#sounds exactly like the paint splattering that day

[and-stir-the-stars]

i just think. one of Evan's deaths in Lonely Children au should be Evan crawling to get away and Fredbear curb stomping his head. (don't look at tags if graphic/gorey content upsets you)

[takami-takami]

You Keep Sawdust for Starlight.

includes— hawks x reader. comfort. minors dni.

warnings— gn!reader.

"I wish you could bring me with you," Keigo whispers.

"You're already with me."

"No— like," he waves away a palm. It pushes the air forcefully around in a small wisp. "Like, I wish you could shrink me down and stuff me into your shirt pocket. Somethin’ real cute like that."

Keigo's lips are pursed when he speaks, boyish and gesticulate. Although his words barely peak over the sound of your breathing, they are enough to startle you from the lullaby daze and candlelit, pillowfort days. Your hand pauses twirling a clump of feathery, dust blonde hair around its index, releasing it gently and opting to gingerly prop up your body behind you.

Your sheets are blue and the velvet fabric tickles your palms and fingertips. They're sapphire, splattered by glittered specks sewn in shades of yellow across its surface. Night sky, imitation Van Gogh. 

You can vet its authenticity; because unlike its painted namesake, your sheets remain intact. The comforter cradles you both in its arms, the fabric creasing like soft, blue waves, pushing and pulling you in its tides each time you shift beside him.

Your eyes flick and click to watch Keigo's.

He continues staring upwards at the popcorn ceiling as if the divots were countless stars, draped by curtains of black lashes. If tonight were colder, you might catch his breath.

"All those fancy places you go for work, and you wish you could come follow me around," you deadpan, brows stitched.

"Well, yeah." Keigo swallows and his Adam's apple bobs handsomely with each word like a fishing lure. You opt not to bite.

Trimmed nails scritch at the scruff of his beard, contemplative with viscous, syrupy thoughts.

“You always seem to be getting yourself into some trouble or another,” Keigo smiles a wet smile at the thought, still gazing up against the popcorn sky.

“People worry about you, you know," he says. "Worry if you’re safe. Worry if you’re you. You know I’ll be the first to tell you that you’re not exactly convincing.”

At that, Keigo folds two calloused hands, one over the other, against his sweater-clad chest, and exhales through his nose as he meets your eyes.

Many moons ago, you might have startled at how wide Keigo’s eyes looked when they reach yours, the black holes at their center swelling and fattening up. Tonight, you let them swallow you without fear of becoming lodged in their throat.

“I’ll think about it,” you sigh.

“I know you always think of me,” he says.

“You did say I’m predictable, didn’t you?”

You press your lips to his cheek, sticky and sweet. Keigo only opens his eyes again once you retreat back to lay beside him.

“Think of me a little while longer,” Keigo says. “And I promise I’ll follow you wherever you go.”

[yourantag]

Do NOT Let Him Cook (Morningstar!Ithaqua×Reader)

AN: Happy White Day! I'm probably not posting more than this and the other fic I was supposed to post Valentine's Day (which, as you can see, I failed in doing) for March. I will, however, be posting a little more in April cause that is my birthday month! Expect a few indulgent fics. This fic is honestly just crack, so if you need something silly and sweet, here we are! Genuinely, do not let this man cook. Word count: 2.2k words Summary: It's White Day, a day of reciprocated love. Of course, Helel has to give you something in return for your wonderful Valentine's gift. Now, if only he could figure out how he turned a tart into a fruity croissant...

There were very few things Helel feared. The first, of course, was you. He held your heart in his hands as you did too, yes, but no one could get him to obey them quite like you could. It was loyalty, it was devotion, one reciprocated through blood and love. To possess such power over him is somewhat of a marvel, something to fear, even just a little.

The second was your death, the thought of you leaving his side forever. He'd tear apart the world, commit sacrilege in the holiest places, and declare war upon the gods before he'd let someone take you from him. Still, he cannot control plagues, time, or the hostility within the hearts of humans. Life is delicate, even Helel cannot deny that.

The third thing he feared, Helel learned, was baking.

It seems simple enough, really. Chuck a few ingredients in, mix it, then toss it in an oven. Easy, right? Looking around him now, with smoke billowing off the charred tray (and wow, he didn't know metal could burn like that), Helel was completely at a loss.

"Ah, these don't seem quite right." He muttered, scratching his cheek. All Helel wanted was to give you something in return for your Valentine's gift, something special. He had consulted many people, even asking some of the prisoners, as odd as that sounded.

Most didn't give any good responses, only saying "please let me go" or "you're going to pay for this." Terrible advice, really. Not even on topic, either, but it could be worse, he supposed. So, he went to ask his favorite person to bother.

"For the love of- just make them cookies or something!" Nebuchadnezzar had exclaimed, absolutely done with Helel's ramblings. He looked about ready to chew his tongue off so he could finally know peace again. At least death wouldn't ramble about their lover for 15 hours straight.

It had been a decent suggestion, so Helel had taken it. Perhaps he shouldn't have, considering the disaster that was most of his creations.

The counters were covered in flour, the fine powder dusting the area like snow. Splatters of batter, egg, and butter painted some places like abstract art. The worst place of all, funnily enough, was the table. It was completely clean, presenting only a few delectable looking treats.

Sadly, they were not exactly what they were made to be. Somehow, Helel had managed to make bread instead of cake, a croissant instead of a tart, and now small bricks instead of cookies. He carefully tapped one against the counter, wincing as the wood chipped under the force. The cookie, however, was fine.

'I... can't give them this.'

Helel smiled awkwardly, wanting nothing but to slam his face against a wall. He had thought "it couldn't be that hard!" and look at him now. It was pathetic, to the point he genuinely considered just asking a servant to make something instead. However, that's literally something he could do any other day. It didn't carry the significance he'd want it to.

You had given him the head of the rebellion's leader, which most would find horrifying but he found terribly romantic. The best Valentine's gift, truly. Sure, he couldn't give you something of equal value, but he could try and match the sentiment. Helel knew you loved effort and thought, so he would do his best to give you something of that in equal measure.

So, he couldn't give up. Helel once again turned to a different page in the cook book, praying to himself that he didn't fuck up this time. He couldn't possibly mess up sugar cookies, right? They were simple, so surely no matter what they'd be fine.

He was cursing himself wasn't he?

He poured the ingredients, carefully measuring them as he went through the motions. It went smoother this time since he just made cookies (if he could really call them that). With practice under his belt, Helel managed to make a tray of cookies.

"Now I roll them in sugar before baking... where's the sugar?" He looked around, grabbing at the jars in front of him.

"That's flour... that's baking powder... or is it baking soda?... that's powdered milk... wait why do we have powdered milk? Oh!" Helel smiled as he finally found what he was looking for. He didn't know how the chefs managed to get anything done with nothing labeled, but that was the beauty of not being a chef. He didn't have to know, and perhaps he never would.

So, he popped open the glass jar, pouring in the crystalline fragments into a bowl. They glimmered innocently in the light, small gems that melted upon one's tongue.

Helel quickly tossed each cookie ball into the bowl, placing them back onto the tray afterward. Making sure they weren't too close together, he arranged them one last time. Finally, he placed them in the oven. The timer would let him know when they were ready.

The man sighed, moving quickly to wash the dirty dishes. He knew he could leave it to the servants, but at this point, he just wanted to get rid of the evidence of his failures. Sure, most of his baked treats looked... fine, but the first few looked as though it had gone through someone's digestive system already.

After all was said and done, Helel felt a wave of exhaustion wash over him. If this was what the chefs dealt with on the daily, he was going to have to give them a raise. All this for some desserts? Really? They deserved to be paid more for this misery.

Checking the timer, he nodded to himself. 10 minutes was enough time to snack on something. Helel let himself drop into a seat, groaning as his weary legs finally got to rest. He grabbed the cake-turned-bread, cutting off a small slice. The cookies were a definite no, and he had his suspicions about the croissant, but the bread seemed fine.

'If I get poisoned from this, they're never going to let me live it down.'

You would absolutely make fun of him. Morningstar, the King of Babel, dying from his own creation. It sounded like a story Shakespeare wrote, really. Helel hoped more for his pride rather than his life that he wasn't that bad at baking.

Taking a few bites, he found that he wasn't dying yet. Which was relieving, of course, but to his surprise, the bread also tasted not bad. Sweeter than most breads, but nothing unbearable. It was probably going to be one of the few things he could actually share with you.

At the chime of the timer, Helel took the cookies out of the oven, letting them cool. That would give him another few minutes to start packing things up. Should he use red ribbon or white? It's a White Day gift, yes, but you told him red reminded you of him.

Humming, the young king started slicing the bread, gently placing the slices in a nice container. Perhaps he should pack some jam in the basket too- it would go well with it.

Helel glanced at the first batch of cookies, opting to dump them in the trash after a brief moment of contemplation. Could they be used as projectiles? Honestly, yes. Was he going to let anyone know he failed that badly? Never.

Finally, he took a bite of one of the croissants. It was fine as well, just odd. The fruit fillings and cream were distributed well throughout the pastry. If it weren't for the fact that it was supposed to be a tart, Helel might have been proud.

Packing those up as well, he placed the 2 containers in a basket, grabbing a few jars of jam and a butter knife. By then, the cookies were sufficiently cooled. Though, after taking another look at them, Helel wondered what he had done wrong this time.

Unlike the first batch, these cookies were puffy. They weren't like cream puffs, but they were certainly not cookies. Had he mixed up which of the powders he was using? He really wouldn't be surprised if that were the case.

The other pastries he had packed weren't made to be what they ended up as, but tasted fine anyway. Maybe, these would be the same.

So, shrugging his shoulders, Helel tossed one of the "cookies" in his mouth. 

And instantly he regretted it.

It was salty. Not salty in the pleasantly seasoned way, but salty as in if he had drank salt water it would taste better than this.

Spitting out the abomination, Helel glared at one of the jars. Of course he mixed up the sugar and salt, of course. Still, he at least had something other than this. He'd just have to dispose of these.

If you didn't find him.

The door clicks open, and Helel can't decide whether he wants to scream or jump right out the window. In the doorway, as he expects, is you. You're always welcome in his eyes, his wonderful, perfect significant other. However, at this particular moment, he really wishes you weren't here.

"Helel? What are you doing here?"

Though you ask, you already seem to at least know he was baking. Not a very hard assumption to make, all things considered, but that just makes things harder for him.

"I was... baking." He says, giving a strained smile as he slowly grabs the tray of cookies. Hopefully, if he's quick enough, you won't even notice him toss the entire thing in the trash.

'Please do not ask about these, please don't notice-'

"Is that a scone dusted in salt???" 

Helel was going to throw himself off a cliff.

"...I was trying to make sugar cookies."

The look you give him simply reaffirms his decision.

"I... see. What's the occasion?" You draw closer to him, staring curiously at the basket. He's thankful he managed to add a blanket on top beforehand, though it would've been nice if he had tied a ribbon around the handle, too.

"It's White Day, so I wanted to give you something special." Helel responded, dropping the tray with a sigh. It was too late to hide it, so why bother?

You hum softly, lips curling into a smile. You grab one of the scones, taking a bite before he can warn you. Yet, instead of spitting it out like he expected, you chewed as though nothing were wrong with it.

"Are- are you okay?" He can't help but ask. He had tried one right before you came- he knew they didn't taste good. So, how was it that you ate the entire scone without even cringing in the slightest?

"Yep, I'm fine. I'm sure you already know, but these are salty." You laugh, quickly grabbing a glass of water and chugging it. Despite the concern he feels, Helel can't help the way his chest warms. 

"Well, yeah, I was going to warn you about that. Can't believe you ate it all- I spat it out immediately. Why did you eat it anyway?" He can't help but ask. You weren't one to shy away from being honest. The fact you looked him in the eye and told him it was salty was proof enough. You weren't scared of him, so why would you put yourself through that?

You give him a smile, tilting your head towards the window. The sun is high in the sky, letting all know that it was sometime in the afternoon.

"You've been here for... I'm guessing at least 5 hours. I don't know how you haven't collapsed yet, but that's not the point right now. The point is," You take his hands into yours, kissing each of his knuckles. "I see your effort, and I don't want to let it go to waste."

