#but it does nothing about my itchy brain right now

[bellasdragons]

*flops back and forth on floor*

I wanna work on accents and other art stuff but don't have my tablet until tomorrowwwwww

........

*tilts head slightly to look at you*

anyone have any suggestions about what to draw when I'm able to do so?

like, what sort of accents would y'all be interested in? gonna attempt a rockbreaker entry if I can come up with a good idea (read: that I can draw and make look nice) but otherwise open to ideas.

also considering opening sketchy headshot comms bc I wanna draw dragons but not MY dragons y'know?

[ihopeinevergetsoberr]

I love the at a canes length story.

The power dynamic of him just reclined back watching his partner in their knees for him just does something yk?

Any ideas for him bossing around his partner like that? Or him being able to do what he want and they are not allowed to touch him, even if they beg? (All consensual ofc!!)

we’re all into our darling tease viktor, aren’t we? btw, i’m naming this drabble after my favourite am song.

cw: gn reader, smut, dirty talk, nipple play, i got too carried away and wrote a poetic filthy little thing.

word count: 700~

Normally you wouldn’t dare to complain about your lover’s hands — deliciously nimble, they never failed to tame you with the length of each cautiously curious finger, the callousness of them tortuous, yet professionally precise — just the right spoon of tar in a barrel of sweet honey. They were the hands of a pianist, attached to those lanky, just as much fitting for a musician arms — had your brain stupidly doomed whenever their defiant owner rolled up a ruffled sleeve just high enough to tease you with a sight of a pointy elbow or a weave of cerulean veins under the translucently pale skin. 

However, tonight — they became the hands of a jeweller, short nails the figurative tweezers gently piercing into each pretty bud of your nipples, restraining you with the unbearable thoroughness of Viktor’s most sensual touches — all lazy tugs and languid circles besieging the aureoles. Pure torment — nothing more and nothing less, increasingly intricate considering the utter complacency in the pair of amber eyes ogling your naked chest — not a single bead of sweat left unnoticed or unkissed away.

And this tactic — although insanely efficient — made you hiss numerous pleas into the softness of a dump pillow, back an impatient arch above the clinging to your sticky skin sheets. Because jewellers are impeccably methodical — most importantly slow, and slow was never your pace of choice, despite all its charming offers of savouring. You wanted him now, invariably inside, shirtless, with spitslick lips and open against the curve of your shoulder mouth: fast, and deep, and eagerly frantic — something a pianist might allow, but a jeweller must strictly avoid. How truly devastating. 

Or, perhaps, not?

His tongue is an unexpected tool — it gently soothes the pinched nipple, dripping with generous, thick moist onto the awakened goosebumps — a welcomed diversity, most perfectly combined with the dexterity of his skilful digits, and you meet it with a string of breathless curses — grateful for the little mercy, yet still not nearly satisfied enough. 

The ‘no touching’ rule effortlessly slips your mind when Viktor’s mouth lingers there — wrapped around the relentlessly teased bud, sucking at it so gently you might just melt into this very bed. You impatiently clutch his tie, clumsily pulling him forward into a pathetic attempt of stealing an open-mouthed kiss, and Viktor instantly regrets he didn’t free his slender neck off it earlier, silently remorsing the missed opportunity of tying your wrists together. 

He sighs, reluctantly peeling his right palm off your covered in saliva chest, and it insistently nudges you off the tie and leads right back where your hands belong — nailed into the pillow right above your head. 

“Was I not clear enough when I kindly asked you to avoid touching me?” his voice is soft — raspy and gentle, not upset with you in the slightest — just genuinely curious, ludicrously polite for a man so eager to torture you. “Or, perhaps, patience is simply not one of your virtues?” 

He offers you a smile — a chaste one, oh that specific stretch of thin lips into an unbearably handsome line — worthy of whatever foreplay-durations he wishes for. 

Now it’s your turn to sigh. 

“It’s just that… I’m afraid you might not be done with me even until dawn,” you mumble sweetly, fingers already itchy to intertwine with his hair — and you wonder if he might be willing to consider this compromise. He simply arches a thick brow, humming with a playful half-turn of a head. 

“I was not aware we were in a rush,” he chuckles, and — oh heavens, finally! — hovers above your flushed face for a split second, picking a feature to award with a long-awaited kiss. 

You’re not surprised when his warm gaze drifts over your lips, evidently recalling the irresistible softness of them. No matter how much into denying it Viktor might be, he is a needy man in the very depth of his heart — and these rare occurrences might just be your favourite moments of his vulnerability. And when you’re almost ready to release an ardent tongue into the blissful heat of his mouth — your precious inventor smirks, cruelly changing his route. 

“Besides,” he whispers — cheeky, and so unbearably hot, brushing the tip of his sharp nose against your earshell. “You’re underestimating me. I intend to proceed until at least next noon.” 

[kaorikarma]

Let Your Soul Take Flight

Howard Phillips Lovecraft X Reader

"I'm... starving.."

"Aren't you always?" You tsked, having been caring for him for several days. From the moment you saw him, emotionless and uncaring in a pouring rain shower, you knew he would be difficult; but you hadn't expected just how deeply odd he was.

He hummed, gazing at a wall with what you could only hope was some sort of thoughts processing in his brain.

"Most of the time." His head turned to look at you at an eerie, inhuman swivel while he answered, eyes blank and wide. You shivered a bit, something you hoped he didn't notice.

"Ok, well, let's go for a round three on taking care of that today. Let's try a buffet this time. I can't afford $300 in fast food again." You sighed, noting his doe-eyed expression. He didn't really seem to care if he drained your wallet; hell, he didn't even seem to fully grasp the concept of monetary value.

Feeding him had been a monumentous task. It was first on your list, since he looked frighteningly gaunt and emaciated, but nothing seemed to fill his stomach.

He constantly complained of being hungry, tired, and itchy, though no amount of sleep, food, or anti-itch cream sated him. He just stared at you with those blank, dead eyes.

There was something about him that made you decide to keep trying. He didnt seem to understand anything about society, and you were strongly worried for his well-being otherwise. At first, you had suspected mental health issues, his eccentricities ever-present to a degree of naiveté, but after the several days you'd spent trying and failing to care for him, you began to suspect some inhumanity present in him. His odd movements, insatiable needs, the way you discovered late last night that the cause of his consistent itching was your gaze, he seemed to you too strange to be human.

You plopped down in the chair in front of your bed, which he had promptly taken over before you could direct him to your couch, complaining all the while that the linens were giving him a rash. Head in hand, you watched his brows furrow with unease as you looked him in the eyes.

"You said mostly. So.. what's kept you full in the past, stranger?" He paused for a second.

"Mm... Call me Lovecraft." The words floated lazily off his tongue. He hadn't graced you with his name yet, though he knew yours.

Your eyebrows shot up with amusement. "Well that's certainly a step in the right direction..., Lovecraft. You starting to trust me now?" You chuckled a bit as he seemed to look regretful of the admission, turning to look away from you.

"Ugh...Yuck. My stomach aches when you call me by that name."

You openly face-palmed, albeit playfully.

"If that's your name, what else should I call you?"

He seemed to think for a moment.

"...How..ard..? No.. that doesn't feel right either.. Perhaps you should go back to calling me 'stranger'." He finished, crossing his arms with a deep frown.

"Howard? Hmm.. a bit old-fashioned, but I think it suits you well--" He gave you such a look of incredulous disgust that you sat, slack-jawed; you couldn't recall a single time he seemed to feel so strongly about anything.

"Absolutely not.. It feels too weird... ugh... no..no..." You watched as he pulled the blankets of your freshly made bed over his head, quite literally hiding under the covers, writhing a bit, like he'd been physically wounded by your attempt to call him by name.

Sighing once again, you stood up to pull the covers off his slender frame, but found that he tugged stronger than you could pull your fleecy bed-spread from him.

You sat next to him, dramatically flopping backwards until you were lying next to him, on top of the still-tucked in edge of the bedding.

"So your name must be Howard Lovecraft, huh?"

He made some sort of hissing sound and withdrew further under the blankets, curling into an ill-proportioned, too-leggy ball of a gangly, tall man.

"But you don't like either of those."

No hiss. A good sign.

"What about a nickname?" You looked over at the lump under the covers; had there been no linen divider, your noses could almost touch.

You swore you heard a low grumble in his throat. Not particularly a pleased sound, but it wasn't an aggressive 'no'.

You put a wary hand on where you thought the back of his head would be, feeling his breath catch and his body shiver with the unexpected sensation. He didn't pull away, like you'd thought he would. This was the one of the first times you'd been this close to him, and the first time you'd touched him, even if indirectly, through thick cotton.

You admonished the feeling, letting all the possibly nicknames for 'Howard' run through your head.

"What about... Howie?" You whispered to the ball next to you.

He growled again, this time more than pleased.

Not a man of many words, but as you smiled, happy with with yourself for finding something he liked, he emerged from the blankets, navy hair mussed, but looking overall content with his new namesake.

He reached out an touched the base of your head curiously, as you had done to him, light smile gracing his face.

"Perhaps..is this... affection, you displayed to me?" He asked quizzically, voice soft and slow with all the wonder of a dreaming child.

The moment was gentle, you thought, but you were having trouble focusing on his words with the deep, freezing chill the emanated from his fingertips, making your skin prickle with goosebumps.

You took the icy plunge and braced yourself for discomfort as you embraced him quickly and tightly, head resting in the crook of his neck.

He seemed confused and surprised, arms still where they were a moment ago, helplessly curled around the air.

"Yes, Howie. This is affection."

When his arms finally came down to awkwardly squeeze you, you realized this was the first time you had given him attention in which he responded well; no shivers of discomfort or anxious expressions in sight. He seemed to actually enjoy the embrace, freezing cold and trying to keep your teeth from chattering as you were.

You weren't sure how you'd not realized he was this cold before. Though you'd been staying decently far away from him, you thought that he would eminate this raw polar cold from a distance, yet you'd not felt a single change in the air until you were in his arms.

Though he'd relaxed and began deepening the embrace himself now, you had to pull away out of sheer discomfort, briefly looking down to see your bare skin blue and purple-tinged where you'd touched him for too long.

You hoped he didn't notice, although he looked disoriented after you'd broken the hug off so suddenly, looking a bit upset and ready to cling to you again, so you changed the topic with a gentle smile.

"You didn't answer my question earlier. What's kept you full in the past?" You repeated, knowing he'd already blanked on the question from minutes earlier.

He blinked for a moment, thoughts slowly returning to your prior conversation.

"I've not been full since I was a child. I ate copious amounts of crabs and fish, until I was sated for a few hours." At least he was more open to your probing questions now.

"Wow, your parents must have thought you a real challenge, huh?"

He looked down at you from his high perch with an unnerving gaze, not at all kindly and curious as it was a moment ago.

"I was capable of feeding myself. My parents had nothing to do with it."

"Oh.. ok, then."

You looked down at your feet, shuffling to the other side of the room before he took your hand, unexpectedly. A chill ran through your body, but his touch was so soft and pleading for you to look back at him, you didn't pull away.

"Am I too cold?" He asked, observing the way your fingers reddened in his grasp.

"A bit," you laughed lightheartedly, through half-chattering teeth.

He dropped his hand, ruffling through an inner pocket of his coat until he pulled out thick, woolen gloves.

Pulling them on, he took your hand again.

"Better?" You barely felt the chill of his hands this time. Smiling, you nodded at him.

"Let's go get lunch, Howie."

He let out a low, quiet laugh, accompanied by a near-impercievable smile, that barely reached your ears.

Maybe the third time would be the charm.

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

Note: Can be taken as a (long-before) prequel to 'Primal'. I want most of my Lovecraft stories to follow the same essential plot and lore I set up, so they shouldn't have many differences unless it's a request.

Thanks for reading!

June 5th, 2023

-Kaori

[freesia-writes]

Lil Life Update for Y'all <3

I've been a lil cryptic or back-n-forth, I think, and just wanted to share a little bit about what's been going on. I say it's not for attention but who knows what motives lurk under there, LOL. It's mostly because I love you all and want to let you in, also hope that it's encouraging or connective for anyone else who's experienced the same, and also I just miss the community I have sooooo loved here. 🥹

I'm a 34yo female with 2 kids aged 4 and 7. I had depression like crazy during and after my second pregnancy especially. In Aug 2021, my primary doc suggested I try something like Zoloft since I'd been complaining of irritability, no capacity, constant worry, and other anxiety symptoms. When I did feel some relief and felt encouraged that I could "feel like myself" again, I pursued solutions for other issues I was noticing. Over the last year and a half, it's been quite a ride. ADHD symptoms led to Adderall for 4 days, then Wellbutrin for a few months, then Buspar for a few months, then Strattera (tapering up and then back down) for about 3 months, then Ritalin for 1 month, which I thought was helping until we realized that the entire month of October was basically an increasingly manic episode.

Whew.

We're talkin 2007 Britney here (ok I didn't shave it but I cut my hair off into a pixie). Spent thousands on a new wardrobe of the "dark academia" style. Bought Disneyland tickets. Invested in a photography mentorship. So much energy and inspiration. Then we realized it was getting out of hand.

I had also been tapering off a lot of the meds over the last two months, so it was just a crazy cocktail of chemicals that made my brain finally go kaput. I finished the last dose of Zoloft on November 5th, and that was the last of the meds, so now I'm off everything. My therapist thought the mania was medication-induced due to all the changes plus the addition of the stimulant, so the goal was to try to allow everything to settle down and see what "baseline" is for me right now.

And it has been frickin HARD.

Cervical vertigo. All-or-nothing sleep and appetite. Extreme sensory sensitivity. Random itchiness. Racing mind. Total inability to focus. And the worst part has been the mood swings.

I'm basically having all the symptoms of bipolar disorder in a rapid-cycle format. It may be cyclothymia, or it may be the withdrawal effects from all the meds, but regardless... It's been quite the roller coaster. The nerd in me has been fascinated by the experiential knowledge of it all, since I majored in Psychology and have always loved learning about it, but the overall negative effects on me and my family have been difficult.

