#dagger sketchbook requests | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

catsfor2 · 1 year

Text

fem!artist!reader x ellie

<warnings> sexual ?tension ?, slight slight angst, swearing, UNEDITED!

i’ve been wanting to write some hcs/drabbles for a bit and am finally doing it!!. this is kinda self indulgent and i thought others might enjoy. i want to do fics, more hcs, and am CURRENTLY DOING REQUESTS/ASKS!!!!! so plssss interact/tell me what u think!!! —j

Ellie found value in her art mainly through its life and realism. Her sketchbook was merely snippets of her mind - the love, the fear, the humor, the darkness.

Aside from books she’s sparsely found, she hasn’t been exposed to much other forms of art.

When you appeared in Jackson, it barely took days for mentions of the new ‘town artist’ to reach her ears. Dina, fawning over a delicate set of earrings, “Ellie she makes them out of plants…or like…the sap? I don’t totally remember what she said but I swear she’s so freaking cool,”

Or when Jesse came strolling in, rambling about this tiny dagger ring he now has, made out of an old spoon.

“Look I didn’t even buy it alright? Dina won’t stop talking about this chick who makes like…jewelry..I guess? Now I’ve got probably the shortest range weapon known to man,” he finished, smiling.

The final straw was when Ellie came home from a patrol late one night, achy and worn, to a tiny box sitting on her mattress.

As she peered closer, she saw a note hastily taped to the side. It read:

“Hey its Dina. I saw something and it made me think of you. I may have blabbed about you to the artist and she knows who you are now. Oops. She said she wants to see your drawings. Don’t hate me.”

Ellie felt her body suddenly become more achy and more tired. Of course. She didn’t want to get involved in this bullshit, some newcomer wooing all her friends with useless junk. Although, the thought that Dina got her a gift blurred her annoyance to a degree.

Ellie’s fingers tore through the wrapping on the outside, flipping the lid to reveal a small, bone colored pendant strung with a brown braided cord. As she peered closer, the pendant became a moon;It’s face, immaculately tiny, smiling subtly.

The necklace was far too obstructive for Ellie to wear at all, honestly. Dina probably knew this when she got it. But the pendant truly is beautiful. An entirely different art form. A different show of care - of talent. The detail allows her to comfortably sit in her room and study it quietly for another ten minutes.

Ellie sat hunched the next morning, eating something bland for breakfast, only clad in a loose sports bra and some sweatpants.

A knock heightened her soggy mood.

“Are you fucking- I went out yesterday there’s no fucking reason to be knocking on my door at—”

Jesus. There is no mistaking it, Ellie thinks. This is you.

Your hair is intertwined with beads, some homemade and some foraged from the looks of it. Dozens of necklaces, layered and tangled around your neck. The same can be said for both of your wrists. Your ears, pierced up the sides and looped with beads, charms, and other metal pieces.

It was like you were a display for the things on your body. Except, no, Ellie thinks, your face stands out amongst it all. Somehow, with all of the things covering you, your beauty is the most noticeable.

It does nothing to quell how annoyed Ellie is, however.

“Who are you,” Ellie quips(knowing full well who you are). “and what do want.”

“I’m sorry- am I intruding? I really didn’t want to bother you or anything!” You rush, suddenly embarrassed.

“I’m y/n, I just moved here. Dina just said that you might have some extra pencils and stuff that I could borrow if I ran out?” You say, hoping desperately you can save this first impression.

“I mean…” Ellie uncrosses her arms and brushes some hair behind her ear.

“Yeah, you can use some shit. I have enough to share. I didn’t know Dina told you that, so. My bad. For being…rude.” She adds, opening the door even wider. You see her muscles flex as her arms extend and curse yourself for even noticing.

“Oh it’s fine, really!” You say, making sure to remember this about Dina. Also making sure to avert your eyes from the dangerously low cut of Ellie’s sweatpants. Her careless movements are really making you nervous.

Ellie gestures for you to enter, abruptly grasping your shoulder when you don’t move as fast as she would like. She begins to walk you farther into the room.

“You do realize it’s 6 a.m. right? What do you need pencils for at 6 a.m.?” She says, staring you directly in the eyes.

“Ah, well, I guess you’re not a morning type of creator?”

“No.” Ellie sternly remarks. “I’m not.”

She turns around to start walking away.

Starting to feel like a pest, you quickly try to think of something else to change the subject.

“Y’know…I think a ring would look really nice on your hands. Or fingers- I guess.”

That’s a nice compliment right? Or did I just say something fucking insane? You think.

Ellie straightens, slowing her pace a bit.

“I could make you a ring? Like as a trade? For the…pencils?” You say.

She turns.

“Yeah…Sure…” Her hands fall on her hips.

“How do you know how big to make it,” Ellie says. “The ring.”

“Well, what I’ve been doing is using this like, bendy piece of plastic to—well, hold on,” you pause, grabbing her hand to demonstrate.

Ellie’s eyes snap to yours in an instant, invisibly clouding your brain with something warm and fuzzy. You feel her hand flex in yours.

“uh…yeah, so I use this,” you reach into your pocket. “and I wrap it around whichever finger, like middle or ring finger.”

You instinctively wrap it around her ring finger, matching up the lines and moving your head in close to see which number lines up. You feel her figure move closer to you, almost hovering over you as you work.

“aaaand it looks like you’re a size….9” you mumble, running your hands along the base of her fingers before shyly retrieving yourself from touching her, remembering the situation.

Before you can move, Ellie snatches both of your wrists, bringing them in between the both of you. Her eyes intimately gloss over your rings.

“Hold up, could I try on one of yours?”

Your face colors. You couldn’t really explain, but something about the way she’s gripping your hands makes the blood in your body heat up.

“I…yeah, yes. But these are gonna be like…pinky rings for you.” You say, hands fumbling to take off one of your rings for Ellie to try on. Your palms are getting sweatier each time she touches you.

“What?”

“Your fingers are bigger than mine. So,” you take your ring and attempt to place it on her finger. “it only fits…” Ellie’s eyes track your hands. “…on your pinky. There. See? Pinky ring.”

“Oh.” She says. Her gaze still hasn’t left your hands, almost like she’s noticing them for the first time.

You misread her quietness as some sort of sadness.

“Hey, your hands aren’t that much bigger than mine- I know a lot of girls who just have bigger ring sizes. It’s not like- a thing. To feel bad about, or anything.”

Ellie says nothing. Her mouth twitches.

“Your hands are nice. I think..”

She looks up, a laugh bubbling out slightly. Finally, she stops you.

“I don’t mind having big hands.” She looks at you with something weird, something extra.

“They’re not really that big…” You joke, thankful that Ellie has seemed become less irritated with your presence. You notice the wirey veins tracing between her fingers and lining the backs of her hands.

“Yeah?” She questions. “Wanna compare?”

The way shes smiling at you puts a fiery ball in your stomach. It gets hotter as you realize she will not stop looking at you.

“Wow you really can’t take your eyes off my hands, huh? You really want to make me a ring that bad?” She says. Something in her tone makes you pulse between your thighs.

“Oh- I don’t mean to stare. I’m sorry.” You utter, trying to regain your composure.

This is not the Ellie you were taking to before. You felt…vulnerable, now. Your shirt felt thin, it had you rethinking your bralessness. Your shorts felt…short. It felt like the exposed parts of you were burning under the possibility of being seen by Ellie.

“No, I think you mean to.” She continues, “Because you’ve been staring this whole time.”

She’s found you out. You tried your best to be subtle about the yearning, the pull you felt, the way you’ve been just a little breathless ever since you’ve walked through the door.

But you failed.

“It’s really cute, the way you say you like my hands cause of the ring thing.”

She grabs your chin gently and rubs her thumb just under your mouth.

“…But. Be honest.” She stops. Her other hand starts to inch up your leg. You barely notice until her hand brushes the hem of your shorts.

“They just turn you on.”

Your eyes flip wide open, as does your mouth.

“You can pretend it’s some sort of artistic muse thing, but I think…” Ellie tucks a strand of hair behind your ear before leaning in closely near your neck. “you just want to be touched.”

Your silence is encouraging to her, it seems. The way your eyes have glossed over and cheeks gone red also let her continue,

“Yeah, it’s been a while, hasn’t it? Have you been waiting for someone to ask you that?” Her eyes flit between your lips and the outline of your pebbled nipples under your shirt.

“For someone to give their fingers to you?”Ellie only grins. She’s pleased, excited, at your inexperience.

“I- I don’t know what to say,” you sputter.

The hand on your thigh tightens, causing you to squeeze your legs ever so slightly. You focus on meeting Ellie’s gaze and not closing your eyes to relish in the contact.

“Do you want me to touch you?” She asks.

Her eyes gaze so heavily at your mouth, it’s difficult to remember to speak.

“Cause I really want to touch you. Please?” Both of her hands are now trailing up and down your thighs, almost frantically, tugging at the bottom of your shirt and messing with the hem.

You know that she can now see your bare breasts, pushing through the fabric of your top. Ellie’s hands grope your waist and your ass suddenly slides forward from the force, your breasts pressing up against hers in an instant. The heady exhale she groans out blows past your neck. The warmth gives you shivers.

“Yes, touch me.” You say,

hoping wholly to god that it won’t be the last time you say it.

#ellie x reader #ellie williams #tlou part 2 #ellie williams x reader #f reader #lesbian #x reader #abby anderson #tlou fic #ellie tlou #ellie fic #ellie williams fic #catsfor2

301 notes · View notes

heqvenlymoons · 3 months

Text

The Chronicles of Links & Connections [1]

Hey, I'm working on getting this ongoing social media fic of mine posted onto tumblr as well. Hope y'all enjoy! <3

The Chronicles of Links & Connections Masterlist | AO3

Chapter 1: Felix Graham de Vanily

──────────

March 3rd, 2023— Collège Françoise Dupont, Paris, France.

“Have you guys seen MDC’s latest post? I actually helped her with her latest designs!” The shrill voice of one Lila Rossi had Marinette Dupain-Cheng looking up from her sketchbook with a yawn.

The majority of the class was gathered around the Italian girl, all looking eager as they listened, enraptured by Lila’s latest tale.

Marinette rolled her eyes, dragging her gaze back to her sketchbook. She had long given up on trying to reason with her classmates. If they wanted to destroy their future by listening to the liar, it was their choice. She was on friendly terms with the class ever since she had left Lila alone, but took care in maintaining distance.

While her classmates wasted time listening to the Italian girl filling their heads with nothing but air, Marinette focused all her energy on her schoolwork, and her hero duties as Ladybug and MDC. Without constantly trying to please her classmates by fulfilling their favours, she found herself with more time on her hands than before.

Her eyes caught on Chloe who gave her a nod and she smiled back in acknowledgement. It had been unexpected when Chloe Bourgeois apologized to her. The mayor’s daughter had matured a lot throughout the years and even before Lila had come into the picture, the blonde had left Marinette alone for the most part.

Chloe had been the one to help her launch her MDC website and has helped her a lot in working behind the scenes. It hadn’t been long after the launch of Marinette’s website that Chloe’s mother, Audrey Bourgeois— the renowned Style Queen— reached out and reconnected with her daughter.

Marinette’s gaze caught on the Italian again who had moved on to telling the class about Felix Graham de Vanily. Lila’s green eyes met hers and there was a glint of challenge in the Italian’s eyes even as she continued to talk about the famous actor taking her on a date. Marinette gave a stiff nod before ducking her head to look down at her sketchbook.

The quiet chatters in the room seemed to fade away as Marinette was lost in her own world of creativity. She felt a sense of calmness in the light sound of pencil scratching on paper as she let her mind guide her hand like water flowing in the direction it was meant to go.

She had received a commission request from Clara Nightingale to design the concert outfit. Marinette was putting all her effort into ensuring the piece was the best it could be. After all, the works of MDC are nothing but exceptional.

Marinette’s mind was once again straying away from the current task at hand and to the time when she and Lila had come to a truce.

──────────

A Few Months Ago— Collège Françoise Dupont, Paris, France.

“Admit it, Marinette. You’ve lost,” Lila said, her eyes staring at the ravenette looking victorious.

Marinette had been using the bathroom and upon walking out of the stall, she had been cornered by Lila yet again.

Marinette went to wash her hands in the sink. It was silent save for the sound of water splashing. She could feel Lila staring daggers at her from the side.

“Aren’t you going to say something?” The Italian asked, taken aback by her silence and unresponsive behaviour.

Marinette turned to her with a bright smile, making Lila take a step back. “No. I’ve figured something out. Some people just don’t want to be saved. I should thank you, Lila, for showing me who my true friends are,” she said, watching in mild amusement as Lila gaped at her. “From now on, I stay out of your way and you stay out of mine. We have nothing more to say to each other.”

With that said, Marinette turned to leave. Lila, unsatisfied with not having the last word stopped her. “Really? After everything, you’re giving up on them? You won’t call me out anymore?”

Without a glance back at the Italian, Marinette responded. “They gave up on me first. I’m only doing what I should’ve done a long time ago. I’ll leave you alone but only if you do the same for me.”

She exited the bathroom, leaving Lila in the ashes of her empire. Lila Rossi might have won the battle, but she wouldn’t win the war. Retribution would come in due time.

Marinette would take the high road and leave everything else behind her. Her classmates have chosen their path and she chose hers. She owed her former friends nothing.

──────────

March 3rd, 2023— Collège Françoise Dupont, Paris, France.

Marinette broke out of her musings when Ms. Bustier spoke, the chattering of the class stopping as the teacher grabbed their attention. “Class, we have a new student. Felix Graham de Vanily.”

The class broke into surprised hushed whispers.

“Felix Graham de Vanily, the famous actor? The one who acted in The Vengeance?”

“You dimwit! Do you know any other Felix Graham de Vanily?”

“I love how his character was portrayed in The Vengeance, he plays cold characters really well.”

“According to my calculations, 75% of the time he wasn’t acting. He’s known for tearing apart the paparazzi with nothing but his words. He’s very reserved and he’s also known for his cold demeanour even when he’s not acting.”

Marinette looked at the stoic-faced boy beside her teacher, curious. The boy was well dressed like he had come from a family of money. He had neat blonde, lightly ruffled hair with pale skin and green eyes. With a start, Marinette realized except for his hair, the boy’s features were familiar. Almost like… Adrien Agreste.

Marinette’s gaze flickered to the boy in question sitting near the front looking confused.

“Felix? I didn’t know you were coming to Françoise Dupont!” Adrien exclaimed, smiling up at his cold-faced look alike.

Felix looked back at the blonde, expressionless. “Not everything has to run by you before it happens, cousin.” His voice was sharp and held a bit of sarcasm.

Marinette found herself drawn to him. He looked like someone who wouldn’t put up with nonsense. She didn’t know much about him, sans the news and reports of him she’d seen on social media but the media had a knack for blowing things out of proportion when painting people in negative light.

While Adrien was all sunshine and daisies, Felix’s personality seemed to contrast with his cousin. He had a mysterious aura, even the media didn’t know much about his life beyond his acting career.

“Hey girl, isn’t that your boyfriend? The one you were telling us about? Perhaps he transferred here so he could spend more time with you!” The excited voice of Alya— Marinette’s former best friend— speaking to Lila, drew the attention of Felix as he narrowed his eyes.

Marinette could barely contain her amusement as Lila looked panicked when faced with the cold eyes of Felix.

Lila tugged at Alya’s sleeve, looking nervous as she admitted, “Did I say Felix Graham de Vanily? I didn’t mean to say that. It’s… my lying disease acting up again.”

Alya looked disappointed, as did the rest of the class but they looked understanding. “It’s okay girl, you can’t control it. At least you do tell us when it does act up.”

Marinette shook her head, refraining from scoffing. Chloe had no reservations and scoffed loudly enough for the both of them. They exchanged glances, looking amused. It was unbelievable how Lila avoided yet another crisis by backing up her lies with more lies. It was almost laughable.

“And what, pray tell, is this lying disease you speak up?” Felix said flatly, staring daggers at Lila.

Marinette set her pencil down on her desk. Someone else seeing through Lila’s lies within minutes of entering the class and calling them out? This was bound to be interesting.

