#FUCK YOU HES MILDLY CAMERA SHY I SAID SO

[visikonn]

Sparda sibling photo!!

[xjustakay]

(8/25) prompt: gold — 1150 words (firefighter james episode 2: being a menace - pt.1, pt.3, pt.4, pt.5) @jegulus-microfic

Regulus loves photography, he does. It’s been a great hobby to pass the time and an excellent excuse for his mildly pretentious takes when it comes to ‘aesthetic.’

The thing is, he really should have thought this particular project through a bit more.

A day off from the coffee shop to work on a shoot, sure, great. In theory. In context? In the context of taking photos of oiled up firefighters in various states of partial undress for a charity calendar? Mistakes may have been made. He’s too gay for this —a realization made too far into the commitment to back out.

Really, it hit him like a fist to the face the moment James’ turn came up.

Stupid. Idiot. Absolute fucking fool.

As if Regulus didn’t know that the man he’s been steadily seeing and getting to know recently —the man who suggested he help with this project in the first place— wouldn’t volunteer to be part of the group for the photoshoot. Of fucking course James would; “it’s for charity,” he’d said.

Regulus is going to throttle him later.

Or mount him.

Could go either direction at this point.

They’re around the back of the station building, just the two of them. It was specifically stated that the individuals who were volunteering to take part in the calendar would have to utilize one of their rare days off to shoot their photos so the fire station wasn’t under-covered on staff. Regulus and James could be doing anything else in the world with this day, but no. No, they’re here, with James rubbing baby oil over his naked torso while Regulus tries to keep from literally fucking salivating.

He’s known James was fit from the moment he walked into the coffee shop and made a place for himself in Regulus’ life. Fully clothed, the man is unbearably gorgeous. Underneath his clothes? God, it’s worse. It’s painful.

All defined lines of muscle and warm tan skin. James works out on a regular basis, has to stay in shape for his job, but it’s more than that. Regulus has learned that James has always been athletically inclined. James prides himself on his body, and he’s not shy about it. 

Which is obvious in the way that he looks up from his own bare chest and catches Regulus staring, a knowing smirk instantly twitching at his lips.

“Care to help slick me up?”

“I should kill you.” It slips past Regulus’ lips without thought to pause, but all James does is laugh loudly, head tipped back with the lovely sound. Regulus huffs, shifting on his feet. “Are you almost done? I have other things I want to be doing.”

“Care to share?” James tosses the bottle of oil onto the grass, wiping off the remainder on his hands down the ridges of his stomach. “Don’t spare any of the dirty details now, love.”

Regulus manages to glare at him, but it’s weak considering the blush that colors his cheeks. “You’re a menace to society.”

“Public hero, menace to society.” James lifts his hands, leaning one direction then the next, like weighing an invisible scale.

“Fix your fucking suspenders.”

“Fix them for me.” Both dark brows lift over the gold frames of James’ glasses, a dangerous grin stretching across his face.

Letting his camera hang from the neck strap, Regulus lets out a dramatic sigh but crosses the small distance toward him. James positively lights up as he approaches, standing miraculously still to let Regulus do what he needs.

James is wearing the yellow turnout pants typical of his uniform, obviously sans a shirt. The pants hang suspiciously lower on James’ hips today, the defined line that narrows beneath his waistband on display. Attached to that band, though, are the usual thick red suspenders, hanging on either side of James’ legs presently. Regulus tugs one up fully over James’ left shoulder, actively working to keep his eyes from venturing to anything more distracting.

“Keep this arm bent against the wall.” Regulus handles him a little roughly on purpose, yanking his arm up as needed to pose him beside the brick wall.

“And this one?” James asks, sliding his opposite hand down Regulus’ side, squeezing at his hip when he gets there.

Regulus takes a slow deep breath through his nose before glancing up at James’ face finally. He swats at the hand on his hip blindly. “Keep it to yourself.”

A charged pause, Regulus’ head cocking to the side before:

“For now.”

James huffs a laugh, but the smug satisfaction on his face shines brighter than his amusement. Regulus loops the other suspender over James’ right forearm, hooking it in the crook of his elbow when he guides James to bend the arm. He presses James’ right hand against the top edge of his turnout pants, meeting his eyes evenly.

“Tuck your thumb into them a little,” He instructs.

James immediately follows direction and it sends a static through Regulus that makes him wish they weren’t quite literally outside James’ place of work currently. James tugs at the waistband slightly more than entirely necessary, exposing more of the sharp line that Regulus is definitely not thinking about tracing with his tongue. He’s being professional, damn it.

“Like that?” James checks, voice low.

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s perfect.” Regulus’ words come out breathier than before, and he catches himself staring downward with a jolt and a fluttered blink. He clears his throat and takes a much needed step back. “Now stare off to the right, look moody if you have to.”

“Thought that was your job.”

“Do less comedy.”

James snorts but stays in the posed position, turning his head as requested. Regulus takes another few steps back for the full shot and lifts the camera from his chest. As if knowing he’s already having a hell of a time doing this job, it’s like the universe itself is against Regulus the way that the sun shines perfectly, haloing James beautifully where he stands —a god damn wet dream being immortalized.

Maybe Regulus takes a couple extra shots. For… purely artistic purposes. Obviously.

Once again, before he gives himself the thought to stop from speaking his thoughts aloud, Regulus asks, “Can you wear this at home?”

He looks up from the tiny square screen on the camera toward James. It’s obvious that James is trying to refrain from laughing, having not been dismissed from his current pose, but he does turn his head to look at Regulus delightedly.

“Oh, so that’s what you’d rather be doing, huh? Wouldn’t have guessed.” James taunts, his playful arrogance never-ending. “Need to work out a bit of a fantasy for yourself, is that it?”

Regulus blushes again, but he meets the teasing evenly this time. “Why do you think I started dating you?”

This time James does laugh, unhelpable. Regulus sneaks a picture of that, too, just for himself.

[eoinmcgonigal]

writing pattern game

thank you for the tag @almost-a-class-act and @bobparkhurst ^^

Rules: Share the first line of your last ten published works or as many as you are able and see if there are any patterns!

(p.s. tagging anyone who wants to do this)

okay so these are nsfw ones:

1. It’s about two seconds after Dave’s gets inside him that Reg realises they’ve maybe fucked up. (Beyond the Veil [Curtain], Reg/Dave, nsfw)

2. Getting in trouble was always a plea for attention. (Repentant Apology, Dudley/David, nsfw)

3. Jim stops mid-thrust, a stillness coming over him that pulls Johnny back from the pleasant haze he’d been lost in. (Things You can Hear in the Night, Johnny/Jim, Reg, nsfw)

4. His arm is, to put it mildly, pissing him off. (Good with Rope, Bill/Johnny. (n)sfw)

5. Reg finds him in the kitchen, rummaging through the fridge for a worm in jelly that has no green in it. (To the Point of Attraction, Reg/Johnny, nsfw)

6. It’s a disaster. (Loving Reflections, Bill/Johnny, nsfw)

7. “Oh fuck me.” (Dressing up to Fuck Around, Reg/Johnny, Dave/Johnny, nsfw)

8. Johnny is trembling. (We Belong Together, Johnny/Bill, nsfw)

9. The trail hasn’t quite gone cold, but Dave can tell they’re losing him. (The Thrill of the Capture, Dave/Johnny, Reg/Johnny, nsfw)

10. Tonight’s the night. (Fucking cavemen, Dave/Reg nsfw)

Pattern? I just seem to get right into it...

Well I was gonna do 10 sfw fics too, but I seriously seem to just.. start with a short sentence, or dialogue.

I'm not sure if it's engaging for a reader, but I guess as a writer it's the easiest way to get started when faced with a blank page? Maybe I should try being more florid...

Shortest: “Oh.” (from Beat)

Longest: To his credit, a sharp intake of breath is the only thing that might betray Johnny’s surprise as Lieutenant Mayne makes his presence known beside him, even though Johnny had no idea that he was there, or how long he might have been hovering behind where Johnny is sitting. (from Shelter in the Shade)

-

Gonna copy every starting sentence (excluding the anon fics, because they're a pain to find and put in place).

“Do you know much about music?

There is something about the place that Paddy detests.

To his credit, a sharp intake of breath is the only thing that might betray Johnny’s surprise as Lieutenant Mayne makes his presence known beside him, even though Johnny had no idea that he was there, or how long he might have been hovering behind where Johnny is sitting.

“Oh.”

A name is given to him.

It’s peaceful.

The room is softly lit, the harsh morning sun barred from doing its worst in here.

“Lieutenant McGonigal was here.”

“What”—Bill begins, dropping his kit bag on the polished marble floor—”the fuck?”

The camera is set, and Johnny checks the angle once more, leaning back a little to see how it looks.

Pat likes it here.

It’s a slow, careful process, so intimate that Bill has been breathless from the beginning.

Mike, his finger just below David’s collar bone, jabs for emphasis.

The greeting from the doorway is a simple, resounding: “No.”

“You said this was a shortcut.”

It’s not exactly what Bill expected.

The wound is healing nicely.

“On the left, the left!”

He sees the perfect pumpkin.

Johnny didn’t want to lose the bet.

Johnny can tell his phone finally has signal, because it starts pinging like mad.

The dancers are, even by the standards of Cairo, exotic.

Johnny’s way more drunk than he ought to be.

The moment Reg sees that he’s live, he clicks on the channel without hesitation.

He could do without the buzzer going.

“Oh no.”

He’s seen him before.

It’s supposed to be the culmination of months of dropping hints, of leaving clues for Bill to pick up and piece together, so that when Johnny finally tells him, it’s not a shock.

The shriek is just shy of loud enough to wake the dead.

Bill smells so good.

He can’t even pick it up.

Johnny cannot help watching Reg’s mouth, his breathing shallow as he sees the way Reg’s lips close around the cigarette, puckering softly as he breathes in.

“Shit!”

Bill hesitates.

It feels like only moments after he’s fallen asleep that Bill is woken up again.

All Bill wants is to be near him.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

“Johnny!” Reg calls.

“Jesus, God!”

Tonight’s the night.

The trail hasn’t quite gone cold, but Dave can tell they’re losing him.

Johnny is trembling.

“Oh fuck me.”

It’s a disaster.

Reg finds him in the kitchen, rummaging through the fridge for a worm in jelly that has no green in it.

His arm is, to put it mildly, pissing him off.

Jim stops mid-thrust, a stillness coming over him that pulls Johnny back from the pleasant haze he’d been lost in.

Getting in trouble was always a plea for attention.

It’s about two seconds after Dave’s gets inside him that Reg realises they’ve maybe fucked up.

[uppermocns-moved]

𝘢𝘰𝘵 + 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺'𝘳𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘥

eren, armin, levi, jean

𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 – nsfw (minors don’t like/reblog/respond), mentions of hard kinks, female reader. shifts in and out of canonverse/modernverse so use your imagination! 

𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯 𝘫𝘢𝘦𝘨𝘦𝘳 

always dominant. can be hard or soft dom depending on the mood.

into harder kinks (with heavy communication and consent): somno, breeding, impact play, breath play, free use, etc.

super high sex drive and usually always horny. when he’s bored, he’ll jerk off to pictures you’ve sent him and porn you’ve made together (he’s not camera shy), but never let himself cum, just lazily edge.

he edges for days at a time – not only goes it feel so fucking good, but it gives him thicker loads to pump inside you later.

obsessed with cumming inside you. he’ll fuck load after load as deep as he can inside you, watch in awe as it leaks out of you, then use his fingers to push it back in. he’s not shy about his possessiveness and this is just a further reminder that you’re his.

secretly doesn’t mind when you scratch up his back – he loves looking in the mirror and seeing visual evidence of how good he made you feel.

also secretly loves when you give him hickies in obvious spots. he does absolutely nothing to hide them, he loves reminding everyone of his place. it’s a nonverbal way of saying “i’m taken, fuck off”

wouldn’t care if he broke his neck from you riding his face. he welcomes it, actually.

heavily into bdsm (emphasis on the s&m), and dom/sub dynamics. while he loves perfect little subs that’ll treat him like some sort of god, he adores when you get bratty and talk back. makes things a lot more fun.

loves embarrassing you.

“my god, baby, can fuckin’ hear how wet you are.” “soaking your panties and i didn’t even fuckin’ touch you. what’s got you so wet, sweetheart? thinking of my cock?” “that felt good, didn’t it? don’t hide from me, pumpkin, let me see your pretty face.”

threesomes. foursomes. you name it. while eren’s possessive over you, he doesn’t mind sharing with his friends (if you consent, of course). he loves knowing how worked up everyone gets over his girlfriend, loves fucking you in front of them to show everyone how wrapped around his finger you are.

safeword! mean and rough is what eren does best. even while he’s slapping you around and calling you dummy, or an eager little slut for his cock, he’ll still check in with you and make sure you’re still feeling good and enjoying yourself. he may like hurting you, but he never wants to actually hurt you. never forgets aftercare, either, you’re still his precious angel that he loves more than anyone.

he’s incredibly vocal – dirty talk, moaning, growling, cursing, degradation.

if you’re too tired to go all the way, he loves mutual masturbation, or jerking himself off while you talk dirty in his ear. always wants to hear what you want him to do to you.

big fan of including toys, usually always fucking you with your magic wand on your clit.

sex without the power dynamics is still very intense and passionate. lots of making out, scratching his back and pulling him closer, deep thrusts, curses, eren telling you he loves you, kissing your forehead while you cum.

𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘦𝘳𝘵

doesn’t really involve himself in strict power dynamics. he’s very versatile and the role he assumes depends on the mood.

prefers biting over spanking and choking you with his fingers over wrapping a hand around your throat (but he will do both).

loves eating pussy and will tease you by gently kissing you through your panties. definitely bites your inner thighs. whispers to you from between your legs and tells you how good you taste. makes you cum over and over, each time moaning into your core and tightening his grip on your thighs to keep you right where he wants you. he only stops when you’re crying and twitching, physically unable to cum one more time.

loves when you’re rough and press his face into your pussy or pull his hair to guide his mouth where you want it. you can hurt him a little. as a treat.

loves when you grab him by the chin and pull him up for a desperate kiss after he eats you out for hours.

goes heavy on the body worship, especially when you wear pretty lil outfits for him.

memorized your body and knows it better than you do. he knows when you’re close, you can’t hide from him.

his possessive side comes out hardcore during sex – armin doesn’t share. he’ll bite marks into your flesh and use his sweet, soft-spoken voice to get into your head. he wants to be the only thought in your mind, the source of all your pleasure.

“mine. you’re all mine. not fuckin’ sharing you.”

if you want him to, he can be fucking mean. he contrasts his harsh words with gentle touches, or tells you sweet things while patting your cheek just a little too rough. it’s almost scary how effortlessly he can change his demeanor to someone entirely different.

loves when you come by to “help” him study (lazily jerk him off while he does his required reading and assignments).

actually just loves when you jerk him off for that matter, especially when he gets to rut into your fist until he’s overstimulated and making a mess of your hand.

easily excitable – just gotta kiss him with tongue all soft and slow and he’ll get all flustered poking against your leg

obsessed with having his mouth on your tits – sucking them, licking them, letting his hand palm and grope at the one not receiving attention.

eye contact is a massive turn on and makes everything feel so much more intimate. he’ll gently grab your chin and redirect your sight, or give your inner thigh a little nip to make you open your eyes again. “focus on me, sweet girl.”

armin’s weaknesses are praise and heavy personal attention. sometimes he’s stressed out and just needs you to take care of him. he’ll sit between your legs, back pressed to your front, and let you stroke him until he’s overstimulated or so pent-up from denial. it makes him dizzy when you whisper praise in his ear, telling him how pretty he looks and how good he’s being for you.

“you wanna cum for me, pretty boy? that feel good? you like when i touch you like this, don’t you? such a good boy for me, armin.”

𝘭𝘦𝘷𝘪 𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘯

no defined power dynamic/roles – you do whatever the mood calls for. sometimes he’s pounding you into next week, sometimes you’re denying him orgasms for two hours straight until his voice cracks when he begs.

that being said, levi is a natural brat-tamer and can be a hard dom when he’s agitated and needs to blow off steam. his job is literally to keep brats in check – he doesn’t tolerate insubordination or backtalk (sometimes you test that out though). 

restraining your arms behind your back with his belt, spanking you until you can’t sit, reprimanding slaps, filthy degradation, punishing thrusts. he can be mean. 

“soaking through your panties and i didn’t even touch you. pathetic.” “i wasn’t fucking asking. knees, now.” 

he’s a masochist and loves when you scratch up his back, wrap a hand around his throat, bite him, pull his hair, etc.

borderline sadistic in the way that he will make you cum twenty times before he even considers letting up. he’s relentless. 

loves watching you get yourself off, or make out with you while you get each other off 

gets weak when you pull him in by the shirt collar

holds your hands :)

quickies are usually the only option due to your chaotic schedules. you get at least five minutes alone together, you don’t take it for granted. 

slow morning sex is his favorite – the sun is barely peeking over the horizon and you don’t have to worry about the outside world yet. it’s just the two of you and you can really take your time. 

starts off kind of shy about being vocal and you need to ease him into it

after he finishes, he’ll take a moment to caress and admire your pretty face and kiss your forehead, then make a teasing comment about how you’re sweaty. 

gets a little carried away and accidentally rips all the buttons off your shirt

giving you head is a form of stress relief for him, he really just loves pleasuring you 

takes incredible care of you afterwards – acts as a crutch when your legs are too shaky, gets you water, wipes away messes with a damp cloth, even runs you a bath if you have that much time.

“tch. don’t say i never do anything for you, brat.”

likes when you give him hickies in spots that his uniform will cover. it’s a secret that only the two of you are in on.

levi gets a little publicly affectionate when you return to your duties after having sex – still incredibly reserved, but he’ll ruffle your hair and look at you with the fondest eyes. maybe give your hand a squeeze if nobody’s looking.