I'm someone who has always relied completely on being highly capable and in control. I find my worth in my productivity and competence. And it has caused increasing stress throughout my life. I've been praying for years that God would break me of it, and I can see how he is using this to do precisely that -- lovingly trying to answer my request to be freed of this relentless pursuit of the illusion of control. He's inviting me to simple, joyful life of trust. The perspective shift is so freeing when I realize that I don't need to have it all figured out because he already does, and I can just rest in his loving guidance and look to him for the next step instead of trying to plan out every possible outcome and strategy. I went on a reflective retreat in the Santa Cruz mountains and just felt so encouraged and loved in the way he invited me to let my shoulders down and to ground myself in his warm provision and care.

But the change doesn't happen overnight.

So in the middle of a total storm of bipolar symptoms -- days of mania followed by days of depressive episodes and being so new at it all that I don't know how to navigate "normal life" with all of that -- I'm also trying to rewire 34 years' worth of the way I think and act. BUT it's a blessedly simple process: the only thing I have to worry about is this moment. I can't affect the future or the past. So all I have is right now, and I can turn to God for guidance, encouragement, insight, or anything I need in this moment, and he is so faithful to give it. But man, it's easy to forget. ;)

Literally me with that right now, trying to figure it all out on my own before I remember I can't and don't need to:

Anyway, this got LONG, surprise surprise, but I've always enjoyed being vulnerable for the sake of connection and potential encouragement. And selfishly, I'd LOVE to hear from any of you who may have had similar experiences. Right now the fixation of my [very limited] capacity is on my photography business, but I've been feeling drawn to writing more and more, and have attempted a lil drabble here and there. So I'm just patiently waiting for the inspiration to return. :)

I have so appreciated the love from you all. I also haven't been as active with reading/reblogging/supporting/etc as I was, and that's just where I'm at right now, but please know that my heart is with you even if my brain is not, LOL.

If you made it this far, you get a gold star. Or a Howzer hug. Or somethin. :)

[zirawrites]

How would Romanced!Companions react to a Synth version of Sole's spouse coming back?

Cait: “You’re not considering replacing me with a robot, are ya?” Cait asked as if it was an obvious joke. Sole would clasp her shoulder and reassure her that no one could ever take her place. But instead, Sole looked at their feet in shame. “He’s/She’s a synth, for fuck’s sake! I’m a real person!” She shoved Sole. Tears stung her eyes. Cait could hardly speak when she added, “I love you, Sole. This thing does not.”

Curie: “I understand the plight of synths as well as any of us. But Sole... this person is not Nate/Nora. Surely they know this?” Curie listened patiently as Sole explained how their spouse’s synth had memories of their marriage and Shaun. Hell, they even remembered when the bombs fell. “If you must help them navigate these feelings, I support you, my love. I just need reassurance that throughout this journey you remember our own special bond.”

Danse: “That is... disturbing.” Danse understood exactly what it was like to have memories that weren’t your own. A voice sounding like someone else. A body that was created to house a different soul. His veins iced with terror when he thought of what memories Nate/Nora held of Sole. And if that changed his relationship with them. “What are you going to do?” The question made Danse’s belly heavy as lead. He almost didn’t want to know their answer, but ultimately it was Sole’s choice.

Deacon: Deacon sometimes wondered what he’d do if another synth of Barbara came back. He knew she wouldn’t be the original, but the Institute would’ve probably loaded her brain with memories of their marriage and lazy days on the farm and dreams of starting a family. Maybe even darker ones, such as her murder. He truly felt for what Nate’s/Nora’s synth was enduring. Hell, he could only imagine what was going through Sole’s own head. The spy just had one question, and he asked it as he stroked the back of Sole’s neck with a tender touch. “Will you choose me?” Deacon didn’t have it in him to admit to Sole that he’d choose them over Barbara every time. Even the real Barbara. He was afraid Sole would think he was lying.

Hancock: “Does he/she have everything he/she needs?” Hancock knew how dangerous the Commonwealth was for a newborn synth. Their occasional memory lapses and self-doubt made for unsavory scams and itchy trigger fingers. He would worry about any jealousy he harbored after he made sure Nate/Nora and Sole were safe. “Tell them to come to Goodneighbor. Hell, I’ll even bring them home myself.” Sole tried to search Hancock’s eyes for any lingering feelings, but the ghoul stayed stoic and calm. “I know we’re thick as thieves, Sunshine. I ain’t about to let anyone fuck with what we got.”

MacCready: MacCready used to have nightmares about Lucy when he and Sole first got together. He dreamt that she found them asleep in bed; his muscled arm slung over Sole’s body like a security blanket. Even after he woke up, MacCready could still hear Lucy’s soft crying in the birds chirping outside his window or water running as Sole drew a bath. Moving on from Lucy sometimes felt like betrayal. But now Sole didn’t have to move on from Nate/Nora, and he wasn’t sure where that left him. “I’m, um, happy for you. But, I mean...” MacCready anxiously scratched the back of his neck. “Where does that leave us, Sole? Are you gonna leave me for a synth?” Because the truth was, MacCready would never leave Sole for Lucy’s ghost no matter how badly she haunted him.

Preston: “The Institute will really stop at nothing to get you back.” Preston was sure this was the boogeymen’s last attempt at stealing Sole from the Minutemen. Yet underneath his initial anger, there was worry. He wasn’t sure if Sole still loved their spouse enough to leave him for their imitation. “Promise me you won’t fall for it, babe. This has to be a trap.”

Piper: “You know they’re not really your spouse, right?” Piper was terrified at the prospect of Sole’s husband/wife returning. She had no idea if Sole would leave her for them. And if Sole did, Piper worried it meant she’d been a placeholder all along. “They’ll walk and talk like Nate/Nora, but it isn’t them. I’m really me, Blue. Just... remember that when you’re with them.”

Nick: Nick was extremely sensitive to Sole’s feelings when Nate/Nora returned, albeit as a synth. Sole had already been through so much, and he was worried this would rekindle their grief. “Anything you need, just let me know.” He knew Sole wouldn’t leave him. His partner just needed space and understanding.

X6-88: X6 was furious at Father for bringing back Sole’s spouse. Everyone in the Institute knew how close he had gotten to Sole, and he worried their relationship would be thrown away to this... lesser synth. “Be wise about this, Sole. They aren’t who they think they are. That’s the entire point of rogue synths.”

[sometimesbrave]

read chapter 1: here

warnings: alcohol, death

(Italics are Telugu dialogue, brackets have translation to English)

March 1986

***

"While I'm far away from you my baby

I know it's hard for you my baby

Because it's hard for me my baby

And The darkest hour is just before dawn"

- Dedicated to the One I Love by The Mamas and the Papas

***

Varadha drank alcohol for the first time on 20th March, 1986. He had his reasons. No Aai. No Deva. No Baba. No one cares. Nothing matters. And tomorrow was 21st March.

Varadha found whiskey bottles in Baba's office. He drank half of a bottle and it burned his throat. But after a while everything felt more peaceful. The constant noise in his brain was very distant.

He saw a young child running fast through the rooms, giggling, hiding behind doors and tables. He thought it was Baachi.

"Vara, kanna. Agaraa, parigethaku!!" ("Vara, love. Please stop running!!"), his mother called out. She was annoyed but she wasn't mad. So, Vara figured he can make her chase him for a few more minutes.

"Vachi kotha battalu vesko, kanna"("Put on these new clothes, my love"), Aai requested. "Bangarukonda, kadha?"("You are a mountain of gold, right?"), she cooed. She didn't speak for a little while. Vara realised his mother stopped following him. He tiptoed back to the hall and his mother caught him by surprise. She was tickling him, saying, "Patteskunna, Patteskunna, Rakshasudini"("I caught you, I caught you, monster"). Vara turned around laughing and hugged his mother. Aai's belly grew more and more everyday and she is now caressing her belly even in her sleep.

Varadha watched his younger self and his mother from afar not wanting to sully the purity of this memory. Aai looked so beautiful. He was unable to recall what festival they were celebrating. 

His mother finally finished dressing Vara in festive clothes which were very itchy and not black and cool like his father's clothes. She was dressed in a violet pattu saree. She was sparkling in her gold jewellery. Aai was not listening to his stories about dinosaurs who eat leaves in the forest. How he is making this clever connection that dinosaurs are big, long necked goats.

"Aai, nuvvu vinatle, nenu cheppanu po!"("Aai, you are not listening. I won't tell you"), Vara dismissed his mother.

"Sorry raa kanna, nuvvu thvaraga thayaaru aipothe nenu nee katha vini, chappatlu kodatha Sarena? Neeku kotha katha kuda cheptha"("Sorry my love. If you get ready fastly, I will listen to your story and clap for you, okay? I will also tell you a new story"), Aai said as she kissed his cheek.

Varadha was listening in on this conversation and he was trying to recall what story his mother had told him later. He hated that he doesn't remember it anymore.

Now Aai and Vara sat on the sofa in the hall. Vara was safely tucked beside his mother and fell asleep.

Varadha looked at his younger self and envy bubbled inside him.

"Appudu ikkadike vasthavu raa, kanna, nuvvu" ("You always arrive here only, my love"), Aai said chuckling. Varadha shifted his gaze from his younger self to his mother. She was looking at him with such loving eyes.

"Eroju tharavatha manchi rojulu levu, Aai" ("There are no good days after this, Aai"), Varadha teared up.

"Baachi ippudu ilane unnada?" ("Does Baachi look like this, now?"), she asked curiously, threading her fingers through Vara's hair.

"Inka podugu" ("He is taller"), he replied.

"Anukunna" ("Thought so"), she said and beckoned him to sit beside her.

Varadha sat beside his mother to her left and rested his head on her shoulder.

Tears fell from his eyes and stained her golden blouse.

"Enni rojulu ayipoindhi kanna nuvvu vachi, kaani naaku antha thelusu. Sariga thinatam ledhu, padukovatledhu. Ippudu thagatam kuda" ("It has been so many days since you came here. But, I know everything. You are not eating properly. You are not sleeping properly. Now, you are drinking too"), she listed and whacked his head.

Varadha rubbed the back of his head to soften her blow.

"Repu Nanna raaka pothe, Nene karyakramam cheyali. Naaku cheyalani ledhu, Aai" ("If Father doesn't come tomorrow, I have to perform the rites. I don't want to do them, Aai"), Varadha admitted. Six years ago, his mother passed after giving birth to Baachi. Every year, his father performs Pinda Pradhaana ritual to honour Aai's memory on 21st March.

"Mee Nanna vastharu, Varadha. Maa madhyana unna Prema appatiki vuntundhi. Nuvvu kangaru padaku" ("Your father will come, Varadha. The love between him and I will always be there. Don't worry"), Aai reassured.

There was a knock on the door. His mother turned to him and hugged him fiercely. Varadha caressed her belly as she kissed him on the forehead.

"Naaku vellalani ledhu" ("I don't want to go"), Varadha said, gasping suddenly.

There was another knock on the door.

"Aaa, vasthunna" ("I am coming"), Aai shouted.

"Nenu kuda akkadiki vellatam ledhu, kanna. Nenu appudu neethone untanu" ("I am also not going anywhere, my love. I will always be with you, I promise"), she whispered into his ear.

He got up from the sofa and walked away from her. She picked up sleeping Vara into her arms and opened the door. His father was standing, smiling at the door in his black shirt and grey kurta. He took Vara from her arms and hugged her. He was talking to her but Varadha couldn't hear him. Everything was muted. He fell back into a dark room and felt breathless.

He woke up, gasping for air. After drinking some water, he fell back asleep immediately wishing he would get the same dream again.

***

Today was Baachi's birthday. For the past five years, on this day, Varadha and Baachi sat beside their father, as he dutifully completed the Pinda Pradhaana ritual in Devi Matha temple. This year, Varadha was unsure whether his father would come due to their fractured relationship.

To his relief, his father came and completed the ritual. When the three of them had to take a dip in the temple pond, Baachi got scared of getting into the water. Varadha comforted Baachi as his father watched from afar. He carried Baachi on his back and took a dip in the water.

His father's entourage was ready to leave after he put on some dry clothes. His father's assistant took Varadha to his father. His father spoke in a steady voice, "Baba and the drivers will be released from prison today."

Varadha's knees started to shake.

Raja Mannar continued,

"Malli naa maata thappithe, naa koduku vani kuda choodanu, ardha maiyindha? Gelichaanu Ani anukoku. Idhi nee Aai kosam chestunna. Nee kosam kadhu. Edho oka roju, Dhaara pellam Inka koduku dhorukuthaaru. Vallu dhorikinappudu, nee Kalla mundhe vallani champutha, Sarena?"

("If you cross me again, I will not even consider that you are my son. Don't think that you have won. I am doing this for your mother. Not for you. One day, Dhaara's wife and son will be captured. When they are captured, I will kill them while you watch, okay?")

His father's eyes were burning. There was no love there. If there was any love, it was so shattered and twisted in his grief over his wife's  death and the loss of this future of a happy family that was gone with her.

As soon as his father left, Varadha's knees gave out. He fell to the ground, crying and shaking. Baachi stood before him and said, "Endhuku, Anna, edusthunnav? Aai ki manam edisthe nacchadhu kadha, edavaku."("Why are you crying, brother? Aai doesn't like it when we cry, so, don't cry") He said it with such conviction that it made Varadha chuckle. He got up and took Baachi's hand.

"Baba eroju sayanthram intiki vasthaaru, manam emi chesi pedadham Baba thinadaaniki" ("Baba will come home by today evening. What dishes should we cook for him to eat?"), Varadha asked. Baachi chattered on listing all his favourite food items that he was sure Baba will also like to eat.

*****

tags: @deadloverscity, @ghostdriftexistence @sambaridli, @rambheem-is-real, @sinistergooseberries, @vardhamannartitties, @moonnpaww, @literariyumi, @sana2410, @varadevaficrecs

Go read @sinistergooseberries amazing fic here which gave me the idea to write the some of the dialogue in Telugu and then translate to English

[butch-reidentified]

One of my best friends is a gender critical, intensely radfem-aligned, mtf transsexual. I've talked about this friend several times before on here, but I think it's time I devote a stand-alone post. As with most of my posts, it will be long in signature JC fashion, but I think the topic warrants it: my friend is a wonderful person first and foremost, but is a truly fascinating and unique example of transsexuality as well.

