whenever you want, uhm. Yeah.”

Billy reaches out to the compartment on the passenger side, brushing your knee with his arm. He opens it and extracts a pen. 

“Here,” he takes off the cap with his teeth, and before you know it he’s taking your arm, gently lifting your sweater sleeve. 

You try to look unfazed by his touch, though the feeling of his fingertips pressing gently against your skin as he holds your forearm, the sensation of the pen as he writes something on it makes you shiver, raising goosebumps. You look at him in silent confusion as he writes, his dark lashes brushing his cheekbones, a glimpse of pearly white teeth and a sharp canine as he holds the cap between them. Then he releases your arm, and you take a look at it while he takes the cap from his mouth. A series of numbers are written in blue ink on your skin. A phone number.

“Oh.” you say softly. You definitely haven’t expected that.

“Call me when you feel like it.” 

It’s really hard for you to hide your nervousness, acting as cool as you can.

“Okay, will do.” you unbuckle your belt, glancing at him enough to give him a soft smile.

Billy nods at you in silent farewell before you close the passenger door. “Have a good night”.

“You too. Bye.”

The warmth of Billy's presence lingers in the car as you step out into the cool, damp air, the raindrops falling softly around you. Closing the door behind you, you watch as the sleek navy blue Camaro disappears down the little road and into the woods from the small window of the living room. As you stand there, the drops of water falling from the end of your hair, you can't help but brush at the phone number on your forearm, tracing the neat handwriting with your fingertips. It's like you're still trying to wrap your head around what just happened. Though you're trying to keep it under control, you can't help the fluttering feeling in your heart.

[hyvyinjie]

CHANCE.

TW! implications of death.

bittersweet! melancholic

t. muichiro x f. reader

graciously requested by @muuumuiiii ! thank you so much for requesting, you sweet lovely lad<3

who would have anticipated it? the mist hashira, of all individuals, displaying a concern that surpassed anyone else's for you—the spirit pillar; a warrior whose technique came at the steep cost of a gradual erosion of your life.

THE MOON; THE BRIGHTEST PEARL SUSPENDED IN OUR VELVET SKY THAT FLOODED THE INKY DARKNESS WITH ITS SILVER GLOW.

a radiant disc it was. casting its ethereal glow upon the shadows of the night, while also heralding the relentless onslaught of a few infamous entities—demons.

a symbol of hope, this pale sentinel embodied a goddess-like presence, standing as a timeless guardian, observing the earth with an unwavering gaze as warriors valiantly battled the monstrous creatures scattered throughout.

above, the luminous orb commanded the vast expanse of stars, illuminating them all. yet, even in this peaceful night, two particular slayers found themselves immersed in the serenity, although one seemed burdened by a more pressing concern, far beyond the tranquility itself.

in a world where such creatures roamed, the perfect harmony would remain elusive.

thus, what purpose did survival serve if death constantly loomed, a persistent visitor at one's very doorstep?

well, the purpose of life is to be happy. or at least, that's what this young man believed.

said boy possessed an acute understanding of this belief, as if it had become ingrained in the very fabric of his being—an awareness that, perhaps, bordered on the excessive.

the sheer ecstasy of savoring every moment of existence, embracing its essence in its entirety, was undeniably a remarkable achievement—a feat that deserved to be celebrated with fervor.

thus, he found himself utterly incapable of comprehending—indeed, he never had—how she could nonchalantly dismiss the imminent cessation of her own existence, as if it were a trifling matter. the weight of her disregard for her own life gnawed at him, like a persistent ache that defied understanding.

..then again, had he been any different?

"—and…now you’re spacing out, again.”

ah, the sound of that melodious voice; both longed for and dreaded, resonated within him and snapped him out of his reverie. even though he had incessantly poured out his thoughts to her since he awakened from his coma, with her faithfully by his side, deep in slumber—despite her own exhaustion—she had remained.

as your words echoed in his ears, he shifted his gaze to meet your own—and oh, those eyes.

he would give anything to forever witness his own reflection in the depths of your eyes.

in a mesmerizing dance, your gazes intertwined; an exquisite tapestry woven with delicate threads of connection.

he couldn't help but be entranced by the sheer magnificence of your irises—their majesty akin to rare crystalline treasures, gleaming beneath the majestic canopy of the nocturnal sky.

as a gentle zephyr whispered sweet nothings, its delicate touch caressed their beings, a tender embrace from the invisible hands of nature. he watched, his eyelids descending to a half-closed state, surrendering to the enchanting symphony of the night.

the breeze, like a playful sprite, felt as if it alone, could carry away his worries and sorrows, dispersing them into the velvety darkness.

yet, amidst this reposeful tranquility, a question lingered in the depths of his soul, an enigma that remained elusive and enigmatic.

it was one of the few riddles that continued to elude his grasp, an enigmatic puzzle that defied comprehension, regardless of whether he had regained his former self or not.

why, he pondered ever so deeply, did your well-being hold such profound significance to him?

why did his heart ache with an inexplicable yearning to protect you, to ensure the radiance within you remained untouched by the shadows of the world? it was as if his very purpose revolved around safeguarding your light, shielding it from the encroaching darkness threatening to dim its brilliance.

no, he never intended to diminish your worth in any way.

on the contrary—he understood, with a profound certainty, that you’re fully capable of caring for yourself alone.

yet, despite his awareness, a veil of mystery draped over his consciousness—that of a delicate wisp of mist teasing the boundaries of his understanding. it remained tantalizingly close, yet perpetually out of his reach, an enigma that eluded his grasp.

similarly elusive was the faint, almost imperceptible yet weighty pang in his heart each time his gaze flickered to your bandages that dressed your wounds.

he struggled to fathom its origins, to decipher the emotions that coursed through him with every glance. was it concern, fear, or something different altogether?

of course, he chastised himself for overreacting. after all, you were healing, weren't you?

...right?

at least, that was the relentless mantra he repeated to himself, like a haunting melody, a lullaby of self-deception.

perhaps it was a lie he constructed, a defense mechanism to shield himself from the harsh reality. deep down, he knew all too well that you were pushing yourself to the brink, sacrificing fragments of your own well-being to save countless others from the clutches of death.

how he yearned to tell you—to implore you—to cease using the very essence that slowly, yet inexorably, eroded your own vitality. the desire to shield you from the self-inflicted harm, consumed him.

yet, who was he to stand in your way?

who was he to dictate how you should pursue your purpose—your solemn vow? who had the right to demand that you discard the only technique you knew, as if acquiring a new skill were a trivial matter?

perhaps, for you, it had maybe once been a tangible option—a plausible alternative.

however, it clashed with the very reason why you chose to persist in wielding the power of spirit breathing, despite its unfortunate and devastating toll on your own being.

it was a conundrum that weighed heavily upon his soul, yet another conflict that tugged at the frayed edges of his limited understanding.

then, abruptly—his consciousness snapped back to reality, like a fragile dream shattered by the gentle sweep of a waving hand.

in that instant, the symphony of your voice, a sweet and melodious tune, graced his senses once more, stirring his spirit from its slumber.

"hello? earth to tokito?"

your words danced in the air, adorned with a delicate blend of amusement and genuine concern—whilst he, silently observed your actions. his gaze lingering for a fleeting moment, as if capturing the essence of your graceful movements.

soon enough, his eyes blinked, like a dormant star awakening to illuminate the night sky, as he finally stirred from his reverie.

with a subtle tilt of his head, he emitted a soft hum—a melodic expression that intertwined intrigue and acknowledgment in response to your beckoning. the notes of his hum danced through the air, a secretive melody that conveyed both his curiosity and the recognition of your presence.

meanwhile, you watched him with an internal sigh of relief.

the young man, whom you had believed to be forever lost in the bewitching realm of his perpetual daydreams, had returned to the realm of the present. the transformation within him, from introspective to effervescent, had you spellbound, never failing to leave you even in but a speck of awe, of these rare moments of clarity that graced his being.

"seems like someone's finally awake."

a faint smile blossoming upon your lips, akin to the first delicate bloom of a spring flower. lowering your hand with graceful grace,

you adjusted yourself to a more comfortable position beside him on the edge of the engawa outside the butterfly manor—a perch where you and him had been leisurely spending time together, without a care in the world, rambling on about. relishing in the comfort in one another’s presence—like a normal pair of souls basking in the way of life.

"you’ve been staring at me for quite a while.”

pausing for a breath, you tilted your head—the radiance of your irises blooming with an enchanting glow, as if the secrets of the universe were hidden within their depths.

"what's wrong?"

in the midst of an enchanting moment, a subtle hint of wounded innocence played across your seductive countenance, evoking a mysterious allure.

"do i look that bad?"

your voice, though as mellow and gentle as always, carried an underlying touch of vulnerability.

in an instant, he reacted, tilting his head with a subtle mixture of surprise and denial.