Lila widened her eyes, and to everyone else, she looked the epitome of innocence. “I’m diagnosed with a rare lying disease and because of this, sometimes I can’t control the things I say. I’m really sorry if I’ve offended you.”

Felix looked unimpressed by her confession. “A rare lying disease,” he deadpanned. “What you are doing is called pathological lying. Pathological lying can be a symptom of antisocial personality disorder or narcissistic personality disorder. I suggest you get some accommodation from the school so it doesn’t affect the people around you.”

Alya glared at him, unhappy with his tone. “She already told you she can’t control it! What’s wrong with you?”

Before a screaming match could occur on Alya’s end, Ms. Bustier intervened. “Felix, would you introduce yourself to the class?”

Felix’s gaze flickered from Alya and Lila, then he looked at the rest of the class with disdain. “Felix Graham de Vanily. I am here to learn, not to socialize. Do refrain yourselves from conversing with me,” he drawled, making most people freeze in their seats from his tone.

He then turned to Ms. Bustier, who looked taken aback.

“R-right.” Ms. Bustier said, trying to regain composure. “There’s a seat beside Marinette at the back. Marinette, please raise your hand.”

Marinette raised a hand at the call of her name, watching as Felix’s cold gaze focused on her. She sent him a hesitant smile, one he did not return. He ignored her sunny smile and moved to the back of the classroom where she was sitting.

Lila raised her hand. “Ms. Bustier! My tinnitus is acting up again. I would feel better if I swapped seats with Marinette. I’m sure Marinette won’t mind, she would want to sit with her best friend again.”

Marinette’s smile faded away as she narrowed her eyes at the Italian girl. Was she breaking their truce after months? It was just like Lila Rossi to go for the next big thing. Adrien Agreste wasn’t enough, she had to try for Felix Graham de Vanily as well.

Ms. Bustier’s composure wavered as she looked hesitant. “Well—”

“How about instead of deciding for someone else, you should let Miss…” Felix trailed off, looking to Marinette questioningly for her last name.

“Dupain-Cheng,” she supplied.

He continued without missing a beat. “You should let Miss Dupain-Cheng decide if she would want to swap seats with you.”

“Of course, Marinette would be okay with it.” Alya snapped at him. “She’s always willing to help people, and right now Lila’s tinnitus is acting up.”

Marinette stared at Alya in disbelief. Was she serious right now? Alya had missed his entire point.

Felix set his bag on the floor beside the desk before he took his seat, unbothered by the unfolding conflict. “Well?”

Alya frowned. “Well, what?”

“Ask Miss Dupain-Cheng for her opinion on the matter,” Felix said slowly as if speaking to a child.

Alya bristled at the patronizing tone but turned to the ravenette. “Would you mind swapping seats with Lila? Her tinnitus is acting up and sitting at the back might help her.”

Marinette blinked at the request, turning to Lila who was pouting at her and ever so looking pitiful. Marinette closed her eyes, preparing for the shouting match that was bound to happen at her response. “I do mind, actually.”

As predicted, Alya opened her mouth, ready to protest but Marinette went on. “You guys were the one who pushed me to the back months ago without asking me and now you were prepared to drag me back to the front without asking me, yet again.”

Chloe gave Marinette a thumbs up from where she was sitting.

“But Lila—” Alya had started to protest when Felix cut her off.

“You cannot expect every person to cater to Miss…” Felix trailed off, looking straight at Lila.

“Rossi,” Chloe interjected while inspecting her nails.

Felix continued without sparing the blonde a glance. “You cannot expect every person to cater to Miss Rossi’s every need. If Miss Rossi here has as many issues as she claims to have, perhaps she should speak with the school’s principal for accommodations. Or is the principal so incompetent at his job that he leaves these issues unchecked?”

Alya spluttered, not able to form a response.

Felix ignored her, turning to Ms. Bustier. “We are learning, yes? I suggest you proceed with the lesson plans you have for today’s class before dismissal.”

Ms. Bustier cleared her throat, looking flustered from losing control of the class. “Right, I’ll get the attendance before we start.”

“Best entertainment I’ve had in weeks,” Marinette muttered, a grin on her lips as she watched Lila turn on the waterworks and Alya take on the role of comforting the Italian girl.

“I am glad my verbal assault does not always elicit negative responses,” Felix said dryly, making Marinette startle, not having expected him to hear her.

She looked sheepish. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you with my comment.”

he waved her apology off. “I was jesting. Is the class always this…”

“Chaotic?” Marinette offered. At his nod, she sighed. “It hadn’t always been this way. Lila Rossi has a way with words.”

Felix scoffed. “So I have noticed. She attempted to manipulate me within two minutes of me setting foot in the class. It is pathetic, honestly.”

“As the class representative, I’m obligated to warn you. This will not be her only attempt at manipulating you,” she warned, making him look at her with a grimace.

“I am offended you think I am dim-witted enough to fall under her spell,” Felix said, before eyeing her, contemplating something. “Compared to the rest of the class, you seem to be of suitable company. And that Bourgeois girl. I would not be opposed to making you an acquaintance.”

At Marinette’s raised eyebrows he nodded to her sketchbook. “Your designs look familiar. They seem to be of MDC’s style.”

She looked like a deer caught in headlights and she moved to close her sketchbook, looking wary. Felix was more observant than she had given credit for if he had already figured out she was MDC just by her art style. She would have to be more careful around him if she didn’t want him to figure out her heroine identity as Ladybug.

Taking note of her sudden reserved nature, he backpedalled. “I did not mean for that to come out as a threat. I know how vicious the press is and I will not give your identity away to anyone. You have my word.”

Marinette relaxed a little at his words. Felix did seem like someone who would honour his words. Still looking hesitant, Marinette nodded. “Thank you. Not just for agreeing to keep my identity as MDC a secret, but also for defending me back there.”

He returned the nod, then faced the front as Ms. Bustier started calling names for attendance.

──────────

Trending

1 • Trending Worldwide #FelixGrahamdeVanilygirlfriend 1.2M Tweets

2 • Trending Worldwide #MDC 957k Tweets

3 • Trending Worldwide #MDCboyfriend 875k Tweets

4 • Trending in Paris #LatestAkuma 823k Tweets

5 • Trending in Paris #ShadowStinger 789k Tweets

What’s Happening

news • 25 minutes ago MDC and Felix Graham de Vanily Followed Each Other’s Social Media?

news • 41 minutes ago MDC and Felix Graham de Vanily Dating?

news • 56 minutes ago The Ice King’s Heart Is Thawed By His Girlfriend

news • 1 hour ago The Latest Akuma On AkumaWatch: Shadow Stinger

──────────

Next Ch 2

#felinette #felix graham de vanily #marinette dupain cheng #mlb social media au #Links & Connections AU

25 notes · View notes

aakariiiii · 1 year

Text

The Necklace! ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

features: mikey x fem!reader

contains: intruders, mentions of a dagger….cursing.. thats it?

requests: open

a/n: idk if i like this but..enjoy <3

____________________________________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐

“I know you guys haven’t made a sound yet, but keep it down. I’m tryna sleep because I’m really feeling sick” your voice, groggy and tired spoke through the phone.

“Huh? Keep it down? What are you talking about, y/n?” Mikey questioned in a puzzled voice.

“Downstairs I mean—”

“Babe we’re literally outside a bakery getting Taiyaki…what in the world are you talking about?”

As soon as the realisation of these words was processed by your mind, your body sent you a rush of adrenaline that made you jolt up.

“Mikey—I swear to God if you’re messing with me I’m gonna beat your ass. It’s not funny.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

With trembling hands and a shaky breath, you hung up the phone and went on to call Draken.

“Yo y/n—”

“Draken you’re downstairs right?”

“Huh? No..I thought Mikey just told you that we’re at the Bakery…Mikey, Baji, Mitsuya, Chifuyu, Takemitchy, and—”

“Fuck”

“Give me the phone Draken.” You hear Mikey shout from the other side

“Huh? What the fuck is happeni—” Draken asked, receiving no response back as his phone got taken away from him

“Y/n what is happening? is everything okay?”

“Mikey—I think some people broke in—” you were interrupted by your own cough.

“Wait—broke into your house?”

“Yeah—I thought it was you guys since…y’know, you have the spare keys and all but I guess not.” again, your cough interrupts you

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, just a little fever and some cough. Anyway, I think I can take them on…though I think I might be burning a little but that’s fine…I’ll update you when I’m done bu—”

“You’re an idiot. You know that, don’t you?” he muttered through the phone, then handed the phone to Draken.

“It’s Draken again. Listen, make your room seem as if no one was there and hide in your bathroom. Lock the door too, and stay there. The guys and I are coming, stay on the phone with me or hang up and call Mikey, it’s up to you, but don’t do anything reckless.”

“I can fight too, you know! Plus—“

“Didn’t you say that you were burning up or some shit? I don’t think your body is gonna like that..So shut up and do as I said.”

“But Draken—”

“No. How are you even talking right now anyways?”

“I told you I’m not that tired.”

“No.”

“fine. Idiot.”

You slowly tiptoed your away around your room, gathering a charger, headphones, a water bottle and your sketchbook and a pencil to sketch your boredom away.

Finally, you went to your bathroom and locked the door.

“I’m in.” you inform Draken, who was on the phone with you.

“Good, it might take us a while to get to you though because you’re dumbass boyfriend didn’t want to go anywhere except for that bakery.”

“Sounds like my dumbass boyfriend.”

———————————————————————

It’s been half an hour and you were feeling sleepy and tired. However, the creaking footsteps of the intruders kept you awake and you weren’t so sure you could fight them off anymore now that you can barely keep an eye open

A shiver ran down your back which caused u to involuntarily reach out for the necklace on your neck, only to find out that it’s not there.

“Hey n/n.” Mikey called out to you from behind, wrapping his arms delicately around your torso as if you had a heart made of fragile glass.

“Mhm?” you hummed as he nuzzled into your neck, immediately feeling warm and cozy.

“I’ve got something to give you!”

As soon as he said that, he pulled out from the hug and took out a small velvet box out of his pocket, handing it to you.

“I-I know it’s not much but I just wanted to show you that I appreciate you a lot and everything you do for me and with me..” Mikey said, a flush of red taking over his cute little face making you giggle.

“Aren’t you a cute one?” you said, taking the box from him and admiring with glittery eyes.

You opened the box and immediately felt awestruck— you’ve just seen the most beautiful necklace to ever exist.

“Mikey—" you tear your eyes away from the shining necklace to meet your boyfriend’s.

“Do you like—like it….?”

“Like it? are you kidding me? I love it!”

And with the box in your hand, you threw your arms around Mikey, nearly falling in process but his hands traveled up to your waist, keeping you safe and sound.

“Can you help me put it on?”

“Of course I can!”

And with that, you promised yourself that you’ll protect it forever and hold it dear to your heart.

“You look so pretty”

“Why thank you Mikey! I love you, thank you for the necklace I promise I’ll keep it safe.”

“I love you too!”

As the memory replays in your mind, you jolt from your sitting position.

“The necklace!”

“Huh? the necklace?” Draken’s voice echoes through your headphones.

“It fell, I’m gonna go and get it, I’ll be back in a sec!”

“Y/n! Are you stupid or something? You can barely stand up. What the fuck are you gonna do if they entered your room at that moment? Just stay in the bathroom we’re about 7 minutes away. They could be armed with knives or guns for all you fucking know so stay still or I will physically kill you with the help of your boyfriend.”

“But the necklace, I need it. I’ll just go and get, I wont take long.”

“y/n I’ll fucking—”

“I’ll call you back bye.”

“Y/n—”

And with that, you ended the call and scurried out of the bathroom, your eyes dancing around the floor in search for the necklace.

The moment you spot it, under your bed, your bedroom door creaks open.

“Oh my fucking—”

“Well, well. Who do we have here?” a masked guy spoke.

You quickly grab the necklace and shove it in your pocket.

“Uh—no one haha—just..a table. Go ahead, continue what you were doing! I’m no one—really!” you fumble, beads of sweat racing down your burning forehead as you eye the small dagger in the gloved palm of his hand.

God dammit I hate you and the fact that you’re always right, Draken.

That fuming thought however, was cut off by the other man’s footsteps heading toward you.

“What did you just shove into your pocket?” he asked intimidatingly

“Huh? It’s nothing!! I didn’t shove anything.” you said, tightening your grip around the necklace in your pocket.

“I dont like to repeat my words—“

“It’s nothing!”

“Then empty your pockets right now.”

“No I won’t.”

He comes closer, and wraps his hand around your arm.

“Oh wow” his partner says.

“I dont like disrespecting women but you’re getting on my nerves. Now show me what you just shoved into that pocket of yours?”

Dizziness is taking over you as he tighten his grip over your wrist, making you scoff.

“What a joke. You’re disrespecting women just by doing that—actually just by existing. Get that filthy hand a way from me unless you want to get a taste of my fist in your face, fucking idiot.”

“What the fu—”

“You heard her, get your filthy hands away from my girl you fucking dimwit.” Mikey said, charging onto the intruders, knocking both of them out in one go before they can even get to react.

As soon as you head that voice, your eyes sparkled.

“Mikey!”

“And Draken. You’re so fucking dead to me, y/n” Draken yelled from behind.

“Haha, sorry Draken I had to do that…” you say, scratching the nape of your neck.

“Why did you even get out of the bathroom again?”

“Because she’s fucking dumb—”

“Because the necklace you got me fell accidentally”

You and Draken both said at the same time, glaring at each other.

“Idiot, you could’ve just let it be..I can always get you a new one y’know?” Mikey said, coming closer to you and flicking your forehead.

“Ouch.” you whine.

“I’m so glad you’re alright though..never do that again or I’ll kill you.” He mumbled softly, embracing you with a hug that spoke the unspoken. That spoke both the worry that rattled through him yet the the relief that overpowered every other emotion because he knew that you were the only thing keeping him going right now.

“I know, I’m sorry Mikey, I’ll never do that again I promise.” your soft voice made his heart beat, illuminated his dark blue eyes. Eyes so dark that the moon fled in fear. Yet those same eyes manage to sparkle with love whenever they spot the sight of you.

You can feel his skin melt at your touch.

“Get a room you two. Disgusting. Why am I obligated to witness this madness.” Draken interrupted our moment, making Mikey pull away.

“Now come on, lets get you to bed. You’re burning! I’m gonna get mitsuya to make you some soup. And I have some work to do with our fellow friends right there.” Mikey glared malevolently at the two unconscious guys.

“Oh god. You really are something..” you mumble, fighting the smile tugging at the the corner of your lips.

____________________________________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐

#tokyorevengers #baji keisuke #tokyo revengers x reader fluff #toman #chifuyu matsuno #draken #kenchin #tokyo revengers sfw #mitsuya #mikey x reader #mikey tokyo revengers #mikey sano #sano manjiro #sano manjiro x reader #manjiro sano

175 notes · View notes

espionisms · 4 months

Text

{kiowa gordon, 32, two-spirit, he / him.} We are so glad to see you safe, ROYAL GUARD ALISTAIR WOLFF of GERMANY! It’s dangerous out in the world these days, but I hear that you are PERSISTENT and LOYAL enough to handle it. Just don’t let your CYNICAL NATURE bring you down! Stay on your guard, because with your secret being at risk for exposure, you wouldn’t want everyone to find out YOU ARE HARBOURING SECRET FEELINGS FOR THE PERSON YOU GUARD.

𝙱𝙰𝚂𝙸𝙲𝚂 .

NAME: alistair wolff.

BIRTH NAME: [redacted]

AGE: 32.

OCCUPATION: personal guard to eleanor hatzfeld & the german court.

DATE OF BIRTH: august 28th.

SIGN: virgo.

GENDER / PRONOUNS: 2spirit, he / him.

ORIENTATION: demisexual.

LANGUAGES: english, german.

POLITICAL LOYALTY: the hatzfeld family.

FAMILY: unknown.