First, a note: I've said this before, but for anyone new to my discussions of my gc mtf friend, she has never and would never expect or ask me to use she pronouns, but it's just how my brain perceives her despite rationally knowing she's male. I have no interest in forcing myself to use sex-accurate pronouns when it doesn't come naturally, because I don't believe it really matters in this context. It matters when it comes to things like news media reporting violent crime by transwomen as committed by women, but interpersonally or in a tumblr post, I don't feel a need to firmly stick to sex-accurate pronouns when my brain naturally goes to cross-sex ones for someone.

Here's a slightly amended quote from one of my early posts about her:

These are the same type of people who drove the transwomen I love from their own spaces by shaming them for having actual sex dysphoria and not "embracing the girl dick" or whatever. Literally what happened to my best friend, and she doesn't deserve that. She's so deeply passionate about women's liberation, believes firmly in female only spaces and sports, in honoring all of women's boundaries, in the definition of homosexuality, regularly argues with our other friends that eliminating all males would objectively result in a better world (with sources lol), calls herself a transwoman only - specifically as one word, for which she has a particular definition predicated on being male - not a woman, and most interestingly, comes across as very much female socialized. And not in a remotely intentional or performative way: it negatively impacts her the same way it does me or any actual woman I know. It's wild.

This is something I'd be interested in proper research on, because according to all her lifelong friends and neighbors, she's always been this way (and has been on an anti-porn crusade since the THIRD fuckin grade). She never internalized male socialization, like at all, and somehow seems to have internalized at least the majority of female socialization. Interacting with her feels exactly like interacting with any woman, no matter the context. I've known her for 6 years or so now and that's been consistently very true. I would NEVER have guessed she wasn't raised female. She completely "passes" but doesn't wear makeup or remove body hair, wears normal clothes like just pants and a shirt, etc. She seems like such a regular woman in every way, but she's not a woman (and she won't call herself one or demand you use she pronouns... I just do because nothing else feels right tbh). Several times, friends have straight up not believed she's transsexual at first.

When I talk about her seeming female-socialized in ways that are negatively impactful, I mean things like struggling to feel like you can say no, being prone to imposter syndrome, feeling like everyone else's needs come before your own, not feeling allowed to take up space, devoting endless emotional labor to those around you even when it's 3am on a work night before a crucial 9am meeting, giving of yourself well beyond what you should... those types of things (which are only a few examples of course) are her to a T, and are things she is working to unlearn for her own wellbeing alongside other women in our friend group.

She experiences sex dysphoria the same way I've described in myself - as a seemingly neurological, very physical sensation (in the same way pain or itchiness are physical sensations), somewhat akin to Phantom Limb. I've described her "social transition" before as "an incidental byproduct of medical transition," which I still think is accurate. She transitioned medically as a last resort measure to treat physical/neurological sex dysphoria, and ended up being perceived as female. It eventually just made logistical sense to assimilate socially. She couldn't care less how others perceive her "gender" or what pronouns they use or any of that, and shares the radfem view on the definition of gender and on gender ideology.

She's in the camp of "transactivism behaves like a cult and is explicitly a men's rights movement." I remember once a couple friends asked her why she was so passionate and outraged about female erasure and lesbian erasure, and she said very simply that "the trans cult has already erased, redefined, rewritten actual transsexual people," so she understands to a small degree the feeling of it, and sees them doing the same to women and homosexuals and can't tolerate it.

Her childhood friends (nearly all female) have said they have pretty much always innately interacted with her like they would with a female friend, and never understood why. I've never had to explain anything about the female experience to her, nor known of anyone else doing so. More often, my other friends and I find ourselves explaining to her that other males absolutely don't know the things she does (regarding both the biological and social aspects) or have the awareness she does, all these things she observed as a little kid, many of which upset her deeply on behalf of her female peers.

She did go through CSA, domestic violence, a trafficking attempt, and other major traumas throughout her childhood and into young adulthood, but the people who've known her her entire life say she was already the way she is in terms of all this stuff before that.

The adults she talks about looking up to as a kid, the ones she latched onto as mentors and who shaped her, are all badass, gnc, and/or feminist women. Her number one role model as a kid was her female karate instructor who had won major competitions all over the country and was very gnc both physically and personality-wise. The memories involving these mentors that she talks about most and remembers most vividly are almost all regarding misogyny and the injustices and cruelty women and girls face.

One other interesting fact is that she's XXY and had gynecomastia and slightly more feminine than normal features such as fat distribution before transition, and her body feminized more from HRT (she only had genital surgery due to extreme intractable dysphoria; she is opposed to any other surgeries like FFS or BA since they're entirely cosmetic to her) than any transwoman I've ever met or even seen pictures of. Most TW I've known barely fit a training bra - she's a D cup. It's so odd to me that she has the seemingly-neurological sex dysphoria AND the weird femsoc thing AND her body responded much more dramatically to estradiol than any other transwoman. I'm at a loss. It drives my little scientist brain crazy.

I have my theories, but ultimately I really don't know how to explain her. I've known a whole lot of trans people, and a whole lot of transwomen in particular, and while I have certainly met a few that don't come across like Gamestop Maam/average AGP vibes, they typically seem more like gay men rather than female-socialized. Even with those who do show some femsoc-like traits, it's not remotely to the degree I see in my friend, and oftentimes it's something they clearly trained themselves into to blend in.

I know there are other gender critical transsexuals out there, but idk if there is anyone else like her. I want to know, tbh, I am really super curious about it and about how/why she is the way she is (as is she lol).

I wanted to share this more concisely since I've mentioned her in multiple reblogs and posts and answers to asks over the years, but haven't really made a post specifically about her. Feel free to ask questions! She's given me full permission to discuss her experiences and whatnot here.

[firespirited]

Waited until mid-march (and 20+ years) to watch a movie that terrifies me and I knew I couldn't be normal about the story... because I realized yesterday that the brain is the exact right amount of depressed :

Imagine a moon cycle but it's seasonal depression, where either side of the full moon you're slightly too vulnerable but for a moment you're just numb enough before passing into levels of numbness and itching boredom that are hard to bear.

So I did it! I watched Event Horizon. It took this itchy brain 3 attempts to actually press play and get into the story what with the urge to do anything and everything but focus.

Might have unlocked a new fixation: the ship design and lighting (not to mention the symbology and different colours used for filming!!!), a rarity for march 😂. New shrimp emotion unlocked: awe but it's yelling from a dampened box.

It feels like a small version of when you're having a giggle fit and it's bad now and there's going to be trouble, you have to stop but it won't.

And there's the outside observation of that feeling, Prattchett calls it 'third thought', I'm as lethargic and hollow as I am energized and hungry for more information so just stuck with two dozen things bookmarked that I can't actually read or watch despite the will to.

I hope that when future archeologists come across this post or one like it by someone else on a digital tape of fragments of the internet, humanity has come up a word for this very strange feeling. I hope it's a german compound word or maybe something greek and from chemistry where substances counteract eachother to become inert.

--Dear readers, today I felt the fizz of bicarb and vinegar that actually does nothing to the grimey bathtub of my emotions.--

Ooh I wonder if they'll come up with a word for the way you experience time loss differently by being aware that you're blankly staring at a screen/book/task with slo-mo thoughts the whole time. That's a trip.

[softlyapocalytpic]

👀 Working on something that I hope I can work naturally into the narrative and thought it might be fun to use it for a WIP Wednesday to give people a taste

@persephotea I tag YOU this time!!

Now, featuring the lovely Butch Deloria! I'm really undecided on how I want Butch to refer to the Overseer within his own internal monlogue. Does he say Alphonse as a sign of disrespect, or the Overseer to make him distant and make him a title/position rather than a person? In this it's mixed since I couldn't ever decide lmao. Same with members of Security.

Amy had the right idea shooting these security fuckers in the head. Course’ the Overseer didn’t see it that way- he didn’t want to admit how easy it was to take down his precious dogs- but it was pretty clear who’d done it.

“Well, Mr. Deloria? Are you really telling me you know nothing? We know how much time you two spent together.” The Overseer looked down at him with that same look of disdain he’d always had, nose stuck up high in the air, and expression set into constant disappointment. He was flanked by Chief Hannon, who hadn’t stopped glaring daggers into Butch (as if he was responsible for what happened to Paulie, fucker), and Officer O’Brian, whose finger looked a little too itchy for Butch’s liking

These guys were pricks even when the whole system was falling apart around them.

But it didn’t faze Butch anymore. Just fed the fury. Sure, sure, they could shoot him, but then whatever dumb facade they were keeping up wouldn’t stand a chance. Nobody but Paulie gave a shit about Butch, but was Alphonse really willing to test that? Nah, he was calling their bluff.

He relaxed into the cold steel chair and folded his arms behind his head, “Yeah? You get off watching security tapes of teens?”

Alphonse’s eye twitched, and he gestured to O’Brian who was more than willing to smack Butch with the butt of the rifle. Owch. Yeah, that was gonna bruise, but he didn’t flinch. Nah, he stared Alphonse down with the same self-satisfied smirk. 

The Overseer sighed, “I’m aware that a degenerate like you has no investment in upholding the peace and order of this vault, but I ask you this: what do you have to gain from withholding information about the Lockharts? Are you really so loyal to people who left you behind?”

A raw angry nerve got hit with a hammer, “The fuck do you even know? She told me she was lookin’ for her dad! If she knew anything you really think the doc would just up and leave her and Leo behind? And hows I supposed to know that she was a fugitive? Considerin’ the outbreak and everythin’ it seemed pretty normal to me.”

“The duffel bags weren’t a giveaway?”

“My Ma was dyin’ in there and she was the only one who’d stopped to help! You think I gave a shit if she was runnin’ with a duffel?”

The Overseer gestured again to O’Brian who struck harder than before. Still, Butch didn’t give them the satisfaction. He spat the blood at the Overseer’s feet and glared back angrier, ‘I dare you. I fucking dare you to push me harder.’

Alphonse held his gaze, and it pissed Butch off to see the icy blue flecks hidden in the Overseer’s hazel brown eyes. Everyone about this smug bastard’s face pissed him off.

Then, the Overseer relented, “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised at your lack of insight and intelligence. You never had the brains your cohorts do. No doubt the alcohol played a part.”

Vicious, snapping loathing welled up in Butch. He knew what the Overseer meant, but this asshole wasn’t getting away with talking about his Ma like that.  He smirked, bloody teeth and all, and gave this overseer a knowing look, “I wonder where I got it from.”

Finally, that impassive annoyance, disdain, and disappointment grew sharp and angry with warning, his mouth twisting into a sneer. It was so satisfying to watch his fist shake, so ready to strike Butch for the insinuation. Hannon and O’Brian were too wrapped up in their own heads too pick up on any of it, but nothing was more precious Alphonse Amalvador than his reputation.

‘I got shit on you too, old man. Watch yourself.’

Alphonse barely concealed the malice in his usually so well-controlled voice, “Get him out of here. There’s nothing more to learn from this degenerate.”

[chainofclovers]

tagged by: @talldecafcappuccino (thanks! <3)

last song: I was driving home from Target earlier listening to my 2022 mix and the last song that played start to finish was song of the moment/song of my entire life “Least Expected” by My Morning Jacket (let’s put it this way, I epigraphed with it as soon as I had the right thing for it).

last show/series: I am watching a lot right now. Just finished season 2 of What We Do in the Shadows a few nights ago. And I’m currently watching THREE things on a weekly basis: Abbott Elementary (!!!) and GBBO and series 14 of Taskmaster.

currently watching: I accidentally answered that in the previous question.

favorite color: Grey. Also very bright dark pink with a lot of red in it. Also most deep blues and purples.

sweet, spicy, or savory: Savory if I had to choose, but ideally let’s get all of that going at once. Especially spicy.

currently reading: Normal People by Sally Rooney. I’m liking it, but I haven’t picked it up in a few days, and that’s making me sad because I inhaled Beautiful World, Where Are You? (which I’d actually count among an all-time fave both for the sheer pleasure of having read it and also because I think the writing has a lot to teach me), and then I inhaled Conversations With Friends even though it felt like the work of a much newer/younger writer (which is true) because it was similarly catnip-like for my brain. I may actually need to start Normal People over and force myself to read it at a similar pace as the others?

what i'm working on: Apparently I’m watching all the shows and reading all the books and eating all the flavors and also working on all the stories? I’ve written very little this week due to time constraints and stress, but that will hopefully change as soon as later in this quiet night curled up on the couch while my wife watches football. :) I’m working on an original story that is my first attempt at any kind of dystopian setting (dystopian lite for sure). I’m also working on Other People’s Words # 8 (Ted Lasso love square series), and I just got my Femslash Exchange assignment, and I’ve got a couple other things on the list too.

currently obsessed with: Ted Lasso, always, as a kinda constant thing (even the ebbs and flows never dip below or transcend past obsession, it’s just a thing that is true at this point). My Morning Jacket. This itchy make-tangible-things feeling I have and the progress I’m making (pun not intended) on that. Taskmaster and its ~~dynamics. Buttered bread and coffee. Beautiful World, Where Are You? and specifically a couple of scenes. Returning to my outdoor volleyball team and getting stronger. Those (and the other constant obsessions like wife obsession, cat obsession, friend obsession) are the fun ones.

Less fun is me obsessing over my sleep patterns and the factors that currently impact my sleep. Also the way having Covid back in February is still effecting my relationship to food, in that my appetite is really sluggish and the quantity of food I can eat is super inconsistent and some of the stuff I used to love doesn’t feel quite right, in that it doesn’t feel as VIVID to eat good food as it used to. I was never a huge meat eater and I’ve been eating about 90% vegetarian and 98% pescatarian since early summer, but tonight I bought and ate beef jerky because NOTHING else sounded good and I needed protein so badly. It was savory, spicy, and a little sweet, and I’m so glad I ate it, even though I wish I had not been in a position to want to eat it! It’s so weird! I’m reasonably healthy at the moment and to my knowledge haven’t suffered any ill effects from these changes, but I dislike how my food situation has shifted a few degrees in a way I still haven’t put my finger on. It does make me really appreciate it when I find something I want to eat, enjoy it as much as I think I will, and don’t regret it after.

tagging: @telanu, @ellydash, @dollsome-does-tumblr, @theodore-lasso, @lizmitches, @ylizam, @thesumdancekid, @chilly-flame, and also anyone who wants to do this because I’ve lost track of who’s been tagged and I’m terrible at remembering usernames in times like these but I never get sick of reading personal quiz answers

[honeybeecomebuzzingme]

So I noticed I started to ruminate again and I thought maybe blogging would help me sleep as it seems to ease my mind once I vented a little bit into the void.