𝘫𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘬𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘪𝘯

naturally dominant. typically a softer dom unless you provoke him, then he has no issue roughing you up and fucking you into a drooling mess.

so big and strong and loves any position that demonstrates that – fucking you against the wall with your legs wrapped tight around his hips, stand-and-carry, having you on top and bouncing you like you weigh nothing. 

loves when you dig your nails into his back

slightly prefers ass over tits but is overall a leg/thigh kind of guy. includes feet. i’m so sorry.

stockings/thigh high socks/fishnets/garters absolutely knock him out 

great stamina while you’re fucking but almost instantly falls asleep when you’re done. or just wants to cuddle. 

mildly into somnophilia (receiving – loves being woken up with blowjobs)

praises you heavily while you’re riding him

“that’s it, just like that. good girl. good fucking girl.” 

can get a little too romantic when he’s really close and not thinking clearly

“gonna make me cum, angel, love this pussy so fucking much. love you so fucking much.” 

prefers cumming inside you but he’s really just happy to be included 

he gets a little goofy during quickies and does things like bite your asscheek before eating you out. 

secretly loves when you tie his wrists to the headboard and use him however you want. overstimulation is one of his favorite things, especially when it’s your hand forcing orgasm after orgasm from him. 

generally into rope-play but also really likes using his hands and sheer strength alone

bite his bottom lip or gently touch his upper thigh and he’s instantly hard

he’s a hopeless romantic! masturbating alone isn’t the same! he likes dirty-talking on the phone with you when you’re not together, or he just waits until you are. 

will break the headboard and dent the wall if he gets carried away

loves shower sex after stressful days

gets hard from making out – especially if you’re half-dressed on his lap and grinding against his bulge. sometimes he can feel you all warm and throbbing through your panties and he almost blacks out. 

worships your pussy but he will actually start writing his vows the moment you take him down your throat. 

request your fav here. more of my writing. 

[obeymeluv]

Random Lipstick Headcanons

I like red lipsticks and I like wearing lipstick when I want to feel like a bad bitch. Or when life’s being a badder bitch than me. I can at least struggle pretty ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

This is the bros reactions to you wearing a very complimentary, alluring lip color. Or power lip color. I don’t know what to call it. I guess this is gender neutral? I’m not trying to mention gender specifically.

They TOTALLYYYYY have a crush on you at this point. They just haven’t owned up to it. May take a crack at writing a second part for the Undateables. I’m at chapter 21/22 and feel like they’re not really mentioned :/. Not enough for me to really know what they’re like.

Lucifer

Is very surprised to see you wearing lipstick. In fact...it’s the first time, isn’t it?

His heart stutters, almost as if the color scares him. 

It doesn’t. It excites him. More than he imagines. There’s something about the pop of color that draws his eyes in immediately, like a moth to a flame

Or so he thinks. Lucifer thinks that sounds nicer. In truth, it’s like a magnet trying to drag him closer. Your lips are just suddenly...very enticing. He’s thought about kissing you a few times before now but he certainly doesn’t want to feel his resolve crumble because of some color!

And yet, it is the essence of beauty itself. He feels as if you should be immortalized in a painting. You exude a classic kind of charm that makes his dusty heart squeeze.

He’s a bit behind on human fancies, but is this an attempt at courtship?! You certainly have his attention! 

Mammon

WOAH, WHAT’S THIS? WHY YOU BEING ALL FANCY, HUMAN?!

It doesn’t even have to be a glossy lip. No matter how tsundere Mammon acts, he’s INCREDIBLY perceptive when it comes to you. He notices the minutest of changes. 

THIS IS A BIG CHANGE! IT’S BASICALLY A BEACON!

Your new lip color makes you a cool, shiny thing and Mammon LOVES shiny things.

He’s gonna be stealing so many glances! 

You don’t even have to be trying for a sexy vibe to be sexy in Mammon’s eyes. You take his breath away with this lip color. He just---boy has to turn around and bite his lip.

His heart’s doing stuff it hasn’t done in centuries and oh baby, he wants that lip color all over him!

Will either act like you wearing lipstick is nothing special (like he doesn’t notice) or goes into mild interrogation mode. It’s not for some other demon, right?!

Wants to touch your lips and see what it feels like, but doesn’t.

Might try to drag you along to be a makeup rep for one of his photoshoots. Then you can try on lots of lipsticks and pose with him. They can do a kiss photo for swatches, right? Prove it’s transfer-proof or something?

His attention’s on you AAALLLLL day--especially your lips

If he notices it’s smudged, he’ll try to wipe it away or fix it with his finger. Might almost out himself with how gently he does so.

Levi

He’s no stranger to watching people do makeup--he’s a big fan of cosplay makeup and body paint transformation

There’s just...something different about when you do it. He tries to tell himself it’s because you live with him, but that doesn’t feel quite right

His eyes light up when he sees the way the color compliments your skin. It makes your eyes twinkle but he’s really focused on your lips

It wakes up something ancient and irrational in him; he wants to give you a pretty shell or rock for some reason??

He just gets all excited and wiggly. Even his tail wants to wiggle!

You’re just pretty, okay?! Not that you’re gonna know, dummy!

Subconsciously, he thinks it reminds him of beautiful, vivid scales. Then that sends him down a rabbit hole of how pretty you’d look if you had scales  

In general, I headcanon that Levi can see the slightest differences in colors. He and Asmo are basically tied in this, and they far outpace the other brothers. 

He’d be extra stoked if the color is from the blue or purple family because those can be hard to pull off but they often make really good looks

Being Levi, he can’t outright compliment you. He’ll just say ‘it’s probably good for a normie human lipstick, but have you seen THESE?!’ and shows you some of the flashier Devildom ones

HE SHOWS YOU A BUNCH AND GOD HE HOPES YOU GET AT LEAST ONE BECAUSE HE WANTS YOU TO WEAR IT! DON’T THINK HE’S WEIRD BECAUSE HE SAVED MAKEUP, OKAY?!

Get one with a slight shimmer or color change. Or better yet, do a gradient!

Levi would absolutely explode if you wore his colors!

If you do a TSL-inspired look, he’s going to die. And have dreams of you saying sweet things to him, the yucky otaku, with your pretty, pretty lips

Satan

Much like Lucifer, he’d want to wax poetic about how the lip color gives you an enchanting aura

Quite stricken, very flustered. He can hardly muster a witty remark.

Satan is basically grasping at straws and hoping his usual cool, toothy grin hides the fact that he’s ready to blush himself straight into a sunburn

Mild teasing, all of it good natured. He’ll pepper in comparisons to Helen of Troy or historical figures that resemble you. It’s mostly to see you blush, but it’s his way of saying it indirectly

He hasn’t quite come to terms with how much he likes you yet but he knows when he sees that lip color, he wants to smear it all over your cheeks and down your chin.

The idea of making a mess of something so pretty and carefully crafted just really gets his blood going. It’s a wicked thing, isn’t it? Symbolism for a demon corrupting a human? You could be his pretty human, yes.

If he wants to think or make a coherent sentence, he can’t look at you when you’re wearing lipstick

Subtly moves one of the books from a nearby stack into his lap because boy has a boner.

If you decide not to hang around or get pulled away by one of his brothers, Satan will disappear to indulge his fantasies of you wrapping those pretty lips around his cock. He’s not even mad about it. Not in the moment; he feels bad a few days later.  

Asmo

His darling human is spreading their little beauty wings? Oh be still his beating heart!

He’s the first to compliment you and actually takes an analytical approach before the idea of genuine compliments pop up in his head. It’ll take him an hour or two to start getting a little flustered by you ‘dressing up’ and silently tormenting himself with ‘Is it for me? Is it for someone else?!’

Asmo can’t help but coo over how well you know your color wheel and how you match your undertones

The type to hold your face in his hands and pat your cheeks or squeeze them a little

Teases you about making lipstick swatches on his lips or his arms (”Or, you know, wherever. You can kiss me anywhere you like!”)

Wants to drag you away and see if any of his colors will look good on you

You will soon have a matching lip color! He’ll make sure of it!

BEGS you to let him swatch his lip colors on you, or apply them. He’ll make sure to take care of your lips in between--a lip mask, exfoliation, the works! (”I’ll even kiss them for you!”)

He wants you to try on all his lip colors because he wants to memorize how breath-taking you look in all the colors. Even if it’s platonic with some lusty teasing, Asmo has a genuine love for bringing beauty to people

In some ways, it makes his heart ache. It reminds him of when he was Heaven’s Jewel.

But now he’s here in the Devildom, and he doesn’t really regret it because he met you. You can be his jewel now, and maybe he can be yours. Maybe it all starts with some lipstick, hm? 

Beel

He notices it but doesn’t really get the significance of it

Is there a reason? Is it for an event? Is this a dominance thing? An attraction thing?

Demon can see from a great distance, far greater than humans, and there’s a chance he sees you before you see him

In all honesty, he probably thinks you have something on your lips, like a sauce or something

It isn’t until you get closer that he realizes it’s some kind of lip product

If you’re happy, he’s happy

You always look cute but this color seems to make you happy and it gives you this bouncy glow about you. That makes Beel all warm inside, to the point where he wants to purr.

Sometimes when he gets really excited his wings want to buzz. They kind of want to buzz.

Doesn’t mean to, but can’t stop staring at your lips. It’s a color he’s not used to seeing on you and his brain recognizes that change

Wouldn’t be against you kissing him. What? It might transfer? He gets food and crumbs all over his face on the regular so it’s not a big deal.

You might be shy about it? Don’t want him to get teased? Well...you can always practice. You know, somewhere he can hide it. Just to test it, that is.

KISS HIS STOMACH! He’d be so damn close to a nut Beel would have to bite his own tongue or shove something in his mouth before you do it

Would wear your little kiss marks like a badge of pride so slap ‘em on wherever you want!

“Do they have orange lipsticks?” he asks. Blushes deeply immediately, not realizing he actually said it out loud. You should try one of those, he thinks. You know, because that’s his color and it’ll match his nails. He thinks that’d be neat.

Just wants you to kiss all over his chest and stomach. 

Belphegor

Wary of the lipstick. Doesn’t trust it

Looks like a nightmare for his pillows. Paranoid about you getting it on his sheets

If he’s half asleep and notices it, the color change will jolt him awake long enough to really observe it

“For me?” he teases as he rolls over or pull himself from under covers and pillows to really look at you

It’s pretty, for sure, but you’re not coming anywhere near his bed unless you can prove it’s not coming off on fabric!

What’s that? You can?

Belphie probably says something sarcastic and mildly asshole-ish but you defend your precious lip product, talking about human reviews and tests and things. “People have kissed their boyfriends and girlfriends on camera! It works!”

He makes you kiss your arm (he’s a fucking idiot, should’ve asked you to kiss HIS arm) to prove it won’t rub off before he lets you rest on his bed with him

Snuggles into you like he always does, playing with your hair just the tiniest bit. 

Belphie hopes it’s subtle but he’s slowing twining and inching his fingers closer to your face. Your lip color is almost mythical and he kind of wants to touch it after all the fuss he made.

Does it make your lips feel different? They look different. Would it react differently to demon skin?

Will tell you it looks nice and that you look pretty but if you ask him about it later, he totally denies it. Insists he must’ve been talking in his sleep

He dreams of you kissing him awake or kissing him to sleep with gentle cuddles and pretty lips

[thestraggletag]

Virtual Session, A Rumbelle Zoom Fic

Rating: Explicit.

Summary: Town meetings were usually drab, boring events, and having them over Zoom hadn't improved them much. Or so Mr Gold thought, until he forgot to log out of the meeting after it ended, only to discover a half-naked Belle French had also forgotten to do so.

SOMEONE PLEASE COMMENT WITH A BETTER SUMMARY I HATE IT.

Based on this prompt.

“We will review your presentation and hold a virtual vote before the month is up, Miss French. Thank you very much for your time.”

The mayor adjusted her suit jacket, her shirt riding up as she did so and unknowingly displaying the telltale white check of her Adidas yoga pants. Royce snickered, taking advantage of the fact he was muted.

“As there are no other pending topics on today’s agenda this virtual session is adjourned.”

He half-expected her to produce a gable out of thin air and bang it against her marble countertop. All around him people began to say their goodbyes and log out of Zoom, lest Regina decide to spring a surprise motion at the last minute. There was no need to flee, however, as Regina herself was one of the first to log off. Given the amount of smoke he had spotted coming from behind her right before she exited he did not need to guess what had caused her sudden departure.

“I guess no apple turnover for dessert at Madame Mayor’s.”

He heard an adorable chuckle and did not need to glance at the screen again to guess who it was. Very few people found his brand of dark humour palatable, but the librarian seemed to love it. It was nice, he soon found out, to have someone appreciate his often ill-received quips. It was one of the things he had first noticed about her. Well, other than her stunning eyes. And perhaps her hair, which was a lovely shade of reddish-brown. Her legs too, he acknowledged reluctantly, so nicely-displayed by her short skirts and high heels. And her-

He stopped himself. That way lay madness and he knew it. It was one thing to admire in an unattached way, from a distance. He was a connoisseur of beautiful things, after all, and Belle French was certainly beautiful. Unfortunately she also happened to have a lovely personality. Kind, generous, open, but also bold, defiant and the littlest bit dark. She flaunted the rules of smalltown society by wearing what the matrons around town considered “inappropriate clothing” for a librarian, and speaking to anyone and everyone, including those that polite society would urge her to shun. Drank beer with the miners, for example, men deemed “too coarse” for genteel women, and stocked the library with altogether undesirable books, be it because they dealt with unseemly issues or because they were from traditional authors. Which, he was sure, was code for “white men”, even if Mother Superior never quite spelled it out in such terms.

She was altogether dangerous for him, with her mix of light and dark, so he was always on his guard, lest his thoughts veer too far into dangerous territory. He didn’t fear scorn or derision if his feelings became too obvious for her to ignore. Belle was altogether too kind for that. But to be gently yet firmly rebuffed, and have their subsequent interactions laced by the barest hint of pity from her, would be unbearable. 

“I’m pretty sure that at least Mr Spencer didn’t hear a word I said. His camera was off during the whole of my presentation.” The librarian huffed, clearly bothered that her proposal to increase the library’s budget to repair the East Wing’s leaky ceiling wouldn’t get a fair shot. The wing was currently closed, and had been since she had taken the post of librarian, but with the newfound need of social-distancing, particularly in enclosed spaces, she hoped she could change that, make the town council see the need for more space in the library. “Though perhaps he didn’t want to be yelled at again for not being in a three-piece suit for a virtual town meeting.”

He briefly paused to remember Spencer’s red face when Regina had chastised him for wearing a white polo shirt instead of a shirt and tie during the last meeting.

“Kinda hypocritical of Madame Mayor, given she was a couple of clothing articles shy of a full tracksuit tonight.”

They shared a conspiratorial laugh, and he hoped the camera somehow toned down the stupid look on his face. He tried to avoid direct eye contact, looking instead mildly-interested in her living-room. Her laptop seemed to be perched somewhere on her dining-room table, giving him a great view of the rest of her flat, which was a loft, so it was open space, with exposed brick and tall ceilings. Though small it was tastefully-decorated, and with enough bookcases to make it seem like it was a part of the library he had never been to, if it weren’t for the kitchen area and the- and he told himself to stop looking at it- queen-size bed.

“Well, Miss French, at the risk of getting ahead of myself I can confidently state that things are looking good for your project. It was an excellent presentation and I could see Midas and Hopper were clearly in favour. That leaves the Mayor and Spencer outnumbered. Hell, I think even Regina will vote yes on this one. I know she’s keen on finding a place for students with connectivity issues to go do their homework and attend some classes. Fingers crossed the voting goes your way.”

He smiled at her, trying to look reassuring instead of besotted, and they exchanged their goodbyes. He closed his laptop, deciding that he needed a stiff drink first and a cold shower later, and went over to his wet bar, where after some debate he picked up a bottle of Ardberg and poured himself three fingers of Scotch, opting to forgo the ice and drink it straight. The alcohol burned pleasantly on its way down, making him loosen up almost immediately. He went over to the window, undoing the buttons of his vest and slipping it off as he did, feeling warmed by the whiskey. He chanced a glance outside, where the night remained crisp and clear, thankfully devoid of snow. It was still bitterly cold, though, and he hoped the library’s heating system, which was in need of maintenance as well, would not fail. The money for its maintenance had already been allocated and the budget for the work set, but perhaps he could email the person in charge of the job and… persuade them to make it a priority. The work should’ve already been done, but the pandemic had put a temporary stop on jobs like that with the exception of emergencies. Now that things were slowly returning to normal he was confident he could get the people working on the library by the end of the week with three sentences or less.

He went back to his laptop, determined to send the email as soon as possible. He opened it up and noticed, at first, that his camera light was still on. Almost as soon as his brain connected the dots and realised that he had forgotten to log off Zoom he noticed something else: so had Belle French. She was walking around her house, seemingly tidying things up and humming as she went along. It was a lovely, domestic little display, and though he knew he needed to log off fucking Zoom and stop intruding on what Miss French clearly thought was the privacy of her own home, he didn’t move the mouse. Surely there was no harm in indulging a bit. He was a lonely man, partly by design and partly by circumstance, and though he often told himself he wasn’t missing out on anything, he had to admit it was nice to- albeit accidentally- share an intimate moment with someone he had an affinity with. He imagined, for a moment, that instead of her living-room he was seeing her in his, picking up discarded books or perhaps the remnants of a tea they had shared together. He quickly shook himself out of that fantasy, alarm bells ringing in his mind, and refocused in the present, where Belle was taking off her cardigan. Well, surely, that meant the heating system was holding, which was a good thing. Which reminded him of his idea to write-

He glanced at the monitor again, where Belle French was now shimming out of her skirt.

He blinked, idiotically-confused for a second, as if the thought of a woman undressing was news for him. After the initial shock he took in all the details, fixsting on the black stripe on the back of her sheer black stockings, which she rolled down with painstaking care, the gesture almost painfully erotic. She started on the buttons of her sheer maroon shirt, undoing them with ease and shrugging out of the garment. The black camisole she wore underneath did nothing to conceal her lacy black culotte, which hugged her perfect ass like it was made for her. She went to unpin her hair next, letting the bobby pins that kept it off her sides of her face drop into a little ceramic bowl on her vanity. He was surprised at how much seeing her walk around her house with bare feet, shaking her hair out and stretching her limbs affected him. There was nothing inherently sensual about her movements, yet he was transfixed, unable to look away. Any hope of containing his attraction or attachment to the librarian vanished into thin air at that moment, leaving him equal parts scared and turned on.

It was then that his mostly-unused sense of decency decided to let itself be known, a wave of shame washing through him at the notion of what he was doing. Miss French had every right to her privacy, and here he was, violating it in the worst possible way. He should log out immediately and stay away from the librarian for a rather long time, enough for-

“Royce?”

His heart lurched painfully in his chest at the sound of her voice. Slowly, reluctantly, he turned his head towards the screen, telling himself that he deserved the scorn and disgust he was sure to see in the librarian’s face. But whatever hasty apologies and half-formed excuses he was about to blurt out died on his lips the moment he saw her: she was standing in profile, arms crossed in front of her chest and hands grasping the hem of her camisole, prepared to take it off, and her head was turned to the side, her eyes on her laptop screen. She didn’t look accusatory, or disgusted. She didn’t even look embarrassed. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes shone, but it looked more like… like... 

Arousal.

“I’m here, sweetheart.”

