#they are my everything people should like them

[foldingfittedsheets]

I’ve talked about being an anxious driver before. Most of my car accidents have been people hitting me when I’m doing everything right so it’s always a fear that something is gonna come out of nowhere and hit me.

Which is why when I was driving to work one day and started getting paced by another car I started sweating. Speeding up or slowing down made no difference, they hugged my left like a tick. I started shaking slightly in fear and discomfort and finally threw a look that way to see why I was being subjected to such harassment.

Inside the evil car was a group of three boys my age, all of them giggling and carousing. When they saw me looking they made the hand gesture for honking a truck horn.

I was instantly furious. They were harassing me because they were ineptly trying to flirt and get my attention. Any one of them could have seen that I was distressed or distracted but it was more fun to hem my car in unsafely and try to gesture wildly at me. Not only that but I was just trying to go to work, nothing about this situation was of my choosing. With a glare I flipped them off.

All of them were instantly outraged. How dare I not see the compliment they’d paid me? The car raced ahead with a roar of the engine and I was just relieved to be rid of them.

But it was short lived. They started braking and right before I exited began wildly flipping me off back, desperate for me to notice how little they cared for me now that I didn’t want to play. I ignored them and they furiously roared away again.

When I got into work I was fuming about it. Just sitting in my car had been invitation for them to needle me the whole drive, to scare me and make me feel unsafe. I related the story to my three coworkers. The one lady understood as both a lady and car crash victim but the two men thought I was a downer.

With his face set in disapproval one informed me, “I taught my daughter that she should never flip someone off unless she was prepared to fight.”

“I was prepared to fight,” I snarled back, even more frustrated that he thought I was unreasonable.

He clearly hadn’t expected my vehemence or agreement. “Do you think you’d have won?” He asked in astonishment.

“No,” I growled, “but I would have fought.”

[strang3lov3]

Bite Me

You learn two things on a particularly boring patrol shift - Joel loves to bite and you love to be bitten (5.3k)

Tags - 18+, smut, bite kink, lots and lots of biting, spitting, joel eats you out from behind because he's just in that kind of mood, brief ass eating, anything one can do with their mouth joel does to you, unprotected piv, creampie, not? gentle? sex, little dubcon bc joel is a maniac, little bit of blood, one (1) dad joke, skin tone is not described but bites and bruises in reader's skin are mentioned. Fic help - @noxturnalpascal for editing and @endlessthxxghts and @beefrobeefcal for encouraging this!! i love you all! A/N - thanks for your patience! I’m working on bigger things that are out of my comfort zone so enjoy this snack sized fic until dinner’s ready. I wrote this with my heart but most importantly my pussy, I hope that translates.

You and Joel are on patrol together at your usual post, an old two story house about an hour’s ride outside of Jackson. It’s early July, which usually means there’s more activity to keep an eye on as the summer warms; raiders, infected, strangers and the like. But not lately - there haven’t been any major threats, nothing to make your patrol shifts daunting like they usually are. It’s just been quiet and peaceful.

Boring.

So. Fucking Boring.

You’ve picked through everything in this house several times over and never found much. There’s no food or tools or anything useful, but there’s not even anything particularly interesting either. No paintings on the walls, no photo albums of old families to flip through as you like to do. There’s no books in the house either, apart from a few damaged by water and with torn pages, rendering them unreadable. 

Joel used to get on your case about this, gruffly telling you to ‘Quit fuckin’ around’ and ‘Should be payin’ attention to your surroundings, not snoopin’ through shit that ain’t there’. But eventually, he got bored too. The surroundings never change, not much to really pay attention to, even for Joel. 

There was one time Joel didn’t yell at you as you wandered off, and when you came back upstairs you found him sitting on a couch in the room with a big window, hunched over a coffee table, picking up and laying down playing cards. Solitaire. 

You leaned over the back of the couch and tapped him on the shoulder, “Aren’t we supposed to be keeping watch?” you asked, teasing.

Joel turned over his shoulder and glanced at you, then turned back to his cards and continued playing. “Smartass,” he mumbled. “You gonna rat on me?”

 “No. As long as you know you’re a hypocrite,”  you replied before rounding the side of the old couch and sitting next to him. You watched him as he flipped through the deck a couple times over, then he sighed in defeat. “Did you lose?”

“Yup,” he answered, gathering the cards and shuffling them a couple of times. “You’re losin’ next, though. You’re gonna play with me.”

“I don’t know any card games.”

Joel looked at you incredulously, “Bullshit,”  he said. A deck of cards was one of the most valuable things one could own post-apocalypse. Endless games for solo play and small groups of people alike. Not much else to do to pass the time, but then again, people stay busy in Jackson.

“Oh wait - yeah, I do know one. I know Go Fish. Do you wanna play that one?”

“Pass,” he answered. “I’d rather play nothin’ at all if that’s our only game. You know Crazy 8’s, don’t you? Gin Rummy?” 

“Nope.”

“I’m gonna rectify that, then. C’mere.”

Joel taught you three games that night. The first being War, because it’s easy and luck based - something for you to dip your toes into. The next was Crazy 8’s and then finally, Gin Rummy. 

You weren’t lying when you told Joel you didn’t know any card games, but only because you could never learn. You didn’t like the pressure of learning in groups, didn’t like the vague instructions being shouted at you. Euchre was particularly awful to learn, you were holding back tears trying to get through that game. But Joel taught you differently, he was gentle and patient and calm with an open hand of cards. He’d play fairly and wouldn’t take advantage of your inexperience. His patience paid off - after some time, he had a consistent opponent for card games and your patrols together became a lot less boring. Now Joel never has to play another lonely game of solitaire again. You play with him just about every shift now, when it’s quiet and there’s nothing going on. Your favorite games to play are Crazy 8’s and War, not much strategy involved in those but Joel enjoys them anyway. 

After taking your usual spots together on the couch, Joel reaches into a pocket of his backpack, the one on the inside that fits his deck of cards like a glove. “Fuck,” he whispers under his breath. 

“What’s the matter?”

“No cards,” he murmurs, feeling around through his items and coming up empty. “Must’ve left ‘em at Tommy’s.” Tommy and Maria recently hosted a game night and invited a couple of people, Joel being one of them. And then Joel brought you along to be his partner in group games. Playing with him one on one made you feel special, but you liked that he took you along as his date of-sorts. He shot you secret little winks from across the table before clearing his throat and furrowing his eyebrows as he examined his hand. 

“Oh,” you say. “So I guess we’re actually patrolling tonight, then.”

“‘Bout time,” Joel replies with a soft chuckle. “Maybe somethin’ of interest will happen, finally.”

“Oh god, don’t say that. I really hope not.”

“Yeah,” Joel agrees, “Me neither.”

It’s nice to watch the sunset through the big window, very relaxing and beautiful. As the light disappears, the color in the room begins to fade and looks like television in black and white. Joel looks like one of those old-timey movie stars, he has the face for it. He stares out the window and twists the end of his mustache and you think that could play the criminally handsome villain. All dark and mysterious, with his sharp nose and inky eyes. 

“Whatcha’ lookin’ at?”

Oops. Busted. “Nothing,” you lie. You don’t catch Joel’s smirk as you excuse yourself to go look through the house for the millionth time. Maybe there’s something to do around here that you’ve not seen before. Or a book, you’ll read anything - an instruction manual to a vacuum cleaner or a Cuisinart food processor even. Anything. 

But there’s nothing new, nothing’s changed. Your fingerprints on cabinets and drawers from months and months before still sit in the dust. This place is fair and squarely empty. You sigh deeply before you return to Joel upstairs. “I’m bored,” you whine in his direction.

“Hi bored, I’m Joel.”

You could make waves with the power of your eye roll. “Are you sure you don’t have your cards?”

Joel rifles through his belongings once more and sighs. “Nope. Definitely at Tommy’s. God bless it.”

“It’s okay,” you tell him. “We’ll live.”

You don’t know that you will live, though. Death by boredom feels more likely. The minutes pass, but they feel like hours in the deafening silence. Joel makes no effort at conversation, which is very true to himself. He’s not much of a talker anyway, but leave it to Joel to sit in silence when even light smalltalk would make a world of difference in making this a less boring night. 

Some minutes pass and you’re starting to get fidgety. You crack the knuckles in your hand, one by one by one which garners a look from Joel. “What?”

“Nothin’,” he murmurs. 

You pick at your nails next, trying to even out some jagged and split edges. Joel looks at you again, glaring as you pick and pick. He fucking hates that sound. His chemistry teacher in high school used to pick at her fingernails during tests and it always made this awful, high pitched click, which was especially grating in the silence. The noise drives him crazy, like nails on a chalkboard. “I’d appreciate it if you’d quit pickin’ at your nails, hon, that noise makes my teeth hurt.”

“What do you mean, ‘makes your teeth hurt’?” you ask, still picking at your nails. You’ve almost got that one hangnail.

“Gives me the heebie jeebies, I don’t know–” Click. You got the nail. Joel shivers while gritting his teeth and groaning. “Knock it off,” he hisses.  

“Okay, sorry,” you say. “I’m done.”

“Thank you.”

Peace and quiet once more. Joel’s bored too, but he doesn’t mind the insipidity of the evening as much as you do. He likes having the time to reflect, to slow down and collect his thoughts. He’s thinking about his day off tomorrow, what he’s gonna do. Probably harvest some vegetables from his garden, do a load of laundry and–

Click.

“What’d I just ask?”

You freeze where you’re at, the nail of one of your thumbs picking at the other, you’re caught red handed. “Shit. Sorry, Joel.” 

“Uh-huh. Sit on your hands,” he commands. 

“What?”

“You heard me. Sit on ‘em.” You roll your eyes as you wedge both of your hands under your thighs just like Joel asked and he nods in approval. “There. F’you can sit still for twenty minutes, you can have your hand privileges back.”

“You can’t take away my hand privileges, Joel. They’re hands. They’re attached to me.”

“I can, indeed. If ya do it again, you’re losin’ a finger.”

A baseless threat, but you know Joel means business so you do your best to sit still. Surely he doesn’t actually expect you to not move at all. You’re allowed to adjust, move yourself into a more comfortable position so you do, and then you feel the corner of your nail get stuck on a thread of your jeans. You pull your hand from under yourself to examine it, feel the irregularity. You’re trying to ignore it but you just can’t. 

Pick pick pick.

Joel turns to your direction and in a swift movement, grabs both of your hands in his and squeezes, shaking you gently. “Enough,” he fumes, frustration in his voice. He loosens his grip slightly and you pull your hands away before you really do lose a finger, you fear that his threat did in fact hold water. “Hey,” Joel says, his voice softened. “That’s somethin’ we could do.”

“What’s something we can do?”

“Slap jack,” he answers plainly, nodding his head like he’s waiting for you to tell him you understand. You don’t. 

“What’s slap jack?” 

“You don’t know slap jack?” he asks. You shake your head, no. “You don’t know much, do you?”

“Hey,” you complain. Rude. 

“Relax, I’m teasin’,” he says, “You know you’re a smartass. Now give me your hands.” Cautiously, you extend your hands towards Joel and he takes them gently in his own, “Flatten ‘em,” he says, “Like this.” maneuvering your hands into place so that your palms are facing the ground. He places his hands underneath yours, his palms facing the ceiling. “Ready?”

“I guess?”

Bam. Joel flips his hands on top of yours and slaps the back of your hands. “Joel!” you shriek. “That hurt.” 

“Well don’t let me hit you, then,” he smirks. “That’s the game. You gotta move your hands before I getcha.”

You giggle. And Joel really didn’t hit you hard, you were just startled. The prospect of the game excites you. “Again,” you say. 

You lay your hands out flat, Joel holds his underneath yours. He uses his fingers to tease your palms, tapping and tracing along your skin. Smack. Back in the same position once more, with your hands on top of Joel’s. He doesn’t tease this time, just smacks you again. A third time you lay your palms on his, and he teases again - fingers creeping on your skin, tickling and thrilling you. With every minor movement of Joel’s hands, you pull your hands back. “You’re flinchin’ an awful lot,” he teases. “S’usually against the rules, but I’m bein’ nice.”

“You’re gonna hit me!” 

Joel shakes his head. “I’m not gonna hit you, sweetheart. Why would I do that?” Smack. You gasp and rub the backs of your hands, smiling at Joel with an open mouth. He beat you again. “You’re terrible at this,” he says.

“It’s my turn,” you decide, laying your hands out with your palms facing up. Joel places his hands on top of yours just like how the game goes. You flip your hands to slap his and hit nothing but air. He’s too quick. Settling back into place, you try again and Joel pulls away too quickly for you to slap him. It’s the same thing over and over again until you decide you're done playing. Offense and defense, you never win, only lose.

“You’re a sore loser, you know that? Card games too, you do not like to lose, do you?”

“I don’t - you’re just–”

“Just what?”

You’re not answering that. You know what the answer is, that he’s too good at these games and you’re not but you don’t need to tell him that, inflate his ego even more. “I wanna pick a game.”

“Be my guest. One that you can win, right?” You couldn’t slap Joel’s hands but you’re sure you could slap that stupid shit-eating grin off right off of his face right now. You just take Joel’s left hand and offer him yours. “What game’s this?”

You’re retaliating. He didn’t hit you hard at any point, but you’re gonna get him back. There’s not really a name for this game, it’s just something you used to  play when you were a teenager. It’s on par with those other stupid teenager games, truth or dare and spin the bottle and seven minutes in heaven.

“I don’t know,” you answer. “It’s the biting game.”

“Biting?” Joel looks at you incredulously.

“Yeah, biting. I bite your hand, you bite mine. See who can take it.”

“That doesn’t sound like a very nice game,” Joel says.

“Well it’s fitting then, because you’re not a very nice man.”

Joel smirks,  “No, ‘spose I’m not.”

“So, do you wanna play?”

You don’t even let him answer before bringing his hand to your mouth,  fitting your teeth over the fleshy part of it - right in between his thumb and forefinger, where his unique bullseye tattoo sits. Joel follows suit, placing his teeth over your hand and letting them rest there. You feel the heat from his mouth, the softness of his lips. His teeth are blunt, threatening to sink into you and tickling your skin as he waits for the game to begin. “Ready?” you ask, your voice muffled by his hand. Joel nods, his big brown eyes sparkling in the low light. “Okay.” 

 You bite Joel, holding his gaze. His skin is salty and warm. Joel bites with you and you’re both rather tentative at first, biting the other gently. You take the initiative to bite him harder, “Mm,” he mumbles, surprised by the pain yet won’t go further.  

“That's all you got?”

Joel raises his eyebrows at your challenge. He squeezes his eyes shut as he bites down, hard. In turn, you squeal and pull back, and Joel releases your hand in an instant. You shake your hand and rub the mark he left, laughing. “Motherfucker,” you gasp.

Joel turns on a lantern on the coffee table and takes your hand back to inspect it. “You okay?” he asks, tracing the marks in your skin. “You don’t have much of a pain tolerance.”

“It’s a sensitive spot,” you reply. 

He makes an amused sort of expression at that, still rubbing your hand as he nods in response. The closeness in proximity, the peculiar intimacy of the game you and Joel have just played - it feels like something in the atmosphere changes, charged, the way the air feels before a storm. 

Joel breaks the silence, “Bet you’re sensitive like that everywhere,” he whispers. “Should grow some thicker skin.”

“Joel–”

He takes your hand again, this time skipping that fleshy spot on your palm and instead bringing your wrist to his mouth. His mustache is prickly on your skin. Joel bites your wrist, and you can’t help but let out a little gasp, even though he’s gentle just like before. He increases pressure until you’re yelping again, but this time he doesn’t let you go. He watches you squirm, catching your lip in your own teeth as you writhe in pain. You exhale in relief when he loosens his bite, then shiver as he drags his teeth along your forearm and bites you there next, then moves up to your bicep. Each bite is harder than the last, including when he pulls the collar of your top away and bites your neck. The skin is tender and thin and it hurts, really fucking hurts as you whine in pain. “Does it hurt?”