𝙷𝙸𝚂𝚃𝙾𝚁𝚈 . ( cw mention of war )

he prefers to think of his story as something from a folk tale. once, a boy decided he must chase the wolf with stars in its eyes & head across the sea towards lands unfamiliar to his blood. shedding name & clothes, but gaining strength & spirit. so this is what he tells himself, & it is how he chose his anglican name upon reaching the european borders. he is not a native of europe, & does not pretend to be.

alistair has guarded eleanor for the better part of 12 years. his feelings towards her have developed just as slowly. he slipped & fell into liking her quite a lot when the two of them were younger, though his stoic nature rarely betrays his inner thought and feeling. it's been difficult enough for eleanor to open him up, much less for any stranger — or other court member — to try and wheedle things out of him. they'd be better off speaking to the nearest tree.

he served for the german army at one point in time for a short term, before his call to the german court. it was a particular medal that caught their eye & deemed him worthy enough for the spot. in a sense, he is grateful. in another, he struggles with being in this foreign land he was called to. but his sense of purpose drives him.

although his armour mimics the style of the germans, when he was granted one request upon his absorption & fealty into the court, he requested that he have an armour to match his name. his armour is jet-black, with a grey cloak & hood for the elements; the shoulder pads bear wolves with their tongues out, teeth wide. it is thick & heavy, but he has learnt the art of following like a distant shadow from his time as a personal guard. discretion is just as key as bodily power.

he has a love of history and art. though he often will hold a book & pretend to read it ( whilst staring right at someone in front of him ), if he is away from his duty, he often delves into different texts about the purpose of different paintings, sculpture & otherwise. he has only ever painted one thing himself in his life: the depiction of a tale about a great black serpent, smeared across a stone wall back on his land. if he did create, he would prefer something like charcoals, kohl, or oils. whether he has a sketchbook full of nothing but eleanor's portraits is anybody's guess.

he has little interest in the intrigue or politics. it means nothing to him. & he has yet to witness anything personally that would drive him to breaking his oath. it'd take something fairly drastic for him to even consider it. this, of course, does not mean he doesn't have opinions.

his weapon of choice is the sword that has been with him since he swore fealty. he also has borne a shield, though detests their clunkiness, & is a practitioner of longbow archery. even when without his armour, he keeps a small dagger on his person at all times, just in case something goes sour.

#alistair wolff : intro .#theopulent.intro

4 notes · View notes

gaoau · 5 months

Text

So be mine and your innocence I will consume

Raison d'Être warnings — none. word count — 1.1k

prev. — next.

"Chifuyu-san!" came [Name]'s exalted voice through the speaker of his phone. She didn't even give him time to properly greet her. For a moment, he thought she was bawling again, but then he caught the faint bounce in her words, decorated with a joyful chuckle. Chifuyu hummed to let her know she had all of his attention, signaling Kazutora to take over the cash register. "I just got a call from the vet! They said we can go pick Ai up." He could very clearly hear through her sentences the smile she was wearing.

It brought a smile of his own to his face, eyes lighting up. "That's great, [Name]-san! I told you he'd be fine."

"I never doubted you, trust me." Before Chifuyu could reply with friendly banter, he caught the sound of various voices calling out to [Name], bidding their goodbyes for the day. There was a very particular, very excited one that stood out. [Name] laughed into the microphone as she pulled the phone away from her. "Bye, Chika-san, I'll see you tomorrow!" The rustling of her clothes made him guess she was waving at them.

"Are you still at work?"

"I'm heading out to get Ai. Sorry, I know you are still at work. I just wanted to let you know that Ai is good."

He didn't want to think too much about it—mostly because he couldn't afford having his thoughts straying while in the middle of a call—but the way she absentmindedly said we, like Ai was equal parts his and her dog, with how much the two of them loved him, made his chest tighten. For a moment, he expected her to ask if he could tag along to go get him. It had been a long, stressful week since the last time either of them saw the adorable puppy. So he bit the bullet. "Do you want me to come with you?" he asked in an impulse.

There was a prolonged silence from her end of the call. Chifuyu instantly regretted opening his mouth. The moment he was about to take it back, [Name]'s voice nearly knocked him out cold, "Sure. I'll get a cab to XJ Land and then we can go."

Oh. "Okay, I'll see you in a bit, [Name]-san."

"See you."

When he hung up the call, he had to stay staring at his darkened phone screen for a few moments to contemplate the interaction he had just had. What was that impulse? Ai was [Name]'s responsibility; as much as she asked for help and advice, it wasn't his place to intrude unless she requested he did. He was worried about the dog, yes, without a shadow of doubt, yet he could simply wait until [Name] dropped by sometime on her way to walk him in the park.

He returned on autopilot to inform Kazutora he'd be leaving for a while. Lost in thought, biting at the inside of his lip, he was startled when he felt his employee glaring daggers through him. His shoulders jolted. "Kazutora-kun, fuck… What is it?"

"Are you gonna go see [Name]?"

Chifuyu narrowed his eyes. That was an odd question. "She's coming to pick me up. Why?" He tried not to think too much about his beauty mark in [Name]'s sketchbook.

Kazutora's face transformed from a deadpan to a judgmental cocked brow. He'd never wanted to strangle a man so much in his life, not even in his most unstable middle-school moments. He stared Chifuyu down like he was the dumbest man on Earth—he probably was. Kazutora limited himself to a sigh before turning his eyes to the customers that walked into the shop. He really was surrounded by idiots. "Welcome!" he chimed on practiced instinct.

Chifuyu couldn't even begin to guess what that was all about.

A few minutes after that strange display of sheer disappointment from Kazutora, [Name] showed up at the store. She waved through the window and Kazutora reciprocated the greeting, holding back the urge to sit both her and Chifuyu down and demand they talked. Especially [Name], what the fuck was she doing? It wasn't his problem anyway, so he just watched Chifuyu leave with her, chatting animatedly like the best of friends.

By the time they reached the vet, [Name]'s excited grin couldn't grow any larger. It seemed as though she had mentalized herself to see things in a clearer light. She could handle her own brain. Chifuyu never knew how happy he could be seeing somebody else be happy. With Ai in her arms, somewhat limp and drowsy from the anesthesia wearing off, the absolute glee painting her features made his own heart feel full of joy. Turning to look him in the eyes with a glimmering gaze, [Name] left Ai in his care for a few moments as she went to handle some paperwork.

When she came back, she immediately bent to Ai's eye level and cupped the puppy's head in her palms, pressing her nose up against his. "Hey, bubs," she cooed in a high-pitched voice, "how are you feeling, boy? Are you better now?" The smile resting on her lips was natural at this point. She flipped his ear back to check the stitches where the vet had closed the wound. A relieved sigh escaped her and her shoulders visibly loosened.

Still holding the half-dormant dog against his chest, Chifuyu admired her as she baby-talked Ai. A rosy tint spread on his cheeks at the endearing sight. [Name] was so happy—what was he supposed to do? It was contagious, he couldn't help it. She was radiating so much joy he'd never known and for good reason. Now that Ai was okay, so was she.

Suddenly she looked up at him, her fingers still scratching Ai under his chin. She straightened up with that weightless simper she was starting to get comfortable wearing. Chifuyu could see in her face just how relieved and genuinely overjoyed she felt. Before he knew it, she was wrapping her arms around him in an unannounced hug. "Thank you, Chifuyu-san, I don't think I would've been able to handle this without you. Seriously, I mean it."

"It's, uh—" He cleared his throat, trying to keep his breath from getting stuck. "It's no problem. Anytime, [Name]-san." He hesitated in his own movements, but he shifted all of Ai's weight onto one arm and reciprocated her embrace with the other one.

[Name] was much warmer than he had expected—or maybe that was himself. Her voice reverberated in his ear with pure gratefulness. She held onto him so tightly, like he was the most important fortune she'd ever come across and she didn't want to let him go. He found that he really loved seeing her be content with herself and her life; he hoped it would stay like this for as long as he could help her.

#Raison d'Être #Tokyo Revengers #Matsuno Chifuyu #Matsuno Chifuyu x Reader #Chifuyu x Reader #Tokyo Revengers x Reader #tokrev x reader #tokrev

5 notes · View notes

kim-monsterlings · 3 years

Text

Brae - M Merman x M Human (Reader) // NSFW

The pictures do not belong to me. I only created the mood board. Do not repost my work anywhere.

Content: NSFW/Lemon; flirting, merman’s insecurities from his family, blowjob (+ mention of teeth, nothing too explicit), drinking alcohol, NSFW scene involving handjobs by the merman, mention of touching the merman’s slit, kissing, then angst with thoughts of drowning and a fluffy-ish ending

Wordcount: 6539

“Tropemas” Summary: when the mer insisting on befriending you returned day after day, falling for him was inevitable

Notes: this comes at the beautiful request of @nikipuppeteer and unfortunately I had already planned a soulmate au, but I loved the idea of a mlm mer fic too much to not do it!! This really got ahead of me and I love my boys, but so much I couldn’t let it go without it being up to my really annoying standards. I hope you love them <3

Masterlist // “Tropemas” Masterlist

No matter the dangers accompanied by falling asleep on an unanchored boat, lethargy always overcame you. It was only a small rowboat and one swayed by the gentlest of waves, hardly a comfortable place to rest and your neck always ached the evening after, but time on the sea had become like second nature to you now, and the napping was long ingrained in your afternoons out.

Though waking with water dripping on your face was rare.

Only one cloud needed to mar daylight for you to wait indoors for a brighter day. Beyond the threat of losing yourself at sea, a storm would ruin the sketchbook tucked to your lap. Fragile paper couldn’t survive the wind or rain. Scattered scrawls were no works of art, but after hours rocked at sea and memorising the crags of the cove, it was your treasure, one you took to after moving from the cities and finding peace in the small costal town, and the view was the first you’d had not from cramped flats.

Rare enough, another droplet cool dribbling down your cheek roused you to find the sketchbook damp too, tossed open. Pages wettened still from slender fingertips – clawed, tracing your latest landscaping of cliffs, pencil lines smudging into faded lines. Of all sketches, this hardly finished and quickly ruining one was nothing to prize, but the creature tipping you and your boat precariously lower with every breath seemed enamoured by it.

Watching the creature, you were torn from wanting to scare him off – if you could even scare a thing like him, corded muscle trembling with balancing your boat, sharp-finned where saltwater shone on his dark skin – or wanting to feign sleep longer, just to admire how his teal scales shimmered, clashing and darkening with navy and streaks of black. The darkest scales tipped pectoral fins, sharpened points glinting like the narrow slits in his throat, or the ridged scales rising from the curve of a dark back, down to where his long tail swayed in the water.

You itched to draw him. If portraits were your talent, the sloping of his tail beneath the water would be decorating your papers before night, if he hadn’t ruined them.

Each touch of claws almost tore through the soggy paper and he turned the page. Saltwater dripped from hair curling in the heat of the sun when the creature lurched up and the boat jostled. His hand came to your thigh before you rose from the bench, like he had known you were feigning sleep. Where he was so soaked by the sea, you hadn’t thought it possible the slender fingers stroking up your leg could be so warm, pressing against you to trace a more developed sketch – of the same view, but he admired all the same.

Seasickness had never plagued you before in all your time at sea but how the creature rocked it then made your stomach lurch. He had torn through the paper and some noise tumbled free of you, a panicked cry or curse and you reached to snatch it back before he could damage it more. The merman had stiffened. Claws you hadn’t felt before snagged at you bare thigh and the swaying of your small boat only ceased when he rose and clutched the edge tight. In a small way, you were grateful for that.

You weren’t so thankful that it brought him closer.

For the depth of colours in his scales, the sunlight brightening his rounding eyes forced back your bitterness. Equally dark hair shone a hidden navy with his head canting, though he remained as silent as you. His thin lips pulled back and you thought it a threat with predator’s teeth bared, until a black tongue slid against the points of his teeth and he smiled; a macabre smile, but the beauty of it was like the rest of him.

The sketchbook rested on your lap now, cradled, and that was where he lifted a slender arm, down to the book. Pointing to the paper then to himself, and back to you. Again. Once more, before the boat rocked.

“Do me,” he whispered, soft, disarmingly so that he came an inch more from the water and sunk the boat that much lower. “Do me or I may tip your boat.”

He dizzied your head like the boat had your senses. “You want… you want me to draw you?”

“Draw,” he echoed. When he stretched out to the paper, you let him trace the faded pencil lines and bright eyes peered up at you beneath uneven hair tangling along his forehead. “Draw me. Tomorrow at noon. Or the boat tips,” the merman breathed again through a glinting smile of daggered teeth, not entirely a tease. Smaller claws once on your blank sketchbook traced across your bare thigh, grazing up before nudging the hem of your shorts.

The boat tipped without him to held it steady, and only when he began to retreat did you catch his hand. His fingers slid through yours, claws falling to trace the deeper grooves in your palm when you asked, “do you have a name?”

“Don’t you?” In sharing yours – and hoping he wasn’t in any way fae, he smiled wider. “Brae. Noon.”

The waters carried you another hour before the touch of his thumb tracing along your wrist as he had the sketches left your thoughts. It was harder to banish him from your mind completely and he followed you home, the odd warmth of him smothered to the back of your chest where it ached. Wondering how his scales felt against you in place of his claws did you no good.

Noon came and inevitably, you were settled as far out as the day before, though you hadn’t a real choice in whether you were to return, regardless of this being a day you would nap in the sunlight without his demand.

Mer roamed the cove – it was renowned for them, notorious creatures known for luring humans out to toy with them far from land. If Brae had looked before at your art when you napped, you had no way of knowing, of knowing whether any mer had approached you before. If you left the boat moored today and returned tomorrow, you had no doubt that you would be turned into the sea.

Maybe, a little part of you so far hard to smother, wanted to see him. It was curiosity settling you on the bench of the bench, a pencil twisting through your fingers above a blank page. Most mer, those who made their homes at the cove, shimmered brighter; not so much navy but sky blue, softer hues. Brae’s fins were just that bit sharper, eyes smaller slits with less light to them, his body far stronger than any others – the first like him you knew of.

Time passing beneath the sun worked in convincing you Brae hadn’t been anything more than a hallucination. Only the damp blemishes and ripped pages anchored you a little longer – and the memory of his touch was too hard to forget, until a splash of water tipped the boat and lips pulled back into an attempted smile.

You curled the open page from range of where his head canted and saltwater dripped.

With him leaning closer, now was an opportune moment to tell him that, actually, unfortunately, portraits weren’t you specialty, else he wouldn’t need to ask for his, but the words never came when light warmed his rounding eyes.

“When will you start?”

“Start drawing?”

“Start drawing me,” he said, though his stare had risen from the blank page. Like you had only the day before, Brae appraised from your crown to your toes, tongue caught in his teeth the whole time. The weight of it settled in your chest uncomfortably; whatever mer standards were, you doubted you were anything but unappealing to a creature so beautiful, but no comment came. “Now?”

“If I’m to sketch you-“

“You are.” Deep beneath him, the slow swaying of his tail rose through to his arms curling on the boat’s edge. He rocked with every move and his attention flitted from your towels bundled at your feet to your satchel bag. “To draw me. You are.”

“I need you to-“

“On the beach.” Words overrun as you lost your thought. He hadn’t once stopped moving, dipping under the water and rising the other side of the boat, or reaching out to just brush his hand to yours before rushing back. Only his chin rested on the boat now as he said, “we should do it on the beach. Safer. Dry.”

Safer.

Coughing over your laugh couldn’t muffle it when you turned closer. “Weren’t you threatening to throw me out my boat yesterday?”

He frowned. “Not now. Tomorrow. The beach tomorrow.”

“Brae-“

Claws tipped your chin and all breath rushed from you. They were weapons, like daggers poised to cut as the predator he was, but it felt like a caress how he brought your face closer, near enough the cool air from water clinging to him brushed you. “Tomorrow.”

Being so near, the strength to protest waned. How the pencil hadn’t snapped between your fingers was beyond you; it was all that was left stopping you from returning the touch, wanting to feel his scales – were they smooth or rough, how would they feel against you? – and all you knew was that the touch of claws against the tightness locking your throat didn’t feel like a threat anymore.

If this was how mer lured humans out, you weren’t against following.

“Will you lay still on the beach for me?”

“So you can stare at me?” Brae’s black tongue traced along his teeth with a low hum. “If you wish.” he said, a rising smile binding your throat tighter.

The claws now tracing against your top’s neckline bound your throat tighter. “So I can draw you.”

“Why still?”

