#hope this registers as like. a camera spin

[eggwishing]

mr worldwide mr 305

[the-dumpster-fire-of-life]

Three Years Behind

Requested?: No/Yes

Notes: this sucks ass as it was spit out while I was in the car and was written in like 20 minutes

Description: after a one night stand with Bill Kaulitz, you thought nothing would be left behind. But something was. A small boy and girl, the children of Bill Kaulitz.

If someone had told you three years ago, at just seventeen you would become a teen mother to twins, a girl and a boy, you would've laughed in their face.

But three years ago you didn't expect to go to a Tokio Hotel concert. Three years ago you didn't expect to be taken on stage by Bill Kaulitz.

Three years ago you didn't expect to be taken back to a hotel room, much less expect what happened that night in those sheets.

Yet you didn't expect to be treated so nicely. So genuine only to be left behind in the dust when Bill and the band switched cities the next morning.

You also didn't expect to be staring down at a positive pregnancy test a month later.

Much less down at twins heads in the hospital at barely eighteen years old.

But you did it.

You were (Name) (Last Name). And you were the mother to the daughter and son to Bill Kaulitz.

You tried getting hold of him, but were sworn as a crazed fan girl who lied to catch his attention. You were broke, as most eighteen year olds were, and couldn't afford a meet and greet nor concert to talk to him.

It took three years, and your son and daughter had grown up in that time.

First steps, first words, first birthdays and everything.

You did good though, as well as you could. Your life went on, you raised your kids and almost gave up hope on Bill ever reaching your children

But what you least expected was to be standing in a plaza, hand in hand with your children as you walked through the grass to get to the playground.

You saw an almost crowd of people, band equipment and people crowding around the men dressed in black, a camera and so much more.

You didn't register what was happening until you stopped in your steps, your children looking up at you as you stared at a familiar head of black hair, accompanied by a smile you loved, smiling at fans as he signed autographs and CDs.

You couldn't help but stare, and almost as if he felt it, Bill looked up and around, finally making eye contact with you in almost three years.

It felt like the world stopped spinning.

But to Bill, he did too.

A genuine smile crossed his face, a toothy grin as he broke off from fans and went towards you, security keeping them at bay.

Bill walked to you, stopping just a few feet away, his smile never leaving.

Until he saw the two children hooked onto your hands.

Bill looked confused, between them to you for moments before he studied them.

You watched his face fall into widened eyes and a parted jaw dropped mouth, eyes flashing between you and them vigorously as he took in their features, blonde hair and similar smiles.

He finally looked back to you, adding it all up in his own mind of assumptions as you looked down, every rehearsed word flying out your brain as you stood frozen.

Tom came looking for his brother, smiling playfully as he hooked an arm around his brother's shoulder.

"Bill? Come on, we gotta go." Tom said before his voice faded into background noise for Bill, who was still stuck staring at you three.

Tom raised a brow, confused before he glanced at you. Tom knew you immediately.

From the speeches from Bill about the one he felt guilty about leaving. The one who couldn't leave his mind and who he hoped to see in the crowd.

The one who Bill wished he could go back for and ask you on a proper date.

Tom half smiled at you, almost in pride for his brother in his second chance, still confused on why his brother remained so still and wide eyed.

Tom finally looked down at the two kids, confusion even more evident as he looked between all of you.

Tom then studied the shocked look on Bill's face, the frozen on yours and the way the twins held onto your hands, looking up at you.

"Mom?" Your son mumbled out, tugging your hand in agitation as he wanted to go out of the hot sun.

You finally looked up at Bill, seeing the almost tears in his eyes out of shock, guilt and realization.

Tom's eyes almost blew wide, adding it all up as he looked between his niece and nephew.

"Holy shit."

Tom's voice faded away.

You never looked away from Bill after that

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

Taglist: @billsjum6ie @bigbootahjudy @ilovebill-and-gustav @r3dheadedw0rld @kiwitsune @novaaisstupid @billybabeskaulitz @yas-v @iischafer @dilfverz @ahswhore0 @graciegizmo3184 @sweetpuffy12 @80s-tingz @ryiana @yuriayato5 @bunnysenpai31 @banshailey @bellastoner420 @victryzvv9 @stxngnr @killed-kiss @stilesandjames @m00nzyblogs

[leviscolwill]

7. "if you win, i'll kiss you" with trent!!!!! 😩😩 bc we know he’s a competitive son of a bitch <333

congrats again on 600 baby! 🫶

- @lomltrentarnold 🪽

so come here and give me some kisses ★

pairing: trent alexander arnold x reader

note: thank u soooooo much for your request my lovely hana,, i hope u like it, i love writing competitive trent 🤭

this blurb was inspired by this video <3

now playing six thirty by ariana grande...

your relationship with trent was ambiguous to say the least. you liked him, well it was hard not to. and you knew he liked you too. hell, everyone at st george's park knew you liked each other. but he had yet to make any concrete move towards you.

trent was standing in front of you, getting mic-ed up for another pr video. they were never his favorites, but if he had a chance to beat his teammates, he'd always take it.

while you were polishing up the last details before filming with your colleagues, you shot a quick glance at trent looking oh so adorable in his apron. he walked towards you and rested his chin on your shoulder, giving you a quick smile.

“you know you're never winning this one right?” you told him in a cheeky tone with the sole purpose of riling him up. you knew just how competitive he could get, even with something as trivial as a bake off opposing him to hendo, dec and kieran.

“are you doubting my baking skills right now, love?” his accent thick and sassiness dripping from his voice.

“oh no, i wouldn't dare. ‘m just saying dec has a much better shot at winning than you.” you wouldn't trust declan with your kitchen even if your life depended on it, too scared you'd lose your whole flat in a house fire. but the sight of trent, chuckling to himself at your words was enough to spur you on.

he was a confident man, confident enough to know you didn't mean a word you said. also confident enough in his baking skills to know that he’ll win no matter what. but your teasing made the gears in his brain spin faster. “what do i get if i prove you wrong and win then?”

you took a quick look around to: 1. escape trent's face that seemed to get closer to yours by the second, 2. check if any of your colleagues caught up on the somewhat intimate moment you were sharing, only to find out they all left to do whatever they needed to do.

you thought a few seconds of what to tell him before an idea popped in your head. it might seem too bold, but truthfully you were sick of waiting for trent to make a move on you. “mmmhh...” you pretended to think for a couple seconds, “if you win this, i'll kiss you.”

trent looked stunt at your proposal, his brown eyes looking even wider than usual. “yeah! i mean, are you sure?” as much as he tried to keep up a façade, you could see right through his false confidence. the skin of his ears turning into a reddish tone and his eyes looking anywhere but in yours.

you quickly nod, before pecking his cheek. trent didn't get the time to fully register your action, you were already gone god knows where.

the next time your eyes meet, you were standing behind the camera with the rest of the communication team. trent was torn between exchanging knowing glances and smiles with you or focusing on baking his gingerbread man. he chooses the latter, well aware of the reward awaiting him when he'll win.

after some more baking, the results were in. and you could feel trent's stare on you while he was waiting expectantly for his name to be called as the winner.

and once it inevitably happened, trent locked eyes with you in a stare that could only mean one thing: ‘i told you, you know what happens now’.

your name was called and you had to leave before trent was done wrapping up the video. this gave you time to mentally prepare yourself, you didn't regret your impulsive bet but you were overthinking everything that might go wrong.

in the midst of your turmoil, two hands gripped your shoulders making you turn in surprise. you weren't too surprised to see trent behind you, you gave him a warm smile before making sure none of your colleagues were in sight.

“i told you i'd win.” his face was still glowing from his earlier triumph.

you reciprocated the smile on his face, meeting his deep brown eyes. “i know... i knew you'd win this.” you let your hand wander over his shoulder, feeling the warmth of his body slowly taking over yours.

“i thought we had a deal...” trent's voice brought you out of your daydream. your movement suddenly stopped to look up at him.

you didn't give him a verbal answer, choosing to stand on your tippy toes before pressing your lips against his. you felt his lips turn into a smile against yours, before kissing you back with more passion than words could ever hold. his hands cupping your face to bring you even closer if that was possible, not ready to let go of you just yet.

once he did pull away, he looked at you with admiration sparkling in his eyes. his thumb stroked your cheek softly, while you felt the heat rush to your cheeks. what did this kiss mean for the two of you? were things going to be weird now? could you even kiss a player without consequ-

“so, i think the next step should be me asking you out?”

[taurussbabe]

hi love, can you write something about charles having an accident in the race and the readers there in the paddock, nobody knows how he is while they wait for the ambulance, and she just stands there in shock and cries a litte..

A/n: thank you so much for this request, sorry it took so long 🫶🏎

TW: car accident

"Je t'aime" i love you, those were his last words to you, you were too busy answering a question from Pascale to even process what he had said and when you turned around to say you loved him too, he was already in his car, ready to race.

For you, the silence was the worst part. The silence on the radio after his car hit the barriers. The silence on the garage, everyone looking at the small TV, hoping to see anything, any movement from his part.

Your brain was registering every single detail, trying to see if anything moved, if anything changed.

You saw Max stopping his car and getting out of it, running towards where the Ferrari with the number 16 on it was. Pascale was, like you, looking at the TV and crying, Lorenzo trying to calm her down. And you, you were just staying there, not being able to move, barely able to breathe.

Time was going by too slowly, you tried your best not to cry, but tears were rolling down your cheeks.

Everything happened so slow and so fast at the same time. He was leading the race, doing an amazing job, you couldn't be prouder. That was, until you heard him on the radio, saying something about his breaks feeling weird, but you thought it was nothing, like had been nothing plenty of other times before. You were wrong, one more turn and everything became a mess. His car didn't slow down, the turn making him spin around. The car flipped and skidded for a few meters before hitting the barriers.

Your heart stopped beating for a second, and then it beat too fast. You heard the radio of Fred asking him if was okay, no answer.

He asked again, and again, there was no answer.

You saw people coming to help while max did too, and yet he never moved. Every car got back to their garage, but the one car you wish it did, didn't.

You saw an ambulance going on track, yet you saw nothing more because the cameras didn't film that. You were thankful yet petrified at the same time because you couldn't see anything.

Moments had passed and Fred came to say what hospital they were taking him to and that the only thing he knew was that he was alive. Lorenzo drove you and Pascale to the hospital and went to grab a bag of clothes for Charles.

You were sitted in a chair in the waiting room when Pascale sat down next to you, embracing you. "How are you sweetie? I was so focused on charles I forgot to take care of you too"

"Oh, you don't need to take care of me Pascale, really, thank you though. It's just...the last thing he told me was that he loved me and I was so stupid, I didn't say it back" tears started to fall down your cheeks again, and she made sure to quickly dry them

"Oh, ma chéri, don't worry, he knows it. You will see, he'll be okay and you'll get to tell him that as many times as you want"

You were about to speak as a doctor came to both of you, asking if you were charles family, you both nodded and gave a sigh of relief when the doctor told you charles wasn't conscious earlier to the head trauma, but that he was okay, he only had some broken ribs and a sprained wrist.

Pascale hugged you tight and asked the doctor when could you see him. You thanked the man after he said you could go see him now.

"Well, what are you waiting for, go see him" she said a gave you a slight pat in the back

"No, you should go first, he's your son"

"He's my son, but I know he'll want to see you there when he wakes up" you asked once again if she was sure and headed towards the room the doctor had said to be his.

"Hey" you said as you sat down on a chair next to his bed, grabbing his hand and kissing his knuckles. "I know I didn't get to say it earlier, but I love you too, so much. Please, never ever do that to me again."

"Don't worry, I don't plan on doing it again" he said as he opened his eyes softly, clutching to your hand, vision still blurry and voice kinda rough from just waking up.

"Charles, hi, you woke up, I should call someone" you got up but he pulled your hand.

"I just want some time alone with you now, please, mon amour" you sat again and put you hand on his jaw, cupping slightly.

"I thought I wouldn't see you again" you said, tears forming in your eyes once again, but Charles raised his hand and wiped them.

"You won't get rid of me that easily, don't worry"

"Don't joke, it's not funny. I'm gonna call your mom, she wants to see you" you got up, but this time he didn't stop you, letting go of your hand softly

"Oh, my sweet boy, how are you feeling"

"I'll be fine, don't worry, maman"

"I'll always worry, so will she" she pointed at you "if you ever do that again, I think we will both have a heart attack"

"Oh, for sure" you said softly looking at both charles and his mom

"I'll let you two alone, I'll be outside if you need me" and with that, she left, only you and Charles in the room now.

"Come here" he patted on the small place next to him in bed "I miss you"

"No, you have to rest, I'll sit here, right next to you" you pointed at the empty chair placed next to the bed

"No, lay down with me, s'il te plaît" please

"Fine, but let me know if I hurt you" you climbed onto the bed next to him and he placed an arm around your neck, fingers brushing your hair softly "never do that yo me again, ever"

"Don't worry, I won't ever leave you" he kissed the top of your head and kept brushing your hair.

He watched as your eyes started to close and your breath became slower, and you fell asleep right there, in the arms of the man you loved and couldn't live without"

[smolwritingchick]

You Left Jennie Too!!

Ok, this was requested to write the scenario where J-Hope was left at the store by the members for a prank during Bon Voyage 4 and came to realize Jennie (OC) wasn't with them. She can always take a joke but I wanted to put a little spin on her reaction to being left behind with Hobi. Like always, the finished product when I get to this chapter may vary!! :) Hope you like the silliness!

----------

"Okay, thank you. Bye," J-Hope told the cashier and stepped outside, only to realize none of the vehicles were there. "What? Did they run off?"

He looked around and walked, confused before turning to the staff. "They really just left? They really left us, here? They actually left? They left?"

'He can't believe it.'

"Seriously? Are they crazy?" he laughed.

Back to the guys, Jin continued to drive while Taehyung sat in the passenger's seat and Suga sat in the back.

"Should we really keep going?" Jin asked.

'It was your idea, Jin.'

"You guys are awful," Suga said as he looked out the window.

"How far should we go?" Jin wondered as he laughed with Taehyung.

With Jungkook who was driving the camper van, Jimin started cracking up about the situation while RM sat in the passenger seat.

"I can't believe we actually left," he said in a fit of giggles.

"Poor J-Hope," RM added over his laughter. "I feel bad. He must be really worried,"

'A True Friend.'

"We're sorry, J-Hope!" Jungkook said.

Back with J-Hope, he continued to walk around, upset that he and Jennie got left. The camera periodically showed Jennie still in the store, oblivious to what was going on as she was happily talking to an employee about Nike when she noticed their sneakers were a part of her Nike collaboration.

"Do you like them?" she grinned happily.

"Love them! They're so comfortable! That's awesome that you made these. The design is pretty," the lady beamed.

Back with J-Hope, he continued to wander, still staying close to where the store was so he wouldn't abandon Jennie. 

'He still can't believe they actually left them,'

"I can't believe this. Did they forget about us or did they just leave?" he asked the staff.

'They left to get you on candid camera.'

Suddenly, he took out his phone to dial Jimin's number.

"Hang on, J-Hope is calling. Should I answer it?" RM asked on a walkie once Jungkook parked somewhere.

However, Jimin answered the call before RM could get an answer from Jin. 

"Hello?" Jimin asked.

"Hey! Why did you leave me!?" Hobi exclaimed.

"Hyung!" 

"Hey! Why did you leave me?"

"What? We didn't know you weren't in the car!" he tried to play the part of being confused.

"What do you mean!?" he shouted while Jimin laughed.

'His rage can be heard over the phone!'

"You left Jennie, too!" J-Hope announced, making the car go silent.

It took 2.5 seconds for the news to register with the boys as they all froze.

"Oh shi—shoot!" RM quickly dialed Taehyung's number in alarm.

"Yeah, Hyung?" Taehyung answered.

"J-Hope is upset and he wasn't the only person we left. We also left Jennie," he announced with fear.

Taehyung almost dropped his phone at the news. "We left Jennie?!"

"Smartie wasn't with them?!" Yoongi sat up straight, feeling uneasy as he and Jin froze.

"You left my precious Jennie!?" Jin exclaimed.

"Us!? I thought she was with you! YOU left her! This was your idea!" RM cried.

"We thought she was with you! Why didn't you confirm!?" 

"Why didn't YOU confirm!? Ah...I feel even more bad. I bet she's freaking out, too,"

Back with Jimin, he was still shooked that Jennie was left behind while J-Hope continued to go off on the phone.