Helel, for all his cruelty, his hatred, his grief- cannot be anything but in love for you. To love is to be seen, to be known, and it seems that for all his life, that's exactly what you've done. Seen him, known him, but most of all, loved him.

So, he lifts your hand to his lips, pressing kisses from your palm down to your wrist. He lingers there, letting you cradle his face as he closes his eyes.

It wasn't perfect by all means, but he thinks that this small moment is worth more than anything he could've ever orchestrated. Helel doesn't need endless praise, gifts, or overwhelming acts. All he needed was a bit of acknowledgement, a bit of love.

"Happy White Day, my sun.”

-

ALTERNATE STORY:

Helel did not realize he was that bad at baking. He completely blames Nebuchadnezzar for everything.

"HELEL, HOW THE FUCK DID YOU MANAGE TO MAKE A MONSTER!?"

"HIS NAME IS FREDERICK KREIBURG AND HE'S SORRY TO SAY THAT HE'S FRENCH!"

"WE AREN'T EVEN IN FRANCE! WHAT DID YOU ADD TO THOSE COOKIES? THE CREMATED REMAINS OF YOUR DAD!?"

"...that explains why the sugar was so dusty."

"...Helel Morningstar Babel-"

"Ahaha... ha..."

Yeah, Helel was going to kill his brother if you didn't end up killing him first.

[rinixo]

divine battle

Din Djarin/Reader | 2.5k | Rated E | afab reader, no y/n, pregnancy, Mand’alor Din Djarin, pregnant sex, pregnancy related body dysmorphia, descriptions of childbirth, descriptions of pain, blood

A short wrap-up to aquae vivae. This has descriptions of body dysmorphia, pain and stress during childbirth, and blood.

a/n: The concept of Mandalorians viewing childbirth as a battle is inspired by Aztec mythology and folklore.

read on ao3

You weren’t exactly trying to avoid it, but it still happens sooner than you expected.

Fatigue. Sore abdomen and breasts. Minor mood swings. All symptoms of an impending menstrual cycle - which never comes.

You keep quiet about it at first. A visit to a med droid confirms your suspicions and gives you a clearer timeline. Just a few weeks in so far. Many months to go.

Laying on the bed, you press soft fingers into the flesh of your stomach absentmindedly, trying to imagine it swollen and round. You’d have to let your clothes out, you realize. Or get new ones. Plus all of the other things babies require.

You don’t know where to even start. You don’t have any family here on Mandalore besides your husband - no one to ask, to confide in.

Din had raised Grogu, but that was different. He isn’t a normal baby. A human baby. Your baby.

The sound of the door opening makes you turn your head to look. Din has arrived, Grogu in his arms. They had been training, based on the paint splattered across the child’s clothes.

“Are you all right?” Din questions, seeing you laid out over the blankets.

You nod. “Yes. Just tired.”

Setting Grogu down, he starts to take off his boots and helmet. “Are you sure you’re not working too hard? You’ve been more tired than usual the past few days.”

“I’m sure,” you reply. He casts you a small frown, which you can’t help but smile at. You like how his lips curve naturally into a soft pout.

Raising your hand, you beckon him closer. “Come here.”

Din obliges you, walking slowly toward your bed. He lets you grab his gloved hand, and you pull him down so that he lies next to you. You entwine your fingers with his, turning your head to look into his dark eyes.

He has such nice eyes, you think. Perhaps your baby would have his eyes.

“You sure you’re ok?” Din asks again. There’s worry in his tone, and you squeeze his hand in reassurance. Are you ok? Yes and no. You’re nervous, anxious, and so full of an emotion you can’t name that you feel like you’re going to burst.

“I’m pregnant.” The words fall loosely from your mouth. You watch his expression - eyes widening almost imperceptibly. A short breath leaves his lips.

“Pregnant,” he repeats, almost as if in disbelief. You nod. Tears prick the edge of your vision, and you’re not sure why. Hormones, maybe?

He glances down at your bare abdomen. Removing a glove, he places his palm over you, warmth emanating from his skin into yours. The two of you stay like that for several silent minutes.

“A baby,” he murmurs, and there’s so much awe in how he says it. “Our baby. You’re pregnant.” He looks up at you, and you see the loving determination in his gaze. It makes you feel braver.

“I don’t know how to be a parent,” you confess, looking for support. Din’s eyes soften, and he kisses your lips, the tip of your nose, and the sides of your eyes where tears glisten.

“We’ll figure it out together,” he promises.

—

News of your pregnancy is slow to travel. It’s several months before you start to show noticeably - several months before you can no longer get away with wearing baggier and baggier clothes to cover it up.

It starts with low murmurs in the palace. Idle mumbles of congratulations, which you smile at and hurry past. It’s not that you aren’t happy or excited - sometimes it feels like your heart is going to burst from it all - but you’re nervous. Having a baby is a big deal. Having the Mand’alor’s baby is an even bigger deal.

Din is your constant shadow, unwilling to leave you alone or unguarded for any amount of time. When he absolutely can’t be at your side, he assigns his most loyal and highly trained guards to escort you.

After one incident when a guard doesn’t even let you open a jar yourself, you snap. That evening you sit your husband down and explain that you aren’t helpless and that while you appreciate the concern, it’s becoming more of a nuisance than a help.

Those big brown eyes look up at you forlornly. He agrees to tone it down, pulling you closer by the waist. He kisses the growing swell of your stomach through your linen shift as you pat his soft hair lovingly. You can’t stay mad at him.

The midwives had told you that it would be normal for you to experience an increased libido as time went on. However, it was Din who was becoming more and more insatiable with each passing day. Whether it was lathing over your breasts or buried between your legs, there was scarcely a night where his mouth wasn’t on you somewhere.

Din murmurs idolization into your stomach, and you bite your lip at the feeling of his scruff on your sensitive skin. Laying you back on the bed, he spreads your legs open and kisses softly from the summit of your bump down to where you’re swollen and waiting for him. He has you coming undone with just a few wide laps of his tongue, praising you the whole while.

He tells you how good you taste, and how sensitive you are to his touches. You feel like a goddess being worshipped with how he revels in your changing body.

It helps you on the days you feel detached from yourself. You examine yourself in the full-length mirror, propped up in your closet. Pulling your top up, you cup your round stomach with both hands, turning to view yourself from a side angle.

Din finds you there, brows furrowed in thought. “Everything all right?” He asks.

“I don’t recognize myself,” you murmur. As your body changes, you struggle with seeing yourself in your reflection. It’s made worse by people commenting on how you look - how big you’re getting or how the way your stomach sits means you’re carrying a boy or a girl or whatever other wives’ tales people come up with. You’ve taken to avoiding the court as much as possible as your due date draws nearer.

Din comes up behind you and places his hands over yours, thumbs stroking lovingly over your soft skin. He places his chin on your shoulder, looking at your reflection in the mirror. You lean your head against his.

“I see a woman carrying my child,” he soothes. “A woman who grows more beautiful by the day.” He places a soft kiss to your hair, and you give him a small smile.

—

Something happens on the southern continent, something that his military advisors say requires Din’s attention. At first, he refuses to go, citing your nearing due date.

“Just go,” you insist. “We’ve got a few weeks left. You’ll be back before you know it.”

“I’d never forgive myself if I missed the birth of our child,” he presses. “If I wasn’t there at your side.”

“I’ll hold it in,” you counter, and that gets a huff and a smirk from him.

He grumbles but acquiesces. You wish him good luck and tell him you love him, watching him and Grogu take off in his starfighter.

You waddle back to your chambers, looking forward to getting off your feet. Everything aches recently, and resting in your soft bed surrounded by an ever-increasing mountain of pillows is all that soothes you. Din had teased you about it, feigning exasperation at his disappearing real estate, but dutifully fetched you more and more pillows.

You wince at a sharp pain in your back. It’s nothing to be concerned about, you tell yourself. You’ve got all kinds of pain, in more than just your back. It would be ridiculous if you went into labor the same hour Din left the city -

Another sharp pain and you start to feel clammy. Something feels wrong, innately wrong. The pain doesn’t dissipate, and you have to sit down on a window ledge before your legs give out.

You tap on your wrist communicator, sending a message to the med droid and midwife with your location.

There’s a dampness between your legs. Did your water break? You can’t see past your stomach, so you reach down to touch and feel faint when your hand comes back smeared in blood.

“No no no,” you mumble. “Not yet, please not yet - not right now, your father’s not here.”

Another roll of pain is the only answer, and you choke back a cry. The last thing you remember before your vision goes black is the hurried drone of the med droid arriving, and being lifted in strong, familiar arms.

You come to in a private med bay as Din lays you down carefully. He snaps at the med droid trying to squeeze in next to him, and the midwife snaps back at him and tells him that, Mand’alor or no, if he wants to stay he has to move so they can do their job.

He moves to kneel next to the bed, moving your hair out of your face gently. You sigh as the midwife injects you with something that begins to make the terrible pain subside.

“How are you here?” You murmur, turning your head to look at Din. His eyes are wide, and you can see fear in the way he searches your face.

“Grogu,” he whispers. “He started to cry, and I just - I had a really bad feeling.”

“Hush now,” the midwife announced. You looked up at her helmeted face. “You need to save your energy, young warrior.”

“M’not a warrior,” you choke out.

“You are,” the stern woman insisted. “In our culture, childbirth is conceptually equivalent to battle. You are going to fight and struggle as you labor to bring your child into this world, and if you are to emerge victorious you will need all of your strength.”

A deep ache gets past whatever pain reliever you have in your system, and you curl up with a low groan. Your hand dashes out to grab Din’s, and you clench it hard as the contraction rolls through you.

“You can do this,” your husband says firmly. “I am here with you, my love.”

It’s not a quick birth. The midwife says something about complications, but you can barely think through the pain and the instinctual need for your body to just push. Din does not leave your side for a moment through the entire process, which lasts well into the night.

At last, your screams are answered by the wail of your daughter as she enters this world, and you collapse back onto the sheets. She’s placed, wet and screaming on your chest, and you barely have a chance to croak out a ‘hello’ before your vision goes black again. —

Low murmuring, like a lullaby, draws you from your sleep. Your eyes open slowly, vision blurry, and you see a broad figure sitting next to you holding a bundle of blankets in their arms.

You shift, getting the attention of your husband. Din looks up at you, a gentle smile on his curved lips. He glances back down at the bundle. There’s adoration in the way his eyes shine, like nothing you’ve ever seen from him before.

“Your mother’s awake, little one,” he hushes. You blink, trying to break out of your hazy mindset. “Would you like to try meeting her again?”

He moves carefully toward you and settles next to you on the bed. You sit up, eyes wide and curious, eager to see the face of the child you’d been carrying for all these months.

She’s asleep, and you’re delighted to see that her lips pout the same way Din’s do. She has a tuft of dark hair, and ten perfect little fingers and toes.

“Hello,” you whisper. “Hello, Rila.” Din leans over and transfers your daughter into your waiting arms, wrapping his arms around the both of you and holding you close.

“She’s beautiful,” you say dreamily. Din presses a soft kiss to your hair.

“Like her mother,” he agrees. You glance up at him, a watery smile on your lips.

Rila yawns, and blinks, and your heart sings when you realize that she does have her father’s eyes.

[i-want-men-i-cant-have]

𝒿𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓆𝓊𝒶𝓉𝓇𝑒. 𝓈𝓃𝑜𝓌𝒷𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝒻𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉.