“If you move, it’s harder to focus. Harder to draw you. I could- can I take a photo of you?” His answer came without a need to verbalise it; his smile was nothing like a threat, far from the twisting of his face and pressed fins beneath his jaw flaring. Under passing clouds, his darkening face harshened. In an effort to calm his growl, you swallowed. “Won’t people see you on the beach?”

Curiosity drove you to again. Before him, you hadn’t seen another mer so close. Flashes of scales glimmered beneath the water but they were a reclusive kind. Why he demanded a portrait yet refused a photography intrigued you, though not enough to outrightly question.

“See me?” Brae’s cheek turned onto his forearm. Beneath the high sun, seawater glistened on his dark skin, the edges of his gills and faint scales almost glowing. “Why would anyone rather look at me than you?”

The truth tingled on your lips. That he was beautiful, and your art could never do him justice nor any photo, but you swallowed it back. Until daylight fell and left a chill, the merman curled against your side, close enough one tremor could tip your boat. Only small talk passed between glances down, and each turn was returned with a small smile until those teeth earlier bared in threat no longer focused in your thoughts. Brae fell away with a lingering run of claws against your hand and the touch stayed with you long after you found yourself retracing the beginnings of his portrait that night. After the fuss of asking, it turned out you didn’t need a photograph to remember him.

Tales of reclusive mer lessened the popularity of this cove, which had been the enticement to it in moving. Finding a shelter of jagged rocks just beyond sight of anyone passing wasn’t hard, nor was it hard to find Brae among the waves when he crept up the beach- rather inelegantly but you couldn’t have done so any better with the huge tail dragging through wet sand.

“I see you sometimes.”

Brae heeded your plea that afternoon, resting not far from reach. Returning to water wasn’t a pressing urge when he only rested, hardly an exertion, but he thanked you for the slight shelter. His knuckles reached to brush you when he spoke and otherwise cushioned himself on his arms while you contented yourself by marking him.

“Sleeping is dangerous.”

That made your pencil slip. “Have you looked at my art before?”

Brae scoffed but turned away, not before his teeth bit on his lip. Shading came easier with the slight warmth in your chest that blossomed. If he had, he must have liked the art to want his own portrait and after a minute, you looked up to find your muse gone.

Not too far but a length of his tail away, the merman dug through hot sand. Looking beyond the way his scales glowed in this light, differently to when they shimmered beneath water, he cradled dozens of pebbles in his arms, face scrunched in looking for more. The pebbles mirrored him: some dark like coal, others among the occasional shell a soft blue. He continued unaware of your standing, muffling the pain of hot sand beneath your bare feet, how it stung like needles until you crouched and kneeled beside him.

“They’re pretty.” Brae clutched them closer. He attempted a sneak at your paper like he had all afternoon, and, like you had all afternoon, you tucked it away faster. This far, so soon, it was nothing of significance, but it had promise; promise from the evening of tending to it and tonight would be the same. “Will you take them back with you?”

“We gather pebbles.”

“Why?”

Brae’s teeth nibbled on his lip. “Mer secret.”

“Pebbles are a… a mer secret?”

He moved in silence, lifting two shades of pebbles before humming. “Yes. Pick.” One pebbled a blotched black, it was no hard choice to pick the softer teal pebble. Brae slotted it in his pile before his thin lips twitched. “Can I see?”

“No.” His smile fell, and his arm trembled beneath the stones. Had they not threatened to fall, the paper would’ve been in his grasp by then. “How will you take them all with you? Do you have something to carry them in?”

On your next afternoon by his side, Brae fawned over the netting pouch with holes just small enough pebbles wouldn’t slip through. He entrusted them to you overnight for safe keeping, had watched you clutch your bag tight as it weighed you down walking along the cove, and was quick to welcome you back, already settled and sprawled against the sand. He hadn’t understood the purpose of snow angels nor sand angels, but his arms turned out in the sand, close enough to snag your shorts, until he left you again.

From that day, your time together crept earlier. Unintentionally, but he always waited no matter how early you came to the cove, and he began returning your questions. Never telling the mer secret of why he hoarded colourful pebbles, but little questions, the most repeated being why you refused to show him his portrait, and you had to swat him away from your paper each time. On hotter days when the rocky shade didn’t suffice, he crept closer until his cheek nestled to your thigh beneath the shade of your sketchbook and when a quiet overcame you, his fingers ran along your forearm, following the twitching in your hand as you drew him laying against you.

Once, he slept on your lap. The running of claws fell low and only then you succumbed, carefully tucking back the dried ringlets from his smoothed forehead. Little scales scattered his jaw and glided beneath your fingers, though you stopped yourself from following them further when he turned closer and against your palm.

You missed him when you were home. On the evenings with only a nearly finished portrait to call company, you missed laying with him.

It hadn’t taken long for you walk down late one night, a half-opened bottle tucked near your supplies. Being near the cove now helped calm you, even if you came now only to settle against the familiar rocks and close your eyes to the crashing waves. Like the swaying of your boat, the faint warmth of sand beneath you lulled you, and you woke only to a soft whisper of your name.

“I drank… I drank this.”

Damp hair fell to your lap, a quiet groan turned into your thighs. The now emptied bottle fell into the sand and rolled down when Brae laughed, at first quietly, before turning and reaching out to your face. The touch of his claws fell to a loose embrace around your neck, where now he swallowed.

This late, you didn’t want to ask why he was here, how he had known – if he had even known, or if he came just like you. You only wanted to enjoy his company, however… inebriated. It hadn’t been much alcohol, and you would only feel slightly lightheaded had you finished it, but with Brae running his claws down your chest, it had to have been a little much for him.

“Wanna see,” he whispered – slurred, trying and failing to lean up on an elbow. “Me. Show… show me.”

Perhaps through pity, you did. Only through pity, and not from the slow rolling of heat in the pit of your stomach from his claws flexing, drawing you down closer as you opened to the page. It had come a long way, far from ever doing justice to the creature gasping, his defined jaw lowering and dark eyes lifting to you, but you welcomed the flush of pride from his growing smile.

“You make me look pretty. Pretty here,” he tapped the unfinished page. “Am not-not so pretty.”

Your voice came out a whisper as you returned the sketchbook, empty bottle with it. “You don’t think so?”

“Me? Pretty?” Brae huffed, a hot breath blowing his dried hair. Falling in long ringlets, your fingers twitched and in the hopes he wouldn’t remember, you reached out to tuck it back. “My tribe. They’re pretty. Pretty. Not me.”

His cheek turned into your palm when you traced the smoother scales scattering his jaw, down to the dip of his collarbones. “Did they tell you that?”

“Always. Not-I’m not them-like them,” he mumbled, losing himself to the alcohol still thick on his breath. “Never one of them.”

The sincerity sickened you. You wished your art could be better, so Brae saw a true reflection of himself but if it couldn’t be, if your work wasn’t enough, then all you could do was say so. “I think you’re beautiful,” you whispered looking out to the calming see, so lost in it you hadn’t noticed Brae shifting closer until he was level with you. “You are. Your colourings and how you lay in the sun and… you’re beautiful.”

You had more to say, so much more, but sand became your pillow. It dirtied your hair with your head tipping further back, a deeper angle to the kiss with Brae’s thumb pressing down on your chin. His parting lips carried a salty tang, a stronger sense of your emptied alcohol, but it fell away with his breaths hastening when his curling tongue tasted you, too.

Those same lips rose into a sly smile when you found the strength to reopen your fallen eyes and found Brae kissing himself lower. Drunken touches only minutes ago felt coherent now, bunching up your shirt for his lips to warm your stomach. Pressed beneath the muscle of his tail, a slow friction worked you into a heat but he fell further with his kisses nesting lower, a pause when he tugged on your shorts.

Every touch made you tremble. Brae settled between your legs and the sight alone was burning through you. He ran soft fingers down, following your stiffened cock as it twitched and ached. His tongue jutted through his lips to the side almost in thought, a breath before his fingers stroked up your length.

“All this for calling you beautiful?”

The merman’s head canted and that curling tongue flicked up the underside of your cock. Brae’s kiss rounded against your tip until he had you hard in his mouth and your eyes rolling back from the heat of him. For a creature of spines and claws and fangs, he kissed you reverently, deeper breaths growing shallow until he swallowed around you.

Through blurring eyes, barely lifting from the sand feeling hotter beneath you, you watched and felt his lips closing around you, groaning with his flattening of his tongue along the sensitive skin. Brae braced a hand on your tensing thigh and when the other stroked lower, a slight touch of claws grazing, you groaned and rolled your hips deeper against his hollowed throat.

Soft hair threaded around your hand. His growl rumbled deep to your hips as he bowed with your guidance, arching up until his throat tightened against you. Heat rushed in your stomach and his thick tongue swirled across your tip. The warmth of his lips fell down to your thighs the longer your body trembled.

“No.” Gentle fingers pinched your jaw until your lips met his. He tasted of saltwater and you and faint alcohol, nipping your tongue. “For… for being you.”

Until the sheen left his eyes, his smile no longer lopsided, Brae rested against you. Passing whispers came beneath the darkening sky and many were from you; with each whisper of his beauty, though you burned saying it, he turned impossibly closer and ghosted lips down your throat, your chest, wherever you were nearest.

“Remind me to call you beautiful more often,” you said, leaning over him. Weak arms ran up to your neck and it felt like a goodbye when he kissed you sweeter. No teeth caught your lips and no claws curled into your nape, only a touch of foreheads before he struggled into the water.

He had told you not to watch – “it’s embarrassing,” he’d frowned, the dead weight of his tail dragging in the sand – but you watched him go, and it was the last you saw of him for almost a month.

Your corner of the cove remained abandoned by the merman. No marks in the sand were left to show if he had ever come and from there, you couldn’t see far out to the waves, not like a mer could. If he watched you where you waited for him with your heavy bag and a nearly finished portrait, he never came.

Floating no longer felt right. Being on the water wasn’t right. This beach was wrong without a glimmer of navy flitting near you and on the sunniest days, the water almost clear, a hint of scales wouldn’t be missed when you stared down. The portrait was finished now; it had been finished for days.

If something had happened to him-

The thought burned in your throat and you swallowed it back.

Worse: if something hadn’t happened to him, Brae chose not to see you.

And if Brae truly avoided you, he couldn’t stop whatever creature had begun bumping under your boat. The surface barely rose with the smallest of waves but your boat rocked again, until water splashed with every jolt, not so different from the day Brae had almost toppled you, but different in every way.

Brighter scales darted beneath you before you ducked back into the – relative – safety of the boat. This wasn’t your merman, but the churning in your stomach made you think it was his tribe. For whatever reason, they taunted you, and at least two were on you now, countering the other’s hits so all you could was curl your knuckles against the bench until they ached.

You were going to be sick.

What could a frail oar do against creatures like them?

You were going to be really, really sick.

Any option was as bad as the other. Shore was too far to swim to if you wanted to avoid a watery grave. Trying to row and lowering the oar into water would be surrendering your only paddle. You couldn’t leave your boat. The portrait bundled on your lap would be ruined; they would ruin it.

It stopped with a heavier jolt, tipping so far water flooded your feet. The jaunts fell away minutes ago but your head swum too much for you to notice anything more than the shaking in your knees, chest braced against your thighs. One final shove to your boat shoved everything against you forward. Your bag skidded, the bench almost giving out beneath you, towels tangling, but the final shove didn’t topple you.

It surged closer to shore.

Only the faintest glimmer of navy disappeared when you looked back.

Water hadn’t felt right because it wasn’t. The rumours of mer weren’t folktale falsehoods. Maybe Brae wasn’t like them, but they tried to overturn you. They tried to ruin you and your portrait and had they succeeded, the promenade steady under your running feet wouldn’t have been something you were likely to experience again.

Leaving the cities had been your distraction. Leaving your family and friends for a calmer life by the beach had always been your dream, to turn to a simpler, less stressful life, yet the beach couldn’t be your solace anymore. Thinking of even your boat made you lurch to your feet in need of something to occupy you, anything but that merman lurking in the sea, anything but the creature you still wanted to see again, the same whose face mocked you from a hidden sketchbook.

After hardly any time at all, the sudden loss almost brought you to your knees. If this was grief, you didn’t want it. If that pang in your chest was heartbreak, you didn’t want it. Flames came so near to the portrait born of hours and sun and kisses it singed, but burning the paper felt like a burning your heart from your chest.

One last time.

One last hope.

Once more, before you burned him from your thoughts. The same taunts that occupied you like intrusions softened at night, when you imagined that in place of your fist was his touch, slender fingers rolling where you cock twitched beneath him. They came in dreams, in moments you lost concentration, and stalked you down to the cove where you settled the bag, the portrait tucked beside a lighter and driftwood.

Whispers of your name from the stirring waves doused the fire in your chest. Brae made it no further than the reach of waves when you collapsed against him, rambling to his lips, “it’s done. I finished it for you but-“

“It will be beautiful.” Brae framed your face in cold and trembling hands. “Like you.”

There was a haste to his kiss unlike before. When he teased you before with light nips rousing your desire, those touches tore back your shirt and bared you to the cold night. Brae wasted not one breath that was better spent settling against you pushed apart thighs, where the hard palm of his hand fell low to rub over your shorts until he coaxed you to roll up into his touch. Slender fingers curled around your hardening cock and stroked how you had dreamed of for weeks, the pad of his thumb following up to tease the seeping slit at the head.

“I want to touch you too,” you rasped. Brae’s laugh softened in the whistles of wind at your grunt when he rubbed tighter to your thick base, but he was soon to gasp with your fingers curling into the rougher scales on his hips until he dragged against you. “Here?”

Not even the crashing waves at his back could drown out the small whine. Where his taut stomach melded with the lightest of his scales, a slick coated them. The touch of it burned against your fingertips, tracing the swollen slit. He pumped your cock in his tight fist how you teased him, arching up when he ground down, his erection rising thick from the slit.

From laying over you, Brae’s trembling lips brushed yours once more. The slow fall of his forehead brushed your hair, his curls loose against your cheek and fluttering with every deep breath. How long he could breathe without struggle on land changed, and the touch of your hips rolling up, rolling against him, clearly took a toll, shorter gasps nestling into your neck. This was an exertion for him; how he trembled at your thumb following where his hand, rolling over the slick on the swollen, purple head.

Grinding his cock to yours came with difficulty as his tail dragged in sand, but a shock of pleasure bolting up to your crown until you strained to rut against him again. The desperation locked in your bodies wouldn't settle for anything less than his cock against yours. Soft blue and deeper navy nearer the tip, your mouth dried. The memory of his lopsided smile after stealing your alcohol struck you, too similar how he slurred you name from curling his fingers and gripping your cocks together. The cry lodged in your throat muffled against the slope of his throat where you kissed the scales there, chasing the rush of his pulse beneath his jaw.

Slick from his slit and hot, it was too much to bite back every moan and curse when he rolled his hips in time with yours. Brae learned fast. His palm rolled your sac slowly, drawing rougher pants, but it was a tighter rub that made you buck up. Your cock jutted against his base, far thicker and swollen, but against the wetter scales and he cried, “again. Closer, please.”

His hot touch stirred you into a delirious high. Brae was twitching, his body rocking hard and harder when you met him faster, arching up to graze the slick, sensitive skin of his slit.

"I want you," he breathed, disoriented kisses slowing when he trembled. "Come. Come for me."

If not for him, you dragged against his waist so you could feel the heat of him yourself. Brae’s fingers locked and he felt it as you did, your cock stiff when you came against his stomach, his scales, rasping when he rutted into his palm and a thicker release came minutes later against your thighs after you traced where his cock thickened at the slit.

In the moment his final gasp left him and Brae fell against you, he ought to be drawn, to be remembered forever. Soft arms wrapped you close to the warmth of him, away from the colder winds in the shelter of the rocks. Hot sweat glistened on his scales. It stuck your hair to your cheeks, where he brushed it away with kisses and closed eyes.

“Do you think anyone saw us?”

Brae's breath caught, but he swallowed past it. His knuckles grazed down your chest and up again. Stray scratches stung beneath the touch and his parted lips kissed it away. "I hope so," he breathed, and the words stirred something in your chest. Something primal and prideful; you wanted to be seen with him, this merman come to you one day, who decided they wanted you. "You were very loud."

Panting to his chest, you smiled. "And you were beautiful."

If there were mer watching, you hadn't noticed.