"How could you do this to us, Jimin?!"

While the boys were freaking out, the shot transitioned back to Jennie who was still shopping around the store. At the register, she paid for her items and walked out with a bag, noticing J-Hope who looked distressed.

"Hey, you good?" she asked.

"They left us," he frowned.

"Huh? Left us? You mean they're gone!?"

"Yeah, I'm on the phone with Jimin. They literally left us without warning,"

"They did what?!" she immediately frowned. "Yeah no. Uh! Uh! Not on my watch,"

He watched as she took her phone out and began to dial a number.

'Miss Bangtan is upset!'

"Oh, man. They are in for it now," He glanced at the camera with an amused smile, knowing she was about to handle things.

He decided to sit back and watch the chaos unfold, happy he wasn't on the receiving end of this.

--------

Jungkook's phone began to ring, catching the attention of him and RM. The caller ID showed that Jennie was calling and he looked at it with horror.

"H-Hyung, I'm driving. You answer it!" Jungkook quickly blurted out, beginning to drive again as an excuse.

"Hell no!" RM immediately refused.

"Jimin! Answer the call, please!" Jungkook called out.

"No way, I'm answering that!" he quickly refused. 

"Are you two serious!?" Jungkook complained.

"She's calling YOU! Answer your girlfriend's phone call!" RM reminded.

"Yeah, it's not even our phone she's calling!" Jimin added.

"Th-that doesn't mean I have to answer it! I'm driving!"

"You want to make her angrier? You're on your own," RM replied.

After a few rings, Jungkook let out a curse and anxiously answered the call, putting it on speaker.

He gulped. "Hey, babe! You're on speaker,"

"Jeon Jungkook," she called out his full name, making his stomach drop.

His face turned into fear as he stuttered. "Y—yes, honey?"

"Why are you answering on the fourth ring?" she demanded in a stern voice.

"I-I-I was looking for my phone—"

"I-I-I-Bull-fucking-shit. Why are you stuttering?" she asked as the show bleeped out her cussing.

He cringed while RM and Jimin silently laughed in the background.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. Stay on the line. I'm calling Jin so we can all be on the phone," she said and went to dial him up.

With Jin and the others, his phone began to ring and he widened his eyes. 

"Oh no, Jennie is calling," he laughed nervously.

"Good luck!" Taehyung laughed.

He hesitantly answered after a few rings, putting her on speaker and now they were all on a three way call so she could speak to all of them.

"I am going to ask this one time and I better get a direct answer. Whose idea was this?" she demanded. 

"Jin Hyung—"

"ME!?" Jin shouted at Jungkook putting him on the spot. 

"He thought of the prank!" The Golden Maknae put him on blast. "It was all him!"

"Yet you agreed," she reminded. "And so did everybody else,"

That caused the rest of the members to shift uncomfortably. She then called them all out for being just as responsible as the drivers.

"We didn't know you weren't with us!" Taehyung tried to reason.

"You left J-Hope! How could you do that to him?!" she shouted, making them flinch at her tone.

"L-listen I felt bad about it!" RM tried to explain.

"Kim Namjoon," she called out sternly, making him cringe and answer her. "Kim Seokjin. Min Yoongi. Park Jimin. Kim Taehyung. Jeon Jungkook,"

As she called their names in a serious tone, scaring them, they each nervously answered her.

"You have approximately 180 seconds to pick us back up or I will give you all something to cry about when we stop filming for today," she announced, causing them all to scramble and freak out.

'3 minutes to return!?'

The members began overlapping over one another to apologize as both drivers turned their vehicles around to head in their direction.

"180 seconds!? Smartie, be reasonable—" Yoongi exclaimed.

"Did I stutter?!" she snapped angrily, cutting him off.

'Jennie is enraged!'

"No, ma'am," he gulped and remained quiet.

"Th-that's not enough time! Please, we're sorry!" Jimin pleaded.

"180 seconds! Do you hear me? 180," she announced with no room for objection.

"Wait! Wait! There's some upcoming traffic—"

"170...169...168..." she began counting down, terrifying them even more.

After she hung up, the camera showed her laughing with Hobi, revealing she wasn't as angry as she sounded.

'Prank within a prank! Great acting skills by Jennie!'

"Now that's how you switch around a prank," she giggled and high fived him. "Let's see how long I keep this up for,"

Hobi giggled as he turned to the camera. "You guys are in trouble~!" 

[ghostberrie]

Soft as the rain

My first reader insert fanfic. Going to discuss mental illnesses, schizoaffective, major depression, PTSD, and Anxiety. Reader is already p messed in the head before the boys find her and make it worse. Ofc blood gore and murder. Manipulation and some other fun stuff. NSFW down the line so this will be 18+. I’m a whore for Hoodie/Brian, Toby and Masky/Tim thrown in for fun too. LMK what you think and how to tag this! Enjoy!

Eyes blearily, head pounding, your body stiff. You get up and your joints creak as the world spins. What did you do last night? You become vaguely aware you’re in an alleyway, having wormed your way behind a dumpster, you look like shit, smell like shit, and feel like it too. Stumbling to your feet, legs weak and very numb from being bent under you for what you guessed to be a long time. You notice as you trip over yourself that your heels are broken. Looking down at your little black dress, its covered in a slick substance. Residue leaking liquid garbage on the pavement where you took your little power nap.

As soon as you step out from behind the dumpster the smell hits you, making your head pound even more, making your vision blur your surroundings. You double over and hurl. Stomach tensing so hard it hurts. Reaching a hand on the dumpsters cold and sticky metal, you lean your weight on it to support you as you empty your stomach. Another hand reaches to try and pull your hair away from getting even more disgusting than it is. As the bile burns your throat you have the fleeting thought that you may have not eaten before or during your little night out, exacerbating your fucked up state. Tears prick at your bulging eyes as you retch up another bit of bile. Taking a few heaving breaths to steady yourself, you can’t help but think this night couldn’t get any worse. Not knowing how you got here, still a bit messed in the head because of whatever you took, god you hoped it wasn’t coke, a huff of a laugh bubbled out of you. You can’t imagine how bad you must look. You wipe your mouth with the back of the hand no longer holding your hair and lean back. Staring at the dark night sky, the view partially obstructed by the tall buildings surrounding you. Light pollution making the sky look starless and void.

Your head snaps back as the bang of a door slamming open echoes through the air, cutting through the background noise of bumping dance music you didn’t fully register until it was overtaken. You quickly duck down, crouching and cowering behind the dumpster you were fully leaning against moments before. Peeking your head around your hiding place you saw two men. One pressing the other to the dank brick wall of the space you occupied. The smaller man seemed scared, eyes wide and panicked. He was slurring his words as he spoke, no, begged the larger man holding him by the front of his white button up a few feet off the ground. He was obviously intoxicated, maybe as much as you. Poor bastard would have a pounding headache in the morning, just like you.

“Please, I swear I wasn’t going to say anything, I didn’t see anything, I don’t know anything. I’m just a little guy, you wouldn’t hurt a small little guy right?” His head snapped to the side, he was punched in the jaw hard, his babbling continuing and getting more pathetic. The larger man would apparently very much hurt a small little guy. You’re not sure if it was the wild night you’d clearly had or your weakened mental state that led you out tonight, but the scene laying out in front of you didn’t scare you absolutely shitless, if anything you found it kind of funny. Of course this shit would happen to you, getting caught in a potential drug deal gone wrong, having to see some poor sucker get jostled around stuck where you were so their attention wouldn’t turn their violence to you. Tugging at your phone which you had tucked into your bra, and struggling with the lock screen, eventually you opened your camera app. With a last blurry thought of ‘worldstar’ you pressed record and filmed the act of violence unfolding before you. Probably not the smartest move, but fuck being smart, this could be fun.

The bigger man, the aggressor, didn’t speak. His back turned to you, you noted he wore a murky yellow hoody and dark jeans. You barely registered the dark gloves covering his hands, gloves that would ensure no fingerprints would be left behind. The smaller man realized after a few more hits that his begging was getting him nowhere. He started to struggle, limbs seeming heavy and uncoordinated, he attempted to claw at the hand that migrated to holding him by the throat. Kicking his feet trying to use his legs to jam the bigger man away, maybe his kicks were weak or maybe the other man was just that strong but he held firm, pulling his other hand back and cracking the head of the small little guy back into the brick, punching him square in the nose. He cried, fat tears pouring down his cheeks, mixing with the blood pouring out of his very broken nose.

The Bigger man reached a hand to his waistband, a glint catching your eye, you realize dully he had pulled a gun. This was no longer a bit of fun violence, your gut churned, wanting to throw up again. Holding it up to the babbling man’s temple, point blank, he waited for the begging to start up again. “Please, I promise you, I won’t say a thing, I’ll disappear, you’ll never have too worry about me!” Finally the bigger man made a sound, a low chuckle rumbled, the sound barely reaching you. He really seemed to enjoy the look of fear and the broken whimpers of someone who’s life was about to end by his hands. Shoulders bounced before he stiffened again. And just like that he pulled the trigger. A resounding bang thundered off the walls. The large city not being the safest, so the gun shot wouldn’t really raise alarms. Just another night that got a little too wild.

Your mind struggled to make sense of the scene, his head was there and then it was mostly gone. A huge hole taking an entire side of his face off, blood and chunks of brain and muscle staining the wall behind him. His body going limp immediately, neck letting his damaged head lull to the side with the bullet that tore into it. The image of a water ballon bursting ran across your mind. And for whatever reason you laughed, maybe it was the nerves, or the thought that you’re shitty night that couldn’t get worse did just that, but a bark of a laugh ripped from your throat. Oh shit. He’s looking this way, oh fuck oh shit. He wore a kind of ski mask, uneven red circles and a frown stitched into it. He was huge, tall and very obviously built, bringing the gun down and pointing it towards the floor, still using his other hand to hold up a grown man in the air, he stilled. While definitely scared now, it all seemed so ridiculous in your mind that you seemed to take your leisurely time to click the recording off and stand on wobbly feet, you gave him a wonky smile. He turned his head to the side, an unsettling movement, slow and calculated.

Before he could even drop the body and make a move towards you, you turned on your heel and ran, as fast as you could in your physical condition. Bursting from one alley to the next, before making it onto the busy street of downtown on a Friday night. Still letting out nervous giggles you melted into the crowd. Ignoring the looks you pushed past people for a few blocks before finding a cab and hopping in. Promptly knocking out after giving him your address, not questioning the lack of foot steps behind you as you hightailed it away from the scene. Small details being lost in your hazy mind. You didn’t take time to account for your ID that was no longer on your person, or the keys to your apartment that were lost as well.

He on the other hand, was so kind to find them laying on the floor behind the very dumpster you took shelter behind, and with your address in hand and a way to get inside he was very happy to return them to you. But not quite so soon. He found the dazed look of fear in your eyes, your lips, shiny from lipgloss that clung to you, pulled into a nervous smile and the way your legs pumped under you as you ran very cute. He couldn’t wait for the fun you would have together, but like any good game he had to be patient. Knowing his victory was guaranteed, he still wanted you to squirm.

[karikarasuno]

Pantone 16-1364

Pairing: Ichigo Kurosaki x Fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Warnings/Tags: Soulmate!AU, Modern!AU, Strangers to Lovers, Dating, Domestic Fluff, Pumpkin Picking/Carving, Floor Sex, Fingering, Unprotected Sex, Multiple Orgasms, Sappy Feelings

Word Count: 10.9k

a/n: this was supposed to be @thegetoufather birthday fic, but life had other plans for me so i couldn’t finish it in time. but nevertheless, it is here. i hope you enjoy this, my love, my other half, my soulmate. and happy birthday, you a real one. 

The world is black and white. And maybe a little less than fifty shades of grey. For those who have fallen in love, it’s rumored that they can see a few shades more. A color called red or even blue. But for you it’s still dull, love not having awarded you those rose colored glasses you’ve heard about. Yet you still hold out hope that one day, you’ll see more, that love will find you and fill your world with something colorful. Even if it’s mild compared to what a person can see when they meet their soulmate. 

Apparently it’s a rush and a daze. It’s sudden and overwhelming. The world like nothing you could’ve ever imagined before. And you crave it. But you also force yourself to be a touch realistic. The odds of you meeting your rumored other half is unlikely. Zeus allegedly had taken that from you a millennium ago. You’ve stayed up late into the night more times in your life than you could count simply imagining what your soulmate was up to, imagining what it would be like connected so physically that you shared a body and a beating heart. 

The thought alone is too much. So you focus on other things. Like the line for Starbucks wrapping around the entire store, the afternoon rush is just as unsightly as the morning one. And you feel bad for the baristas, but you’ve been up for far too long. The weight of waking at 4am hanging heavy on your shoulders as you finished your shift at the hospital. And really all you wanted was a pumpkin spice latte. The weather finally catching up to the season in a way you thoroughly enjoyed. You place your order with the young looking girl at the register, her demeanor a bit frazzled as you specified your order and walked off to the side to wait. 

The crowd is thankfully shrinking. Bodies no longer push you off into a corner and you take your first conscious deep breath of the day. You relax as much as you can and go over the other tasks you have to do once you get home. A nap at the very top of it, if you’re being honest. Your name is called some minutes later, incorrectly but you know it’s you as you walk back up to the pick up bar to grab your drink. You give the person a small thank you, grateful to finally be heading home. That is until you bump into someone. They’re taller than you, build firmer in comparison to yours. And the force with which you slam into them has your bag slipping from your shoulder and your coffee lid popping off the top of your cup. Your blessed pumpkin spice latte spilling right over the lip and all over hand as you drop it from the shock of the heat. You could cry, the tears already burning the back of your eyeballs. There’s a series of apologies falling from the other person’s lips, a hand gripping your bicep to keep you steady, and napkins being shoved into your open hands. 

You squeeze your eyes shut. One deep breath and then a broken exhale to ground you. But when you open your eyes to look at the person keeping you up, your vision is blurry and out of focus. Like a camera lens that can’t seem to concentrate on the subject. Your head is spinning, your body feeling like it’s teetering sideways. And you see it. Colors. Too many to keep track of, all bright and bold and nauseatingly vivid. This can’t be happening, not to you, not now. Not ever if you are being honest. This is too unexpected, your control snatched straight from your fingertips as you look up at him. He’s stunning. Heartbreakingly gorgeous. And you wish you had the ability to describe the extraordinary color of his hair, the color bright enough to blind you. There’s a headache forming at your temple, a building pressure behind your eyes as you take everything in. It’s too much. You feel like a newborn first opening their eyes. A world that is too foreign suddenly appears all at once and in high definition. 

He’s staring straight back at you. The moment just containing you and him in the middle of a bustling Starbucks. But you can’t bring yourself to care about anyone else. Too enraptured by him. Your soulmate. The one ripped from you by a bitter Greek god and you get it. This is terrifying in a way you cannot comprehend. Color rises on his cheeks. Irritating you because you can’t pinpoint it. But it burns and you yearn to feel it beneath your fingertips. 

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes, his voice gruff and astonished. It warms you from the inside out. The autumn chill long forgotten as your coat becomes stifling. 

“No.” It comes out confused and accidentally. 

“No?” He mimics, voice just as confused, but his hand tightens on your bicep as you sway. You bring a hand up to dig the heel into your eye, shutting them again in disbelief as a dizziness begins to take you. The pain in your head grows tenfold when you open your eyes again. Your vision continuously in and out as you stare at the man in front of you. 

Your soulmate. 

“This can’t be real,” you say, regaining some sort of composure as you register the napkins in your hand and the cold stickiness clinging to your scrubs. He seems quicker on his feet than you are, bending over to pick up your spilled coffee and laying some napkins down to soak up the mess. You can tell he’s still processing this. But not in the same way you are. Not in the outwardly life altering, mind numbingly slow way that you are. 

“Sorry,” he says again, stepping back to toss the soaked napkins into the nearby trash can. You’re still embarrassingly frozen in place. Too many thoughts and also none at all buzzing through your mind as you wrap your head around the situation. It is far too much. 

A barista is coming over with a mop soon enough, breaking your spell as you step aside to allow him to clean up the mess you made. He offers you a sympathetic smile, and you notice the colors of his eyes are light and a weird feeling twists in your gut when you can’t put a name to it. It’s almost like a pit of envy has rooted itself into your stomach at the fact that this is what you’ve been missing your whole life. And you can’t even identify what you’re seeing, just that your eyes have finally reached the full extent of their abilities and your brain is pounding because of it.