"what? no."

aa he blinked, his words slipped out absent-mindedly, like a whisper from a dreamer's lips.

"far from it, actually."

he confessed, his sincerity palpable.

with a gaze that held a painter's eye for detail, he saw your flaws not as imperfections, but as intricate brush strokes that added depth to the masterpiece of your being. inexplicably, he adored you, to the point where it practically pained him.

and who could blame him? for you were way more than a mere beauty that could be captured in words. you were a tapestry of emotions, a symphony of sensations that defied description.

to him, you are everything.

your brows raised slightly, captivated by his ever-unpredictable nature. truly, like the wind, he embraced the freedom to wander in any direction he pleased.

reminiscent of an owl, you blinked a plenty amount of times, momentarily stunned by the sheer audacity of his flattery. it seeped into the recesses of your heart, stirring a delicate blend of bashfulness and gratitude.

"then..."

unintentionally mimicking his gestures, as if dancing in synchrony with his spirit, you then asked, avidly yearning to explore the depths of his thoughts.

"mind sharing what's got you so..distant?"

although it was not deemed uncommon for him, of all individuals, to maintain a silent disposition, you possessed a deeper understanding—having witnessed something greater, something more.

despite the mere span of a few days, you stood as a crucial observer to the sudden shift in his demeanor. having been privy to a bewildering yet endearingly interactive side of the boy since his awakening, it became slightly disconcerting to witness him potentially regress into his characteristic, distant, and dazed state.

the memory of those extraordinary moments lingered, and it was disheartening to question whether they were mere illusions or if they held the promise of something genuine.

as of now, the male in question pressed his lips together, creating a slender line as his gaze wandered away from yours, as though searching for a brief respite from reality.

seeing this, you reassured him. carefully observing these subtle occurrences with your keen irises.

"you don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

responding with a weary shake of his head and a sigh escaping his lips, his gaze flickered back to you, and as his eyes connected with yours once more, a subtle softness overcame them.

truly breathtaking were his eyes. they possessed a hue reminiscent of emerald, yet they gleamed like the replesdent glow of the moon above.

however, what truly captured your attention was the way his brows furrowed just as the corner of his lips downturned, for internally—a cascade of emotions crashed upon him all at once. moreover, a despairing layer seemed to coat his eyes, a poignant sorrow that caught you off guard.

"i don't like it."

he stated firmly, his words hanging in the air, leaving you perplexed.

your head tilted slightly further, eyes widening as you regarded him with curiosity and intrigue.

in response, he raised a hand to the area where his heart resided, his gaze lowering and narrowing towards the ground beneath you both.

"this feeling..."

his voice carried a weight of uncertainty, gaze delicately shifted back to meet yours—and in that moment, you could have sworn you saw his frown deepen as the hint of sorrow on his features became even more pronounced.

"and knowing you could..."

he trailed off, unable to bring himself to complete his sentence. yet, the unfinished words were enough for you to grasp the essence of his meaning.

your brows upturned, sensing the profound depth of emotions he struggled to express fully through words. you had a hunch that it might be something like this, but witnessing his reaction with such intensity was, without a doubt, enough to evoke a painful ache in anyone's heart.

the desire to comfort him welled up within you, an overwhelming longing to ease his burdens. yet, you couldn't help but question how you could possibly offer reassurance.

would it be by telling a blatant lie about something that was inevitable?

now, that would be nothing short of cruelty, no?

to suggest that you would overcome it would only exacerbate the pain. moreover, you were uncertain how to approach the situation without inadvertently triggering a devastating chain of events in the unavoidable future.

truth be told, if he were anyone else, you might have dismissed the matter with a casual remark, wouldn't you?

but with him, it was different.

you couldn't bring yourself to say so.

unable to find the right words in that moment, your gaze somberly shifted away from his, fixating on a distant point ahead. yet, in a sudden and unexpected instant, you were taken aback as you felt the weight of something new but vaguely familiar resting upon your shoulder—soft strands of supple hair gently brushing against you. along with it came a delicate warmth, enveloping you in an oddly soothing sensation.

"you don't have to say anything."

he quietly uttered, his honeyed voice carrying a mix of vulnerability and reassurance. he simply needed to release his thoughts into the open, to let them be heard, even if it was just a single sentence.

there had been no intention to pressurize or burden you, but rather a desire to be the one offering reassurance while subtly seeking comfort himself.

in a silent plea to convince himself that he wasn't caught in a dream, he gingerly leaned his head against your shoulder, and though was making sure not to add any more damage to your wounds, he did so without a hint of regret.

your heart skipped a beat, overwhelmed by the depth of his actions. turning your attention back to him, you found solace in this unspoken gesture of support. that tender gesture conveyed a profound understanding, a connection that surpassed the boundaries of words. it was a silent reassurance; of ones comforting presence for the other, especially in the face of uncertainty.

a sentimental smile graced your features as you felt immense gratitude for his selfless deeds. even in this moment, he made sure you were as comfortable as possible, going above and beyond to provide solace. the warmth of his actions filled you with a deep sense of appreciation and reinforced the unmatched bond between you.

"..thank you,"

you whispered in a hushed breath, your voice carrying the weight of profound appreciation.

though the words seemed simple, they held within them an entire universe of gratitude—a universe that bloomed with vivid colors, dreamlike aspirations, and meaningful connections.

with a delicate grace, you lifted your hand and allowed your fingertips to dance upon the canvas of his raven tresses. each strand, like a silken thread, wove a tapestry of sensations beneath your touch.

the texture was soft and supple, akin to the gentle caress of a summer breeze. as your fingers glided through the ebony strands, you embarked on a journey of intricate care, smoothing out the knots that dared to disrupt the harmony.

in this intimate act, time seemed to suspend, creating a space where the world faded away, leaving only the two of you in a transcendent moment. your touch, as mindful as the brushstrokes of an artist, traced a path of tenderness and care. each movement held intention, a pledge to protect and cherish him, ensuring no harm would befall his vulnerable spirit.

It was a silent symphony, where the language of trust and gratitude flowed effortlessly through the whispers of your fingertips.

as you continued this tender ministration, a vibrant tapestry of emotions unfurled within the depths of your heart. gratitude, like a delicate fragrance, mingled with a sense of wonder, weaving a spellbinding combination.

the tenderness you shared painted a tableau, akin to a cherished memory, where hues of warmth, understanding, and appreciation blended harmoniously.

pleased by your touch, a contented hum escaped your companion's lips, his eyes finding solace in the comfortable embrace of closed lids.

a smile, brimming with emotions, blossomed upon his visage, a testament to the profound impact of your presence.

his heart fluttered with a bittersweet ache, caught between the beauty of the present and the uncertainty of the future.

yet, even in the face of daunting odds, a glimmer of hope persisted within him. it discreetly clung to his being, refusing to be extinguished.

it was undeniably a childlike hope, both fragile and resilient; to yearn for the possibility of a miraculous turn of events.

still, muichiro wanted to embrace that chance, to patiently wait for the magic of a future with you.

[suguwu]

Mer!jing yuan save me … mer!jing yuan … save me mer!jing yuan

listen i know this is a meme but—

gn!reader, shipwrecks, yandere. minors and ageless blogs dni.

he's been watching the ship.

it moves smoothly through the waters, parts the waves and leaves a quiet trail in its wake. the sails ripple with the wind, a disturbed pond, until they balloon out, full-bellied like the moon. it's well-made, the ship, and well-loved. jing yuan has seen enough ships to know.

and its captain is just as loved.

he's seen how your men respond to you, the way they laugh merrily but follow your orders without question. they cheer your name after you take the helm during a summer storm, the hungry sea breaking against the hull, lightning forking through the sky. after the storm passes, you stand on the deck, chest heaving. the sun peeks out from behind the distant clouds, and you turn your face up towards the watery light. it burnishes you, warms your wet figure into something more.

the ship sails on.

jing yuan follows.

it's easy to keep up despite the wind catching in the sails, his powerful tail coiling and bunching with muscle as he swims, the scales shining like moonlight beneath the water. he keeps his distance, for now.

the ocean favors you, he thinks, with the way sea spray kisses your lips like a lover, catches in your hair, crystalline droplets crowning you. the salt gleams on your skin when you're on deck, glittering in the sunlight as you weave your way through the deckhands.

he has heard the sirens before, the wailing echo of their enchanting song, and he hears them in your voice. it draws him near, closer than he should, peeking out of the water like the moon rising over the horizon to watch you as you get ready for bed, your windows open wide to the expanse of the sea. he watches, and watches, and watches.

the sound of your voice sinks into his bones, slips silken through his blood. he would know it anywhere, can unwind the thread of it from the patchwork quilt of the sea shanties you sing with your crew. he contemplates speaking to you, but he can wait. he knows the path you are taking, his fingertips weaving a current. he knows where it ends.

