#like doing a study on particular colours

[fukashiin]

high school sweethearts au

— w. riddle, ace, leona, jack, octatrio (collectively), jamil, vil, rook, silver, malleus

⤷ oh dear diary, i met a boy, he made my dull heart light up with joy.

a/n: a valentine's day special!! i enjoyed writing this sm<33

RIDDLE ROSEHEARTS AS

⤷ THE STUDENT LIBRARIAN !

- the student who volunteered for library duties when no one else would. he mostly works behind the counter with his eyes glued to the screen of his computer—looking for the names of those who had overdue books to return. an esteemed honour student at the same time, the envious mixture of methodical and dutiful that makes the role of a student librarian fit him like a glove.

- he mostly reads at his own pace—a fascinating volume of historical topics covered through the years. rusted evidence that he likes to give his own insights on at the tip of his fingers. sometimes people catch him wondering a bit too far, as his eyes stray off to certain page for way too long.

- despite his free time, he still takes care of his own duties that needs to be carried out, from arranging books back to their rightful shelves, tidying up used tables of its multi-coloured eraser shavings and lost pencils that he hands up to the lost-and-found.

YOUR DYNAMIC

- you often stop by the library for self-revision, a thick stack of textbooks that sit pretty at the side of your table as you have your own necessities. you don’t have much to do after this particular study session, so you plan to head back to your own dorm after reliving your memory of the chapters the teachers have went through with you in class today.

- strangely, unknowingly—the table you sit at is always empty. always reserved for a certain someone. that’s when your relationship with riddle started to bloom.

- any time he spots you at the corner of his eye once you enter the air-conditioned space, he throws a small smile your way and elegantly places the book he was reading down to stroll to your side to help you carry your bag that you were sure was about to dislocate your shoulder. 

- he sits by your side whenever you needed help, some topics just simply played a baffling game of chess with your head that you dread to the core. but he’s more than happy to help one way or another. either to point out to you specific key words, gently grabbing the highlighter out of your grasp, initiating eye contact with you with the textbook closed to help you memorise important points for so long the rate of his heartbeat starts to speed up—

- the air between you two really alleviates your burden and the packed schedule you have to attend to on a daily basis. with school is a bucket of workload that’s dumped onto you. with riddle, is a soft feeling. you don’t have to worry about your planned itineraries for the day and you can be yourself for a while.

he’s full comfort, a swift reminder of those drizzly cinnabuns you two go for a bite for when classes are over for the day. 

- it’s no surprise he has his plate full with library duties either. so to pay him back, you offer him to head for a bookstore somewhere outside the campus, assuring him that you’ll deal with things when his mom intervenes for his “unthinkable” behaviour. in return, he’ll purchase as many books for you as want. hard covers, too.

ACE TRAPPOLA AS

⤷ THE PLAYER ON THE BASKETBALL TEAM !

- it’s as in-character as you think it is. you’ve lost count of the number of times he’s pointed a conspicuous finger at you when you’re sitting on the bleachers, yelling out your name and promising he’ll score a shot for you! much to his disappointment (and surprise, for some reason), the ball just bounces right off the hoop and crashes into another player on the team.

- the indoor sports hall is a huge advantage for him since it lets him connect his phone to the bluetooth speakers, letting him blast out his music of choice that consists of endless tracks from nba youngboy and eminem when the coaches were absent and the company could carry on with free training. 

- his classmates adore him, but the teachers hold their breath in at the thought of having him in their class. a truly slothful student to some extent—but is able to ace every test given out. higher authorities wanted to believe their eyes were playing a trick on them when they take a glance at his report card that contained a full, gleaming row of straight A’s.

- cheeky at heart and playfully flirts with whoever he wants just for the fun of it, not to get their contact number just to ghost them later on like he did with a past lover. he’s learned his mistake and he’s willing to do better, both academically and athletically. but he supposes he could get used to the popularity for a while.

YOUR DYNAMIC 

- resists the urge to dropkick his teammates whenever they send out mischievous whistles his direction when they see you with him. he’s just asking for your notes! nothing else in mind like scrawling his phone number down on some lined-paper and slipping it into the back of your notebook in hopes that you notice and send out a few messages to him when you’re back at your place (and develop into something more...?)

- the type of person who didn’t believe in young love at first before he met you. now, you two make small trips to the school cafeteria to purchase your favourite smoothies when practise was stopped to a 5 minute break. smoothly sweet talks his way out of paying—but doesn’t see your kindness to be taken control over. In return, he tells you the answers for the upcoming test he was able to get his hands on, whether you’re going to use them or not.

- denies (anticipated) accusations that you and him were together in an “uncool” manner, according to him. it’s even worse when you’re present, there to see his face burst in pink and his speedy mannerisms, like telling you to “ignore them!” or shoving you into the nearest locker so his friends don’t catch a glimpse of you.

- sometimes his eyes stay on your face for way too long the atmosphere starts to contort into a weird, one-sided stare-off when it’s supposed to be your one-on-one study session with him. you take notice that he’s not looking at the tip of your pen that’s pointing to a specific part of his notes and threaten to poke his eyes out if he doesn’t focus. you could only giggle internally when he fumbles about and retracts his stare from your face.

- questions you if you’ve been in any past relationships, only to reject hearing your answer when he’s too afraid that he may be outshone in some way.

- but you reassure him that you haven’t, and you’re more than happy to enter into one with him. with that, you see him gleefully punch a fist into the air once he’s off on his way to tell his teammates about it, too in his thoughts that he forgets about the teasing he’s about to be bombarded with afterwards.

LEONA KINGSCHOLAR AS 

⤷ THE CLASS SLACKER !

- similar to his junior ace in some ways. petty, bored, but effortlessly gets the highest grade in the class. it’s no surprise that even the overachiever who sits behind him and sees his big, outstanding ‘100′ penned in red at the corner of his paper that easily outdoes their imperfect ‘98′, has to keep their tongue in to ward off the nasty feeling of shooting the rudest vulgarities out of their mouth.

- lessons in session automatically translates to “do whatever you want for the period”—no matter the subject he takes. he often gets caught folding paper origamis or writing down the most prankish notes just to crumble it up and toss it the teacher’s way.

hands a little too skillful has him crafting numberless spitballs that he uses as imaginary missiles to shoot into random people’s hair. the preppy boys can wave a sad goodbye to hair day when leona appears with a handmade launcher in the hallway.

- though with such a behaviour, leona somehow seems to make himself appear approachable from his short-formed responses and dismissive nods. but could anyone have ever guessed that he would act so mind-blowingly different with someone else?

YOUR DYNAMIC

-  if he ever catches your mood down in the dumps, he insists you to come with him to the cat cafe that holds many cuddly creatures to help aid the minds of those tireless students piled with projects to complete with mind-boggling deadlines. either he enjoys getting swarmed by the adorable army of kitties himself, or looks at you with the softest eyes thinking about how you strangely resemble them as you get lost in distant laughter when one of them decide to curl up in your lap.

- sneakily shares his stash of snacks that he managed to shove into his bag at the back of the class when the two of you were luckily placed together during seat arranging. each low-key pass of a sweet was complimented by his deep chuckle as he feels rewarded by the numerous suspicious stares that fly by both of your ways.

- nonchalantly terrifies any cheap intimidators when he catches you getting cornered. you wonder if his initial plan backfired and that he actually made them fall in love with him with his unfairly gorgeous face? (you don’t blame them)

- growls at whoever takes the chance to wake him up from his day-to-day naps, rolling his eyes at their dumbassery when it’s a whole different story when it comes to you. when you do it (with panicked warnings you got beforehand), leona takes a while to get familiar with the touch of your skin and swishes his tail from side to side when he recognises your oh-so sweet scent he cherishes to the moon and back. 

raises an eyebrow at you for being so brave to take the opportunity to wake him up, promising he’ll pay you back tenfold when in fact, he really, really hopes he can grow much more affectionate with you when time passes, until skin contact becomes a normal thing between the two of you.

JACK HOWL AS 

⤷ THE (ACTUALLY SMART) JOCK !

- people genuinely wonder in disbelief why he’s so taken aback by the number of students who swoon over him when they see him doing his daily sets of warm-ups in the gym by himself. his ear twitches in the slightest when he feels four—five, pairs of eyes burning right into his back.

- he’s a lone wolf to some extent- but that doesn’t mean he’ll drive away his friends who thrive to stretch right beside him, despite being a literal twig compared to jack. they’ll all do tons of sets together while emitting the roughest groans from their aching bodies until sweat is seeping ceaselessly out of their outfits.

unsurprisingly, jack is still up and full of stamina as he silently praises himself for not being as slow-minded as his friends since he changed into his p.e attire ahead of time. +10 health gained back for him.

- the coaches normally pick him out as the representative when international competitions are around the corner. with him representing the school, there’s definitely going to be headlines and news reports made about them! except when he actually wins it isn’t. people are seen firing bountiful praises online at jack for his athleticism for a 16 year old, in awe at how he always manages to place first.

- is more than happy to help anyone out when activities take a wrong turn and result in them being injured. whether if it’s being in a wheelchair or in crutches, he takes the opportunity to bring them to their destination on time.

YOUR DYNAMIC

- his eyes immediately dart to you when the teacher announces for everyone to form a pair for pre-activity stretching. he takes the lead to call out what set of stretches to do and helps to adjust your posture or the angle of wherever your arm is pointing to. his firm hands coming in contact with your body invites a quick rush of blood to your cheeks, startled with the sudden proximity that came about. it doesn’t help the fact that his steady breath is on your skin, unaware of his swift movements that he didn’t bat an eye to (why is he like this?)

- when all the physical stuff is done for the day, he’ll give you a small nudge on the shoulder and tell you he’s going to get some water. what took you aback was when you thought he was getting it for himself—being as hardworking as he is, it only makes sense to reward himself for putting up with you and your incapability with some activities.

 - but instead, he brings back two bottles of water, briskly handing one over to you before he open his. he makes sure to assure you that you weren’t a problem at all, and that you deserve a restful break after all your physical exertion.

- not just crazy athletic but simultaneously smart as well! but when his classmates ask for his homework answers in dire need to not be caught by the teacher, he hits them with a “you should’ve done it at home” and gets up from his seat to hand in his work. you don’t know whether to laugh or feel bad for that person. the student then gawks at both you and jack when he lets you in on his answers instead.

- even when he has an enormous fanbase full of people who adore him and wish to talk to him more just for the sake of it, he always makes sure to come to you first, to check in on your health, both mentally and physically, to know that you’re healthy and ready for the day. 

OCTATRIO AS 

⤷ THE POPULAR GROUP !

- as the owners of a lounge that’s quite far from school grounds with quality dishes you’ll never find anywhere else and their dashing looks that shoot an arrow right through people’s lovestruck hearts, it’s no wonder that their popularity skyrockets through the roof when you found out that they go here. you’ve seen a few of the posts they share on magicam—and they’re the perfect definition of young, beautiful, and dirty rich.

- people would kill to watch them pass by in the hallways of the very school they’re in. this trio, with their alluring cologne and clad in neat, tidy clothing that doesn’t even necessarily have to be of the latest trends but still making them look amazing—ambling in the bustling halls? suddenly, lessons were called off for the day and there’s no homework due the day after. the trio quietly snicker to each other in the process.

- there’s definitely a fangroup about them. all they could be doing was to order lunch at the school cafeteria, and the group chat students made based on them would turn wild when floyd faces back to give a sly “cheese~” at the camera that was facing his way.

YOUR DYNAMIC

- unfairly spoils you to death as they give you special discounts at the lounge, telling you that it doesn’t matter whatever you order, their vip customer is always getting 10% off the price. if that’s too low—azul’s more than willing to give you a better benefit. proceeding your easy-earned discounts, jade suggests that they carefully plan out a drink based off of you and your personality, questionable intentions in mind as he proposes the idea to make it the most expensive drink on the menu too.

- absolutely loves to have you sit at their table during break, letting you in on their latest gossip. the amount of intel that they collected on their recent “customer” that created a scene at the lounge for not being open when it clearly had its working hours placed at the entry is rather concerning. floyd gives a shameless wink your way and tells you to not reveal this treasured piece of information. (gaslight gatekeep girlboss)

- weekend sleepovers at their place consists of them researching the finest ingredients and dishes to add to the menu and them serving up some steaming platter for you to try your taste buds on to give some feedback on it.  well, including a small competition to win your heart over as well.

- people are flabbergasted at the amount of attention you receive from these three. “jealous” wasn’t a word too far off to describe their feelings either, and it wasn’t any better. you’d sometimes wonder whether it was a good idea to become friends with this particular trio.

but you can rest assured that they’ll handle with any bad outcomes that dares to come about, and if it’s regarding their large fanbase—they have just the solution. nobody would say no to rushing to the lounge and being up to date with the latest release of their newest dish that you so nicely tried out for them.

- even as the three of them secretly try their best to win your heart over, they’ll also make sure to check with your boundaries and query you if they ever pass the line of comfort. if that so happens anytime, they’ll apologise by doing whatever you want free of charge! they dote on you a whole ton, and truthfully, relish in the time they get to spend with you.

JAMIL VIPER AS

⤷ THE SKATER BOY !

- the student who’s effortlessly charismatic because of his chill and dismissive attitude. the teachers are either pulling their hair out because of him or praising him for being early to class as they spot him waiting outside with him and his rusty ipod he just found that’s been collecting dust in his storage room. he vaguely remembers it as a gift given by a loved one, hence, why he keeps it safe wherever he goes.

- comes to class ROCKING those white vans like okay??? i see you???

- concerning him and school as a whole—it’s just as if he slithers right by his classmates’ attention like how a snake slithers through grass. he’s awfully sly and nimble, skipping class just to head out to the skate park that’s spray painted in graffiti all over by some infamous artists. he personally doesn’t care—it just adds to his presence of mind and how much fun he’s going to have. self-skating sessions are a fresh breather for him, indifferent to his number of absences.

- and don’t forget the secret rush of ego he gets when people stop and stare to watch him do his challenging tricks over the ramps and metal railings. it’s mesmerising how his hair flows so prettily in the wind and the golden glow of the sunset that highlights his features, like, how some people dramatise, an angel fallen from the blinding heavens. jamil rolls his eyes behind their backs once he’s finished his set of tricks.

YOUR DYNAMIC 

- honestly didn’t think of you much when you two first met, but now his heart, baggy clothes, and skateboard are all yours.

- when you spot him alone in the corner of the classroom when it’s a free period, a smile inevitably creeps up his face and he gives a relaxed wave as you come up and say hi to him. you’ve always been rather interested in his music taste and what was playing on those ipods of his, so when you do make it noticeable to him, he takes out the left side of his earphones and places it in your ear for you, fingers brushing the shell of your ears. you hope he didn’t feel how boiling-hot it was.

- daily stop-bys at the vending machine to talk about hot shit. you both agreed to pay for the drinks for the other on some days and do the same back. he finds such a leisure time so precious and, as much as he’s having double thoughts about it, he’d very rather much spend his alone time with you than in a class filled with students. especially when the class clown is present. eugh.

- he’s memorised your go-to drinks by now, and whenever you’re absent from school, he makes an effort to walk to your place to tend to you and hand over your favourite beverage once you’re up and better than ever.

- texts you in the dead of the night, asking if you’d want to head over to the skate park with him there to teach you some tricks he’s learnt on his own accord. agreeing was probably the best thing you’ve done all day, with the built-up pressure you get to release on your time with him as he helps you get rid of your muscle strains. he holds your body close, keeping you balanced on his skateboard as the late night breeze whisks through your clothes and the luminous shine that comes from the stars above makes him feel grateful for being here, with you. alone and together with no one to interfere.

VIL SCHOENHEIT AS

⤷ THE SCHOOL TRENDSETTER !

- as you may have guessed, the student who has the largest following in the entire student body. to help maintain his public image—he makes sure to arrive to school glammed up, with smooth and silky hair he applied the perfect fragrance of rosemary oil on to and his latest combination of outfits that’s bound to go viral both on magicam and in the school. he makes it a habit to bring along his miniature makeup pouch with him wherever he goes!

- instantly gets a whopping 100 views on his latest story he posted on his account about the most recent addition to the school cafeteria’s menu. he’s hyper-aware of his calorie intake, so he probably criticises it in the caption. “0/10. doesn’t make my ass fatter than it is now”

- sometimes has to leave mid-class to attend his monthly photoshoot session. there’s no doubt he’d be starting to pack his things during class and his classmates would already have an idea on where he’s about to go. the close circle of his friend group promises to notify him about the homework that’s going to be due soon, and he makes sure to blend them an incredibly tasteful smoothie he heard about not too long ago in thanks.

YOUR DYNAMIC

- it just had to be one of those days where you’re at your worst. vil can tell as much from your gloomy behaviour and sloppy appearance that does your figure no favours. though he lets out a disapproving click of the tongue, he places his hand on your shoulder, reassuring you that whatever you’re going through will come and go. 

- and, he hands out this one-of-a-kind opportunity to even purchase whatever apparel from the hottest brands that’s to your liking for you. who could ever ask for a better offer?

- if things are still dour, he lets you stay in his room for the night. the type of supportive friend (he hopes not for long?) to give you reassuring affirmations that whoever broke your heart doesn’t deserve you (and he does). he wants you to know that you’re ethereal just the way you are, and you shouldn’t downgrade yourself just because of somebody or something you can pass by. there’s some vinyls he keeps at a shelf at the side of his room,

if you want to play a song of your choice on the record player, he’s more than delighted to let you.

- when annual prom nights are going to take place a few days away, vil rings up his model agency to call upon another fashionista to help out with your outfit for the stirring night you can’t sit still for. converses with the right person they picked out and makes decisions set in stone, with the exact measurements that compliment your figure along with a flawless colour.

he takes the chance to do your makeup for you, and you can’t tell whether it’s because he’s taken familiarity with your visage or to just get his face closer to yours just to fluster you. you’ve taken a wild guess that it’s both.

- once prom is over and the crowd starts to clear out, vil books a cab back to his place so you two can have your well-deserved baths for as long as you want, accompanied by his endless supply of skincare products. he loves seeing you grow and blossom into a better person. he’ll make sure to do it alongside you, until he actually claims your heart.

ROOK HUNT AS

⤷ THE THEATRE KID !

- a cheerful soul who skips through the halls while humming a tune from one of the latest musicals he watched. his seemingly never-ending glee that lights the hallways up in an eye-blinding radiance is beyond people’s comprehension. rook, frankly, doesn’t mind the stares he gathers from such a spaced-out area, as long as he does his other theatre friends good in promoting the drama club.

- people mostly catch him hanging around in the auditorium, sitting with the other club members as they take out their practise on vocalisation and in depth emotion building. newcomers of the club deeply look up to him, as the most passionate member of the club where all the roles he’s taken on has made his heart soar above the clouds.

- one of the volunteers who helped in producing the script for the upcoming play the club is putting together. he advances in dramatising the scripts if they’re too flat in tone or feeling, even adding the most unnecessary dialogues of french, which the majority of the cast doesn’t even know a lick of. though, he makes a vow to them to teach it until they’re all absolutely wasted to the point where practise wouldn’t even be going anywhere.

- works hand in hand with vil behind the stage, who helps to sew up suitable costumes and applying the makeup for the cast in the makeover studio.

YOUR DYNAMIC

- it’s utterly embarrassing—but he vocalises ALL his poems and thoughts about you that he recited back at his place to prepare for the public audience. by audience, I mean everyone at the cafeteria.

he sings all of the praises he’s been holding in since the day he made mere eye contact with you while standing on an occupied table, most likely taken by the misfits. he sees it as his own individual stage and seizes the opportunity in his hands. you’re dying to go hide in the nearest restroom.

- encourages you to audition for the latest play his club is planning, (secretly) wanting you to take up the role that jointly has a special form of relationship with his! he gives an overly joyful “that’s up to the judges!” when you ask him who would be playing the other role. how many times has he made you uneasy again? (you don’t want to admit that you do enjoy being with him.)

- he’ll make sure to schedule a period off to help you practise and perfect the script that was chosen for you in the empty auditorium. he eagerly savours the time he gets to hear you, your beautiful voice, out loud, like never ending music to his ears.

- aside from the dorms, he lives in a multimillion neighbourhood, and he would be ecstatic to bring you over to his place anytime. you’re slack-jawed the second you enter his home, a wealthy interior designed by specially chosen professionals just for his house. he drags you by the wrist to watch the latest musical that was released in the theater that his family chose to install.

- so—the set of people who were chosen for the roles are out? you’re glad, but rook is a leaping ball of sunshine when he takes a glance at the name list (as if he didn’t play a part in convincing the judges one way or another). he genuinely cannot wait to see you shining so brightly on stage, as he prepares a divine bouquet of roses he’s planning to give you once it’s all over to congratulate you for all the untiring effort you’ve put into this play.

SILVER AS

⤷ THE FLOATER !

- luckily for him, he wasn’t the type of student who garnered much attention after being transferred to the school. he’s received some greetings by those who actually mean it, but all in all is content with where he’s placed in for now.

- being a regular loner has him sitting outside on the unoccupied bench for him to eat his lunch. a simple but memorable ham and cheese sandwich which he remembers getting spoiled with from his caretaker since early childhood. he holds everything they do immensely close to his heart, thankful for having the utmost kindest person in the world to look after him. he’ll make sure to pay back for everything he’s indebted to when he’s older.

- with restless desires to grow familiar with the school grounds, he takes a small walk to the library and school store to send a salutation to riddle, the boy who’s in the same year as him and the shop’s very own Mr. S, a guy who’s devoted a ton of his life to this shop. silver thinks about how there’s so many sentimental people who wander this school, a little of the opposite of his stone-faced persona.

YOUR DYNAMIC

- he’ll admit, he was slightly taken aback when you fearlessly took a seat next to him on the bench when he wasn't on guard. he jumps a little, thinking there was a nearby predator who was ready to pounce on him any second. but no—it was another regular student who roams the school halls like any other. he’s never seen you before despite being the one who joined the school later—in fact, he’s never really been with a familiar face other than sebek.