“Yes,” you gasp. 

Joel soothes the bite mark with his tongue which startles you perhaps more than his teeth did. “You can take it,” he whispers against your skin before searching for another part of your neck to bite. He takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilts it to the side, allowing himself access to you. You feel him open his mouth and bite down, but this time it feels good. Joel notices your reaction, feeling the vibration of your moan with his mouth against your neck. “You liked that,” he says, it’s not a question. 

You’re at a loss for words. Breathing heavily, you pant, “Fu - Joel…”

“It’s okay. You can admit it.” Joel likes it too - all that flesh between his teeth. The marks of his teeth he leaves in your skin, the bruising that surrounds them - it’s his artwork, unable to be replicated. Nobody else has his teeth and nobody else has your skin. He’s not broken skin yet but he imagines the faint taste of your blood on his tongue, tangy and metallic mixed with the sweetness of your skin. Fuck, he could eat you whole. Make you hurt, oh, he’ll make you fucking hurt. He softly bites your earlobe next, “Feels good to hurt sometimes,” he purrs in your ear. The heat of his breath sends a shiver down your spine. “So I’m gonna keep bitin’, then. And you’re not gonna quit on me like last time. Are you?”

Despite the pain, the way it sort of intimidates you, you find yourself complying, nodding. You feel his mustache before his lips, his lips before his teeth, and finally his tongue, hot and wet. It’s unlike anything you’ve experienced - salacious and erotic, frightening and tormenting, all at the same time.  You feel Joel everywhere, in places he’s not even bitten or kissed or touched yet. God, you hope he touches you there.  

Joel pushes your shirt up your body, his fingers brushing over you as he reaches behind you to unclip your bra. He pushes the straps off your shoulders, you watch as the undergarment falls into your lap. Joel taps your jaw twice, “Tilt your head back for me,” he instructs. He nips at your neck and collarbones before gently pushing you down on the couch, pulling your pants and underwear down in one movement before situating himself between your legs. You’re laid out for him, bare. His canvas to paint as he pleases. With darkened eyes, Joel pores over your body - he’ll hurt you here, pleasure you there, tease you somewhere else - the horizon is endless. 

He begins with kisses down the column of your throat, cascading down your sternum. He moves over to one of your breasts and you know it’s coming, but it startles you anyway. He bites hard on such a sensitive part of you, “Shhh,” he coos, quieting you. With a strong, masculine hand on your other breast, he finds your nipple and flicks it, drags his thumb over it until it pebbles beneath his touch, effectively soothing your cries of pain and turning them into noises of pleasure. 

“Joel,” you whine. “Fuck, Joel.”

“You’re doin’ good,” he tells you. “Doin’ just fine.”

You gasp when you feel his teeth around your hardened nipple, threatening to clamp down. He bites you gently, oh so gently, just enough to secure the bud in place for him to roll between his teeth. He brings his tongue into play then, swiping it over your nipple and circling it. After repeating the action with your other breast, his head travels lower, lower. Biting at whatever he pleases, kissing when he feels like it. He bites your hips - a sharp pain, and then your thighs - dull. 

You can’t help yourself as your fingers find your sex, already so wet. You circle your clit a couple of times before Joel pulls your hand away, biting and sucking your arousal off your fingers. He replaces your fingers with his own, pushing two of his thick fingers inside you as he bites and nips at your thighs, sucking at your skin as well. His teeth, his fingers, all where you need Joel the very most - it all feels so good, so intense, you don’t quite know where pain ends and pleasure begins as he works his fingers inside you.You don’t know if he’ll bite you hard or soft, a small bite or a big mouthful of your flesh and you can only imagine the marks he’s made on your skin. He alternates between biting, sucking, kissing, licking you, using his tongue and lips and teeth to drive you wild, have you writhing and melting under him.

 Joel pulls his fingers from your core and brings them to your mouth, pushing them past your lips. “Suck,” he says, and you do, tasting the tanginess of your own arousal on your tongue. Joel takes your hips in his strong hands and flips you over on your stomach, then sits back on his knees. You hear the quiet rustling of his clothes, that discernable sound of his zipper being undone before his clothes are tossed on the ground. He bends one of your legs and leans over you to kiss and nip at your ankle, then the other, biting up your calves. He traces his tongue over the backs of your knees before he bites you gingerly, the action has you gasping and moaning. Joel chuckles against your skin. “Knew you were sensitive,” he murmurs. He kisses his way up your thighs, kisses your ass cheeks and bites where they meet your thigh. “Up, lift up, sweetheart,” he speaks softly, urging you to lift your hips. He finds his pile of clothes and bunches them beneath your hips, propping you up for him. 

Joel parts your lips with his thumbs, spreading your sick folds for easier access. You feel his hot breath on your heat and you’re nervous, anticipating that blunt feeling of his teeth on your most sensitive place, but it never comes. Instead, his nose - aquiline and perfect, tracing up your clit, your flesh until he finds your hole, his nose buried in your most private place. He spreads your cheeks and spits between them, the saliva drips down, down. He traces you with his tongue, circling clockwise, then counter. “Fuck,” you whimper, pushing your hips back into his face as your nerves tingle. He kisses the sensitive area before traveling lower, his lips finally meeting you where you need them most. “Oh god,” you whine. 

Joel dips his tongue into you, humming in pleasure as he does - he fucking loves it, the heat of your cunt and your sweet arousal soaking his face, and he knows that hours later he’ll still be able to smell you. He pumps his tongue in and out, delving into you. He drags the muscle through your folds, all wet and sticky with your slick before he finds your clit to lick and suck at that sensitive part of you. 

He eats you voraciously like he loves it, passionate and determined as he savors you. The way Joel’s lips wrap around your clit, his nose in the space he just fucked, on his knees - this is what he’s meant for, what you’re meant for too. It’s obsession. He’s all fingertips bruising into your skin under his crushing hold, his tongue a relentless assault on your sex. You feel his salt and peppery scruff scratching your inner thighs and rubbing you raw. In the coming days you'll still feel him, skin burning as the hot water of your shower runs down your legs. You love it now, and you’ll love it then. 

You’re moaning, babbling Joel’s name, begging him but you don’t know what for - For him to make you come and then to stop, because it’s too much. Begging him for more and less, the push and pull of it all. Joel smirks against your cunt, proud of the delirium he’s brought you to using just his mouth. His grip is still ironclad despite all of your grinding and wriggling, trying to right yourself like an insect on its back. He listens intently to your body and all the different noises you’re making, broken moans and those sticky, obscene sounds of your cunt being sucked and licked and lapped. When your thighs begin to twitch, your breaths become sharp and unsteady with your impending release, he doubles down on his efforts until you’re coming all over him, soaking him wet. 

You’re a mess of hazy thoughts, barely aware as he’s pulling your hips back, pushing your chest down. With one hand, he rubs soothing circles on your lower back as he holds the other in front of his face and spits into it before wrapping his palm around his cock, throbbing and angry. He pumps himself a couple of times, the leaking tip rubbing against your ass. When he’s ready, he reaches for your neck with the hand previously rubbing your backside and forces you up. He bites your ear first, then fits the head of his cock into your entrance. 

Joel offers no warning before burying himself into you inch by inch, splitting you in two. You whine as he fills you up, stretches and hurts you so nicely, he bites you harder the deeper he pushes into you. He doesn’t take time to let you get used to the ache, he knows you’ve come to love the pain he gives to you, because that’s what he’s made you do. Joel pulls out of you all the way and pushes himself right back in, harder and faster than before. “Know it hurts,” he says with your earlobe between his teeth, “But you gotta take all of it.”

Joel fucks you quickly at first, having already found the right pace and the right angle to make you squirm in pleasure. He wraps his arm around your torso and nudges your head to the side so he can bite into your neck again. You’re flush against his torso. He fucks you steadily - in, out, in, out. You keen into the sensation, losing yourself in it all - he’s hot and clammy behind you, his tuft of unruly pubic hair rubbing against you. You reach behind yourself and touch the side of Joel’s face where his graying curls are muttered against his skin, dampened with his sweat. Joel turns his head and bites into the fleshy part of your thumb. He’s a mess of curses and praises, telling you what a good girl you are between heavy breaths and sharp inhales, whispering fuck and Christ, sweetheart. 

Without a warning, he pulls out of you and falls back on the couch, grabs you roughly by your arm and sits you on top of him. You’re face to face with him now, staring into his dark, hungry eyes as he pulls you down on his cock, fucking you apart. He eyes you up and down, and then his lips curl into a crooked smile. “Look at you,” he whispers, tilting your head down to look at your body. “You’re all marked up, sweetheart. What a goddamn mess. Tried to tell ya this wasn’t a nice game.” 

He’s right. You look down to see your breasts covered in bites and dark bruises, the marks dotting your torso in the dim light. Some are swollen and angry, others not quite so. You see a bruise on your shoulder and think about what you can’t see, the bites on your neck and collarbones. “Let’s count ‘em together,” he purrs in a low tone. He fucks up into you, “One,” he grunts, “Two, three. Four. Jesus, sweetheart, you’re fuckin’ covered. But I ain’t done with you yet.”

Joel pulls you close to him, your chest against his as he thrusts into you. He brings his teeth to that place where your shoulder meets your neck and bites hard, harder than he has before. It hurts, truly fucking hurts and you cry out loudly, a choked sob escaping your throat. He’s broken skin. “Quit squirmin’, be still f’me. Breathe through it,” he instructs, finally tasting your coppery blood on his tongue. With each thrust he moans against you and his teeth sink deeper and deeper, but it feels worse than it is. You won’t scar, but he’ll be lucky if you do. “You’re doin’ so good. Know it’s a lot, I know. I know…”

He licks over the damage and brings his thumb to your clit as he does, pushing you back to examine your face. He wipes away the tears he expected you’d cry as he paints tight, steady circles into your clit, knowing it won’t be hard to bring you to the edge. He reaches up, pulls you close to his face and kisses you gently, tangling his tongue with your own in a way that makes you dizzy. “I gotcha,” he says, “Come for me.” 

You’re right fucking there, aching for release as he rounds your clit with his thumb and rolls his hips into yours. Your breaths are shallow, your moans are broken and you’re squirming - so fucking close. Joel seems to know just what you need: he sinks his teeth into your plump, swollen bottom lip as he works you with those tight, steadied circles, all the while he fucks you deeply. And then you’re there, and god is it intense, the pleasure and pain. You taste your own blood as you come, breaking into pieces in Joel’s arms as powerful waves pleasure wash over you, rough and unrelenting like the sea during a storm.

Joel comes undone with you, loudly, with grunts and groans and other noises of pleasure. With wild thrusts, he paints your insides with his hot come before he slows to a still. You climb off of him and his come spills out of you and onto the old upholstery of the couch. Joel’s breathing heavily next to you, and when he catches his breath he looks at you with relaxed eyes, eyes that go wide when he looks at what he’s done to you. “Fuck,” he mumbles, pulling his shirt from under you and wetting it with water from his canteen. You catch your reflection in the mirror and see some of the bruises and bites he’s left on you, then you look down at the rest of your body. This time, with the light in front of you, you can see it all. Marks on your wrists, your arms, your chest and your hips and your thighs. You smile. He’s added so much color to you, his very own temporary tattoos. “I don’t know what came over me,” he says. He dabs the wet shirt over your bloodied lips and then your neck, his big dark eyes full of worry as he holds one of your hands. He rests it loosely on top of yours, sort of like that game from before. He doesn’t notice you begin to wriggle yours from beneath his. “Gotta get back and clean you up, bandage you and–”

SMACK. You hit his hand, hard. Joel looks flummoxed. 

“Got you.”

When he realizes the game you’re playing, he rolls his eyes and smiles. “Nice one, smartass.” Joel lifts the shirt and examines the bite on your neck a little closer. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you too bad?”

You shake your head no. “I got you,” you repeat, smirking.

“Yeah, whatever. You got me.”

If you enjoyed, please reblog <3 i would appreciate an ask too, just tell me something good <3

[controld3vil]

here we stand

pairing: jacerys velaryon x mormont!reader

synopsis: news had broken out that the throne has been usurped. jacerys rides his way to winterfell, the end to the north where he meets cregan stark. and in evidently, you, lady mormont of bear island.

notes: first of all, HE LOOKS SO GOOD w/ long hair !! also this mentions the first scene in s2 ep 1, i just tweeked a few things where now jacerys receives the terrible news days after getting acquitted in at winterfell. and bc i wished for more jace & cregan interaction >:( no beta reading btw !!

Duty is sacrifice.

All know of it. It bypasses any blood or foe. To honor one's duty is to sacrifice one's possessions. And oaths can last long over through generations. It is bypassing children and their children. It is the utmost fidelity any honorable man should know. If for the Seven Kingdoms and everyone at stake at what's beyond the Wall. A barrier that towers over seven hundred feet from what lies more gruesome than death.

Your cousin, Cregan Stark took up the responsibility as Lord of Winterfell, sometime after the passing of his father, Rickon Stark. He's a noble lad, he took upon the role at the age of six and ten. He was young but quickly learned how to command and serve the people. Much like his House's words, he understood what was coming. Though unexpected news of an envoy from Dragonstone had landed him in monetary consideration. Of what's to come with his men and the upcoming raging war.

"This is only late summer snow, my prince. In winter it will cover all you see and all memories of warmth will be forgotten." The metal chamber that brings them to the top of the Wall stops and both men walk out into the cold winter bridge. It's desolate and high in altitude.

Jacaerys could only imagine what it would feel like in wintertime, where there is nothing else but ice. "It pleases me that over a century ago our ancestors were treated in this very place. The Conqueror and the King in the North." His brown hair, inches longer, flutters past the cold air. Even with his blood, the descendant of the ferocious fire-breathing creatures, his heart still churns with a chill.

"You at least had the mercy not to threaten me with your dragon." The Lord of Winterfell smiles, eyeing the prince's reaction to the weather. No Southerner would know the true cold past summer.

The crowned prince returns his grin, looking out into the view beyond the Wall. From seven hundred feet above, everything, even the trees and people looked small. A wall that has been built this tall must offer security for what's beyond more terrifying than wildings and foes.

"While your men stand to protect against wildings and weather, the Hightowers plan to usurp my mother's throne. It is the duty of the Seven Kingdoms, and you, as Lord of Winterfell, to uphold your oaths sworn to the heir to the Iron Throne," Jacaerys gaze moves across where his eyes can take him off the Wall. It stretches out ridiculously long with men at every post. He has passed by a few to know whether or not, it was their obligation to join the Night's Watch, it was now their vow to protect this sacred place. However, he needed to remind Lord Stark of his reason for visiting. If the realm remained unbalanced, even Winterfell would not prosper.

"Starks do not forget our oaths, my prince," Cregan restates, with a look of sympathy and seriousness. "But you must know that my gaze will forever fall between the north and south. Here, in the winter, my duty to the Wall is more dire than what I ought in King's Landing. I need my men."

The prince of Dragonstone's look flickers, questionably. Until a holler from one of the watchmen signals Cregan of a visitor. He nods before glancing back at Jacaerys to dismiss him. A soft courtesy of his name before stepping down the post to greet the newcomer.

The cranks of the elevator come to a final stop. Before a pair of boots shuffle out of the old compartment to be met with the face of your cousin. Cregan's eyes meet yours in surprise and you subconsciously feel your shoulders untensed.

"Cousin,"

"Lady Mormont," He says with utmost respect as he can decipher the faint footsteps from behind Dragonstone's envoy. "What reason may you come to visit the Wall?"

"I received word that a messenger from Dragonstone came," Your bear fur coat holds you snug to protect you from the harsh winds. And your embroidered gloves, made from leather and deer fur have kept your fingers from freezing off during the trip to the edge of Winterfell. Your hands clasp together in an assertion. "Though I can already see he has arrived." Your soft stare transfigures onto Jacaerys and the sudden attention makes him slightly step aback.

