#normally my head shakes itself and I need to like exhale heavily but

[gandreida]

Took a double shot of vodka with no chaser and I didnt even twitch or cringe like I normally do when I drink alcohol

[shurisneakers]

harmless (vi)

Summary: Bucky volunteers to go stop a small time villain, but nothing can prepare him for what exactly he has to deal with. (Bucky x villain!reader, drabble series)

Warnings: cursing, existential crisis, frustrated bucky, dramatic reader, lil bit of angst, clint barton being a lil shit

Word count: 1.9k

A/N: BUCKY BARNES IS BACK AND HAS A CONFIRMED PERSONALITY 

also omg everyone who’s been sending me ideas- ur the lomls. 

if you have any ideas for future inventions/evil plans, lemme know! i might actually end up using them

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing <333

Previous Part || Series Masterlist

Your place or mine? ;)

He stares at the text.

The right answer is mine. See you at the lair.

“Y’all are dating now?” Clint peeks over his shoulder. 

“Fuck no,” Bucky says indignantly. “God forbid.”

“Okay, man,” he retracts, giving Bucky space to turn around and face him. “What do you want to call your mini dates then?”

“Missions,” Bucky corrects him.

“No one wants to go on a mission. You volunteered to go back there.” 

“It’s for the good of the tristate area.” 

“I bet.” The snort he lets out contradicts his words. “Whole world is depending on you, Barnes. Go save them from the treachery of your crush.”

“Enemy.”

“Girlfriend.”

“Mortal nemesis.” Bucky narrows his eyes at him. “Go further, I dare you.”

“What are you gonna do? Choke me? Punch me with your metal arm?” Clint cranes his neck. “Bring it, big boy. I’m not scared of some kinky shit.”

He hates living here. 

The door is left open for him. 

This time, even though the lair is still illuminated by the green light out in the front, there’s a minor change. Sunlight streams in through a skylight in the roof. 

There’s a ladder there, leaning against the rim. It gives him an entrance to the roof, which, judging by the lack of any other presence in the lab, is where he’s supposed to go.

As he gets closer he notices there’s a note on one of the rungs.

‘Evil’ with an arrow pointing upwards.

He rolls his eyes, discarding it on the floor before swiftly scaling the steps.

“Ah, Mr. Barnes,” he hears your voice call out even before his head pops up above the surface. “We’ve been expecting you.” 

He pauses, looking around. “Who’s with you?”

Because other than the gigantic machine pointed up towards the sky, there’s only you with a visor and sunglasses. The  best way he can describe its design was that it was shaped like a pine cone, had a large antenna pointed towards the sky, two handlebars near its base to manoeuvre it with a large button in between them. 

“Just imagine I have my henchmen with me,” you urge. “I’m on a budget, man, I can’t afford them yet. Maybe when my cloning machine finally works-”

He doesn’t answer.

“It’s a James Bond reference,” you add when he doesn’t show any signs of answering. 

“Haven’t watched it yet.” Bucky shrugs. “We’re doing Star Trek right now.”

“You’re done with Star Wars?” you, receiving a nod in confirmation. “Nice. You’d find the spy shit ridiculous anyway, it’s way below your level.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He makes a mental note to add the Bond movies to the list. 

“Speaking of stars,” you begin, gesturing to the machine. “I’m going to harness the power of the sun.”

“For what?” He doesn’t bother asking how, he already knows you’ve figured out something. 

“There’s a science exhibition and my team’s stupid solar car experiment isn’t working and I need it for them to win.” 

“So build a better one.” 

“No, ours is the best and if Jeff and his stupid baking soda volcano beat us then we’re going to have a murder on our hands.”

“Your hands,” he emphasises. He has nothing to do with this.

“I said what I said, boy.” You glare at him. “This is our problem now.”

“How much power are you taking?” If it’s insignificant enough, it wouldn’t matter much. He thinks. 

“The whole thing.”

He laughs. He stops when you don’t.

“You’re taking all the energy of the sun to power your shitty science model.”

“Your face is a shitty science model,” you mimic him in a higher pitched voice. “I will do anything to win.”

He wonders which grade kid you stole that insult from was in. There’s no way they were anything older than 13. He could use it on Steve, maybe.

“Everyone on Earth will die.” He feels the need to remind you, even though there was no way it was actually going to take place. Eat shit, Clint. This superseded the tristate area.

“Not for eight minutes.” You look at your watch. “And, if Jeff dies then I win by default.”

“You’ll die too,” he points out. 

“I’ll die a winner.” You nod seriously as if that makes it better. 

He’s not that worried. Experience tells him that you’re not a mass murderer willingly. 

“You’ll die an idiot.” 

“Only if you don’t stop me.” Your lips curve into a smile. “And how will you when I do this?”

You yank the machine to point towards him and slam the button. His hand reflectively pulls in front of him to defend himself. Something hits him with enough force to send him skidding backwards slightly. 

He removes his hand carefully from in front of him, looking at you. 

Something feels off.

“You just-”

The knives strapped to his thighs suddenly feel heavier.

“Took your powers?” you finish his thought. “Yeah.”

He feels his body tip towards his left. He’s suddenly very aware of the weight of the arm. Had it been this heavy all this while? 

“You’ve barely changed,” you noted, “You’re just regular Bucky but like, 20% less beef.”

After all, he was a boxer when he was a teen. One of the best men the Howling Commandos had even before the serum.

His shoulder feels heavier though. And somehow he thinks he’s sensing things a little less. He can’t really hear the faint buzzing of the generator downstairs anymore.

“Yep, that’s real muscle.” He turns when you poke at his shoulder. He doesn’t know when you got there. “You’re like a modern day Schwarzenegger. Grade A beefcake.”

He can’t see the construction site near the horizon as clearly as he used to. 

Something about this situation makes him feel like he’s going to have a midlife crisis, even though he’s overshot the age by a huge number. No one has a midlife crisis at 106. 

“Now that we’ve established that this works,” you say, back near the machine again. When did you walk there? “Let’s show this bitch that I’m the brightest star allowed in this solar system.” 

He shakes his head to jolt himself awake, shoves aside his mental dysfunction and breaks out into a sprint when you pull the device down to aim it at the sky. 

He latches onto the side, using his left hand to pull himself up, straddling the machine.

“Excuse me,” you exclaim like it’s a minor inconvenience and he feels the machine sway wildly under him. “You’re weighing it down, get off my inator.”  

You’re shooting recklessly, trying to shake him off. It’s not dissimilar to the mechanical bull Natasha made him ride during a mission down south so she could win money off placing bets on him. They had lobster that night.

He reaches down to its side, hoping to feel maybe a panel he can rip off. He finds nothing.  

He hopes none of the rays are actually hitting anything. It’s a little harder to stay on than he’d imagined it would be, and he thinks that maybe this wasn’t the best plan. 

He changes his mind in a split second, swinging himself over so that he can climb the underside of the machine like a monkey bar. He feels like a fucking insect. How was Peter not mortally embarrassed? 

He factors in the fact that his hands are getting clammier and his grip is slipping faster than usual. Also, he can taste his lunch at the back of his throat.

“Motherfucker,” Bucky curses when his hand slips, leaving him to hold on only by his metal arm. 

“You okay?” you call out, not giving him a second to recover unless he really needed it.

He lets out a grunt, swinging his arm up and catching hold of the antenna, yanking it down and towards the machine itself. He pulls himself up so that he’s straddling the machine again. 

One more shot and-

“Very smart, Barnes,” you say dryly, letting go of the handles. 

He sends you a sly grin before sliding down the barrel, kicking the large button with his heel right before he jumps off. 

The beam shoots out, instantly meeting with metal. The device automatically gives a mechanical groan before powering down, turning off altogether. 

“I hate you,” you huff, before noting his paleness. “D’you want some water? An IV maybe?”

He dismisses it with a wave of his hand, inhaling heavily to catch his breath.

He’s tired, more so than he would have been under any normal circumstance. He feels a little dizzy, a little disoriented. 

“Don’t worry, your magic powers will be back in a few minutes or so.” You examine the bent antenna, pressing the button and sighing when it stands there lifelessly. “Once Jeff wins, I’ll send the dry cleaning receipt to you. You can pay to get the tear stains out of the kids’ outfits.”

“Your tears or theirs?” He’s relieved about the powers returning, he thinks.

“Both, bitch.” Your eyebrow quirks at his retort. Clearly, he had more energy in him than people realised; his brain seemed to be working fine. He was stronger than you thought. Good for him. 

“You’re smart. You’ll figure something out.” He lets out a final exhale before standing up a little straighter. 

“Thanks. It’d be better if you asked your billionaire tech genius to send us something, but okay.”

“It’s a middle school science exhibition. Make a potato battery or something.”

You tsk-tsk. “No points for creativity, Mr. Barnes.”

It creeps into his mind without warning. He wonders if he actually wanted the powers back. Wonders what his life could be if he maybe retired, settled down. For the brief time he feels like his pre-war self, he starts to think like his pre-war self.

“I’m not the one who’s about to lose to a baking soda volcano,” he finds time to respond, however. 

“Your face is a baking soda volcano.” You narrow your eyes at him. “I will not lose.”

“You’re running out of time. Chop chop.”

But the thought hits him. Who is Bucky without his super soldier serum? If he doesn’t have his powers then he can’t think of what use he is to the Avengers.

Who the hell is Bucky if he can’t provide a service to others? How else does he make up for being himself?

His, what he’s now deemed, afterlife crisis is starting to look more apparent.

He compartmentalises and stores it away in a box. He’ll bring it up with his therapist later. 

“I’m going to win and then you’ll be sorry you weren’t a part of it because you didn’t let me steal the sun.” 

“If you win, I’ll still be glad I didn’t let you.” He climbs back down the ladder, feeling the ache in his muscles reduce with every passing minute. 

True to your word, his powers do return a while later. 

And while he’s watching Avatar: The Last Airbender with Peter in the living room two days later, his phone beeps with a text. 

It’s a picture of a blue first place ribbon next to a toy car that looks like it’s powered by a potato battery. Beside it is an out of focus middle finger that is aimed at him. 

Congratulations, he texts back. Told you potato batteries always win.

Your face always wins, he receives in return. He can’t tell if you’re insulting or flirting with him. 

He just shuts his phone off and goes back to watching the show. 

Next part

[ama-kuu]

Abandoned and Rehomed Ch 2

Warnings: Panic attacks, Depression

Hawks brings you home after picking you up as an abandoned stray

Feline quirk reader

Sorry this is gonna be another sad one. I promise that it's gonna get better as the story progresses. 😅

Link for Chapter 1:

Hawks landed gently on his balcony, tenderly gazing down at your sleeping form. He lightly adjusts you in his arms, as few feathers detach to unlock the keypad and maneuver the sliding doors open. Now under the awning, he shakes out his wings, bristling each feather to expel the water droplets. Glancing back, the rain still falling heavily, he moves swiftly into his penthouse.

……………………

You groaned as your ears flicked at the sounds of a nearby shower starting. Ugh. Your head was pounding. You sat up from the very plush mattress underneath you, rubbing circles at your temples, you slid off the bed. You rocked slightly unbalanced when you straightened up. You peered around the room, your gaze catching at the large wet spot on the bed from your rain soaked clothes, you lowered your ears.

Guilt dug at your gut, your head quickly turned to bathroom the door, it was cracked but you didn't see any movement. You moved your attention back to the bed. In your mind, you were indebted to Hawks for graciously picking you off the streets only to inconvenience him.

You tried to work quickly to remove the sheets and bedding before Hawks returned. Once you had all the bedding gathered in your arms you searched around for the hamper. You were so absorbed in your task you didn’t even notice Hawks leaning against the bathroom door frame snickering at you.

He stealthily moved behind you. You were so focused that you didn't even notice him until his hands gripped your hips pulling you flush against his own. You yelped involuntarily followed by blushing hard.

He shook with laughter as you clutched the bedding close to you. “What are you doing Kitten?” His head cocked to the side trapping you with his intimidating golden gaze.

You faltered under his attention, “Oh..Um..” You looked down at the bedding in your arms, your ears drooping forward as you contemplated your response.

“I wanted to clean up after myself before you came back.” You kept your head down, unwilling to hold his gaze. Did you mess up? Was he upset with you for touching his things? Wha-

He clicked his tongue, breaking you out of your downward spiral. Feathers swarmed the bedding, pulling them from your hold and floated off out of the room. Hawks spun you in front of him, now facing him. He held your chin up to maintain eye contact.

“Kitten…” He leaned in closer, “I didn’t bring you home to be a maid…So let me pamper my new pet properly.”

Your mind was spinning leaving you speechless as you gaped at him. Your mouth hung open stunned for only a brief moment before you sighed in relief, leaning up on your tip toes and purred loudly against his neck. Thank goodness he wasn’t mad. He pet your head gently before gathering you up, his arms scooping you up under your thighs. His hands brushed over your tail causing you to shutter against him. In the short time you were with him it seemed like you spent most of it in his arms rather than touching the ground, it was amusingly pleasant. You melted against him.

You couldn’t help but notice his own wings flutter gently at your reactions. You leaned over him as he carried you towards the bathroom, your fingers gingerly batting at the feathers at the peak of his wings. He deeply inhaled and dipped through the bathroom doorway, careful to make sure you didn't hit your head on the door frame.

He set you down on the marble vanity. The steam from the shower caused a thick fog to coat the room. You took in the room, not only the counter was marble but the floors and the walls as well. It was honestly intimidating to take in. Beside you sat a neatly folded pile of his clothes. Your attention was quickly redirected by a brief flap of his crimson appendages, as he leaned into the shower to check the water temperature. You sat there in a trance as your senses zoned in on his wings. You fought your quirk’s instincts to run your claws through the feathers pulling and tugging at the quills.

Hawks felt the intense stare on his back. Peeking his head subtlety over his shoulder, his pupils narrowed at the sight. You sat there, eyes fully dilated with your claws flexing in between your spread thighs. He slowly expanded his wingspan, eager to watch your expressions. You reacted immediately, claws elongating and digging into the stone counter. Fuck. Watching you restrain your impulses to jump him was HOT.

He shook his head, he was in control. At least that’s what he told himself as he raked his gaze over you. Still in your soaked outfit, he knew he needed to make sure you were taken care of first, before his own needs. He slowly exhaled, regaining that control, he stepped closer to you.

“Kitten. You are going to shower then change into these.” He motioned to the clothing beside you.

Your pupils readjusted back to normal as you listened to his commands.

“Got it kitten?” His eyes flashed with dominance challenging you……

“Yes.” His eyebrows raised surprised to hear you for the first time since you woke up. You smiled gently at him, your heart warm at his efforts to pamper you.

His hands braced your shoulders, “Kitten if you need me, I’ll be right outside the door.”

You nodded as you slid down from the counter. When your feet were planted on the floor he gave your forehead a light kiss before retreating out of the room.

With Hawks no longer around to distract you, the headache you woke up with became more apparent. Your head throbbed as you slowly peeled the heavy clothes from your body. They fell to the floor with a thud as you stumbled to the shower. The steam was now thick and difficult to see through, as you entered the luxury glass shower. You stood under the water stream with your ears tucked down to prevent water from getting too far down into your ear canals.

Your hands grazed up your body as the shower heated you back up. Heat. You froze when your fingers made contact with your collar. Your stomach dropped. Hands become numb as they clenched onto the collar. Even though you were the one left behind, you could not help but feel… guilty… Dabi….Tears flooded your eyes as your legs buckled under you. You couldn’t stop what came next. You began to hyperventilate, you choked on the shower steam as you tried to get air into your lungs. You needed to collar OFF, NOW. Your fingers fumbled with the buckle as you fought back sobs.

“HAWKS!” You screamed for him, fighting to get the words past the tightness forming in your throat. It was getting harder for you to breathe, it felt as if the collar itself was strangling you with your own feelings.

He was on you in seconds. Red blurs flew around you as the shower was shut off, plush towels wrapped cocooned around you and mainly the collar choker removed from your neck. You got one last glimpse of it before it was flown out of the room. Taking deep breaths, you cling to his shirt as if it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

“Everything’s okay kitten, you are safe with me.” His hand cradled your head against him. He didn't dare move you, not until you calmed down. “I’m going to be right here. You can get through this, just keep breathing with me.”

You focused on him and made a conscious effort to sync up with him. In and out. He continued to rub gentle circles on the back of your head with his thumb, as your respirations became slower.

You nodded against his chest, “I’m okay.” Your heart was still pounding in your chest, but you felt better.

You lifted your head and wiped the stray tears from your cheeks, “ I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened.” You smiled to ease your embarrassment.

“No. No apologizing, If you ever need something, you call me. Period.” He squeezed you against him. “Am I alright to pick you up now?”

“Yea, can we go back to bed.” You tugged lightly at his shirt in your hold.

“Anything for you”, he scooped you up effortlessly and carried you back to the bedroom.

You looked at the freshly made bed as he passed it and set you down on the bench at the foot of the bed. It puzzled you as you turned up to look at him.

He leaned down to you, “I'm gonna dry your hair before we go to bed, hang out here for a second.”

You sat there in silence. What time was it anyway? Glancing around you noted the large thick curtains that covered what you assumed to be a large wall of windows. Knowing Hawks, you bet he lived somewhere high up. You internally kicked yourself for not being able to stay awake during the trip here, to get a general idea of where you were.

Hawks returned shortly with a small hair dryer and wet brush in hand. He kneeled behind you carefully brushing through your hair. You pulled your knees to your chest so you could rest your head against them.

“Is this okay? Does it hurt?” He paused to wait for your response.

“No, it’s nice.” He continued to comb through your hair until the brush passed smoothly. Then began section by section blow drying.

You soaked in the warmth as you purred in content. Your chest vibrating from the sounds, you would honestly be surprised if Hawks couldn’t hear it.

You dozed off as he tended to you. Once he finished, used his feathers to return the tools into the bathroom. He pulled you up onto the bed throwing the covers over you and positioned you as the little spoon against him.

His wing covered you, as you held his arms around you. It felt nice to be wanted again. His arms pulled you tighter against him, it was very noticeable now that he was shirtless. Your face flushed at the realization that you never put any clothes on, after your episode you completely forgot.

“What’s the matter?” he blew seductively into your ear. “Your heart rate seems to be increasing rapidly.” He chuckled as he teased you.

Fidgeting with the blankets, you pulled them tighter to your chest. Your cheeks burned from embarrassment, you turned to face him and pouted.

Hawks spun you in his arms, so that you were now fully facing him. “Kitten relax, tonight I’m just gonna cuddle you.” He moved his arm to prop his head up on the pillow. “Besides I wanna make sure you are a little more settled before I scare you away” He winked suggestively at you.

You giggled into his bare chest, “I’d like to see to try”. You scraped your teeth against his skin, giving a brief nip before curling into him and drifting off to sleep.

Taglist:

@sunaswife @viol3tcr3am

This isn’t the end. I promise there will be more chapters to come. I have a lot of ideas and directions for this story to go. I hope that everyone is enjoying it. This is my first series, so I’m doing my best. Thanks for bearing with me. 😸

[lovetorn]

nightmare dressed like a daydream [dream]

Prince!Dream x Fem!Assassin!Reader

Summary: Y/n is an assassin, moving from kingdom to kingdom to eliminate targets. That’s until she meets Clay, the prince of Dreland, who takes a liking to her unbeknownst of her true intentions.

OR

“I don’t like her—I can’t. She’d kill me, George.”

Word Count: 10.6k (o_O)

Warnings: a lot of death & blood (murder, heart failure), weapons (knives), swearing, toxic relationship, unrequited love :(, mentions of abuse, parental issues — i think that’s all, but if you see anything, lmk!! it’s kinda cringe i use ‘clay’ so like pls ignore it sdfghjkgjh

A/N: this is the fic i’m most proud of :’). there may be a few plot holes and filler paragraphs btw lol. if you have any questions about this fic, shoot me an ask and i’ll be happy to explain, discuss etc. anything you have relating to it! yayyy! enjoy!

She isn’t meant to be here. As a matter of fact, she isn’t supposed to be alive at all. After her last job, Y/n found herself in trouble with the wrong people. She had managed to escape from the small village she was in and find new clients in lands far away—which brought her here, tonight, in the kingdom of Dreland, at a Masquerade in the King’s castle. 

She’s dressed in her best skirts and bodice, perfectly fit for the party and makes her blend in seamlessly. She doesn’t want to draw any unwanted attention considering her true intentions of being here. 

She walks along the edge of the ballroom, her skirts trailing behind her slightly, and the handle of her mask in her hand. Her movements are sharp and calculated but seem elegant to onlookers. Nobody suspects a thing. 

Soon, she’s moving into the middle of the floor and being surrounded by older men who extend their hands to ask for a dance. Y/n shakes her head and declines politely; she doesn’t need to cause a scene. 

There’s a stage on the other side of the room where the King and Queen sit in their grand thrones, and Y/n observes their actions, watching around them for one person in particular. She sees a young man exit the curtains with a platter. He wears an apron with a white fabric strip around his hair and holds the tray with delicacy. Y/n snarls when she realises he’s not the right one. 

She inches closer to the stage, going to adjust her mask and purposefully dropping it. She watches as the object clatters on the floor and sighs exaggeratedly, waiting for someone to assist her. As planned, a pair of shiny black shoes arrive beside her mask, and the person leans down to grasp it from the polished timber. 

“I think you dropped this, Ma’am.” 

Their eyes meet—or at least she thinks they do; the badly drawn smile on his mask is distracting and incredibly unsettling for an event such as this one. Y/n knows who he is though, even behind the mask. He is her target. 

“The Prince?” Y/n exclaimed in bewilderment. “Mr Wilbur, Sir, do you know how hard that’ll be?” 

The older man rolls his eyes before he glares into hers. “I was told you were the best in the business. Do you want the 50 gold or not?” Y/n nods. 

“Good. Now, I give you three weeks to complete this, or you get nothing but excruciating death.” 

The tall man peers down at her. His head is tilting to the side as he takes in her appearance. “Who are you?” 

Y/n was waiting for this question. She simply laughs and takes her mask from his grasp. “I was invited by a friend of mine. She seems to have disappeared since I’ve been over here, though.” 

Her disappointment of an excuse has the man nodding—he’s taken the bait. “Interesting.” 

Y/n smiles awkwardly, the atmosphere of the room shifting slightly. She hates situations like this. 

“Do you wanna get out of here?” He asks, and Y/n’s eyebrows raise. “Excuse me for my informality.” 

Y/n shakes her head, giggling lightly as she grabs his hand and drags him towards the exit. He’d usually never stray far from events such as this, but seeing a girl his age and ready for adventure changes his attitude. 

Sneaking out past the guards, who pay no mind to two people in masks at a Masquerade, the pair step into the fresh air outside.

“What’s your name?” Y/n asks, already knowing his answer. 

“Uh—Clay?” His response sounds more of a question than an answer, which makes Y/n cock her head. 

“Why do you make your reply sound like that?” 

“Sorry,” He laughs. “Most people call me Dream. I’m the Prince of Dreland.”

False realisation crosses Y/n’s face as she facepalms. “Oh my! I’m so sorry, your highness.” 

Dream shakes his head vigorously. “No! No need for formalities, truly. I’m wonderful with being normal for once.” 

He hesitates before unclasping his mask from behind his head. The ceramic object falls slightly before he catches it and then he’s looking at Y/n properly.

Dream’s hair fluffs up lightly before he runs his hand through it to tame it. Y/n holds her mask in her hand as she watches him fix his appearance. 

“Now that I’ve told you mine, what’s yours?” 

Y/n is wary of her answer. On the one hand, she could lie, and on the other, she remembers that he’ll most likely be dead soon, so she shouldn’t lie. 

“Y/n.” 

Dream smiles at her. “Pretty.” Y/n thanks him and then they stand silently next to each other, the guard near the front door inching closer. 

“Do you want to go somewhere more private to talk?” Dream asks quietly. Y/n smirks whilst nodding—she didn’t think she’d be finished the job this quickly. 

Dream throws a glance back at the guard before he leads her towards the garden. The moon makes it hard to see the path, but they get there eventually. There’s no talking as they walk, the pair far too busy taking in the beauty of the moonlit garden.

The dirt beds are filled with rose and sunflower bushes, the scent creating a solacing hug around Y/n as she goes to sit next to Dream on a bench. The cold air bites at her skin, causing goosebumps to gloss her body. 

She usually isn’t nervous about committing murder, but Dream makes her uneasy. The way that his eyes glance at her worryingly and the harsh tension in his shoulders tells Y/n that Dream’s definitely had this happen before. Y/n bites the inside of her lip; she’d have to be very cunning to gain his trust. 

The garden in itself provides her with a sense of comfort. It reminds her of her flower bed at home. 

“So, why do they call you Dream?” Y/n asks. Her attempt at trying to defuse the awkwardness works as Dream twists his lips in thought.

“Uh—well, my mother used to say I was her ‘miracle’ and then believed the word was overused and cliche, so she came up with Dream; and it stuck—clearly.” 

Y/n nods, a soft smile gracing her face as she turns to him. “Well, I think that’s lovely.”

Dream blushes, although it’s hard to see through the night. “Really?” 

“Yeah! That’s beautiful.” 

The pair sit in silence, revelling in the moonlight before Dream speaks up again. “Would you like to see the lake?” 

Y/n contemplates before she replies. “Sure.” 

She had no idea why he’s taking her there, but it’s a sign that she’s gaining his trust. 

—

“You don’t know how to skip rocks?” 

Dream shakes his head at Y/n, who sits with her jaw open. “How?” 

He then shrugs, toying with a small pebble in his palm. “Teach me?” 

Y/n nods and takes the rock from him before standing and shuffling towards the lake. She gets into position, her arm bent at an angle beside her body. 

She takes a glance back at Dream to make sure he’s watching, which he is. “All you need to do is put your arm back like this, and then sweep it forwards and let go of the rock. Make sure you do it quickly, or it won’t work.” 

Y/n exhales and throws her arm, the rock hopping along the glassy water before it plops into the depths. 

She spins around with a smile on her face. Dream squints at her; he seems to be analysing her actions. He sighs and plucks a rock from the ground, standing and walking over to Y/n. 

“Ready?” She asks. Dream nods while getting into the same stance Y/n was in only 20 seconds ago. 

He looks down at the pebble for a moment and then throws it as Y/n said. Dream watches as the rock skips across the pond, creating ripples in the smooth water. 

Dream leaps around, his eyes wide. “I did it!” 

Y/n can’t help but laugh at him, the pure joy he feels influences her too. “You did!” 

Dream sighs heavily and goes back to where they were sitting. He flips back onto the ground, avoiding the sharp rocks protruding the sparse grass. He laughs out loud again, who knew something as trivial as rock skipping could make him feel so alive. 

“You’re cute; you know that?” The sudden compliment elicits a blush and a groan from Dream as Y/n nears closer. She smiles down at him. “There must be a lot of things you haven’t tried.” 

The statement makes Dream’s heart drop. It’s true, there are many things he hasn’t done. “Yes…” 

Y/n’s heart spasms in her chest. Poor guy.

“Ok. Well, I’ll make it my mission to make sure you get them all done before your time comes.” 

Dream looks at her. There’s an adoration that swims around in them that inclines Y/n to feel uneasy again. “You mean that?” 

The girl nods whilst she goes to lay next to him. “Everybody deserves happiness before they die.” 

Dream scrunches his nose up, going to disagree before Y/n interrupts. She doesn’t know why she has the sudden urge to say such a thing, but her chest aches when she looks at him. 

“I’m going to be completely honest with you, Dream. I’ve only known you for half an hour, but I feel so uneasy around you.” 

This catches Dream by surprise. He tilts his head at Y/n, who covers her face with her hands in embarrassment. “Sorry, sorry–“

“No need to apologise, Y/n. You make me uneasy too, I guess.” 

She peers at him between her fingers and then lowers her hands. Y/n lets out a small laugh at his red cheeks and imagines a flush creeping across hers too. 

“Uneasy in what sense, may I ask?” Dream’s innocent tone makes Y/n’s ears blush. 

“In the sense that you're unpredictable, in a good way. I’m always up for an adventure.” Her description is slightly confusing, but Dream understands.

Above them, the oak trees rustle lightly in the cool breeze, and tiny waves begin to ripple onto the sand meters in front of their feet. The sound of water rushing forwards and then pulling back calms the rapid beating of their hearts. 

“I guess I could say the same for you, Y/n.” 

“Prince Clay, I have breakfast and a message for you.” 

At the sound of his assistant at his bedroom door, Dream groans from his place in his bed. “What time is it?” 

“10 am! Get up! I have a message for you if you didn't hear me the first time!” George teases, holding the paper between his fingers; he’s eager to open the letter. 

“George!” Dream calls, grabbing his pillow from beside him and shoving his face into it. 

“Clay!” 

Dream sighs loudly and throws his heavy duvets off of his body, stalking towards the door to unlock it. He swings the door open to see George with a scroll of parchment and a tray with a lid in his hands. Dream’s eyes widen at the sight of breakfast, but George shakes his head. “I have to read your message first.” 

Dream rolls his eyes and tells George to hurry up as he struggles to unravel it. 

“Ok! Calm down. Uh—it’s from someone named Y/n? Do you know—” George is rudely interrupted when Dream freezes, then smiles. “Yes!”

“Oh, well, she asks to meet you at 9 pm at the place where rocks hop—what does that mean?” George’s face scrunches up in confusion, but Dream sighs, and this time it’s in contentment and not in annoyance. 

“Perfect! Thank you, Georgie. Guess I’ll see you later.” Dream snatches the tray from his assistant with his free hand, the other grabbing the piece of paper. George goes to interject before Dream steps to the side and slams the door in his face. 

George stands in bewilderment behind the door. His heart aches slightly, and he’s not sure what from—maybe it’s the way Dream discarded him or because of the letter. But he certainly knows Dream has never mentioned anybody called Y/n before. 

Maybe they’re just friends? Perhaps they only met last night at the Masquerade?

George scolds himself for his ridiculous thoughts and spins on his heel, heading for his own room. He hesitates before he leaves, hearing Dream let out a shout of excitement. At the sound, George pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and exhales; sadly, the situation brings tears to his dark eyes. 

They’re probably just friends. 

—

Dream sits anxiously on his bed, his head in his palm as he watches the clock tick. 8:39 pm. 8:40 pm. 8:41 pm. 

