#sonnets so delicate and cute

[ndostairlyrium]

WIP Wednesday

and omg it's on Wednesday! And I do have things I'm doing that I can show :'D aaaaa

Small things, but still Things

La Criatura (left); I'm painting this whenever I can carve some extra time for painting for myself. It's a simple 3/4 and she's wearing a silly sweater, but I crave for simplicity lately ;;

Two literal saints trying to explain poetry to someone that can't understand it, doesn't want to understand it, and is just there because her friends are passionate about it u-u I'll try to color this and maybe flesh out that haircut Leli is sporting 👀

-

I was tagged by @shivunin and @greypetrel <3 thank you so much!!!! ;u;

Tags: @magspy If you want to get tagged, reply with a 💛

[skyrigel]

Simon wasn't really vocal about affection, ofcourse he's in love with you but there's yet to learn soft words and soft love for a man who grew up with hard words and hatred.

All this cutesy talk came to you when he was drunk, after a mission where he was hauled up by his knackered mates who needed booze to calm off their tits.

Sure you have seen him down one or two drinks many times, but this vulnerability was very new when he couldn't put key in the lock and after staring at shuffling at the door for five minutes, you finally opened the door only to be met by a very sloppy, dizzy, utterly cute grin.

“Hullo” Simon slurred, hands reaching out to your waist and gasping for some reason like a curious child, “Hey my love.” he breathed, his cold nose mapping the cartography of your neck, before keeping his chin over your head and swaying you in his arms.

You chuckled out, face pressed against his chest as he embraced you. It's the fifth time he has called you that. “Hi there big man.”

“How iz da world's most pretty —” Simon uncoiled his one arm to count off on his thick fingers, “Cute,” another up, “Strong,” another digit, “Sweet, loving, caring, my most precious !” he counted in one go where there was more compliments than fingers to upload the statement.

You didn't say just about to die in love, instead listened to his heartbeat, trying not to tear down as Simon continued on and on in his sonnets.

***

“Why are ya so pretty ?” he asked, grabbing your wrist as you tucked him in bed after getting him out of his sweaty, dirty gear and making him drink water.

“Because you're drunk.” you whispered, placing a soft kiss on his inner wrist where a bundle of nerves jolted, Simon's eyes widened once, and then he smiled like he had never before.

“Won't be tommorow lovie, but you,” he purred out the 'you' so softly, that it felt spilling through his heart, unbound and unkept and uncontained. “You will be just as pretty tommorow, even more.”

“Even more ?” You asked, turning off the lamp and leaning further over his face in dim light.

“Every moment is made for ya' to get more pretty, pretty, pretty.” Simon said, his jaw slackened and a grin glimmered through his small giggle.

Did you just see Simon ghost Riley giggle ?!

You kissed him sweetly on his forehead, and pecked his mouth, and again, “Sleep now, yeah ?”

“Even more.” Simon tucked back a lock which was hanging loose, behind your ear very delicately. It was a promise.

Masterlist

[subtlenighttribute]

Reader x Selkie!Caleb, Selkie!Zayne, Selkie!Sylus, Selkie!Rafayel, Selkie!Xavier

Fluffy | Seaside nonsense | Magical realism | All fluff, zero plot...maybe a little in the end.

---

Your seaside vacation cottage has been declared a "high traffic lounging zone" by five large seals with suspiciously human eyes and extremely dramatic personalities.

They've taken over the yard.

You let it happen.

This is your life for now.

---

🐚 Xavier – The Royal Seal

Xavier is a velvety silver seal with flawless posture and an unshakable belief that your garden hose is attacking his dignity.

He only basks on the rocks between 9 a.m. and noon—the "golden hour", he chirps proudly (you swear he winks at you when he does it).

If you’re near, he’ll pose- trying to keep your attention on him at all times.

His sassyness can rival that of Rafayel.

One day you offer him a mirror- curious as to what he would do.

He looks at it. Looks at you. Chirps meaningfully, almost innocent.

Later, you find your handheld mirror missing and Xavier sunbathing with it perched delicately on his belly. He’s using it to angle light directly at Caleb's face.

---

🐟 CALEB – The Chaos Goblin Seal

Caleb is long, sleek, and spotted—built like a torpedo with ADHD.

He appears out of nowhere at all hours. Crashes into your deck furniture. Tries to slide down your stairs like a waterpark.

He regularly brings you:

a broken snorkel

someone’s lost sandal (still wet)

an unopened can of soda

a crab (very alive, very mad)

You had to put a fence and baby gate around the herb garden after he flops through it like a toddler in a ball pit. You tell him "no" and he barks indignantly... with basil hanging from his mouth.

When you tried to take a bath once, he wedged his entire body against the bathroom door and wouldn’t stop screaming until you let him in.

He then fell asleep on the bath mat like he won.

---

🐺 SYLUS – The Guard Dog (But He's a Seal)

Sylus is pure white. Giant. Heavy. Always watching you like you might die if he blinks.

He has big red eyes and the energy of a bodyguard who thinks the garden hose is a weapon.

You once tripped while carrying groceries. Before you could hit the ground, Sylus launched himself at you, caught your fall with his bulk, and glared at tour shoes for trying to harm you.

If anyone walks too close to the house, Sylus growls like a low drumbeat until they leave. That includes the mailman.

He’s particularly hostile to Caleb when he gets too rowdy near you.

Once Caleb flopped against you and Sylus picked him up with his teeth and tossed him down the beach like a water balloon.

Then he turned to you. Grunted.

You gave him a fish stick and scratched his chin. He allowed it.

---

🫧 RAFAYEL – The Delicate Seal

Rafayel is inky gray, eyes deep and soulful like a stormy tidepool. He always seems like he floated to your porch on pure moonlight.

He gets cold easily. Like, very easily.

He wears scarves in seal form. Scarves. You didn’t even know if he actually put them on purposefully or if some tourist thought it would be cute. He seemed to love it though so you won't say anything.

You hand-knit one for him. He squealed and nuzzled into you, and chirped for ten straight minutes while his flippers gently patted any part of you he could reach.

Rafayel enjoys being swaddled in blankets and sighing dramatically while staring out to sea like a wounded poet. If he could write in seal form, you’re convinced he’d pen love sonnets about the smell of your perfume.

Sometimes he rolls onto your feet and just vibrates softly, like an emotional Roomba in need of love.

---

🌧 Zayne – The Mysterious Lump With Feelings

Zayne is the least seal-like seal. He’s pure black, sleek and quiet, and everybody in town swear they have never seen him move- except to flop away from touchy tourists.

He’ll appear silently in a new spot every few hours—perched on the railing, under your hammock, on top of the dryer (???). His eyes follow you, with so much emotion and knowledge- almost like an ancient sea god trapped in a squishy body.

You’ve never heard him bark. But he will stare at you from across the garden until you sit beside him. And then, without warning, he’ll lean heavily against you and sigh.

He gives you the kind of ancient, intense affection that says, If you leave, I’ll follow. If you stay, cuddles.

You try to offer him snacks. He doesn’t react.

Until you walk away. Then a cookie is mysteriously gone.

---

☀️ The Great Seal Pile

One afternoon, you bring out a fleece blanket, lay down to read, and within five minutes—

Boom.

You are buried under:

Rafayel curled at your side, flippers on your arm.

Caleb, halfway on your stomach, snoring.

Xavier, balancing his chin on your hip like royalty.

Sylus, shielding all of you from the wind like a snow-white mountain, his back flippers on your feet.

Zayne, silently pressing his cheek to yours, blinking slowly like a cat.

You're stuck. Flattened. Warm. Covered in seal fur.

Your phone buzzes. It’s your coworker texting:

> "Are you coming back to the city next week?"

You stare at your screen.

Then at the five seals breathing softly around you.

You type back:

> "Maybe?."

You sigh.

What were you going to do now?

[llamagoddessofficial]

The times you write about Dream is so cute, are you free to write romantic headcanons of him?

HOHOO I'm glad you like my spin on Dream! Here's some headcanons about him.

Elegant, polite, serene, refined. Early morning sunshine and clear freshwater lakes. He's a prince for sure, and he'll make you feel like royalty with the way he courts you.

He's got a way with words; his brother's an artist at heart, but he's always been a poet. He knows how to make you melt, how to weave sonnets that leave you sputtering and swooning.

(You'll know you're the one for him, because you're the only one that can leave him speechless~)

He likes nature. He doesn't often actually get to see the things that he works so hard to save from his brother. Flowers, animals, even just looking at the clouds in the sky can bring him peace - he'd be a good walking partner.

He's terrible at gardening though.

Sometimes he needs comforting. It's so hard. He's so tired. Your arms are the only place he gets any rest, anymore.

He's an excellent musician! Very adept at multiple instruments. He'll serenade you with delicate verses, if you'll only let him.

He doesn't particularly like using his abilities to make you feel positive emotions. He will, however, soothe aches and pains for you, and if you wake up in the night he'll be more than happy to dispel bad dreams and help you back to sleep.

All that being said...

... He does have something of a superiority complex. When you're literally a God, it's hard not to. He hides it very well, because he knows it's not acceptable, but it's not always easy to mask. You're his darling, the light of his life, you and him are simply 'better' than the simpletons of the other aus. Sometimes it slips through.

That's not all, either.

... A lot of Dream's gentlemanly behaviours are his ways of dealing with very dark thoughts and desires. He and Nightmare are cut from the same cloth, after all. The only difference between the brothers is Nightmare chooses to indulge at the expense of others - and Dream knows that. He knows he's only a few bad deeds away from becoming his brother. He's compensating by acting extra good and kind.

Just like Nightmare, Dream is prone to jealousy and possessiveness. It's extremely hard to tell when he's jealous because he masks it with even more politeness and kindness. He already lost one person dear to him, he deeply fears losing you as well. When his smile is just that bit wider and his fingers wrap around your shoulder with just a little too much deliberateness, it might be time to go home.

He claims he never uses his emotion powers because they're draining for him. That's not the truth.

He won't tell you, but the reason he resists using them on you is he fears what he might do when he feels how easy it is to stop you from leaving him.

[prpfz]

🕊️👑 | Hello everyone! I'm looking for an 18+ medieval mxm roleplay, preferably grimdark with no or low-fantasy themes. 2+ paragraphs, novella to advanced. I had the wonderful idea of playing a knight who is considered the most cold and fearsome in all the land. Said to have killed a hundred men in a night, slain the largest and most ferocious of bears, torn asunder villages of savages, and saved his kingdom countless of times. How does he have the strength and power to do such amazing things? It is through his even stronger love for his lover. When he is not in training ( or, even while he trains, ) he writes letters and fashions sonnets for his beloved, fantasizing of the day he is to see him again. Every war he engages in he is motivated not by wealth or fame, but by the desire to see his lover and the life they shall live together afterwards. If anything were to happen to him, he would take swift and powerful vengeance.. before living out his life in near suicide, too fearful to actually take his own life in terror that he would not be reunited with his beloved in heaven. It is a fierce and hot love, spent entirely in secret. Most think the knight collects flowers and gifts for a woman, but it couldn't be any farther from the truth! He swears everyday by his sword that he will keep the object of his devotion safe.. by any means necessary. I'm wanting to play the knight. This will have themes of violence, death, loss, general and heavy dead dove topics.. but I actually want it to be full of fluff when appropriate! The knight loves his devotion a lot, and it depends on you whether you'd like your character to be a king, prince, lord, all the way down to a peasant working on his land! This is a relatively open-ended plot so I'd love to work through it more with you! There will be themes of homophobia and general forbidden romance. My knight will be mostly dominating, but I don't wish for total submissives. Could you imagine how cute it would be for one day, your character takes over his knight in the throes of passion as one would a delicate princess? I'm looking for a 40/60 smut-to-plot ratio, though there will be a lot of general nonsexual intimacy also. Themes of hurt and comfort. I like to play multiple characters, so look out for that! Realistic fcs only please. I use tupper. Please be active.

give a like and anon will get back to you

[fandomfluffandfuck]

Bucky choking Steve is my kink

Yeahhhh 😮‍💨

We all get it. We understand.

How could you not be into it?

For real, though, even though I've definitely thought a lot about choking kink and stucky before, this ask set off a bomb in my head 😏

Bucky. Choking. Steve.

Specifically, though, this hit me over the head with a hammer imagining that Bucky has a thing for Steve's neck. It's to the point where, if pressed, Steve might say that Bucky has almost a goddamn fetish for his throat. It's definitely a kink, if not a full-blown fetish.

Bucky can't help the way he's drawn to that part of Steve's body. It's instinctual. Immediately, unconsciously, when he's looking at Steve in lust, that's where his eyes are drawn. Appreciating the vision that he is, his eyes end up stuck right there under his square jaw but above his broad shoulders and chest. It's just so pretty. His throat. It drives him insane, he swears.

When Bucky has the fortune of having Steve in his lap, Bucky kneeling on their bed, Steve on top of him, his pretty, pert ass pressed back and stretched tightly around his cock, making Steve bounce on it--he'll have his hands on Steve's hips, gripping his tight little waist, pulling him down, spearing him on his cock as he faces him, but his eyes will be on his throat. He's watching him, completely enamored by the slow, heated creep of his blush, spilling down from his cheeks toward his collarbone, eventually reaching the tight peaks of his cute, pink nipples. Painting his neck red. Heated.

Steve starts in his lap--bouncing, bouncing, bouncing--Bucky fucks him so good, though, jolting whimpers and whines out of his huge chest, that he doesn't stay like that for long. Thighs flexing, hole clenching and twitching around his thick cock, chest heaving hugely, tits jiggling. It's too pretty. Soon, Steve can't keep himself upright. All those sculpted, curvy muscles turned useless once he's gotten some good dick in him. Brain melted. In molten arousal, Steve starts trembling, unable to keep the pleasure inside him, but it gets worse. It gets better. And right then, his back arches.

Oh, fuck, that gets Bucky every time--

Every damn time.

When he arches his back, trembling in pleasure, unable to hold himself together as he moans with his whole body, not just his voice, he throws his head back, and his neck is elongated--arched. Showing off. It does Bucky in. He can't take it. Steve's entire body follows his head, arching, thrown back until he ends up on his back; his whole torso bowed, nearly broken in half, as he's filled to the brim with dick. And somehow, the best part is his arched neck.

That pale, pretty column. Kissable and so grabable.

His neck. His heart is beating so fast that Bucky can see the pulse of his thick, hot blood in the viens that wrap around his throat just under the thin, delicate skin like ivy across a brick wall. Steve moans high and pretty, the sounds fucked right out of him, ah, ah, ah, his noises never getting stuck in his throat. His Adam's apple moves entrancingly when he swallows, when he chokes, when he presses his head back into the pillows so overwhelmed.

God.

Bucky wants to eat him alive.

He wants to bite that neck. It's mouth watering. It's gorgeous. The sharp, square shape of his jaw, the smooth, unblemished, blushing skin stretched over his jawbone, flowing down his throat, his collarbone, and the tendons and muscles in his neck. It's all so unbearably alluring. Bucky swears he could write fucking sonnets about the heady attraction he feels for Steve's neck. He wants to lick and mouth at those gorgeous lines of bone, tendon, and muscles until they're glistening with sweat and spit. Glowing. Like they should be. He wants to trace those lines with his fingertips and dig his nails into them, just to hear Steve gasp. He wants to bite marks into the thick muscle between his neck and shoulders until he's bruised like a peach. He wants Steve to never wear anything again; he wants Steve to only wear tight, low neck t-shirts, and he wants everyone to see where he's had his. Where he's bitten and gabbed Steve because he wants him so badly.