He could hardly recognise the low, growly burr as his voice. It sounded uncouth and harsh, like the way he used to speak back in Glasgow. He had worked for years on toning down his accent, letting only the barest hint of it show when he was trying to intimidate someone. Never enough to sound too much like he did back in his youth, and yet he hadn’t managed to quite rid himself of it. 

On screen Belle lifted the hem of her camisole a few inches, exposing supple, creamy skin. Royce tried hard not to swallow his own tongue. She bit her lip, suddenly hesitant, and fuck him if that sliver of vulnerability wasn’t the sexiest thing he’d ever seen. 

“Is this… Is this okay?” 

It took him an embarrassingly-long time to understand that Belle fucking French was asking him if it was alright for her to strip in front of him, presumably for their mutual enjoyment. He reminded himself that he had had only one glass of Scotch, not enough to dismiss whatever was happening as a drunken daydream. Which he might have had, from time to time. About Belle. Maybe.

“It’s perfect, sweetheart.” 

Her lips curled into a coy smile, the growl in his voice making her shiver, and in one swift motion removed her camisole, revealing a lacy black bandeau bra with delicate details done in leavers lace. It matched her knickers, he noticed idly, and the black contrasted amazingly with her pale, softly-blushed skin. His keen eye noticed the exquisite craftsmanship right away. It was an expensive set, no doubt, and given how she was wearing during a commonplace day where she planned to stay home it led him to the conclusion that Belle French simply owned a lot of fancy lingerie, to the point that she wore it as an everyday sort of garment. He was very sure he would never again be able to look at her and not think about that.

“You’re gorgeous.”

In any other situation he would’ve been embarrassed to sound so… Reverent. So incredibly not in control of the situation. He might be fully-dressed, a man of means with a position of political power in their little hamlet and she might be a half-naked small-town librarian but he was absolutely powerless at the moment. And what was worse, he enjoyed it. 

“Thank you, Mr Gold.”

Though he loved the way she said “Gold”, with enough irreverence to turn her tone teasing, he desperately wanted her to say his name.

“Call me Royce, sweetheart.”

She walked over to the table, flipped the chair and sat down, draping her arms loosely around the backrest, the position loose and cocky. There was no doubt in her now, no hesitance. She had assumed control of the situation, for which he was grateful. She tilted her head to a side, sizing him up.

“You’re wearing a lot of clothes, Royce. I feel at a disadvantage.”

She smiled, looking supremely unconcerned, but there was a glint in her eyes he recognised quite easily. Greed. And not the kind he was used to seeing in people who frequented his shop to strike one of his infamous deals. It was different. It certainly felt different to him, hit him right beneath his gut in a way that felt both uncomfortable and pleasant. Without quite thinking his fingers went to the knot of his tie, already loosened, and tugged expertly, untying it in seconds. The silk made a soft, hissing sound as it slipped off his neck, which sounded loud in the otherwise dead silence of the room. Belle followed his movements avidly from the screen, and the look of utter absorption on her face gave him the surge of bravery he needed to tackle the buttons of his shirt till he could shimmy out of it. He was wearing a white undershirt beneath, but his arms and throat were bare, making him feel ridiculously exposed. 

“You have many layers. I like that about you.” Belle dropped her gaze, looking coy and vulnerable at the same time. “I like a lot of things about you.”

“Me too.” He tried to stop himself, but it was easier said than done. “Too many things, actually. But I’ve always understood that it would be foolish to expect anything to come of that.” He looked at Belle, draped over her chair and in her underwear. “Well, perhaps I was wrong.”

Belle smiled.

“You’re finally getting it. Good boy.”

He forced himself not to react visibly to those words, even though the moment he heard them it was like being struck by lightning. Thankfully the camera caught him from the waist up, hiding the embarrassing way his cock had perked up a second earlier. He could not hide his flushed face, however, or the way his eyes glazed over the slightest bit. 

“Tell you what. I’ll take off my bra if you lose the t-shirt. It’s a fair deal.”

It wasn’t. As far as he was concerned he was getting the far better end of the deal but he would never dream of telling her that. Tipping his hand was not his style. 

“Deal.”

He said it in the pleased, soft burr he usually reserved for his less savoury business arrangements, the kind that needed to be sealed in the cloak of night in some remote, deserted location. Belle shivered, and he enjoyed the thought that his voice made her react so. Feeling bold he grabbed the back of his shirt and yanked it off,      baring himself from the waist up. He saw and felt the librarian’s eyes roam over his torso. It wasn’t a pretty sight. He had scars from his dodgy upbringing in Glasgow, and some from his learning days restoring antiques. He was fond of the sun so at least he was not pasty white, or overly hairy, but he didn’t have much in the way of muscles. Belle, however, seemed to appreciate his more lean physique, if the heat of her gaze was any indication. After she seemed to have her fill of staring she leaned back and deftly unhooked her bra, letting the straps slide down her arms till the garment was on the floor. 

He stared. Couldn’t help himself really. Belle French’s tits were perfect. Fucking perfect. Just the right size, incredibly soft-looking and with the loveliest nipples he had ever seen, a rosy-pink that he would never be able to get out of his head. The kind of breasts that would ruin a man for other women. He certainly felt like no other breasts could ever tempt him again. 

“Royce, are you okay?”

Her voice sounded a delightful mix of amused and slightly worried, so he forced himself to nod, still unable to look away.

“Fucking perfect.”

Fuck, was that his voice? He sounded… dazed. He fought the instinct to slap some sense into himself. Belle draped herself across the back of the chair again, and though the position hid her breasts somewhat it didn’t do so completely. 

“I love how soft you are. Underneath the hardass pawnbroker exterior, I mean. Soft, and kind and funny. So funny. It’s one of your most attractive qualities.”

Most people wouldn’t think so. His brand of humour was dark, sometimes too much. And yet Belle always laughed, always caught on to his quips and seemed to appreciate them in a consporatory way. She could also dish it out, but in a far more subtle way that he was sure most people didn’t catch on to. Softly-spoken sarcasm delivered in a lilting accent. 

What was not to love?

He told her so. Unburdened himself completely, caught up in his own physical vulnerability and hers. It felt safe to tell her of his feelings, of how days where he knew he would see her were brighter, and how he liked when they shared a smile or exchanged a comment on a book. How his heart fluttered when he watched her read to the children, and how another part of his anatomy altogether reacted when she strutted around town with her short skirts and devil-may-care attitude. Liked how she thumbed her nose at the pearl-clutchers in town, doing things her way. Completely unsuited for boring, conventional small-town life, and yet wholly at home in Storybrooke, to the point where he could not imagine the town without her.

He shut up after that, noticing how she seemed to have changed, her mood going from loose and flirty to… anxious? No, that wasn’t the right word. Unsettled, perhaps.

“I can’t do this.” The sudden sentence felt like a slap in the face, but the moment his face dropped she seemed to backpedal. “No, no, not like that! I mean… I wanna touch you. I want to be in the same room. With even less clothes on. This… It suddenly doesn’t feel like enough.”

She was fucking right, he realised. He felt itchy all of a sudden. Unfulfilled. Empty.

“Come over.”

“What?”

Belle seemed genuinely surprised, but the way her skin flushed and her eyes got big let him know she was very open to the idea.

“Come the fuck over. It’s fucking cold anyway and the heating system at the library is shite at the moment. Come over and I’ll keep you warm, sweetheart.”

He was rather impressed with his blunt bit of bravery, born out of a consuming need more than anything, and even more impressed when it looked like it worked. Belle scrambled out of the chair, throwing a lovely little nightie on before getting her coat and scarf. 

“Be there in a few. See you!”

She disconnected before he could tell her to bundle up. It was fucking freezing outside and that nightie and her stockings and shoes would do nothing against the cold, coat or no coat. A moment later he realised he was sitting down in his pants, socks and shoes and nothing else while Belle fucking French was coming over to... 

Fuck.

He scrambled up, fishing for his cane in a hurry and having just enough presence of mind to disconnect from Zoom. He went upstairs to his room, deciding that it would be awkward for him to still be wearing pants. And socks. And shoes. So he chucked all that off, throwing a dressing gown over his boxers, pausing to put on his house slippers, glad beyond words he had recently bought new ones. After that he went downstairs to the kitchen and popped a bottle of champagne, looking into his pantry for the box of chocolate truffles from Kreuther, a treat he had gotten himself after visiting a state sale in Midtown Manhattan a week ago. He arranged the impromptu offerings on the dining room table, and when the bell rang he told himself he was ready. He opened the door, finding a rosy-cheeked and clearly shivering Belle on the other side, hair windswept, as if she had run there. Taking into account her heels it was rather impressive.

Belatedly he thought about the scene she had walked into. He in his dressing gown, with champagne flutes and truffles on the table and a fire roaring in the living-room, a scenario ripe for debauching. But perhaps she wished to talk more, to explore their emotional intimacy. Perhaps the trek there had killed her ardour and all she wanted and needed was to get warm and comfortable. He didn’t want to come off as… expecting anything.

Belle, however, seemed to not share his concerns. She took one look at him, one look at the softly-lit space behind him and the food laid out and smiled.

“You brilliant, wonderful man.”

A second late she was in his arms. Cold, but soft and smelling of orange blossoms and frost. She tilted her head up, slanting her lips across before he could blink and it was… wonderful. The coolness of her lips contrasted with the searing heat of her mouth, making for a rather delicious contrast of sensations. He used the hand not clutching his cane for dear life to find the buttons of her coat, undoing them one by one with barely-contained impatience. Finally he had the coat opened and could snake his arm around her waist. The silk of her small camisole was soft to the touch, and let him feel the warmth of her skin beneath.

He needed to feel more. Now that she was safe in the warmth of his house she didn’t need her coat or scarves and went about the business of removing both without separating himself from her. It took a lot of tugging and pulling and a couple of missteps that landed her up against the wall, to his utter delight, but she was finally rid of both. Her skin, despite the toasty temperature inside the house, was still chilly from the outside.

“Come close to the fire, sweetheart.”

They managed to stumble across the hallway and into the living room, where they seemed to come to the mutual conclusion that remaining standing was not conducive to their current situation. The rug near the fireplace, thankfully, was thick and soft, and the couple of throw blankets he quickly spread over it made it more so. Once he was satisfied she would be comfortable he let her tackle him to the ground, enjoying having her above him. She was small, especially once she wrestled her heeled boots off. A tiny slip of a woman, shorter than him even, but there was a presence to her, a strength, that he couldn't help but surrender to. Beautiful, terrifying Belle.

“I’ve dreamed of this.” Her voice was low, husky. “You weren’t wearing a dressing gown in my dreams, though.”

“And you weren’t wearing anything in mine.” His accent was so thick he feared she might not be able to understand me. “Tit for tat, dearie.”

She ground herself against him, causing him to hiss and arc. Enough pressure to elicit a response, but not nearly enough to satisfy him.

“Don’t call me that. That’s how you call everyone else, and I’m not everyone else, am I?”

Her confidence slipped for a second, exposing a hint of uncertainty that he was quick to dispel.

“No, sweetheart. Of course not.”

He untied the belt of his dressing gown, managing to slip it off while still pinned by Belle. He didn’t imagine it was a very sexy spectacle but she seemed to appreciate it nevertheless. To reward him she yanked her nightie off, revealing her glorious breasts once again to his hungry stare. She was absolutely perfect, made even better by the way the fire lit her skin and hair, and turned her eyes a deeper blue. She looked fierce yet soft, a magnanimous mistress looking down fondly at a favoured pet. Idly she traced a scar near his right shoulder with the tip of her index finger, frowning the slightest bit.

“I want to know the story behind this. I want to know… more. About you. All there is to know that you wish to tell me.”

“Yes.” Usually he’d balk at the idea of such intimacy, of being so bare. Yet it felt like something he could do with Belle, something he wanted to do. “Yes, of course, sweetheart. And I want to know everything about you.”

She smiled, the gesture slowly turning sultry as she crossed her elbows over his chest.

“We’ll talk… later.”

She kissed him then, slowly and thoroughly, sinking one hand into his hair so she could tilt his head just so. Her fingernails felt delicious against the sensitive skin of his scalp and were a welcome distraction from the uncomfortable pressure of her ass against his groin. He wanted to last, desperately, but she was every wet dream he’d ever had come true. He needed to redirect his attention to anywhere but his aching cock. So he forced himself to focus on anything else. The soft, silky feeling of her skin against the rough pads of his fingers, and the taste of her, faintly sweet. She kissed like it was an art, managing to somehow find every spot that made him want to rip her panties off and just bury himself in her, foreplay be damned.

He startled when he felt her hands trail down his body and grasp the elastic of his underwear, tugging on it to hint at what she wanted. He obliged her before he could talk himself out of it, raising his hips so she could slide the boxers off his legs while still kissing. He felt her touch his mangled ankle and forced himself not to flinch or pull back. Blessedly she seemed to notice his discomfort, tugging his boxers off completely and reaching out to place his hands on the sides of her hips, against the scratchy fabric of her underwear. The message was clear, especially when she propped herself against the floor with her hands so she could raise her hips. He gently tugged her pantied down, with slow, careful movements to avoid accidentally ripping the delicate lace and not simply to watch in aroused amusement as Belle fidgeted above him. 

“Patience, sweetheart.”

She whined, kicking her panties off when they reached her ankles and pushing him back a second later, her expression demanding.

“No more delays. We’ve had months of foreplay.”

He found himself agreeing with her. It certainly felt like they had been teasing each other for months, with the shared jokes, the furtive glances, bitten lips and coy smiles. Not that he had even dared dream of it before that night. Belle was too good in every way for a bitter old cripple like himself. Her hands on his cock chased his self-deprecation away, leaving his mind in a blissful state of blankness. Slowly, torturously so, she took him in, her hot, wet cunt enveloping him with the right amount of pressure. It was almost too good a feeling, leaving his nerve-endings too excited to register much else. She was fucking perfect, the feel of her the weight of her above him. Like she was made for him, only he wasn’t that lucky. 

He needed to somehow make it up to her, make it so good she would not regret it. So he focused on establishing a rhythm, steady enough to build up their pleasure, but not too perfect to make it boring. He concentrated on the sounds she made, the perfect little gasps and the occasional, shivery whine that let him know she was enjoying herself. Soon enough, however, coordination and any form of higher thinking went out the window, the pleasure getting to be too much to focus on anything else other than driving himself as deep into her as he possibly could. He had enough presence of mind to sneak a hand between their bodies, slipping it across her wet fold to stimulate her further, determined not to come before she did. When he finally felt it, the blissful fluttering of her inner walls accompanied by a triumphant cry, he let go of his last shreds of self-control, letting his body seek out its needed release, the feeling travelling up his spine and leaving his whole body boneless with satisfaction. 

He grunted when she practically fell on top of him, though he welcomed the reassuring weight of her and the heat from her body. He thought about the champagne and the truffles waiting for them on the dining room table and decided they could wait. As soon as he was able to move he would wrap his dressing gown around Belle and take her and the food and drinks to the bedroom, where they could recoup their energy and talk. And perhaps much later, if he was good, Belle would let him drink champagne from her navel. 

Thank Regina and her fucking Zoom twon halls. He would never complain about them again.

[tttinytrash]

A prompt from the legendary Shy! I decided to go with this one first because the most ideas to fill in the framework they so kindly provided sprung to mind immediately, but expect the other two they sent along at some point soon. I took the liberty of picking Classic and Underfell Sans for the cast, but the nicknames will probably have made that clear anyhow. I tried to change it up and made the prey brave rather than the nervous wreck I often default to, so hopefully that pans out. Enjoy!

Nerds really do have more fun.

You’re not entirely sure how your socially inept self had made friends as good as these two, but your life had definitely improved exponentially after their addition to it. Red and Classic were both skeletons, but that was immaterial to your friendship with the two.

For the moment you three were tinkering away in the lab the university provided for your research. You were attempting to make a version of the monsters’ inventories that was more accessible for humans, or a TARDIS pocket as Classic had taken to calling the project. You couldn’t argue the accuracy of the comparison, though the name would sadly have to change for copyright purposes at some point. The idea was to make a pocket that was larger on the inside, thereby vastly increasing storage capabilities for the denizens of the world without magical capabilities.

Classic was at the far workbench, going over the calculations yet again while you and Red were closer to the machine actually intended to form the dimensional pockets. The burned scraps of a grocery tote bag, the cremated remains of your latest failed attempt, hung in place in the machine for now despite the machine not being active. Red was shoulders deep in the thing, checking that the soldering on the wires were holding after another failed test. You were busy removing the latest scorches from the machine’s plating when you heard the dull hum start. 

You glanced over at saw the machine had started trying to form another rift, without any kind of vessel and without any of you having activated it. Worse, two thirds of the team was not even remotely beyond the safety perimeter! You didn’t even think, you just grabbed Red by the pelvis and dragged him out of the machine. You didn’t even process what he was saying, nor his angry tone as you bundled him up bridal style and bolted from the danger zone. 

You were almost in the clear when you heard the explosion behind you and felt the searing heat on your back. Well, as least you’d gotten your more sturdy human body between your 1HP monster companion and the blast, you had time to think. 

The pain ebbed as quickly as it came and you felt like you were in freefall...

-----

Red really didn’t know what the hell had just happened. 

He’d felt the human yank him out of the maintenance hatch, and the glow and crackling of building energy he could get from over their shoulder as they ran clued him in roughly and mollified his annoyance in favor of concern. Then there was heat and he felt his body fall to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut. Classic had been far enough away from the blast to be unharmed, and therefore was free to rush over to where Red lay. 

He groaned as the unharmed skeleton arrived, not missing the other’s visual sweep of his body for injury or dust. 

“are you ok? where’s y/n?” Classic asked.

Red’s skull whipped back, not finding the human on the floor with him as he’d expected. “i-i dunno! y/n?!”

“Here...” came the weak reply. 

Both skeletons homed in on the source quickly, which was oddly Red’s chest.

A tiny human lay on Red’s sternum sprawled as if having fallen. Y/n was severely reduced in size and dazed, but awake an aware much to both skeletons’ visible relief. Red scooped the sluggish human into his hands and did a Check on them. Their HP had definitely taken a hit, but they weren’t in the red. (Heh, nickname pun.)

The trio was collectively baffled, but the relief that everyone was ok for the most part was palpable. They now had the fun task of figuring out how to reverse this change. Oh. And the machine was smoldering, so that probably should be addressed too. This to do list was quickly looking very not fun.

-----

It was agreed upon (more like accepted, really) that a shrunken human really couldn’t live on their own in a house without any adaptations for such a small person. In the long term (Delta forbid this persisted long enough to need a long term solution) adjustments to your house could be arranged. In the short term, the skeleton pair would take turns hosting their human friend at their houses. 

Classic took the first night, as he and Vanilla (his brother) had a place closer than Red and his bro, Edge. At the moment, Vanilla was out of the house at a sleepover (arranged before the incident) with Undyne. This left Classic and the human alone, and eventually watching TV together. 