No head rested heavy on your chest when you woke. Evening had been a blanket to his embrace, but the stars were your only companion at the cove. Sand settled without hint of a trail leading down to the sea and if it had been windy, you might have excused it, pardoned the long-lasting cold on your bare body.

Those questions he had brushed away with a press of his tail to your hips rose to your throat like a fuel on fire. Brae came back. Brae left, after taking you on the beach. He returned to the sea and he left you alone and bare and shivering. He abandoned you where his tribe could see, where they could reach you and your bag-

Your bag.

It had been right there, right on the rocks and wedged firm. No wind could part it from them. No wind had, and no wind would lay it so carefully by the sloping of the beach, the flap resting open. The bag looked deflated, almost like… like it was empty.

“This isn’t funny,” you called out. It was a joke. It had to be a joke. If not a joke then something far, far crueller and each staggering step nearer the waves was a twist of the knife in your stomach. “Brae?”

Harsh water frothed at your ankles. It rose in spitting shivers up to your knees then thighs, where the evening’s memories dried and washed away. The waters this shallow were clear of mer but not of what you prayed was litter. Up to your hips now, stumbling in choppy waves and the cry that tore from you was unholy. It burned up through throat like bile and stung in your eyes. It stung in your chest where your ribs caved, the soaked papers and hours of nights in your lounge wasted in one, cruel jaunt.

Not just his portrait wrecked on the waters he crawled from, but your sketchbook.

How you found your way home was a miracle. You should have stayed in the water. You should have let Brae drown you, too.

Had his tribe done it? Had they been there while he stroked your cheek and lifted your chin in a soft kiss, his scales warming where your thighs tightened? That was all you could think and all you could bear to think. If it were anything more – if he really was so cruel, you’d rather never know, would rather blame it on his tribe for tearing him away.

You could drown your boat like your sketches. That cove belonged to him. It belonged to his tribe and you wouldn’t go near the water again, not willingly and if you saw him again, it would be in nightmares.

The only family you had lived in the cities far from you and too far for them to consider buying your boat, even taking it off your hands. The wood of it was old and would burn on a fire; best to be burned completely than sunken. Brae didn’t deserve anything of yours. He’d drowned your heart with your treasure.

If this was how mer lured humans out, you weren’t against following.

Finding your boat moored and undamaged rose with a sting. The cruelty of his tribe ruined the wood beneath the water from their earlier taunting. You wished they had done more. If his tribe had sunken it, finding a dark bundle of seaweed cradling pebbles wouldn’t have made your legs sway beneath you. Whatever the mer secret behind them was, it wasn’t enough to entice you back. They weighed down your boat as they weighed on your shoulders but in settling into it before setting it alight, you couldn’t help but lift one.

It was the pebble he had asked you of, choosing from two. In your hand it felt like his scales, smooth and cold and wet.

It was still wet.

Pebbles scattered among larger stones as it fell from your hand but you didn’t watch them fall. You watched the fingertips careful on your arm, how they traced down your tense muscles with an unwelcome familiarity.

“The pebbles,” you seethed. “What do they mean?”

His touch softened and both hands rose to stroke against your unyielding fist. “Do you like them?”

Brae yelped as the favoured pebble smacked his forehead; you held another ready, but you hoped not to use it. Not to hurt him. The pain fresh in your chest urged to you but you couldn’t, and the tenderness in his hands slipping through your unfurling fingers held you closer.

His face scrunched. “When we wish to court a mate, we present pebbles. Do you like them?”

Brae never moved so slowly before – before he had wounded you enough to want nothing more than to hurt him; him, with the claws gentle on your palm and sharp teeth behind lips gracing your knuckles. No smile warmed his harsh face. Some satisfaction warmed you in shadows creeping beneath his eyes, where he lifted your palm. Loose tickled your fingers.

“I left my tribe.”

Brae’s whine quieted when you said, not in question, “taunting me wasn’t enough for them to accept you, was it?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Will they welcome you back if I take your pebbles?” Water splashed with his surging up and it was then you succumbed, lifting your hand to frame his dripping face. Every whisper and clashing apology fell beneath you, blood rushing in your ears from just his lips turning to your wrist. “I’m leaving, Brae. Pretend I accepted. Say you drowned me if it helps you return to your tribe. Why you would want to is beyond me, but-”

“We mate for life. This is me. These,” he whispered, and beneath the water, distorted netting carrying more pebbles swayed when he lifted another. “These are me. Proposal of courtship.”

Approaching you had to be at their insistence. The threat to topple your boat them, too, and why Brae had insisted on land. Safer, he’d said, but that was where he hurt you more than they ever had. They may have told him to use you or trick you to love him, but it hurt the same, at their tricks or his.

He hadn’t looked up from where you stroked his cheekbones until you asked, “what does it mean to leave a tribe?”

“If I stay, I trespass.”

“What do mer do to trespassers?” Brae turned his face into your palm and your stomach fell. The choice before you wasn’t one you welcomed or even wanted to consider, but you were already reaching for the pebble you had thrown at him and curling it in your hand. “If you follow me, that is your choice. I owe you nothing. Even this is more than you deserve.”

The boat was tipping.

“But if you follow me,” you drew in a sharp breath. “I say when the courting is over and if I accept you. If I refuse, you respect that.”

His breath warmed your lips.

“And I will never draw you again.”

It was a lie. That morning, his face plagued every breath. Every fleeting memory of his touch consumed you. Scatterings of scales covered old papers and already your fingers itched for more, to purge him from you, but when you accepted – if you accepted him, only then would you ever consider sharing your art with him again.

Burning your boat could wait until the water dried from the sloping of scales to your chest, lips soft on yours and apologies sweet on his tongue. It could wait until he followed you wherever you chose, offering pebbles and nights sprawled on warm sand, where you always woke with a head nestled against your throat.

When.

442 notes · View notes

yrpreciousmoon · 2 years

Text

Siren

Title: Siren Fandom: Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure Pairing: Akira Otoishi x Rohan Kishibe Rating: Teen Summary: Rohan is doing his usual thing when inspiration strikes like lightning. AN: Concept by @lunar-writes , requested as drabble for our dear friend @catvvitch ! Thank you both for enabling my addiction. Sorry I forgot to post this here when it first published!

Song is "Ooh La La" by Goldfrapp

Rohan Kishibe didn't really hang out in bars. People in them got too friendly, too physical, too involved. Cafés were much more his speed, allowing him access to a lovely little cross-section of society. They were perfect for people-watching, quiet observation, for throwing notes and sketches down in a frenzy while maintaining a comfortable little force field around his table. Safe and undisturbed. And even if someone did happen to notice him or realize that he was drawing them, social contracts insisted that they smile politely and not interfere.

But tonight was slightly different. It was Rohan's first time at this particular terrace café, and he was seated on a balcony overlooking a small courtyard with more tables. It was an especially nice spot that he'd found, with a bird's-eye-view of patrons down below and on the street as well. Without realizing it, he'd spent hours here already, drawing, watching, thinking. And as the afternoon drifted into evening, the mood of the establishment began to change. Fairy lights blinked to life all around the courtyard, and a couple of small speakers were lugged out and placed in a small space along the fencing. A single wooden stool was left standing between them.

Ah – so there was going to be music. Rohan curled his lip slightly at the realization; his quiet atmosphere was about to be disturbed, and people were going to start being raucous. Already he could see throngs of young delinquents filling up the tables and standing-room below. With a sigh, Rohan closed his sketchbook and began to look around for his waitress.

Annoyingly, it appeared that she was currently busy taking drink orders for some of the new arrivals. Rohan slumped back in his seat and drummed his fingers on the table as if willing her to come over, drawing her in by the sheer power of his impatience.

It did not work.

He groaned a bit as he watched her retreat to the inside of the establishment without so much as a glance in his direction. This meant, of course, he'd have to wait a while longer. And, God - the absolute struggle of being subjected to something he didn't want to do!

Sinking into his chair, Rohan glared daggers at the restaurant's little makeshift stage, the thing that was responsible for the shift in atmosphere. As he did so, a young man – Rohan's age, by his approximation – stepped up between the speakers, a guitar slung over his shoulders. He settled onto the stool easily, comfortably, like this was the millionth time he'd done as much. Rohan tilted his head and took in the man's lengths of wavy, purple hair, the curious looking scar that streaked across the left side of his face.

Okay. So the musician was... interesting looking, at least. Rohan folded his arms. Perhaps he could allow this distraction after all.

“Uh,” the guitarist said, tapping the mic to confirm that it was on, “Hello, 815. You're lookin' good tonight.”

Some hoots and hollers from the crowd.

“Thanks! I know, I know, I look good every night.” He strummed a single chord on his guitar, and a few college-aged girls broke out into laughter. Rohan rolled his eyes. “The name's Akira Otoishi, and I'm here to set the mood for your Friday night,” the guitarist went on, beginning to play softly beneath his words. “Whether you're here to have a couple of drinks... blow off some steam after a long week... or find someone to take home.”

Rohan mimed a gag, yet still flipped open his sketchbook and began idly doodling the cheesy guitarist. And strangely, the more Rohan looked, the more intrigued he became. Akira Otoishi was rather tall, and with strong features. Rohan tapped his pencil to his lips for a moment. Yes, he was really quite a striking figure... Huh. He would make a good model for a manga villain. Rohan's hand returned to its fervent sketching.

The first few minutes of Akira's performance were decent enough... Acceptable, Rohan decided. He was playing some high-energy rock music, clearly meant to get the audience amped up (and buying more drinks). His first few songs were covers, which didn't surprise Rohan; real artists didn't play gigs like this. But, to his credit, Akira played skillfully, expertly improvising to make up for the lack of a backing band.

With an annoyed little huff, Rohan begrudgingly acknowledged that okay, yeah... the kid had talent.

And so the artist continued his work, his pencil following the arch of Akira's back, the billow of his jacket, the long lines of his legs in skin-tight pants. Rohan found himself somewhat entranced by the music, pulled into it, bobbing his head along in spite of himself.

Eventually, when the wild applause and high-pitched screaming that followed his latest song faded, Akira laughed and began to adjust his tuning. “Thanks,” he said earnestly into the mic, voice rasping just a bit, strained from the passion he'd poured into the performance so far. “Now that I've got your attention, I'd like to slow things down.” He turned to his panel of guitar pedals, tested out a lower, bassier sound.

Without really thinking about it, Rohan rested his elbow on the table and propped his chin in his hand, the drawings now forgotten. He was curious to see what came next.

“So...” Akira went on, before taking a swig from his water bottle (and Rohan found himself staring a little too intently at the bob of his Adam's apple.) “If you're here tonight with someone special... or you're building up the courage to talk to that beauty across the room... This one's for you.”

There was a small outburst of applause, and Akira paused dramatically before starting. His hands caressed the neck of his instrument, and he kept his eyes cast down upon it. The chug of the guitar was slower now, quieter, just slightly ramping up as he began to sing: “Dial up my number now... Weaving it through the wire...”

Rohan quirked a brow. The musician's voice was different this time, too. Lower. Nearly a growl. Subconsciously, the artist leaned forward.

All at once, Akira's eyes snapped up to the crowd and he gave a performative jerk of the guitar as he belted out: “Switch me on...” - excited shrieks erupted from the audience - “Turn me up... Don't want it Baudelaire, just glitter lust.”

Rohan sucked in a breath, acutely aware of the shiver that had just shot down his spine, the way every hair on his body was standing on end. Though he knew no one was looking at him (no, all eyes in the house were turned towards this purple-haired stunner) Rohan flushed slightly, embarrassed to have been so overcome by the music. But Akira just made for such a good muse, he reasoned. He could be a terrific character. Rohan wanted to study him.

“Switch me on... Turn me up...” Akira's eyes dragged slowly over the crowd; bedroom eyes that could surely make anyone feel as though they were the ones in the spotlight. “I want to touch you, you're just... made for love.” As he purred this line, his eyes reached Rohan, who felt himself swallow sharply. He swore the guitarist's eyebrow arched a bit, that his lips twitched into a smirk.

Rohan was rooted to the spot. Even at such a distance, those eyes seemed to pin him in place. Shit. This guy really knew how to give a performance.

As Akira slipped into the song's chorus, he mercifully dropped his gaze and Rohan let out the breath he'd been holding in. Fuck it; his interest was officially piqued, and he needed to know more. He wanted to draw the young musician for hours, wanted to obsess over every line of his body, wanted...

Rohan scowled at his own inner monologue before angrily digging his wallet out of his pocket. He slapped some money down on the table, collected his sketchbook, and started heading downstairs to the courtyard. All the while, Akira's voice rolled over him, the music still climbing, climbing in its volume and ferocity.

As Rohan reached the ground floor and stepped into the crowd, the musician transitioned into a guitar solo that had the audience shouting, dancing, clapping. But Rohan just pushed forward as if in a dream, the thudding guitar reverberating in his chest. He watched the guitarist's hands, his biceps, his shoulders; the curtain of hair that swirled around him as he played, a strand or two sticking to his sweat-slick face.

Then Akira opened his eyes and their gazes met once again. Akira turned and took a step in Rohan's direction as he sang, “You know I walk for days... I wanna waste some time. You wanna be so mean... You know I love to watch.” The words dripped from his lips, sultry, and Rohan had the distinct feeling of being the only person in the audience. It was preposterous, of course, but still... his stomach tightened, his skin tingled with electricity.

“I wanna love some more... I'll never be the same. A broken heel, like a heart... I'll never walk again.”

The singer's eyelashes fluttered, but his stare remained fixed on Rohan. All the artist could do was walk ever forward, a ship lead astray by a siren's song, about to crash onto the beach.

Akira licked his lips as he rounded the final chorus of the song, and he struck the last chord particularly hard, finally breaking eye contact as he whipped his hair around him. The crowd went wild. Rohan gasped for breath.

“Thank you, 815,” Akira panted into the microphone, “That's my time. You've been beautiful. I hope you'll treat the next guy as well as you've treated me.” His eyes flickered over to Rohan once more, and with a wink, he was off. The crowd was still screaming and Rohan's mind was racing... He moved to try and catch the guitarist, but was thwarted by the next set of musicians as they moved in to set up. He cursed under his breath and whirled around, fighting through the crowd in the direction he'd seen Akira heading.

He finally broke out of the push of bodies and stumbled into the indoor bar. He looked around helplessly, but there was no long-haired demigod in sight. He spent a few pathetic moments circling the rooms of the bar to no avail, getting more frustrated and embarrassed all the while. After all – what did he think was going to happen if he did get to talk to Akira? What on earth would he even say?

Finally, defeated, Rohan slunk over to the bar. A distracted server walked over to him, drying off a glass. “What'll you have?” she asked.

“Uh. I don't know. Vodka-cranberry,” he grumbled, crossing his arms on the bar. The woman nodded and then paused, doing a double-take and giving him a scrutinizing look. Her eyes widened slightly.

“Oh!” Rohan furrowed his brow. “Oh?”

“Yeah, um... Hang on a second.” She set down the glass and began to dig through the pocket of her apron. “Ah... So, the guy who was just playing, Otoishi? Um...” She gingerly set a scrap of paper in front of him.

He blinked down at the scrawl of numbers.

The 'XO' at the bottom.

“Yeah...” The server cleared her throat. “He doesn't like to hang around here after he plays, but he's out back having a smoke in the alley. If you want to try and catch him before he leaves.” She raised her eyebrows, sent him a knowing look before turning to help another customer. Rohan pocketed the paper and raced towards the back exit.

#akirohan #Akira Otoishi #Rohan Kishibe #JoJo's Bizarre Adventure #jjba #fanfic #fan fiction #slash #oneshot

9 notes · View notes

samanthadalton · 4 years

Note

Thank you for writing my Poppy sketchbook request!! I loved it! 😭😭💕💕

Anyways, I have another idea: Poppy and MC doing body shots at a frat party!

I'm so sorry I keep requesting stuff. Hehe

I’m really glad you loved it anon it means a lot. Sorry if you were waiting a while for this one because I’m working through the requests now, I hope you enjoy it 💖💖

pairings: Poppy x mc

(Takes place after chapter 7 of queen b)

taglist: @cloud9in @somewillwin @baexpoppy @save-me-the-last-dance @helpconfusedpersonhere @dopeyouth (i forgot i had a taglist for poppy but if you wanna be added on in future fics let me know 😁)

word count: 2.3k (its a long one)

Body Shots

The party at the frat house is in full swing, music blaring from the speakers, the pulsating and infectious beat echoing throughout the entire house. Every inch of the house is filled with drunk college students, all immersed in the party, drinking, dancing, playing beer pong and the classic, hooking up.