He wants him. Viciously. Vivaciously. He can never get enough of him. He's a drug that Bucky is begging to overdose on. Take him out.

Bucky wants to collar that fucking throat, to own it like he knows he owns Steve but... he almost can't stand not being able to see all of it.

All of his neck.

Shit, Bucky has it bad. Even when he has his hand around his throat, he's thinking about what Steve's throat looks like naked. He's thinking about Steve turning his head to the side to crack his neck, exposing himself, he's thinking about Steve shaving in the morning, baring his throat to draw that sharp, gleaming blade down it, he's thinking about Steve tipping his head back to down a beer, throat contracting beautifully, he's thinking about the way Steve looks head hanging off the side of the bed as Bucky fucks his throat, bulging his neck with his cock, stuffing it down, he's thinking about Steve falling asleep on the sofa with his head tipped back, innocent and sweet but so perverse, he's thinking about Steve when he used to get colds, small and sharp, his tendons and collarbones sticking out so pretty, able to cut glass, and he's thinking about how when his cold left his voice hoarse, his hands would always come up to rub his throat like that would fix the ache from the outside. Yeah. He's thinking about Steve's neck. It's hypnotic. How could he not?

Bucky loses it over Steve's neck.

Bucky goes feral over his neck.

Up there with fucking his throat so deep that it bulges and Steve sputters, his eyes all glassy and hazy, Bucky's favorite is painting Steve with a pearl necklace. He can go from soft to achingly hard in an embarrassingly short amount of time with the motivation of Steve sliding to his knees, his lashes sweeping as he glances demurely up at him, sticking his chest and throat out, begging for his cum with those plush lips. Light-headed, dumbfounded by the way Steve goes from shy kitten to slutty minx at the snap of fingers. Because that's the thing--

Steve might claim he's clumsy and he can't dance, saying he's got two left feet without any rhythm, but the moment Bucky gets him out of his head, fuck dumb, submerged in boiling lust, he turns into a swan.

All pale skin, all grace, long, powerful limbs surrendering to Bucky's will with nothing more than an involuntary tremble of bliss--feathers ruffled. All Bucky has to do is touch him right, and he yields to him. Arching and stretching, swooning into the touch. He coos soft and breathy, "oh, oh, ohhh," with his hip jerking up, thighs shaking, and his back arching, his throat slim and long and gorgeous, flushed pink. Baring, curving, exposing his neck like an offering.

An offering Bucky can't resist. There's just something about Steve's neck that turns him into an animal.

How did this choking kink ask turn into an answer with hardly an actual hand-on-the-throat action?? 💀💀

[xe-n4]

budding affections

feat. kunigami note: i don't remember writing this contains: swearing, shakespeare reference, fem!reader total: 550

He’s not open. It’s something Kunigami has become very well aware of. He knows it’s a flaw, yet he can’t help but keep a bubble around himself. Self-preservation. That’s what he tells himself. It’s safer this way. 

However, safer isn’t always better. It’s just safe.

And he knows that. It’s something Kunigami has become very well aware of. 

“Rensuke?” You waved a hand in his face. “Jeez, am I that boring? Or was it all the ancient poems we have to analyse?” 

He mumbled ‘sorry’. 

“It’s okay. I just wanna know you’re okay. You’re not usually so out of it” 

Kunigami nodded. 

Both of you went back to working on your literature project. Categorising each poem by theme and picking out anything that stood out to you and making up whatever to please your literature teacher. It was tedious work. He helped you with words you didn’t understand and you made jokes about the whole thing to lighten the mood. 

“This one’s so mean,” you said, pointing to one called Sonnet 130 in your anthology. 

He leaned over to read it, too. Kunigami didn’t know how close he was to you until he realised he could hear you breathing. His breath hitched. He didn’t want it to, but it did and he hoped to any god that you didn’t hear it. 

“Look, it even says he wrote it about his wife. That’s so fucking rude,” you scoffed. 

“Yeah, that’s kinda shitty.” 

“Shitty doesn’t even scratch the surface. ‘If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun’ and ‘If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head’,” you read the poem, scoffing. 

Kunigami watched as you chastised the poem and highlighted the irony of such an insult being titled a sonnet. A smile crept onto his face and he felt a familiar thumping in his chest. One he realised recently only happened when you were around. It made his head messy and he couldn’t think straight. His usually calm and articulated mind couldn’t form sentences or bring himself to react the way he wanted to. I would never describe you that way. 

Hours passed. During that time, you had moved from your seat next to him to work on his bed because you ‘work better when you’re comfortable’. Kunigami didn’t realise how long you had stayed over until he looked out of the window. The setting sun turned the sky a pale blue colour with specks of purple and orange slowly taking over. 

Kunigami turned around to see you curled up on his bed asleep. He smiled to himself, noting how cute you looked, so unguarded and comfortable enough to fall asleep in his room. It made him feel something. Kunigami wasn’t sure exactly what it was, but he liked it. 

With delicate moves, lay down next to you, close enough to feel your warmth but not close enough to touch. There was an urge to trace patterns on your back. To write messages to you, hoping it’d somehow translate into your dreams. 

“Y/n,” Kunigami whispered to himself. He gulped and his heart raced. “I like you.” 

Kunigami’s never been open and never allowed himself to be vulnerable with others. It’s something he’s become very well aware of. But he wanted to tell you everything. 

“I really like you.” 

m.list | like & reblog

[lavendermin]

if all stars fell at once (1) | xiao

pairing | xiao/reader

word count | 3k

genre | fluff, light angst, developing relationship, overall domestic

warning | eventual smut

The memory comes clear as the crystalline waters at the harbor. That day when rain poured mercilessly upon the land— the boy in a mask whose body trembled under an invisible burden. You remember the dark splotches on his body being washed away by downpour.

Blood.

Polearm supporting his body as it heaved, his face slowly turned to face you as an ominous dark mist accumulated around him. And when you blinked, it was as if he was never there; replaced by rain.

Whether it was the haze of sleepless nights getting to you or reality, you still had yet to know. Curiosity was fresh in your mind. His presence… though brief, held immense power and a tainted aura; enough to instill fear in the hearts of any who witnessed them. But you stood there, unwavering and eyes alight with awe and curiosity despite the rain that hailed mercilessly around you.

Weeks continued, and the image of the boy remained somewhere in your subconscious. Days came and went as your mind remained hazed, clouded with the fleeting memory.

The dark clouds overhead brought in strong winds; a sign of a storm rolling in. The laundry hanging outside would surely be swept away at this rate. Quick on your feet, you hurriedly pulled them off the clotheslines. Yet despite your efforts, a couple handkerchiefs you had embroidered were blown away by a harsh gust of wind.

“Ah…!” Despite your attempt, the wind plucked them out of reach. All you could do was helplessly watch as they were carried by devious winds further down the mountain.

Those were for… Ah, I guess I’ll have to redo those, you pondered anxiously. If they were all to be delivered in 3 days, you would have to stay up fairly late just to finish replacing them.

The candle light cracked and flickered as night crept over Liyue. No use stalling. With a sullen crack of your neck, you shut the windows and got to work. The relentless rain was your sole company as you worked through embroidering the replacements well into the night. Despite the nimbleness of experienced hands, numbness settled in after hours of working tirelessly to replace the delicately embroidered handkerchiefs. And with patterns and threads so intricate, they weren’t something you could rush.

The moon came and went that night, having accompanied you behind the storming clouds as it rained and ceased. Yet, late the next day when you returned from running errands, there upon your open windowsill were two neatly folded handkerchiefs safely held in place by a beautiful stone. You examined them— with no doubt, the ones that were swept away.

And as a breeze picked up once more, you didn’t dare look back but hoped the wind would carry your words to the deserving.

“Thank you.”

:

.

.

That was the first time in over a millennia that Xiao was thanked by a mortal for one of his many silent deeds.

———

Soft colors of fading blue and powdery orange iced the sky with the setting sun. You reminisced past memories fondly as you picked a few herbs from your personal garden. The day was slowly dwindling to a lethargic end, but the land ceased to fall into rest to savor most of what the day had to offer.

“Do you remember that, Adeptus Xiao?” you asked with a fond smile. It was met with silence for a moment before a voice spoke up from the roof of your house.

“So, you knew I was here. Mortals truly are something I cannot understand,” he clicked his tongue, shifting to get comfortable where he rested comfortably on your roof. “Or perhaps, it’s that our ties are too strong. Curious…” He pondered to himself, brows slightly furrowed as he contemplated.

With a stretch of your back you stood up, basket in hand. “I know my grandmother’s home is rather quiet here in Qingce Village, so I’ve noticed the roof has become a favorite spot of yours,” you observed with a small shrug he couldn’t see. “Call it a hunch.”

Though he wouldn’t admit it, Xiao knew your guess was right. With your home tucked furthest away at the top of the village, there were seldom any onlookers in the tranquil area. A perfect, stress-free corner for him to visit.

With a huff and trained grace, he hopped off the roof on playful winds and followed you indoors. There was still a cautious air about him but never the same as when you first met him all those months ago.

It seemed like you understood him more than he understood you sometimes, and it puzzled him to no end. Mortals were usually more predictable; working in routine and habits as he had seen of the many centuries that passed. Or… at least he thought. It was no secret that he found mortals to be indecipherable.

In the small kitchen, he was presented with an enticing dish that you laid out; his favorite, no doubt. “Here. I’m heading out to the harbor to run some last minute errands, but you’re welcome to stay here as long as you’d like,” you reassured him with a smile. “Thank you for keeping me company today.”

At your genuine, radiant smile, Xiao couldn’t help but avert his gaze shyly. Truthfully, it always caught him off guard to be thanked for such trivial things that were somehow meaningful to you.

Before you reached the front door, Xiao called out after you. “If you are out late, summon me— call my name. I will guide you safely home.” With firm reassurance, he held your gaze under piercing amber. “Promise me this. Do not be reckless.”

There was no fighting the grin that lit up your face. “You worry for me, Adeptus?” you teasingly prodded, and placed a quick peck on his cheek. “How unexpectedly cute of you.”

At the gesture, his eyes widened for a fraction of a second before his composure returned. Pensively, he folded his arms across his chest, and you swore he could practically be pouting.

“The safety of Liyue is my duty as an adeptus. As a tool to be used, and nothing more.”

There was a brief sorrow reflected in your eyes, and before Xiao had a chance to address it, you were hurriedly giving your final goodbyes with your usual warm energy.

“I promise I’ll be safe.”

Left to himself, he accepted your gifted offering of almond tofu. I love the way your eyes practically sparkle when you take that first bite, you once teased.

The memory picked up the thrumming in his chest— uncertainty accompanied by rose-dusted cheeks.

With each delicate bite, his mind upheld more questions. The feelings that burst subtly in his chest— what were they? He searched his heart for answers to describe it. Peace of mind? Loneliness?

As many times as his mind decided to go through the same painful cycle of thoughts, ultimately he was left with more questions than when he started. There were no answers within him.

Such as the moon replaces the sun and the days dwindle into night, he too would let it be for now.

And as the sun slowly retreated more and more behind mountains and thin clouds, Xiao couldn’t help but wonder why he continued to keep near you. A tie foraged with a mortal that strangely did not instill the overwhelming need to leave.

Even the room he was in caused no discomfort or suffocation. The cycle started once again as he wondered, why? He often resided at Wangshu Inn, but never in a room. The rooftop high above any wandering souls was his claimed accommodation. The balcony just below that was seldom used by guests was the only other space he occupied there— eyes able to survey the land from a higher vantage point.

However, here in this small shelter you called home there was none of that, yet he stayed. Curiously, his eyes wandered the room to take in the oddities and trinkets that were used as decorum. The bookshelf across the room posed with great importance, and as he approached it he took in the vast collection of books and small items that decorated some empty sections.

Gloved fingers grazed over the elegant, gold-foil titles of some of the books. Some he has partially read before, or listened to you read aloud while he rested on your lap under the large tree outside.

He found himself plucking one out tentatively, flipping through some pages of a thick storybook with worn corners. Another book from the shelf— a thin book of floral poems and sonnets. His mind idly worked to put together what these books could possibly say about you.

After neatly putting another book away, a small glint caught his eyes. Toward the end of one of the shelf rows was a pile of three books with a precious stone sitting atop them.

Ah, the cor lapis stone he had used when he silently returned the two missing handkerchiefs to you many moons ago. An unknown feeling settled in his chest, warm & persistent. It flourished— euphoric, almost, and not too unpleasant. He wondered if it was somehow related to similar chest pains he’d dealt with. Could he really call it ‘pain’ if it wasn’t truly hurting him? The feeling was foreign and he was utterly clueless.

He moved the stone to check the book underneath, flipping through the pages curiously. Amber eyes indifferently skimmed through a page his finger landed on, curious to what contents the vague title held.

A romantic novel from the looks of it.

The words were needlessly descriptive, the dialogue a little confusing to understand. Such flowery language was a bit bold and the more he read, the more the imagery they tried to paint became vivid in his mind and—

Xiao quickly shut the book, his face warm as he neatly returned the book to its rightful place. Well, it was an interesting book to have in your possession, to say the least. He didn’t have much experience with what it described, but the erotic imagery the dialogue described still left his face a little flushed and brows furrowed as he huffed in indignance at his flustered state.

Mortals do such things? Well, he knew they did, but he was never one to look into it more since he had no reason to.

He had no experience in such intimate matters, nor did he pay much interest in them with his hands usually full on a daily basis. Yet, somehow the thought of you now caused a swirl of emotions inexperienced by him before. Or rather, if he did, he no longer remembered. New questions piled up in his mind.

He shook his head, practically wincing at the odd sensations that kicked him low in the gut as the heat rising high on his cheeks subsided.

“How bothersome,” Xiao muttered to himself with a sigh.

On that same train of thought, he glanced out the window. The sun was merely a whisper that remained as it tucked itself farther behind mountains and dipped below the horizon.

Gloved hands momentarily clenched by his sides, flexing to ease the small seed of doubt. Mortals were unpredictable and reckless, that much he was aware of. With a sigh he watched as the sky over Liyue settled into the tranquility of night.

Though night had fallen, there was still no sign of you returning.

And so, Xiao set off on his usual routine. Out he ventured to vanquish the scattered hotspots of evil activity that surfaced. Be it from subdued gods or his own karma, Xiao relentlessly made quick work of any and all evil.

It was his eternal duty, as bound by contract from the Geo Archon himself—this he knew. If anyone should have witnessed his swiftness as he worked solemnly, they would’ve noticed how he worked just a little harder to clear out any evil nearing your usual route home.

The moon rose high in the sky, a dusty blue as it cast soft light over Xiao’s masked form. His polearm jabbed into the ground and dissipated along with the yaksha mask he donned for battle. The roads that led back to Qingce Village were all cleared, yet still no sign of you.