- but you just smile and giggle at him when you notice his lost nature. ah, he felt a flare of life ignite in him with such unforeseen kindness being thrown at him. there’s no doubt he's going to be the slightest bit wary of you, but you take his uninterested course of actions as a yes and stay by him for the rest of the period. 

- you don’t make voice the fact that it was you who carefully placed the bundle of flowers on his head when he fell asleep on the arm rest.

- after a few months of hushed whispers and note-sharing in the middle of class, he presents the idea for the both of you to own your own personal diary to journal your daily happenings. a secret note-taker, between two hearts that flicker with a hint of trust for the other.

you both enjoy reading what the other has written for the day, and silver hopes that he’ll be able to point out the tiniest bit of a confession you could’ve possibly written down somewhere for him, as much as how insensitive he is.

- while classes are out and people start to take their leave, you and silver are to stay back to dutifully complete your classroom cleaning before the next day of lessons. who knew such a mere task could put the both of you in a difficult situation? you both reach your hand out to grab the duster to wipe the board, only for your fingers to graze each other as a spark of electricity courses through your bodies, feeling warmer than ever.

- when you’re finally done, it coincidentally starts pouring out of the blue. with the both of you standing at the school entrance, silver strips off his cardigan and uses it to shelter you, holding your figure close as the both of you run in the rain like your lives depend on it. he wishes you didn’t have to arrive at a gazebo so soon, he still wanted to see you, in his clothes for as long as he wanted.

MALLEUS DRACONIA AS

⤷ THE (NOT SO) SECRET ADMIRER !

- often gets recognised for his godly visuals, though he doesn’t pay much mind to them? yes, he makes an effort to keep himself presentable as a wielder of royal blood, but he doesn't see all the craze over his face. his aloofness only makes people swoon over him even more.

- he’s rather quiet in these busy halls. he charmingly excuses the person who accidentally bumped into him head-first, proceeding with his walk until he arrives and stops in front of one particular locker. onlookers goggle absently, thinking about what he’s doing in front of another person’s locker? his is way further away than where he is, so what..?

- malleus sighs in contempt when the bell indicating the next lesson’s beginning rings.

- class is dismissed for lunch and stays glued to his seat as he pulls out an ancient history book to pick up where he left on. his table is uncluttered, and he places the well-researched tome on his desk as he starts reading through its contents once again. nobody is aware of his hidden yearning for a specific person to come running by, catching him in their view through the window, saying the most, honey-sweet “hello!” anyone could ever dream of.

YOUR DYNAMIC

- it’s not much of a secret admirer at this point, when it’s so glaringly obvious who it is. as if he was starring in a Hollywood film, glances at all directions in his way to make sure no one was present to disrupt this long-awaited momentum. once again, he stops by at your locker to open it and set down the letter, inside. one that was signed off with his initials as he positions an aromal rose just beside it.

- with the help of his relatives who are comfortable with internet devices—he’s able to search up the latest trends of deserts and lattes from the nearest coffee shop that’s located somewhere near. he’ll ask you if you’d like to journey with him into the city to a particular eatery that grasped his fancy, he assures you that he has the money, and he made sure to reserve a seat on the balcony as well.

- daily alone time with him in the music room as he gracefully plays the violin for you that only makes you swerve his lane even more. with the doors shut and the curtains closed—not fully as to block the outside light—the most euphonious tunes fill the dim lit room as pure gold spill over the strings. an individual performance he dedicated all and just for you.

- when the end of the school year is near, he readies himself to confess to you with all his body and soul. he takes it upon himself to call up a meeting with you outside of school in the evening, just when the glorious sun starts to set.

he talks his promise, rubbing your deathly cold hands in his, and voices his words of honour to make you the most fortunate person alive to be with him. who could ever ask for a better confession?

[undiscovered-horizon]

Put it on me - Roronoa Zoro x Reader

SUMMARY: A shared stash of moonshine leads to you pouring your heart out to Zoro. Despite his rather cold exterior, he takes your words seriously and asks you to put some of your burden on him if it ever gets too heavy.

WORDCOUNT: ~ 1.8k

Brought to you by my obsession with this painfully relatable song:

“Save some for me.”

Zoro’s voice wakes you up from the trance. You’ve been mindlessly drinking and reminiscing about the fight for what had to be at least two hours now. Enough time to slur your words and muddy your thoughts but the latter, as welcome as it would be, doesn’t seem to come. Flashes of scenes and echoes of voices still haunt you.

The swordsman nudges the axe you used to crack open the barrel. Quite crude but it works as it should - both a plug and a tap, depending on the blade's position. A spicy, dry stench fills the air as Zoro pours himself some of the dark-coloured moonshine.

He takes a large swing of the mysterious alcohol and winces. Very unlike him. A troubled cough escapes his chest.

“What is this?” he asks.

“The nightmare of hangovers yet to pass, I like to call it.” Used to the questionable taste of the beverage or simply numb due to your current state of light intoxication, you’re unbothered as you take another sip. The liquor burns your throat right down to your stomach. You can almost feel it wreaking havoc on your organism. Good. “We’re both alive and not blind, so definitely not methanol. Maybe it tastes like mouldy socks but it gets the job done.”

Zoro sits down on the ground next to you. His body is suspiciously close to yours, thigh to thigh and shoulder to shoulder, but you’ve grown used to it. It’s an open secret between the two of you - he’s allowing both himself and you this kind of intimacy as long as it remains unaddressed. If it did, he’d have to admit he’s not as aloof towards you as he likes to make himself look and that is not something Roronoa Zoro has the courage to confess.

“Why are you drinking alone?”

“I’m not. You’re here,” you say as you gently poke his arm.

He chuckles and shakes his head. Zoro takes another sip and winces again but not as much as before. The ‘mouldy socks’ flavour is growing on him. Or maybe it’s the alcohol content?

“You can’t fool me,” he says in a low, serious tone. “Something’s on your mind.”

Zoro looks at you out of the corner of his eyes. His gaze is bright, perceptive. Even if you try, you can’t lie and convince him that everything’s in order. It seems that Zoro already knows your mood is foul, just can’t quite put his finger on the why. For a man who claims to be unbothered and uncaring, he sure does spend a lot of time and energy and studying your little habits and quirks. One might even say he appears to have a particular affinity for you.

“I ate shit back in the village,” you mumble without looking at him. You almost puke bolting down the rest of the dark moonshine. “Complete failure. Embarrassing doesn’t cover even half of it.”

Stumbling over the air and your own feet, you get up and pour yourself another cup of alcohol. You can see Zoro’s troubled gaze following your movements but he doesn’t say anything or try to stop you, although he’s sure you’ve had enough of strong drinks for the night.

“You did fine,” he says awkwardly. Despite meaning his words, niceties still have a problem making it through his throat. “Aside from leaving your left flank wide open but you’d have to die and be reborn to stop doing that.”

Sitting back down next to Zoro, you lose your balance and fall on your backside. Some of the moonshine spills and soaks your shirt. You don’t care about the stain for now but you surely will in the morning when the putrid smell fills your bedroom and refuses to be washed out.

“It was everything but fine,” you scold him.

Surprised, Zoro looks at you with furrowed eyebrows. Never before has he seen you so hung up about mistakes. Normally, you’d shrug and laugh and just say something along the lines of “shit happens, we’ll be better next time”. Still, no matter how much he racked his brain, he simply couldn’t think of anything in particular that could get you like that. Nothing about the day and its battles stands out to him.

“Nami getting hurt was my fault,” you admit. “Luffy and Usopp too. Shit, everything was my fault.” Out of frustration, you rub your face with your free hand.

“Nonsense,” he easily dismisses your self-blame. “You couldn’t have known about the whole human-turned-arsenal crap.” Zoro takes another swing of the mysterious moonshine. This time, he doesn’t wince or cough. Mouldy socks are beginning to taste like champagne. “I don’t think anyone could,” he adds quietly.

You hit the floor with a clenched fist.

“But I did, Zoro,” you drone your words. The image of the pirate captain is clear as day before your eyes. “That’s the thing. The moment I saw that man I knew something was wrong. He moved in a strange way and the way his clothes fit him… It was right there, in front of me. And I was blind like a drunk bat stuck in a pile of cow dung.”

“Hunch isn’t exactly the best strategy. You might as well have been wrong about him and attacked an innocent man.”

“Well, he wasn’t innocent, was he, Zoro?” The anger is rising within you. Why wouldn’t he just accept your fault? Why is he so frustratingly stubborn at putting the blame elsewhere? “I could have prevented all of this or at least given us an opportunity to prepare before Usopp got half of his bones broken with a cannonball. And all of this, Nami nearly dead, because when my moment came, I failed. I hesitated. I questioned my judgment. Like I always do.”

The wooden floor is hit yet again when you look for a way to let out your anger.

“I can’t believe I’m the one saying this, but,” Zoro makes a pause and clears his throat,” you’re being too hard on yourself.”

A silence falls between you. 

The air in the cramped storage room is stuffy, soaking with a plethora of strong smells: damp wood, smoked fish, the dark liquor you’re drinking with the swordsman, aged cheeses that Sanji seems to be a fan of, roasted coffee beans… But all of those aromas are strangely comforting to you, the smells that remind you of a gathering of adventurous underdogs that have grown to be a family.

A gathering that you’ve almost killed today with your incompetence.

“Truthfully, I wish I was like you,” you finally break the silence. Zoro gives you a questioning look. “You never fail, always prepared and ready to fight. Even when you do make mistakes, which is rare might I add, you can prevent anyone else from getting hurt because of you. I wish I had the power to always do the right things and do them well. When will a day come when I finally know how to act? What to do? I make the same stupid mistakes over and over again and nothing seems to change no matter how hard I try. Maybe I’m just broken and you lot are doomed for hanging around me.” For a moment, you look into your cup. Your reflection in the dark beverage is rippling, making your face hardly recognizable. Just like when you compare who you are to who you should be. “At least in my mind, in my fantasies, I'm the hero that saves me,” you whisper to yourself and down the rest of your drink. It’s easier to be delusional when you can’t string a coherent sentence.

The realization hits Zoro like a derailed train. Of course he’s never seen you get hung up over your mistakes - you’ve been holding it inside, beating yourself up away from everyone’s eyesight. Your otherwise happy-go-lucky exterior is a mere facade, the face of someone you’d like to be. And the more you realize it’s not your true face, the more upset you get. How long have gone holding yourself to an impossible ideal? Hating yourself for being anything but perfect and imposing?

How heavy is the real burden on your shoulders?

"I'll do it for you,” he offers quietly.

Your confused gaze meets the confident glint in his eyes. He looks sure of himself - more certain than he normally is. A smile threatens to pull up one corner of his lips.

"Do what?" you ask.

"I'll be the hero that saves you."

A bitter chuckle escapes your lips and echoes throughout the small storage closet. The sound bounces off the wooden walls and comes back to you with a certain depth and delay, making you feel as though it’s the world laughing at you and the poor sod that offers to help you - you don’t hold hands with someone who easily catches on fire, burning everything around them. That’s just stupid.

“Thanks but that still makes me the world’s biggest loser who can’t put the money where their mouth is and is stuck in a perpetual cycle of doom.”

You look away, staring ahead, but Zoro’s eyes linger on you. Sure, he can fight pirates and animals and fishmen and all the strange horrors lurking in the world but how in hell is he going to fight something immaterial? How powerless he feels with three swords at his side and yet no way to fight the foul-tongued beast in the back of your head.

"Just put it on me," he presses on. "If you need help, put it on me. If you're going through Hell, put it on me.” Then, to your surprise, he firmly grabs your hand, squeezing it in a meaningful manner. “Seriously."

You try to wiggle your palm out of his hold but it proves useless - his grip is iron, although not painful. No matter how much you’re enjoying this uncharacteristic intimacy, you know better than to get used to it. Zoro deserves better than to be the victim of your ricochet.

“You’ve got enough on your head already,” you say in a stern voice. “My own bullshit is the last thing you need.”

For the first time in weeks, Roronoa Zoro smiles. It’s not a smile of amusement, of being entertained. No, it’s a smile of seeing something, or someone, he holds dear. In other words, it’s not his mind that rejoices but his very heart and soul.

“I want to worry about you,” he confesses.

Tears are prickling at your eyes and you’re doing everything you can to keep them from falling. Alas, you’re quite far from sober and self-control is not an ability within your grasp. Your face feels hot as teardrops slowly roll down your cheeks.

A bitter scoff leaves your lips. “It will be an unending horror.”

“I’m not afraid,” he reassures you casually. “And we’re in the middle of the sea. I’ve got time.”

Hesitantly, you rest your head against his chest. Zoro welcomes the gesture, letting go of your hand and putting his arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer to himself.

[asumofwords]

Midpoint - Michael Gavey x Reader

Synopsis: The semester break came along quicker than you thought it would, and you decided to stay on campus for the break to get ahead in your studies. What will happen when you go head-to-head with a certain ill-tempered maths student in a war of pettiness?

Warnings: This fic is 18+, readers discretion is advised. Arguing, pettiness, name calling, low blows, tension, degradation, ripped stockings, finger fucking, rough fucking, fucking in public, p in v, creampie, cum eating.

Word Count: 8.7k

Notes: Hello my angels, Happy New Year, heres to all the filth that will continue to come from the cesspool that is my mind. Thank you all for your patience, I have been so excited to write for Michael, and so I hope you enjoy this as much as I have writing it !! heheh ;) <3

Part 2

There was a soft amber glow that cast over the library, the dark wood warming with the golden light that peaked through the windows, patches of wooden floors illuminated in some spots with coloured lights from stained glass windows.

For the most part, the library was empty bar three other students who had stayed behind for the break, getting ahead on their work for the next semester.

You were one of them, and with the sheer size of the library, you wouldn’t have known there were others inside if you had not seen them when walking down the endless isles of books in search for the ‘British Working Class Movements’ for your history course. 

It didn’t take long for you to find it, and by the time you settled into a secluded corner down the back, the sun had already begun to set. You flicked on one of the green and gold table lamps and began to read, periodically taking notes on a page as you went.

It wasn’t that you needed to study ahead, it simply gave you something to do whilst the break droned on, few students having stayed behind making it lonely, but a bit more bearable than making the long trip home.

You loved the library, the stained wood, smell of old books lining the walls, and the quiet of the place was a nice haven to get away from the usual hustle and bustle of college. Everyone always seemed to be in a rush to either their next class or their next party, and although you weren’t a loner per se, you didn’t always feel like being in the constant lights and sounds that came with socialising. And so the library was the one place, besides your dorm, where you could have a nice piece of solitude.

Settling over the page, you gained a steady rhythm. Read about one movement, then write anecdotes as you went, taking the time to pause, re-read, and really absorb the information as much as you could. It was fascinating, and you enjoyed learning as much as you did.

By the third hour of continuous reading and note taking, your hand began to cramp, and so you decided it was time for a short break. You stood up from the desk, stretching your arms above your head, a small sigh escaping your lips as your back cracked and muscles pulled. You twisted your upper body to each side, softly grunting as you felt your back click again and again, sighing loudly as a particular pop took away an ache that had settled between your shoulders. You continued on with your languid stretches, trying to get some of the stiffness out of your body from being hunched over the desk for so long. 

You wondered how much more time you should spend writing notes, or whether you could go back to your dorm and laze about on the bed. Luckily for you, you didn’t have a roommate, and were able to make the space feel much like your own. You didn’t have too much furniture, the room not allowing for it, just your essentials and a few trinkets here and there that you had collected. Your real pride and joy however, was a Peace Lily that you had saved from sure death. Now, it sat proudly on your study desk, growing dark green leaves and flowering its soft white flowers.

The idea of going back to your dorm seemed tempting, after all, you didn’t really have to be studying, and you had just recently bought the new Harry Potter book and wished to read some more of it, make a nice cup of tea, sink into your sheets and get lost into a fantasy world.

A soft jangling came from between one of the large book shelves, and soon a man peeked through. His icy blue eyes caught yours and you watched as he assessed you from where he stood, albeit awkwardly, gaze dragging up and down your body.

He was tall and lean, with sandy blonde hair that sat messily atop his head. He had a sharp aquiline nose, and lips that pulled up naturally in its corners.

You recognised him from somewhere, but where you couldn't be sure.

Perhaps he was in the same classes as you?

He continued to stare at you, shirt tucked into his pants, small carabiner attached with a USB dangling from a belt loop, his tongue pushed into his cheek.

“You right?” You asked, shifting on your feet, wondering if he needed something from you.

His lips pursed as he looked at you from down his nose, “Are you?”

You furrowed your brows, “Huh?” 

“You've been moaning in the back of the library like a tart.” 

You bristled, “I beg your pardon?”

Who the fuck-

“Some of us are trying to study.” His arms were stiff by his sides, and before you had the chance to reply, he spun on his heel, shoes squeaking loudly in the aisles as he marched away.

“What the fuck?” You whispered to yourself, feeling angry and also slightly embarrassed about the encounter.

Had you been making a lot of noise? 

You didn’t think so, especially since the library was essentially empty anyway. You had even chosen the furthest corner of the floor as well, tucked away behind rows of books and out of sight. 

You sat back down at the desk and tried to continue writing notes, but instead, you found yourself feeling far too self conscious, and wondered if you were even breathing too loudly. But before you got too self critical, you remembered that the library was practically empty, and you had specifically chosen a spot the furthest away from the other three students.

If your stretching and little sighs had disturbed him, he was either hanging around your area, or had the hearing of a bat. 

So after about an hours more of study attempts and a half a page more of notes, you decided to call it a night, packing away your belongings before taking the book with you, not bothering to check it out. 

As soon as you got back to your dorm, you headed straight to bed, not feeling in the mood to make a cup of tea or even open your new book, no longer looking forward to enjoying yourself and settling in. Instead you laid on your back staring at the ceiling, stewing about how the man in the library had spoken to you, and vowing that if you saw him again, you'd give him a piece of your mind. 

And by your luck, you did see him again. 

The very next day.

You got to the library around midday, deciding that you weren’t going to do a late night of studying, deciding to have a relaxing night in to pamper yourself, maybe even watch a movie in the common rooms if the tv free, or do as you had intended the night before; a cup of tea and your book, and maybe even some ‘me’ time.

The library, despite all its windows and the suns rays peeping through, was cold, and as soon as you stepped foot into it a chill ran over you. You walked through the endless rows of books, not seeing a soul as you climbed the stairs to the second floor, dust settled into the crooks and corners of the staircases and bannisters, the smell almost overwhelming, until finally, you saw him. 

He was sat in the centre of the room at one of the large study desks, multiple books opened around him as he furiously wrote down notes and equations. His head didn’t lift at the sound of your footsteps, too busy in his own little world studying for God knows what, so much so, that it was a wonder that you had even managed to disturb him the day prior, which now only seemed to fuel your anger.

You were never one to back down.

You walked straight to him, toes almost kicking the leg of the table as you looked down at his neat writing, his hand flying across the page in rapid succession, no calculator in sight despite the lengthiness of the equations.

It was impressive, you noted begrudgingly, the way he worked so swiftly, and just was you were about to gain his attention, he spoke to you, hand not once slowing as he worked. 

“What do you want?” 

It wasn’t rude, just as it wasn’t polite. If anything, it was abrasive, like the rough cobblestones outside, and not once did he look up at you.

It caught you off guard.

Your mouth opened and shut as you tried to think of something to say.

Was it really worth being hot headed and saying something the day after?

Would he even remember?

Or would you be embarrassing yourself further?

Ultimately you gave up, deciding that there was no point to saying anything anymore, sighing in resignation as you walked around the length of the table continuing to yours. 

You got about three steps away before he spoke again.

“Remember that you’re in the library this time.”

You spun, staring daggers into the back of his head, hand gripping the strap of your bag, “What the fuck is your problem?” Your chest heaved in anger, waiting for him to turn around or answer you, but he didn’t.

The sandy haired man continued his endless equations, leaving you standing behind him as though you had spoken to a ghost. It was maddening, the rush of your blood loud in your ears drowning out the steady scratch of his pencil.

How dare he?

He was just like all the others, like every other man on campus who felt they could speak however they like at any woman as though you were beneath them. 

You stood there for what felt like minutes, but was mere seconds.

Realising that you weren’t to get an answer from him, you continued on your way to your secluded little table, stomping through the aisles, your footsteps echoing loudly in the space on the wooden floor.

When you got to the table, you all but threw your bag down, the heavy textbook slamming onto the wooden surface, making a large bang.

Never in your life had you been so agitated, ripping the chair away from the desk, letting the legs scrape on the mahogany floor. 

One after the other, you yanked your books out of your bag, your notebook and pens, throwing them onto the table without a care. You could feel the heat of your anger creeping up your neck and into your face, and despite your attempts to calm yourself by studying, you ended up just re-reading the same paragraph over and over again, not once absorbing it. 

By the time you decided to give up, the sun had begun to set, and so you hastily scrambled to shove your things back into your bag, not even bothering to tuck your chair in softly, throwing it against the desk and storming out the way you came.

He was still in his regular spot when you stalked past him, his head turned down as he read through his notes, multiple empty chocolate wrappersw spread across the table. 

“Fucking asshole.” You muttered as you walked past him, not bothering to spare him a second glance as you huffed and stormed away, hoping to find some peace in your dorm. 

When you got to your dorm, you were so hungry that you began to feel sick. Realising that in your anger you had forgotten to eat, you wandered down to the pub not far from campus and got a cheap little meal, eating quietly in the corner, a telly playing a soccer game on the screen in the back. 

There weren't many patrons that night, but you could hear the pool table being used in the distance, the loud clacking of the balls being sunk, drowning out the soft sound of the telly. The pub stunk of stale beer and cigarettes, ring stains on all the wooden surfaces from sweating glasses.