Meditating does help, as does taking a breath and trying things again.

Nothing has to be perfect.

I'm still beautiful even with scars.

God he's right but damn it makes me feel emotional that my heart feels like *that when I express something like that...

My best friends are amazing and I love them all so much. It's great to feel loved by my friends and I know they're so loyal.

Spending time with my best friend is amazing even if I don't pay much attention to the movie while watching Star wars.

Special friends are the most worthy people. And I wouldn't change my friendships for the world.

I wish that my family could be as easy to talk to as my friends are... My Nakama suggested using positive affirmations as well as the meditating and breathing and that does help sometimes.

Although of course the negative thoughts can be very overwhelming at times (most times when I'm trying to talk to my dad).

All of the things that have happened over the years repeating in my head on a loop ruminating in spiraling. Overthinking.

My head hurts just thinking about it.

My body wants to sleep but my brain wants to keep going but it's too hard.

I really need to sleep and I know sleep will help me to feel better as well as eating so I still have to eat my cereal before I sleep.

It is Sunday now so it should be fine.

My hand still feels sore - skin slightly itchy.

I don't understand why my dad would forget so much and be so confused on a daily basis -- everything is backwards...

I wish things could be different. I wish I could have my own place, finish writing my books and pass my driving test.

Able to focus on such things when my friends are here -- maybe I'll try it later?

I keep forgetting to do the letter.

I did put up a reminder and tried to replace *ways so my dad can stop being meh...

Of course though there's always the likelihood my dad has misunderstood me again as it's taken so long to get to the point of what I've been trying to do.

I have non-verbal cards now, which my friends recommended I acquired, and they are able to understand what I mean with them. Says things like "I am tired" and "I am hungry" as well as emotional labelling and set powerful boundaries in theory. I'm very worried my dad will misunderstand as he never understands any boundaries.

My body hurts 🤕 I do really need sleep 😴

[sysig]

Nothin’ new, it’s always new

[hansolmates]

shiver | 01 (m)

banner done by the wonderful @dnrequests​

summary; jungkook changed since he moved out of his small town church community and attended college. when he returns for a christmas mass, you suddenly crave a taste of his fun and carefree life. in exchange, jungkook craves a taste of you pairing; bad boy!jungkook x church girl!reader genre/warnings; childhood friends to lovers, brief childhood friends to enemies, fwb!au, catholic guilt, jungkook is a meanie who eventually turns into a soft tsundere, bicuriosity, sexual exploration, virgin!oc, eventual smut—in this installment: touching over the clothes, mc is hornee, *pulls out cards against humanity* “a gentle caress of the inner thigh”, panty kissin, mc is a big ol’ pushover and hopeful for jkk:(( w/c; 1.9k a/n; it’s here! aaaaaa!!! i’ve been really eally realllyyyyyy nervous to post this. even though this is just a drabble series  let me know how you feel about it! enjoy [shiver masterpost]

“Oh, you’re so dead.” 

Jeon Jungkook isn’t thaaaat buff, he's more of a skinny kind of muscular. You don’t understand the hype, why everyone croons over Jungkook’s strength and physique. However, how else could you explain Jungkook being able to climb the currently dilapidated fire escape to the top floor of the chapel. The ladder is rusted beyond repair and is definitely a fire hazard rather than a fire escape. Yet he barely breaks a sweat doing it, and he wipes the minor sheen off his brow with the back of his hand. There’s some soot and whatever nasty residue from the fire escape that gets on his face, a black streak marring his already annoying face. He’s currently wiggling his fingers in a sarcastic “hello.” It makes you sneer, your two consciousness (inappropriate and appropriate) warring against each other to determine whether you still find this man attractive or not. 

Convincing yourself that Jungkook is ugly is the worst quick-fix idea you’ve ever had. 

The words of your Aunties, the family friends in the church, echo in your ears. Jungkook’s bad. They’d say over and over. It would cause you to snort and giggle, unable to imagine what sort of things he’s done to warrant such a cliché label. Yet some of the girls your age, girls that have gone off to college agree with sultry looks and longing eyes that yes, Jungkook’s bad. So bad, it’s good. 

You haven’t a clue what he’s actually done to earn such a hushed title, his parents are lip-tight about his doings, unless it’s his achievements in the architecture graduate program. You hear things, though. Things that make you shamefully green with envy, envious of sin. 

As soon as he finds proper footing in the storage room, he goes to the closet, immediately finding his backup clothes. They’re plain white button-downs, awkward long shirts with no shape or definition to them. They belong to the church, and no one ever uses them because they’re stiff and itchy. Yet Jungkook wears them like it’s tailored, and you have to look away when he quickly knots the bottom half of the shirt, fashioning it into a tasteful double knot in order to cinch his lean waist.

“Pretty sure it was just you that saw me,” Jungkook says dismissively, “so it’s fine.” 

This bristles you the wrong way, and you put down the catering covers you were supposed to return to the storage room. You smooth out your Sunday dress, this shade of Boring Beige looking particularly pale in the morning sun. “How do you know I won’t tell?” you turn your nose up. 

“Because I know,” he doesn’t even look at you, focusing on rolling the sleeves of his shirt. You weaken when you see the black shadowing across his forearm. That’s new, then again you haven’t seen him since last Christmas.   

“Know what?” 

“That you have a crush on me,” Jungkook says into the air like it’s common knowledge, adjusting the leather jacket on top of his outfit so the white-startched collar pops on top, “I mean, it’s hard for anyone not to know. You’ve been into me since youth group, Bunny.”  

You hold your breath, counting to ten as you close the door behind you. A vision of you playing “Duck Duck Goose” as a five year old plays in your head, where you’d pick a bushy, big-eyed Jeon Jungkook each time, hopping over to him to pat his fluffy head so he’d chase you around. 

It’s old news, your puppy love for Jungkook. How could you not like him? He's clever and sweet with his mother and always told the best stories in youth group meetings.  Everyone thought your affections were so sweet, and while that attention weaned over time, your feelings have only increased the more self-aware you’ve become. 

With a mind as open and honest is yours, it’s hard to ignore how well Jungkook has grown. What has also grown is your curiosities since the two of you have moved onto university. Jungkook goes to the university uptown, a far drive which only forces him attend masses during the holidays. You attended the local community college, wrapping up a bachelors in some vague major that you’re not attached to. You’re currently looking around for some graduate schools, but unfortunately you’ve been so wrapped up doing duties for Pastor Nina that you haven’t been able to look around properly. 

Jungkook’s probably living a fun life, with the way he’s grown rough and loose, you resent him. 

When you turn back around, Jungkook’s right in front of you, trapping you between his body and the door.  

“Don’t be embarrassed, Bunny,” you furrow your brows, nearly growing cross-eyed when he leans in. “I think your crush is cute.” 

You’re not sure what he thinks of you. Sure, he considered everyone a friend when you two were in youth group, but that was youth group. Premeditated, parents forcing other children to do the same things with each other for years upon years in the hope they’ll practice together forever and ever. Jungkook did not want that, evident from the way he dipped his duties as soon as he got into university. 

You hate how easy he dips back into it though, calling you Bunny and making you feel like a little girl all over again. Bunny, because you’d hop around to him whenever he was in sight. Bunny, because Jungkook had been fondly compared to the wide-eyed, diamond-toothed creature. It was cute when you were five. Now, it’s just discomfiting. 

“Don’t call me that,” you bite, “and I don’t like you anymore.” 

“Sure you don’t,” he rolls his eyes, and you flinch when Jungkook’s hand rests on the curve of your waist, fingers slotting themselves between the pleats of your skirt. “That’s why you’re not moving away when I’m about to put my hand under your skirt. Because you don’t like me.” 

You press yourself further into the door, your skin hot and vibrating. So warm, you feel like you could melt through the door and escape from Jungkook’s gaze. Sure, the young ladies in the congregation talk. Maybe you’ve heard a story or two about Jungkook being seedy, a result of being repressed after years and years of stiff routines and expectations thrust upon him. You could care less about Jungkook’s sexual appetite, until this appetite has reached you. 

“Mm, you’re pretty,” Jungkook’s eyes roam your form, the daisy white blouse doing nothing to barricade Jungkook’s sudden interest in you, “you’ve never been touched like this, have you?” 

“I’ve touched myself like this,” you hiss in defense, and it’s more out of anger than in pleasure. You don’t need a man to comfort you, but Jungkook’s eyes sparkle in mirth at the new information. 

“That’s really sexy,” Jungkook slips down, roams his fingers down to your ankles and plays with the silver buckles of your Mary Janes. You shiver when his hands trail up up up to your knees, the swell of your thighs, and catch right under the elastic seam that holds your secrets together, “but I’ll have you know, it’s different when you have someone hold your pleasure in their hands.” 

You’re in the storage room of your church, fifteen minutes before the Christmas mass, with Jeon Jungkook’s head between your legs. Your skirt is long, and Jungkook doesn’t bother to ride it up your waist. 

It feels more forbidden that way, Jungkook hiding under the fabric of your skirt to get to your honeyed center, sneaking his way in with rough hands and soft touches.

“J-Jungkook,” you whimper, pressing your full spine against the wooden door, “we shouldn’t. N-not like this.”

What is wrong with you? Is it sheer curiosity? Do you just want to know what it finally, finally feels like? You should be pushing him away. There’s red lights flashing back and forth in your brain like sirens. Yet, do you really want to turn away the attention you’ve been aching for years? 

You imagined your first time to be relatively special. The bare minimum, a bed, a talk, and a partner you’re mutually committed to. None of those things are met. Now you understand why all the young women in church whisper about sex like this. It’s a spur of the moment, it’s an unbridled pleasure you don’t want to stop, no matter how forbidden and sinful the act is.  

“How else then?” you feel his deep voice straight through your panties, his lips whispering between the pink cotton like he’s sinking liquid heat into your skin. “I can’t sink my fingers into your sweet cunt during the candle lighting. Or when we open presents with the family after. That would be inappropriate.” 

Your replies come out in breaths, puffs of air that conceal the moans you so badly want to let out as Jungkook pokes and rubs at you. He does nothing beyond the cotton fabric, only slides two fingers up and down your slit as he gathers the arousal between his digits. 

“So wet already, that’s so sexy,” he’s kissing your core, and you sigh fretfully at the pleasure that feels so close yet so far away. 

“P-please, Jungkook…” 

“Please what?” Jungkook teases, fingers slipping back and forth between the elastic of your underwear, “please stop? Please touch me? Please fuck me?” 

The church bell answers that, and Jungkook’s nose knocks right into your bud at the sudden intrusion. You yelp at the jarring stimulation, pulling him from under your skirts as the loud noise echoes in the room. Both of you wince at the pain, the moment interjected. 

“You first,” Jungkook casually opens the door for you, as if he didn’t have you ten seconds away from begging him to make you come. 

You don’t even look at him as you dash away, not bothering to take the elevator in favor of running off the heat. Two minutes before the procession. The church is packed to the brim, only the back seats left. Your family probably gave up on waiting for you up in the front. As you sit down in the corner, you’re momentarily distracted by the beauty of a decorated church on Christmas. Even though you’re part of the decorating committee and commanded most of the design, seeing the stained glass lit up with fairy lights and the poinsettia plants blooming burgundy on the altar, you’re impressed. 

“There’s a draft here, you must be cold.” Jungkook talks to you so politely, a perfect picture of a gentleman as he drapes his leather jacket over your lap. He speaks as if it’s a pleasant surprise, a childhood friend he hasn’t seen in nearly a year. 

You can’t tell him to move when people are watching and Jungkook is seconds from interrupting the procession, so you reluctantly scoot over so he can sit next to you. His scent overwhelms you even more now that you’ll have to sit next to him for a whole hour, lavender and vanilla overtaking your pew. 

The jacket is heavy and heady on your lap, and you force yourself to stare straight ahead. Jungkook cannot weaken you like this, not anymore. 

Thirty minutes later, his fingers are hovering at the start of the homily, caressing your thighs under the jacket with his big hands. A draft? Please. You clamp your thighs together, knocking your knees and hoping they’d lock together for the rest of the mass. Jungkook’s a master key, easily parting his way as if your muscles are pure jelly. You turn your head sharply, glaring at him with all the fire in the world. 

“Careful,” Jungkook mouths, eyes flickering to the symbol atop the podium, “he’s watching.” 

His fingers finally brush the damp blush cotton of your panties, and you shudder. 

[toiletwipes]

and i'd give up forever to touch you

extra chapter. all i can breathe is your life.

Summary: It's discount, disco Tuesday and you've decided to drag Wilbur along too!

~3.4k words. masterlist.

---

he finds himself wrapped in one of your adventures, you being determined to find inspiration to keep writing music and living life the way you always loved. he didn't get any of it, but you were his friend, and he didn't mind all that much when it was you.

at the moment, you'd taken him out for a drive, refusing to tell him where you'd be going but beforehand you'd painted shapes onto both of your faces, with neon green and yellow and pink paint. diamond and hearts on yours, clubs and spades on his, not to mention the outfit you demanded he wear. demanded is a loose term, you merely gave him a look, puppy dog eyes, and he folded like a lawn chair.

the paint had dried and left his face feeling itchy but every time he raised a hand, you'd slap it down. "if i have to hold your hand, i will, don't test me, will." you had teased but you definitely felt your breath stutter at the thought, and he wasn't fairing that much better. holding hands?

much to his surprise, he found himself standing in a short line for roller skates, lights dim and people skating in a large rink. you had paid for the tickets and everything, insisting all he had to do was skate. how hard could it be?

for him, unnecessarily.

the moment he stood up with the skates tied to his feet, he could barely stand still, threatening to fall over in three different directions. his long legs have finally backfired on him from all the times he's mocked you for being shorter.

but you, you glided through the air, stopping by his side as you steady him, a little giggle in your breath. and he could see the outfit and the paint coming together. while everything else had dimmed, the paint and clothes glowed. and you didn't look so bad like this.

not to mention the skirt you chose for tonight, with shorts underneath of course, but it was hard to remind himself that you're just friends.

that you didn't wear it for him, why would you when you're just friends?

he whines inside of his head, so cruel, as you help him to the edge of the rink, holding onto the wall. most of the skaters stay close to the inside of the circle, lucky for you two as you guide him to the edge of it, feeling the breeze from everyone.

you cut slide backwards as you hold both of his hands and guide him through the motions. "just one foot in front of the other, like you're sweeping dirt behind your feet." you say, but as he tries to kick his feet, he trips himself and falls into you. you curse as you both tumble to the ground, wilbur's face shoved into your stomach and your knees wedged into his armpits.