Your lord gives you a playful look before turning back. "My prince, this is Lady Mormont of Bear Island. She is a close friend of mine and cousin." As embarrassed as the prince was, he could feel heat run up his spine as Jacaerys struggled to say anything welcoming.

"It is an honor to meet you, Lady Mormont,"

"The pleasure is mine," You blink innocently before addressing yet again your reason for presence. “Come, discuss matters over the fire,” 

Eventually, a week has gone by with Jacaerys Velayron’s stay. His extended stay has left questions and concerns for the townsfolk. However, Cregan reassures them, replying to them in short curt responses. In all, he explains the prince should rest before riding back to Dragonstone as it was a few days' journey from the North. This brought no rejection from either party and allowed the two boys to catch up and take into consideration the risks. 

You were always welcome at Winterfell. When you were little, your father, Lord Mormont, visited the black castle occasionally to meet with Lord Stark. The maids and servants knew you well as well as the Starks. They treated you like their own blood despite you being a distinct relative from a faraway island. Rare at times would they come to visit your home. Your homeland was not as welcoming as Winterfell some may say. Your House resided over lone shores, topped with horrific rock structures and charcoal reefs. A ruthless and barbaric landmark for the House of the Bear. 

“I appreciate your hospitality, Lord Stark,” Jacaerys starts, holding his ale cup to drink as all of the other guests gather to feast for the night. The three of you alongside Cregan’s son, Rickon, were seated at the high table, enjoying the luxurious scene before you all.

Large condiments of meats, pastries, and wine for the people, nobles of the Northmen. Feasts were something that brought together everyone during harsh times. In times of violence or sorrow, it is the shared appreciation you all must endure to move forward. That is true of what the people of the North had that no other House had. The Velaryron prince gives you an appreciative smile. “And to you, Lady Mormont, I thank you for your sincere support of my mother’s claim.”

“Here we stand,” You raise your goblet, reciting your very House words. True to what it meant, your family stood prepared for what days would come to an end. You understood one day you have a place in something greater when the moment was right and here it was now, lying right in front of you. Mormonts are known to be willing to fight even when the odds are against them. So were you when you declared fealty to Cregan Stark, your dear cousin. Your loyalty towards him would only mean you would go to the ends of the Earth to fulfill your promise. “And here we fight for the queen.” 

Despite not having Rhaenyra, her son knew she would be fond of you. Your attitude and strong integrity were something few held at King’s Landing. He acknowledged that people may not agree with his mother’s claim. However, there will always be those who still believe and support her. You are one of those people. Despite being hundreds of miles away from King’s Landing, Cregan and you showed fealty and loyalty to the oaths sworn nearly a decade ago. Some day, he wishes his mother would meet you. 

“Of course,” Cregan begins, settling his cup down, before patting for his son to come towards him. “With the men we have, it is guaranteed they’d be ready to march the earliest as of the morrow” Rickon starts off his wooden seat and shuffles to his father’s lap. A clumsy stumble and the Lord of Winterfell picks up the child with ease with a soft smile. “From there, the men will march to King’s Landing.”

“Then I should leave by the morrow,” Rhaenyra’s son places his arms on the table.

Your heart skips a half second, knowing that the time you spent together would be short-lived eventually. The prince was sent as a messenger, nothing more. His stay was long overdue, though no word from Dragonstone has the eyes of the ravens yet. It sinks to you momentarily when you place the last piece of meat into your mouth and down the last drops of your ale. 

“Yes, your visit has been short-lived,” Your cousin sighs, too aware of how the brief meeting would be over. Jacaerys was a good friend, being the same age as him, Cregan felt well acquainted with him. He had only wished that they had met under different circumstances and times. Perhaps when war wages on, they would meet again on the battlefield or after they have won against the Greens. Speculation of what was next was unknown. “But you have our support, my prince. Do not fret, we will prepare for what the Hightowers plan.” 

Jacaerys nods, understandably. He turns to you who sweetly bobs your head in agreement. How delicate your features looked in the dim ambers of the Winter halls. He’s enamored by your presence with how often he gravitates towards your direction.

He had always assumed Northern women would be different from Southerners. They were different. Northerners were divine in their way. You excluded such poise and delicacy, Jacaerys sometimes couldn’t help but become curious of you. Your hobbies, what you liked to do, what was your favorite food, and your most desired ambitions. Southerners in King’s Landing were graceful and fragile like the summer breeze. However, you were like a chilly snow cast. The cold, it’s welcoming and he constantly feels chills running down his spine whenever your eyes meet. 

“Now what do you think of the North?” Your lord light-heartedly brings up to lighten the mood. You and Cregan enjoyed the short mornings with the prince. The limited time you shared allowed for intimate discussions and a way to become acquainted with one another. The people, how things functioned, and how you adapted to the cold. It’s far much different than what he’s accustomed to in Dragonstone, where his home echoed through miles.  Compared to the North, Winterfell was exceptionally enormous but had a sense of home and warmth. 

“It’s different from Dragonstone,” The brown-haired envoy laughs, showing quite fond forever his home. “My home resides by the sea, surrounded by the high tides and rough shores. The castle is covered in obsidian stone and is known to be indestructible. My family has lived there for centuries now.” 

“How fascinating,” Your cousin breathes, showing his teeth. “I’ve heard stories about Dragonstone. Some say you can find dragon eggs deep in the mountains.”

“That is true, our dragons reside in caves. They lay their eggs in crystallized magma. Our dragon masters look after the eggs and know when the time is right to harvest them.” 

“What happens when a dragon egg doesn't hatch?” You lean your head forward, hands clasped together again. Learning about his family and their customs kept your interest for a long time. Not many Southern Houses come to visit from King’s Landing. They rather stay where it is warm and avoid the uncomfortable weather and travel to the North. Your eagerness was appreciated when Jacearys considered your question. 

“We wouldn’t know for sure when they would or would not hatch. We simply wait it out.” He quirks a gentle smile when your gaze is sort of magnetic. It’s like you were in a trance every time he spoke of anything he was interested in. 

“How long have you waited for one to hatch?” Cregan picks up his cup again to refill while his son pivots to run to the other side of the table, only to be greeted by you. With big smiles, you gladly carried the child to your side. 

“A few years,” Jacearys remembers the day well. He remembers his brother Joffrey, struggling and whining to his mother about his egg. He was as young as four, however in the first three years of his life, his dragon had not hatched. It’s a mystery when the dragon decides to break out of its shell. He was fortunate with Vermax after months of being born, his companion was right beside him from the start. Lucerys had a similar reaction. Rhaenyra often told stories of many instances of good and bad hatchlings alongside their rider. Some may not have been awakened by its rider, for they might have been dead already. The unknown enigma of those ferocious beasts pales in the prince’s head.

“It must’ve been unpleasant,” You joked, hugging Rickon tightly, having his cheek meet with yours. The young boy giggles loudly, taking hold of both of your cheeks in excitement. 

The atmosphere felt sublime and almost too perfect. Here in the warmth and formality of the Stark Household, everyone was lively and heeded no sorrows. How the prince wished upon the same for Dragonstone. If only the realm was brought together and the Hightowers had not usurped his mother’s throne despite her rightful claim. Would his family be united and happy finally?

He wasn’t sure as Jacaerys had never known familial love on his mother’s side. Both of his uncles vexed him, Luke and Joffrey. Helaena was kind, however, never showing malice towards him and his brothers. But the Hand of the King, and Queen Regent. Quiet in their schemes and distaste for bastards. 

Affection is what fills the prince’s chest with glee. As he scans the dining room of men, women, and children, they all feast and brawl over pointless endeavors. The scent of mead and hot fresh meat fills the room with chaotic laughter and nonsensical bubbling. In another time and place, Jacaerys would have been thrilled to visit Winterfell during this time of year. 

And his gaze slowly follows the wisp of your faint figure by the fireplace. With the heir of House Stark, you blow raspberry kisses against Rickon’s hot cheeks. As the boy squeals in delight, grabbing at the ends of your hair like ropes on the ship, bouncing them back and forth. You were good to Rickon, Jacaerys knows you care for the boy like it were your son. He thinks Cregan is grateful to have someone's endearment and protection toward his son. For the lack of a maternal figure had been long gone. You would be a great mother one day, he deciphers. You constantly fiddle Rickon’s hair which reminds him of his mother when he was little. 

It was such a faint memory that stuck in his mind whenever he saw you with the children. Rhaenyra would question him if she were here. Mothers had a knack for spotting things such as things. The prince knew of his interest in you. However, would you do the same if he made them clear as day?

You never said anything to him. It makes him question if you were truly interested or not. You’ve shown fondness over meals and spoke of jokes whenever he came out to the stables, where his poor dragon, Vermax, gruntled in the snow. 

“I’m sorry the farmers could not do much to help your dragon!” You shouted out one day in the early sunrise. He takes a few steps from his companion to find you in white fur coats and boots. You looked beautiful, the color suits you. As elegant and dainty as the pigment of his mother’s hair. Your locks were braided halfway with the rest, flowing down from your ears to your shoulders. “We don’t often have dragons visit us in the North!”

The prince laughs with small puffs of his breath becoming visible. “The stable boys did a fine job in accompanying Vermax.” At the call of his dragon’s name, it slowly hovers over his dragon rider. It purrs warmly in the frost as your eyes glower in fascination.

“He’s beautiful,” Your voice is nearly breathless at the size difference Vermax has over the buildings and people. It is a creature that comes far beyond your imagination and fairy tales. It's olive green scale prickle in delight as your eyes began to wonder back and forth. Dragons were rare in the North and it must’ve been a relentless recurrence for the people in King’s Landing. 

The prince hums before kicking a chunk of frozen dirt. He makes an effort to be bold for once. “Would you like to pet him?” 

You looked shook and it made him struggle to keep a composed posture. You stumble to make any words come out of your mouth. “I- May I?” 

“Of course,” The dragon rider comes forward and grabs your hand, dragging himself closer to the beast. The sudden contact and closure make your heart beat faster than anticipated. As you find yourself glancing up at its reptilian eyes. In horror, you hold your ground, wanting nothing more than to back away. “It’s alright, he won’t hurt you.” 

Jacery’s reassurance doesn't comfort you as you resist his grip on your wrist. Vermax merely stands, grumbling in curiosity as to your stricken presence. It’s trying to inquire about your anxiety when it was the reason for it in the first place.

Taking a short take of air, you stand in place. You did your best to calm your breathing, feeling a hand on your lower back to support you. Your dainty eyes meet the prince. And within contact, it felt as though you felt everything would be alright. His touch soothed your racing heart as you excelled forward, step by step closer to the beast. For you, it must’ve felt like the clock had slowed down when you were merely inches away from Vermax. Its enormous size was breathtaking and you could make your lungs free of oxygen again. 

Yet your state of mind returns when the queen’s heir comes into view. The air felt a tension between fear and anxiety. It was both exhilarating and terrifying for someone who has never seen a dragon up close before. You took the last big step when you lifted your fingers above its nose. 

Vermax shivered and at the last minute, you wanted to back out. Until Jacaerys hand envelopes over your hand to pet his companion. With such care and attentiveness, you should have realized the prince’s advances towards you by now.

The Godswood was a welcoming pastime you’ve grown to respect. With the decline in visits, you’ve come to value the historic tree for what it stood for and the ancestral value it had over your people. Cregan did not mind whenever you went away to pay your respects. He knew how important it was to you to respect the old gods and the new. War was coming. If you were going to support Rhaenyra, you only wish for your men to come out victorious. 

You were no war-picking woman. But death was something you’ve come to accept recently. The passing of Rickon Stark brought a hole in your heart. You mourned in your ways, and so did Cregan when you had heard he had taken the mantle as Lord of Winterfell. He still is a young man, barely over six and ten. The best you could do was offer your presence and time. To him, being present with the people and acting lively was enough for him to regain his mind. Everyone looked up to Rickon for what he stood for and the House. There is no doubt Cregan would do the same in the coming time to King’s Landing. 

“It’s saddening, isn’t it?” You breathe into the crisp air, only to feel your throat grow dry. But the person behind you knows you were referring to them. “How war affects us all.” 

The prince of Dragonstone steps out from the shadows. His steps were slow and gruff, still worn out from the feast and the massive amount of ale that was offered to him. But you were the only thing that had piqued his interest. You were quiet, not expecting an answer from him. Until he stepped and stopped right beside you, shoulders nearly touching but inches apart. Your bear coat was held loosely on you as he recalled you too struggled to leave the dining table. You all drank too much tonight. 

“The Godswood know of it all. They see everything,” The bear bronze sigil shines past his peripherals when he cannot meet your gaze. You were not drunk enough to do something reckless but not too sober to do anything either. 

In return, all you could ever see was Jacaerys furrowed expression. He’s contemplating something. But you choose to stare and take in his features with such interest and curiosity. His soft and tranquil pout resembles much of a wolf you’ve seen. As though his curly strands, which you would imagine, are dim to the touch. The prince holds assertiveness in his duty, falling into the role of heir as for his queen. Perhaps he’s everything that his mother stood for. You admired it. 

“Know you and your men's contributions would be known,” He whispers, it’s clear you could feel his breath close to your neck. The dark clouds could not even hide the indisputable truth. The crescent moon gleams somewhere in the far distance you can’t seem to find. But you know what’s true. Because moments ago, you could discern his distance inches away. Now it seems that he wants to close the gap by the second. “And that…”

“That we did our duties, nothing more.” You pant, unable to keep your eyes from moving from his gaze and lips. Strands of his dark brown hair trickle against your cheeks as you take one last glimpse at your prince. If any of this was acceptable. You wouldn’t exceed further to know he’d reject your proclaimed assumptions. 

But nothing happens. It was as though the chill in the air had changed. When another figure reappears out of the shadows and into the light. Jacaerys distances himself from you. While you did your best to compose yourself for being caught red-handed by a servant boy.

“My Lady,” The innocent boy chants, as he holds up a scroll. “A message from Dragonstone.” Jacearys’s eyes shot up as you were given the letter. The moment you give the signal of approval, the servant boy leaves into the abyss and back into the cabin. 

You unlatched the curly paper and patiently read its contents. The prince carefully awaits, every so longing to catch any misdemeanor you would have upon what letter had. He hopes and wishes it is good news more than anything. But you held a stone-cold expression and when you looked up at him, he could only discern sorrow with the words that come out of your mouth.

“I’m sorry, my prince.”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

All In 12

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, power imbalance, low self esteem, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: you meet a mysterious man on a night out with your sister. (petite!reader)

based on the winning option for this poll

Characters: casino owner!Bucky Barnes

Note: I'm tryna rotate as much as possible.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Her name is Margot. She’s talkative but kind. She guides you through everything with patience. Tells you when to close your eyes and look up, how to hold your head, when to pucker your lips. She even explains exactly what she’s doing and why she’s doing it. Despite her demeanour, you still feel utterly stupid. Rather, you feel inadequate. 

Another woman shows up shortly after, as a brush traces the line of your cheek. She introduces herself as Darla, she has a whole rack of dresses lined up for you. Another inward cringe threatens to compress your lungs. 

As Darla presents you with options, you find it hard to breathe. It’s all so overwhelming, especially as a third woman, Erica, appears to do your hair, and a fourth, Nia, to tend to your nails. You could faint as you’re pushed, pulled, and prodded from all sides. 

“I like the red,” Margot suggests as you hem and haw.  

The dresses are all nice but you don’t even know what you’re picking it for. Honestly, none of them suit you. Too much skin for your liking. Not that that stays much; your comfort is jeans and baggy tees.  

Erika hums, “what about the teal, lovey? I do think you’d look marvelous with those cutouts.” 

“Yes, it is a pretty colour. You have the complexion for it,” Darla remarks. 

They’re all so nice but there’s something pitying in their voices. You feel like a child. You don’t belong here. You especially don’t belong with Bucky, apparently, he knows that too. Why else would he have these women plucking and picking at you? 

Margot finishes and brings you a mirror. As you see yourself, you blanch. It’s not bad. In fact, she’s done better than you could ever manage but you don’t look like yourself. You don’t feel like yourself. If he wants you to be someone else, you don’t think you can do that. 