Poppy Min Sinclair stands in the corner of the living room, a scowl etched on her face as she observes her surroundings. Veronica’s nowhere to be seen, undoubtedly live streaming for her picta fans and after many gruelling hours of begging and pleading, Chloe was back at the queen b’s side as her number 2. Chloe looks at the party-goers longingly, wishing she could join in on the fun but with Poppy in a sour mood tonight there’s no chance of that happening. After throwing away her remaining self worth to get back into the strawberry blonde’s good graces, she was not about to mess it up again by ditching her.

You hover at the front door of the frat house, self-conscious about being in the public eye after weeks of hiding since Poppy released that embarrassing hog calling video. Everywhere you went, you were met with stares, laughs and even a student or two who would mock you.

“Girl stop worrying” Zoey says reassuringly placing her hand on your shoulder, “everyone’s practically forgotten about the video.”

You glare at Zoey indignantly, and then roll your eyes, “no they haven’t. I mean yesterday someone literally sent hay to our dorm room. Maybe this was a bad idea.” You turn away from the door and begin walking away. Zoey chases after you, her hand firmly clasps your arm as she tugs you towards the door.

“Bea, pleaseeeee. Tonight is all about getting drunk and having fun. Please stay” She bats her eyelashes while giving you the puppy eyes treatment and your doubts start to dissipate.

You stand a little straighter, giving Zoey a resolute nod, “you’re right.” You begin mentally steeling yourself as you stare down the Alpha’s front door, which somehow looks way more intimidating than the first time you were here.

Zoey ushers you in through the front door where you are met by a half naked, unmistakably drunk, Ford who throws his arms around both you and Zoey, “looks who’s hereeee.” he takes a swig from the cup in his hand, “we were hoping you would come Bea.”

“Really?” you raise an questioning eyebrow at Ford who replies with an eager nod, pulling both you and Zoey into the living room. He motions at the dj who gives him a knowing nod, and the music suddenly changes and the sounds of your hog calling, which begins to echo throughout the entire frat house, evoking an assortment of reactions. All the students turn to look at you, humour written all over their faces while embarrassment is on yours. You look around the room and your gaze meets Poppy, whose lips quirk up, her eyes glimmering with amusement as she stares you down. You feel like you’re staring right at the face of the devil itself, and anger begins to flood through your body.

Zoey looks at you apologetically once the normal music resumes and she draws you into a hug, and mumbles an apology in your ear, “we can go if you want you.”

You eyes once again roam the room, most students once again indulging in the party while some gawk at you, finding the ordeal humorous. You mind drifts to Poppy and how infuriating she is, because this is all her fault. You shake out of your reverie and softly shake your head, “no.” Zoey raises a worried eyebrow at you, “I came here to get drunk so that’s exactly what I’m going to do.” You both walk over to the keg, pouring yourself and Zoey some beer in some plastic red solo cups and drain the entire thing within seconds before refilling it.

“You might want to take it slow,” Zoey says, as she carefully sips her beer.

“Nope, I need to forget the last couple of weeks existed,” you raise the cup almost as if you're doing a toast before downing the rest of it. You sharply inhale as you feel the alcohol beginning to warm your body, and you feel yourself starting to feel more at ease. You’re about to pour yourself another cup until a familiar voice comes up behind you, and it takes everything in you not to roll your eyes.

“I see the Alpha’s are doing their regular charity work by taking in a stray,” her voice crackles with detest as she looks you over, but you notice her eyes lingering on your body but you don’t blame her since the dress you’re wearing is doing wonders for your figure.

“I’m pretty sure you’ve already used a line like that before Pops, don’t tell me you’re losing your touch already?” you give her a little smirk, her eyes glowering at the sound of the nickname you’ve given her but she brushes over it and returns a demonic smile.

“Hmm, maybe it’s because my point still stands. You don’t belong here. Maybe you’ll be better off on that farm of yours, getting down and dirty with the pigs than the frat boys.”

“You didn’t mind getting down and dirty with me a few weeks ago.” Chloe who’s standing behind Poppy gives a small gasp, while Zoey stares at you, mouth hanging open. Poppy however, stares at you, all sense of amusement wiped from her face as a fire begins to burn in her eyes.

Poppy turns her head slightly, speaking over her shoulder, “leave us now.” her voice commanding, and Chloe awkwardly migrates into the party. A few seconds later Poppy raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow at Zoey, “why are you still here new money? Did befriending Farmsville cause you to lose brain cells or something?” Zoey sputters and looks to, waiting for your answer.

“It’s okay Zo, go and enjoy the party. One of us should be able to without feeling like the air is being sucked out of the room.” Poppy lets out a small huff but Zoey obliges and walks but not before mouthing, “you and Poppy?”. You respond with a wink and then you’re left with the strawberry blonde who’s just staring daggers at you.

“Listen here you oversized gremlin” she takes a menacing step towards you, but you stand your ground no matter how much steam is coming out of her ears, “you weren’t even that good in bed so I wouldn’t get all high and mighty if I were you.”

“Funny, because I remember you screaming out my name.”

“Hmm, I remember you begging me to say yours.” she retorts, with less sass but her tone almost seductive. As the air between you intensifies, Poppy does something you would never expect, she looks away.

“So what’s her majesty doing in a place like this? You clearly aren’t having any fun?” You begin refilling your drink while Poppy’s face twists in disgust.

“You’re still talking to me?”

You roll your eyes, “Why are you always such an uptight bitch? Does it ever kill you to have some fun?”

“I have fun Farmsville. I’m just not a juvenile like you, finding entertainment in the most banal things.”

Maybe it was the alcohol, or just plain boredom, you’re not sure but something within you sparks a challenge as you raise an eyebrow at Poppy and say, “prove it.” Maybe Poppy’s feeling the same way as you, because her eyes mirror your exact feelings when she gives you a small grin.

“Okay Farmsville, but first I need a drink.” You lift up your cup towards Poppy who pushes it away with disgust, “no a real drink.”

As the party blazes on, Poppy leads you to a secret room within the Alpha house which is a replica of a bar, only smaller but you repress making a joke about how it’s a literal minibar.

Poppy reaches behind pulling out a bottle of tequila and looks at you with a devious glint in her eye. “Now we can have fun.” She takes out two glasses, pouring out a drink for you both, and you both quickly down the drink. You slightly wince as the tequila burns your throat but Poppy seems unaffected as she refills the glasses again.

“Damn,”

Poppy raises a cocky eyebrow at you, “bet you didn’t think I could hold my own Farmsville.”

“I’ll have to remember to not underestimate you.”

“You have a habit of underestimating me Farmsville, just know I will never back down” she runs a finger down your chest, and you sharply inhale as you gaze into her eyes. As the atmosphere intensifies you find yourself almost drowning in Poppy’s brown doe eyes, and you begin to slowly lean in, Poppy notices your expression and quickly lifts her glass blocking your face and drinks it all before setting the glass down hard. “You’re falling behind Farmsville.”

You quickly grab the other glass draining the contents before giving her a small grin, “please, I could literally drink you under the table.”

Without missing a beat Poppy retorts, “but could you drink off me on the table.” her voice commandeering with confidence. In the moments that follow, Poppy easily unzips her dress and slips out of it, before hopping up on the counter and reaching behind grabbing a lime wedge and a few salt packets. She eyes bore into yours as you helplessly appraise her body, your mind flashing back to the night you had sex with her, and how perfect her body felt against yours. How her nails dug into your back leaving red marks all over it, but the pleasure was too much for you to care about it. As your eyes travel back up Poppy’s body you reach her eyes, which are glimmering with humour. “So?” She lifts up a salt packet in her hand, “are we going to do this or are you too much of a coward?”

You step forward daringly, and take the salt packet from her hand before licking your own hand and sliding it down Poppy’s chest, the substance of your saliva sticking to it. You rip open the salt packet with your teeth, while maintaining eye contact and slowly guide the strawberry blonde’s body down the counter and empty out the contents of the packet onto her chest. Poppy lets out a giggle, her cheeks flushing red as she takes you in. You pour some of the tequila into her belly button and eagerly begin licking her chest, your tongue exploring the swell of her breasts. You hear some light gasps from Poppy as you kiss your way down to her belly button, your lips encircling it as you begin to suck the alcohol out of it. Once you’re done, you move your head up and begin looking for the lime wedge, your brows furrowed with confusion until Poppy opens her mouth and you see the lime wedge between her teeth.

You stare at Poppy before slowly moving down to her mouth and taking the wedge between your own teeth, your lips softly graze together before you tilt your head up, biting down harder on the lime squeezing out all of its juice. You laugh victoriously as Poppy sits up and begins to pull you down onto the counter.

“My turn.” She begins hastily unzipping your dress and pushes you down onto the counter, as you lie down she straddles your hips. She pours a glass and balances it on your chest. She licks her fore and middle finger before sliding it down your throat and pouring some salt onto it. She delicately places a lime wedge on your lips, your mouth opens slightly biting down on the peel. Poppy leans down and begins to run her tongue down your throat, her tongue caressing it as she licks up every grain of salt before moving down your chest. Her lips curl around the glass as she picks it up with her teeth, emptying its contents, plucking it out of her mouth and moving down to the lime wedge. As she slinks down, your eyes meet hers, as she takes in the lime and begins to bite down on it. While the peel is still in your mouth, she finishes the rest of it, slightly wincing by the time she's done. In that moment you look over at Poppy and her eyes glisten with want and her gaze lingers on your lips. You turn your head spitting out the rest of the wedge, grab the back of Poppy’s neck as your lips come crashing together in a passionate kiss. Her lips taste sour, hints of the lime juice and tequila remaining on them as you nibble on her bottom lip, eliciting a few high pitched moans from the queen b.

You stay attached at the lips, Poppy’s tongue invitingly tangling with yours, as you kiss her without restraint. Your hands slowly start to trail down her body resting on her hip. You’re about to flip the strawberry blonde over on the counter until the door abruptly opens and a gasp pulls you out of the moment. You look over to see Veronica, phone in hand as she ogles at the two of you.

Poppy pushes you away, jumping off the counter, “you better not be live streaming Lombardi” her voice quickly sobering up as she glares at the ombre-haired girl.

“I wasn’t and I’m going to leave. Have fun with whatever this is.” Veronica gestures between the two of you before slinking out of the room and as you get your bearings, you see Poppy already slipping her dress back on.

“So that’s it huh?”

Poppy doesn’t answer, her gaze averted from yours, she quickly zips up her dress, before running a hand through her silky hair and moves towards the door. Before she leaves, she turns towards you, “this was fun Farmsville. Maybe one day we’ll continue this in a more private manner.” She gives you a small wink and disappears, leaving you and your whirlwind of thoughts.

#playchoices #queen b #poppy min sinclair #poppy x mc

125 notes · View notes

fullmoondaggers-art · 30 days

Note

May I have a Rarity plz? 🥺💎✨️

In a cozy sweater reading pony Vogue :)

#mlp #my little pony #mlp fim #my little pony friendship is magic #mlp rarity #dagger sketchbook requests

7 notes · View notes

moony-artnstuff · 3 years

Text

Commission @cabinetacademia

Note: @cabinetacademia I am so, so sorry that this took so long. I don’t really have a valid excuse other than that school has been requesting a shit-ton of time lately and the only moment I did have time to write I couldn’t get myself to do it. I sincerely hope you can forgive me for the long wait and I hope you enjoy your matchup!

The Hobbit: I ship you with THORIN OAKENSHIELD

Thorin is a King, and, though many would not think it at first sight, a gentle soul.

Sure, he is a warrior, and a legendary one at that, but he is also creative. He is a craftsman, a musician, someone who values food and cheer and song and family above all else. Someone who loves you with all of himself once you’ve finally captured his heart.

Thorin has travelled a lot in his lifetime, and especially now as a king I can imagine he has an incredible knowledge about all kinds of cultures, history, mythology, etc. Not to mention he has access to the royal library night and day, which he extends to you even before you start courting, as a means to capture your heart.

I can imagine that after the quest to reclaim Erebor was accomplished you stayed with the company in the lonely mountain to become a professor (probably teaching young pebbles the many languages of middle earth).

One of Thorin’s favorite places to be is the room that you two share. It’s filled with all kinds of trinkets you’ve collected over the years (including Thorin’s many courting gifts), mountain high piles of books, note- and sketchbooks, letters and many other things. It’s a good kind of cluttered, and it fills Thorin with a fond feeling whenever he takes it all in, as it reminds him of you and all your lovable quirks.

Even before you and Thorin married, even before you started courting, Thorin saw you as a queen. Your intelligence, your creative and ambitious nature, the way how everything you said sounded like it came straight out of a novel, and how when you called out his name it sounded like poetry had him immediately wrapped around your finger.

Once you marry Thorin you become queen under the mountain, meaning you’ll have to attend all kinds of social gatherings, meetings and grand feests. Don’t worry though, Thorin will be there to hold your hand and shield you from the overwhelming attention, and there’s no way in hell he will let anyone talk over you. Thorin values the things you say, and he thinks it’s important for others to listen as well.

One time you off-handedly mentioned to him you’re attracted to beards, and he wore this really giddy and proud smile for the rest of the day (and you noticed he since started to put just a little bit extra care in his facial hair in the morning).

As you most likely will have noticed when watching the movies, Thorin is not exactly good with words. It’s why he’s so happy you write him those lovely letters with all the reasons why you love him, and he does the same for you. He enjoys having you in his arms at night as he reads to you out loud his love letters with all the reasons why he adores you, and how the Arkenstone isn’t even half as much in worth as you.

Lord of the Rings: ARAGORN

Gift giving between Aragorn and you changes over time. While the two of you are still rangers, his gifts tend to be more simple and practical, like well-crafted daggers, a warm scarf for when winter comes, a new satchel for your maps and other items. Once Aragorn becomes king - and therefore has more money and no longer travels everyday - his gifts become more extravagant and fancy, like a new waistcoat, a beautiful dress, beautifully detailed fountain pens, etc.

Story-telling is a must. Every night when the two of you have made a fire and set up your camp, you tell each other stories. You tell him about folklore and mythology and all your favorite stories, while he tells you about his travels around Middle-Earth, the people he met and what it was like to grow up in Rivendell.

Aragorn confides in you with everything he does. Your advice and kind words have gotten him through many hardships in his life, and he holds your opinion in high regard. It’s you he goes to when he worries about the quest and the One ring, it’s you he goes to when he fears he will never be the king Middle-Earth needs, and you soothe his mind every time.

Aragorn is a ranger so does not carry a lot of unpractical trinkets with him, but he treasures everything you give him and keeps all your gifts in a special bag. He will often craft you tiny statues while travelling. When the two of you come across a town he will often get you a pretty bracelet or a beautiful dagger.

When the two of you cuddle he likes to trace your moles and play with the lighter patches of your hair. He likes having you near him and he pays attention to all the small details that make you you.

He carries a few of your love letters bound with a small robe with him at all times, wherever he goes. He misses you immensely when the two of you are apart, and the letters bring him comfort. It warms his heart every time he reads them and he has tried many a time to write love letters for you as well, though he always feels like the words he writes cannot even begin to convey the love he feels for you.

Once he becomes king and you his queen he likes to take you shopping for clothing that matches your aesthetic, often asking the tailors to make something specifically for you. He wants you to feel both beautiful and comfortable, and he smiles whenever you try to pick out his outfit so you can match aesthetic.

#commission #matchup #matchup commission #thorin x reader #aragorn x reader #lord of the rings #lord of the rings x reader #the hobbit #the hobbit x reader

35 notes · View notes

hyuckshaze · 3 years

Text

Drowning in the Distance | Chapter VI

✩‌ haechan ‌x‌ ‌fem!reader‌ ‌|‌ terminal illness au! series ✩

SUMMARY‌ ‌⇾‌ confined to a life of detachment from the only people on earth who understand them, the patients of saint evangeline’s can only watch as those around them drown in themselves, in more ways than one, while they themselves drown, in a much more literal sense. haechan is tired, tired of moving from place to place with no real chance of getting better. y/n is tired too, tired of living solely for the purpose of staying alive. maybe, just maybe, despite the space that separates them, they can guide each other to a life worth living.