Approaching the marsh under blue moonlight, his gloved hands created ripples in the calm surface. The reflection of his concerned eyes stared right back at him through the tumultuous ripples that distorted his reflection over playful waters.

Under the watchful eye of the moon, Xiao diligently washed away the impurities that remained on him from battle. Clear waters surrounding him became murky before clearing once again as the blood and grime was carried further down with the current. Xiao closed his eyes and allowed himself to bask under the moonlight, taking in the rare moment of tranquility.

And then it rang out, soft and clear like a wind chime dancing with the gentle breeze.

Adeptus Xiao.

Shrouded by darkness, he answered your summons. As the thin veil of dark entity surrounding him dispersed, he found himself next to a bridge. The waterfall behind him brought a refreshing breeze, and just beyond him he could see Bubu Pharmacy below as well as the harbor.

“You called,” Xiao inquired. “It’s fairly late.”

He wasn’t here to admonish you, though it sounded very much like it. With a playful grin, you smiled up at him from where you sat on the grass next to the bridge.

The way you carried yourself without a care in the world— it was almost endearing how you looked up at him with such fondness.

“Can I ask why you’re here of all places?”

Your nimble fingers continued their work on the flowers you had in your lap, and you almost looked away bashfully. “I wanted to gaze at the stars for a bit,” you admitted sheepishly. “I finished my errands earlier, but then I ran into Mister Zhongli from the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor and, well… The conversation went on for a while and we ended up here.”

Silently, Xiao took a seat next to you, eyeing the handful of glaze lilies that softly glowed on your lap.

“What did you talk about?” he inquired to fill the silence. He delicately twirled one of the glaze lilies between his gloved fingers.

“Oh… this and that,” you shrugged.

Xiao hummed in response, not wanting to pry into the conversation, until he felt the softness of petals brushing his forehead.

“Mister Zhongli… he showed me how to make this.” There was hesitation in your downcast eyes, and you peered up at him through your eyelashes. “Do you like it?”

“A crown of… glaze lilies,” Xiao noted slowly. Their soft fragrance was delicate and sweet, like the gentle presence of the moon. It reminded him of you. “I’m unfamiliar with mortal customs of exchanges. Is it an adeptal offering?”

You blinked, taken by surprise at the question before sputtering out in a fit of giggles.

“Oh– No, no! This is what we call a gift.”

Xiao furrowed his brows, taking in this vague description. “Hm… I see. What meaning does this gift have?”

You perched your chin on your finger, contemplating. The only ‘gifts’ adepti were familiar with were the offerings that few who went before them brought. Usually, an offering entailed the bargaining of a mortal’s wants and desires to come true. Selfish, wishes he was all too familiar with hearing often.

“Gifts are given to people you consider special,” you started. “To those people who are important to you, usually you put extra effort into the gift. Handmade gifts as well… embody special significance since they hold all the feelings poured into them to be given to your special person.”

The chirps of crickets and running water soothed over the momentary silence as he took in your explanation. Mortal customs were more emotionally driven than he once thought.

“I see. Then,” Xiao delicately tucked the glaze lily he held into your hair. “This is my small offering.”

The rose that dusted your cheeks as your grin lit up your features, it bloomed his chest with that foreign warmth. The weight of reciprocating the gesture without a second thought— he had just openly admitted to considering you a special person. It felt… right.

In the lateness of the cool night, you both sat side by side looking out at the display of glittering stars. He felt as your pulse would briefly quicken under his gloved hand whenever you stole a quick glance at him, and he would offer a gentle squeeze of reassurance in response. Curious, this human next to him— and yet he found himself enraptured by your simple presence.

Across the endless sky, you halted what you were idly chatting about as a speckle of light shot across the sky.

“A falling star… There’s rumors that making a wish on them will help it come true.” Xiao hummed in response, eyes closed in peaceful tranquility. “Hm…”

You pulled your knees closer to you as you contemplated your wish. Xiao watched you with one eye open, observing the way your features subtly scrunched up as you profoundly debated within you what your wish would be.

“So.”

“So?”

“What did you wish for?” Xiao asked quietly.

Mortal desires were usually the same. Wealth, power, lavish items— these wishes Xiao had heard of many times before. Yet—

“I wished…,” you scratched your cheek sheepishly. “I wished for a restful sleep.”

Your cheeks were quick to flush a deep crimson as you heard what sounded like a chuckle next to you. It dawned on you that you had never heard Xiao laugh until now. It was melodic, innocent.

“D-Don’t laugh!” you halfheartedly admonished with a playful huff. “Well, then— What’s your wish, Xiao?”

He pondered for a moment, closed his eyes and spoke soft as the flitting breeze.

“I wish to get to know you better.”

Perhaps he didn’t have all the right words at that moment, but he was bound to discover them sooner or later. Somehow, he was sure you would be the light that guided him the right way to go about these foreign feelings— feelings he was sure weren’t malignant, so he allowed them to persist.

These unsorted feelings for you... they weren’t getting in the way of anything. They were harmless, until proven otherwise.

[latte-fairytaekwoon]

𝐻𝑜𝑤 𝐴𝑡𝑒𝑒𝑧 𝑊𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝐴𝑠𝑘 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑂𝑢𝑡: 𝑁𝑜𝑛! 𝐼𝑑𝑜𝑙 𝐴𝑈

❥𝐴𝑟𝑡𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝐶𝑟𝑎𝑓𝑡𝑠 𝑆𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝐸𝑚𝑝𝑙𝑜𝑦𝑒𝑒: 𝐾𝑖𝑚 𝐻𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑗𝑜𝑜𝑛𝑔

As a college student, you usually end up having to do a lot of projects that require creativity and lots of paint.

That's how you ended up in an arts and crafts store.

You found Hongjoong behind the counter, finishing up his task of arranging the ribbons on the shelf.

He smiled at you and immediately put his task down.

"How may I help you this evening?"

Knows exactly what you'll need better than you.

Often recommends other materials or throws in a few creative suggestions of his own.

He's always asking you what they're for, he's genuinely curious about your assignments..and even more curious about you.

Sometimes you end up doing some of your posters with him right there on days where there's nobody else.

You purposefully began buying things you didn't even need just to have an excuse to see the blueberry haired male.

He doesn't mind, he likes your company, even if it's strange you keep buying the same red glitter everyday.

One day you came in, and he was excited to show you the new Valentine's Day cards that just arrived.

In particular, this really cute one that played a song you've never heard before but that asked in the end "Will you go out with me?"

You giggled. "It's so cute. Who thought of it?"

Hongjoong smiled even more, holding the card out to you. "I did......it's for you....so what do you say?"

❥𝐹𝑙𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑡: 𝑃𝑎𝑟𝑘 𝑆𝑒𝑜𝑛𝑔ℎ𝑤𝑎

You really love to gift flowers to your loved ones, feeling that it's a sweet way of saying you're thinking of them.

You frequented a lot of flower shops, but something about this particular one made you want to keep coming back...

And it wasn't just the hot employee behind the counter. Or his super sweet and flirty personality.

It was that and much much more.

You loved the cozy and intricate way the arrangements were always lined up.

They made it a point to change them every week, sort of giving the shop a fresh look each Sunday.

Seonghwa also knew specifically what type of flowers to suggest depending on what it was for.

White tulips for when you wanted to apologize to someone, Hydrangeas to show gratitude, and even Sunflowers to show love to your best friend.

It was always fascinating to hear him speak about what each flower represented.

Just as fascinating as watching him delicately put them together in beautiful bouquets and tie them with a ribbon.

One time you came in and he was very excited to show you a new bouquet he made.

"Ta da!" He pulled out a bouquet with lavender roses as the main focus.

"They're so beautiful Seonghwa! What do they mean?"

"They represented enchantment and love at first sight...ideal for a blossoming romance..."

He grinned as he held them out. "From me, to you."

❥𝑃𝑒𝑡 𝐺𝑟𝑜𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑟: 𝐽𝑒𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑌𝑢𝑛ℎ𝑜

Getting a chow chow puppy as a pet was no easy task.

Especially when their hair is extremely fluffy and in constant need of maintenance.

Fortunately for you, a nearby pet grooming shop opened up recently.

So you walked, pooch in your arms as you looked at the cozy scene in front of you.

"Hello, I'm Yunho and I'll be assisting you today. And whom do we have here?"

Your puppy instantly took a liking to him, which was rare since he was a big scaredy cat for a dog.

"If my baby trusts him, I guess I have nothing to worry about. "

You really didn't. Yunho was so friendly and knew how to handle dogs perfectly fine.

He was just as playful as them and was very careful when trimming their hair or nails.

So you felt absolutely at ease leaving your child for a few hours with him while you ran some errands or went grocery shopping.

"Hi baby. Were you a good boy today?" You came to pick up your pooch one day.

"Oh they were an absolute gem as always."

You were about to leave when Yunho said. "Hey Y/N...I actually have a dog of my own at home....and they could use a friend.."

"Oh? So you want to arrange a play date for them?" You asked.

He blushed and smiled shyly as he admitted. "Date for them and maybe....us too?"

❥𝐵𝑜𝑜𝑘 𝑆ℎ𝑜𝑝 𝐸𝑚𝑝𝑙𝑜𝑦𝑒𝑒: 𝐾𝑎𝑛𝑔 𝑌𝑒𝑜𝑠𝑎𝑛𝑔

Truthfully, Yeosang frightened you the first time you walked into the shop.

He just stared at you with a cold stare as he warned you to keep quiet in the place.

You definitely didn't want to get on his bad side.

So you just stuck to browsing the shelves, picking out the books you wanted and buying them.

Then after getting more brave, you took advantage of the tables and desks they had inside to either catch up on homework or read what you just purchased.

You just loved reading, especially poetry or sonnets.

You always got so lost in your book, you only realized what time it was because Yeosang tapped your shoulder.

"It's 5 minutes to closing. You should probably go home now."

It became a routine of coming to the shop right after school, curling up on the chair in a back, your nose stuck in a book.

Unbeknownst to you, Yeosang always watched you, took notice of the genres you were fond of. He'd be lying if he said he didn't find you cute and attractive.

You were just as mysterious and quiet as he was, and he was intrigued to get to know who you were.

One day, you came in as usual, waving to Yeosang who just sat by the register.

You sat in your usual spot and noticed a tiny folded letter on the corner. You opened it up and read its contents, a quote from one of your favorite novels:

"In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you."- Pride and Prejudice.

You looked up to find Yeosang peering at you from his own book, for the first time, a smile on his sculpture like face as he waited for your reaction.

❥ 𝐵𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑎: 𝐶ℎ𝑜𝑖 𝑆𝑎𝑛

Being the coffee addict you were, of course you had to try out the new shop that opened up.

The fresh scent of espresso filled your nostrils the moment you walked in and it was heavenly.

And the barista at the counter was pure eye candy.

And you soon found out he was sweeter than any cinnamon roll or cream Danish they sold there.

"May I interest you in any of our specialty drinks?"

But you were a simple person, you just wanted straight black coffee.

He seemed taken aback and somewhat disappointed at your choice.

But at least you weren't a picky customer that tried his patience.

So you just regularly came to get your straight espresso.

One day he asked "Can I please just try something?"

You couldn't say no to his little pout, so you let him.

You watched as he did your regular espresso shots and looked to be adding some type of cream.

He giddily went back to the counter and held it out to you.

There on the very top, he had created a heart out of latte foam...

And on the cup, he had written his phone number and added the words "call me ;) "

❥𝐷𝑎𝑦𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝐴𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑡: 𝑆𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑀𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑖

You had always been more than willing to help babysit your cousin during summer break.

You adored that child like none other.

But you had recently gotten a job and couldn't watch him all the time

So you opted for the nearby daycare center to help you when you had to work.

The first sight that greeted you was a tall young man who had tussled hair and paint staining his apron.

"Hello. I'm assistant Mingi. How can I help you today?" He greeted you both and then let out an 'ouch' when something hit him from the back.

Feeling safe with the environment, you began taking your cousin every other day to the center and picking him up after your shift ended.

You always saw Mingi there.

He usually helped your cousin with the homework assigned to him over break.

Or he was simply goofing around with him, it was quite endearing to see.

You were content to see the little boy make friends and break out of his little shell.

You came to pick him up as usual. "How was it today? Learned anything exciting?"

"I learned that Mingi thinks you're cute and has a crush on you." He snickered as he pointed to Mingi.

"Hey! Shhhh!! You promised not to say anything!" Mingi laughed nervously as he looked at you rather worrisome.

You blushed and smiled. "It's ok. They think you're cute too Mingi." Your cousin interjected, now exposing you and prompting you two to confess your feelings.

❥𝑃𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑒𝑟: 𝐽𝑢𝑛𝑔 𝑊𝑜𝑜𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑔

Having the world's biggest sweet tooth was a blessing and a curse.

And right now the biggest issue was finding a new pastry that you had not tried before.

But you had practically gone through all the bakeries in town, knew what they had to offer.

So you decided to stop by a very old bakery that you had not gone to in forever.

And you weren't joking when you said forever, the place had changed so much, you hardly recognized it.

You also didn't recognize any of the people working there, having been a regular before.

You looked through the assorted pastries on displays, hoping to find something to catch your interest.

"Hello there pretty one."

You were startled by the loud voice behind you. You turned to see a cute guy smiling at you.

"Were you looking for something in particular?"

You explained that you were looking for something new or special and his eyes instantly lit up.

He ushered you to follow him to the counter, where he pulled out a tray of peach shaped pastries.

"These are Italian peach cookies, meant to look like actual peaches. Try one and tell me they're not the best thing you've ever tried."

You ate one and your whole mouth was engaged. They were absolutely amazing. "They're so good. I love how sweet they are."

Not wanting to miss the opportunity, Wooyoung smirked. "If you like sweet things, how about going on a date with me?"

❥𝐴𝑟𝑐𝑎𝑑𝑒 𝐴𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑎𝑛𝑡: 𝐶ℎ𝑜𝑖 𝐽𝑜𝑛𝑔ℎ𝑜

Jongho was no strange face to you and you were no stranger to him.

He often worked part time at the local arcade during summer break.

You and your friends hung out there a lot after you guys got done with your respective jobs.

"Hey." "Hi." You both always shyly greeted each other like that for 3 years now, sometimes starting small conversations.

Your friends often rolled their eyes at you, telling you to work up the courage to ask him out.

His friends, and coworkers, were also trying to do the same to him.

"They're totally into you." But Jongho would only blush and brush it off as pure fiction.

One night, he noticed how someone came up to you and tried to hit on you.

You looked visibly uncomfortable and seemed to be wanting a way out of the situation.

When they leaned in too close for your liking, and his, he marched right over there.

"Is there a problem here?" He made it a point to flex his arm muscles, making the person apologize and just scurry off.

"Are you ok?" He asked, wanting to make sure you were fine, which you said you were.

He was gonna go back to the counter, but he had to ask."Y/N...would you like to go out on a date sometime-"

"Yes!" You immediately answered, not letting him finish, suddenly feeling awkward for sounding so desperate.

But Jongho only smiled. "Don't worry, I would have done the same if you had asked me out."

Gifs not mine. Credit goes to their respective owners.