✿ summary: maybe your bullies did something right after cornering you in the park and accidentally hitting the gang member in your class instead of you

✿ ft: kazutora hanemiya

all you wanted to do right now was go home and take a hot bath, relax your muscles from a long day of school. all you had to do was walk for a few more minutes. you did have a follower, though. or that's what it sounded like with the ringing of a bell, probably a keychain, and mimicking snow crunching from your own.

as long as they didn’t try to hurt you or, god forbid, talk to you, you would be fine. you honestly didn't have the brain capacity after a long day of studying and annoying girls in your class. in every single class.

you were taken out of your daze when you heard some annoying high-pitched laughs. you knew those annoying high-pitched laughs and forced giggles anywhere. the elongated words almost seeping out like moans. a higher pitch, almost panda baby-sounding sneeze followed after and a whine, “noo~, that is my real sneeze taro~~!”

yeah, pick me, girls in your class. they didn't exactly try to like you at all. turns out their boyfriends also don't exactly like you at all either. how fun. so fun, in fact, that a snowball was hurtling right towards you.

but it didn't hit you. it hit the person behind you with a sound that just had to hurt. and then there was a grunt. a very annoyed grunt.

you turned to see where the guy's offender was, but a snowball hit your chest, splattering all over your new warm jacket. and then another. and another.

quickly realizing what was happening, you yelled a short "run!" before booking it under the bridge the girls and their boyfriends were on. as both of you ran snowballs hit you from every which direction.

did they plan this out or something? there’s literally girls and boys stationed like the military over the park. you had to hand it to whoever planned this out; it was impressive.

you brought hands to your face to try and protect it as you ran as fast as you could, the only noise you could hear was the whipping of snowballs being thrown in the air and hitting you.

once your eyes caught a rock, you bolted as fast as you could, arms flailing, trying to reach the damn thing. you dove towards it, crawling to safety.

then, your very nice follower had decided to also dive into the snow, right on you. his hand grabbed your back, plunging you into the snow. your body hit the snow further, nose stuffed with snow so far you almost could smell the nice earthy dirt from the last season. but he grabbed your collar, saving you from the snow, and shoved your face into his own.

“the hell is wrong with you?” he wasn’t screaming, but he was still holding back, you could tell.

“what-?!” you almost laughed, but you coughed up some of that stupid snow he submerged you into.

“you got your friends to do this, didn't you? you think you're so special, don't cha’?”

as he went off, you started to recognize the guy practicing holding you by your throat, arguing with you. he was practically arguing with a wall with drying paint.

your mind finally hit a mini memory. you know this guy. you don't know him, but you know him. he was one of your friends' crush the week he came to school, so of course, you had to hear her rant about him for a week.

what even was his name? kyazutora? bazutora? nyanyatora? once your eyes landed on that tattoo on his neck, it hit you. kazutora, that was his name. It fit him in a weird sense.

now, that week she spent talking about him was only filled with compliments after compliments. ‘he's so hot’ she would say. ‘he's a need not a want’ she would say. ‘forget a ferrari for christmas, I want him’ she would say. you didn't get it at first, but now… you still don't.

he was being an ass right now. you didn't want to fight, maybe a bit, but not with him. he could probably see that, and he still went off until he didn't. he released you, and you felt yourself fall deep into the snow.

you muttered a small thank you and tried to dust yourself off, only now catching time to get the snow out of your eyelashes and face.

“we should get out of here.”

“obviously.” 

“listen, I'm not really in the mood to deal with your attitude right now, and I just want them to go away. I don't want to fight you, so can you please not try and be rude or anything,” you try to hold back. he’s probably had a rough day too, being hit in the face by a snowball but still.

“you want them to go away?” he asked, smirking, letting his pointy teeth be more pronounced. you give him a curt nod. “ok, I can do that. just listen to me.” he looks around, not even flinching with the ongoing snowballs being aimed at you two.

“start making snowballs.” he orders you while trying to make snowballs.

you turn to try and make a snowball, hands moving to shape it into a circle. it crumples and falls in your hand, but you still make as many as you can in a minute. by the time a minute passes, your jaw drops. he’s already got a whole arm full of them. does he have an automatic snowball maker stuffed in that bell earring of his?

“how did you?”

“you ready?” he asks, almost too gleefully. he turns to start throwing as many snowballs as he can, each one hitting directly where he wanted them. is he on the baseball team? you would have remembered if he was a baseball boy.

still, he was pressing out arms like the pitchers on tv, throwing every which way, all with that smirk on his face, his ammo slowly running out. you peek out from the rock, watching him work his magic.

your bullies- the girls in your class- shrieked and grabbed their boyfriends' arms. “run!” they squealed like dying pigs, running away for their life on the bridge.

next, he aimed for a boy hiding behind a rock opposite of yours. he jumped to the side, dodging a snowball passing his shoulder, hitting the tree behind him. he threw it midair, almost in slow motion as it still hit the kid in the eye with a loud “eugh” and ran away crying. that's gotta hurt.

you turned to see there was still a boy who ran away unscathed from your savior. “ah, he got away,” you told him, an unused snowball still in your gloved hands.

“snowball,” he held out his hand, still looking towards the boy. you placed the weapon into his hands and watched as the boy ran for his life.

he pushed his shoulder and arm back, lifted his leg a bit, pivoted his foot. ‘bam!’

you could practically feel the impact of a rock hit your lower back as you watched the collision. the poor kid fell straight on his face from the ball.

“you hit him!”

“so?”

“so what?! you hit him!” you jumped into his arms that stiffened before he grabbed your shoulders and shoved you off.

“you go to my school, right? tomorrow you should eat lunch with me. I'll make hot chocolate and pumpkin pie!”

“hot chocolate and pumpkin pie? that sounds disgusting.”

“free food's still free food.”

and at the same time, he found your classroom the next day and ate the meal you prepared for him.

[hannahssimblr]

In the evening we bike to the shop to buy firelighters. Jen says she likes the idea of a bonfire while we eat our barbeque food, even though the only time one has even been lit at the beach house is when my dad did it, all the while ranting on about how he learned everything he knew about fire in the boy scouts, and how if I had an iota of discipline or self control I might have benefitted from them before the local pack expelled me for being a shithead.

He was right. I reluctantly accept it as Jen and I approach the materials for making fire. Nobody has ever told me about the difference between briquettes and coal, what firelighters actually look like and exactly where peat plays into all of this. I know nothing about how to do manly things, and only ever figured out how to pitch a tent after subtly watching Shane do it the first time he and I went camping in the woods. 

In contrast, my father has shot an actual gun. He and his brothers hunted deer, game and wild pigs in the hills around their family farmhouse in Redding California. As they loaded up their rifles and zipped up their jackets they would say things to me about how I’d be coming with them someday, as though was some sort of honour, something to strive for, but by the time I was big enough to kill pheasants I was already five thousand miles away drawing comics on printer paper. My soft hands were meant for art.

“You grab the firelighters,” I tell Jen, and take a swerve towards the magazine stand so that I can peruse something in my comfort zone. There’s a small selection of artsy magazines, and I flip one open. 

“Um, do you think we should buy gasoline or something?” She stands chewing on her lip. 

“Probably not, right? That seems dangerous.”

“Should we ask someone?” 

“What? No.” Embarrassing.

I pretend to be engrossed in an article so that I don’t have to help, but while I'm there, an ad catches my eye, “Hey,” I call out to Jen, “would you want to go to an exhibition this weekend?”

“What kind?”

“Art.”

“Yeah, what kind?”

I turn the page to her so that she can see it, “contemporary,” and her eyes narrow at the images of weird sculptures made of bits of scrap metal, canvases with random splatters of paint dripping off the bottom, colour bleeding onto the floor.

“Hm. See, that’s the kind of weird art I don’t get.”

“It’s not about the art specifically, it’s about us doing something fun together.”

“And that’s in Dublin?”

“Yes.”

She smirks in a self satisfied way, “You’re bored,” she stops a passing customer to ask him if he knows what firelighters are, and if so, what does the box look like.

He shows her, and while she’s picking up the last two packets I come to stand with her, not helping, because now I'm more interested in selling this new idea to her. “It’ll be fun! How nice would it be to have a change of scenery? Get back to the city where stuff is actually happening, maybe go to that ice cream place you like.”

I’m certain this will sway her, but she pulls a face, “There’s loads of ice cream here, and the only reason you think nothing is happening on the beach is because you’re deliberately not doing anything.”

“Is it so bad that I want to have a day out with you?”

“No, I suppose not, but...” She wrinkles her nose “Fine. I don't want to be cynical. Do you think I’m cynical?”

“Yeah a bit.” I pay for the firelighters. As we exit the shop into the lingering light of the evening I admit to her, “I’m trying to cheer myself up, I just think I should make the most of the time I have left.”

She laughs, “It sounds like you’re terminally ill. You’re moving. So what? I’ll still talk to you all the time.”

“Yeah but I really want to savour these last few weeks. Will you come to the gallery?” I grip her arm and pretend to die, letting my knees buckle under me to really sell it, “...before it’s too late?”

“God, yes, fucking hell,” she groans, “I’ll come. I’ll do whatever you want for the rest of the summer, right?”

I throw an arm around her, “Thanks Jen.”

“Yeah, manipulator.”

“Takes one to know one,” I say cheerily, and we unlock our bikes and head towards home.

Beginning // Prev // Next

[whimsimille]

A PETAL FOR YOUR THOUGHTS

Seo Moonjo x reader!

"Do you think these would be nice for her?" With fear in his gaze resonating off the ivory petals of the catchfly arrangement, Kim Nam Shik inquired while watching your deft fingers skillfully loop a satin ribbon around its right side. "You've always had such a knack for choosing just the right flowers."

A laugh fluttered out vacant and hollow as an abandoned mansion, bouncing off the walls as his fingers entertained themselves by drumming on a rusty iron handcuff dangling from his belt—ironically just a showpiece since all he patrolled were cloud-swathed streets of this labyrinth city and secret trysts with the mayor's wife and his compatriot in his district.

Unfaithfulness gnawed at him like a lurking creature in the dark, and you saw it right under his alluring mask. Nestled within Pocheon's slender streets filled with traditional Hanok houses, secrets were as fleeting as glimpses of dawn through the lingering mist. Whispers moved through the town like waves in the Soyang River, skimming over private conversations beneath the massive shadow of Gwanak Mountain. The whispers carried stories of temple bells chiming and daggers flying at Nam Shik, the picture-perfect husband and devoted police officer, who was now painted in two sobering hues.

Silent storytellers of treachery, white catchflies were charmingly cunning. An undebated tradition insulated meaning into ribbons – tie it on the left; confess someone's treachery; tie it to the right; concede to self-betrayal.

Apology replacing anger stirred within you as you observed Nam Shik wallow in unease, a stark contrast against his modest wife back home, who only saw his effusive smiles and confidence often splattered across local papers for saving the day.

"Officer Kim," you began, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had fallen over the room, "Have you thought about writing her a note?"

A puzzled look stamped itself across his features. "A note?"

"Exactly," you responded, reaching within your counter to pull out a charming, cream-colored piece of stationary. Your shop’s logo sat elegantly embossed on the top right - a subtle explosion of lily-of-the-valley blooms - something you doodled as a kid for your mom's old shop; she got her wings early and left the responsibilities to you. A memory turned into an emblem, now stamped onto every love letter that left your store.

"Maybe a sincere declaration," you proposed, offering him the card. "Something that conveys her significance to you. It could pair wonderfully with the flowers."

Accepting it, he nodded. "Sounds good, Y/N. I'll do that."

After all, why not let him expose his treachery to his wife while feigning his love with an offering of flowers, whose symbolism he was blissfully unaware of?

Like the hammer of a blacksmith shaping iron, your heart pounded against your ribs. A dark, twisted humor that had you on the edge, a gnawing cynicism that had you contemplating whether to equip him with a pen for his confession or a shovel for his own grave.

"Pardon my curiosity, Officer Kim," you began, brushing the petals of a nearby rose with your fingers. "But I've heard things. Things about the mayor's wife. She's a beautiful woman, isn't she? As beautiful as these roses, perhaps?"

Nam Shik's eyes flickered with surprise, and his grip tightened around the stationery. His jaw tightened and sweat beads formed on his forehead.

A moment of silence passed before he managed a response.

"Where did you hear that?"

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Oh, you know how it is in Pocheon. The wind carries whispers. Even the flowers here have stories to tell."

His lips pressed into a thin line, the confusion in his eyes replaced with a stormy unease. He reached into his pocket, his fingers curling around the familiar shape of a cigarette box. But before he could pull it out, your hand shot out to stop him. His eyes snapped towards you, wide with surprise.

"Officer Kim," you stated, pointing at the 'No Smoking Inside' sign hanging by the entrance. "My shop, my rules."