You had been set up with a fluffy hand towel for a blanket and set atop a pillow. Your pillow was on the couch cushion besides Classic, who sprawled with the grace of a sack of potatoes on his corner of the couch as he watched the cheesy sci-fi flick on screen. You were both making jokes throughout the movie, but as the night drew on and the ambient temperature dropped, you found your towel wasn’t quite warm enough. 

You were waiting for a break in dialogue to ask for another towel, but Classic beat you to it. He looked over as if he were about to crack a joke at the expense of the movie again, noticed your huddled posture, and paused the movie. “you cold, kiddo?”

“Yeah, a bit. Are there any more towels I could pile on, maybe?”

“i’ll do ya one better, c’mere.” He offered a flat palm, waiting patiently for you to board.

You didn’t really have to hesitate, trusting the guy already and curiosity spurred you on as well. He gently lifted you and your towel, dumped the pillow on the floor absently, and moved to sprawl flat over the whole couch instead. This left his chest as a flat plane, on which you were gently deposited.

You sat there, surprised at the new level of contact. Sure, you three nerds had crammed yourselves onto the loveseat at your place to watch TV or game together and ended up with hips mildly wedged against each other and shoulders bumping, but that was the closest you’d ever been. To now be seated on Classic’s sternum was new territory. 

“go ahead, get comfy and lay down. i don’t mind.” he encouraged. 

You took his advice, curling on your side facing the TV, towel still tented around you. Classic increased the warmth his body offered even more by taking the liberty to partially zip his ever-present blue jacket up to the point that your body was zipped in, but your head was outside the confines of the giant garment.

“better?” he asked.

“Yeah, much warmer.” You could easily affirm. 

While this was new territory, his casual attitude towards the whole thing dissipated the awkwardness you were feeling. Without that feeling, you really found you couldn’t complain. You liked cuddling anyhow, so finding a friend was also up for that was a boon in your book. 

The movie resumed without further incident, though you may or may not have totally fallen asleep on your friend. Eh, he didn’t seem to mind.

-----

It’d been a couple of weeks since the incident at the lab, and today was Red’s day for hosting y/n. Red was playing a campaign in a very story based game, with the human watching from their perch on his shoulder while Classic lounged on the other side of the couch. Playthroughs of games like this were common with their group, and the three would usually switch off who had the controller each session with the other two chipping in and offering advice. 

The biggest difference now was that y/n couldn’t take their turn with the controller, but they seemed content to snuggle into the fluff of Red’s hood, relishing in the warmth of their position by his cervical vertebrae. Ever since becoming small, they hadn’t been able to maintain their heat as well once the sun went down.

“I think I saw something on your left.” they offered. 

Red panned the camera that way to find an enemy, which was swiftly dealt with.

“thanks, pipsqueak.” Red said as he collected the dropped loot.

“No problem. Hey, do you think you could get the bathroom door for me?”

“oh, sure.” he paused the game and crossed over to the bathroom. He gently cupped the human into his hands and gingerly set them on the floor just before the threshold. Inside there was a bathroom setup of bitty furniture, an investment that had been made early on for each of the skeletons’ houses. Once they went inside, he closed the door without catching the latch so they could push it open once they were done. 

In the meantime, he approached the couch again where he saw Classic grinning at him.

“the hell you looking at?” Red groused.

Classic chuckled “a softy.”

Red felt the light blush on his face, much to his chagrin “shut the hell up. s’not like you aint doing the same damn thing.”

“well yeah, but i don’t try to claim i’m not a softy.”

Red groaned as he flopped petulantly onto the couch. “can’t help it, they’re just so small. plus, this is all my fault anyhow.”

“woah, what?” Classic sat up straighter, humor gone from his voice. “what do you mean, your fault?”

“i was fucking with the wiring when the machine started up. it had to be something i did that caused it to go haywire and blast them. least i can do is help em out when they need it.”

Classic was about to address the mountain of guilt Red had built upon himself, but was cut off by a growl from Red’s stomach.

“you hungry?” Classic asked, though Red knew he already had the answer to that question based on the tone. 

Red buried his face in his hands, responding “no, and the human aint gonna believe the ‘i just need a snack’ lie forever. i just wanna protect them so damn bad.”

“yeah, they’re too smart for us. plus, i’ve been using the same lie.”

Red unburied his face, asking “instinct is cropping up for you too, eh?”

“yeah. especially since they get so cold at night. it went downhill fast as soon as i realized we had an easy fix.”

“tell me about it. they were so uncomfortable when they first changed, i didn’t wanna add to the discomfort by asking them about it.”

“well, the machine is back in one piece now so we can start working to reverse this mess come monday when the university lets us back in.”

“yeah, thank delta for that.”

Neither one realized that the human had heard some of their conversation from the bathroom, nor that they refused to accept their friends were apparently hiding something from them. 

The human became determined to confront this issue that very night.

-----

Classic had gone home by now and you were settled in your bed, more of a nest of towels and an electric heated blanket than a real bed. Nest was probably a better term. 

Red hadn’t come into the room yet (you slept in the same room as him so he could help you off the desk and to the bathroom if you needed to make a trip in the middle of the night) so you instead thought about what you’d overheard and what you were going to say. You’d caught only snippets due to distance, knowing something about an instinct they were both trying to hide from you, and you’d also heard “all my fault” and desperately wanted to address that if it was regarding you, which the conversation had seemed to.

Your planning was cut short when he entered, in a loose black muscle tank and flannel PJ bottoms pattered with jolly roger flags flying over a grey background. He flopped onto the bed without ceremony amongst his tangled blankets and immediately started scrolling on his phone. 

You steeled yourself a moment before calling for his attention, leaving your nest behind on the beside table to approach the skeleton closer. “Hey, Red?”

He put down his phone, looking at you with a questioning grunt.

“I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but I heard you and Classic earlier...”

Red looked mildly alarmed “what exactly did you hear?”

“Enough to know you guys are hiding things from me, and it sounded like it was about me. And something about this being ‘all your fault’?”

Red sat up leaving his face a little higher than you, and only a foot of distance from your perch to his shoulder. “yeah, well it is my fault. since i was the one tinkering, the machine had to have been fucked up by me. and now...” he gestured limply at you. “i’m gonna do my damndest to fix it, but i hate that i did this at all.”

“Cut the crap.”

Red looked as if he’d been slapped. He instantly went from hunched and quiet, reluctant to open up to you at all (probably only caving so early knowing you would keep badgering), to sitting straight up, eyes locked on you in obvious shock.

“This was an accident. No one is at fault.” you stated emphatically.

He looked ready to protest, eyebrows tilting down almost as if angry.

You cut him off again. “You never intended for this to happen. I don’t hold you responsible, or anyone else for that matter. But that doesn’t even matter. You just said you were going to fix it. That matters way more than fretting over the past we can’t change. No more self pity. Not allowed. Got it, mister?” You wagged a finger at him, refusing to be the one to break eye contact.

Red’s expression had mollified during your response, and he was the one who lost the game of eye contact chicken when he changed focus onto his folded hands in his lap. “forgot how much spunk you have, looks like the size change didn’t touch that.” he laughed a little.

“You mean you forgot what made us become friends in the first place? I’m hurt, Red.” You feigned pain, placing your hands over your heart.

His laugh was stronger this time “sorry, pipsqueak. won’t make that mistake again.” He ruffled your hair with a two fingers, which got you laughing too as you batted his invading phalanges away.

“you win. i’ll try to focus on fixing, not shitting on myself. fair deal?”

“Sounds good to me, bud.”

You two lapsed into silence.

You felt accomplished, but only half of your mystery had been solved. you decided to risk it and push farther. You’d back off if he resisted though, as you knew opening up at all was asking a lot of your somewhat emotionally constipated friend. “So... what was the instinct you two kept referring to?”

“damn, you’re relentless tonight!” he laughed again, flopping back onto his pillow.

“Well it’s got my two best friends in a twist over it, I wanna know what the hell is going on!” you defend, happy to keep up the more teasing tone.

“fine, fine. but you asked for it.”

“Yeah, yeah, lay it on me!”

He barked a laugh, “alright, pipsqueak. there’s a protective instinct that can rear up among monsters who’re less flesh based. it’s been triggered by your small size and our desire to help, but basically we wanna take you in.”

“Ya lost me right at the end, there.”

“figured i would. skeletons, and some other races of monsters, have the ability to take other creatures inside their own body harmlessly. more specifically, it’d be me and classic fighting the urge to eat you, but safely.”

“Safely.... eat?” The humor left your tone completely.

The humor was gone in his too, saying “yeah, that’s why we didn’t say anything. that reaction right there. but yes, basically eat minus the chewing bit. it’s safe and you’d be let out later, but the idea is to put us between you and danger. pretty damn literally. but a fleshbag like you wouldn’t be a fan and we both knew that going in. now ya know.” he looked away again, not so much looking at anything but apparently not wanting to look at you.

You thought back to all the times you’d caught either of them trying to sneak stomach growls past you or how oddly often they’d been claiming they’d needed a snack, or even that one time Red had tried (and failed) to play off getting caught wiping drool away. It all clicked into place and made so much more sense. But far more importantly, you didn’t like the resigned tone in his voice. 

You took a moment to process the new information in stifling silence, then asked “So... you thought I wouldn’t trust you?”

“what?” Red’s skull whipped around to fix you with a baffled look. “that’s not even close to what i said. i just meant it’d be pretty fuckin’ weird to you.”

“Yeah, well I went and made friends with two monsters after having shit luck with humans. I’d say I’m pretty open to new and weird.”

Red just blinked at you.

“If you want to, I’m unopposed. Go for it. You said it was triggered by a desire to help, and that it was safe. I trust you.”

Red’s brows were knit, sockets squinted a bit at you as he sat up. He stared you down like that, feeling like he was looking for the “gotcha” or any fear. You stared right back with nothing to hide, you weren’t afraid and didn’t want to take back what you’d said.

“yer sure?” he asked, sounding suspicious. 

“Yep.” You popped the P for emphasis.

“alright. i’ll let you out when you change your mind.” he shrugged, holding a hand out for you to board. 

You took that comment as a challenge and sat on his metacarpals confidently.

He brought you up toward his face while his free hand reached up from behind you, wrapping around your ribs under the arms. Using the new grip, he lifted you over his upturned face with your bare feet dangling in thin air over his opening mouth.

Ok, maybe your confidence had left a little. Your legs tucked up a bit in instinct, but you didn’t struggle when he guided your lower limbs into his mouth. You fought the urge to cringe away at the odd slick feeling of your feet sliding along his thick red tongue, or even more so at the feeling of his throat around your lower legs. 

You still trusted Red, that wasn’t the issue, so you decided to fight your instincts just as your friends had been fighting theirs and refused to show any fear. 

You pulled your arms in close to your chest when his grasping fingers left, and looked upwards as the world was sealed off by a wall of sharp teeth. Thankfully Red didn’t leave you waiting long, as a wet gulping sound drew your upper legs down with a surprisingly strong force. You clenched your teeth at that, barely keeping in the yelp of surprise. Another two gulps followed in quick succession, drawing your whole body into his waiting throat. The tissue around you pressed in, pushing you ever downward. 

For a brief moment during your decent, you felt a warm tingling sensation akin to the light buzz you felt the few times you’d come into contact with a magical construct (Red had lobbed a bone attack at you when you’d be particularly snarky a time or two, usually blue so you didn’t get hurt.) This tingle was much stronger, and you couldn’t describe it any better than saying it felt like Red. ...was that his soul? 

Your musing was cut off shortly after the buzz of magic left and you found yourself kicking a little in surprise when your legs had room to move. The rest of you spilled into the open space a moment later. 

You felt a bit dazed as you just sat there a moment. You were somewhat pulled back down to earth as you felt a pressure coming from outside. It was immediately obvious the pressure was his hand pressing in at you, and the hand started moving, rubbing you from outside in soothing circles, slowly moving up and down your back. Even if you were out of it, you had the wherewithal to realize that was incredibly cute. 

“alright, buyer’s remorse set in?” he asked.

“No...” you breathed, not quite done processing your current situation.

“you ok in there?” his tone was more concerned, the rubbing stopped but the pressure of his hand remained.

“Y-yeah!” You shook your head as if that would help clear the fog, clicking back into reality. “I’m ok. Wow, this is just... a lot.”

“sure you don’t want out?”

“Do you want me out?”

“...didn’t say that...” he mumbled.

You laughed, which earned you a half hearted growl.

“Hey, is it ok if I move around a little? I really want to, uh, check the place out now that I’m here if that’s cool.”

“oh, sure. i don’t care.”

He removed his hand, which left you free to experiment. Call it childish if you wanted, but you really wanted to feel out your new surroundings in an exceedingly literal sense.

-----

Holy shit this went so much better than he’d ever thought it’d go. The human was inside, no panic, and their soul had settled from the anxiety he’d been feeling during their decent. Guess they’d gone and proven him and Classic wrong. Again. Maybe he should expect that by now.

For now he laid back, feeling them slide back to the new lowest point as he got comfortable. He also very much heard their tiny squeak when they startled at the movement, which brought out a smile on him. He felt them quickly readjust, then felt a small point of pressure pushing outwards. A tiny moving bump raised in his shirt, showing where their small hands were pushing out. He didn’t protest, finding this all quite amusing.

On a whim, he used two fingers to push at that little raised bump. He heard them laugh, and then the bump showed up on a new spot, disappeared, and showed up again in yet another. This was a bizarre version of whack a mole, but he did play along until they ended the game with a breathy giggle. 

They were moving again, probably trying to stand given the two distinct points of pressure. They slowly wobbled a few steps before he distinctly felt the impact of them falling over. 

He laughed aloud at the “I’m good!” they called out.

Their movements inside were calm, but distinctly curious. It was all highly endearing on top of feeling good. The quieting of the protective instinct at last was also a welcome absence, leaving him feeling comfortable and secure. He didn’t really try all that hard to stifle his subsequent yawn. 

The responding, smaller yawn from inside was a bit of a surprise.

“tired?”

“We were getting ready for bed, dingus.”

“fair point. we turning this into a sleepover or you going back to your own bed?”

There was a pause, then “Fuck it, sleepover.”

“fine by me, pipsqueak. g’night.”

“Goodnight, bonehead.”

He felt their weight settle, then relax as they slipped into sleep. He decided to follow them, hands folded over his stomach to protect the precious cargo inside.

[kurokoros]

meet messy | akaashi

Pairing: akaashi x fem!reader

Summary: Request “hear me out: Akaashi Keiji, roommates au! trope: meeting messy & prompt #30″

AN: my first official one-shot for hq is an Akaashi fic. who would have guessed. there’s some language and mildly crude humor in this one. it took me a hot minute to figure out how to do a roommate au + meet messy, but I think it turned out okay! also, I see Akaashi as the quiet teasing type, so I hope the characterization is okay!

also, I tried to post this earlier, but surprise surprise, tumblr didn’t put it in the tags. 

“What do you mean you’re running late?” you ask, glaring at your phone as you speed walk down the street. A mumbled curse escapes you as someone walks by and jostles your shoulder, nearly knocking the box you’re carrying right out of your arms. You shoot the man a sour look before turning back to your friend, irritation already softening into a pout. “Kuroo, I’m supposed to be meeting this guy in like ten minutes, what do I do?”

Kuroo’s lips twitch, looking torn between apologetic and amused as he tries to cover up a smile. “You’ll be fine,” he tells you, not for the first time. “And I would have been on time if someone hadn’t—shit!” Kuroo disappears from the frame, hissing what sounds like ‘demon’ under his breath as the camera shifts.

Suddenly, you’re staring at Yaku instead, his tawny eyes narrowed as he hunches over Kuroo’s phone. “Don’t believe his lies,” he says, scoffing when Kuroo grumbles something in response, voice muffled. “The only reason we’re late is because Kuroo—”

“Oi! Yakkun!”

Kuroo grabs at his phone, but Yaku is faster, ducking under his arm and barely managing to evade his former captain’s outstretched hand. The camera is jostled again, giving you a shaky view of the subway that has your eyes rolling. Even now they still act like bickering teenagers half the time. It’s as endearing as it is annoying, but you’ve known them since high school, so you really aren’t surprised.

It takes a few seconds for the camera to stabilize again, and this time you’re faced with the voice of reason among the three of them. He rubs the back of his neck, smile a little embarrassed as Kuroo and Yaku continue to bicker behind him.

“Kai,” you greet him, a smile automatically tugging at your lips in response to his. “I didn’t know you and Yaku were coming with!” You knew that Kuroo asked Kenma to come with—as expected, he declined—but you had no idea the rest of the former Nekoma third years would be making an appearance.

He shrugs with one shoulder, casually ignoring your friends arguing behind him. “We heard you might need help moving boxes later,” is all he tells you.

“Hopefully,” you tell him. “And thanks. The main reason I invited Kuroo was for the muscle anyway.” A muffled sound of protest comes from off to Kai’s left, but you know Kuroo is secretly preening from the pseudo compliment.

Kai only nods, smiling again. “We’ll be there as soon as we can. It shouldn’t take us more than twenty minutes.”

Before you can respond, Yaku shoves himself under Kai’s arm to pin you with a firm look. “If he tries anything, go for his—”

“Give me that!” The phone is plucked out of Kai’s hands and suddenly you’re staring at Kuroo again. He glares down at Yaku, eyes rolling, before he turns his attention to you. “Twenty minutes,” he tells you firmly.

“I’ll hold you to that,” you say, quickening your steps. Pulling your gaze from Kuroo’s, you glance up at a street sign and wrinkle your nose when you realize how close you are to meeting your new potential roommate. “You promise he’s not weird, right?” you ask suddenly, looking at your phone in time to see his brows furrow. “Because so help me, Kuroo, if you’re letting me move in with some creep, I’ll never forgive you.”

The only reason you even agreed to maybe move in with a complete stranger is because he’s a friend of Kuroo’s. Apparently, they’ve known each other since high school during their volleyball days, but you’ve never had a chance to meet before now. With his friend having an empty room and you being in desperate need of a new place to stay, Kuroo’s suggestion only made sense. And you trust his judgement. Usually.

The look Kuroo sends you is nothing short of offended. He presses his hand to his chest like you’ve wounded him, and you roll your eyes at his theatrics. Despite that, Kuroo is serious when he responds. “Do you think I would let you move in with someone I didn’t trust?” When you shake your head, he continues. “Akaashi doesn’t bite. I promise.” He grins. “Unless you’re into that.”

You make a face. “I’m hanging up now.”

He cackles. “We’ll be there soon. Be safe.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you wave him off, glancing up at another sign, “just get your ass over here.” Yaku and Kai call out their own goodbyes before you end the call, your smile lingering as you shove your phone into your back pocket, still struggling with the box you’re carrying.