It was still early when you finished, and so you made the decision to check out the commons and see if a tv was free.

The night air was cold as you walked back to your dorm, your teeth chattering in your skull as you sped walked, wrapping your arms around yourself to get back into the warmth of the old building. Lights illuminated the old stone walls in a yellow light, casting shadows on the cobblestones and bare trees around you.

It would have been spooky if you weren’t used to it by now, and could understand how first years would become spooked at night alone, walking through the courtyards.

As you made your way towards the common room in your building, you couldn’t help but think about the man in the library. His sandy hair, blue eyes, sharp features and sharper mouth. Who needed a heater when you had this man to fire you up? You could almost hear his grating tone as he mocked you, his glasses shining in the library as he looked down his nose at you.

He made you feel small, unwanted. But you had worked hard to get into Oxford, and you, whether he liked it or not, had earned your place. 

It wasn’t unlike the men you already knew in STEM to be somewhat assholes, especially towards women or any degrees they deemed ‘unfit’ or ‘unworthy’. You had heard many scoffs and sneers at the Arts students, or English Literature kids, especially if it was women, from the STEM boys who seemed to hoard together like a bunch of flies. Or better yet, like a Rat King, unable to break the connection between each other despite how much they fought it.

It was, to follow the pun, a rat race.

The hall was dark as you walked to the commons, but from the window of the door, you saw the tale tell sign of the telly being on. You wondered momentarily if it was anyone you knew that had stayed back, perhaps one of the girls.

Maybe you could settle down with them and watch whatever mind melting soap opera was on, and lull yourself into a stupor. 

The prospect of talking to someone almost dissolved your sour mood, and by the time you opened the door, peering into the flickering light illuminated room, a small smile had begun to pull at your lips.

But that smile was short lived as your eyes met a pair of pale blue ones.

You watched as his lips pulled down in recognition of you, his head turning to look back at the telly. Your heart began to race in your chest again, the door clicking shut behind you, the soft sound of Doctor Who’s theme song filling the room, the screen reflecting off of his rectangular lenses. 

It didn’t help that the small drinks you had at the pub seemed to ignite your previous disdain for the man, as well as dampening your, for a lack of a better word, cognition.

In that moment, you were at a loss of what to do. You wanted to watch tv, but the idea of being anywhere near him infuriated you. Yet, at the same time, you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction by leaving, indicating to him that you had given up, and that he had won.

“You going to stand there all night?” He teased cruelly, eyes not once turning back to you, locked on David Tenant as he ran through an abandoned warehouse.

You bristled, teeth grinding down against each other as you stormed past him, “Fuck you.” You dropped down onto the cushion on the other end of the couch. 

From the corner of your eye, you could see his lips purse slightly, obviously hearing you.

No matter how much you tried, you could not get comfortable on the couch, and it wasn’t because the couch had a natural groove from the many people who sat in it, or the obvious stains on the covers and arms, some recognisable, others dubious, nor the permeating cigarette smell that emanated from deep within the foam, but rather because he sat all too comfortable beside you, watching a show you wished you could watch alone.

You shifted against the arm again for the umpteenth, huffing softly in the room. Your ass had fallen asleep because you sat ramrod straight and refused to relax, tucking your legs beneath you not leaning back. No matter what you did, you could not settle, body gearing up for a fight.

When you shifted again, it seemed to pull his attention away from David Tenants doctor.

“You gonna keep huffing in the corner like a baby?”

Your already fragile thread of patience snapped.

“What the fuck is your problem? Have I done something to you? I don’t even know who you are.”

Apparently that was the wrong thing to say to him. The man sneered, leaning towards you on the couch, “My problem is vapid little cunts like you. Getting by on mummy and daddy’s money whilst the rest of us have to work to stay here. You just party and fuck each other like rats.” His cold eyes razed up and down your body, watching as your face morphed from anger to offence, and then, to rage.

You shot up from your seat, moving to stand over him as he looked up at you, face barely containing his hatred. 

“I don’t have ‘mummy’s and daddy’s money’, I’m here because I worked hard to be here.” You hissed, hands clenched into fists at your sides, “You know nothing about me.” 

“I know you’re friends with Felix Catton and every other vapid, useless cunt that hangs off of his every breath.” His voice lowered, hatred simmering behind his light illuminated glasses.

Your brows furrowed, “Felix and I have a class together. Assigned seating. We walk there together. If-” You straightened, looking down at him before it hit you.

A laugh of disbelief flew from your lips, and soon enough the cocksure anger melted away from his sharp features, replaced by confusion.

“Wow.” You huffed, a bitter laugh filling the air, “You’re jealous.” His eyes narrowed on you, “You’re jealous of Felix.” You watched as his mouth snapped open, “Maybe if you weren’t so-“

“-I’m not fucking jealous of those nobodies.”

Snorting, you shook your head, “Nobodies… Yet people know their name. I don’t even know who you are.”

You waited for him to give you his name, to finally tell you who this infuriating man was, the credits of Doctor Who playing in the background as you stared at each other. Your chest heaved, but all you felt looking down at him was irritation.

“Your anger is misdirected." You growled, "I thought you would be smarter than that.”

The man's jaw ticked, “I thought you didn’t know who I was.”

“I don’t.”

You turned away, suddenly drained from the whole interaction. You didn’t bother to turn back and look at him, or even say another word. You wanted to go to bed, no, needed to go to bed and get away from the man on the couch before you tore your hair out.

As you opened the common room door, his voice called out to you.

“Y/n L/n.” 

The way he said your name sent goosebumps rising on your skin, each syllable pronounced slowly, as though he was savouring your name on the tip of his tongue. Your hand paused on the door as you pushed it open, looking back at him. 

“And who are you?”

Before he could answer, you left, slamming the door shut behind you. You marched straight back to your room, hands in such tight fists that your nails left half crescent moons in the flesh of your palms.

You lay awake most of the evening staring at the ceiling with the interaction on your mind.

He knew you by name, even thought you were friends with Felix, and whilst you weren’t not friendly with him, you wouldn’t say you were closely acquainted. You drank at the same parties sometimes or saw him down at the pub, but the only one-on-one time you had with him was in class. 

Whoever this man was, and whoever he thought you were, he was wrong. And now he was going to regret it.

You knew he would be there, in fact you betted on it, getting up extra early to go to the library to do the one thing you planned on doing that day.

Piss him off.

If there was one thing that men hate the most in the world, it was not being in control, and that was doubled if it was with a woman.

You sat at the table he always did, spreading your textbooks and papers, pens, notes, snacks, water bottle, and even IPod Nano on its surface. You had brought extra things with you today in your bag to spread across the table, some things not even needed to study, but used to take up more space and soil his little territory.

The sun had barely even risen by the time you laid it all out, but you knew it would all be worth it.

And it was, because not even fifteen minutes later, he arrived to the sight of you at his desk, humming as you looked at your notes.

His feet stopped not too far from your (his) table, watching as you met his gaze, devoid of emotion. You bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from smiling, watching as he clenched his teeth in irritation.

He was almost shaking with anger.

Got you.

You kept the image of innocence, looking back down at your notes as you tapped your pen against the tables surface loudly. You could see his fists clenching in your periphery at his side, his pale green button up shirt with long beige pants shifting side to side as he stood angrily watching you.

“What are you doing?” The blonde’s voice cut through the quiet of the library, irritation evident in his tone.

You didn’t bother to look up, pen still clicking rhythmically against the table, “Hm?”

“You think you’re clever, don’t you?”

Placing the pen on your page delicately, you looked up, “Pardon?”

The mans cheeks flushed an angry red as he stared down at you, lips pulling into a tight line, “Whatever you think-“

“-I’m sorry,” You interrupted him, leaning forward to look up into his eyes sweetly, “Do I know you?”

The man leant forward and sneered, “Gavey.”

“Gavey?” You titled your head, biting your lip softly in thought.

Why did that name sound so familiar?

“Yes.” He grit through his teeth, looking down at your spread notes and gear.

Then it came to you.

“Gavey! Michael Gavey!” You beamed up at him, leaning slightly forward on the desk.

Now you knew why he was so familiar.

“You’re the maths genius.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement. Anyone who had heard about Michael Gavey knew about his stellar intellect when it came to maths, and unfortunately for him, they also knew about his little antisocial outbursts, “You yelled at Oliver on O week.”

You watched with delight as the anger fell momentarily from his face, and embarrassment replaced it. You leant further forward, putting both elbows on the table as you rested your chin on your hands, looking up at him through your lashes.

“Is it true then? You can do any sum just in your head?”

If it was true, he needed to be studied by a team of scientists.

And maybe a behavioural therapist.

Michael stood taller, proud to have been recognised for this part of him as he watched you bat your eyelashes at him. His shoulders rolled back, eyes glimmering with determination behind his glasses.

Men were so easy.

You just stroke their ego a little and their guard comes down immediately.

“Ask me.” His voice was soft, confident, waiting on bated breath to show off his born skill.

You smiled, “Alright. Seven-hundred-and-eighty-nine multiplied by six-hundred-and-fifty-four.”

Without missing a beat, “Five-hundred-and-sixteen-thousand-and-six.”

“Divided by twelve.”

“Forty-three-thousand point five.”

“Times nine.”

“Three-hundred-and-eighty-seven-thousand-and-four point five.”

You leant back in your chair watching him. It was impressive, and if he wasn’t such a prick, you would have openly praised him. But you didn’t have it in you in that moment to give him anything but a lengthy stare, using the time to get a good look at his face without the sneer.

He was handsome, a long face framed nicely by his ‘devil may care’ hair. You wondered if he even bothered to brush it in the morning. The longer you looked at him the more you could see how his sharp features and soft lips would in fact get him the attention he so desperately craved, if only he wasn’t as insufferable as he was. In fact, the more you thought about it, if things had been different, perhaps you would have pursued him, maybe even asked him out for a drink.

Instead, he had made an enemy for himself, and being petty at this point was a hobby for you that you took great time and pleasure in doing, especially if it was for assholes who made the first move unwarranted. 

“Hm.” You tapped your pen against the table, “How do I know it’s correct and you're not just making it up?”

This seemed to anger Gavey.

“I’m not making it up. I do the sums,” He narrowed his eyes, “In my head.”

“I don’t have a calculator to confirm this. For all I know, you could be lying.”

The anger was back, “I’m not lying. I’m never wrong.”

“Sure.”

“I’m a genius.”

“Uh huh.”

Then came the vitriol, his shoulders tensed in rage, “What would you know anything about maths? You’re a History and Philosophy major.” Michael scoffed, seeming to think that his disdain for your degree would upset you in the slightest.

You sighed loudly, pulling the earphones from your Ipod to begin putting them in your ears. You looked at him pointedly, putting a sad little smile onto your lips. 

Show time.

“It’s a shame, you know.” You said sadly.

“What?” Michael responded, over-eagerly.

The earphones sat in your ears and you scrolled down to a song you wanted, letting the music begin to play loudly just to piss him off, the noise turned up high enough for him to hear the lyrics. You didn't show it, but it was too loud, and most certainly hurt your ears, yet it was worth it to see his nose scrunch up.

“That you’re a snob.” Your voice rose over the music in your ears, unable to hear anything but the loud bass line that bounced in your head, “You’re actually cute when you’re not sneering at me.” You let your eyes drop back to your page, ignoring his presence as you strummed the pen loudly against the wood of the desk, unable to hear if he responded, but also not bothered to hear him. You had ended the conversation just the way you wanted.

And it would drive him nuts.

What you hadn’t seen was his mouth opening and shutting multiple times as a blush spread across his cheeks. He stood idly by, utterly unable to produce a single word or sound bar clearing his throat. Michael disappeared from your periphery as he left to sit at the table at the end, dropping into his seat to begin his studies.

But it proved to be fruitless, because as he attempted to settle into the endless stream of equations, all he could hear behind him was the tinny sound of your music blasting from your earphones and the steady grating tap of your pen.

He tried, in vein, for over an hour to focus, before giving up and storming out of the library. It was only then when you lifted your head, smiling at his retreating figure in triumph. 

I win.

Not a word had been written on your page, and not a thing had been absorbed in your head. You lowered the volume of your music, a ringing settling into your ears, before packing up your things to go back to your dorm, deciding that a job well done was deserving of some respite, and in your good mood you would actually read your book.

You spent the rest of your day and better part of your evening reading, lounging, and snacking on some chips as you snuggled into your sheets. 

Being the creature of habit that you were, you ended your triumphant day going to the pub to have another cheap meal and a drink or two, spending a considerable amount of the evening chatting up another student who had also stayed behind during the break.

He was cute, and funny, and although he hinted more than once that he would like to continue your evening back in either one of your dorms, you didn’t have the energy to entertain a potentially dull night of barely there pleasure. 

He smiled too wide and had too much confidence to really know what he was doing, and you felt immediately that he would be the type to get his and leave you high and dry. So you parted, promising emptily to get another pint together soon enough, though you knew it wasn’t your stellar verbal company that he wanted.

Sinking into bed that evening was an easy and pleasurable experience. You crawled into your sheets, smile on your face and victory on your tongue. Your tit-for-tat was successful, and now you could finally just focus on your work, and not the sandy haired Michael Gavey who seemed to invade your every thought. 

-

The sun trickled through the curtains by your bed, a warm stream of light hitting your face. You woke with a stretch, body slowly waking up with the day.

You didn’t have much planned after yesterdays success, and didn’t have a want to do much at all, but there was only so much lounging in bed one could do over the many weeks of break, so you decided to go back to the library, at least for an hour to make up for yesterdays losses (despite the personal win). 

You looked around your room and settled on a skirt and some tights with a turtle neck sweater, unable to find anything else as a pile of dirty clothes had slowly accumulated in the corner. You made a note to yourself to take it to the laundromat later with some coins and your book. 

The walk to the library was the same monotonous one as it always was. The same stone walls, the same dark wooden detailing and floor, the occasional beautiful stained glass window, and the ever strange silence of an empty college. There was a light layer of frost on the grass outside, and you wouldn’t be surprised if it would snow. The trees were bare except for a handful of orange and brown leaves, hanging on for dear life, or perhaps, holding on with dead fingers.

Rigor mortus of the petiole.

The steps creaked beneath your feet as you made your way up to your usual spot, the library cold as it always was, causing you to wish you had brought a warmer jacket with you. When you got to the landing, you expected to see him, sandy hair, glasses slipping down his sharp nose, hunched over the same textbook as he wrote out his equations with dizzying speed, but the tables were empty, and the aisles were barren, and all that was in the library was you.

Briefly you wondered for a moment if something has happened to him. Had he gotten sick? Too ill to crawl out of bed, laying in his sheets with a fever and no one to comfort him?

You frowned at the thought. 

Why did you care?

His ego was likely too bruised to show his face, and was hidden in another alcove or other smaller library somewhere else, or perhaps even in his room.

Maybe he even had friends, and decided to spend the day with them, likely another student in STEM. 

You could have sworn you saw him and Oliver Quick in the pub one night together.

You walked past his empty table and continued down the end to where your little nook was, grazing your fingers along the spines of the books as you went. Each ridge another spine, each spine another thousand upon thousand of words that had been read, dissected, and rewritten by many a student. You liked to think about how many hands had touched the pages, how many eyes had skimmed the words, how many bags, beds, tables, couches, cars or trains they had been in over the years, and how many times you had read them, or held them in the same spot.

You emerged from the isles to your nook.

It was not what you had expected that morning.

Certainly not what you had expected any morning come to think of it, but even so, your steps halted and your heart began to quicken, anger slowing creeping up your neck, heating your face.

He was sat at your table.

Your table.

His glasses had slid down almost to the tip of his nose, a long slender finger daintily pushing them back up to the bridge, lips pouted in their natural pout as his hand flew about his notes, writing equation after equation in a speed that would intimidate even Einstein. Michaels hair was disheveled, as though he had run his hand through it multiple times, as he contemplated the pros and cons of sitting there. 

He must have landed on the pros.

“What are you doing.” You bit out, an irritating sense of dejavu seeping into your bones.

Michael didn’t look up at you, your feet almost pushing through the floor, anger rooting you in place.

“Hm?” Came his noncommittal reply.

It set you off.

“You’re in my seat.” You hissed, swiftly stepping towards him.

The light from the window beside him cast shadows across half his face as he looked up at you, he sucked his teeth loudly, “Your seat?”

“Yes.”

“I see.” His head dipped back down to his notes, his blue eyes looking up at you from under his lashes as his hand continued to write, “This is a public library. It’s a public seat.”

You stormed forward dumping your bag atop his hand, his pencil scraping across his notes on the paper, “You know exactly what I mean.”

His jaw ticked, steely blue eyes flicking to where you dumped your heavy bag atop his notes and own text book.

“I’m sorry, I’m not tutoring on break.” His tone all too demeaning as he over pronounced each word.

Your hands slammed down onto the desk as you leant forward towards his face, “I don’t need a tutor and you know it, you miserable little cunt.” Anger boiled inside of you, building and building, ready to burst. 

Michael bristled, “Who the f-“

“-Oh, fuck you, Michael. You’re a miserable piece of shit, thinking you’re above everybody else, sneering at anyone who dares to be happy. I’ve seen you, always sulking about in the shadows because no one can stand to be around you.”

The silence was almost deafening.

Oh God.

That was a low blow.

You had taken it too far.

You swallowed thickly, suddenly feeling very guilty, “Michael,” You started, “That was-“

A pale hand lifted in front of your face, the man standing almost near silently in front of you. He went from below you, to towering above in a split second, his sheer size double your own. He stared down his sharp nose at you with a look of contempt, the rage behind his eyes flickering with barely held restraint.

“Do you want to know what I think?” His voice was low, lower than you had ever heard it go, emotion almost drained entirely from it except an icy edge which sent the hairs on the back of your neck on end.

You stayed silent, watching as he stepped away from the desk, chair scraping on the wood to come towards you slowly, your heart beating like a drum behind your ribs.

Though you could step back, his eyes kept you glued to where you were, head craned up to look at him as he came closer, the tension in his jaw growing with every passing second.

It was unnerving, and everything within told you to run, but something made you stay.

Call it guilt.

Or intrigue.

His hand dropped to his side, slow, calculated steps coming closer, each one as silent as the next as his cheek twitched whilst looking you over.

“I think,” He began, a foot away from you, voice low, “That you’re just desperate enough to accept the scraps that they give you, because you fear if you don’t,” Another step, taking him toe-to-toe with you, “That you’ll be a nobody like me.”

Your mouth became dry, lips slightly parted as a tinge of hurt spread through your chest.

You shook your head faintly, “I don’t think you’re a nobody.”

A brow lifted, “You called me a nobody.”

“I was wrong.”

“Wrong because it was hurtful? Or wrong because you have more in common with me than you do with them.”

You shook your head, “Why is it always about them?”

“It is always,” He sneered, “About them. I have watched you take what little you can get from them like a beggar. Talking to Felix in the hallways, doing his homework for him, smiling at him like a dolt.”

Your eyes widened in surprise.

“I’ve seen you.” His shoe bumped against yours as he leant forward, “You’re nothing to them. How long was it before they even learnt your name?”

“Stop it.” You whispered, feeling tears prickle in your eyes.

Michaels head tilted, “Why? It’s the truth.”

“It’s not.”

The sandy haired man clicked his tongue at you, head tilting, “You and I both know that’s not the truth, is it? What did Farleigh call you again?”

A lone tear fell down your cheek, leaving a wet track in its path. Your lip wobbled as you tried to keep your composure.

You didn’t know how he knew.

You didn’t know how he could have known what Farleigh had said to you that night, drinking in the pub together.

You hadn’t even meant to join them, but their table grew bigger and bigger until it swallowed your own and soon enough they were buying you shots. It was never a regular thing, you were never quite in the circle, but not quite out of it either. More-so lingering in the nothingness of neither here nor there. 

Michael looked at you pityingly, not in a way where he held empathy for you because of it, but in a way where he pitied you for being the way you were. It was demeaning. Cold. 

Detached.

“Parvenu.” His lips pronounced each syllable slowly, darkly, and it made you ache.

Another tear fell as you took a sharp intake of breath, sniffling roughly. 

Shame built inside of you. 

It was humiliating to relive that moment, let alone with Michael. And now that you knew he had witnessed or heard it, you wondered who else may have been there to hear Farleigh’s degrading comment and snort of a laugh followed. The way he would raise his brows at you the rest of the night as if to say ‘See? You don’t belong here, and we can all see it’, ‘We let you here because we can’.

“I don’t understand-“

Michael interrupted you, "-You let them walk all over you, and for what? Parties and accolades?” The corners of his lips turned downwards, “They don’t even respect you. Do they know that you’ve stayed behind on break alone? Do you think they’ll think of you in their mansions? Do you think Felix would ever-“

“-You talk about them as if they’re irredeemable, but they’ve been far nicer to me than you have.” Another tear fell, and your stomach tied itself in knots. 

The anger seemed to simmer in his eyes, “They don’t deserve you.”

Your brows pulled down in confusion, “What?”

“You let them use you, chasing after their fleeting affections. It’s pathetic.”

Anger began to simmer inside of you, “Pathetic? You know what’s pathetic?” You leaned up on your toes, “The fact that you have so clearly been watching me, and everything that I do, and not once have you tried to be my friend. Do you know what’s pathetic?” Your voice began to rise, heat inside of you rising with it, “Your anger and hatred of them clearly stems from jealously and embarrassment because they would never talk to-“

Your eyes widened in shock, his lips crashing against yours as he yanked you forward, hand at the back of your head pulling you in tightly. You were so in shock, you didn’t know what to do, standing stiffly in his arms as the other circled your waist and pulled you against him. 

It only took a second for your brain to come to with what was happening, your eyes sliding shut as you kissed him back roughly, all teeth and vitriol as you bit the soft flesh of his lips roughly. He hissed, pulling you closer, your feet stumbling against his as he backed you towards the wall of books beside the desk. 