[vivwrite]

With the Ghost of You(When the Sun Goes Down We All Get Lonely)

Maybe he’s just imagining, maybe its just another fantasy he pictures, but Luke seems semitransparent, a halo casting around his figure, holy, angelic.

“The night was very long but it didn’t seem long to the Snow Man; he stood lost in his own pleasant thoughts, and they froze until they crackled.”

or: Ashton meets Luke in a library, and the story tells itself. (AO3 link👇)

ooookay so my first fic for lashton and 5sos . Thanks for reading it. And tbh I'm extremely nervous because English's not my first language. So sorry for the mistakes lol.

One thing: I read Marquez's work in my first language, and I can't find the English version of it, so I translated the title and first sentence to English. There might be a mistake so sorry again lol

-

Ashton has always loved the library.

It isn't the school library, which is always so grand, demure, solemn, much like a robot- no, too cold and inhuman.

What he prefers, rather, is a smaller one run by a group of retired professors. It seems determined to hide itself in the northeastern corner of the campus, made up of three small but never crowded reading rooms. No matter when he walks through the doors be can find lamps shading yellowish circles on wooden tables, rows and rows of bookshelves up to the ceiling, and seats, beside small windows where the sunlight outside leaks in just perfectly on sunny afternoons.

To him it's always a getaway, a secret hiding place from the stressed and sometimes too fast school life, the only friend he can turn to when he isn't that enthusiastic about life, a comfort when facing another rock bottom. He's already studying a too rational subject; he'd love spending some time being just sensitive in here.

He'd spend hours and hours wandering among the bookshelves, picking one when he feels like it, skimming a few pages before deciding to read on or not. By doing this he feels just like a boy on the beach, amazed by an emerald or sapphire brought on shore by waves from time to time- what matters isn't just the book he gets. It's more of the communicating, the chore he gets to strike.

-

Unsatisfactory experiment result, loads of homework, a long and tiresome discussion with the professor about his research orientation- which he thinks is too early for him to consider, but she insists that as he has already got postgraduate recommendation he needs to consider it fully right now- and Ashton finds himself wandering in the library again, walking aimlessly, not for finding books, just to feel the connection.

It is a strange feeling, really, to be connected with books. Most of them on the shelves just seem to be books as they are, silent, quiet, lifeless. But, well, maybe it’s just his imagination- but some particular ones seem to be staring back- especially that one.

His hand automatically moves to pick that book out of the column.

It is quite delicate, a hard back small enough to be held on one hand, the title shimmering under the dim lights.

Ann’s Diary.

He remembers reading it in his teen years.

“Sorry, but that's mine.”

Ashton springs from the bookshelf. The book slips straight from his hand, hitting the wooden floor with a thud, as a boy rounds up from the other side.

He's tall- even taller than Ashton. And quite young, a freshman or sophomore, maybe. He is staring at Ashton from behind those strands of blonde, messy curls falling off to his face, piercing pale blue eyes met with his hazel ones, and that made his breath hitch for a second- although those eyes are definitely showing dismay.

"I... I don't really understand." He tries his best to cover all the confusion and fear- dealing with strangers always makes him uncomfortable (although he can manage it by acting cheerful and shit), especially with a pissed one.

But the boy seems determined to stay silent and on edge. He just flips the first page open, gesturing to a mark on it.

It's a two-word initial. Must have written quite a long time ago, as the lines are a bit blurry and the ink has faded into light gray. But he still recognizes the word, written in Italic, reading "L.H.".

Wait. The librarians never said that there is a place for personal collections.

Before he can ask about it the boy swirls around and walks off, leaving alone a dumbfounded Ashton.

-

He goes to ask the librarians, then the curator(because the librarians know nothing), about books with a L. H. written on it.

"This is a long story, darling, but it's late." Mrs. Hemmings' voice is collected and calm as always, but Ashton can tell that there is something as her eyes are a bit dull, "Maybe the other day."

-

His favorite spot in the library is a small table tucked behind seven rows of bookshelves of English literature(yes, he counts how many bookshelves are there), just besides a small window. Others rarely find it- unless they're crazy for novels by Adeline Virginia Woolf or they're just too bored to do anything else.

That's why he chooses here- There's no disruption, no noise, only the random shuffle for a person searching for books and pages being turned. Being alone.It suits him.

The sound of a chair pulling broke the silence,ripping him from the novel plot- someone has slipped into the chair opposite of him.

Well, fuck.

Ashton lifts his head from the pages, slight agitation rising from his chest, which shifted to utter surprise as his eyes meet a strangely familiar shade of blue.

Before he could say anything the boy blurts out , "Please... I want to explain."

For a moment Ashton just sits there, staring. Thoughts cloud his mind, tangling messily, laying conflicted- He was so senseless but now he seems so sincere! He won't trust his own voice right now, afraid that something stupid pops up all of a sudden. So he decides to just nod, a silent permit for the stranger to go on.

The boy clears his throat, looking a little nervous, "About the incident yesterday... I'm sorry. Got into something stupid and was shouted at all day long- but, I mean, fuck, even that isn't the reason I became such a jerk to you. I'm not trying to defend myself, but please don't be angry... Oh my fucking god, I don't know what I'm saying." He groans, pushing a hand through his curls, messing it up a bit.

Well, isn't that adorable.

Ashton hears himself chuckling, "I understand, no worries. Everyone has a bad day, don't we?"

He watches as the boy visibly relaxes with the reassuring words, a smile slipping on on his face, "Yeah, I guess. Thanks... Um, what's your name, by the way?"

Oh, right.

"Ashton."

"Thanks, Ashton." the boy's smile widens, "I'm Luke."

So the initial does belong to him. The L. H..

It's not until silence falls that Ashton realizes he may have stared at those sea- blue, sincere eyes for a bit too long. Hastily he ducked his head into his novel, flushed, trying to pick up the stream of Woolf's consciousness again.

"Virginia Woolf?" Luke's voice cuts in, and to Ashton's surprise- filled with pure interest.

Everyone else just thinks he's crazy and nerdy fancying Woolf's works.

"You like her?" He can't help but feel hope lighting up.

"One of my favorite!" Luke's literally buzzing with excitement, like a puppy finally getting some fresh air after a long lockdown in the house, "Never found another person to discuss, though. Everyone just say it's too hard to understand and shits."

And with that their conversation swiftly shifts into a heated discussion about stream of consciousness novels, to Woolf, then Proust, Faulkner, all way up the history, even to Freud- and Ashton finds, surprisingly, that they can strike a chord in every part of it- and the way Luke talks relentlessly, smiling so broad, eyes shining and hands waving- tells him he holds the same feelings, same thought, same passion.

His throat's sore- he hasn't talked that much in like, forever- but that doesn't stop him from being smug like an idiot when he leaves the library.

He's been alone for a long time, But it seems that he has finally found someone.

-

He starts to spend more time in the library- first just to do some more leisure reading and writing stuff there, then he starts bring his textbooks and laptop there to finish his homework, then even starts to stay there as long as he neither has classes nor needs to go back to the dorm. Yes, he admits it's kind of strange one's never tired of a library- especially that he has already ploughed through every part since he first stepped into it- but he knows why- a cute boy with ocean blue eyes and a smile is always there now.

It has become a routine. Luke accompanies him every day, sometimes already halfway through a novel when Ashton arrives, while other times Luke shows up merrily when he’s buried in the middle of projects and homework, bringing in a sense of cool breeze and fresh air before peeking over and ushering him to take a break(well sometimes the work has to be done, but Luke’s so sweet that he can’t refuse). Their time spent together is usually quiet, Ashton either typing away on his laptop or on a book, while Luke is immersed in his own novel, just piping up from time to time to discuss the plot or asking about the author. Topic wanders- books, school life, bands, music (seriously, how many same hobbies do they hold?).

They have went through so many fields- Stream of Consciousness to Science Fiction, Agatha Christie to Akudagawa, Shakespeare's Sonnet to Samuel Ullman's prose, but the list still seems far from ending. To Ashton's surprise Luke have read most of the writers not only by representative works but also less- famous chapters- many of which he only knows but has never read. He had thought he's an English Literature student, but Luke amazed him again by saying he studies Math actually- the same amazement occurred again when Luke discovered the chemistry paper Ashton's working on.

He can’t recall the last time he felt this content -Well, he can’t even remember when he has become so silent and depressed, on edge and under pressure.

But seems Luke has already become the solution.

-

Ashton sighs, recoils back in his chair, takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes- He never learns the lesson of not leaving your homework to the deadline, fuck it.

Besides him Luke rises his head, a slight smile tugging at his lips, "You finally done?"

He just groaned, eyes shut."I wonder how the fuck you can even finish your homework. You never seem to be doing anything related to math."

"Maybe that's because all can be done quickly if I want."

Smug idiot.

"Wait till you're a post graduate and you'll know what's torture."

"Will quit right after four years, then."

Ashton scowls, cracks open one eye and spares a hand to flip Luke off, to which he ducks away (he always does) and giggles, "You're of no fucking help."

"What do you want me to do, then?"

"Don't know. Tell me a story. Or just read something. As long as I'm not thinking my head off about the synthesis route of some stupid fucking molecule I'll be fine."

He heard a light chuckle, "Aye- Aye, Captain, here we go."

The sound of pages turning, Luke clearing his throat, then,"'It's so bitterly cold that my whole body crackles!' Said the Snow Man."

Ashton lifts an eyebrow wearily,"Now you're telling me an Andersen's Fairy Tale?"

"Shh. Shut up and be a good boy. It's my favorite one." then, "This wind can really blow life into you! And how that glaring thing up there glares at me!" He meant the sun; it was just setting..."

Luke reads on, and Ashton finds himself relaxing, sinking into the familiar tale he’s read hundreds of times as a toddler, following the thread of the story, recalling the dialogue, how the Snow Man calls the Old Watchdog “my friend”.

Luke's voice fades for a brief second, then returns, slightly changed, softer, “Then the Snow Man looked, and he really saw a brightly polished thing with a brass stomach and fire glowing from the lower part of it. A very strange feeling swept over the Snow Man...”

Here comes the part- tracing the memory he can still feel it, the confusion when toddler him read to this part, then realization and excitement for no reason when he picked it up again, just for one time, before he come to this city.

He thought a new place brings a new life. That he would finally leave that old black and white town. He thought he knew what life was all about, what love was.

So ambitious, so young, so dumb.

Ashton blinks furiously, shaking the thoughts flooding up away from his mind. He’s here, in his favorite place, with an adorable boy who keeps his company, reading a tale to him. He’s fine, they’re fine, it’s fine.

His eyes lands on Luke.

The small lamp on the table is tilted slightly, soft golden light casting gently down on the boy’s right side, splitting a silhouette, leaving the left side of his face in the shadow. Curls falls off his face, dangling. His long, thick eyelashes turns to an almost-silver color under the light, trembling slightly, dancing altogether with the little particles floating in the air, as those blue eyes, clear as the sunny day but still deep as the sea, moves with each line, each word on the page. Maybe he’s just imagining, maybe its just another fantasy he pictures, but Luke seems semitransparent, a halo casting around his figure, holy, angelic.

“The night was very long but it didn’t seem long to the Snow Man; he stood lost in his own pleasant thoughts, and they froze until they crackled.”

The story’s still going, coming to an end, and Luke’s voice, a little raspy now, is merely above a whisper, like if he tells it any louder the fragile, beautiful tragedy will be destroyed.

“Come out, dear sun! Come often, skies of blue!

And nobody thought any more about the Snow Man.”

And with that Silence falls, a sad love story coming to its end.

For a while they just sits, looking into each others eyes.

The atmosphere’s changed, he knows it, can feel it. It’s a brand new feeling, one he has never felt, the rising urge, the need, the want, to get closer to the boy in front of him, to truly know him, to be with him, go through everything with him, feel the same with him, to like him, love him.

Hesitantly, he reaches out, slowly, hand trembling.

For a moment Luke seems to be on the same page with him, eyes fluttering shut and automatically leaning in, but suddenly he gasps, like being reminded of something he has long forgotten, and recoils back sharply, Ashton’s hand touches nothing but air.

Why.

“It’s late, Ash.” Luke whispered, not looking him in the face, “Maybe the other day.”

-

Something’s changed between them.

Not that the intimacy has changed- no. They still meets at the very table, reading and chatting, Luke still listens to his bickering about homework and fucking lab life- but something’s there, like The Sword of Damocles, hanging dangerously, but both just choose to ignore it.

Luke’s still Luke, sweet and gentle, cute and caring. But he’s somewhat quieter then before- he’s still chatting when it comes to their hobbies, but he always stops abruptly after the topic’s over, cutting the conversation.

It’s only that Ashton’s confused, confused about fucking all of it, confused about why Luke refused his invitation, why Luke takes a step back while he finally decides to step forward. It’s like an invisible barrier is built, all things suddenly turns indefinite without reason.

He hate it. He fucking hate all of it.

It’s only worse that he’s stuck in the library right now- it’s pouring outside, he’s left his umbrella at home, his jacket has no hat, and Luke’s oddly quiet.

He’s reading, more of scanning automatically, mind crowded with uncomfortable thoughts, screaming at him to at least find out what’s wrong with Luke(he don’t know how when they’re in this awkward state), to pluck up his courage and try again(well look what a coward he becomes when it comes to pining), to get this mess sorted (to which he has absolutely no fucking idea).

Fucking shitty day.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed- the sky is darkening, pure black seeping into pale gray, as the window starts to mirror the lighted lamp, making it unable to see the outside.

He hears a sigh, then the sound of book shut.

He can see those clear blue eyes from the corner of his eye, a little dim than usual, like the eyes of a sad puppy, and that almost break his heart. He wants to get close to the boy again, tell him it’s okay, he’s here, no need to keep those shit all alone and stuff- but instead he stares intently at the screen, so hard that his eyes starts to water, cursing himself inwardly.

A pause. Then, “Ash.”

Ashton gives himself a slap in the head, then puts on his most cheery face, “Yeah?”

Luke shakes his head furiously, “Don’t... Don’t act in front of me. I know you’re not well these days, and it’s all because of,” He waves his hand impatiently, then pulls his curls, casting out another deep sigh, “Yes, I... feel there is something I need to explain.”

And again he finds himself lost of words, exactly like the last time Luke made an explanation. But Luke’s acting different- strange. He’s frowning, shifting in his seat, hands tightly clasped together, teeth tugging at his lower lip, eyes filled with... fear.

Luke has never gone frightened in front of him.

“Hey, hey.” He reaches out, trying to grab Luke’s hand, but the boy squealed and pulls away abruptly again- so he just sighs, being as comforting as possible, “It’s okay, Luke. All okay.”

Finally the boy seems to have made the decision. He points to the book he just finished, which is lying on the table now, “The second short story.”

“You’re making me a puzzle through Marquez? Typical.” Ashton picks up the book, checking the writer. He’s trying to make a joke, but it came out weak and not funny at all, as Luke just sighs again and rests his head in his hands.

“I don’t know how to say it, so.” God, he hates how Luke’s voice sounds, all hurt and in pain.

“Luke, I mean, I’m not forcing you, but you know you can tell me everything-” panic’s rising, and he feels the urge, that they’re coming to the crossroads-

“Um, Ashton?”