Of course, that’s the moment your morning goes from bad to worse.

You’re so busy working your phone into your pocket with one hand and juggling a box with the other that you don’t see the man hurrying towards you, also not paying attention to his surroundings.

You shoulder collides with his. You stumble. The box starts to slip from your grasp. “Shit,” you hiss, flinching as hot coffee splashes down the front of your shirt. It isn’t hot enough to hurt, thankfully, but it’s bound to leave a nasty, uncomfortably wet stain on your chest for the rest of the day. Perfect. That’s exactly what you needed five minutes before you’re supposed to meet your new roommate for the first time. So much for a good first impression.

The man who bumped into you grunts in surprise. He stumbles back as your eyes snap up, and you note with the smallest hint of smug satisfaction that there’s an equally dark spot staining his crisp, white button-up.

Dark blue eyes flicker up to meet yours, wide in alarm.

In any other situation, you might have taken a moment to appreciate the sharp angle of his jaw, or his stupidly pretty face, but right now you’re nervous, stressed, and wet, so all you do is glare and snap, “Watch where you’re going.” His lips part, but you’re already storming past him, mumbling “asshole” under your breath.

You’re already halfway down the street before he regains his bearings; you don’t notice his eyes following you until you disappear.

…

Fuck me, is the first thought that comes to your mind when you find yourself standing in front of your potential roommate’s apartment. There’s a post-it note stuck to the front door, telling you and Kuroo to let yourselves in because your new roommate had an errand to run, but would be back soon. This, of course, wouldn’t be a problem if Kuroo wasn’t late and wasn’t the one with a key to said apartment.

You aren’t sure what’s worse: having to stand here for the next however many minutes like an idiot until Kuroo arrives, or his friend coming home first and having to deal with that conversation without your moral support. Neither option is particularly appealing, but you’re staring to get odd looks from the neighbors and it’s really fucking hot outside, so you’d take the awkward conversation over waiting.

A brief text to Kuroo informs you that they just got off the subway, but should be here soon. You shift your weight from one foot to the next, biting your lip as you continue weighing your options.

Eventually you just say fuck it and slide one of the bobby-pins from your hair. No one has to know.

Unfortunately, picking a lock isn’t nearly as easy as you’ve been led to believe.

“Seriously?” you grumble, jiggling the doorknob and squinting at the pin you have jammed into the lock. Maybe this was a bad idea. Now you definitely look like a creep.

“Need any help with that?”

You lurch away from the door with a yelp. The bobby-pin falls out of your hand and clatters to the floor, only incriminating you further. Whirling around, your expression becomes one of horror when you meet a pair of questioning eyes.

Oh shit, he’s hot, is your first thought, your breath catching when you lock eyes with the most gorgeous man you’ve even seen in your life. Messy dark hair. Deep blue eyes. A sharp jaw. All lean muscle. Oh, yeah. Definitely a former athlete. Your eyes wander down to his chest where the top buttons of his dress-shirt are undone. You glance at his collarbone before moving lower, freezing.

Your second thought is, oh shit, I spilled coffee on this guy and called him an asshole. The stain on his shirt matches yours perfectly, and wow, okay, today really couldn’t have gotten any worse, could it? Not only is your new potential roommate hot as sin, but you’ve already made a complete ass of yourself in front of him, the breaking and entering aside.

He clears his throat, staring at you expectantly; you blush, face burning as you realize you’ve been gaping at him openly.

“This isn’t what it looks like,” you blurt, like an idiot. It’s exactly what it looks like. The way his right eyebrow quirks upwards tells you he isn’t fooled, and you’re surprised when he doesn’t call you out on the lie.

“You must be Kuroo’s friend,” he says instead, observing you carefully. The, admittedly correct, assumption makes you more embarrassed, if possible. You aren’t sure what the assumption says about you, or Kuroo for that matter, but right now you kind of just want to lie down on the floor and die a little bit.

You wet your lips, trying not to squirm under his intense gaze. It’s analytical, but not calculating, and your breathing hitches as he continues to stare. “I… yeah.”

It comes as a surprise when he only nods, eyes snapping away from you as he digs his keys out of his pocket. You step aside quickly as he steps up to the door, his arm brushing up against yours. You stiffen, but he doesn’t shy away from the contact. “Sorry to make you wait,” he says, pulling the post-it note off the door and turning towards the lock.

“It’s fine.” You grab your discarded box off the ground, holding it to your chest as he opens the door and gestures for you to walk inside. Your smile feels forced as you comply. With your head ducked towards your chest and your eyes on the floor, you don’t notice the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You should apologize, right? Yeah, you should totally apologize for spilling coffee on him and yelling at him in the middle of the street.

He follows you inside and shuts the door, meeting your eyes as you spin around to look at him. “I’m really sorry about—”

But he’s already shaking his head. “I wasn’t watching either,” he tells you, ending your apology before it can start. “Akaashi Keiji,” he says, holding out his hand for you to shake, like a normal person.

You tell him your name, trying not to shiver at the way his fingers wrap around yours. Fuck, his hands are big. Like, really big. And warm. You definitely wouldn’t mind having them wrapped around your—moving on.

The corner of Akaashi’s mouth twitches like he knows exactly what you’re thinking. “So,” he starts casually, dark eyes watching you carefully, “when would you like to move in?”

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Eccentricity [Chapter 9: Now I Love Your Shadow And I Love Your Curls]

Series Summary: Joe Mazzello is a nice guy with a weird family. A VERY weird family. They have a secret, and you have a choice to make. Potentially a better love story than Twilight.

Chapter Title Is A Lyric From: “Til I Die” by Parsonsfield. 

Chapter Warnings: Language, references to sex, violence, and drug use.

Word Count: 7.6k.

Other Chapters (And All My Writing) Available: HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii​ @bramblesforbreakfast​ @maggieroseevans​ @culturefiendtrashqueen​ @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark​ @escabell​ @im-an-adult-ish​ @queenlover05​ @someforeigntragedy​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhyee​ @deacyblues​ @tensecondvacation​ @brianssixpence​ @some-major-ishues​ @haileymorelikestupid​ @youngpastafanmug​ @simonedk​

Field Trip

“You want to go to Chicago with me?”                

I coughed, having almost inhaled a chunk of pineapple off my slice of GrubHubbed pizza. We were sitting on the grass outside Forks And Spoons under the shade of the maple trees, which were turning from jade to ruby to amber to fool’s gold, rejoining the earth they once rose from one fallen leaf at a time. It hadn’t rained in almost four days—was that some kind of record?!—and the leaves littering the ground crunched when I stepped on them, which I did purposefully and often. The breeze was soft and whispery and temperate. I could get used to this whole having actual seasons thing. “What, in like a hypothetical, at some point in my life kind of way?”

Joe smiled. His U Chicago hoodie of the day was black. “No, as in this weekend.”

“Really?”

“The Cubs have a game on Saturday, and it’s supposed to be rainy and overcast the whole time, and I just thought...” He shrugged, toying with a piece of pizza crust before tossing it to the squirrels. He’s nervous, I realized. How the hell do I have the ability to make the sexy undead Italian man nervous? “It might be nice for us to be able to get away for a few days. Away from my family. Away from Charlie. Not that I don’t appreciate the ambient noise of his snoring from the living room couch, it’s super endearing, I seriously consider dating him instead of you at least twice a week.”

“Go for it. Charlie could use a rich husband. His pension is pathetic.”

“You wouldn’t miss me?”

“I am not necessarily opposed to clandestinely seducing my sugar daddy stepdad should the occasion arise.”

Joe crossed himself like a nun passing tattooed, cursing, lip-pierced teenagers on the sidewalk. “Lord, protect me from this harlot.”

A weekend away. No Charlie, no constant and chaotic whirlwind of Lees, no Ben. I hadn’t spoken to Ben since our misadventure in the Lee kitchen; if he wasn’t avoiding me of his own volition, he was following orders to stay away. Joe claimed that they’d talked it out. I wasn’t sure if I believed him. “I accept your invitation. Although, truthfully, I’d rather get hit by a bus than watch an entire real-life, no-commercial-breaks baseball game.”

“I accept your acceptance. And I’ll throw in a visit to the Shedd Aquarium, just for you. They have baby sea otters.”

“Sweet.” I checked my iPhone. “I’m gonna be late for Chemistry.”

“Anything fun planned?”

“We’re doing a lab involving hydrochloric acid. I’m highly concerned that Ben will accidentally spill some on himself. The miraculous instantaneous healing thing might raise a few questions.”

“Hm,” Joe replied. But he wasn’t looking at me; he was looking at my bandaged hand. And he wasn’t smiling anymore.

“Joe, I’m fine.”

“Yeah.” He took a preoccupied swig of his Dr. Pepper. Solemnity never seemed right on him; it was like he was wearing somebody else’s skin. “You’ve mentioned that.”

“Hey. Mob guy.”

Now his eyes flicked to mine.                              

“No more sad spaghetti.”

“Okay.” He surrendered, took my face in his hands, gave me a kiss on each cheek and then one quick parting peck on the forehead. “You win. I’m not sad. I’m ecstatic, actually. I’m gonna be eating my weight in hotdogs and mustard-slathered pretzels on Saturday. What’s there not to be ecstatic about?”

“The fact that your license says you’re only twenty and consequently can’t get a beer?”

Joe blinked, remembering. “Fuck.”

I drained my Diet Coke, flung my pizza crust to the skittering grey squirrels—no eerie albino forest friends today—and pulled on my backpack. “See ya. Have an awesome time in Game Theory.”

“Thanks, I probably won’t!” he chimed, waving, grinning compliantly; and yet did I still sense some lingering menace of disquiet, of fear? I suspected I did. Chicago would cure everything.

Ben tensed when I walked into Professor Belvin’s classroom, ran his fingers through his unruly blond hair, peered fixedly down at his notebook and feigned obliviousness. There was already a metal tray of Erlenmeyer flasks, labeled bottles of solutions, burettes, goggles, gloves, and an unassembled ring stand crowding our small table by the open window. Autumn air poured in like seawater through cracks in the hull of a ship.

“Guess who’s gonna see the Cubs play up close and personal this Saturday?” I announced.

He pretended to have just noticed me. “...You...? But that doesn’t sound like you.”

“It was Joe’s idea. I’m acting like I’m not totally thrilled and freaking out about it, but I am. Don’t tell him.”

Now Ben was the one staring at my bandaged hand. His green eyes were large and unfocused.

“I’m fine,” I insisted.  

“Sure,” Ben returned noncommittally.

I started skimming through the packet of lab instructions and setting up our titration experiment as Professor Belvin circulated through the classroom, observing, commenting, offering suggestions and critiques. My wounded hand—still sore in the lull between Advil doses and relatively useless—was quite the embarrassing hinderance; I fumbled with a large glass flask and almost dropped it.

Ben shook his head and reached out to stop me. “Here, oh my god, this is so pitiful, sit down. Please sit down. I’ll set it up. It’s the least I can do.”

“Thanks.” I peeked at his notebook. “Your handwriting is atrocious. Haven’t you had like a century to work on that?”

“Penmanship was never at the top of my to-do list, tragically.”

“What language is that, anyway?” The phrases scrawled in black ink in Ben’s notebook definitely weren’t English. Or Italian. “Elvish? Are you a lowkey Lord Of The Rings fan? Magic and self-sacrifice and nearly insurmountable evil, I could see that being your thing.”

He smirked, struggling with the ring stand. “It’s Welsh.”

“Welsh,” I repeated, perplexed. “Welsh...like how Gwil is Welsh?”

“Precisely.”

Professor Belvin checked in on us, nodded in approval, reminded me that I was always welcome to stop by at bowling league activities, and resumed his wandering.

“Gwil still speaks it,” Ben continued. “The rest of them speak it too. At least enough for basic communication.”

“I didn’t know,” I said, fascinated, examining the long, unfamiliar words riddled with Ls and Ws and Cs. “But that must be very useful.”

“It is. Welsh is nearly a dead language at this point. It’s like talking in code. I always refused to learn it on principle...or maybe I was just being difficult. I would study other languages, Arabic, Japanese...but not Welsh. That was always Gwil’s language. Their language. It was a Lee thing. But now...”

“Now you’re sort of a Lee too,” I finished for him, smiling.

“Whatever,” Ben said, hiding behind his bangs.

I watched him as he at last tamed the ring stand, secured the burette, placed the Erlenmeyer flask. Then he began reading the labels on the solution bottles. “Guess what else.”

“What, Baby Swan?”

I grinned, showing off my unremarkable, entirely benign human teeth. “I’ll bring you back your very own U Chicago hoodie.”

That night, after a pleasantly prosaic dinner with Charlie—burgers, one veggie and one of the conventional variety, and milkshakes at Danny’s Diner—I started packing a small, Arizona-sky-blue suitcase as sparse raindrops pattered against the roof and moonlight streamed in through the open window. Then I ticked off my mental inventory.

“Jeans, sweaters, pajamas, socks...”

I pawed through the top drawer of my old, scratched dresser—the same one that had once upon a time been Renee’s—and contemplated the bra and panty options. Would my theme be comfort and practicality, or feral impenitent seductress? Friday and Saturday in Chicago would be our first nights alone together. That had to be significant, right? After some deliberation, I gathered a handful of lacy, transparent, and/or exceptionally skimpy lingerie from Victoria’s Secret that Jessica had more or less forced upon me during a shopping trip in Port Angeles last month. As I dropped them into the open suitcase, I glanced up to see the albino owl outside my open bedroom window.

“You never know,” I told the owl, shrugging.

It leered judgmentally back at me with those gory red eyes.

“Oh shut up. How many eggs have you laid in your lifetime, Casper The Unfriendly Ghost? Probably like a bazillion. Freaking feathery trollop.”

The owl had nothing to offer in its own defense.

“Why don’t you ever come around when Joe’s here? I’m sure he’d love to meet you. He’s pale and weird too. Although I like his eyes a little better than yours. No offense, Snowflake.”

The owl blinked, tilted its gaze at me, ruffled its feathers and sent the raindrops that had gathered there flying in every direction.

I slid my iPhone out of my back pocket, spun around, and snapped a quick selfie with the owl in the background. “Say cheese, Marshmallow!”

The owl immediately unfurled its wings and flapped off into the trees, vanishing.

“Huh. I guess homegirl is camera shy.” I texted my selfie to Archer, typing out with my thumbs: I am the Steve Irwin of Forks. Behold, one of my many forest friends.

Archer replied a few minutes later: WOW! Pasty and mildly disturbing. Exactly your type. :)

“Yours too, apparently,” I murmured, smiling in my empty room.

I went to my full-length mirror with the plastic, teal-colored border, briefly appraised my reflection, felt a dull swell of approval for what I saw there. The version of myself that had once been so consumed by fears of inadequacy seemed impossibly far away, maybe even fictitious, a dream so vivid I could mistake it for truth. Three things were taped across the top of the mirror: Joe’s Official Citation!! No More Sad Spaghetti!! post-it, his Official Whatever You Want Pass, and a photo of us dressed up together and standing in front of the limo in the Lees’ driveway just before the Calawah University Homecoming dance. I peeled off the Official Whatever You Want Pass, carefully folded it into a neat little square, and tucked it into my wallet.

When the rain began to pour and thunder rolled in off the Pacific Ocean, I closed my bedroom window; but I remembered to leave it unlocked for Joe.

Departure

“Got your license?”

“Yes, Dad,” Joe sighed.

“Got your airport snacks?”

Joe held up the gallon-sized Ziploc bag filled with pumpkin and white chocolate chip cookies. “We’re ready to rock.”

“Call me when you get there safe,” Mercy fretted, hugging me and then Joe. “And Joseph, sweetheart, you make sure you keep an eye on her. She’s never been to Chicago before, it’s a big city, and O’Hare is an absolute nightmare, it’s so easy to get lost...”

“I don’t think he needs any reminders, love.” Dr. Lee laid a hand on her shoulder, stroked his neatly-trimmed beard with the other, watched us with a vague and wistful smile.

Mercy went back to trimming the flowers she had spread out across the kitchen countertop, white calla lilies that she threaded one by one into a translucent sapphire blue vase. “Now don’t forget to say goodbye to your brother. He’s out back feeding the new ducks. And I expect these ones to stick around for a while, thank you very much.”

“Mom, I don’t need to say goodbye to Rami. I’ll just think it. Really loudly.” Joe rubbed his temples with his fingertips and squeezed his eyes shut. “Peace out, you nosy bastard.”

“Joseph,” Mercy pleaded.

“Okay, okay, I’ll go say goodbye. Don’t get all aggressive. Don’t take it out on the flowers.” Aggressive...what a joke. I doubted that Mercy Eleanor Lee, formerly Martin, had a single aggressive bone in her immortal body; not even the infinitesimal stapes of her inner ears or the sesamoids of her feet.

“They’re calla lilies,” she replied dreamily, tending them like children. “And they symbolize love, and beauty, and fidelity...”

My nostrils itched and burned faintly in dissent. “I think I’m allergic to them.”

“You’re allergic to fidelity?” Joe asked, raising his eyebrows. “That’s it, now you’re definitely not getting my reclaimed virginity. No ma’am. I am not hit-it-and-quit-it material.”

“Oh sweet baby Jesus,” Mercy murmured.

“I’m going,” Joe said, showing his palms in capitulation and disappearing out the back door. I dragged my suitcase to the front one, politely declining Mercy and Gwil’s offers to help.

Lucy—her bleached hair in a high half-ponytail and wearing polka-dotted black tights, combat boots, a plaid miniskirt, and an extremely Octoberish orange sweater—was sitting cross-legged on the roof of Gwil’s Volvo. God, he’s such a dad. “Have a nice time,” she chirped artfully.

I opened the hatch of Joe’s Subaru and threw my suitcase inside. “Why do you sound like you already know I will?”

“I might have some relevant clairvoyant insight.”

“No way.” I stared up at her, stunned, my hands on my waist. “But you can’t see me, right...?”

“True. But this vision wasn’t of you. It was of Joe. You just happened to be there.”

Interesting. Very interesting. “And what transpired in this vision?” A night full of hot, steamy, blissful vampire sex? A girl could dream.

Lucy closed her eyes, recalling it fondly, maybe even cherishing it. “You were sitting in the stands of a professional baseball game. I could hear the crowd roaring, the umpire’s trumpeting interruptions. Blue and white...everyone was wearing blue and white. And you were there together—Joe a vampire, you human, side by side, almost entwined—shouting to each other over the thunderous noise and laughing and pushing nuggets of soft pretzels into each other’s mouths. So happy. I’d never seen Joe so happy.” Her striking pale eyes came open. “And he’s someone who’s already rather prone to happiness, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“I have,” I agreed.