"you okay?" you call over the music, ignoring the slight ache in your elbows and butt, patting his shoulder.

he lifts his head and is met with your face staring him down and all he can see is the paint and the whites in your eyes glowing. and he can't think, nothing processing. is that what a god looks like, he vaguely hears in the back of his mind.

"wilbur?"

without another second to think, he's scrambling off of you, as much as he can with the skates tied to his feet still, but he can see a slight impression from the paint, somehow, in your white shirt.

you don't notice, only snickering as you pull yourself to your feet and he just so happened to be looking up and oh fuck.

he can see up your fucking skirt.

and it doesn't matter that you're wearing shorts, because he's still fucking looking. until he covers his eyes and attempts to stand without any aide. god, he knew he was a pervert but shit. not that he could forget the sight when it's burnt in the inside of his eyelids.

"oh my god, you're so stupid," you laugh and tug on his arms, and drag him back to the wall, getting him to stand eventually.

he groans, leaning his forehead against the wall with both of his hands gripping the sides as tight as he can, "how am i supposed to skate if i can't even make it past the entrance? what was the point of bringing me?" he says, looking up at you as you survey the area, and you just shrug, a small smile playing at your lips.

"it was a discount tonight, figured you'd might enjoy learning," and you're tugging his arms again, looping one of your arms into his to help guide him. "and besides, you'll never learn if all you do is mope and whine about it!" and you press on his back and chest, getting him to stop slouching and telling him how to balance his weight the best way for him, before nudging him forward and watching his arms lock up, feet straight as they roll right towards the chairs lining the walls.

he falls to his knees when he reaches the chairs, and you don't hesitate in calling him dramatic, stopping right in front of him as he pulls himself to sit.

"i think-" he gulps down air like it's water, "i think i'll sit here for- for a minute." you try to pull him up but he shakes his head, insists that you get a headstart into skating, he'll probably figure it out after watching you do it anyways.

you skate away, only after he reassures you once more he's more than okay sitting for a moment.

and you make it look more than easy. you skate across the glossy floor like it was made of butter, weaving your way in and out of the crowd as if you had places to be. and in a brief moment with no one in front of you, you slow down, arms lowered to your side as you enjoy the chilled air, a smile growing as you begin to move your legs and arms again, doing two more laps before you come back to wilbur.

he doesn't have much to say.

"wow."

and he just accepts the punch to his shoulder, rubbing out the ache as you laugh.

"it's just practice, that's all it is."

"you probably practiced like a professional, knowing you." he teases, eyes flickering from the endless moving mass, glowing in the darkness and back to you.

"to be fair, my parents loved taking me here as a kid, didn't help that they knew the owners," you shrug, chest heaving a little bit as you spoke, your breath not yet even.

"that does help," he says, fingers pressing into his knees as he briefly wonders when this place will close. not that he's not having fun, it's just that he doesn't know how to skate at all. and maybe it doesn't help that skating comes to you like breathing does. "so what's-"

"-alright, skaters, it's time for the first special skate, the couples round, if all the single people could please safely exit the rink-"

"oh that's our cue," he says and as he stands you tell him to just hold onto your shoulders, you'll lead him out of the rink. but just as you get to the halfway point, you're singled out.

"to the strange couple, please refer to the default hand-holding, and not the conga, thank you,"

your brain short-circuits to the point where you miss the exit and, on accident, rejoin the circling mass of skaters. wilbur, who's right beside you, is panicking.

"y/n- i can't- i can't do this- i can't skate," and he's breathing too hard as his limbs begin to lock up, you shake out of your stupor and gently take his hand into your own and try to distract him, going from telling him you believe in him, telling him to just bend his knees and you'll guide him like before. then you offer something else up.

"if we get through this lap, we'll do anything you want and i can't say no," you tell him, and it's unbelievably hard to say anything but yes please get me out of there.

and all he can get out is a strained yes, quiet as anything over the music that reverberates through their chests, over the sound of the wheels against the floor.

but you guide him through it, slow and towards the outside of the rink, where most of the couples weren't, and its painful to watch him stiff as anything, barely holding himself together. but as the time passes, you find yourself back at the exit, and he doesn't hesitate to latch onto the closest free table and sit down. he's swallowing mouthfuls of air, maybe a little bit dramatic you humor to yourself, but for the most part he looks tired already.

you stand next to him, reaching up to card your fingers through his hair. "you did so good, wilbur, you made it," he doesn't say anything as he leans his head back as you work your fingers through small tangles. doesn't say anything as the praise burns at his groin, and hopes the dim lights and his physical exhaustion covers the fact that he might have a praise kink.

you lean down to whisper in his ear, "alright, we got through it, what would you like to do now?" and it takes a lot for him to hold back begs and whimpers, but he manages to say something along the lines of food.

you lead him back to your original table with your shoes sitting on top, you ask him if he wants to take the skates off and he doesn't even hesitate to pull them off as soon as he's sitting again. you have to laugh, but then his head rolls around his shoulders and looks at you with dark eyes and it catches in your throat.

eyes wide and mouth open, he knows that this view is dangerous, but keeps looking. though, you seem to pull yourself together and give yourself a thorough shake, your fingers, hands, arms, and torso wiggle in your seat. shaking off whatever it was that had you frozen.

"alright, come with me to get food?" you ask and he nods, standing up and finds that standing without a death machine strapped to his feet is much easier now. with the challenge gone, he starts to walk and then finds you latching onto his elbow with glowing, puppy dog eyes. "drag me?" you pout and he gives in, so easily, you wonder if he would ever say no to you.

your skates facing straight, he pulls you down the pathway between tables and finds himself at a bar area, you barely stopping from slamming into his sides, and he has to wrap an arm around you to settle you still.

you stay still alright, his arms warm from the exertion, and the slight sheen coating his skin makes you want to wring him out like a hand towel and at the same time, you want more than his arm around you.

but you're not toeing the lines of your relationship right now, you're fucking ordering food.

"what can i get for you today?" you skim over the menu above the employee's head, and will answers him curtly, you responding just as quick, handing over the right amount before waiting for the food itself by the edge of the bar.

you lean your knuckles into your cheek, breathing out a dramatic sigh to get wilbur's divided attention. he barely turns around at the sound of another sigh and by then, he's got an unimpressed look printed on his features.

"what is it going to take for you to loosen up? you move as if your bones are popsicle sticks held together by glue."

"you don't know my bones," is all he says before nodding to the employee handing him his chips and water, not even wasting a second before opening the bottle and drinking half of it to soothe the dry itch in his throat.

"you didn't answer my question, will," you inch closer to him to sing it in his ear, but he turns his face to look at you, instead of forward, and you're now nose-to-nose, so close together, just barely a breath's distance.

your breath hitches and he hears it, above everything else, he hears it and just barely closes his eyes and closes the distance. you don't move until you realize where you were again, and you're pushing on his shoulders, skating across the floor with the bag of pretzels and bottle of water in your hand. wilbur walks behind you confused, more along the lines of afraid of the car ride home where you inevitably stop talking to him and demand he never speak to you again. had he read all the signs wrong? did you hate him?

you yank the shoes off your feet, taking the pair and wilbur's to the front, pulling on your converse as you left the rink with him trailing behind you, feeling more than ever like he fucked up. he knows he fucked up in his life before but it never felt as big as this.

the sky is dark and feels unforgiving as you, but you're taking the drinks and snacks and throwing them into the back without him saying anything.

and then you're closing the door and looking at him with your hands still open, as if you're still holding something, and he's about to ask a question, ask if you're okay or something like that, when you yank on the collar of his shirt and press your lips against his firmly, leaning your back against your car, hidden away from potential onlookers.

he braces himself with both hands landing on either side of you, your mouth distracting him more than he'd ever thought. fucking hell, he thinks, your lips soft, warm, and he can't help but chase after yours when you pull away for a second. you're looking at him with half-lidded eyes, and then you're leaning into him, hands sliding up to cusp his face, before tucking your head under his jaw and lips attaching to his neck, sucking and biting and soothing the bites with long swipes of your tongue.

wilbur feels so warm- so hot as you continue to leave hickey after hickey, it feels too good and he grinds his hips against yours, feeling a moan bubble in his throat when a hand covers his mouth, "don't let them know what we're up to, mkay?"

he almost whines beneath your hand but you're right back to his neck, pleasure spiking up in his spine every time you bite down and every time your tongue flattens against every lovebite.

eventually, the sound of the doors constantly swinging open and closed grabs your attention than the trembling man under your hands and mouth, leaning back as you look at the mess you made of him.

"wanna head home now?" you whisper, reaching up to push his hair out of his face, pressing a small kiss to his jaw.

home. not your dorm, not his apartment, home.

he nods, barely holding it together as you lead him back to the passenger side, closing the door and heading towards the driver's, a little pep in your step. you nod at the other skaters leaving and they give a slight nod back, unbeknownst to the man you're slowly ruining that sits in your car.

getting in, you're faced with a mess. glancing at his neck, you reach back and down for something soft, pulling it up, you see it's your old jacket, something you had for years and… something to cover your friend in for now. "here, if you get cold, because i'm feeling hot." you hand it over to him, before turning the ac up all the way, cranking it to the maximum settings and feeling the bitter cold on your very warm skin.

it was an excuse, of course, but you weren't going to tell him that as you see him very quickly pull it over his head. had you gotten it in a size that fit you, it might not have fit his long torso, but oversized? perfect on him.

you don't see him pulling on the edge of the hoodie, breathing deeply as he could to take all of your scent in. something akin to weed and cinnamon. something home would smell like, he figures.

it takes twenty minutes before you reach the dorms, and it takes another minute before you're inside your designated one, finding rosie and jared curled into the sofa, jumping at every turn in the horror movie on the tv.

"we're back," you say, as you head into the kitchen and pull out another bottle of water, drinking it in as you're well aware of the eyes you have burning into your skin.

swallowing the last gulp, you throw away the empty bottle before looking the man in your hoodie in the eyes and seeing just the very edge of hickeys peek out from the collar. stepping close to him, you reach up to his face and grasp his chin fairly soft, pulling him down just enough to kiss him slow and deep. when you pull away, the dried paint is dripping slightly down his cheek. you swipe it away as his eyes stayed shut.

"we'll be in my room, call us if you need us," you say but they were too absolved in their scary movie, too busy to notice the man practically shaking under your touch.

leading him to your room, like the thousands of times before, and leading him to your bed like the thousands of times before, but this time you give the door a slight kick before it closes. this time you kiss him and let him press you into the bed, hands burning everywhere they touch on your skin.

the nerves in his body feels shot when you reach under the hoodie to press your cold fingers against his skin, pressing against his stomach and gasping into his mouth when he does the same, flicking your shirt up a little to dig his fingers into your hip.

pulling away to breathe, you slow down, your heart pounding against your chest as you come down from a high that you knew would become a problem later on. you lean your head back into a pillow as he slows down too, his sticky forehead against your bare shoulder.

"would-" your mouth sticks together but you push the words forward, "would you be okay if we went to sleep right now?"

you didn't want to ruin anything more than you already did. knowing yourself, you probably confused him. you knew he had feelings for rosie but damn it if you didn't try at least. now look at where it's got you.

you don't see him nod, only feeling the bed dip as he moves off of you and moving to lay down in front of you. he gives your arm a nudge and when you move it, he leans into you, curling into your side as he gives you no room to think. all you could think about was him.

breathing in his hair, you smelt the shampoo from before, the slight smell from the rink, and then the damp feeling of sweat stick to his hair.

yeah, you would need to shower again in the morning. and yeah, you'd probably need to talk about this again. but couldn't you at least enjoy the way he can't seem to leave you alone? Can't you relish in the fact that he wants to be near you and not her. letting you mark him up. you could enjoy it, if not for a second. for the moment, you could enjoy the feel of him grounding you.

as for him, he doesn't know how much luckier he can get. so as your breaths slow in between, he sticks his head into the crook of your neck, just breathing you in and relishing the close proximity he has once again.

he may not have gotten to bury himself inside you but this is fine all on its own, head feeling light from how close you are together.

he presses a kiss to your skin before letting himself sleep in your arms.

(you almost cry when you felt his lips against your collarbone. wondering if this is the modern version of torture and who's administering them from above.)

...

taglist: @fxnxtical @ghostburlovebot @ollie-overscore @roygbivvie @beehive-syst3m @boiled-onionrings @mayempress @bringm3th3n1rvana @yui-san0 @comonlokbut2 @lurkey-lurker @tiredofsatansbullshit @serendipityryn @facelessmatchstick @sewagespaghetti @dogsandrocketsocks @unhelpfulghosty @struggling-with-time

[rwprincess]

Head Over Feet (Brian Johnson x Fem!Reader)

Masterlist

Word Count: 4.8k

Synopsis: What’s that sound? It’s another anachronistic Brian Johnson songfic! (Based on Alanis Morissette’s Head Over Feet) You’re one of Bender’s trash-punk friends and things change drastically when he brings the scrawny brain from detention with him to meet you all. Set up in snippets, your relationship develops with Brian, even if you weren’t really looking for a relationship.

CW: Teenage smoking (including reader), swearing, parental abuse (being being kicked out), sexism, angst and fluff

“This is Johnson,” Bender indicated the boy he brought along to your group’s spot under the bleachers.