“Stop apologizing,” you respond, walking around the mess on the floor and closer towards him. You shift your bag onto your shoulder again, your feet feeling like they're on solid ground instead of walking on water. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“No, I should’ve been more careful, but it was like you appeared out of nowhere,” his voice is distant, like he’s thinking too hard about the situation. “It must’ve been the,” he waves his hand between your bodies, gesturing vaguely to what you assume is the bond. The inevitable entangling of your soul threads that whipped you two into each other. 

“Yeah,” you nod meekly, not sure what more to say. An awkwardness so palpable settles around you two and you almost want to run. But it’s as if you no longer have control over your limbs, your feet taking you closer to him instead of towards the door like your brain is telling them to. It still seems fake to you that he’s here, the person you’re fated to be with always within a normal distance and not halfway across the world like you always thought them to be. 

“I, um,” he pauses, sensing your apprehension and giving you a moment. You’re starting to feel cold now that the coffee is no longer hot. Your clothes are just wet and uncomfortable on your skin. “I’m Ichigo.”

Ichigo. Ichigo, your soulmate. 

You swallow. Your name stutters out from between your lips and for a second you assume you said it incorrectly. Adding syllables where there are none. But when he repeats it, sounding as awestruck as you feel, your heart grows. It knocks against your ribcage and pushes out whatever air you had left in your lungs. You’re selfish all of a sudden. The need to hear him say it again tangles its way into your being and a fast greed washes over you. 

“Ichigo,” you repeat, the name supposed to be foreign on your tongue but it’s sweet and familiar. Comforting as if you’ve been saying it for lifetimes. 

You’re not sure how you made it to your apartment after that. He was heading back to work when you gathered enough brain cells to rub together to have a normal conversation. Something about some office job. But honestly your head was still reeling and your eyes were about ready to pop out of their sockets, so you exchanged numbers and went your separate ways. Except now you stand in your living room. All the furniture and decor are a mixture of colors that you can’t decide if you like or not. Rangiku had picked everything out when you moved in together a few months ago. She met her soulmate over a year ago. But she’d fallen in love prior to that so her concept of colors has always been far different from yours. 

You need an aspirin. And a shower. And a fucking nap. 

You try to keep your eyes shut for as long as you can, bracing yourself against the kitchen sink as you chug some water and two pills. The door unlocks from behind you as you wait there, Rangiku yelling that she’s home so loudly the pain in your temple sharpens. 

“You okay?” She asks as she takes off her shoes by the door and puts her things down. She sounds concerned, her voice thankfully dropping multiple decibels to a more manageable volume for you. When you open your eyes, she’s standing much closer to you than you expected. And the first thing you notice is her hair. It’s nearly the same color as Ichigo’s. And again, a pang of jealousy resonated in your chest. 

“Your hair…” You reach out to feel some of the thick tresses hanging over her shoulder. She must’ve had a blow out this morning because it’s soft and voluminous, but really, you can only concentrate on the vibrancy of the color. 

“I just got it done,” she smiles, teeth twinkling and eyes shiny. “I saw a new lady today and she was amazing. I swear she worked some magic because my hair has never looked this good.”

And she’s right. It’s glossy and strong, each strand bouncing and smooth beneath your fingertips. But again, you’re stuck on how it just reminds you of him. “The color, it's just like-” his, it’s just like his.

“Oh yeah, the hair lady said she never worked on a natural ginger before–”

“Ginger. Is that what this color is?” You force your eyes to focus on it. Force them to concentrate on the deepness of it that’s packed beautifully within each strand. 

“Wait.” Her whole body freezes, her chattiness devolving into stunned silence as she stares openly at you. There are gears turning inside her head. Her eyes are darting all over your face in rapid tiny movements and you swear the motion makes you dizzier than you already are. “You can see my hair color?”

It’s hard to respond to her. Difficult to explain the situation when you are still processing it yourself. But there’s a rising excitement coursing through her body. She has questions. So many that you don’t know how to answer. You don’t even know if you want to. 

She calls your name, emphasizing each syllable slowly, as if your hearing changed and not your eyesight. “Tell me right fucking now if you can see the color orange.”

Orange.

You’re ready to pass out. You wanted this so badly, but now you’re not sure if you can handle it. Not in this state, at least. “I met him today at Starbucks. He bumped into me and spilled my coffee everywhere and I’m so dizzy and my head hurts so bad and he’s so gorgeous and I don’t think I can do this.”

Words are flying from your mouth before you can stop them. A tornado of emotions that was swirling inside of you is now spinning out of control and straight at Rangiku. She’s pulling you into a hug though, her arms wrapping around your shoulders and the pressure helps you breathe. It alleviates some of the pain thumping against your skull and you suddenly want to cry. 

Your world is on an axis foreign to you. Gravity is a concept you’re no longer acquainted with and your soul feels like it’s not even tethered to your body anymore. 

“How did you do it? When you met Gin for the first time, how did you keep from falling apart?”

She places a sympathetic hand on your head, cradling you to her body as she just holds you. “Come on, let’s get you out of these gross clothes and into bed. You’ve had a long day.”

As soon as you are laid in bed, your blanket tucked over your shoulder and under your chin, sleep welcomes you immediately. To be fair, you’re exhausted. Meeting your soulmate was just the cherry on top of a sleep deprived day. And if you didn’t wake up some odd hours later— pain in your head gone, but colors still attacking your vision— you would’ve sworn it was some fatigue induced delirium. But no. Your duvet is a pretty light shade of something and there’s a rug at your bedside that’s fluffy and a deeper shade of something else. The curtains are white, at least that much you know. So for a fact, you didn’t imagine him. Him and his orange hair and stunning eyes and strong hand. Your bicep is still warm from where he gripped you, almost as if he branded it into your skin from just one brief meeting. 

It’s difficult enough to thumb through all of your muddled feelings. But oddly, there is an overwhelming sense of relief. Like some weight you hadn’t realized you were carrying around for so long has somehow lifted and you’re lighter. Is this how Rangku feels? Like she’s floating?

You find her in the living room when you finally muster the strength to pull yourself out of bed for the second time today and see her with her hair tied up messily on her head as she paints her toenails. The tv is playing some random real estate reality show she’s been trying to get you to watch and her tongue sticks out the corner of her mouth with concentration. You don’t make a noise at first, not wanting to disrupt her when she’s already on her pinky toe and you know damn well she will fuck up if you interrupt her. So when she’s done, a satisfied grin on her face, you plop down beside her with a heavy, huffy breath. 

“Your head still hurt?” She glances your way, sympathetic but ready to pry. She won’t ask anything if you’re still in pain, regardless of if she’s dying to know. So while her question comes from concern, it’s also laced with her own self interest. 

“No,” you say, nudging her shoulder away with your palm, “just hurry up and ask me your questions.” 

“I need every single detail. What does he look like? How did you meet? Is he tall? I need an estimate too, like feet an-”

“You’re gonna make my head hurt again if you don’t stop,” you laugh, heat touching your cheeks from the memories she’s pulling from your brain that’s still slightly foggy from sleep and distant pain. Her features soften, a tiny, excited smile on her face as she waits for you to respond. You bring your hands up to hold your cheeks in your palms, still warm to the touch as you try to decide where to start first. Images of Ichigo flash through your mind and you wonder how to even describe him to her. And you’re positive that if he wasn’t your soulmate and you didn’t meet him for the first time in dazzling colors, you would still find him dizzyingly attractive. 

“Go on then,” she urges, nudging your calf with her foot, careful not to press her freshly painted toes onto your sweats. 

“Well, his name is Ichigo.” And the story flows forth from you with ease like a rush of water lapping at the sandy shores, the words never ending as her questions meet your thoughts halfway. It’s late into the evening when you manage to end the conversation, she ordered takeout before you woke up, already knowing you’d be too tired to want to cook anything. She pulled out her laptop too, finding those flashcards you use in kindergarten to show you all the basic colors. You recognized very few. Black, grey, white, and now orange. But there are so many more that you wondered how someone could choose a favorite. 

Red is nice, it comes in so many shades you find yourself drawn to the darker ones. Blue is wonderful too, the pastel ones especially pretty. But you aren’t sure if it’s just your newfound bias because of a certain someone, that your eyes always linger on orange. 

The next time you see Ichigo is at a local cafe. It’s small and one of your favorite spots, so when he suggested it you jumped at the opportunity. It’s been a week or so since you first bumped into him. The week drainingly long and cumbersome. Your shifts seemed to last forever, the residents up your ass with misplaced pride, and you just wanted to go home. Your only saving grace is Ichigo. He likes to text you sporadically throughout the day, but never too late and never too early. He’s the one who actually reached out first, the day you met he texted you at around dinner time. A simple hey and you were smiling like an idiot at your phone for twenty minutes. 

Since then conversation was easy if not a bit stilted at the beginning. You found out he works at a publishing company in the children’s literature department as an editor and translator. Which admittedly tickled you because he didn’t seem the type. And when you told him just that he was adamant that there couldn’t be a ‘type’ to childrens lit. You decided not to die on this hill, even though riling him up was proving to be particularly entertaining. 

“See anything you like?” He asks over the menu, peeking up at you curiously. You’ve been taking turns stealing glances since you arrived a few minutes after he did. Your memory of him really didn’t do him any justice. He is slightly tanner than you remember, his eyes a stunning shade of what you now know is brown. It’s light and warm, very welcoming on his otherwise serious face. 

“I had my eye on the roasted red pepper pesto sandwich, probably with a side of chips.” Your eyes drift down the menu, reciting your usual order by memory since you haven’t paid a lick of attention to the menu since you’ve arrived. 

“Hmmm, that looks good,” he says inquisitively, his eyebrows furrowing in thought and you can’t help but admire how endearing he looks, with his lips in a thin line and his brows pinched together. He traces a knuckle down the laminated menu, running through the options again as he clearly struggles to choose one. 

“It’s really good, it’s one of the only vegetarian dishes so my options are limited, but it’s actually delicious.” 

“You’re vegetarian?” His eyebrows quirk up interested. You nod, placing the menu face up in front of you to look at him fully, instead of between glances that didn’t belong to you. 

“Not a big fan of the texture of meat, so I stopped eating it a while back,” you explain, somehow expecting an adverse reaction from him, but he simply reciprocates your stare. Taking in the information and storing it. 

He, on the other hand, ends up ordering a traditional breakfast sandwich– fried egg (sunny side up), bacon (not too crispy), and provolone cheese all on a croissant. 

“Breakfast for lunch?” You ask teasingly after the orders are placed and the waitress takes your menus. He smiles at you, small and endearing before he reclines more comfortably in his seat– gaze unwavering from yours. 

“I skipped it this morning because I was in a rush to get to work. I hate doing that, though, because it throws off my entire day when I don’t have breakfast.” Interesting, you think. You’re usually one to skip breakfast anyway, with how demonically early you have to get up to be ready for your shift at the hospital. 

You don’t answer him, just stare. Which is probably odd, maybe unnerving, but you still haven’t been able to quite comprehend the fact that he’s real. And seems just as interested in you as you are him. Especially with the way he meets your stare without any sort of shame. When the food arrives you’re pleased to see the vast arrays of colors that decorate your plates. You never expected for food to be so colorful. It’s fun. 

Ichigo runs a knife down the center of his sandwich, drags the serrated edge across the ceramic plate and you watch as a gooey bright color seeps from its center. Rangiku taught this one to you too, but the name is escaping you right about now. 

“What color is that?” You ask before you can reel the question back in, before you can think of whether he would even know it. But he looks up at you and then back at his plate. 

“This one?” He gestures with his knife to what you presume is the egg’s yolk, having seen it before but always assuming it would be a muted grey. You couldn’t have been more wrong. You nod to urge him to go on and he thinks for a moment, running the color wheel through his head like you have been doing all week and says, “it’s yellow.”

You’re dying to ask him if he’s seen it before. If colors began to make their debut in his life long before you met each other. But with a question like that comes talk of love– past love, maybe even pained love. Has his heart ever been broken? You’re not sure if you want to know. You’ve seen heartbreak on Rangiku when you two were teenagers. It wasn’t pretty. It scared you into believing that maybe a world in color wasn’t worth it. 

“That’s not what I thought egg yolks would look like,” you laugh, shaking your head and sitting back in your seat. Your sandwich hosts an array of colors as well. The red you knew already, it’s in the name. But the green of the pesto is what surprises you when you lift the food to your face. 

“Have you never seen colors before?” The question gives you pause, a squirming uncomfortable feeling starts to root around in your stomach because the implication is all you hear. The underlying question rings, have you never been in love before?

“Have you?” Slight defense in your tone, but mainly curiosity. A burning red begins to blossom up his neck and tinge the tip of his ears. He realizes the hinting nature behind his own question once it was thrown back at him. He’s embarrassed. 

“Uh, yes.” The squirming feeling rises to your chest, threatening to ink your heart with murky emotions. “Obviously never like this. Not until I met you.”

You nod and clear your throat. You shove some of the sandwich into your mouth and take a larger than necessary bite to avoid saying anything. To avoid having to say something when you didn’t know what. It’s not fair to feel this way. You had lives before each other. Lives without each other. And you’ve known him for all of 8 days, but there’s a seed that has been planted and is growing at a rate you have no control over. Maybe it’s your soulmate bond. Or maybe you’re just hopeless. 

“We were together in high school,” he starts, unprompted by you, but feeling the overwhelming urge to explain. “Broke up in college, the distance kinda drove us apart since we went to different universities. It didn’t end badly or anything, though.”

“Do you still talk?” You’re jealous, you realize a second too late. The question flies from your head and you suddenly feel like you’re being intrusive. “Sorry, you don’t have to answer that.”

Your cheeks are warm, your hands slightly clammy, so you take another bite out of your sandwich. 

“Not really,” he shrugs. “We share mutual friends since we’ve known each other for so long. She’s actually engaged to her soulmate. She met him not too long after we ended things actually.”

Oh, you feel kind of bad now for asking something so private. But he doesn’t look dejected or bitter when he says it. Mostly indifferent, but you’re not sure if it’s a mask or if he truly means it. 

“You?”

Your head whips up to look at him. Heart fluttering because you forgot this conversation started with you. You were too caught up in his past to remember what even brought it up. 

“Um,” you fidget in your seat, feeling awkward now, which is probably how he felt. The seat too hot to sit in. “I dated a guy a few years ago and nothing really came of it. Not anything colorful, anyway.”

He hums, finally biting through his sandwich. Yolk smears across his bottom lip and you want to wipe it clean. The yellow is much more transparent on his lip, the skin there dusted with red. And you want to kiss him. So badly it’s sort of jarring. But you don’t, obviously. He catches you staring when he looks up. A tension that was not here before enveloping the entire table and you wish you could take a photo of him at this exact moment. His jacket is still on, his hands cradling the sandwich between long fingers, and his brown eyes sucking you into him. But it’s not that you’re dying to capture. It’s the sunlight that beams through the wide window you sit beside. The autumn rays bouncing off of his hair and the orange absorbs the light like it is meant for him. Like the sun is his. And you’re helplessly orbiting him. 

For two weeks, meeting him once your shift ends and during his lunch hour becomes routine. Weekends are a trickier battleground since plans had already been made in advance and therefore much tougher to align your schedules. But lunch is simple. Your text threads now consist of options of what to try next. Some new while others are old favorites you want to share with each other. 

You also find that sharing with him is terrifyingly easy. From family history to embarrassing high school experiences to your drunken escapades with Rangiku. It is all divulged in a single hour with a table separating you and food as your only other company. But sometimes the topics are tougher to navigate. When Ichigo told you that he lost his mother at a young age forcing him to step up and help his father care for his younger twin sisters it was over two bowls of soup– yours tomato bisque and his french onion. But most times they are much lighter, like when you find out he’s not a big fan of sweets. You had offered him a bite of your brownie and he physically recoiled. He had a tendency for physical reactions, most of the time to express disgust which you teased him relentlessly for. You caught the both of you by surprise one afternoon when he scowled at something you said, your thumb coming up to smooth out the creases that formed between his eyebrows whenever he did that.