WARNINGS‌ ‌⇾‌ ongoing theme of terminal illness (cystic fibrosis); talk of christianity, the afterlife, heaven/hell, death; ongoing mention of surgeries, scars, medications, drug trials etc.

CHAPTER WORD COUNT ⇾‌ 4.99k

CHAPTER MASTERLIST

VI | Donghyuck

✩‌

A loud, ringing knock upon my door startles me out of my daydream. I’d been sat at the desk for the last forty minutes, staring down at a cartoon drawing of Doyoung that I’d already finished. My thoughts drifting to the look on the girl’s face when I’d swung my leg over the side of the ledge. Why did she care so much? I stand from the chair, pulling my eyes away from the window and crossing the room. Nobody ever really knocked and waited for a response. My mother certainly didn’t. I open the door to my room, surprised to see Y/N backing up against the white wall on the other side of the hallway, around six feet away from me. After the stunt I pulled yesterday, I thought she’d steer clear of me for at least a week. She’s wearing about three face masks and two pairs of gloves, her fingers wrapping tightly around the plastic handrail on the wall. As she moves, I catch the faint scent of sweet vanilla. It smells nice. It’s probably my nose craving anything that isn’t bleach. A grin pulls the edges of my mouth upwards as she stares at me, brushing an unruly strand of hair away from her face.

“Are you my proctologist?” She doesn’t seem amused at my joke, giving me what I think is an icy look from what I can see of her face, leaning to her right, peering past me into my room. I suddenly feel conscious, glancing behind me to see what she’s looking at. The art books, the AffloVest sitting on the floor beside my bed from when I shrugged it off as soon as Doyoung left, my open sketchbook on the table. That’s about it.

“Why is your- and where is- I knew it.” She says finally after stammering for a moment, like she confirmed the answer to some true crime cold case from Buzzfeed Unsolved. She holds out her double-gloved hand expectantly. “Give me your regimen. Let me see it”

“You’re kidding, right?” We stare each other down, her stern eyes shooting daggers right through me while I try to give her an equally intimidating glare. Though, I’m bored shitless, so maybe I could indulge her request. I think for a few seconds before my curiosity gets the better of me. I roll my eyes and turn to go and tear apart my room looking for a small sheet of paper that’s probably already in a landfill somewhere. I push aside some magazines and crouch to check under the bed. I rifle through a couple of my sketchbook pages, and even look under my pillow for show, but it’s nowhere to be found, as expected. Why did she want it? I straighten up and turn to the door, shaking my head at her. “Can’t find it. Sorry. See ya.” She doesn’t budge at my words, though, and crosses her arms in defiance, leaning comfortably against the wall and refusing to leave.

“Hurry up.” So I keep looking, my eyes scanning the room while Y/N taps her foot in the hallway impatiently. God, why was she so persistent? I mean, it’s interesting don’t get me wrong, but still slightly irritating because it’s useless. That stupid regimen is already- wait. The pocket-size sketchbook lying on my dresser catches my eye, the blue sheet of paper crammed into the back of it, neatly folded and barely poking out past the small pages of the book. My mum must have hidden it there the last time she visited, so that it didn’t end up in the garbage bin. Knowing me, she knew it would have. I grab it, heading back to the doorway, and holding out the paper to her.

“Not that it’s any of your business…” I mutter. She snatches the paper from me immediately before pressing back up against the far wall, her eyes scanning the sheet. I see her furiously blinking down at the neat columns and rows that I made into a cool cartoon, imitating a level of Donkey Kong, while my mother and Dr. Moon chatted. I think I was supposed to be listening to their conversation, but the sketch had a positive outcome, unlike all of the conversations that happen between me, my mother and a doctor. The outlined ladders sit on top of my dosage information, rolling barrels bouncing around my treatment names, the damsel in distress screaming “Help!” in the left-hand corner next to my name. I thought it turned out nicely. Plus, it was pretty clever, right?

“What is- how could you- why?” Clearly, she doesn’t think the same.

“Is this what an aneurysm looks like? Should I call Irene?” She doesn’t seem amused by this either, shoving the paper back at me, her eyes harsh and I can only imagine how furious her face looks under the masks. Geez, tough crowd. “Hey,” I say, throwing the sheet of paper down on the table beside the door, crossing my arms in front of my chest. “I get that you have some save-the-dying, be-a-hero complex going on for you, but leave me out of it.” She shakes her head at me, eyes imploring.

“Haechan. These treatments aren’t optional. These meds aren’t optional.”

“Ah, so that’s the reason that they keep shoving them down my throat. It’s nice to know you’ve been asking around about me, though. You already hold me to a nickname level of friendship, huh?” I tease, though I’m completely serious in the respect that anything can be optional if you’re creative enough. Y/N’s serious face melts into one of desperation as she shakes her head, throwing up her hands in frustration and storming off down the hallway.

“You’re making me crazy!” She calls, walking so fast that it seems like she’s sprinting. Dr. Moon’s words from earlier sent a jolt of shock through me by echoing through my skull. Don’t get close enough to touch them. For their safety, and yours. Wasn’t planning to, Dr. Moon. I grab a face mask from an unopened box filled with them that Irene put by my door, pocket it, and jog after her. I reckon that Irene figured she couldn’t stop me from leaving the third floor, so settled for trying to make sure that I was ‘keeping safe’ while I was gone. As I go, I glance to the side to see a black-haired boy with a sharp jaw, around the same height as me, peering out of room 310, his eyebrows raised curiously at me as I follow Y/N down the hall to the elevator. She reaches the elevator first, stepping inside and turning to face me as she hits the floor button. I move to step in after her but she holds up her hand.

“Six feet.”

Shit.

I watch as her eyes crinkle, an obvious smirk having pulled at her plush lips underneath the masks. The doors slide shut and I tap my foot impatiently, pressing the up button over and over and over again as I watch the elevator climb steadily up to the fifth floor and then slowly back down to me. Was it always this slow? I glance nervously at the empty nurses’ station behind me before sliding quickly into the elevator as soon as the gap is large enough for me to slip through, hitting the door-close button repeatedly. I meet my own gaze in the blurry metal of the elevator, eyes tracing over my sunken, exhausted features. I sigh, reaching my fingers up to brush my under-eyes. When did they get this dark? Remembering the face mask in my pocket, I sling it on as I ride up to the fifth floor. This is stupid. Why am I even following her? With a ding, the door slowly creaks open, and I walk as quickly as I can down the hall and across the bridge to the east entrance of the NICU, dodging a few doctors along the way. They’re all clearly on their way somewhere, so no one spares a glance at me, let alone stops me. Gently pushing open the door, I watch Y/N for a moment. I open my mouth to ask what the hell that was all about, but then I see that her expression is dark. Serious. Sad. I close my mouth. I stop a safe distance away from her and follow her eyes to the baby, more tubes and wires and tiny cannulas than limbs. I see the tiny chest, struggling to rise and fall, struggling to continue breathing. I feel my own heart beat in my chest, my own weak and pathetic lungs trying to fill with air from chasing her halfway across the hospital.

“She’s fighting for her life.” She finally says, meeting my eyes in the glass. Her eyes glitter in the reflection and, even in the shitty, dim lighting of the NICU, she seems to glow. “She doesn’t know what’s ahead of her or why she’s fighting but she’s still doing it. Still battling. It’s just... instinct, Haechan. Her instinct is to fight. To live.” Her voice shakes a little towards the end of her sentence. I tilt my head in contemplation. Instinct. I lost that instinct a long time ago. Maybe at my fiftieth hospital, in Berlin, or the sixtieth in California. Maybe about eight months ago when I contracted B. cepacia and they ripped my name off the transplant list. Things change in the blink of an eye. Shitty things happen and we can’t do anything about them. The possibilities are endless. My jaw tightens as I stare at the side of her head, teeth gritting for a moment before I loosen up enough to speak.

“Listen, you’ve got the wrong guy for that inspiring speech bull-”

“Please.” She cuts me off, spinning around to face me with a surprising amount of desperation in her expressive face, eyebrows furrowed and eyes rounded. “I need you to follow your regimen, to stick to it. Strictly and completely. No matter how pessimistic you may be or how convinced you are that you’re going to die, I need you to do it.” Her voice is as desperate as her face, thick with emotion. I watch as she swallows nervously, her fingers snapping a hair tie against her wrist repeatedly as she fidgets.

“Hold on a sec, I think my ears are broken. There’s no way I heard that right. Did you just say... please?” I say, trying to dodge the seriousness of this conversation. Her expression doesn’t change, though. I sigh and shake my head, stepping a tiny distance closer to her but not too close. Something’s wrong. “Okay. What’s really going on here? I won’t laugh.” She takes a wheezing deep breath, still snapping the elastic against her wrist, taking two small steps back to my miniscule step forward.

“I have... control issues. I need to know that things are in order, that things are happening according to plan.” The snapping becomes more frequent, louder.

“So? What does that have to do with me?” I ask, eyes flickering down to her wrist once more. It looks sore.

“I know you’re not doing your treatments.” She leans her shoulder against the glass of the viewing window, looking across at me. “And it’s messing me up. Bad.” I clear my throat, looking past her at the small, helpless baby on the other side of the glass. I feel a twinge of guilt for both her and the baby, even though that makes no sense, it’s not my fault. Maybe it’s because they don’t have a choice; there’s no option for that tiny life to resist treatment, to turn down or ignore regimens and medication options, and yet here I am. As for Y/N, I don’t know why I feel guilty. A small voice in the back of my head tells me why; it’s because they’re fighting with all they have to have more time on this earth, to be further than an inch away from death and I’ve given up on that. I clear my throat.

“Yeah, well, I’d love to help you out. But what you’re asking…” I shake my head, shrugging at her before turning back to the glass. “I don’t know how.” She snorts at this, hand moving away from her wrist to adjust her face masks.

“Bullshit, Haechan,” she says. “All CFers know how to manage and administer their own treatments. We’re practically qualified nurses by the time we turn twelve, if we make it that far.” A part of me admires how strong she is, and a part of me hates her for it.

“Even clearly spoiled and privileged brats like me?” I fire back, ripping the blue surgical mask from my face. She isn’t amused by my comment, and her face is still frustrated, distressed. I don’t know what the real problem is, but it’s clearly eating away at her.

“You-” She cuts herself off, taking a breath to calm herself down. She pulls the hair tie further, snapping it against her skin harder. This is more than control issues. This is more than wanting things to be in order. Taking a rasping deep breath, I stop screwing around.

“You’re serious? I’m messing you up?” She doesn’t say anything in response, and we stand there, staring at each other in silence, the only noise being the steady beeping of the baby behind the glass’ heart monitor, something bordering on understanding passing between us. Eventually, I take a step back and pull on the face mask again, leaning against the wall and shrugging. “Okay. All right,” I say, eyeing her carefully. “So, if I agree to this, what’s in it for me?” Her eyes narrow and she pulls her grey hoodie closer to her body. I watch her, the way her eyebrows draw together, the way her wavy hair falls around her face, the way even just her eyes show every little thing she’s feeling. “Two things. One, I want to draw you.” I say before I can stop myself. Do I regret it, though? No.

“What?” She says, eyes wide for a second before shaking her head adamantly. “No.” She looks away from me, turning to face the glass again.

“Why not?” I ask, genuine curiosity creeping into my tone. “You’re beautiful.” Shit. I did not mean to say that out loud. No big deal. Own it. I totally meant to do that. She stares at me, surprised and, unless I’m completely making it up, just a little pleased. A feeling of satisfaction settles in my chest, a feeling entirely new and yet, somehow familiar. I snap out of whatever just happened, blinking a few times. What was that?

“Thank you, but no way.” Her voice is firm. I shrug and turn towards the door, my voice ringing out.

“I guess it’s a no deal, then.” She makes a noise of protest before a flurry of words come pouring out from her lips.

“You can’t practice a little discipline? Stick to your regimen? Do your treatments? Even to save your own life?” I stop short, looking back at he. She doesn’t get it.

“Nothing’s gonna save my life, Y/N. Or yours.” I keep going down the hallway, calling over my shoulder. “Everyone in this world is breathing borrowed air.” Satisfied with my words, I push the door open, about to step out of the threshold when her voice rings out from behind me.

“Ugh, fine!” I spin around, shocked, my grip on the door disappearing, hearing it click shut. “But no nudes.” She adds. She’s taken her face mask off and I can see her lips twitching into a smile. The first one she’s given me. She’s making a joke. The Y/N L/N is making a joke. I let out a surprised laugh, shaking my head in mock disappointment

“Ah, I should’ve known you’d find a way to suck all the fun out of it. Besides, you’re not one of my French girls.” I joke, watching as she snorts a laugh at the Titanic reference. Huh, maybe she’s not as much of a tough crowd as I thought.

“No posing for hours on end.” She says, looking back at the preemie, her face suddenly serious. “And your regimen. We do it my way. Deal?” Her words are quick, hurried as though she wants to get the confirmation quickly. Why would she- Oh. I let out a loud laugh, licking my lips before speaking.

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten about condition number two.” I say, an amused smile taking over my face as she huffs and scowls at me. She clearly wanted to get me to agree before we’d moved onto my other condition. Smart idea. Would have worked, too, if she hadn’t have given it away.

“Whatever.” She mutters, crossing her arms with an adorable pout. Wait. No. Not adorable. “What is it?” I point at her tender wrist, to which she pulls it in closer to her body unconsciously.

“That.” I say, an air of finality lingering in the viewing room as we stare at one another. “That needs to stop.” She opens her mouth to protest, to argue that she doesn’t know what I’m talking about, but nothing comes out. She sighs, closing her eyes to collect herself. She knows it’s no use in protesting, those are my conditions and I’ve already demonstrated that I’m not willing to waver on those.

“Fine. You stick to your promise and I’ll stick to mine. Deal?”

“Deal.” I say, processing her previous words. I know that whatever she means by ‘her way’ is going to be a gigantic pain in my ass, so why am I doing this? Why do I care that my medical decisions are ‘messing her up’? “I’d say let’s shake on it, but…”

“Funny.” She says, looking at me and then motioning towards the door with her head. “The first thing you have to do is get a med cart in your room.” I mock salute in her direction, nodding at her words with a playful smile upon my lips.

“On it. Med cart in my room.”

I push open the door to the viewing room, sending her a big smile that remains plastered on my face all the way back to the elevator. Pulling my phone from my back pocket, I type out a text to Johnny.

Get this, dude: a truce with the girl I told you about.

He’s been getting a real kick out of the stories I’ve been telling him about her since she got here, having more interesting stories in a few days to tell him than I’ve had in the eight months I’ve been gone. He practically cried from laughing over the door alarm incident yesterday, praising her actions to the highest degree. I’d huffed down the phone as he referred to her as a genius, fighting the urge to agree. I’d have done the same if it were the other way around, so maybe it was genius. My phone buzzes with his reply as the elevator slows to a stop on the third floor.

Must be your good looks. Clearly not because of your charming personality.

I snort, pocketing the device and peering around the corner to check that the nurses’ station is still empty before sliding out from the elevator. I jump, startled when a loud crash reverberates out from an open door to my left.

“Ow. Shit.” A voice says from inside. Should I see if they’re okay? I move towards the door, poking my head in to see the dark-haired guy from earlier wearing a pair of flannel pyjama trousers and a black t-shirt. He’s sitting on the floor next to an overturned skateboard, rubbing his wrist with a hissing noise, obviously post wipe-out. “Oh, hey.” He says, spotting me and standing up with a smile, picking up the skateboard in one swift grab. “You just missed the show.”

“You doing stunts in here?” I ask, intrigued. He shrugs, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“No safer place to break a leg. Plus, Doyoung just finished his shift.” He has a valid point there. I’d never thought about it before, but if you were going to break a leg, it did seem the best place to do it. Albeit, not the most likely place to be able to skateboard.