His heart skips a beat as it reaches the time to leave. Dream leaps from his spot on the bed and goes towards his mirror on the other side of the room. His hands come down to straighten out his dark waistcoat before they move to his hair. He curls his lip up at the sight of his unruly locks and sighs, choosing to ruffle it up slightly rather than putting gel in it. 

Taking in his appearance, Dream nods to himself. If he goes towards the Astronomy Tower and then loops towards the lake, he’ll arrive at precisely 8:58 pm; perfect timing. 

The night is clear, and the stars look amazing from where Y/n sits on the grass next to the lake. She leans back on her elbows as she takes in the view. It’s whimsical. 

Thoughts of murder and pursuit place a dark cloud over the magical evening. Y/n bites her lip and stares at the rippling water in front of her. The lake looks ominous enough to hide a body in or cover up a vast amount of blood, and the dense foliage across the lake is enough to conceal a weapon in. However, Dream is the Prince, and there is no doubt that everybody in the kingdom would be looking high and low for him if he were to go missing. 

Y/n’s plans go down the drain. It shouldn't be this hard! Wilbur Soot trusted her to do this, and if she doesn’t go through with it, she is guaranteed death.

She groans loudly, bringing her hands up to dig the heels of her palms into her eyes. Y/n could cry at the idea of failing and being a disappointment, even to people she doesn’t even know. 

The rustling of the bushes behind her indicates Dream has arrived, but she doesn't move from her position. Instead, she chooses to gain his sympathy and find a way to manipulate him to make it easier to go through with the assassination. 

“Y/n? Are you okay?” Dream rushes towards her, dropping beside her on the grass. Y/n sniffs and shakes her head. “What happened?” 

Dream places his hand on her back, softly. The act in itself makes Y/n jump; she’s not used to physical contact. 

“Sorry.” He apologises when he sees her startled, deciding to move his hand away and place it back into his lap. 

“No, you’re fine,” Y/n lets out a teary laugh. “I—erm, I just found out that my father divorced my mother, and he took the farm and cottage away from her.” 

Her hands fall to her lap hopelessly, and Dream’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “Really? I’m so sorry, Y/n.” 

The girl shakes her head. The pair sit in the dark, the moon being the only thing illuminating their faces. Y/n thinks she’s hit a dead-end until Dream sighs and continues speaking.

“I can actually relate if it makes you feel better,” This makes Y/n’s ears perk up. “My father has been going to L’Manberg on ‘business trips’, but I know why he’s really leaving.”

Gotcha.

“Clay, I can’t imagine how hard that must be for you. I’m sorry.” He doesn’t reply and reaches over to grasp Y/n’s hand. Dream wears a crestfallen expression, his eyes glassy as he looks out over the water. Y/n feels a pang in her heart at the sight of the upset man. 

“I used to think that they had a good relationship,” Dream starts. Y/n doesn’t have the will to hear his perspective on it, afraid that she’ll actually feel bad for him and lose any motivation to kill him. “Until I went for a walk one night through the halls in the castle. I heard voices in my parents’ room and wanted to say ‘goodnight’, but before I could, I heard glass smashing and terrible cries.

“I was only a child, but I knew what was happening. I didn’t want to believe it at first because why would the King and Queen do such horrible things to each other? But as I got older, I realised that they had fallen out of love and are only faking it for the kingdom.” 

“Clay—” 

“They don’t know that I know all of this; they think I’m as clueless as I was when I was nine. But I’m twenty-one now, and I know everything.” 

Y/n screws her lips up, her throat burning with emotion. Why is she feeling like this?

“I don’t know what to say.” And it’s true. Y/n remains speechless as she listens to Dream tell her about his parents. 

“Nothing. I just needed someone to know.” Dream is blunt with his words and releases Y/n’s hand. She feels awful for not being able to help him in the way he needs, but she’s not here to be his therapist—she’s here to murder him. 

“Hey, how about we lighten the mood with some rock skipping?” And that’s just enough for Dream.

—

“Where are you staying?” Dream asks. Y/n is caught off guard by the question but tells him her orchestrated answer.

“In the castle, actually.” 

Dream turns to look at her, a lopsided smile on his lips. “Really?” Y/n nods. 

In an attempt to change the subject, Y/n picks up Dream’s hand from his lap. “Enough about me. Tell me what your favourite food is.” 

Dream gives her a confused look before replying. “Vanilla cake.”

Y/n hums and fiddles with his fingers. “Interesting.” 

Dream throws his head back to gaze at the moon above them. He is comfortably content at this moment with Y/n, despite only knowing her for a day. His eyes widen before he scrabbles to stand hastily. “I gotta go! You want to walk back together?” 

“I’m going to stay here a bit longer, if that’s alright with you.” Y/n smiles at him and Dream nods. It is reaching midnight and Dream knows he’ll be in trouble for being out so late. 

After he bids goodbye to Y/n, Dream begins his journey home. He hears wolves howling from behind the walls that surround the castle and goosebumps rise on his skin. It’s expectantly silent for the time of night, the only sound being animals as they scavenge. 

Dream’s footsteps are heavy on the pathway back to the castle, and his heart rate picks up at the sound of trees rustling. With his head on a swivel, Dream spins around to face the bush. He sucks his lips between his teeth and continues, checking back every once in a while, to make sure he isn’t being followed. 

He sees the grand entrance of the castle and his feet quicken. There’s a sudden whoosh behind him and then a breeze. A twig snaps in the distance and instead of running, he slows down. Dream forces himself to calm down—he’s only scaring himself. 

“Dream~” A voice sings into the wind. The tune has Dream sprinting to the doors, his heart beating out of his chest. Surely, he didn’t hear what he thought he heard. 

The wooden doors are heavy as he pushes them open before he stumbles inside. Dream is quick to close them once more, locking them in the process. He’s safe now, right?

A sliver of white ripped fabric floats in the wind on a spike outside of his window. Dream eyes it suspiciously, that wasn’t there last night. 

He stretches his arms out, his joints cracking as his stare remains trained on the material. An uneasy feeling rises in his chest before his bedroom door opens suddenly. 

“Clay~” His assistant, George, sings. He holds a tray in his hands and a beaming smile on his face. “Breakfast!” 

“Hi.” At Dream’s wavering voice, George places the tray on the table and stalks over to the Prince.

“What’s wrong?” He sits on Dream’s bed and tries to meet his gaze. 

“Somebody’s after me, George,” Dream whispers, his fearful eyes are staring into George’s.

“How do you know?” 

“I just know.”

“Well, we have to inform the King and Queen at once, Clay!” 

Dream shakes his head. “I’m sure I’ll be fine; besides, I’m inside the castle for most of the day anyways. There’s no way anybody like that could get in.” 

George goes to interject but knows better than to do so. He trusts Dream, more than anyone else; if he says he’s fine, then he’s fine. Right?

“Ok… but if anything happens, you tell me. Got it?” George says his voice stern. Dream hasn’t heard this tone since he attempted to run from the castle last year after an argument with his parents. George had been scared out of mind when his best friend—the prince—was reported missing. 

“Has this got anything to do with Y/n, perhaps?” Dream is bewildered that George would say such a thing. “No! I trust Y/n. She could never do such a thing.” 

George nods timidly and apologises before he stands. “Breakfast is on your desk. I’ll be back later to collect the plates.” 

Dream furrows his eyebrows as he watches George sulk. Why does Y/n worry him so much? 

—

Dream walks in the moonlight along the high walls that surround the castle. If anybody knew he was out at this hour, he’d be in so much trouble. It wasn’t that his parents didn’t trust him; it was everybody else.

When he was younger, a groundskeeper had led him outside the gates with the intent to sell him off. The experience had left Dream untrusting to many, and although he was much older now, much more robust, he had a hard time getting to know people. 

An owl hoots from the tree above him and the moon hangs behind its body, casting a shadow onto the dirt beneath. The silhouette is ghostly, and the sight makes the creature look much more sinister than it is. 

Dream stops in his place and watches as the owl hops along the thick branch, the rustling of the leaves distracting him for a moment. The bird then pauses and turns to look at him. Dream smiles softly and whispers, “Hi, little owl.” 

Much to his surprise, the owl actually hoots back. The sound makes Dream’s eyes widen as he continues to speak quietly to the bird.

A twig snapping behind him causes the owl to flap its wings and shoot off into the night, making Dream frown. He sighs before turning around with the intent of going back to the castle. He’s been out for long enough anyway. 

His mind drifts to Y/n. He wonders where she is, his heart skipping a beat at the mere thought of her. It is ridiculous really, how quickly he’s fallen for a girl he only met a few weeks ago. But he knows she’s different from the princesses his family has tried to set him up with. Y/n is different in the sense that she actually makes him nervous—lovestruck, even. 

The sound of someone clearing their throat catches Dream’s attention, and then he turns to his right to face the noise. 

“Dream.” A voice says. 

Dream freezes. His heart picks up speed as he’s met with a person, a mask covering their face. His hands begin to shake as the person draws closer.

As they approach him, Dream can tell it’s a woman. As sexist as it is, he knows he could take her if they were to engage in a fight. Dream scolds himself at the thought, and his frightened expression goes slack.

“Who are you?” He exclaims, pushing his hair from his eyes to get a better look.

“I’m here on orders from someone to kill you.” 

Dream’s heart skips a beat. He knew it. 

“I know.” 

The girl stops in her place. “How?”

“I could feel it,” Dream gulps. “It’s happened before.” 

The girl nods and lifts her arm. Dream squints into the darkness to see what she is doing before he’s being pushed backwards. He stumbles slightly before he regains balance and begins running. 

“Dream~” The girl sings, her voice slightly distorted. Dream hears her loud and clear as he leaps over tree roots and dirt mounds. 

“Leave me alone!” 

She laughs and picks up speed behind him. Dream is shocked by how quickly she’s gaining on him, but he persists, nonetheless. A crooked smirk spreads across his cheeks as he looks back at her. 

“I can’t do that.”

Dream’s lungs and throat burn as he draws in breaths. Adrenaline rushes through his veins, and his knees begin to buckle as he prepares his arms to catch him when he falls. He doesn’t run much. But despite the pain, a sly grin continues to play on his lips.

Dream’s feet give way below him, and then he’s tumbling onto the freshly mown grass. He’s run a long way, now lying in the garden rather than being in the forest. The moon sits high in the sky and shines down on him intensely. 

And although he’s scared for his life, Dream can’t help but feel a little relieved. He moves to sit back on his heels as the girl comes up in front of him, a dagger drawn in her hand. It’s like a game to both of them. 

“I’ve got you now, Dream,” 

“It seems you do.” 

The masked girl’s dagger presses firmly against his throat. The blade gleams in the moonlight, and the pressure elicits a groan from him. 

Dream smiles as a drop of blood cascades down his chest. He enjoys the feeling a little more than he should, and the glint in her eye shows him that she does too. Why are her eyes so familiar? 

“But I’ll spare you.” 

Dream’s eyebrows furrow as he watches her pull her knife away from his neck and shove it back into the slot in her boot. “Why?” 

The girl sighs, her arms relaxing by her side. “Because I—something’s telling me I should.”

She turns on her heel, looking around before she ducks into the line of trees behind them. 

Dream exhales deeply, relieved—the small cut on his throat stinging as he tilts his head up to stare at the moon. He’s vulnerable in this position; on his knees and unarmed. Who would spare the prince if they had the perfect chance to kill him? What made her change her mind? 

In his conversation with the moon, Dream thinks about the girl’s eyes and why they were so familiar to him—and why she spared him. He squints at the full moon, begging for answers, trying to remember where he’d seen such beauty. 

His dazed smile is quickly wiped from his lips, and the realisation knocks the oxygen out of his lungs, and soon he’s gasping for air and clawing his chest—it’s Y/n. 

Dream sits at the long dining table with a new plate of eggs and turkey. 

“Dreamy, darling, are you going to eat?” The Queen asks, her head lolling to the side as she talks to her son. 

Dream’s lips twitch as he shakes his head. “Not that hungry.” 

Y/n was on the verge of killing him last night. 

“Oh? Are you feeling okay?” 

Dream then nods, resting his cheek in his palm. His hair is messy, and his clothes remain skewed from sleeping. He usually didn’t present himself like this at breakfast. 

“Yes, perfectly fine. I’m sorry for not looking presentable this morning.” 

His mother sighs, her hand reaching out to grasp his free one. “That’s alright.” 

Dream gives her a tight-lipped smile and squeezes her hand. He notes that her ring finger is bare but decides against saying anything. 

“Where’s dad?” He asks instead. His mother stills, her face unreadable as she nods once.

“He had to leave this morning—business in L’Manberg.”

Dream doesn’t speak and lifts his hand, picking up his fork. The action elicits a soft smile from his mother. He stabs a slice of grilled turkey and brings it to his mouth.

—

“Clay!” 

At the sound of his name, Dream turns around. 

It’s after breakfast and Dream stands in the corner of the ballroom gazing out of the large windows that look onto the back garden. The head cook, and one of his best friends, Nick, is approaching him. “Nick?” 

His friend laughs, untying his apron from behind his back before he lays it over the end of one of the sofas. Dream steps forward to embrace Nick in a hug. “How have you been?” 

Nick contemplates his answer before he responds. “Flippin’ awesome.” Dream’s jaw goes slack at the cooking pun and chuckles. 

“Ha, ha. SO funny.” 

The pair pull away, and Dream faces the window again. The sapphire butterflies that flutter around the apple tree outside bring him a sense of comfort as Nick comes up beside him. The pair bask in warmth from the sun, the window making it much hotter than it is. 

“I’ve missed you, man. The kitchen’s been boring without you sneaking in.” Nick frowns and Dream feels his stomach drop. He takes a glance at the shorter man and sighs. 

“I’m sorry, bro. George said it’s ideal for me not to sneak around at night because—” 

Dream’s breath hitches in his throat, eliciting a cough. Nick shoots him a look. “Because of what?” 

“Erm—uh, I guess there’s somebody after me.” 

“What? Really?” 

Dream nods, wiping his nose with his fist. Nick struggles to find the words to say. “You don’t need to say anything; I don’t expect you to. I just thought I should let you know.” 

Nick exhales deeply, bringing his hand up to run his fingers through his hair. “That’s rough.” 

“Yeah,” Dream whispers. The two of them stand in silence as they watch the insects fly around in the sunlight. “Come here.” 

Then Dream’s pulling Nick into another hug. This time, their embrace means something, and Dream knows it’ll be one of the last times he sees his best friend. Be safe. I love you.

A sniffle from Nick prompts Dream to push him away at arm's length, his hands resting on his shoulders. The younger man complains about how embarrassing it is seeing him cry, but Dream shakes his head in assurance. “It’s okay—I’ll be okay.”

“I hope so; I can’t imagine this place without you.” 

Dream sits on his bed, silently. He recalls the events from last night and exhales deeply. A million questions run through his mind as he shifts positions, now choosing to lay on his back and stare at the high ceiling. His fingertips come up to brush the scabbing cut on his neck. 

Why did he somewhat enjoy the blade against his neck? Why wasn’t he scared when it pierced his skin? Would he tell George? But most of all, why was Y/n after him? He trusted her–didn’t he?

A sudden knock on his bedroom door and the quiet sweep of paper against wood brings him from his screaming mind. He sits up abruptly, spotting the piece of parchment on the timber floor. Dream glances out of the window quickly and goes to snatch it from the ground.

The crinkling of paper is loud as he rushes to open it. 

Meet me at the Astronomy Tower at noon. 

Dream’s eyebrows fly to his hairline. Y/n wants to meet with him. Would she mention what happened last night? Does she know he knows it’s her? Is she planning to kill him right now?

Another knock makes him jump. But this time, it opens. 

“Clay?” 

“George!” Dream exclaims, pulling his assistant by his sleeve into the room, the door closing behind them. 

“Uh, yes?” George is confused at Dream’s jagged movements. Dream shoves the letter into the older boy’s hands and waits for his reaction. When George doesn’t reply, Dream rolls his eyes.

“It’s from Y/n!” 

“Well, you have to go.” 

Dream is both shocked and relieved. “I have to go?”

George nods. He reads over the letter one last time before he gives it back to Dream. George squints when he notices his friend’s slightly pink cheeks.

“Why are you blushing?” 

Dream immediately coughs in an attempt to cover up his embarrassment. George keeps his eyes on him as he does so, screwing his lips up in slight irritation that somebody can make Dream flustered. 

“Oh! Do you have a crush?” George teases, although it’s more of an accusation than a joke. Dream laughs, shoving him away. George chooses to ignore the tugging at his heart when he hears the Prince giggle like that. 

“I don’t like her—I can’t. She’d kill me, George.” Dream jokes, patting his friend on the back. But is he really joking? 

“Kill you?” 

Dream laughs, spinning on his heel whilst shrugging. “Kill me.”

“Did you speak to Nick this morning?” George asks, his fake smile flipping into a frown. The mood drops immediately, all laughs, and carelessness forgotten. 

Dream nods. “I told him how I think somebody’s after me again. He looked pretty scared.” 

“He was worried when I told him you wanted to talk to him about it.” George tilts his head and sighs. 

“...It’s nearly noon. I better get going.” Dream deflects the topic, choosing to stand tall once more. He doesn’t want George to suspect anything’s wrong with Y/n, so he puts on a false façade, a smile stretching across his cheeks.

George doesn't say anything and tries to make his smile believable as he opens Dream’s bedroom door for him. “Have fun, I guess.”

The younger man practically skips out of the room, and when he is halfway down the hallway, he turns. “What was it that you needed, George? When you knocked before?” 

George dismisses his question. “Not important. Now, go!” 

Although, to George, it is crucial, and now he has missed his chance. 

—

Dream’s boots slap the cobblestone steps as he makes his way up the tower. He peers around the corner, wary of his movements as he goes. When he reaches the top, he cautiously tiptoes to the balcony. His hand goes to trace the scab forming on his neck and forgets it when he hears her. 

“Clay?” Her voice is soft, holding much more kindness than it did when she had a blade to his throat. “Y/n.” 

He sees her perched on a picnic mat, a basket next to her. Dream tilts his head as he watches her stand and approaches him. Her arms wrap around his neck in a hug and then he’s hugging her back. “Hi.” 

“Hey,” She laughs, pulling back slightly to admire his face. “I missed you today.” Dream gives a muffled noise of agreement into her shoulder. 

Y/n steps back and squints at his neck. “What happened?” Her fingers delicately feel the wound before Dream dodges her. 

“Nothing, nothing. What’s all this?”

She appears to overlook his shitty deflection and motions towards the place where she was sitting. “I made us a picnic.” 

The way she smiles almost makes Dream forget who she is. He forces a smile back, his heart aching at the realisation of reality. She’ll kill him soon. 

“I baked a cake for you, vanilla—you said that was your favourite, right?” Y/n’s anxious actions worry Dream as he sits down next to her. He lifts his head to look out over the land, and the view is breath-taking. 

“Woah,” He breathes. 

Y/n smiles brightly at him, glancing at the green hills and blue skies before she focuses on cutting a slice of cake. 

“You know, I never really admired this view until I met you.” Dream confesses—and it’s true. Y/n pauses, gazing at him as he turns towards her. 

“Really?”

He nods, his breath hitching in his throat at the sight of her. She truly is gorgeous. “You’re pretty.” 

Y/n’s eyes widen, and she feels her cheeks flush. “Oh, thank you, Clay. You’re pretty too.” Her hair falls in front of her face as she looks down, and Dream feels a pang in his heart. 

“Have some cake,” Y/n mumbles, handing him a napkin with the dessert placed on it. The sweet looks delectable, and Dream can’t wait to take a bite—unless… 

“You know what? I’m not that hungry, actually. But the cake looks delicious. Thank you.” Y/n furrows her eyebrows, and a look of hurt flashed across her face. “Oh.” 

She hurries to take it back from him, but he refuses to give it to her. “What are you doing?” She asks. 

Dream motions for her to cut another piece, “I’ll only eat if you do.” 

Y/n nods slowly, moving the knife to slice into the cake once more. She flips it onto another napkin and brings it towards her mouth. 

“What? You think it’s poisonous?” Y/n laughs, watching as Dream becomes flustered. “No!” 

His response is quick and cautious, but Y/n doesn’t seem to notice as she takes a bite of her piece of cake. Dream watches as she chews and swallows, earning a confused glance from her. Nothing happens. 

“Well, I didn’t drop dead. Your turn,” She laughs, hurt still evident on her features. Dream feels guilty. He holds the cake surprisingly firmly, bringing it to his lips. His heart races as he puts it between his teeth and bites down. The cake is very sweet, and it’s good. Dream catches Y/n’s eye as he eats, giving her a nod of approval. She smiles widely and visibly relaxes. 

The action calms something in Dream, too. He finishes off his cake and waits for Y/n to do the same. He sees some white frosting fall onto the bodice of her dress, the sugary mixture tumbling down onto her skirt. The girl doesn’t seem to notice as she licks the remaining icing off her fingers. 

“Uh—Y/n, you got some—uh,” Dream motions to her skirt, and watches as she sighs deeply. “Awww, I just washed these.” 

Dream stifles a giggle when Y/n scrunches her nose up and goes to wipe it off. As small as the action is, Dream’s heart skips a beat at her cute expression. He scolds himself for feeling such this way; she tried to kill you last night. 

He eyes the knife next to the basket, sweet frosting covering the blade. The growing desire to grab it and ram it right through her chest burns in his mind, but he holds back. He clenches his jaw, and for the first time, Dream is terrified of himself. 

He shakes the deranged through from his head. What was that? 

Dream watches as Y/n shoves the used napkin into the basket and lifts her eyes to meet his. He smiles softly, causing Y/n to cover her face with her hands. “Stop that.” 

“Stop what?” He laughs, reaching to poke her in the ribs. Y/n yelps quietly, jolting when he shocks her side. “Stop making me flustered. It’s hardly polite.” 

Dream stops, the tips of his ears reddening. He makes her nervous? “Oh, come on now.” 

The rasp in his voice makes Y/n freeze. She peers at him through her fingers and sees him smirking at her. She lets out a high-pitched sound and returns her hands over her eyes. As much as Dream hates to admit it, there’s a fuzzy feeling in his chest.

“Clay, I’m going to take my hands away from my eyes now, and you better not say anything suggestive.” 

Dream chuckles, extending his arms out to grasp her fingers and pull them down. She doesn’t meet his gaze as he holds her hands in her lap. Birds chirp and fly past the balcony, their singing being a perfect addition to the atmosphere the pair had created. 

They don’t say anything as they lean closer. Dream tilts his head slightly, a small smile gracing his face as he sees Y/n do the same. 

“Prince Clay, the Queen would like to see you in the castle.” 

The two of them are still at the sound of another. George stands at the top of the stairs, a scroll in his right hand. Dream rolls his eyes in annoyance, throwing Y/n an apologetic look as he releases her hands. “Thanks, George.”

“I—I’ll see you later?” Y/n whispers as she watches Dream clamber up to his full height. He nods hastily, not giving her a second look, and rushes out behind George. He feels her stare on the back of his skull but continues. 

Y/n sits in silence as the clanging of the wooden door downstairs slams against the stone walls. The chirping of the birds outside dies down, and she frowns. 

As much as she’s supposed to detest Dream, Y/n feels butterflies cluster in her stomach at the mere thought of him. The idea of killing him causes the butterflies to turn to spiders and makes Y/n feel sick. She can’t go through with this—not now, not ever. 

—

“Dre—Clay.” 

Dream freezes; his mother only uses his real name when things are serious. He nods once, prompting his mother to continue. 

“Your father has yet to return to the kingdom from his trip to L’Manberg. However, plans have changed, and it seems he’ll be there longer than expected.” The Queen’s voice is steady but has undertones of utter sadness, which Dream picks up on instantly.

“Why?” He asks. 

“He gave me a straight answer; business.” 

Dream doesn’t say nor does anything. Instead, he remains still. His lack of response earns a reaction from his mother, however. “What is it?” 

“Is it why you don’t wear your ring anymore?” Dream refuses to meet her eye, afraid he’ll upset her more than he already has with his question.

The Queen inhales sharply, glancing at her hand before she composes herself. “Yes.” 

Her voice is just above a whisper, but Dream catches it. His heart clenches, and then he finally meets her watery eyes. 

Dream’s hard exterior breaks as he wraps his arms around his mother. He uses his finger to usher the guards and assistants out of the room and then rests his hand on the back of her hair in an attempt to quiet her soft cries.

He tries his best to be strong for her, swallowing the growing lump in his throat. 

The room is far too silent for Dream’s liking, and he wishes for something to happen to break it. 

And something does. The slam of the double doors makes the pair jump, Dream spinning around to see who had interrupted. 

Y/n stands there, the same picnic basket in her hand. “I’m sorry for intruding!” 

Dream’s mother quickly wipes under her eyes and places her usual people-pleasing smile on. “What can I do for you, darling?”

Y/n walks further into the room, glancing at Dream momentarily before opening the basket in front of the Queen.

“I brought you some berries. I was speaking to Dream earlier, and he told me you loved strawberries. So, I picked some for you, myself.” Her smile is deceiving, Dream can tell, but it’s also warming, and kind and his chest aches at the sight of it. 

The Queen gasps, her hands going to take the basket from Y/n. She peers in and sees it full to the brim with the berries. “Oh my,” 

Y/n’s smile grows, her eyes meeting Dream’s. Although he knows her true intentions, he’s extremely grateful for her kindness. “Thank you, Y/n.” 

“Yes, yes, thank you!” His mother beams. She turns around and starts walking towards another door behind them. 

Once the door closes, Y/n grins at Dream, and he smiles back. His heart twists in his chest, and his eyes burn with tears. Oh, how silly I am, he thinks. 

The next time Dream sees Y/n, and she’s under the wooden bridge in the garden, her hair and undergarments drenched. The sun burns intensely down on his neck as he approaches her. 

Y/n watches the lake rush under her, the odd fish jumping out and diving back into the freezing water. It’s a harsh contrast to the weather outside, swelteringly hot and humid, but Y/n doesn’t pay any mind when she contemplates going for a swim. 

She jogs off the bridge and circles back around to shuffle down the steep, grass bank. Butterflies flutter majestically around her, enhancing the experience of being in an actual kingdom rather than a desert village—it's magical. 

Y/n’s eyes dart around before her hands tend to her back to untie her bodice. She sucks on her bottom lip, and she does so, the process takes far too long. 

Throwing the structured clothing to the grass, she then moves to her top skirt, pulling it up over her head. Her heeled boots and frilly socks are the last things to remove and then Y/n is left standing in a plain cream skirt and button-up. 

She pays no attention to her surroundings as she lifts her remaining skirt and dips her toes into the icy lake, her mouth forming an ‘o’ shape at the temperature. 

From here, Y/n can see that the middle of the lake is the deepest point; the bottom is nowhere in sight through the clear water. 

Y/n doesn’t think twice as she leaps into the middle, her entire body submerging under the surface. Her senses are shocked, and her throat closes at the sudden chill. Y/n claws at the water to reach the surface, and then she feels the sun on her cheeks. She takes a large breath and wipes her eyes. 

“Y/n?” The girl turns towards the sound of Dream’s voice. 

“Clay?” She smiles. He runs down the bank and towards the water, although he stops before he can dive in. 

“What are you doing?” He calls, tilting his head at her. “Swimming.” 

Dream rolls his eyes, “Obviously!” 

This elicits a giggle from Y/n as she swims to the edge, her clothes drenched and her heavy makeup running down her face. 

“Hi,” Y/n says as she draws closer. Dream tries fighting a smile at the sight of her in her undergarments. He feels the tips of his ears redden. “I don’t care if you see me like this, Clay.” 

He doesn’t say anything as he reaches his hands for her cheeks. He thinks she looks absolutely gorgeous. But the rising impulse to push her head under the water and never let her up is powerful. Once his fingertips brush her cheek, his breathing becomes laboured and clenches his jaw. She tried to kill you. 

Y/n notices him vacantly staring at her and waves her hand in front of his eyes. “Clay?” 

Dream’s blank expression doesn’t waver. Instead, Y/n swears, she sees his green eyes darken. His hands move from her cheeks to her shoulders, and his grip tightens. Y/n’s face scrunches in uncertainty, and she tries to shift from under his secure hold. Dream’s glare turns wicked as she continues to withdraw. “Clay? Stop, you’re scaring me.” 

His head cocks to the side mockingly, his arms going to push her shoulders down. Y/n losing footing on the rocks under her feet and her neck reaches the water. She claws hastily at his hands, and soon she’s gulping mouthfuls of the icy water. Dream shows no signs of stopping until the sound of her screams brings him from his empty glare. “S-Stop it-t!” 

“Y/n?” 

Dream blinks, and his face softens. He furrows his eyebrows when he sees Y/n struggling to keep her head above the water and grips under her armpits to pull her to stand again. Dream becomes increasingly worried as he sees tears running down her cheeks instead of lake water and makeup, opening his mouth to pour out apologies. 

Y/n stays silent, her eyes shooting from his gaze to the water. She is confused and scared. Questions run through her mind at a million miles per second. Why? Why, why, why? Does he know why she is actually here? Does he know her true intentions? Did he just try and drown her?

“What’s your problem?” Y/n yells, scrambling up the edge of the lake and towards her dry clothes. Dream says nothing. Why did he do that?

“I—I’m so sorry, Y/n.” Maybe it wasn’t her who had a dagger to his throat all that time ago. Perhaps she’s just a normal girl. 

Y/n snarls at him, her top lip curled up in disgust. “I don’t want to see you anymore.” 

The words shock Dream back into reality. “No! No, no.” 

“Yes. Now, leave me alone, Clay.” Y/n spits as she gathers her clothes and stomps back towards the castle. 

Dream stays crouching next to the lake. He stares at his reflection in the water. It twists and turns into a horrible creature baring sharp teeth and dark, dark eyes. He shakes his head instantly; the reflection swirling back into himself. 

What is going on?

— 

The fire almost burns Y/n’s icy hands as she inches closer to the flame. With her dry clothes on, her hair is still wet, and it drips down the back of her bodice and skirts, making her even colder; Y/n regrets not drying her hair before she got dressed. 

As she stares into the fire, Dream’s void expression and evil eyes eat away at her conscience, making her squeeze her eyes shut at the thought. 

“You,” 

The sound of a singular word makes Y/n turn around. George, Dream’s assistant, stands in front of her. His hard eyes are glaring at her as she cocks her head. “George?” 

