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nouearth · 9 months

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a business trip.

john wick x male reader.

warnings: smut, alcohol, blowjob (r receiving), fingering (r receiving), dirty talk, rough!sex, breeding, unprotected!sex, top!johnwick, bottom!reader.

request.

the soft tune of jazz—a sonata that you were never particularly fond of—became comforting in your solitude. though a piano was absent, hidden stereos were more than adequate as you gathered the ambiance would’ve been more or less the same if a pianist had performed.

in the sleepy hours of the continental hotel, patrons of the lounge kept their conversations low, indescribable murmurs to your ears as you sipped on your drink—warm and smooth down your throat.

the time on your phone flicked to midnight, and day two commenced. you came on a business trip. if you could, you would’ve rejected the offer to come to new york, especially when it took away time from your dog. but the rascal was spoiled, and that unfortunately meant you had to step out of your home office once in a while—all to keep her spoiled.

but who ever said you couldn’t have a little fun during your trip?

the seats at the bar were unoccupied except for yours. clients preferred sitting in something that supported their back, you presumed, but that didn’t stop a gentleman from taking a seat next to you.

oh, wow. maybe the lady was right… this cologne is a dick magnet.

unbeknownst to you, his favorite seat was occupied and he was petty—though only slight, because a strong drink to incinerate his stress was his main priority.

“bourbon whiskey,” the gentleman glanced at you, dried blood and cuts lanterned under the muted lights, but his black hair succeeded in shadowing. “please.”

the man didn’t seem phased by the injuries—a nonchalant attitude he maintained—but you were nonetheless surprised. speechless as no one, not even the bartender, seemed to have minded his wounds, the blood stained on his dress shirt, and the purple bruise beating on his cheekbone.

it was… strange.

“uh...” you cleared your throat, directing the sound towards the man to get his attention. he looked, clearly want to be left alone as he kept his gaze front. “sorry, i just… uh… should i be worried about that?”

though he didn’t seem to recognize you, the stranger was hesitant to answer, taking more than a few beats before speaking, low and gritty. “no, just… got robbed.”

“oh, shit, seriously?” you reached for you phone and turned the screen on. ”then, I think we should call-“ before you could take the process to another step, a gentle grasp latched around your wrist, stopping you.

“that’s very kind of you, but i’m fine.” he finally turned to you, a reassuring gaze pierced to your worry before letting go and looking front again.

handsome, even when he’s all beat up. focus, that was not the priority right now.

“dude, you’re bleeding.” remnants of warmth escaped your wrist, but his calloused fingers remained in memory. “you could have a concussion or something.”

“maybe,” the man took a sip of his drink, a simper to his face when it was concluded that you were evidently not from his world. “seemed fine as i walked the way here though.”

“jesus,” you couldn’t pick apart between fact or fiction, especially from a stranger, but he had no reason to lie. you took another sip, watching him and accepting his truth. “did you manage to get a hit on them, at least?”

you missed it, but the man glanced down at the red stain on his dress shirt, small and ruby-ed against the white fabric before taking a sip again. “something like that.”

“hm... i guess i know who to call for a bodyguard when i’m in the city again, then.” the ice between the two of you was slowly melting, puddles of it spreading when you two shared a chuckle. “(m/n), by the way.”

“john.” you can put a name to his face now, and it was fitting. mysterious and aloof, but never intimidating because there was a warmth inside of him that just needed a reason to come out. “never seen you here before, first time?”

“kind of?” by now, the drink has caught up to you and you felt a little more confident, turning your body towards him. “i mean, i’ve been to new york before—just not this hotel. i’m here for work.”

“i see,” when you faced towards him, john never meant to do a double-take. several glances were hidden in between the constant motion of drinking, the heat relieving john’s body whenever he took a sip—he likened it to medicine. “enjoying your stay then?”

but the more john looked at you, warmth began to rise instead. it eventually settled on his chest, neck, and cheeks to his dismay and it does not intent to wear off, no matter how many sips he took in greatest efforts to push it down—in a void somewhere, where he believed his feelings deserved to be buried.

“it could be better.” alcohol was a powerful drug, because you were one-hundred percent sure that the chance of you flirting without a drink would’ve been close to zero.

it came out of nowhere—this feeling. fleeting or not, your pants tightened and you needed a release. if it wasn’t him, then it was going to be someone else. and if you really couldn’t get laid, you’d be content with dry-humping a pillow.

you’ve seen it in the movies before—well, usually from a women—but it should be universally accepted, right? confidence was sexy: show some skin, make your intentions clear, and handle rejection like a real class act.

worst he could do is say no…

“I don’t mean to be crass, but,” you tugged on your necktie, loosening it around the collar, and unbuttoned only the top two buttons. a slight breeze ghosted your neck as it radiated and yearned for lust—kindled further when you downed another drink, a last stop for encouragement, but also a device to handle rejection all at once. “do you want to fuck?”

john watched you stone-faced, but there was clear interest in his eyes—you watched it spread across his dark orbs.

it was telling that you both needed something—a release: you with work and him with being mugged, apparently. your fingers tapped on the counter, impatient for an answer.

after a smooth swig of his drink, john got up and beckoned to you with a small smile. “come on.”

as soon as the door shut, you were backed into it with considerable force—not a single second to spare. you held onto john in blind support, groping at his broad back and hips while john’s needy palms worked at your ass, squeezing tight to aid the erection in his pants.

“fuck.” pressure applied to your clothed bulge as john pressed his hips against you, rutting in irregular rhythms conducted by pure lust, and you desperately returned them, needier as you rubbed into his thigh. your moans caught between his lips when the pair found themselves on you, kissing you with the utmost passion—poisonous, because it stole your breath away.

“i could come just like this.” you spared enough oxygen to breathe out, but later found it swallowed when john kissed you again, eagerly licking the inside of your mouth. his tongue was sloppy, mixing the sweetness of your drink with the burn of his to form an entirely new recipe that only the two of you would share.

complete darkness filled your sight while your neck was then bombarded with rough kisses, only broken when john unwillingly tore himself from your skin to strip himself. it was a tedious process because he was greedy, returning back to your neck and lips whenever a piece of clothing was thrown to the corner of the room.

but you were impatient, as was he, and knew things would never progress if he was submitted under the smell and soft touch of your skin. so you playfully pushed him, squeezing his chest in midst, and constantly knocking him back to his amusement while the glow of the moon became your guide to the bed.

“keep that up,” john held you by the waist again, applying his bare body to your clothed figure, half-undressed with your trousers and shirt left, as you felt his beard against your skin. a gentle brush tickled you, but his darkened, low voice sent goosebumps. “and we won’t make it to the bed.”

“hm.” a hum vibrated in your throat while he kissed your neck again, suckled at his favorite area because he could feel your cock throb against him, desperate to be freed from the fabric.

you watched him in the moonlight as john began undoing your clothes, leaving a wake of hot kisses down your body the more you unveiled before him—cold, but john’s mouth made up for it as it wrapped around you like a warm glove. no warning whatsoever, but you preferred that, shuddering when he worshipped your body like a knight to a prince; calmed caresses to your calves while he polished your cock with godly licks.

john’s fingers spidered up your legs and his palm found its way to your ass again, spanking one cheek hard enough for you to suddenly thrust your cock into his mouth and down his warm throat. “oh, fuck-“

he moaned around you, vibrations riding your thick veins as it would take a electrifying trip up north until you moaned, pleaded with him to be fucked—to no avail, simply because he was stubborn.

briefly, john let you go with a slimy pop to stroke you, standing back up to kiss you in midst. you tasted yourself, the saltiness of your pre-cum lining your taste-buds as his tongue ran over yours in a wet and sloppy affair. “god, you taste so good…”

simultaneously, your hand worked at his cock, under-handing the weight of it with slow strokes—to the intimate arousal of your sluggish tongues moving with one another. it wouldn’t be long until you found yourself pressing into him again, gliding your wet cock against his, spreading and sharing john’s thick saliva between the two muscles.

your lips never his, neither did your hand on his cock—both of your cocks now, clumsily stroking—even when john began to prod at your hole with his finger, lubed up seconds before, teasing. only then, you pulled away when his finger slid into you with careful ease, and you flushed forward.

he embraced you with one arm around your body, holding you still while he worked you open, curling inside of you deeper with quickening intervals. you could practically come undone from this, but you refrained from doing so, distracting yourself with kisses to john’s chest, then his nipples, sucking hard to counter the overwhelming pleasure.

but he had the upper hand on you, only realizing when you immediately flexed around him when he pushed into you with another finger—slight difficulty, and so he worked you open once again. though, it doesn’t last long because he wanted to feel the tight stretch you’d provide for him—a heavenly need you’d happily supply.

without any guidance, you bent over the bed and pushed your hips out, and he held you close. you laid there bare before him, looking back completely vulnerable while john toyed with you, taunting your arousal as he slid his cock in between your ass cheeks, wet and sticky from the lube.

“come on…” you almost whined out into the sheets, refraining yourself from wiggling your hips.

his silhouette didn’t budge and he only agitated your impatience even further by tracing your pucker with the plump tip of his cock, slow and teasing with a smirk you could hear. “you want me that bad?”