“Brian, please.” The kid corrected. You eyed the gangly youth from top to bottom; in his sweater over a crisply-ironed collared shirt and khakis, he definitely didn’t fit in here with you all. You’d be called grungy punks at best. You didn’t think any of you even owned an iron and crisp definitely wasn’t your style. You blew out a puff of smoke, exhaling the nicotine from your lungs and shifted your gaze to Bender, wondering what he was at with this. He wasn’t the best guy, but pranking this preppy little nerd by bringing him down to your hangout? That seemed beneath him.

“You, uh, running some kinda charity here, Bender? We’re not exactly Make-A-Wish material, kid.” Scorch told the blonde dweeb and you snorted at the thought.

“Shut the fuck up,” was all Bender said in response. The rest of the twenty minutes of Brian Johnson standing there was of course, incredibly awkward and it was clear to everyone that he didn’t fit in. But that didn’t stop him from coming back a week later. And again a few days after that. And again and again until, well, that dork had grown on the lot of you. While he didn’t partake in cigarette smoking like most of you, he did take Bender up on his weed on several occasions and was actually really funny while high. He did weirdly spot-on impressions and had a sense of humor that none of your group had anticipated.

And, as much as you would vehemently deny it, you liked him when he was sober, too. He was incredibly smart and helpful and while his jokes were different without marijuana in his system, he could be amusing. That first awkward encounter was back in March, maybe April. But now you spent time with him without the convenience of school pulling you together. Now it was June and you sought to spend time with him, even without the group. Tonight, you were laying in a field not far from the high school, just the two of you. You liked to listen to him ramble on about the constellations and the myths about why they were named as they were. You remembered liking that as a kid, but you didn’t remember most of the stories. You knew you could ask him questions about the actual stars, too. Like, the science of it, and he would know. But you’d rather let him ramble and tackle one subject at a time. Even though he focused more on science and math, he was a pretty good storyteller, and right now that provided you with more of an escape than talking about the chemical composition of a star. When he finished his retelling of Ursa Minor’s story, however, he remained silent and didn’t start up a new piece of lore. After a moment, you looked at him to see what the hold up was, but you just caught his eye as his gaze was already fixed on you. Your heart started pounding in your chest because you knew what was coming.

“You know, we could go on an actual date some time.” Brian suggested, breaking the silence. You closed your eyes, almost wincing at the words. He was generally more subtle than this, but the same idea had been brought up before. It wasn’t that you didn’t like Brian. In general, you did, and in the honest depths of your soul, it was as more than a friend. But, every time it came down to this subject, you panicked. You had never been serious with anyone and the thought of dating was completely foreign to you. You had messed around with some guys before but you never had feelings for them. You didn’t know how to depend on another person, to have an actual relationship with them.

I had no choice but to hear you

You stated your case time and again

I thought about it

You sighed, your eyes still closed. You didn’t know what to tell him. Before, he always left it as more of a hint and it was easier to dodge. Now he was just coming out and saying it. Basically asking you out, so you would actually have to turn him down this time. The terrible thing was, you didn’t really want to. The conscious side of you wanted to agree and go out with him, on a proper date. But your subconscious kicked you into fight or flight mode and if you weren’t in the middle of a field, you might have picked flight and walked away. But that didn’t seem to be an option.

“Look, Johnson. It’s not that easy. Just...don’t waste your time on me.”

“I’m already wasting my time on you.” He pointed out, but when you took a peek at him, he didn’t seem upset about it. He was actually grinning about it. “We’re already wasting our time out here. Or at the library, or under the bleachers… So why not like, a movie theater or dinner, or my house?”

“Oh yeah, your mom would love having me around.” You joked, humorlessly. The smattering of times you had met Brian’s mother hadn’t gone swimmingly. You could read the derision in her voice and knew she did not approve of her good little baby hanging out with a ne’er-do-well like you.

“She’d come around. You’re different once someone actually gets to know you.” He meant it as a compliment, but you took it as your out.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” You leapt up, indignantly and he just gaped at you like a fish out of water.

“I didn’t mean anything bad by it, I swear!” He put his hands up defensively as you looked down at him. “Forget it, I’m sorry.” You had victory, he dropped the subject and your friendship could last another night and you could try to pretend like he wasn’t right, that you two weren’t meant to be something more.

*~~~~*

You treat me like I'm a princess

I'm not used to liking that

You ask how my day was

For the most part, working at Bert’s auto shop felt worthwhile and valuable. Other days, it chewed you up and spit you out. It was hard being in such a masculine environment and not fitting into that type. Customers (mostly men, but even the women too) thought that you were less knowledgeable and handy than your cohorts. Bender’s teasing didn’t help that image, either.

Now you slid into the booth at Gino’s pizzeria utterly deflated and defeated. Of course, Brian took notice right away. “Rough day?” He inquired, pushing a menu towards you even though he knew you ordered the same thing every time.

“That’s not even the half of it. Why does Bender hafta be such a dick all the time?!” You asked, incredulously but sincerely, diving right into your problem.

“I don’t know. I think he thinks it’s part of his charm? Maybe it is. I mean, we’re still friends with him.” You nodded at his point, but clenched your fists just the same.

“I just wish he knew when to back off sometimes. Like, he never realizes he’s taking it too far and digging you further into a shithole.”

“What did he do this time?” Brian’s gaze on you was unbroken; it made you feel important, like your opinion, your story, was the only thing that mattered.

“So we got this old guy in the shop today. Beautiful car, so of course he was hesitant with me touching it.” You began and his eyebrows furrowed, already not liking the direction this was going. “And I’m trying to prove myself worthy to work on this car, even though I would just be doing an oil change, which isn’t like a big deal anyway, right? Simple stuff.” You looked to him to get acknowledgement to move forward.

“I mean, I guess. I don’t really know about oil changes or anything about cars. But I know you do.”

“Right, so Bender has to go and make a crack to the old guy about how they won’t let me near it and I’m just the secretary for the shop or whatever. Just a total dick move. But of course the guy believed him and laughed with him and sent me to go get him a cup of coffee? I mean, what the hell is that?”

“That’s not right. And you wear a mechanic’s uniform at work, why would he think--?”

“Because macho man Bender told him I was! He was more believable than me.” You sank back and put a hand up to brace your forehead as the waitress approached the table. You prepared to order your drink when she set down exactly what you would have ordered in front of you and walked away, promising to come back in a few minutes. You blinked at the cup as if it magically had appeared.

“I uh, figured you’d get the usual and you’d need it when you got here, so I ordered for you. I hope that’s okay.” Brian said and then looked away, suddenly embarrassed by the idea. Since he wasn’t looking at you anyway, you allowed your lips to twitch up into a smile threatening to break out on your face...but only for a moment.

“Yeah, whatever. So anyway, Bender…” you carried on, pretending nothing happened, but secretly cataloguing his gesture in your memory.

*~~~~*

The only thing worse than arguing with Brian or him pissing you off was him making you laugh. There were times that you would go home with sore sides and itchy eyes from the tears that formed while laughing so hard. Then you would always, always reflect on the hours you just spent together, feeling the warmth and butterflies tickle your insides and a nervous heat would prickle your skin as you thought about how happy Brian made you. He never pushed you to do anything; he liked you the way you were. Sure, he would drop hints here and there about how you should stop smoking or give you advice when you had a particularly bad argument with one of your friends, but overall, he just accepted you. And you knew how hard that was to find.

You had never been popular and when junior high rolled around, you accepted that you never would be. You found your own little group of outcasts who understood what it was like to be kicked down time and again, and now he had somehow joined that group too. You knew he understood how it felt. Even though he looked different and came from a very different social circle, he had been looked down upon by his peers all his life. You were guilty of judging him the same way when you first met him, but now you couldn’t imagine life without him. He was cut of the same cloth and you could see yourself in him, which is why you just clicked. And he was so kind and so patient with you. You tried to push him away dozens of times, to put up the barriers and the walls that worked so well for everyone that came before him; you couldn’t be hurt if you never got attached. Where most people gave up and only saw the cold, distant bitch you gave them, Brian always saw something more. He didn’t give up in breaking down those walls, and even accepted just being your friend. That made you love him even more.

Shit, wait. Did you just think about loving Brian? A crush is one thing. Having a buddy to fool around with is one thing. Being in love was quite another.

You've already won me over in spite of me

Don't be alarmed if I fall head over feet

Don't be surprised if I love you for all that you are

I couldn't help it

It's all your fault

*~~~~*

Mercedes Johnson was all about keeping up appearances, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t hear her arguing with Brian on the other side of the door, about you. Again. You had known from the second you met her that she didn’t like you. She was instantly worried about the influence you’d have on her son; it was a common reaction from parents based on the way you looked and the company you kept. You would think you’d be used to it by now.

However, it truthfully bothered you more because this was Brian’s mother. You were hoping that she would be different and see the person underneath like her son had, or at the very least, that she would eventually warm up to you. You had no luck with either.

“I’m not comfortable with having her over at the house right now.” You could hear her tell Brian.

“She’s my friend, ma. Of course she’s going to come over--”

“I’m aware of that but you know I wish she weren’t. I would prefer that you keep the company of other friends.” The formality of her sentences while she was still cruelly putting you both down made you cringe.

“You don’t know her because you won’t give her a chance. She’s not that different from my other friends.”

“You have friends in the Physics Club, from Knowledge Bowl, Honor Students. You don’t need the association with a hoodlum like that or John Bender and I don’t know why you keep insisting on bringing them into my home when I have repeatedly told you no. I don’t want them around your sister, or even you!”

“Fine. Then we’ll leave.” You heard the door swing open harshly and Brian was motioning for you to follow him out of the house.

“Brian Ralph Johnson!” You heard his mother cry after the two of you. Brian held open the front door for you and you looked at him cautiously before rushing out. You knew you weren’t wanted there, but you were worried that he wouldn’t come with you. You were even more worried that he would. “You are not leaving this house.” Mercedes put on the most intimidating tone you had witnessed her use.

“No, I am. We are. I’ll see you later.”

“Don’t bother coming back tonight if you walk out of this house!” She was now pink-faced and losing all of the reserved, polished look you had seen her have. She had never been so...uncomposed.

“Don’t worry. I won’t.” Brian said and grabbed you by the elbow as he escorted you down the driveway to your car. He immediately got into the passenger seat and as you sunk behind the steering wheel, you glanced at him.

“Brian, this is stupid. You don’t have to---you shouldn’t do this.” The whole situation reminded you of the many times you had been kicked out of your house. This was just another home you weren’t welcome in.

He clenched his jaw in response. “Let’s just go. I’ll figure it out later. Please, just drive.”

Your love is thick and it swallowed me whole

You're so much braver than I gave you credit for

That's not lip service

“Your mom gave you a choice, you know. It’s not like she told you to get out. She actually told you not to leave.” You said as you both sat on the trunk of your car, looking out across the field that was slowly turning to a golden hue, both from the afternoon sun and the change into autumn. Neither of your houses were really an option to go to, so you just chose the empty field that you would look at stars in during the summer.

“It’s not like it was really a choice though, was it? I’m tired of her trying to control every part of my life. I need to start thinking for myself, doing things for myself. She needs to understand that I’m going to do what I want, and like who I want to like.” He looked at you meaningfully for a moment, but you looked away quickly. It was too heavy for you to process right now.

“That’s a big step. I’m really impressed with you for standing up for yourself.” You told him, and he gave you an appreciative, heart-stopping smile in return that caused your cheeks to flush. Your parents had shouted at you to leave so many times before, any time you were ‘inconvenient’ for them, that it was hard to relate to someone who chose not to stay. But you wanted to support him and you did feel proud of him today. You thought back to the most recent event in which you had been dismissed from your family, and how you had tried to take it out on Brian:

You slammed your locker and watched him almost jump out of his skin. “I don’t want to talk about this.” You growled at Brian.

“I understand that, but you need to. You can’t just--”

“Just what?”

“You can’t just act like nothing happened or run away from it...run away from here.” You had been disciplined at school yet again and your parents had had enough. You had a big fight with them the night prior and did not sleep in your own bed. The tiredness racked your body today and you were stiff from sleeping in your car. If it weren’t for the social aspect, you wouldn’t have bothered coming to school. But you quickly realized you weren’t in the mood to talk to anyone, and you were only making the situation worse.

“Like hell I can’t.” You stated, quickly turning to walk away.

“Y/N, don’t. Come on, talk to me. Tell me what happened. We can figure it out together.”

“There’s nothing to figure out, bucko. I’ll be fine. I’ll do this on my own. I’m used to that anyway.”

“But you don’t have to be alone, Y/N. That’s what I’m saying! That’s my whole point: I’m here for you!”

“I didn’t ask you to be, Brian.”

“No, because friends don’t have to ask.” His words scared you. Nobody had so adamantly offered to be a safety net to you before.

“Yeah,” you scoffed, “we’re great friends. We’ve bonded so much in the, what, four months you’ve known me?” You rolled your eyes, trying to make him feel uncomfortable, to drive a wedge between you. You only knew how to put up walls, how to run.

“You know we are.”

“Yeah, sure, right. Friends. Not like you want to sleep with me or anything.” You tried to drive another knife into him, to play it off like he was following you only because he had a crush on you, one you tried to pretend wasn’t reciprocated. “It’s not going to happen, Brian. So just accept that we’re not friends.”

He let you get about three steps away before you heard him say, “No. I know what you’re doing, and it’s not going to work. Sure, part of me wants something more, but...I care about you, Y/N. And if we can just be friends, I am happy with that, I swear. But don’t do this to me. Don’t try to shut me out or walk away or act like you’re fine. I know you well enough to know you’re not.” When you turned around, you could see that he had tears rimming his eyes, threatening to fall, which made your own tears spring up as well. “I am your friend. I’m not going to just let you go and do something stupid. You are going to talk about this. If not to me, then someone else. But you can’t just run away or sleep in your car or, or…”

“Okay.” You said, softly.

“Okay?”

“Fine, let’s talk about it. I screwed up again and my parents kicked me out. So what do I do?”