“You’re here to kill him, aren’t you?” He spits, backing away slowly. Y/n's face shifts to one of shock, her hands shaking in at her sides. 

“Kill him? I would never do such a thing! If anything, he tried to kill me half an hour ago! At the bridge!” 

George scoffs, inching his hand towards the fire poker that leans against the brick fireplace next to him. “You know, you really need to work on your coyness, Y/n.”

She rolls her eyes at him, her teeth chattering as she does so. “You’re ridiculous, George. I love him despite his mistakes.” 

The man lets out a grunt. “You don’t!” 

Y/n steps back at his sudden aggressiveness. She sees the fire poker in his whitening knuckles and then stares at him in bewilderment. “Stop it! You’re going to hurt yourself or me.” 

A sinister laugh escapes George’s throat as he brings the sharp object up to her face, “Oh, I’m definitely going to hurt you. You’re not going anywhere near Clay, again.” 

At his sentence, Y/n stills, and her concerned expression falls slack. She’s done this more times than she can count. Her cold hands intertwine in front of her stomach as a look of confusion crosses George’s face. 

“Listen, I came here to do one thing, and whether or not that plan has changed is none of your business,” Y/n says her stare never wavering. 

She hates to make it so vague, but she knows if he told him the truth, she’d be dead either way—whether that be by George and his fire poker, or by Wilbur Soot and his many friends that could have her head on a pitchfork at any given moment. 

George narrows his eyes at her. “You’re lying.” 

She shrugs; Y/n knows not to show fear; it would only motivate him more. 

The end of the poker is dangerously close to her face, and George sighs before he lowers it. “You love him?” 

Y/n’s eyes soften, and she recoils slightly. She blinks slowly, her eyes coming to rest on her feet. Y/n hates showing emotion, choosing to spill everything in isolation rather than unveiling her vulnerability to potential threats. 

George only nods and retreats, placing the poker back next to the fireplace. He hesitates before he speaks, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. George drops his head and sighs, his heart shattering at the mere thought of Dream, returning her feelings.

“I don’t know who you are or why you’re here, but I know one thing; I’ve never seen Clay like this before, so please don’t hurt him. I can tell he cares about you, dearly.” He refuses to meet Y/n’s eye as he turns to exit. 

She becomes wary of his sudden change in mood but decides against asking him any questions as she sees the tail of his dress coat float around the corner of the doorframe. 

George almost couldn’t believe his eyes when he walked into Dream’s bedroom the next morning. The sunlight had only just begun to flood the kingdom, the clock on the wall showing 6:18 am. 

“Why are you already up? Who are you?” George jokes approaching his best friend. Dream sits hunched over his desk, his quill hurrying over a piece of parchment. George furrows his brows at the strange behaviour but chooses to ignore it as he pulls a chair beside Dream. 

The younger man stops his actions and glances at his assistant. “What are you doing?”

George pales. “I—uh, just wanted to see what you are doing.” Dream throws him a dirty look before he angles his body away. 

George bites the inside of his cheek, his body filling with rage at Dream’s attitude. “What’s your deal?” 

Dream stills; George has never spoken to him like that before. “Excuse me?” 

“You heard me, Clay! Why are you so secretive all of a sudden? You always tell me what’s going on.” 

The Prince doesn’t seem to notice the absolute heartbreak and sadness in his assistant’s voice and clenches his fists. “Just fuck off, George! You’re my assistant, not my friend. I only call you when I need you. Got it?”

You could hear a pin drop in the silence that follows. George feels his entire body tingle as it falls numb, his stomach turning sickly. He watches as Dream huffs and turns back to his piece of paper, like a child; his arm covering the page and his other scribbling down words or exactly that—scribbles. 

It takes everything in George to stand up and leave. His legs are jelly as he wobbles out; his tears finally spilling down his cheeks. He shuts Dream’s bedroom door quietly, not anger him further, and runs down the hall towards his own room. 

The halls are silent, not a soul in sight but the broken one that floats behind George while he tries to swallow choked sobs. 

He hops down a few stairs, and then he’s pushing his door open, slamming it behind him in total defeat. He slides down the back of it, his hands coming to cover his flushed face. George scratches at his chest as he struggles to quieten the sound of his laboured breathing and hiccups. His heartbeat stutters within his ribcage—but that’s the least of his worries. 

This is the suffering of complete and utter heartbreak, and now George knows how it feels after three years of dreading it. He screws his eyes shut, in hopes of stopping the tears and forces himself to calm down. 

He loves Clay as more than a friend—this he knows is true. But, George scolds himself for being so foolish for thinking the Prince would reciprocate his one-sided love. 

And as the air fills his lungs, George stops. He holds his breath for as long as he can—the burning of his body screaming for him to breathe is the only thing he feels. He’s lightheaded as he gazes out of the window opposite him. The oak trees rustle in the dawn breeze, and it's tranquil. He feels his heart clench in his chest and then an unbearable searing pain that he can only compare to tossing your body into a fire and feeling it melt your skin.

The world is peaceful as he continues to let his body ignite and soon dwindle into nothing. 

And as the sun rises higher, his body slumps lower onto the ground, his eyes glassy and still staring out at the garden. 

—

Meet me in the garden at dusk. 

Her fingers trace the outline of the scraggly letters. Dream’s letter is vague, with no real meaning and nothing to indicate why he wants to meet. Usually, George delivered Dream’s letters to Y/n, but today it was rushed to her by another servant from the castle. Weird. 

Y/n squints closer at the letter; she can see how hard Dream drove the quill into the paper by the letters’ slightly ripped edges. Leaning closer, the smell of lavender seeps through the parchment. There are no lavender plants in the garden. 

Instead of going unprepared, Y/n reaches into the desk drawer and retrieves her dagger. She brings it towards her face and tilts it in the light, the metal reflecting into her eyes. Lifting her skirts on one side, Y/n shoves the knife into the case clasped around her thigh. It's subtle and easy to get to if needed. 

Y/n sighs, reading over the letter one last time before she walks towards the fire in the corner. She tosses it into the flames, watching as reds and oranges engulf the paper. 

She knows what comes next. If Dream wants her to meet him, then she’ll do it, but she also has to go through with her duties whether she likes it or not. 

Y/n draws nearer to the garden, her eyes darting around the trees in hopes—or in fear—of seeing Dream. The sun burns in the distance, begging to say goodbye for the day as it watches the girl tiptoe over tree roots. 

Once she enters the area enclosed by stone walls and arches, tears gather in Y/n’s eyes when she sees him, her heartstrings pulling violently in her chest. Dream stands on the other side of the garden, the thorns from the rose bush piercing his dress pants. Y/n remains frozen under one of the stone arches at the garden’s entrance, her dagger prominent in its case around her thigh. 

His cold stare meets her cautious eyes and his face does nothing to soothe her nerves like it usually does. Instead, his stern expression stirs panic around in her stomach and makes her feel ill. Y/n abandons her original plan to stay withdrawn from the situation because once she sees him, she breaks. 

“I can’t kill you, Clay!” 

Dream freezes at her sudden shout. The pain in her voice makes him clench his jaw, and soon he’s approaching her. “What?”

Y/n inhales sharply, her breath hitching in her throat before she continues. “You know that I came here to kill you, you figured it out! And now I can’t go through with it.” 

“Why?” Dream’s glare challenges her.

“Don’t make me answer that,” 

“Y/n,” 

“Clay.”

“I asked you a question. Answer it.” 

Y/n squeezes her eyes shut, her fists tense by her sides. Dream’s blunt tone is the last thing she needs to suppress her feelings further. “Because I hate you and I can’t possibly assassinate you when I have feelings like that—it’s immoral.” 

He scoffs at her horrible excuse. “If you truly hate me, I would’ve been dead the first second you saw me. Don’t lie to me, Y/n.” 

Y/n could scream—in frustration, in anger, in heartbreak. She wants to stand on the ledge of the Astronomy Tower and scream about how much she loves him; scream about how much she hates him; scream about how she would go to the ends of the earth for a man she is supposed to murder. 

“Leave me, Clay. I need to be alone.” 

With the shake of his head, Dream steps closer. “You love me; that’s why. It took me a while to realise, but I know now. And the worst part is, I love you too.” 

The confession has Y/n panicking. Her eyes widen, and her hands scramble to snatch the knife from her thigh—but Dream’s quicker. He leaps towards her, his body colliding with hers as they stumble onto the grass. Y/n’s dagger presses against his neck, but there’s one against hers too. 

An unfamiliar panic runs through Y/n as she feels a blade across her throat, but she keeps a hard exterior. The deadly look in Dream’s eye catches Y/n off guard as she pushes her knife firmly. A split appears on his skin—his blood dripping onto her neck, making him readjust his grip on his own dagger. 

His mother’s face flashes through Dream’s mind while he swallowed thickly. He apologises in his thoughts as he glares at Y/n. 

The heat of his hot blood on her skin is unlike anything Y/n’s felt before; maybe it’s the bloodlust or something else, but Dream notices. 

Y/n opens her lips to speak but is stopped when he leans down to press his mouth against hers. The kiss is contrastingly soft compared to the incredibly vulnerable and intense position they’re in. Dream’s skin burns where the cut is and feels it grow as he leans closer to her face. Y/n gasps when she feels metal pierce her skin, and soon they’re whispering into each other’s lips. 

The end is near. And as Y/n stares into Dream’s enchanting, sinister eyes, she reaches. 

She reaches for the release she’s been begging for since she met him. She’s desperate to feel him one last time—in love and not hate. There's one final strand of hope that maybe, just maybe, he can see her dying love for him seep through her ever-growing bloodlust and absolute inhumanity. 

But he doesn’t. And the same devilish grin he wore when she had a blade to his throat for the first time splits his red cheeks. The twinkle in her eye tells him she feels it too, and then her teeth bare a vile smirk.

“I’ll love you forever, Clay.” 

“Forever is the sweetest con, my love.” 

There are dull sweeps of blades across skin, and then there’s silence. 

Excruciating, deafening nothingness.

And as the sun dips beyond the horizon, Y/n and Clay’s hands intertwine, not once sparing a glance back at their bodies that lay cold on the cobblestone pathway. 

Feedback is always appreciated xx

[noriyoshi]

sleepy head. - kjk (m)

pairing: junkyu x fem!reader

genre: smut

word count: 1.7k

warnings: oral (male-receiving), wet dream if that needs a warning?

synopsis: You wake up to find Junkyu having a wet dream and so you decide to help him out, being the good girlfriend that you are.

a/n: i’m really sorry this is much shorter (and later) than anticipated. i wanted to put this out when i first got the request but school got the best of me :-( still i hope you enjoy it and feel free to give me any and all feedback! also requests are open! so feel free to send me anything for 01 line and older. i’ll try and do some drabbles this week <3

There’s just something so intimate about waking up in the morning next to Junkyu. His face is a bit swollen, lips formed into a small pout as he sleeps. You had fallen asleep on his shoulder, his arm outstretched beneath your head. Since then he had curled into you, body wrapped into a ball to keep warm, his head nuzzling against your chest. His steady, deep breaths were the only sound you could hear other than the occasional chirping of birds outside.

You loved when you had the chance to spend days like this with Junkyu. With his packed schedule he rarely ever had free time to get away from it all. But when he did, he would always find his way back to you, back into your arms.

You’re drifting back to sleep, content with the idea of spending your day doing nothing but cuddling with your boyfriend. You’re nearly asleep again when you hear a soft whine emit from Junkyu’s lips. The sound is so soft it barely disrupts the otherwise silent room. Maybe you’re mistaken. But then he shifts a little, lying flat on his back as another whine escapes. He huffs and his face contorts into one of concentration as his hands reach to grip the sheets. He breathes heavily and you can feel him wiggling his hips under the sheets. And then you realize what’s happening.

Junkyu is having a wet dream.

You watch him for a moment wondering what you should do, if anything. But then you start wondering about what he could be dreaming of and then you’re thinking about all of the things you could be doing to help him out. After all, you wouldn’t be a very good partner if you left your boyfriend high and dry.

You had discussed this with Junkyu before. The idea always seemed hot but you rarely had the time to indulge in new things. Finally, the chance has presented itself and you can’t pass it up.

Without much thought you slide underneath the covers, your hair getting tussled as you try to slip between Junkyu’s legs without waking him. As you place your hands on either side of his hips, he stirs for a moment. You still, breath caught in your throat as you wait to see if he moves again. When he doesn’t you let out a warm exhale and finally begin your ministrations.

You begin by tracing your fingers over Junkyu’s cock. You watch him closely, seeing what kind of reaction you’ll elicit, if any. You can see his cock twitch and goosebumps rise on his arms as he shifts his hips a bit more. His thighs are tense and you can tell he’s holding back a moan. You decide to take it one step further, your face hovering over Junkyu’s crotch and you lower your face a bit to rub your lips over the cotton of his boxers. Your lips brush ever-so-slightly against his slightly erect penis. You mouth lightly at the shaft, making your way up to the tip before tongueing at the head. Junkyu groans, he’s really sensitive there and it’s incredibly easy to work him up.

You continue kissing the head, your hand now stroking his shaft through the cloth. It’s beginning to get uncomfortable for you, so you attempt to lift the band of his boxers without waking him. You pull the fabric down enough to get Junkyu’s cock out. It sits on his stomach now that he’s almost completely hard.

Now that you’re comfortably able to take him in your mouth, you do so, making sure to pump his shaft a bit more beforehand. The feeling of your mouth suckling on his tip has an almost instant reaction shooting out of Junkyu. His whine is so incredibly long and high pitched it has your toes curling and panties soaking. Oh.

You can’t tell if Junkyu is awake or not and honestly neither can he. He’s exhausted, his mind still foggy and lost in the clouds. He’s sure he’s still dreaming; truthfully it was a dream he never wanted to wake up from.

He had been working on some songs in his studio all day. He was stuck on this last bit of a song and he just couldn’t figure out how to finish it. He tried rewriting the lyrics, trying different notes on the keyboard but nothing seemed to fit. You had come in not too long ago when he hadn’t stopped by your house. Normally, when he had free days and wasn’t holed up in his studio he was at your place. Junkyu promised that he’d be over, he was just finishing up a song but that had been hours ago. You knew he was probably stuck and lord knows Junkyu wouldn’t leave that room until he was satisfied.

So you came over to do just that.

You had knocked on the door and a few moments later he let you in. You were wearing a short dress that you knew he liked. His eyes glazed over your figure, warm brown eyes staring deeply into yours before leaning down to kiss you. “Hey babe, what are you doing here?” he asked when he pulled away. “You said you were gonna come over. It was getting late so I came to see what was holding you up.” you pouted. You could tell he wasn’t paying too much attention, too busy paying attention to wear the end of your dress and your thighs meet. It didn’t help much when you sat down, legs uncrossed but your thighs pressed together. The dress had bunched up a bit to which you smoothed the fabric out slowly, almost putting on a show as you readjust it.

Junkyu cleared his throat. “Sorry babe. It’s just this song— I don’t know what to do. It’s almost done but nothing I’ve tried just fits you know?”

“Oh, I know baby.” you rub his shoulder sympathetically. “I think I know exactly what you need though.”

Junkyu turns in his chair to look at you quizzically only to find you sinking to your knees. “Wait!-” he stands up from his seat and walks towards the door. For a moment you think he doesn't want to until you hear the familiar sound of the door clicking and Junkyu walking back to his seat. “Just to be safe.” he shrugs.

You nod and pull his pants down, eager to please him. It’s that exact moment that you’re putting your lips around his cock that almost shocks him out of his dream. He’s confused by the sensation. It feels so good when you try to take him whole, your throat contracting around him alternating with the feel of your mouth blowing him. When you stop to give him kitten licks and look up to him as you play with his balls is dizzying.

He’s been trying hard not to make any noise, worried that he’ll arouse suspicion and someone will come banging on the door. It’s when you start to suckle more feverishly that he can’t help but wantonly whine aloud. The sound is what jolts him out of his sleep but the feeling in the pit of his stomach doesn’t shake, no, it gets stronger.

He’s disoriented, moaning crudely and spitting obscenities as he tries to come to. He peels his eyes open slowly, blinded by the sunlight now shining brightly through the curtains of your bedroom. He inhales and his breath catches— Oh. He looks down to see what he presumes to be your figure underneath the sheets.

“Fuck,” he moans, reaching to pull the sheets off of you. His body reacts angrily, goosebumps rising on his once warm skin. It doesn’t matter though, because his eyes are focused on the way you continue to suck him off, completely unfazed by his actions. Junkyu runs his fingers through your hair for a moment, letting his hand rest lightly while you begin to bob your head much more comfortably now that you’re no longer being suffocated by your blanket. You pull away a bit in order to lick from the base of his cock to the tip, making sure to trace your tongue over the vein. Junkyu shudders at that. Fuck, he really won’t last long if you keep going like that.

The obscene sounds of you swallowing around his length turn Junkyu on beyond belief. He’s so close to cumming but he’s trying so hard to hold it off. He’s much more alert now but he still feels like he isn’t wide awake enough to enjoy what’s possibly the best head he’s ever had in his life.

“Oh my god, you’re doing so good,” Junkyu closes his eyes and tilts his head back, reveling in the sweet sensation.

He’s trying his best to contain his moans but the way you’re taking him wholly so deliciously has him weak. You’re swirling your tongue around Junkyu’s shaft and bobbing down as much as you can when his hips buck up. You moan in retaliation to the sudden intrusion and it has Junkyu’s eyes rolling to the back of his head. His fingers pull your hair into a ponytail and holds you in place as he fucks up into your mouth. You let him take control, relaxing your throat as much as possible as Junkyu tries his best to get off. His hips are rising frantically, colliding with your mouth in quick snaps. You pinch his thigh when it gets to be too much and hold his hips down. At this point your eyes are wet and saliva is dripping down the side of your mouth.

Junkyu is on the brink of his orgasm now so you decide to finish him off with your hand

It doesn’t take long before he cums into your hand with a loud cry. You do your best to clean him up, licking any drops you could catch.

It takes a moment of silence before either of you say anything.

“Thank you.” Junkyu says awkwardly, breaking the silence. You laugh. Of course he could find a way to be awkward as if you haven’t been intimate together plenty of times.

“No problem,” you chuckled. “I was almost worried for a sec y’know? You were getting pretty noisy there on your own.”

“What-?” his cheeks reddened.

“Seems to me like you were having a pretty good dream, weren’t you?” you smirked. 

“I—”

“What? You don’t wanna tell your girlfriend about it?” you teased, flicking his nipple with your finger. At that motion his cock twitches.

“Oh. Seems like there’s a lot I don’t know about you Kim Junkyu.”

Fuck. You’re really going to be the death of him.

[blinder-secrets]

Count For Me

tommy x anxious reader, 2164 words

a/n: i’m not gonna say the reader is having a panic attack specifically, more that they’re experiencing a lot of anxiety, so take that with a pinch of salt pls. i’m not suggesting this is how all anxiety feels or that it can be alleviated like this every time, im just basing it on my own experiences so enjoy!

You’re sat in the kitchen, or rather, the stairwell to the kitchens. You had every intention of making it there, of sitting at the large oak table in the fore-room, and having tea. Bread. Of letting Frances relax and serving yourself. But, instead, you’re on the last step down, legs bouncing on the balls of your feet.

It can only be described as fretting, incessant worry; your mind is agonising over things already done, over what’s to come next. It isn’t guns, or business, or family arguments that’s got you. It’s something invisible. Unknown, but biting away regardless. It’s sitting on the step and thinking about everything, and nothing — it’s losing yourself entirely, feeling the hand tighten around your throat, the dread, the weight of it in your chest. You sit and you feel afraid. After all you’ve seen in the world, all you’ve been through with Tommy. It’s your own head that works itself against you now, your own commentary that rots your mind in the quiet moments. Fuck. If you said it aloud they’d laugh you out the room. If you told Pol she’d say you were sick, that you needed air and spirits, and none of this Shelby wreckage to pull you down.

‘In the kitchen, Sir.’

Oh, Christ, Tommy’s home. You hear him, direct and toward where you're hiding. From his footsteps, it seems like he’s coming from the opposite wing, so he’ll make it into the kitchen before you ever did.

He calls your name through the hallway. It bounces off the cool tiles.

‘I’m here, Tommy,’ you say back in a false tone; you dread him finding you more than the rest of it.  

You’ve got maybe a minute to collect yourself, but from the way your feet are sinking through the stone of the floor beneath you, that’s not going to happen. He arrives in the kitchen, says your name again. He can’t see you from where he is.

‘On the stairs,’ you tell him.

Once he’s in front of you, your energy spikes. It’s easier to ignore the feeling when you’re with him. He tucks it away for you, somewhat, just a bit. ‘What is it?’ he asks, shaking his head slightly, his lips parted. A cigarette leaks smoke from between his fingers. He’s taken his coat off, but the jacket’s still there. Still dressed like he could leave again at any moment.

‘Nothing.’ You smile. ‘Are you back now?’

‘For now,’ he answers. He steps forward, places the back of his hand against your forehead. ‘Are you sick?’

‘No. Just wanted to sit somewhere.’

He doesn’t believe you, he knows you too well. You still your knees but they’re bouncing again before you can offer an explanation.

‘Tell me,’ he insists, clueless.

Where do you start? What could you possibly say that would make sense. I was going to make lunch, Tommy, but then I sat down here and I couldn’t get up again. ‘Nothing,’ you repeat, pausing to force a swallow. ‘I don’t know, really.’

He takes a drag. On the exhale, he offers the smoke to you, silent but willing to help. You shake your head; it’s not your habit, it doesn’t calm you like it does with him.

‘Has something happened?’ he asks. He’s patient, waiting for you to give him a way in, prepared to go slow when you need it.

‘No, nothing’s happened.’ Nothing you knew of. You were doing fine, going about the day like normal, and then suddenly you weren’t. It had already swamped you before you realised it was coming. ‘It’s just my head,’ you say, forcing the words over a breath that hadn’t quite made it. ‘I think it’s out to get me, Tom.’

He sighs. His lips pour smoke onto the tiles as he looks down. Another stress for him: you sat on his shoulders like the rest of it did, weighed him down without meaning to. You feel yourself rock forward, your head pulling into your chest, like there’s string attached from your chin to your heart and now it’s constricting. ‘Sorry,’ you pant, though you may have said it in your head. It could’ve been a thought amongst the sea and you wouldn’t have known. Sorry for the stress, Tommy, sorry for it all.

‘Hey,’ he says, repeating it firmly after a pause. ‘Hey. Look at me.’ His hand goes to your face, fingers leading your chin upwards until your gaze is on him. ‘Whatever it is, it’s just noise, alright? Just shit in the trough.’

Your lids drop a fraction. ‘Tommy…’

‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘You’re here, with me, right, in the kitchen. Don’t let it pull you under.’

You don’t want to. You’re scanning him, looking for something to ground you, the gold of his cufflink, the button of his waistcoat. Nothing sticks. You’re trying to focus but it’s splitting your attention again. Filling your head with the noise, the pull, the drag. ‘I think I’m going mad,’ you say. Your head’s so tight you can’t make sense of it.

His brows draw together. You focus on the crease in the skin between them. ‘What is it?’ he asks. ‘Eh? What’s worrying you so much?’

‘I don’t know,’ you answer honestly. It sounds like a plea but it’s all you can give him.  

You feel like a horse on the track; everything’s past you, behind you, loud in the stands and betting against you. There’s a worry to your left but it’s overtaken by the one on your right. So much at once, too often and too fast to know which is the biggest problem, which is the one causing the damage. If you could pluck something out, you would. If you could tell him, it’d be the first thing you did. There isn’t an answer to his question that doesn’t just make it worse — the more you try to put a name to it, or explain, the harder it gets to breathe. You can feel your heartbeat in your wrists.

Swearing, you drop your head again like it’s a lead weight, letting his fingertips drag up your cheek with the motion. ‘I can’t tell,’ you say weakly. ‘Feels like I’m drowning.’ 

The ring you’re wearing sits loose on your index finger; you spin it around the knuckle nervously, forcing a shallow breath each time the ruby completes a loop. If you look at him again you might cry. He didn’t ask for this, he didn’t know what to do with you anymore than you knew yourself.

Clearing his throat once, Tommy puts the cigarette between his lips and bends to grab you with both hands. He takes you by the elbows, thumbs tight on your arms, and pulls you to your feet before you have room to complain. You try to avoid his gaze, but his head ducks and chases your eyes until you give in.

‘Listen,’ he starts. He takes the cigarette out, blows the smoke away before he talks. ‘I won’t let you, alright? No-one’s drowning here.’ He looks certain, dedicated, his eyes dig through yours and back into the noise. ‘There’s nothing going on in there that we can’t sort. Okay?’

You want to believe him, so you nod. The next breath you take swells your chest into his.

‘Come here,’ he says briskly, pulling you after him as he walks you deeper into the kitchen. ‘When we were in France—stand there.’ You’re put by the table. He goes to the nearest drawer, pilfering through the silverware as he continues, ‘When we were in France, they told us we had to count.’

‘Count?’

‘To still our hands.’ He turns, pushing the drawer shut with his hip, and files through the forks he’s now holding. ‘Bullets, cards. Saw John counting his teeth once.’

You blink like it’ll help you listen. Everything he’s saying is going in, but bouncing back again. It rattles in your ear canal like coins down a well.

‘Here,’ he says, offering them to you. ‘Count them.’

You hesitate. Then he grabs your wrist, sets your palm straight, and pours the cutlery into it.

‘Go on.’

Mumbling an agreement, you turn to the table and put the first fork onto the wood. One. Two. You hope he doesn’t notice the slight shake along your fingers, the clumsiness as you pass forks from one hand to the other.

‘Do it out loud,’ he guides, as he stands beside you. He exhales, dragging it out and pushing the smoke over your shoulder; you’d forgotten he even had one lit.

‘Three,’ you say. ‘Four.’  

All those cigarettes. Lips barely his unless there’s one between them. They’ll get him one day, you think. The cough will get worse and then it’ll be you, on your own in this big house, you looking after Charlie, you with the ache and the grief and the silence.

‘Stop thinking,’ he chides. ‘Count.’

‘Five, six, seven.’ You sigh. The forks clatter on top of one another. ‘Eight, nine. This is stupid, Tommy. Ten.’ You turn to him, expectant of something else, something more helpful.

He just raises his eyebrows, gesturing for you to pick them up again. ‘Now do it over.’

‘Again?’

He nods. The cigarette is extinguished, flicked to the floor and crushed between his sole and the tile. ‘You do it again, and again,’ he lists, ‘until it feels like you can breathe.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

It takes four rounds of it before your chest loosens; four tens, over and over, forks placed down and picked up again as you count. He stands in silence the whole time, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on the table. How he doesn’t tire of it, you don’t know. He clears his throat occasionally but doesn’t say anything until you break the rhythm.

‘I think it’s worked,’ you mumble, taking care as you set the last fork down. ‘I feel better.’

It’s not all gone, but you feel calmer. Stiller. Your hands aren’t as jittery and the room feels big again, cold and empty and utilitarian.

He sighs, heavily, thankfully. The noise loud and partnered with a rough tone. ‘Alright,’ he says. He clicks into motion, pulling his hands free and turning to you so that he can bracket them around your face. His fingers are rough, warm, grounding. The rings stamp your cheeks, cold like ice. ‘What did I say, eh? Nothing we couldn’t sort.’

You smile limply and put a hand to his wrist. ‘Thank-you, Tommy.’

You hadn’t expected him to break through it, to make you pause. Breathe. It’s usually the other way around, you calming him. You sifting through the muck. It had never crossed your mind that it would work in reverse.

‘Next time,’ he says quietly, ‘you tell me.’ His chin dips a fraction, blue eyes laced with intent. ‘You tell me as soon as it get’s too much, alright?’

‘Okay,’ you promise, nodding between his palms. ‘Sorry.’

His lip tweaks slightly. ‘What have you got to be sorry for?’ he asks. Then he tilts up to kiss your forehead and, pulling back, utters ‘my silly girl’ under his breath.

You can’t smile. The question almost loses you again. You have plenty to be sorry for, you think, handfuls of apologies shoved into each corner of your brain. ‘Let’s do something,’ you say quickly, chasing the scatter away. ‘Distract me, please.’

He kisses you, lips firm and sure against yours in an agreement, a promise. ‘I have something to show you,’ he says afterwards. His grip on your face drops and he takes a hand instead, fingers curling around your palm. ‘The new horse is here.’

‘It is?’ You cling to him, put your free hand around his bicep and pull tight to his side like the closeness will help. He looks at you like he understands. ‘Well, show me then,’ you push, almost able to smile into it. ‘She was pretty from what I remember.’

‘Very pretty,’ he agrees. ‘Come on.’

You follow him through the house and across the drive. He doesn’t stop talking the whole way, which is unlike him, but he knows any silence will just cause you to slip again, to overthink until you’re tumbling. You answer his questions, dumb as they are, like he doesn’t already know the answers. You tell him what you had for breakfast, what you read in the paper. He asks, and he drawls, and he comments on the bloom of the roses as you pass them. He keeps going and going, until you’re so wrapped up in him, and the house, and the world outside, that everything else falls quiet. Peaceful. He fills your head with his own voice and you thank him for it. You thank him, and you hold on like it’s the only thing keeping you above the water.

‘You alright?’ he asks, checking once you’ve reached the stables.

‘Yes, Tom.’ You smile, meaning it. ‘I’m with you, remember?’

[sicjimin]

🌟🍋⭐️ 💫🧇 in that order with caretaker: jin and sickie: jk

🌟 “What’s that look on your face? Are you about to be sick?”

🍋 “I’m going to throw up. Like right now.”

⭐️ “Its okay baby, get it up. You’ll feel better when you do”

💫 “Breathe, honey. Don’t hold it back.”

🧇 “Calm down, baby. Don’t worry about the mess, okay?

Sickie : Jungkook // Caretaker : Seokjin

— 📝

"Jin-hyung .."

"Hm? What is it, Kook? Is there any ingredients that you need?", Seokjin asks, not diverting his gaze from the meat in front of him, peppering it with some powder before it's sizzling on the pan. Seokjin smiles in content when the smell of meat seeping on his nose. It smells delicious already. He turns his body to Jungkook that been eerily quiet after he called him, wanting to see the younger progress too with his bulgogi.