jing yuan knows patience well.

your laugh shimmers like moonlight on the water as you dance a jig with your first mate, bouncing merrily. the sea laps at the hull of your ship, peaceful and sweet, belaying the tempest it can whip into.

he can taste the storm coming.

it hits that night, the bruised clouds swallowing down the moon, the sea churning, white-capped waves like teeth. the ship is buffeted by the howling wind, sent skipping forward as you yell to your crew, voice firm. it is only because he knows you so well that he can recognize the waver to it.

the storm grows.

it catches the ship in its teeth, drags it to and fro like a dog with a bone. you yell until your voice goes hoarse, rasps like the waves against the pebbles of the shore. the ship keels under the press of a hungry wave. jing yuan hums to himself, the sound lost to the storm, and dives.

beneath the roiling surface, the ocean welcomes him, the currents tickling against his powerful body as he keeps pace with the ship. the current he'd spun swirls around him like a tapestry, warm and familiar.

it does not take long to see them.

his mother the sea has whittled the rocks into gravemakers to feed her unceasing hunger. beneath the surface lies the wreckage of several ships, rotting in the ocean's maw. they are barnacled, wicked-mouthed things, the gravemaker rocks, pointed like spears and dark enough to meld with the ocean's blackened surface. the current ripples around them.

they rend your ship asunder.

they tear through the wood like teeth to meat, ripping through the hull with a ravenous bite. the sea howls her delight as the hull splinters; the water rushes in, eager to devour. as he surfaces, watching, waiting, jing yuan can hear your voice pitched with fervor, lined with a well-hidden panic.

a wave rises and crashes into the ship, pinning it further onto the rocks. the hull gives. it folds into itself like a paper crane crushed in clumsy fingers; the water swallows it.

jing yuan knows the second you hit the water.

he calls the current to him, following its beckoning fingers with just a few pulses of his powerful tail. he surfaces to find you floating amid the wreckage, blood seeping from a few scrapes and scratches.

he hums and gathers you into his arms; lets the warmth of your skin sink into him. you stir for only a breath before sinking back into unconsciousness. but your heartbeat is strong and steady.

jing yuan wraps himself around you and dives again. he has been patient enough.

this is always where your path was leading.

[delicrieux]

𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 & 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐥𝐞 | endless oneshots (winter edition)

pairing—regulus black x reader genre—angstyyy summary—a moment shared in the living room word count—3.4k

masterlist. ☕. reqs are open!

the wall distracts you. the great family tree of the noble house of black. on their velvet sofa you find yourself quite small faced with the vastness of the room – in front, the magnificent tapestry of a lineage woven into time and into objects, like a permanent impact; in back, the frost covered windows, and further still, the late afternoon glow of the sun burning the whole of london. you imagine, briefly, yourself painted in. your small portrait and your name. you long for it in moments; you know no other wish. the shape of you has been made for this only.

how tedious. how meticulously exact the needlework must be to look appealing. how with your wand you can only return the inner lapel of regulus’ coat to its pristine condition and begin again. each time, the frustration threatens to spill through bitten lips. an uncaring loop thrusts through skin and hits bone. you give up, almost, with the silver thread coiled around your fingers like a hair. r. a. b. shouldn’t be too hard, should it? three letters only, sown by hand, a small, meaningless claim to a coat he already owns. as if he can’t recognize his things, how silly. by the seventh poke you wonder if this odyssey has any significance to it. why grapple to capture a tempest in a teapot? you could easily weave it into existence with magic.

it would still be a kind gesture, a thoughtful one. an affectionate one, even, if regulus cared to look – see the tired hands, the waxen expression, the lapel grasped so tightly. the look you’d give for a second because you couldn’t bear to be more honest than that. i did it for you, please wear it and think of me.

but no, it must be done by hand, else the magic won’t work. something about labor, the repetitive loop and pull that sows in more than letters. fixes more than thread. such a potent protection, only from what you can’t say. in a blood-warm waters of a dream, you puzzled over a crystalline cave in search of something precious, only you couldn’t recall what. in april of next year, regulus will die there, and you’ll never know. but he’ll wear the coat with his initials woven by your hand, and that will be enough.

you don’t look up when he enters, but you recognize the footsteps. regulus is never direct, at least, not with you. he’ll circle the tapestry and then circle the windows and circle the coffee table and then he’ll have nothing left to admire so he’ll admire you. sit beside, throw a glance at your pious work and draw, with his eyes, the shape of your profile. think, perhaps, of a branch of the family tree from his portrait to something that doesn’t yet exist, or the rose-bush pattern of the couch and how one branch connects his shoulder with yours.

“what are you doing?”

“making sure you don’t lose your things,” what a non-response, as if he’s known to misplace objects or articles of clothing. regulus can be careless, but never to warrant worry over useless matters such as this. he has many coats, and can purchase just as many if not more, and if petty, he can pilfer from sirius and row because the silence had grown too loud, “don’t make fun of me, it has to be hand-stitched or the enchantments will fade."

"i was never going to," he says, a faint twitch of amusement about the mouth. regulus always likes that you take his jokes seriously or his comments too light. that, from anyone else, you'd hardly even register. it makes him special, perhaps. as though only he is worth the recognition, or you desire him to have it, "...is this my birthday gift?"

"birthday, don't make me laugh," you mumble, biting the inside of your cheek, "would hardly be appropriate. it's a christmas gift."

"christmas." is the offhanded response. a statement, an assessment, but without judgement. only regulus can wield that so cooly. can live in between worlds that should not overlap. androgyne in tone and disposition, and the sound of it, your name, sweet as any chocolate. you glance up and smile wryly, "oh."

"oh indeed," you utter, and the final, hesitant thread is plunged to the fabric. his initials gleam as freshly cut silver. you offer him the needlework, "there." pride fits in your mouth like a candy well liked, sweetens the tone into something likely mocking, "not bad, is it, regulus? or perhaps you think hand-stitching is out of fashion and outdated, a lost art of our aristocratic roots."

regulus doesn't respond. his touch is a cautious one. fingers slide gently across the intricate curve of his initials and trail it upward to the collar and you pretend not to notice. regulus must always inspect things like an artist inspects his pieces. with a certain amount of scorn and longing.

"if it's for christmas," regulus says quietly, still running his fingers along the letters, "do i need to return a gift to you?"

you stop yourself short of giving the response that is right at the tip of your tongue. the verbiage is odd. instead, "return?"

"yes. to match, or rather, one that compliments. does such a custom matter much?"

"ah, well," it does, of course it does. such gifts are not for two sides. they're something sacred for one side only. he's not nimble with his fingers nor patient enough to wield a needle. he'd quit before the first draw of blood on cloth from his useless hands. he could magic it, but that would feel like a lie. what is this offer, or is it a suggestion? an implication? more daring than the look he gives you, certainly. no, he couldn't possibly imply something so domestic. regulus is not the type. so it can only be you reading too much. a stanza where there should be none, "you'd ruin my coat."

"naturally," regulus doesn't smile, not even to go along with his deadpanned tone, as though he could think of no better possibility, but you know better, or at least you tell yourself this. you do; how his head tips slightly towards you, the steady gaze, and the quirk of his brow, it's a rare breed of expression he dons only to you, when he can't bring himself to a more chaste form. you could spend hours sorting every fraction of difference, so keen they are to the point that you swear they must exist. you wouldn't be surprised if someone else says they see nothing,"... a handmade gift for a handmade gift. just for you."

"for me," is all you can muster in response, perhaps hoping you'd hear it clearer, and less vague and silly, in your mouth than his. he has given you presents. lovely, but impersonal. his brother shows more interest even if he has none for you. sirius hears but regulus listens and then willfully picks things everyone would like to receive. the ideal gifts, never with heart or consideration, yet you wear them proudly to hide your bitterness, because such attention is not unwanted, and neither is this. regulus is not incapable of more but his more is reduced to a subtle nothing, like a glance at the tapestry and a thought.

"...the needle's sharp." is the offhand observation, "you're bleeding."

regulus's concern is odd and undefined; you're not the most affectionate of friends. the fondness shared, the gentle jibes, are for you, really, because how else can you convince yourself you're happy. or to soothe the aching of that pesky hope, the wish and want of the moon reflected upon water. your gaze is steady. your hand is steady, "see how much i care?" and you hold up your middle finger with a smile, "i bleed for you."

he does look at it. his lips quirk into a ghost of a smile. "do you." he says, and returns to you, the trace of a frown on his face as though he's grown distressed with such a gesture, and like an adult will scold their pet for bad behavior, says, "really, that's quite silly. no, worse. don't do such unnecessary things to your pretty hands."

pretty, he says, and how easy would it be to mock him or put him in his place with a joke and a teasing word or two. is he making fun of you again? it's only an insult when delivered to the point. and it would feel worse when he isn't, when he's just offering a compliment in a strange sort of way.