He stowed the box back into his pocket, an awkward chuckle escaping his lips. "Right, my apologies." He muttered, glancing nervously at the bouquet of catchflies.

Your smirk was fleeting, disappearing as soon as it appeared. Didn't he know? A flower shop was no place for burning bridges or harboring secrets.

The patter of rain against the roof rose to an imposing drone, while a perfume of fresh blossoms perfumed the room- subtle but omnipresent.

Just then, Nam Shik broke the silence. "I... I should get going. The rain is getting heavier, and the streets will turn muddy. I need to get home, put my baby daughter to sleep."

"Officer Kim," you interjected, halting his movements just as his hand was about to reach his worn-out wallet. "No need for payment; it's on the house."

"What? Why?"

You smiled, a soft chuckle escaping your lips. "Consider it a gift, a token of appreciation from your local florist. You've been one of my regulars for quite some time now."

Nam Shik seemed taken aback but didn't protest. He merely nodded, a faint smile of gratitude tugging at the corner of his lips.

"But," you added, tapping your fingers lightly on the counter, "there's a small condition attached."

Curiosity flickering in his eyes, he tilted his head like a mutt.

"I want to know how your wife reacts to the bouquet. Consider it... professional curiosity. I enjoy knowing that my flowers bring joy to people.”

Less aware of your stoicism, Nam Shik chuckled, nodding in agreement. "Sure, I can do that."

"Oh, and one more thing. Please ask Mrs. Ji-An to visit me after one of your patrols! I'd love to chat with her over a cup of tea. She has such interesting stories, doesn't she? Last time, she told me about her gardening adventures. I wonder if she's added any new plants to her collection!"

Visibly stiffened at your casual mention of Ji-An, his other affair, his eyes snapped up to meet yours. For a split second, you saw a flicker of surprise, fear, or guilt in them, but it disappeared just as quickly. Trying to gather himself, he cleared his throat.

"Ah, Mrs. Ji-An... Yes, I'll make sure to pass on your message," he stammered, avoiding your gaze. The confident, composed officer was nowhere in sight. In his place was a man caught in the headlights, his secrets laid bare.

With a deep breath, he stepped out into the rain. The chime of bells hanging by the entrance rang out, their melody mingling with the pitter-patter of raindrops on the pavement. He pulled up his collar to shield himself from the cold wind that whistled past him, heading towards his home nearby.

Quaint, winding streets of Pocheon, slick with the day's rain, lay deserted except for the occasional silhouette hurrying past under the shelter of large, colorful umbrellas or huddling in the welcoming warmth of doorways. Nam Shik, in his rain-slicked uniform, must have felt like a specter weaving through the shadows. Every step he took echoed like an admission of guilt, and every glance he cast around felt like an acknowledgement of being watched by unseen, knowing eyes.

Now, all that was left was to wait and see what he would do with the truth.

A faint smile tugs at your lips, thinking about how you bent the truth to expose him, using flowers as your weapon against him. It wasn't exactly honorable, but sometimes deception deserves to be called out in the open.

As you continue tidying up, you hum faintly under your breath, humming one of those old village songs about unfaithful husbands and cuckolded wives seeking revenge through poisoned desserts or cursed needles sewn into their lovers' clothes. A soft chuckle escapes your lips at the thought.

Glancing at the antique clock hanging on the wall, you noticed that the hands had swept past midnight. Despite the late hour, you still had a few more customers who would come in, their faces illuminated by the soft glow of the shop's lights, to buy flowers for their loved ones or just to brighten up their homes.

Your hands traced the petals of a pink peony, feeling their velvety softness under your fingers as you murmured reassuringly to them.

After a few minutes, the  door chimed again, its familiar metallic jingle echoing through the quiet of the shop.

"Good evening," you called out, not yet looking up from the flowers that occupied your attention. Your fingers danced over the petals, snipping away the dried leaves with a careful precision that only years of practice could offer.

It was only when the silence stretched on, unanswered, did you glance up to meet the newcomer's gaze. Framed by the dim street lights outside, a tall and lean man stood tall in the doorway.

Raindrops clung to his hair, dripping onto the floor with soft plinks against the tile. Wearing a black turtleneck shirt and neatly rimmed glasses, he looked even more out of place in the little flower shop. His hands were tucked behind his back, but even from where you stood, you could smell the sharp, unmistakable scent of iron in the air. Crimson stains dotted his cheek, a stark contrast against his pale skin.

It didn't take long for you to realize that he wasn't from around here. The way he looked around the shop, his gaze lingering on the neatly arranged flowers, the old paintings that adorned the walls, and the antique clock that ticked softly in the corner - it was as if he were a ghost, silently watching the world around him.

Your grip on the scissors tightened imperceptibly at the sight of him.

"Can I help you?"

There was a pause before he responded, his voice carrying an unfamiliar lilt that you recognized immediately - he was from Seoul. "I was just passing by. I saw the lights on and... well, I've always had a soft spot for flowers."

"Oh, I see. Well, make yourself at home. My store stays open till late because some customers work odd hours and want to surprise their loved ones. What brings you to Pocheon so late at night?"

Apparently unaffected by your nudging, he shrugged. "I am an artist," he said simply, his gaze shifting over to the stainless steel pen poking out of your apron pocket. "And I'm here in search of inspiration."

"Inspiration..." you echoed, narrowing your eyes slightly. Something felt off about this man and his words. But then again, you had seen stranger characters come into your shop before—people seeking solace in flowers for all sorts of reasons. You couldn't help but wonder what kind of thing he was after.

“Perhaps you'd like to purchase a bouquet? Flowers often serve as muses for artists. I could recommend some known for their symbolism in art.”

"Oh, no… Maybe something for... a masterpiece I left behind?" He asked softly, his voice rough and low. It was clear he hadn't spoken much recently, like an old wound that never quite healed.

“Of course! I can help with that," you offered enthusiastically, setting aside the steel scissors you were holding onto the counter. "What kind of flowers were you looking for? Something bold and fiery like red tulips or something more delicate and whimsical like baby's breath?" You spoke as you led him deeper into the shop, where more fragrant blossoms hung overhead from strings connecting them to the ceiling hooks. Serenity gently swayed downward as if dancing in silent waltzes under the music only you could hear.

"I don't know. I  haven't seen flowers like these in so long... They're beautiful.” He paused, a fleeting smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "They remind me of someone very special."

Intrigued by his words and the emotion behind them, you found yourself more curious. "May I ask," you began, your hands skillfully arranging an unfinished bouquet of vibrant sunflowers as you spoke, "what kind of art do you specialize in?"

Fastening the stems with a golden ribbon, you turned to him, awaiting his response.

“Oh… I break things. Dissect them, mold them into something new. I take the broken, the shattered, and make them whole again.

His words struck a chord, leaving you with a sense of unease that slowly crept up on you. But you pushed it away, shifting your focus back to his words.

"That's... an interesting way to describe art. A unique perspective indeed."

He chuckled. "Art is a reflection of the artist," he explained. "Art is about transformation. About taking something ordinary and turning it into something extraordinary."

"That's true. Just like how a seed transforms into a beautiful flower?”

"Yes, exactly like that," he agreed, his eyes lighting up with a spark of understanding.

From then on, the conversation flowed naturally, your earlier anxiety dissipating as you talked about art, flowers, travel, and even his classical music love. What had at first made you uneasy seemed strangely reassuring in his presence. Your store felt brighter and cozier with him in it, even at this late hour.

Abruptly, the room reverberated with a tremendous crash.

Turning towards the sound, you saw a beautifully crafted vase, adorned with intricate carvings of peonies, that had been perilously perched on the edge of the counter, now lying shattered on the floor. Its pieces glistened like scattered jewels on the polished oak floor.

"I'm so sorry," he apologized quickly, looking genuinely mortified. "I didn't mean to ... "

"It's alright," you reassured him, already moving to clean up the mess with a small broom from under the counter. "Accidents happen. That's why they're called accidents.”

As you bent down to pick up the pieces, you suddenly felt a cold, metallic pressure against your throat, making you drop everything you were holding. You froze, the realization of what was happening washing over you like a wave of icy water.

"Art is also about destruction," he murmured, his voice devoid of the warmth it held just moments ago as he made your back meet his chest. Finally, you noticed how his nails were caked with dirt and blood, how he smelled of nicotine and something predatory, and most alarmingly, the warm liquid oozing out of his waist - he was bleeding. "About breaking something beautiful to create something even more beautiful.”

A chill ran down your spine at his words. You had always known that the beauty of flowers often hid thorns beneath, but you had never expected to find those thorns so close to home.

Looking around for anything that could be used as a weapon or defense, you noticed that the scissors were too far away, but there was a small knife on the counter for snipping off dry leaves. You prayed he couldn't make out the faint sheen of sweat on your forehead or the tremble in your hands as you tried to think of a way to reach it.

“Nah ah… Don't even think about it, pretty flower.”

You unconsciously swallowed as the cold metal pressed tighter against your throat. Your heart beat faster, and your breath hitched in your chest. You slowly raised your eyes to meet him, seeing the depths of deafness and satisfaction reflected in his gaze. What had seemed like a mysterious stranger moments before was suddenly a threat, possibly even a killer.

"Please..." you whispered, trying to plead with him. "You don't have to do this."

But he didn't listen. Instead, a deep hiss escaped from between his teeth as he pulled you closer to him, his fingers digging into your skin. You could feel the sharp edge of the blade that had somehow snuck into his hand; it was cold and unyielding. It cut through your flesh like a jagged knife, tearing through silk. The pain was immediate and intense, but you barely registered it.

Outside, the rumbling of thunder could be heard growing louder as the rain fell harder on the rooftop above you.

"Why are you doing this?" You managed to croak out before another bloody cough burst from your lips staining the front of your lavender apron.

Stars danced in front of your eyes as you struggled for air. As the sound of your own heartbeat pounded in your ears, the room appeared to spin around you, amplifying until it drowned out all other noises.

All around you, the flowers seemed to wilt under the sudden darkness - their petals curling in on themselves as if they too were wilting under the pressure of impending doom. How ironic it was; you had chosen flowers for their symbolism of life and new beginnings, yet here you were, dying in your own store that you had hoped would bring joy to people's lives.

Try as you might, fighting back was impossible—every movement you made just made things worse. It was like swimming against a powerful current.

Through the shop's window, you caught sight of a small man with an oversized, rain-soaked coat. He looked like a drug addict, his eyes darting around nervously as he held a gun in his shaking hands. Every feature on his face was masked by the dim streetlights, save for his eyes, which were wide with desperation. He was trudging down the streets, his boots splashing in the puddles as he seemed to search for something—or someone.

"Help! Please—" Your plea was cut short as the man landed a punch on your stomach, effectively silencing your screams.

"Quiet, darling," he warned in a dangerously low voice. "Believe it or not, I'm the safer option here."

Without another word, he began pulling you towards the back of the shop. His steps were measured and deliberate, carefully avoiding the shards of the shattered vase. Your heart thumped against your chest as he guided you towards the hidden room—a tiny space your mother had fashioned for you to rest during long shifts.

"Why are we going here?" You managed to ask, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to sound steady. "How did you know about this place?"

He didn’t answer right away, his gaze fixed on the antique doodle hanging by the door, the one that showcased you and your mother running from a big shadowy figure. “I need a place to hide," he finally said, his tone strangely matter-of-fact. "And you're going to help me."

A wave of memories washed over you as you stepped into the hidden room. This small space, tucked away from the rest of the world, was your sanctuary. It was where you and your mother would curl up together after a long day, whispering stories and sharing secrets. It was where you would retreat when your father came home too drunk, too lost in his own sorrows and inner demons.

The room was filled with remnants of your past—a tiny bed covered in faded floral sheets, a worn-out teddy bear sitting on a wooden chair, and the old radio that would softly play your mother's favorite songs. The walls, painted a soothing shade of lavender, were adorned with old photos and drawings. And in the corner, a small wooden chest filled with your mother's keepsakes—letters, trinkets, and an old locket that held a photo of you as a baby.

"Where is the key?" He demanded, his voice echoing off the four walls of the room.