“Can’t argue with well-reasoned logic.” I laugh, raising my hand to do a small, slightly awkward wave. He looks around my age, around Y/N’s age too. I decide to introduce myself. “I’m Haechan.”

“Jaemin.” He says, grinning at me and sending an equally-as-awkward wave back. We lug the shitty green chairs out of our rooms and place them in our respective doorways, sitting a safe distance away from each other. It’s nice to talk to someone around here who’s not mad at me all the time, whether it be Dr. Moon, Irene, Doyoung, my mother or even Y/N. Jaemin pipes up, curiosity evident in his voice. “So what brings you to Saint Evangeline’s? Haven’t seen you around here before. Y/N and I pretty much know everyone who comes through.” I lean my chair back, letting it rest against the doorframe, and consider all of the different ways that I can drop the B. cepacia bomb as casually as I can. After contemplation, I realise that none of them are great and just say the first thing that comes to mind. I should be honest with him, though.

“Experimental drug trial for B. cepacia.” I usually avoid telling CFers because they make it a point to avoid me like the plague, but I feel like I should be truthful with Jaemin, for some reason. He has that kind of aura; the kind that makes you want to tell him your entire life story because you know he’d listen. His eyes widen, but he doesn’t move any farther away. Instead, he rolls the skateboard back and forth under his feet, the wheels making a whirring sound against the squeaky-clean linoleum flooring.

“B. cepacia? That’s rough. How long ago did you contract it?” His voice is sincere, genuine. A sigh of relief slips past my lips. Not many people with CF would be so understanding, so inquisitive of it. Most would turn and run, and I could understand why. I bite back a chuckle as the boy in front of me puts all of the emphasis on the word ‘rough’. Don’t I know it.

“About eight months ago.” I say. I remember waking up one morning having more trouble breathing than usual, and then I couldn’t stop coughing. My mum, being obsessed with every breath I’ve taken my whole life, took me straight to the hospital to run some tests. I can still hear her heels clicking loudly behind the gurney, me sitting on it and hacking up an entire bacteria-infested lung, her ordering the people around as if she were the chief of surgery. To think, I thought she was obsessive before the results came back. My whole life, she always overreacted to every loud cough or gasp of breath, keeping me out of school or forcing me to cancel plans to go to doctor’s appointments or to the hospital for no reason. I hated it, more than anything. I remember doing a mandatory Christmas chorus performance back in third grade and coughing right in the middle of our shitty rendition of ‘O Holy Night’. She literally stopped the concert mid-song and dragged me offstage to go get a check-up. But I didn’t know how good I had it back then. I didn’t know how much worse things could get. Spoiler alert, it’s a lot. Things are so much worse now than they were as a kid, or even before the B. cepacia. Hospital after hospital, doctor after doctor, experimental trial after experimental trial. Every week, it’s another attempt to fix the problem, cure the incurable. A minute without an IV or not talking about a next step is a minute wasted, according to my mother. But nothing is going to get me back on a lung transplant list. And every week we waste, more of my lung function wastes away, but I don’t care about that. I care that each and every day I spend inside four white walls is a day that I could be out in the real world. Living. “It colonized so fucking fast, dude,” I tell Jaemin, putting the front legs of my chair back on the ground and moving away from the doorframe. “One minute I was at the top of the transplant list, and then one throat culture later...” I clear my throat, trying not to let the disappointment show. I shrug at him, eyes glued to the skateboard under his white Vans, covered in his own doodles and drawings. “Whatever.” There’s absolutely no point dwelling on what could’ve been, what I could have done, where I could have gone. Jaemin snorts.

“Well, I am sure that attitude-” he mimics my shrug and unconscious tousle of my hair “-is what’s driving Y/N crazy.” I watch as his eyes flicker toward the latter’s room, tracing over the numbers written across the front of the door: 302.

“Sounds like you know her well. What’s that about, anyway? She said she’s just a control freak, but…” I trail off, not quite sure how to word what I want to say. Jaemin understands what I’m getting at, though, and a small smile plays upon his lips.

“Call it what you want, but Y/N’s got her shit together.” He stops rolling the skateboard under his feet for a moment and the tiny smile on his face grows to a grin. His eyes move from the girl’s door to look at me. “She definitely keeps me in line.” After seeing the aftermath of a tanked skateboarding move, I can imagine that.

“She’s bossy.” His eyes crinkle in amusement at my words, but he shakes his head.

“Nah, she’s a boss.” Jaemin says, and I can tell from the expression on his face that he means it. He’s serious. “She’s seen me through thick and thin, man.” Huh. Well, now I’m curious. I take up the chance, asking the question that’s played on my mind since the start of the conversation. I narrow my eyes in his direction.

“Have you guys ever…?” I trail off once more, not really wanting to say this one out loud.

“Hooked up?” Jaemin says, tilting his head back and letting out a hearty laugh. “Oh, dude! No way! No. No. No.” I give him a look, a look that says ‘really?’. She’s cute, real cute, and he clearly cares about her a hell of a lot. I find it hard to believe, almost laughable, that he never even tried to make a move. Why wouldn’t he? She obviously cares about him as much as he does about her. “I mean, for one thing, we’re both CFers. No getting closer than six feet, let alone touching,” he says. This time he’s the one sending me a calculated look, eyebrows raised slightly as a smirk pulls at the edges of his lips. “Sex isn’t worth dying for, if you ask me.” I snort, shaking my head at his words. My mind drifts back to Y/N’s words, what she’d said back in the viewing room the first time we met. Yeah right, she’d had sex. The flustered expression upon her face and embarrassed glances down at the floor told me exactly the opposite of what she’d said. Clearly, it’s not just her; everyone on this wing has just had “fine” sex, apparently.

For some unknown reason, everybody thinks that if you’ve got a disease or a disorder or are sick in any way, shape or form, you become a saint, which is a load of shit. CF might actually have improved my sex life, if anything. Though, agreeably, the G-tube might be a bit of a downer, girls seem to love scars. Besides, the one perk of moving around so much is that I don’t stay anywhere long enough to catch feelings. That’s the last thing I need, especially right now. Johnny seems pretty happy since he got all sappy with Wendy, and even I have to admit that they’re perfect for each other, but I, personally, don’t really need more serious shit in my life.

“Second, she’s been my best friend practically my whole life.” Jaemin’s voice sounds, yanking me from my thoughts and bringing me back to the present. As I look across at him, I swear his eyes seem to gloss over with tears.

“I think you love her.” I say, teasing him.

“Oh, hell yeah, I do. I fucking adore her.” Jaemin says like it’s a no-brainer, his face deadly serious as he stares at me. “Would lie down on hot coals for her. I’d give her my lungs if they were worth jack shit. I’d give her my last breath.” The decisiveness in his tone tells me that he’s dead serious. Damn. That’s intense. I try to ignore the jealousy that pools in the pit of my stomach, furrowing my brows in confusion at him.

“Then I don’t get it. Why-”

“She is not a he.” The boy says, cutting me off. It takes a second for the penny to drop, but then I laugh, shaking my head. Oh.

“Way to bury the lede, man.” Jaemin laughs heartily at my response, clearly amused. I laugh with him. I’m not sure why I feel so much relief, but a sweeping feeling of it seems to be taking over my being. My gaze falls upon the dry-erase board hanging on the door directly above the head of the boy across from me, noticing a big heart drawn on it with the girl’s name written in the centre of it. If Y/N is trying to keep me alive too, she must not completely hate me, right?

10 notes · View notes

soulwillower · 4 years

Text

sketches • bill denbrough

(bill denbrough x reader)

requested: Hello! Can I request just some teen!Bill x reader fluff? Maybe where the reader finds sketches of her from Bill’s sketchbook/pad and then she falls in love with Bill, then Richie accidentally said something about Bill having a crush on her cause the trashmouth thought she already knew then after the reader found out, they talk and the reader confesses as well and it’s all fluffy and cute? I don’t know! I hope you get the idea though (ᵔᴥᵔ)

warning: swearing, fluff, unedited :)

[losers + reader are 16+ in this.]

1.7k words

♡

"can we shut some windows? it's getting cold." you ask your friends, rubbing your arms as goosebumps appear. mumbles of protest echo through the room and you scowl as their eyes all stay glued to the tv where eddie and ben battle out on smash bros.

"fine. can i borrow a sweater then, bill?" you ask, standing up. bill nods, his eyes flickering to you to smile briefly.

you smile back at him before getting up, making your way towards bill's room.

once you're inside, you flip on his lamp and snort. his room has always made you laugh - it's slightly messy, in a way that he's not ashamed of, and there's posters, pictures and a baseball bat in the corner.

his sheets are strewn about, half of it on his bed and half covering an upturned skateboard on the ground. you roll your eyes, chuckling. bill's a fucking mess.

your eyes land on an open sketchbook on his desk, pencils, pens, and paintbrushes covering it.

curiously, you walk over to look at it. you smile gently at the sketch of georgie holding up a dandelion, and you start to skim the pages. there's bev and mike on one page, richie and you on the next - that one makes you blush. the next page has eddie and richie smiling at each other. it makes you happy.

then your heart stops as you look at the page next to it. you stare at yourself, drawn and shaded with layers of charcoal. it looks exactly like you.

your heart does somersaults as your eyes trace the page and you flip the next few pages gently. bill drew you... so many times. they were meticulous, careful, and beautiful, like he'd spent hours pouring in as much dedication as he could.

your own eyes stare back at you from the pages and for the first time in a really long time you felt seen in a way you never knew you needed. realization hits you hard and your heart thumps, a smile growing on your face.

you love bill.

you love him - the boy with the auburn hair, the green eyes, the boyish grin, the bubbling laughter, the beat up vans, the flannels and crewneck sweaters. the boy who spends hours making sure you and your friends were okay, who stutters through every joke and also every inspirational speech, the boy who failed geometry because he kept ditching to go bird watch with stan or help mike with his chores on the farm. the boy who makes everybody he meets feel loved, feel important and feel needed. the boy who draws all of his friends with so much skill and passion. you can't help but bite your lip happily as you think about him.

of course you all held bill on a glimmering pedestal - it was completely dignified. because bill is so incredible, so perfectly flawed and so real that it was almost impossible not to fall in love with him.

everybody falls in love with bill denbrough.

"-that doesn't look like a sweatshirt." a voice comes from the doorway and you turn to look at richie, giving him a sheepish grin. your heart is still racing as you realize that you're in love with bill ... and that you have been for so long.

does he know?

"um, have you- er, have you ever seen this? he draws us." you say, gesturing to his notebook. richie nods his head, walking closer to the notebook casually. his eyes land on the open sketchbook and he smiles gently as he skims over the pages. there's eddie and richie on the left, laughing. it makes your heart swell. and on the right is the sketch of you, much more in detail.

"of course i have, y/n/n. he's been doing this for years, you know." he states simply, walking to the closet and pulling off a sweater, tossing it to you with a pointed look.

you're still pretty dumbfounded as your eyes flit to the sketchbook. you smile, shaking your head as butterflies burst. "oh, well he never showed me. he's... he's done a lot of them." you say, flipping through the pages.

"um, yeah, duh. he has the hots for you, of course he draws you all the time." richie says casually, fingers skimming the light drawing of eddie's smiling face.

your eyebrows furrow and you look up at him. some sort of heat pools in your stomach at his words, and you blink owlishly. you clear your throat and follow richie out of the room, face bright red as you walk down the stairs together.

"what took you two so long?" stan asks as you walk back in. you smile to your shoes as you pull on the sweater. richie flops onto the couch and mutters, "little miss snoop found big billy's sketchbook."

"y-you did?" bill asks, looking into your eyes. you can't help the blush that creeps onto your face as his eyes catch yours. he doesn't look phased that you saw his work except that his cheeks are dusted pink.

"they're beautiful, bill." you say shyly. he shrugs. "it's e-easy when you have b-beautiful subjects." he mutters.

it's so casual, the way he says it, and yet your whole body melts. you're so in love. everyone shares a look and you feel butterflies in the pit of your stomach.

richie grins, "very smooth denbrough. we get it, you're in love." he says. at those words, it goes silent and everyone turns to stare at richie.

your eyes widen and everyone else stares at him, mouths agape.

he blinks, "oh, did- c'mon, don't act like we don't all know. right, guys?" he says in defense, gesturing to eddie and ben for help. they don't say anything, and bill chuckles awkwardly at the silence.

it's quiet as bill mutters, "b-beep beep, trashmouth." he's shooting daggers at the boy. despite the tense situation, you smile to the ground - did bill really like you? him?

"lay off him, richie. i saw the way you were looking at that drawing of eddie." you say, lifting a brow. richie scowls, face turning red. eddie's face does the same, and bill shoots you a thankful glance. you smile back, heart beating quickly. you turn, muttering about going to get a drink.

you walk into the kitchen and you're not surprised when you hear that someone followed you. there's only one person who you really hope to talk to right now - and you're relieved as you turn around to find him watching you.

you smile gently at him as he rubs his neck sheepishly, walking closer to you. "i h-hope the drawings didn't f-freak you out." he says with a small grin. you smile, shaking your head as you lean on the counter and look up at him.

"bill, c'mon. you're so talented. those were incredible...i'm flattered." you say, cheeks heating up. he smiles bashfully and shrugs.

"s-sorry about r-richie." he says after a moment. you laugh lightly, trying to calm your own heart from bursting from your chest. "he doesn't know what he's saying." you mutter shyly, shrugging. bill laughs lightly though, making you look at him curiously.

he’s shaking his head, "no, h-he's p-pretty accurate." he says, a smile on his face. you watch him closely, "i... i'm in l-love with you." bill ads.

you gape at him, heart swelling but unable to move. he watches you, green eyes flickering between yours, trying desperately to read you. he's patient, though, and doesn't try to take it back. because it's bill.

no matter what, he's said what he means and he wont take it back, even if you don't feel the same way. because he just wants you to know you're loved.

holy shit, you're so in love with him.

"wh- are you really?" you ask dumbly. you can't feel your fingers or toes. he nods, a soft smile on his face as he chuckles, "y-yeah. really."

you nod, a smile of your own eclipsing your face. you feel like it might split your face in half.

he shrugs at you with a smile. "i-i mean, i n-never came out and s-said it, so i guess that's m-my fault." he grins, "b-but its not l-like i had to. it's v-very obvious that i l-love you, y/n. you're j-just blind." he teases. you scrunch your nose at him although his words give you butterflies.

"oh shut up, bill." you say with a laugh, punching his shoulder. he laughs at your reaction, steadying himself by grabbing your waist lightly. he smiles down at you lovingly, sighing.

"bill..." you say softly, grinning at him. his cheeks are pink as he waits for you to say those words.

you laugh a little, smiling so widely. "i love you too." you say.

"i kn-know. you're pretty o-obvious too, y/n." bill says with a smirk. you roll your eyes as you place a hand on his shoulder, the two of you leaning on the counter. you pinch him, "then why didn't you say anything!?" you hiss, heart swelling.

"i j-just didn't know h-how!" he defends. you shake your head, scoffing. "whatever, denbrough. i can't believe you." you mutter. his fingers gently reach to clutch your chin, tilting it up to him.

he looks into your eyes and your heart melts, eyes flickering to his pink ones. he's smirking gently. "in m-my defense, you didn't say a-anything, either."

he leans closer and your breath hitches while you wait for him to move.

and then, you smile impatiently as you close the gap. his lips press against yours and your heart feels full as his body forms against you. he's soft, gentle, and passionate as he pulls you closer, tongue lightly grazing your bottom lip. it's quiet as the two of you kiss, the only sounds being your soft breathing and the sound of your lips moving together.

you pull away though as you realize... it's too quiet.

he looks at you in question and you peek over his shoulder, groaning lightly as you meet six pairs of eyes in the doorway. "guys!" you hiss in embarrassment. bill turns to look at the others, a confident grin on his face. they all start squealing and yelling in excitement.

"sh-she's in love with me, g-guys!" bill calls, pointing to you in his arms. you shove him with a laugh as the others cheer. he laughs and shrugs at you.

"you're unbelievable, you know." you mumble, nudging his arm. he chuckles lightly, wrapping his arms around you and placing his chin on the crown of your head. you sigh as you inhale his scent, smiling into the fabric of his sweatshirt.

#bill denbrough x reader #losers x reader #losers club x reader

178 notes · View notes