You feel yourself shrinking. Your shoulders slump and you wilt, stuttering but unable to say a word. Margot touches your shoulder. 

“What is it? Hon, have I done something wrong?” 

“No, no,” you croak and bring your hands to your throat, “it’s nice. Really nice but... I need some air.” 

“Of course, Darl, Nia,” she shoos away the stylist pinning your hair, “let her up.” 

The women back off and the fourth watches you from the rack, still holding a sparkly black get-up. You search the room and swiftly head for the door. You let yourself into the hall, fanning yourself with your half-done acrylics. You’re happy at least they aren’t long. 

You pace back and forth, watching your feet pass over the pattern of the hotel carpet. You can run. You could just leave right now. The thought only makes your stomach hurt. No, you can’t. Not after he’s gone to all this trouble. You’d hate to seem ungrateful. 

You continue your incessant laps back and forth outside the door. You hear footfalls from around the corner and pause. You should go back in before someone sees you. You grab the handle. Shoot, it’s locked. You wiggle it as a shadow appears at the end of the hall. You gulp and peer down. 

It’s him. You lean on the door and face Bucky. He wears a dark blue jacket over a black shirt and black pants. There’s patterning sewn into his jacket, subtle spirals all around. His dark hair his combed back to the ends flip out behind his ears and his dark beard glints with silver strands, a patch more obvious on his chin. He’s strikingly handsome. So much so, you can’t understand why you’re there. 

His brows form a vee as he nears and he tilts his head, a tick in his cheek, “what’s going on, doll?” 

“Um, just... locked out,” you turn the handle again to emphasize your point. 

“No, what’s....” he looks at you and gestures up and down with his hand, “no, this won’t do.” 

You blink and pout. After all that and you’re not good enough. He raps on the door with his knuckles and there’s some scuffing from inside before Margot opens it. She steps back to let you in and greets Bucky by name. 

“This isn’t what I wanted,” he urges you ahead of him, his hand firmly around your arm, “it’s too much. She doesn’t need all this. I told you, just a little enhancement. I don’t want her looking like a Barbie.” 

“Sorry, sir, it’s... standard.” 

“Doll,” he stops you with him as he plants himself near the racks of dresses. The women watch him anxiously. “What do you think? The make up; you like it?” 

You peer around and stare at Margot. She worked so hard and it isn’t that it’s bad work. She made you look gorgeous but you just don’t like all the layers. You slant your mouth one way then the other. 

“Be honest,” he insists. 

“I... It’s pretty but a bit... heavy?” You eke out. 

“I agree,” he lets you go, “I appreciate the hard work, Marg, but I want to see her natural beauty shining. And these dresses...” he turns, “these aren’t right. I said light. I said... Mm, no. Doll, what’s your favourite colour?” 

He faces you as you stand in shock. You feel horrible that he’s reproaching them like this. They’ve done all this for you and he’s just going down a list of everything wrong. 

“Erm, purple, I guess but--” 

“Darla, get her something purple. Lavender? Lilac?” He looks at you for confirmation and you just nod. You won’t correct him. “Erica, finish her hair, something a bit less... stuffy. Margot, clean her face up. Nia, the nails are looking good.” He turns to you and takes you by the shoulders, “and you, all you gotta do is be your cute little self, alright?” 

You gulp and nod. You don’t know what to say. He saves you from a response as he brings his hand up under your chin. He leans in to kiss you and your cheeks flame at the awareness of your audience. He pulls back and caresses your cheek before parts completely. 

He checks his watch, “don’t got all night.” 

He marches off, leaving you dumbfounded. He’s like a hurricane, coming in and blowing everything out of sorts. You look around guiltily. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” Margot assures with a smile, “come, let’s get you fixed up, dahling.” 

She beckons you over and sits you back down. You give your hand back to Nia to finish the manicure as Erica once more goes to work on your hair. You stare at the wall and let out a nervous sigh. 

“That’s cute,” Margot says, “the way he looks at you.” 

“Hm, yeah,” Erica agrees, “he definitely has the eyes for ya.” 

You close your eyes as Margot gently wipes away the make up with a cool cloth from a package. You shrug, trying not to move too much, “he’s nice. He... did all this. Just for me. I... I didn’t ask for it. I’m sorry he didn’t like it.” 

“No, baby,” Nia says, “this isn’t about us. It’s about you. What do you like?” 

You open your eyes again and frown. That’s a good question. You lower your gaze to your lap and exhale heavily. 

“I’m figuring it out,” you murmur, “I don’t... I don’t get out much.” 

“Oh, this must be so exciting for you,” Erica trills, “oh, how fun.” 

“I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful time,” Nia adds, “don’t be nervous. Just enjoy yourself.” 

“Can’t be that hard,” Margot clucks, “on a handsome man’s arm, pretty as a bow,” she cleans her brushes as she talks, “it’ll be a great night. I’m thinking...” she peruses her chest of makeup, “natural tones. A dewy look. Natural, subtle.” 

“Okay, uh, yeah,” you agree, “that sounds nice.” 

“Hmmph,” Erica hums, “she’s a sweetie, isn’t she, ladies?” 

“Nicer than the last one,” Nia cackles. 

You stiffen and shift in the chair. You look at the nail tech then Margot as she compares a tube to your face and shakes her head. You push your lip against your teeth and let it flick out. 

“Last one?” You whisper. 

The women share a look and smile, “well, Mr. Barnes is notorious. Surely, you know.” 

“Oh,” you think of the headlines you scrolled through online, “well, yes, I know. I guess... I didn’t catch what you meant.” 

“Enjoy it. I’m sure you’ll get a few pretty baubles out of it,” Nia says, “and some memories to long for when you’re old like us.” 

“Old,” Margot scoffs, “speak for yourself.” 

“Yeah, yeah, of course. I know. I’m just... another girl.” 

“Oh, dahling,” Margot intones, “but he seems really fond of you, doesn’t he? Maybe he’ll keep ya around a bit longer, eh?” 

You just sit there. You knew better than to believe it was anything but the obvious but it’s still a hard pill to swallow. You stare blindly ahead as Margot remoisturizes your skin. 

“Didn’t mean to upset you,” Margot says. 

“I’m not, I just...” you swallow, “I’m nervous.” 

“Mm, nervous? Well, I think that’s what the bar is for. Erica, fetch some of that rose. She needs a glass, Stat.” 

Your mouth opens to protest but you think better of it. You’ve already caused them enough trouble. You thank them instead and try not to let your shame burn through. They know why you’re there and they’ve left no doubt in you of the same. 

“Make sure to pour me some too,” Margot chirps. 

🃏

You stop after one glass. It makes your inside bubbly and eases the tension just enough that you’re not jittering. You feel better but still not certain. 

The women confirm your fears. This isn’t going to last. It’s not like you didn’t expect as much but hearing it is all the more real. You’re going to have to come up with yet another lie to tell. This one will hurt the most because it will be at least halfway true; you’re still a loser. 

You’ll try to take their advice. You’ll enjoy this night; this once in a lifetime experience. You don’t think you’ll ever be in a casino again in your life. They’re not for you. All of this is just above you. It’s better suited to someone like your sister. You can’t help but wonder why it isn’t Roxie here. 

The clock ticks. Well, not truly. The digital numbers count down the minutes as you linger in the suite alone. The gaggle of women left only a few minutes ago but not without a promise that you’re happy. You are, at least with all they did for you. 

You approach the mirror, almost shying away from your own reflection. You look nice. You might even call yourself pretty. Your eyes look more brilliant with the subtle lining and the precisely coated lashes; not too heavy. And your lips, shiny but natural, your cheeks dewy with a hint of colour to them.  

And the dress. Lavender satin with crystals embedded in the fabric, lines of smaller ones interconnecting the larger stones. You turn and check your figure. You look grown up. It’s ridiculous to think but you do. The heels help, not too high but enough to define your legs. 

You turn and tear your gaze away from the mirror. You don’t want to be vain. Besides, you probably don’t look that good. You just look better than usual. The comparison is enough to skew your perception. 

As you teeter on the heels, waiting, for what, you don’t exactly know. You can surmise what it will all lead to. What he intends. You can’t deny it any longer. A man doesn’t do all this for altruistic mean and even you aren’t that pitiful. Well, you hope not. 

A knock at the door trips you up. Your heart lurches. You’re not ready. But it’s getting late and you know it’s inevitable. You can’t move or speak. You just stare towards the door. 

You hear it open. You blink a Bucky’s shadow appears on the carpet and he strides into your sight. Your eyes meet his and his blue irises sparkle as he sees you. He stops and put his hand to his chest. His forehead lines and he bites his lip. 

“Wow, doll,” he rasps breathily and slowly steps forward, “you look...” 

You press your hands to your sides and give a toothy expression, not quite a smile, not quite a grimace. Sweat speckles along your neck as his gaze bores into you. You’re even more self-conscious as he closes in. 

“I don’t know,” you murmur. 

“What don’t you know?” He asks as he reaches for you and takes your hand. He draws you near, “huh? Look at you, doll.” He purrs, “you look spectacular.” His other hand grazes down your side and he squeezes your hip as he holds you at arm’s length and ogles you, “mm, damn. You wanna know what I know?” 

You peer up at him from beneath your lashes, “what?” 

“That you are the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen. I’m a lucky man to have you walking the floor with me tonight,” he drops your hand and frames your other hip, drawing you to him, “I have half a mind to keep you up in this room.” 

You choke. Your lower lip trembles and you shake your head, “that’s nice but...” you look away. 

“But? You don’t believe me, doll? You think I’d lie?” He challenges. 

“N-no, I didn’t say—but--- before---” you sputter and put your hands on his forearms, “there were others and they were prettier.” 

“Doll, don’t worry about before. This is now. You aren’t them and I’m telling you, you are beautiful,” he trails his hand up and nudges your chin. You look at him again, your cheeks shaking as you try to smile. “Here.” 

He takes your hand, his eyes clinging to yours as he watches you. You can’t look away. Not this time. He leads your hand up his jacket and slips it beneath. He presses it to his chest. You feel the taut muscle beneath and something else. 

“You got my heart racing, doll,” he growls. “That ain’t a lie.” 

[ayeforscotland]

Campaign leaflet for "Scottish Family Party" got shoved through my door, and this absolute plonker has "End Trans Ideology" as the second highlighted point of his platform. Would like to counter this vile presence by getting in some pride stuff to display, got any shout outs for Scottish makers of pride flags and such?

Scottish Family Party are vile on everything they produce should be used as toilet paper then mailed back to them.

Their candidates are some of the most disgusting people on this island.

Can’t say I know many official Scottish makers of various flags. Etsy may or may not be a good shout.

[silusvesuius]

nnnnnnnnnnnnno maa'am

[sunrisesfromthewest]

First Encounter

|Summary: Your first encounter with Armando; based off of that one scene from bad boys ride or die. | Warnings: Getting shot at/slight suggestive language/Curse words/Slight Movie Spoilers | Trope: One sided interest or Enemies to Lovers| Notes: Hopefully you guys enjoy it's my first-time writing a x reader. | (Y/N/N=Your Nickname)

______________________________________________________________

After seeing the news about your dad, Uncle Mike, and some guy, you decided to leave work early. Confused on why there all the sudden wanted fugitives, you decide to pull up to Dorns place knowing that he'll have answers.  Parking your car, you grab your purse and make your way towards his lake house. Since you hang out with him and Kelly 24/7 outside of work, you just walk in without knocking.    Which was a mistake on your end because not even a second later you’re being shot at, and you could hear a few people yell in shock.  Dropping to the floor you curse and yell "It's me stop fucking shooting it’s me Y/N!”  Looking up you see Kelly pointing the gun at the place you were just standing at with a shock expression.  “Girl what the hell you got going on” you said, scared to stand up.  Lowering her gun she said “OMG, Y/N, I’m so so��  Before she could finish you hear “Oh lord, you shooting at my baby!", recognizing the voice you look around to spot your father Marcus, running towards you with a worried look.

As he’s checking over you, you hear him sigh with relief after seeing you were fine. " Dad? what the fuck is going on!", standing up you dust off your nurse uniform, with a confused expression.  Looking around the room you noticed shocked expressions from Dorn and Kelly who had put her gun down. Spotting Uncle Mike and the man that was with him on the news your eyes squint even more, Tryna put two to two together.    “Y/N/N, aren’t you supposed to be at work, "Marcus says confused on why his daughter was there.  Still shaking up from being shot at you say, “I was at work but when I was making my rounds with my patients, I seen you guys on the news ......but shit! I should be asking the questions! why are you, Uncle Mike and this dude, wanted fugitives …. matter of fact," turning towards the man, "Who are you?”.    Seeing the man smirk he says," Someone you can get well acquainted with.”  Just as you’re about to say something smart, your dad cuts in dramatically "Aye hell nah man! no hitting on my daughter, Mike get your son!”  Shocked you run your eyes over the Latino man which you can now see have some of Mike's features, “Uncle Mike since when you have a son, and why the hell is he dressed up like a redneck.”  Running your eyes frantically over their forms you back up while pointing your hands at them and say, “matter of fact why are you all dress up like that.”  Feeling your dad pull you aside to calm you down, he explains everything that happened these past few days.    After getting the run down on what was going on, you rub at your eyes with a stressed sigh." So that’s Armando, "you said shaking your head "I would’ve pulled my gun out as well if I’ve seen him, dad didn’t he almost kill you and Uncle Mike", you said feeling frustrated about the situation.  “Y/n,I know this is awkward, but he has evidence to prove that Captain Conrad is innocent.”  Sighing again “Okay, fine but if he tries some shit just know Imma make him taste the rainbow.”  Hearing laughter you look back to see the Latino leaning against the kitchen counter looking at you with a smirk on his face.  Seeing your father look at you with a don’t do it expression made you huff and ignore Armando laughter.    Before you could move to grab your purse off the floor your dad stops you again and whispered, "How long Kelly and Dorn been messing around, "letting out a short laugh you say, “For a minute now”  Seeing your father smirk, and send a look to Mike, you knew they were up to no good but chose to ignore it. Walking to the door to grab your purse and its spilled contents you feel eyes on you, looking up you see Armando watching you with an unreadable expression. Rolling your eyes you pick up the rest of your stuff, but as you reach for your lip gloss, a hand grabs it.    Looking up your face to face with the Latino himself, annoyed you extend your hand out, while raising an eyebrow.  Watching his amused expression, you sigh and roll your eyes.  “Boy if you don’t give me my stuff,Imma punch you in the throat." Hearing him chuckle made you more agitated, but you kept your cool. As he holds out the gloss to you with a smirk you huff and reach out to snatch it, only for him to pull it back in a teasing manner. Looking at him as if he’s grown two heads, you’re about to cuss him out when he says”Demasiado bonita para una boca como esa”.  Furrowing your eyebrows you say “What?”    Armando smirk widens as he says, “I said to pretty for a mouth like that”  Scoffing you snatch your lip gloss out his hands, putting it in your purse as you stand up and say, “First of all, my mouth is only like this because you almost killed my dad not too long ago, and secondly I can say whatever the fuck I want cause last I checked imma grown women.”  Watching his eyes glance down at your body, you hear a low whistle, "You sure are, but if you ever wanna fix that mouth of yours, "he pauses allowing his pretty brown eyes to trail back up to yours,”aquí estaré mami” (I’ll be here mommy) 

Shocked slightly at his boldness, you say “Boy if you don’t get out of m---,” but before you could finish, he was called over by Mike. At first Armando ignores him and continues to admire you until your dad says, “Boy get your ass over here," which made you break eye contact with him and look away.  

Glancing back up you couldn't help but admire his physique as well but as he reaches the others by the computer set up. He glances back to see you staring which resulted in him sending you a wink. Rolling your eyes you turn away with a smirk," You your daddy son for sure," you say to yourself with a smile.