“fuck,” you were never one to admit things easily, and this wasn’t going to be the start of it. equally as stubborn as john was, you groaned into bed again and used your core to push back at his taunts. you began reaching back amid his continuing tease to grab ahold of his length. “if you’re not going to fuck me, then i’m going to-“

john’s reflexes were fast. as soon as you wrapped your hand around him, he pinned you further into the bed with a firm shove to your back. your chest stung when it rubbed harsh against the sheets and you immediately let go, lying pliant under his force. “you’re going to what?”

you struggled to move—to escape from his hold—but he was stronger in every way possible. every struggle was met with an ache to your body as he barely used a fourth of his strength to hold you down.

and your cock couldn’t have gotten harder.

“I’m going to-“ before you could respond, your throat dried up as john pushed himself inside of you with one slow yet rugged thrust, pushing heat back in, and filling your hole up with more. “f-fuck!” every muscle in your body tensed and you shouted out, almost a whimper.

his cock was thick inside of you. you can feel every pulse, every vein as he worked himself into you, back and forth with deep and slow thrusts, painfully stretching you out. it knocked the breath out of you and your legs wobbled, feeling your current stance weakening as your toes curled into the floor, desperately clinging onto the arrival of your soreness.

but you loved it. you loved how barely prepped you were because you can feel every inch of him reaching deep inside and violating your hole with the uttermost disrespect. he held your wrists together, your arms back and your chest pushed forward while your cock rubbed against the bed, and fucked into you—faster, harder. “look at you, fuck. you take cock like it’s nothing, hm?“

“m-mmm!” you whimpered out in response, your breath hitching as he repeatedly slammed his hips into you, continuously knocking any thought out of you. the painful pleasure was dizzying, finding solace in muffling your moans into the covers. your breath warmed your cheeks as you rocked into the bed from impact, gliding your cock in between the bed and your pelvis along.

there was an ache in your shoulders, in your arms, in your wrists, but john’s cock overpowered every feeling to the point where they became numb. all there was left was john’s rapture and you basked in it. the heaviness of the sex-filled air, the humidity of your bodies when john decided to push his all of his weight onto you and fuck you like you were nothing but a void, the warmth of his breath when he kissed your shoulder and neck, and the sting when he bit.

overwhelming was an understatement of your current state of euphoria. you took him in and overloaded yourself into his pleasure. every thrust, every breath was submerged into you, compelled to mirror even a fraction of the pleasure john felt, and it was only when his cock drove into your prostate with unbeatable force that you did—tenfold.

“oh, fuck! don’t stop,” you cried out, desperate in pushing back against him because you never knew if john would pull away anytime soon. “fuck me just like that, fuck!”

and he doesn’t. john was a man of promise and he delivered your pleas with force and speed, letting go your wrists to spread your cheeks apart and watch you be fucked open with his thick cock, growing more swollen with every passing second. you can feel his balls following his thrusts, swinging against your sweaty skin and creating the most delectable sounds. “like that, yeah? you like my cock, just like that?”

“f-fuck, yes!”

in this moment, you were his, under his control, and selfishly captured when john devastated your prostate with one more powerful thrust to your demands, and you found the stars. they resided in the back of your eyelids as you came—thick and heavy—in between the sheets and your twitching body.

it wouldn’t be long until john joined you in your trip to heaven, his grasp on your hips hard and bruising as he yanked you back and met your ass to his cock one last time in uniting your body with his.

warmth began to fill you as john came undone, shooting deep inside of you. his hips slowed, but never came to a stop as you clenched around him, tight and yearning for his seed, and with that, he milked himself inside of you, giving you all of him and what was left of him—creamy and thick.

his breath was heavy in your ear as he pressed his chest to your back, and you groaned, coming down from the high that you just experienced. sleep approached for the both of you, but he maintained the steadiness of his hips, spreading his load in you as if he was marking his territory.

“so... how long until you’re leaving?”

“mmmph, four more days….”

"good."

nouearth. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works. andif you like this story, please reblog and leave a like!

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feralgirlfeelings · 8 days

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★ what kind of music each love & deepspace boy would listen to! ★

hcs of zayne, rafayel, and xavier's music taste ♫꒰･◡･๑꒱

pairing: lnds boys x reader

warnings: none

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zayne:

he listens to classical music 90% of the time. it's not because he particularly likes it, but he just got used it after listening to classical music to focus while studying 12 hours a day as a med student. now, in pavlovian fashion, he'll play it while performing surgeries to really get him in the zone. the other 10% is, surprisingly, cutesy kpop girl group songs. think "russian roulette" by red velvet, "magnetic" by illit, and "only" by leehi. he doesn't go out of his way to find these songs, but he'll hear them in passing and get one stuck in his head. he's one of those people that'll get hooked and listen to a song over and over again, especially while he's working out or when he needs an energy boost. he's embarrassed about it, so he'll try to hide it from you, only listening to music with his earbuds in. but there's been times where you catch him:

"zayne, i didn't know you were into red velvet," you stifle a giggle. you hold his phone up to him, the song "russian roulette" on the lock screen. he crosses his arms, ears turning pink, "what's so funny about that? ...it's catchy." "nothing! i just didn't expect that from you," you laugh. you hand him his phone back, "i can teach you the dance, i know it by heart," you tease. "hmm," he raises an eyebrow, an amused look on his face. "i'd like to see that."

xavier:

he likes a few different genres of music, but he tends to like classic rock and alternative the most. some of his favourite songs are "little dark age" by mgmt, "eyes without a face" by billy idol, and "let it happen" by tame impala. he doesn't like to explore new music often and will usually just stick to what he already likes. he'll often blast music through his through his earbuds when he's fighting wanderers alone or when he's trying to stay awake. he's had a lot of time on earth, so his taste spans a lot of different music eras. there's been a few times when he's complained about how he "just doesn't get music nowadays." sometimes he'll show you a super old song and be surprised that you've never heard of it before:

xavier hands you an earbud, the other one in his ear. he shows you a song on his phone that you don't recognize. after a few seconds of listening, you shake your head, "i don't know this one." "really?" xavier looks at you shocked. "this song was huge in the 80s." you hand him back his earbud, "see that's why i don't know it, i'm not 40," you tease. "they just don't make music like this anymore," he sighs. you laugh, "xavier, that makes you sounds so old!' he smiles back at you, "i think those songs are just timeless."

rafayel:

he's into artsy stuff. he's one of those people who listens to a song or album multiples times to dissect and analyze every part of it, appreciating it as an art form. some of his favourite songs include "my love mine all mine" and "washing machine heart" by mitski, as well as "movement" by hozier. he plays music while working on paintings, because apparently, "listening to complex music helps with the artistic process." he also experiences sound-to-colour synesthesia, which explains why the music helps him paint. he has a really pretty singing voice and will often hum or sing his favourite songs, but will get shy when you ask him to sing for you. despite his usual pretentious music taste, he'll occasionally get hooked on some generic top 40s song, like something by drake.

rafayel had been humming the same song over and over again while working on a painting of you. you couldn't help but close your eyes and focus on the melody, "what song is that?" you ask. he pauses from humming, his concentration on his painting unwavering, "my love mine all mine by mitski." "it's nice, i've never heard of it before," you reply. "i'm not surprised, i have spectacular taste, you know," he boasts. you stare at him blankly, "wasn't your top song last year passionfruit?" holding back a laugh. his ears and cheeks turn bright red, "those are never accurate anyways."

#love and deepspace #zayne love and deepspace #xavier love and deepspace #rafayel love and deepspace #zayne #xavier #rafayel #lnds #zayne x reader #xavier x reader #rafayel x reader #lnds xavier #lnds rafayel #lnds zayne #love and deepspace x reader

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fluffy-dixon · 1 month

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Sleeveless

No warnings, just a bit of heated tension between two people who are obviously very attracted to each other.

This was inspired by seeing Norman wearing his cut off Joy Division t-shirt.

Today was a very ordinary, chilled, and relaxed kind of today, almost feeling like a normal Sunday afternoon despite the apocalypse. Daryl, your best friend who you spent the most of your time with, all the time in fact, stands there in the garage tinkering with his motorbike, the sunlight filtering through the dusty windows, casting a warm glow on his tanned skin. His motorhead T-shirt, its sleeves artfully cut off, clings to his broad shoulders and defined biceps. As he leans over the bike, his back muscles ripple beneath the fabric, and you can’t help but trace the lines with your eyes.

That damned t-shirt does things to you within.

His hands, calloused from countless battles with walkers and working, move with a graceful confidence—fingers adjusting bolts, tightening screws. You watch the play of tendons as he grips the wrench, the way his knuckles flex. It’s as if every movement is a symphony, and you’re the sole audience member, captivated by the performance.

The things he could do with those hands, mhmm.

What.

You snapped yourself out of your thoughts but then it hits you: the sudden realisation that this isn’t just admiration for his mechanical skills. No, it’s something deeper, more primal. Your heart races, and you wonder how you never noticed before—the way his laughter reaches your soul, the warmth of his gaze when he catches you staring.

You’re undeniably attracted to Daryl, and the garage becomes a stage for a different kind of tension—one that has nothing to do with bike repairs. The air crackles with possibility, and you find yourself wondering what it would be like to trace those arm muscles with your fingertips, to feel his lips against yours.

But for now, you keep your secret, watching him work, knowing that this newfound desire will forever colour your perception of motor oil and metal. And as he looks up, meeting your gaze, you wonder if he senses it too, he smiles at you, exposing his emotions - a very rare moment which he only shares with the people he cared for most.

“Watcha starin’ at, huh?” His voice, gravelly and deep, wraps around you like a warm embrace. You find yourself speechless, utterly captivated by his every move. Daryl stands there, mere centimetres away, his presence filling the garage. Your feet dangle over the edge of the toolbox you’re perched on, and he steps in between your legs.