“Y/N, I’m so sorry. I...we’ll think of something.” He began to tell you, but you bit your lip and drowned him out in your own sobs. Everything crashed in on you at once; you hadn’t escaped in time. You slid down your locker wall and sat on the floor. Brian joined you and put his arm around you tentatively.

You are the bearer of unconditional things

You held your breath and the door for me

Thanks for your patience

After that day, you knew he wouldn’t let you go. You tried your best to brush him off, to hurt him, to land irreparable blows. But it was all in vain; he stuck by you. You admired how he stood up for you, for your relationship, whatever that meant. He didn’t back down, even though you knew he genuinely cared what you thought. He was willing to put everything on the line just to be with you, in whatever capacity you would allot him. And today, he had chosen you again. He had picked a fight with his mother and chosen you. He placed you above being safe and comfortable and at home right now.

“I’m sorry, this must seem so stupid to be complaining about. I know I don’t have it that bad, it’s just that--”

“No, your problems are valid, too. Your mom sucks.” You told him and he laughed, “But I would be lying if I said it wasn’t...weird to have someone be given the choice to stay instead of being yelled at to get out and that you’re worthless and---I’m sorry. I don’t mean to make this about me.” You said softly, looking down at your hands.

“No, I get it. It’s gotta be on your mind a lot, the uncertainty. Plus, I don’t mind talking about you.” He nudged your shoulder with his own, trying to be playful but you knew he meant that. He always put you first. You couldn’t help your next impulse as your hand shot up to cup his face and you leaned in and kissed him roughly. You weren’t entirely sure why you had done it. It would probably change everything and you couldn’t tell if you were doing it selfishly to feel like someone cared or to keep him around or because you truly wanted to. Of course, he kissed you back, and the feeling it gave you pushed a lot of those doubts from your mind.

You're the best listener that I've ever met

You're my best friend

Best friend with benefits

What took me so long?

*~~~~*

The kiss in the field still didn’t mean you were “together.” Realistically, it complicated things for a while. You avoided Brian for a couple of days and didn’t discuss it when you finally caved in to your desire to see him. He didn’t bring it up either, even though there were many times he would look at your lips like he wanted to make a move again, but you never talked about it. Things began to look “normal” after about two weeks. You spent time at the record shop, or under the bleachers with your friends or in the library with his friends. He nagged you about giving up smoking and you finally listened, much to his surprise.

“What made you finally decide to quit?” He asked, looking at the nicotine patch on your arm. You shrugged, not wanting to tell him the truth.

“I guess I just finally got tired of you being a broken record, mother hen.” You teased him, but he just smiled because he was happy with your choice. The truth of the matter was, you had done it for him. While you weren’t with him, you wanted to be. You didn’t want to keep doing something that bothered him so much, but you also knew that eventually, your habit of smoking would cost time with him and you didn’t want that. You lied to yourself that you didn’t want a relationship and weren’t thinking about a future with Brian, but you were. Every time he helped you study or encouraged you to do your best, the time your parents were out of town so he had made you his “specialty” of spaghetti in your kitchen, when you drove him around singing songs together on the radio...you thought about doing those things with him forever and instead of the fear you used to feel at such a thought, you felt happiness. You anticipated a future with him, something to look forward to.

I've never felt this healthy before

I've never wanted something rational

I am aware now

I am aware now

*~~~~*

“It’s kind of weird, yeah. But they’re cute together, I guess.” You had just returned from a movie with Bender and Claire. You were surprised at how long their relationship had lasted, especially since you had hated Claire at first. You assumed she was dating Bender as a statement, but it had been over six months and they were still together and it just seemed to work.

“It must be nice to have someone like that. Even if they don’t make sense, they care about each other. It just must be a nice thing to have a relationship like that.” Brian looked at you for a moment before backpedaling, realizing he must have made it sound like he was guilt-tripping you. “Don’t worry, I won’t ask you out again. I really just was complimenting them--”

“Well, maybe you should.” You cut him off.

You realized how rare a find like Brian truly was. He always put you before himself; he listened to all of your problems and knew when to offer solutions and when to just listen. He was endlessly supportive, and kind. He kept taking giant risks just to be with you, to show you that you mattered to him. You knew, without him saying it, that he loved you. Why else would someone go to the lengths he did, just to make you happy? You had tried everything to shake him, to get rid of him so neither one of you would be in too deep to get hurt. But he stayed, and now, you wouldn’t want him to go anyway. It was too late; you were both already in too deep.

He just blinked at you, sure he had heard incorrectly. “Wh-what?”

“I said, maybe you should. Ask me out again.”

“Y/N, do you want to go out with me?” He asked, unsure. It felt like a setup, but he knew you wouldn’t do something so cruel to him.

“Yes.” You replied, softly.

“Why?” He asked with furrowed eyebrows.

“I don’t know. I guess you won me over.” You chuckled, but he failed to see the humor in it, so you changed to a more serious tone. “Brian, I thought that these feelings would go away, that you would go away. Lord knows how hard I’ve tried to push you. But...you didn’t and the feelings didn’t. I-I love you. And I’m pretty sure I’m going to keep loving you, I don’t want to waste my time with anyone else. And...And I think that you love me.”

“I do.” He breathed quietly, with zero hesitation.

“So, why fight it any more? I was afraid that I would hurt you, but I think I’ve already done that and you’ve stuck around.” He nodded in confirmation of that fact. “And I was scared that I would get hurt but...but I’ve realized that you won’t do that to me, either.”

You've already won me over in spite of me

Don't be alarmed if I fall head over feet

And don't be surprised if I love you for all that you are

I couldn't help it

It's all your fault

He took your hands in his, “You’re serious? You really want this? Because, you know how I feel. How I’ve always felt.” You nodded in response, tears quickly filling your eyes, which was a rarity for you. He leaned in towards you to kiss you, for the first time since your conversation in the field over a month ago. He waited for you to be ready in every aspect of your relationship and you had never known so much love and respect before. It took some adjusting to, but he had pulled you in and made you fall for him again and again.

Just gonna tag my buddy...

@90sinequity

[scarletaire]

devil’s finery (Chapter 2)

Fandom: The Folk of the Air by Holly Black

Ship: Jude Duarte x Cardan Greenbriar

Genre/s: Fluff, Slow Burn, Eventual Smut

Rating: E

Tags: Post-Canon, Cardan visits the Mortal World, Possessive Behavior, Jude Torturing Cardan Without Even Knowing It, Jude Torturing Cardan AND Knowing It, Vivi and Heather Seeing Right Through Them, Starring: Cardan Greenbriar’s Tail and Jude Duarte’s Rage, Touch Denial, Lingerie, High Stress (only if you’re Cardan) 😈

Description:

Her husband, Jude swiftly realizes, has a thing for mortal clothes.

Specifically: her in mortal clothes.

Links: Masterlist | Read on AO3

Jude executes her plan with such efficiency that even Madoc would be impressed.

First, she gathers her weapons.

She, Vivi, and Heather pull up at a storefront downtown, where the buildings are warm red-brick and the breeze from the bay is cool in the air. Jude looks to Heather in confusion.

“I thought we were going to the mall?”

“Oh, no,” she says. “Victoria’s Secret knows nothing about boobs except how to sell them on a runway. We’re getting you fitted properly.”

It’s surprisingly not an explosion of pink tiling, itchy synthetic lace, and ransacked sales racks inside. In fact, there are no posters of scantily clad women anywhere. It’s well-lit, wood-paneled, and spacious. There are the expected racks and walls of bras and underwear and many more things Jude can’t name, but they’re all tastefully arranged by color (among which beige and black are a long-lost fever dream), and the variety of textures and embellishments have her involuntarily running her fingers over a satin slip with a spray of hydrangeas delicately embroidered on the hem.

A blonde woman with horn-rimmed glasses greets them all, pulling Heather and Vivi into a hug. Her name tag reads ‘Ewa.’ Jude holds out her hand to shake when she turns to her. Just because she’s going in for a fitting doesn’t mean they need to get so up close and personal just yet. (She’s about to be proved very wrong.)

“My sister, Jude,” Vivi introduces.

“Ewa,” says the shop owner. Eh-vah. “What can I help you with today, Jude?”

“Revenge,” Heather says, already elbows deep in black chiffon. “Oh – and a real bra fitting. Stat.”

Jude looks to her in mild alarm. She hasn’t lived in the human world for years now but surely that ‘revenge’ comment would raise some questions? But, no, Ewa’s smile sharpens that little bit further.

“My favorite type of customer. You’ve come to the right place.”

To Jude’s continued surprise, Ewa does not pull out a measuring tape. Instead, she asks Jude to take her top off in a nicely furnished changing room, and then rattles off a combination of numbers and letters that Jude would never have put together for herself.

She waits in a ridiculously plush velvet robe — Cardan would love it here, and not just for the obvious reasons — while Ewa pulls a few size check bras and then inspects the fit on her. Jude’s hangover-addled brain does its best to keep up while she receives an admirably thorough crash course on lingerie fitting. Things like your band is supposed to do eighty-percent of the support, not the straps, see how it’s not riding up your back anymore and make sure the wire goes around all of the breast tissue, a good underwire never pokes!

Is this what most normal mortal girls go through, buying their first bra with their moms? Or is this firecracker of a woman with her exacting gaze and arsenal of hand-dyed luxury fabrics a one in a million courtesy of her sister’s girlfriend? She’s still deciding if she’s relieved or aggrieved that she never got the chance to find out for herself.

Jude restrains herself from making a face when Ewa demonstrates the ‘scoop and swoop’ method, first on herself (yes, really), and then on Jude. It involves way too much bending over and rearranging to possibly do in front of another person, let alone a near stranger.

But then she sees —and feels — the difference that it makes: a weight has miraculously been lifted from between her shoulders. Nothing’s poking or digging in. She feels herself standing a little straighter. She even takes a double glance at her reflection in the mirror.

Jude sends a grudging look of respect Ewa’s way.

“You’re good.”

“I’m Polish, darling. Now that we’ve narrowed down your size, any color in particular?”

Jude turns to face the indomitable racks of laces and silks. The ruby of her wedding ring glints under the bright, artificial store lighting.

“Red,” she says. Her lips tilt of their own accord. “To start.”

Ewa shares her smile. “I like you already.”

  ______________________

Jude and Cardan are set to return to Elfhame the next day, and to send them off, they all troop out for early dinner at Oak’s favorite Korean barbecue place.

A tidal wave of smoke and grilling meat assaults them when the doors slide away, swiftly replacing the cool, crisp air of Maine’s wettest month of the year.

“Halt. Do I understand correctly,” Cardan says after they’re seated and their grill is sizzling along nicely, “that you have to cook your food yourself?”

“Yes, your Royal Majesty.” Vivi shoves a pair of silver scissors into his hand. “Not everything magically appears at your behest.”

“I could arrange for that.” His free hand raises as if to snap.

Jude does not like what happens when Cardan snaps his fingers. Especially in a crowded room of mortals.

“Stop it.” She grabs his hand and arrests it under the table, in the space between their thighs. “Here, this is your job, okay?” She demonstrates cutting the strips of cooked, marinated beef into smaller pieces. Jude has learned that if she wants to get anything done correctly, she needs to assign her husband with a task that he believes to be of great importance. Yes, exactly like dealing with a child.

“I am the High King,” he says, as if anyone could have possibly forgotten. “Jobs are beneath me. Why do you cut it before serving?”

“It’s for sharing, Cardan. Everyone gets from the grill, so we cut it bite-sized.”

“How commonsensical.” He uses his specially requested fork to take a piece before anyone else.

“You have to wait for everyone,” Oak complains.

“The king waits for no one, nephew.”

“We can take away your fork.”

“You’re using one, too, Jude.”

“I can use chopsticks. I’m way better at it than you.”

“Oak is ‘way better at it’ than you. And he’s half your age.”

As their banter dissolves into the noise of the rest of their order arriving, Jude and Cardan’s hands finish twining in the secret space beneath the table. Warm skin, always, and a touch lighter than her own. Palm to palm, fingers tightening ever so slightly. Never letting go. She lets the contentment wash over her for just a second.

Alright. Maybe two.

But Jude has a mission.

As Vivi slurps her bowl of cold noodles and Heather digs into her red-hot kimchi jjiggae without breaking a sweat, Jude begins to drag their entwined hands over to her. She shifts as if she’s readjusting herself into a better position, while their hands clear the no-man’s land of cracked vinyl between them. The back of his palm lands against her upper thigh, where it brushes against the black lace of the garter she put on under her skirt.

Cardan misses his next piece of meat on the grill. By a mile.

To his credit, he doesn’t stop to look down, or even glance in her direction. Everyone else continues on with their meal, unaware.

Underneath the table, his hand tightens around hers once, then his fingers open against the swath of lace, stretching against the fabric. Exploring, reaching, she thinks, for where it ends.

He finds it a good distance up her skirt.

Jude gasps. Hides it behind a large sip of water. Forces herself to still.

She knew it was coming; she planned it herself.

But. The thing is —

She never thought the inside of her thigh was sensitive. Not like this. Not shivery, and distracting and leaving her wanting more.

Turns out she’s sensitive to Cardan touching her there. Surrounded by friends and family. In public at a mortal restaurant.

Cardan strokes once, the cool edges of his rings catching against her.

What does it feel like to him? The delicate skin of her inner thighs, interrupted by equally delicate lace, a pattern of vines and flowers weaving against a part of her body that only he has ever touched?

The fact that he’s using the backs of his fingers makes it feel illicit, almost. Like he’s not supposed to touch her directly, but he can’t possibly resist not touching her at all. She never planned for that. Or how it made focusing on anything else impossible. If she looks down, she’ll see the outline of his hand under the fabric of her skirt.

It stays there until the end of the meal.

Outside, the sky threatens heavy rain. The others want to pop in to get boba at the small shop next door, so Vivi asks if she and Cardan want to wait here or go warm up the car. She does so while pointedly looking at Jude.

She and Cardan are admittedly leaning a little closer together than usual. Gravity is working strangely this night, because no matter how Jude arranges herself, her body inevitably tilts in his direction. She’s on a mission, but right now she’s questioning who exactly is playing who; the lines blurred the longer Cardan kept his hand up her skirt. She needs to regain her footing, fast.