" Kook, what-", his words died in his tongue the moment his eyes catch the younger standstill, gripping the counter tightly like it's his lifeline like if he's not then he will fall over. Bowl of seasoned meat already moved away in the corner. Adrenaline starts pumping in his blood, something is not right with Jungkook. He looks pale, too pale than normal and has a sweat drop at the corner of his eye that shut tightly, like he's holding back pain. Seokjin frowns worriedly.

"Kook, what's with that look? Are you going to be sick?"

Jungkook bites his lips, inhaling a shaky breath before he opened his mouth, "I'm going to throw up. Like, right now"

Seokjin's eyes widen. He was about to ask why until he heard the sounds of retching coming from the younger, followed by a splash of liquid hitting the marble floor.

Jungkook coughed as he leaned over, hands grabbing the counter as he tries to hold himself straight, "Hyung ..", he whimpers before his stomach lurch more of vomit up to his throat, adding to the mess below him.

" Shit", Seokjin curses under his breath, scrambling to turn off the stove before he runs to the younger that still gasping for air as he couldn't stop bringing more and more of his stomach content. Seokjin rubs his hand up and down Jungkook's back to calm him down.

"Hyung .. I'm sorry", Jungkook pants in between heaves , feeling lightheaded. His throat feels raw and scratchy as if it had been scrapped. The smell of vomit that scattered in his laps and the floor has made its way into his sinuses, making his stomach twist again. He clamps his mouth as he gags, not wanting to make more mess than he already is.

"It's okay baby, get it up. It will feel better when you do", Seokjin encourages, still rubbing Jungkook's back lightly.

Jungkook swallows. He can taste bile lingering in the back of his throat, nausea making itself comfortable and growing with each passing second. He shakes his head, trying to push it aside. But all of that effort only makes his body grows furious. His breath started to become frantic, along with tears that stinging his eyes.

" Hyung-", he chokes out, "I don't want to-", a gag cut his words. Jungkook was sure his cheeks were already marked red with how tight his grips were on his mouth. " Kook, baby, breathe, calm down", Seokjin murmurs, "Don't hold it back, and don't worry about the mess, okay?"

He nods weakly, trying to control the urge to vomit more but failing. He leaned forward again with a deep heave. This time is all water that spurt out of his mouth. The sound echoing around the kitchen. Seokjin watched as he emptied half of his stomach contents, his hands massaging the tense nape. Jungkook gasped for air when the last heave comes up. He slowly let go of the countertop, letting his body leaned sideways to Seokjin's, that quick to wrap his arms around Jungkook's shaky body.

Jungkook tried to steady his breathing, wiping the excess moisture away from his face. A cough escaped his lips. He closed his eyes for a brief second, willing his insides to settle down. When they did finally stop he exhales heavily, "God, hyung.." His voice came out hoarse, scratchy.

A soft smile appeared on Seokjin's face. He ruffles Jungkook's hair softly, "Are you alright now?"

Jungkook nods with a small smile gracing his lips. It didn't reach his eyes.

"You must have really hurt your tummy", Seokjin says worriedly, cupping the youngers' cheek after he hands the younger a glass of water that the latter accept gratefully

"Yeah..", Jungkook agrees quietly. " It was the meat .. or i dont know. Something smells off and the next thing i know-"

"You gave me a scare, Kook-ah. Have mercy on this old heart..", Seokjin teases lightly and Jungkook rolls his eyes playfully at the older.

" I'm sorry hyung, i will help you clean up the mess", Jungkook says as he tries to stand up. Grimaces when his eyes catch sight of his vomit.

"No- you go to the bathroom, take a nice bath and i will clean this, okay?" Seokjin pushes the younger gently towards the bathroom.

"What.. no! I should help you clean it up, i'll just wash my clothes later..", Jungkook says. " You're sick", Seokjin insists, shoving the younger to the bathroom and closed the door from outside.

Jungkook sighs, he feels exhausted and has no energy left for protests. It's not like his hyung will listen to him anyway.

Maybe he could make it up to the older by doing dishes for the rest of the week. Yeah, definitely. That would be worth it, right?

[jisungsplatforms]

Love Chocolates

Pairing: Han Jisung x fem! reader

Genre: NSFW! Smut; established relationship

Warning: Mature content! (DNI if you are uncomfortable or UNDERAGED); language, food (should that even be considered a warning??) mentions of (implied lovers) members (Changlix), use of aphrodisiac stimulants, dry humping (f), masterbation (m), PIV, unprotected sex, cream pie, mentions of multiple rounds.

A/n: yup. i finally decided to post the fic about tiktok chocolates i mentioned before (in my minho smut). this has been in my drafts for a while actually lol

“No. Absolutely not.”

“But whyyy?” Jisung whined, shaking your arm. “It’ll be good! I promise!” He sticks out this pinky, wiggling it with a tiny pout. You sighed at him, maneuvering his hand away from your face.

“They’re just some dumb viagra knockoffs that probably don’t even work, Ji,” you argued, “how do you even know they’ll work?”

“Felix and Bin tried them!”

You looked at him, subtly prompting him to continue. He, however, only stood silently with an expectant look.

“Aaand...?”

Your boyfriend’s face then contorted into a look of sheepishness. “Well, uh, they didn’t exactly tell me if it was good or not...” he replied, fiddling his fingers.

“What.”

“But! But, judging by the pervy looks on their faces when I asked about them, I think it’s pretty safe to say that they had a good time!”

You let out a deep exhale, yet again, pinching the bridge of your nose. “May I ask, how did they even find out about those ‘sex chocolates’?”

“Tiktok!”

What the fuck.

Why would Jisung think that this’ll help spice up your sex life? Your sex life is great, which is what you’re assuming both of you agree on. You both get aroused regularly and normally, so what’s the point?

“But what if they don’t even work and they’re just fucking around with you, Ji? Then you just spent $30 for nothing,” you said.

“I mean, I wouldn’t say “for nothing”. They’re still chocolate! So we’d still be winning!” he reasoned.

“Okay, but, why do we even need them? We already fuck like rabbits on a daily, so what’s the difference if we do take the aphrodisiac chocolates?”

“That, my lovely, sexy, sweet girlfriend, is the fun part!” he said with a impish grin.

Uh oh. He had a proposition, and you’re not really thrilled to hear it. You knew there was a catch to all this. “The game is, we both have to take two- one to make us mindblowingly horny and another to boost up our libido- and see how long it’ll take for us to snap!”

You didn’t say anything. You merely gave him a look, as if you were saying “really?”

“Come on, it’ll be fun, babe!” Jisung jumped, excitedly. “Pleeeaaase~?” He shook you around for a bit before you finally submitted to his pleas.

“Okay, okay. Fine. I’ll do it.”

“YES! I LOVE YOU!” Jisung beamed. He spun you around and kissed you. Even though you wanted to be mad at him, you just can’t. Jisung was just too cute to resist.

“Yeah yeah, now hand me two of those placebo chocolates, you horny motherfucker.”

He snickered, turing around to hand you the chocolates on the coffee table. Giving them to you, you tore one open to eat. You made disgusted look after tasting the first one.

“Ew,” you complained, “mint chocolate.”

“Hey, no mint chocolate slander in this household! Or else i’ll have no choice but to break up with you.”

“Shut up and eat yours already!”

- Timeskip ⏰ -

It’s been almost 30 minutes and the chocolates still haven’t kicked in yet. You grumbled, checking your phone again for the time.

“You said it just takes about 15 minutes for the effects to kick in,” you whined, turning to Jisung, who sat on the other loveseat on your left. “What gives?”

“I don’t know!” he said, raising both his hands up. “Give it more time. Maybe it might work a little different for some people.”

You groaned. Wanting to lay down, you grabbed the longer pillow that was on the otherwise to the couch to wrap around your legs. Instead of feeling comfortable, you felt a numbing ache in between them. All of a sudden, you felt hyper aware of the heat in the room (and in your vagina).

You tried moving yourself around to ignore the pain, which ended up being a terrible idea for it made you even more needier. You let out a small whimper, and of course, Jisung heard it.

“Y/n? Baby, are you okay?” he asked worriedly. You shook your head ‘no’ then looked at him.

“I can feel it, Ji,” you whimpered with glossy eyes. He knew exactly what you were referring to. He was going to stand up and check on you but he felt a familiar shock down his dick at the sight of your needy expression. He instead lead back further into the seat, digging his hands onto the armrest.

Fuck.

He wanted to go to you so bad to please each other. But of course he remembered about the game you two established. So all he could do is watch helplessly as you grounded against your pillow.

“Hm, fuck. Ji,” you whimpered, trying to grind harder into the pillow. But it wasn’t enough. Thanks to the sex chocolates, it made you even more sensitive but harder to satisfy. Seeing how humping your pillow isn’t enough, your dominant hand trailed down between your legs and into your panties. You rubbed gentle circles onto your clip at first, making you cry out and bury your face into the pillow.

Jisung squirmed in his seat, watching you fling your panties off your legs while your hand rubs harsher circles onto your clit, your hips moving at the stimulation. Not bringing able to handle it anymore, his right hand went into his shorts to pull out his penis to stroke it. His head fell back, finally feeling relief. “Hmm. Fucking shit...” he moaned, bucking his hips. He bit the bottom of his thin lips, pumping faster. However, just like you, it wasn’t enough to fully satisfy him as well.

“Ji-Jisung,” you weakly called out to him, looking up at him again. You had tears in your eyes from the sexual frustration. “Fuck, it hurts. I-it doesn’t feel as good. Want your fingers instead.”

“Fuck,” he mumbled. He stood up abruptly, dick still out, and walked to where you were. He hovered above you as he removed your hands from your pussy- right as you were about to finger yourself, sucking on your fingers. You whined, both from the lost of simulation on your clit and from Jisung sucking your slick from your fingers.

He unlatched your fingers with a string of saliva still connect itself to them and kissed you roughly, shoving his tongue into our mouth, making you moan. You enjoy the lewdness of the kiss; his tongue massaging yours, having a faint taste of yourself. He pulled away from your sweet lips and removed his shorts and underwear. He pumped himself a few time while kissing you.

“Want my cock, baby?”

You nodded your head, pouting. “Please fuck me, Sungie,” you panted. “Need you so bad.”

“Hmm. Shit,” he exhaled sharply, inserting himself into your wet cavern. The two of you moan simultaneously. Jisung gave you a minute to adjust before thrusting slowly. You whimpered at the pace he was going, deeming that it was too slow for your unbearably horny self. You wrapped your arms around his back, grinding your hips further into his, making Jisung throw his head back with a loud moan.

Getting your silent plea, he moved his hips in a deliciously fast pace. You arched your back, relieved that you were finally feeling the numbing pleasure you craved. Jisung leaned down, breathing heavily into your ear while you gave quiet moans and whimpers of your own. Filthy slaps and other unholy noises filled the room. With each thrust, his hips moved faster and harder, pushing you closer to the edge.

“Holy f-fuck, baby,” Jisung moaned, “I’m so close.”

“M-me too,” you slurred. Your eyes were shut tight as you felt your core clench tighter and tighter around Jisung’s cock. He thrusted into you a few more times before releasing his semen inside of you, letting out a few choked moans. Feeling his hot cum fill you up pushed you to your own release, your body spasming as you do. Jisung rocked his hips a little, riding out your highs, before finally pulling out, his cum slowly dripping out of you.

Out of exhaustion, your boyfriend collapsed on top of you, his face buried in between your breasts. You stroked his hair out of comfort before remembering about the deal that was made prior.

You giggled, “Hey, Ji? What happened to ‘seeing how long it’ll take til one of us snaps’?”

Jisung laughed while shaking his head. “Fuck that. We both know that it would’ve been me to give in first no matter what.”

You laughed, your chest shaking his head, kissing the top of his head. You cuddled for a while before feeling the ache between your legs come back again.

Luckily, you weren’t the only one. “Uh...Y/n?”

“MmHmm?”

“My -uh- dick is hard again...”

“...”

“Wanna go for another round?” he said, moving to look at you. You sat up instantly, removing his shirt before taking off your own. You kissed Jisung’s lips roughly, moving to sit on his lap. It’s safe to say that the sex chocolates do actually work, and pretty damn well too.

You might have to thank Felix and Changbin for recommending them to Sungie later.

[pennyserenade]

TINY DANCER 

tags: javier peña x female oc, javier peña, rockstar!au, fluff  rating: t ( teen ) (for now) warnings: language, alcohol  word count: 1.6k+ summary: a band of young men from laredo, texas are on the verge of rock’n’roll stardom and anita rodríguez is the woman who follows them into it. a story of rock’n’roll and all the fluff that follows notes: this is very self indulgent and heavily inspired by the movie almost famous, as well as whatever fleetwood mac had going on, and the book daisy jones & the six. as you can tell, this is a genre of fiction i favor heavily, and i’m more than happy to make this everyone’s problem. thank you for baring with me

Summer time has never tasted so sweet on the tongues of these impassioned young men from Laredo, Texas, she bets. Perspiration covers their foreheads as they stand under the much too bright colored lights, and the crowd before them cheers them on with an eagerness that belongs only to those who really loved music. And they respond like men who really love music—all smiles and grins and heavy panting from giving their young bodies away to it. One might even say their souls.

Even from behind the curtain, she can feel the wave of electricity that rolls off of them. It is a beautiful thing to hear after suffering under the heavy blanket of Texas heat for her own performance.

They had liked her alright, responded about as warmly as they could for an opening act they hadn’t really known, but they turn these young men into Gods. She feels it tight in her stomach, that everlasting and endless excitement reserved for falling in love, not with people, but with moments. Even if it’s all for not, this little musical and spiritual journey she has partaken on, she will at least have been there for the moment these men had exhaled themselves into true and complete stardom.

Not bad for a band called El Fuego, she thinks.

“My God they’re something, aren’t they, Anita?”

Her sister holds aside the curtain to make room for herself. “The one in the really tight jeans was talking to me during your performance. He’s beautiful, I swear it. Just godly.”

Anita smiles. “You can’t fall in love with rockstars, baby sister, it’s unethical and impractical. Have your years with me taught you nothing?”

“Yeah, but those rockstars were a dime of dozen and tight jeans looks like sex out there,” she whines. Anita scans over the men, trying to decipher whom she might mean. That’s when she catches Tight Jeans’ eyes. She gives him a grin and without missing a beat, he gives her a charming wink. A wink reserved for a man on top of the world.

“What’s his name?” Anita asks.

“Javier Peña,” she responds. “He’s just gorgeous isn’t he? They all are.”

All Anita can do is grin as she continues to watch the rest of their performance.

****

This isn’t her first rodeo. This isn’t even her second or third or fourth. In fact, she’s lost track of the times she’s been led back to hotel rooms with a slew of people she doesn’t know, swept dangerously up in the shared euphoria that is the after show comedown.

In her hand she holds her second drink of the night. It’s a concoction she’d mixed for herself, made up of too much juice and too much alcohol, but she deserves it, she reckons. She’s opened for a damn good band and she’s a pretty damn good singer most of the time, and that Javier guy has been looking at her all night, despite the group of women that surround him. He has a good way of being present with them and present with her, too, genuine grins and attention for all to spare. Like the charming and humble lead guitarist he is, he strums idly at an acoustic guitar while he speaks with the women.

She’s been standing in the same place for too long, drinking the same second drink, listening to the beginning of songs he starts before he falters off into the next one. Even over the light hum of chatter and the radio nearby, she can focus on him. She watches his fingers as they strum—watches the way he doesn’t need to look down at them to keep them steady and trained. He’s a professional musician, through and through, even if he may just be some guy from Laredo to most individuals in the world. His manager had been so brave to wager that they were going to hit nationwide success by next week when one of their songs got radio air. She asked if she could keep opening for them, when they got big. All he did was grin. She likes to think it’s a yes.

“Hello.”

Coming back to earth, Anita finds Tight Pants in front of her. Not starling close, but enough to elicit something ghastly in her.

He smells of leather and good cigarettes, and her baby sister was right, he does look like sex. He’s all lean muscle, and though the perspiration has gone from his forehead, she bets if he were to lean in close and press his lips to hers, she might be tempted to taste the residue of it in what would become haste and passionate kissing.

“Hello,” she responds.

“I’m Javi, from Laredo.”

He extends his rather large hand for her to take, and she does. She wonders if this is the approach he uses with a lot of women. He’s good looking enough to be dangerous, but then again, she’s smart enough to understand where the line between fun and serious ends and begins with these men. She’s a rockstar too, privy to sex and drugs just like the lot of them, even if she is just a one man band.

She puts her hand in his and he gives her a firm shake. “Anita,” she says, then inspired by the liquid courage in her, she adds, “From somewhere warm, but hopefully headed some place better.”

He gives her a laugh and she finds that unfortunately, it’s the sort that makes one’s own lips tug upwards.

“You sounded good tonight. Did you write that song?”

“Yeah,” she nods. “You sounded good too. I mean, you probably know that already, but.” She smiles. “Who writes for you?”

“Graham.”

“Graham’s the...”

“Lead singer. Dirty blonde over there talking to your—“ He looks at her. “Sister?”

She nods. “Yeah. She said she had talked to you earlier.”

“Yeah. We talked about your someplace warm. California, is it?”

“Cali indeed.”

“I’ve never been.”

“Well, Javi, I’m sure you’re about to.”

His dimple appears for her. He looks at her like she wishes he wouldn’t, because it makes her badly want to stick to his side for the rest of the night. And on his lips.

Even more unfortunate for her, he rummages in his pockets and pulls out a packet of those good cigarettes that make up his aroma. He opens it and takes one out for himself, sticking it between his lips, before offering her one.

“You smoke?”

She takes one. “Sometimes,” she nods. “Are we allowed to, in here?”

Javi shrugs his shoulders as he lights his. “Dunno,” he responds. She leans forward so he can light hers too. “Suppose we should go sit on the balcony on the off chance that this is the one hotel in America that doesn’t allow it?”

****

“You know Me and Bobby McGee, Laredo?” she nods down to his guitar.

The air outside is just cool enough to be comfortable in, so, despite that their cigarettes have long been stamped out and the party inside awaits them, they stay on the patio, rooted to the furniture. He hasn’t made any moves on her, a fact which takes her by surprise, and so they’ve lulled into a comfortable ebb and flow of natural conversation.

He tweaks his fingers on the neck of the guitar before he begins to strum the strings of it . His hair, overgrown in a way that suits a man of his occupation, cascades over his forehead as his brow becomes pinched from focus. In an instant, from his fingers comes the tune of her desire. He looks up at her, grinning, once he gets into the flow of it.

“¿Hablas español?” he asks, over his guitar.

“Un poquito, but not much,” she tells him. “Why?”

“No reason,” he dismisses, “Can you sing Me and Bobby McGee?”

“Sí.”

He laughs. “Well, put on a show then.”

***

She sobers up halfway between the sun tucking itself into the sky and the sun peeking back out from the horizon, but she can’t remember when. They’d played a lot of songs and her throat feels hoarse, but she can’t recall any one song that had felt particularly clear. It all sort of blended together up until this moment.

Javi lays, back rested against the chair, looking tired. His guitar now rests beside him, quiet, and he stares out at the city below them.

There’s a soft hum of normal people doing normal things below them; the horn of an eager taxi driver, the breaks of a bus, the chatter of patrons going in and out of the hotel.

They sit in the comfort of this city’s morning routine while she smokes his last good cigarette. “I was never much for staying up all night,” she tells him, passing it over to him.

He takes it between his lips and nods. “I was never much for sleeping all night.”

“And why’s that?”

He shrugs, exhaling the smoke. “Don’t know. Sometimes the past haunts me, sometimes it’s just too fuckin’ hot, sometimes it’s the company.”

“Mm,” she hums. “I must admit, I didn't peg you as the get-to-know-me-in-the-early-morning type. Thought you’d be content just charming me with your guitar for the rest of eternity.”

“Well,” he passes the cigarette back to her, pushing his digits against her own in the process. “I’m not, really, but we’ve talked about our favorite songs all night and you’re our opener for the rest of this tour, so why not?”

She takes a drag off the cigarette. “I’m not the opener for the rest of the tour.”

“No?” he asks.

“No,” she shakes her head. “This was a favor, I think. A very kind one.”

He looks out in front of him, falling into silence. Thinking.  Then he says, “I think I’m in the position to call in some favors right now if you’d liked to be. The opener, I mean.”

She lets the smoke out from the side of her mouth, which has risen up into a wide grin. “Javier from Laredo, I think I could kiss you right now.”

He takes the cigarette back from her fingers, offering her his own grin. “I think I’d like that,” Javi says, tone soft. Genuine.

She swings her legs over the side of her lawn chair, and holds herself up just far enough to press a chaste kiss to his cheek. He turns though, not entirely on purpose, she thinks, and their noses brush against one another. She rises from her seat when he leans down and fills the space between them, resting against his own chair as his lips move against her own.

No tongue, though. He pulls back after a few seconds, brown eyes full of warmth. She’s surprised by the amount of control he has over himself. Surprised that he wants to use it, too.

“I better go check on my sister,” she breathes out, resting her hand over his chest.

“Okay,” he nods. “I’ll see you in the next city, Anita.”

“Yeah,” she smiles.

“Look for me?” he asks.

“Yeah,” she promises.

She likes this man and his tight jeans, she’s decided. Likes him a lot.

EVERYTHING : @astroboots , @frannyzooey , @wyn-n-tonic , @rosiefridayrogersunday , @melaniermblt , @theorganasolo​ , @amneris21​ , @honestly-shite , @over300books , @elegantduckturtle, @pbeatriz , @pretty-brown-eyess , @brcwneyes  ,  @chronic-nosebleed

JAVI :  @wyn-n-tonic , @rosiefridayrogersunday , @disgruntledspacedad , @melaniermblt , @walt-breslin , @theorganasolo , @amneris21 , @hb8301 , @penajavier , @darnitdraco , @over300books , @dobbyjen , @paperbag33 , @rebel-fanfare , @p3dr0pasca1lov3r247

TINY DANCER : @itssmashedavo (just because i thought this might interest you)

[rejectofsociety]

Summary: While drunk at a party, MJ decides to play a little “game” with Peter to see if he can guess who she’s head-over-heals for.

Rated: T

Warnings: Drinking, Cursing, I was tired when I wrote this

Word Count: 2,040

Written for @spideychelleweek with the prompts “drunk and first kiss”

Also read here on AO3

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

Peter was already tipsy when he arrived at Flash’s party, as he had just been at the bar trying to get drunk. He would have gladly spent the entire night sulking at the bar but, when he got a text saying there was a party at Flash’s place, he decided it was better to get drunk around some friends with games and decent music instead of being alone with nothing but a crappy football game to keep him company. Also the bartender was beginning to look concerned as Peter downed who knows how many shots that seemed to have no effect on him, so it was only polite to save him the confusion and worry.

So, now he lounges lazily on a couch with a bottle of vodka in his hand as he watches Felicia take a body shot off Gwen who is draped across a table and giggling drunkly. The colorful lights are bright around him as the floor sways and his head spins— it almost looks like he’s trapped inside a smudged painting of blues and purples.

The only way he can really get drunk is with hard liquor that he prefers to drink from the bottle. Some think he is trying (and succeeding) to show off. But anyone who really knows Peter knows that the last thing he cares to do is show off. Therefore, if Peter is so desperate to get drunk that’d he’ll lay on the couch gulping down everything in sight, there is likely something very wrong.

Michelle is the first to notice Peter’s state, being as observant as she is. She has barely had enough drinks to be considered drunk, and that was perfect. The only way she can approach Peter is when she was a little drunk and she can let the alcohol do the talking.

“Hey, loser,” Michelle greets as she plops down next to Peter.

He looks at her with tired, half-open eyes and regards her with a nod, “‘sup, MJ,” he speaks with his words heavily slurred, “how’s it going?”

“It’s going,” she shrugs, “what about you? You seem pretty…” she looks him up and down, “pretty miserable.”

“Did you just call me pretty?” He chuckles and smiles a dopey grin.

She feels her face warm up a little then shakes her head, “Pretty miserable.”

“Ah,” he nods and takes another sip of his drink, “yeah, that’s accurate.”

Michelle leans forward, “what happened?”

He shrugs, “lost my job and uh- some shit went down with Spiderman.”

“Oh-“

“I-it’s not important though,” Peter says as quickly as his drunken mind will allow.

“I’m just surprised you know Spidey,” Michelle replies.

“Yeah,” he shrugs like it’s no big deal, “normally we’re friends, but right now…” he shakes his head and stares off, looking real empty, “I could fucking strangle that bastard.”

Michelle’s expression melts into a concerned frown then she blurts: “I thought you were Spiderman.”

Peter shrugs again, evident tears glossing over his eyes as he takes a swig of his drink. Michelle examines him for a moment as he stares at the ground, his breaths shuddering and uneven. She hates seeing him upset like this and, whatever happened, the alcohol isn’t letting him forget quite yet.

“I’m not having too great a day either,” Michelle says after a moment, wanting to steer away from the Spiderman topic.

Peter looks back at her with a worried frown, seeming to forget his own troubles just for her. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s this guy,” she explains slowly, turning her body to face Peter, “and I really, really like him.”

Peter swallows thickly and mutters a quiet, disappointed “oh” that Michelle barely hears, but takes note of anyways.

“But I don’t think he likes me back,” she continues, “and the more I think about it, the more I absolutely fucking hate it.”

“What’s this guy like?” Peter asks, finishing off the bottle in his hand.

“He’s cute. Adorable freckles—“

“I have freckles.”

“—nice smile, the sweetest brown eyes.”

“Brown eyes are the best,” Peter says, practically mumbling now as the words smash together. And as he speaks, he’s staring into the swaying image of Michelle own eyes, which are his new favorite color.

“Yeah,” Michelle hums, “he’s also kinda dumb but- like- really smart. Like stupid smart. But he acts like a dumbass. He’s sweet too—“ as she speaks she eyes Peter closely, as if afraid that she’ll leave out any details as she describes him “—when I’m upset, he notices, and always asks how I’m doing.”

“Sounds nice,” Peter grumbles.

“He is. And he thinks he’s hilarious, even though he’s not. I mean, sometimes he says something funny but it’s always just, like, a step above a dad joke,” Michelle giggles as she says this and Peter’s lips twitch into a lopsided smile. “He still makes me smile though.”

“And that’s what’s important, huh?” He grunts.

Michelle nods, a bit surprised that Peter hasn’t picked up on her little game. She really thought the dad joke comment would do it for him.

A lousy smirk rolls across her lips as she examines him. Let’s see how long it takes him, she thinks mischievously.

“We go to college together, but he misses a lot of lectures-“

“Why?”

“I dunno,” she shrugs casually and sips her drink before continuing, “probably work. But even though he is late to literally everything ever, he’s really nice to be around, y’know? He’s only got two or three friends-“

“Loser,” Peter snorts.

“Yeah,” she laughs slightly, “he’s a massive loser. But, he really loves the two friends he’s got and I just… I knowhe’d never trade them out for anything. And he likes making them smile, tries keeping them safe-“

“From what?”

“Everything. I think he’s scared— probably lost too many people and just…”

“I bet he feels like it’s all his fault,” Peter speaks up, his eyes watering in a way that makes Michelle think he’s talking about himself, “because he’s supposed to be the strong one, but what’s the use in being strong if everyone I- he loves just fucking dies. A-and so he’s trying to protect the friends he does have from everything— like, everything— ‘cause he just feels like there’s al-always something round the corner waiting to hurt them,” he goes to take a sip of his drink, only to realize it’s empty with a grunt, “I bet he can’t trust anything anymore. He’s just waiting for someone else to die.”

Michelle’s quiet for a moment, but when she finds her voice it breaks and wobbles, “y-yeah. I-I bet he um…” she clumsily wipes away a tear before it can fall.

Peter sniffs then lays down, too dizzy to keep sitting upright, “what else is he like?”

“Why’re you so curious?” Michelle narrows her eyes at him, her voice slowly evening itself out.

He gives a half-hearted shrug, “dunno. I just wanna make sure he’s not a piece of shit.”

“He’s not. I mean, he kinda is but in a lovable way. And I really like talking to him, but I can’t do it sober.”

Peter raises his head and props himself up with an elbow, “are you sober right now?”

“Yeah… no. No, I’m not,” she admits.

Curious, Peter sits up a little more, leaning against the couch for support, “we don’t talk much,” he observes.

“No, we don’t,” she agrees, “I wish we talked more though.”

“Me too,” he sighs, then returns to the topic, “anything else you like about this super perfect loser?”

“Aside from everything?” Michelle raises an eyebrow and Peter huffs dramatically, “every time I see him, I say ‘hey, loser’ and I think it’s cute that he lets me.”

“So cute,” Peter rolls his eyes, and Michelle can’t help but take note of how Peter seems to get more and more bothered as she speaks of her little crush who he can’t seem to figure out.

“Sometimes I think he might like me too,” Michelle hums.

Peter flops backwards and lays his head on the armrest, “what would you do if he did like you?”

“Probably give him a kiss.”

“I could help you practice kissing him,” Peter offers helpfully.

Michelle’s heart leaps and she looks at him with wide eyes, “what?”

“I doubt you need practice,” Peter quickly corrects, then verbally vomits without thinking once: “I’m sure you’ve kissed lots of people and all of those people are so, so lucky ‘cause you’re so cool and kind and beautiful and you just noticed I was sad and came to talk to me and I’m going to be thinking about that for- like- a really long time.”

“Why?” She prods and she can feel her face heating up and her heartbeat quickens.

“I think about you a lot,” he admits, tossing his empty bottle on the ground with a clank, “you’re just really amazing, y’know?”

She leans forward and props herself with one hand by his head, “thank you, loser.”

“We should get drunk more,” he says, wrapping his arms around her and forcing her to lay on top of him a little (she doesn’t mind none).

“Why’s that?” Michelle adjusts her arms to sit a little more comfortably.

“So we can talk more often,” Peter says and even when his face is lit up with purplish lights, Michelle can see the pink blush that decorates his cheeks. “I really like talking to you.”

“I like talking to you, too,” she hums, her face only a few inches away from his, making her heart pound rapidly.

He clumsily tucks a few of her curls behind her ear, making her lips curve into a soft smile. This is exactly the moment she’s been waiting for since realizing how much she likes the idiot below her. And as her heart races and her face grows warm, she feels a strong tug in her stomach followed by a swell in confidence. As far as she’s concerned, it’s now or never (at least until she gets drunk again).

“Can I kiss you?” Michelle asks abruptly.