"doesn't hurt that much." you say with a confidence unshaken, and the wounds are so meager they're not even worth healing. they'll dry and close before he can lift his wand for episkey or conjure a bandage. but they'll remain, for a day or two, as proof of your diligence. the methodical elegance that comes from creating a handmade gift. you'll look at your hands and know they have worked to protect him.

it hurts a bit more when he reaches for them. if you really did want to press, he'd insist or, with a haughty glare, defy you and prove the strength of his own silly pride, but he only asks, and then, does so with such tenderness you would think he held glass and not your injured hands, the result of a restless task meant for his comfort. your fingers stings the slightest against the brush of his fingertips, calloused and slightly cold, "...you've always been a fool."

"only when it matters," you say softly.

when he says your name, he lingers on the last syllable, with the tilt of his head and the curious narrow of his eyes. to pick apart and discern. to wonder. only briefly, like all his attentions, does the hand linger. the expression you want is not one he'd be willing to show so clearly, not even in the warmth of the dying light.

"stop saying ridiculous things." regulus says after a pause. he won't, however, release your hands. they remain there in his grip, unmoving and together.

"learn to take a joke," you answer.

he leans forward. "make it funny and perhaps i will."

"funny," you can't say a thing to that, yet you've thought up many. later, when he is asleep and his pale face is illuminated by the moonlit night, you'll recite all the things you could not.

"got nothing else to say?" a quirk of the lip. joined hands, fingers intertwined, though not so securely. loose enough that if the mood strikes or a strange sentiment overcomes him, he'd break them apart and away.

"oh, plenty," you can't keep your face straight, and so your smile is quick to return, "i’ve only taken pity on you. did you miss the sound of my voice already?"

"very presumptuous, aren't we," he glances aside, "and really, so outlandish. the nerve. you have the nerve."

"i suppose i do." you squeeze his hand lightly, "nerve. candor. the quality that earns a great admirer."

"or the ire of all who know you best," he tilts his head to the side, glances quickly at you, and with a surprising amount of assertiveness, curls his fingers tighter around yours, "i appreciate that you'd like to share your charisma but some people don't consider charm to be a particularly laudable virtue."

"that's such a bad lie that i might as well be told you don't think i'm charming at all, not in the slightest. and oh, there we are, what a pout. you're entirely predictable."

"and you entertain me, still."

"you're the one that holds my hands hostage," you note wryly, wiggling your fingers slightly.

regulus doesn't have a quick response for that. at most he offers the roll of his eyes. doesn't let go, simply presses. let's a drop of your blood stain his skin. when he speaks again, he's grown thoughtful, "...hostage, yes?"

"...oh, do stop that," a pause. the silence lingers, "no, that's quite unfair."

"do you think so or not?"

your pulse throbs loud enough to deafen you. it is a foolish question and the answer is a clear enough indication of what you think. what motive could he have? to delight at the humiliation of your confession or to watch you tangled in a lie you clearly don't believe? the truth is so obvious it's untactful to inquire about its validity.

he sounds so serious as his thumb brushes along the dips and hills of your knuckles, "well? your answer? or is a minute not enough to think of something witty?"

at this, you frown, "regulus." and it comes quiet, like a warning.

"thought it came naturally to you. such creativity."

he has grown to be cruel sometimes. most times, rather, when it suits him to be. a petty, petulant thing not yet ready to leave its comfortable shell and grow beyond, "you must be eager for me to release you," he adds. a bitter afterthought.

"are you done?" you ask.

"what shall you do with your hands once they’re free?" he wonders, "sow something for sirius? he’d be wrecked if he didn’t receive a gift like mine."

"regulus." you repeat with a frown, "don't."

"why not?" he blinks.

"a gift doesn't mean anything if it's a gift for the masses."

"well, it'll be custom, i imagine," he says, "with his initials this time."

"regulus," a third time you've said it, a sharp tongue to cut, "stop it. you're being mean."

his eyes are cast downward, expression impassive. "if this is what it takes to get you to respond, then perhaps i am."

this isn't the game. the one where he'll pretend not to care so as to observe how you'll react. it is the type where you'll act cold enough he'll hesitate. then he'll carelessly expose himself so the hurt can be delivered with ease. an offense so great you'll seek the sweet relief of exile.

"i made it for you," you utter, barely a whisper, "no one else."

"is that so."

"if you don't want it, i won't force you to keep it."

"no, i like it," his expression has remained the same, if not with a certain lack of conviction, a flat tone you want to interpret as some half lie, but you don't. instead you nod. a half-hearted turn of your head before meeting his eyes.

"a bit possessive, don't you think? getting so cross over a made up problem?" you inquire.

"made up, huh?" you like the inflections of his voice, and even in his reluctance he maintains them, the gentle flow, the steadfast determination to the subject.

"mhm."

"thought it was logical to assume. you're friends."

"i have a different gift planned for him."

"different?" he clarifies.

"quite," you say, all sorts of bitter, "a broom cleaning kit."

that, at least, seems to somewhat appease him. and regulus settles, ever so slightly, his brow a faint twitch. the motion you always want to trace with your fingers, and map along until you memorize every curve and line and plane of his face.

he adjusts your hands again, idly thumbing over the slope and curve. he is thoughtful again, contemplative and somber and nothing more. a lingering fear clings to the curve of his mouth, "do you ever wish you could disappear?"

the question has no context, and it strikes you as the type that never did, with a subtle heaviness he is familiar with the implications of. it is only in a selfish way that the fear occurs. his isolation, perhaps. or he must assume that all others can share a similar loneliness, though only in different quantities.

"do you?" you ask instead.

"perhaps. sometimes. maybe not." he does, you think, look as though he often considers running away to somewhere no one else is aware of him. or if he's not wanted there, then elsewhere. somewhere remote and a touch fantastical. a desperate escape from family tradition, from being the second born son. a desire, or rather, absconding from responsibility. to be far and forgotten; to live a life you believe would bring you some semblance of peace and happiness, though not enough for the longing to subside and never enough for him to admit to it. no, regulus would first die than admit it out loud.

admit the envy he has for his brother. admit to wonder if anyone would look for him if he was to disappear.

you would. even if the rest wouldn't, you would. and if they did, how angry it'd make them if you refused to quit searching. it strikes you suddenly and without remorse, as if you've been pushed into a pile of snow. it's him you were searching for in your dream.

"no, then?" his voice shakes you away. your expression had frozen over, had it? how rare it is, to see worry worn so openly in the shape of those brows.

"sometimes," you answer honestly, though you're never quite sure where that might be. a growing, restless worry expands in the pit of your stomach. as though your nightmare is not so far from becoming reality. that one day, you'll search for him to the edge of the earth only to never find him again, "you aren't thinking of leaving, are you?"

he's taken aback by your expression. "of course not," he reassures, and he seems as though he means it, "i'm only indulging hypotheticals."

"alright."

"are you okay?"

"sure. yes. yes, absolutely."

regulus peers at you closely, scrutinizing, the gesture intense and pointed in its nature. and he returns to tracing the veins on your skin, a practiced art. a light tickle that has you shivering, not that you'd want to move away. never from him.

you hear him, soft and hushed. perhaps it is more suited to the intimacy of the moment and not that he's become ashamed. a faint, lovely mumbling that you would like to indulge forever if possible, "i'm really not going anywhere." he brings your hand to his lips after a moment of hesitation, like he needs the courage, the comfort. an earnest reassurance in a form of a small kiss as if it were his own insecurities at play, "here's okay. here's more than enough."

you nod. whisper, when you realize how close the two of you have become, "yes, stay here."

"...you as well."

"i will."