_____________________________________________________________

Notes: Let me know if you guys want a part 2 :) and pls go see the movie it's so good

[saerins]

ᯓ ᝰ CRAZY GOOD .ᐟ — itoshi sae

hold up, netizens. you’re in for a treat this time because guess what? out of all people, it’s time for itoshi sae to hard launch his girlfriend: you.

itoshi sae x female reader. content tags pro-player!sae, established relationship, profanity, kissing, kind of a tease here, he likes showing you off, oliver is the matchmaker. word count 1.5k

ᯓ notes .ᐟ hi guys i finally have some sae content for you all !!! >:) yes i’ve missed him , and no i didn’t abandon him :’) heh i hope all my sae lovers that are still here will like this mwah <3

there are many things that itoshi sae is good at.

soccer skills, one of them. snubbing people, the second. (that’s how he got the reputation of being rude—even if it’s not really true!) and three, not last and not least (but still substantially), it’s causing a buzz.

he caused a buzz the moment he debuted on the soccer field. his first game and he already made a name for himself. people started asking where he’d been his whole life (even if he was introduced to the people very early on), equating him to soccer megastars like cristiano ronaldo.

ever since that day, he’d been caught in the spotlight numerous times. mostly related to soccer, but some due to his personal life. more specifically, the media loves to take a guess on who he’s dating.

yeah, he’s had more than his fair share of dating rumours. if it were up to the media, sae would have had about thirty-four girlfriends by now and he’s only twenty-six this year. (go fish!)

but as many people do, almost everyone who consumes media content about sae is particularly interested in one thing that is shrouded in mystery: his dating life.

because despite all the rumours and whatnot, there’s never been any confirmation of any relationships at all. and no one in his circle has ever coughed anything up, so anything in that regard has been strictly hush-hush.

well, until tonight, when your boyfriend of six months invited you to one of his teammates’ high-profile birthday party.

“what, are you nervous?”

your boyfriend’s ever unbothered tone is still the same as when you first heard it a year ago. somehow you find it funny that one year later you’re living with the same guy you’d first found to be somewhat intolerable.

sighing, you try and zip up the back of your dress, looking into the mirror, making sure you have your best face on. “sae, you have fans that number in the millions, of course i’m nervous,” you comment, watching from the reflection in the mirror as sae saunters over to you, taking his hands out of his pocket.

he smirks at you through the mirror, his body pressed against you as he helps you zip your dress the rest of the way up, his lips right next to your ear. “i’ve never even seen you this nervous in front of me,” he says, poking a little fun at you as he gives you a light kiss on your temple.

a soft chuckle comes from him as you deadpan, obviously in much more distress than he’ll ever know. not that he’ll blame you; he’s used to the fame, you’re not. “relax, they’ll love you.”

“sae, they won’t.”

he shrugs. “yeah, you’re probably right,” he agrees, earning a small slap on the arm—and he’s laughing again, though this time he tilts your chin up and gives you a long, slow kiss. the kind that takes your breath away everytime he does it. “but who cares? i love you.”

and there he goes, saying that as if it’s no big deal. making your heart beat so quickly it’s not funny. and before you know it, he’s whisking you away into the lobby where a personal towncar is ready and waiting, with the chauffeur and everything.

“geez, oliver sure loves to go over the top, huh?”

sae gives a sharp exhale at your comment. “hey, that’s your friend right there.”

you roll your eyes, getting in first and sticking your tongue out at him. “and you should be thanking him, without him we’d never have met.”

you look away from him right after saying that so you don’t see it, but sae’s smiling to himself, already thanking his lucky stars.

he thinks meeting you and getting to love you is the luckiest he’ll ever get in this lifetime.

by the time you’ve arrived at the venue—a hotel in the heart of the city—swarms of paparazzi already litter the streets outside. they’ve no doubt had their fill of the other soccer players and mega celebrities that have already arrived and are now ready for the real star of the night (aside from the birthday boy himself): itoshi sae.

of course, everyone’s expecting to see sae all by himself because that’s what usually happens; sae attending any and every event alone and unbothered by the scene. it’s never a surprise anymore, but sae’s a good payday and they’d never miss a single shot.

the moment sae exits the car, it sounds like there’s a million shutters pressed all at the same time, give or take a few milliseconds. (it’s nothing you’re used to.) he stands right where he got out for a few seconds, and even inside you can hear the amount of photographers just begging sae to look straight at them.

and if you think that’s rowdy enough, oh boy you’re in for a treat. because the moment the paparazzi realise that sae’s not, in fact, headed for the hotel just yet, you can hear just a few confused noises before it turns into even more pleading the moment they realise he’s opening your side of the door.

when he opens it and holds his hand out for you, that ever handsome smile on his face (which you forget that he only ever shows to you), you feel like you’re nearly blinded by all the flashes. you brave through it though, taking his hand and getting out of the town car, being greeted by the mass of photographers yelling out to you and sae.

“sae, who is that!”

“hey, girl! look over here! yes right there!”

“what’s your relationship?”

“obviously that’s his girlfriend! hey you!”

you’re a little wide-eyed, stunned at how chaotic this scene is. it’s easy to lose yourself in it, but as it always is, sae realises it whenever you are, and he’s quick to pull you back in.

in this case, he pulls you into his arms, a hand wrapped around your waist, pulling you close as he rests his forehead against yours.

“hey, focus on me, just me,” he whispers to you, eyes looking into yours, eyelashes fluttering against one another’s.

(the paparazzi are having a field day.)

“you’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” you ask him, chuckling because you only now realise what a fucking tease he is.

sae shrugs, pulling your hair away from your face. (he’s actually just really grateful to you for doing this for him when you don’t need to—when you’re happy to just be able to support him behind the scenes but he really just wants the world to know that you exist, because it’s a blessing, really.) “maybe i am.”

and this time your heart’s beating faster than you know it ever could, his teal blue eyes melting into your gaze, lips getting closer and closer to your own, his calloused hand on the back of your neck.

like clockwork, his lips sink into yours, his tongue snaking its way in. (and the crowd goes absolutely wild.) you’re both laughing at the panicked and hurried yells from the photographers, slowly pulling away from each other.

you reach your hand out to wipe your lipstick stain off his lips but he doesn’t let you, winking at you and leaning in to whisper, “let everyone know who i belong to.”

such a fucking tease.

not that you’re opposed, so you let him be, shaking your head and following him as he holds your hand and leads you in.

within the next hour, pictures of you and sae flood the internet. (notifications come flooding into your phone too.)

itoshi sae hard launches new relationship with mystery woman!

soccer world loses another bachelor—everything we know about itoshi sae’s presumed girlfriend

most of them are pictures of your kiss, with a good chunk of it being his lipstick-stained lips.

as you scroll through some of the articles your friends texted to you, you’re probably never going to be used to it. you’re probably going to be anxious over everything you do in public now.

a slight panic bubbles up in your chest, but then sae comes over, pulling you backwards into his embrace, looking over your shoulder at your phone.

“that quick, huh?”

and suddenly it’s like anxiety has never existed. because even if it may not seem like much, a year of knowing itoshi sae has made you feel safer than you ever did, knowing that he’s always there to catch you, to never make you feel alone.

you melt into his embrace, turning your head and giving him a kiss, your lipstick stain still on his lips.

“i fucking love you, itoshi sae.”

his eyes widen a little before they grow soft, arms pulling you even closer. “i love you too, stupid.”

(and while the two of you are getting all lovey-dovey at his party, oliver’s just slightly—a lot—upset that sae upstaged him during his own birthday party.)

“i fucking hate the both of you,” oliver groans.

[martiansodas-blog]

Hi! I was just reading your art donaldson head cannons and when I read this part specifically:

♡ wouldn’t mind having a slightly younger partner. he’d like teaching them things and it’d boost his ego a little bit. you two would tease each other about your age all the time.

I immediately new I had to request a one shot ( I think thats what they’re re called ) of them actually teasing each other maybe a bit nswf but yeah so if you could make one 🙏🥹

“you keep me young.”

“and you gave me my first gray hair, can we go now??”

art liked to imagine you old with all gray hair and fine lines. him standing right by your side.

but he’s getting ahead of himself.

“ya know speaking of hair, you should let me use my curly products on you!”

“you don’t think i’ve outgrown that?”

“are you kidding? it would look so good on you now! i’ve only seen pictures of you with a mop on your head i want to experience it first hand.”

he rolled his eyes but the crinkles around them brought by your cheekiness was prevalent. he can’t hide anything around you.

“alright. you’ve convinced me.”

the two of you were chatting in a local coffee shop. there are a dozen cafes closer but you love this one. and art loves whatever you love. it has personality. they make their syrups from scratch and have a little patio for when it’s sunny.

the man was already convinced you were an angel, but the sun behind you giving you a halo was icing on top.

art drowned in your beauty.

the kind of beauty that made everyone else in the room look bad.

the kind that made you create a whole album in your phones photo app.

he made sure you knew just how stunning you were.

but your beauty was also the least interesting thing about you.

“thanks for taking me here.”

“of course. we really don’t come here as often as we should.”

“it’s out of the way. i’d feel bad if you had to fill up your car AND pay for my meal.”

you said it jokingly but it’s easy to feel guilty that about art spoiling you to the extent that he does. you didn’t have much to give in return.

art takes your smaller hand in his and plays with your fingers. the next time he speaks it’s quieter, and with fervor.

“you are a gift, my gift. you were sent to me.”

he looks into your eyes.

“everything i get to do for you is a joy, ok?”

art wasn’t raised religious, frankly he thinks most of them are bullshit. he never thought about believed in fate.

until you.

it took some getting used to- being appreciated on this level.

boys your age could never worship you the way art does.

you were younger than art, yes. but he wasn’t attracted to you because you were mailable. he was attracted to you because you were brilliant. you were passionate, funny, and if you disagreed with someone you stood your ground. you brought a fresher perspective to his life.

with that being said, he still wants to protect you from the big bad world.

you can defend yourself in every sense of the word, but why would you need to when you have a rich experienced man by your side? there’s a lot of people out there who don’t have the best intentions. especially with a girl in her twenties. that’s where art comes in.

he decides that you still need some convincing even after today's date, so he keeps you in his master bedroom for a few hours.

he wants to rewire your brain and ruin anyone else for you.

“you don't get it, do you? when i said i liked you, it wasn't just skin deep. ive got some bad intentions. i wanna take every inch of you and make it mine; i want you to breathe for me, eat for me, i want all of your orgasms to be because of me.”

the only heaven i’ll be sent to is when i’m alone with you

[tofupixel]

adding on, i really do apologize. reading back i can tell i didn't reiterate enough that the actual work still matters more than anything.

im trying to take this from a place of good faith. it just irks me because i have seen so, so many people who believe they are incapable of art, their brain works too scientifically, some kind of disability that prevents them, and they managed to figure it out in their own way. i also can't see items in my head in 3d (i can see a little but not much) and it never stopped me, but i know some of my friends who also cant at all, and it bothers them greatly.

i don't know you or what you're going through but in my experience some people put pressures on themselves to do things a certain way, but when we are different, we have to find our own way forward.

in the end, who are you racing against? you need to go at your own pace, it doesnt matter if someone gets there faster than you. i know it can be hard to see others succeeding where you struggle, but the only way to actually fail is to give up. it doesnt matter how slow you go as long as you are making something and expressing yourself. try not to focus on the result so much.

whether or not that time investment is worth it to you is another discussion for sure.

sorry for snapping at you. after i just spent 6 hours writing that guide, seeing the first response be something negative actually just pissed me the fuck off. it was like why even bother, i just wanted to delete it tbh

edit: and FWIW the reason i had such fast progress is because i had nothing else to do. i lost my job in 2020 and i would just go homeless and die if i didnt make it work. ive done A LOT of pixel art, more than anybody should reasonably be expected to do, and im speaking from experience.

there is such a thing as quality of practise for sure, but i do believe that time beats everything. i'm not saying it to virtue signal like i think you were implying. someone being slightly more naturally gifted than me has no bearing on my life whatsoever.

[heybiji]

In reference to the last ask you posted! Do you mind going over your tips on role-playing as that active-type character and/or digging up the thread of conversation it seems the original asker was referring to? I'm so interested in your experience role-playing for both prep in possibly joining a game someday and also bc it sounds like such good character creation and general writing advice!!!! I tried checking you blog but didnt turn up anything that touched pn it more (No worries if not though!)

Sorry for this late response!

My advice is make characters that create opportunities for story.

Reacting to a story is fun! Reacting to a character is fun! But if you're always reacting then you're creating opportunity for other characters to react, so sometimes you gotta Act to let the other characters and the story React.

To do this, characters should all want something. And not something vague (like "to be happy"), it should be something more tangible, more specific, and everything else can stem from there. It'll guide your character naturally. It's their Motivation.

More under the cut (or skip to the end for more standard advice)

For example, my dnd character Dandelion wanted more than anything to go home. "Going home" meant a lot of things, yeah it means being happy, it means he wants to be with his family, it means he wants to be loved, it means he wants to feel safe, it means he wants to belong somewhere, but the tangible idea is "go home."

Because I knew this is what he wanted most of all it guided all his actions, and his actions for better or for worse all made sense because of it (and I made it clear that was what he wanted "on-screen" on multiple occasions). So anything that involved the idea of getting home would activate him, and he'd also deeply empathize with anyone and anything else away from home/away from family. Giving him one strong, clear motivation instantly made him an active participant in the story. This made him active with other characters too, any mention of home, any mention of family, any idea of not belonging, it drew him toward them.

(as a DM now this is also what I need more than anything, what's your hook? how can I tempt you? how can I make your character move forward? how can I make your character react? also characters that create opportunity for story take a LOT of work off the DM's shoulders in my experience, it shows you're engaged and it feels less like dragging a cat around on a leash haha like "are you enjoying this? do you want this? i don't know! please give me something!")

my more standard advice?

Be a good listener

Be present (in the moment)

Be curious

Be the biggest fan of all the characters

Put your story on-screen frequently, give people the opportunity to react to it and join in on it (this can be as simple as "my character's body language changes at the mention of 'home')

Create opportunities for the other characters to have their story on-screen (ask them questions! if you know what the character's buttons are and it makes sense in the moment, press them! listen to what they're saying, pay attention to what they're doing, and react to it)

Interact with the world! Interact with each other! And make these things mean something to your character!

Your character should make mistakes. Mistakes create opportunity for everyone.

If there's a genre, or theme, play toward them earnestly.

The more you RP, the better you'll get at it! It's a process and that's okay!

my little tip for knowing whether your character is Active vs Reactive: if the story were a musical, do they have an I Want song? do they have multiple moments for songs within the narrative? have they shared a duet with another character? do their songs change, evolve? songs happen for important moments in a musical so if you're not contributing to important moments, it may mean you're reacting more than you're acting. which is fine if you're playing a game solo and are granted access to the narrative by virtue of being the designated main character, but because RPing is collaborative storytelling, everyone should be doing their part!

[mt-oe]

I’ve just been highly obsessed over modern Mizu. So I’m just asking for that, modern Mizu meets reader at uni or something like that! I love LOVE your writing!! 💖💖

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Hey dear!

Thank you so much for the request! I hope you don't mind if I add a bit more to this <3 I've been wanting to write modern au Mizu hcs and your request really granted me the opportunity to do so.

Also, I'm so sorry for being so slow on the requests. I've been so eepy lately for some reason and I can't fight against it, like I tried but failed so many times ;; I am a slave to my own body

Anyways, I hope you enjoy! Mwa mwa :*

warning/s: not proofread, she/her for mizu, implied afab reader, game reference (league of legends)

general headcanons

✦ This woman would either overload or underload her units like crazy. She'd either be busy with her academics and work 6 days a week, even sending a letter to the admin so she can go past the mandated maximum amount of units in one semester or doing absolutely nothing while the rest of her friends are going apeshit on their finals. There's no in between.

She would plan it like an absolute psychopath too. Nothing special foreseeably happening in the next semester? She's going above and beyond. A convention she wants to go to on September? Signing up for the bare minimum amount of allowed units just for one event.