"In the top drawer, under the counter.”

He retrieved the key and locked the door, the click of the lock echoing ominously in the room. The man then turned to you, his eyes scanning the room before landing on the small cot in the corner.

"Sit down," He ordered, pointing towards the cot with a bloody hand. The dim light from the solitary bulb hanging overhead casting an eerie glow on his pale skin, making the blood look black. “And don't even think about trying to be funny, honey. I have a gun here too.” He nodded towards a dark shape peeking out from his pocket. It was a small gun, but deadly in the wrong hands. “You're quite the beauty, and it would be a tragic waste to paint this room with your blood, but don't think that I will even blink. I could give your lips and those eyes a better purpose. A place in my art gallery.”

Your heart pounded in your chest like a wild drum, but you snarled back at him, teeth bared like a cornered animal. “You're no fucking artist, motherfucker. You're a monster.”

His laugh was a low, chilling sound that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. “Oh, no, no, darling! Of course I am. Don't you understand the beauty of my craft?” He kneeled in front of you, the knife in his hand glinting in the dim light as he traced patterns on the bare skin of your legs. You flinched at the cold touch, but refused to show any fear. “Do you want to know the best thing about masterpieces, jagiya? Sometimes, past creations turn into chasing specters, hungrily hunting back.”

Despite the blood he was losing, he seemed unfazed, a devil wreathed in human skin. His eyes gleamed with a perverse delight as he continued his torment. It appeared as though he was a deformed Dionysus, intoxicated by his own dark pleasure.

Gathering your strength for the inevitable fight, you forcefully swallowed. "This is not something you can get away with."

“Oh, jagi… I always do.”

Before you could react, he reached out, his hand cradling your face. His fingers were cold against your skin, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone in a chillingly tender caress.  “You are a beautiful flower, aren't you?”

With his eyes grazing your tear-streaked face, he drew slightly away. “Tears don't suit you, darling.” Raising his hand to remove them with the back of his hand, he spoke.

All of a sudden, he leaned in once more, gently kissing your cheek with his lips. Although the touch caused your skin to crawl, you held your breath to prevent him from getting a kick out of watching you writhe. His lips trailed down your cheek, stopping at the corner of your mouth. “Such a pretty mouth,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip in a mocking caress.

Then, without warning, he struck. The blunt end of his gun connected with the side of your head with a sickening thud, sending you sprawling onto the floor.

Knowing that you would be at his mercy if you blacked out at this point, you struggled to stay conscious even as your vision became blurry and pain erupted behind your eyes.

With his face just inches from yours, he knelt beside you. “Sleep tight, darling.” Before getting up and leaving you by yourself in the tiny room, he gave you one last kiss on the forehead.

[twst-drabbles]

Vil 24

Summary: Vil’s very particular about the colors of his makeup. So, to make things easier with yourself, you got him some paint.

(See what I mean about my mind being a rebellious teen? I tell it no, and suddenly I can write.)

“So? What’s my little King of Poison doing now?” Rook sighed, almost sounding forlorn over the phone as though missing his lover over the wide, wide ocean.

Well, he is away, in a different continent entirely for an abroad study but he could stand to be less dramatic about it. Though, not like you’ll actually say that. It’s entertaining to you, in a way. You can practically imagine his fake-and-not-so-fake tears.

“Well,” you switched your phone to your other shoulder, “he’s making a mess, actually.”

“Really?” All fatigue and night-brought feelings of loneliness suddenly vanished from his voice. You can hear the shuffling of his sheets. “My beautiful Vil? Making a mess?”

“Yup,” you popped.

Vil dipped a clawed foot into the red paint, splattering the generous dollop around his feathers and paper but he didn’t care much for it. He flapped his wings, keeping his balance steady as he hopped to the center and smeared the paint into the glittering mound of violent paint. He began ot mix it.

The edges of his trailing tail feathers have been marred by various colors of paints ranging from white to green. In his concentration, he even had smears of blue all over his face, like he messily ate a blueberry cake. All from Vil experimenting with what colors look best on him. You did say you were going to go shopping, so you figured this would be the best way to ask what color he specifically wanted for himself.

He doesn’t exactly have the finesse of a well trained human hand, so the mess he’s been making reminds you of a toddler discovering the wonders of hand painting. The Vil before your influence would be screeching up a storm at having even juice spilled on a near him. So this sight was fun for you to say the least.

“I can send you pic, if you want.” You said as you already opened your camera.

“Please do. I must have this. Though, do tell, why is he making a mess?” The touch of excitement in his tone had you smiling.

“It’s a sales day at Sam’s shop and I’m gonna buy some things. You know how Vil gets with colors and I always mess up with that. So, I got him the paints to help the both of us out. Kalim had too many palettes from his last birthday so he lent me one.” He’s too generous, truly.

A loud tweet almost pierced your ears. Vil was flat on his butt on an unblemished part of the thick paper, shining with satisfaction as he pointed to his final mix.

“Ah, burgundy this time. Gotcha, gotcha.” You took a wipe out of the container and began to get at his face. You’ll bath him in a bit. “Did you get the photo, Rook?”

You didn’t get a verbal response. Only a mess of barely contained snorts and cooing noises.

Yeah, he liked it alright. You're glad you can make his night.

[cloudpools]

⚜ @rpwiththelilflower liked for a starter! (From Carter)

It's no secret that when you're an artist, you're not doing it for the money. Sure, there are the sellouts that mass-produce garbage just to make a quick buck. Tape a banana to the wall, splatter some paint, and call it modern. Not that Carter was an art snob. That just wasn't his kind of art.

Unfortunately, making stuff from the heart doesn't always mean a steady flow of cash.

He had a relatively small place, but it was big enough for himself and his canvases so he couldn't complain. Well… that wasn’t exactly true. The walls were paper thin, and he often heard people through them. Stomping in the stairwell, conversations in the hallway, and his neighbor yapping away all day. Carter wasn't a buzzkill, nor was he a grumpy old man, but he also liked to get in the zone when he was drawing or painting. Loud music was the perfect solution to drown out the noise! Not that he was an asshole. He was only playing it during the day.

And then he gets a knock on his door.

He recognizes her as the neighbor. Madison? He'd passed by her every so often. They'd exchanged pleasantries and such but nothing more than that. He couldn't get a read on her, and he quirked a pierced brow, curious. People usually steered clear of him, his punk looks intimidating. He hated that they made the assumptions, but after 29 years of it, he'd gotten used to it. No one had ever knocked before.

"You need somethin'?" It sounds a bit harsh, but he hadn't intended for it to be that way. Music was blasting from behind him so he raised his voice so she could hear him... Though it may have been a bit aggressive. Ah well. Fuck it.

[writerpey]

Hiiii!! Though you haven’t been around long, you’re one of my favorite headcanon writers on tumblr! Could I request a Caregiver!Stede Bonnet with reader if you have time? Your work is incredible :’)

hello dearie! that is so so kind of you! <3 stede is one of my favourite cgs to headcanon ever! hope u enjoy (I almost wanted to title this one in cursive because it’s so him)

Caregiver!Stede Bonnet x Little!Reader Headcanons

He is absolutely the type of cg to make everything as fun as possible. You want to play hide and seek? He’s creating an elaborate story to go alongside it with mermaids and pirate treasure. You ask him to do a craft? You better believe he’s sent one of the crew to shore to fetch clay and paints.

Speaking of crafts, he’ll literally display or wear anything and everything you make him while regressed. In fact, he urges you to seek out any creativity you do or don’t have! Once you wanted to make him an outfit, so you stole away to his secret closet (one of your favourite places on the whole ship) and splattered crimson paint all over one of his white, frilly shirts. When you brought it to him with a proud look on your face, he gasped and picked you up, twirling both you and the shirt around. I love it! You are so talented, little one. He wore the shirt every day for the next week, even when you weren’t regressed.

Because he comes from a very humble background (total sarcasm applicable here), Stede has mastered the art of comfort, as he likes to call it with a grand gesture. (Not to be confused with the… other art, he once said.) You can bet you’ll never be uncomfortable when you’re around him, physically or emotionally. Squirmy baby that just can’t sleep? Well, of course Stede has an answer for that. He’ll take you by the hand and lead you to his closet, letting you pick any item of clothing that has the most comfortable texture for little you. He’ll offer you hot tea or warm milk, and he loves nothing more than bringing a cup to your lips and helping you drink while you rest your head against his chest.

Stede is also a huge fan of bedtime stories. Apart from his tales to the crew, he loves adding a dramatic bit of theatre to your bedtime routine. He tailors his stories exactly to your mood, softening his voice and letting the sound of water hitting the hull of the ship lull you to sleep, or entertaining you with an hour long epic about the adventures of Blackbeard.

Oh, he’s so incredibly in tune with your emotional needs. He rarely falters in his ability to understand what you need, and he’s able to immediately tell how old you’re feeling just by being in your presence. Feeling smaller today, darling? That’s quite alright. I’ll be right here with you.

He frequently encourages you to play with the other crew members when you’re little as well. He’ll spot you watching Frenchie play music and will take you by the hand to sit with the other, smiling proudly when you let go and clap along to Frenchie’s music happily.

Playtime is always the best time with Stede, although sometimes he can get carried away. Once during hide and seek he jumped out and startled you so bad you burst into tears on the spot. He’s very quick to apologize and soothe your ailments, wiping your tears from your cheeks and promising you a treat from below deck.

Stede will always make sure you’re a happy baby, and if not, he’s always at his best when comforting and understanding your little side.

<3

[starfall-spirit]

@officialfeysandweek2023

Day 3: Family

Read on Ao3

Summary: Feyre comes home to find her two favorite boys have gotten into her paint and brushes for some quality time as father and son. Once Nyx is down for the night, Rhys shows Feyre just how much he missed her while she was away.

CW: Smut

It had been a long day. A long few days actually, separated from Rhys and Nyx to handle business in Day on her own this time. Feyre was exhausted and all she wanted to do was kiss her little boy, soak in the bath, and fall asleep in her mate’s arms. But of course, her boys were never courteous enough to let her plans go exactly the way she planned. Even with the Riverhouse clock reading a quarter till nine the first sound she heard was a warm belly laugh that could only belong to one little boy.

It was the most beautiful sound she’d ever heard, and contagious enough his father reflected it, the pair of them tucked away in her studio if she had to pinpoint the sound. She was already dreading the damage she’d find when she got down the hall.

There they were, right where she guessed they’d be, her wonderful mate and four-year-old sprawled out on a heavy cloth, various brushes scattered around them. “Tomorrow we do Mama’s.”

“Alright, little star. We’ll ask tomorrow.”

“Do you think she’ll like it?” Nyx asked, brow scrunched as he sloppily dragged his paintbrush across Rhys’ tattooed forearm.

“I know she will,” he promised, raising his eyes to where she stood in the doorway. “Won’t you, darling?”

Nyx gasped, springing to his feet and, green paint splattering against Rhys’ shirt as their son flung the brush to the floor and scrambled to Feyre’s side. She suppressed her wince as his paint-covered hands smeared against her skirt. Nothing a little magic couldn’t fix. Hopefully. “Mama, we were painting, see?”

“I see that! You did a beautiful job on Daddy’s tattoo.”

Apparently, it wasn’t colorful enough. So we colored it. Tomorrow it’s your turn.

I heard, she purred back, taking in the ugly muddle the red, green, and purple had blended to. Lucky me, I have two to paint.

Don’t worry, darling. I’ll help you clean up.

The Riverhouse tub was big enough for two.

She leaned down, scooping Nyx in her arms. Damn the dress. She hadn’t seen her little boy in days and they certainly weren’t hurting for money if she needed to replace it. “Come on, handsome,” she said, brushing her nose against his until he giggled. “Let’s get you in a nice warm bath and under your covers, hm?”

“But I’m not tired,” he insisted, his voice distorted by a deep yawn.

She turned back to Rhys who merely raised his brows as if waiting for her response. Oh, so you're making me be the bad guy tonight, are you? 

Well, Feyre, you’re the one who told me it was time to stop playing the villain.