"wouldn't want to run around looking for someone who's meant to stay within my sights, anyways."

and it is you that laughs a little too hard to seem genuine, "as though you'd do such a thing."

he answers with a confidence unshaken yet poorly disguised by the restraint shown, "i don't plan on ever losing sight of you."

your eyes meet and hold, but neither will ever confess to be the one who glanced away first. for different reasons, perhaps, and no less of a humiliation. no less difficult to accept. the sight of him is too difficult to bear; the hair framing his face and the gentle hue of pink that grows steadily redder the longer he holds your gaze. he drops your hand first, and you resist the urge to run your fingertips down the sharp of his jaw and feel the softness of his skin or tug his bottom lip and hear the shuddering intake of air. to feel what can't be expressed, at least, not so simply.

you can't blame regulus for not wanting to admit it. he's shaped by his surroundings, has grown up in a family that doesn't permit affections. he doesn't know the structure of i'm sorry or thank you or i love you. but if only for a second, surely, he can try to imitate. you treasure each of his clumsy syllables and failed tries because he has never attempted anything of this sort for anyone else. the success doesn't matter, because he is earnest, at least to the degree of his own understanding and limit, and it's easier to say what's painful in silence.

or, maybe, nothing's difficult when the sun's nearly gone. when the window pane burns pink and white, and when the stars appear through the haze of fog and snow, and you think of the future, with him, but as the heirs of two prominent houses together, and it feels like a fairy tale that way, not quite real. so long as you imagine it with a dreamy detachment, you can convince yourself it doesn't matter further than a wish that will never come true.

because you've never learned to say i'm sorry or thank you or i love you, either.

thank u for reading <3

[papiliotao]

・❥・ A PORCELAIN HEART

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ gn!reader

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ character: scaramouche

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ wc: about 1000

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ content: reverse comfort, scaramouche is kind of insecure, turns very fluffy toward the end, kisses, established relationship

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ summary: in which your kisses act as a remedy to all his fears and doubts when he begins to question his worth.

broken.

he was broken — a discarded puppet, a failed experiment, and a blemish upon the name of his creator.

he wasn’t worthy of kindness. he wasn’t worthy of care. he wasn’t worthy of love.

those were his thoughts as he gazed up at you from your lap, losing himself in the refuge of your eyes. the wind brushed through his hair with a mercy he didn’t deserve, and the sun caressed his face like a loving mother tending to her child. blades of grass tickled his pale skin as they danced under the touch of gentle zephyrs.

iridescent glints of affection glittered in your irises — shimmers reminiscent of city lights on nostalgic nights. he knew you loved him, but he couldn’t help but wonder…

“why do you love me?”

the words left the tip of his tongue before he could stop himself. he usually didn’t like uncovering such vulnerable sides of himself. it felt like revealing a mirror of self-perception that was on the verge of breaking — shattering into thousands of crystalline shards. but this time around, he couldn’t help himself. he needed to know.

“why do you ask?” you answered. he felt his blood run cold. if he had a heart, surely it would have sunk upon hearing your words. 

were you avoiding his question? he wouldn’t have been surprised if you were. after all, there was nothing lovable about him.

he was far too insensitive, spouting harsh words as if it was second nature, insulting others with his sharp tongue as if their hearts were bulletproof. yet at the same time, he was far too sensitive himself — a fragile doll that could completely break under a careless touch. two polarized facets of the same person mingled together to create a magnum opus of disasters.

and you — you were flawless in his eyes. you were the epitome of perfection. you were the brightest star in a sea of lights, illuminating the world with your enticing words and enchanting smile. you were everything that he was not.

so no matter how hard he tried to respond to your question, he just couldn’t. words were betraying him, getting caught in his throat before they could leave his lips. although a world where he could bring himself to divulge his deepest fears was a distant daydream, he felt trapped within an hourglass of lies, suffocating as grains of sand kept piling and piling — small moments where he had instinctively told you he was fine when he was, in fact, the opposite.

the sound of you sighing permeated his senses. were you disappointed in him? he wouldn’t have been surprised if you were. after all, the very nature of his existence was failure and inadequacy. 

but to his shock, you reached down to run your fingers through hair weaved from the quintessence of the night sky. his breath hitched as your touch caused a few knotted strands to unravel. “it seems like you’re not in the mood to respond,” you said in a voice reminiscent of multicoloured petals drifting in a spring breeze, “so i’ll answer your question first.”

he waited with bated breath. the silence that ensued as you were thinking about what to say seemed far too pronounced for his liking. he couldn’t wait for your response. a singular second felt like a millenium as he drowned in an ocean of suspense, the murky blue waters swallowing him whole as anticipation caused intrusive thoughts to rush through his head.

“i love you for you,” you finally said, breaking through the silence hanging in the stagnant air. “i love you because you’re witty, unintentionally funny at times, and you care for me in your own unconventional way. to be honest, i could go on and on, and i can’t exactly explain why i feel so drawn to you, but just know that i love you in your entirety.”

his muscles tensed. did you really mean it? if it were anyone else, he would have assumed that they were lying to get on his good side, but to him, you were different. you would never give him up, you would never let him down, and you would never run around and desert him. 

finally, with a lighter conscience, he sat up to face you. he looked into your eyes and saw the sincerest of emotions gleaming in their depths. your feelings were genuine, yet he couldn’t stop hesitation from bubbling within the pit of his stomach.

and perhaps you noticed how perturbed his soul was because as he averted his gaze, you intertwined your fingers with his, tracing comforting circles on the back of his hand. as always, you understood him better than he understood himself.

“please look at me,” you begged. he swallowed the lump in his throat and glanced up. “let me show you how much i love you.”

before he knew it, he felt the sensation of warm lips pressing against his skin. your actions spoke louder than words ever could.

one: a gentle kiss pressed to the back of kunikuzushi’s hand — fleeting, soft, and tender, encapsulating all the arduous feelings in the world.

i’ll accept you, no matter what you’ve done in the past. that hateful side of yourself that once wished to see the world burn is no longer a part of you. you’ve changed, and you should be proud of yourself.

two: a warm kiss against scaramouche’s cheeks which were adorned with skin fashioned from the finest porcelain. as you pressed on, a breathtaking rosy shade reminiscent of sunset hues began to dust his pale features.

i cherish you as you are now. you don’t have to be useful to me, and you don’t have to give me anything in return. i don’t care for any exchanges because all i want is you. you are enough. you are worthy. so please, allow all your self-doubt to drift away on the wind.

three: a passionate kiss to the wanderer’s lips. you placed your hands on his cheeks, bringing him closer as you shared a touch laced with the most ethereal feelings of bliss, amplifying the intimacy of the moment tenfold.

i will love you into the future. i know you’re scared that i’ll leave, but i promise i’ll never abandon you because you mean the world to me. a life without you isn’t a life worth living. my affection for you are will always be unconditional.

and in that moment, he realized that despite all his shortcomings, he had finally found the eternity he had sought from the moment he was born. an enchanting forevermore basking in the splendor of your love.

i hope you enjoyed reading this! did you spot the reference to that one song? i had a bit too much fun writing this. anyway, if you liked this fic, please reblog/comment if you feel up to it! have a nice day 💞

[corruptedcaps]

Moral Objection: Part One

This is a custom story written for @callmekeira who suggested my new profile pic.

Keira's days began before the sun had even considered waking, her coffee-fueled determination propelling her through labyrinthine legal texts and intricate case studies. As a junior associate at a prestigious law firm, she had always harbored a genuine desire to help people, to right wrongs, and to see justice served. But the deeper she delved into the firm's operations, the more disillusioned she became.

The towering glass and steel façade of the law firm masked an undercurrent of ambition that disregarded the very values Keira held dear. Partners and senior associates reveled in their power, often at the expense of ethics. However, the embodiment of this ruthlessness was Elissa, the firm's most dazzling partner. It was an open secret she used her outrageous beauty to climb quickly in the law firm, but it was her cold, calculating gaze that left a lasting impression on anyone who dared cross her path.

Keira, despite her best intentions, had managed to draw Elissa's ire more than once, always advocating for fairness, for the human element in the cases they handled. And as the sun dipped beneath the city's skyline, the relentless buzz of fluorescent lights bathed the dimly lit office in an eerie glow. Keira was just packing up to leave when her blood went cold as Elissa's frosty voice cut through the air. "Keira, darling," she purred, striding towards her desk, "I need you to stick around. We have a bit of a situation with Alphabraun. They are threatening to move their business elsewhere and you and I are going to convince them to stay.”

Despite Keira’s dislike of Elissa she was somewhat flattered that she was being asked by a top performing partner for help. However her decision was easy, especially consider the clients.

“Alphabraun are amoral and disgustingly unethical. I say we let them leave, maybe then we can attract more right thinking and conscientious companies.” Keira said somehow finding the courage.

Elissa's eyes narrowed, her lips curling into a disdainful smile. "Oh, Keira, you truly have a lot to learn. Perhaps you need a little push in the right direction." Without warning, Elissa's perfectly manicured hand shot out, her nails cutting Keira's arm. Keira recoiled, shock coursing through her as her skin tingled beneath Elissa's touch.

"What have you done?" Keira gasped, staring at the faint, glowing mark on her arm. Elissa leaned in, her voice dripping with satisfaction. "Something to make you see my point of view, dear. You'll thank me later." Keira watched, both mystified and alarmed.

A rush of warmth surged through Keira's veins, radiating from the mark on her arm. Her heart pounded, and she felt her senses sharpening, as if the world around her was coming into crystalline focus. As the sensation enveloped her, she realized her wound was healing before her eyes, the skin stitching itself together seamlessly.

Suddenly, her skin seemed to glow from within, taking on a luminous quality that had been absent before. Her hair, once a simple shade of brown, transformed into cascading waves of rich, golden blonde silk, catching the light with every movement. Her makeup subtly shifted, enhancing her features and emphasizing her eyes, making them appear more enchanting and mysterious.