Her friends are either concerned for her and losing contact for a whole semester, or are pissed off that she's playing some kind of gacha game on her phone while they're losing their minds on their finals.

✦ Would be the type to be so pissed off by slow walkers in the hallway. The hatred she has for people who walk so fucking slow in the hallway is unbridled. Though she's not the type to pick fights, she'd be the type to sigh loudly, making you feel her anger, before overtaking and wouldn't be afraid to bump against the person if needed. Her hatred goes deep enough to the point where she even remembers people JUST because they walk slow.

✦ The type of friend who would walk to everything. Sure she has her motorbike, but if she can walk to it, you bet she's going to walk. She even knows different shortcuts to different buildings on campus.

"This looks like a good place," Akemi tells them, showing her phone. For once, their vacant hours finally aligned and they've been trying to find a good place to eat since the lunch hall food was getting repetitive and they could feel their taste buds dulling over time. Akemi, being the 'what do you guys want to eat?' friend, and the other three, being the 'I don't know' or the 'I'm fine with whatever' friends, is left to search for a new place.

They took a look at the place and shrugged in agreement, making her roll her eyes at their lack of opinion. "Okay but how are we going to go there?" Taigen asks. Mizu takes Akemi's phone and looks up the map to the place. The distance itself was enough to tell a person that they should take the bus. Hell, it was on the other side of town almost.

"We can walk. It's not that far," she says, closing the map and handing Akemi her phone back. They trusted Mizu. It couldn't be that bad.

Right?

By the time they arrived at the restaurant, they were already sweating, ready to give up, tired out of their wits. The food wasn't even worth it anymore.

"It's not that far" my ass.

Even Taigen, her fellow gym rat and workout buddy, was fucking exhausted. And this bitch (affectionately), has the audacity to stand there, crossing her arms with the most unamused expression on her face as if it was their fault for being so exhausted. If she tells you its walking distance, it is NOT within walking distance.

✦ She's a jack-of-all trades type of person, but she'd have the fattest fucking talent crush on anyone who can express themselves through art. The talents and skills she gathered were purely out of necessity. Fixing and modifying bikes was the only thing she was truly passionate about but it's hard to be expressive through repairing motorbikes, right?

She has always been so amazed by stories of painters, sculptors, singers, and writers who have deep backstories and can reflect it through their art. She would be the type to read the whole description in art museums just because she's so amazed by them.

Deep inside her, she wished she could do that too. To express herself through a medium. Like what do you mean you wrote this poem because you're sad your cat died? Or what do you mean you took this professional-looking picture just because you had the best picnic date with your friends? How can someone write a song about casual sapphic sex? She can't even vocalize her feelings, how much more in art? Whenever she sees someone writing their English essay so well or drawing randomly, she'd secretly be so interested.

✦ Mizu would have social media accounts but would use it bare minimum. She'd be that type of classmate that you're not sure if it's really her because she doesn't have a profile picture you can check or if she does, it's like a picture of an item instead of her face.

Her friends would be so happy whenever Mizu posts an IG story even if it's just a picture of where they were eating or even if their face is barely in the picture.

"Aww you posted us!" and they're like little ants with how small they were in the picture.

Or

"Do you want to eat at that place again?" and she'd be like 'what? why?' but they'd know she actually enjoyed the food because she bothered posting a picture of the place.

Deep inside her, Mizu wants to keep up with whatever trends her friends are into but she's very lowkey about it. The tough love friend who secretly really enjoys being friends, y'know? She'd search about it and try to figure it out. Everyone's surprised by her internet knowledge since she always acts like she wouldn't give a shit whatever new trend is on.

✦ This sounds so corny and stereotypical, but Taigen and her would be those gym rats who solve everything by working out. It didn't matter if it was a weekday, a weekend, a holiday, or whatever weather condition was going on outside, they are going.

They failed a test? Gym. Hungover? Gym. Too much homework? Gym.

When Megan Thee Stallion said she'll go to the gym two times a day, they go three. When she said the results are resulting? The body is bodying? These two are taking it seriously.

Taigen would focus on biceps, chest, and lats, cutting down on fat so his body would look more lean. He'd hate leg day but would do it anyway just to balance out his physique.

Meanwhile, Mizu would have a 'sleeper-type' build and her routine would be more well-rounded and would even include calisthenics on her free time. They'd try to beat each other's PR but it really ain't a competition when Mizu is always winning.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

how did you two meet?

Stupid shitty project.

Stupid fucking publisher gatekeeping the fucking article.

Stupid bitch ass school wifi keeps disconnecting.

Mizu resisted the urge to slam her laptop shut as her device disconnected from the wifi for the nth time. She was stuck in the library trying to finish her midterm project for building design system and holy shit was she frustrated.

She needed to create a specific building design that was supposed to be environmentally friendly, using what was considered as 'green materials' and had minimally destructive designs. It wouldn't be so bad if this fucking publisher just had to put a price on the article she needed. Wasn't education supposed to be free or whatever?

Her friends tried to help her, telling her to use the library computers, but none of them were working or free at the moment. That leaves her to use her laptop in the library. Usually, that wouldn't be a problem but due to the recent rains, the school wifi has been pretty shitty.

After a few more tries, she decided that this wasn't worth the frustration and trouble, and decided to collect her things to get ready to leave. Just as she was about to zip up her bag, a tap on the shoulder stopped her. She turned around to look at who was trying to get her attention, ready to tell them off. But upon turning around, her heart skipped a beat.

There you stood.

In your oh-so fancy sweatpants and college logo hoodie (whose logo wasn't even the university's). Your hair was ruffled and messy, eyes tired and more exhausted than her's. Understandably so though. It was hell week and everyone was tired, but somehow, your tired looked so pretty.

Her eyes continued to stare at you. Like the world stopped moving and it was just you and her in the room.

"Umm...there's a free computer over there if you still need it," you said shyly but in a straightforward manner. A small tired smile on your lips, trying to appear as friendly as possible. Mizu snapped out of her trance and nodded, slinging her bag over her shoulder to move to the said computer.

Maybe she'll stay for a bit. To finish her midterm project.

Definitely not for the pretty lady.

No, of course not.

Upon sitting down, she couldn't help but sneak glances at you, looking back down at the screen when you looked in her direction. She felt stupid, like a lovestruck fool. Borderline, like a child getting their first actual crush.

In her mind, she was already planning how to approach you without making it awkward. Maybe she'll try to strike up a conversation? But how? Hmmm..

It definitely took a while, being distracted and all, but she was finally able to finish her report. Taking a deep breath, she prepared herself mentally to talk to you. She stood up and stretched after logging herself out, pretending to look around the room but in reality she was looking for you.

Much to her dismay, you were no where to be found. A small "fuck" left her lips as she sighed, picking her bag up. The universe must hate her. Giving her an opportunity to see the most beautiful person she's ever seen only for them to leave early? Fuck.

Her thoughts continued to plague her for the rest of the day, even until the next morning. It sounded so silly and so stupid for her to be this bothered, but she really just couldn't forget you. She sighed once again as she stared at the lecture hall walls, face hidden against her palms.

"Excuse me. Do you have an extra pencil?" a voice asked as she felt a tap on her shoulder. Looking up grouchily, her eyes widened immediately.

It was you.

And this time, she wasn't going to let this opportunity pass.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

but what now? (girlfriend headcanons)

✦ Mizu would absolutely remember EVERYTHING about you. Your birthday, MBTI score, favorites, dislikes, and even the silliest things such as what makes you sneeze.

She has a second brain for these, an internal SSD in her brain just for you. You won't even have to remind her about anything, because she already planned it out before you remember.

It's especially great for errands since you don't have to give her a list, she already has a list in her brain. Sometimes, you'd think she forgot because she's so quiet about it but she always finds a way to prove you wrong. If she says she forgot something about you, it's a lie. She never forgets, especially when it comes to her girlfriend.

✦ Would pretend to not understand or know how to do something just so you could teach or show her. Mizu definitely has a lot of skill up her sleeves, but whenever you asked if she knew something that she knew you were good at, she'd pretend not to.

"So I just click like this?" she asked you through the call, clicking on a minion. You had enthusiastically called her, asking if she wanted to learn how to play League of Legends. Unknown to you, your girlfriend already knew how to play and was quite good at it (that's a lie, she's beyond good).

She couldn't help but smile slightly as she watched you nod enthusiastically. The thought of you being so eager to spend time with her was heart-warming. She even made a dummy account just to make her beginner act look believable. "Yeah, you just need to keep this up. So should we queue together?" you asked, sounding really excited.

Mizu chuckled and nodded. "Don't get mad at me, okay?" she joked lightly, accepting your invite. "I won't. I'll be the ADC so you can play support until you get the hang of it, okay?" you said, checking which ADR champions you had cool skins of. Your girlfriend let out a small laugh at your enthusiasm, signaling you to start the queue.

The game went really well. Extremely well.

To your surprise, Mizu was quite a good support. Never accidentally stealing your CS, always being there during a clash, skill shots always hitting, knowing who to focus on. "It's because you're good at teaching people," she said.

But really, you wonder how she knew which items to build when you never even taught her.

✦ Would do the most random or the smallest things for you. She's not good at expressing her feelings so she makes up for it through acts of service and gift giving. Mizu tries her best to be as loving as she can without overwhelming you.

Can you even remember the last time you tied your own shoelaces? You can't. Can you?

Sometimes, you'll be surprised to arrive home with the fridge already stocked even though you had told her that you'll do the groceries on your next day off. The only response you'll get is a shake of her head and a random thing you mentioned you wanted to buy.

Sometimes, she's a bit silly though. Putting in the effort to remove her jacket to shield you from the rain even though you had an umbrella, removing the buckle of your helmet so she'd be the one to put it on you, gifting you random goofy greeting cards.

It's both endearing and a bit funny.

✦ Secretly loves it when you put makeup on her or if you let her do your makeup. Her amazement and fascination skyrockets whenever she watched you put make up on. It was a line of femininity that she was never taught to cross. She'd watch you with deep interest, observing how carefully you did it, how purposeful each step you did was.

"So why do you put it on?" she asks. You hum in thought before shrugging. "It just...makes me feel pretty."

What do you mean it makes you feel pretty?

You were already pretty.

You can't help but laugh at her and her curiosity. "It just does. It feels therapeutic to put on and I like how I look after, it's like expressing myself or something. Like painting but on your face," you explained to her, making her raise an eyebrow.

"But what if you don't like the way it looks?" she asked, picking up your eyeshadow palette and swatching a color on her hand curiously. "I can always take it off," you answered, blending the blush on your cheeks.

She stayed silent for a moment, continuing to swatch the colors on her hand. Her mind still couldn't wrap around the fact that this could make you feel better. Its just color and chemicals, and it washes off too.

Your eyes scanned her face before a soft laugh left your lips. "Here. Want to try?" you offered. Your girlfriend looked a bit hesitant but she wanted to understand.

Was this really fun?

After a few minutes, some struggles and squirming, you finally finished putting some make up on her. You tried your best to make it look as natural and as light as possible, knowing that she wouldn't appreciate the texture of heavy makeup immediately.

Blue eyes scanned over her own face on the mirror. She didn't say anything, but the slight twitch of her lips and the shine in her eyes spoke thousands.

"I want to do it on you too," she said quietly. "At least one thing. Let me try to do it for you."

You heart melted at her excitement. How could you refuse her when she finally finds something she likes? You handed her your eyeliner and sat down. "Here, follow my instructions.."

Mizu actually ended up liking it. Although she enjoyed putting it on you more, she still enjoyed it nonetheless. The amount of practice she put in made you wonder if she was actually better than you now. Somehow, she felt a bit of relief and a bit happy that she finally found something she could do that was considered as 'artistic'.

What started off as a simple "let me try" ended up being part of your routine. This woman never stopped practicing different eyeliner looks and now she just sits on your bed, waiting for you to finish your routine so she can put it on you. Sometimes she'd do a more creative graphic liner look, but on days you had to go to uni or work, she'd do the usual. She could probably do it with her eyes closed.

And the results?

SHARP.

Capital S H A R P.

[kittenintheden]

Smut Writing Tips

I could go on for 600 years on this so I cut myself off at seven basic tips for improving your smut writing. I don't know how to name this something that isn't suggestive so fuck it we ride at dawn etc. If you're having trouble writing smut/improving your smut writing, here are a few things that might help? I'm not the ultimate authority, do whatever you want, take what serves you and leave the rest, etc.

1) Get in touch with what turns you on. You can take this literally or figuratively. You don't have to be sexually active or even sexually aroused to write smut! It's not required. But you should know what gets you going, you know? Because whatever you're into, there are other people out there who are into it, too. Writing the things you're passionate about translates to the page. If you're disconnected from what you're writing, it's going to read that way.

2) Practice by translating a personal fantasy to text. THIS IS FOR YOU ONLY. Unless you like it enough to share? But this is an exercise to get you past the initial discomfort and embarrassment of writing sexy scenes. Many of us have romantic or sexual fantasies, even those on the ace/aro spectrum. When they live in our head, they feel safe. When we put them to the page, they suddenly EXIST in a space where someone else can theoretically perceive them. Getting comfortable with that takes a little bit of work/practice.

3) Try writing from the POV of the subject of the reader's desire. When I smut, I write from my OC's POV sometimes, but more often... I write from Astarion's. That's intentional. It's hot to feel DESIRED, to feel WANTED. Being in the subject's head means that the reader is experiencing that desire for themselves. There's power and sexiness in knowing you're making someone feel that way.

4) Physical description and positioning is great, but how do they FEEL? If you've ever heard the term "male gaze," you know it's frequently applied to visual media, especially where the subjects are treated as objects to be observed rather than people with interior thought and feeling. Smut WRITING gives us the opportunity to both describe the actions taking place and also the internal responses of the characters. It's not just what goes where, it's how that makes the body feel, the mind, the heart. It deepens the scene. Not everything needs to be "making love," but the tension and character interaction are still vital.

5) Realism is a fine base but it's not required. Look, there are a lot of smut tropes out there that are not REMOTELY based on reality and we love them anyway because a big part of this style of writing is the FANTASY of the thing. Like, yes, it's going to take some readers out if you're describing a position that's not physically possible. That's something that should be workshopped. But like. People come here for sex pollen and knotting. It's okay to be a little weird. Just consider the fantasy logistics.

6) Sometimes a little humor or awkwardness adds to the experience. Not everything has to be peak romance of the highest order, you know? Sex is messy and weird. If the participants can be a bit messy and weird together, it's both character-building and endearing. Don't be afraid to be like, oh this resulted in fluids and now we have to take care of that.

7) The tension is as important as the cumshot. Yeah I said that. An important piece of writing burning-hot smut is properly building tension. You can do that in a few words or many words. The ANTICIPATION, the WANTING, the not-quite-there-but-god-I-wanna-be of it all. It makes the release that much sweeter.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

In Bloom 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, allusions to trauma, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: After wasting much of your youth in a toxic situation, things are starting to look up. That's until you meet a certain flower seller.

Characters: Cole Turner, short!reader

Note: Tomorrow is beach day for me.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The city streets seem to slant around you, looming outside the car windows, blurring at the edges. Your displacement adds to the effect, making your dizzy, leaving your hands raw as you wring them compulsively. You shrink back into your seat, shying away from the world that seems so scary to you. 

Aunt Bev is completely unbothered. She sings along to her favourite 80s bop as she keeps speed with the rest of traffic. She's always in a sunny mood but that day, she beams even brighter. When you asked why, she was almost stunned by the question; 'well, sweetheart, it's your birthday!' 

You forgot. Or didn't care. You never really celebrate. Your last birthday you can barely discern from all the other grim days. You try not to think of that life you had before Aunt Bev showed up to drag you into the light. You suppose it's probably been just under a year since. 

As if sensing your grey thought, she reaches to turn the volume down. She resumes her firm grip on the wheel and peeks over quickly. She smiles as she stops at the changing light. 

"You get a free scoop. You got your ID?" She says. 