Touching him also comes just as easy as everything else. He’s always moving pieces of hair from your face and you developed a quick habit of holding onto his arm whenever the two of you walk through crowded streets or busy restaurants. Your first kiss is actually shared at a crosswalk. The temperature that day dipped into something brisk and chilly. You were sleepier than usual so you found comfort in resting against him and allowing him to take the lead to your destination. In your state of half paying attention, you tripped over a chunk of lifted cement on the sidewalk as you were about to cross the street. But he caught you with strong arms around your waist. The sleepiness that was weighing down your eyelids disappeared with a gust of wind and suddenly your face was pressed into his broad chest. Your heart had probably stopped because you could no longer feel it beating in your chest when you looked up at him. The world had seemed to slow down, your mind filtering out everyone but him. You’re not sure who made the first move. It’s hard to remember when all that clouds that memory is the perfect brush of his lips against yours. And then he was pulling away before you could even register that the kiss had happened. He was blushing again, finally asking if you were okay and smiling when all you could do was nod at him. The alarming noise of the crosswalk signaling for you to hurry and cross the street was the only thing that tore you from that moment. Because you swear you could have kissed him forever. 

And kissing him is all you want now that your day shifts have turned into overnights for the week. You didn’t realize you could miss someone so badly until you and Ichigo started functioning on opposite schedules. You ache for him. Your soul throbs to be near him. And it does feel like losing a limb when you’re not together. The string of fate is taut and ready to snap from how terribly you yearn for him. Zeus is a bitch for carving humanity in half. 

Still, Ichigo finds ways to make you smile. Oftentimes staying up later than you know he’s used to. Or even offering to drop off food on his way home from work while you get ready to start your shift for the night. You take him up on it one night, no longer bothered by the idea of inconveniencing him because you just want to see him. He shows up on your doorstep with some takeout. His nose is tinted pink from the cold and hair windswept from walking from the parking lot to your apartment. 

“I picked up some food from that Thai spot you’ve been mentioning. I guessed a little on what you would want.” He holds up the bag, the smell already warming you and your stomach grumbles as a result. He chuckles at the sound as he strides into your apartment, toeing off his shoes near the door before bending over to kiss your cheek. You’re still in your loungewear, and you initially felt self-conscious about not changing for him but he doesn’t seem to pay it much attention. Instead gazing around your apartment with acute fascination. There are signs of you and Rangiku all over the place. An organized mess of diy projects half started and miscellaneous knick knacks you and her find whenever you go thrifting and have to buy. 

You also started experimenting with color, buying unnecessary amounts of blankets or decorative pillows or wall art simply because you enjoy the colors schemes. There is a mirror lying on your dining room table, painter’s tape lining the edges with some tentative strokes of yellow framing the outer corners. 

“You paint?” He places the takeout on the bar counter that separates the kitchen from the living room, staring curiously at the project on your table. 

“Not exactly,” you laugh, not wanting to call whatever smears of acrylic on glass painting. “I saw someone do this on TikTok and I thought it would be a good way to learn colors. There are so many shades of just one color when I walked into the crafts store a couple weeks ago I thought my head was gonna explode.”

You remember trying to find the yellow that resembled yolk, but instead fell face first into a color called mustard that you couldn’t stop yourself from buying. There were about twelve other colors you left with that day, your wallet not the happiest with you but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. 

“What’s this supposed to be?” He asks innocently, head tilted to the side as he takes in the wobbly paint. His eyes are narrowed as he scrutinizes it, it’s his thinking face which you’ve grown quite fond of. You smile as you watch him, finally feeling more like yourself than you have these last few days.

“I’ll serve us our food and then I’ll show you the video I’m talking about.”

He joins you for dinner, but when the time comes for him to leave it’s still too soon. You even contemplate calling out just so you could spend the rest of the night sitting on your couch with him. But he’s far more responsible than you are, level headedly telling you that you should probably go in and that Saturday his day is free. An excited feeling flurries around your chest because this is the first Saturday you’ve had available too, so you promise it to each other. A new motivation simmers under your skin as you go about the rest of your week. Knowing that by the end of it, you and Ichigo will have more than just an hour together. 

“Gin is picking me up soon,” Rangiku shouts from her bedroom so you can hear her in yours. She has luggage rolled out by the door, the apartment having turned into her extended closet as she packed for her getaway trip with Gin. Somewhere tropical. 

“Lucky you,” you say as you walk into her room. She’s still throwing things into a small backpack when you do. “Having a sugar daddy to whisk you away to fancy places.”

She rolls her eyes at you, throwing a stray sleepshirt at your face. “He is not my sugar daddy, he just likes to spoil me.”

Her smile brightens at the thought of him. And before you would get jealous of the far off lovey look on her face, but you are starting to think you look the same whenever you think of Ichigo.

You’re going to a pumpkin patch with him today, the leaves all sorts of pretty colors and you wouldn’t trade some beach vacation for it any day. 

“You’ll have the apartment all to yourself this weekend,” she says, cutting your thoughts in half. You don’t miss the suggestive tone in her voice. Your cheeks are heating in response. “Any fun plans?”

“Just hanging out with Ichigo later today. He’s taking me to pick out a pumpkin that we’re probably gonna carve. Maybe make some dinner together.” You try to keep your voice light and level, occupying yourself by unplugging her charger from the wall beside her bed since it’s the one thing she never fails to forget. 

“Just hanging out,” she nods, sitting on the edge of her bed with a sly smile on her face. She takes the charger from you, but not her eyes from your face. You hate that you know what she’s thinking. Because it’s been whirling around in your brain, the fact that you two will be alone together. In your home. Just the two of you. Your mind has wandered too many times to even count and your body flushes in response. 

“That’s the plan,” you shrug, hoping she lets the conversation end here and sitting beside her.

“I sure as hell hope not. It’s been fucking forever for you and you deserve some head, at least.”

“Rangiku!” Your entire body is burning and you’re not the type to shy away from conversations like this, but Ichigo makes you feel so oddly shy and you don’t want to fuck up whatever you have with him by being too forward. 

“It’s the truth, bitch. You’re overworked and under pleasured,” she laughs, your face scrunching up at her.

“What is wrong with you?” 

“You love me,” she giggles and hugs you to her chest, totally pleased with herself.

“So there must be something wrong with me then?” You joke, wiggling from her tight embrace and getting up from her bed. There’s a knock on the door that interrupts her retort and her eyes twinkle at the sound of it. “Go get your man,” you sigh exaggeratedly, barely hiding your own happiness for her. 

She squeals and gets up from her seat, practically skipping towards the door and leaving you alone. You do an additional once over of her things, making sure she isn’t forgetting anything important. Not like it matters much when she can buy whatever she’s missing wherever they land. 

“Oh, hi,” you hear her greeting rise in pitch, sounding surprised which doesn’t make any sense. 

“Hello.” Oh god, it’s Ichigo. His familiar voice matches the surprised tone of Rangiku’s. Panic is rising in your chest, afraid of what nonsense will come from her mouth. You practically run out into the hall, ready to stop the train before it wrecks itself. 

“You’re early,” you say breathlessly, glad that you had the foresight to be up and dressed by now– hair done and up in a claw clip. 

“I am?” You check your phone for the time, and yeah he’s about an hour early, but you can’t complain because you’re more than happy to see him. Less excited about the unexpected introductions you now have to do. 

“Just a little, but that’s okay.” Rangiku is smiling between the two of you, eyes even more sparkly than they were before, this time with something you should be slightly worried about. “This is-”

“Rangiku,” she finishes for you, holding out her hand for him to shake. “And you must be Ichigo.”

He takes her hand firmly, and you almost want to tease him for reverting into the shy side of him. He’s sometimes reserved, but him meeting Rangiku and being a little speechless makes you chuckle under your breath at him. 

“I am,” he clears his throat, finally walking over the threshold once Rangiku moves out of his way. “I’m assuming I’ve been talked about.” 

He slides his eyes in your direction, a hardened glance that has a playfulness behind it. One that sends a shiver down your spine involuntarily. 

“Mmm, in various degrees,” Rangiku adds, not missing the way his look made you react. Ichigo’s eyebrows raise, inquisitive and asking for more information through his expression.

“Nothing crazy,” you explain because it really hasn’t been anything crazy, Rangiku just likes pushing your buttons. He hums in response, not saying anything to her amusement. He has a small bag in his hand that you missed when he initially walked in, placing it onto your dining room table that is now clear of the mirror that you were painting. 

“I bought carving stuff from that store you like in downtown,” he says as he starts unbagging the items he bought. You notice a tube of paint rolling in the bag, sneaking an arm under his and plucking it from the plastic.

“What’s this?” You’re twirling the paint between your fingers and looking for the name, it seems like a shade of green but very light.

“I saw it and thought of you.” He feigns nonchalance, shrugging one shoulder and flicking his eyes over the other to find Rangiku smugly staring from the kitchen. “It’s sage green.”

You find the label name as he says it, running a finger over the word sage and already thinking of what colors it would pair nicely with. It’s sweet that he thinks of you, buys things that remind him of you. Your chest goes tight, and it should be uncomfortable but you’ve never felt more at ease. 

“Thank you,” you smile fondly his way, wanting to lean over and kiss him, but restraining yourself since you have company who will very much ruin the moment. He nods, and you can tell the same thought is running through his head because he steps towards you before stopping halfway. 

Not too long later, Gin stops by to grab Rangiku for their trip. As they are walking out she makes sure to call over her shoulder, “you kids have fun, but don’t do anything I wouldn’t.” And you almost strangle her for being so ridiculous as she winks and then scurries away into her soulmate’s arms. 

Ichigo sighs once you two are alone, visibly relaxing now that Rangiku is gone. His hand finds your waist almost immediately, and you hadn’t realized how tense you were until the warmth of his palm is staining your skin through your sweater. 

“Come on,” he says, bending slightly at the waist to whisper against the shell of your ear. Goosebumps tighten your skin and you suppress a shiver, eyes blinking slowly. “These pumpkins aren’t gonna pick themselves.” 

You snort out a laugh, elbowing his side and he grunts like it actually hurt him. “You’re lame.” 

Picking out the perfect pumpkins proves to be a stressful process. Ichigo is pickier than you would’ve assumed, his eyes scrutinizing each one. You decide to part ways to choose your own. And when you reconvene he has managed to find the most perfect one, it’s smooth all the way around, the shape almost cartoonishly pristine. Like he drew it himself and molded it with his fingers. It’s a good size too, not too big and not too small. 

You, on the other hand, pick out two pumpkins. One humongous and hard to carry. It’s slanted to the left and dotted with pimpled skin. The other is the complete opposite, tiny and cute with a long stem sticking out the top. 

“We agreed on one each,” he narrows his eyes, sticking his choice under his arm in an attempt to help you with yours. 

“This one is so small it hardly counts,” you argue, trying to swat his hand away to show him you can carry it yourself, but it’s up and out of your arms before you can fight him off. He makes the pumpkin look like a normal size with the way he holds it against his chest with an arm wrapped around the circumference. You’re upset that he makes it look so easy, but your body heats up when you recognize how broad he is. Wishing it was you in his arms instead of those damn pumpkins. 

“It 100% counts.” He walks over to the little old lady under one of the tents set up on the outskirts of the field. You move to pull out the cash in your wallet to pay her since his hands are full, but before you can wrestle it from the bottom of your purse he’s already handed her money with the pumpkins securely in his arms. 

“You’re so impatient, y’know that?” 

“I’m not impatient,” he argues back, shifting the pumpkins in his arms and heading towards the car. “Now hurry up, my fingers are frozen.” 

At the apartment, the pumpkin carving is a disaster. He’s hopeless when it comes to any kind of creativity. Every time you cut into the thick skin he swears he has no idea what you’re trying to make and your stomach hurts from laughing so hysterically at all of his faces of frustration. 

“It’s literally just a face, Ichigo,” you breathe heavily to even put your breaths from laughing at him. 

“A weird one,” he grumbles, grabbing some seeds and pulp that you scraped out when you first started and tossing it at you. The cold wet strings stick to your neck and sweater and you gasp from the feeling. When you turn your face to look at him, he’s hiding a laugh behind his hand. His shoulders shake from the restraint and you’re positive your expression is only fueling him.

You lean over to grab a fistful of the squishy contents, cringing at how gross it feels but then repaying the gesture by throwing it at him. He tries to dodge it, but it lands right on his collarbone and shoulder, one of the seeds finding its way into the hair behind his ear. His eyes are wide when he meets your eyes, a glint of something devious in them and your instinct is to run. But he’s quick, and his hand already finds some more and as you’re jumping from your seat he hits you right across your torso. 

“You’re making a mess,” you scream over your shoulder, using the chair as a barricade to separate you two. You make a fast break to the right, grabbing whatever is left of the pumpkin insides and raising your arm. 

“For the record,” you exhale on a laugh, “you started this.” 

The pulp flies from your hand and in his direction. His reflexes are faster than you imagined them to be because he dodges with ease. A squeal leaves your throat as you spin and run in the opposite direction. He’s chasing you all around the apartment as you throw the decorative pillows you had lying around the living room at him to keep him away. 

You’re out of breath. The air in your lungs fighting against every laugh and scream you steal from it. You barrel into your bedroom, kicking the door open with your side and stumbling on your carpet. When you look back at him, he’s cleanly jumped over the couch, now only arms distance away. You have no time to shut your door, but you also have no intention to. You’re tired and panting. Your bedroom is completely dark as you run further inside of it. The sun set probably an hour ago, time taken from you like it only does when you want it to slow down. 

Your guard is down. Your chest heaving from the lack of oxygen circulating and you’re in his arms anyway. He’s wrapped them around your middle, fingers digging into your sides to keep you from wigging out of his embrace. 

“Are you done?” His voice is rugged and heavy, dipping lower as he also tries to catch his breath. Your thighs clench in response with a will of their own and your stomach twists when his hot breath fans across your neck. You kick out your legs half heartedly, stubbornly not wanting to admit to him that you have given up the fight.

Ichigo’s grip tightens, and you feel the expanse of his chest fill against your back when he inhales deeply. He tickles your sides, pulling out a surprised laugh from you as you squirm and try to get away from him.

“I’m done!” You shout between laughs, pulling at his fingers with your hands. “I promise! I'm done!”

“You won’t run away from me?” He asks, fingers pausing but his hold is still as tight. 

“No, I won’t,” you sigh, pressing most of your weight into him. “Pinky promise.”

You hold up your pinky, not even sure if he can see it in the darkness of your bedroom. He loosens his arms and your feet fall flat on the floor. You turn to face him, pinky still in the air and you can just barely make out his features. His orange hair is one of the only things visible so that’s what you focus on. He wraps his pinky around yours, your bodies still flush together. 

You tilt your head up at the same time that his bends towards you. His nose brushes the slope of your own, and you share a breath. One that’s stuttered and charged. 

“Can I-,”

“Yes,” you gasp, tugging on his pinky and slotting your lips together. His are soft and taste like original Chapstick. You briefly wonder when he put some on because they’re smooth like it’s been freshly applied. You grab hold of his shirt, fisting it and refusing to let him go. Not this time. You want him completely uninterrupted. You want to kiss him until your lips swell and your cheeks burn. 

His arms are around your waist again, his hands twisting your sweater between his fingers and you are so firmly carved against his body you can feel his abdomen tense against your torso. 

He tries to take a step towards your bed, the intention clear enough, but when you try to follow suit your foot catches on the edge of your shaggy rug. Neither of you are paying enough attention to regain your balance. The kiss breaks and your bodies are stumbling backwards and landing on the soft rug with an umph. He somehow twisted his body in a way so that he’s not resting most of his weight on top of you, instead you’re laying side by side, limbs entangled in each other. 

There’s a heady moment of silence, one that still lingers with fresh desire but is tinged with a relief that’s comical. He breaks the silence first with a chuckle. It’s pressed into the top of your hair, the vibrations rattling around your skull. It has you joining him, a surprised laugh of your own bubbling up from your chest. 

“You’re always tripping over yourself,” he says, the hand that used to be caught in the fabric of your sweater slipping beneath until he’s touching bare skin. 

“You usually do a better job of catching me,” you tease, brushing some of his hair from his forward. His bangs have grown some since you first met and he looks even more endearing when he’s unkempt. 

“I was kind of distracted,” he whispers, his forehead knocking against yours as his hand slips deeper beneath your clothes. You will your body to relax, fight the shiver that’s threatening to tense your body and just feel his hand exploring your exposed skin. 

“Doing what?” You crane your neck so that your lips are merely a centimeter apart again, nails lightly scratching through the hair on the back of his head. 