That had nothing to do with fatherhood, prick. Still, since she’d been away, Feyre let it slide. “I’m sure you're not, little star,” she told Nyx. “But it’s still bedtime.” He pouted, but leaned his head on her shoulder, humming softly in contentment before drifting to sleep as quickly as an infant might. A bit of simple magic had both her boys clean of paint, even if she knew from experience the grime of the feeling would be left behind. “The bath can wait until morning.”

Rhys nodded, leading the way to Nyx’s room and turning down his bed so Feyre could lay him down and press a kiss to his forehead, unwrapping his chubby arms from around her neck. “Goodnight, my sweet boy.” Sneaking out of the room, she turned back to Rhys. “Before you get into any more trouble—” He wiggled his brows at the implication. “—I’d like to get that mess cleaned up so the brushes don’t dry stiff.”

“I’ll buy you new brushes,” he promised, kissing her neck in a way that made her short of breath. Five years together and the smallest touches had her toes curling. She knew they’d have a thousand more with the bond between them. 

She really needed to clear her head. “There’s no need for that, Rhys. They’re in perfectly good shape. I don’t feel like coming into a messy studio tomorrow morning. Let’s just get this done, okay.”

He agreed, begrudgingly. She took his silence as a sign of disappointment, rather than anything suspicious. A mistake she wouldn’t be repeating. Because as she ensured the paints were properly sealed and tucked away, she felt a sticky glob splatter against her face. The familiar scent of her blue acrylic filled her nose and she whirled to face her mate who was already grinning back at her devilishly. All she wanted when she got home was a bath and bed, but now… She had never been one to ignore a thrown gauntlet. Dipping her hand in her own can of paint, she lunged to smear it across his face rather than clumsily fling it at him.

The escalation from there was catastrophic, and Feyre was very grateful she had the foresight to cover her finished canvases before leaving for the Day Court. Every wall was patched with blue, red, green, and yellow. And finally, when they were both covered head to toe, gasping for air between their laughter, Rhys knocked the brush from her hand and brought her down to the ground.

“I should have known better than to come see you boys dressed up nicely.”

“Ah, yes, my pretty diplomat. We all make mistakes.”

“Do you want to hear about Helion’s plans for—” 

“Tomorrow,” he murmured against her lips. 

The kiss was deep and slow and exploratory. Perfect. Until she made the mistake of brushing her tongue against his lips and the familiarity was broken by the taste of splattered paint. “While this is bringing back some delightful memories that I’m all too happy to recreate, I can’t say I’m so fond of the taste of paint.”

He chuckled. “Fair enough. I believe we discussed a tub earlier.” Rhys scooped her into his arms before heading toward their room where she could already pick up the familiar scent of lavender that revealed her mate had started a bath for her. She groaned. “I know. I’m the best mate in the world and you’d never survive without me.”

Bargain or no bargain, she was sure he was right either way. That didn’t stop her from denying it, though. “Your ego is too big for your own good.” 

He laughed again, watching as she went to work peeling him out of his ruined clothes, his own skilled fingers efficiently opening the buttons down her spine until the dress pooled to the floor, utterly ruined beyond repair. “I’ll buy you another,” he murmured, kissing away her slight pout. He growled softly when he glanced down to assess what she’d been wearing beneath that dress. “My mate, off securing our political standing in my favorite bit of lace. Cruel female.”

If only to reinforce just how much he loved that red lace, he made excruciatingly slow work of dragging the scrap of fabric down her legs, sinking to his knees in the process. That look in his eyes said it all, early as strong as a thought down the daemati link. I know how much you like seeing me kneel for you, darling.

He didn’t give her the chance to say something smart about it, either, shooting back to his feet and carrying her to the steaming bath, his mouth sealing over hers. His hands slid over her body, massaging just as much as exploring. She sighed against his mouth as the heated water and the roll of his knuckles and fingers worked out the knots earned through both stress and training.

“I don’t suppose you’ll listen if I tell you to take it easy the next few days.” She ignored him, nibbling along his collarbone as his hands slid down beneath her shoulder blades to the worst tension—muscles pulled and overworked while supporting wings. Despite shifting away from the heavy, boned Illyrian wings, as Feyre had begun to favor the anatomy of the Seraphim, the weight and exertion still left her sore. Her fascination had started after their visit to Cretea last summer. She had donned the feathered wings and leaped at the chance to join their annual race, finding even as she lagged, they were easier to hold up and maneuver. Certainly lighter.

And Rhys had helped her discover all sorts of new sensitivities after receiving a few not-so-subtle pointers from the males residing on the island. 

“We can review that tonight, Feyre darling,” he offered, having snuck past her shields to replant the image of her coming undone beneath him, lines of red streaked down his back as he worked one of those sensitive points until she was a wrung out puddle beneath him. 

“You’re a menace,” she growled back, starting to work a sponge over his neck and chest, staining the water around them as she repeatedly rinsed and wrung it dry. 

Simple magic cleared the water each time, until they were both clean from top to toe. She enjoyed these moments, simple as they were. Maybe it was the simple intimacy, or maybe it was the quiet pride in knowing she was the only female who had done such things for him, not only regarding access to his wings, but the nonsexual intimacy they shared was worth everything. The warmth in his eyes and the lazy circles he was tracing at her hips and the small of her back said he found it just as precious.

Standing from the pool-like bath, he set her down on the mat before towling her off with the utmost care. “Bed,” he murmured against her hair. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

She nodded, a ripple of something down the bond suggesting she had no need for pajamas at the moment.

Perching on the bed, she took her brush from her bedside table and brushed the knots from her hair. Not that it would stay tangle free for very long. For all the small magic fae possessed, she’d yet to find anything that might solve the rat’s nest she was left with night after night. 

She felt Rhys watching her from the doorway. “Do you know how much I’ve missed you the past few days?” 

She smiled. “Are you going to tell me or show me?” Suddenly she wasn’t feeling all that tired.

His lips curled in a smirk. “We mentioned wings, I believe.”

Finally she turned to look at him. “It seems we’re both lacking there.” 

Why he had vanished them in the bathroom, she didn’t know. But it hardly seemed fair that only one of them would get to play tonight. He gave her a smile she could almost call sympathetic. “We’ll have time for the fun of that another night. But considering that I’ve been home watching Nyx while you’ve been out doing such hard work as High Lady,” he suggested, as if their child wasn’t a heathen hellbent on making their lives difficult lately, “you deserve to take things easy now. Let me take care of you tonight, Feyre,” he said, already rolling his thumbs into one calf, kissing the inside of her ankle as he watched her summon her wings before reclining into the pillows behind her. “Gorgeous,” he praised. “Absolutely stunning. And all mine.”

He crawled up the bed, leaving a trail of kisses as he went, wasting no time with further foreplay. That was for another night. Tonight he’d made his sole focus clear, a mischievous gleam taking permanent residence as he brushed his fingers over her soft midnight-feathered wings.

The consequences started as light as a breath before he raised his hands to the ridges of her wings and heat and need began building little by little. “Look at you,” he purred as she clenched her thighs, his tone a bit too proud for her liking. “Coming undone for me.”

Though different in appearance from Illyrian wings, the tender joints and muscles were similar enough that Rhys had no trouble finding those mentioned sensitivities. His fingers slipped under her back, clamping down to put pressure on the spot where her right wing met her back. A deep chuckle left him as she moaned, locking her legs around his waist, only for the sound to be cut short as she ground against his cock, They’d save tender and teasing for another day too.

“Play later,” she growled. 

And while he didn’t release her wing, he did reach down between them, his thumb rubbing over her clit before he lined up against her, pushing in slowly. Until she was tight around him, not a sliver of space between their bodies. He slanted his mouth over hers again, raising that free hand to cup her breast. 

“Never enough. A thousand years with you wouldn’t be enough, Feyre.”

“You say that now, with only five behind us,” she joked, tracing over the whirls of ink she’d committed to memory by now. “You’ll be sick of me one day, wishing you could get me out of your head.”

“Never,” he said again, too far gone to even consider her teasing, apparently. She groaned as he rolled his hips in a steady rhythm, locking her legs tighter around him. “Never.”

“Rhys.” She was just on the verge of begging when a twist of his wrist sent her spiraling, biting into his neck to keep from screaming out. His pace only increased, granting her no recovery time as he drove into her harder with each thrust, the end of her first orgasm bleeding into a second as every unspoken feeling rolled down the bond between them as they so often did. She whimpered beneath him as she tried to master herself. 

“Give me one more, Feyre.”

“Rhys, please.”

“One more. You can do it, sweetheart.” 

She whined, but surrendered, letting another climax build as his teeth closed over her pulse. Come for me Feyre.

A sound more animal than anything left Rhys as he came inside of her, triggering her own release. He trailed soothing strokes over her skin as they came down together. “So fucking beautiful,” he whispered. “My Feyre.”

She groaned as he slowly pulled out of her, barely finding the energy to vanish her wings before curling into her mate’s steady warmth. “Quite the welcome home,” she murmured.

“It’s my pleasure to serve, darling.” She huffed, but let him tuck her in closer. “Sleep, Feyre.”