“He’s never been serious about anybody else. I hope you know that.”

“I know that’s what he tells me.”

“It’s the truth,” Lucy insisted. “I would know if it wasn’t. Rami would know, Ben would know. Joe...he’s kind of the opposite of you. He’s always been the easiest to read. He’s the one Rami hears most loudly, the one who shows up most often in my visions. He’s clear, you know? Uncomplicated. Authentic. And what you mean to him...it’s something everybody sees. It’s a contagious sort of lightness, of joy. So thank you for that.”

And if whatever mysterious genetic switch that renders me immune to your talents wasn’t flipped, I’m pretty sure I’d look the same way. “I should definitely be thanking you,” I said. “You guys have a pretty cool existence going on here. And I’m so grateful to be invited into it.” For however long this lasts, anyway.

“None of us really invited you,” Lucy demurred. “We just let it happen.”

“So everyone knew I was coming? Because you saw it?”

“Everyone but Joe.”

“You never told him?”

“No. Not even now.” Lucy turned sharply towards the trees, as if she heard something in the soaring western hemlocks that swayed drunkenly in the wind. After a moment, she continued. “I’m not sure if I can even explain why. It wasn’t that I feared changing the timeline or something...my visions always come true regardless. Always. But I guess...” She tugged on her short half-ponytail, pondering. “I guess I didn’t want to cloud any of his decision-making, any of his emotions with the specter of the inevitable. I wanted whatever he felt for you to be completely organic. And it is.”

I considered her. “You are extremely thoughtful for someone who spends as much time shopping as you do.”

Lucy laughed in a high-pitched, almost juvenile trill, netting her fingers beneath her chin, her elbows resting on her bent knees. “I do like to shop. I didn’t always though.” She peered off into the trees again, this time pensively. “Did Joe tell you anything about my life before Gwil saved me?”

“Aside from the copious hippie jokes, not really.”

She nodded, her eyes far-away and still lost in the forest. “Gwil and Mercy are inordinately wonderful people. My biological father and mother, unfortunately, were not. And maybe they couldn’t help it, because from what I understand their parents were monsters too. I don’t think of them very often now, not even to resent them. But when I was alive I burned with it, with all that hatred, with all that bitterness. Every bruise was another log on the fire. Every screaming match or hurled plate was a splash of gasoline. So I ran away and found what I fancied to be a new family, and I lived on basement couches and out of vans and in abandoned buildings, and I explored increasingly inventive ways of putting that fire out.”

The October breeze cascaded through the trees, carrying echoes of birdsong and disembodied distant voices and the scent of pine. It reminded me of Joe.

“Chemically speaking,” Lucy said, “that first hit of heroin, that first high...it’s the best you’ll ever feel in your entire life. Nothing else will ever compare. Not skydiving, not backpacking through Southeast Asia on some Pulitzer-prize-winning journey of self-discovery, not winning the lottery, not the births of your children, not falling in love. And once you accept that, what’s the point in stopping? Everything you ever experience will live in the shadow of that needle. You’re twenty-five and you’ve already seen the endgame. You’re born, you suffer, you catch a glimpse of paradise, you pay bills and push shopping carts down the aisles of grocery stores and insipidly smile your way through your husband’s work parties until you die. What’s the fucking point? So I didn’t stop shooting heroin. And the whole time, I knew it was killing me. That’s what they don’t tell kids when they force them to make those idiotic classroom promises to never do drugs. You know it’s killing you, but you don’t care. Because it feels so goddamn good. Because it becomes the only sliver of your existence that doesn’t cut like glass beneath your skin. Sometimes you love things so much you let them kill you, isn’t that ridiculous?”

I wasn’t sure how to answer her; still, I heard my own voice: “Yes, it is.”

“It took dying for me to see that life is worth living. That there’s magic in the mundane and the frivolous. And that there’s beauty everywhere if you bother to look for it.” Lucy uncrossed her trim legs, leapt gracefully off the Volvo, and—with definite but not unkind scrutiny—pulled at the collar of my thrift shop sweater. “Even in your very, very, very misguided fashion preferences.”

The front door of the Lee house swung open, and Joe jogged out, carrying his suitcase. Gwil, Mercy, Scarlett, Rami, and Ben appeared on the porch to wave us off.

“What’d you do?!” Joe demanded, pointing at Lucy.

“Nothing,” she quipped.

“You guys gotta stop doing this!” Joe exclaimed. “You know what you’re doing, you know exactly what you’re doing, you gotta stop cornering people and forcing them to listen to your creepy tragic backstories! Nobody freaking asked!”

Lucy chuckled patiently and stood on her tiptoes to hug him goodbye. “Have fun.”

“You know it.” Joe tossed his suitcase into the Subaru and opened the driver’s door. “Ready, Baby Swan?”

“Almost.”

I walked to the wrap-around porch, climbed the steps, held my hand out to Ben. My stitches had almost completely dissolved over the past week, and the clunky impediment of bandages was no more. Joe crossed his arms and watched from beside the Subaru with an uneasy frown, but he didn’t try to stop me. He nodded to Rami, so subtly I almost didn’t notice. Rami nodded back.

“I will miss your melodramatic brooding immensely,” I told Ben. “Please do some fun family stuff while we’re gone. I’ll see you soon. Dan eich bendith.”

“Dan eich bendith,” he replied, taken aback. And then, after a moment’s hesitation, he ignored my outstretched hand and embraced me, his grasp so strong and yet so careful. His scent like crisp leaves and salted caramel and autumn sieved into a bottle unfolded in my lungs like an opened book.

“I Googled that especially for you,” I whispered. “You’re welcome.”

“I’m in awe.” His words were characteristically sardonic, but I heard warmth in them as well. When Ben pulled away, I saw that everyone else was smiling. Mercy had tears in her eyes.

I retreated back down the porch steps and met Joe by the Subaru. “Okay, mob guy. I’m good.”

He slid on his sunglasses, shook his head, flashed a proud and toothy grin. “You definitely are.”

All the way down Route 101 to the Seattle-Tacoma International Airport, we listened to Joe’s classic rock mixtapes and my NOAA Ocean Podcast episodes, reviewed the weekend itinerary, ran through the bare essentials for me to understand an MLB game (“Which I am totally not excited about whatsoever,” I informed Joe, who knew enough not to believe me).

When the Boeing 747 ascended above the clouds and unimpeded sunlight poured in from the other passengers’ windows, Joe put on a black sleeping mask over his sunglasses and reclined his seat, tried to nap, passed the time until he would be safe beneath the curtains of the sky again.

Somewhere over the Dakotas, as I leafed through a book about the Great Barrier Reef for my Marine Botany class, Joe’s hand bumped mine. “Hey,” he said drowsily, seriously; and I braced myself for some emotional declaration, some dire warning, some grave realization of the futility of what we agreed—almost always wordlessly, and yet unfailingly—was love.

“Yeah?”

“It’s an emergency.”

“Uh oh,” I replied, smiling now.

“Flag down the flight attendant and get some more of those honey roasted peanut packets,” Joe said. “I’m starving myself back to death over here.”

The Windy City

The bat cracked deafeningly against the baseball pitched at nearly a hundred miles per hour. It was a home run. The crowd erupted into mindless, primal shrieks of conquest; and when Joe jumped to his feet, clapping and cheering and nearly spilling his blue-and-white bucket of popcorn, I found that I did as well. I screamed for the team of a city I’d never lived in, sank back into my seat beside Joe, nestled against his chest as his right arm closed around my waist and hauled me in closer, as his left hand teased me with a soft pretzel nugget hovering just out of reach. And in that moment, I felt like Lucy, snatching Polaroids out of the space-time continuum of the present and the future and the past. There was where Joe and I were right now, of course; the day we had met each other in the nonfiction section of the Calawah University library; the dance floor at Homecoming; the first night he snuck soundlessly into my bedroom window; all those years we still had left to spend together. Not forever, but perhaps long enough.

“I like this baseball thing,” I told him over the roar of the crowd, twirling my fingers around the curling locks of dark hair that stuck out from under his Cubs cap. Or maybe I just like you.

“Whew, thank god.” Joe wiped his forehead with the back of his hand in mock relief. “Now I don’t have to break up with you.”

After the game—a 5-3 Cubs victory, close enough to keep the spectators’ blood pumping throughout—we boarded the L, held onto the metal railings as the packed train car bumped and swerved along, and disembarked in Little Italy. Historic brownstones were interrupted by a freckling of pizzerias, Italian ice stands, and sports bars spilling out shouts of triumph and despair. We were staying in the Four Seasons with a view of Lake Michigan; but we had an hour of daylight—albeit chilled, dreary, and forever threatening rain—left in our Saturday. Tomorrow would be the aquarium, and then dinner before catching our flight back to Seattle, back to the greenery and fog and eternal dampness that I was beginning to think of as my home. Had I really only left Phoenix two months ago? Had I ever really lived there at all?

“So,” Joe said as we walked under shedding green ash and black cherry trees, his arm draped across my shoulders. “Guess what the University of Chicago has. In addition to a killer Economics PhD program, which yours truly will be graduating from in approximately 2027, astonishingly aged not a single day. Maybe he’s born with it, maybe it’s Maybelline.”

“Hideous sweatshirts?” I guessed.

“One of the best Marine Biology departments in the world. And the affiliated Marine Biological Laboratory up in Massachusetts, where they send their PhDs to do research.”

“Wait, seriously?” I stopped abruptly, the heels of my boots squealing against the sidewalk. “You mean...for me?”

He rolled his eyes. “No, for my other girlfriend who is also inexplicably super obsessed with the ocean. I clearly have a type.”

“You want me...to come to Chicago...with you...after graduation? For like...a five to seven year commitment?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Well, that just sounds...serious.”

“Huh. What do you know. I guess we’re serious after all.” He took my hand and pulled me gently forward, leading me down West Taylor Street. He seemed to have a destination in mind.

“How is this going to work for you, anyway?” I asked, beaming uncontrollably now, trotting along beside him. “Living in a place that isn’t Washington or Scotland or Alaska?” Chicago was cold and cloudy for a lot of the year, true, but few cities were Forks-level wet and sunless. Forks-level tyrannically depressing, I would have said two months ago.  

He shrugged, unphased. “Night classes. Sunglasses. Faking a chronic illness so I don’t have to leave our house. I’m really good at that one. Plus I can get a doctor’s note any time I want one. I’ve got connections, you know.”

Our house. He said OUR house.

Joe came to halt in front of a stately yet plain brownstone which now operated as a trendy bookstore, the kind that sold six dollar lattes and hosted anarchist poetry slams on Friday nights.

“Is this where we’re going to crack hipsters’ kneecaps as a bonding activity?” I asked.

“This is where I grew up.”

I looked again, studying the earth-colored stone quarried over a century ago, the wrought iron railings that framed the front steps, the rectangular windows revealing the illumination and shadows of other families’ lives. “Joe,” I said softly, leaning into him, searching for my words.

“There were eight Mazzello kids: Joseph, Charles, Mimi, Salvador, Donna, Lucia, Bianca, and Giuliano.” He rattled them off like a jingle from a fast food commercial. “And I was the oldest. So when my dad dropped dead of a heart attack in the middle of his shift at the Zenith Radio factory, it was my job to step up and figure out how to keep everyone fed. I was seventeen and completely hopeless at school back then; Sal was always the smart one, the disciplined one, he ended up as a math professor at Loyola University. I was just some directionless, grieving kid who never shut up. But there was a place for boys like me in Chicago in the 1920s. The mob could get you money. The mob could turn that same incessant chatter that got you bruised at school into something useful. And the mob could give you a family.”

Joe watched the brownstone solemnly, meditatively, his hands in his pockets.

“My mom sobbed for an hour the first time I brought home an envelope full of bills with Hamilton’s face on them. She knew how I got it. But how could she say no, how could she tell me to stop? We’d never seen money like that. All my siblings could finish school. My sisters could have new dresses on days that weren’t Christmas and Easter, my brothers new shoes, Sal the glasses he needed so badly. My mother always had something to put in the offering plate at church. And once you were in the mob, it wasn’t exactly easy to leave. But they took care of their own. After I died, they sent my mother money for years, until her own children were established enough to support her. That’s when I learned that money wasn’t just something that put food on the dinner table or kept the lights on. It’s a way of showing loyalty, of giving people peace and comfort and meaningful choices in their lives. It’s how I’ve been taught to give back to the world. So I guess I shouldn’t have disparaged my fellow vampires back in Forks, because there’s a slice of my tragic backstory, Baby Swan. Now you know. And you should know everything, since we’re in this thing together. Or maybe I just want you to.”

I laid my palm against his cool and flawless face, ran my thumb lightly across his cheek. “You really are serious about me.”

“I am alarmingly serious about you.”

“Even though this thing of ours has an expiration date?” Since I can never become a vampire. Since I will never have the distinction of being a permanent fixture of the Lee coven.

“That’s not a problem for today. That’s a problem for ten or fifteen years from now, whenever you decide you want to settle down and have kids and do the whole Great American Dream bit. You’ll be sick of me by then anyway. You’ll be dying to get away from us. Hahaha, get it? It’s a pun. Dying to get away from the vampires.”

I couldn’t imagine ever being sick of Joseph Francis Mazzello. Still, ten or fifteen years felt almost as good as forever to me. Fifteen autumns, fifteen Christmases, fifteen journeys around the sun that he avoided so deftly. “Why me, Joe?” I asked, incredulous. “You could have anyone. Any human, any vampire. Why me?”

“Because you’re you,” he said simply. And his mystified dark eyes added: What kind of a question is that? “You’re smart and you’re hilarious and you actually care about the world, about where it came from, about where it’s going, about people and places and animals that you’ll never meet. You’re indomitable. You’re fearless almost to the point of recklessness. And yet you’re so kind. You’re even nice to Ben, and humans are never nice to him...they’re either horrified or confused, or they’re too busy fantasizing about him to remember that he’s a real fucking person. But you’ve always tried to see the good in him. Even when he didn’t deserve it.” Joe shook his head, marveling. “And yeah, I’ve...I’ve screwed around, full disclosure. I’ve done the hookup thing. And it was great for what it was. But I never wanted more. I never felt some gnawing, sentimental, Hallmark-channel need for connection, to understand who they were as people. And then I met you, and...I want to know every single goddamn thing about you. I want to know your favorite color, what books you read, what the hell is so appealing about pineapple pizza, what you dream of. I feel like I could never get tired of trying to understand you.”

A refrain circled through my mind like a whirlpool, dragging every other thought down into oblivion: I love him, I love him, I love him. “Blue,” I said at last.

“What?”

“Turquoise blue, like the sky in Arizona. That’s my favorite color.”

The smile, slow and wonderous, rippled across his face. He took my hand again. “Come on.”

Joe led me onwards, down a few blocks and around a corner, as the muted sun receded from the sky and the first stars took its place, pinpricks of celestial light in a blanket of violet, azure, amber, rust. He stopped in front of the Church of Saint Lawrence, established in 1902 according to the sign mounted on the brick wall that faced the street, perhaps the same church that he had once visited with his family as an impatient child, snickering with his brothers and sisters and kicking the back of the pew in front of him with shoes that never fit quite right. There was a fountain bubbling with transparent water, a statue of the Virgin Mary at the center, coins made of copper and nickel and zinc glinting through the water under corridors of silvery luminance cast by the streetlights.

“I lied about not having my own superpower,” Joe informed me mischievously, not at all serious.

“Oh, did you now?”

“Absolutely.” He opened his wallet, rooted around, pulled out a penny and handed it to me. “I can make wishes come true. So go ahead.” He nodded towards the fountain. “Make your wish.”

The penny was worn and nearly indecipherable, but I was just barely able to read that it had been minted in 1928. The same year Joe was turned. “Joe...I can’t just throw this away!”

“You’re not throwing it away. You’re exchanging it for a wish. Now wish.”

I closed my eyes, chose my wish, tossed the penny into the fountain. The plink it made when it hit the water was bright and yet mournful somehow, like windchimes, like flickering candlelight.

“Outstanding job,” Joe complimented.

He was so visibly proud, so content, so faultless. The streetlights threw shadows across the sidewalk, the fountain, the whole world it seemed. I laced my fingers behind his neck, gazing up at him. “What are we doing tonight, mob guy?”

“I’m so glad you asked. You see, we have options.”

“Let’s hear them.”

“Door Number One,” Joe began. “It’s been a long day, and you’re exhausted from the illustrious honor of witnessing a Cubs victory firsthand. So we go back to the hotel, find some shark documentary on tv, order room service, shower, and drift off into a peaceful slumber. Just like last night.”

“Not bad. How about Door Number Two?”

“Door Number Two. You’re tired, but not that tired. We go back to the hotel, find that same aforementioned shark documentary, but totally ignore it and make out instead. Maybe we even round second base, in the spirit of the Cubs. Whatever you’re up for. Then we shower and drift off into a peaceful slumber.”

“Even better,” I said, and I meant it. “And what’s Door Number Three?”

Now Joe became jittery; his eyes darted to the fountain, the church, the cars that rolled lazily by. He was so desperate to conceal his hope, to not impose any undue influence upon me. I felt infinitesimal, almost weightless drops of rain against my cheeks, my collarbones, the downy undersides of my arms. “Well, uh, Door Number Three is...it’s...well...uh...it’s...”

Door Number Three is a home fucking run. “I want Door Number Three.”

“Really? Because you don’t have to say that, you can say no, that’s completely fine, it’s more than fine actually, it’s awesome, it’s totally cool, I’m seriously fine either way, and you can obviously change your mind whenever—”

“Wait.” I broke away from him, yanked my own wallet out of my purse, found the Official Whatever You Want Pass, hastily unfolded it, and presented it to Joe. “I want Door Number Three.”

He barked out a shocked laugh, accepted the pass, studied it in disbelief. “You are full of surprises, ma’am. It took me a hundred years to find a woman like you. And I don’t think I ever will again. Makes one wonder if this whole eternity thing is all it’s cracked up to be.” He tucked the pass into his pocket and kissed me beneath the streetlights, beneath the stars. “So there’s one tiny caveat to my wish-granting superpower.”

“Yeah?”

He smiled impishly, nudging the tip of my nose with his. “You have to tell me what you wished for.” He was joking, as he almost always was; I didn’t have to tell him anything. He wouldn’t press the issue. I doubted that he was really expecting me to answer at all. And yet I wanted to tell Joe; I yearned, for once, to be as clear as Lucy had said he was.

“For you and me,” I replied in little more than a whisper. “And for forever.”

Home

The only thing that startled me was how profoundly unstartling it all was, how wholly uncomplicated, how effortless.