He’s never hated life- the approaching librarian as well- more than now.

“Yes?”

She comes to stand beside him, a hand on his shoulder, “It’s ten now and we’re closing in five minutes. You need an umbrella?”

“Um, just a minute. We have something to discuss. I promise it’ll be quick.” He gestures to the seat across the table, where he knows Luke’s sitting.

He expects a nod, but her face is puzzled, coated with a layer he can’t read, “We? But Ashton, there’s no one across the table.”

“What?”

His head whips around, so quick that he thinks he must have strained his neck. He closes his eyes, then opens them again- yes, Luke is sitting right there, in the chair, totally frozen besides the nervous act just now- but he’s there.

“But...”

She only shakes her head, “You’re the only one here all day, Ashton. No one else feels like coming on such a stormy weather.”

With that she leaves.

Ashton turns back to Luke frantically, “What the hell-”

He’s met with a stony face and watery blue eyes. Luke seems defeated and in total grief.

“Tell me, Luke. Tell me!” Panic overcomes him, his voice three octaves higher than usual. It can’t be real, it’s just his fantasy, things like this can’t happen in real life...

Luke holds out his trembling hand, and very slowly, reaches over, linking it with Ashton’s.

A wave of icy cold rises up- from his feet up to his spine, overwhelming him, drowning him, making his head dizzy, the world turning, the sense-

The sense of not being touched.

Luke’s hands go straight through his.

“Because they can’t see me.” The silhouette figure whispers, voice barely audible.

“I’m not as real as you see me, Ash.”

-

The next three days come and go like a blurry scene.

Ashton remembers it just vaguely- he remembers fleeing out of the library, running alone the dark campus path till his chest burns and every breath becomes a burden. He remembers the rain, pouring down and hitting him relentlessly, flowing off his face, mixed with some warm fluid he didn’t dare to think about. He remembers walking back to the dorm, all worn out and broken down, throwing himself on his bed and crying till weariness finally came over. He slept, then woke, then ushered himself into sleep again, like only in dreamland he could forget all of it, until he was really not able to sleep anymore.

He pushes himself up from his bed and stumbles into the bathroom, eyeing himself in the mirror. He looks like shit, even worse than a hangover, purple bags hanging from his eyes and hair sticking in all directions. He sighs, turning to walk from the bathroom, cursing as he nearly trips over something on the ground- but the word died halfway in his throat.

It’s that book. The Collection of Marquez’s Short Stories. He must have thrown it on the floor that night.

Ashton swallows, hesitant- he’s not that sure if he’s ready to face it, that memory, that typical boy- but his hand does it for him, already flipping through the pages.

The second work, what is the second work......

He sees the title.

Someone Messed up the Roses.

He takes in a breath.

Today’s Sunday, the rain’s stopped, and I want to pick some red and white roses to my grave...

His eyes is welling up, but he reads on, about the story of a boy’s ghost and his sister, a wish never coming true, a story of love and regret.

There’s a note, written in Italic, at the corner of the page, end of the story, black ink suggesting it’s freshly written.

You have given me the happiest moments my whole life and beyond life, Ash. It might be like a cheesy novel, but I love you and I’m sorry.

Luke Hemmings

He’s crying before he knows it.

“Fuck, Luke.”

-

The scenery outside the window’s changing, fading from concrete jungle to fields and woods. On the end of the road, a hill’s approaching.

He’s sitting in the bus, hand clutching at Marquez’s Collection and a piece of paper- a piece of paper Mrs. Hemmings gave him, showing a route to the place he wants to go.

The vehicle stops and Ashton stands, hopping off the bus, going for the iron door just beside the muddy road.

He pushes it open, the rust on it sticking on his hands, the scent of soil coming up to greet him. As he keeps walking stones appears- delicately carved, yet lifeless.

An oak. That’s what she told him- an oak beside him.

He lifts his head, looking around, and found it- an oak, already tall, rising from the soil, pointing straight to the pale-gray sky.

Uncertainty and fear echoes in the back of his mind, trying to stop him, as he just goes on.

He’s already experienced lost once. He doesn’t want to lose it again.

He stops in front of the oak, hesitates before sitting down, cross- legged.

“I don’t know what to say, Luke.”

He stops, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“A part of me is telling me to forget all this, deny it, wave it off as a dream. It’s all just a fantasy, something I pictured, and I’m supposed to, I should...”

“But, Luke, every minute spent with you is so real.”

“They would say I’m crazy, everyone will; I mean, who would believe a person falling in love with someone already gone- and supposed to be in the state of nonexistence? But... you’re like someone I finally found, a person in this world who could understand me... Who I’ve searched for my whole life.”

He sniffs, blinking away the tears welling up, “You know, during my years alone I’ve learned about not to expect, not to hope; but you... you bring the difference, like a light suddenly cracking in. I mean... if you’re there, if you’re really there... please, just please, give me something to hope, to wish for, and don’t just go away like that.”

“Because I’m so lonely,” He finally let it slip, “So lonely, Luke.”

A soft wind picks up, leaves rustling, like an answer. But as he listens on everything just stays silent, like they’ve always been forever. No silhouette, no soft voice belonging to a boy.

The sky’s getting dark, so he just pushes himself up and leaves.

-

He continues with the life. Attending classes, finishing homework, finally deciding his research orientation. His professor says something about “A big step” and “I know you can do it”, which he just brushes it all off, not truly listen.

He continues to go to the library- but not sitting in that very table anymore, and just stays there for less then an hour each day. He’s read Someone Messed Up the Roses again and again, like all of the other works have suddenly lost their attraction to him.

The pages are all dog-eared and worn out, but he just goes on with it, flipping the pages, ready to read the short story for like the twentieth time.

“I wouldn’t treat a book like that, you know.”

He jumps from his seat, eyes widening, turning around.

Someone turns up from behind the bookshelf.

Messy curls, sea- blue eyes, the lips curling up in a slight smile.

It’s like a dream. He’s in a dream.

Like he can read Ashton’s mind, the blonde walks straight up to him and extends his arms, wrapping him into an embrace.

He feels warmth.

Still no feelings of being touched, the figure still semitransparent, but warmth.

“It’s real. Don’t doubt it.” Luke’s voice is soft, reassuring, barely above a whisper.

Just like he remembers.

The warmth doesn’t fade, like when he’s standing under the afternoon sun, closing his eyes, feeling the hope coming up.

He finally believes it- tears are sliding down his face before he knows it.

“Luke."

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

Teeth Marks, Empty Nest, Picking Ritual | Writing Update

Hey People of Earth!

It’s been a hot minute since I last wrote a Moth Work writing update, and so here we are again for the final countdown! Today’s post will be covering everything related to chapter 12, 13, and 14. Let’s start with Teeth Marks, which I wrote probably sometime in February.

Teeth Marks marks the third part of Moth Work, called Wings, and the first chapter back in Harrison’s POV. I honestly can’t remember much of the writing process as it’s been a while, so let’s dive straight into the scene breakdown!

Scene A: 

We start in the doorway of Eliza’s apartment where Harrison stands shook because a) his boi Lonan has answered it (scandal) and his mother, who he has been estranged from for the last four years, is also in this apartment (EXTRA scandal). Eliza ushers Harrison inside (and this is probably the only *nice* interaction they ever have, spoiler alert!)

Harrison is very shook, and also a little angry, and also a little confused! He doesn’t know why his mother is here, and doesn't understand why Lonan wouldn’t contact him to tell him she is here.

Him and Eliza get into a bit of a scuffle where Eliza is protective of Lonan and is like “who are you mate” and Harrison’s like hahahHA pardON. This leads to Lonan kicking them both out even tho this ain’t even his house!

Scene B:

We now move to the stairwell right outside Eliza’s apartment where she and Harrison have been sitting in awkward silence! Harrison notices she’s wearing his guardian angel necklace (which Lonan mistakenly took back in chapter 6).

This scene is instrumental in setting up how these two interact, which in short, is not! fun! for! either! They try to be civil but can’t help but be protective over Lonan for different reasons. Eliza because they are now sort of in a relationship, and Harrison because hahaha he’s been there, and also because Eliza is Lonan’s father’s ex! Why!

Lonan interrupts this conversation and him and Harrison have a lil private moment even tho Eliza is standing right there aahaha. Eliza leaves which prompts Lonan to go after her, and we end with Harrison all alone in the stairwell like a proper sad boi.

Excerpts:

I previously wrote some mean things about this chapter and am editing it out cuz we tryna be positive! Here’s some tender romance because why not! For context, Harrison has asked Eliza how much she knows about the nature of the boys’ relationship (she knows nothing!!)

He could tell her the truth. About the polaroids left back in Boston. What it felt like to kiss him underwater. What it felt like to dance with him, his clumsy instep. What it felt like to trace each notch of his ribs in the off moments he’d sleep and how wonderful it was, to touch the places his hunger would go. 

Some more romance because yesss:

He pretends they’re alone at the cabin, somewhere on the water, sharing a sleeve of crackers, looking at the moon like it’s the other’s iris, somewhere where constellations read less like hieroglyphics and more like sonnets. 

Let us move onto chapter 13, Empty Nest!

Scene A:

Harrison sits alone at the dinner table watching a TV show in a language he doesn’t speak. His mother interrupts this *chillin* and they get into a heated conversation.

This ends badly for Harrison, to which Lonan (who is presumably arguing with Eliza in her bedroom) comforts him and yeets the two of them outta that apartment! Knight in shining armour babyyyy

Scene B:

Lonan takes Harrison to chapter nine’s beautiful place (the cove).

They chat about their (fallen) relationship and Lonan + Eliza’s relationship that is apparently now flourishing (hahah it actually isn’t)

This turns romantical very fast!!! I am guilty of self-indulgence!!

Excerpts:

EDIT: I originally had an edit in here saying I didn’t have the mental spoons to edit this chapter which is why I wouldn’t share a lot of excerpts! This was very true haha, as I was amidst the worst mental health week I’ve had in years, but guess! who! tried! to! edit! anyway! This obviously was not the best idea and I pushed myself too hard. This led to me doing some crying and beyond that, a decision to take a few days off of writing (despite the fact that I didn’t want to). I’m feeling great now which I’m so grateful for, but just a note! Anyhow!!

This excerpt makes me laugh because it gives me “lonely man sitting on his porch in the prairies” vibe:

No one eats together. Lonan and Suzanna have already taken their pick, and Eliza eats in her room. Harrison hasn’t seen Lonan since he followed Eliza’s empty trail back into the apartment, and he hears him now, between the drone of infomercials and advertisements on the Spanish TV station he doesn’t even understand. Coming from her room, he can picture him, the way Lonan argues, competitive like he’s trying to win something. Suzanna sits on the balcony, maybe hiding a smoke, or something more ridiculous, new age, like an essential oil pen. Ribbons of grey luminescing in the neon lights. Maybe it’s more accurate to say Harrison eats alone. 

This is the excerpt that I had a breakdown editing lmaooo I think it’s cute tho!!

Somewhere better is a beach. Hidden in a cove, the stones arched over seafoam. In the moonlight, sand glitters, water trills, a night owl in the distance wails. Lonan leads him to the cove’s heart, a bullet of clearing that reveals constellations neither recognize. Lonan’s brought a basket with him, unfolds the checked blanket across the shore. Harrison sits first, and observes as Lonan travels the cove’s perimeter, collecting driftwood as he goes. He stacks them into a pyramid at the shore’s lip, pulls out a lighter.

He starts the fire easily, cups the flame like it’s a jittering organism, coaxes it until it expands. The flame tints his jaw gold, glares in his eyes so they look like blue fire. The night halos around ­Lonan, burnishes the cove walls, turns the sand into a mirage. As Lonan nurses the fire, Harrison traces his face, the violet impasto around his eye. Lonan has always looked like a masterpiece to him, damp black hair that almost looks navy blue, a smile so subtle, it’s almost acquired. He holds the fire so it toasts his chin, his focus a delicate, paternal thing.

Picking Ritual is chapter 14 of the book! I wrote this during reading break, and it’s one of my faves a) because of the title and b) because Harrison and Eliza FIGHT (I’m here for the tea).

Scene A:

Lonan and Harrison get back from their self-care-gone-romantical escapade to drunk Eliza creepily sitting in the dark!! Harrison’s mother has left, which Eliza uses as cruel ammo (don’t we love her)!

This is where we really get to see Eliza’s other side as she gets gaslighty as a response to Harrison’s very true callouts

Scene B:

Later, Eliza may or may not purposefully leave her bedroom door open while mildly unholy matters occur that’s all I’m gonna say about that!!!

Scene C:

Eliza leaves her room to “get some orange juice” (she’s trying to get a rise out of Harrison, which works). They roast each other endlessly until Harrison asks her to play a game with him.

Scene D:

This game is a game of cards, which is actually Harrison choosing four cards (king of spades = Lonan’s father, queen of hearts = Eliza, the joker = Lonan, and a jack = Harrison) so he can learn more about each one he chooses for her.

This is where the chapter title comes from!

Excerpts:

The following is a self-roast because my house does all the following (besides magnets on ALL four corners of dishcloths, there’s currently just one. ;) Lonan in this scene is Fiona in that scene in Shrek 2 where Shrek and King Harold are arguing over dinner (CW: there’s a description here that could be potentially triggering for self-harm!).

Suzanna is gone when they get back to Eliza’s apartment. No jacket on the coat hook. No shoes on Eliza’s straw-woven welcome mat. The kitchen has been picked over, each plate, fork, back in its strangely correct place. Eliza keeps her cutlery in jars, and her pans in the oven, her dish cloths magnetted to the fridge by all four corners, a pristineness that feels chemical.

Just as he’s about to comment on it, a light from the living area flicks on, and underneath sits Eliza, paging through a book in the dark. Spots like wine stains on her cheeks shine glassy under the harsh lightbulb.

“She has a place twenty minutes from here. By the public gardens,” she says, running her fingernail against the ribbed spine of the hardcover. Harrison can’t make out the title. When he stares blankly at her, examining the patches on her skin until he’s memorized of their surface area, she clears her throat and shuts the book. “Your mother?”

“I know,” he says.

“That your mother has a place twenty minutes from here?”

“That you were referring to my mother.”

“So you didn’t know?”

ugh I love Harrison and Eliza arguing it’s my fave dynamic:

Eliza stands, and smooths the silk of her night dress, though one crease continues to bunch. She folds her hand into a fist, and brings it to her mouth, biting on her knuckles as she paces. Harrison and Lonan watch her, and Lonan’s about to step toward her when she nods and directs her gaze straight at Harrison. “Did that upset you?” she asks, peeling a sliver of skin up between her teeth, letting it snap back. “The way I spoke of your mother.”

“I don’t care about anything you have to say.”

Oof oof tensions be RISING:

Lonan knocks on Eliza’s door a half hour later and doesn’t come back out. Harrison watches the shut door like he can break through it from the couch, how heavy it sits in its frame like they’ve taken turns smearing caulking in its seams.

The nightglow decolours his chin, his eyes, and he stares at the stars as he did an hour ago with Lonan. He touches his lips, hoping something divine will reappear on his fingers, something divine enough to anoint himself with. Nothing does, of course, but he tries, dappling each groove of his mouth. 