Your spine hit the shelf roughly as he shoved you back, both of you panting before you grabbed his shirt angrily, yanking him back towards you. You were so furious, so almost feral that you needed this more than you would have thought.

There was something about him, something about him that made you want to pull your hair out and also sit on his face to silence him. 

His kisses weren’t skilled, but they were filled with passion as his teeth clashed against yours, a fight for dominance ensuing as you let a hand slide up into his hair and pull. A grunt came from deep within his chest as you yanked at the roots cruelly, hoping it would hurt him. Heat built in your gut rapidly, the need for him growing stronger with each passing second. 

The hand on your waist slid down further, pulling up your skirt as his fingers pressed against your clothed core. You gasped into his mouth, hips thrusting forward from the pressure. With the other hand disappearing from the back of your head, it met the other between your legs, hooking into the gusset of your tights before you heard a loud rip, cold air immediately hitting your core. 

You gasped loudly, Michael taking advantage as he slid his tongue into your mouth, flicking it upwards against the back of your teeth. He tasted faintly like chocolate, and it was a taste that you didn’t mind at all. His fingers immediately sought out your centre, sliding impatiently between your folds to gather the wetness from your entrance. 

His movements were sloppy, yet focused, drawing it up to your clit as he rubbed fierce circles into it that bordered on painful. You nipped his bottom lip harshly again, yanking his head back and away from you to look at his face as two long digits circled your entrance. 

The pupils of his eyes were enlarged, almost swallowing the blue of his iris whole. His cheeks were flushed a dusty pink, and lips a deep red after your bites. The glasses upon his face were slightly skewed and lightly fogged, the hair atop his head sticking up in different directions from your rough handling. You didn’t even get to observe him for longer before he roughly shoved the two fingers inside.

“Fuck.” You hissed, back arching towards him, shoulders roughly pushing into the bookshelf.

A mean smirk pulled on his lips as he crooked his fingers against the front of your walls, quickly thrusting his hand in and out with dizzying speed. Your breath caught in your throat, brows pulled down as you looked at him, low whine falling from your lips.

“So wet already.” Michael teased, thumb lightly brushing your pearl, a spark of intense pleasure shooting up you. 

You pulled his head back towards you, moaning into his mouth as he continued to fuck you with his fingers, the sound of your arousal loud in the both of your ears. Michael pulled up one of your legs, hooking it around his hip, the cold metal of his carabiner pressing sharply into your inner thigh. Pleasure began to wind tightly in your gut, his long fingers reaching parts of you, your own couldn’t. 

Panting against his mouth, your hand flew behind you to grip one of the wooden shelves, elbow bumping against the spines of the books.

His pace never once faltered, all those hours of quick equations all day boosting his hand strength and stamina. You were surprised that he even knew what he was doing, but the questions floated aimlessly in the back of your mind, not quite sticking.

Your nails dug into the wood of the shelf, hand falling from his hair to his shoulder as your head fell backwards against the shelf, your peak barreling towards you.

“S’close. Please.” You whined, rolling your hips into his hand.

A mean laugh broke your peace, his fingers pulling out of you sharply, preventing you from reaching your release. Your eyes flew open, brows furrowed in frustration as you looked at him, smug smirk on his lips as he brought his fingers up to his mouth, sucking on the arousal soaked digits. 

You moaned weakly looking at him as he did it, hips rolling towards him in an attempt to get him to touch you again. Michael lips pouted at you as he pulled his fingers from his mouth with a wet pop.

“Touch me.” You breathed, pulling him towards you with your leg, the zipper of his cargo pants pressing against you sharply. You sighed, rubbing your centre against his pants, a wet patch no doubt beginning to stain the front of them. 

“So desperate.” He cooed at you, your core clenching at his words as your eyes fluttered.

The hand that had been inside of you quickly made its way to the front of his pants, the other joining as he hastily undid his belt, not pulling it through the loops, followed by his button and zipper. Michael hastily reached into his pants and pulled out his hardened length, the tip pink and weeping, veins crawling up the sides.

You swallowed thickly as you looked down. 

Oh shit. 

Michael was very well endowed.

You didn’t know what shocked you more, the fact that he had such a sizeable cock, or how he thrust it up into you without warning. The stretch was bordering painful and you cried out loudly, Michaels hand slapping across your mouth to stifle the sound. 

“Quiet.” He hissed, pushing in to the hilt, the tip of his cock brushing against your cervix. Your eyes screwed shut as you whined into his palm, your walls struggling to accommodate him as he slowly pulled out, each vein and ridge catching on your inner walls deliciously.

The slow heat inside of you began to build once more. 

Michael thrust into you sharply, your head banging against the back of the shelves as he kept his hand against your mouth, the other holding your hip against him. He set a brutal pace, fucking into your slick walls without abandon as he chased his own pleasure, punching the air out of your chest. 

“Fuck.” He hissed, forehead pressing against your own as he looked down to where you were joined, the leg you stood on stretched on your tippy toe to meet his height as he fucked you, “Your cunt is fucking tight.” 

“Mmm.” You moaned, eyes slipping shut as the coil within your gut began to wind rapidly, each brutal thrust stretching you wide against him with painful pleasure. 

“You gonna cum?” He panted, his eyes shutting behind his glasses that slid down his nose, “Can feel you squeezing my cock. Fuck.”

You nodded desperately beneath his hand, eyes opening to meet his steely gaze as he pulled his head back to watch you, the book shelf creaking as he fucked you against it.

You were so close, so fucking close. 

“Go on.” He commanded, “Cum on my cock like a little slut.”

Your core clenched around him, blinding white pleasure coursing through you as you came, his hand falling from your mouth as you moaned loudly, the noise echoing in the library.

“Shit, fuck. I’m gonna-“ Michael’s thrusts stuttered as a long moan burst from his lips, the warmth of his cum filling you.

You whined, hands gripping his hair as you crashed your lips against his, kissing him lazily as you both panted, his cock throbbing inside of you as your walls squeezed every last drop from him. 

Michael pushed as deep as he could go, the warmth of his cum beginning to leak around the base and down your thighs as you pulsed around him. Your mind was blank, fuzzy warmth spreading through your limbs in a soporific manner. He broke away from the kiss, breathing heavily as he looked down at you, glasses slightly foggy.

You searched his eyes and his face before a smile cracked on your lips. Michael mirrored it with a lopsided grin, huffing as he breathed out deeply.

Feeling a burst of confidence, you let a hand brush between your legs, swiping some of his cum that had dripped onto your thigh up to your mouth. You licked it off your finger slowly, opening your mouth to let him see the mess on your tongue before swallowing.

Michael’s adams apple bobbed, his cock twitching inside of you, “Fucking hell.”

You huffed another laugh, leaning forward to kiss him again, sliding your tongue into his mouth so he could taste himself as well as you on his tongue. He hummed loudly, dropping your leg to cradle your head in his hands. 

When you broke away once more, you couldn’t help but notice the glaringly obvious. 

Michael Gavey just fucked you in the library.

His tongue wet his lips as he looked at you, “Was that good?” A beat, “For you?”

“Yeah.” You breathed, “You?”

“Yeah.”

Silence began to stretch between the two of you before you shifted your hips, Gavey took the hint and slowly slid from your walls, causing you to whimper from the overstimulation. He tucked himself into his pants as you righted yourself, looking down at the gaping hole in the gusset of your tights.

“Well this will be an interesting walk home.” You mused, a hum of a laugh tickling the back of your throat.

Michael snorted, “Made quite the mess.”

“You did.”

Michael smirked, “It wasn’t all me now. I can’t take all the blame.”

You let your skirt drop, smoothing it down as you stepped away from the bookcase, looking back up at him.

“I suppose not. There was effort on both ends here.”

“There was.”

You nibbled at your lip, the unspoken words just at the tip of your tongue, “Michael-“

“-27. We’re in the same block.” His eyes searched yours.

Room 27? Why-

“Did you want to get a drink?” Michael blurted, shifting on his feet awkwardly as though you hadn't just fought and angrily fucked against a bookshelf. 

You looked at him closely. There was no sign of insincerity in his eyes.

He was offering an olive branch. 

You let a smile wash over your face, enjoying how his own came to match it.

“Sure."

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to any tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! <3

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[sadesluvr]

Kiss It Better

Seven minutes in heaven with Ethan Landry turns out to be the therapy you both needed.

(Ethan Landry x Reader)

A/N: My first (overdue) Ethan fic! Pre ejac with Ethan is one of my guiltiest pleasures…Minors/Ageless blogs DNI

Word count: 1.5K

Tags: SMUT / Fem! Reader / Enemies to lovers / Handjobs / Fingering / Premature ejaculation / Virgin! Ethan + Experienced! Reader / Dirty talk / Dom + Sub elements, if you squint

Ethan didn’t know how he’d gotten here; back pressed against the narrow walls of a shoe cupboard whilst he fought the process of perspiration, which seemed damn near impossible given the stuffiness of the frat house. 

His heart pounded in his chest as he squirmed uncomfortably, desperate not to look you in the face. You, the bane of his existence,  had become stuck together, counting the seconds as the time passed for the dreaded seven minutes.

It was a Friday night, and expectedly, Chad had dragged him to another party, filled with cheap alcohol and set to the aura of low, coloured lighting. He hadn’t expected you to show up - people usually only showed up to parties for one thing, and you were already dating Bryce, someone who happened to be his classmate. 

To put it simply, Bryce was an ass. He was a self entitled econ student, with a Fortune 500 father and a future budding stint in jail for fraud - should he ever be caught - though guys like Bryce never did.  

Two things made it worse - One, the fact that he seemed to target Ethan himself, and two, that you, his girlfriend, never seemed to do anything about it…to the point that it was encouraged.

There was never a moment where Bryce hadn’t threatened Ethan for ‘help’ (it was much, much more than that) to the latest assignment, or made a snide comment towards him in the hallways. He hated it, but he’d always been kind of a pushover.

So wasn’t it ironic that you’d ended up rolling him at a game of ‘Spin the Bottle?’

“I’m sorry,” Ethan said, clearing his throat. “I know you probably wanted someone like Chad…”

You snorted.

“He definitely wouldn’t have hurt,” you sighed, staring up at the ceiling, likely begging for someone to rescue you. “But I’ve been there, done that….plus, I’ve already got a man,”

Ethan raised his brows at your flippant admission. Chad hadn’t mentioned that before.

“…Does Bryce know you’re here?” he stammered.

“Yup,” you said nonchalantly, popping your tongue. “He didn’t stop me, so I guess our chapter’s closed,”

“Y-You broke up?” Ethan said, throat dry as he choked on his own words. This probably meant that the bastard would be even more of an ass to him, if that were even possible.

You nodded.

Ethan stared at you with wide eyes, about to speak when you raised a finger.

“I don’t need your pity. It’s just a college fling, I’ll move on to the next.”

He raised his brow and puffed his cheeks at that statement. He’d heard the exact opposite, but who was he to speak about someone else’s relationship?

It was silent for a few moments, with you finding a particular interest in your nails before you looked up at Ethan, studying him intently. He was rather big for a nerd; tall, with surprisingly wide shoulders and arms - a direct contrast to his boyish curly hair. He’d always been nothing but shy and polite - something even Bryce had echoed - but you’d never really taken him seriously. At most, he was just some dude from Econ who happened to room with one of your past flings.

Still, whether it was the liquor induced haze from cheap alcohol or the fact that you were moping over your breakup, the little dork seemed rather appealing. After all, what was a better way to get over a failed relationship?

“Look, I’m sorry for how that came out, okay?” You huffed, making eye contact with him. “I’m a little hurt, and I can be a total ass sometimes…Just like Bryce. I’m sorry for how he treated you. Totally not cool.”

You tried not to giggle at the way the boy's eyes widened.

“Y-You don’t have to apologise, it’s not really your fault!” the boy stammered. “Bryce is — He’s Bryce. And I actually liked doing his assignments, they’re kinda fun when you’re really into the topic…! I-I mean not to—“

His rambling was silenced by your lips on his, taking charge as you smeared the taste of your lipgloss across his lips, consuming every one of his stifled gasps. You pulled away, unable to hide a smirk as he ran a hand through his hair; face flushed and panting. He was so animated in his actions that it was hard to believe he was real.

“Y-You kissed me…”

“Sorry,” you hummed. “I won’t do it again,”

“No! No, I liked it…” Ethan said desperately. “A lot…” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t think you’d be into a guy like me…”

You smirked and shrugged your shoulders.

“You’re pretty cute for a nerd. Besides, it’s pointless to waste our time here, isn’t it?”

“I-I think time should be up soon —“ the boy continued to stammer, but you rolled your eyes and placed a finger to his lips, silencing him.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” you whispered, draping your arms around his neck before you began to kiss him again, this time running your fingers through his hair, your graceful fingertips sending chills down his spine. He reciprocated, opting not to go too far and settling with his hands on your waist, tracing the curve of your spine as he relaxed into the motions of your lips against his.

Was he dreaming? 

His somewhat emboldened move made you smirk, and you pressed your body against his, breasts pushing against his chest and thigh rubbing along his crotch, causing him to gasp. 

“Shit…” he mumbled, pulling away as he tried to adjust himself. “I’m sorry, I —“

“Ethan,” you sighed, cupping his cheeks. “You don’t have to be sorry, I like it. And as long as you do too, I’m down. Just relax, okay?”

He nodded, mesmerised as you took his hand, and interlocked your fingers, guiding them from the soft mounds of your breasts to past your thighs, eventually slipping them under your skirt. Ethan’s fingertips had pushed your panties to the side with ease, and the boy almost choked as he enveloped his digits in your folds.

You were warm and wet, and so his movements inside you came easy. If the fact that he was touching you weren’t mesmerising enough, it was your unwavering eye contact that made his heart clench. You were taking control, and yet you were still submissive enough to let him explore you - solidified by the entranced look in your eye. 

He must’ve been doing something right.

“Feel good?” you hummed, not really listening out for an answer. Ethan’s low, ragged breaths told you everything, and you almost took pity on him for what was to come.

Sliding your hands down his torso, you stopped at his jeans, cupping his bulge and giving it a gentle squeeze. He gasped; involuntarily pulling you towards him as his head draped slightly on your shoulder. He was practically keeling over and you’d barely even touched him.

Smirking, you skilfully unzipped his fly and dug around in his briefs, gripping your hands around his cock before pulling it out. His precum dripped tip grazed your thigh, twitching as you began to stroke the vessel, admiring its girth.

Ethan whimpered, shutting his eyes as he parted his lips, lost in the flurry of sensations. He’d just found your clit, and he revelled in the way you’d moaned as he rubbed it, causing your walls to clench on his fingers…and now here you were, jerking him off.

“Is this your first handjob, Eth?” you purred into his ear. He could barely fathom an answer, instead nodding vehemently, tousling his hair in the process.

“Aw,” you giggled, giving his balls a gentle squeeze as you kissed his reddening neck. “I’m so lucky to be your first…I bet you’ve been dreaming of this for a while, hm?”

Ethan squeezed his eyes shut, gasps slowly getting louder as he took deeper breaths. He withdrew his face from your shoulder to look at you, a beautiful devil, eyes clouded with lust as they glimmered in the dim lighting of the house around you. In this moment, nothing mattered, and he took the opportunity to kiss you - to which you eagerly returned.

His movements became more frantic as you squealed at his sudden aggression, your mixture of shock and fear somehow turning him on even more. It reminded him of all the screams of fear when he —

“Fuck, Eth,” you whined further, drawing him from his thoughts. “You’re so big, no wonder why Bryce hated you…” you mused before letting out a chuckle. “…You know, I’ve always secretly had a thing for nerds.”

Whether you were being genuine or not, Ethan immediately spilled his load at the statement, moaning loudly in your shoulder as his body convulsed and fingers twitched. His rich cum coated your fingers, and you laughed as he writhed against you, riding out his high. He’d only lasted three minutes, but they were the best three minutes of his life.

He hid his face shyly as he looked back up at you.

“That quick, hm?” you giggled, licking the excess off of your skin. “You continue to flatter me, Landry,”

“Let me make it up to you,” he said boldly, wholly serious as he stared you in the eye. You cocked a brow, expecting him to be apologetic, but you couldn’t help but admire his newfound confidence.

Fixing your clothes, you nodded and curved your lips into a smile.

“I think I will,” you hummed, taking his hand in yours. “Your place or mine?”

[communistkenobi]

Hi, genuine good faith question if you'd like! How is TOS racist? It was my understanding that the OG Series was like, huge for equality in media?

I’m speaking primarily about the content of TOS itself, not its historical impact - I understand it had various historic firsts in terms of having characters of colour in respectable roles, which I’m not dismissing. My experience with the discourse on here surrounding the show is that people front-load these character representations as emblematic of the show’s progressive politics. Which, if we want to go that route, TOS was contemporary to the US civil rights movement, which provides us with a handy measuring stick to see how TOS actually grapples with race, not just the presence of characters of colour themselves. I'm going to be kind of defensive in this explanation, not towards you specifically, but because I have had this conversation with people online many, many, many times, and so any defensiveness on my part is in anticipation of arguments I know will come up as a result of making the basic claim that a show made in America in the 1960s is racist. I'm also going to be copy + pasting from an older post I've made on the subject since it's been a while now since I've watched TOS so some of the details are fuzzy.

Like okay, the premise of TOS is that the Enterprise, as an ambassador of Starfleet/the Federation, is seeking out new alien life to study. The Prime Directive prohibits the Enterprise crew from interfering with the development of any alien culture or people while they do this, so the research they collect needs to be done in an unobtrusive way. I think this is the first point at which people balk at the argument that TOS is racist or has a colonial conception of the world - the Enterprise’s mission is premised on non-interference, and I think when people hear ‘colonial’ as a descriptor they (understandably, obviously) assume it is describing active conquest, genocide, and dispossession. Even setting aside all the times where Kirk does directly interfere with the “development” of a people or culture (usually because they’ve “stagnated” culturally, because a culture "without conflict" cannot evolve or “develop” beyond its current presumed capacity - he is pretty explicitly imposing his own values onto another culture in order to force them to change in a particular way), or the times when the Enterprise is actually looking to extract resources from a given planet or people, I’m not exactly making this claim, or rather, that’s not the only thing I’m describing when calling TOS racist/colonial.

The show's presentation of scientific discovery and inquiry is anthropological - the “object” of analysis is alien/foreign culture, meaning that when the Enterprise crew comes into contact with a new being or person, this person is always read first and foremost through the level of (the Enterprise’s understanding of) culture. Their behaviour, beliefs, dress, way of speaking, appearance, and so on are always reflective of their culture as a whole, and more importantly, that their racial or phenotypic characteristics define the boundaries of their culture. Put another way, culture is interpreted, navigated, and bound racially - the show presents aliens as a Species, but these species are racially homogeneous, flattening race to a natural, biological difference that is always physically apparent and presented through the lens of scientific objectivity, as "species" is a unit of biological taxonomy. Basically species is a shorthand for race. This is the standard of most sci-fi/fantasy genre work, so this is not a sin unique to Star Trek.

Because of this however, Kirk and Co are never really interacting with individuals, they are interacting with components of a (foreign, exotic, fundamentally different) culture, the same way we understand that a biologist can generalize about a species using the example of an individual 'specimen'. And when the Enterprise interacts with these cultures, they very frequently measure them using a universalized scale of development - they have a teleological (which is to say, evolutionary) view of culture, ie, that all cultures go from savage to rational, primitive to advanced, economically simple to economically complex (ie, to capitalist modes of production). And the metrics they are judging these cultures by are fundamentally Western ones, always emphasising to the audience that the final destination of all cultures (that are worthy of advancing beyond their current limited/“primitive” stages) is a culture identical to the Federation, a culture that can itself engage in this anthropological mission to catalogue all life as fitting within a universal set of practices and racial similarities they call “culture.”

This is a western, colonial understanding of culture - racially and spatially homogeneous people comprise the organs of a social totality, ie, a society, which can then be analysed as an “object,” as a “phenomenon,” by the scientists in order to extract information from them to produce and advance state (ie Federation) knowledge. The Enterprise crew are allowed to be individuals, are allowed to be subjects with a capacity for reason, contradiction, emotion, compassion, and even moments of savagery or violence, without those things being assigned to their “race” or “culture” as a whole, but the people they interact with are only components of a whole which are “discovered” by the Enterprise as opportunities to expand and refine the Federation’s body of knowledge.

Spock is actually a good example of what I'm talking about, because he is an exception to this rule - unlike the others in the crew, his behaviour is always read as a symptom of his innate Vulcan-ness, where his human and Vulcan halves war for dominance in his mind and character. Bones (the doctor, one of the main cast) constantly comments on Spock's inability to feel things, that he is callous and unsympathetic, ruled by Vulcan logic to such an extreme that his rationality is a form of irrationality, as his Vulcan blood prohibits him from tempering logic with human emotion and intuition. Now you can argue that Bones is a stand-in for the racists of the world, that Spock proves Bones wrong in that he is able to feel but merely keeps it under wraps, that Vulcans are not biologically incapable of emotion but merely live in a socially repressive culture, but this still engages in the racial logic of the show - Vulcans are a racially-bound species with a single monolithic culture, and Spock's ability to express and feel 'human emotions' is the metric by which he is granted human subjectivity and sympathy.

And on the flip side you have the Klingons - a “race” that is uniformly savage, backward, violent, and dangerous. In the episode Day of the Dove, where Klingons board the Enterprise along with an alien cloud that makes everyone suddenly aggressive and racist (this show is insane lol), the Enterprise crew begins acting violent and racist, but the Klingons don’t change. They aren’t more violent than before (because they already were fundamentally violent and racist), and they don’t become less violent when the cloud eventually leaves (because they are never able to emerge from their violence and savagery as a social condition or external imposition - they simply are that way). Klingons are racially, behaviourally, psychologically, and culturally homogeneous, universally violent and immune to reason, and their racial characteristics are both physical manifestations of this universal violence as well as the origin of it. The writers and creators of TOS are explicitly invoking the orientalist idea of the “Mongolian horde,” representing both the American fear of Soviet global takeover as well as blatantly racist fears about “Asiatics” (a word used in the show, particularly in The Omega Glory where a fear of racialised communist takeover is made explicit) dominating the world.