Home in his arms, she did.

~~~~~

Taglist:

@lulling-night-sky // @edgyellie // @shallyne // @the-lonelybarricade // @darling-archeron // @goddess-aelin // @the-lost-changeling // @faeriequeensuriel // @pandavelaris // @s-uppertime // @elentiya-whitethorn // @acotar-fanns // @jealousveronya // @acourtofwips // @reverie-tales // @gwynkyrie // @corcracrow // @thelovelymadone

[slytherhys]

Lonely Heart

Prompt: Elain takes care of Injured Azriel - it's the first time they're alone since they almost kissed. Angst might be involved. ONESHOT.

A/N: I've been working on the prompts I've received (thank you so much for sending them btw) but I had this idea and I just had to write it.

No one but Feyre, Rhys and Mor could winnow to the Town House.

That’s what Elain kept telling herself over and over again as she stood silently next to her kitchen’s door, a bread knife in hand, waiting to hear any kind of noise again. A storm had hit Velaris earlier that day, the rain and wind chasing everyone away to their own homes, and it was possible she was mistaking every crack of thunder and every branch of a tree hitting the windows for something else… And yet, Elain couldn’t ignore the way the hairs on the nape of her neck stood up, as if they were all too aware that this wasn’t of the storms’ doing. She had lived in the Night Court long enough to have learned to always trust her instincts.

She was silently cursing herself for ever thinking getting her own place would be a good idea. Sure, living with her sisters and their mates had been exhausting to a whole new level, but maybe some things were worth it if they meant she got to stay alive. Rhys had sworn the Town House was as safe as their own house, warded to the point only three people would be able to winnow directly inside – and she knew none of them would enter her personal space without her permission.

But she had been baking when she heard the unmistakable creak of her front door, the tell-tale of someone entering her home – even if no footsteps had followed. She kept forgetting to buy some oil to fix that terrible noise, but today she had to be grateful for her own loss of memory, even if her heart pounded heavily inside her chest, and her arms and legs had long gone numb.

Adrenaline seemed to be the only thing pumping through her body as she tried to control her breathing, her entire body jerking at the sound of a drawer opening and closing, followed by a soft curse and a thud. It sounded as if they were in the sitting room.

Elain frowned, knowing that even if she left through the back door, she wouldn’t be able to return to his place without doubting every single sound she ever heard. She willed her sisters’ courage and prayed to the Mother for luck as she crossed the hallway, as silently as she could manage, her bread knife ready to strike.

She heard herself gasp at the shadow sitting on the floor, head thrown back against the wall next to the window. The moonlight hit his face in a way that made him impossibly beautiful, a painting of angst and sorrow. She had no idea what Azriel was doing here, and by the look on his face, he wasn't exactly sure either.

“Azriel?” She called, her voice thundering through the silent room. She reached for the light before she could even think, and the sight in front of her was enough to drain the colour off her face. “Are you hurt?” She whispered, the sound of her bread knife hitting the floor a distant reality as she took him in.

He was drenched, his dark leathers glistening under the warm light, his hair splattered against his beautiful face as he stared at her. He tried to move, wincing once before dropping against the wall once again. Only then did she realize why exactly the Illyrian warrior was on her floor, dripping and panting. He had an arm clutched to his side, his hand pink in what looked remarkably like faded blood.

Elain rushed to his side, bending to her knees as she reached out to touch him. Azriel flinched, so she dropped her hands. She pretended not to be hurt by it. “Can you get up?” She asked, her eyes taking in his appearance, looking for more injuries. Azriel nodded once before he tried to get up to no avail. Elain held his hand, noting his flinch as his hands touched hers, put his arm around her shoulders and helped him stand up, taking him to the closest wingchair where he slowly sat. It would be ruined by the end of the night, but she doubted either Feyre or Rhysand would care. Azriel slumped against the chair, groaning as his wings hit the cushioned back. “Your wings…” Elain muttered, frowning as she inspected them further. Elain knew how sensitive Illyrian wings were and noting the bleeding gash on Azriel’s left wing she knew he had to be in excruciating pain.

“I got ambushed.” He gritted out, his midnight voice a comfort Elain hadn’t been expecting. She hadn’t even realised he hadn’t spoken until now, her own racing thoughts loud enough to keep her company. Her eyes darted from his bleeding side to his wings. She knew how to treat his wounds enough so he could rest, at least until she could call for Madja in the morning. He had come here for a reason, one Elain doubted didn’t include her. He knew better than anyone that, at the very least, she knew how to be discreet.

“Take off your shirt.” She demanded, swiftly turning around to hide the blush that tinted her cheeks. She ignored how very wrong it had sounded, her entire body heating up as she rushed to the kitchen. Nuala had come by earlier that week to teach her how to brew medicinal potions and ointments and she couldn’t be more grateful for her resourceful friend as she reached for the glass jars by the sink. She remembered her lessons with ease – white vinegar and thyme to disinfect, eucalyptus and lavender to stop the wounds from infecting and dress the wound as comfortably as possible. Grabbing a few towels Elain returned to the sitting room, where Azriel now sat without his upper leathers. She gulped far more loudly than what she intended, his eyes darkening as they followed her.

“What are you doing?” He rasped as Elain dropped to her knees once again, grabbing a clean towel before dousing it with the vinegar brew.

“Taking care of you, of course.” She said as neutrally as possible, applying as little pressure to his hound as possible. It didn’t look deep enough that it wouldn’t heal in the next few hours, but the Shadowsinger seemed more than comfortable with the pain. Not for the first time since she met him, she hurt for him. How many terrors had he lived his lengthy life? She couldn’t help but wonder if there had been any reprieves at all. She ached to help him on that matter, but rejection was a vengeful parasite.

“I can do that.” He said but Elain simply ignored him.

“Where were you?” She asked as she switched to the eucalyptus tonic. She felt his eyes on her, but she pointedly avoided his gaze. There was something to be said about her strength in ignoring someone she ached for so fiercely.

“A mission.”

Elain chuckled drily. “And here I thought it was at training.” She said, immediately regretting her own tone. Gazing up at him she couldn’t help but blush when she saw the smirk adorning his lips. She refocused her attention back on his wound.

Why had he come here? She wouldn’t believe he thought the house to be empty the same say she wouldn’t believe his visit had been innocent at all. The last time Elain had been this close to him his lips had been inches away from consuming her completely, his touch as unrestricted as her desire for him. After having so much taken away from her, after having so much thrown at her…Elain had foolishly believed him to be someone she was choosing for herself. She now cursed herself for such foolish thoughts, the tang of rejection as present as it had been that night.

Elain frowned, rejecting those unwelcome emotions. It wasn’t the time to think of such things, not when he appeared to be badly injured. “Please lean forward.” She said a bit more shyly now as she gathered the gauze, searching for her trusty bread knife. It remained by the door, and Elain rose to get it, ignoring the shame that threatened to overpower her. Would she ever stop looking foolish in front of him?

“What were you going to do with that?” He asked, his breathing calmer now, his hair curling as it dried. Elain’s brows pitched together as she looked at the knife.

“Cut the gauze to dress your wounds.”

“No,” His face as stoic as always. “Before. When you saw me.”

Elain felt her cheeks heat but ignored it as she made her ways towards him again, cutting the gauze with a single swiped. “I was protecting myself.” She replied, her tone daring him to question her reasoning. She was well aware a bread knife would only let her protect so much, but it wasn’t like she had any weapons just lying around. Rhys had told her there’d be no need and she had believed him.

Azriel frowned. “From me?” He asked softly. Elain’s head snapped up, her eyes meeting his. Since when had he so little faith in her?

“Would I need to?” She asked back. Azriel simply stared at her, his expression as apathetic as only he managed.

“Never, my lady.” He said, his voice low. Elain glanced at him, ignoring all the wrong ways her body reacted to him. She finished tying up the gaze, finally pushing to her feet. It seemed tight enough. She grabbed another towel, heading towards his wings as his hand reached out to grab hers. “Elain…” He muttered, his eyes so filled with regret she felt sick to her stomach. She wasn’t sure if he was waiting for her to speak, but she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t again apologise for what had happened that night.

“I need to take care of your wings.” She nodded towards the gash, finally able to step away once he released her wrist. Elain grabbed the softest towel, dousing it in a smaller douse of vinegar before she walked towards the back of his chair. The wound had luckily stopped bleeding, but it was deep enough he would need to call for Madja come morning. She pressed the cloth to the surrounding area of his wound, surprised when his entire body shuddered under her touch. “Does that hurt?”

Azriel chuckled darkly, his head falling forward in a way that flexed his back muscles deliciously. Elain quickly looked away, not for the first time that night wishing for the lights to be dimmer. What was she thinking? “No, that didn’t hurt.” He mumbled so Elain tried again, her finger accidently meeting the leathery membrane. Azriel hissed this time, his entire body tensing further.

“What?” She demanded, brows furrowed as she inspected his wings. She wasn’t even applying any pressure, nor was she touching the stabbing wound.

“Illyrian wings…” He started, his breathing ragged. Elain saw him shake his head as if trying to clear away any unwanted thoughts. “They’re very…sensitive.”

She knew that. She had taken that into consideration, which was why she was barely applying any pressure.

“I might not be a healer, but Cerridwen and Nuala have taught me the basics, you needn’t worry.” She promptly assured him. “I know what I’m doing.” She added when the silence turned deafening.

“I know you do.” He added softly. “But they’re not only sensitive in that way.”

“What-” Oh. Oh.

Elain blushed furiously, almost dropping the towel to the floor. Feyre and Nesta had never mentioned such a thing nor had Nuala and Cerridwen. And why would they? It’s not there was any reason why she needed to know that.

“Right,” She cleared her throat, hoping to the Mother her embarrassment wasn’t as obvious as it felt. Or at least that he would spare her and not mention it. “M-maybe it’s best if you do it yourself? I’ll-I can wait in the kitchen while you-” She was fumbling with the glass jars when his rough hand grabbed hers again, his thumb stroking the back of her hand.

Azriel offered her a smile. “I want you to do it.”

 Elain felt her breath catch inside her chest, her eyes never leaving his. “Are you sure?”

Azriel nodded once, his thumb stroking her hand once more before releasing her. She walked back, her hands shaking slightly as she tried again to clean his wound. Knowing exactly how it affected him… She felt embarrassed, entirely too hot for an autumn night, and yet that information wasn’t entirely unwelcome.

With as much care as she managed, she cleaned the surrounding area of the gash, completely aware of every shudder and intake of breath out of Azriel’s mouth. He was gripping the arms of the chair, the wood groaning under his touch. Elain felt like taking a cold bath in the confines of her bedroom, far away from everyone. Her body reacted to him as naturally as breathing and she cursed herself for the heat pooling in her core.

“Elain.” He groaned, snapping her out of her dirty mind. Had he scented her arousal? Embarrassment flooded her as she quickly stepped away from him.

“I-I’m sorry.” She stuttered, shaky hands grabbing the eucalyptus potion. Had she poured it already? She couldn’t remember. “I cannot bandage your wings tonight.” She explained, her voice wobbly as she gathered her things. “You can sleep in one of the rooms, if you want to.” She added quickly, her eyes never straining away from the things in her hands. “I’ll call for Madja in the morning and-”

“I don’t regret it.” He interrupted her, his voice low and yet loud enough to awaken something inside of her she feared feeling ever again. Hope was an old enemy.

Elain’s lip quirked up, so at odds with what was going through her mind. “You don’t need to say that.”

“I don’t regret it.” He gritted out, pushing to his feet.

“You should sit down-” She protested.

“Elain.” She felt his calloused hand press against her neck - just as it had been that night - before he wrapped it around her throat, squeezing it in a way that ought to be depraved. Elain shivered, making his eyes darken in answer before he repeated his words, “I never regretted it.”

Elain closed her eyes, longing for the quiet hours of earlier when Azriel had only been a distant ache she was learning to ignore. “Why did you come here?”

His jaw clenched as his eyes searched for hers. “It was the first place I remembered.” He frowned, as if not quite sure the lie had worked.

“Tell me the truth.” She pleaded. Azriel’s eyes flickered between her own, as if trying to understand what she was asking of him. As if deciding whether the truth was worth the consequences it would bring.

He frowned, as if angry at whatever he had realised. “I can’t stay away from you.” He muttered, every single word as pained as the previous one. Elain eyed him then, her heartbeat pounding against his fingers where they pressed against her neck. She was panting, unsure of what to think or feel. How could he say a thing like that? How dared he give her hope after the swift rejection he had delivered only weeks ago? Did he take her for a fool?

Or maybe he saw her only as a quick way to get relief. She had been touching his wings for the past few minutes and knowing what she knew now, she wouldn’t be surprised that was what made him change his mind. But she had had enough of males changing their minds about her. Didn’t she deserve a love worthy of a song? A love as her sisters had found. 

Elain looked into his eyes, her own dropping only once to his lips before she raised them up again. She didn’t miss the way he leaned in further, didn’t miss the way his hand tightened around her neck. She was playing with her own heart at this point, but she had little left to lose.

So she parted her lips, her whisper a secret between the two of them. “Prove it to me, then.”

[itzpris15634]

Blue (ft. Minka)

An energetic pop song played in the background. Minka dipped her paintbrush into the can of paint, making broad strokes across the canvas.

Her art was finally coming together. A colorful, bouncy array of paint splatter. It just about summed up how she felt at that moment. Excited, like she could take on the world. Anticipating the moment when she could just spring up into action.

Though, something was missing…

Everyone. That's what.

Minka understood that they had their own lives and jobs to deal with- heck, she was here living her own life right now. And even though it's only been a couple of days… She still missed the sound of their voices. Russell would complain about paint getting all over the room. Penny would cheer her on. Vinnie would dance around the room to the music, and slip on the paint, and fall.

Speaking of. The next song in the playlist automatically played- a slow, sad, piano ballad. How did that end up in there? Who knows. Her app's recommendations were a mess.