“This.” And he’s closing the distance again, his lips now tasting like yours. The strawberry lipgloss you swore was gone by now still taints the taste of each open mouthed kiss. You slide your tongue against his bottom lip, asking for more. You sense that you catch him by surprise because his lips part but around a deep groan. One that has the hair on your arms standing and your hips rolling forward against his. 

He moves to your neck, hands becoming desperate in the way that they map out your frame. He rolls so that he’s hovering over your body— tongue licking at the space just above your collarbone. Your head lulls to the side to give him better access, your eyes closing instinctively when he sucks tenderly at the skin there. 

The black that overwhelms your vision frightens you though, for once not used to it after so long of it being your only companion. You nudge him so that he’s sitting up, and your heart aches when you can’t see his eyes. Or the look of concern you know that’s there. 

“Wait,” you rise to your elbows, your voice only air with how breathy you sound. He doesn’t move, just waits patiently for you to say something else. Worried that something is wrong. But instead of reassuring him you worm out from beneath him, arm rising above your head as you twist your torso to reach the lamp that resides on your bedside table. 

The room is immediately filled with a golden glow when you tap the base. The colors that you thought were beginning to fade flooding your senses to remind you that it’s true. That you aren’t dreaming this. Or having some expertly wild delusion. That your soulmate is here and offering you a kaleidoscope of new beginnings. 

“I wanna see,” you explain, hand coming up to rest on his cheek. “ All my life I’ve been living in shadows. Let me see you.” 

His eyes soften, irises like melted chocolate. He understands you. Better than anyone ever has before. It could be proof of the bond that’s destined to tie you together. Or proof that Ichigo is someone like no other. He has a presence that you can no longer live without. And you are terrifyingly in love with him. You don’t have to know what love is like to know what the feeling that clouds your senses is. It makes you want to run but not away from it, straight into its embrace without the fear of uncertainty holding you back.

You pull him in for another kiss. Less rushed, but purposeful. He takes his time undressing you, eyes lingering and stalling on every new exposed inch of your skin. You thought you’d feel the prickling of self-consciousness whenever this moment came, but you have never felt more self-assured. He kisses his way down your body, lips paying special attention to the spots that make you whine. That makes your fingers curl against his arms. 

He’s stripped down to his underwear and is now towering over your completely naked form. You reach for him, wanting him impossibly close, but he grabs your wrist to stop you. His eyes burn with an unwavering desire and you could explode just from the heat of his gaze, so you don’t understand why he’s stopping. When you open your mouth to question him, when you rise to your elbows to ask him if he’s okay, he stops you with a large hand against your stomach to push you back down onto your back. 

“How do you like to be touched?” It’s innocent within itself, but the circumstances are anything but. The shyness you assumed was far away is creeping into your brain as you fail to answer him. 

“I-, just touch me,” you say, hoping that it’s enough to urge him to continue. But he leans over so that his face is just over yours, eyes even more intense with the reflection of the golden light. 

“No,” he says firmly, brows furrowing like they always do when he’s frustrated or thinking too hard about something. “Teach me how to touch you.” 

Your eyes flutter close, heat that couldn’t get any hotter flaming throughout your core and you toss your head back against the carpet. Your chest rises with a broken inhale, your mind glitching momentarily at his words. 

“Fuck- uh, okay,” you swallow, finding his wrist and wrapping your fingers around it. You place his hand at the base of your neck, pushing it down to feel the weight of his palm there. You hear his breath hitch, too busy focusing on the feeling of his hand moving across your skin to see it for yourself. 

You drag it down further, using the confidence that’s simmering somewhere within your blood to guide his hand across your breasts. 

“Squeeze,” you pant when his fingers envelope the sensitive skin. Your nipple is already pebbled beneath his hand and you moan when he follows your direction. There’s a trembling vulnerability to this moment. A comforting one that forces you to keep going. 

“Like this?” He asks when he squeezes again, taking his thumb and dragging it over your hardened nipple. 

“Mmm,” you hum, not able to do much else other than enjoy him. But you tighten your fingers around his wrist once more to push him down even further. Straight between your parted legs where you already feel the slick begin to gather and wet your inner thighs. Your breath halts in your throat, stuck against the walls of your trachea as his fingers slip between your folds. 

He moans with you this time, parting your lips and gathering as much of your slick as he can on his fingers while you limply hold his wrist. You take your other hand and slide your fingers between his, touching yourself alongside him when you focus his fingertips against your clit. 

“P-pressure,” you stutter, hips canting to meet his firm circles. “Just like that.”

Your head is swimming with lust, a sickeningly warm pleasure caresses your veins as you lose yourself. You’re no longer concentrating on guiding him, perfectly content in leaving him alone to learn your body on his own. He moves his fingers down to your entrance, fingertips prodding at the opening without dipping inside like you so badly want him to. 

“Ichigo,” you sigh with enough need that has him looking up at you inside of where his fingers meet your sex. “Please.”

His shoulders slump forward and his chin falls towards his chest. If you didn’t know any better he’d look like he was in pain. The muscles all over his body pulled taut and tense. He’s slipping two fingers inside of you then and you clench harshly around them. You’re unable to breathe properly, not with how he curls them upward in search of the spongy tissue you know is there. You force yourself to keep your eyes open and trained on him, unwilling to lose every frame of him he is giving you. 

His other hand moves over to palm over the tent in his briefs, harshly rolling the heel of his palm against his cock and guilt pulls in your chest at the sight of it. There’s a dark spot forming where his tip is and your mouth waters at that thought of how he might taste in your tongue. But you can’t focus on it for too long when Ichigo manages to press against your swollen walls, using that motion to drag his palm over your clit at the same time. 

“Oh,” your head falls to the side, neck no longer able to hold it up as he focuses entirely on forcing you to the edge. His fingers are targeting every nerve ending that’s there, and there’s a fuzziness clouding your vision as he drives you towards your release. You can barely note from your peripheral that he’s pulled himself from his boxers, his long fingers wrapped around his cock and stroking himself at the speed with which he’s touching you. 

The sight has your heart racing and your clit throbbing in anticipation. Your hands are gripping the tresses of the rug at your sides, and your moans are rising in pitch the closer you get to your release. Your thighs close around his wrist when he groans your name roughly. You vaguely comprehend that it’s a plea for you to come. But the tone scratches at your brain and before you can understand the pressure that’s built in your gut, your back bows off the floor and your vision spots with noisy mosaics of color. All you can hear is your own voice catching in your vocal chords and the brief gasp of his name as waves of unadulterated pleasure wash over you. 

He doesn’t stop until your back is safely pressed onto the floor again, his fingers slowing inside of you before he’s pulling out altogether. You wince at the emptiness, blinking your eyes back open and wondering when you allowed them to close. 

You’re satisfied and your limbs are so heavy. Your brain is mostly mushy endorphins and the first signs of sleepiness are beginning to make an appearance when your eyesight goes wonky. 

It’s not until you see him fully, and the blush that’s coating his skin. The blossoming redness that stains his cheeks all the way to the tip of his weeping cock that your walls flutter again with the hopes of feeling him inside of you. 

“Let me,” you sit up and reach for him like you did earlier, this time solely wanting to hold him in the palm of your hand. He’s sticky from the precum that’s been dripping from his head. And your mouth waters again with the need to wrap your lips around him. It’s like he can sense where your thoughts have taken you because he’s laying you back down with a hand to your shoulder.

“Next time.”

“But-,”

“Next time,” he promises, stealing any retorts from your lips with a heated kiss. His tongue swipes into your mouth and you nearly forget how wound up he must be. Every kiss is punctuated with a rumbling sigh straight from his chest. He's maneuvering the two of you onto your sides, pillowing your head on his bicep as he continues to mold your lips together. You automatically hook your leg over his hip, his cock slotting between your thighs and slipping easily through the mess of your pussy. 

“Shit,” he pauses, panting against your mouth when he pulls away. You whine for him to continue, body screaming for him to bury himself inside of you. “I don’t have a condom.”

The white noise that was raging in your ear drums dials down and you breathe out a small laugh. You meet his gaze and you see the apprehension there, making you kiss the tip of his nose and rub a thumb over his heated cheek. 

“It’s been a while for me, so I’m clean,” you explain, your heart thudding against your ribcage. “I don’t have one either so if you want to wait we can, but if you’re comfortable…”

You let your sentence trail off, still stroking his cheek with your thumb as you wait for his response. 

“I am too,” he starts, breathing gentle puffs across your face. “Clean.”

“So then, fuck me, Ichigo.” You grip his hair between your fingers and gently tug it. His entire body shudders at the action and you grind down so that his head catches your entrance. He hugs you to him, face moving to bury itself in your neck as he thrusts into you. You can tell he meant to go slower, that he meant to take his time inching his way into your cunt, but your patience is wearing thin. And so you match his thrust with a roll of your own and in one motion he’s seated between your walls with a stuttered groan dampening your neck as his grip on your hip becomes bruising. 

Your sweaty bodies stick to each other as he continues to drive in and out of you. You’re sensitive from your first orgasm, so being full like this saturates every thought and feeling and function that should come naturally. His pace is rhythmic, every drag of his cock perfectly timed with each exhale. You drop your forehead into his shoulder, losing sense of yourself because you can only think of him. And his strong frame and soft lips and thick cock. 

It’s too much. There’s a sharp tug in your stomach, a warning that you’re about to come again. Your fingers unconsciously strengthen their hold on Ichigo’s hair, and you smear a kiss across his shoulder and wherever your lips can reach. 

“M’gon-,” the words are punched from you when his thrusts harden, his hips smacking against you in rapid succession. 

“Cum with me,” he barely grits out between a clenched jaw. “Fuck, please.” 

“Ichi,” you moan, high pitched and shattered. This one is harder than the last, instead of colors gracing your screwed shut eyes, it’s just white. Pure, untainted white. 

He's pulling out of you suddenly and with hardly enough time to aim his cum anywhere. Instead it rushes out in hot spurts all over your pussy, the temperature covering your sensitive clit and jolting your hips back in surprise. His arms are securely around you as he comes down. As you both breathe in jagged breaths of air to compensate for all the ones you lost. 

When you open your eyes, the colors are too bright for you. The tan planes of his shoulder and the vibrant orange of his hair greet you first. Your body sags in his embrace, hand rubbing soothing circles onto his back as he finds his way back to you. 

He stretches against your body when he finally grounds himself into this reality, his hands smoothing over your hair and thigh as he moves back to peer at you. His eyes are drunken and hazy. His lips are reddened and rosey. 

His smile is broad and amused when he gets a good look at you. An entertained little laugh tumbling from him. 

“What’s so funny?” You pull on his earlobe after you pinch it between your thumb and finger. 

“You have a dried pumpkin string on your lip,” he laughs again, plucking it from your bottom lip and showing it to you. 

“How?” You scrunch your brows together in confusion. Only then seeing the bits of pumpkin that you threw at him earlier still clinging to his collarbone and dried on his skin. 

“I can’t believe you threw pumpkin insides at me,” you playfully pout, biting your lip to hide your smile from him. 

“It was payback,” he grins, cradling your cheek in his hand until his fingers massage parts of your neck. 

“For?”

“For waiting so long to bump into me at Starbucks.”

[soft-for-yoongi]

Hello author!

2. 🏝☀️🥵🌡😵‍💫🤢🤮🚑 My idea is here with Jungkook sick and OT7 Caretakers, if possible! (I miss them :( So, they're enjoying a vacation together, in a private place. Its hot, and Jungkook cant handle well with it. He starts to feel week, dizzy and pale. Feeling like a low blood pressure. Everyone looks at him worried. Jungkook faints while drinking some water and after he's wakes and is a little conscious, throw up the water he has drank. The members get desperate and go rushing to a hospital, calling a ambulance, bc maybe jk gets a insolation

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Sick: Jungkook

Caretaker: OT7

Tw: emeto, vom**, puking, dizziness, fainting, heat stroke, mentions of hospital, ambulance called

Word count: 795

Emojis: 2. 🏝☀️🥵🌡😵‍💫🤢🤮🚑

Yayaya two people requested sick jk with this prompt so I combined them again!! I hope you enjoy and it's what you wanted!!

(I'm also unsure of how many more I'm going to write but I think around 2-3 more!)

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Searing heat, thick humidity, a private and breathtaking oasis by the beach. With only seven of them present, there are no intrusive cameras or rigid schedules, just pure relaxation. And that's why Jungkook is so upset he's not feeling well. The thought of ruining the holiday is ten times worse than the dizzying nausea and sweat trailing his back.

Jungkook's hand shakes as he brings a water bottle to his lips, he's hiding under his hair so the others can't see how pale and sickly he's looking (and feeling). They're at this small private beach, practically in the backyard of their temporary house. Taehyung and Jimin are playing about in the water, throwing soggy sand at each other. Jungkook was with them originally, playing in the warm, crystal-clear water before the heat started taking a toll on him.

He couldn't deny the nausea and slowly made his way back to the blanket and shade they set up. With every step, his legs felt like jelly, and the world was spinning around him. He plopped onto the blanket, and now he clutches onto the water bottle with his remaining strength.

The others are frolicking about in the sand and water, laughter a comforting sound. Jungkook hoped the shade would help but now he just feels isolated and achy. Just as he was about to take another sip of water, the beach towel rustles next to him. Jungkook turns to find Namjoon, who's sat down with a book in his hand, now looking at him with concern.

"Jungkook you don't look so good, are you feeling okay?" Namjoon reaches a hand to touch the youngest's cheek, feeling unnatural warmth. Jungkook tried to laugh it off, but it came out weak and shaky. "Yeah, I just need some rest." He replies, Namjoon isn't convinced. "No, Jungkook I think you should lay down. You really don't look good." Namjoon's brows pinch together. Jungkook swallows audibly, his head is really starting to pound.

Jungkook has no clue what Namjoon just said. His ears are buzzing and he's struggling to keep up right. He can see a few others start to walk over, confusion on their faces. He registers the water in his hand and goes to take a sip, but it just ends up spilling down his front. Woah, he doesn't feel good. He feels blood pumping in his ears before losing consciousness.

"—unkook! Jungkook, hey. Nono don't sit up—" Jungkook feels his stomach lurch, hands on his body and the worried voices of his bandmates. All he can do is whimper before throwing up to his side and then clutch the nearest person. "H-hyungie—" Jungkook cries, beads of sweat on his forehead. "Kookie, Kookie shh, calm down, Jinnie-hyung has called an ambulance. You're gonna be okay." Jimin smooths Jungkook's hair and Namjoon fans his face with his book.

"I'm gonna be sick- don' feel good.." Jungkook mumbles, Yoongi thinks quick and he grabs one of their empty snack containers and shoves it under his chin. Taehyung takes a bit of a clean towel and pours some water on it to rest at the back of Jungkook's neck and try cool him down. He burps and buries his face into the container.

He pukes clear liquid and Jimin trails his hand up and down his back. His head throbs with each gag and the bright sun still hurts his eyes even in the shade. Letting out a miserable groan, the others are jittery with worry. "Guys the ambulance is here, make room for them." Hoseok instructs and the members move out the way, except for Namjoon who holds Jungkook and the container steady.

Jungkook still manages to be shy and embarrassed as the paramedics check his vitals and ask a couple questions. "Jungkook-ssi how are you feeling right now? Still like before?" A middle aged woman asks, "n-not as bad.." Jungkook turns to Namjoon, hoping he can provide some more details. "He was super pale and dissociated. He's thrown up twice now but I think it was just the heat that got to him." Namjoon explains.

The paramedics strap something to Jungkook's arm and say that they should take him in to administer an IV. "So this is a mild case of heat stroke, two of you are able to ride with him to the hospital if you'd like." One of them suggests.

Seokjin and Taehyung are quick to volunteer and the others promise to meet them at the hospital. In the ambulance Jungkook feels a mixture of emotions, shy but also too sick to suppress his need for his hyung's dotting. He holds Taehyung's hand and asks Seokjin to play with his hair. Looking forward to feeling better, Jungkook vows to always stay hydrated when going to the beach.