A generous swell graced her chest, giving her tits that caused the zipper on her sports jacket to open. And as she flexed her hands, she couldn't help but notice her nails, now elongated and perfectly painted red, eerily matched Elissa’s.

Elissa's icy gaze locked onto Keira's changed form, a triumphant glint in her eyes. "Well, any objections now?" she inquired, her voice dripping with satisfaction. Keira's gaze slid down to her own transformed body, a sense of delight replacing her previous resistance. An intoxicating sensation of power flowed through her, igniting thoughts that were wicked and bold.

Her previous thoughts of justice and right and wrong seemed laughable and childish to her now. Why should she care about anyone but herself?

Keira's lips curled into a seductive smile as she met Elissa's gaze. "Yes plenty but they all have to do with what I’m wearing," she purred, her voice carrying a newfound confidence and allure. Elissa's own smile widened, clearly pleased with her handiwork, as she gestured for Keira to follow.

They stepped into Elissa's lavish office, adorned with sleek furniture and an air of authority. Elissa led her into a closet bigger than Keira's cubicle. As Keira surveyed the array of garments before her, she felt a wicked excitement bubbling within her. Each outfit seemed to carry a feeling of dominance and elegance that resonated with her transformed being.

Keira's fingers glided over the fabric of the outfit she had chosen, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. The tight, deep vee neck dress was made of a material that was dangerously close to being transparent but it clung to her curves, accentuating her newly heightened figure in way she couldn't deny or pass up.

As Keira stood before the mirror, the transformation was complete. She was no longer the conscientious young woman who had walked into the office that morning. With a newfound allure and wickedness, she was ready to step into a world where power, seduction, and ruthlessness reigned supreme.

“You look divine darling. Ready to do whatever it takes to keep these men with us?” Elissa said beaming proudly at her creation.

“Try and stop me.” Keira said wickedly smiling back at her new friend.

Keira and Elissa glided into the upscale club, their entrance sparking immediate intrigue. The male clients, a group of affluent and self-assured men, shifted their attention to the pair of alluring women that had just graced their midst. As they approached, Keira felt the weight of their gazes, a mixture of lust and curiosity. She loved it.

Their haughty vanity that normally repelled her seemed intoxicatingly attractive to her. Amid the crowd, one figure stood out—Jack, an enigmatic alpha amongst the group. His intense blue eyes locked onto Keira's, their connection igniting sparks that seemed to reflect the dim club lighting.

Amid the throbbing bass, Keira found herself engaged in a playful exchange with Jack, her words laced with a wicked charm. "So, Jack," she purred, "we all know you have money and looks, but how are you on the dance floor?" Jack's confident smile widened as he matched her banter. "Only one way to find out," he shot back, his voice dripping with innuendo.

Their dance grew more intimate, and as Jack's hands encircled her waist, Keira whispered, her tone dripping with wicked allure, "are you as good a lover as you are a dancer?" Jack's laughter resonated in her ear as he pulled her closer. "Oh, sweetheart, you have no idea," he murmured, the promise of a thrilling secret hanging between them.

Keira's fingers intertwined with Jack's, her grip firm as she pulled him toward the exit, her eyes locked onto his. The desire to continue their flirtatious encounter away from prying eyes was undeniable, and she could practically feel the magnetic pull between them growing stronger by the second.

As they moved through the club, Elissa's voice, a soft whisper, brushed against Keira's ear. "Good girl, seal the deal. I'll see you tomorrow," she murmured, her mischievous grin and wink sending a thrill down Keira's spine. The words echoed in Keira's mind, fueling the newfound confidence that was coursing through her.

In the privacy of a luxurious limousine, Keira's lips met Jack's in a passionate kiss. The electricity that had sizzled between them on the dance floor now ignited with a fervor that was impossible to ignore. Between heated kisses, Keira began undoing Jack’s belt and slipped her hand under to grab his formidable member. Jack moaned wantonly as Keira stroked it with precision. As she felt his cock throb as it came closer and closer to cumming she mounted him but hover her pussy just out of reach of his aching dick.

“Now Jack, if you want me to give you the best orgasm of your life then you’re going to have to tell me what I want to hear.” Keira said as she hissed darkly into his ear.

“I love you?” Jack said confused and horny in equal measure.

“Awh that’s cute honey but what I want to hear you say is that you’re keeping your business with our firm.” She continued to whisper as she tantalizingly dipped her perfect pussy off the top of his dick for a moment before retracting quickly.

“Oh fuck yes yes! As long as you’re with the firm then that’s where me and my company will stay.” He groaned.

“Good boy.” She said with a wicked smile as she lowered on to his cock where they both moaned in unison. Keira rode his dick up and down slowly at first before picking up the pace. She felt an incredible amount of control over her pussy muscles like never before. Every time she felt Jack close to cumming she was able to squeeze just enough to stop it. It felt good to be in control.

When she recognized the building of her street out the window she finally allowed him to orgasm. She felt her inside get lined with his juices which made a satisfying slurp as she got off him. Before Jack could parse what was happening Keira was already clip clopping towards her apartment.

“Wait! Keira, come back to my place.” He called out. His desire was palpable, but she didn’t even break her walk or turn around, "Another time, stud."

Up in her apartment, a sudden exhaustion washed over her like a tidal wave. The whirlwind of emotions and experiences had drained her, and as soon as she lay down, she succumbed to sleep's sweet embrace.

To be continued…

[zablife]

Pretty When You Cry

Summary: Tommy likes to give you pleasure to the point of pain for one specific goal, to watch you cry.

Author's Note: For @jomarch-wannabe 350 follower celebration. Inspired by Lana Del Rey's "Pretty When You Cry." Congrats, darl!

Warnings: 🔞, dom Tommy, bondage, overstimulation, crying kink

Outside your window, all the pretty stars were shining in the sky. Inside, there was a darkness in Tommy's crystalline blue eyes as he teased and tortured little whimpers and moans from your exhausted body. "How much more can you take, love?” he whispered at your ear, but you couldn’t answer too far gone to tell. 

Your full lips parted, tongue darting out to moisten your parched mouth as your chest heaved for breath. You tugged slightly against the silk ties at your wrists, Tommy watching you carefully from above, enchanting you with promises of more. Whether or not you could withstand it was the question. Would you call out your safe word to him or allow him to continue to the point you knew he loved most? Give him the ultimate pleasure he desired?

He ran the back of his hand along your ribs, feeling your breath rise and fall against his knuckles before turning his palm against your hip and forcing you back down to the mattress. “You can take it,” he coaxed, but the sweetness had gone from his voice, raw need replacing his earlier gentleness. 

His large fingers slipped between your slick folds as you gasped, “I can’t do it…I can’t.” Your head lolled from side to side on the soft pillow Tommy had placed beneath your delicate neck at the start of the evening, locks splayed out beneath you. The tendrils were now stuck to your forehead and neck with sweat after hours of him sending you over the edge of bliss, asking for just one more little death...and that's what each felt like, a tiny piece of you leaving with every quaking breath. He was the greediest lover you’d ever had, demanding to see your toes curl and your thighs quiver until you were reduced to tears. 

It was one night three years ago when he realized he held this power over you. Forcing your legs open and lapping at your swollen clit for more, he’d become so intoxicated at the view of you shaking and crying with your final release, it had sent him into his own powerful orgasm without so much as a touch from you. “You’re the girl of my dreams,” he proclaimed, watching the salty tears bathe your cheeks as you writhed on the bed, completely overstimulated.

He knew how to achieve it with perfect precision now... if you were willing. Some nights you called out and he was forced to stop, but tonight you bit down hard on your lip, enduring the bombardment of overwhelming pleasure just for him. “You alright sweetheart?” he teased in a low rumble that made your insides turn to jelly.

“Mmm-hmm,” you managed in a pathetic mewl, lifting your head, eyelids fluttering to barely contain what he knew would surely break free in seconds. 

As the pad of his thumb traced tight circles over your clit he watched your blown out pupils. “Going to give me everyhing I want? Will you be my good girl?” he begged. And you gulped as you tried to hold it in.

“Yes, Tommy, I’m you’re girl...always your good girl,” you mumbled as pleasure fogged your brain. Finally you gave yourself over to the sensation, rocking your hips against his palm. 

“That's it, darling. Take what you need," he goaded you, watching your face contort in pleasure bordering on pain. He was the devil, tempting you to push yourself beyond what you were capable of. The vibrations of his voice hummed within you and your body tensed suddenly. Your back arched and Tommy leaned in to taste you, sucking your little bud to make the feeling even more intense. “No, no, no” you whimpered, but it was too late as the damn broke within you. You were cumming in waves that made you hot then cold, body practically convulsing under his touch. Crossing the line into torture, it was too much. Hot tears flowed from your eyes and trickled down the apples of your rosy cheeks, flushed a bright pink from overexertion. 