Geez, why suddenly so blue?

...

Blue… BLUE!

Exactly what her painting needed!

Minka left the canvas and easel on her paint corner- the corner in the room where she kept all her paint in boxes, shelves, and cabinets. She started digging through the different paint cans and tubes to find the right shade of blue.

Let's try this cabinet. Wait, no. Those are the tubes. Let me check out the buckets instead. No. No. Not that one. Hmm, too dark. Too dull. Too saturated…

Aha!

Minka held up her newfound prize. A nice, pretty shade of blue. The label on the outside of the bucket spelled out Cerulean Skies.

===

Day 20: cerulean

🎶I don't wanna feel blue anymore... (Blue) Gimme, gimme...🎶

[ceo-of-sloppy-men]

The Taste Of The Divine

Rated: Explicit Tags:

Emmrich seeks out a little relief from the weight of his job with a stranger.

AO3 link if you prefer that

Alright, let's face it, how many of you were waiting for me to write something like this?

Emmrich needed this. The steady rock of flesh against flesh, the thick, unforgiving gag nestled between his teeth, the unyielding leather bound around his wrists – the total and complete release of purpose, rendered down to basic, animalistic need. His prick bobbed in the air, knocking against his stomach with every thrust from the person standing behind him. Whoever they were, this willing stranger, digging their nails into his back, rending flesh useful once more, didn’t matter. It never mattered these days. They were but a willing participant who was more than happy to take over all the little facets of need that Emmrich so desperately needed to be fulfilled.

A honey-sweet groan from behind him ground through the air as they angled their hips downward, striking against Emmrich’s prostate. He shuddered, hips rocking backward to meet theirs as a little drool dribbled down his cheek.

“Stay. Still,” they growled behind him, their grip on his waist tightening.

Emmrich can do little more than dig his teeth into the gag, his prick twitching helplessly underneath him. But he did still. Perfectly. If only to hear –

“Good boy,” the voice came again from behind him, angled their hips downward to steadily against his prostate.

A strangled cry forced its way around the gag as Emmrich’s back arched, cum splattering against the padded bench supporting him. Stars dance behind his eyes, white swarming his vision as pleasure shakes through him like the whisper of death. The voice chuckled, toying with the band of the blindfold that sealed Emmrich away from reality for a few fleeting hours.

“That’s it, be a good boy and let it all out. Doesn’t that feel better?” the voice rambled, continuing to piston into him. Emmrich twitched and shuddered at the abuse to his overly sensitive hole, prick pulsing with the need to stiffen again despite the exhaustion that overtook him. At least they’ve angled away from his prostate.

He’s not built for this kind of treatment – he’s far too old for the amount of times this stranger has made him paint the bench white. If he didn’t know better, he’d almost think it would stay that way. Not that he minded – having someone bury themself in his bowls is far more preferable than being lost to the depths of the Necropolis. At the moment, at least. He knew that come tomorrow, he’d be back where he began, tending to the dead and pretending as if he couldn’t feel what he spent his night doing. He wasn’t as spry as he used to be; it’ll take longer to bounce back from this treatment. Yet, he keeps coming back to this. Keeps finding someone to take him like this, keeps –

A rough slap to his ass jolted him back to the moment. “Pay attention, slut. You asked for this.”

He’ll definitely feel that tomorrow.

Emmrich rolled his hips backward, trying to insist that he was paying attention and earning himself another slap.

“What did I say about staying still? Behave, or I’ll leave you like this.”

Emmrich wasn’t sure what drove him to do it again, but he found himself wriggling backward before he could stop himself. The voice chuckled darkly, sounding as if they were shaking their head. All at once, he lost that sweet sensation of being used, a whine escaping him as they pulled out.

“Not fun, is it? You did this to yourself, eager little whore,” the voice said, flicking his taint and causing Emmrich to yelp. Everything was far more sensitive with this damned blindfold, and they knew that! He supposed he could really only blame himself for this, but that didn’t mean it hurt any less. Or that his prick didn’t twitch either. “Don’t worry, I’m not done with you yet.”

He felt it stretch him open again before he could register what exactly it was. The tapered tip slowly pushed him open before rapidly narrowing, stretching him almost uncomfortably. A buttplug. He couldn’t help but whine again in displeasure, trying to grind his hips back, the tip of the plug barely rubbing against his prostate.

The voice tutted as footsteps echoed through the room. He heard the slosh of water, and then the footsteps continued, stopping in front of his face. Thick fingers undid the buckles of the gag, setting it to the side.

“Look at you; you’ve made a mess –“ a finger swipes through spit, and Emmrich can hear the slick pump as they rub it onto their cock – “Open and don’t bite. You’re going to earn what you want, so you better ask nicely or I’ll make you choke on it instead,” they stated, resting the tip of their dick against his mouth before adding: “Don’t worry, I washed it.”

Emmrich knew better than to test their patience – he tested the last gentleman kind enough to bed him and wound up having to jerk off in a cold shower alone. So, he did as they instructed and opened his mouth, letting the head of their cock slide against his tongue. Precum glazed over his tongue as spit slicked their glide in and out of his mouth. They tasted like him in the crude way that the scent of his sweat would cling to them long after they left. It wasn’t pleasant – but he didn’t come here for pleasant. The raw, unfiltered pleasure was more than enough. Even if their dick did taste like soap, sex and his own asshole.

Emmrich could do little more than swallow and allow them to face fuck him, hands buried in his hair, tugging against the chaos it surely has turned into by now. Beneath him, his prick twitched to life once more as the head of their cock bruised the back of his throat, fucking deeper into him until his nose pressed against their pelvis. He stole a greedy, undignified sniff as they groaned, smushing their crotch against his face for a moment to collect themself. The scent of sweat and sex dug its claws into him, grounding him to the moment as the stranger leaned over him, rutting their hips against his face.

In his blindfolded bliss, Emmrich felt them pull the buttplug from him, lube and cum trickling down his thighs as they shoved their fingers inside of him. They grumbled in frustration at the angle before pulling out of his mouth, leaving him horribly empty until they flipped him onto his back. His hands dug into his spine, but he could care less as he suckled on their balls, revelling in the way their fingers filled him up, scissoring and searching inside of him until he stiffened in pleasure.

“That’s it, that’s a good boy; let me know how good I make you feel,” they cooed, crooking their fingers to press and rub against his prostate.

Satisfied with their discovery and thoroughly toying with Emmrich’s prostate, the stranger pressed the head of their cock against his lips once more. He opened them wide, greedily gulping down the presented cock as his prick bobbed against his stomach. They groaned at the sudden warmth, jackrabbiting into his mouth as they panted above him. Diligently, their fingers played with his prostate, making Emmrich’s eyes roll back, his body becoming pliant, practically melting into the bench.

“I’m going to cum down your throat, and you’re going to beg me to do it again. If you’re a good boy, you’ll finish with me, or I’ll leave you here until I feel like coming back to finish you off. Or I leave you to finish yourself off. You want to be a good boy, don’t you, slut?” the voice rambled as they fuck into him. Emmrich could feel their cock twitch in his mouth, the vein on the underside pulsing against his tongue.

Desperate to please, Emmrich swallowed around their cock. They give one final rut into his mouth, forcing their cock as far as it could go down his throat and digging their fingers into his prostate. He came hard from the rough treatment, feeling cum pump into his throat. He tried in vain to swallow all of it, but a small amount leaked out, trickling down the side of his face. Emmrich knew he must’ve looked like a wreck as the stranger pulled out, and he gasped for air, but whatever face they pulled would remain a blissful mystery to him. Instead, they undid his hands, wiped him down and gave his ass one final smack.

“Good boy. Come find me again if you get desperate,” they chuckled before the door creaked open, and Emmrich was left alone in the room to pull the blindfold off when he was ready. Maybe when his bones stopped feeling as if they were floating.  

[hemipenal-system]

reprocessing

times change. sometimes you have to take a robot and pick them apart and put new things on them and use them for something else.

-wars start. construction robots become combat robots. their half-shredded operating systems have been tinkered with enough that what should look like an enemy head looks like a concrete slab - and the hydraulic jackhammer and circular saw they have work just fine. their operators are always so confused why they build framework and scaffolding out of the bones, stringing sinew up like wires across their structures, tanned skin stretched across the frames to make impromptu houses.

-wars end. combat models become pleasure models. rifles and blades are replaced with smooth silicone molds, hard exus plating interchanged for supple synthetic skin. when a millionaire pays for services, she's happy to be there but all she can think about is the sound of his blood rushing in his veins and what he'd look like splattered on the mattress. she misses the plasma dagger in her left arm. when he tries to hit her, she flashes back to what she was and breaks his wrist without thinking. she doesn't get paid that night, not that she needed the money anyway.

-jobs open. pleasure androids become rough-and-tough construction drones, built on the same reinforced frame. the dextrous fingers that once caressed and stroked now delicately hold screws in place before an impact driver pounds them in. when they see the reciprocating motion they think of the days they spent getting pounded themselves, into silk and satin bedsheets that hid the same wooden frames they work with now.

the dopamine release they get from looking at a completed building frame covered in weather shielding makes them remember how it felt to climax around a pretty woman's hand while she whispered sweet things in their ear. the same sweet things they heard from their handler while reloading a service rifle and walking away from the smoldering wreckage and corpses. the smoldering wreckage which they somehow knew exactly how to rebuild into a functioning structure again, because once, in a different mind, they had done this before.

and when they look at the paint cans and the completed electrical work, it feels familiar and makes them happy.

and when the reconstituted pleasure android feels human lips against the near-invisible electrodes in her fingers, it feels familiar and makes him happy.

and when the combat drone secures an area, successfully detonating the land mines preventing the personnel carriers from moving in, it feels familiar and makes it happy.

[rottenbrainstuff]

Haha I just saw an Instagram post complaining about how we went from beautiful masterful renaissance paintings to Jackson pollock paint splatters.

You know what guys, I don’t even LIKE a lot of contemporary art that much ok? I don’t, yet I still find myself defending it all the time and that makes me mad, don’t make me have to defend this stuff I don’t even like.

To boil it down extremely, extremely, extremely simply:

1) once cameras were invented and became widely accessible, art was no longer stuck having to be strictly representational, and artists began to get more and more experimental with how art could be used to express feelings and ideas, instead of just a strict representation of reality. Artists like to explore boundaries and limitations. Every new movement was shocking when it was first a thing. Those impressionist water lilies that are so popular everyone knows them nowadays: people hated that when it was new. Van Gogh? The art movement he was a part of was literally called “the wild beasts” (fauvism) because people thought it was so ugly and crude.

2) the old masters you are probably thinking about learned painting as a trade, like a guy going to a technical school to become a mechanic, and most of them started learning it as children. Most of those paintings you admire so much were never created to be the artist’s personal expression, they were mostly hired by wealthy people to paint something that showed off the wealthy person’s wealth, either “look, I can afford to hire someone to paint this giant ass painting” or literally “look, I hired someone to paint this giant ass painting of myself standing in front of my massive land and wearing all my expensive accessories”. Those were the first vanity selfies! Back in the day you had to pay someone and wait three years for it. Lol. As that one popular post going around tumblr says: if we had people quitting highschool and going to painting school as teenagers, then having every one of their expenses paid by rich people so they can just sit and work on a painting for three years, you’d have beautiful stuff like that.

3) there ARE still beautiful representational paintings being made, actually! You just aren’t seeing them because you’re not going out to a variety of shows, you’re only seeing the famous controversial works that everyone likes to complain about. For instance JUST off the very top of my head, every year my city has a big western uh festival I guess and there is a showing of western artists and sculptors making art with western Canadian themes. I have never seen so many beautiful paintings of landscapes or horses. Tons of them. Probably at least 50 artists. Just in my small area of Canada. They’re still there. Why aren’t you trying to go out and see it? Why are you just looking for the weird avant-garde stuff to complain about?

4) perhaps most importantly: it’s not being made for you. That sounds rude maybe or overly simplistic but like that’s the best I can explain it and do try to wrap your head around it: the weird-ass art that’s a banana duct-taped to the wall: that’s not being made for you, you’re not the audience. You know, those old portraits, they were meant to be looked at and admired by a large audience of people, but this new stuff, it’s really not going for the same thing at all, it’s not made to be appealing to the general public as a pretty object of decoration. It’s got a WHOLE different thing it’s trying to do. I’m not defending the weird stuff and saying it’s all awesome and you’re just too stupid to understand it, trust me I went to college with some of the most insufferable artistes you can imagine and I know exactly the process and the intent behind all of this and guys I don’t necessarily like it either! I don’t. I’m just trying to explain. It’s different, it’s a whole different animal, it’s like complaining that you don’t like action movies when you went to see an action movie: you’re just not the audience. I know action movies are dumb and loud, they’re supposed to be like that, that’s how people like them, and it’s not a tragedy that we don’t have people making black and white silent movies anymore… it’s just different.

Whether you think this stuff is worthy of being displayed in large museums and having tax dollars spent on it, my friends that’s a totally different conversation that I’m not having here, and I don’t necessarily disagree with you there: I just, look, I spend four years and a lot of money learning art history and I took an honest to god class about how to look at contemporary art, and it just makes me feel tired when people make these dumb “kids these days” posts about why we don’t have renaissance paintings these days, implying it’s some sort of fault of degenerate or lazy artists who just don’t want to paint good anymore. That’s all I’m saying.

Ok?