“What?” Peter furrows his brow and his mind lags like an old computer.

“Can I kiss you?” She repeats, “for practice.”

He flashes a dopey grin and draws her closer to him, “yes, please.”

With Peter’s powerful arms around her neck, Michelle leans in and swiftly locks her lips with his. It’s a bit sloppy and clumsy, but they both melt into it gratefully. With one hand, Michelle strokes the side of his cheek and he exhales blithely through his nose.

Then, all too soon, Peter pulls away and when Michelle opens her eyes she sees him looking up at her with his glassy eyes and his brow scrunched up.

“Am I the loser you were talking about?” he slowly asks.

She tilts her head to the side with a smile, “took you long enough.”

His face lights up and his eyes go wide, “are- are you serious?”

“Yeah,” she chuckles.

“Oh-“ he laughs and his face grows even redder, “Em, I-“

“Feel the same?” She assumes, and he nods with a goofy grin that makes her face flush as she giggles, “yeah, I can tell.”

“What gave it away?”

“How badly you wanted to kiss me.”

“What about how badly I want to do it again?” He raises an eyebrow mischievously.

Hope and joy fluttering in her chest like a swarm of butterflies, Michelle lunges forward and embraces him in another kiss. It’s more passionate and confident then the first one, and Michelle feels her heart melt as she notices Peter stroking her hair tenderly.

“Get some, Peter!” Harry cheers from across the room.

The two jump part and Peter throws back his head with a laugh. Michelle’s face goes hot with embarrassment and she swears every set of eyes in the room turn to look at them.

But, before she can push herself away from Peter, he rests his hand on her cheek and turns her head to look at him.

“I think everyone’s too drunk to remember this tomorrow,” he assures, “it’s okay.”

She simpers sheepishly then settles into his touch and rests her head comfortably on his chest, “can we just stay like this for a while?”

He nods, “anything you want, MJ.”

[pearl-blue-musings]

Crystal Clear

Hi hi

I’ve been struggling to write for the last couple of months, so have a drabble I’ve had notes on for awhile now

Pairing: Yamada Hizashi (Present Mic) x fem!reader

Warnings: brief manga spoilers, angst, fluff, mentions of character death (again manga spoilers), not a warning but reader has black hair, survivors guilt, written in one go so :/

~~~~~~~~~~

It was too early in the morning for you to be up but here you are. You were sleeping peacefully until your loud blond boyfriend woke you up at 4:30 in the morning. 

“Babe? You do see what time it is right?”

“I know,” he whispers, “but I couldn’t sleep after my radio show and I wanted to go on a drive. Can we?”

You reach for a nearby lamp and turn it on to dimly illuminate the room. You see Yamada next to you, half dressed and bright green eyes lacking their usual sheen which makes you worry. You don’t miss the bags under his eyes that have slowly become more and more common with him over the last year. He tries his best to keep smiling at you but you’re aware of the nightmares he has and you’ve surmised that he’s had another one. His typical cheeky grin has been replaced with a melancholy smile that doesn’t quite reach the crease of his eyes and it hurts you more than you’d like to admit. 

You reach out your hand to his and hold his cold and calloused hand in yours giving him a reassuring smile. “I’ll get dressed, ‘Zashi. Where are we headed?”

“Just wanted to watch the sunrise this morning at our favorite spot...”

You silently nod and remove yourself from the bed and head toward the bathroom. You and Hizashi were lucky he got some time off for a few days and that it was Principal Nezu approved. The hideaway you chose was a couple hours away from the school and conveniently from his favorite beach location. Once he brought that up you knew that he was doing his best to cope and comprehend the rampant emotions fluttering around in his brain.

Once you’re both ready, you pack up your things and head out to the rental car. You have one more day until the two of you need to return to the school so you can understand why he’s clearly feeling a particular way. Since you know it’s a long drive you leave your hair in your bonnet to prevent any random kinks or bends. Yamada always loves how much you care for your hair, despite whatever adventure you’re doing; it’s one of the little things he adores because he can see you completely dressed while your hair is still covered up. The blond is feeling more of the opposite this morning as he leaves his own mane flowing down his back. 

You catch his gaze on you and you can’t help but let out a low chuckle. “What?”

He matches your laugh and slides into the drivers side. “Nothing, sweet listener. I just like seein’ ya in the morning like this.”

Your eyebrows perk up at his soft and kind words. You lean over the console in the car and place a chaste kiss upon his cheek. Returning to your side of car you lean back to get comfortable before asking, “Are you sure you don’t want me to drive? You did your show away from home and I know you’re tired.”

“Songbird, I wanna do this okay? I’m fine, now rest your beautiful eyes okay?”

You can’t help but agree with him as you close your eyes, the hum of the engine roaring to life but also lulling you to sleep. Along the ride, you had drifted in and out of sleep, sometimes hearing him hum to himself with the radio, or switching to a playlist on his phone that helped him focus and stay awake. Normally, trips like this with the two of you are more chatty and full of joy. But you know he needs his time to himself. No one person should have had to endure what he’s been through and you’ve told yourself that you would be there with him through all of it. 

Hizashi enjoyed driving more than people realized. And with his destination in mind, he was relishing in this journey. The sky still dark above him, the moon and stars blending in with the early morning lights of the city. The bright lights fade as they get closer to their location, already noticing the brightening of the deep purple sky switching to it’s lighter shade as the stars begin to dwindle away. There’s something to be said about the open cloudless sky. He normally doesn’t let these things get to him, being strong for his long time best friend and girlfriend. But there’s a metaphor he’s looking at right now and he can’t help but have a tear fall down to his parted lips. The taste of salt hitting him earlier than he wanted is just the icing on the cake that is this beach drive. 

When you awake you see that you’re parked at the beach’s lot and turn to your boyfriend. You’re about to speak when you catch a look in his eye you hadn’t seen in a long time. The way his green irises stare out at the vast ocean in front of him, the part in his lip, and the furrow of his brow, you can sense he’s holding something back. It’s almost as if all of the exhaustion, hurt, pain, and silence that has been eating him up is finally coming to the forefront. You retract your hand and opt to fix your hair as best you could before getting out and grabbing the blankets for you two to sit on. “Baby,” you sweetly coo at him, “are you ready?”

You see him quickly nod and get out of the car, closing the door behind him. His hands immediately go to this arms as the beach air is colder than he anticipated. You roll your eyes and grab his sweater. “You’re lucky I brought a sweater for you, ‘Zashi.”

He scoffs in fake annoyance and takes the sweater. “Well what if you ruined my plan of wanting to just cuddle you because I’m cold?”

“I guess we’ll never know.”

The two of you continue to laugh as you begin your trek down toward the sand. Your hands are intertwined as you walk, the cold sand seeping in between your toes as you step along. You walk along the shore for a few minutes before finding the perfect spot and place the blanket down on the sand. You sit together facing the ocean, your head on his shoulder as your hands find each other again. He begins to draw haphazard patterns on the back of your hand, sighing contentedly before peering at the sun peeping across the horizon. The colors are absolutely breathtaking, the bright and harsh orange and yellows mixing with the purples of the early morning sky and blues of the water. The ocean breeze sweeps through their hair adding an extra calmness to the serene scene. The sunrise itself is one of the most beautiful things you’ve seen in this world and you’re honored to be sharing this moment with him. You feel him deeply exhale and tighten his grip on your palm; he’s finally ready to talk.

“I miss her.”

You merely nod against him, slightly surprised at how soft his voice is right now.

“We were all supposed to be heroes together. Her, me, Shouta...Oboro...”

You hold onto his arm harder as the volume in his voice increases.

“Shouta’s always getting hurt and I can’t do anything. Oboro, he should be here! But that would mean Sho wouldn’t be here and I’m not sure which one is worse and I..

“I just have a radio show! No physical scars to show, just my memories.” The sun rises higher into the sky, making his eyes shine brighter and have more life. “Memories of Nemuri and Oboro. You know Oboro would’ve loved you right? I know Nemuri did. Sho does too, he just won’t admit it.” The colors of midnight have disappeared completely as the sun has taken over the cloudless sky. 

“They should all be here with me! All of us should be here,” his voice getting louder as he unleashes his year long pent up frustration. “Why did I have to lose two of my best friends and have another come so close to death by losing an eye and a leg and I’m fine?!” He stands up then walking closer toward the water to avoid hurting your ears. “Society still doesn’t trust us! Just, why?

“Why me!?”

All you could do was sit and let him get his feelings out. You felt everything that has been boiling inside of him and now the teapot has finally exploded. He’s panting heavily, not from his yelling but from the release of his emotions. He was finally exposing himself to the world in the place where his friends would visit in his youth, a full year after the nation, UA, and hero society had turned upside down. Removing your ear plugs you put in earlier, you stroll up to him and hug him from behind tightly. Hizashi turns you around so that you’re hugging his front as he buries his head into the crook of your neck. Your hands rub his back up and down in a soothing motion. This moment isn’t for you, it’s for him. Your loud, boisterous, emotional, and fun boyfriend needed this.

“Damn it,” he huffs out and lifts his head. “I ruined this sunrise for ya.”

You shake your head and gaze into his eyes, giving him a soft smile. It’s right then, right in this moment that it feels like the stars align. The sun in your irises makes your eyes shimmer, shine, and reflect in a way that makes his stomach drop. As he looks into your eyes, he sees himself and everything that he is. You’ve taken him for everything that he is and you’re still here. 

Even when tensions were at their worst, you gave him the space to cope and heal, just like you’re doing now. The way your eyes twinkle in the sun has him falling in love with you all over again. He carefully cups your face with his hands, almost like that’s where they’re meant to be. “Darling, you’re too good for me, ya know that?” He rests his forehead against yours, your breaths mingling together as he inhales your scent and sighs happily. “I yell at home, at work, on my show-”

“Don’t forget in bed,” you jest.

You catch his pout as he playfully pinches your cheeks, “Nah sweetcheeks that’s all you!” You share a hearty giggle as the Yamada finds himself calming down. His hands trail down your body to meet yours, interlocking your fingers together as your foreheads are still pressed together. He wasn’t sure why he wanted to come to the beach today, but he’s happy to be here with you. It’s almost like the universe was telling him that it’s okay for him to feel what he’s feeling, that he can move on with his life. Almost like his friends were finally gracing him with peace by telling him it’s time for him to be happy. Diving into this had him fearful, but with the way you look at him and love him, everything has become crystal clear for the radio hero.

“I love you so much,” he seals his words with a kiss, knowing full well he’ll be wanting to do this for the rest of his life.

“I love you too, Hizashi.”

~~~~~~~~~~

@cupcake-rogue @stratuspoof @spizawazashi

[exoticarmyofcrowns]

sing for me | kth

pairing: taehyung x fem!reader

summary: you have been living with your roommate for well over a year and the unresolved sexual tension between the two of you finally comes to a head

genre: romance, smut (VERY 18+ not for the littles), roommates au

warnings: masturbation, vouyerism??, fingering, thigh riding, attempted dirty talk, breath play, slight power play???, excessive use of the word “baby” and other pet names, kinda awkward discussion of feelings thrown in bc my characters never shut up when i want them to get it on sorry

word count: ~6.6k

a/n: hello~ um... i have no explanation for this. i am like half ashamed and half proud of this??? idek man. all i know is that i couldn’t have done it without @sugaerie​ so thank you so much my queen i love uuuu

You step through the door of your apartment, feet practically screaming with relief as you kick off your shoes.

Work was really kicking your ass lately. Add that together with the stress of grad school and you had a deadly concoction not even your favorite tea and copious amount of ibuprofen could protect you from. Your job as a cashier was pretty easy, you can’t lie, but constantly standing and running around the store did a number on your poor feet. Thank god you had weekends off—a perk of having worked there so long you practically had the manager wrapped around your pinky when it came time for scheduling—so you could sleep in for once.

Tossing your keys on the counter, you spare a glance at the clock above the stove as you walk into your small kitchen. It’s about a quarter to midnight. You figure Taehyung is still out with his friends, hitting up one of the bars downtown.

You sigh heavily at the thought of your roommate. Not because anything wrong with him. Taehyung is nothing short of incredible. He’s sweet and kind, always greeting you with the most adorable boxy smile that makes you feel like the only person in the universe. People gravitate toward him just as easily as he draws them in, a natural warmth that instantly puts others at ease in his presence. He’s generous and thoughtful, never missing an opportunity to surprise you at work with a coffee or just to see you. Those shifts are your favorites and maybe you’re a little spoiled because you often find yourself glancing at the entrance more often than not, trying to see if you can spot his dark, curly head from your register.

Not to mention Taehyung is incredibly stunning. Long dark curls frame his face in the most intimidatingly beautiful way it’s often hard to look away from him. He’s got piercing dark eyes that can stare right into your soul but that also crinkle beautifully at the corners when he smiles. His fashion sense is killer, obscure brands and fabrics lining his closet almost like a museum. You’re not sure how but he can wear just about anything and still manage to look like he just stepped off a runway.

He works as a freelance photographer and has quite the sizeable following on social media. He’s passionate about his work and it shows in the quality of his photos. You know next to nothing about photography but even you can see that the beauty and skill with which he wields his camera is nothing short of magical. Commissions are not hard to come by for him, though you’re more than positive it has just as much to do with Taehyung himself as it does his beautiful portfolio.

No, there is absolutely nothing wrong with Taehyung.

Only that he’s perfect and you have a massive crush on him.

Exhaling tiredly, you run a heavy hand down your face. Anyone else would be ecstatic about having such a wonderful, attractive roommate but you know things like this can only end in disaster. More than anything, Taehyung is your friend—your best friend, you would argue—and involving feelings into your relationship can only end poorly. The whole roommates thing just adds another layer of complication that is better left alone. You don’t shit where you eat, after all.

But it’s difficult. Taehyung is just so nice and likeable it’s unreal. You often find your thoughts wandering to dangerous places when you both are curled up on the couch together during movie nights, blankets and pillows and snacks scattered all over the living room, while he curls his body around you without a second thought. He’s naturally tactile, you try to remind yourself in an effort to calm your racing pulse but then he’ll laugh at something happening in the movie, his cheeks plumping up adorably, and you know you’re a lost cause as you feel your heart melt all over again.

It’s getting increasingly difficult to ignore your feelings for your roommate and you know something has to give eventually. In the last couple of weeks, there seemed to have been a shift in the air whenever you were around each other. Taehyung was still your adorable and playful friend but the hugs seemed longer, the touches more tender and lingering. You even think you’ve caught him staring at you a few times, a strange new darkness simmering beneath the chocolate irises.

Flushing with embarrassment and shame, you bury your face into your hands. Of course not. You’re just being ridiculously optimistic. You pull out a clean glass from the cupboard and fill it with water from the sink, hoping to dampen the butterflies fluttering in your stomach.

Cleaning up, you decide to pamper yourself with a long hot shower complete with a nice sugar scrub and an in-shower face mask. You even spring for a shave, already excited for the feel of your sheets against the smooth, moisturized expanse of your legs. It’s the little things.

You hum lightly under your breath, already feeling the residual tension from the week bleed out as you gently massage your favorite lotion into your skin. Finishing up, you feel much more relaxed and so wonderfully clean you can’t help the smile that graces your lips as you move to head back to your room.

“___.”

It’s faint, so faint you think you imagine it but it still makes you freeze as you step out of the bathroom. Glancing down the short hallway that leads to your room, you blink for several seconds and wait to see if you hear it again. When nothing happens, you feel your heart resume its normal pace before rolling your eyes at yourself and continuing on to your room.

“___.”

This time it’s unmistakable and you can’t help the way the sound of your name makes you jump in fear. Now you’re in full-on panic mode and you anxiously scan the apartment. Your eyes catch on the faint light emanating from Taehyung’s room and you relax slightly. How had you not realized he was home already?

Your relief quickly morphs into confusion. Why would Taehyung be calling for you? Did he need something? Was he hurt? Stifling your self-induced panic, you quietly make your way over to his door. Despite having been in his room multiple times before, something feels off now. Almost like you shouldn’t be there. You can’t quite put your finger on it but something about the whole situation has you on edge…

You shake it off. It’s fine. You’ll just casually peep through the slightly ajar door and make sure everything is okay before marching off to bed to enjoy your evening in. Simple as that, right?

Wrong.

Whatever you thought you were going to see past the small opening of his door doesn’t hold a candle to the image that will undoubtedly be burned into your memory forever.

There, laying casually on his bed, is Taehyung. That in and of itself is not out of the ordinary. Except for the fact that he is naked save for the boxers he normally wears to bed, with a hand pulling desperately at his painfully red length.

It’s suddenly hard to breathe, air catching so violently in your throat you nearly choke audibly. Slapping a hand over your mouth and nose, you will yourself to calm down enough to take in the scene before you. Taehyung’s long legs are splayed almost elegantly across his sheets, deliciously thick thigh muscles clenching and unclenching from his ministrations. His hand glides skillfully over his cock, alternating between slow, languid tugs and fast, unyielding strokes. He throws his head back before tucking his chin in briefly, tongue flicking out to wet his lips before he sucks his bottom lip into his mouth. A hiss of pleasure melts into a throaty groan and heat pools rapidly in the pit of your stomach.

A voice in the back of your mind screams for you to get away while you can. You shouldn’t be here. It doesn’t matter how long you’ve lusted after your roommate, how long you’ve wanted to push him against any flat surface and have your way with him or let him have his way with you. It doesn’t matter that you want to do couple-y things with him too, like hold his hand and kiss those soft, pink lips because you are roommates—friends—and a fling like that could only end in disaster, especially when he doesn’t feel the same way. It doesn’t matter and you have to leave now before—

“___,” Taehyung groans once again, hands caressing up his lean stomach and you’re distracted by the way his muscles ripple with the attention. “Are you just going to stand there or are you gonna come help me?”

Something between a squeak and a cough leaves your throat in that instant and you wish the floor would open up and swallow you whole. You can’t bring yourself to move for a good second but Taehyung lets out another low moan and your feet move of their own accord into the bedroom.

If you thought he was beautiful before, he is absolutely glowing in the soft light of his bedside lamp. A light sheen of sweat coats his skin and you are overwhelmed with the urge to lick a stray bead that travels down his neck. Your breath is coming out in short pants and you try to subtly squeeze your thighs together to ease the ache. This does not go unnoticed.

“Hello, darling.” The words leave his lips in a low purr and a shiver zips down your spine. He’s smirking at you, hands still gripping his length but his pace has slowed significantly as if giving you a show. He seems perfectly comfortable despite the lack clothing, completely unfazed by your blatant staring. Like he wants you to look at him and only him. The thought has your face burning.

“T-Tae, what are you doing?”

“Isn’t is obvious, sweetheart? Surely I don’t need to spell it out for you, hm?” A particularly wet pass over his dick has him sucking in a gasp and you find you can’t look away. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips and Taehyung fixates on the motion, pupils blown wide and darkening further.

“Although you haven’t picked up on my blatant flirting so maybe I should.”

That snaps you out of your reverie. “Flirting?” You hate the way your voice sounds so weak and vulnerable but it can’t be helped.

“I haven’t exactly been subtle, ___. I’ve been—fuck—I’ve been trying to drop hints for the last few weeks now, hell, the last few months but you never n-notice.” He tugs at his bottom lip with his teeth again before releasing a heavy sigh.

Your head is spinning. This Taehyung is so different from the one you’re used to—yes, he’s still the same incorrigible flirt, but where he is usually giggly and playful he is now sensual and downright sinful. You think back over the past few weeks, the lingering touches, the casual hugs. Taehyung has always been touchy but they had felt charged with something else entirely. It’s good to know you hadn’t been making that up.

“I…” You truly don’t know what to say for yourself. “I didn’t know,” you murmur, feeling very very small all of a sudden.

Taehyung immediately stills at your tone and misinterprets it as discomfort.  “Oh. Oh god, ___, I’m so sorry.” Wrenching his hand away from himself, he scrambles on the bed, looking up at you with earnest, remorseful eyes. The waistband of his boxers snap shut in his frenzy and you almost mourn the loss of the desire-tinted skin. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, I just thought that maybe you…maybe you felt the same?”

You’re so taken aback by the complete 180 he’s made that your response gets caught in the whirlwind of your thoughts, This is more like the Taehyung you know, kind and considerate, and you almost forget the situation you’re in. Almost.

“N-No!” you stammer, eager to assuage his uncertainty. “I mean, yes, I-I…” You close your eyes tightly. “I do…feel the same.”

The way Taehyung looks at you after your stunted confession has your heart auditioning for a marathon and goosebumps prickling across your skin. You may as well have just hung all the stars in the sky with the amount of adoration swimming in his warm irises.

“I’m glad,” he grins brightly at you and you can’t help but smile back. You bite your lip out of habit and the smile fades from his face as he watches you.

Swallowing thickly, he rasps, “___, c-can I kiss you? Please.”

The desperation in his voice is not something you expect and a jolt of electricity zings down your spine. Dazed, you nod. That’s all Taehyung needs before he practically launches himself to his feet to grab you by the waist and pull you to him. His hand—the other hand that was not touching himself—cradles your face as he bends down to brush your noses together. A moment passes, Taehyung staring into your eyes to give you room to pull away. When you don’t, he smiles briefly to himself before surging forward to connect your lips.

The kiss is soft and warm, exchanging only the slightest bit of pressure as if you both are worried that you’ll frighten the other. Which is ridiculous, you think, since you have yet to run away. You bounce up on your toes to alleviate the reach for Taehyung and kiss him harder. He hums appreciatively as he nips at you, the sound tingling from your lips and down the length of your body. You shiver in his hold and move to wrap your arms around his neck to pull him impossibly closer. The distance disappears between you two and you feel his arousal poking at your stomach. You break the kiss to look down between you, bottom lip trapped between your teeth.

Glancing up at Taehyung from beneath your eyelashes, you marvel at how positively wrecked he looks. He’s still damp with sweat but his mouth is slightly swollen from your kisses and his eyes are so blown out they’re practically black with desire. You feel yourself clench hopelessly as the blood rushes loudly in your ears.

“Can I—Can I watch you?”

You’re just as surprised as Taehyung is to hear those words leave your mouth but you’re not quite thinking straight, not when he looks like that and you finally have him in a way you never thought you would. It’s overwhelming, to say the least, and you want to savor every moment together.

Taehyung doesn’t seem to be faring much better, the request making his breathing turn heavy as he leans down to rest his forehead against yours. “Are you sure, ___? Are you absolutely sure? Because once we start, I don’t think I can stop.”

Peeking up at him coyly, you respond, “Who says I’ll want you to?”

A beat. Then, Taehyung squeezes his eyes shut and practically growls at your words. His arm tightens around your waist and crushes your body to him as if trying to mold you together. You love it.

“Then sit back and enjoy the show.” His lips quirk into a lascivious smirk before crashing your mouths together once again. This kiss is different than the previous one, not one bit of hesitation lingering now. Taehyung’s tongue licks along the seam of your mouth insistently and your legs turn to jelly as you open up for him.

The kiss is over too soon but before you can mourn the loss of his lips, he pushes you down onto the bed and resumes his spot against the pillows. Tugging on his boxers, Taehyung pulls them down to discard them somewhere behind you. Heat pulses through you at the sight of his exposed flesh and your thighs rub together once again.

Taking himself in hand, Taehyung spreads his legs and begins a torturously slow pace. “You have no idea how long I’ve dreamt of this.” All the air in your lungs leaves you at the confession. You can’t even think clearly, much less think up a semi-coherent response, but he doesn’t seem deterred by your silence.

“I’ve always—shit—I’ve always wanted t-to kiss that pretty little mouth of yours, ravage it until you can’t think. Your mouth, your neck, anything I could get my lips on.” Your eyes eagerly take in the sight of the milky substance beading at the tip of his cock and making his passes even messier.

“Ah, fuck, I-I wondered what kind of sounds you would make. If you would gasp and sigh or if I could make you scream.” He twists his wrist as he glides over the head of his length and he gasps out loud, his breathing rough and ragged and oh so lovely.

“I’ve thought about what it would take you to make you beg for it.”

A whimper escapes your lips before you can stop it and heat blooms across your cheeks. Taehyung stills for a moment before resuming with a smirk.

“Oh? Does my baby like the sound of that? Of me making you beg for my cock?” You nod, stunned and aroused beyond belief. It’s as if your brain has short-circuited and all you can think about is the fantasy that Taehyung so beautifully illustrates for you.

“Dirty girl,” he chuckles, tonguing the corner of his lips. “I should have guessed at what a desperate little thing you’d be. Asking me to stroke my dick while you watch.” He tuts playfully, eyes never leaving yours.

Breathing has become steadily more difficult and you’re acutely aware of the dampness between your legs. You want nothing more than to relieve the ache but you’re so transfixed on the beautiful man laid out in front of you that you can do nothing more than squeeze your thighs together.

“Look at you,” Taehyung’s eyes rake down your form, taking in your lust-darkened gaze and heaving chest before lingering on the apex of your tensed thighs. “I bet you’re dripping, aren’t you? So eager to take my cock that I could just slip right in if I wanted to, hm?” Again you nod, fingers twitching as you grip the sheets beneath you. He laughs lowly and the sound washes over you and settles deep in your stomach.

“God, I bet you’d taste so sweet on my tongue. I would spend hours just buried between your legs if you’d let me. Every time you prance around the apartment in those scraps you call shorts, I just want to bend you over the couch and fuck you until you can’t walk. Would you like that, baby girl? Want me to sink my cock into that sweet cunt of yours? Make it mine, over and over again?”

You’re practically panting now, desperate sounds ripping themselves from your throat as Taehyung stares at you intensely, hand never faltering on his swollen erection. He seems to take pity on you because in the next moment, he murmurs a deep, “Come here, baby.”

Snapping into action, you nearly stumble over yourself in your haste to be close to him. He smiles, fondness flickering in his eyes beneath the lust at your eagerness. You crawl forward until you are settled on your knees between his legs. A feeling of shyness settles over you—absurd, given the circumstances—and you find yourself unable to meet his gaze. A hand winds around your waist and pulls you to him, forcing you to straddle one of his thighs. You feel a finger slip under your chin to coax you into looking at him. When you do, Taehyung offers a sweet smile.

“You still with me, sweetheart?” You go to nod but Taehyung clicks his tongue. “I need to hear you say it, ___.”

“Yes.” You’re proud that your voice doesn’t shake. “I want you, Tae.”

The finger on your chin turns into a forceful grip as he crashes your mouths together once again. It’s messy and desperate and you can’t help the loud moan that Taehyung swallows gleefully. You welcome his tongue into your mouth and when you give it a pointed suck, he lets out an answering groan low in his throat.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he pants against your cheek, planting wet kisses down your jaw and to the length of your neck. His lips meet the collar of your shirt but before he can even ask, you’re wrenching it off your body and onto the ground.

Taehyung seems at a loss for the first time since you’d walked into his room and you revel in the swell of pride that overtakes you. He can’t help but ogle greedily at the newly-exposed skin and you feel powerful knowing that you have his undivided attention.

Shaking himself out of his daze, Taehyung places a gentle kiss right above your heart before slowly making his way lower. The gesture is not lost on you and you find yourself melting further into his touch as your hand wraps around to tangle in the hairs at the nape of his neck. You can feel two hands ghost up your sides to tease the undersides of your breasts and you inhale sharply, chest pushing up into his mouth. Taehyung breathes a laugh onto your skin before cupping the soft flesh and placing almost reverent kisses upon their stiff peaks.

“Tae, please,” you whimper, eyes squeezing shut at the onslaught of sensations he is inflicting on you.

“Hmm, I like hearing you beg for me.” His tongue flicks against your pebbled nipple and you cry out, unable to hold back anymore. “My desperate baby girl.”

“T-Tae, ah, please don’t tease.”

“Don’t tease?” He punctuates the question with a sharp squeeze. “But you’ve been teasing me for well over a year, no? Walking around the apartment practically naked, with nothing but a t-shirt or these poor excuse for shorts.” Taehyung’s hands leave a lingering pinch before gliding down the length of your torso to the hem of your sleep shorts. Hooking a finger inside, he snaps the elastic back in place and you gasp. “No panties?” He asks in wonder, eyes fixed on your lower half.

Swallowing, you murmur, “I-I don’t usually wear them to bed.”

He lets out a throaty groan. “Fuck, you really—” He cuts himself off with another sharp exhale, head tipping backward as he squeezes his eyes shut as if in pain. Something nudges the side of your thigh and you look down at forgotten length between you, swollen and nearly purple. As if in a daze, you reach for the turgid flesh and let the tips of your fingers graze the head tentatively. Taehyung’s eyes snap open to look at you in shock and you freeze.

“Do that again. Please.”

You can hardly deny him when he looks so fucked out beneath you and your hand begins a tentative pace, stroking his dick like you had witnessed him do earlier.

“That’s it, atta girl,” he groans into your shoulder, kissing the skin almost absentmindedly. “Such a good girl for me.”

Your stomach plummets at his words, inner muscles clenching almost painfully. You’re so turned on your shorts are most likely unsalvageable but seeing Taehyung so wrecked and because of you makes it all worthwhile.

Keeping up the pace on his cock, you don’t even notice your hips begin to lower onto his thigh and rock down against him until he sits up from where he’d begun to slouch in pleasure, leg knocking up into your dripping heat.

“Fuck, baby. Look at you, grinding on my thigh like that.” His words send your heart stuttering in your chest. “Your poor little cunt has been neglected, hm? You’ve been such a good girl for me, stroking my cock and getting me ready. I think you deserve a reward.”

Taehyung grips your hips with bruising force and helps you grind harder onto his leg. The drag of your shorts against your swollen clit is a little too harsh but the sheer dampness of the fabric makes the glide much easier.

“I can feel you dripping onto my leg. You’re soaked, baby.” You’re delirious at this point, incoherent noises spilling from your lips as you work yourself over Taehyung’s thigh. It’s not long before you feel the pleasure mounting within you, hips pistoning back and forth even faster.

“That’s it, baby girl. Use me. Make yourself cum on my thigh. Get yourself nice and ready for my cock.” His hands run soothingly across your skin, sending your nerves on fire. You whine as you feel your orgasm approach with each pass of your hips.

“Come on, babe. Give it to me. Let me feel you cum all over me.”

With a strangled cry, you buck against Taehyung uncontrollably as you finally release all over his leg. You curl into him, hands tangling into his hair and tugging in order to keep yourself grounded. Your hips gradually slow as you ride out your high and you find it a struggle to catch your breath. The two of you stay like that for a few moments, letting the aftershocks wash over you.