This is colonial thinking! Like, fundamentally, at its core, this is colonial white supremacist thinking. Now this is not because TOS invents these tropes or is the origin of them, it is not individually responsible for these racial and colonial logics - these conceptions are endemic to Western thought, and I am not expecting a television show to navigate its way outside of this current colonial paradigm of scientific knowledge. I’m also not expecting an average person watching this to pick out all the intricacies of this and link it to the colonial history of Europe or the colonial history of western philosophy/thought. But this base premise of Star Trek is why the show is fundamentally colonial - even if it was the case that the crew never intervened in any alien conflict, never extracted any material resources from other people, this would still be colonial logic and colonial thinking. The show has a fundamentally colonial imagination when it comes to exploration, discovery, and culture.

I think a good place to end is the opening sequence. The show's first line is always "Space! The final frontier." I do not think the word frontier is meant metaphorically or poetically - I think the show is being honest about its conception of space as an infinitely vast, infinitely exotic frontier from which a globally Western civilisation (which the Enterprise is an emblem of) can extract resources, be they material or epistemic

[riinkun-art-stuff]

Howdy ho! I'm very excited to finally be able to share this illustration I worked on as part of this year's @bumblebybigbang for @tahnex's lovely and super fun fic (with no pain attached whatsoever), "Of Dragons and Panthers," which you can read here! As soon as I read the original notes on it this scene captured me so much I had to do something dramatic for it. It's been such a pleasure watching the whole collab come together, tysm for having me!

First time joining an event like this, and I'd love to again if the opportunity comes around hehe. Still a few postings to go on this one, the pieces before us this year have knocked it out of the park and I'm super excited to see the rest once they come around!

Made a few process cuts just for fun, which I left under the cut!

I did do a few sketches roughly before I started out, especially based on other parts of the chapter, but this particular composition was so fixed in my mind that I ended up just sticking with it. In retrospect, I would've loved to go back and do some more thorough exploration for it. Here are a few of the sketches I managed to fish back up:

I also was thinking of trying a few other doodles/another big piece, but ended up not really having the time between other obligations :')

And the sketch I finally settled on:

Inking was SUCH a fun process on this piece in particular. I'm a huge fan of how dragon!Yang's mane turned out, especially, and all the detailing on the head and around Blake's fur and such. Feel like I'm really satisfied w the particular way the line weight variations came out, and it's where the piece shines the most imo.

Panther!Blake, too. Oh gosh. I feel like it took me a lot of reworking to get her structure to a point where she felt very leopard-like, rather than any other type of big cat- especially around the head.

Colours were such a challenging part. There was a big feeling I had for that glow coming off dragon!Yang in the middle of the heavy rain- I love seeing that sort of effect in real life so that's something I'm really hoping to work to capture better as I practice. Trying to get dragon!Yang's slight iridescence in there and to balance out the lighting on panther!Blake's fur each took a long time, too- I'm only a pinch sad that a good chunk of it is covered by other lighting effects XD

Blake's rosettes were SO fun. Augguhugg.

In terms of backgrounds. HOO boy I was going through a strange patch in life while working on the background and final polish for this piece, which is why (at least I feel like) it looks kinda rushed. I have been practicing natural landscapes and doing some observational studies but still struggling to get those rock shapes quite right, which I think is a big make or break point of something like this. I did really enjoy toying around with inking on the foliage and foreground layers of the ground, though! And in the end, lighting and effects ended up masking a lot of the big weak spots :D

I think natural effects like smoke/steam, and rain, are big things that I got to practice more of in this piece, but also really would like to get better at in future. Esp since I feel like it's been a great opportunity to mess around with different colours and brushes that I use way less, which I'm always grateful for w painting. I think just layering the rain on its own ended up being about 10 odd layers?

I think the only other thing I would have loved to improve is to just help the piece feel more Bumbleby™ in the final look. I think I like the cool colours of the lighting for this particular outcome, but I also would have probably tried to have made things much clearer (ahem at the very least switch to yellow/purple) in the long run in terms of representation and resemblance. Ik that at least for me it is fairly easy to associate the two characters with dragons and panthers since I'm more familiar w the fandom lingo around these two, but esp for outsiders I feel like it's probably not great at conveying who they are, and why they are potentially in this situation.

I'd also love to try and find a shading style that still has a painterly quality but compliments the inking a bit better, rather than overpowering it.

I think that, on the whole, I am pretty satisfied with the piece and had a great time working with Tahnex on the whole collab! And I've also has a fun time reading his work and notes in return, and thank you so much for being so so patient with me even as my updates were slow n rocky at points :'D

That's about all I got, have a great day y'all! Still a few big bang postings to go, so very excited for those once they come around!

[mrkis]

cherry red. (x.dj)

PAIRING: xiaojun x fem!reader GENRE: smut WORD COUNT: 707

SYNOPSIS: you didn't expect to see one of your favourite colours between your legs.

CONTENT WARNINGS: established relationship, oral (receiving), mentions of hair pulling, praising, 'princess', 'good girl' and 'pretty girl' is used,

AUTHORS NOTE: for @thetypingpup. not a long fic, but its something... attack me with mark and i attack right back (with love) <3

Sharing in conversation with Xiaojun about how you adore the colour cherry red wasn’t supposed to go any further than that; just a simple conversation. 

The deep and intense hue of cherry red easily captures your attention, standing out among the other colours that are present. Sometimes, you can associate it with love, evoking feelings of passion and romance. Other times, it embodies desire and lust, igniting a sense of intensity and yearning.

When mentioning this, you didn’t expect anything to come out of it, and you didn’t pay too much attention to the way Xiaojun’s eyebrows raise as he absorbs your words, a look of curiosity and wonder displayed across his features, deep in thought as you continue talking about other topics. 

But, here you are, a day or two later, finding yourself lying across your shared bed with your legs spread, Xiaojun’s hands keeping you still as his head of newly dyed cherry red hair is between your legs, tongue slurping at your arousal that seeps into the sheets below. 

“Tastes so sweet,” He practically purrs, pressing a quick kiss to your clit in adoration. “Always tastes so sweet for me, don’t you?”

His gaze shifts up, eyes locking with yours, hair tickling the insides of your thighs and he lips curl into a grin, watching as your body reacts to his touch and how he relaxes into yours when your fingers thread through his hair to tug at the roots, the vibrations of his moan sends a shrill up your spine.

“Please,” Your voice, barely a whisper, speaks out. 

“What are you begging for?” Xiaojun asks you as he presses his mouth to your skin, leaving gentle kisses in his path. “I’m giving you everything you want. I always do.”

You don’t exactly know what you’re begging for, but you can’t seem to stop, the words tumbling from your lips like a broken record and he chuckles, leaving one last kiss to your thigh before he licks between your puffy folds and presses his mouth back to where you need him most, hands sliding around your legs to put his fingers to use, spreading your folds wider apart to swirl his tongue around your entrance.

You wail, clenching around nothing, hands gripping his hair tighter as you grind your hips against his face for more and he gives in, pushing two of his fingers inside and massaging the warmth of your walls as his tongue keeps up the pace, sucking and slurping to feel your legs tremble around his head.

“Look so pretty from down here, princess. So pretty, aren’t you?” He compliments and you hum, but the non-verbal response isn’t enough to please him and you gasp loudly, head thrown back against the pillows as his fingers press down on a particular part inside and how his mouth sucks a little harder at your clit. “Say it, pretty girl. Tell me how pretty you are from this angle.”

“I’m pretty.” You’re quick to agree.

“How pretty?”

“So pretty,” The whine at the end of your voice is what pleases Xiaojun and he smiles, beginning to pump his fingers at a speed that has your toes curling and grip on his hair tighten, back arched and skin sweaty as his mouth resumes in licking and sucking at the spots that sends you teetering over the edge of your orgasm.

Xiaojun knows well when you’re close, knowing your body like the back of his hand. He’s studied the ins and outs of you, maybe he even knows you better than you know yourself which is why he continues his movements, keeping the pace the way it is, adding a few extra flicks of his tongue over your clit to hear those sounds that makes him feel proud.

Unable to hide the smirk on his face, he watches as your body seizes up as you cum, squeezing around his fingers and sucking him in so tightly as your hips buck, airy gasp and whines leaving your lips as bliss hits, fucking yourself on his fingers despite him already helping you ride it out.

“That’s it,” He praises so endearingly, kissing your puffy folds as if he would your lips. “Let it go, princess. Good job. Good girl.”

©𝗠𝗥𝗞𝗜𝗦

[actionmemeplay]

Thought, learning and intellect headcanon asks for muses

[MENTAL CHATTER] Does your character have an ongoing inner monologue, or do they more frequently think wordlessly/in abstract?

[ENTANGLED] Does your muse experience synaesthesia? (eg. tasting sounds, or seeing colours in music) If yes, does this have any effect on their creativity or understanding of certain senses?

[ALOUD] Does your character subvocalise (sound out words in their head) when reading silently to themselves, or no? When reading fiction, do they “hear” individual voices for each speaking character?

[WPM] How quickly can your character type, read or write?

[MOTHER TONGUE] For bilingual muses: does your character think in one particular language more than another? Are there certain topics or themes that they may be more likely to switch to another?

[FOCUS] How well can your muse focus on their own thinking or study in the presence of distracting background stimuli (loud environments, background chatter, visual clutter…)

[OFF TRACK] Is your muse prone to letting their mind wander? To their detriment?

[INTEREST] Does your muse find it hard to learn about or remember details of subjects that don’t captivate their personal interest? Even if they might be useful or advantageous to know?

[AHAH!] Is your muse good at recognising patterns and putting information together to recognise correlations or solutions quickly? Or do they need others to spell things out to them?

[SEEING RED] How easily is your muse’s judgement or perception swayed by their emotions and state of mind? Are they most always cool and level-headed, or are they prone to rashness or switching stances quickly?

[JUMP THE GUN] What biases does your muse hold that impact how they perceive the world or choose to take in new information? Do their personal blindspots and preconceptions lead them to errors in judgement?

[RECALIBRATE] How frequently does your muse evaluate their own ways of thinking? Have they little self-insight/feel set in their minds for better or worse, or are they constantly questioning their own outlook? To the point of self-doubt, even?

[SPLIT SECOND] How decisive is your muse? How confident do they need to feel about the outcome of their actions, or how much pre-thinking must they do before they feel they can act? Do they trust in their own decisions?

[FOREIGN] How does your muse fare when presented with ideas, concepts or experiences that feel far outside their usual norm? How hostile, sceptical or inquisitive might they be when encountering new viewpoints?

[STUDENT] Does your character enjoy learning for learning’s sake, or do they only seek out knowledge when they specifically need to?

[NOTES] How does your muse track their ideas and thoughts, or things they need to remember? Do they keep written or voice notes, or do they just think/hope that they’ll be able to recall what they need later?

[SELF ANALYSIS] How intelligent does your muse BELIEVE they are, versus how do they actually stack up next to others? What are the personal strengths and weaknesses of their minds and outlooks, compared to those of the people around them?

[cupcakeslushie]

I really love what you do with the colors pallets. I was wondering if you had any tips on how todo them? I over complicate things, and I feel like I can’t do the pallets right, like is there a certain rule on color placement? Like the darker colour goes in the background, lighter further front?

… sorry 😭, other artists just make pallets look so easy, would you recommend using 3 or 2 colors to start with?

Sorry for babbling and thanks again 😂, honestly love seeing your art 😙, also, if someone wanted to gives your art/fic would you mind if they tagged you or would sending it in an ask be better?

I’m still very new to choosing my own pallets. As for order, often I find the “pop”, or most saturated color works good for the background. Then for the characters, a less saturated version of the compliment color….or one that just looks nice. Then I do a light color for the eyes and any other elements I wanna emphasize. Lineart is done in black and then just alpha lock->fill layer with a color and slide around the adjustments until I’m happy. There’s not really a particular number of colors I think looks best, but I’m starting to like five color pallets. You can do three or even two, but five gives you some breathing room for variety.

A lot of it really is just what looks nice. I hate to say that, but there’s not an exact science behind it. Yes, you have to have knowledge of color theory, but also…It is just training your eye. Studying other people’s palettes, figuring out what rules they’re following, and how to play with and bend those rules.

This is why I will often go into the “color palett” tag for a starting point. But as a way to make them my own…I’ll do each color on its own layer. This way, I can change the hue/saturation/brightness and change, change, change, change, change until I’m satisfied. So much of the process is just playing. Play with one color, hop to another layer, play with that color, hop back to the other and adjust it slightly. And so forth. It sounds like a lot of time, but you get faster the more you practice.

This most recent color pallet actually started off as the THIRD row of colors, and then I just adjusted it until it was different, but still satisfying to me.

Finally I added one solid color (for this one I believe it ended up being a dark blue) above all the layers, and then just cycled through each of the adjustment layer types, until I found the one that looked the best. This last step is the clincher for tying all the colors together, and making them look cohesive.

Then colors are picked and saved. New pallet to use in the future!

[thehollowwriter]

Congrats on 300-400 followers❤️❤️ For the event could I request Moving In Together with Riddle please, thank u

God this is so late I am so so sorry...

(Pls reblog and leave a comment ❤)

🌺Moving In Together🌺

Riddle Rosehearts is a very particular person.

Now, he may have mellowed out over the years and is much a better at dealing with things not going as planned, but he still likes things to be a certain way.

For example, his idea of moving in with you was... well, a large house in a nice area that was perfect for the both of you, preferably with a large garden.

Unfortunately the both of you were still studying and Riddle cut contact with his mother, leaving you dependant on odd jobs- mainly at the Clover bakery- for financial support.

The best that could be scrounged together was a little apartment near the university you two were attending, one you were moving your things into right now.

Riddle sighed, grey eyes scanning the tiny dull apartment, still in the doorway with his suitcase in hand.

It was the same as when you first viewed it. Tiny and dull, stuffy. But it was ten times better than the other options you could afford.

"Don't look so defeated." You said suddenly, smiling at him. "All it needs is some plants, those small paintings we brought, maybe a little magic to liven up the wall colours and it will be much more lively. They even allowed you to keep Truffle and Crimson!"

You pointed at the cage sat on the small kitchen table, the two aforementioned questions snoozing in the corner of their little home.

Riddle smiled in return. You were always so positive. Always looking on the bright side of things. In doing so you never failed to brighten his life.

He waved his pen, letting the unpacked boxes float into the living room, and turned to you.

"You're right." He said, kissing you softly. "We'll make it work. I'm happy as long as I'm with you."

Truly, you made everything more bearable.

....................................

A/N: I hope you enjoyed despite its shortness. Again I'm so sorry for the late response

[another-lost-mc]

black & white

humans live in a world of black and white until they meet their soulmate.

pairing: solomon x gn!reader

sfw | soulmates au | angst with a happy ending

cw: jealousy, story spoilers for s3 + s4, events that take place in alternate/future timelines (including: violence, solomon and mc raising a child together, implied character injury/death)

Solomon lives in a world of black and white.

When he was a human king trying to satiate his lust for power, he expected one of his many spouses would turn out to be his soulmate and his world would burst with colour -  but it never happened. By the time his spouses reached triple-digit figures, he only felt resigned acceptance that he may never meet his soulmate.

He pretends not to be disappointed by that truth, but he is.

He collects demons and harnesses their strength, building his wealth and influence beyond measure, but none of his earthly and otherworldly gains are able to fully soothe the emptiness he feels. When he stumbles upon his own immortality, he has no expectation now that he’ll ever meet his soulmate - he considers it a punishment for the life he’s lived.

He creates a potion that simulates the illusion of colour, and a small rune on the inside of his wrist warns him when the potion’s effect is fading. There are times when he sees the colours blurring to nothing at the edge of his vision, the rune etched on his skin slowly disappearing.

Some mornings he wakes up, filled with unmeasurable loneliness when the world has returned to a landscape of grey. When he stumbles into his alchemy lab, he grasps the small vial of potion in his hand - and in a fit of frustration, he flings it against the wall. He does this more than he cares to admit, stupefied by the one obstacle he has yet to overcome, but he slumps into his chair and reforms the vial with a muttered incantation. Eventually he stops letting the potion’s effect fade at all, drinking it like clockwork to avoid waking up to the dull, grey reality that plagues his dreams.

The centuries pass by and he studies magical anomalies in the world, testing the limits of his own power and brilliance. Sometimes it’s easier to associate with demons and angels than other humans - their races aren’t impacted by the curse of soulmates, and they don’t pity him the way human witches or sorcerers sometimes do. The Devildom in particular is a rich, vibrant world he can lose himself in, indulging in his sins without shame and exploring his magic without limitations.

When he meets you during the Devildom exchange program, it feels like the first genuine human friendship he’s had in a very long time. You captivate him in ways he can’t articulate, but he watches the demons and angels around you slowly succumb to your charms and enthusiasm. He hates to admit that you’ve lured him in as easily as the others, but he decides he’s simply one of many and thinks nothing of it, shoving unrequited feelings for you deep down where he can pretend they don’t exist.

Sometimes his heart betrays him and he thinks about you - romantic thoughts, desperate thoughts - but he’s used to ignoring the pang of longing that makes his heart clench. The truth he tells himself is that you’re already lost to him, destined to find your perfect soulmate one day while he hopes he never has to witness it.

He tries to keep his distance from you but it’s a challenge, especially after you’ve become a fully-fledged sorcerer and you travel freely between the Devildom and human world at will. After so many lifetimes of doing things alone, he can’t resist the temptation to invite you along while he carries out his duties as the human world’s would-be guardian. More and more often these days, you seek him out, wanting his wisdom or expertise - or sometimes you just want his company - and he is too selfish to say no.

One morning Solomon wakes up and it seems like a typical day - it’s only later that afternoon he happens to glance at his wrist and sees that one of his runes is missing. The fact that the world is still colourful and vibrant as ever makes him panic even more than if he had woken up to a world of black and white. Now that he thinks about it, he can’t remember the last time he drank that potion.

Solomon makes a list of all the hypothetical scenarios that can explain what happened, but he keeps drawing the same conclusion: he met his soulmate and didn’t realize it. It’s difficult to pinpoint when he stopped drinking the potion and almost impossible to narrow down the list of potential soulmates he met before that time.

He knows Barbatos doesn’t use his powers freely at Diavolo’s request, but having a pact with him does come in handy for situations like this. Barbatos hesitates when Solomon nearly begs him to take him back into the past. Barbatos finally obliges, having been granted Diavolo’s permission just this once; Solomon’s not sure what Barbatos did to persuade him, but he knows better than to ask.

Barbatos leads Solomon to his private chambers and through a portal so that they can watch his life zoom by in reverse. Barbatos’s ability isn’t impacted by the effects of Solomon’s potion so identifying the moment his world shifts from greyscale to colour is his only clue. Solomon sees the day - nearly two weeks ago - when he last drank the potion, but the colour lingers as Barbatos searches long before that, months of time passing by without any signs of change.

At last the world seems to darken for a moment, and Barbatos pauses his spell when Solomon’s vision suddenly reverts to black and white. Solomon stares at the scene before him: having just introduced himself to you at RAD, you shake his hand while a glimmer of curiosity shines in both your eyes. Colour bleeds into the world when your hands touch.

Barbatos glances at Solomon who’s grown silent, apparently oblivious to the grin on his face and the tears falling from the corners of his eyes. Solomon chuckles, feeling close to bursting with the same happiness he only ever feels when he’s with you.

It suddenly makes sense: all those times when he felt drawn to you even though you seemed so ordinary; his suspicions that turned to fear when he realized your powers were wreaking havoc on the three realms, threatening to kill you both; your eager acceptance to become his apprentice, and his unmatched pride when you succeeded.

He doesn’t want to think about all those times he watched your other friends - demon and angel alike - crowd you for your attention, their unsuccessful bids to win your heart for their own, the way you accepted their casual touches and how much Solomon despised every moment of it—

Solomon turns to Barbatos who has conjured a portal to return them both to his room in the Demon Lord’s castle. “Why didn’t they say anything?” Solomon asks out loud, but mostly to himself. But then he remembers something you said a long time ago, one of the only times you spoke together about the human phenomenon of soulmates:

“I’ve always been able to see colour,  but I couldn’t figure out why. People thought it was strange, so it was easier to pretend I couldn't,” you said with a shrug. “Simeon thinks it’s because I’m an angel’s descendent since they don’t have soulmate colour blindness the way humans do. I hope when I meet my soulmate, they’ll be able to tell me.”

Solomon can’t help but ask Barbatos before he leaves, “Did you know?”

Barbatos meets his curious gaze with a guarded expression of his own; he thinks back to a time long ago when he debated entering a pact with Solomon. He wanted to judge the sorcerer first, and like so many times before, he used his power to glimpse into Solomon’s future, one that was murky with endless possibilities due to the nature of his immortality.