You nod. That's one of the things that's new to you. Before you never even had a library card. Before, it was like you never even existed. As far as the world was concerned, you didn't.  

You look down at the purse in your lap. Your cousin Lena gave it to you. She said she never used it and it suited you better. There was a lot she handed over, though without any real concern. Her and your other cousin, Mason, have so much, they hardly know the difference. 

You stare at the embroidered petals on the black velvet. Lena's wrong. It's too nice for you. 

You tear your hands apart and lift the flap. You slide out the small wallet within. Another inherited piece. You slip out the ID card and stare at the photo. It doesn't really look like you but you've never really been able to recognise yourself. Your features always struck you as unfamiliar. 

You remember when you went to fill out the paperwork. Standing in front of that lens, staring into its black eye, and the sudden flash. You tuck the card away and shove the wallet back in the depths of the purse. 

"Lena's making you a cake," Bev says, "she always loves an excuse to make a mess of my kitchen." 

You try to laugh, it's more a crackle. That's the thing about Aunt Bev, everything is so careless to her, so easy. It all feels so strange to you. You don't fit but no one else seems to notice. 

"Mason should be there but heavens knows he's always late. That's not my doing, by the way, your uncle's always been horrible about time," she scoffs. 

You hum to acknowledge you're listening. The mention of your cousin and uncle make you uneasy. It isn't that they're bad. No, they're so nice, like Lena and Bev, but they're men. You try not to hold that against them but you've never been very comfortable around them. Not that you spent much time around male counterparts. 

"Twenty-five," she preens, "exciting." 

You clear your dry throat, "yep." 

You tuck your chin down and fidget with the strap of the purse. Twenty-five. Halfway through your first decade of adulthood and you still feel like a child. It's nothing to celebrate but Aunt Bev sees everyday as a reason. 

She puts on her signal and waits in the line of cars. You squint through her side and see the bustling of vehicles and people in a large lot. All this for ice cream. You told her you aren't particularly hungry even but she insisted. 

She turns and rolls into the lot, finding a spot amid the tight lines. She sighs and pulls the visor down to check her dyed waves in the mirror. She's always so put together. She tried to help you but you don't like the feel of mascara and you had an allergic reaction to the lip gloss. She didn't try again. 

"Alright, ice cream!" She snaps the visor up, "do you know which flavour you want?" 

You unbuckle your seat belt and shrug, "I don't know what they have." 

"Fair," she tilts her head as she opens her door, "I'm feeling a good old vanilla cone." 

You get out and shut the door. You hook the purse on your shoulder and meet her by the hood. You walk in step with her, peering around at the other people streaming towards the other side of the lot. There’s a large archway leading to a large plot of booths and stands. It’s a market of some sort, the kind you’ve only seen on television. 

“I thought we were getting ice cream,” you say as you grip your purse. 

“They have ice cream. I have another surprise. For your birthday,” she insists, “I wanted to buy you a gift.” 

“Oh? I don’t need one.” 

“I want to,” she says, “me and Lena used to come here all the time. You’ll like it.” 

You don’t argue. You have no right to. She’s doing you a favour. Another one.  

It’s crowded but everyone seems happy. You’re not used to all the noise or clamour. A woman pushes a stroller ahead of you as her husband chases a lively toddler past her. You press your chapped lips together and hold in your unease. 

You’re not the best in these sort of situations. Too many people, too much going on. Just going down to City Hall to get your ID was a lot. The hospital too. Those stiff, cramped plastic chairs and people filling even the space between them. 

You keep your shoulders curled in as you walk with Bev. You end up behind her, following her lead, stopping where she stops, looking at whatever she looks at. She points out a crystal sunflower necklace and you smile and nod. When you see the price, you frown. 

“Maybe something else. I don’t wear jewelry,” you say. You don’t wear it because you never had it. 

“It would be so pretty,” she remarks. 

“No, really, it’s... nice, but not for me.” 

You sidle on. There’s a table of soaps so pungent they make your head cloudy, and candles that look like whipped desserts. You cross to another booth and Bev buys some local honey and apple butter. She likes the honey in her tea in the evening. She always makes you a cup too. 

She shows you the wildflower honey giddily and points you onward. You stick close, following her direction as it keeps your head from spinning. You go to crocheter’s stand with stuffed animals meant for the children shouting and running around more than you. That whale might be cute but you’re not a child anymore, are you? 

You carry on. Bev shows you several other things. A little compact mirror with mother of pearl on the case and a hand-painted wooden chest you could put on your dresser. The dresser she bought in the room she gave you in the house she pays for. 

“You really don’t need to buy my anything. The ice creams good enough,” you say as your doubt bubbles over but it’s too loud for her to hear you. And she’s too distracted. 

Aunt Bev stands on her toes, though she’s already a tall figure, and waves at someone. She grabs your wrist and you wince as she pulls you through the swaths of people. You want to tear away as her grip makes you itch. You don’t like being touched. You’re not used to it. 

She pulls you to another row of stalls and stops before a medley of plants. There's a little chalkboard sign in the corner that reads ‘Cole’s Corner’. Pots line the top of the table, cacti and spider plants and succulents. Their green and lovely and lush. 

Bev lets go and you stare down at them. They’re familiar. They’re pretty. You could smile if your ears weren’t burning from the bustling people around. 

You’ve always known soil, always known the smell of pollen and the tough roots of unwanted weeds. When you weren’t trapped in your room, you were stranded in the garden, searching for bright petals or nursing wilting stems. Out in the dirt, you didn’t have to worry about anything. 

Often Aunt Bev found you in the plot she allotted you among her rose bushes and tulips. The space you made your own with the gnome you painted yourself. That was one of her little crafts she liked to do. She always had an idea for something or the other; waxed-linen to use as reusable bowl covers or tie-dye tee shirts. 

You stare down at a pot of aloe vera. The pot is clay; the base is brown and the top is painted white. You admire the jutting rigid leaves as the chaos around you settles into the background. You lean in closer at the burst of colour behind it, a bunch of pleasant pink begonias. 

“Cole,” your aunt chirps, “busy today.” 

“Sure is,” the man behind the table answers and your eyes flick up as you nearly jump.  

You hadn’t seen him. You were too distracted by the fauna. You don’t know how you didn’t. He’s tall and his blue eyes twinkle as they meet yours. You quickly shy away as the sight of his soft hay brown hair lingers in your mind. 

“This your sister?” He asks. 

“Oh, Cole, don’t be silly. You can flatter me all you like. You’re still a horrible salesman.” 

“Usually works,” he chuckles, “daughter?” 

“You’ve met Lena,” she chides then introduces you by name, “this is my niece. Hon, this is Cole. He grows these all himself.” 

“Ah, the niece,” he snaps his fingers. “I remember.” 

As he turns away you continue to peruse. Your cheeks are burning. You’re suddenly not as content to browse the plants. Not as you feel the sting of that man’s gaze nipping at you. It’s just the way he’d looked at you. Maybe just that he’d even saw you. 

Suddenly, a pot wrapped in burlap is set down in front of you. You examine the yellow petals and peek over at Aunt Bev. She grins and her gaze trails between you and the man. You gulp and turn back to once more consider the flowers. 

“Daylily,” you murmur. 

He leans in and lets out a scratchy noise, “that’s right.” 

You suck in your lower lip. You hadn’t meant to say it out loud. Your lashes flick up then down as you can’t figure what to do with yourself. 

“You like flowers? Your aunt says you spend all your time in the garden.” 

You shrug, then nod, and once more dart a look over at Aunt Bev. She said all that? To him? Why? 

“How about that one?” She comes closer as she reaches for her purse, “it’s her birthday. I’d like her to get something nice for her.” 

“Can’t go wrong with day lily. They keep bloom for a while but each blossom only lasts about a day,” he turns the pot slightly as he speaks, “symbolic of devotion and forgetting worries. They brighten the place right up.” 

“So?” Aunt Bev nudges you with her elbow. 

You dip your chin, “um, sure, okay. Thank you, Aunt Bev.” 

“Flowers are always a good gift. These ones won’t need much in the winter either. They’ll come right back,” he explains, “is that all?” 

“Yep, I think you’ve bled me dry,” Bev kids as she hands over her money, “I only have so much room left in the backyard.” 

“Ah, don’t got that problem on the farm. Sometimes, I don’t know what to do with all the land,” he counts out her change from a metal box. 

“Must be nice. I swear, living in the city can be so... suffocating,” Bev mopes as she tucks away the coins. “Go on, hon, you wanna carry your flowers?” 

You mutter your acquiescence and step forward to reach for the pot. Before you can, that man, Cole, slides it out of your grasp. “Wait, one minute.” He turns and digs around in a crate hidden beneath the perpendicular table, “it’s your birthday, isn’t it?” He pulls out a ribbon, the same colour as the daylily, “just put a proper bow on.” 

He ties it up in a drooping uneven bow. You peek up at his face as he gives it a helpless smile and shrugs, “not perfect but... happy birthday.” 

He pushes the pot towards you and you cautiously take it. His large hand brushes yours and you quickly bring the flowers against your stomach, recoiling a step back from the table. His fingers fall onto the table and he taps them. 

“Oh, wait,” he turns once more and digs around, this time in a bag on the top of the table, “Marvita brough these over from her booth.” He takes out a small box and lifts the lid to reveal an array of macarons in a variety of hues, “I can’t eat them all.” he shoves the box at you, “please.” 

You don’t move but Bev eagerly accepts one; a pink one. “Go on,” she urges, “live a little, birthday girl.” 

You scrunch your mouth up and slant it this way, then that. You take a cookie; a green one. As you hug the plant with one arm and retract the other, you remember your manners. A tingle runs through the back of your hand, a memory of those lessons, as the ‘thank you’ tumbles off your tongue. 

You look up and once more your eyes meet. You blanch and swiftly turn away. 

“No problem,” he says brightly, “hey, Bev,” he calls as she goes to shuffle away, “next week?” 

“Eh, I don’t know, my husband’s been on me about the spending,” she laughs, “we’ll see.” 

“Oh yeah, see you then,” he snorts, “you too, I hope.” 

“Uh, bye,” you wave with the cookie and hurry past your aunt. You know he’s talking to you but you can’t face him. He’s just being nice and you won’t be back. 

“I love those, they’re so pretty,” Aunt Bev reaches over to touch the petals, “such a nice man, isn’t he?” 

[cainsau]

Pitch Black Therapy || The Boys Imagine

(Platonic) Hughie Campbell x Supe!GN!Reader

Summary: After escaping the asylum, the boys went on their respective missions, leaving you, Lamplighter, and Hughie in Mallory's safehouse. Hughie gets curious about you and your power.

You were told to stay in Mallory's house with Lamplighter and Hughie while the others went on their errands. It was a strange situation, considering that you and Lamplighter used to be on opposite sides in the asylum. He never harmed you specifically, but you could hear all the screams and crackling of fire whenever he had to burn someone, which made your headaches worse back when you were stuck in the cell with those bright lights. You would often glare at him, but he couldn't tell, because you always had a pair of sunglasses on ever since the escape.

If glaring at him felt good, it felt even better to not see him at all, so you made yourself comfortable in the kitchen for a while, until Hughie came.

"Hi." He said with a smile. "Not sure if i've officially introduced myself before, but i'm Hughie."

"Oh, hey," You reached out a hand towards him, offering a handshake, "I'm [Y/N]."

At first, he was taken aback by your normality. Whenever he introduced himself, it usually brought out a hostile reaction for some reason. He was just trying to be nice, but people didn't seem to like it, and now finally someone appreciated it.

You both sat on the kitchen stools in silence while you drank a can of soda, only accompanied by muffled voices of the TV in the other room.

He glanced curiously at you a few times, and finally gave in. "Hey, uh, you always wear those sunglasses. Are they, like, your trademark style or is there something… else going on?"

You chuckled, almost choking on your drink, "Man, i wish it was a style choice. But no, it's a side effect, i suppose. Everything's too bright for me."

"Sounds terrible." He grimaced. "What kind of power do you have that does that? Is it, like, night vision or something?"

"I do have night vision, but my power is... well," You paused for a moment, trying your best to find the correct words, "I can blind people."

"Blind people? Turning people blind?"

"Pretty much." You finished your drink, and threw the can towards the trash bin, but missed. "I can generate darkness and submerge people in it, causing them to not be able to see anything." You walked over and picked up the can, dropping it into the bin. "It also works on cameras and stuff."

"Whoa. That's cool... but scary, but... cool."

You then turned around to face him. "Do you want to see?"

"I think the question should be: do i want to 'not' see?" He joked, which earned a small laugh from you. "That seems horrifying, to be honest."

"You know, actually, i heard that there's people who pay to experience having all sensory inputs removed. They say it's therapeutic." You said, pretending to try to convince him as you returned to your seat. "You don't wanna try some pitch black therapy? Free of charge."

He shook his head dramatically, "Nope, no way."

"Alright, alright." You put both hands up, a playful gesture of backing down. "But seriously though, i think you should try once, so that you're not too shocked if i have to use it in the field later."

He thought about it for a moment, it actually made sense. "You're probably right."

"Great! I'll go for five seconds, how does that sound?" You clasped your hands together, ready to start.

"Woah, hold on, you seem way too excited about this." He chuckled.

"What can i say? I'm new to this too."

"Right." He nodded. "Five seconds is enough, i think."

"Okay, on three. One. Two. Three." You released your hands, and a pitch black substance appeared from between them, expanding instantly until it engulfed the whole room.

One second in. Hughie jumped a bit in his seat, frantically looking around for any source of light. Two seconds. You could see him panicking a little. Three. He brought his hands right in front of his eyes and waved it, but he could see nothing. Four. He put his hands back on the kitchen counter, relieved that it was still there. Five. The room turned back normal.

He seemed a bit disoriented, suddenly being able to see again.

"You alright?" You asked, feeling a little bad.

"Yeah, no, it's just... i thought it would be a regular kind of darkness, where i could still see a little bit of movement or something, y'know? But i couldn't see anything at all. Like, if i had to experience that for the first time while we're out there? I'd probably get a heart attack or something."

"Yeah..." You smiled apologetically. "Sorry."

"No, it's fine, you were right, and that was pretty awesome. Not therapeutic at all though."

You gave a small laugh, which Hughie returned.

[maximoff-pan]

(don't want to) fight this feeling | colin bridgerton

summary: this is what happens after a friend asks another friend to kiss them – or simply just the aftermath of two people realizing there might be more between them and being awkward fools on their journey to get there

pairing: colin bridgerton x fem!reader

word count: 3.6k

warning(s): idiots in love, absolute fools, absolute awkwardness, fluff, some kissing, a tad suggestive, rusty and heavily unedited writing (sue me, it's been a while)

a/n: hello you lovely peoples! it's been a while... this is my first time writing for colin so I apologize if the characterization feels a bit off. I'm still quite rusty in the writing department, but I hope you enjoy this regardless! as always, feedback and comments are much appreciated and I love you all!

• ж • ж • ж • ж • ж • ж •

‘Colin, please–’ Your voice is unwavering, and yet he can’t help but relish in the fact that you’re begging – pleading for him. In all the years he’d known you, you’ve never been one to grovel. 

‘Tell me.’ He breathes, eyes searching yours for any sign of regret. ‘Use your words.’

Your lips, swollen from kissing him, part enough for you to say: ‘I want you Colin. All of you.’

And in that moment, everything fades…

•••

Colin wakes abruptly, chest heaving and covered in sweat. It’s been happening more and more recently, these dreams. Dreams of desire, an incessant yearning for the feeling of your lips on his.

He doesn’t know what to call it. Infatuation perhaps – a pure and raw chemical reaction of attraction – however wrong it may be. You’re his dearest friend, and the kiss you’d shared was merely an innocent gesture, a favour for a person he cares about dearly. Your first kiss – hardly his first, yet he’d never understood the true meaning of voracity before it. 