Tommy looked up at you, mouth agape in silent appreciation. “F-fuck” he stuttered at your beauty, before coming to untie you and collect you in his arms. He pressed kisses to your temple and down to the corners of your mouth as you collapsed against him, praising you. “You’re so pretty when you cry.”

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

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@raincoffeeandfandoms

@babayaga67

@kmhappybunny240

@pacifymebby

@thomashelbyswife

@shelby-fangirl00

@dearshelby

@moral-terpitude

@holacia3

@allie131313

[gnarlymiasma]

my D&D dragonborn warlock, Veltur “Vel” Beskan

lost his arm after trying (and succeeding) to cut ties with his Patron, got an enchanted crystalline prosthetic from his artificer partner, is unreasonably smug about it

[i984]

Snowy Escape

|Pairing|: Wednesday Addams x Chronokinesis! gender neutral reader

|Warnings|: HAND HOLDING AHHH, Probably Ooc! Wednesday Addams, author hasn't written fluff for a while now so it's rusty, your relationship is made vague in this one, Wednesday is a softie argue with the wall, let me know if I should add more warnings.

|Summary|: Wednesday witnesses a bewitching sight thanks to your powers.

|A/n|: I am finally back at the fluffy one-shot fic business. Check blog description for masterlist!

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Snow.

Such a pretty thing, no?

Vermont is the snowiest state in the USA, so it wasn't uncommon to see white covering Jericho in the cold season. And this year, it's no different. Your first winter in Nevermore Academy. With her.

Braids decorated in crystalline powder, heavy eyelashes hooded iridescent dark brown orbs. Wednesday had a speck of red covering her freckle-painted cheeks. Though the tip of her nose and ears blushed a lovely cherry. She looked positively enchanting like this; there's no doubt about it.

"Winter suits you perfectly," you murmured softly to the girl beside you.

"The bleak skies and the stifling cold does reflect myself well," her impassive voice answered.

You hold back a grin, "I was thinking more about how it makes you blush."

"It's natural," Wednesday's eyes traveled from the bleached ground to your face, "When exposed to freezing temperatures, the body tries to warm itself by circulating blood close to the surface."

She's greeted with the sight of an amused smile. "What?"

You snorted at the bite in her tone, "Yes, silly, but I meant the blush compliments your look really well."

Wednesday doesn't answer. Instead, she turns to look at the barren trees far in the distance. Her blush has deepened, and now her whole face glows crimson. You decided not to comment on your observation.

A gentle hush cloaked the school grounds; no students were walking around. Even though the sparkling winter scape of white and silver proves a captivating sight, most opted to stay inside, sipping hot chocolate, protected from the freezing chill.

But here you both are, standing in the middle of the quad, watching heaven spew its ivory confetti. 

"You said you wanted to show me something?" Wednesday breaks the comforting silence. 

"Yeah, about that..." Your words trailed off as you rubbed the back of your neck on instinct, eyes refusing to meet the ravennete's inquiring gaze. 

Indeed you had asked her to go outside after seeing snow falling from your dormitory's window; for a specific reason. 

Though now, you're not sure if it's a great one. 

Wednesday immediately recognizes the look of uncertainty on your face. The one you make when you've planned everything perfectly; but forgot to think about the uncontrollable variables, though which variables this time is still up for debate.

"Nothing is stopping you."

You finally turn your head to see Wednesday holding her usual blank stare, but somehow her face looks almost reassuring. Like she was challenging you to come through with your request. 

"Well, if that's the case..." You take a deep breath to calm your nerve before you shoot her with the determining question, "can I hold your hand?"

Wednesday's eyes widen in the wake of your words; the preposition caught the raven-haired girl off guard. She obviously didn't expect you to ask her that.

Silence lingered between the two of you, and with each passing moment, you got more anxious about her response. Suddenly, you're more aware of the skin-seeping cold and your chilblained feet. 

"You don't have to do it if you don't want to," you scratched at your eyebrow, "we can continue to watch the snow-"

The string of hurried words got silenced as soon as her icy hand met yours. Mouth gaping, steam exhaled from your lungs as shallow breaths fill the air. 

Warmth floods your body; now it's your turn to have blood rushing to your face. Eyes lowering to see the small hand interlinked with yours, you can't fight the grin tugging your chapped lips. 

It's the simple things, you thought.

"Thank you."

Her head moves in a subtle nod.

So simple it melts your worry away. 

A free hand now raising in the air, you look over to see Wednesday's brows doing the same, wonder etched in her features.

"Ready?" Intertwining your fingers with hers, you clasp her hand firmly, the heat radiating from the touch slowly warming her skin.

"What are you-"

The fragile flakes hung mid-air, shimmering as they reflected the trapped light when you stopped the world around you. You feel the recurring frosty blow hitting your face cease; the world is entombed in a dome of silence.

The serenity of it all has a captivating quality; it's not every day you stop time. A hum escapes your throat in contentment, and you feel the girl beside you shift in her place.

"How am I still moving?" Wednesday's words echo onto the vast space, curiosity evident in her sound.

"Whoever I touch when I use my powers will not be frozen in time," You explained carefully to her, "That's why I asked to hold your hand."

"Fascinating."

Now it's Wednesday's turn to raise a free hand into the air, but hers brushes the stilled powdered gem. The touch was delicate, testing if the snow would crumble in her wake.

But the particle stays unmoving. Except for the two of you, everything in the world is trapped in a stoning spell, lending the lucky ones time to appreciate the beauty of the panorama. 

The red scarf you gifted Wednesday for Christmas sits around her neck loosely, and her coat lifts as she stands on tiptoes above white concrete. 

Her quirking eyebrows, the slightly jutted lips, the crimson shade; everything about her enamored you. You may be able to stop time, but she stopped your world from circling the orbit, moving the course as if she's the sun in your life. 

"Bewitching," you breathed the word out, and Wednesday turned to find your gaze transfixed on her face. Not at the tranquil scenery or anywhere else. But at her. 

Caught in a trance, neither of you realizes the earth resumes its activity; whining winds gusts, and fluttery snowflakes puffed down once more.

You can beg for Chronos' patience for only so long. 

Wednesday takes both freezing hands into her coat's pocket. 

It's the simple things that matter.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

|A/n2|: Thank you so much for the anon who made the request, as soon as I see it my body jumps and grabbed my laptop to write. You saved me from procrastinating yet again.

[mtg-cards-hourly]

Crystalline Nautilus

Artist: Brad Rigney TCG Player Link Scryfall Link EDHREC Link

[cassiopeapoetry]

Enchanted Ice Caverns

Dans les profondeurs d'une caverne gelée, la lumière danse sur les parois scintillantes. Les arches de cristal forment des rêves glacés, chuchotant des secrets au murmure de l'eau.

Sous le voile mystérieux de la glace, les stalactites comme des larmes cristallines, éclairées par une lueur douce et magique, où les reflets dessinent des contours subtils.

Chaque pas résonne comme un écho singulier, révélant les mystères d'un monde figé. Un voyage au cœur des cavernes enchantées, où chaque éclat promet une beauté cachée.

English translation :

In the depths of a frozen cavern, light dances on the shimmering walls. Crystal arches form frozen dreams, whispering secrets to the murmur of water.

Beneath the mysterious veil of ice, stalactites like crystalline tears, illuminated by a soft and magical glow, where reflections sketch subtle outlines.

Each step echoes with a singular sound, revealing the mysteries of a frozen world. A journey to the heart of enchanted caverns, where every glimmer promises hidden beauty.

#Cassiopeapoetry

[rwuffles]

FAECORE CRYSTAL NPTS．  @mantra-repeated's event prize．  ➷

pt: faecore crystal npts (names, pronouns, and title suggestions). @/mantra-repeated's event prize. end pt.

⚘   ⌣   names． faebelle   iris   eniselle   sylvem   faeshine   crysie   arianell   carnelian   maisie   pearl   amethyst   sparlescent   faicilline

⚘   ⌣   pronouns． fae / faes   fae / faery   fable / fables   crystal / crystals   crystal / crystalline   gem / gems   gem / gemstone   shine / shines   sparkle / sparkles   iris / iridescent   enchant / enchants

⚘   ⌣   titles． the faery's crystal   the fairy circle's gem   [prn] imbued with the magic / blood of the fae   the one envied by even the fae   the crystal worn by the fae themselves   the enchanted one

[ddejavvu]

i just read your fairy!reader and hotch fic and i couldn’t stop thinking about it bc the way you write is absolutely enchanting, so i’ve got to request: a fairy!reader x tangerine story?? potentially along the lines of him finding her after a job (maybe the person he killed had been keeping her captive) and she starts helping him on jobs or cleans him up after them and it gets super fluffy and cute?

today is multiverse monday, send me any au you can think of! :)

--

There's a bleeding man panting a foot from your cage. He's staring down at your captor, or- your former captor now, the man's body lifeless as blood oozes from the cuts he'd obtained. There's another beside him, shorter, darker-skinned, and the crowbar he'd plucked off of the workbench to whack your captor with is still hanging from his limp grip.