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

a little Welcome Home theory that's probably me looking entirely too much into a single line <3

-

so i was clicking through the site for the thousandth time and this line caught my eye. maybe its 4 am and i haven't slept, maybe i'm onto something. who knows!

but this little thing... "and lively sets unlike anything seen before!". yeah, it could just be them propping up the show. OR maybe the puppets have been alive the whole time, fully autonomous but entirely unaware that they are puppets on a show. maybe to them, the neighborhood is real, and they simply cannot comprehend the presence of humans so their puppet minds don't register them. this could make for a "cosmic horror but for puppets" spin, which would be sick as fuck

their daytime is when the studio lights are on and people are around. idk how the people would teach them the scripts - maybe they did it at "night"? or maybe there was no script, and the puppets would automatically come up with their own shenanigans, dialogue, and segments that aligned with the show, bc that's what they were made for.

bc its not like the whrp team have physical puppets, or much other than art & reports, right? any information on the puppets - like Howdy being rotated between live-hand and walk-around - could've easily been a lie by the creators of the Welcome Home show. i mean, i don't think it would've gone down well if they came out and said "yeah the puppets are alive"

and now that i'm wondering how they could have living puppets, weren't the 60s/70s chock full of cults? could the WH creators have dipped into the occult to create living puppets for a ground breaking, popular, lucrative show, using minimal effort because "the show writes itself"? all they have to do is film and maybe change the puppets' costumes. if that - they could have set up hidden cameras or something.

and this is gonna sound even more far-fetched, but what if creating the puppets required human souls to power them? im not suggesting that the puppets have locked away memories from a "human life", bc that would be uh... a lot. but it's enough that given time and the right prompts, they could gain awareness, and maybe the soul does influence them in minor ways - in likes and dislikes etc.

and Wally being aware means that he fully saw the humans running the show. and maybe the occult thing is what's under Home - the source of black magic that brought the puppets to life seeping out. and he's aware because he looked into that source and it flipped a switch in his lil cotton brain

maybex2 this is what caused the show to not only shut down, but be wiped from existence. the magic seeped into Home, maybe killing someone in the process, and Wally was revealed as aware. maybe on live television. so the creators panicked and shut it all down, tried to destroy everything and gaslight the country into forgetting it ever existed. maybe in the hopes that once no one remembers the puppets, the magic will leech out of them and leave them lifeless

and that loops back into Wally being the only one referred to in present tense in the neighborhood bios. he's still aware, maybe trapped in the studio, alone. i mean, i sure hope he's not alone - i hope he has his friends with him. unless they're all decommissioned (dead)... maybe Wally is trying to bring them all back or "fix" them?

but then there's the case of all of this currently going down online. have the puppets' consciousness somehow been transferred to the internet? or has Wally gotten his little felt mittens on a computer? something else? and then there's the whrp team... could they be fake, and its really just Wally trying to cobble together the remains of his life/friends? i mean, the Question-Answerer sounds like a title a kid or naive puppet would come up with. people would've called them the Curator or somethin?

i have too many thoughts

[cyanocoraxx]

inheritor

Mecha always came back on time.

He was loyal. Smart. Strong. Knew the answers to everything. He would be back in the next few seconds.

At least, that's what Metal repeated to itself as it waited. It sent out pings every few minutes, hoping for some response, but got nothing. This was starting to worry it. With Mecha being mostly retired from his duties now, it was a little strange that he had been sent out on some mission when he was technically out of practice.

Was the doctor bored? Why else would he send Mecha after the hedgehog after such a long time?

Metal paced back and forth by the main gates. Every so often its optics would flick up to the security locks. It was planning. It disregarded any E-Series that stopped to stare at it. Mecha was officially one hour late. Discrepancies of a few minutes here and there might be expected, but this much time was unheard of for Metal.

By the two-hour mark, Metal grew tired of waiting. It looked around, checking that nobody was watching, looked up the security cameras dotted around up high, and decided that it didn't matter if it was spotted anyway. It engaged the security locks, barely waited for the doors to open, and then ran outside.

The air was heavy and damp with the aftermath of a storm. This was nothing like the softer morning that it had taken flight in. The sky was dark, grey, as if the night was impatiently trying to take over. Metal tried its best to take the humidity and temperature into account before taking off into the air, remembering its training from before.

Down below, it spotted a familiar form amongst wet grass. Without hesitation it freefell down, watching as the ground came into focus with every second - and landed with a slam a few feet away from its sibling. It rose to stand as quickly as it could, and was thankful to see Mecha stir and turn his head to look at him.

The situation wasn't good. This was clearly a hedgehog attack - the kind that Metal was familiar with now - the spin-dash gashes that Metal had come to loathe marred Mecha's armour. Wires were exposed, circuits sparked dangerously against remnants of rain.

Metal knelt down beside its sibling, optics passing over Mecha's frame frantically. What could it do? It wasn't trained for this. It wasn't trained to care about this, but it did. It hadn't handled a situation like this yet. It placed a hand over the open wound across Mecha's chest, shielding it from the damp.

"Metal Sonic."

Metal startled upon hearing its siblings voice, and its optics quickly fixed onto Mecha's face. Then, its optics softened, something sad replacing the confusion.

Yes, this was sad.

It didn't like it.

Metal shifted closer, looking over the other robot's injuries over and over - what could it do? What could it do? Metal was capable of feeling pain, so was Mecha suffering? No, this wasn't right. Metal looked around, hoping that someone else would be coming, someone who would know what to do, but the landscape was starkly empty.

Why wouldn't Mecha just get up?

Metal grabbed Mecha's free hand and tried to pull him up. If they could get home, everything would be fine - it could grab the tools it used to fix itself before, and nothing would be wrong anymore. It mustered up the use of its underused vocalizer and said,

"Home."

Mecha shook his head. "There is... little reason to return. I suggest that you return before scout units are sent to locate you."

Metal froze, staring down at Mecha, bewildered and hurt. What about me? What about us? Why are you trying to convince me to leave you here?

Mecha didn't register his little brother's confusion, only seeing that it wasn't responding. "Metal Sonic. I am retired from my duty. I have served my purpose, have I not. The doctor will not endeavour to repair me. Do you understand that he is not coming."

Metal disagreed, of course. It let go of Mecha's hand to free its own up to sign. It hadn't yet mastered sign language, this being a new language encoded into its library, but it tried its best.

"You. Not finished purpose. This- means never finish. Not efficient."

Mecha disregarded the emotional standpoint for his own logic. "I operated at full efficacy during my encounter with the Master Emerald. If I was unable to attain my goal objective then, I am highly unlikely to succeed now. The statistical likelihood of this is-"

Metal shook its head, both upset and angry. It glared down at him, snatching the other machine's hand back into its own, which stopped Mecha's train of thought. Mecha, in reply, reached up with his free hand to place it on his sibling's cheek - a motion that he had seen the doctor perform on Metal too, when comforting it, he assumed.

"... He is not coming. You are aware of this."

It didn't make sense. Mecha was- he was Robotnik's right-hand robot. Right? And Mecha was important, no, essential to everything. He couldn't be left behind, right? That didn't make any sense. For such a smart and collected robot, Mecha was being extremely illogical. It was a situation that threw Metal off - it thought it knew a lot about Mecha, but evidently not.

Evidently, there was something deeper going on that it just couldn't understand. It thought Mecha didn't feel any emotion at all, so what on earth was this? Maybe his logic controls had taken too hard of a hit in the fight.

But from Mecha's point of view, this made perfect sense. Resources allocated to maintaining it, to keeping it powered on, could all go to the newer unit, thereby securing a better chance that their shared objective would be complete.

"You must listen to me," Mecha continued, softening his vocalizer, "Metal Sonic, you are my successor. You are aware that there can only be one Sonic, for this is programmed into you. There cannot be multiple versions active at the same time."

Metal shook its head furiously. But you aren't Sonic. You're Mecha. You're not him, you're someone else. If Sonic wasn't alive, this would never have happened. The thought pissed it off. The thought made it want to sink its claws into that horrid little-

"I know you are denying this, but simply not speaking your thoughts. This is... understandable, I believe." Mecha replied to the unspoken words. "But you must listen to this carefully. It is important. I implore you."

Metal stared at Mecha for several long moments, slowly moving to sit back down, holding his hand the whole time, thinking of how much it despised Sonic more and more. The thoughts of the hedgehog cycled in its head on repeat, like some fucked up mantra, and it - for a moment - actually struggled to focus on Mecha's words over its own thoughts.

"This... what you witness now... it shall happen to you." Mecha began softly. "You will encounter dangerous situations. You may not be prepared. You will encounter conflicts with your programming against your decision-making skills. And you..." He trailed off, brushing a thumb tenderly over Metal's cheek bolt, in the way that he had noted Metal liked before.

Metal continued to stare into Mecha's visor, confused, hurt, hurt, hurt, hurt. Angry. Angry. Hateful.

"... You may face a similar fate. And when that time comes, you must be brave. This is the way of all hedgehog-series machines. There were units before us, and undoubtedly there will be several after us. We, although sentient and aware, are ultimately disposable units if we do not succeed. Thus, you must succeed."

No. That couldn't be right. Metal shook its head, squinting its optics in disbelief all the while. Did Mecha really see himself as disposable like that? Metal wouldn't have it. Mecha wasn't just some toy to throw away, he was a real thing, something aware. Mecha deserved better than that. Why couldn't he see that, especially at a time like this?

"Metal Sonic. You know it. You are aware of it. Somewhere within, you know. This is an impossible battle. We are engineered to fail. And the doctor may mourn us. He may appear to be distressed by the loss of us. But he shall make another. And another. And another. He will not stop. You must be the last one. Without other hedgehog-series units taking your resources, your success will increase."

Maybe it was true that Metal had failed. Maybe it was true that Mecha had failed, too. But it didn't mean they were doomed to repeat this over and over, right?

"If not like... others. Need you. Your help." Metal signed, its hand movements sharp and determined.

"I have taught you all that you require," Mecha replied, still unrelenting. You know everything you need. You are now my replacement.

There was a short silence before Metal suddenly signed, "shut up."

Mecha stared up at it, taken aback. "Pardon."

"Shut. Up."

Metal wouldn't hear another word of this. This couldn't be the only way. No, it wouldn't be. It refused to let it be. There was room in the world for two hedgehog-series. There was room for two brothers. There was all the space and time in the world for them. And they wouldn't face the same fate as those who came before them. And they would survive. And they would win. And they would defeat their enemy. No matter what.

And Metal was smaller than Mecha. Not as strong. Perhaps, not as smart, yet. But it didn't matter. It shifted up to crouch. It moved to slide its arms under Mecha's form and, with all of its strength, picked him up off the ground.

"What are you..."

Metal remembered its flight training. It consulted the data, making sure to account for the additional weight of its sibling. Then, it activated its primary engine, threw thousands of revs into it, and took off into the air with purpose.

"... Thank you, although this is most illogical. Your frame cannot sustain this additional weight for the estimated four minute-"

"Home."

And it wanted to say, you are not disposable. And it wanted to say, you are my brother, I would never leave you. Instead, it made the journey in silence and let its actions do the talking. And it wanted to say, let's go home. You are not disposable. We will change the narrative.

[numberonebidoofenjoyer]

‘Mon of The Day (Video #1)

[Begin Video. African-American male fidgets with camera, smiling. He’s wearing an orange school uniform, gray dress shirt and orange tie, in orange jeans. Instead of a jacket, however, he’s wearing a lab coat. He backs up, before waving at the camera.]

‘Ello and Yello, Rotumblr! I’m Lochland!

Bzzt! And I’m Rotom!

And we're your hosts for ‘Mon of the Day! Here on MOTD, we try to replicate the nostalgic feel of Professor Oak’s Pokemon Talk, by going over some of the Pokemon in Paldea for our very own treasure hunt! For our first episode ever, we’ll be taking a look at a Pokemon was recently given to me, and my first officially registered Pokemon!

[He emerged with a standard Poké Ball from his labcoat pocket.]

Quaxly, come on out!

[Het tosses it up, and in a flash of blue, a Quaxly appears. It’s a duckling-like Pokémon. It has a yellow beak and blue eyes. It has teal webbed feet and a large teal coif-like crest that covers its head.]

Quaxly! Quax, quax!

Hi baby! How’re you doing?

Quaxly! Quax, Xly, xly!

Awwww, who’s a cutie? You are, you are!

[Lochland briefly bends down to affectionately coddle the Duckling Pokémon. Rotom clears his throat impatiently.]

Lochland!

[The boy looks up and cringes, seemingly embarrassed.]

Ah, crap, right. Ahem! Recorded as the Duckling Pokemon, Quaxly is a Water-type, known for it’s keen coif, which is super smooth!

This is due to the rich, moist cream that the hair can hold, bzzt! If dry, not only does Quaxly get upset, but the coif can become extremely spiky and unkempt!

[Lochland picks up Quaxly, affectionately smoothing it’s hair. Quaxly leans into his touch.]

Quaxly is a tidy Pokemon, and hates getting dirty, explaining this behavior. In battles, it uses it’s swift speed to kick its foes repeatedly. It’s legs also allow it to swim through rough or even fast flowing currents, making it one of it’s most valuable assets!

Quaxly, like my trainer, however is prone to overthinking. To Quaxly trainers, even those with a brave or sassy ones, be sure to give them reassurance that you endlessly love and support them, bzzt! Pokemon have feelings too!

[Lochland flinches, a grimace on his face.His Quaxly nudges him in a comforting way.]

(...You could’ve. Just not mentioned me in that part…)

(Quaxly…)

[Lochland coughs, regaining his composure.]

Ahem! Fun fact: Quaxly aren’t native to Paldea! They’re, apparently, from a foreign lands a long time ago. And yet, they’ve been spotted and researched in Paldea the most…so…

Quax?

[The Duckling Pokémon tilts its head, vocalizing something. Roto sighs.]

Bzzt! Pave, that doesn’t count…that ranch was still in Paldea…

[Lochland clasps his hands together.]

Anyhow! Before we sign off, I wanna make a small note about Quaxly and Aqua Jet! Using Water Gun like a foundation and allowing Quaxly to twist into it using it’s flexibilty, you can techinally pull off a Aqua Jet! Observe!

Wait for it….

Quax….ly!

Ta-da! Your very own pre-Aqua Jet! Makes the process of learning it a bit easier!

[An excited gleam reaches Lochland’s face, his hands frequently twisting around. He seems to stumble over his words.]

The control W-Water-types have on their own water allows them to pressurize it, and con-contor-contort it! Th-The ability this would have on allowing a fountain-like Water Gun to, uh, to surround the spinning Pokémon to merge with the water, and then use that water and built up momentum to…ah!

[He winces, smiling apologetically. His hands stop twisting.]

Sorry, sorry, I’m rambling again! Regardless, I hope you all enjoyed this episode and tune into future ones! This is Lochland and Rotom, signing off!

[He waves to the camera, as it fades to black. End Video.]

[aerodaltonimperial]

‘Why can’t you let me in. What are you so afraid of.’ ?

(sigh. you know that happened here. i can't control any of my word counts lol. WELP.)

He’d once read that after a car accident, injuries could take days to be felt, because endorphins are natural painkillers and adrenaline masks the soft tissue damage. He thinks it’s much the same when he walks off the ring with the FTW belt, leaving Lee Moriarty on his hands and knees, heart pounding against his ears. Hook’s aware that he just got the shit beat out of him, but his blood’s still singing and the nerves beneath his skin aren’t registering much yet. If his fingers clutch the damn belt harder than they need to, it’s only because he thought he was going to have it ripped out of his hands when his vision had gotten blurry, painted red around the edges.

He’s desperate to get out from backstage. The eight minutes in the ring had felt like a lifetime; the only pain points he’s aware of already are the ache building in his left elbow and the sting along his back. He knows, logically, that means both injuries are severe enough to push past all the inhibitors. It’s not a good thing.

Hook needs to get out, get one of the cars back to the hotel so he can lick his wounds in peace, and whatever deity observes AEW is clearly mocking him, because he runs smack into Ricky Starks. Objectively, the man looks terrible—he’s been a wreck since August, since the stable dissolved and Hobbs turned on him. But now, with blood smeared across his temple, he looks even worse.

“Hook,” he says, and Hook absolutely cannot deal with this right now. He doesn’t even reply, just tries to push through, only he’s misjudged how banged up his shoulders are and smacking into Ricky’s chest sends a wave of pain down his arm.

Ricky reaches out, quick as a wink, grabbing Hook’s bicep with one hand. “Hook, you’re a fucking mess.”

Hook only pauses because he’s surprised that Ricky is touching him; Ricky knows better. Ricky doesn’t usually do that without a warning.