Carefully, she lets the neckline of her oversized shirt drop to the side. Just slightly.

Cardan’s eyes hone in on the embellished black strap of her bra faster than an Elfhame falcon.

“We shall wait in your moving vessel.”

“Vehicle, Cardan.”

He doesn’t try to argue back.

Jude barely gets the car doors unlocked before Cardan throws her into the back seat. She lets it happen.

“Treacherous mortal. What are you wearing?”

Jude brushes her skirt down with an impertinence that she learned straight from him. “It’s Heather’s. I ran out of clothes because I ended up staying longer than expected. No thanks to you.”

“My wife lacking clothes? It sounds nary a problem to me.” He leans over her, pressing her back down on the seat. “I was referring to this.”

Warm, urgent fingers brushing up against her thigh.

Cardan snaps the garter back against her skin.

“What, that?” Her voice is featherlight on a gasp. “Don’t you know, Cardan? It’s what all mortal girls wear under their skirts.”

When he shakes his head, the ends of his hair brush against her forehead. “I think,” he croons in her ear, “you’re lying to me, Jude.”

He moves over her in the cramped, dark space. He’s all she sees.

“I think you want something.”

“Is it working?” The words are a callback to that little moment in their bed, when he used his magic to lull her into doing what he wanted, into staying with him instead of leaving for the mortal world.

“Come find out.”

It’s a threat, a challenge, and the language of war is so familiar between the two of them that Jude doesn’t fight it when he pulls them both backward and lifts her into his lap. She lands, breathless at the sudden change in position, and at the sight of the most powerful being in all the realms looking up at her through messy, dark curls and bright, adoring eyes.

Cardan’s hands find their way under her skirt again, tracing over her thighs currently stretched over his. Her muscles strain a little when he widens his legs; she knows he does it on purpose, because when Jude drops a little, so does her skirt. Delicate black lace now completely exposed against her skin.

He sighs, as if he’s been granted his most indulgent wish. Both hands now, sliding farther than they did in the restaurant. Jude arches into the touch before she can think better of it.

“Pretty. You deserve pretty things, Jude. Pretty things to wear. Pretty things for me.”

The words melt over her. She does like pretty things, even though she doesn’t get to wear them for herself all too often. She always envied the fae their feathers and jewels and dustings of gold. She supposes, as High Queen, those things aren’t beyond her anymore. She just never got around to doing it for herself — now that they’re married, Cardan is always happy to spoil her. Pretty dresses. Pretty flowers. Pretty letters that she will never let him know she keeps locked up in a box like precious things. He always gives her what she never realizes she wants.

Like this. This feeling. A kind of power, if she’s being honest, that she didn’t think existed. The power to wear beautiful things, to feel beautiful in them, to know that he liked it. To like that he liked it.

Again, the situation begins to slip out of her fingers, slick like a satin ribbon pooling at her feet. She never expected it to be this tricky. She never expected to like it.

Focus. She needs to focus.

In one graceful motion, Jude peels her shirt off.

“Pretty like this?”

And, oh, this, he clearly did not expect.

She went easy on him — and herself, if she’s honest — for the first one: simple black polka dots. (Against gold satin. Of course.) There’s lace detailing along the tops of the cups and the straps, little things that shouldn’t matter, but make a strange difference when she knows that they’re there for no real reason but to embellish. It isn’t even the fanciest or the most extravagant of the things she bought, but it’s already a far cry from what she used to wear before. The way his hands freeze on her waist and his mouth parts and his eyes glaze over gives her exactly what she needs to set her plan in motion.

“I have a deal for you, High King of Elfhame.”

Cardan’s gaze is still stuck to her chest. She honestly doesn’t blame him: there isn’t any extra padding, but Ewa nailed the fit so well that Jude has never felt so lifted in her life. The oddest urge to preen slips down her spine, straightening it. Making her roll her shoulders back just a bit. A harsh breath leaves his throat. It doesn’t look like he heard her.

“Cardan.” She grabs him under the chin. Doesn’t do it gently. He fixes on her face with a distracted grunt.

“I said—” Her pointer finger traces down his throat and settles against the first button on his white mortal shirt “—I have a deal for you.”

And he finally hears her, because he leans back, and even though she’s currently astride him, he still finds a way to look down at her through his long, long eyelashes.

“Oh? Very well, wife. Make your offer.”

He has the audacity to look like he was expecting this.

Jude leans in, bracing herself against his shoulders. “Set a date for the tribunal with the Court of Teeth,” she says, fingers trailing down his arms with slow intention, “and I’ll let you touch wherever you want.”

His eyes flash, black skies and thunderclouds. “And if I don’t?”

She catches both of his wrists and pins them on either side of his face. He grunts when they hit the seat back behind him. “Then you can only touch wherever I allow you. If I allow you.”

“A game.”

“Give me what I want, and you can call it whatever you like.”

“Show me, then.” The tilt of his head is all fae trickster, everything she was warned against all her life.

“What?”

“Show me how we’re going to play.”

As Jude watches, he spreads his trapped hands in a show of surrender, and it is the worst play at concession she has ever seen. Warily, she releases her hold on his wrists, her eyes narrowed at his expression.

Eager. And hungry.

His hands settle against the seat of the car. Less than a second later, their faces are suddenly inches apart. Jude scrambles at his shoulders for balance.

“You’re not allowed—”

“To touch, yes, I know.” He closes another inch of space. Two. “But you never said I wasn’t allowed to kiss you.”

“That’s…” Cheating, she wants to say. It dissolves just like the space between their lips.

“You want me to play, don’t you? Your game. Your bargain.” He breathes the words against her mouth. “A bargain means that I get something in return. Make me beg for it, Jude.”

The first press of his kiss starts to pull her under.

You’re supposed to pull away now, she thinks. Get off his lap. Get out of the car. Make it harder for him.

And then, the skies open with a vicious crack of thunder.

Jude jolts away; she and Cardan stare at each other in the shadows of the storm. Rain pelts the roof of the car in a surging, mocking staccato. Lightning edges the horizon. They’re stuck inside the car until it clears: there is no escaping this even if she wants to. No pulling away from this now.

As she watches, one of Cardan’s hands lifts from where it was resting at his side. It rises, right there where she can see it, coming closer and closer to the curve of black polka dots against a shining gold background.

Testing her. Challenging her.

“No,” Jude says, and she watches the denial melt into the pitch black of his eyes. Watches his hand lower and return to the seat. Watches his expression shift and sharpen because this is what it means to make herself forbidden and untouchable to the only one she’s ever wanted to touch her. What it means to command his obedience with nothing to hold against him but his desire. What it means to turn his touch into the exact thing she despises and he adores: a game.

A game she plays with a spoiled prince turned powerful king who always wants what he can’t have, and does whatever it takes to get it. Tricky, and wicked, and a little fond of pain.

Dangerous.

Good thing Jude is the exact same way.

  ______________________

Later, the only way Jude remembers those stolen moments in the car is through sound. Not sight, because the car was too dim for that. Not touch, because their game didn’t allow for it.

Not his, at least.

So, it was only this:

The strained creaking of the leather seat under his fingertips as he clenched and clawed and wished it were her skin instead.

The snick of each button she unfastened, every single one a punishment for denying her what she wanted.

The rustle of his shirt as it hit the rubber matting of the car floor.

The hiss she drew from him as her nails dug into his shoulders.

The slide of his mortal denim against the cotton of her underwear.

The storm drumming a beat that her hips followed without thought, fever-pitch.

The rasp of the fabric of her bra against his bare chest as she moved against him.

The gasps she didn’t bother to hide in his neck as she rode him through their clothes.

The swish of his tail as it wrapped around her ankle (she tells herself later it doesn’t count).

The silence every time Jude asked him to set a date for the tribunal, each request more breathless than the last.

The strangled groan she wrung out of him when she denied him what he wanted.

The dark chuckle that told her he considered torture and pleasure one and the same.

The sighs from both of them when Jude eventually gave in and kissed him, needing his touch even as she forbade it.

The little whimper she couldn’t help when she finally came, breathing hard against his mouth.

The frustrated grunt as his hands fisted at his sides, where they remained the whole time.

The hum in her throat as she looked down at the sight of him, still hard and desperate and no less hungry beneath her, and considered her opening assault a success.

  ______________________

Jude deploys the rest of her arsenal following a carefully crafted plan of attack.

First, the night strike.

They’re turning in to sleep after their first full night since returning to Elfhame. Jude came in before him, and so she’s already removed Nightfell and the small army of knives from her body when he crosses the room and touches the back of her head softly in greeting. (It doesn't count either, of course. It's a new and diaphanous thought to consider, that some things between them are never a game at all.)

Some nights, they burst through the doors, their blood already pumping and voices hoarse from arguing, and it’s easier than nothing to transmute the anger and the frustration of the day into tearing clothes and rough hands and moans muffled into cushions of the chaise because they don’t make it to the bed.

But there are nights like this one, quiet and comfortable and familiar at the end of long meetings and infuriating council members, that Jude loves the most. They’ll usually come in together, because he’ll seek her out to amuse himself after boring paperwork, and she’ll roll her eyes and call him names, and they’ll ring for honeycake even though dinner is over. Then, it’ll be soft voices and the smoothness of his skin against her calluses and Jude wishing she had enough magic to just make moments like these impossible to wake up from. Of course, she’ll never tell Cardan that.

It’s later than usual when they come in tonight; the first whispers of dawn tease through the gossamer of the curtains. Maybe that’s why Cardan just gives her a tired smile as he begins to undo the cuffs of his sleeves.

Strangely enough, it’s moments like this that strike through Jude more than any other. The domesticity of being there when he dresses for the day, and then when he undresses at the end of it. It’s a simple thing, undoing his cuffs, but the intimacy of it is beyond anything she knows. There are no chambermaids to help either of them undress; they’ve been scarce since they started sharing a room. Knowing that no one else sees him like this, and that she’s the one he chooses to be there with him: she hoards the sight of him with shoulders loose and expression untenanted as the fastenings of him come undone.

“Lord Roiben sent a message,” she says. It’s empty chatter, mostly she just wants to hear his voice after being separated from him since breakfast. “The Court of Termites is preparing a revel for Lady Kaye’s birthday.”

“I heard.” He’s dispassionate. “You understand it will be a trifling matter compared to our revels, of course.”

“Of course. No one could dare match you in terms of excess.”

They haven’t brought up Jude’s bargain since the car, as if the mere mention of it will spoil the game between them. But it simmers unspoken, a secret that changes the landscape of the way they move around each other throughout their day.

Cardan tugs the rest of his shirt off, gives up halfway to getting undressed, and collapses bare-chested into the chaise with a melodramatic sigh.

“The council was merciless today,” he complains. He’s even thrown his arm up against his eyes.

“Poor thing,” Jude deadpans. They’d be easier to deal with if he just settled the tribunal date.

Which reminds her. She casts one last glance at him — tail swishing low and lazy, voice growing softer and drowsier as he tells her about Randalin’s insufferable pestering, guard down, his guard is down — before reaching into the bottom drawer of her dresser.

It’s heavier artillery, this one. She slips into the ensemble the way Ewa taught her, one leg at a time, and only doing the little straps after she’s tugged it around her body.

She tramples down on the smallest whisper of disquiet in her belly: he’s seen her completely naked, has certainly done much more than look, but putting herself on display like this, intentionally, is a strange vulnerability she’s never had to prepare for before. She’s not afraid, exactly. Just — bared. Bared to him, and the game they’ve woven deliciously between them.

It thrills down her spine.

“You should have been there, Jude, to see the way Randalin chased after me. He is rather a badgering sort, our Minister Cockalorum. Of course, you’d know all about badgering, wouldn’t…”

His words die on his tongue when she stops in front of him.

“…you.”

You.

She watches his expression, how it shifts in maddeningly complicated ways as he struggles to decide where to look first, until finally he is caught by her face. She can’t be sure what he finds there — amusement? encouragement? reassurance? — but whatever it is allows him to slowly drag his gaze down her body.

The whole thing is sheer black fabric, practically translucent. It flows loosely down to her upper thighs, and is held together by two thin straps that go around her ribcage. Two little clasps, or it would all fall off her shoulders — not that it would make a real difference. The only thing that really counts as coverage is the intricate black embroidery of flowers that travel across her breasts. They reminded her of bitterblack in the shop, and that was mostly why Jude bought it.

A babydoll, Ewa said. Barely.

She’s still looking at Cardan’s face when he finally reaches the bottom, which he can see through to the matching underwear with the same embroidered flowers. Whatever disquiet she felt earlier has been washed away by the way his mouth parts open on a shaky exhale. Jude stands before him now, a little cold but thoroughly entertained.

Cardan rises, like he’s moving through honey. Her neck tilts back when he reaches his full height.

She steps closer.

He leans in.

His chest brushes against the barest edge of sheer fabric.

She breathes in deep, the bite of dawn air and the sweetness of victory.

Cardan’s hand moves, unbidden, to graze the clasps holding it all together.

Jude grins.

“No.”

It slams into him, the weight of the bargain, the game. His hand freezes, caught between them. She sees him wade through the haze; it’s clear he forgot it for just that moment.

He confirms it with a choked off sound, low in his throat.

Still grinning, Jude steps away. Turns her back on him.

“Sleep well, Cardan.”

A strangled howl follows her when he sees that what’s in front doesn’t quite make it to the back.

At all.

This is going to be fun.

______________________

END NOTES: 

Chapter 3 will be up 10/1 at 10AM UTC!

The scene in the car is directly inspired by this jaw-dropping piece by @alexandracurteart. 

Our favorite lingerie store owner is inspired by real-life lingerie designer extraordinaire, Ewa Michalak. She runs an amazing shop of handmade lingerie for all shapes, sizes, colors, and ages. Not an ad, just thought it would be cool to mention. 

Shout out and thank you to @admiral-ackbarista​ for the loveliest message that motivated this chapter! 

___________________

Tagging: @ireallyshouldsleeprn @nahthanks @foreverscreaming @nee-naw-nee-naw-beepbeep @kpostedsum​

* Let me know if you’d like to be tagged in future fics (Jurdan or other fandoms!) and it would be my absolute honor to do so!