Among those possibilities were visions of a sorcerer burdened by grief:

Solomon walking away from your wedding, the celebration of your marriage to someone that’s not him, dropping the forced smile from his face when he turns his back and disappears like a shadow into the darkness Engaged in battle in defense of the three realms, Solomon catches fleeting glimpses of you weaving defensive spells to protect your allies, but you don’t notice the enemy assassin approaching you from behind until it’s too late– Solomon standing beside your grave, his eyes dull and his world grown desolate once more in your absence Solomon, who raises his glass in a fake toast, sipping his drink and smiling bitterly before the reaper in front of him cleaves the soul from his body at last—

Despite the memories that served as a warning to him, Barbatos also remembers the other possibilities with more clarity than any others, a sorcerer filled with happiness and purpose and love:

Solomon dancing with you, holding your hands in his own, both of you dressed in the finest wedding attire, and the demons and angels around you cheering Solomon feeding a baby some foul concoction he made himself, oblivious to your horrified expression when the baby giggles happily at the taste Solomon holding a toddler on his lap while he reads, explaining rudimentary summoning circles to the small child as he bounces them on his knee Solomon is standing by your side, both of you watching in disbelief as your child rides Cerberus around like an oversized horse; the demon brothers give chase and take pictures while Lucifer supervises with an amused twinkle in his eyes The child you and Solomon raised, grown up and a fully fledged sorcerer too, grinning when they introduce their own soulmate to their parents for the first time

“I know many things,” is the demon's cryptic response, and his dangerous smile warns Solomon not to pry any further. Their business concluded, Barbatos disappears back to his master's side, leaving Solomon to contemplate his next move in peace.

Solomon wastes no more time, pulling out his DDD as he walks out of the castle and he sends you a message: “Care to join me for dinner tonight?” Barely a minute passes before his DDD pings with your enthusiastic reply.

For the first time in a long time, Solomon lets himself feel hope.

read more: solomon masterlist | obey me! masterlist

[engie-ivy]

(Upon popular request (really, thank you so much for the amazing response!), a second part to Your New Family! Where Sirius finds out who that stranger in the restroom actually was😁)

Part 1: Your New Family

Pouring his heart out in the loo might not have been Sirius’ best moment, but at least that kind stranger managed to somewhat reduce his anxiety about meeting Remus' parents. Until he sees Remus' father, that is.

Your New Son

As Sirius approaches their table, he sees Remus is not alone. An elderly woman has joined him. She has a round face framed with dark blond curls interspersed with streaks of grey, and big, honey-coloured eyes. Remus’ eyes.

Remus’ mum.

She must’ve gotten here early. Shite. Shite. And Sirius was at the loo the entire time! No doubt she already thinks he’s totally weird, dammit.

Sirius rushes towards them. “I’m so sorry I kept you waiting!”

“Oh my goodness,” Remus’ mum says as she turns around. “Could this be your Sirius?” She gets to her feet and takes Sirius’ hands in hers, but holds him at arm’s length so she can study him properly. “Look at you! Aren’t you a properly handsome young man! Remus has been going on about it, of course. ‘Mum, he’s so lovely. Mum, his hair is so pretty. Mum, his eyes are so nice.’ I assumed he was just smitten,” she turns back to Remus and smiles brightly at him. “But you really got yourself quite a looker, didn’t you, Remus?”

Remus beams at them proudly. “I sure did!”

Sirius, a little overwhelmed, wants to give a compliment in return. He’s aiming for something along the lines of ‘I always found Remus’ eyes beautiful, and now I can see who he gets it from’, he really is, but what comes out is “I like Remus’ eyes on you” which is just so weird.

Unfortunately, his remedying attempt does not quite make it better. “I mean, not Remus’ eyes. They were yours first! But you gave them to Remus. Not your actually eyes, of course. You still have eyes, after all.”

Remus’ mum looks puzzled, as she slowly says “...yes. I do have eyes.”

It’s only then that Sirius realizes Remus’ father isn’t there. Immediately, the worst-case-scenarios cross his mind. Remus’ dad has already decided he hates Sirius and doesn’t even want to meet him. Remus’ dad has looked up Sirius’ family and now wants nothing to do with him. Remus’ dad is not okay with Remus being in a same-sex relationship (which is absolutely ridiculous, since Remus has been out since he was fifteen, and his parents have been nothing but loving and supportive, but in Sirius’ anxiety-riddled state, even Remus’ dad changing his entire belief system overnight seems completely possible).

It is at that moment Remus’ mum says “You must excuse my husband. He just had to go to the restroom.”

Sirius lets out a sigh of relief. Right, the restroom.

The restroom...

Wait.

The restroom.

Oh. Oh.

Oh no. Oh no, no, no.

“Ah, there he is!” Remus’ mum says, and as Sirius turns around he feels dread settle in his stomach.

And indeed. The man approaching them is the very same man Sirius just trauma-dumped all over in the restroom. The man has a smirk on his face. The exact same smirk Remus has when he thought of a particular wicked prank. Oh yes, he definitely knew all along.

“I’d already reckoned you’re Sirius!” The man says, reaching out a hand. “It’s about time we were probably introduced! I’m Lyall Lupin, Remus’ father.”

All colour must’ve drained from Sirius’ face as he shakes Mr Lupin’s hand. “I... You... I was... And you were... I didn’t... Oh my god. I’m so sorry! I can’t believe I...”

“Sirius,” Remus says in a levelled tone. “What did you do?” The exact same tone he uses when Sirius and James call him in the middle of the night to come pick them up somewhere.

“Nothing bad, nothing bad!” Remus’ dad quickly says, laughing while holding up his hands. “He just told me how anxious he was to be meeting his boyfriend’s parents for the first time. But only because he loves the boy so much!”

Remus lets out a small gasp before turning to Sirius with wide eyes. Eyes that Sirius is purposely not meeting, looking everywhere but at Remus.

“Oh,” Remus’ dad says, looking from Remus to Sirius and back to Remus. “You two haven’t...”

“Sirius!” Remus exclaims, smacking his arm. “I can’t believe the first time you say that you love me it’s to my bloody father!”

“Well, I did not know that!” Sirius says defensively. “I thought it was to a stranger in the loo!”

“That does not make it better!”

As the boys bicker, Hope wraps her arms around Lyall’s upper arm and rests her head against him. “So,” she says softly. “We approve?”

“His feelings for Remus are very sincere,” Lyall replies. “And I honestly think he’ll do anything for him.”

Hope lets out a content sigh as she looks at the couple. “I’m glad.”

“He seems kind and genuine,” Lyall adds. “And also, we’re going to have to adopt him as our second son.”

Hope lifts her head to look at her husband with a raised eyebrow. “You’ve already decided that?”

“He never had a real family,” Lyall says. “He claims he wants us to like him purely for Remus’ sake, but there’s more to it than that. I don’t think he’s ready to admit it, maybe doesn’t even realise it, but he’s craving it for himself as well. A family, a home.”

“Well, then he has chosen the right in-laws,” Hope says, accepting Lyall’s judgement without question as she lays her head back against his arm.

Then she chuckles. “My, my. That was some toilet break, huh?”

[writefightandflightclub]

The light is blinding (Joel Miller x fem!reader)

Summary: When he's hurt, you offer to wash Joel's hair for him. Turns out there may be other forms of comfort you can offer him too.

Genres: character study; angst (sorta); hurt/comfort; SMUT. Joel's POV.

Author's note: I watched TLOU ep 1 last night, then made bad choices today in favour of hyperfocussing on this 8k Joel fic. I mean, this was sort of inevitable tbf. We've been handed a sad, scruffy, brown-eyed, dusty apocalypse DILF, and there was no chance of me not adopting him as a blorbo. Anyway, this is my first attempt at Joel, I wrote this in a trance so god knows what it says and I haven't spent any time on editing/correcting. Can't promise it's any good, but if you want to wash his hair as much as I do (lol) maybe you'll enjoy it, who knows. P.s. I promise it does get super smutty. You just have to survive the extensive internal monologue and many rounds of haircare first. (I'm just like that :P)

Warnings: 18+ ONLY. Minors interacting will be blocked. EXPLICIT SMUT (unprotected p in v sex, totally ignoring practicalities like birth control in the apocalypse bc we can); canon-typical themes such as grief, apocalypse, infection/disease, trauma, injury. SPOILERS - if you know the core plot points or have seen episode one you'll be okay. Joel's POV.

Word count: 8.2k

GIF by @joelmjller (Pls lemme know if you'd like me to remove this!)

How did he get here, exactly? All stretched out on his back, your careful fingers twining through his wetted, grizzled hair?

Well, he supposes he got here because a smuggling deal had gone sideways - like usual.

He got here, because he’s getting too old for this shit, and because someone precisely young enough for this shit had garnered the advantage just long enough to land a gun barrel blow to his head. A blow which then made room for all manner of nonsense, of course; like Joel being teep kicked into a desk. The desk - owing to its sturdy construction and deliciously planed hardwood - had withstood the blow. Joel’s body, however -far less sturdily constructed - had reacted far less favourably to that particular transaction.

Most of all though, cracked ribs and busted shoulder aside, Joel is here, because of you. He is here, because you offered to wash his hair.

Joel isn’t a clean man, by any stretch. Who could be anymore, with the way things are? In truth, he’s forgotten what it’s like not to be coated with a layer of dirt and smoke and ash. But apparently, even in the midst of an apocalypse, the dried-in, caked-up, days old blood matting his hair had left something to be desired.

He’d agreed to your offer only because - honestly - it was starting to itch. Because this time he truly couldn’t do it himself, the searing pain in his ribs seeing to that. Making sure he couldn’t quite raise his arm high enough or dip his head low enough to get the job done.

He’d agreed to your offer, in part, because he thought you would be quick. And - he now realises - you are being anything but.

You have him stretched out on his back, on a repurposed dentist chair. The worn, dark green leather creaks beneath him as he adjusts, positioning himself just so. You’ve installed a makeshift neck rest and basin to the rear of the chair, and Joel’s head is currently dipped backwards into the warm water, your fingers diligently combing through the strands to release the debris and muck.

You use a cup to cascade the water from the basin over his head, cupping it with the other hand to guard his face and neck from any rogue rivulets. Then, you ease your fingertips over his scalp, massaging in circles, being extra careful -he notes- around his recently closed wound.

Yes, to Joel’s dismay, you are taking your time. You are being so thorough and so attentive, in fact, that Joel even wonders if you will end up washing the gray right out of his hair - Joel’d never been wholly convinced that his newly-developed colouring was ever anything more than a thick, impenetrable layer of dirt and ash.

You hum thoughtfully, a sweet, innocuous note as you assess your next step. “I’m switching out the water, okay?”

That doesn’t sound okay at all. That doesn’t sound done. And Joel had thought that this would be quick. Had needed this to be quick.

Before he can grunt an answer though, you are winding a towel around his hair, presumably attempting to save the drips from reaching the floor as you swap out one basin for another, setting down the one now filled with muddy brown water, and bending carefully to lift a second steaming basin of fresh water on to your makeshift plinth.

He needs to stop this here. “That’ll do,” he says gruffly, motioning to sit up -carefully- despite the pain in his ribs.

“Lie back,” you insist, the sound of your voice muffled through the towel wound over his ears but soothing nevertheless. “I’ve only managed to rinse out the blood and bird’s nests so far. We still need to wash and condition.”

Joel would protest more vigorously -means to, in fact- but the soft smile on your face dissolves him like sugar before he can do so.

He frowns though, for good measure. “Fine. Just make it quick.”

“The quicker you relax Joel,” you sing song, “the faster I’ll let you out of my seat. Deal?”

He grunts. He doesn’t relax. He can’t relax.

“And,” you add playfully, as if reading his mind. “If you can’t relax, you’d better learn fast to fake it.”

Joel sighs deeply in frustration as he lies back, and you usher him gently into position. However, the slow, deep breath he expels does genuinely serve to sink him more deeply into the chair. Does force him to release just a jot of the tension snaking through his taut muscles.

You hum again, softly, in satisfaction, and he thinks he can even hear a smile on your mouth as you foam his hair with some sweet-smelling product, your fingers resuming their careful ministrations across his scalp.

It’s nice, he notes, unwilling as he is to admit it. Your touch could knock him out better than a barrel full of oxy and a bottle of the good stuff. He almost lets himself enjoy it - an attractive woman like you working your hands into his hair, massaging with your thumbs, your fingers, your palms. Applying pressure and sensation, even into the tight muscles in his neck. Loosening some of the tension at his temples. He even consciously relaxes his forehead, feeling his frown soften. Closing his eyes instead of fixing his stare on the broken picture rail he’s sure he could fix with a few tools and a little bit of effort.

He breathes more deeply as he closes his eyes, focussing in on the sensation of your touch. On the scents flooding his nose. Floral and sweet and fruity. It smells of you, and he breathes it deeply. He tries not to think about how his pillow will smell of you later.

It shouldn’t be possible for you to smell as good as you do, Joel ponders. You even have him wondering whether perhaps he’s not the only game in town. Whether there’s another smuggler dealing in contraband which hasn’t even occurred to him to barter with. Perfumes and oils and essences. He doubts that you would be mixed up in smuggling, but he doesn’t doubt that you are capable of far more than surface-level assessments might suggest.

After all, people only survive this long with one of two things: brutality, or blind luck - and no-one is that lucky that they’ve never had to dabble in the former. Everyone who has made it this far is only out for themselves.

Therefore, who knows what secrets you hide behind your sweet facade, Joel contemplates. Though, if he did have to believe there was anyone selfless left on god’s blighted earth? If he had to believe in someone, Joel would bet cards on it being you.

He sucks in another long, slow breath, and the scent of you envelops him all over again. For a moment, he finds himself wanting to believe in you. But it’s never too long before he recalls he gave up a long time ago on believing in anything. Anything except his wits and his fists and his gun, at least.

“That’s it Joel,” you praise as he relaxes - uncoils - just a shade, and the smooth tone of your voice slides right under his skin. The thought that you want to make him feel good makes him tingle. Makes him forget - almost - that he doesn’t deserve that.

Meanwhile, your deft fingers and thumbs continue to work nimbly into him, sliding over the contours and bones and ridges of his skull. Applying a warm, steady pressure against the muscles at the nape of his neck. Circling your thumb against a spot that sends a buzzing, suffusing warmth skittering down the length of his spine. Blooming through him - and, it has been so long. So long since Joel felt anything resembling pleasure that when he feels this warm honey trail down his back, an involuntary moan overspills his parted lips.

Shit. There's no chance that you didn't hear that.

The moan reverberates in the tight, quiet room. Lingers far longer than it sounds out for. Lingers, despite how quickly Joel cuts it short - clamping his mouth shut and hoping he can pass it off as a grunt or some expulsion of pain from shifting in his chair.

Your fingers halt, still tangled in his hair. “D-Do you want me to stop?” There is a heat in your tone, Joel thinks, the vowels and consonants warm and full like the pop and crackle of a hearth.

It's new. And it occurs to him, ever so suddenly, that maybe you are enjoying this too? Touching him?

After all, he’s not insisting upon it. Didn’t suggest it. Has not attempted to prolong it. And yet, you continue, working diligently. Soothing him. Freely offering your praise and those little, contented hums - those small, burgeoning sounds which make his fingertips ache to have your skin beneath them, so that he can keep on making your lips overspill with those sweet sounds of satisfaction.

Indeed, Joel’s hair has got to be cleaner now than it’s ever been. He’s been in your chair longer than he ever intended - and you don’t seem to be working any other angle. Don’t seem to be after any contraband that he can get his hands on. Haven’t submitted any requests. Fished for any information.

Perhaps then, you are enjoying him. Enjoying performing this act of service for him - though god knows why. Perhaps you are even looking down at his body right now while he’s all laid out for you in this worn-out chair. His long limbs stretched out, clothes tugging taut over his tight, muscular frame. Perhaps you like looking at him like this, his hair slicked back and away from his sharp face and his hawkish nose, watching the twist and pull of the muscles as he sets his jaw - needing to consolidate all of his resolve simply to resist your sweet, sugary touches. Perhaps you liked when you watched his eyes flutter closed under your touch. When you watched his lips part with that sound. That throaty, undone moan, all for you.

Joel’s not stupid.

He’s clocked the way you look at him sometimes. With this gentle, inviting hunger. The way you always make the effort to come over and speak with him whenever opportunity presents itself. The way your appealing body bends to him like a flower to its sun, as though he has anything nourishing about him. As though he has anything but darkness to offer.

He’s clocked you too. Has seen the way kindness and warmth dance across your features like a living, licking flame. Has seen you glow brightly too with a steady, constant fire, which he is sure must run hotter and more fierce beneath the surface than any would estimate. He had noticed too, of course, the swell and contours of your body, hiding beneath your clothes in all the places he most enjoys.

He’s thought before how he’d like to find out where the hunger in your eyes could take him if he chased it; but in the end he knows there is never any further to go than here. That every road is a dead end since the world ended. That the quarantine zone is the only place with walls more impenetrable than his own.

Still; he’s thought about you more than he’d care to admit. To Tommy. To Tess. To you. To himself. Has thought about the way your lips might feel on his. How soft and warm your body might be if he held it up against him. The way his calloused hands might look with his fingers sunk into your flesh, grabbing up handfuls of you like you are his daily bread - the very thing he needs to survive.

Of burying his head between your thighs for hours and trying to suck the impossible sweetness out of you, as though, somehow, he could then begin to understand how someone as good as you is capable of existing in a world as shitty and cruel as this.

He’s had darker thoughts too though. Thoughts of filling you rough and sudden - if you’d let him. Of burying his anger in you with every thrust, deep enough that he could attempt to forget it. Of letting you take his rage from him for just a few moments - as if it could ever truly leave him for a moment longer than that.

But of course, in actuality, he’s done none of that. Joel hasn’t pulled on a single one of those threads. He hasn’t unravelled.

Instead, for the most part, Joel has simply ignored you. Ignored you, because that’s the precisely the last thing he wants to do. Ignored you, because the safest option - Joel has established - is usually to give himself the opposite of whatever he thinks he wants.

That is… he’s ignored you until today. Until you offered to wash his hair. A simple yet towering offer of kindness in a world blighted by dark and rot. An offer that feels like more than he deserves when all he’s ever done for you is to give you the brush off. To answer you tersely, his aim with every interaction to have it over quick.

Still… he’d said yes. Or, at least, he’d declined to protest. Had nodded. Had followed you.

If he’s being honest with himself, he could have asked Tommy to help him, even if he was trying to obscure the severity of his latest injuries from his dear ol’ brother. Even Tess - she’d have done it. With plenty of griping, but she would have done it.

The truth is though, that he wanted it to be you. Needed it to be you. He’d gravitated towards you, even before he knew what you might be prepared to give him. Even without any trade to offer. For you, he’d unravelled. Just a little; in a moment of weakness. He hasn’t slept and he hasn’t succeeded and he hasn’t succumbed for so long, that he finally slipped. Finally gave into one of his wants. Finally gave in to what he wanted most. To seat himself in front of the warm hearth of you and to feel a little god dang comfort.

Joel opens his eyes, expression washing clean with a new resolve, and your fingers still frozen in his hair. He fixes his gaze on the broken picture rail. Precisely at the point where it fractures. Where it needs fixing. He needs a little fixing too, he thinks. He’s sure now, that he’s chosen the right tool for the job, when not another damn thing could do it.

“No,” he finally responds, his voice unwavering, blinking his bitter coffee eyes, sweetened already by your sugar. A gentle gulp sinking down the corded column of his neck. “I don’t want you to stop.”

From behind and above him, he hears you release a breath as though you may have been holding one, tight in your chest, and you slide your fingers from his hair. “Good.” Good. The word rattles pleasantly in his chest when you say it. “We’ll do your conditioner next.”

And, for the first time, Joel unclenches his fingers from where they have been curled around the arm rests of the chair, clinging on to the lip until his knuckles had turned white.

This time - for all he can tell via his scalp - your touch feels a little bolder. A little looser. You even drag your nails over his head now, applying long, sizzling scratches which send that same buzzy warmth snaking down his back. You massage him more eagerly, blood flooding to his crotch as he thinks about having your strong, supple, precise hands work him in other places. He imagines, as your nails graze over him, how you might claw harsh stripes down his back in a moment of ecstasy. As your thumb massages a circle into the spot behind his ear, imagines how you might circle the soft pad of it around the swollen head of his cock, collecting up the glistening bead of precum as he leaks for you. Imagines, as you carefully pour a cup of warm, cascading water over his head, how he could bathe himself with the warmth of your skin on his. Imagines, as he hears the subtle wet sounds created as you scrunch sweet-smelling elixirs into his hair, how it might sound if your own juices were being coaxed out of you by his fingers until they began to drip, working down his veined, muscled forearm.

He allows himself to imagine everything he plans to deny himself. He at least allows himself to have that.

“That temperature still okay for you?” you ask as you lift the cup of water once again, fracturing his sordid daydreams.

Joel gives a terse grunt. It’s all he can manage.

“So,” you ask breezily. “Are you going anywhere nice for your holidays?”

It takes Joel a few moments to realise just what you’re doing. To twig. It’s a decade - shit, more - since he had a haircut like that, so it takes him a while to pick up that you’re echoing the banal small talk which used to occur as you sat down in the barber chair. Those memory cogs are stiff. He hasn’t turned them in a long time. He doesn’t want to remember that there was anything before. At least, not a lot of it.

Still, your bit takes him by surprise. It’s such a ludicrous contrast that it makes him laugh to think about how things have changed. Who can even go on holiday now? You can’t even leave the quarantine zone. Shit. Even if you could, you wouldn’t want to. And so, Joel laughs. He laughs and he barely recognises the sound from his own mouth. He laughs… and he instantly regrets it, because he knows better than to pull on any of those threads.

But; it’s too late now.

He laughs and you mirror him, the sound melodious and hopeful, and all of a sudden Joel can imagine everything he’s been avoiding you for.

He hasn’t been avoiding you because he wants to fuck you - not really. He’s fucked plenty of folk, and he’s moved on.

He’s avoiding you, because of how easily he can imagine you in a summer dress, twirling in the yard to show it off to him. How easily he can imagine you sitting on a front porch gripping your morning cup of coffee and the sun shining on your face as you smile up at him. How easily he can imagine you lifting a tray of freshly baked cookies out of the oven, batting his hand away as he steals one before it cools.

Truthfully, he has no idea whether you ever did a single one of those things before - before all this. He doesn’t even really care whether you did. He knows it’s a flat, idealised, empty picture postcard version of you.

But, even so, it still hurts.

It still hurts, because of just how easily he could imagine waking up beside you in his house.