Saying it meant nothing doesn’t feel right. And chalking up this sensation to a merely physical response feels even more wrong. It’s simply not enough to describe the way his heart races when he thinks of you, how his breath catches in his throat and words become obsolete. He dares to wonder if your friendship could blossom into something more, if you even feel the same. Is this what love feels like? 

• ж • ж • ж • ж • ж • ж •

He’s kissing you again, this time like he may never get the chance to again. However frantic, it’s sweet. It’s like him – feels like Colin.

‘You’re so beautiful.’ He says in a whisper.

You chuckle a content laugh, running a hand through his soft and perfectly styled hair. ‘Not near as beautiful as you, Mr. Bridgerton.’

The moment feels so real, feels like it should be. But you know it’s a figment of your mind working against you as your eyes open to the unfortunate sight of your ceiling. 

•••

Your chest rises and falls rhythmically, awoken by the sunlight drifting through your bedroom window, along with thoughts of him. Last week you had been simply a girl – one who had never felt the kiss of a man, one who thought she may never be so lucky. But today, you are a woman who has, no matter the circumstances. 

You’d asked Colin to kiss you, not out of desperation, but out of curiosity and loneliness perhaps. You wanted to know what you were missing out on, what such intimacy could mean for a person. And there is no man you would trust with your reputation more than him. 

The pit in your stomach however, grows with each passing moment. You wonder, have you made a mistake? Are these things you’re feeling for Colin a mere fantasy – a result of a heat of the moment. You can’t help but feel like there has always been something there for you, something just beneath the surface of your friendship.

It’s silly to believe Colin could feel that way about you. But kissing him, feeling the touch of his lips to your own has left you with a want for him – a need for him that you have been taught is unacceptable for a woman to voice. And suddenly, there’s shame. These desires are not natural, not realistic, not feminine. 

But how are you supposed to go on as if it meant nothing to you? How are you supposed to talk to him again, look him in the eye and have everything be as it once was? Colin Bridgerton is not someone who you’ve had to hide your feelings from. It’s always been a lost cause – he has you memorized like a book he’s read thousands of times. Maybe even one that he’d written himself.

And you’re certain he’ll be able to sense the shift in your behaviour, and likely the reason why. You only hope he’ll let you down gently because at the end of every day, your friendship is what matters most to you. 

• ж • ж • ж • ж • ж • ж •

Side by side with Eloise, you smile as she prattles on about the latest novel she’s been reading. Usually her conversation holds your full attention; often she doesn’t give you a choice otherwise. But today, you can’t help but find your mind drifting somewhere else. 

Your gaze meets Colin’s for a brief moment from across the grassy field in Hyde Park. Where you once found comfort in the blue of his eyes, now your stomach turns with unease. He’s surrounded by a gaggle of young ladies, surely desperate to get his attention. Colin would make a suitable husband for any one of them, you think. 

You look away from him just as quickly as you’d caught his stare, the dirt below your feet suddenly becoming intriguingly interesting. Eloise takes note of the interaction, her lips pulling into a thin frown. 

“Is everything alright?” Eloise asks, an eyebrow raised in query before clarifying, “Between you and my brother.” 

Your gaze refuses to meet hers. You’re afraid that she'll be able to see right through you. “Is there something that indicates otherwise?”

You recognize the defensive nature of your response is likely to garner more suspicion, but it’s difficult to think of an appropriate answer when the question regards Colin Bridgerton. Somehow, thoughts of him make everything more complicated.  

“It’s just,” she treads lightly, walking swiftly alongside you, “this is the fourth time in a week you two have been in each other’s presence, and you’ve barely spoken. You typically seek Colin out, and him you. And now I get the sense you are avoiding him.”

You glance back over to him, watching as he continues to entertain the same group of young ladies, however his audience seems to have grown.

“He looks rather busy, does he not?”

You don’t mean for your voice to sound so apathetic, so uncaring as it does. But Eloise recognizes that you care a great deal. You’re jealous. 

“I suppose he is.” She smiles, knowing just how much Colin must hate the predicament he’s found himself in. “How about we rescue him?”

You mean to protest, but Eloise doesn’t give you a chance to respond before she’s dragging you by the arm towards the one person you do not wish to speak to at the moment. It’s been terribly awkward since you’d asked Colin to kiss you, and you can’t help but knowing that it’s your fault.

You were the one who promised it would mean nothing, and you suppose it had meant nothing to him – but you should have known the ramifications would be disastrous for you. Who asks their best friend (whomst they are in love with) to kiss them and then expects their feelings not to grow tenfold? 

“Brother!” Eloise pushes into the group with your arm wrapped around hers. 

Colin’s face lights at the sound of her voice, relief flooding his features. “Eloise,” he responds, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

The young women around him sigh at his words. Had they never heard a man be polite with his sister before? Surely that couldn’t be anything special. 

You roll your eyes as one of them decides to cling herself onto Colin’s side. The rumblings of jealousy aside (which you really shouldn’t be feeling), this behaviour is utterly pathetic to you. 

Eloise notes your distaste with an amused chuckle. “We’ve come to take you back to Bridgerton House for Kate and Anthony’s luncheon. Mama’s orders.”

“Oh…oh!” Colin recognizes her attempt at a rescue. “My god, it must have slipped my mind. If you will forgive me ladies,” he sends them a charmingly teasing wink, “it has been wonderful getting to know you all.”

Taking his leave with you and his sister, Colin tips his hat politely, departing from the group. Eloise marches slightly ahead of the two of you, eyes set on the carriages you are to ride back to your respective households in. 

The silence feels suffocating and unfamiliar. It’s uncomfortable and exactly what you’d hoped it wouldn’t be.  Eloise turns to you suddenly as you reach your separate transports. “Are you sure you won’t ride back with us? Surely we can take you home.” She says.

You force a smile. “Positive.” You affirm. “My driver is already here. It would be rude of me to have brought him here only to leave without me.” 

“Alright then.” She hugs you as she takes a step into her carriage. She leaves the door open for her brother as his gaze catches yours for a moment. This might be the longest you’ve gone in his presence in total silence. 

You break away from his piercing stare, taking a breath in apprehension. “Goodbye Mr. Bridgerton.” You say, finally. 

“Goodbye Miss (L/n).” He returns with a nod. 

Turning away, you step into your carriage as a driver closes the door for you. That interaction felt wrong, awkward, and difficult. Nothing like the ease of conversation you are used to.

Colin feels much the same as he sits in the Bridgerton carriage, eyes glossed over in thought. 

Eloise wants to smack him but decides against it in better judgment. She simply watches him for a few moments – sees his discomfort and wonders what could have possibly gone wrong between you and her brother. 

“It’s rude to stare, you know.” Colin’s eyes meet hers. He means it as a joke, but his tone does not convey it that way. 

“What is rude, brother,” she tuts, her position on this very firm, “is treating your best friend as if she is a stranger.”

“Eloise.” Colin warns.

“No.” She holds her palm up, objecting to his dissuasion. “What happened between you?”

He scoffs. “Does privacy mean nothing to you?”

He’s being evasive and defensive – much like your previous response to her questioning. Usually Colin only gets like this when feelings are involved. The last time Eloise had seen him behave this way, Marina had been at the center of it. 

He’d become distant and dejected from the ordeal. The overall rejection, knowing she hadn’t really loved him had caused him to turtle in on himself. And the only person who’d been able to pull him out of it, had been you. Now he seems to be going back in. 

Colin had always been sensitive, more in touch with his emotions than any of her other brothers, but that often left him more open to heartbreak. 

“You love her.” Eloise finally decides to say. 

Colin doesn’t react the way she thinks he will. “Of course.” He replies like it’s obvious. “(Y/n) is my dearest and oldest friend.”

“Allow me to rephrase.” She clarifies, “You are in love with her.”

At that, his reaction is much different. Eyebrows raised and blinking nearly too rapidly for Eloise to perceive – this is what she expected. He’s been caught.

He stutters on his words. “You – you cannot be serious! I’m not – I am not in love…”

Colin feels like he’s breaking. Because as perceptive as Eloise is, so are you; and if Eloise can read him this clearly, he fears you can too.

Her voice is gentle when she speaks, not for a second believing this display of refusal to admit his feelings. “Have you told her how you feel?”

Colin gives up, retreating in on himself. His posture slumps in defeat. “No.” He says. “And I cannot for the life of me, get her out of my mind. It’s like every time I close my eyes, I feel—”

Eloise edges closer to him when Colin stops himself with a sharp inhale. “Feel what?”

I feel her lips on mine, he thinks. 

He frowns, gaze falling downward. “Nothing.”

“Colin…”

“Eloise for Christ’s sake,” he barks, “I said it is nothing.”

His voice is cold and unforgiving, like a switch has been flicked and Eloise cannot begin to understand why. Colin is clearly leaving something out — something important. And it’s a sore topic for him. 

“Whatever it is,” she eyes him cautiously. “You need to tell her.”

• ж • ж • ж • ж • ж • ж •

The afternoon carries on uncomfortably, your mind still on overdrive from your unsettling encounter with Colin. The ride home had given you too much time to think. Too much time to worry, and it had only further worsened the pit in your stomach. 

Your mother had questioned why you’d arrived back so early, having previously planned to spend an afternoon at the Bridgertons. Telling her you felt unwell, you made your way to your room, collapsing on the mattress of your bed with a sigh.

Before long, you’re being informed you have a visitor who’s waiting for you in the drawing room. You’re fairly certain who it is. Eloise has always been a caring friend, if not a little motivated to meddle. Who you were not expecting to see, is her brother Benedict. What interest does he have in this?

“You know you needn’t come see me.” You say flippantly as you enter the room where she’s sitting on the couch with a book on her lap, her second oldest sibling sitting beside her. “Benedict.” You nod at him politely. He returns the gesture as an acknowledgement of his presence. 

“I must say,” she disagrees, “I felt a little obligated to check on you.”

“And why is that?” Benedict jumps in with a smirk.

She sends him a look of disapproval. He knows exactly why.

“Colin was not himself today.” Eloise settles on. Equally pointed, she asserts, “Nor were you.”

“I suppose there is no hiding it from you.” You admit, taking a seat across from them. “Our lack of conversation was abnormal.”

She chuckles at that. “It is usually so difficult to get a word in edgewise when you two are together. But today, it was like you could not even look each other in the eye.”

“I do apologize.” You say dejectedly. “I feel that has much to do with me.”

Eloise frowns at your admission. “I cannot say that I have the context needed to understand what is going on between you, but I do know that Colin does not blame you.”

You release a breath you hadn’t known you were holding, air escaping your lungs. “He didn’t tell you?”

“No.” She responds, looking to Benedict to see if he knows anything more. He shakes his head. “And I – we respect your privacy not to push you into telling us something you’re not ready to.”

You smile softly. “That sounds nothing like the Eloise I know.”

“I am trying to be supportive.” She huffs a laugh, tone light and joking. 

“Well, since you did not ask,” you begin, wringing your hands and fingers together, a nervous energy Eloise is not used to from you, “I asked Colin to kiss me.”

Her brow furrows in confusion, no indication of shock on her features. Colin is in love with you, she thinks. How could things have possibly ended this way? She doesn’t stop you, allowing you to take a pause before you continue.

“I was feeling down. Function after function, I leave with no prospects, and my chances of finding a husband feel as if they are less than nothing.” Your eyes lock with hers, knowing she does not share the same sentiment of finding a life partner. “I did not want to die not knowing what it felt like to kiss someone.”

Benedict’s eyes search yours. He feels your heart yearning, feels the curiosity and desperation in your voice. He sympathizes with you, wholly. 

“You must know (Y/n),” He speaks, eyes twinkling with knowledge neither you nor his sister are privy to. “The only reason you have not been called upon is because of Colin.”

Eloise turns to him in disbelief. “Brother…” She trails.  

Simultaneously, you blurt, “excuse me?”

“Explanation Benedict.” Eloise chimes, impatiently.  “Now.”  

Benedict eyes you carefully before he begins his account of the situation. And as he’s speaking, your world fades away. His voice becomes distorted, like static – you find yourself unable to hear what he’s saying. 

What you do manage to pick up is that Colin had labelled you off limits. No gentleman of the ton stood a chance against his protective eye…because as Benedict finishes he says, “No one could be right for you, except him.”

• ж • ж • ж • ж • ж • ж •

Stepping into Bridgerton House, you feel like your blood is boiling. 

“Miss (L/n).” Violet greets you pleasantly. She’s always been kind, warm, and welcoming. 

“Afternoon, Lady Bridgerton.” You force a smile, nodding gently in her direction. “Is Colin home?”

“Yes, I believe so.” Her voice is gentle but knowing. She’s well aware of the feelings you and her son share. “In the study.”

“Thank you.” You’re grateful; she recognizes that.

Pushing up the stairs and through the hallway, past the door to the study, you forget to knock. Inside you find Colin sitting at the desk, pen in hand. But he’s not writing. He’s simply staring into space. 

“You had no right.” You announce yourself. 

His eyes shoot to yours. “(Y/n).” Is all he can manage to say. With one look, he knows exactly what this is about. 

“You knew – you knew how helpless I felt.” There’s pain written in your expression, a betrayal of trust. “I thought the reason I could not find a husband was because I was so unlikeable – that I was not worthy of another’s love.” Tears threaten to fall.

Colin tries to interject, but all that comes out is a strangled whisper, please, none of that is true. 

“I told you how I was feeling! You — you let me think it was my fault.” Tears lace your waterline like one of the fabrics on your dresses. “And God,” pinching the bridge of your nose, you sigh in exasperation, “I asked you to kiss me because I thought no man could ever think of me that way…”

“You have to let me explain.” Colin pleads, voice just as desperate as yours. 

“What is there to explain Mr. Bridgerton?”

“I love you.” He shouts, tears in his own eyes. 

You’re taken aback. Of course you knew he loved you, as a dear friend. He’d told you that countless times, as you had him. But the way his gaze is piercing yours, the way his voice trembles – this doesn’t feel like something just a friend is saying. 

He relents. “I could not watch you with another, especially when I know these men well…I know their intentions, their thoughts that run wild with impurities.” He fiddles with the sleeve of his dress shirt, unease creeping up on him. “And I fear I have been having these thoughts myself.”

“Colin.” You murmur, taking a step toward him. Your anger is slowly dissipating, although still bubbling under the surface. 

“I have not been able to sleep without dreaming of you. I close my eyes and all that appears is the moment I felt your lips on mine.” He pauses, taking a shuddered breath. “And I, I – I try to stop myself because I know you wanted it to mean nothing. But it meant everything to me.”

You feel your heart lurch in your chest. He’d been having these same worries, the same thoughts, dissuading him from believing you could be anything more than friends. That it wasn’t right any other way. But it is; you know it could be.

“I was scared.” You inch your way closer to him, voice softer now. “I did not want to face my feelings. I cannot tell you when they changed, when you became the only man I could ever dream of loving. But they did. And I thought if you knew, you would never look at me the same again.”

“You are not wrong.” He admits, palm reaching to cup the side of your face. “I cannot look at you as I once did, but as the woman I wish to spend the rest of my life with. As the woman who I shall love until my very last breath.”

Your eyes meet his, a sea of blue simply pouring with emotion. His eyes had always been so expressive, a window to his beautifully crafted soul. “Colin, I love you.” You whisper. 

His other hand comes to cup the untouched side of your face, leaning down to kiss you. It’s less sweet than your first – more passionate, more experienced than the last. You can feel the inner turmoil dissipate from your body and his as you embrace each other. 

Colin kisses you like you’re oxygen and he’s struggling to breathe. As if he needs you to keep him alive. He supposes that’s true: a life without you would not be a life worth living. 

Pulling away from him, your smile is unmatched. It’s like nothing Colin has ever seen before, and there’s a hint of something in it that he cannot read.

“What are you thinking?” He taps the side of your head jokingly, right where your temple rests.

You giggle lightly. “Benedict told me that no one could be right for me, except you.”

“Did he now?” Colin chuckles with you, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your hand. “And?”

Taking a moment to soak it all in before you respond, you grin: wide and proud.

“He was right.”