His palms, rough from countless hours of tinkering with engines, rest on the tops of your thighs. The heat from his touch seeps through your skin, igniting a fire within you. You’re acutely aware of the tension—the charged air that crackles between you two.

And then, without warning, the words tumble out: “You’re really hot.” You hadn’t meant to say it aloud, but desire has a way of bypassing reason. Daryl blinks, confusion etching his features. “Wha?” he stammers, caught off guard.

Quickly, you backtrack, your cheeks flushing. “It’s really hot,” you correct yourself, hoping he didn’t quite catch your slip. But the heat in the garage isn’t just from the weather; it’s the electric pull between you and him, a magnetic force that defies explanation.

#daryl dixon #the walking dead #norman reedus #twd #daryl x reader #daryl #daryl fanfiction #daryl x y/n #daryl dixon x reader #daryl x female reader #daryl drabbles

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landwriter · 1 year

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hob gadling being so goddamn normal compared to his anthropomorphic husband, in-laws, and husband's social circle that he circles right back around to being the more sus/shady one OR hob gadling keeps accidentally derailing dream's attempts to be King of Nightmares by horny vibes/going "joke's on you, i'm into it"/"promise?" to any and all threats

Hob isn't normal, is the thing. He's not. He never was. He was smouldering with strangeness and hunger long before his future sister-in-law took one look at him and decided he'd be good for her little brother.

He asked her, once, bit drunk, if that was why she chose him: if she'd heard him forswearing her in the White Horse and looked at him, peered into the contents of his soul, and thought: well, there's one at least as stubborn as my brother - maybe they'll be good for each other. She'd just smiled and waited for Hob to take another sip before saying, "Good? I just thought it would be interesting," and twinkled at him when he sputtered. Hob said older sisters were terrors, and they'd toasted to that.

Whether she'd intended or not, they were good for each other, him and Dream. It took them a little bit to realize, a small handful of centuries holding one another at arm's length for fear of what would be seen any closer. Then they'd crashed together anyways, and it had turned out they were matched not just in that bloody-minded stubbornness to keep a decent thing going, but also in all the intensity they'd tried to smother to do so, the roaring hunger and devotion and need; the both of them strange creatures capable of giving so much and greedy enough to take just as much in kind.

On the outside, though, others see Dream, his distance, his power, the thunder of his voice, and don't see it as the armour it is, the necessary carapace protecting the sort of tender feelings that could scorch the entire earth, because he is a vessel for human emotions that are strong enough to live on in stories and dreams, because he is, in that respect, - and Hob gets choked up about this, if he allows himself to think about it too much - fundamentally more human than him, than all of them, the embodiment of every fantasy and fear and tall tale of men, tending to them each night, taking no rest for himself.

On the outside, others see Hob, his banal humanness, and other humans assume the rest of him is the same, and so do most non-humans, except they're baffled by it, baffled by why he is Dream's husband. So he plays it up, because it's funny, and if they're too incurious or gullible to figure out what lays beneath, then that's alright, because his husband figured it out, and loves him for it, and that's all he needs.

Dream didn't understand at first why Hob acted extra human whenever they mingled with other capital-e Entities and inhuman sorts, but now he finds it so amusing as well that Hob wonders how the gig isn't up from the moment anyone sees his twitching smirk. His husband has a terrible poker face, Hob thinks.

He's much better at pretending. In fact, he's so good at performing the petty normality expected of him that it goes full circle and becomes, somehow, magnetically strange to all the fantastical creatures in his husband's social circle.

He had not realized the heady effect of normal human upon non-humans until the time he had gone to a Samhain 'do in the Underhill, in his formal role as Prince Consort to the Lord Morpheus, Dream of the Endless, first of his name, et cetera, and, rather comfortable with those sort of events by then, which were really not that dissimilar to interdepartmental faculty parties, with all the posturing and alcohol, only far better outfits, had, a bit soused on the fantastic elphin mead, accidentally started talking with a member of the faerie delegation about the football tables. At first he thought he'd committed a faux pas when the faerie just stared at him, slack-jawed, but later that night, he'd found himself surrounded by a cluster of wide-eyed dryads and undine and fae, gratifyingly holding court on why Billy Wright had been such a shite Arsenal manager. Apparently, it was the highlight of the evening.

It also helps grease the wheels of immortal statecraft, which Hob thinks of as something of a secondary benefit to making his husband smile. He would be a fierce bodyguard and soldier for Dream, in a heartbeat, he would curry favour on his behalf with pretty words and eager gladhanding, but what works out best, he's realized, is when important folk approach them to talk shop with Dream, to head it off with warm conversation about things like Tube construction, ABBA, and sausage rolls, until they look thoroughly disconcerted, before gracefully handing them off to his husband.

Whenever the occasion allows it, he'll skip on the finery too (another thing, he thinks, that he only cares about his husband seeing). Once, a baku ambassador, himself arrayed in glorious golden robes that matched his sharp gilt claws, had been so baffled by Hob's appearance on the arm of Dream, in his ratty old jeans and a United jersey he got as a gag gift once (and, on principle, refuses to wear in the Waking) that the chimera had absently agreed with Dream's suggestion for revised quotas on devouring nightmares.

Dream had been so delighted by that victory that he'd pressed Hob up against the front door of their flat in Islington, the moment they got back in, and laid kisses all over the hideous jersey, murmuring that Hob was a fearsome diplomat, and Hob had laughed and said he was only a distraction, then let Dream drag him to the bedroom anyways to thank him for his contribution.

Some see what's underneath, of course, and Hob's just as glad for that too.

The second time they'd had dinner with Crowley and Aziraphale, well past the food and making excellent headway on the rest of the wine, Dream had been called away on urgent business. Hob thought the night would end there, but the moment Dream left, Crowley had leveled an unsober finger of accusation at Hob and said, "Don't think I can't tell what you're doing."

Hob hadn't needed to try and look confused, but then Crowley leaned in and said, conspiratorially and only accidentally hissing a little, "This 'regular bloke' thing, but you're worssse than him, aren't you? Bet you are. Bet anything," and Aziraphale had genuinely emitted a tiny gasp of affront on Hob's behalf, and Hob was too busy laughing to say that he wasn't wrong at all, while Crowley gleefully swiveled around and said "I told you so, angel. S'obvious. Humansss. Not a normal one among 'em."

It was a lovely thing to say, actually, and all too easy for Hob to forget sometimes, being a particularly abnormal human leading a particularly abnormal life. But Crowley knew what he was talking about. He spent far more time with humanity compared to most of the inhuman lot. When Hob had made him promise to keep his secret from the rest of them - humanity's secret, really - and explained why, Crowley had laughed and laughed and laughed. He thinks it's the moment they became proper friends.

Hob isn't normal, is the thing.

But it's fun to don it like ceremonial garb and be an ambassador of humanity twice over: in truth and performance both. It's fun to be exactly what's expected and still disconcert.

And most of all, it's fun to go back home with his husband, to their terribly normal human flat, and curl up together in their terribly normal human bed, and watch Dream's face flush with pride or amusement as he debriefs Hob on what chaos he's wrought this time, intentionally or otherwise, with his terribly normal human presence, and Hob just laughs, then smiles until his face hurts, because Dream is his husband, wholly apart from humanity and still the most human creature Hob has met, and he knows all the ways that Hob feels like both, too.

#dreamling #the sandman #asks #hob gadling #dream of the endless #my writing #prompt fill #he IS normal in a lot of ways too but you know unreliable narrator #weaponizing ur banality against the eldritch and fantastical #mostly bc ur husband finds it funny #new headcanon: crowley and hob are absolutely best mates #little feral creatures who understand the horrors and delights of humankind alike #hedonists who love modern inventions and distrust large bureaucracies #whose luddite partners are very lovely but fundamentally would rather be in a library reading old books

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fastlikealambo · 5 months

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just got out of the hunger games

this movie worked my pussy out

when I tell you every person from the extras to the tributes with five minutes of screen time went to set to slay and THEY DID THAT

rachel zegler was treated like shit for months over absolutely nothing and she is fucking phenomenal, just fucking magnetic on screen my god her voice??? I can't wait to listen to the soundtrack. Lucy gray had my heart every minute, and you root for her every minute god Rachel was just so FUCKING GREAT

tom blyth was incredible and you can see the hints of the president snow we all know and loathe from the very beginning of his performance. I kinda almost wish they had split into 2 films because the rise and fall and rise again of coryo was a treat to watch

viola davis needs to play a bond villian YESTERDAY, I don't think she's done a role quite like this before so let viola davis be unhinged in front of a camera more often

hunter schafer has such an old hollywood face, tigris snow is such a kind and loving character in the book and while they cut her role down a bit too much in the movie, hunter devoured and I wanted all of her outfits

what's crazy is that the hunger games has such tight world building so you know what's going on but the universe is still so unexplored that I can't help but want more movies or books because I think there are more pre katniss stories to be told, god this was so damn good

oh and (spoilers below)

I'm sorry, you can't make me believe that Lucy Gray died, I think he might have clipped her but she didn't die just hid out in the north being hot and playing guitar

#the hunger games #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #rachel zegler #tom blyth #lucy gray baird #coriolanus snow

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missmaywemeetagain · 1 year

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Pink Scarf - PART 17 (Elvis/Austin!Elvis x Reader)

Character/Fandom: Elvis - Elvis (2022)

Requested: kinda

(Read more here--Pink Scarf Series Masterlist!)