I didn’t feel like a different person afterwards. I didn’t feel that some latent spark of lust, of carnality had been ignited, had singed through me, had left me forever marked like the heights of children ticked off on a doorframe over decades; I felt neither ruined nor awakened, no wiser, no older, no more enlightened as to the incalculable eccentricities of the vast and enigmatic universe. I felt only happiness, and exhausted satisfaction, and a deep, dreamless peace that engulfed me like frothy fingertips of waves dragging pebbles and shells back into the sea. I felt only a homecoming that was measured not in miles but in soul.

We slept in as the morning sun rose over Lake Michigan, bought Ben a hoodie (black, of course, per his usual aesthetic) from the University of Chicago gift shop, strolled unhurriedly through the dimly-lit, relentlessly blue pathways of the Shedd Aquarium. As I stood in the glass tunnel and watched sawfish and blacktip reef sharks soar by overhead, Joe linked his arms around my waist, tucked his chin into the dip of my collarbone, kissed the slope of my jaw.

“What do you think?” he asked, perhaps a touch apprehensively. “Could you get used to the Chicago life for a few years?”

“I would be tempted to kidnap some of these guys and bring them home to live in our bathtub. But yes.”

And Joe murmured, smiling, his lips to my temple: “That’s illegal, ma’am.”

Our flight back to the West Coast took off after dusk, and there was no blinding sunlight for Joe to avoid; only immense glooms of clouds and gleaming distant stars and the unfathomable void of space, cursed with crushing pressure and darkness like the cervices of the ocean floor.

Fifteen years might not be enough, I thought, resting my forehead against the cold airplane window as the city lights died behind us, as Joe’s hand weaved through mine on the armrest. But forever sounds just about right.

Larkin

There once was a boy born in a stone cottage with a dirt floor in a vanishingly inconsequential village just west of Clifden, Ireland. It was February 9th, 1672, bitterly cold, miserably wet, and the sea was murderous with storms. His mother was illiterate, as her mother had been, and as her mother had been as well, all the way back to people who painted mammoths on cave walls with their fingers; she was thirty-three and already exhausted with living, her seven children forever underfoot, her full and ruddy cheeks perpetually smudged with dirt from the field and ashes from the fire. Her husband was a failure and a drunk, but half a day’s worth of work once or twice a week was better than none at all; and as much as she never would have admitted it, he was a tether for her in a world that was often, as she had learned, both lonely and cruel.

She gave the baby boy a name—a strong Irish name, none of that audacious English rubbish—that meant rough or fierce, just like the sea that rose and ruptured against the rocky cliffs outside. He would need to be rough to survive in this world. He would need to be fierce.

He began like all the other children had been: sweet and yet anonymous, yielding, needful, worryingly small. She rocked him absently with one arm as she stirred the stew pot with the other. She sang to him, told him stories long before he could comprehend them, tales of the Lord and the saints and all their malevolent adversaries: serpents, pestilence, demons, dragons. She tossed stray sticks to him so he could carve pictures into the dirt floor and keep out of the way as she labored with the laundry or the sewing. And he grew, and he grew; and there was nothing remarkable about him at all, that boy speckled with mud and soot and the perpetual bruises of children mostly left to their own devices, that boy with pallid skin like his mother’s and black hair like his father’s and eyes so light and vibrant a brown they were nearly gold.

The boy was a baby, and then a child, and then a young man. And his mother realized one day—all at once, as a mother does when their attention is divided among so many other lives, when the children’s analogous faces bleed into each other and even their names sometimes escape her, even those names that she had chosen herself from the stories her own mother once passed to her through threadbare whispers—that people had a habit of following him, of listening to him. That there was an ether of allure that hovered around him like the mists that clung to the precarious, crumbling cliffs that touched the sea; that there was something like what the heathens called magic. And when the war came, that boy who was no longer a boy left his mother’s stone cottage and enlisted in Clifden, lied about his age, signed his name with an X because that was all he knew how to spell. But he was sure to tell the man who handled the ledger that he did have a real name, a good Irish name, a name apt for a soldier, a name that his mother had told him meant rough or fierce: Larkin.

There are men who join wars out of loyalty, principle, love for their homes; and then there are men who join to escape their homes, perhaps to forget them entirely. If you were to consult that ledger signed in a pub in Clifden, Ireland in 1688, you would read that I fought for Ireland, for the Catholics, for Christ the Lord and all his saints. But what I really fought for was my own resurrection: to take that boy stained with dirt and ignorance, drown him in the blood of other mothers’ trivial sons, and dredge up some greater version of myself that I had always known existed, that was hidden somewhere in the netlike darkness of the marrow of my bones.

People follow me, and they always have. I couldn’t tell you why. When I called them to enlist, when I thrusted swords and pikes into their calloused farmers’ fists, when I told them they could fight and live to see their wretched homes again, they believed me. I climbed the ranks like a ladder, like a mountain made of bones. And all those other mothers’ sons laid down for me so I could walk across the bridge of their spines to what I mistakenly assumed was invincibility.

At the Battle Of The Boyne, my horse was shot out from under me. A Williamite caught me beneath the ribs with his dagger. And as I bled out, staring up at the sky and impatiently waiting for the pain to vanish as my consciousness withdrew like low tide, I became aware that someone was lifting me, holding me, spiriting me through the battlefield and then the wilderness; and that my pain, in a disconcerting turn of events, had swelled to a vicious and unrelenting inferno.  

Three days later, I woke to find that I was resurrected again, this time as something more than human. The man who turned me was blond-haired, light-eyed, agile and yet gentle, ancient and yet ever-changing.

“I thought you’d survive,” Nikolai said in a thick Slavic accent, standing over me with a kind smile. Then he helped me to my feet. “You have greatness in you. It sweats out of your pores, it’s in every word you speak. What a shame it would be for all of that to go to waste.”

He taught me everything: how to read and write, how to hunt, how to dodge the sunlight, how to survive an existence that was both theoretically endless and yet forever on the precipice of being cut short. He introduced me to the Draghi, to vampires who were remarkable for their ferocity, or their creativity, or their curiosity, or their cleverness, or all those things at once: Victorien, Honora, Elizabeth, Kestrel, Zhang, Sergei, Ana, Gwilym. And most crucially, Nikolai showed me that my human talents were magnified several times over, that his own followers were not immune to them, that there was power in collecting exceptional individuals like pieces of china stacked in a locked cabinet; and that if I could learn to climb immortal bones, the ladder never needed to end.  

You never quite get used to the power, to the invincibility, to the promise of eternity. You never take it for granted. It hits you, again and again, in ceaseless and victorious waves. Once I was a barefoot toddler who sketched dragons and Catholic saints from the stories my mother told me into the dirt floor of our drafty stone cottage. Now I live in palaces with marble floors, with spiral staircases and libraries and gold-dripping ballrooms, with unobstructed views of any sea I choose. Now I am the dragon.

My phone rang, and I checked the name on the screen. Then I answered. “Hello, beauty. How’s the other side of the Pacific treating you?”

And Liesl answered, in a soft and astonished voice: “I don’t think Lucy can read her. I don’t think any of them can.”

I could feel it again. Another wave, crashing through me like the ocean, like the unstoppable rolling of time: power and insatiability and exhilaration. I smiled in my twilight-lit study as long-dead stars rose outside and the wind howled like wolves over the East Sea. “You know what to do.”

[thefanfictor]

Last Minute Plans (Taehyung Blurb)

Contents: Dystopian fanfiction, fun, cute, mentions of LGBTQ+ (there’s the warning, for you homophobic fucks), NOT ROMANCE

You were walking along the streets of Busan, inhaling the smell of the cool evening air. You had 2 days until your plane was due to go home. You were sad, but you were determined to enjoy what was left of your trip. The year was 2051 and you were 16. What were you in Busan for?

Well, three years ago you had discovered a boyband. A Korean boyband who had rocked the world nearly 40 years ago. BTS.

They had been active performers for nearly 25 years, but they had disbanded since then. And of course, they had separated the year you were born. But once you had found their music, you were hooked. And about 2 weeks ago, you’d had the opportunity to come to Korea.

Fat chance that you’d declined.

Now, here you were, walking back to your hotel as the sun was setting. You were staying in a quieter part of the city, so it was relatively peaceful with a few people wandering the streets. Deciding you weren’t in a huge rush to get back, you leaned against a nearby wall and closed your eyes letting yourself bask in the moment. A minute later, however, the silence was broken by a soft “Thank you”.

You opened your eyes and were met by the sight of a man in tan slacks, a large blue sweater, and a bucket hat that sat low on his head, obscuring his eyes. Your stomach tensed as you looked over this stranger. Instinctively you slipped your hand into your pocket and grabbed your keychain, slipping the keys between each finger in case you needed to defend yourself. Who was he?

“I’m not sure I understand what you mean, sir,” You replied, still on edge but not wanting to be rude. A closer inspection of the man revealed a soft smile under his hat.  He pointed a finger at the hoodie you were wearing. On it was BTS’s symbol, in Love Yourself: Answer colors. A small smile broke your face and you loosened your grip on the keys a bit.

“Are you - er, WERE you one of their fans too?” You asked. He chuckled a bit.

“Not exactly. What’s your name, miss?” He inquired. You hesitated a moment. Should you tell him? He was a stranger. Well, it couldn’t hurt right? He seemed nice enough.

“I’m Y/N L/N, sir. Or, I guess L/N Y/N since we’re in Korea...” You replied with a nervous chuckle, “And I don’t mean any disrespect, but... why exactly did you thank me if you weren’t their fan?”

Another chuckle. This time, instead of answering, he reached up and pulled the bucket hat off his head. It took you a minute to scan over his face, but once it registered, everything clicked. Your knees buckled and if it weren’t for the wall behind you, it was likely you would’ve fallen over.

His soft brown eyes, the adorable boxy grin, and the jawline that, even after sixteen years, still looked like it could cut someone. His broad shoulders shook as he chuckled at your reaction, and his deep, rich laughter was very familiar.

“Y-You’re... V,” You murmured in disbelief. “Oh my God...”

V nodded and smiled again at you. If it weren’t for your overwhelming will to hold yourself together, you would’ve collapsed into a puddle of happy tears and squealing. He held out his hands and you tentatively slipped your hands into his. You gazed down at them, amazed at the sheer size of his palms compared to your own.

“Thank you for supporting us, even if we aren’t performing anymore,” V said, never looking away from your face. “If our music has helped you even just to smile, then it’s all been worth it.”

He squeezed your hands and your eyes began to fog up. You tried desperately to hold them back, not wanting to cry in front of your idol. But alas, you weren’t able to hold them all back. As one slipped down your cheek, you managed to recover your voice again.

“I-I remember watching your seven year anniversary video... It made me smile a lot,” You said, laughing softly to compensate for your crying. V let go of one of your hands and reached to your face, gently swiping away a few tears with his thumb. Everything inside you turned to mush and you knew that you be screaming and jumping in circles once you got home.

“I’m glad,” Came the response and you tried to suppress the blush you could feel rising in your cheeks.

“I-I do have one question, though. If that’s okay?” You asked timidly. 

“Go ahead.”

“In that video, I remember you sa-saying that you wanted to be friends for a long time and be able to see the o-others have kids. Do any of them have any?”

V smiled again, wiping away a few more of your tears. He looked a little nostalgic and thoughtful for a moment. It was like he was contemplating how to answer before he did.

“Seokjin has a daughter, and his wife is expecting another although we’re not sure of the gender quite yet. So far, he’s the only one. He, Yoongi, and Namjoon are married. Hoseok is engaged and Jungkook is dating...” He trailed off. “And Jimin...”

You felt your stomach tighten once more. Jimin?

“Wh-What happened to Jimin?” You asked anxiously. You weren’t sure what you would do if something bad happened to Jimin. God forbid he was... No. You cut off the thought before it could get worse. V sensed the nervousness in your voice and was quick to reassure you.

“Jimin is healthy, and... He’s my husband,” V murmured, getting a little tense as if afraid you would push him away. A sense of relief flooded over you, followed almost instantly by a wave of giddiness and excitement. You’d be lying if you said you HADN’T shipped VMin just a little after watching all the fan videos.

“Really?? Oh my God, that’s... that’s amazing!” You exclaimed, with a grin. V visibly relaxed and his smile widened again.

“May I give you a hug?” He asked. Instinctively, you turned to look for any paparazzi ready to capture the moment and start rumors. You had to mentally smack yourself and remind your brain that he didn’t constantly have cameras all over him anymore. Even so, you scanned the roads, but in the shadows of the evening, you saw no one.

“I-If it’s alright with you... sure,” You murmured. You tried to loosen up as much as possible, but you still felt your shoulders tense as V’s arms wrapped around them. Timidly, you returned the hug. His cologne enveloped you, smelling woodsy and comforting. More tears stung your eyes, but you fought to hold them back this time.

The hug lasted a bit longer than you had expected, but you weren’t complaining. Eventually you two separated and you had to lean against the wall again as your knees buckled once more. 

“You can call me Tae. Or Taehyung. It doesn’t matter,” V offered. You couldn’t stop smiling. A shy nod was your response and he laughed again at your suppressed excitement. The evening grew darker and Tae looked up at the rising moon.

“Can I walk you back to wherever you’re staying?” He asked, “I’d feel much better if you didn’t walk home alone at night.”

Another nod.

As you two started the walk towards the hotel, Taehyung was good at keeping conversation up and filling the silence when your voice stopped working out of sheer shock and happiness. Slowly, you were becoming less shy, the feeling of actually being friends with him taking over the sense that he used to be an idol who people looked up to.

Time went by all too soon and you were in front of the hotel sooner than you liked. Tae looked up at the building and then down at you.

“You’re visiting?” He asked, sounding surprised.

“Yeah... My flight home leaves in two days. I’m here with two of my other friends who ALSO happen to be ARMY,” You replied, a bit sadly. Tae once again looked like he was deep in thought. A moment later he looked back at you. Your mind still was unable to comprehend the fact that you were talking to THE Kim Taehyung. He typed something into his phone and a minute later, a chorus of quiet ding!s sounded out of his phone. He smiled happily at the screen and looked up at you again.

“The whole group is here to visit Jungkook, so if you and your friends are free tomorrow morning, me, Jungkook and my hyungs can take you three to have breakfast. It’s not often we find ARMY nowadays and since our schedules are much less cluttered, we like to do nice things for the ones we DO find,” He asked. This time, HE sounded shy. but you couldn’t be happier. You had to keep yourself composed, although inside you were bursting at the seams.

“Really?? Y-Yeah, we’re free!” You replied excitedly. You mentally cursed yourself for accidentally being too fangirly. But Taehyung didn’t seem to mind, laughing and letting out a small “awww” at your reaction. He held out a small strip of paper to you and upon taking and inspecting it you found a number. A phone number.

“You can text me if your plans change or if you need a ride. Or anything at all!” He said. You were speechless. Almost robotically, you carefully slipped the paper into your phonecase, where you wouldn’t forget it.

“One more hug?” Tae asked, holding out his arms. You smiled, the tears forming in your eyes once again. One more hug later, and he was waving to you as he walked into the night. You waited until you could no longer see him before letting yourself squeal and jump around in a circle, much to the confusion of a passerby. 

You made your way blindly back to the room you shared with your friends. You burst through the door, a huge grin on your face and tear streaks on your face. they looked mildly concerned, but you ignored them.

“Guys, you’ll never guess what I’ve planned for tomorrow.”

[anastasiaskarsgard]

This is an AU where Roman didn’t get killed

HER

He hated her the first time he met her. It’d been another boring day in class, when the teacher has announced they had a new student. Mildly intrigued, Roman sat up straighter and waited for the apparently shy new girl to enter.

To say he was underwhelmed was an understatement. The teacher directed her to sit next to him and he looked her over as she approached. She was tall and thin, with no hint of a figure like most of the other girls. She wore glasses and looked very plain, yet she seemed completely self assured. She was annoying.

“My face is up here dick,” she said under her breath as she sat down.

Roman’s temper flared at the disrespect. “Nothing on you even worth looking at.” He said haughtily and ignored her the rest of that year.

At 15, he found her crying in the girls bathroom after he’d finished fucking some slut. He was pretty sure she’d heard their activities since she refused to look at him as she just cried on the floor in the corner. Roman glanced over at her as he washed his hands.

“I hope you’re not crying over me.” He sneered.

If looks could kill, he was certain he’d be dead on the spot. Pure venom in her eyes burned into his own, as she swiftly stood and marched up to him, stopping only inches from his face. “You’re not worth the shit on my shoe freak.”

“What a dirty mouth. I know something you can-“

SLAP!

Roman stood there stunned as he watched the now furious girl, that only moments before had been crying on the floor, storm out of the bathroom. He looked in the mirror and there was a clear handprint on his face. He always had faster reflexes than girls, so they never were able to land slaps, but he hadnt even seen that one coming.

He hated her.

At 17, he was leaving a party when he heard a girl scream off in the woods nearby. Curious if he could catch some people fucking, he drunkenly stumbled in the direction of the sound. As he got closer, the voices became clear yet he couldn’t recognize them in his hazy state of mind.

“I thought we were past all this.” A deep male voice growled.

“Well you thought wrong. We are done.” A female voice snapped that raised the hairs on Romans arms.

“Maybe I don’t want to be done.” The male said menacingly.

Roman rolled his eyes and wished he’d just minded his business. He was in no condition to save anyone, but didn’t like where this was going.

“You feeling froggy motherfucker? Leap!”

Roman’s eyes went wide as he recognized that voice: it was her. He shook his head and turned to go, when he heard the unmistakable sound of someone being struck and falling to the ground.

Spinning around he marched towards the irritating girl and whatever idiot was attacking her, and stopped as soon as they came into view. She was standing over his unconscious body, smoking a cigarette.

“Get a good show Godfrey?” She asked as she snapped her penetrating eyes up to his.

She made him uncomfortable. It’d been a long time since he’d cared to really look at her and he decided he was really drunk, because she was beautiful. He scoffed at that thought and turned his back on her as he went to find his car. She didn’t need him, she never did.

At their graduation she walked up to him and hugged him. He froze, unable to process what was happening and looked at her bewildered as she pulled away and smiled.

“You’re the most handsome boy I’ve ever seen... and the most tragic.” She purred.

He stared dumbly at her, still unable to respond to her uncharacteristic behavior.

By the time he got his wits about him, she was gone. He looked for her, and asked around but no one knew where she’d gone. It’s like she disappeared.

He didn’t find her again until he was twenty two, and it was very much on accident. He was full of blood from a recent meal, and was feeling aroused, so he went into a strip club. The place had a lot of very pretty girls and it didn’t take long, before he had two of them sucking his dick in the VIP. Slamming his cock down one of the girls throat, not particularly worried about her breathing, he was almost about to empty his seed, when he smelled her.