“Hey, kid, listen.” Ricky’s hold tightens. Fuck. That stings. “He did a number on you out there. You need to have someone look it over, make sure you’re okay.”

“Let go,” Hook says, a challenge. Tries to rip his arm free and can’t, because every single muscle in his body has stopped responding to his commands.

“No, listen to me. This isn’t a sport you do alone. You think you can, but you can’t. Someone has to be in your corner afterwards.”

If Hook doesn’t escape soon, he’s going to lose it backstage with a hundred cameras surrounding him. He knows it’s coming; the fire’s leaving his limbs, fleeing and leaving a gaping hole behind. He knows what’s coming to fill in all that empty space.

“Fuck. Off,” he hisses.

“Hook, I’m serious.” Ricky leans in, doesn’t get the hint. “I’m not saying it has to be me. You need a support;  you need someone after a fight like this. Trust me. I know what I’m talking about.”

Sheer panic provides the burst of strength that Hook needs to break free, spinning out from beneath Ricky’s hand. His temples have started to throb, in time with his heart. He needs to get his shit out of the locker room and find one of the cars they’ve always got on stand-by for the post-match runs. He spins, leaving Ricky standing there with one arm outstretched; it’s not even like Hook dislikes the guy, but he cannot be here anymore. His left arm has started to burn and the pain is making its way up through his shoulder. Once the full onslaught hits, he’s going to…well.

“Hook!” Ricky calls, but Hook’s already in a half-sprint, and with the bang-up Ricky got backstage earlier, there’s no way he’ll be able to keep up.

Grab your shit, get out. Don’t stop for anything.

+++

The adrenaline crash hits him ten minutes after he’s made it back to his hotel room. If it wasn’t so overwhelming, Hook might have been proud of his ability to gauge the time needed, but as it stands, he ends up on the grimy carpet that he has just enough brainpower to hope has been recently cleaned when the pain slams into him all at once, a deluge.

His whole left arm is on fire. The burn, centered in his elbow, extends all the way up through his neck and rattles the teeth on the left side of his mouth. His back might as well have had coals raked down across it for how bad the sting has settled into his skin, and his right hand might be broken from where Moriarty jammed his fingers apart. There’s copper at the back of his tongue he can’t swallow down. Hook mashes his face into the carpet fibers and tries to bite back the scream, because there’s no way the walls will disguise that sort of noise.

He needs to ice his arm, his back—fuck, he needs to ice everything. He tries to push himself up and almost immediately his left arm goes out. At least the carpet swallows the resulting exclamation of anguish.

There’s no way he can ice his left elbow with only one hand. He might be able to get to his back, but twisting to attempt to reach with his good arm reveals the futility of that particular thought process. Fuck.

Hook manages to get himself up on his knees using only his right arm, left cradled close to his chest as best he can. If he just sleeps on it, he isn’t sure he’ll wake up with any feeling left at all. And if he can’t feel his arm, he can’t wrestle, and if he can’t wrestle—

There’s a knock at the door.

Hook squeezes his eyes shut, misery lodged in his throat. He freezes, hoping whoever it is will go away if he pretends he isn’t inside, that the room is deserted. A moment passes, and then another knock.

“It’s Danhausen,” comes the voice from the other side, quiet and muffled behind the wood. “Hook?”

“No,” Hook says. He isn’t sure it’s loud enough for Danhausen to even hear him.

“Hook, open the door.”

He can’t. Hook’s fingers curl against the carpet, nails tearing up little tufts of fuzz. 

“Danhausen knows you’re in there.”

“Go away,” Hook tries.

“Hook.” Danhausen’s voice, even from so far away, sounds…different. There’s a lower quality to it that Hook hasn’t heard before, almost like he’s dropped some of the act. “Why can’t you let Danhausen in?”

A second, and then, as an addition, even quieter: “What is Hook afraid of? It’s just me.”

If pressed, Hook wouldn’t be able to explain what came over him, what finally pushed him to stagger up to his feet and stumble towards the door. The onslaught of pain, probably, and the fact that he’s light-headed with how poorly his entire body is. He’s a half-step away from passing out as his brain struggles to deal with the overload. Or maybe it’s just that he actually does, somewhere, somehow, want to be anything other than alone.

His right hand smacks into the door knob before he gets his aim right, pulling it open. Danhausen’s holding a bucket of ice in both hands. There’s something off about the paint on his face: the black shapes are elongated, just off enough to be noticeable. But it doesn’t really matter. Hook slumps against the wall and winces, because even that was agonizing, all bruising contact.

Danhausen opens his mouth as though he’s going to say something, and then changes his mind. He slips in through the opening and closes the door behind him, setting the ice bucket down on the weathered television stand. “Hook needs to shower.”

Hook needs to fucking die. He closes his eyes as his whole body shakes against the wall. “Can’t.”

“Hook can simply—oh.” Something scrapes, plastic against plastic. “Your elbow.”

Warmth presses lightly, gently, against Hook’s side, the one that wasn’t smacked repeatedly. Danhausen’s hand curls there. “Come with me.”

If Hook was in a better state, not dragged halfway to hell and back, he’d fight it. He would. Instead, he lets himself be led into the narrow hotel bathroom. Danhausen turns the water on and wiggles his fingers beneath the spray to check the temperature. He’s, ridiculously, still in his black jacket, the one with the red embroidery and the bizarre teeth decals.

He turns back to Hook. His mouth is a thin, unhappy stripe of black. “Strip.”

“What?” Hook manages, chest constricting.

Danhausen motions with one hand, impatient. “Yes, yes, leave your shorts on, it’s fine, just take the rest off.”

Hook can’t even get his damn shirt off by himself. The fabric catches on his shoulder, the one he can’t move, and he has to bite down on his lip to keep from crying out. Danhausen has to help tug it free. Then Hook sits on the edge of the shower with his legs in the tub, and allows Danhausen to sort of nudge him forward so he’s leaning in, face down.

At first, he’s so fucking panicked he can’t move, not even when Danhausen grabs the shower coil and pulls the sprayhead out to wet Hook’s hair over the bath. He’s never had anyone do this before, never, and the nerves spark up and down his exposed skin, summoning goosebumps. But when Danhausen starts working shampoo into his hair, kneading at Hook’s scalp, his whole body sort of…slumps, giving in. It’s unbearably gentle. It’s nice. It’s emotion that sticks between Hook’s teeth, saccharine sweet.

Moriarty had gotten his hands in Hook’s hair, too, jerked his head back when he tried to pull the strands free. Danhausen’s ministrations help to soothe the burn left behind.

“Danhausen saw the match,” comes the statement from over his shoulder as Hook’s closed his eyes again to keep the rinse out of his eyes. “Hook did very well.”

“I almost lost,” Hook grits out. A bit of shampoo catches in the corner of his lips, bitter.

Danhausen hums a little. “But you didn’t.” Then he taps Hook’s shoulders. “Done. Hook should dry off. Can you handle the rest from here?”

“Yeah.” He’s got an extra pair of shorts peeking out from his duffel, just outside the bathroom door. He’s pretty sure he can do that with one arm.

Danhausen leaves while Hook changes into the new pair. Hook can hear him moving around beyond the bathroom, rummaging through a bit and moving the ice bucket. He thinks it ought to feel stranger to have Danhausen in his hotel room, only it doesn’t, because it’s just Danhausen. Ever since Hook let the man in, it’s just been…easy. A familiar sort of weird that’s strangely comfortable.

Hook stares at his reflection in the mirror—hair plastered to his forehead, skin pinking where the blood vessels will bruise—for only a moment. It’s a little hard to look at the aftermath.

He really did almost lose.

Hook exits the bathroom, leaving behind the bit of fog gathered on the glass to find Danhausen sitting on the bed. He’s got the ice bucket and a roll of Ace bandage he must have fished out of Hook’s duffel. He gestures for the space left open on the duvet in front of his legs. “Come, come.”

There isn’t much else Hook can do but oblige, gingerly lowering himself onto the mattress.

Danhausen moves for his arm first, which makes sense; it’s the worst of his injuries. Hook hisses, wrenches his face away when Danhausen slowly extends it. The pain is enough to sting the corners of his eyes, hot. He’s embarrassed when the tears track their way down his face to drip off his jaw, but he doesn’t pull his arm away. Danhausen wraps the ice in towels, and then secures the towels with the bandages. By the time he’s done, Hook can’t move the damn thing if he’d wanted to.

His fingers slide across Hook’s shoulders to the spot where Moriarty got his elbow in several times, a quick succession. When his fingertips hit the edge of the damage, Hook groans. Danhausen’s hand stills where it is.

Then he gathers more ice from the bucket, dripping water across the bed, and Hook’s whole body clenches up when the shock of cold hits his skin. He trembles against the ice Danhausen’s holding against his back.

“Hook will bruise,” Danhausen comments, voice low. His free hand traces a gentle loop up to Hook’s shoulder. “But I think this will help keep the worst away, no?”

“It hurts,” Hook admits through clenched teeth.

“Yes, I expect so. That Moriarty fellow was good. No match for Hook in the end, of course, but good.”

Hook waits. When nothing else follows, and Danhausen’s free hand remains where it is, featherlight contact, he thinks he’s steady enough to ask. “Why did you come here?”

“Hook had a rough fight,” Danhausen says. “The doctors should have looked at this, but it’s—”

“No, why did you come here?”

Quiet descends over them. Hook’s breathing is quick from the cold pressed against him and the aftershocks of the flight or fight response retreating; he can hear Danhausen’s breathing behind him, slower. More controlled.

“Danhausen got a call,” he replies, slowly. “From Ricky Starks.”

Hook’s mouth goes dry. “What?”

“Well, yes, Ricky Starks did not have Danhausen’s number at first. He sent a message to Danhausen’s friend Trent, who then contacted Danhausen’s friend Orange to obtain it. And then he called.”

Hook braces for the wave of humiliation, and ends up feeling…warmth. Relief. Gratitude. He’s grateful, so much so that if he were standing, he might double over, so grateful to the man he pushed away who still found a way to look after him. Grateful, despite it all, that Ricky still cares.

Grateful that Ricky knew enough to understand that Hook can’t let most people in, but that Danhausen could never be described as “most people,” grateful that he would go through so much just to contact him.

Hook’s gone silent, and Danhausen’s fingers on his back have gone still. “And…you came,” Hook says.

“Of course Danhausen came.”

“But, last week, who…” Hook swallows. His tongue’s three sizes too big. He can’t finish the question.

Danhausen understands anyway. “Danhausen’s friends Chuck and Trent helped to make sure Danhausen was all right last week.”

“Oh.”

The ice shifts, sliding a little up to Hook’s shoulder blade. Then Danhausen’s free hand moves up to Hook’s neck, his thumb dragging a gentle trail up towards his hair. “Danhausen is not upset. Trent and Chuck are good friends, of course.”

“But,” Hook prompts, even though he’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to hear the rest.

“Danhausen would have preferred Hook be there.”

“I’ll do it next time,” Hook promises, voice raspy. With his right hand, the only arm he can move anymore with the makeshift splint on the other, he reaches up, finds Danhausen’s fingers. Tangles them together. Maybe he squeezes too hard. 

He leans back, enough to trap both Danhausen’s other hand and the ice pack between them. This thing between them, it’s something; he knows it’s going to be something, but he’s in such a shit state and he can’t chase it down with every muscle in his body screaming. He hopes Danhausen gets that, he’s desperate for him to understand, that yes, yes, but not now, just not now—

Danhausen shifts forward, his chin on Hook’s shoulder, pointy enough to sting a little. Then he exhales, the echo rattling through Hook’s back, and his mouth turns down, makes contact. The ghost of a kiss skates over Hook’s skin.

“Danhausen doesn’t wish to leave,” he starts, and Hook’s pretty sure he knows what’s going to follow, “but there are…things I need to do.”

“Things,” Hook repeats.

“It’s complicated.” Cryptic. “Will Hook be all right?”

“Yes. You don’t have to stay.”

He wonders if this has to do with the off-ness of his face paint and the weird video from a few weeks ago. Eventually, Danhausen will tell him…probably.

Danhausen pulls back, finally letting up with the ice. Hook’s back is numb, thoroughly so, and that’s probably as good as he’ll get tonight. Danhausen slides away so he’s half off the bed, though one hand remains on Hook’s arm. “Hook ought to take something.”

“Many somethings,” Hook says, and sighs. He’s got a full bottle of ibuprofen in his bag.

Danhausen moves to leave. Hook grabs his fingers before he can fully slip away.

“Thank you,” he says, low. Almost a whisper. Almost too quiet to hear.

Danhausen smiles, one corner higher than the other, the unfamiliar lines of black crinkling. “Hook is most welcome.”

Hook doesn’t want to let go, but he does. Danhausen offers him one last smile, half a grimace, and leaves. He forgets the ice bucket.

Hook collapses back against the pillows. He’s got just enough strength to crawl beneath the blankets, and that’s where his reserve ends. His eyes close. 

That’s the thing about keeping everyone else at a distance—you get the chance to sleep, to keep ignorance to the rest of the world, to things like backstage feuds and grainy, black and white videos with metal spikes.

[set-phasers-to-whump]

enough is enough

prompt: knees buckling

whumpee: john reese

fandom: person of interest

hi here's my second poi fic! i'm still only in s1 so apologies if anything seems wonky, i'm very much just getting to know the show but it's just so fun to write!!! i hope you like it :)

The wound in his side is sluggishly leaking blood, staining the crisp white fabric of his shirt bright red. It pulls uncomfortably with each running stride he takes, but he has no time to slow down to try to fix it. 

He’s in hot pursuit of their latest number. For the second time. The first chase had ended not five minutes ago when the number - one Peter Davis - had shot him. 

Despite having been shot by him, John doesn’t think that Davis is bad. He’d just gotten involved with the wrong crowd in a desperate attempt to afford cancer treatments for his wife. He owes money he doesn’t have to people who won’t accept that he doesn’t have it. And he’d apparently used some of this money to buy a gun. 

He’s scared. John had seen it in his face right before he’d been shot, as he had been trying to explain why he’d grabbed Davis off the street. If he’d kept going in the same direction, he would have been ambushed by the men he owes, probably shot and killed. It’s the middle of the night in a bad part of town. No one would have cared. 

But John had barely been able to get a word out before Davis had wriggled out of his grasp, pulled a gun, and shot. While John had been briefly incapacitated, he’d taken off, right towards the danger. 

And now John is here, running down the sidewalk with his hand wrapped around the pistol in his pocket, trying to get to Davis before Davis gets to the men who are looking for him. 

“Security cameras just caught Mr. Davis three blocks ahead of you,” comes Finch’s voice through his earpiece. 

“That SUV still parked in the same place?”

“Yes, it is.”

Davis is rapidly approaching the men who want his money. Very likely he is rapidly approaching his death. John runs faster, all-out sprinting now. He feels the bleeding increase. The pain follows suit. He takes notice of these things, and that’s where their effect on him stops. 

“Are you still okay, Mr. Reese?” Finch asks, as John sprints through a crosswalk. He has to be gaining ground on Davis. The man isn’t exactly a professional athlete. 

“I’m fine, Finch. Where’s Davis now?”

“Two blocks ahead. He just passed by a bodega.”

He is catching up. But, if he’s done his math correctly, in another three blocks, Davis will run right into the hands - and guns - of the very men John is trying to protect him from. 

He sprints even faster, pushing the pain aside. He’d maybe lied to Finch, a little. He is fine at the moment, but Finch thinks he’d only been grazed. The bullet lodged firmly in the middle of his right side would beg to differ. 

He catches up to Davis when the man is all of a building’s length away from the intersection with the street where the SUV is parked. He grabs Davis, pulls the gun out of his grip before he can do any more damage with it, and clamps a hand over his mouth before he can make a noise. 

“Be quiet,” he hisses, dragging the man backwards. “You know the men who’ve been trying to hunt you down?”

Davis nods. He’s shaking. John removes his hand, and he stays silent. 

“They’re just around that corner, waiting for you. So how about you turn around and walk the other way? Get yourself to a hotel, register under a false name. Let me handle this.”

Another nod. John lets him go. 

Davis takes all of two steps in the other direction, and then he spins back around and wrenches his gun out of John’s hand. It’s unexpected, and John doesn’t react quickly enough. Davis starts running towards where the men in the SUV lie in wait. 

“I’m finishing this!” he shouts. "I've had enough!"