“Oh, ___,” Taehyung murmurs in wonder. Almost sheepishly, you peek up at him from beneath your eyelashes to see him staring at you with such unadulterated reverence and want that your heart skips a beat. “You did so well, baby girl,” he rasps, lips ghosting over your face tenderly.

Face warm, you try to redirect the attention to him and begin placing gentle kisses along the length of his neck. Taehyung tilts his head back, eyelids fluttering prettily at your ministrations. Smirking to yourself, you trail your hand teasingly down the length of his chest to make your way down to his dick but he stops you with a firm hand around your wrist. Before you can even open your mouth to question him, he’s already flipped you over onto your back.

“Hmm, still so eager for my cock.” He nips playfully at your bottom lip, laughing when you move to chase him. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, we’re getting there. I have to get you ready first.”

Two of his fingers brush the swell of your mouth and you open immediately to take them in. Taehyung inhales sharply as you give them a pointed suck, eyes narrowing slightly to let you know that you will certainly pay for that later. The thought sends a shot of arousal to your core.

Taehyung removes his fingers and wastes no time in bringing them to the apex of your thighs. He makes quick work of your soiled shorts and suddenly, he’s all you can feel. A single digit swipes the length of your slit to circle around your clit, eliciting a hiss from the both of you.

“Oh, baby, you’re so wet,” Tae groans, in a trance. “All for me.”

He wasn’t really speaking to you but you nod anyway. “Yes, Tae. All for you.”

Eyes snapping to yours, he sinks one finger into your weeping heat and watches your face for any signs of discomfort. You tense slightly before relaxing and sending him a reassuring smile as a signal that he can continue. He pumps his finger in and out, letting you get used to the sensation before gently slipping in another. Scissoring the digits, Taehyung furrows his brows and bites his lip as he forces himself to be patient.

You, on the other hand, are having a much harder time controlling yourself. Soft whimpers escape you with every pump of Taehyung’s fingers. One particularly potent curl has you gasping for air as an animalistic growl tears itself from your throat, hips bucking harshly upwards.

“Gah, Tae—please,” you pant, hands flailing wildly for something to hold onto before settling on his hair.

“Anything, darling.” Taehyung inserts yet another finger and you begin to really feel the stretch, so much that it nearly becomes uncomfortable. A small noise of discomfort makes the man above you pause but he mouths at your temple reassuringly. “I know, baby, I know. But I have to make sure you’re ready for me.”

Right then, he curls his fingers just as he did before and you’re seeing stars again. He places adoring kisses along your jaw before dipping for another taste of your mouth. You eagerly accept him, opening fully to him as your hips roll along with the rhythm of his fingers.

Breaking away, you pant, “I’m ready, Tae.”

“Are you sure?” Looking deeply into your eyes, he must find what he’s looking for because he nods lightly and kisses you breathless. He reaches over to his nightstand and rummages in his drawer. The crinkle of a wrapper hits your ears, making your face warm slightly as the reality of the situation hits you full force. You were really doing this. The fact that the man that you’ve pined after for so long is here with you—actually likes you—is so surreal you’re not quite sure how to process it but you’ll be damned if you didn’t enjoy every second of it.

Once he has rolled the condom on, Taehyung moves upward to cup your face between his hands. “Before we begin, are you absolutely s—”

“Tae, I swear to god if you do not get inside me in the next three seconds I will flip us over and do it myself.”

Taehyung blinks before chuckling. “There will be plenty of time for that, sweetheart. But for right now…” His smile turns sinister, prompting anticipation to swirl deliciously in your stomach. “I’m calling the shots.”

He takes himself in hand and rubs the tip up and down the length of your folds. Your eyes flutter when Taehyung collects your pooling arousal, making a complete mess of you.

When he pushes in, your mouth drops open in a silent gasp. He’s big—of course he is—bigger now that he’s entering you and you can’t deny that the stretch is more than welcome. You glance up at Taehyung’s face and are pleased to see that he looks just as wrecked as you feel. He locks eyes with you, dark irises burning with lust but also something deeper. Something…soft and warm. The thought sends your heart pounding in your chest.

As he bottoms out, Taehyung makes sure to probe your face for any signs of discomfort. He doesn’t find any and tentatively thrusts into you, eyes never leaving yours as he does. You gasp, nerves tingling as a whine tears itself from your throat, soft and breathy.

“That’s it, angel,” Taehyung pants in your ear. “Sing for me. Let me know just how good I make you feel.”

You clench helplessly, reveling in the low grunt it earns from the man above you. He begins to pick up the pace, hips snapping fiercely against yours so that the only sound is the harsh slap of skin against skin mingling with your eager breaths.

“Such a tight little cunt, even after you’ve already cum once.” His voice is even raspier with the force of his thrusts and you practically keen at the sound. “I wonder how many times I can make you lose it.”

You sob, hips rising desperately to meet his. “P-Please,” you cry, unsure what it is you’re asking for but it doesn’t matter because he props himself up to get a better angle, looking down at your writhing form.

“Such a desperate little baby.” He punctuates the pet name with a particularly harsh snap of his hips and your eyes roll into the back of your head. You can already feel your second orgasm rising within you, all you need is a little push.

“You know,” Taehyung begins, concentrating his thrusts to a slow roll, “I’ve always been curious about one thing.”

Before you can ask what it is, you see his hand snake between you, gliding across your stomach, between the valley of your breasts, to settle at the base of your throat. Your eyes widen of their own accord, breath stuttering as you realize the intention. Taehyung’s eyes hold a silent question and you nod, albeit a bit desperately, prompting him to wrap his long fingers steadily around the lowest part of your neck.

“Fucking filthy,” he whispers in awe, gaze alternating between your face and the sight of his hand wrapped around your pretty neck. He thinks he could watch this forever. Squeezing experimentally, Taehyung watches with utter delight at how quickly you fall apart under his grip. Your hands scramble to claw at his arm, not to pull it away but to keep him locked in place.

“Poor baby just wants to be choked and fucked senseless, is that it?” You nod jerkily, pleasure fogging your mind and making you delirious. You couldn’t talk even if you tried but the way your hips buck up into his needily tell him all he needs to know.

“So honest,” he chuckles, increasing the pressure slightly. “Good girls get what they want.” Taehyung pulls his hips back, so far that only the tip remains inside you, before snapping back in full-force. The pace he sets is brutal and you can feel his hip brushing relentlessly against your clit.

“T-Tae,” you gasp, stomach tightening as a particularly well-timed thrust has you seeing stars. “C-Close.”

“Is baby girl gonna cum?” You nod frantically, eyes focusing and unfocusing on his face. “Come on, baby. Give me one more. I know you can do it. My desperate. Little. Slut.”

Taehyung tightens his grip even further and that’s the end for you. A scream lodges itself in your throat as the coil in your lower stomach snaps, sending you spiraling into the most powerful orgasm you’ve had in a while. Taehyung releases his hand from your neck abruptly, the rush of air prolonging your pleasure to the point you think you might pass out.

Above you, you hear Taehyung groan gutterly at the vice-like grip your walls have trapped him in. “Fuck, princess, I can feel you squeezing. You’re gonna make me cum.”

Still breathless, you fight against the fog clouding your brain. “Please, Tae. Cum inside me, please. I-I want it so bad.”

“Such a filthy little thing,” he stutters, breaths sounding labored in your ears as he gets closer to his own climax. “Gonna f-fill you up so good. Make this cunt mine.”

“I’m yours,” you gasp, tightening your muscles one last time around him. That seems to be the end for him because before you know it, Taehyung is moaning into your shoulder.

“All. Fucking. Mine,” he growls as he snaps his hips, once, twice, before stilling inside you.

It seems to last hours but Taehyung eventually collapses onto his forearms, careful not to crush you under his weight. You both take a minute to catch your breath, enjoying the feeling of closeness that follows. Eventually, he pulls back, carefully slipping out of you to tie off the condom and toss it in the wastebasket. You wince but relax immediately after, snuggling further into the soft down of his comforter.

Taehyung smiles adoringly as he makes his way back to the bed, heart flipping at how cute you look in his bed. Almost as if you belong there. He hesitates as he gets to the edge, fearing for a moment whether or not it was alright to join you. Those fears are put to rest as you blink sleepily up at him, arms tiredly reaching for him. Relieved, he snuggles in next to you and gathers you in his arms. It’s silent for a moment as you both enjoy being wrapped up in each other.

“Since when?” you finally break the silence, tracing mindless patterns across his chest.

Taehyung inhales sharply. He knows exactly what you mean. Still, he feigns ignorance. “What?”

You close your eyes for a moment, burying your face further into his chest. “Since when have you liked me?”

“Since when have you liked me?” he shoots back and you pinch the skin on his ribs. He yelps before you both dissolve into a fit of giggles.

“I asked you first,” you whine, risking a glance up at his face. Taehyung is already staring down at you fondly, warm gaze melting into your own.

“Since the very first moment,” he whispers softly. You almost laugh, except his face is deadly serious. It’s suddenly hard to swallow around the lump in your throat. You stare at him in wonder—the delicate brush of his eyelashes against his cheek, the soft sweep of his sweat-dampened hair over his forehead, the gentle curve of his lips as he smiles at you. You clear your throat, glancing away as a pleasant warmth settles over your cheeks.

“That’s not an answer.”

He laughs breathily in your ear and you fight a shiver. “Okay, okay. Well the first time I realized it was the day you had come back from your shift after you had switched managers.”

You balk. “Are you serious?” You remember that day. Management had decided to move your favorite supervisor over to the men’s department while you remained stuck in shoes. The new guy was awful—condescending, incompetent, and downright unpleasant. You had come home that day with three different bottles of wine and all the take out you could afford and practically forced Taehyung to drink with you and listen to your misery. The guy was eventually fired but the whole experience had left you with a bitter taste in your mouth.

Tae chuckles as he thinks back to that night. “Yes, I’m serious. You were about halfway through the second bottle and were practically screaming curses at the guy. It took you all of 30 minutes after dinner to fall asleep right there on the couch, somehow still complaining about that dickwad.” You snort, hand shooting up to cover your face in embarrassment. “As you talked, I realized…I could listen to you forever. And then you fell asleep, cuddling so cutely into my shoulder, and I knew I was a goner. Even though you snore.”

Your eyes, which had started watering at his heartfelt confession, widen before you regain your composure enough to hit his chest. “I do not snore.”

Taehyung winces playfully, knowing full-well that you don’t but enjoying teasing you all the same. “So, yeah. I’ve liked you for a while. And I had an inkling you felt the same.”

“Oh, yeah? What gave it away? The fact that I practically hopped on your dick?” you tease.

“Well it certainly didn’t hurt.” He winks at you and you have to stifle the urge to giggle like a schoolgirl. “But it was little things. Like how you’d blush at a compliment or if I hugged you just a bit too long. I couldn’t be sure though. Not until tonight, I guess.”

“Well,” you shift upwards, his confession instilling a confidence in you that you hadn’t known you possessed, “in case I haven’t made it abundantly clear: I like you very, very much, Kim Taehyung.”

He’s silent for a single, nerve-wracking beat before the most brilliant smile lights up his face and for the second time that night, you find yourself breathless.

“And I like you very, very much, too, ___.”

Taehyung kisses you then, slow and sweet, and you’re left thinking that you never want to be anywhere else.

© exoticarmyofcrowns 2020

[carewyncromwell]

Judging by this picture of what looks like a stained glass slipper, I’d say we’re about to continue the Cinderella AU!

One of the best ways to deal with an anxiety attack is to ground oneself in the present situation. A common technique is the 54321 Method, which Carewyn doesn’t display here, but she does end up (without realizing it) evoking the idea of grounding by accenting her physical presence and encouraging Orion to take deep breaths. 

All of the lines Orion spouts while Carewyn runs away are ones the Prince in Disney’s animated version of Cinderella cries, when his mysterious lady love runs from him. It amuses me to no end how in so many magical Cinderella adaptations, it takes whole minutes for the clock to strike twelve -- in the case of the animated/live action Disney versions, so many that we even get a full chase scene for the pumpkin coach in that time. 😂

Trigger warning for a brief mention of suicidal thoughts. 

Previous part is here -- whole tag is here -- Katriona “KC” Cassiopeia belongs to @kc-needs-coffee -- and I hope you all enjoy!

x~x~x~x

Orion led Carewyn down the hall at a run, unable to break free of the happy adrenaline that pulsed through him. Some people in the hall outside the ballroom eyed the young king and his enchantingly striking partner curiously as they passed, but neither of the two paid them much mind. Orion rounded a corner with Carewyn, passing a large gold-trimmed grandfather clock as it tolled 11. Once they’d gotten around the corner, he opened a wall and pulled her into the secret passage behind it, out of sight from anyone who might pursue them. 

Once through the passage, Orion dashed up a flight of stairs with Carewyn, up, up, up, toward the upper levels. At last, when they reached the top of the stairs, he opened another passage, which opened up onto the landing of the battlements on the top floor of Florence’s castle. 

The cold winter wind gushed around them, tiny traces of snowflakes trailing through the air as Carewyn and Orion stepped out. As soon as they were outside, Carewyn gave a start at the odd smell that touched her nose. Curious, she moved out to the edge of the ramparts -- and she gasped.

The sea. 

The odd smell was the salt of the spray from the Southern Sea, only a few miles from the back of Florence’s palace. It was so dark out that Carewyn could hardly see the lightless buildings between the palace and sea, and yet she could still make out the ethereal white sea foam in its grayish black depths. Its waves rushed at the shore, sounding like some kind of resonating whisper that never needed extra breath to sustain itself, and its growing and shrinking waves sparkled in the moonlight. 

Carewyn exhaled, her lips spread into a wide open smile of awe. Orion came up behind her, watching her. 

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” 

Carewyn couldn’t take her eyes off of it. “It’s...it’s breathtaking.”

Orion slowly approached her, his eyes trailing along her shoulder and down her back with an oddly unreadable look. Once he’d come up just behind her, he very slowly extended a hand. It lingered uncertainly in mid-air for a moment, before it tentatively made contact with her back, exposed by the cut of her dress.

Carewyn flinched, unable to hold back a gasp of both surprise and pain. Orion pulled his hand away at once.

“Forgive me,” he said. His voice betrayed some anxiety.

Carewyn looked at him. Orion’s unflappable face had lost a lot of its color under his mask and his black eyes flickered the way her white horse’s would when it was nervous. 

“I can't see any injuries,” he explained, “but I can feel them there all the same.”

His eyes narrowed a bit upon her face.

“...Who...who delivered those lashes to your back?”

Carewyn’s blue eyes rippled with sorrow. “Orion -- ”

“Who?” Orion asked again. His voice was tenser than she’d ever heard it. 

Carewyn couldn’t look him in the eye. She tore her gaze away, looking out toward the sea again as she clutched the railing with both hands. 

“...My grandfather,” she said at last, very softly. “I...‘acted inappropriately.’”

Orion did not respond. The silence dragged, to the point that it had become deafening. When Carewyn finally felt brave enough to look back over at Orion, she saw that he’d migrated to the railing himself a short ways away, clasping his hands very tightly together as he looked out at the sea. His head was bowed, his face largely obscured by the darkness, but he was taking very deep, heavy breaths. 

Carewyn’s heart clenched. She moved to him, bringing a hand to rest on his shoulder. 

“Orion, I’m -- ”

“Don’t say you’re all right.”

Orion’s voice was very soft, but harder than Carewyn had ever heard it before. It made her stiffen, her grip on his shoulder faltering -- her partial withdrawal seemed to affect Orion, making him whirl around and seize her hand in both of his, as if desperate to keep her close. 

“A whip is a tool only used to cause pain -- a tool with no other use besides that,” he said. He spoke in a faster, tenser voice than normal: one that, although misty as ever, was turbulent in a way Carewyn had never heard. “Therefore it can never be used to spark any good in this world. It leaves scars that never heal -- that designate you as subhuman and your suffering as insignificant -- that make people cringe at the sight of them, wondering what crime you’ve committed or what lowly status you must be, to have earned them, when truly it says more about the person who inflicted them on you than it ever could you -- ”

“Orion...” Carewyn whispered.

Orion’s eyes were flashing with an odd emotion, one hard and blazing like a flame under a shell of hard black diamond. It took Carewyn a moment to realize it was anger. 

“You’re so strong,” he said, his shaking voice very hushed and rambling even as his breathing grew more irregular. “You’ve always been so resilient, and I don’t want to demean that, but -- but you shouldn’t have to be that strong! You shouldn’t have to downplay the suffering you’ve gone through! You shouldn’t have to stay locked in the dragon’s keep and endure, and I shouldn’t have -- ”

He choked. His black eyes pulsed with emotion as he clutched more desperately at her hand and he gasped for air. 

“ -- I never should’ve left you to him! I should’ve taken you away, far away, regardless of what you told me, regardless of the consequences, regardless of what your family or our countries or anyone else might do or say -- ”

“Orion!”

Carewyn pulled her hand out of his and brought both of her hands up to his face, cradling his cheeks. Orion trembled in her hold, breathing very heavily and his hands clutching at the air in front of him. 

“Orion,” she whispered, “shhh...shh, shh...”

She moved in, placing her forehead against his.

“Breathe,” she said as gently as she could, slowing her breath and speech down to try to  subconsciously encourage him to follow suit. “Breathe...I’m here...I’m here...”

Orion inhaled and exhaled shakily. At first his eyes were locked on hers, flaring with more of that anger, anguish, and anxiety -- then they fluttered shut, and he threw his arms out to wrap both of them around her, cradling her against him with his arms crossed over her back and clutching at her shoulders. He breathed in and out deeply, trying to follow her rhythm as he focused on the softness of her skin and the warmth of her voice. 

Finally, after a few minutes, Orion had finally regained his center of balance, his breathing softening and returning to a normal rate. He exhaled heavily through his nose, opening his eyes again to look at her. 

Carewyn offered him a weak smile, both feeling relieved that he looked better and wanting to comfort him, but Orion’s face -- although once again calm -- still looked very grim as he pulled back only just enough that their foreheads were no longer touching. His gaze trailed over her smile and then around her eyes, dipping into the corners. 

“Can you ever forgive me?” he murmured. 

“Forgive you?” repeated Carewyn, upset. “For what?”

“Everything. For not fighting for you, for not being able to help you fight off your beast, as I promised...for being the son of the man who led the army who killed your brother...”

“Orion,” Carewyn said very firmly, “your father had no hand in Jacob’s death. He died long before he ever saw battle. And I told you to go. It’s a good thing you did. If you hadn’t gone, then you wouldn’t have been able to convince the King and Queen to come here, to consider peace...”

She trailed her thumbs gently along his cheeks. 

“I should be the one apologizing to you. I should’ve told you what I really was a lot sooner.”

“I don’t think you lied anymore than I did, my lady,” Orion said rather coolly. 

“It’s not the same thing,” Carewyn insisted. “Every lie you told you told so that you could pursue diplomacy and peace. Every lie I told...I told out of shame. I’d only pretended to be a lady to help get you out of trouble, at the start, but then afterwards...well...I didn’t want you to look at me differently...even though I knew deep down you would, once you learned the truth.”

Orion reached out his hands and, mirroring Carewyn, took hold of her face tentatively in return. 

“You’re right,” said Orion. “I do see you differently.”

He leaned in, touching her forehead with his again. 

“Before, I merely saw you as a wonderful contradiction -- a lady who was born to a family of wealth and cruelty and yet was kind and selfless almost to a fault. Now...I see you as akin to a diamond: a sparkling, precious gem, fashioned only under the hardest, most unforgiving pressure and more resilient than nearly anything else on Earth.”

Orion moved in even closer, so that their noses touched.

“A gem symbolic of purity and light...of perfection itself,” he murmured.

His gaze flitted from her eyes to her lips and back. Although he’d moved in close enough to kiss her, however, he hesitated. 

Carewyn could sense his intent, and her cheeks darkened with a blush as her gaze fell down to his lips. 

“I hardly think I’m perfect, your Grace.”

Orion sighed, his lips spreading into a slightly tired smile. “Your standards truly are exhausting, my lady. If you cannot meet them, I know that I surely never will...”

He made as if to pull back, but Carewyn held his face in place. Her eyes met his again, rippling with an intensity they didn’t have before. 

“You needn’t worry about meeting my standards, Orion Cosimo Amari,” she said softly. “You clear them...easily.”

And before Orion knew what was happening, she’d leaned in and placed her lips up to his jawline in a tender, lingering kiss.

She pulled back after about five seconds, her eyes shining warmly up at him despite the seriousness of her face. 

“I cannot stay,” she murmured, “but -- ”

Before she could say another word, Orion -- his black eyes shining with a desperate kind of longing -- tilted her head up and swooped down to cover her lips with his own. His breathing through his nose was soft but heated as he cradled her face in both of his hands, cherishing the feeling of her lips on his and being enveloped in her arms. 

He broke the kiss after about thirty seconds, his black eyes half-lidded on her face.

“Carewyn, I...”

Carewyn briefly rested her forehead against his, her own face tinged with a warm flush under her robin mask, before reluctantly pulling back.

“I can’t stay,” she repeated even more gently. “The illusion the Baroness gave me will fade at midnight -- so just...just stay here. Away from the ballroom. At least until after midnight...by then, the spell Rakepick cast on you will have worn off.”

Orion’s eyebrows furrowed. 

“When the lady dressed as a lioness ‘mistook me for someone else,’” he said slowly, “she’d placed a spell circle on my back. Is that so?”

Carewyn nodded. “The spell’s terms were that you’d be targeted by every weapon in the ballroom. So long as you don’t return there until after midnight...you’ll be safe.”

“But I was there with you before, and I was not harmed,” said Orion with a frown.

“The spell can only affect you. Jae guessed that if anyone else would get hurt when the weapons attacked you, then the spell wouldn’t activate...so he and his comrades, and Talbott and Badeea, they served as human shields...”

“...As did you,” Orion whispered, his eyes widening in realization. “When you kept stepping in front of me and staying close to me, while we were dancing...you were protecting me.”

Carewyn offered a rather self-effacing smile. Orion’s hands quickly returned to the sides of her neck, cradling her jawline. 

“Carewyn....” he said, his calm voice touched with both adoration and the slightest edge of anxiety, “you saved my life. All while not knowing for certain that you throwing yourself in front of me wouldn’t result in you being harmed...”

“Well, I certainly hoped I wouldn’t be,” said Carewyn, attempting dry humor. “I couldn’t exactly make sure that Lord Malfoy and my grandfather wouldn’t hurt you if I’d died...”

Seeing the look on Orion’s face, she then became much more serious.

“Orion...after I learned the truth about Jacob...when I was back at the Cromwell estate...I lost myself. I lost my drive, my spirit...my reason for living. Everything I was, and everything I thought I knew, both about myself and about the path I’ve always walked.”

Her eyes fell down to Orion’s shoulder, becoming darker.

“Knowing that Jacob, the only thing in my life that gave me a reason to keep fighting and keep enduring, was dead...I lost all will to live. I didn’t just feel like I deserved to die...I actually wanted to. I deluded myself into thinking that at least then, the pain would stop. At least then...I could be with Jacob and Mum again.”

Her lips then spread into the saddest, softest smile. 

“...But when your note arrived...when I read your words, reminding me of the song you taught me...even after all of the lies, even after I pushed you away, even though you were set to be crowned King and I’d never see you again...it reminded me of how much joy I’ve known, even without Jacob there with me. The memory of you, and my friends, helped pull me out of that despair. And then when I found out what Grandfather wanted to do to you -- found out that he planned to destroy you and everything you’d ever dreamed of, for Florence and Royaume...I couldn’t do nothing, I just couldn’t.”

Her eyes gained a stronger, more passionate glint as she met his again. 

“You saved my life, Orion. You helped me fight my beast, just like you promised. You gave me hope when I was most ready to throw everything away.”

Orion’s black eyes were very wide upon her face. As he stared at her, his eyes softened, melting in a strange blend of sadness, affection, and pride. 

“Carewyn...”

Carewyn leaned in to kiss him chastely on the lips. 

“I know it’d be impossible for us to make a life together,” she said seriously, “but I told you I’d fight for you...and I always will.”

Orion considered her for a long moment. Carewyn found herself straining to hear any sound from below -- any marking of the time -- it had been 11, before they’d headed upstairs --

“I must go,” she said yet again.

But when she made as if to leave, Orion clutched her hands in his.

“Please,” he implored her, “stay.”

“I can’t,” said Carewyn. 

“You will be safe here in Florence. I wouldn’t allow Charles Cromwell to get within ten feet of you again -- ”

“Grandfather can’t know I’ve been here,” Carewyn said very firmly. “The King and Queen of Royaume have treated him as a confidante for years -- he’s invested a lot of money to make sure they rely on him. As long as our family’s money and status are intact -- as long as Grandfather’s place at their side is intact -- he will have their ear, and they will trust his word. And I know Grandfather will use every penny he has to sabotage your efforts for peace, until his dying breath. Imagine how he’d twist you ‘kidnapping’ his precious granddaughter and turning her against her own family. Don’t forget: the last time Florence harbored a fugitive from Royaume, we got a War that’s lasted fifty years.”

Her eyes narrowed. 

“So...I must return to Royaume. I must make sure that the King and Queen have no idea that Bill and the others helped me get here with one of their coaches without their permission. I must make sure that Grandfather has no idea I was ever here.”

Orion’s face was full of pain as he squeezed her hands. “Carewyn, I can’t let you return to him -- ”

“I won’t,” said Carewyn. Her lips spread into a smile. “Don’t you understand? You gave me my life. The Baroness and Talbott broke me out of my tower, and I’m never going back. As far as Grandfather will know...I simply escaped while he and my family were away.”

Orion’s eyes widened. Then they softened visibly. “...Just as KC and Bill Weasley originally planned.”

Carewyn beamed. “And just as my mother did, before me. It might not be easy for me to be on my own, but I know I’ll find a place somewhere, to make my own way. And maybe when you and King Henri are able to make peace...I’ll be able to find my way back to you again.”

Orion’s black eyes melted, gaining a proud warmth. In a spontaneous move, he swept in again and kissed her fully, heatedly. Carewyn brought a hand up to the back of his head, cradling the base of it under his ponytail -- after a wonderful, soft moment, she used the grip to gently break the kiss. 

Orion smiled almost shyly. 

“Forgive me,” he said. “In that moment, you just looked so beautiful.”

Carewyn raised an eyebrow. “I'm under an illusion, Orion.”

Orion shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. However surreal your appearance is, your eyes blazed with such courage...like a wild stallion, fearlessly running through an open field with no fences.”

He kissed her again, more chastely. 

“It was stunning.”

Carewyn smiled through a dark blush, her eyes closing modestly. 

“...How do I look to you, exactly?” she couldn’t help but ask. 

Orion beamed, his black eyes sparkling under his magpie mask. “Like Artemis.”

Carewyn blinked in surprise. 

“Shining white hair, a smile kissed by mischief...paler than the moon, with eyes that shine like stars.” Orion’s grin broadened. “You look how I always imagined the goddess Artemis to look, when I heard the tale of her and the hunter Orion as a boy.”

Carewyn’s lips spread into a broader, emotional smile. Somewhere down below, she just barely caught the sound of a bell, and her smile flickered and died at once. She immediately bolted for the door to the secret passage, but Orion stopped her again.

“11:45, my lady,” he said soothingly. 

“It took us a good ten minutes to get up here,” said Carewyn. “I must go now -- ”

“Then we’ll go back together.”

He took her hand and followed along behind as she ran back down the stairs of the secret passage, back toward the ground floor. Despite herself, Carewyn kept trying to shake him off. 

“Orion, you should stay here -- I can make it back to the ballroom by myself -- ”

“I don’t doubt that.”

“Grandfather and Lord Malfoy will be looking for you -- if you stay here, in this passage, they probably won’t find you -- ”

“Probably.”

Even with his placid agreements, he remained at her side. Once they reached the end of the passage, Carewyn whirled on him, putting her hands up to his chest to stop him. 

“I must go on alone from here,” she said very firmly.

“Must you?” asked Orion. 

“It’s nearly midnight...just wait until the twelfth strike, and you’ll be safe -- ”

“And yet you will not be, if you’re still here,” Orion said very solemnly. “I can’t let Charles Cromwell or Lord Malfoy stop you from leaving -- they’ll know it was you, who kept me from the ballroom...”

“Orion, there’s no time!” said Carewyn anxiously. “The only way I can get back to the coach in time is through the ballroom. I won’t be able to shield you -- if you enter the ballroom before midnight, you’ll die.”

Orion’s eyes had grown very small and dark with thought. Then, little by little, they lit up with an idea. 

“Carewyn,” he said seriously, “run away from me.”

Carewyn’s eyebrows furrowed. “What?”

“Run away, when I pursue you. No matter what I say or do, while I chase you...no matter what happens, just keep running for the carriage. Ride back to Royaume, and don’t look back.”

His black eyes were very serious. 

“Promise me.”

Carewyn was stricken. Her face had lost a lot of its color as she clutched the front of his white-feathered doublet. 

“No! No, I can’t -- ”

“It will be all right, Carewyn,” Orion soothed her. 

“It can’t be all right!” she argued. “If you follow me, you’ll die -- !”

“The weapons in the ballroom will target me, yes,” said Orion. “But I’ll have a keen eye open for them, and I shall dodge them...just as you helped me dodge them before.”

“You can’t possibly dodge them all, even if Jae and the others are still in there!” Carewyn was beside herself, her hands clasping desperately at his chest. “Orion, I can’t let you -- ”

“It must be done, Carewyn,” whispered Orion gently. 

“Orion, I can’t lose you!” Carewyn implored him. Her eyes were flooding with tears. “Orion, please -- I can’t -- ”

Orion, mirroring a gesture Carewyn had used before, clutched the back of her head, cradling it gently, and he placed a tender kiss to the crook of her neck. 

“It will be all right, Carewyn,” he murmured against her skin. “Trust me.”

Carewyn felt sick. She knew every second she hesitated was one less than she needed to get back to the coach, where Bill, Charlie, Talbott, and Badeea were no doubt waiting, and yet her fear for Orion’s safety threatened her very stability. She’d done everything she could to try to protect him, the way she couldn’t for Jacob -- if she lost him too, she didn’t know what she’d do...