Looking up, he spotted her watching him, holding a tray, obviously a waitress. Suddenly horrified with his company, he pushed them away and tucked himself back in his pants. When he looked back up she was gone. Cursing to himself, he jumped up, searching for her. When he couldn’t find her, and was told no one matching her description worked there, he broke a large mirror, before storming out.

He found her again at twenty five. She was back in Hemlock Grove at his hospital visiting what appeared to be her mother. For the first time in his life, he was afraid to talk to a girl. He watched her on the security cameras, night after night as she stayed by her mother’s side.

Finally growing curious to investigate what was the matter, he was told the mother would die any day now of cancer. Without much thought he ordered all her bills covered by the hospital. The following day, he tuned into his favorite “show” and found the room empty.

Feeling disappointed, he exited the security office and made his way to his car when a hand reached out and grabbed him, spinning him around.

It was her.

“What the fuck is this?” She spit at him.

Roman looked at the papers she was holding, stamped with PAID IN FULL. “Obviously it’s the bill.”

She practically had steam come out of her ears. Stomping her foot she shrieked,”I’m not for sale! This will get you no extra favor with me. I will not fuck you!”

Roman chuckled, feeling truly amused by her announcement. “I don’t expect anything from you.” He said before turning and walking away.

“Wait!”

He stopped and waited. He didn’t turn as he heard her swift steps come up beside him. “Can I buy you dinner to thank you?”

Roman smirked, “I’m not going to fuck you just because you buy me dinner.”

Her face flushed and she looked as though she was going to hit him, when she laughed and shook her head. “Deal.”

At twenty seven he finally got the nerve to ask his best friend, out on a date. She scoffed at him, but smiled and agreed.

It was the best date he’d ever been on.

At twenty eight he proposed they elope in Vegas and she thought it was an excellent idea. It was the most fun he’d ever had. But that was every time he was with her.

He loved her.

At thirty she gave birth to their twins. Two perfect children, each resembling their parents combined features. Roman had never seen anything as beautiful.

He remembered the first time he realized she was beautiful, and felt his world drop out beneath him. Although his wife was still gorgeous, she was aging. He however, was not.

At thirty three, she suffered a miscarriage and it nearly killed her. Roman was forced to accept that one day she was going to die. But he pushed that thought down and tried to not think on it.

On her fortieth birthday, he cried in the bathroom at her party. Everyone had marveled at how well she had aged, and wanted to know her secret. Roman stood stoically by her side, as no one seemed to notice he hadn’t aged since he was 18. Looking at his beautiful wife and all her friends, he was struck with the reality that they’d all die.

It wasn’t fair. He hated her for making him love her. For making him need her, when she knew she was going to leave him. He had to excuse himself to the restroom where he currently was hiding, unable to get ahold of himself.

KNOCK KNOCK

“Go away!” He yelled.

“Roman? It’s me. Can you let me in please?” His wife asked.

Hesitantly, he unlocked the door as she slipped in and locked it.

“I hope you’re not crying over me.” He missed the joke.

He glared at her, huffing and folding his arms.

She laughed and shook her head, “still a brat.”

She was impossible! Suddenly feeling claustrophobic, he tried to push past her to exit, but she grabbed him and pulled him into a tight embrace.

“Don’t you run from me Godfrey.”

“Hn,” he grunted, trying to remain rigid and cold.

“I know why you’re mad.”

“I seriously doubt it,” he snapped, pushing her away from him.

She didn’t release him, just held him tighter. “It’s because I’m going to die and you’ll be all alone....”

He didn’t know what to say, so he just embraced her right back. Nuzzling his face in her hair, he felt a wave of sadness crash down on him again, and felt his tears moistening her hair.

“I love you Roman.” She whispered.

“I know, that’s the problem. I love you too.”

[sybright]

Some disorganized thoughts on Cats 2019

So, I re-watched Cats 2019 for the first time since I saw it in theaters back in January. Thoughts? Honestly, it was much better the second time around. I didn’t like M&R’s scene when I first saw it because I wasn’t aware that the arrangement they were using was the original London arrangement, I thought they had just changed it for the movie. Knowing that now, I really enjoyed M&R’s scene, it was one of the better choreographed scenes and the song actually sounded really good. I would have preferred the newer arrangement, but I really don’t mind that much at this point. 

Something I didn’t like the first time around was Derulo’s Tugger, I thought he didn’t fit the role at all. But on a second watch, he actually wasn’t that bad? I still don’t think he fits the character vocally, but his performance was actually pretty good. I also kinda like his take on Tugger’s character, I mean, he’s just such a bro? Like, he’s just hanging around throughout the movie and just being chill? And have ya’ll noticed that near the climax of Mr. Mistoffelees song, Derulo is just in the back singing that angelic high note? I thought that was so sweet and such a nice detail. I would also like to point out, although this has been said already, that he’s the only celebrity that doesn’t get kidnapped. I think we’re all aware that the whole kidnapping thing was for the sole purpose of celebrities only having to spend a few days on set, and not having to be part of the ensemble when their song was over. But Derulo? He stayed for the whole movie and actively participated in the ensemble, that really shows how committed he was to the movie, and I really respect that. His song did lack energy, but I blame that on Rebel Wilson, the live recorded vocals, and poor direction from Tom Hooper, all of which were not Derulo’s fault. So yeah, Derulo’s Tugger was good, fight me. 

When I first saw the movie, I was really bothered by shy Misto, I prefer confident Mistoffelees from the stage-show. But you know what, Laurie Davidson really sold it. He was absolutely adorable, and his song was good even though I would’ve liked to see Tugger sing it. Old Deuteronomy’s song was as beautiful as ever because Robbie Fairchild has a gorgeous voice. Macavity’s song I’m still pretty “eh” about because I really feel like Taylor Swift just doesn’t have the right voice for that song. I will, however, commend her on the way she sings “wide awake” cause she really screamed that line, and that’s exactly how that line should be sung, so props to her for putting a lot of passion into it. The Gumbie cat and Bustopher Jones still sucked because Rebel Wilson and James Corden suck, they were the worst parts of the movie and that’s all I’m going to say about them.  

Jellicle Songs and Skimbleshanks were fantastic and super high-energy. Those two and M&R were the best musical numbers in the movie to me. The Jellicle Ball was also really good, we got a good look at a lot of the choreography and it was just really beautiful in general.

Alright, last few thoughts, I think Jennifer Hudson did great vocally, I just wish she didn’t have that snot all over her nose for Memory. I wish they hadn’t cut such a big chunk out of The Naming of Cats, but I can live with it. Gus the Theatre Cat was alright, I would’ve like it more if it had some more emotion. Beautiful Ghosts still feels really out of place to me, it’s not a bad song but I just don’t think it fits with everything else. The rest of the songs were pretty good I’d say, but everything would’ve sounded so much better if they had just recorded the songs in a studio instead of singing live, but I think we all collectively agree on that. The dialogue was really unnecessary, but again, I can live it. I can live with the CGI designs as well, they aren’t great but they aren’t like, the worst thing ever, there are certain points in the movie where they look fine. The camera work could’ve been much better, we really didn’t get to see the choreography that well for most of the movie, and that’s a big problem with a show like Cats. So yeah, Tom Hooper, learn to film dance you twat. 

Overall, I mildly like the movie now, I don’t love it, but I admire the work that the artists put into it, minus Wilson and Corden, we all know they didn’t do shit. One of the reasons I decided to re-watch the movie was because of all the positivity blogs here on Tumblr, I love them so goddamn much. I don’t know why, but seeing so many people who, prior to the movie, knew nothing about Cats but then saw the movie and unironically loved it makes me really happy for some reason. So I decided to re-watch the movie to see if I missed something that those people were seeing, because honestly I want IN on the “Cats 2019 was great” bandwagon. Even now I still really want to stan this movie so I can join the party, but I’ll have to settle for admiring the 2019 Cats movie cult from afar. However, that doesn’t mean that I don’t stan some of the actors in this movie. Robbie Fairchild, Francesca Hayward, and Laurie Davidson deserve the fucking world because they were all excellent, and I have a newfound respect for Jason Derulo and his portrayal of Tugger. Anyway, this was way too long but I wanted to share some thoughts, if you loved this movie, I admire and envy you so much, have a nice day.

Side note: I got this movie on Blu-Ray, I have zero fucking regrets. This movie is basically a novelty item now, so I don’t care if you loved or hated it buy it on Blu-Ray you cowards. 

[reallyfamilyfriendlypgclean]

happy birthday, hyunnie~ jaeyong smut

taeyong would be lying if he said he wasn’t mad that his boyfriend, jung jaehyun, went back home to see his parents for his birthday. he understands that they’re his parents and all and they gave him life and whatever but it just so happens that jaehyun’s birthday is the same day as valentine’s day. and taeyong being taeyong, he would have done something big for this event. something that would no doubt give his dear old parents heart attacks if they heard about it. but seeing as jaehyun had left for a week for this momentus occasion, taeyong had to find a way around this little problem.

taeyong and jaehyun had been going out for 3 months after being in the same classes in college but, in all honesty, they hadn’t had anything more than heated make out sessions. this is only because jaehyun is shy, which taeyong finds both cute and mildly aggravating; taeyong has been more than ready for 2 months.

the double trouble of valentine’s day AND jaehyun’s birthday is the perfect excuse to finally show jaehyun who he really is: a kinky little bitch - but the universe must be against him finally fucking jaehyun. well...jaehyun’s parents must be against him finally fucking jaehyun. that’s not gonna stop taeyong.

they had been facetiming each other every night since jaehyun went to his parents house, talking about their day and saying how much they miss each other but seeing as this night was jaehyun’s birthday, taeyong knew he had to make it special. and jaehyun could tell something was up when he answered the call to find taeyong sitting on his knees in front of the camera.

usually, taeyong would have his laptop on his lap as he sat in his bed. or he would be lying down on his stomach with his laptop tilted down toward his face. what was he planning?

"hello." taeyong breathed. even his voice sounded different.

"hello?" jaehyun replied, confusion laced in his voice.

"how’s your birthday going? did you get any nice presents?" taeyong asked. his voice was still more gentle than usual and even if the conversation sounded normal, jaehyun could tell something was weird. still, he brushed past it and played along with the conversation.

"I didn’t really get anything too special. it was just nice to see my parents after a year of being away, you know? still, I missed you a lot."

"I missed you too. I’ve been thinking about you all day. I should be with you for valentine’s day." taeyong’s face dropped a little but his breathy voice never faltered.

"oh yeah it’s valentine’s day! how could I forget?" jaehyun chuckled slightly at himself and looked down at his laptop’s keyboard, thinking about how he forgot such and important date. he was brought back to his senses as he looked up at the screen to see taeyong smirking. he couldn’t look past this any longer.

"you’re acting weird. is everything okay?" jaehyun questioned, slightly worried. but taeyong ignored his question.

"are your parents at home?" taeyong asked. he mentally laughed at himself for sounding like a teenage boy trying to get laid for the first time.

"um...no they went out for dinner. why?" jaehyun’s face was adorably quizzical.

"and they left you alone on your birthday?" taeyong ignored jaehyun’s question again and pouted, though he was more than pleased to hear that they were all alone.

"taeyong. what’s going on?" jaehyun said a little more sternly, almost annoyed that taeyong was ignoring his questions. in response, taeyong smirked and took a deep breath in.

"so, when you come back, I can give you your real present but, for now, this will have to do." taeyong breathed. with that, he reached his hands to the hem of his white shirt and lifted it, tantalisingly slow. his smirk remained plastered to his lips and he could see jaehyun’s confused demeanour shatter as his eyes widened comically and his lips parted ever so slightly. taeyong finally removed his shirt completely and tossed it to the side and jaehyun was speechless. he had only seen taeyong shirtless a few times but there was something new and very noticeable.

taeyong had nipple piercings.

it was impossible not to notice the distinctive metal bars poking horizontally through both of the pink buds, making them permanently erect. taeyong chuckled at jaehyun’s awestruck face, evidently staring directly at taeyong’s chest and even with the low resolution of the call, he could see the beautifully pink blush beneath both of jaehyun’s cheeks. how endearing.

"do you like them?" taeyong questioned, voice slightly smaller than before, slightly worried that jaehyun didn’t like them.

"i-....wow." was all jaehyun could say before quickly snapping his mouth shut and moving his gaze anywhere but the screen in front of him. taeyong giggles and the sound made the blush on jaehyun’s cheeks creep up to the tips of his ears.

"this isn’t all of your present, you know." as taeyong says this, he slowly and carefully reaches down to his belt buckle, almost afraid of scaring jaehyun away as if he’s a baby animal. he carefully unloops the belt and reaches down to the button of his jeans, swiftly undoing it. he doesn’t break eye contact with his webcam as he tugs at the zip between his fingers and he swears he hears jaehyun whimper. he smoothly tugs down his jeans and watches for jaehyun’s reaction to the pink lace panties he's wearing that match his hair.

he definitely heard him whimper that time.

he kicks away his jeans and giggles a little, rubbing over the clothed outline of his cock, sucking air in through his teeth at the contact. jaehyun can only stare. he feels a bit creepy for watching like this -- like he’s invading someone’s privacy -- but he reminds himself that this is his boyfriend. his boyfriend. only his.

he zones back into the current situation as taeyong begins to peel off the panties. jaehyun's eyes flash down to meet taeyong’s semi-hard but wonderfully thick member and immediately retracts his eyes down to his bedsheets.

"look at me jaehyunnie" taeyong breathes. cautiously, jaehyun's eyes lift to find taeyong slowly stroking his member. jaehyun groans before quickly covering his mouth.

"don’t cover your mouth jaehyunnie. i wanna hear you". jaehyun’s hand lowers, resting on his belt buckle. taeyong smirks as he sees jaehyun’s hand twitching and inching towards the prominent bulge in his jeans.

"please touch yourself, daddy" taeyong whines.

at that, jaehyun snaps. he grunts and growls a low "fuck this" as he races to remove his belt, unzip his jeans and tug down his underwear in record time. he firmly grabs his solid length and releases a deep, drawn out moan as he slowly rubs it from the base to the tip, thumbing at it harshly.

taeyong whines at the sight of jaehyun’s large length, sticking three fingers from his free hand into his mouth, licking and sucking whilst wishing it was jaehyun's cock that was resting so nicely against his tongue. jaehyun's hand picks up its pace as he stares at the three digits disappearing in and out of the cherry boy’s wet lips.

taeyong releases his fingers from his mouth with a pop and breathily whines "what do you want me to do now?".

jaehyun’s blush returns as he’s reminded that this situation isn’t a dream and, after thinking about it way too hard, he replies "...f-finger yourself for me". taeyong smirks at how small jaehyun's voice sounds and he swiftly turns around and positions himself on his hands and knees so the camera can see his whole ass and the side of his face.

"is this okay, jaehyunnie?" jaehyun grunts as he replies with a breathless "yes" before spreading the precum that gathered at the top of his dick down along the sides. taeyong’s smile is only just visible in the darkness of his webcam’s view but his finger sliding between his thighs and reaching up to circle his rim is definitely visible and causes jaehyun to clench his eyes shut and squeeze his now throbbing cock tighter in his palm.

"daddy watch me"

taeyong whines as one of his digits disappears straight into the red rim. jaehyun releases a loud moan as he watches the muscle expand and shrink around taeyong’s finger. oh how he wishes he was there.

and just like taeyong read his mind, he says "i bet you wanna fuck my tight hole, don’t you daddy?" and jaehyun’s eyes clench shut as he growls a low "y-yes baby" and begins to thrust up into his fist.

when he opens his eyes after just appreciating the wet sounds coming from his shitty laptop speakers, taeyong has already added two more fingers and the new pressure against his hole causes him to let out a string of moans even louder than before. involuntarily, jaehyun lets out a low "fuck" as he adds more pressure to his own dick, imagining himself sliding in and out of taeyong’s tight hole. he knows he could bring so much more pleasure than those fingers. feeling a little bit courageous, jaehyun says "add another finger, baby" and hearing him say that, taeyong arches his back and whimpers.

he does as he’s told and his moans almost turn to screams as he reaches deeper, turning his head to watch jaehyun’s cock disappearing in his fist. taeyong knows that jaehyun’s length could reach further than his fingers ever could. "I wish you were here, daddy. I wish it was you who was filling me up so well. I wish you would fill me up with your cum until it drips out of me. I wish you would fuck me so hard ‘til I can’t walk for days. daddy- I want you so so bad." as taeyong reaches the last sentence, he finds his prostate and releases a short scream, followed by a series of loud moans and whines. jaehyun’s other hand has reached up under his shirt by now and has started pinching his nipples, making him moan out taeyong’s name repeatedly as he imagines him biting them. his hand’s pace picks up as his breathing gets heavier and he gets closer and closer to his release. "maybe I can make your wishes come true, cumslut." jaehyun growls.

that’s what pushes taeyong over the edge. his fingers hit his prostate once more before he screams and strings of white paint his sheets beneath him. his fingers keep up their brutal pace to bring jaehyun to his climax which arrives shortly after with moans of taeyong’s name.

they both slow their pace until taeyong collapses into the river of cum beneath him but he’s too tired to care. jaehyun catches his breath before he looks up to see taeyong collapsed and barely moving on his bed. "taeyong...are you dead?" jaehyun jokes. he could just about see the smile appear on taeyong’s face as he lightly chuckles with his cheek pressed against his sheets. he struggles to push himself up to a sitting position in front of the camera and jaehyun almost gets hard again at the sight of taeyong with cum streaked across his torso, some even smudge over his nipple piercings.

"you look good like that, baby." jaehyun smirks. "wow where did this confidence come from?" taeyong giggles as he leans forward onto his stomach and rests his chin in his hands. jaehyun stares in wonder at how this being in front of him could be so cute even after what just happened. "you should sleep, yongie." jaehyun says, concern laced in his voice. "so should you, hyunnie." taeyong replies, mocking jaehyun’s use of taeyong’s pet name.

"trust me, I will. I have to see my grandparents tomorrow and you’ve worn me out!" jaehyun’s face appears fake-annoyed. taeyong lets out his signature high-pitched giggle and stares at his beautiful boyfriend.

"happy birthday, jaehyunnie." taeyong smiles.

"thank you for the best present I’ve ever received," jaehyun replies with a smirk. now it was taeyong’s turn to blush, "and believe me when I say that your wishes will come true."

"but shouldn’t you be the one making wishes? It’s your birthday after all." taeyong pouts slightly.

"maybe my wish has already come true." jaehyun replies. his dimples deepen as his smile spreads across his cheeks.

"you’re so cheesy. but I love you." taeyong giggles.

"only for you, baby." jaehyun laughs. taeyong blushes furiously as he looks into his boyfriend’s crystal eyes. what a perfect birthday.