Prompt: You are part of Elvis Presley's coveted inner circle, and the currently-disgruntled wife of one of the members of Elvis' famous entourage, the Memphis Mafia. After Elvis' dynamite first performance in Vegas, you find yourself in deep water when his magnetism finally gets to you after all these years. [ Fem!Reader ]

TW: SEXXX. Verbal Abuse. Assault, both sexual and physical. Blood. Violence. ANGST. Cussing. Infidelity. Historical inaccuracies in the Vegas timeline. Priscilla doesn't exist in this timeline.

Rating: Explicit/Mature (NSFW, 18+, so minors Do NOT Interact) || Word Count: 10k

A/N: PREPARE YOURSELVES, cuz this is an INTENSE roller coaster ride, y'all. Also, PLEASE READ THE TRIGGER WARNINGS. I'm not gonna say much else, other than this is a beast and I cannot wait to hear the unhinged responses after. And thank you for your patience!

As always, to all my babies, honeys, and lil' mamas supporting me out there, YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL and your reactions, reblogs, messages, asks, and comments you've given me have been a blessing beyond expression. You all are the best community a writer could ask for! Thank you so much for your support. I am loving getting to know y'all better! I love every single reaction and comment and ask, and I'm sorry if I don't get back to them all as soon as I'd like but know that I love you all and am so excited to be making new friends! And a big "Hey, Y'all!" to our friends from Elvis Twitter, Elvis Discord, and Elvis Instagram--I see and appreciate you coming over to join us! 👀💋

If you feel so moved, please let me know what you think or how you're feeling (or send me asks)! I think I put everyone on the taglist who requested it, but please let me know if there are any issues or if I missed anyone. There seem to be some issues with tagging that I can't seem to fix, so please know I'm not leaving you out intentionally! Also, if you comment on a previous part that you want to be tagged, I might not always see it, so feel free to message me if I miss you!

I imagined this with Elvis in mind, but Austin!Elvis works here, too, whatever floats your boat!

Apologies in advance if there are any grammatical errors or TW that I didn't catch.

(I did start cross-posting Pink Scarf to my long-neglected AO3 account (which some of you already discovered!), so if you are so inclined, you can check it out over there!)

“You need me?” you question him, honestly taken aback by the sentiment, even though he has said it before. It’s just still so hard for you to believe that a man like this needs a woman like you. Running your fingers through the soft, damp hair at the nape of his neck, you look at him with wide eyes.

“Yeah, baby, I do. I really do,” Elvis says, wrapping his arms tight around you and pulling you close. His head buries in your neck, in your hair, breathing you in.

“Show me,” you whisper in his ear, surprised by your own boldness. But his declarations have you some kind of way and that coil is still like hot coals smoldering in your belly. You feel his body stiffen against you, knowing that he is even more stubborn than you and doesn’t want to give in to you just yet.

You run your hands over his exposed chest and under the deep V of the fabric, grazing over his nipple with your fingernails. He twitches and jumps under your touch, despite his efforts to stay neutral.

“I need you,” you breathe, pitching your voice up the slightest bit as you look into his eyes. And you do. You desperately need him, in every way. If you could crawl inside of him, you would. You need to believe his promises are true, that he will take care of you and be everything you need. You need him to show you.

This must read on your face, because he cannot seem to mask his response this time, his azure eyes widening and pupils dilating.

“Take care of me,” you say, your voice nearly a whine.

That’s the ticket. “Fuck, okay…yeah, let me take care of ya,” Elvis breathes in your mouth as his lips find yours, your sins forgotten for the moment, if not forgiven completely. His lips devour yours and your hands can’t get enough of him, starved from before when he had you tied up. They roam over his chest, wind around his neck and into his hair before scraping down his back and clawing at his waist.

Elvis pulls back for a moment and surveys the space in the room. You can see his wheels turning, then how his lips curve up in a smile as he figures out how he wants you. He leaves you hanging for a moment as he pulls a chair right in front of a huge, floor length mirror. Sitting in the chair, his legs spread wide, he beckons you to him.

“Come sit on my lap, baby,” he purrs at you, and you immediately obey, settling on one of his strong thighs and burying your head into that deliciously long neck of his. The salt of his sweat stains your lips. His strong scent surrounds you, magnifying your need for him. You suddenly feel very small in his arms in addition to that need. He seems to sense this, letting you first cuddle into him a bit before winding his large hand below your jaw and peppering kisses down your neck.

“Gonna be a good girl and do as I tell ya?” Elvis asks, his voice low and gravely as he grabs your chin.

You nod. He truly fucked the fight right out of you before, over there against the wall.

“That’s my girl. Now turn and face the mirror for me,” he says, guiding your hips to swivel in his lap. He pulls your dress up and over your waist, leaving you in your lacy panties. You feel a little self-conscious looking at yourself perched on his lap like this, your cheeks a flaming shade of red. You are very close to the mirror, too close. But you watch as your eyes go wide when he grabs your inner thighs, spreading them open with his large hands while sliding his strong thighs in between to keep yours apart.

The lacy fabric of your already-soaked underwear strains as he massages your legs from your knees to your hips. The groping shoots fire through you and you press back into his lap, encouraging him to continue. When he ghosts over your core, it steals your breath away, and you are so incredibly ready for whatever he has to give you.

“Let get these off,” he says, tapping your clit over your panties and causing you to jump with the sensation. Nearly frantic, you shuck them down and off with lightning speed, along with your heels. Elvis chuckles, spreading you open even further when you sit back in his lap. Your muscles strain with the stretch, but you don’t care.

“Be a good girl and put your feet up on the mirror for me,” he instructs, and albeit confused, you do as you’re told. “Nice and wide for me, honey. Yeah, just like that.” He scoots your hips down a bit as you adjust and cradles your upper body with his, his head resting over your shoulder, looking at you both in the mirror. You are completely exposed and utterly vulnerable before him once again.

“Now look at that,” he breathes almost reverently, “You’re stunning, in every way.” You both watch in the mirror as he runs his fingers down your face, your jaw, then over your body. You shiver in his lap, earning his famous lopsided smile in return.

Elvis gets more serious as his fingers reach your core. “But ain’t this the prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen,” he whispers in your ear, running his pointer finger ever-so-lightly over your folds as you watch. The combination of sensation and the visual you are not used to seeing has you squirming in his lap, aching. He locks his other arm around your pelvis, pressing you against him and immobilizing you.

“Be good, baby. You promised,” he says in your ear, and you watch yourself nod furiously, stilling. He commences his lecture. “I wantcha to see what I see, baby. Look at how pretty and red you are for me like this, all slick and swollen and needy,” he says, watching intently, hungrily, as his finger grazes your lower lips, up one side and down the other. You whine and grip his arm for purchase, feeling like he is calling all the blood in your body to gather in your cunt. It feels heavy and pulsing, burning with need for him.

Elvis brushes up to your clit. “Hmm, one of my favorite little spots,” he hums, circling it softly, making you keen as you lean back into him. Then, obscenely, he uses his first two fingers to spread your lips apart. “Christ, baby, look at that,” he says, voice filled with lust and awe, “You’re fuckin’ weeping for me.”

Your eyes travel down to your exposed hole, and sure enough, you are literally dripping with arousal, both yours and his. It glistens as it gathers, a slow, eager little drop sliding out. You cannot stifle the low moan that escapes your lips at the erotic nature of this little show, your pussy buzzing with heat and want, on display for all to see.

Elvis senses you need more, and he lets your folds wrap around his long middle finger, dragging it up and down through your slick as you watch.

“Oh, god,” you sigh, thankful for the friction, your hips automatically rolling for him.

“Touch yourself, baby. Don’t worry, I’ll help you,” he says, moving your hand over your mound and guiding your fingers in slow circles over your clit before he returns to rubbing in between your slick lower lips. The wonderful combination makes your eyes flutter closed and your head fall back onto his shoulder.

“Nuh uh! Eyes open!” Elvis nudges you, and your eyes pop open. “I want you to watch yourself come, baby. I need you to see what I see.” He smiles, and it’s almost boyish in its mischievousness.

It’s not going to take much, considering how primed that coil was before you even sat down, and how strangely erotic this whole scene is. How it’s making you feel lightheaded and buzzy and hot all over. You begin to work your clit furiously, watching as Elvis runs his fingers over then through your sopping, swollen folds. When he dips one long finger, then another into your weeping hole while you watch, the string of curses that leaves your lips is utterly filthy.

Your senses are overloading, which you imagine was his intention. The sight of you swallowing his fingers so needily, so readily, your arousal shining, the wet suckling sound coming from your cunt as he expertly works his fingers in and out of you pushes you headlong to the edge. Coupled with this and your barrage on your clit, you hit your climax hard with a loud cry, pressing your heels into the mirror with such force, you’re afraid you might crack it.

“Look, look, look, baby,” he pants, forcing your focus back to him, back to what he’s doing to you. “Look at how you flutter around me!” He’s right; you watch, mesmerized as your hole clenches at his fingers through your orgasm, and fuck if that isn’t amazingly hot.

You whimper at the sight, shuddering and panting at the exertion. He chooses that moment to curl his fingers, pressing that special spot inside you that is only his, and another wave of pleasure shoots through you so strongly that you lose your breath. You crest the hill again, stars shooting through you, forgetting that you ever came here to break this off, to run away from him.