Here’s some Eliza being Eliza :)

He should tell her to buy some curtains. The sliding door’s glass opens to her balcony where his mother stood, pouring onto the busy street below her apartment complex. He can almost perfectly replicate the image of his mother with just his fingertip, a familiarity of her unknown, but unconsciously memorized by him. Suzanna has traded her only pair of shoes—a dingy set of floral flip-flops—for boots with silver zippers, steel toes, heels perfected by a designer she has a connection to. He thinks of his mother with sour precision, a sugary glumness that makes his mouth heavy.

He still wears the angel Lonan re-fastened around his neck and examines it against the belly of the two-seater Lonan once slept on.

She’s lost a stone from where he threw it, almost unnoticeably in the corner where her wings meet her back. He runs his finger over the empty spot, a nearly undetectable groove, and wonders how difficult it would be to find it in the tooth of Eliza’s hardwood.

Just as he’s prepared to get up and find out, the heavy door jars open. Wider than he’s expecting, so he can see Lonan from the couch. Arranged against a pillow, his hair disappearing into the dark wood of Eliza’s bedhead. His eyes closed, a tremor that rocks through his forehead every few seconds. And then quickly, Eliza shuffling through the opening. She wears a kimono patterned with koi fish, the fabric rustling against her bare thighs as she enters the kitchen.

Harrison watches her through his eyelashes, her half-up hairdo falling toward her face, the flash of skin pale, like the peel of the moon.

She grabs a glass he washed and fills it from the sink. Once a bulb forms across the surface, she tips it to her lips, and swallows deliberately.

Harrison watches as she checks the sink for unwashed dishes she knows aren’t there. As she adjusts a placement on her table that doesn’t need adjusting. As she spins herself on her toes around the kitchen island, her kimono splaying so he sees flashes of her thighs again. She dances like this back to her bedroom, where she sets her water glass on the dresser, and keeps the door wide open. 

I can’t not share this part I apologize there is some spice but also Harrison’s iconic Gay (TM) takedown at the end brings me so much joy:

Eliza exits the room a half hour later, except this time, doesn’t dance. Still, she steps carefully, her toes taut as she patters against the floorboards. Harrison watches her with his arms crossed, and stays like that, even when they make eye contact.

She startles and re-adjusts her kimono, so the clip of her skin disappears. She’s combed her hair since she and Lonan finished, and it sits gauzy over her forehead.

“Have you ever thought of buying a deadbolt?” he says, watching carefully as she turns and grabs a glass from a cabinet.

The refrigerator thrills when she opens it, a wash of gaudy tungsten yellowing her face. She sucks on her lip as she pulls out a bottle of orange juice, glugging a cupful into her mouth first, and then into a glass. 

“A deadbolt,” she says, a lightness in her voice—false innocence. “Why?”

“I’ve heard good things. Security. Privacy. You live alone, don’t you?”

She juts the orange juice to her lip fast, her chin bucking like she’s taking a shot. “I do.”

“You’re planning on keeping it that way?”

Eliza drains the last of the orange juice and rests the glass in the sink. She flicks on the tap so a stream splashes into its mouth like somersaults, diluting the juice until the glass cleans.

“There must be someone,” Harrison elaborates. He shifts, so his legs hang off the couch’s edge. The hardwood is cold, and for a moment, he feels like he’s stepping on water. “You’re seeing people, aren’t you? You live in Las Vegas. Good job. Decent apartment.”

Eliza shakes off the wet glass and sets it on the drying rack. “Are you interested?”

“I’m gay, but thanks. How does that work, anyway? Dating you. Would I send in an application? Self-addressed stamped envelope and all? Email?”

ugh more iconic Harrison I love him:

Harrison’s eyes focus on the lip balm and he imagines Lonan putting it there, his finger moving across her mouth and then down, like an anointment. “Isn’t that such a coincidence, then? You’re so selective, yet you manage to date two members of the same family.”

Her smile fades. Eliza clucks her tongue and wipes her mouth quickly with the back of her hand. Thoughtlessly, she refills the clean glass with more orange juice, and only realizes her mistake after the liquid sits precisely at the rim of the cup.

“Shit,” she says, wringing her hand out. “Shit.”

“I’ll drink it,” he says, and is already up and at the kitchen island before she puts another hand on the glass. Eliza almost scowls, but chews on her gums when she catches herself. She slides the glass across the granite, and a blip of orange juice jitters onto the surface. Harrison dabs his pinky in it and sucks it into his mouth. “I want to ask you a favour.”

“I’m not doing anything for you.”

He puts a hand against the fridge before she can move past him, and Eliza sighs, weaves her arms haughtily over her chest. “Cards.” The fridge rumbles to life under his fingertips, and Eliza jumps. “Play a game with me,” he says.

Sharing because of Harrison’s roast at the end, it’s really just one of those days:

Eliza’s a good shuffler. Easily, she dices the cards, the hard split of their edges when he usually shuffles almost non-existent. He’s only ever met one other person who can shuffle like her—his mother.

Harrison sips the orange juice as she shuffles the deck. In all truth, he doesn’t need the cards to be shuffled—he knows exactly which ones he needs. But her ease intrigues him, and he can’t help but feel mesmerized with each flitter of the deck.

“Where did you learn how to do that?” he asks after another long pull of juice.

She cuts the deck and continues. “My father.”

“I didn’t know you had parents.”

“I didn’t know your mother had children.”  

“I don’t think she knows either.”

Eliza rests the shuffled deck onto the countertop and nudges it toward him. He hasn’t told her what game they’re going to play, and as Harrison searches for his necessary cards, the prickle of her gaze deadens. He keeps at task, combing each card and pulling out the needed.             

“I would’ve liked to know.” Eliza says this nimbly. “You look like her.”        

Another pick. “Every son wants to look like their mother. What a dream.”      

“I meant that as a good thing.”

“And I meant what I said as a bad thing.” 

What a way to end this update lol! 

I’ll be back soon with an update for the final chapter in this book! I hope y’all have been okay in these times, I know it’s not easy. Let me know what you’re working on!

--Rachel

[caffeinatedtimdrake]

Sweet

A/N: part 2 of Change! about 1.5 of Jason x reader FLUFF (surprise) in which Jason tries to bake but mostly ends up making you into a flustered mess ft. Megan low key match-making. 

“No, Jason, that’s precisely how you end up with salty cupcakes.”

“I am a salty cupcake, Megan.” 

“That’s why nobody wants to eat you.” 

“M, you have no idea. I’m offended.”

“And I’m trying to listen to a lecture on Francesco Petrarch, not foul-tasting pastries. Or…Jason-tasting pastries.” 

You shoot Megan and Jason a look from your perch at the kitchen table, swinging your earbud menacingly. 

Megan scoffs. “I’m trying to whip him into shape.” 

Jason turns rosy and bashful. “Sorry, Y/N.” He apologizes in a singsong voice, one that has your heart soaring. 

You shake your head but leave one ear bud out because you enjoy their banter more than you could ever admit. “It’s okay.” You tell him and bury your nose in your textbook again, flustered. 

After the Clay Face Fiasco left you out of commission for a few days – sick and sleepless – Megan came to the unpleasant realization that she perhaps needed more help around the bakery. Her boyfriend, Konner, helped out when he wasn’t busy with his repair shop and her uncle assisted sporadically, but it wasn’t enough.

She hung a ‘Help Wanted’ sign dismally to the front door. Barely a day later, she was getting Jason Todd his very own apron. 

When she called and told you the news, you’d squeaked, dropped your phone, and yelled into a pillow. The first day you and Jason worked together, you dropped three pans, two platters, and accidentally hit him with a wooden spoon.

Since the Clay Face incident, the energy between you and Jason has shifted. Red Hood dropped you off at home that night and never told you his identity, and Jason has yet to reveal his vigilante status (but you have your suspicions). He doesn’t discourage your sidelong glances, studying his agile movements and sharp reflexes. And when you catch Jason watching you, he no longer flushes and looks away – instead, he offers you a disarmingly cute lopsided grin, one you can’t help but return with a smile of your own. He is neither bold nor brash, but your friendship blossoms tenderly with Jason’s easy confidence. The more time you spend around him, the more you realize you are doomed. 

You don’t know it, but when Jason glances at you, studying diligently, between mixing dry ingredients and cracking eggs, he gets the first faint, bittersweet taste of what could be unrequited love. He, like you, often thinks to himself, “I’m doomed,” when you laugh at his bad jokes and compliment his icing attempts. Yesterday, Megan invited you over to try out some new recipes – employee bonding, she’d called it. 

You’d hesitated, midterm exams looming over your head, but Megan insisted. When you still weren’t convinced, she casually mentioned that Jason would be there. 

“Well,” You wince at her smirk, “I guess I could…bring my backpack over there and study.”

You really are getting a decent amount of studying done – as long as you don’t look over at Jason and study the movement of his toned biceps beneath that white cotton t-shirt as he kneads dough instead of European literature.

You’re working through deciphering a sonnet when Jason comes to hover over your shoulder. He smells like flowers and home and he radiates warmth, so you have to stop yourself from leaning into his space. 

“Petrarch, hm?” 

Trying not to get distracted by you. “Yes. We’re analyzing the poetry of Il Canzoniere.”

There’s a spark in those sapphire eyes that leaves you a little breathless when you glance up at him. 

“I freeze and burn, love is bitter and sweet, my sighs are tempests and my tears are floods, I am in ecstasy and agony, I am possessed by memories of her and I am in exile from myself.”

You’re too awestruck to say anything but it doesn’t matter because a timer beeps from the oven and Jason simply excuses himself to check on a batch of cupcakes after a flawless recitation. 

You look down at the text and turn off the audio of your professor’s recorded lecture, in ecstasy but mostly in agony and wishing you could be in exile from yourself.

Megan notices the red on your face and Jason’s face and she stifles a cackle from the kitchen.

“Megan, this is way too much.” 

“You’re a growing child, Y/N, just eat the damn cupcakes.” 

“Which way do you want me to grow? Are you gonna stuff me in an oven and eat me?” 

“No, that would upset Jason too much.” 

Jason is caught off guard by Megan’s remark and ducks his head as he ties his shoe. You glance at the lanky boy next to you and shake your head, zipping up your jacket. 

Megan tells the two of you to get home safe and sends you off with a hug into the cool evening air. 

Silence hangs comfortably between you and Jason and the jingling keychains on your backpack for a few moments. 

It’s shattered with, “Is it okay if I walk you home?”

You jump a little because his velvety voice echoes off the concrete buildings. 

“I’d love that.” You tell him before you can formulate a milder response. 

It’s more than okay if you walk me home, Jason. It’s more than okay if you hold my hand, ask me on a date, kiss me on the mouth, take my whole heart…

Jason inhales in a deep breath and a rush of adrenaline down your spine because your gut tells you that in his exhale, he might share a piece of his soul. 

“I want to tell you something, Y/N.” 

You look at him. He stares straight ahead. Although his posture his stuff and he grips the bag of baked goods tightly, his expression is soft and vulnerable. 

“You can tell me anything, Blue Jay,” In the lazy light of lampposts, you watch the tip of his ears turn pink. You wonder if this conversation is going in the direction of crime-fighting…or crushes.

“Shit, Y/N, you’re gonna be the death of me,” He breathes, mouth curling into a timid smile. 

You giggle, nudging his side with your elbow. “That’s what you wanted to tell me?” 

“Well, no, but I can’t tell you how much I like you when you spring cute nicknames on me like that!” 

“It just happened! In my head I – wait, what?!” 

He moans into his hands.

The two of you stop walking and he peeks at you from between his fingers, burning deep blue. 

You gently pry his hands away from his face. “Jason,” You croon his name with so much affection and look at him with so much warmth, he wants to melt on the spot; preferably into your welcoming embrace. 

He looks a little miserable when he meets your concerned gaze. “I like you, Y/N. So much. I have liked you for a long time – maybe since the first time we met, when you burned all that bread – and I have no idea what to do about it. All I know is that whenever you smile at me, I can’t decide whether I want to throw myself to the ground or wrap you in my arms and kiss you like there’s no tomorrow.”

“You should do it.” You blurt, nodding almost aggressively. 

“Do what?” Jason asks cautiously, arching an eyebrow and slowly intertwining your fingers. 

“Kiss me. Today. And tomorrow. And the day after that. You can throw yourself to the ground too, if you want, but that might hurt more than kissing. And I have some questions about you, but we can talk in between kissing probably.” 

His bag falls to the ground with a quiet thump and the sound of your heartbeat is so loud, you worry he’ll hear. He places his hands delicately on your cheeks – they’re so large they practically swallow your face – and tilts your head up slightly. 

Your eyes flutter close, listening to his soft breath and rustling leaves and the way he says your name like sugar dusted over fresh pastries. 

Jason’s lips are gentle, a featherlight pressure against the center of your forehead. He kisses your eyelids and down the bridge of your nose, halting at your cupid’s bow to kiss your cheeks and your chin and by the time he hovers over your mouth, your toes are curled tightly in your shoes and butterflies are swarming freely in your abdomen. 

Jason kisses you like butterfly wings and spring rain and cotton candy, all wholesome and light and saccharine. 

“Someone’s gonna call the cops on us if we make out on the sidewalk.” He mutters in a low voice against your mouth. 

“I should call the cops on you. You stole my heart.” 

Jason pulls away to bark out a laugh, deep and musical. He runs a hand through your hair and looks down at you adoringly. “Tell you what: let’s get back to your place and I’ll make it up to you.”

You squint at him. “How?” 

He puckers his lips for a moment, pensive. “Maybe I’ll explain some of my…shoe collection.”

You peck his mouth and tuck yourself against his side. “Deal.”

[starkerforlife6969]

Alpha Steve x Omega Peter - college au fluff overload

Part one of gift to @everyflowerneedspruning 

Steve ducks into the classroom, eyeing flickering over the already seated students. He keeps his head down, shuffling towards the back when he hears an incredulous:

“Steve?” from the front.

He turns to see Bruce, his roommate, staring at him with a bewildered expression. Steve hurries over to him and collapses into the seat, tugging his stuff out of his bag. “Hey, Bruce,” he greets distractedly, turning to glance at the door as more students shuffle in.

“Uh…hey?” He frowns, “are you…are you in this class?”

“Yeah, I just transferred.” He watches as another group of students filter in, chattering animatedly.

“You transferred to…to History of Math…”

Steve shoots his beta friend a mildly irritated glare. “Yes, Bruce. I did. Is that a problem?”

Bruce continues in the same bemused voice. “It’s just….History of Math. You’re a political science major...Here on a sports scholarship. And I’m pretty sure you once said that math was the most boring thing in the wor-“

“You know, maybe I just wanted to broaden my interests.” Steve grumbles in a clipped voice. “We’re seniors in college, Bruce. It’s the perfect time to try and widen your horizons and discover new opportunities.”

“…did you buy any of what you just said? Because I sure didn’t.” Bruce laughs.

Steve doesn’t reply.

His eyes are stuck on Peter.