The house that no longer exists.

The house with Sarah in it.

And that’s why he never pulls on that thread.

That’s why he avoids you.

That’s why this can never work.

Because you?

You make him remember all the sweet things. All the sweet things the world used to contain before the rot and the death and despair painted over everything. Infected it.

You make him remember the taste of fresh mangoes. The feeling of sand beneath his feet and waves washing over his toes. Saturdays at the mall. Picking away at his guitar in the living room. The easy jubilation of ball games on the TV on Sundays, with Tommy in the kitchen plating up chicken wings. Of bad movie nights. Of mornings spent around the kitchen table, and his daughter cooking up birthday pancakes.

That’s why he can’t ever start to be happy with you. Why he can’t pull on that thread; because all the good things in life are attached to it. All tied and knotted and tangled up with “before”.

When he dreams of you - when he lets himself - he dreams of then too.

He has to, doesn’t he? Because the past is the only place to build a future when the present is apocalyptic, isn’t it? When you are the only thing he hasn’t lost yet, and everything else -pretty much- is already dead and gone.

It kills him that he found you now.

Found you too late.

It kills him because Sarah would have loved you, and because he thinks he could have too.

You don’t know all of this, of course. You can’t ever know this. And so, your oblivious fingers continue touching him, until he feels another moan begin to spool itself tight in his chest, getting ready to unravel. This time though, he is less sure whether it is a moan of pleasure or of anguish. More and more these days, those two feelings have been starting to feel precisely the same.

“Can we move this along?” he asks gruffly, some of the weight settling back into his brow. He asks, predictably, for the opposite of what he wants. It has to be like that. There’s no other road anymore.

“We can stop whenever you like but… that’s a shame.”

His frown deepens. “Why?”

“Because your hands had only just started to unclench.”

Joel’s heart clenches at the thought you were watching him that intently. That you were weighing the state and tension of his body. Valiantly trying to release some of that weight from him, even when you must be so heavy too.

And of course, knowing this, he only tries to push you further away. Before his dreams of you are seared even more brightly under his skin.

“You know what. I should go.” His chest constricts - throat grows tighter, a lump forming.

Joel idly wonders if his grief will ever stop feeling so raw. That’s the second disease, he thinks. The other monster infecting everything around it. The shadow of the original cloud. He wonders if it will always be this debilitating, even after he’s pushed it down as far as it can go. It’s not only a grief for what was lost, he ponders. It’s also a grief for what he can never have again. It's a grief for you and all the ways he could have loved you.

He sits up -carefully but abruptly, hand clamped over his aching ribs- and his wetted hair sends rivulets snaking down his face, his neck, his chest. Inching beneath the collar of his green button down shirt. Collecting on his shoulders like a pattern of indoor raindrops.

“Joel,” you scold, tutting lightly. Following quickly after him with the towel, trying to mop up after him. Hastily, you towel off his hair. Sneak your hand beneath his collar, gathering the drops up from his chest and neck.

With effort, and a grimace, Joel swings his legs around, until he is sitting upright, feet planted on the floor. But, whether for the pain or for the promise of pleasure - he’s not sure - he can’t bring himself to move any further than that. Especially not as you finally round from the basin, the damp towel slung over your shoulder, your hands and wrists still shined and wet from caressing his hair in a way he can only describe as reverent.

You kneel before him, drying your hands off and setting the towel down before boldly sliding your palms up his denim-clad thighs. “Joel. Would you just let me take care of you?"

He meets your eyes and finds them soft but determined. Empty of darkness, even with the black expanding abyss of your pupil eating away at the colour of your iris.

Joel looks down at your hands as you begin to smooth them up and down, inching slowly up towards his crotch before retreating - repeating the pattern. He looks at you in displeasure, but there’s nothing about your touch which is unwelcome - and that’s exactly the problem. He swallows. Gathers his question up in his throat before he offers it to you gently, as though in cupped, outstretched palms. “How?”

Your beautiful eyes flash with pity then, he thinks, or something like it. It seems like a silly question, but after all this time he doesn’t recall what it’s like to be cared for. He doesn’t know how to let you.

Your palm reaches up to the scruff on his cheek. You smooth it fondly. “Lie back,” you encourage, with a soft smile which seems to glow from the inside, like a porch backlit with the glow of home. “And just let me take care of the rest.”

Joel has always found something to fight for, but today, he has no fight left in him. In truth, he doesn’t want to fight this. To fight you. It is easy to give in to you. In fact, it's too easy. That has always been the problem.

Your hands continue to travel up and down his thighs, and he feels the warmth of you bleed through the fabric.

God. He’s already hard for you. Already full and throbbing in his jeans. Already, he is imagining your hands wrapping around the thick, straining mass of him. Imagining the way that -in moments - you may be unloosing his belt, threading leather through denim loop. The way you might pop the button keenly with your thumb, and he might groan as you relieve the pressure. The way you might unzip the straining fly to have his substantial length spring free, so rarely touched and so so ready to be taken care of.

At the thought of that alone, he’s straining against the seams of his pants, a pressure which sits smack bang between pleasure and pain.

“Joel,” you whisper softly, and he realises he hasn’t yet moved from his position.

“Right.” He swallows. He lies back. Stretches himself out, feeling far more exposed this time, even if he is still fully clothed.

You stand, quickly disappearing the basin away and soon you’re back, standing over Joel and watching him laid out all needy like this. His eyes travel over you, entranced by your form, and he suddenly needs friction. Needs the relief he didn't even know he was waiting for until you offered it - or, implied it. He bucks his hips up, not even caring if he’s being subtle, and the denim and leather creak as he shifts. He punches out a breath as he strains in his pants, chasing any morsel of friction he can. The feeling of his shaft pushing harder against the seam as his whole cock twitches for you. For those hands. For that plush mouth. Maybe for that cunt of yours.

As usual though, when Joel feels anything good, there is a familiar swell of guilt too; this time, riding in on the flood of arousal to his cock. This time, there’s something new to be feeling guilty for too. Something to add to that already long list. He feels guilty for having all of these thoughts about you, despite never having asked you where you were from. Before. What you used to do. Who you lost.

“I’m sorry,” Joel offers, before he even knows that his mouth is moving. Before he’s even figured out what it is he’s sorry for.

Truth is, he’s sorry for so many reasons. For what he’s done. What he’s lost. Whatever you’ve lost. For not asking you about it. Mainly, he realises, because he can’t make you any promises. None that he could keep. Not to keep you safe. He can’t promise you that.

He thinks you’ll ask him what for - why he’s sorry. But instead, you say something else.

“Don’t be.”

If only it was that easy.

Even so, he looks into your eyes as your hungry gaze skims the length of his body, settling at the bulge at his crotch as you drag your tongue along the pillow of your lower lip. You’re beautiful. Vibrant. Full of life and lust and hunger. Alive in a dead world; and suddenly, it doesn’t matter one bit to Joel where you came from. It doesn’t matter what happened before. It only matters where you’re going. What you want. How he can give it to you.

But it is you who gives him something.

You hinge at the hips, slanting your mouth against Joel’s, and he feels your lips brush up against the scruff on his top lip. Feels the pillow of your plush mouth meet his before your tongue fleets out, licking into him like a searing, dancing flame. You hum hungrily into his mouth and his lips chase you as you pull away, another backlit smile dancing on your face, your features already beginning to resemble home to him in a world where there's no such thing.

Joel watches you move now, with quiet fascination, as you kick off your boots. As you wiggle your pleasing hips, untying then easing your cargo pants and panties down your thighs. His tongue curls around his lip as he is gifted glimpses of your skin - although you are still covered to your upper thigh by the yellow tunic top you’re wearing - and now he can’t help but palm himself through his jeans for a morsel of relief.

Still. What you're about to offer him? It feels like far too much. “What are you doing? You don’t have to-“

“-Tell me you don’t want this and I’ll stop,” you promise, meeting his eyes, open and honest and ready to back off if he doesn’t want this. But shit, how could he not want you? Look at you - and so he can’t. He can’t possibly tell you that, even though he thinks that he should.

“No. God, I want you,” Joel pleads, voice hollowed-out with need. All spent, like ash.

“And you’re going to have me.”

You kick your pants and panties off, leaving them to pool discarded on the floor, and Joel palms himself a little harder, grabbing the fat roll of himself through the denim as he catches a glimpse. They’re nothing sexy, of course; but from the way they’ve fallen he is able to note the telltale wet spot on the crotch. It looks like you’ve soaked them through, and God he wants to feel your wetness for himself.

You ease over him, settling your knees on to either side of the leather chair, where Joel’s legs are stretched out before him, sturdy thighs slightly parted to accommodate the arousal between his legs.

You’re still wearing your tunic top, bright yellow like sunshine, and the length of it dances and clings at intervals to your hips and thighs as you move. It’s driving him wild that you are bare beneath. All he can think about is that warm, delicious wetness of yours spilling over him. God, he wants to hear it. Wants to squeeze it out of you. Wants it to drip down the veined shaft of him.

You straddle his thighs, knees folded, the soles of your feet pointed up towards your ass cheeks, and your heat settles just below his own - not quite grinding over him, but tantalisingly close.

You take a moment like this to simply look at him. To gaze into his coffee brown eyes as though there’s something more to him than being sorry and bitter. Like you could see anything sweet there. Anything worth wanting. Then, you comb his damp hair back with your fingers, drawing the strands back from his forehead. Tucking and curling them around his ears.

Your touch - your tenderness - makes him ache. Makes him throb. Makes him want to bury himself in you. His tongue, his fingers, his cock, his feelings - anything of him you’ll take. And, as he wraps his arms around you a wracked moan unspools from his chest as his rough fingertips find the soft skin beneath your yellow tunic. As his touch traverses the contours of you he’s always admired from a distance.

As his jaw falls open, slack with desire, you drink down his moan, catching the resonant sound in the cave of your mouth. Kissing him with a gentle yet constant hunger. With a red hot spark of deviance in your sweet eyes which almost makes Joel spill creamy ropes into his pants there and then. Your tongue travels along your lower lip. Your gaze drops, lust dark and heavy to the bulge at his crotch, and you unloop his belt with those hands of yours. They'll look small next to the size of him, he thinks. He likes that thought a lot.

“Let’s see what contraband you’re smugglin’ in these pants of yours, cowboy," you smile, and Joel's eyes crinkle with rare amusement. His face tips up with a lopsided smile which is quick to drop - all of him focussed on where you're about to touch him.

He twitches eagerly in his jeans thinking about how tight you will grip him, but you don’t touch him just yet. Instead, you shuffle yourself back, down his legs, giving yourself enough space to tug on his clothing and to ease it down his thighs. Once his pants and his boxers have reached his knees you stop there, abandoning them almost as soon as his thick, veined length is sprung free, nestling all tender against the hatch of greying hair trailing down his abdomen - where his shirt is lifted.

He’s flushed a deep colour already. Veined and needy and weeping for you. His need becomes even more urgent yet as he thinks of your hands and the way they move - the way they might touch him. Take care of him. As he thinks about you sliding your thumb over the pearl of precum at his head.

Still, he is not quite ready for the feeling when you dip forward to slide your tongue around the head of him instead, gathering that salty bead with your tongue, lapping it up with relish. He feels you hum around the head of him, the vibration sending a zip of pleasure flooding along his length. Making his balls tighten and ache already.

He wants you. He needs you. He wants you with an urgency, and yet here you are, still taking your time. Taking your time to suck at him and feel him weigh heavy over your tongue until your jaw aches from it. To grip him in your hand and marvel at the girth of him. At the way he is so sensitive that every motion and shift of your pattern makes him melt into the chair, increasingly boneless, his brow burdened with need.

You are tender with him. Careful, of his injuries. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? You touch him like he’s wounded; everywhere. His whole body. His whole soul too. And he is, isn’t he? All of him is hurting? Has been for so long?

Joel groans, his lip almost splitting from biting down and stifling his moans. He never was a vocal lover but God, it’s different for you. And this time, the sound punches out of him as you shift. As you settle your cunt over him and he feels your sopping heat glide along his length for the first time. It is a non-descript sound, halfway between pain and pleasure; and instantly, concern flashes in your eyes. You pause; lift off of him with a rise of your thighs and check-in with him.

“Joel. Are you okay? Am I hurting you?”

Are you? His breath is searing in and out of his lungs. Ragged breaths, jolting his pained ribs. You have him on the edge and so alight with desire for you that his need feels unbearable. He’s aching to fill you up. His face is contorted and crumpled by his need, brows drawn down, eyes half-lidded. But is this pain? Or is this something else? Something he has forgotten.

For a moment, then, he almost answers “yes”. Yes, because he doesn’t remember anything else but pain and so, the sensation he’s feeling now? Isn’t that pain too? Is there anything else?

He’s almost grateful when he shifts slightly, writhes against the chair to buck his hips keenly up in search of you as you withdraw so cruelly from him, his muscles coiling up. He’s grateful that the shift does indeed send pain blooming through his side; because he knows then, with certainty, that you are bringing him nothing but pleasure.

He’s grateful too though, for the pain, because a pleasure like this? A pure hit of it, not cut through with anything he's more used to? Joel thinks it would be too much for him to take. Joel thinks you are too much for him. Far more than he deserves.

“Joel?” you prompt, sliding your palm against his scruff. He hears it rasp like a scraped match. “I want you.”

You don’t want me, the voice in his head sounds out. I have nothing I can give you. But those are not the words that make it to his lips. Those are not the words at all. “Then have me, sweetheart.”

Joel may have nothing he feels he can give you, but holy shit he wants everything you are offering. He wants your plush, velvet mouth. Your smooth thighs. He wants the pooling slick between your legs - and for once, just this once, he intends to allow himself to satisfy his needs.

He figures he will simply owe you a debt. Find something that you want or need and acquire it for you. He simply has to think of this like a transaction, doesn’t he? Something familiar. Something he knows. That way, he’s not taking anything he doesn’t deserve - and he sure as hell doesn’t deserve you.

Once invited back to his body, sure of what he wants, you kiss him. Deeply, hungrily, your tongue rolling and writhing against his. Your breaths just as ragged as his. Your thighs quaking next to his, your want more than evident.

You break for air and you rise up on your knees again so that you can settle over him, notching the fat, swollen head of him against your folds.

You look like a dream on top of him, and with this yellow fabric dancing about your thighs, you look to Joel like you’re wearing a sun dress. Indeed, when he looks up at you - when he blocks everything else out - you make it feel like nothing ever happened. Like nothing was ever lost.

You look just like you’re about to fuck him on his bed on white crisp sheets. Like you’ll fall asleep beside him and in the morning he’ll make you breakfast.

You look like everything he wanted and found far too late.

You are beautiful. You are good. You are gentle. Gentle still. Gentle despite everything. And where on earth did you learn that from - how on earth did you hang on to it - in a world like this? A world which has not been gentle with him. Which has been out to get him at every turn.

You are gentle with him, even when he is undeserving. Even when he has been anything but.

Gingerly then, you settle yourself over him, and once his head is notched there and your slick hand is guiding him home, he slips easily past your folds. His eyes flutter closed as he feels your warmth wrap around him, the tightness of you hugging his girth. You’re so tight that he feels like he must be splitting you apart, but the way you’re shaking for him, the way these delicious moans unravel from your mouth tells him it feels just as good for you too.

You’re gentle with him. Sinking down on him slowly. Being ever so cautious of his ribs and his bruises and scrapes. You’re making him feel so good. So close to coming undone.

But god, he’s not planning on being gentle with you.

There’s a part of Joel that wants to make love to you, sure; but he’s not even sure he’d know how to do that anymore. How to be tender. How to be gentle. And so, he reaches for you in the only way he knows how. Reaches for you with his arms, his hands. With a body that doesn’t remember pleasure - not really. With a soul that doesn’t remember anything good - not really. He reaches for you, with hands that only know how to kill things.

In the end, it’s clunky, when he extends his touch towards you. Rough - and far too desperate. He reaches for you like it’s survival - the one thing he knows how to do - and he claws at your hips, the rough pads of his flesh sinking into your skin like dough. He has the sense, at least, to check with you, to ask with words rasped through gravel in his throat if he can fill you up. And as soon as you say yes, as soon as your breathy affirmatives and pleas lilt to his ears, Joel is dragging you down on him. Spearing you -abrupt and sudden- with the fat length of his dick, surging into you all at once.

The motion, along with the sudden swell of him punches a breath from your lungs, your rib cage flaring with quick short pants. Your eyes, rolling back into your skull as you mewl his name, and god, if he wasn’t hurt he’d be drilling into you already, fucking himself up into you at a brutal pace, so long as you’d let him.

“S-sorry,” he stutters, with effort. “Too much?”

“Almost. Joel - fuck. I’m so full of you.”

He stills as you breathe around him, adjusting to his size, and as soon as you’re ready you rise up on your knees, dragging electric pleasure all along his shaft as your cunt strokes and grips him tightly.

Then, when you sink yourself down once more, impaling yourself on his length, Joel screws his eyes shut as he eases -glides- into the wet, warm cushion of you all over again. You’re so soft and tight and forgiving, your walls relenting to the girth of him, yet providing such glorious friction that it makes his head spin. Makes him see spots, the edges of his vision whiting out.

Next, Joel moves too, adjusting his hips slightly. Helping you impale yourself on him over and over like this. He keeps it going, despite the burn of pain in his ribs and his shoulder. He tries to guide you with the claws of his hands at your hips, until it begins to hurt him too much. Until all he can do is lie back and take it from you. All he can do is feel it, emitting gusty, billowing breaths from the shocked “o” of his plush lips as he attempts to stave of his end. To do all he can to take care of your end too before he spills himself.

He needs to. Needs to take care of you like this, because he can’t offer you any other damn thing.

He can’t promise to take care of you.

He can’t promise that to anyone ever again.

He will only break it.

So, no promises. But surely, he can feel pleasure, for these fleeting moments? Surely, he can give you that too, because even if he doesn’t he’s damn sure you deserve at least that much.

He reaches for you. In desperation again. Like it’s survival. Like he can’t live without this. Without you. Even though he has already. Even though he'll have to again.

For now though, for right now, he's filling you all the way up. Squeezing your juices out of you. Pushing them out with every thrust until he’s fucking you with wet, obscene sounds. Until your slick is coursing down his shaft, coating his balls, inching over him.

With a grunt, Joel gathers some slick with the two forefingers of his left hand, and he rubs the calloused pads of his fingers into your clit. You yowl at the pressure -the pleasure- and then you guide him with your hand over his, Joel quickly learning your pace and your patterns, replicating it perfectly when you release your guiding touch.

It feels so good. It feels so good and your eager, pleasured moans are billowing down to him, your cunt clenching down on him and his dick is feeling fucking blissful as you repeatedly sink yourself. It feels good - so good - and it’s more than he deserves but god, he’s going to take it. He's going to take it even if he has to be punished for it later.

He’s pretty sure the world has been punishing him for years anyway. Pretty sure it’s keeping score and will be sure to let him know about it if he dares to take too much.

For now though.

Holy shit.

It feels so good and you’re so beautiful. So perfect. Better than he could have imagined, his flattened daydreams of you nothing compared to the real thing. You’re a vision, and you’re too good for this blighted earth and you’re every bit deserving of the life Joel knows he can never give you.

It’s bittersweet and you’re beautiful; but you’re too beautiful to look at - bright like the sun in your yellow tunic, fabric moving around your thighs like a sun dress, like something you might have worn in the before times. Like you might have worn in his yard if he’d still had a home to offer you. Maybe. Maybe you would've. It kills him that he'll never know. Never know what you could have had. What he could have given you.

You’re beautiful, and god you’re too beautiful to look at and so he drags you down to his lips as you clamp down around him, squeezing him like a vice, causing pleasure to sear white hot from his middle, creamy ropes of cum filling you up as you convulse. Your spasming cunt sends jolting aftershocks zipping through his length, ekeing every last drop from him, draining him dry.

You’re too beautiful. Too good of a thing for him to hold on to - and so Joel keeps kissing you, his hands coming to cup your face as tenderly as his killing hands know how. Kissing you, for long enough that he can quash the tears which threaten to squeeze out from the corners of his eyes. He kisses you softly, his sentiments dissolving like sugar against your mouth - as sweet as he can muster.

He kisses you, until he feels the shape of your mouth morph into a smile, and that’s it. That's when he stops.

That’s when he stops, because he can’t let himself feel this. He can’t let himself feel this because he can’t pull on that thread. Not when everything he has worked so hard to push down is all knotted and tangled together. Everything he’s loved and everything he’s lost, all bundled up in his chest.

He can’t let himself feel this because it was far more than he expected to feel.

He’d thought that you would be quick. Thought -hoped- you were just using him. Like this was a transaction. That maybe this was how you collect advantages. How you’ve managed to survive. Instead though, you gave, and you took, but it was not transactional in the slightest. And Joel has nothing left in his heart or his pockets except ration cards. Nothing he can give you in return.

Most importantly though, he can’t let himself feel this, because happiness died when the world did.

Died when she did.

And, happiness?

Well - Joel doesn’t believe he deserves to feel it again.

That’s why he encourages you off of him a little too quickly, even when you pepper kisses along the column of his neck. Why he moves away a little too abruptly, even when you tongue hungrily at the salt-slick sweat which has pooled in the hollow of his throat. Why he sets his face, all stern again even as he’s still leaking out of you.

Anyway, he stands, grunting out in pain. Maybe in anguish. Pulling his pants up with his good arm, and preparing to go.

He sets his face, and he looks back at you, where you have huddled yourself in his spot on the chair, your makeshift yellow sun dress hitched up around your hips, exposing where you glisten, all slick with the evidence of what he just did with you.

You're beautiful. Too beautiful. You look like summer when he meets your eyes. A sun that is bright and constant, like it used to be before the rot clouded over the skies.

A light that is far too bright for him.