There is a wild, desperate look in your eyes that you’ve never seen before as you writhe against him in your ecstasy, keeping you fucking down onto his fingers even though you are sore from before. You can’t stop the waves that keep crashing over you, engulfing every inch of you as you watch it happen before your eyes.

And Elvis looks gorgeous, those blue eyes flashing with his magnetic sexual energy, his pouty lips open and pink and panting right along with you. He is hard again, his length pressing into your spine through his suit as you furiously roll on his fingers, and you can feel him begin to shudder underneath you. You know he gets off on watching and this is quite the show. You rock your hips more deliberately now, feeling the length of him slide between your ass cheeks, and he groans.

“Am I gonna make you come in your pants, E? Gonna make a mess for me?” you mewl seductively, wanting to push him over the edge, too. “You like watching me get off on your fingers, don’t you?”

“Jesus, baby, yes,” he moans, “but I need to watch you come again. Come with me, honey.”

You’re not sure you can. You are overstimulated and over stretched and near hysterical with pleasure. Your heart is thrumming so fast you can barely breathe.

“You can do it. I’ve got you. Let me take care of you, baby. Watch me take care of you,” he pants heavy in your ear, his eyes glassy, unable to take his eyes off your pussy. He moves his hips in tandem with yours now, then without warning, slides a third finger inside you.

Your eyes are glued to the mirror, seeing just how well you take him. You automatically adjust to him, and he works you as only he knows how. You work your clit and grit your teeth as you feel that coil poised to spring again.

“E-El-El-vis…F-f-fuckkk!” you cry breathlessly, coming completely undone around him again.

“Oh, fuck, honey…GodDAMN!” he groans into you simultaneously as he slams his hips up with a violent shudder that matches your own. You can feel the heat pulse under you, dampening the fabric of his suit.

But you continue to shake and shiver on top of him, your orgasm ripping through you, stealing everything you have left, draining every ounce of energy from your reserves, which isn’t much considering the insanity of the last 24 hours. You sense much too late that your body cannot keep up. Your heart is too fast, your breathing too labored, and your muscles too weak.

You shouldn’t be surprised, then, when your body goes limp, the blood drains from your head with a cold rush, and the world goes dim and then black.

“Y/n! Y/n! Jesus, Satnin, c-come on baby, w-w-wake up!” you hear Elvis’ panicked voice from far away, but you are so very tired and just want to sleep, thinking maybe it’s a dream.

…no, no! Oh, God, don’t—please don’t go. I-I lo…The faraway echo of long-ago words in this too familiar panicked voice fades away like a dream. You slip back into darkness.

It’s the piercing fear in his voice when he calls your name again that has you finally coming back into yourself. You blink a few times, willing the world to come back into focus, confused.

“O-oh, shit. Oh, t-thank God,” Elvis breathes. He is right above you, his eyes bright and flooded with fear, near tears.

“Wh—what happened?” you murmur, feeling buzzy and strange, and like things aren’t moving fast enough.

“You scared the shit outta me is w-what happened!” he looks down at you, now placed on the couch, his eyes quickly shifting from fear to anger. “You—you just fuckin’ collapsed!”

Your eyebrows furrow as you try to remember what happened. You’d come here to break up with him, to tell him you were leaving…then you argued. Then you fucked. The mirror.

Oh, god, had you passed out from coming too hard?

You start to giggle at that, uncontrollably.

“Baby, what the fuck? It’s not fuckin’ funny!” Elvis fumes, leaning over you.

That just makes you laugh more. “I came…s-so h-hard I p-passed out!” you hiccup out.

“That’s not normal!” he cries, throwing his hands up in the air.

Another peal of laughter at the absurdity of it rolls through you. He’s not wrong, but whatever is happening to you seems to be overpowering your sense of self-control.

“Are you on something?” he asks suddenly, grabbing your jaw to get you to focus. He looks over you carefully and then a flash of horror comes over him at what you assume is the thought that he’s somehow taken advantage of you.

“N-no, of course not,” you finally manage to get out. You are shivering now though, and suddenly freezing. “S-something’s not r-right,” you finally chatter out.

“No shit,” Elvis mumbles, eyes narrowed, obviously trying to figure out what’s wrong with you. “Baby, when was the last time you ate?” he asks.

You blink at that, trying to run through the last day in your mind, but all the days have been running together. You honestly don’t know.

“I-It’s been at least a day, I think,” you finally eek out. “Maybe l-longer?”

“’Maybe longer?’ Goddammit, y/n, you can’t just go without fuckin’ eating!” he yells, getting up from the couch and storming over to the phone at the other end of the room. You hear him ordering someone to bring food immediately as you attempt to sit up, but your dizziness has you lying back down quickly.

Yeah, well, maybe if I wasn’t in a constant swarm of emotional and physical upheaval for the last week, I would remember to eat, but who’s fault is that?

Elvis slams down the phone and paces back over to you. “When was the last time you slept, y/n?” he angrily asks now, his eyes a churning gray-blue, as he pulls your dress down modestly and throws one of his plush robes over you.

“Um, on the r-roof,” you get out.

“Christ, that was barely sleep,” he mumbles, obviously frustrated as he continues to pace the room. “You have to take better care of yourself, y/n!” he erupts.

You recoil a bit but are touched by his anger, knowing it is fueled by concern. But you are also annoyed because it isn’t all your fault.

“Well, I’ve been a b-bit busy,” you manage.

“Not that fuckin’ busy!”

He’s not getting it. You shake your head, tears coming to your eyes.

“Th-this is part of the problem, E. I’ve been burning the candle at both ends, I’ve been so s-stressed, I don’t know which way is up…” you shiver out.

He halts. Your words must be sinking in because the blood drains from his face and you’re suddenly afraid he might pass out.

“This is because of me,” he finally says. The way he phrases it, you’re not sure if it’s a question or statement.

“It’s not—” you start, not wanting him to spiral more than he already is.

“Goddammit, you’ve been tellin’ me you’re strugglin’, and I been yammerin’ at you to trust me to take care of you and then I did the opposite. Shit,” he curses. “I’m so sorry, baby.” Elvis deflates onto the couch next to you and pulls you into his arms, kissing your forehead, your cheeks, your eyelids.

You are too tired to respond other than to brush the errant tear that runs down his cheek with your thumb. You wish you could see this sensitive side of him more often.

“Okay, here’s what’s gonna happen: I’m gonna get some food in ya, then I’m sending Jerry with you upstairs so you can rest—”

You open your mouth to argue.

“There’ll be none of that,” he hushes you. “There’s no way you’re doin’ the show tonight. And Jerry’ll get you woken up before we come up after the show, and everybody’ll be none the wiser.” He gives you a stern look.

There’s no point in fighting him or telling him how his plan could go wrong. You’re still confused exactly how things with Jack are going to be handled or if anything Elvis said while fucking your brains out earlier was going to come to fruition, but you’re not in the frame of mind to try and solve that this minute. So instead you just nod.

The food comes, somehow all of your favorites. He knows my favorite foods? runs through your mind, but you are too hungry to dwell on it. Then, as he instructed, you head upstairs with Jerry, who without judgement, sends you into Elvis’ suite to rest. You think your mind won’t possibly let you sleep, but between the food and your exhaustion, you drift off before your head hits the pillow.

Circle G Ranch, February 1967

You wake up early, your eyes blinking out the dull winter morning light streaming through the window. Well, it’s not early for normal standards, but in Elvis’ world, most haven’t even gone to bed yet, you think, looking at the clock. You being awake now is likely due to the fact you couldn’t keep up with the partying last night and had excused yourself much sooner than usual to go to bed.

It takes you a moment to realize where you are. Being at Elvis’ newly acquired ranch in Mississippi has been a welcome change of scenery yet is still a little disorienting. You are used to Memphis, and even occasionally California, but this place is new for you all.

Completely dissatisfied and not having any semblance of control with his career, Elvis recently decided that he wanted a place in the country, a place where they could all come to relax and ride the horses he’d bought for all the men and their wives. A place where they could work the land and have a little fun. And you wonder if he just wanted to feel a little normal for once, thinking that a ranch would do that for him, that it could give him the control he so desperately craved. That maybe it might bring him some of that happiness and zest for life that had been bled out of him for all these years, turning him into someone you barely recognized.

So, Circle G Ranch was purchased, and you’d all arrived to take in its splendor and fresh air. And it was working. Elvis seemed happier here than he’d been in a very long time, the sparkle beginning to return in those expressive eyes of his. And when Elvis was happy, everyone else was allowed to be happy too, theoretically.

You think maybe all that horseback riding and fresh air is part of the reason you were so tired last night. Turning over, you notice that Jack hasn’t come to bed. Your heart sinks, though out here in the middle of the country, it’s not like he can get in too much trouble. It’s just likely the guys are still awake.

Either way, there is an emptiness in your chest that misses your husband. Each time he leaves with Elvis, less of the man you knew returns. You are hoping that some leisure time on the ranch will help him, too. There is less temptation out here, and more opportunities for you two to spend time together.

Unfortunately, he has not been very receptive to that so far, opting to hang with the guys more than you. But considering that he has been drinking more, part of you is glad for it. If the last couple of years have shown you anything, it’s that Jack is a mean drunk, just like his father.

With that thought, you decide to get up instead of dwelling on things you cannot change. As you get dressed, you hear the door of the trailer slam.

“Jack? Is that you?”