The gorgeous omega who’s just in. He’s beautiful, oh god, he’s so beautiful. Steve watches as he makes his way to a seat at the back. He’s so dainty, with perfect cream skin and eyes that Steve could write sonnets about. Brown, but not just brown. The colour of Steve’s favourite chocolate, the colour of the mossy bark behind his house back home that trails into the forest. With specks of honeyed amber and glints of whiskey like fractures of sunlight. Those eyes are endlessly deep and a man could drown in the depths of them and die happy.

And his hair- his hair, always a little mussed and out of place; always wind swept with some lock falling, curled, into his face and a little tuft defying gravity. He’s wearing an oversized pink pastel sweater that drops down his shoulders, baring slivers of that lovely cream skin, and some denim shorts that should be illegal. Steve watches as he gracefully scoots into one of the seats and sets his leather satchel on the desk- looking for his laptop.

God, he’s the most gorgeous thing in the whole world and-

“Oh my god. You swapped for some omega?”

Steve whips around immediately and glares at Bruce who looks world-weary and judgemental at his discovery. “No! N-no! And he is not just some omega, he’s-“

“I know who he is,” Bruce sighs, pulling off his glasses and wiping them like he can’t bare looking at Steve. “He’s Peter Stark. As in, son of Tony Stark. Do you know who Tony Stark is, Steve? He’s the reason that Peter doesn’t have a boyfriend or a girlfriend. He’s the Tony Stark. That’s why I’m beginning to question your sanity.”

Steve pouts at that, and sets his head in his hands miserably as the class starts. He spends most of it completely confused as to anything that the professor is saying, and the other part gazing at Peter as discreetly as he can manage. The boy is so beautiful, he aches. And he’s typing into an expensive laptop quickly, looking like he understands everything.

He probably does. He’s a genius, after all. He’s a Stark. He finds jokes about physics equations funny just by looking at them and Steve has to google them just to get the gist. He knows this because he- not stalks, but follows Peter on instagram- why wouldn’t he? Why wouldn’t he want to see candid selfies of the boy bashfully half hidden behind his hands? Of him lying in bed half asleep and hugging his kitten Ojai? The tiny little thing almost as cute as Peter that the boy had rescued from an animal shelter? Of sunsets and views and shots of him and his omega friends? Peter comments laughing emojis on science puns and math symbols and Steve is in love, double tapping every photo.

But Peter has millions of instagram followers. Steve’s just a nameless face.

It’s a disheartening thought. But probably a necessary one- Peter is a freshman, a tiny, doe-eyed freshman who looks much younger. Who even let him into a place as brutal as college? He’s so small. He’s so soft and amazing and-

Steve falls into a daydream where maybe one day he and Peter post a picture of the two of them on his instagram account and-

When he comes to, Bruce is standing in front of him, looking remarkably unimpressed. Everyone else is gone, the classroom is empty and Steve smiles sheepishly. “You are going to fail this module.” Bruce declares unsympathetically. “And I am not going to tutor you.”

So much for friendship.

He tries to push thoughts of Peter out of his head and he even manages a little. He manages not to think of those chestnut curls or that milky skin or his perfect smile and tight, plump ass. He tries not to think about that when the headline broke that Tony Stark’s only son would be going to the same college as Steve- he nearly lost his mind. 

 It’s two days later, in the middle of the afternoon after a gruelling practise in the summer heat, that he’s scanning the squad for some refreshments when, of course, of course, he sees Peter with a lemonade stand. Like something out of a wet dream.

He’s awed at the sight of him. White tennis shoes, his long legs bare, and white shorts that are so flowy and flimsy it almost looks like a skirt- with a cream crop top that is tantalisingly tempting as it flutters around the lean, taught stomach. God, Steve wants. Peter’s all flushed and red from the heat. He wants to cover that delicate skin in suncream and kiss him and adore him. He’s so distracted by the sight of Peter, that he jumps a foot in the air when the sound of a megaphone goes off in his ear.

“Football should not just be for Alphas!” A dark skinned omega yells at him, and shoves a flyer into his chest. He grunts a little at the force of it and stares at her in shock, as Peter heads over with a glass of lemonade.

“MJ,” he calls disapprovingly, “we’re not going to sell much lemonade if you keep yelling that at people.”

“And we’re not going to fight injustice by you handing out lemonade.” She grumbles, but heads off dutifully back to the stand. Steve watches her go warily, a little afraid. But now he’s left with Peter, Peter who’s so close and a little shiny with sweat so that Steve can smell him. God, he smells good. He smells like lavender and his favourite chocolate chip cookies and the barest hint of strawberries and-

“Sorry about MJ. She seems a little grumpy, but she’s just passionate. Would you like to buy some lemonade?” Peter asks adorably, rocking on his heels and beaming up at Steve and practically radiating sunshine and rainbows. “We’re collecting for the local animal shelter!”

Steve is already reaching for his bag to get his wallet, and doesn’t see the way Peter’s eyes linger on the places his shirt has stuck to his abs with sweat. He’s trying not to stumble in the face of the effortless beauty and the smell of sure a pure, sweet omega. He wants to think of something cool to say. Something suave and interesting. What comes out is: “Sure, I love animals.”

Fucking idiot. Who doesn’t love animals?

“Same!” Peter exclaims excitedly, “I have a kitten that I rescued from a shelter!”

“Really?” Steve asks, playing dumb, “what type is he?” He hands over the money- actually, he hands over all the money in his wallet, and Peter hands over the lemonade with eager hands. Like he just can’t wait for Steve to try it. He’s never ben this physically close to Peter before and the size difference is amazing. Peter is tiny- obviously, all omegas are, but Peter truly is the smallest thing ever. Steve thinks that at the smallest point of Peter’s waist, he could wrap his hands right around it. He’s like a little fairy, a dainty elfin omega.

“He’s the most adorable little cream and ivory tabby! Oh, and he has the most stunning bright blue eyes, look, I have a picture!” He reaches for his phone, and Steve is so completely fucking endeared, when Peter seems to notice the money in his hand.

He stares at it in confusion for a second, before looking up at Steve (and he really does have to look up), then back down to the money, then back at Steve. “You’re…you’re donating thirty dollars?” He whispers, eyes wide and he looks like he might cry with joy.

There goes dinner for tonight. And breakfast tomorrow. Steve nods, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s for a good cause,” he murmurs. Peter really is an angel, and he looks like one too, all decked out in white. Because Steve knows. Steve’s seen the pictures. He’s seen the photos of Peter’s home growing up- Stark Mansion, the stunning, enormous house in acres of green that Peter will go home to every Thanksgiving, Christmas and Summer for the rest of his degree. But he’s still acting like this is a lot of money, and god, he’s precious-

“MJ!” Peter calls, gesturing his scary friend over from the stand. “Come look! He’s-“ he cuts himself off, staring at Steve with his bambi eyes as MJ reluctantly comes over. “I’m so sorry! I don’t even know your name!”

“Steve Rogers,” he greets, trying to keep his voice level, and Peter smiles at him with his fucking dimples and rosy pink lips. Steve holds out his hand without trembling by some miracle.

Peter takes it in his tiny, dainty ones. It’s completely engulfed in Steve’s. “Peter,” he murmurs, like everyone on campus doesn’t know who he is. How could they not? Tony is famous, and everyone is utterly besotted by his gorgeous, perfect omega. MJ arrives, and Steve is momentarily distracted by her.

She’s a pretty omega, slim and delicate, and although a little taller than Peter, she has something unique about her. She has dark eyes and dark hair and she looks at him with narrowed eyes.

“Steve just donated thirty dollars!” Peter exclaims, waving the money at her. “Isn’t that amazing? Mrs Denver is going to be so happy! We’re so close to our goal! Do you think she’ll let us help repaint the sign?”

MJ’s cool veneer seems to waver a little, and she looks reluctantly amused by Peter’s bright eyed enthusiasm. “Maybe.” She answers noncommittally, “So, Steve. You like helping out?”

Steve swallows hard, and nods. “Yeah, uh- it’s a good cause.” She stares at him like she can see through to his soul. “And uh- I- I mean, I’m all for omega rights and omegas in sports, but- mixed Alpha and Omega football might be- dangerous. The size difference alone, there’s a lot of risk.”

She doesn’t look like she believes him at all about the lemonade, but she does look a little impressed by his views. He feels good about the interaction, overall. “Cool.” She says eventually, before towing Peter away.

He lets out a little yelp, but turns to wave gleefully at Steve.

The blond smiles, taking a sip of the lemonade and groaning. Fuck. It’s fantastic. It’s almost worth all the money he’s given away. It’s cool and refreshing and obviously homemade and it’s sweet- just like Peter.

That night, Peter posts a picture of him and MJ. He’s kissing her cheek and she’s smiling and relaxed in a way Steve didn’t know she was capable of. It’s cute. He double taps it and scrolls through the comments. Most of them are sweet and complimentary, but there are a few more lewd suggestions. Steve scowls but he’s not surprised. Though omega-omega relationships are taboo, the porn is hot.

He goes to sleep with the smell of lavender and cookies in his head, and the lingering taste of lemonade on his lips.

A week goes by without contact, with devastates Steve but it’s for the best. He’s a senior, and Peter is a wide-eyed, innocent first year, and he deserves someone as clever as he is. Steve should- he should focus on the pretty omegas in his own year. He should try to get thoughts of those lovely brown eyes out of his head.

And he does have things to be worried about.

As it stands, he is failing History of Math. He looks down at his most recent assignment grade and shudders. He’s going to have to beg Bruce to tutor him.

He steps into the classroom and looks for his friend for some humble grovelling when he hears-

“Steve?”

He turns slowly, but of course, it’s Peter. The only person with a voice as sweet and melodic and attached to Steve’s heart. He’s sitting in the front row, wearing a large purple sweater that swamps him deliciously, and a black ribbon choker that draws all the attention right to his delicious neck. Steve’s mouth waters with the need to claim. He’s already got his stuff set out and he beams, waving at Steve in amazement and gesturing to the empty seat beside him.

Steve takes a step forward instinctively, before he hears someone else call his name.

He turns to the hiss to see Bruce, nearer the back, a warning look on his face.

Fuck. Bruce is right. Peter is- Peter is too young, way too out of his league, he deserves someone better than Steve. He takes a step back from Peter towards Bruce and he sees it.

Hurt.

Hurt flashes across Peter’s face. It’s quick, almost impossible to catch, but his eyes widen and his lips part with impossible sadness, before that supportive smile and friendly beam comes back.

Steve feels like he’s been punched right in the gut .

He can’t bear the thought, not even for a second, that he’s hurt Peter’s feelings. Not the sweetest omega in the world, so he heads over and takes the seat almost viciously. Peter twists towards him, radiating happiness. “Steve!” He exclaims joyously, “I didn’t know you took this class.”

God, he smells amazing. He looks amazing. He’s so tiny and brilliant and- “Yeah, I uh- swapped in late. It was a mistake to be honest, I completely failed the last assignment. I was actually just gonna ask one of my friends for help.” He turns to point at Bruce, and Peter turns too.

Bruce waves at Peter and glares daggers at Steve.

“Oh!” Peter beams, “I know Bruce! We’re in science club together. He’s a senior isn’t he-“ Peter stops short, his eyes go wide and he seems to realise something. Suddenly, he’s scanning the classroom, eyes flickering from person to person and Steve frowns. “Everyone in here is a senior.” He whispers.

Steve looks around, and sure enough, Peter is right. He hums in surprise.

“Oh my god,” Peter closes his eyes (and oh god, his lovely eyelashes are so long and they curl against the cusp of his cheek) and he looks sad. Steve sits up in concern. “Dad,” Peter whispers to himself angrily.

Dad- oh. Oh.

“I can’t believe this,” the omega whispers, shaking his head in anguish. “He always does this! I can never just achieve something for myself! And-and I actually thought that I was meant to be in this class-“ he laughs humourlessly, sounding on the brink of tears, and Steve shakes his head.

“Hey,” he murmurs, collecting Peter’s tiny hands in his own. God, his skin is so soft. Softer than Steve ever imagined. “Don’t- don’t do that. C’mon. Your dad…he was only trying to help, you know?” He croons in a soft, soothing voice because omegas are so delicate and sensitive. “And you do. You do deserve to be here, you’re so smart. You’re brilliant-I mean, what did you get on that assignment? I just bet it was an A.”

Peter looks up at him shyly, his eyes wide and glittering like diamonds. Red crawls across his cheeks in affirmation.

“I knew it,” he squeezes his hands gently, “your dad just…he wants people to see how brilliant you are. Maybe he opened the door, but you deserve to be in this room. Sometimes professors need to…need to be shown how amazing students can be. I mean, god, Peter, you’re…” he trails off, because he wants to bury his head in Peter’s neck and declare his love for him and Peter is staring up at him in awe. Like he’s taken aback by the adoration in his voice. He clears his throat and shakes his head. “I mean- I had to flirt with the admissions woman to let me swap.”

Peter giggles, sniffling. “I bet that went down well. A tall handsome alpha flirting with her, she must’ve been a mess.”

Steve’s inner Alpha preens, and the rest of the lesson flies by in a flash.

They don’t become friends exactly, because alphas and omegas aren’t usually friends, but they form something of a kinship. They become partners whenever they’re in class together, and they kid and joke around. Peter follows him back on instagram and for the first time- Steve comments on a photo.

It’s a picture of Peter and one of his friends at ballet practise and Steve writes one word. Beautiful.

They don’t text or message, but it feels like something…tentative and precious. Steve wants to hold it close and treasure it even though he knows it’s wrong. They see each other a few times, not often, but a few times outside of class. Always quite by accident, and they talk and gaze at each other. Once, outside of the science building, they’d bumped into each other and eaten lunch together on a bench in the sunlight, and Peter had said he’d quite like to come and see Steve play one day.

Steve had said he’d like that quite a bit.

Of course, that doesn’t mean he’d actually thought it would happen.

But then one night, as the cold air whips at them as they stand at the edge of the pitch, Steve looks up to see Peter in the stands. It takes his breath away. Surely not. It must be a mirage. He’s there with MJ, wrapped up in a fluffy coat and cheering, with the college’s colours painted onto his cheeks. It’s the most beautiful, wholesome thing Steve has ever seen. He thinks he could do absolutely anything if Peter was cheering him on.

“Fuck, who’s that next to your omega?” Bucky asks eagerly, looking up at the stands.

Steve gapes. “What? MJ? And- he’s not - not my omega.”

“Is she attached?” Bucky asks, lacing up his boots.

“Is she- no, I don’t think so, but she’s- they’re freshman.”

Bucky laughs, shoving Steve a little. “They’re eighteen, Steve. I mean- Tony Stark would probably hunt you down and kill you, but they’re not children.”

It stays with Steve. There’s still stigma though, especially around older alphas and younger omegas. Omegas are naive and innocent and soft, they’re easily led astray and Alphas shouldn’t manipulate them and-and Steve just wants Peter to be happy. If Peter got an eighteen year old Alpha boyfriend Steve would kill him be happy for him.

Or he’d try.

Probably.

At the end of the game, he wants to run to the stands and scoop Peter into his arms and kiss him- but he doesn’t. He restrains himself, and sips at his water, trying to catch his breath as sweat pours down him. They’ve won. They’ve won and his inner-alpha feels so good at knowing they’ve impressed and proved triumph in front of their omega.