She looked into his gentle, calm eyes, vainly trying to fight back her tears. Despite the painful lump in her throat and the clenching of her heart, she saw the lack of fear in his features -- the man who, not long ago, had been so anxious he could hardly breathe was absolutely fearless in the face of Death. 

Carewyn Cromwell didn’t trust anyone. She’d never had faith in anyone...not since she’d lost Jacob and been enslaved to Charles Cromwell, a man who trusted and believed in no one but himself...

And yet in this moment -- as impossible as she knew it would be for her to do -- she knew she had to try. 

And so, her eyes streaming with tears, she swept in and kissed Orion fully. She caressed his face, trailing a hand through the bangs under his coronet, as he clutched the back of her head tenderly. 

After a minute, they broke apart, and Carewyn pushed open the door of the secret passage, dashing back out into the hallway, straight for the ballroom. After giving her a minute’s head start, Orion started his pursuit, calling after her. 

“No, wait -- come back!”

Following Orion’s instructions, Carewyn didn’t stop. She ran down the hall, right through a crowd of people and back toward the ballroom, as he chased after her. 

“Please come back!”

Orion’s voice sounded odd in Carewyn’s ears. Such words would normally have sounded tense, breathier, anxious -- but instead, every word rang out very clearly. 

As Carewyn made her first step into the ballroom, she couldn’t stop herself from looking back. Seeing her hesitation, Orion raised his voice.

“I don’t even know your name -- how will I find you?”

The completely out-of-character sentence shocked Carewyn back to her senses. 

This was an act. This was a ploy -- another lie, for them to get them to their goal. He wanted everyone to hear him. He wanted to make it sound like he didn’t know who she was, but that he didn’t want her to leave, like he was trying to stop her from going. Carewyn just wasn’t sure exactly why...

In that moment, however, she knew that didn’t matter. And so she ran, even despite the fear thumping in her chest. She could see Jae pushing through the crowd, trying to reach Orion’s side -- from the other side of the ballroom came Barnaby and Tulip. 

As Orion dashed through the ballroom, Carewyn could see many figures all over the room stiffening abruptly, their eyes glowing red as they faced Orion. Her heart seized up with terror as she ran, looking back constantly despite herself.

Jae, please -- please, reach him -- !

BANG. 

The first gunshot came from the far left side of the ballroom, fired from one of Royaume’s lesser lord’s pistols. Orion was able to dodge it by ducking around a pillar. 

As the ballroom devolved into terrified screams and Jae and the other bandits tried to hold off and overpower as many of the armed Royaumanian lords and ladies as possible, more gunshots rang out from other sides of the room. 

BANG. BANG. BANG. 

Orion dodged both the gunshots and the fleeing masses with artful grace by sliding underneath the refreshment table, his eyes returning to Carewyn.

“Wait! Please, wait!”

Carewyn’s heart clenched at the sight of Orion avoiding the shots. Once again, he proved himself to be so much more than he first appeared --

Still, though, he was catching up -- and, Carewyn realized, the faster she could get across the ballroom, the faster she could get Orion out of harm’s way. 

And so she pushed through the crowd, running as fast as she could. She pushed right past KC and McNully, both of whom gave her confused looks, but nonetheless seemed to have caught on. Thanks to Jae, they were enough in the loop to know Orion was in trouble, and although they didn’t understand Orion’s ploy, they knew better than to prevent Carewyn from leaving. 

BANG. BANG. 

As people ran to try to avoid the gunshots that would never have hit them anyway, Carewyn tried desperately not to look back. She couldn’t afford that hesitation. 

I can’t let him die -- I can’t -- 

“Halt!”

In the midst of all the mayhem, someone seized Carewyn’s arm, yanking her back. Carewyn whirled around, her face losing all of its color at the sight of white-blond-haired, albino-peacock-dressed Lord Malfoy. 

“His Majesty ordered you to stop,” he said in a very dangerous voice, his gray eyes flaring with loathing. 

Carewyn’s heart flared with terror and she wrenched against Lord Malfoy’s grip, desperately trying to get free. 

“Let go! Let me go!”

Orion, seeing Carewyn’s distress, tried to dash over. Unfortunately his distraction had caused him to ignore his surroundings.

“NO!” screamed Andre. 

It was only thanks to the Prince of Royaume that King Henri’s ceremonial blade was not plunged through Orion’s chest. Instead it slashed his side, causing him to hunch in on himself with a sharp hiss of pain.

Orion getting injured, even superficially, made Carewyn’s eyes lose all of their light. 

“NO!” she screamed. “NO!”

And to make matters worse, somewhere underneath the sound of panicked screaming, there was a terrible BONG of a clock tolling the hour.

It was midnight. 

Carewyn lashed out against Lord Malfoy’s grip, but he held fast, his teeth bared. 

“A lady with the ability to enchant a King enough to lead him to his doom,” he hissed, as the clock made its second strike. “Clearly you are behind this conspiracy -- ”

BONG. Carewyn could feel her face tingling, and she fought harder against his grip. As Malfoy glared down at her, his eyes seemed to slowly widen -- the illusion around her face was flickering like a candle, making her real hair and eye color at points easier to see.

“What...?”

BAM. 

Out of nowhere, Bill Weasley -- his face obscured by his antler-decorated stag mask -- had appeared and punched Lord Malfoy right in the face. The strike was so strong that it knocked him completely off his feet and forced him to let go of Carewyn. 

Andre had successfully put the King of Royaume in a headlock to restrain him. Erika, who KC and McNully had both flagged so as to prevent her from being affected too, pulled out her own ceremonial sword to forcibly disarm the King. As King Henri blinked rapidly and shook his head, Erika shouted at Orion over her shoulder as loudly as she could over the fifth stroke of midnight. 

“Get out of here, King Cosimo!” 

Orion, his hand sliding off of his side, turned his focus back to Carewyn and plowed after her just as before. 

“Wait!” he cried again, echoing his earlier sentiment as if nothing had happened. 

Bill grabbed hold of Carewyn. “We can’t wait -- the Cromwells already left, but Malfoy and Rakepick -- ”

“I know!” said Carewyn, her voice fiercer than she meant. “Come on!”

Carewyn broke back out into a run out of the ballroom, Bill at her heels. Bill pushed and shoved their way through the hallway full of people, clearing a path for Carewyn as the clock struck eight. 

Despite the shallow wound to his chest, Orion kept running after them, continuing to play his ruse. Lord Malfoy, having recovered from Bill’s punch at last, likewise tried to pursue, but before long he found himself circumvented by Skye not-so-subtly tackling him to the ground. 

“Don’t want you getting shot, Lord Malfoy,” she said in a voice that clearly communicated that she wouldn’t have minded one bit if he had been. 

Bill and Carewyn finally made it out the front doors to the top of the grand stairs when the clock struck ten. It was also there that they were halted again, this time by Rakepick stepping on the wide skirt of Carewyn’s gown. The movement made Carewyn lose her footing, making one of her stained glass slippers come off as she stumbled down the stairs. Rakepick then took advantage of her disturbed balance to grab her by the wrist and hoist her back up onto her feet. 

“And where do you think you’re going?” said Rakepick, her voice dripping with disdain. 

Carewyn brought a hand up as if to smack her, only for it to be caught too. Bill halted and backtracked back up the stairs, his brown eyes flaring. 

But when Rakepick looked Carewyn in the face, the illusion flickering and dying before her eyes, she stilled, her face losing all of its color.  

“You,” she whispered in an oddly fragile voice. 

BONG. 

At long last, the final stroke of midnight had come. Carewyn was exposed, recognized, by the magician her grandfather had hired, even despite her best efforts. 

But before Carewyn could even think of doing anything, Bill wrenched Rakepick off of his friend with one hand and threw her to the ground. Then he looped an arm around Carewyn’s waist, hoisting her up as if she were his little sister, Ginny, and ferried her right off her feet to the coach. Once he’d handed her off to Talbott and Badeea inside, Bill leapt up onto the boot. 

“Go, now!”

Charlie in the driver’s seat barely needed any encouragement -- he flicked the reins and set the horses off at a run before the coach door was even securely closed. 

Rakepick stared after the coach from her place sprawled out on the stairs, stunned. She didn’t even see Orion watch it go himself from the top of the stairs with a smile. 

Once Carewyn’s coach was out of sight, Orion looked around, and a sparkle of orange diamond and shimmering paint caught his eye. When he looked down, he found Carewyn’s discarded “stained glass” slipper sitting innocently on its side at the top of the stair. He wiped the small amount of blood on his hand off on his black doublet sleeve, before he gingerly bent down and picked up the hand-painted shoe, his smile spreading into a full grin as he headed back indoors. 

His improvised plan had worked all right so far. Maybe...just maybe...the Fates might favor him and Carewyn, after all. 

[gagmebucky]

[steve. breeding kink. baby.]

“Wanna know what makes it worse?” Steve leans in and trails his nose along the inviting curve of your shoulder and neck until his lips are adjacent with your ear. “My sense of smell, it tells me when your body is just ripe for the taking. It’s like you’re fucking calling me every single month—begging me to put your little pussy out of your misery. . . fuck and fuck until you’re milkin’ my kid right outta me.”

in which you’re playing with a baby and steve can’t resist himself. (includes steve’s pov, avenger!steve rogers x girlfriend!reader, breeding kink, dirty talk, praise kink, mild daddy kink, unprotected sex.) 

do not repost.

—

Procedure requires debriefing at the end of every mission. In this hours-long process, an agent must recap the objectives and the means used to achieve them; deviations to the original plan and why; as well as whether success was gained, and any other pertinent intel possibly acquired.

This routine is mandatory for all those working for and with an organization like S.H.I.E.L.D.; not even the Avengers are exempt from this. Except in this particular case where the titular first of the super-powered team has forgone the professional necessity, and instead, is in search of you. 

Normally, America’s golden boy can handle the dangers that occur in such a violent but imperative field. He understands the risks and pressures inherent to his line of duty, and he’s always accepted it, dealt with it because the overall outcome dwarfs the bad.

On this particular assignment, however, the stakes were higher than usual and although the quick snap-quick decisions he made ultimately paid off, it didn’t soften the blow of the sacrifices made. Times like this, he has to wonder if it’s worth it.

The tension weighs on his shoulders and crackles underneath his skin; his synapses are frayed with the memory of each fallen agent, the orders he doled out preambling every one, and the electricity curls his fists and locks his jaw. It’s corrupting that logical part of his brain, and that craving for vengeance can’t be sated with  his knuckles breaking a few punching bags. 

In rare moments like these, when the serum is pumping through his veins like rabies, there’s one thing to straighten the edges and bring him back from the trenches. That solace is you; your alluring smile and twinkling eyes, the musical carry of your laugh, your seemingly innate ability to figure out what’s wrong and quell the turmoil cycloning inside of him. 

So he doesn’t report to Fury like he’s supposed to, doesn’t go over the myriad of errors that only worsened as the mission progressed—no one stops him either. 

When employees spot him marching down the corridors, stealth suit still on and rippling across his hulking mass, his strides colliding deafeningly with the floor, handsome and affable features tightened intensely, their only recourse is moved out of the way. Thankfully, they get the hint because if someone hadn’t, he knows he’d snap and do something he might regret. 

His senses, formerly haywire in his manic state, have lasered into tunnel focus; his eardrums hone in on the specific sound wave of your crooning voice, and the olfactory nerves in his nostrils guide him in a trail to the source of your intoxicating essence.

Steve slams the door open and storms into the upper, restricted level of the headquarters. His hastened pace slows upon your increased dose, lulling his awareness and distance waning significantly. As his search nears its end, he recognizes where he’s at: the luxurious space designed by and created for Tony Stark. 

The doors are open so he doesn’t waste time knocking (not that he possesses the patience to abide by his hundred year old manners). Upon entry, he’s taken the tranquility occupying the atmosphere and the sight of you bathed in the sun’s glow; bright rays beam through the impenetrable windowed wall of the tower while you gently rock the three month old baby perched on your shoulder, probably basking in the dual warmth of you and the star.    

From afar, behind you, the brown-eyed girl’s mother stands. With her head tilted and soft gratefulness slanted into her lips, the strawberry blonde’s hip rests against the office’s wet bar and watches fondly as you effortlessly soothe her child’s fussiness into a thumb-sucking slumber. 

“Aren’t they cute?” Pepper Potts remarks as he steps beside her. Her gaze maintains on his girlfriend and her daughter. “Morgan would not stop crying for the past few hours, and I did everything to calm her down. I was frazzled and at my wit’s end then I handed her off to her aunt, and now she’s as quiet as a mouse.” She pauses and spares a glance over to his adoration-fixed stare, a slyness twisting into her smile. “I don't know what stage you two are at but she’d make a great mom.” 

Steve knows you occasionally babysit for the Starks, but he’s never seen you like this. You’re in your element, swaying back and forth while you hum inaudibly into the infamous delicate baby’s ear. Her small hands are curled around your neck and her face nuzzled into the crease of your shoulder, with the opposing thumb slid between her lips as her big chocolate eyes flutter into a peaceful rest. 

Suddenly breathless—but it’s not from the exertion—he has to agree, nodding his head. “Y - yeah,” he answers to both statements because it’s fucking adorable, and while there’s never been a doubt about your caring nature, this cements the fact that you would be an amazing mother. The sensation boils in his gut, and his fingers twitch at his sides. “Has she always been this good with her?”

“Oh, yeah,” Pepper tells him matter-of-factly. “With her, other kids, too. She came with us to the park, and this one kid was screaming his head off and she just went over and poof! He was happy.” Her eyes are back on your slow pacing silhouette. “I would swear she was made for this. I bet she was a nanny in another life.” 

His knuckles clench as her words ignite the simmering inferno of his being. Made for this, made for this, echoes in his head and he has to remind himself that he’s in public. But the primal image of you, radiating like an angel with a little piece of him growing inside you, has already carved itself in the forefront of his psyche.

Steve has never been into traditional gender roles, not even when he was in his time and it was the norm (he’s always been a very progressive thinker). But, God, he can’t deny the appeal now that he has you. There’s something so primally satisfying about having you at home, free of any worries that aren’t about your family, potentially—preferably—knocked up.

The carnal urge grips him more intensely than before. Usually, he can suppress that visceral desire to bury himself bare inside you and spill his virility until he further claims you as his. However, receiving a glimpse of you in this maternal state, it has every instinct screaming that you’re irrefutably perfect and primed. 

As if on cue, you turn around with the effectively lullabied infant clinging around your neck. After a flicker of surprise, pleasant then concerned, you pad on over to carefully hand over Morgan to her thankful mother. Your attention rivets back to him with a knitted brow gaze. 

“Babe, hey,” you greet in a gentle voice. Worry ebbs into your gaze amongst the usual stare of attraction upon dragging across the navy blue material that still clings to his muscular torso. You offer your hand, which he immediately takes, and you guide him out of the office into the hallway. The door shuts behind you, and the sectioned off level is empty, but your voice is still quiet when asking, “What happened?”  

You stand barely a breath away, and the proximity pacifies his senses. His stance loosens while a smile upturns a corner of his mouth. “Nothing,” he answers then clarifies, “Nothing that matters anymore, anyway.” 

The amendment dwindles your concerned curiosity because it’s honest—he doesn’t need to dwell when you’re standing here—and you can hear it; another lovingly scrutinizing up-and-down glance confirms that his earlier disquietude has settled significantly.

“D’you have fun back there?” he goes onto wonder, eyes flickering over to the closed door.   Your earlier titillatingly visage snaps into his brain, and he subconsciously bites down on his bottom lip. “You looked like you were.” 

You accept his subject-change with a nonchalant shrug. “Babies like me, and I like them,” you tell him, smiling at the admission. “What can I say?”

“I don’t know. Maybe that you want me to knock you up.” The words fumble out of his mouth before he thinks about it, and while he hadn’t intended on letting it slip, if he did, it would’ve been without the serious fluctuation he blurted it out with. 

In a lame attempt to correct his slip of the tongue regarding a topic you both rarely discussed, he quickly adds, “I’m joking.” A surprised expression had crossed your features upon processing his former response, transitioning into something he can’t yet pinpoint if he likes. As if to test the waters—or dig himself into a deeper hole—he says, matter-of-factly, borderline suggestive, “But you know, back in my day, you’d probably already have a few popped out by now.”

“Mr. Rogers!” you gasp in an almost-shocked tone, but your cheeks split with a devious grin. “Are you telling me you want to be a daddy?” 

Disheveled by his mission, then upended by your placating presence, he’s more awkward than the day he met you. “Fuck. Look, I’d never pressure you, okay?” For the millionth time, the previous scene plays mentally; he exhales heavily. “It’s just you with her, and I. . . never mind.” He shakes his head, deciding he’s still on the edge from both events today, and dismisses his animalistic inkling. “Act like I didn’t say anything.” 

You fold your arms and nod.

“Uh-huh, daddy,” you drawl, scintillating in mischievousness that simultaneously has his heart skipping a beat and his cock jumping. Your smirk widens before disappearing beneath a cascade of feigned innocence. “We can just act like you don’t want me to have your kid.”

 His lips part at your teasing twist of his words. “That’s - that’s not what I said.” 

“Isn’t it?” You lift a brow. “It is. So, maybe I should find a guy who does. I think any other man would take immense pleasure in going condomless inside of me.” One hand wiggles into your jacket pocket while you peddle away from his orbit; a rectangular plastic ruffles as his reflexes instinctively catch it. “You know, I think Bucky would really appreciate me. I bet he’d have the manners to really wife me up and make me—“

He knows you’re poking fun of him; playfulness alight within your gaze that he usually enjoys. In actuality, he understands there’s zero truth in your jesting and he’d be more amused than jealous. However, currently, the circumstances have corrupted his sensibilities. 

“That’s not funny.”

Your laugh echoes musically. “It’s not ‘cause it isn’t a joke,” you say between your giggles, your amusement pardoning your spacial awareness. “I mean—Steve!” Your yelp is louder and even more musical when he surges forth and reigns you in. 

Air expels from your chest as his body cages yours against the wall. Using one hand to brace himself above you, his opposing appendage tilts your dazed blinking up. “Now do you really think I don’t want you to carry my kid?” he rumbles. “Because if it were up to me, I would’ve taken claim to your womb the second I saw you.” 

Your breathing hitches, and you try to remain unaffected but he’s too keen on your reactions to be fooled. “O - oh?” 

“Yeah.” His tongue swipes across his bottom lip. “Wanna know what makes it worse?” He leans in and trails his nose along the inviting curve of your shoulder and neck until his lips are adjacent to your ear. “My sense of smell, it tells me when your body is just ripe for the taking. It’s like you’re fucking calling me every single month—begging me to put your little pussy out of your misery. . . fuck and fuck until you’re milkin’ my kid right outta me.” 

A sound, hybrid between a moan and a gasp, escapes your throat; humor eviscerated, desire exudes from you and submerges his senses in a provoking intoxication. The rush sinks into his brain and triggers that visceral frenzy within him but he has no interest in suppressing it anymore. 

He releases a guttural groan and grabs your hips. His big hands splay on either side, thumb slightly kneading back and forth, and he draws you in closer. “I can smell you right now, too. Not only how wet you’re gettin’ but that it’s that time for you, isn’t it?” he purrs and nips at your lobe. “You’re mine for the taking.” His teeth catch your pulse, sucking a mark onto the vulnerable skin. “Hm, baby?”

“Y - yes!” you moan wantonly loud as your weight sags into his embrace. “Always.”

“Good—” His hands cinch on your flanks and abruptly hoist you up: prompting you to wrap your legs around his waist and your arms to encircle around his neck. “—cause holding back with you is gonna be impossible.”

With your body clutched  around his abdomen, he heads for the closest empty room, scoped out via his enhanced hearing. Unceremoniously, he turns a handle and breaks the lock of the unused office space; two doors down from the main room, it’s smaller but it has a sturdy-looking desk in the center.

He kicks the door shut and sets you down as your lips find his. Although you’re sat down, legs dangling over the wooden edge, you keep your elbows hooked around the nape of his neck and coax a ragged groan out of his chest with the deft stroke of your tongue. 

“Shit, baby,” he breathes and parts from you in order to yank your jacket down your shoulders. Tossing it off the side, he reveals a braless tank top and your nipples he can see have pebbled underneath. His imagination takes off once more, envisioning what the already perfect twins will look like in the wake of his seed taking root inside you.

His blood pumps viciously, flowing downward and flooding his cock to strain beneath the oppressive stealth-suit fabric. Like you’re reading his mind, you unhook the utility belt and similarly shove it off somewhere on the side.

Something rustles, and it’s the condom you’d thrown at him. Absentmindedly tucked under the cinch of the belt previously, it falls into your undressing hands. Your eyes rivet up to him, lashes fluttering big, as you hold it between two fingers: halfway offering. “What are you gonna do, daddy?” 

At that particular moment, it occurs to him that you’re doubting his seriousness. While abundantly clear you want this, you’re dubious on whether he’s going through it. Which is preposterous, but he figures that the look on your face when he spills inside you bareback will only further his orgasm, consequently heightening the odds of his end-goal. 

He plucks the packaging from of your grip, holds it up as your gazes clash and makes a show out of discarding it out of reach. Then he seizes your knees and slides your ass to the edge so your center is flushed against him, rocking into his hardened imprint.

“You,” he answers your query, tone a growl, as he peels your jeans off. He continues on just to shred your panties. “I’m doing you. With nothing to separate me from you, nothing to keep you from your rightful destiny: knocked up with our baby.”

“Please,” is all you utter, but the room’s thick with sensory evidence of your essence. 

Spreading your thighs as far as possible, he glances down to spit lewdly on your glistening mound; a long dribble of saliva coating your eager button and slit. He uses his thumb to smear it all over, mixing with the puddle you’re creating, dipping into your sticky folds with his middle finger. 

The whole time, you’re choking with these hungry and appreciative little noises. Likewise, you’re watching as he prepares you thoroughly and roughly to wring the cum out of him. “S - Steve,” you mewl coherently and buck into his messy caress. Your fingers are tugging pleading on the lower half of his uniform. “I need you. Please!” 

It is about damn time. 

His control has been witting away since the first time you called him daddy. He swiftly wrenches the suit down and exposes his leaking, throbbing cock to your tunnel of relief. His size always dwarfs your kempt triangle; an initial observation one might come to is the improbability he won’t fit. But he does, every single time, and in this special instance, he’s going to ensure all of his formidable length is buried in your fertile heat.         

He rasps his tip over your clit, plastering his translucent white pre-cum over the engorged nub, then traces down the crease of your slit. As he prods in, his hands span your thighs and  help open up your elastic entrance for his  ravenous cock. He stretches your tightness slow but unyieldingly while you both watch with labored breathing, transfixed by the sight of your dripping core enveloping his veined and tanned angry stalk until he’s nudging your cervix.

“Good girl,” he grits out, strangled by the electricity prickling his nerves.  He slips support underneath your ass, intertwining from the inner to the outer so when he hauls you up, your knees are bent over his elbows. “You ready to make me a daddy, baby?”

“Yes!” You nod quickly with a moan. “Shit, you’re big—and deep. Really fucking deep.”

He chuckles huskily because if you think that now, he can’t wait to see you once he’s truly plundered new depths. “Now, you just hold on tight and let me do all the work. I only want you to focus on givin’ me a baby, okay?”

In the middle of an abandoned office room—possibly a storage area—he heaves you up and drops you back down. Your arms curl around his neck, hands twisting into his suit, while he alters between gravity and his hips jutting forth to drill inside you.   

Without any mind to those around you—just you and him—he fucks you with every ounce of strength coiled into his super-charged build. Ignoring the fact that door is unlocked, broken more specifically, and the possibility that there’s likely high quality surveillance cameras watching, your shared sounds of carnality fills the room in between the harsh collision of skin. 

Each propelling thrust seems to jostle further than further, carving himself into your inner walls. Like he said before, he handles all the work, effortlessly bouncing your sporadically clenching channel with his inhuman strength and stamina; leaving you to accept and bask in the stimulation his cock is providing and the gift he’ll be depositing inside of you any time now. 

Your lips are breathless in his ear, gasping, “Daddy, please,” that has him climbing the rope faster. The beg pours gasoline on an already roaring fire, igniting wildly to burn up his legs then his stomach and on its way to take him under.

“Y’gonna make me a daddy, baby? You’re gonna be a pretty lil’ mommy and take care of us? Is that what you want?” he croons, identifying the way you tighten as your steadily approaching orgasm. “Y’gonna have your pretty pussy squeeze me until I’m shooting my load and knocking you up?” 

He’s pretty sure your nails have punctured the suit’s resilient material. “S - Steve, fuck! Please. Yes! Cum inside me—cum inside me—“ you cry out with genuine desperation that his limbs tingling numbly. “I want it. I want you. Please. I wanna feel you!” 

His jaw locks and works you somehow even harder. The room is completely engulfed with you, your arousal, the potency of your ovulation, and your future with him; once he releases, it’ll only seal the fact that you’re his and belong to him (as well as vice versa). 

“Who’s gonna be a daddy, baby? Who are you making a daddy, baby?” His words are practically slurred while fever coalesces across his entirety. “Who owns your pretty little pussy and your womb?” 

“You—Steve—daddy,” you sob as your orgasm  seizes up around his cock, giving him no other choice other than to: “Cum inside me, daddy—!” 

Something beastly rips out of his chest, and without protest, he gifts you exactly what you want. He burrows into the absolute hilt and fires inside you for what feels like forever. Spurts of ooze finally wane, nudging your fruitful cervix, but even then, he doesn’t dare retreat from your heavenly depths. 

The aftershocks force him to set you back down on the desk, still buried and keeping you stuffed. His face nuzzles the junction between your neck and shoulder languorously,  and you lazily run your fingers through his hair, walls periodically pulsating. 

When he regains the energy, he straightens and pulls out of you until his bulbous head is blocking your entrance; he stops there because he realizes something. “It’s gonna leak, and as hot as that is, I need to keep you full, baby.” Abruptly, he hauls you up and shuffles the position so that he’s sitting on the desk, and you’re sitting on his cock.

Your sensitivity flares around him, and you squeal. “F - fuck!” But you adjust to comfortability, blinking at him. “For how long?” 

A smile curls into his lips, and he strokes your cheek while his other hand lays on your belly. “For as long as it takes.”

[masterlist / feedback]

[gureishi]

blue sky, falling star

Here is the first fic I wrote for the @mysme-rbb​! It’s pretty different from anything I’ve written before, and I’m really excited to share it. I had such a wonderful time collaborating with AlyValery, who made this beautiful artwork. Check out her post here.

one

Zen falls in love with her first. For him, it is like leaping into cool, clear water.

There is something about her, from the first time he speaks to her (and she is just words on a screen then, voiceless and non-corporeal): something about her reels him in, makes his heart eel fizzy. It is only when she’s in his home, though—sitting so calmly on his couch, hands clasped neatly in her lap—that he realizes just how deep underwater he has fallen.

“Sorry,” he says to her—and for what? For his small, underground apartment, when she deserves a palace? For bringing her here, or for the danger he didn’t know she was in, or for the strange thickness he feels in the space between them?

She shakes her head, and a lock of hair falls into her eyes. She brushes it away with careful fingers and Zen feels that his heart is trying to fight its way out of his chest.

“You’re like my knight in shining armor right now,” she says—and in spite of it all, she speaks with a certainty that makes his head spin. For his whole life, he has been searching for the sort of sureness that seems to radiate off her. He feels dizzy as he sits beside her—leaving space between them, still (because she feels untouchable to him—because she is too wonderful for this world).

“That’s me,” he says, giving her his best attempt at his usual sparkling smile. He wonders if she can sense how nervous she makes him.

“It’s okay,” she says, patting the space beside her. “You can sit next to me, silly.” She knows: he sees it written in the resplendent smile on her face. Zen feels his cheeks flush. It’s never been like this before: he has worked so hard to learn how to smile, and change the timbre of his voice, and angle his head just right so the light bounces off his jaw. He is not used to being caught off guard. Ah, but he finds it impossible to pretend when she’s around: he is rubbed raw, like she has stripped him of his skin, leaving him utterly exposed.

“If you want me to, babe,” he says—but he knows that his voice is stiff and he can feel the way his body tingles as he shifts closer to her.

“Hey,” she says. She peeks up at him from underneath her lashes and there is a determined look in her eyes. A moment passes in which the world outside the window could burn to the ground and Zen wouldn’t see. She takes his hand.

And this is it: this is the moment. Oh god, he thinks. I’m done for.

She’s smiling up at him, tilting her head to the side to draw his attention to their intertwined fingers—as though he needed a reminder.

“Is this okay?” she asks him. He realizes he’s staring at her—is afraid, for a moment, that he looks like a fool, that she’ll toss her head and laugh that heart-stirring laugh and take her hand back. She doesn’t, of course.

He squeezes her hand. Finds he can breathe underwater.

Zen always knows what to say. But here, on his too-small couch, in his too-small apartment, he doesn’t have the words—doesn’t know how to tell her that his heart, and his head, and his whole life belong to her; ah, but the sparkle in her eyes tells him that she already knows. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Of course it is.”

┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

two

Yoosung can’t sleep. It’s something about the way the stars are shining outside his window: too close, like he could stick out his hand and pull them from the sky. He’s never wanted to believe the adage that lost loved ones look down on us from the stars—it’s too sad, he thinks, to leave behind your friends on earth and exist forever in the night sky, all alone. He doesn’t want to end up stationed in the sky for living people to gaze at as they philosophize about life; he wants to be right here, where it’s warm and he’s real and he can hold the people he loves in his arms.

The people he loves.

Normally, he’d give up on sleep—throw a blanket over his shoulders and open his game, where there would be friends waiting for him: strangers who know him just well enough to ask how he’s doing but not well enough to really listen to the answer. He used to think this sort of relationship was safe—natural—ideal.

But he doesn’t think that way anymore.

He calls her, instead.

She answers right away, and she can’t have been sleeping, because her voice sounds too clear.

“You’re still awake?” he laughs, and she giggles. He wishes she were beside him, head on his shoulder as he looks out through the smudged glass window.

“So are you,” she says.

Yoosung tells her about the stars. He tells her that the stars he sees are really in the past—that they’re long gone—that the past and present live together in the sky. A voice in the back of his mind tells him that he’s being dramatic again—that he’s wasting her time, her precious sleep, with these thoughts.

But she doesn’t think so.

“I’m looking out my window now too,” she tells him. “I wonder if the stars will carry my message to you.”