John runs after him and does the only thing he can - he tackles him to the ground. The impact makes the pain in his side flare sharply. The gun goes off. A window shatters. 

He gets to his feet quickly, adrenaline quickly replacing the pain. Davis shoots up just as fast, gun still in hand. John draws his own gun. There is no time to run now. Everything is too close. 

A car door slams just around the corner. 

“Mr. Reese?”

“A little busy at the moment, Finch.”

The men round the corner, guns out, and John starts shooting. Davis joins him. He’s a surprisingly good shot for a man who has apparently never handled a gun before this week. 

The other men return fire. One of them has a machine gun. John takes him out as quickly as he can. Bullets spray the sidewalk around him, kicking up sparks. 

Davis takes out two men in rapid succession before taking a bullet to the shoulder. John sees him hit the ground just as he hits the final gunman straight between the eyes. 

The silence is deafening. Smoke rises from the bodies, illuminated by a single streetlight. They need to get out of here. A shooting of this magnitude will have the place crawling with police in less than fifteen minutes. 

“Mr. Reese.” Finch’s voice breaks the silence, insistent and loud.

“We’re okay, Finch. Davis took a shot to the shoulder, but he’s alright.”

“You’d better get out of there. There have been three 911 calls already.”

“I’m sure there have been. What’s the best route?”

Finch tells him. John mentally notes all of the information as he walks towards Davis, who is slowly getting to his feet with a hand pressed to the bleeding wound at the top of his shoulder. 

This reminds John of his own injury. The adrenaline of the fight had masked it almost completely, but once he remembers that he’d been hurt, the pain returns at full force. John bites back a wince and looks down. The amount of blood on his clothes is surprising. So is the sudden, overwhelming dizziness that accompanies it. 

“Hey, Finch?”

“Yes, Mr. Reese?”

“I think I might be…in a little bit of trouble.”

His knees buckle beneath him, and he hits the ground hard. He’s unconscious before he has time to hear Finch’s response. 

--

He wakes up in a bed. It’s not a bed he knows. The room around him is dark, lit only by moonlight coming in through a single window. It smells like antiseptic. His side is throbbing. His throat is sore. 

He looks around as his eyes adjust to the darkness. He seems to be in a bedroom. It’s sparsely furnished, with a table beside him and a dresser on the opposite wall and a bookshelf in the corner. Based on the noises coming from beyond the window, he’s still in the city. The smell suggests medicine, though this is clearly not anything close to a hospital. 

But he can feel fresh stitches pulling his skin together beneath the blanket. There’s a pad of gauze taped to his arm where an IV would have been. The work of one of Finch’s many acquaintances, he guesses. Very possibly, he’s in someone’s house. 

He wants to get up, explore his surroundings, find a weapon, but sleep takes him back under before he can even fully sit up.

--

He wakes up a second time, still in the same bed. It’s light now, and the pain is more insistent. He reorients himself, remembers waking earlier. He wonders for a second about the absence of drugs in his system. 

The door opens. He sits up in a flash, looking around for something to use as a weapon. He grabs a book off of the table next to him and aims. 

It’s only Finch. John drops the book and leans back against the pillows, his side hurting even more now. Luckily, he doesn’t feel anything bleeding. 

“Be careful, Mr. Reese. You wouldn’t want to tear your stitches.”

“Where are we?”

Finch shakes his head. “All in good time, Mr. Reese. You’re safe, which is all you really need to know for now.”

About the answer he’d expected. “How’s Davis?”

“He’s fine. The bullet only grazed him. Unlike you. You lied to me, Mr. Reese.”

“Right, and neither one of us has ever done that before.”

Finch looks at him severely. “You told me, repeatedly, might I add, that you were fine. Collapsing unconscious in the middle of the street is decidedly not fine.”

There’s no good defense against that one, or at least none that John can think of. He’s tired again, which seems impossible. He forces his eyes to stay open, forces himself to speak. 

“Sorry,” is all he can think to say. He doesn’t say, I won’t do it again, because they both know that he can’t make a promise like that. He doesn’t say, it could’ve been worse, because there’s no point in bringing up something they both understand. 

“I know, Mr. Reese. Now get some more rest. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

John stops fighting off the exhaustion. He falls back asleep before Finch even turns off the light.

thanks for reading! this was def not the best but it wasn't the worst either so i'm fine with that lol. i am so tired for literally no reason ughhh. anyways though i hope you liked this!! see you tomorrow <3

[jessicasperspective]

Painting with light

There are many things we can do in photography with the help of lights. Light is the key element to any photograph, not just the photograph even for us to see as we all know that whatever we are seeing around is the reflection of light on the object to our eyes.

Early times of exploring long exposure photography, I learnt 3 major creative photo making which are

Light painting

Light panning &

Light trails

There are many more creative methods in photography such as astrophotography, indoor long exposure just in terms of long exposure photography.

Long exposure is nothing but exposing your photograph to light for a longer duration.

Among all the above methods let’s see about the process and practice to achieve quality pictures in the module of ' Light painting’

Light painting

Drawing/painting with any light source to create a art/graffiti is light painting .

In this picture , the light source used is a sparkler (cracker) which is mostly seen during the festival of Diwali. Here the frame was set without disturbing the device (camera) for 13sec/ss , ISO100 and f/9 as the person who’s handling the sparkler makes a full rotation. Only the brightest parts have been registered in the photograph.

Painting with non-human subject

Chair with wings- Light was moved to create an illusion of wings behind it .

ISO100

f/14

6s

Nikon d3100 + 18mm

Light source - mobile phone flash

Tornado Apple - the torch light of the phone is spun around the Apple to make it look like a spiral

ISO100

f/14

3s shutter speed

Light source - mobile phone torch

Paint your picture

Try experimenting with multiple actions with the light source ( I’ve used mobile phone flash in the above images) and correct the exposure triangle accordingly to your outcomes.

For the all 3 pictures above :

ISO100

f/5-f/8

5-9seconds

Nikon d3100 + 18-35mm lens

Dreamy wings

Painting with light with human as a subject is tricky yet mirrors a satisfying output. When you want the human subject to be visible like the picture above place the light couple seconds on the person and the proceed to draw the desired shape.

ISO100

f/10

10s ( 3s on the person’s face and 7s for drawing the wings)

One plus 7pro

Spinning lights and the still man

Person in the middle is still with 3seconds of light exposed onto his face with the help of 2 phone flash lights and 10 seconds of spinning around freely with both flashes waved in air.

ISO100

f/11

13s

Nikon d3100 + 55mm

These are some of the pictures I thought would be best to explain the process.

Some points to remember when trying:

Choose a dark background/ circumstance.

Opt for the lowest ISO and closest aperture.

Time your picture before starting the shutter.

Use a tripod for device or place it somewhere still.

You can experiment the professional mode in your phone even before trying in camera, results are always based on how the process is.

Feel free to experiment. Use different kinds of light sources and Exposure settings, there are no rules or regulations to experiment your art here. I hope these have an outline on Light painting.

All the pictures are owned by the artist (me) DO NOT REPOST WITHOUT PERMISSION

If you want to learn more about it here are some good blogs on it

[kindtobechurlish]

An asshole will never be Bob Barker, and all the stage did for him was enable him to be talked in the same breath with Bob Barker! Do you understand, “how old are you?”, and the act of making your age relevant? The 30 year olds ten years ago.. they could have got in position, so do you think they are going to put you in position if you can be better than them or if they are just “wantoning” with no worries just to not be “Diogenes?” When you see nationals, race, culture, language, documents, a register and till, you see a mould that makes “mores.” Now, the team is the team, and the fetish is the fetish. All of the monuments and statues, prison time if you damage them, just to see women to understand I am more than “on to something.” How do you like it when the American Life comes down to not being told “too old”, concerning you, and the Television? An elder is not labeled as “too old”, while you can make a person feel he is no longer needed because he is “too old”, now you can understand a judge. The arbitrary order, the fiat note, would personify that which is whimsical.. and now you can compute a “spin.” The spin could expose “too old” and now you see the difference between things you can control and what you can’t control. Jimmy Dean isn’t Famous Amos, “too old!”, and by that which is quant or fanciful you can see that which is appealing and amusing. The fiat note would personify tokens, and by the token you see the fetish. The .99 by a price is more attractive than a higher whole that amounts to .00 and .50, while there can be “.00” and “.50”, and you see coins (tokens) to consider old sitcom TV. You see the camera’s able to create the image that was once on a TV with more girth than you.. and now “social media” and “internet” has demoralized TV. The women on the Mary Tyler Moore Show, you couldn’t just “look them up”, but there was a phone book. So, when you see culture, you see people think they are more connected by Facebook and the social media’s that came after, but all it is is a mould where you express yourself to where the companies hope you don’t get personal beyond what other people can see.. now, they preach “democracy” just to give you IDEAS. Yes, this exposes WHIMSICAL!

Antiquity does have theater, while that “N Word” is what enables “wyte.” The contrast would be the contrast, coarse would be coarse, and now you use the Negro to personify himself in ragtime.. and the method is keep the emanation that came from ragtime - while not talking about the components that make ragtime. This is called, “operation hide ragtime”, your excuse is that people would learn, and engage the blackface, c**n shouting, and call it a good night at the barn. I put on Thalia Mask, and know about your childhood just to say social media and the internet has demoralized TV. Am I that good or you say it’s not fair? There is a time and place for everything.. and I know your mind because I know why you canceled Dr. Seuss and it wasn’t because of the pictured image! A “king” trading his “wife” for a “flit gun!” You see me and a woman who did nothing for me, that surrendering cheese eating monkey, and would rather DR. SUESS! That’s why it’s fuck you and that KIKE. Go suck his dick.

[shesnothingspecial]

Ride Alone

sorry this took me a hot minute! I know it's a little short but i hope you guys like it :)

You were sitting on your bed scrolling through tik tok when your room was being dramatically barged into.

“What the fuck dude?” You let out a breathy laugh at the 19 year old boy standing in front of you.

“Thomas is vlogging right now and we’re gonna go driving, hurry hurry hurry!” Vinnie explains excitedly as he grabs your hand and pulls you up from your bed. He’s leading you out of your room when you stop and become dead weight. He turns around, “What are you doing? Common, let's go!” You grab his shoulders, “Vincent, I look like shit right now, give me at most-”

“You never look bad.” A genuine sentence you never expected to hear come from your best friend. Shocked, you just brush it off, “Well still, I want to look half decent for a vlog even if I’m in it for like 5 seconds, so please give me like what? 10 minutes?” You say sort of asking if a 10 minute wait would be tolerable.

“Okay fine, 10 minutes, now go hurry up!” He jokingly spins you back around and closes your door, leaving you in your room to get dressed. Ten minutes had passed and you were pretty impressed with your outfit, baggy bottoms and somewhat tight shirts never fail to make you feel good in your skin. Exiting the room and heading downstairs you see everyone waiting around the main living area. Vinnie’s eyes meet yours, he looks at you with the most giddy expression. Thomas notices and brings out his camera, “So as I was telling you guys earlier, today was the launch of the hype house car channel!” Everyone erupts in too loud cheers and whistles. “So because of that, we’re going on a canyon run!” More praise fills the room, finally Thomas puts his camera down, “So are we gonna go or what?” Everyone bolts out of the house and starts jumping in cars. You stood in the middle of the driveway, not knowing where to go.

“Hey!” You hear your best friend call out, “Why are you just standing there, come on!" Vinnie motions towards his rx7 with his head. Vinnie never really rides with anyone in his car, so this shocked you and the others. You just stand there confused almost. "Dude come on, don't make me ride alone" He shouts again, registering what he said you start moving towards his car.

“OOOOHH VINNIE GET IT!” Calvin shouted which caused everyone else their mom to look over at the two of you standing by the rx7. A collective gasp was shared and then chaos erupted. You couldn’t make out full sentences at all, but you heard “Kiss” “Date” “Couple” and you’re pretty sure you heard someone say something about getting railed? Sure everyone was the age of an adult, but 97% of the time you were convinced you were surround by children. Anyways, the two of you simultaneously flip the other members off and get into the car.

“Idiots.” Vinnie says while shaking his head and starting his car. You can’t help but look at him, his messy hair, his breathless smile, his earrings, the tattoos that decorate his arm. You can’t help but admire him, all of him. He starts to move his car, following the others to where you were going. You connect your phone to his car to play music, ‘Carolina’ flows out of the car's speakers. Vinnie laughs, “Really?” He glances over at you, “What? It’s a good song!” You defend. He shakes his head and runs his tongue on the inside of his cheek, and suddenly it got a little hotter in his car. You guys make it to the location and park the car for a minute, so you pause the song. Thomas brings out his camera and starts talking. Standing outside of the car it’s really cold and you weren’t dressed for the weather. Vinnie walks over to you and leans down, next to your ear “You okay?” He whispers, a shiver runs through your body, this time not due to the weather. You couldn’t bring yourself to answer, so you just nod, rubbing your hands up and down your arms. Vinnie takes notice and replaces your hand with his, rubbing up and down your arms. Safe to say you weren’t cold anymore, in fact you felt like you were on fire.

“Okay! Let’s drive guys!” Calvin yells, and everyone gets into their respective vehicles. Getting into the rx7, the both of you fasten your seatbelts. He revs his car and it's your turn to laugh, “You think you’re all that hm?” He looks over at you, giving you the most melt-worthy smirk, “You know what?”, he leans over the center console, which encourages you to lean over too.

“I do think I’m all that.” His eyes flicker from your down to your lips. You lean in even closer, inches apart, “Show me why then.” The tension in the car was intense, you let your gaze drop from his eyes to his lips. Maybe a kiss wouldn’t be bad at all. Just as you were about to lean in, a car horn goes off, causing both of you to jump back.

“Let’s go love birds!” Calvin screams from his car and then speeds off. The two of you burst out into a fit of laughter, his smile is so pretty. “He’s right, let’s have fun now.” You say.

“Were we not having fun earlier?” Vinnie quickly glances at you while driving, his voice drowning in playfulness. “I was having a grand-” You’re cut off when Vinnie accelerates his car. Reaching for literally anything, you grab his forearm and squeeze it with your entire soul.

“VINNIE OH MY GOD” You scream, without missing a beat Vinnie replies, “I like hearing you scream my name.” You remove you hand from his arm to whack him aside the head.

“Real classy Vincent.” You roll your eyes looking at him shrug. He speeds up again, this time you’re prepared for it. It’s an exhilarating feeling. Vinnie reaches over to the radio screen and pushes play, The chorus of Carolina fills the car. You turn it up even louder than it was already and just start singing at the top of your lungs. Sitting in a car going probably 100 mph, with one of the- if not the most attractive guy you’ve ever met, listening to Harry Styles. Life honestly could not get better. But it did, oh it got so much better when Vinnie himself started singing along. Shocked you halt your ‘singing’ to hear him. It’s not fair at all, how can he be so talented? He's hot, he's funny, he's smart and kind, AND HE CAN SING? God has favorites and one of their names is Vincent Hacker. Hearing him singing “She’s a good girl, she feels so good." Made it feel like the car got 30 degrees hotter. You found yourself becoming constantly warm around Vinnie. He's your closest friend, but you really couldn't help maybe being more than that. You look ahead of you guys and see Thomas’s car speeding down the road. The song ends and before the next song can start, Vinnie slows the car and pauses the music. “Everything okay?” You ask. “Yeah yeah everything’s good.” He says as he pulls off the side of the road to park. As soon as the car comes to a complete stop, he turns his body towards yours and just stares at you.

“Is this where you murder me or some- mph!” You poor attempt at a cliche murder joke is cut off as Vinnie presses his lips to yours. You allow yourself to melt into the kiss, your hand going up to the nape of his neck, his to the side of your face. You know how your body reacts when it’s cold and you take a sip of warm hot chocolate? That’s how this kiss felt. Your entire body shivers from a warmth spreading throughout it. Breaking away from the kiss, the two of you rest your foreheads against each other. Breathlessly Vinnie says, “I’ve been wanting to do that all night, shit. I’ve been wanting to do that since I met you.” He looks down, almost as if he was shy. You grab his face so he looks up at you, “Me too." you pause, and you could've sworn that in those 2 seconds you paused, silence had never been more deafening. "So please do it again.”

As your lips are about to connect, you hear sirens and see flashing red and blue lights go past you, straight to Thomas’s car. The two of you laugh at the sight, before Vinnie pulls you in for a quick kiss, “I don’t ever want to drive alone again.”