Part of him expects you to look sad. To look surprised that he has leapt up like this, motioning to leave so violently. Expects you to plead with him to give you more; but instead, you look at him levelly. Knowing, not naive. Maybe you too are clear on the limits of what’s possible. Clear that there are some things that can never be.

Still, as that soft smile plays over your face, as Joel holds the memory of your touch over his body, the bitter coffee look in his eyes sweetens just a little.

“Listen. Thanks," he states brusqely. It’s not enough. Not by any stretch. But unless you want some contraband or some shit, it’s all he’s got.

“No problem, Joel-y. I... I just wanted to take care of you. I thought you deserved that - at least once.”

Tears prick at the corners of Joel’s eyes. Stinging; but pushed down and flattened before you can even notice it. He’s not quite sure. Not quite sure whether hearing you say he deserves something he’s sure that he doesn’t counts as pleasure or pain, but he supposes that it doesn’t matter anymore anyway. He’s back to not knowing the difference. Not recognising pleasure or happiness when they stare him in the face, because now they have become strangers.

Joel nods efficiently at you. Picks up his rucksack and moves towards the doorway, trying not to think about the fact you’re still full of him. About the fact that you’re still smiling, that backlit glow of home imviting him in.

Truth be told, he can’t imagine ever being happy again.

If he could imagine it though? If he could imagine being happy, he’s sure as all hell that it would be with you.

You’re like summer, he thinks. Bright. Luminous. It's just that Joel’s not looking for the light.

For someone who’s so used to the dark? Like him? The light is blinding.

Still, he pauses in the doorway, turning back towards you for one moment more. From the surprise on your face now, he can tell you didn’t even expect that much from him - and by God, you deserve so much better.

His eyes sweeten, just a little further, and his face sets - now with a different kind of resolve. He offers his words, like they’re cupped in outstretched palms. Like he could be gentle. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“You don’t owe me a debt, Joel.”

He nods, but that doesn’t mean at all that he accepts your assertion.

His eyes tick over to the broken picture rail, right where it fractures. His gaze lingers on it for a moment, cataloguing what tools he might need to fix it. Clocking the picture frames of salvaged art you have leaning up against the wall, not yet hung.

“I said, I'll make it up to you.” You nod efficiently back at him, and Joel drinks one more long measure of you in before he leaves. Maybe it's not quite a promise, but right now, it's all he's got.

He’d burn the world down for you, he thinks, if it could change a damn thing.

Thing is though, the world has already burned.

He can’t make you many promises. Can’t keep you safe. Make you happy. Offer you a home.

He’ll only let you down.

Maybe all of that is true. Maybe it is - but Joel knows one thing for sure. You’re brighter than the sun, and, in a world full of darkness? He just can’t look away, even though you’re blinding.

[sihtricfedaraaahvicius]

warnings: violence, seperation fear, loss of loved ones.

pairing: Sihtric x you (f)

summary: Being raised by nuns, the world was rather strange to you. And after a raid you had lost everything you ever knew.

word count: 2,5k

Note: perhaps the first part of a series???

taglist: @clairacassidy @finanmoghra @uunotheangel @hb8301 @bathedinheat

Those who are abandoned.

The screaming started and all you could do was listen. Listen to how the nuns got assaulted and slaughtered. A raid was happening at the monastery. The monastery you were brought to when you were merely a pup, to be abandoned by your nameless parents. You had never lived outside of it, never walked outside of the cloister, and the thought of having no one to look after you anymore was already enough to make you cry. 

You were locked inside the church, hidden. One of the nuns had barricaded the door, hoping you would survive and live to tell the story of the brutal attack. 

But you couldn't stand it anymore, you couldn't bear hearing the screaming anymore. You wanted to get out. And you prayed. All you did was pray for the safety of the nuns you had loved dearly.

Moments later the church door was breached and the Danes came in to plunder. You were hidden in the far corner. It was a miracle that the plundering Danes never saw you as they took every piece of silver they could find. 

Once you thought they all left, you crawled out of your hiding spot. You quietly got up, your legs trembling beneath you, and you walked down the aisle. You adjusted your long tunic which, once white, was now covered with dirt and blood, when suddenly a wild looking man appeared in front of you. He was huge, muscular and tall with a massive ginger beard. He was swinging a knife as he ran to you. You froze, screamed, almost accepting that your fate was about to be the same as that of any other nun there that day.

As you watched the Dane rapidly approach, he abruptly stopped dead in his tracks. He groaned and suddenly fell over, face flat onto the floor, right in front of you. You gasped and looked at the twitching body at your feet, only to see an axe stick out of his spine.

You looked up and saw a different man standing in the door opening. He was panting and stared at you. Seconds later he walked into the church, towards the body in front of you and he kneeled down next to the body. He pulled the axe out of the dead man's spine with ease, and you flinched upon the brutal sight. When the man looked up at you as he wiped the blood off his axe, using the dead man's tunic, you clearly saw he was a Dane too. You took a quick step back and froze again.

'Are you okay?' the man asked, panting. His voice was low and calm.

You studied the man, not knowing if he really had spoken to you, or if your body already had gone into survival mode and made you hear things that weren't there. This particular Dane was also tall and muscular, but in proportion. He had a strong face, a near perfect jawline you thought, duo coloured eyes and one side of his head was shaved whereas the other side had half long, dark hair, decorated with beads. You were terrified, yet you also thought he must have been an angel, for you had never seen a man like that, he had killed your attacker, and he didn't look like he belonged with the savages who started the raid.

'Lady,' he spoke again and stepped closer, 'are you okay?'

He looked into your eyes and you felt as if he looked straight into your soul.

'Thank you,' you suddenly said with a trembling voice.

The man clenched his jaw and gave you a quick nod. He took a step back and turned away from you. You watched this beautiful figure walk back to the church entrance and a sudden fear captured you again.

'Please do not leave me!' you almost cried, 'I… I have no one anymore.'

The Dane had stopped walking and slowly turned around to face you. You could see he was considering his options. He could bring you to safety or he could continue his murder spree. And he really wanted to do the latter. But he saw the desperation in your eyes and, you didn't know it yet, he recognized it. Then he quickly walked back to you and took your arm as politely as he could, pulling you with him.

'Stay close, lady,' he muttered. 

And you did. You held onto the man's hand for dear life as he guided you through the aftermath of the chaos that had happened outside. You saw smoke, you saw fires, you saw blood and you saw weapons. You saw the nuns who had raised you, the priests who had taught you how to read, and you saw the Danes that had attacked them. And they were all dead.

You cried as you stepped over their bodies, following the Dane as he regrouped with his men. You noticed that one of the men was a young monk, another one was wearing a cross and the third one also looked like a Dane. You were confused by this entourage, but you didn't care right now, you wanted to be around the living.

'Sihtric, is this your plunder?' the man who looked like a Dane asked amused.

'Aye, he found himself a wife by the looks of it,' the man with the cross chuckled. He was Irish.

'Oh, heavens,' you heard the young monk say, and he was the first to make his way over to you. He took your face in his hands and asked for your name and if you were okay.

You looked at him, managed to say your name and before you knew it you had burst into tears again. Through your tears you told them how you had just lost everything. That you were raised here and had never lived outside of these walls, and that everyone you ever knew was now dead.

All the men showed compassion, and after some arguing the monk told you that you could travel with them to Coccham, where they came from. You thanked them and fell to your knees as you cried.

Not much later you were walking through the woods. The men had kept their horses safe somewhere from the raid, but this meant it was quite a walk before you'd reach them.

During the walk the young monk never left your side. He asked you more about your life and you told him everything. He, in return, told you about himself and the other men. His name was Osferth, the Irishman was Finan, the one who looked like a Dane was Uhtred, their lord, and the Dane who had saved you was Sihtric. You told him they made for an odd group, which he agreed to, but he also said you were safe with them, to which you smiled.

It was the middle of summer. And as the weather was hot, you took off your veil, releasing your long hair, to which Osferth gasped.

'Lady, your hair,' he said.

'I know,' you smiled, 'I never cut it short. I just always hid it from everyone. I guess that is my only sin.'

Osferth smiled and said if that was your only sin, you had nothing to worry about.

After a long walk you finally reached the horses, but the sun was already setting and Uhtred said that it would be best to camp here and travel the next day. Because it was summer, the men hadn't brought any tents with them, for sleeping under the stars was warm enough this time of year.

When Finan was trying to make a fire with Osferth's help, and Uhtred was out to hunt for food, you walked over to Sihtric, who had just finished taking care of his horse.

'Sihtric?' your voice was soft, but loud enough that he turned to face you.

'You saved my life, thank you.'

'Hm,' he hummed and gave you a slight smile and a nod.

'May I…' you asked as you reached for his hands. Sihtric watched you take his hands in yours and you closed your eyes.

'God,' you whispered, 'thank you for sending this man to save my life. May he be blessed and kept safe, always.'

You opened your eyes and found Sihtric smiling softly at you, which instantly made you blush and you quickly let go of his hands. You were too shy to say anything and you looked down to your feet, feeling Sihtric's eyes upon you.

'Thank you,' he said eventually, with a smirk.

Your eyes wandered up his armour to his chest, and they stopped at his necklace. Without thinking you took a step closer and reached for it, holding the pendant in your hand.

'What is this?' you asked curiously.

'It's Thor's hammer,' Sihtric said. You looked up at him with big, questioning eyes.

'Thor? What does that mean?'

'Thor is one of my gods. He is the god of thunder. This hammer is a symbol for protection and blessings. I pray to him when I need to.'

You studied the pendant with big eyes and Sihtric couldn't keep himself from smiling as he watched you inspect his necklace.

'Do your gods always answer you?' you asked as you looked back into his eyes.

'It's not that simple,' he chuckled, and you felt his breath on your face, which made you blush again.

'Our gods give us signs rather than speaking to us. But yes, my gods give me signs, so they answer me. Does your god answer you?'

You let the pendant slip out of your fingers but kept your eyes fixed on it.

'No,' you said with a weak voice, 'I prayed for my family in the monastery to be spared. But you saw what happened.'

Sihtric let out a soft sigh and gently placed his hand on your upper arm.

'I'm sorry,' he told you and squeezed your arm, 'but you're safe now, I swear it.'

You watched how he reached for the pendant and held it in his hand.

'What are you doing?' you smiled, confused.

'Giving you my word.'

'Oh,' you blushed, 'but how do I know you mean it?' you asked politely.

Sihtric opened his mouth, but before he could speak you heard a sudden rumble through the air.

Thunder.

Your eyes grew big and you looked up at Sihtric, who's lips curled into a smile.

'Do you believe me now?' he chuckled.

'Promise you will stay close?'

'Never more than one pace away, lady.'

A few hours after you all had eaten food by the fire, Osferth and Finan had fallen asleep already. Uhtred held watch over the small camp, not too far away but he was out of sight for you. Sihtric sat next to you as you stared into the fire, and you felt a few tears roll down your cheek. You turned away slightly so Sihtric wouldn't see it. 

But you were mourning. Mourning those you had lost earlier. Mourning everything you ever lost in your life. And much to your shame, Sihtric heard you sniffle and he quickly leaned in.

'Hey,' he whispered and he placed his hand on your shoulder. He understood why you were crying and didn't want to make it worse, so he kept quiet. You couldn't hold it in anymore and you started sobbing when you felt him gently rub your shoulder with his thumb. 

Sihtric quickly pulled you into his arms and hushed you quietly. His face leaned against yours and you felt his arms tightly around you. Instinctively you tugged at his armour, not wanting him to let go and leave you. Like everyone else had left you.

'I know,' he whispered as you continued to cry without speaking, and he felt your tugs. 

'I once lost everything and everyone too. I know how it hurts,' he whispered, 'but I promise you that we will not abandon you. I promise I will not abandon you.' He pulled away to cup your cheeks, making you look up at him. 'I promise,' he said again as he wiped your tears away, and he held you close until you had calmed down.

It was getting late, and Sihtric felt tired from the events earlier that day.

'I have to get some sleep. Are you going to be okay here? You should stay and sleep near the fire, it will keep you warm. Uhtred is watching over the camp, you can sleep safely,' Sihtric reassured you.

'Where do you sleep?' you asked, and held onto his arm as he tried to get up.

'Over there, close to my horse.'

You saw it was quite some paces away from the fire, and you became worried because he wouldn't be close. Sihtric saw the worry and fear appear on your face.

'It's better if you stay here, near the fire. The nights can get really cold,' he explained.

Sihtric gave you a smile and he meant it, he was worried you might get sick as you weren't adjusted to sleeping outside like they were.

'But what keeps you warm at night, that far from the fire?'

'Lady,' he chuckled lightly, 'I am used to it. I don't get cold that quickly.'

'Can I sleep there too? With you?' 

'Oh,' Sihtric chuckled, and he was glad it was dark so you couldn't see him blush, 'it's probably warmer near the fire for you.'

'But you could warm me?' you asked bluntly. 

You barely knew Sihtric, but he had saved your life and now you only felt safe when he was close. You didn't want to be away from his side when you slept, that was all.

But your lack of experience with men made you unaware of how your question came off to Sihtric, who couldn't help but smile and he awkwardly tried to compose himself. He didn't know you had never slept next to a man, because he knew of nuns who had experienced the joys of lust at least once. But you weren't one of those nuns.

'Eh, well,' he stammered, 'I… you should rest, really.'

'But I don't want to sleep alone,' you said softly.

'Oh,' Sihtric said, now understanding your intentions, 'I suppose you could sleep there then, yes.'

Moments later you lay down on the hard ground, and you knew your body would feel broken by dawn. Sihtric noticed your discomfort in the moonlight and smiled. 

'You get used to it,' he winked. 

You couldn't help but smile and felt yourself blush, but quickly after you started to shiver.

'Cold?'

'Yeah,' you said embarrassed. Sihtric was right, sleeping near the fire would have been better for you.

He sat up slightly, resting his back against a huge tree trunk, which almost hugged around the two of you. And without saying a word he gently reached out to you. You allowed him to pull you closer. Sihtric held you in one place for a moment, as if he waited for approval, and he pulled you tight against his chest after you seemed to accept his gesture.

You felt his strong arms around your shoulders as he lowered himself back against the trunk, making you lay down onto his chest. You instantly felt warm upon feeling his touch, and you felt a rush of butterflies down your stomach which you couldn't explain.

'You have such strong arms, why?' you blurted out.

Sihtric chuckled at your bluntness and gave you a squeeze.

'It's so I can protect you, lady.'

And you both dozed off shortly after, allowing your subconscious to process the events of that day.

[maxcuntstappen]

anyways i wrote this months ago after being exposed to the idea of alien max through brilliant @yekoc and their brilliant anons. alien max in this is completely different and definitely struggling but i love him

and now u can have him

Max had really really wanted to like it on earth. He really did it. After all, it was a part of his legacy, to spend years on the planet to collect data on technologies and resource to send back to his home planet. It’s what his mother had done. It’s what his father had done. 

They had differing opinions on it though. His mother had loved it here. Max grew up hearing stories about self replenishing waterfalls and skies that seemed to change colours from one moment to next. His home planet wasn’t very colourful; primarily made up of red, blue and white. They were nice colours. They reminded Max of home. But he loved how purples and pinks looked in the books he was given on life on Earth for Dummies when he first started training. He loved how his mother described them too. How pink felt like softness to her, like Max’s baby blanket he slept with, which used to be his mom’s dress. Like how his cheeks felt when his trainer told him he had done a good job. How purple felt like licking at something tart, the dual feeling of unease and joy the accompanies it. His mother loved her time on Earth and Max loved hearing about it, dreaming and waiting for his turn to go make his own memories and stories to bring back home. 

His father wasn’t impressed by Earth. He found humans irritating and gross and he said he couldn’t wait for his time on Earth to be done so he could leave the disgusting creatures and come back, to silence and routine and order.

Max always thought he’d be like his Mom; liking the planet, liking what he was learning about it, wanting to keep digging and researching everything about it. He wanted to be like his mother, he always did. 

But so far, he wasn’t coming close. 

Humans were so LOUD. Max didn’t necessarily have any particular issues with sound. But he believes there should at least be a reason for making painfully loud sounds? 

Like back home, when a part of the surface is weak and needs tending to, it screeches and vibrates.

But humans were loud just for the sake of being loud. There were horns going off everywhere, people shouting with no reason, they walked around talking on their phones but people six miles away could hear them. 

Max is exaggerating of course. That is one thing he did like about humans, their dramatics.  Only if they could do them without being painfully LOUD, he’d have something to add to his list. 

He was sitting in a cafe, trying out the hot chocolate his mother had told him he must try when he gets a chance, when he first heard the noise. 

It was loud, bellowing. Max noticed how it wasn’t just his attention that had been captured. Several heads were turned towards the human. 

He wanted to be annoyed. It was yet another sound on an already long and hard day. But when the man’s mouth opened, only for more laughs to tumble out, he realised he didn’t really mind it all that much. 

Max of course knew what laughs sounded like. They had had a whole course on it back in the academy. On the different kinds of laughs and what they can mean. They had clips that researchers had recorded through the years. 

None of them sounded like this though. Max wondered if he should be recording this for data. Maybe it would be a helpful addition to the human studies programme. 

He couldn’t make himself do it. It felt like something he was meant to keep as his own. The very first thing he fell in love with on earth. 

[agendabymooner]

colour me your colour || toto w. x ofc (1)

Summary: Tilly Marie nearly loses faith in her passion as she refuses to listen to everyone who told her to quit. Everyone but one. And it’s the man she met years ago at a racing event she didn’t want to attend. Who would have thought that her father’s partial ownership of three brands could take her to the zone of Mercedes and meet the love of her life?

Content warning: Age gap, mentions of an absence of a father figure, brief use of explicit language, mentions of nepotism. Fictional family and business involved (Hearth family and Hearth Automotives Group).

Note: I did a funny haha series. I literally just started on this yesterday. I'm writing the third part right now, hoping to work on this as much as possible. Again, I am still new to F1?? Please forgive me.

Enjoy! xx

i. what a beautiful sight that was

   It was the year 2006. The 21-year-old me did not want to attend on behalf of my father’s role to whatever this business was he was handling. I remember being extremely confident about walking up the stage to get my master's. 

I had always been told to be an intelligent girl. One that utilizes her skills in any way possible. Everyone praised me, and my maternal grandparents encouraged me to continue my education. My paternal grandparents expressed their admiration with a pat on the head and a kiss. My mother hugged me tightly and hung nearly every certificate I had captured. My father, however… he couldn’t get over the fact that he never had a son—one who would run the company someday and perhaps become a world champion. 

He lacked boys for his fatherhood experience, so he turned to me and set a list of expectations he had of me. He was still as healthy as ever. He could bench if he felt like it. But he still wanted to instill some responsibility in his companies and passed it on to me. 

But I earned my master's in Journalism and was halfway through my Bachelor's in Marketing. What did I know about motorsport? 

This didn’t mean anything to my father. He wanted me to handle the business and pass it off to the next person if needed. He just wanted his surname to remain known in the industry and public. He trusted me to handle particular areas that he thought I could do. 

But it was 2006, and I wasn’t given the responsibilities until years after. I was simply in Dubai to watch and entertain myself while cameras tried to get a glimpse of me—the Heiress. I was the next to become a shareholder in the businesses my father and grandfather (and his father) had put their money on. I was an eye candy—the strong woman of the Hearth family. And I was just in Dubai to watch men race lap after lap while they stayed there for hours, like mad men. 

And my father didn’t even tell me anything. I’ve only been exposed to observation. But my brain wasn’t made to be awake for a day, and my eyes preferred a piece of entertainment from my research paper. 

But my mind gave me a little nudge and turned my head to look at the man who’ll have me thinking for years. His helmet was on his side, his fingers tapping to keep him focused. He was tall. He was tall and handsome—a deadly combination.

The combination was too deadly, and I only realized this when he caught me looking. I hadn’t turned my head quite fast enough as I continued to examine and annotate my anecdotal record, pretending that my face wasn’t blushing.

It turned out he was just as intrigued as he was handsome. Fucking great. He sat across the chaise lounge I stiffly sat on, his smile I could barely see from my peripheral vision. 

Knowing he probably wouldn’t leave, I stopped pretending I was studying and looked up only to see his lips spread in amusement. His smile. Oh god. Couldn’t this man be the perfect man to have existed?

“You’re not here to study,” he chuckled softly, “Because you’d be in the wrong place otherwise.” 

Of course, I hadn’t passed up the chance to roll my eyes jokingly. 

The conversation lasted forever, and not once did he gloss over the screens to see how his team was doing at the track. He listened to me as I complained about the research I had to do for book publications. He wondered how I’d gotten through my master's at 21. Then he decided to guess while I provided my answer too.

“You’re gifted.”

“Generational wealth.” 

Then silence filled the atmosphere as if we could only hear the people talk in the background. My laughter after the pause made his mouth grin as he silently laughed. One of us was more biased than the other, I thought to myself. My success at school came from the high 90s that I achieved. My family's money made it easier for me to get in without any trouble with tuition. 

But the conversation didn’t last as long as I thought it would have, as someone who wore the same racing suit came barging at the door. The man frantically gestured for my company to follow him. 

He looked at me, his eyes keeping me in one place as I shifted. He could only say, “It was nice talking to you.” 

And all I could offer him was a stutter of, “Y- yeah, a pleasure to meet you. Y- your name is…” 

But his teammate beat him to it before he could utter his name. “Torger!” 

Then he looked at me again with a brief nod as he walked out of the room. 

He was a lovely man. There’s nothing nicer than an equally attractive and genuine man. I liked every single second that I spent with him. And I’ve only known him for fifteen minutes. 

And that remained as that. We’ve only known each other for fifteen minutes. When they announced the race winners, I was already on my flight back to England. I was already reporting to my father about what I saw. 

I told him about what I saw and experienced. But never once did I say to him about a driver of the winning team and how I’ve practically fallen for him. Because I haven’t fallen, he was just lovely. 

What a beautiful sight he was.