Yoosung finds that he’s smiling. He tucks his knees up to his chest, wiggles closer to the window—puts a palm on the glass, thinks again that perhaps he could catch a star in his hand if he just reached far enough.

“What’s your message for me?” he asks. His heart races.

“I’m going to tell the stars,” she says. She whispers something, and he hears her exhale, like she’s blowing on a dandelion—scattering her words into the night sky.

“Not fair!” he says. “I wanted to hear the message, too!”

“You will,” she tells him. “Just wait.”

So he waits, hand on the glass, listening to the sound of her breathing through the phone. He counts her breaths: one, two, three… He wonders how it would feel to fall asleep to this beautiful sound; he hopes, with all his heart, that one day he will find out.

One of the stars seems to glimmer brighter, catching his eye. It’s getting bigger, he thinks—moving closer to him. And perhaps it’s his imagination (too active, he’s been told) or just a projection made by his desperate heart, but he feels a warmth wash over him—like stepping outside and lifting his face to the sky on a bright summer day.

“Did you get it?” she whispers. His heart feels shimmery, like she’s taken it in both her hands and sworn to keep it safe.

“Yes,” he whispers back. “I feel it.”

┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

three

Jaehee is never afraid—but today, she is terrified.

The key digs into her palm and she clutches it—too tight—in her sweaty, shaky hand. She can’t remember the last time she felt this way—like her stomach is tied in a knot. As a child, perhaps, squeezing her pencil, waiting for a test to start—never as an adult; never like this.

Oh, and she is every bit as beautiful as Jaehee had imagined. When she was just a voice over the phone, Jaehee felt so much safer to say what she felt (even if what she said was such a tiny bit of what she really meant). But now she has a body, and a face, and these perfect, confident eyes, and Jaehee is certain she is going to lose her nerve.

Do it, she tells herself. Do it now.

“Will you be my partner?” she asks—and her voice sounds so much quieter than it did in her imagination. And in spite of everything that’s been said, Jaehee half-expects her to shake her head, declining the offer with a perfect, polite smile. Why would she uproot her whole life, after all, for a woman she’s known for just a few days?

Jaehee hardly dares even think beyond this: about the question she’s really asking; about the answer she really wants.

“Yes,” she says. Ah, and she says it with such conviction: like she’s simply been waiting to be asked. Jaehee feels like a thousand tiny little fires have ignited inside her chest. She holds out the key with a trembling hand. This is it, she thinks: the moment to tell the truth. And by my partner, of course, I mean…

She opens her mouth but the words are stuck in her throat. She hates herself for it: she is strong, she thinks. She can go to work with clear eyes after a sleepless night; she can defend herself with her bare hands. But this—the you are my everything, the I want you, the please be mine—it is impossible.

The key is gone—she has slipped it from Jaehee’s hand with remarkable deftness—and she is moving closer, closer, and Jaehee is frozen in place as soft arms encircle her. She smells like the first buds of spring.

“I mean—” Jaehee tries to say, feeling that the world has turned sideways.

“I know,” she whispers. And there is an intimacy in her tone of voice that Jaehee has never heard before: the ballroom around them dissolves, and they could be in bed together, or on a plane carrying them thousands of miles away, or in a void consisting of nothing but their voices and breaths and bodies and hearts. “I know what you mean.”

“Do you?”

She doesn’t say anything, but she shifts in Jaehee’s arms, and Jaehee realizes what she’s going to do right before she does it. She tilts her head and—and—with almost unbearable tenderness, brushes her lips against the corner of Jaehee’s jaw.

The sideways world rights itself. The air hums. The stars fall from the heavens.

“Friends don’t kiss each other like that,” she whispers, and her breath on Jaehee’s ear sends sparks shooting down her spine. “Right?”

Jaehee gathers her breath, the fragmented shards of her courage.

“No,” she murmurs. “They don’t.”

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four

It is a cool April day, and the trees seem to sing a song of impending summer.

She gets home late that night. Her mother, who is seated beside her in the car, is telling her a story she can’t quite follow—some friend of the family got some score on some test, and apparently this means that her mother is now disappointed in her. She sighs heavily; her phone buzzes in her pocket, and she leaves it alone, reluctant to get in more trouble than she seems to be in already.

The car pulls into the driveway.

“You need to make sure you get some sleep tonight, okay?” her mother says—and her voice sounds far away, like it’s coming from underwater.

“I still have a lot of studying to do,” she says, feeling stubborn. And it’s true that she has studying to do, but it is true, too, that it is almost midnight—the right time to start over again tonight, if she wants to.

And she does: oh, to slip back into that world where she is beloved and everyone’s salvation is at her fingertips.

Her mother looks back, halfway to the door; she’s still sitting in the passenger seat, shoulders hunched, one hand unconsciously cupping the phone inside her pocket.

“Are you coming inside?” her mother asks. She opens the passenger side door; the night air is biting on her bare arms.

“Yeah,” she tells her. “Yeah, just a minute.”

And her mother is walking ahead; tugging open the front door (too forcefully), keys jangling in her hand (too loud). She pauses in the garden; tilts her face up to see the sky.

Her muscles feel stiff and sore from nights of poring over books, eyes aching as she tries to make out the letters that swim around on the page. She feels like she’s been running a marathon barefoot, gasping as she struggles to keep up.

In another universe, though, she is already at the finish line. In another universe, she has the power to mend broken hearts, soothe fears, save lives.

Are you out there? she asks the empty night sky.

A star falls.

Oh: and it feels like an answer. She pulls her phone out of her pocket: midnight exactly. Phone in one hand, she lays her other hand over her heart.

She makes a wish.

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five

It is when the car door shuts behind her that Jumin realizes he is no longer afraid.

For ages, he has been on the very edge of the abyss of solitude. It would have been so easy, he thinks, to bury himself in that gaping emptiness where no one could reach him—to fall deeper and deeper until he was untouchable.

But she wrapped a rope around his waist and said if you’re going, I’m going too. He knows that she felt it: the peril of standing on the edge; the understanding that one wrong move would have catapulted them both over the cliff—hidden them away together where no one could find them. She knew; she could have run away at any time. 

She didn’t.

And now he is alone in the garage, and the car that’s carrying her away from him is fading into the distance, and—for perhaps the very first time in his life—he has no doubt that she will come back.

He’s always believed that leaving means never returning—that once someone is gone, they are gone forever. But she has driven away, and he finds that he doesn’t feel scared.

He calls her, of course—almost without thinking, fingers pressing the buttons before he’s realizing what he’s doing. She laughs as she answers.

“Did you miss me already?” she asks. Her voice is weightless; he realizes that it’s been days since he’s heard her voice without actually standing beside her. She feels so much less tangible now that she is just a voice over a phone again—and still, he does not feel afraid.

“I did,” he tells her. “I miss you so much.”

Honesty: so bright it almost burns him.

He tells her that he wants to grow into a more mature man for her, and she listens—and it is this, perhaps, that he loves the most. She doesn’t offer him platitudes, as the people around him have done his whole life: she doesn’t say oh, but you’re fine the way you are; she doesn’t dismiss him or diminish him or paint him a false picture of the way his world should be.

She listens.

She tells him that she’s glad to have met him and he knows that she means it.

Her voice, Jumin thinks, is like crisp autumn air; he wonders if he’s ever been truly honest with anyone before.

“There’s something I want to say to you right now,” he says. He finds that he needs to know how the words will taste in his mouth—needs to know if he’s capable of saying them at all.

“What is it?” she asks, and he smiles because he can tell she already knows.

He’s not standing on a cliff anymore, staring down into the abyss. Before he realized what she was doing, she led him away—guided him to this new place, where he is warm and his feet are on solid ground.

“I love you,” he tells her. It tastes like sweet chocolate on his tongue; it is the truest thing he’s ever said.

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six

It is far too late to turn back by the time Saeyoung looks at her sleeping face and realizes the magnitude of what he has done.

He is driving on an empty road that seems to stretch ahead infinitely. It is the space between him and his other half—and the distance separating them is measurable for the first time in so many years. She has fallen asleep in the passenger seat, his jacket spread over her lap, her face perfectly serene. Her lips form a tiny, placid smile—as though she’s content to be walking into fire with him. As though she doesn’t have any doubts.

I am a monster, he thinks (not for the first time). What sort of despicable person lets a someone like her get entangled in their nightmare? She shines so bright that his heart aches.

She wakes (of course she does), and he drags his eyes from her face back to the road, pretending not to see. He wonders if there is still time to deposit her somewhere safe, to leave his heart in her care as he goes on alone.

If anything were to happen to her, that would be the end of him. He’s sure of it.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” he says, keeping his voice light. But she knows better, of course—sees through him the way she always has. She frowns and leans over to brush his arm with her fingers; his whole body shivers at her touch and he is ashamed, knowing she can tell.

“What’s wrong?” she asks him. He gives her his most convincing smile, but he knows it’s lopsided on his face. What has happened to him? She has shattered all his defenses; she has plunged headfirst into the dark pit of his fears.

“Nothing,” he says; and she makes that clicking noise with her tongue that always disarms him, almost like she’s saying shhhh, now tell the truth. “I shouldn’t have brought you,” he says (hating the way his voice sounds, like he might just burst into tears).

She sighs.

“Do I have to tell you again all the reasons why you’re wrong?” Her sternness makes him smile—he can’t help it. He glances at her and her eyes are hard, glittering like the afternoon sun on the windshield.

“Please do,” he says. His voice sounds hoarse. She shifts, sitting cross-legged, tucking her arms into the sleeves of his jacket. She’s so cute like this he’s afraid his heart will burst.

“I’m going to help you,” she tells him firmly. “You may be the smartest person in the whole world, but you’re no good at staying calm.”

She’s right, of course—he never has been.

“You’ll do your best work with me beside you,” she says. “You get us in and I’ll keep us safe. If you want to save him, you need me there, too.”

Saeyoung’s hands—normally so steady, because he’s trained them to be that way—shake as he grips the steering wheel.

“I’ve never really cared about staying safe,” he tells her. She huffs, frustrated, refusing to let him wallow. And then she reaches for him, brushing his hair off his forehead; though her fingers are cool, he feels that she’s set his whole body on fire.

“Too bad,” she says. “I care about keeping you safe, Seven.”

Oh, and that name feels hateful to him when she says it: he can hardly stand the thought of her believing, even for a moment, any of the hundreds of thousands of lies he’s told. He wants her to see him for who he really is.

“Thank you,” he murmurs; she smiles, a hand on his knee, and he feels that she is the brightest star in all the galaxies.

It’s time, he thinks.

When they make it out alive (and in that moment, he decides that they will)—whether it is today, or tomorrow, or the next day—he is going to tell her his real name. Because Seven is a conglomerate of pretense and brightly-colored lies; because Saeyoung is a version of himself that he’s hardly dared to dream about: a person who’s loving, and honest, and good. 

He can become that person, he thinks, for her. He wants to.

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seven

It is May. She counts on her fingers the number of exams she has left, feeling the shivering promise of time passing on her very skin. She can see to the end of the long, dark tunnel now: the delightful hollowness of summer afternoons, the wonder of falling asleep at night without a thousand anxieties dancing around on her pillow. She sees, too, the plane she will board in the fall—the one that will carry her far away from here.

She sits at her desk, notecards stacked perilously high around her. Her phone buzzes; she checks it. Her head pounds.

“You aren’t playing that game, are you?”

Her mother’s voice from the doorway is harsh and she jumps, upsetting a pile of papers covered in nearly incomprehensible scrawl. She feels tears pricking the corners of her eyes.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” she snaps, throwing her phone onto her unmade bed.

“Just checking,” her mother says stiffly. She buries her head in her arms.

I wish they could see me now, she thinks wildly. Her room is a mess; there are dark circles under her eyes; she hasn’t brushed her hair. This house is a pressure cooker: the looming stacks of notes, and her mother’s stern voice, and the calendar of exams taped above her desk. She can’t see straight anymore.

It is a sense of control, she thinks, that she needs. Here, she has none at all: every moment of her day is monitored, every ounce of her energy expended to prepare for these tests that feel meaningless—that will earn her numbers on a page and a ticket out of her hometown.

But in the other universe, she is strong, and she is confident. Perhaps most important of all: she is cherished.

And they are cherished, she thinks; she wishes she could tell them as much.

Do you know? she thinks at them—hard as she can, heart racing, knowing it is foolish (wanting to believe, anyway). Do you know how much you mean to me?

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eight

When Jihyun wakes in the small, sterile room, the moon has risen, and the first thing he thinks of is her face.

In his mind’s eye, he pictures her as he saw her last: slipping from the room with a determined smile, waving as if to reassure him that he’d see her soon. Groggily, he tries to think: this was hours ago, of course, and it must be evening now. His body feels heavy; he tries to open his eyes, and finds that he can’t.

He lifts a hand to his face, feeling like he’s moving through thick liquid. Ah: there is a bandage over his eyes. He can feel it now: stiff and scratchy against his closed eyelids. 

From somewhere in the room (which he can no longer picture clearly), he hears a quiet voice.

“V? Are you awake?

It’s her—and he is somewhat surprised by the way his heart races. He didn’t expect her to wait with him this whole time—he didn’t realize that she was nearby.

“I’m awake,” he says—and his voice sounds strange to him, like it’s coming from someone else. He hears a rustling—someone is moving closer to the bed. Oh, and he catches a whiff of her scent; he’s never been able to quite place it, but it is absolutely intoxicating: like a garden he walked through once, long ago—or perhaps a flower that only grows in another world.

“I’m going to call the nurse,” she says. She is so close that he can feel her breath on his face. He reaches out—catches her hand.

“Wait just a moment?” he asks. He wonders if she can hear his heart.

How strange, he thinks. He is barely awake, and yet his heart is racing as though he’s just run a hundred miles.

“They said it went really well,” she says. He doesn’t miss the anxiety in her voice; he wonders how many hours she’s been here, watching him sleep. 

“You didn’t have to wait with me,” he says. 

“Of course I did.”

Jihyun realizes that he is still holding her hand. His head feels so foggy from the medicine that made him sleep, but his body is waking up now, and he’s painfully conscious of how small her hand is in his—tiny and almost unbearably tender. He wishes he could kiss every one of her sweet fingertips; he wishes he could see her face.

“Thank you,” he says. He means thank you for staying here with me—here in this room that smells strongly of disinfectant—but he means so much more than that, too. She sighs in the way he’s often heard her sigh: like she wants to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. He wouldn’t mind if she did.

“How do you feel?” she asks instead. She’s being careful, tiptoeing around him; he’s not sure how to tell her that she doesn’t need to.

“A little tired,” he admits. “But otherwise I feel well.” He hesitates. “Better than usual, actually.”

She laughs quietly; he feels he might do anything—anything in the world—just to hear that laugh again.

“You’re so strong,” she tells him, squeezing his hand. She is the one who is strong, he thinks. 

There’s a noise in the distance: a gentle knock on the door. The doctor is coming back, he supposes; suddenly, he feels not at all strong. He holds her hand tighter—finds that he doesn’t want her to go.

“Will you wait for me?” he asks, despising the way his voice sounds. He does not sound like a man who is worthy of her attention—he knows he is not a man who deserves to be waited for.

But she holds his hand to her cheek, and her skin is so warm. Jihyun wonders if she understands what he is really asking: not stay with me now but wait until I become someone who can love you the way you deserve.

“Of course I’ll wait for you,” she says. She speaks slowly: each word seems to hold enormous weight.

She knows, he thinks, exactly what he means.

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nine

Hand-in-hand, they look up at the sky.

Saeran sees the endless expanse of freedom extending in all directions around him, and feels that she is the very center of it all.

“Are you nervous?” she asks. He laughs; just moments before, he had felt that way—when he was typing (fingers aching as they fell into their habitual pattern of worrying over the keys—eyes burning and throat itching as he tried to breathe the cabin’s stale air). But now that he is outside—and she is standing beside him—he feels that he has the power to do anything: to run till his feet give out; to see his brother again; to build a life for himself.

“Not anymore,” he says. She moves closer, her arm brushing against his, and he turns to press his lips to her hairline. She squirms at his side, making a delightful sort of purring sound; Saeran feels that he could hold onto her from now until forever and it wouldn’t be enough.

He breathes in the mountain air: it smells like pine and grass and wind. He’s never felt like this before—like he is as strong as the earth itself.

“I’m happy,” she tells him. He feels her eyes on him and turns; oh, and she’s more beautiful than the sky, he thinks, brighter and more expansive than any fantasy his fevered mind could have dreamed up.

“What are you happy about?” he asks. She takes his other hand; he wonders if she knows that he wants to scoop up the whole world in his arms and lay it at her feet.

“I’m happy you’re here with me,” she tells him. “I’m happy that you’re free. I’m happy that you’re smiling the way you are right now.”

He is smiling, he realizes; he feels almost as if he could levitate off the ground. As if he could become the wind. As if he could cross into another universe to hold onto her heart.

“I love you,” he tells her, because it’s all he can think about. She catapults herself into his arms and he laughs, holding her close.

“I love you so much,” she says. “I just want…”

He knows. He brushes through her hair with his fingers, thrilled by the way she sighs as she snuggles closer. This is it, he thinks: the feeling of freefall that he has been seeking (and running from) all his life. The rhythm of her breathing against his chest ties him to the earth; he feels an absolute certainty in the sublime power of the universe. 

Over her head, he looks at the sky. The clouds whisper to him: she’s here, they seem to say. She is. She is.

Her body feels so solid in his arms, so real; and her love for him shimmers in the air all around him.

“Thank you,” Saeran whispers into her soft, sweet skin, “for being under the same sky.”

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ten

Summer comes.

She finishes her tests—bids goodbye to her friends and family—is startled by how much she cries.

She boards the plane with her ticket crushed in her sweaty hand. She sits by the window, palm against the glass, staring hard into the clouds.

In the distance, she can see the city she’s leaving behind: the buildings blur into the mist, and she is crying again. For years, she’s waited to run away from this place—now, it feels so strange to be leaving it behind. She pictures her room in her old house: the books stacked in neat piles now, the clothes laundered and folded into her suitcase, the bed made. She wishes she could pull out her phone and open the door to the other world—the one that’s offered her greater clarity than anything she’s ever felt in her own.

But she can’t, of course—not here. And at the end of this long plane ride will be another airport—and a car ride—and then the university she worked so hard to get into: the promise of a future that’s shimmering and full.

She holds her phone—powered off—in both hands. Here in the sky, she feels she could be in any world at all: her past, or her future, or their world, which still shines in her heart (perhaps brightest of all).

I’m okay, she thinks—and she knows that she is. She has confidence in the future she’s building for herself—in the person she’s becoming—in her own little corner of the universe.

She hopes that they know this. Their world feels both far away and wonderfully, impossibly close: inside her and all around her. She hopes that they are okay, too; that they are eating; that they are taking care.

Oh, she thinks—realizes, in a moment of sky blue clarity. I’m not going back.

She is moving on—as she always knew she would. And they knew too, of course. They must have.

But…

I love you, she thinks—thinks it hard, phone in her hands, face pressed against the window, eyes reflecting the faces she thinks she sees in the clouds. I love you all.

From her universe to theirs—connected only by lines of code and fervent feelings and a wish made on a falling star—she hopes (wishes, prays) that her message reaches them.

The clouds shift: love, love, love, they seem to say. The plane carries her higher. The sky stretches around her in all directions: infinite. Expanding.

They feel her.

She knows it.

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

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[anonniemousefics]

WIP Wednesday

I’m not going to be sharing my fanfic WIPs at the moment, for fear of scaring off my newfound and terribly skittish motivation. But if you’d like a totally out of context bit of my original WIP featuring two of my favorite little brain babies, enjoy :)

Sneak peak at the prologue

Get to know my brain children: OC moodboards

Dominic

Why hadn’t I eaten anything first?

The ground beneath my shoes bent and warped as I caught myself against the bar again, desperate to wave down what’s-his-name before Rayna Greenbarrow had a stroke. This evening was only supposed to end in some light rebuking and maybe a scandalous rumor for the newspapers, not with a dead Saint’s daughter and actual jail time. A cold sweat started to break out across my forehead. 

“Alan,” I heard a man’s voice say next to me, where Rayna stood. 

But when I looked back, there was no man. Only Rayna, standing from her seat, straight as an arrow, her little gloved hands on the bar. The sea spray had tousled her red hair out of its bindings, so that thick, soft locks of it trailed down the back of slender neck. Wisps framed her freckled cheeks, which had been blushed and rosy all evening but now looked pale and drained.

And her enormous eyes, bright and fiery just moments before, were now completely milk white.

“Alan,” her lips moved, but it wasn’t her voice at all. 

What had been in my drink?!

My knees were buckling, my feet stumbling, my hands grasping at air as I tripped backwards, the world completely on end now. The bar stools toppled to the floor with a crash around me, but even in the chaos, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from Rayna. 

What I was seeing made absolutely no sense. 

At the sound of the crash, Alan came running from the opposite end of the bar, and, when he locked eyes with Rayna’s dead-eyed stare, he looked startled, though nowhere near as horrified and mystified as I felt, cowering from the floor. They stared at each other a moment, Alan cocking his head, beneath the flickering glow of the lamps, twinkling against the rows of liquor bottles shelved across the back wall.

“Pop, is that you?” he asked, leaning out across the bar as he took in Rayna’s milky gaze. His dark eyes were gleaming.

A sweet smile spread across Rayna’s lips, full of an unexpected tenderness, and she reached up across the bar with one of her gloved hands to gently cup Alan’s rough, bearded face. 

“My boy,” said the gruff voice that moved her mouth. 

At the sound of the voice, Alan’s expression seemed to melt, his eyes closing while old memories washed over him.

“I knew you were hanging around,” he sighed. “You never let me change anything around here.” 

“No, son,” said the voice behind Rayna’s tender smile, “you’re just afraid to change anything. I’m proud of what you’ve built. You should never let my memory hold you back.” 

“We just miss you—” Alan could barely whisper.

“We will all be together again in the end,” the voice assured him. “I am going now. I love you, then and always.” 

Rayna’s hands moved back to the bar as her head tipped down, her eyes closing shut. For a brief moment, there was an icy cold rush of air that rippled around her, catching the lace of her gown and ruffling the tousled, loose waves of red hair around her soft cheeks. I felt a shiver of gooseflesh break out across my arms, like every hair was standing on end.

When she opened her eyes again, they were normal and soft brown, her eyelashes fluttering as she raised her gaze with a gasp. 

“Thank you,” Alan murmured to her, his eyes still glassy. “I didn’t know you were a vessel. Now I’m certain you deserve a more decent man.” 

If I was supposed to take offense to that, it wasn’t registering. I could feel my hands starting to shake against wood floor, a tremble that reverberated up through my elbows, and my stomach pitched while my mouth went dry. 

Too much to drink too fast. Not enough food. Here it comes.

I scrambled to my feet, pushing my way through the pressed in crowd as I lurched for the door. 

“Dominic, wait!” I heard Rayna cry after me, but the air of the room pressed in around my head and my ears and I could think of nothing else but getting outside before all of my insides exploded out of me.

I rode a fierce wave of nausea right out the door into the cool night air in the alleyway, but as soon as the fresh air hit my lungs, it began to subside. I couldn’t seem to get air in fast enough; my head was spinning as I tried to gulp in quick gasps. I hadn’t been too drunk after all, but I was in a complete panic.

“Dominic—” I heard her voice behind me as the silver bell jingled over the door. 

“Broken glass!” I reminded her, and when I turned back from the brick wall opposite the green door, she hadn’t budged from The Black Rose’s threshold. That was good. We needed some distance between us for the moment.

I began pacing back and forth in the alley while Rayna wrapped her arms around the bodice of her lacy gown, her exposed shoulders shivering even though the summer night air was comfortable. 

Goddamn that gown of hers. If it wasn’t for that gown, she would probably still be at Westlea and my world wouldn’t have been fracturing.

“Say something,” she pleaded. I glanced at her face, and she looked as terrified as I was. 

“What the hell was that?” I shouted, pointing at the tavern door. 

“I don’t know,” she shouted back. “I’ve never done that before.” 

“That was — that was — ” I had to stop pacing, doubling over as I sucked in air. Stars were exploding in my vision. “I can’t breathe.” 

“Let’s just take a moment,” said Rayna. 

Running my hands through my hair, I stalked across the alleyway and turned to lean against the brick wall. Each breath felt like my chest was being crushed. I leaned my head back against the ridged bricks behind me and focused on the stars above us, breathing through my nose while my mind played the images in a loop. The milky eyes. The man’s voice. The cold rush of icy wind. The weight of memory.

The magic.

“You think I’m evil.” I heard Rayna’s voice, small and frightened, across the expanse of cobblestones between us. I looked down at her, and her quivering face looked crushed while she held herself, trembling on the doorstep in her stocking feet. It pulled at something in me, and I felt the panic begin to unwind itself.

“No.” I shook my head, still breathing heavily. 

“Yes, you do,” Rayna insisted, looking miserable. She was shaking so hard that her hair trembled against her skin. “You’re thinking you should report this.” 

I sighed, still shaking my head, and looked at my black shoes against the cobblestones until I could get a handle on breathing properly. When I’d gathered myself, I took a tentative, gentle step toward her.

“I have very little conviction on much of anything,” I told her, and then the alcohol finally pulled the lever on the dam that held back all the words that had been building since the entire experience at the bar. “In fact, I can think of really only two convictions that I’ve held onto in my life, both from my father. He would always say that a man is only as good as his word, and while I may be a disappointment to his memory in every other possible way, that much stuck with me, and I swear to you, I will not lie to you — at least, not well. I do not think you’re evil or cursed, and I would never discourage or report anyone for doing what you just did for that man. That was—”

And then the words failed, and I could do nothing else but clutch at my chest, somewhere over the gaping unseen hole I would always carry. To be given the chance to hear my mother’s voice, one last time. To finally say the good-bye I never got to say to my father. Who could put that feeling into words? 

“Then why are you panicking?” Rayna interrupted, still shivering.

“Because this was all supposed to be bullshit!” I exclaimed, and I started to laugh in spite of myself. What was happening? What world was I in? “The Blessed Mission, the dinishee who brought the old magic from the fey realm, the nine fires of hell — these are fairy stories. But you — this shatters the only other conviction in my life! What am I supposed to do with you? And that?” I pointed to the green door behind her. “That was the craziest thing I’ve ever seen. What was it like? What happened?” 

“Can we go back inside and sit?” Rayna asked, swaying a little. “I don’t feel well.” 

“Of course.” I crossed the distance between us in two quick steps, grabbing the door for her as the silver bell jingled. We slipped back into the warm, raucous room, where no one seemed to have noticed or cared for the magical events that had transpired just steps away from their revelry. Like it had been happening all around them always, and I’d never been the wiser.

This changed everything. 

But first, I would usher Rayna back through the crowd, back to the bar and into the corner where she could sit on a stool and lean her head against the wall. I ordered us both coffees, since we both had gotten a little carried away. I let my mug sit on the bar while I leaned against an elbow facing Rayna, who nursed her coffee up in her black gloved hands. Her eyes were like slits as she rested her head back against the wall, the tousled wisps of her hair brushing against her neck and shoulders. I’d force myself to focus on her eyes and not the curve of her chest that swelled when she sighed. 

Fine, just the quickest of glances. I’m no Saint. 

“What happened was there was a ghost in this corner when we first got here—” she began as she exhaled.

“I’m sorry, what?” I interrupted, waving a hand at her. “Is this a normal occurrence for you?” 

She just nodded her head once, as if it was too heavy.

“You see ghosts,” I clarified.

“All the time,” she replied, looking weary. “Every day.” 

I couldn’t believe I had no choice but to believe her. That’s the kind of day this had turned into.

“So, there was a ghost here,” I said, slowly. 

“There was a ghost right here.” Rayna pointed at her lap, indicating her seat. “And he was being a little mouthy.” 

“Mouthy,” I echoed.

“He had opinions,” said Rayna. “He recognized you. Didn’t seem to like you very much. Can’t say that I blame him.” 

“You’re kind of a mean drunk,” I commented, frowning.

“So, anyway,” Rayna rolled her head back, ignoring my remark, “then I get all shouty and he noticed that I’m Blessed and he says — you don’t know what you can do, let me show you a thing.” 

“This ghost sounds like a dirty old man,” I pointed out. 

“I swear on all of the Saints this is what happened,” said Rayna, bringing her head up, eyes wide. “And then he did the thing.” 

“The thing.” I was on the edge of my seat, pushing for more. 

“The thing, the thing, the hedgewitchy thing.” Rayna leaned her head back again, closing her eyes.

“Drink some coffee,” I urged. 

“You drink some coffee,” she frowned at me, stubbornly. 

“But you’re not even a hedgewitch.” I was actually saying these words seriously. “How are you doing vessel magic?” 

“You all keep using that word.” Rayna squinted at me. “Vessel this, vessel that. I don’t even know what that is.” 

“It’s what you did, I’m assuming,” I said, “which you would know if the Blessed let anybody talk about the old traditions. Vessel magic was said to be how hedgewitches communicated for and with the spirits of the dead. I thought it was bullshit—”

“I know; you said that already,” Rayna interrupted, irritated. “Very loudly.” 

“Sorry about that,” I nodded. She’d reached at the stage of drunk where it was in everyone’s best interest to keep humoring her. “You’re killing me here, Rayna. What was it like?” 

“You’ve had more to drink than me,” Rayna pointed, wobbling. “Why are you so upright?” 

“Practice,” I told her. “Vessel magic, Rayna —”

“It’s like riding in a carriage,” said Rayna, as she straightened her spine against the wall, looking me dead in the eye. “It’s like one minute you’re driving the carriage and in control, and then someone else takes the reins, so you ride in it for awhile. You can see out the windows, and you know where you are and that you’re safe, but someone else is doing the work. And then when they’re done, it’s just—” She raised her fingers and tried to snap, but it made no sound against her gloves. She looked down at her fingers, confused and disappointed. “It doesn’t work with gloves on,” she slurred. “That really ruined the effect.” 

“It didn’t; I’m enraptured,” I insisted, but she’d set down her coffee cup and was wiggling off the glove. 

“I just— I just—” she was saying, and then when it was off, she looked back up at me, raising her hand victoriously. “And then when they’re done, it’s just—” She snapped her fingers, soundly. “And then you’re back at the reins.” 

“Brilliant,” I applauded. She grinned, visibly proud of herself.