“Who else would it be?” he replies belligerently. The tone of his voice tells you immediately all you need to know. Your heart speeds up as a warning discomfort blooms in your chest. You steel yourself before walking out into the living area.

“Morning, sweetie. Want me to make you some breakfast?” you ask in a light and easy voice. If nothing else, food might help sober him some.

Jack’s response is a grunt in the affirmative, and then he shoots you a glare, his brown eyes dull but cutting all the same. You have no idea what you may have done to upset him, but he is obviously not happy with you. The tightness in your chest increases and you force a smile, not wanting to set him off. If you act like everything is fine, he might forget what is bothering him. It happens that way sometimes and is generally the best-case scenario when he’s like this.

“Okay, I’ll get that started,” you smile, and he settles with a huff on the couch. Scurrying off to the kitchen, your smile falls and you get to cooking as quickly as possible. Steak and eggs, you think. That’s his favorite and will help clear his head.

Your mind races as you cook, trying to find a reason for his ire. You dissect every moment from the day and night before but cannot pinpoint anything in particular that you might have done to make him upset. This has you feeling uneasy, on eggshells. If you knew what you’d done, you could apologize and make up for it before things get out of hand, but it occurs to you that he might be too far gone for that anyway.

Lost in your thoughts, it takes until you smell the meat smoking to realize you may have cooked it too long. You are hoping he is too drunk to notice. With renewed focus, you plate your breakfasts and walk to the tiny table.

“Soup’s on, babe!” you say in a cheerful sing-song voice. Part of you cringes inside to hear yourself like this.

He grunts off the sofa and stumbles to the table, plopping down with a screech of the chair. You keep yourself from wincing at the sound, wanting to stay as sunny as possible as you begin to cut into the meat. You’re unable to keep from looking up at him to check his body language, his affect, as he begins shoveling eggs and toast into his mouth without so much as a word to you.

You pick at your own breakfast, your appetite low because you feel so on edge. You can sense the tension in the room and know better than to speak at this point.

“What the fuck is this?” Jack grumbles, throwing his knife and fork clattering onto the plate.

You look up quickly, your heartbeat skipping. He’s fuming now, his eyes bloodshot and narrowed at you, his scar an angry red with the flush on his cheeks. You don’t have time to piece together whatever has happened before he continues, his voice shaking low with anger.

“First, you embarrass me by taking off in the middle of everyone having a good time last night. Everybody asking, ‘What’s wrong with her, is she okay?’ blah, blah, blah,” he says with a mocking venom that sends a chill right down your spine. “And now you can’t even make me a decent breakfast. Can’t even get that right,” he growls, pounding on the table.

The table rattles and you start to shake a little, frozen to the spot. You realize that maybe Jack is more than just drunk, that maybe he took something on top of it that has him worse than usual.

“I…I’m sorry, I was just tired from all the activity yesterday, and I can make you a new—” you sputter out quickly, but still unable to move, trapped in his furious gaze.

“I don’t wanna hear your fuckin’ excuses, you stupid bitch!” he screams, exploding out of his seat, the chair toppling over behind him with a clatter. “What I want is a fuckin’ steak that’s not cooked to death!” he roars, then picks up his plate and hurls it over the table near your head. You barely have time to register what’s happening, leaning out of the way at the last second on pure instinct, and the plate careens into the wall behind you with a crash, sending food and ceramic flying everywhere.

Your brain misfires and your heart leaps to your throat, the terror in your veins pulsing through you so intensely that all you can do is turn and run. You have to escape because you don’t know what he’s gonna do, he’s never thrown anything at you before, and he’s yelled, yes, but not done anything to hurt you, and oh, god, you have to get out, get out, GET OUT.

You fly past Jack, his rage too consuming and his senses too dull to catch you as you go, and you are out the door of the trailer in a flash, not stopping to see if he’s following you. No, all you can think is you have to get away, you have to escape, and you fly through the rows of trailers housing the other men and their wives. Your heart slams against your ribcage, fueling your body forward as you sprint down the dirt road towards the barn in the distance. Your socks stick to the cold ground as you run but you don’t care—all you need is to get to the horses. You’re not sure why, but you just know that if you can get to the horses, you’ll be safe.

You run and run, only hearing the crash of the plate in your ear, feeling the splatter as it shatters behind you. Only hearing Jack’s screams, “You stupid bitch! You stupid bitch!” You don’t even register the tears burning down your cheeks as you finally reach the barn, flinging open the door with what little strength you have left and frantically looking in the stalls for the horse that Elvis gave you.

Moonbeam. You finally see her near the other end of the barn, her gray and white coloring standing out in the sea of darker equines. You skid to a stop in front of her. Knowingly, as if she can sense your distress and your need for her large, calming presence, she turns and pokes her head out of the stall, nuzzling your tear-stained face.

“Oh. Oh,” you gasp, completely out of breath from the exertion. You cling onto Moonbeam’s strong neck, her coat soft and warm under your shaking arms. Your chest heaves, desperately trying to take in air. If you could, you would jump right on Moonbeam’s back and ride as fast and as far as you can, but she is not saddled, and you have no idea how to get her ready.

The light tap on your shoulder sends you flailing into the stall door with a shriek.

He’s found me he’s found me he’s found me, is all that runs through your head, though if you were anywhere near logical, you’d know that Jack was in no state to chase you all the way to the barn.

“Hey! Hey, y/n, it’s okay! Honey, it’s just me!” You turn toward the warm, familiar voice and are met with concerned deep blue eyes, a far cry from Jack’s bloodshot and brown glaring ones.

“Oh,” is all you can manage to huff out as you look at Elvis, your muscles starting to burn and shake. Your heart is still beating too fast.

“Are you okay? What the hell happened?” Elvis says worriedly but gently, looking over you, seeming to sense how on edge you are. He goes to touch your shoulder, but you reflexively shirk backwards, knocking your elbow into the door with a thud. He quickly backs away a step, putting his hands up in a non-threatening way.

You suddenly slam into the present moment, realizing that you must look insane. Your hair is windblown, you are makeup-less with tears streaking down your face. It’s the dead of winter and you are without a coat or shoes, your socks dirty and torn and bloody from your sprint. You have food splattered down your left side, and you are gasping for air like you’re drowning.

“Y/n, I need you to tell me if you’re okay,” Elvis says, quiet and calm, as if talking to a spooked horse.

You glance over his shoulder, suddenly afraid that Jack could stumble through the barn door at any moment. Wide-eyed and frantic, you look back at Elvis. You realize he’s between you and the door and that gives you some comfort. Jack would have to get through Elvis to get to you, and while you know you’re not in your right mind, you are completely certain that Elvis wouldn’t let Jack hurt you.

With this relieving thought and your adrenaline beginning to wane, you suddenly feel extraordinarily tired as well as embarrassed that Elvis is seeing you like this. You realize he’s waiting for an answer, but you cannot speak. You don’t want to bother Elvis with any of this, so you nod your head, bobbing it up and down quickly.

Elvis tilts his head and looks at you perceptively. Of course you’re not okay, and Elvis reads it all over your face and appearance. You finally give up under his watchful gaze, shaking your head. It falls back against the door behind you, and you choke back a sob. Your exhausted body shakes with cold and the remnants of your fear, and you slide down the door, unable to support yourself any longer.

“Oh, shit, okay. Honey, it’s okay,” Elvis coos at you, stepping quickly to your side but not wanting to touch you and invade your space, lest you freak out again. Instead, he slides down the door with you, letting you lean into him for support. And you do. As you reach the cold, straw-covered ground, you lean your head onto his shoulder, his warmth radiating comfortingly into your side. You begin to shiver.

“Here, baby,” he says, taking off his thick coat and wrapping it around your shoulders. Immediately, you feel calmer, as the heat and his distinctly Elvis scent of musk and Old Spice, coupled with the woodsmoke from last night’s campfire surrounds you like a blanket.

You both sit in silence for a while as your body comes back down from the fear of Jack’s outburst. He’s yelled at you before, even called you names, but he’d never gotten so close to actually physically hurting you.

He must’ve been on something, you think. Jack would never hurt me.

I should’ve been more careful with the breakfast. I should’ve paid more attention. I should’ve stayed up last night with him. The thoughts run through your head, as though if you examine them enough, you can possibly avoid setting him off in the future.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Elvis asks quietly, sensing the wheels turning in your head as only he can.

Humiliated, you shake your head vehemently. Elvis does not need to know the specifics of your marriage. He does not need to know of your failures.

But part of you wants to tell him he’s created a monster.

Without Elvis, Jack might never have gone into the bottle. Without Elvis, he wouldn’t be taking other shit that makes him fly off the handle at any moment. Without Elvis, without Elvis, without Elvis…

You are too exhausted for blame and anger right now, though, so you bury it instead. It is what it is.

Elvis doesn’t push you, though you can tell he wants to know everything. You can practically feel that he’s quelling some deep instinct to protect you, his muscles tensing and releasing, his jaw working. But maybe he begins to piece it all together himself because he remains quiet. You are safe now, and that’s what matters, right?

And perhaps it is your heightened emotions, but you suddenly crave the nearness of the man who used to be your best friend. The man that, for reasons you don’t entirely understand, time and circumstance somehow stole from you when you weren’t looking.

So you lean into him, into his strength and sensitivity and his unique power to draw you to him, even when part of you wants to blame him for everything. Even after all these years of confusing behavior and emotional distance, you can’t begin to imagine your world without Elvis Presley in it.