Shit- not his, not-

“Steve! You were amazing!” Peter gushes, and Steve whips around to see Peter right in front of him, tiny and adorable and flushed with exhilaration, nose red from the cold. “You were so fast!!!” He jumps into Steve’s arms and Steve holds him tight. It feels right to have him in his arms. Peter squeals, and nuzzles into his neck and holy shit he smells so good-

“Yeah, alright, I don’t wanna puke.” MJ rolls her eyes, though there’s a teasing lilt to her voice. Steve reluctantly sets Peter down and feels colour rush to his cheeks. He sighs at the sight of Bucky, having appeared out of nowhere and eager to be introduced.

“Dangerous, dangerous game,” Bruce mutters, brushing his hair as they get ready for Peter’s arrival. They’re all heading to some campus club, and Bucky and MJ are meeting them there. “I swear to god, if Tony Stark finds out I know you and ruins my chances of getting a job-“

“We’re not dating,” Steve insists.

Though he wishes they were. They’re so close now. He knows Peter’s scent by heart, his little smile, and sometimes before Peter posts a selfie, he sends it to Steve first. It’s always gorgeous: a pastel sweater and a glittery necklace and sometimes even ones with his bottom lip caught between his teeth.

One second it’s a photo of Peter with Ojai on his head smiling like the most adorable thing on the planet, the next it’s Peter with his hand balled in his sweater and pulling it down over his bare thighs in a gif that shows his chest and Steve watches it on repeat. Peter had confided in him that the day after he’d turned eighteen, modelling agencies and fashion designers had contacted him, eager for their chance to be features on his instagram, eager for some image or sensation to be promoted, and Peter had shied away from the attention- feeling no prettier than any other omega. 

“It’s so fucking great being a beta,” Bruce says to himself, neatening his collar one last time. “I can be above to all this bullshit.”

Steve scoffs. “You don’t think he’s gorgeous?”

“I said above, not blind.”

And then there’s a knock at the door.

They look at each other nervously, before Steve wipes his sweaty palms on his jean-clad thighs and opens it.

Peter is a vision of pink. His lips are dusky rose and he has fuschia eyeshadow and his pink meshtop is as snug as a second skin as it dips into his highwaisted pale pink denim shorts. It’s the sexiest thing on the face of the planet. 

Steve gapes; at a loss for words.

Luckily, Bruce isn’t.

“Holy shit.” 

Read part two here (contains links to ao3 options). 

[whoranaroundtheworld]

Niall has such a beautifully delicate side profile... am in lurve with it 😩🤩

BIG SAME!! Everything about it is perfection, from the tips of every single strand of hair all the way down to his neck. His hair always looks so wonderfully lush and soft (we’ll disregard that awful period in 2016 when his hair was bleached to death and looked absolutely fried). His forehead gently slopes down and meets his nose. Somehow even his nose is absolute perfection. Now his lips may be on the thinner side, but they really are better in motion (he definitely knows how to use them to their advantage). His chin is wonderfully balanced. And his NECK. OMG, i could write sonnets about his neck. It’s a lovely expanse of skin that’s just begging to be marked up. I just want to trace the path between every single one of the beauty marks on his neck with my tongue. And while I think he looks nice when he’s clean shaven, I love this amount of beard on him. It’s long enough that it doesn’t look scraggly, but it’s not so overgrown that it looks unkempt. It’s at the length that I imagine would feel amazing on your skin. (Also a little shoutout to his ears, which I personally find super cute (when will he give us what we deserve and wear that earring again?)). I MEAN LOOK AT HIM!!!!

[caffeinechristine]

the quiet one.

there was a girl who walked like rain who woke with novas in her eyes.  and when the earth was feeling hard  she went in search of her own skies. 

she spoke a language like no other she wrote a book they couldn’t read.  she played a music no one heard she made a world they couldn’t see. 

she ate the fruit that grew from wonder she drank the tide straight from the beach.  she dressed with cotton sheets of ice lived in a place they couldn’t reach.

a world worn delicate with details a planet pulsing with strange light. another dimension to call home alone, the quiet one’s delight.

here quantum colors came to life electric fields bent to a rhyme.  here photons phased into sweet poems as all her light danced with the time. 

here she could feel herself becoming ever gentle and ever brave.  here she could set her spirit free suppress the voices from her grave. 

the quiet one kept her world closed she couldn’t share and lose control.  she feared that people from the earth would track their dirt across her soul. 

stained by lost colors on her clothes and lonely sonnets in her theme. found noisy people saying nothing and quiet minds were left to dream. 

for all the masses spoke their madness “how cute to live in many worlds!” but none would listen to the cost of quiet living left unheard.

galaxies spread without splendor a story stopped before its end.  the forests fell without a fire the quiet one their only friend. 

she tried to catch the falling cosmos  she pushed the mountains to the sky. but no two hands could save her sun and the strange light began to die. 

there were so many words unwritten so many thoughts still yet to think. but when she rose up to explain them the quiet one could never speak. 

for it was not a pretty place if she created it as her crutch.  what was the point of her escape if she had no one there to touch. 

at once the quiet one knew how  to find the meaning in her art.  to truly keep her planet safe she had to open up her heart. 

it wasn’t enough to have such beauty alone, this beauty would decay. to keep the river in her veins she had to give her world away. 

a simple truth she had forgotten in haste to leave the hard below. now with soft hope around her neck came faith to let the old fears go.

the quantum colors gave her courage for a revolution through quiet eyes.  and as her hands shared what they had the masses reached for stranger skies. 

[theladyofdeath]

Rapture {1}

ACOTAR, A Castaway Story.

Summary: It’s a year after the ending of Castaway, and their lives have changed. Nesta and Cassian are parents, caring for their six month old daughter, Cecelia. Although they are trying their best, parenthood is no walk in the park. Rhysand and Feyre have passed the honeymoon stage, and are living together in their two-bedroom apartment. With life in full swing, they’re realizing that being in a relationship is not all rainbows and butterflies. And Elain and Azriel are preparing for their upcoming nuptials, and trying their best to conquer the obstacles that are seeming to continuously be thrown in their faces. It is almost as if fate does not want them to be together. But, with love, anything is possible....right? 

 Click to read Castaway. 

A/N: It’s here! After all the love I have received from Castaway, I’ve been so excited to share this all with you. Thank @throne-of-ashes-and-beauty, who wanted to see more of Nesta and Cassian as parents, and who inspired me to write this ten part series. I hope you all enjoy it, and as always, would love to know what you think. :) Thank you for reading!

There will be a new chapter posted every Sunday.

"Life, with its rules, its obligations, and its freedoms, is like a sonnet: You're given the form, but you have to write the sonnet yourself."—Madeleine L'Engle

“I want to throw you against this wall, and make you scream my name,” Cassian mumbled into her ear. “But I am just too damn tired.”

Him and Nesta stood together underneath the shower head, hot water falling onto their shoulders. Cassian had originally intended it to be sexy, but now he could barely move. His limbs felt like they were made of lead.

She was leaning into his chest, barely able to keep her eyes open. “One nap. She took one. Fucking. Nap. Today.”

And it had only lasted thirty minutes.

Six months old, and one thirty minute nap.

To say that they were exhausted would be an understatement.

Cassian pulled her waist closer to his body, and kissed the top of her head. “I love you.”

“I look like I haven’t slept in six months,” she said. “Probably because I haven’t.”

Cassian wanted to laugh, but he couldn’t even muster up the strength to do so. So, he simply said, again, “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she said, looking up at him for the first time since they had entered the shower.

She brushed his shoulder-length hair back, and pulled his face closer by his bearded cheeks, planting a kiss tenderly against his mouth.

It had been six months since Cecelia was born, and she was a blessing. Cassian had never loved anyone as much as he loved that baby girl, but parenthood was exhausting. Late nights, early mornings, constantly smelling like either spit up or shit, sometimes both. Cassian went through at least three shirts a day, and he was often only home at night.

Between Cece and work, Cassian hardly ever got a chance to spend a quiet moment with Nesta, and when he did, they were usually sleeping.

“I’m never going to have sex again,” he muttered.

Nesta rolled her eyes.

“Sorry,” he said, into her hair. “I didn’t mean to actually say that out loud.”

But it was true. It had been weeks, months, since they had an intimate moment that hadn’t been interrupted.

She yawned before falling back into his chest. “You’re naughty.”

His hands moved down to her ass, and he hoisted her up so that her delicate legs could wrap snugly around his waist. “Am not.”

His mouth found her neck and she closed her eyes, head head falling back, out of the water.

“Cassian,” she moaned, arms clinging tightly around his neck.

He growled, a primal noise coming from low in his throat. “Nes.”

The same nickname that once made her scowl now made her whimper as his fingers ran beneath her ass, and teased her, softly.

And then, not at all to his surprise, Cecelia broke the tension.

A soft cry came from the baby monitor that was sitting on the bathroom vanity. Cassian let his fingers drop, and hung his head against her shoulder with a groan.

“I’ll be right back,” Nesta sighed, kissing his forehead.

“No, I’ve got her. You relax.”

She didn’t object as Cassian stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel. Drying himself off in the process, he hurried to the nursery.

Cecelia was squirming in her crib when he arrived, and after wrapping his towel around his waist, he picked her up, and bounced. “It’s okay. Shhhhh. Daddy’s here, I’ve got you.”

Cecelia quickly quieted down as Cassian plopped into the rocking chair. It was only a minute before she had fallen back asleep.

He took a deep breath. “You just wanted daddy, didn’t you?”

Suddenly feeling ridiculous for talking to a sleeping baby, Cassian leaned his head back against the chair. “Daddy was trying to love on mommy, you know.”

Cecelia smiled in her sleep, as if she was making fun of him. “Good thing you’re cute, kid.”

Five minutes passed before Cassian collected enough energy to place her back into her crib. And when he was sure she wasn’t going to wake up, he cracked her door shut, and headed back toward the bathroom.

The shower was off, and Nesta was lying in their bed, her hair wet and a towel wrapped around her body, sound asleep.

The next morning came too quickly.

“I love you,” Cassian said, kissing Nesta’s cheek, then Cece’s. “I’ll be home with diapers in approximately eight hours.”

“I love you,” Nesta called as he ran out of the door, and onto the streets of Velaris.

There was a misty drizzle as the sun crept up over the Sidra, and although his hair was still damp from his shower, he pulled up his hood as the Autumn breeze crept across his exposed skin.

The gym in which he worked at was just around the corner to their apartment in the city. He still longed to go to the fire academy to become a certified firefighter, but with Cecelia just being born six months prior, and considering how much time it would take out of his schedule, he just couldn’t.

He felt horrible, though. He barely made enough money to keep them afloat. Nesta was a nurse, she made the money, but she wanted to stay home with Cecelia for a few months.

And Cassian wanted her to.

He just wanted to be of more help.

After walking into the gym, and saying hello to the woman at the front desk, he stopped to stretch in his favorite room.

There was a dance studio down the hall, where he had once seen his fiance dancing. He had only seen her dance a handful of times since then, and every time he was captivated by the way she moved.

He threw down his bag and crammed his hoodie inside before sitting on the floor and stretching out his legs.

His phone rang thirty seconds in, and he dug through his bag before finding the lit screen with a picture of Cece on it, and a text that read, Missing daddy already.

He smiled to himself, then looked at the time.

He had only been there for five minutes.

It was going to be a long ass day.

The smell of coffee filled the apartment.

She was wearing his tee-shirt, which smelled like the cologne she had bought him for his birthday a few months back, as she made him a lunch for work.

“Feyre!” he yelled, once he had turned off the shower. “Baby, come quick!”

Panicked, Feyre set down the mustard she was painting a slice of bread with, and hurried to the bathroom.

Where Rhys was standing in the middle of the tub.

Nude.

Rolling her eyes, Feyre leaned against the doorframe. “What’s the emergency?”

“You haven’t seen me naked yet today,” he said. “I thought I was doing you a favor.”

She grabbed a towel off the hook and threw it at him. “You’re gonna be late with that attitude.”

“What time is it?” he sighed, drying off his hair.

“Seven-thirty.”

Rhysand cursed, then groaned, and stepped out of the tub as he said, “Maybe I should call in sick. That wouldn’t hurt, right?”

His job had been horrible. He became the social media manager for a chain of local cafes, and they had him working long days with hardly any breaks, or any time to think, or breathe.

It’s not that he didn’t like what he did, but he just wanted to be doing less of it, and getting more sleep.

After he had tied the towel around his waist, Feyre grabbed his hands and pulled him closer. “You’re doing a great job, Rhys.”

He tried to smile, but it never reached his eyes. “Thanks. WIll you be home when I get home?”

“Nope, I’ll be at Nesta’s.” She said, walking back toward the kitchen to finish her favorite morning ritual. “I haven’t seen Cece all week.”

“Maybe I can come by after, then,” he said. “She deserves to see her favorite uncle.”

Feyre chuckled, resuming her sandwich-making. “You’re awfully cocky this morning.”

“Did you just say something about my -”

The doorbell rang, and Feyre nearly dropped the mustard.

“Who the hell is here this early?” Rhysand called, as Feyre was making her way to the door.

She peeked out of the peephole, and was surprised to see Elain standing on the threshold.

Not caring that she wasn’t wearing pants, Feyre opened the door. “Hey,” she said, trailing off. “So, I know it’s early, and I am so sorry, but I need you.”

“Of course,” Feyre said, concerned, taking a step aside. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Is Azriel okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she said, absentmindedly. “Everyone is okay.”

Feyre watched her curiously. “Elain, you look like you’re going to get sick.”

“Oh, I have,” she said, laughing nervously. “I have gotten sick multiple times already this morning.”

Feyre blinked. “Okay. Do you want some coffee?”

“Huh? Oh, coffee?” she shook her head, sitting on the couch. “No, no thank you.”

“Who’s here?” Rhysand hollered from the bedroom.

“Elain!”

“Hey, Elain!”

Elain was staring out of the floor length window, completely unaware of what was happening. For someone who typically looked so put together, she looked out of place in her baggy sweatpants and hoodie.

“Elain,” Feyre began, gently, joining her on the couch. “Talk to me.”

Unable to stop the tears, Elain cried with her face in her hands.

“Elain -”

“I can’t marry Azriel,” she said, the words barely audible through her display of emotion.

Feyre stopped. “What?”

“I...he won’t...I….he….”

“Elain,” Feyre said, putting her hands on her sister’s shoulders. “Elain, just -”

“I mean, it makes sense, doesn’t it? We already had to move our wedding date once, that’s typically a sign, and, stupid us, we just ignored it -”

“Elain -”

“And now, I...I....It’s all wrong. The plan. We’re going against the plan.”

Feyre’s hands slid up to her sister’s cheeks, and she held her face so that Elain’s eyes were meeting her own. “Elain. Breathe. Tell me what’s going on.”

Elain took a deep breath, and closed her eyes as she said, “I’m pregnant.”

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@throne-of-ashes-and-beauty @eternally-reading @queen-archeron @ame233 @book-lover27 @blackbeakedcrochan @rhysismydaddy @dreamingofazriel @keladrym99thefangirl @eternallyautumnal @cazriel-is-canon @crazybookladythings @empress-ofbloodshed @rkjar1646 @fireflyangelxx