"So that's it, then?" The shorter one glances up at the taller, and the taller man shrugs, "'Guess so. No one else we need to take care of?"

"Just the one," The shorter one assures him, and your heart races as you realize they're not going to see you, you have to make yourself known.

"Excuse me!" You shout, hoping your voice will be loud enough to carry over their heavy breathing. It works, they hear you, and both flinch violently as they turn and frantically scan for whatever noise they'd just heard.

"The fuck-" The taller man hisses, eyes wild and dangerous, "Who's there?"

"Tangerine," The shorter one spots you, eyes widening then narrowing in disbelief as he elbows his friend, pointing at you, "Look."

"What- What the fuck?" The taller man - Tangerine...? - finally sees you, flinching away and watching as your wings flutter aimlessly behind you, "Are you- what are you?"

"I'm a fairy," You gush, helpless and scared, "And- and that man was keeping me here, locked up." You point at your captor's dead body, "The keys are in his pocket, please- please help me, I- I'll starve if you don't! I promise I won't tell anyone I saw you, just- just please help."

Your eyes are brimming with miniscule, crystalline tears when you finish your please, and the shorter one bends slowly at the knees, keeping his eyes on you as he feels around the the keys.

"Yeah," He breathes, "Uh, yeah, we'll get you out. Tan," He can't stop staring at you, mouth slightly agape as he blindly shoves the keys at Tangerine, "You do it."

"Oh fuck me," Tangerine murmurs, "'Always has to be me, huh? Right, uh, fairy-"

"Y/N," You inform warily, hands wrapped around the bars of your cage, "I won't hurt you, I promise. Please let me out."

"Yeah, I've gotcha," Tangerine mumbles, squinting at the keyhole to your cage. The sound of the lock clicking is like music to your ears, and when the door swings open you can't help but lunge for Tangerine.

He lets out a scream so high-pitched that his friend honestly thinks it came from you for a moment, but you latch onto Tangerine's cheek, arms wrapped over his nose and around the back of his head to hug him for letting you go.

"Thank you," You gush just beside his ear, voice soft so that you don't deafen him. He relaxes when he realizes you're just hugging him, muscles slowly loosening where they'd been tight and stiff.

"Yeah," He breathes, mustache prickling against the skin of your leg, "Yeah, uh- fuck, okay, what are we gonna do with you?"

"Open the door," The man on the floor suggests, and Tangerine looks down at him bewildered.

"We can't just open the door, Lemon. What, so she can flutter out there and get hit by a semi-truck? I'm pretty sure fairies aren't supposed to live in the fucking city!"

There's a gruff rasp to Tangerine's voice at the end of his sentence, one that's accompanied by his eyes practically bulging out of his head as his neck tenses. You flutter down to his chest pocket, perching yourself on the hem of the fabric there and resting a hand on his stiff neck. He brings his chin to his chest in a quick flinch, but realizes you're trying to soothe him, and sends you a polite, but apprehensive smile.

"Okay! Okay, so what, then?" Lemon snaps, straightening up from where he'd been kneeling beside your captor's body, "You're just gonna take 'er home? Tuck her into your pocket? Feed her little crumbs of biscuit for breakfast, huh?"

A resolute frown etches its way over Tangerine's features, and you have a sneaking suspicion he's only agreeing to spite Lemon, "Yes. I am, for your information."

He glances down at you, stuffing a finger into his breast pocket and holding it open for you, "There y'go, love. Slide right in there, 'n you can come home with me 'till we get you back to wherever you came from."

"Thank you," You breathe, rushing to shimmy into Tangerine's breast pocket. It's warm there, it's nice, and it smells like him. You're a bit disappointed that he doesn't smell like oranges, but his scent is nice otherwise.

"You're insane," Lemon huffs, eyeing your contented expression as you settle in Tangerine's pocket, "You're gonna get investigated by the government or something. That's some Area 51 shit right there, Tan."

"The government is already looking for us," Tangerine scoffs, "A bunch of them are. This can't hurt."

"Can't hurt. Can't hurt!" Lemon throws his hands up, letting the crowbar clank to the ground after he hits his thigh, "That's what you always say. And every time, it fuckin' hurts!"

"Don't listen to 'im," Tangerine looks down at you, murmuring so that Lemon can continue on his rage-fueled tirade without interruption. Tangerine's face is much kinder when he looks at you than when he looks at Lemon, and you feel his soft features coaxing a smile out of your own, "You'll be nice and safe with me, love, I'll make sure of it."

[mykingdomforapen]

the boy in the sorghum field | Link Click (时光代理人）

“A Ling,” Diē’s voice interrupted her anxiety. “You can come out now.” Qiao Ling wriggled her way out from beneath the logs. She brushed the snow from her pao and looked up to her father, whose square face was sodden with solemnity. Then, her gaze followed his down to the boy in his arms, wrapped in her father’s cloak with his head resting against Diē’s chest. He was smaller than Qiao Ling, no older than six or seven years old, and his black hair was dusted with snow. His clothes were torn, and his face was frightfully white from the cold. There was blood smeared over his cheeks and clothes, but miraculously no sign of a wound. He slept in Diē’s arms, if sleep was the right word for it as Diē carried him carefully to not jostle him. “Who is he?” she asked.

In which Qiao Ling will always protect her brother.

(My SGDLR Gotcha for Gaza prompt fill for Blepps!)

-

Rating: G

Characters: Cheng Xiaoshi, Qiao Ling, Qiao Ling's Father

Tags: Family, Friendship, Siblings, Wuxia, Alternate Universe - Historical, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort and Fluff

Excerpt:

Qiao Ling first met Cheng Xiaoshi in the sorghum field.

The snow blanketed the harvested field, outstretched behind the line of trees hibernating for the winter. Qiao Ling, bundled up in her winter pao, squealed as she clung to the oxen’s back which pulled her family’s cart. They were returning from town to their estate, and Diē had taken Qiao Ling along to live up to a promise he made her. Her cheeks were pink from the winter chill and the excitement of new shoes, silken and embroidered.

“Diē, look!” she gasped. She bounced up and down on the faithful oxen’s back as she pointed beyond the treeline. “Look at all those cranes!”

Diē leaned forward in his cart, following her gaze. A flurry of elegant red-crowned cranes gathered upon the snow–their ink-tipped wings outstretched and their ruby red heads thrown back as they crooned. Qiao Ling’s eyes were wide as coins as she marveled at the distant, calling cranes.

“They’re so beautiful!” Qiao Ling whispered.

“Indeed,” Diē murmured. “What a lucky sight to see, isn’t it, Lingling? Heaven’s birds.”

“What makes them heaven’s birds, Diē?” Qiao Ling asked.

“They carry the souls to heaven,” Diē said. His voice dipped into its mythical quality, a gentle sotto voce that made complete his enchantment. “So when you see red-crowned cranes taking flight, a soul is blessed to eternal rest.”

Qiao Ling hugged the neck of the oxen as it ambled trustily down the stone path. The cranes called out noisily from their snowy field, flapping their wings in a fervent dance. Diē hummed to himself as the cart’s wheels turned.

She tilted her head and squinted as they drew inch by inch closer to the cranes.

“Diē,” she said. “What color is sorghum?”

“Sorghum can be green,” Diē said. “It can be a light yellow, and it can be red.”

“How red?” she asked.

“Red as a jujube. Red like a sunset.”

“How about red as vermilion?”

Diē chuckled softly, but Qiao Ling wasn’t trying to be funny.

“Diē,” she said. “The snow is so red.”

Diē’s chuckles immediately cut short. He stretched his neck to watch the cranes that huddled in a ring, and only then did he see what Qiao Ling questioned–dark splotches of red upon the crystalline snow.

“A Ling,” he said in a suddenly calm voice. “Get off the ox.”

Read more!

[fugengulsen]

Autumnal Equinox (Narsilion)

Autumn...

The cry of the skyIn my crystalline dreams...

The Wind...

Whisper of my heart

Fortress of my soul...

Silence...

The eyes of the sad

Master of my night...

The moon...

Enchant of the woods

Silver light of nature...

Autumn...

The call of the rain

Lost tears in my hands...

Dreaming...

Return to the pastIn the garden of light...

Magic...

The realm of the life

And the eternity

Essence...

The autumnal caress

Beyond the infinity...

Autumn...

The cry of the skyIn my cristaline dreams...

The Wind...

Whisper of my heart

Fortress of my soul...

Silence...

The eyes of the sad

Master of my night...

The moon...

Enchant of the woods

Silver light of nature...