And now you sit here on the cold floor of a horse barn in the middle of the Mississippi countryside in the dead of winter, wondering how in the hell your life became this.

Jerry wakes you gently with a whisper and a poke on your shoulder but you startle anyway, pulled out of the dream violently with a gasp.

“Sorry, y/n, but everyone is on their way up soon. EP told me to wake you,” he says apologetically.

The room is dark, and you are still exhausted, but you are somewhat grateful to be pulled out of that dream-memory. It leaves a bad taste in your mouth and a sick feeling in your stomach. You can’t help but chastise yourself for letting Jack grovel the way he did after he’d sobered up that day, for how you forgave him so easily because it certainly was not the last time he went crazy like that on you.

“Thank you, Jerry. I’ll be right out,” you say blearily. You blink the sleep from your eyes and stagger into the bathroom to make yourself presentable.

Anger at Jack festers like an open wound, but the dream has also reminded you of your anger towards Elvis about all of it. That makes you feel uneasy, especially coupled with that nagging feeling that he is hiding something from you. You don’t want to feel angry at Elvis, but some of his actions over the years have contributed to your overall dissatisfaction with your life.

You didn’t fully realize until now how upset it had made you that he just stopped being your best friend one day. You still don’t understand all of it, though you feel like these unearthed memories are trying to get you there. But it doesn’t change the fact that both he and Jack abandoned you in different ways. And this pisses you off.

Fucking men, you think, touching up your makeup and straightening your dress. Your unease deepens when you realize you are going to face the group very soon and you have absolutely no idea what Elvis is going to do or even if he will do anything. Is he just going to pull you to his side and tell Jack to go fuck himself? Is he going to act like it never happened at all? You’re not sure which is worse.

Your stomach churns and you desperately need to talk to Elvis before he does something stupid. Panic rises, but you slam it back down, willing yourself to just be normal for the time being.

Be normal. What a laugh. As if any of this is remotely normal.

Steeling yourself, you head out to the living room just as people start walking through the door. Sandy finds you immediately, giving you a concerned and questioning look. You can’t tell if she’s surprised to see you or not, but you turn from her, still annoyed that she ratted you out (even if it was in an attempt to help you).

As the room fills and bustles, something is itching at you, poking at the corners of your mind. You think maybe it is paranoia. It feels as though Red keeps shooting knowing, snide looks your way. You can’t help but examine everyone around you, searching for signs that they know. You squirm in your skin, unable to get comfortable.

It doesn’t help that Jack slides in behind you when you aren’t looking, wrapping his arms around you a little too tight. He reeks of whiskey and cigar smoke so badly you choke. “Where you been, treasure?” Jack asks a little too pointedly, suspiciously, as if he knows something is up. Your heart plummets and you resist the urge to push him away but can’t help but try to worm your way out of his clutches as Elvis strolls in the room.

Elvis’ intense eyes find you immediately, and you watch his jaw clench as he keeps himself in check. You manage to slip out of Jack’s grasp and Elvis relaxes a bit, distracted by one of the guys. It seems like he doesn’t want to make a scene over the two of you in front of the group, which has you breathing a sigh of relief.

What doesn’t have you relieved is that Jack is once again all over you as everyone finds a seat. You feel trapped as the conversation begins to flow, wanting nothing more than to go hide in Elvis’ room, far away from the fumbling hands of your husband. His hands are heavy on you, creeping up your thigh, drawing circles on your shoulder with his fingertips. It used to be a comforting gesture, but now it feels possessive.

He knows. Maybe Red already told him, you panic. Your heart gallops in your chest and you try not to lose it.

No, don’t be an idiot. He wouldn’t be this quiet if he knew, right? Jack is a few drinks in at this point, and the more he drinks, the louder he generally gets. Though based on his hands, you think that he is feeling something else altogether.

You can feel Elvis’ jealous eyes bore on you as Jack touches you, but you are caught between a rock and a hard place. If you shirk your husband’s advances to obviously, it will seem strange and garner attention, but if you don’t, you fear Elvis will give you both away. And you aren’t ready for that, not before the two of you come up with a cohesive plan.

If you are going to leave Jack (no, when you leave Jack, you remind yourself), you certainly don’t want to do it in the middle of an afterparty with the whole gang listening in.

“I’m going to get something to drink,” you finally whisper, excusing yourself with a forced smile, needing to escape Jack’s clutches. “You need anything?” you ask.

“Oh, I need something alright,” Jack breathes sloppily in your ear, attempting to be seductive and failing. But it has an edge to it that worries you.

“You’re hilarious, babe,” you say as sweet as you can while standing to make your escape. Jack takes the moment to grope your ass and you can almost feel the wave of irritation coming off Elvis from across the room. “I’ll get you a drink,” you sputter out, sliding out of Jack’s grasp, shooting Elvis a quick, warning glance to not do anything stupid. Then you scurry away as fast as you can without seeming strange.

Instead of heading to the kitchen, you make a beeline for the bathroom, desperately needing a moment away from all the eyes you feel are on you tonight, wanting things from you that you cannot give.

Fucking men, you think again, closing the door behind you.

To your shock, it doesn’t close. Jack pushes in and your heart drops into your stomach. The look in his dark and muddled eyes bodes nothing good.

“Hey, treasure,” he slurs with that disturbing edge to his voice, grabbing your waist and pulling you in for a sloppy, whisky-tinged kiss. You try rather unsuccessfully to not cringe at the feel of his lips on yours.

Maybe he’s too drunk to notice, you hope.

“I thought you were going to get drinks,” Jack says suspiciously. He locks the door behind you, warning bells exploding in your brain for a multitude of reasons, one being Elvis breaking the door down, another being whatever Jack expects of you.

“I had to pee first, babe,” you say as evenly as possible, “Now get so I can!” You playfully swat him on the shoulder, as you’ve done a million times before in your life together, but this time is different. This time, Jack’s chocolate eyes blacken as he grabs your wrist.

Your breath catches, and your heart starts to speed up as Jack’s hand tightens. “Honey, you’re hurting me. Let go,” you whisper.

His dark eyes rake over your body with what you think is lust, but it is tainted with something frightening. “Oh, I think you came in here because you wanted something else,” he says, backing you into the vanity. “You know, some of the guys are saying that you’re stepping out on me. Can you believe that?” His head buries in your neck, his lips dragging roughly against your skin.

Fucking Red.

“W-What? That’s ridiculous,” you manage to eek out, trying to lean away from his touch, but there is nowhere for you to go. Your heart is in your throat, but before you can say anything else in your defense, he’s changing the subject.

“You’re wearing this scarf again?” Jack questions because it impedes his barrage of his mouth on your neck. He unties it and you watch the pink and black silk flutter to the floor.

“It goes with my outfit,” you reply. You attempt to push him away but get nowhere, his broad chest stubbornly immobile. “Seriously, Jack, I need to pee,” you whine now, hoping that will do the trick. Every nerve in your body is on alert as he kisses your skin, as he presses into you. You can feel the bulge in his pants growing, poking into your pelvis.

Every fiber of your being wants out of this enclosed space, a space that only a moment ago felt like a refuge but now feels like a prison. You don’t want this, and if Elvis finds out, there will be hell to pay. But Jack is too far gone to listen and too strong for you to move.

Jack picks you up easily and places you on the counter, his hands pushing the unyielding fabric of your dress up your thighs so he can spread them open and step between them. It feels cold—nothing like the warmth and passion you felt when Elvis did the same thing earlier.

“I told ‘em, ‘Not my treasure. She knows her place. Besides, who else would want her anyway?’” he laughs cruelly, grinding into you. The words cut, as he intended, and you become fully aware that you are in trouble. Your stomach rolls, nausea consuming you.

“Jack, seriously, stop it. I don’t want to do this right now. You’re too drunk,” you protest, pushing your palms into his chest to try and put space between you.

But he seems to take your protests as being coy, or perhaps he just doesn’t care, and chuckles darkly into your neck. “Didn’t stop you from sucking my dick the other night.” He lathes his tongue against your collarbone, causing an icy shiver down your spine that he interprets as positive, smiling on your skin. His hands roam to your back and unzip your dress.

You squirm, but it only serves to assist in his attempt to undress you, his hands roughly pulling down your sleeves and bra straps.

He stops abruptly, to your relief. “What are those?” Jack asks, suddenly on edge, his tone changing completely. He pulls back from you and for that you are grateful but confused.

“What’s what?” you reply as he stares at your chest, his eyes narrowing, the lust being replaced fully by anger.

Jack is on you in a flash, too fast for you to register what’s happening and then he’s yanking down the front of your dress, your bra, exposing your breast.

“Jesus Jack! What are you doing?!” you shriek, trying to pull away as he manhandles you, but you have nowhere to go.

“What the fuck are those?” He pulls you roughly off the counter and spins you around to the mirror, pointing to the series of purple welts on your breasts.

Oh, fuck.

“I…uh…I…,” you sputter incoherently. Your brain misfires, too panicked to think of anything clever or even anything at all. There’s no logical explanation for the dark bruises other than them being what they are. Your mind flashes back to the other night, how Elvis had claimed you, his pouty mouth suckling your skin roughly as he’d fucked you into oblivion on the couch.

You hadn’t even thought to cover them with makeup, since Jack hadn’t seen you naked in eons.

“You stupid fucking slut! Who are you screwing?!” Jack screams, ballistic, swinging you back around to face him.

You’ve never seen him this angry, his face and scar turning beet red, his eyes like daggers. But this reaction is rich coming from him, which triggers your own anger as much as your fear.

“Really, Jack? You barely come home and when you do you smell of cheap perfume, but me, I’m the slut?!” you yell back at him, your body shaking all over, as you pull up your bra and dress. You certainly hadn’t planned to do this here, now, but you’d known in your heart for days that this was coming.

The vein in his forehead pulses dangerously, and he looks like he truly wants to hurt you. He grabs your wrists painfully as you try and zip up your dress. You’ve never seen him look at you this way, even in his worst moments, and it send a shudder of fear through you. “You’re my goddamn wife! Nobody touches my wife!” he yells, his spit flying in your face, ignoring your reasoning completely, too far gone.

Then, he unlocks the door and yanks it open so hard it slams into the wall with a crash, and then pulls you into the hallway, dragging you behind him.

“Jack, stop. You’re hurting me!” you say, trying to wrench out of his iron grasp. “What’re you doing? This isn’t the place for this,” you hiss frantically, scared of what he might do or say next.

Jack manhandles you into the living area where people are conversing and laughing at someone’s jokes, and roughly pushes you into the middle of the room.

The laughter dies out quickly as all eyes turn towards you.

Your heart pounds in your chest and heat burns your cheeks. You are furious and scared and now embarrassed, the back of your dress undone in front of everyone. You watch as Sandy’s eyes widen, immediately gleaning what’s happening, and she starts to stand, but Jerry grabs her arm to stop her.

You rub at your raw wrists, but you don’t turn to look at Elvis, who is behind you. That would give it all away, and for now you at least have control over that.

“Who is it, huh? Who are you fucking? All of them?” Jack shouts at you in front of the group, pointing aimlessly at the men. There are confused and alarmed glances on most faces, though Sandy, Jerry, and Red all attempt to cover their knowledge with surprise. Some are better than others at concealing it, but Jack is too busy looking at you to see them.

“Hey, man, cool it,” Elvis says from behind you, trying to be nonchalant and deescalate the situation, but you can hear in his voice the effort it’s taking him to be calm.

Jack whirls you around roughly by the arm to face Elvis, as though he’s trying to shame you at court in front of the king. Elvis looks at you, unable to hide his concern and budding fury completely, and you shake your head the smallest amount, for only him to see, telling him to lay low and not give himself away. You may be fucked, but this can still be contained, at least until Jack has calmed down and not everyone is watching.

“This ain’t your problem, EP!” Jack yells. It’s as though the most obvious has escaped Jack’s rage-addled mind, since he’s not even considering Elvis when he’s the biggest threat of all.

But one doesn’t yell at Elvis. Not without repercussions.

“The hell it isn’t, not when you come in here drunk and hot like this, fixin’ to ruin everyone’s mood,” Elvis warns, standing slowly. He’s not yelling yet, but his eyes are starting to turn hard and dark. Elvis can be incredibly patient, but if his temper turns, it won’t be pretty. And he was already done with Jack before this wretched display. The tension in the room thickens to a heightened degree, leaving everyone on edge.

So hot with fear and embarrassment and anger, you think you might burst into flames right here. Your heart is thundering against your ribcage and you can barely breathe. Your legs itch to run, but you are surrounded by prying eyes, trapped between the two most important men in your life.

Jack is incensed, fuming, and not backing down. He’s gearing up for a fight, which is bad. His grip on your arm tightens and you can’t help but wince. You watch as Elvis takes a step towards you both and you shoot him a look to stay put.

“Jack, stop this,” you say as calmly as you can. “Let’s just take a breath and talk somewhere else and let the party go on.”

Jack’s chest heaves and he turns on you. “Shut the fuck up, you whore!” he snarls.

Then his fist brutally collides with your face.

Everything feels like it’s moving in slow motion after that. The pain is instant, radiating through your cheek and your jaw, up into your eye socket. The metal of his rings snag at the corner of your mouth and scrape your face. Shock and disbelief course through you as the air rushes out of your lungs and hot tears spring to your eyes. The momentum of his strike sends you careening to the floor, and you manage to throw your hands out to catch yourself just before you hit the carpet.

A stunned silence falls over the group.

He hit me. He fucking hit me, you think in disbelief, through the pain, through the ringing in your ears.Jack had never, ever laid a hand on you before. You reach your hand up to your face, and it comes away bright red, bloody, your lip split. You can’t hold back the choked, shaking sob that escapes your lips.

Everything explodes at once.

The roar that comes from Elvis is like nothing you’ve heard before. The anger he’d shown you is but a fraction of what you see now as he crosses the room, a menacing bull after a matador. He strides so quickly and fiercely with those long legs of his that Jack barely has time to register what is happening before Elvis punches him square in the jaw, then rapidly again right in the nose. You can hear the sickening break of it which turns your stomach. Or maybe it’s your own pain doing that, you’re not sure at this point.

Elvis doesn’t even say anything, so blacked out with rage that he can’t even speak. You watch from the floor as Jack stumbles back and his eyes widen in shock, then confusion.

“EP? What the—?” Jack starts to say, holding his nose as it starts to bleed down his face, but before he can get it out, Elvis has him by the throat. Those long fingers wrap around and begin to squeeze as Elvis walks Jack back into the wall. Shocked, you watch from the floor as Jack’s face begins to turn red and he begins to sputter, clawing at Elvis’ hand and arm. True fear begins to play over Jack’s features.

Suddenly, the guys are all yelling and rushing around you. Sandy’s hands yank you up and back out of the fray, and you feel dizzy, swaying on your feet. You’re not sure how, but she manages to get you on the couch, zipping up your dress in a flash, and then examines your injuries.

“Are you okay? Y/n, are you okay?” she asks frantically, but with the commotion in the room and the fuzzy white noise in your head, she feels a million miles away. Your eyes are locked on the insane sight in front of you, freezing you with shock.

The guys are desperately trying to pull Elvis off Jack, but his hand is like a vise around Jack’s throat. He’s strangling him, truly choking him because you can see Jack’s face start to go purple and his eyes begin to roll back.

Three of the guys are on Elvis’ back now while Red chops at his arms, trying to break his hold on Jack’s throat unsuccessfully.

Oh my god, if Elvis kills him, I’ll lose them both and it’ll be all my fault, you realize.

You rise to your feet, ignoring Sandy’s protests, ignoring the dizziness and throbbing in your head, and you somehow, through pure will, push yourself through the throng of men to Elvis’ side.

“Elvis! Elvis, you have to stop this,” you say firmly, staring into his beautiful, terrifying face. His eyes are black and unyielding, almost unrecognizable. His jaw is so clenched in his murderous fury that you think he’ll crack his teeth. You’re not even sure if he can hear you because he doesn’t give any indication that he can, but you have to get him to stop.

“Baby, you can’t do this. You’re killing him. You can’t kill him. Satnin, I can’t lose you and if you do this, we’ll both be lost,” you murmur, pleading in his ear for only him to hear, hoping against hope it gets through to him.

You watch Elvis blink a few times, as if waking briefly from his trance, his shoulders relaxing just enough that when Red slams down on his arms again, they give way. Jerry pulls you backwards with a yelp, as Jack coughs, sucking in deep, rattling breaths as he slumps down the wall.

You do not go to him.

Elvis’ lapse in rage is short lived, for he sees Red and turns on him quickly with another roar, throwing brutal punches. You see on Red’s face that he knows exactly why Elvis is coming for him. A few punches land hard, and you hear more of the crack of flesh on flesh. You can’t help but smile a little inside at Red getting what’s coming to him, but horrified at yourself, you push that thought right out of your brain.

But there is a reason Red is Elvis’ bodyguard. He’s tough and scrappy and much more prepared for a fight than Jack was. You can see he doesn’t want to hurt Elvis but blocks and dodges some of his punches more readily. Four of the Mafia surround Elvis now, grabbing his arms, his waist, holding him back from Red, holding him down.

Elvis struggles against them and lets out one last terrifying primal cry before they get him subdued, pushing him to his knees. His chest heaves as they continue to hold his arms, his chin lowered, those lethal blue eyes peering out from under the black hair falling in his face. They still home in on Jack and Red, who are licking their wounds at the other end of the living room.

Adrenaline courses through you, your heart threatening to pound through your ribs, the blood rushing in your ears, as you watch four men have to hold down the man you love to keep him from killing the men that hurt you. And you aren’t entirely sure how to feel about that. A small part of you is frightened by this side of Elvis, how he is gone so deep into his rage that the man you know is barely there at all. And you can’t help but feel responsible for this turn in him.

But another part of you feels vindicated and relieved and almost proud of his defense of you. Part of you swells with so much love for him that you want to fall to your knees and kiss him as if your life depended on it.

“You sonofabitch. You fucking wife-stealing asshole,” Jack rasps out bitterly at Elvis, cowering on the floor with Red and a couple of the other men surrounding him.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” some of the guys cry, having to hold Elvis back from going ballistic again. His glare at Jack is so fierce, you think the look alone might kill him from across the room.

But you don’t stop to find out because you wrench out of Jerry’s grasp and somehow make it over to Jack before your brain catches up with your body. You don’t even have time to think twice before your hand pulls back and slaps open-handed across Jack’s cheek, the smack reverberating in your ears and stinging through your hand and up your arm.

But you don’t care.

Silence falls over the room once more. Jack stares up at you wide-eyed, with shocked indignation.

“Shut the fuck up, Jack,” you seethe, now fully infuriated that the man you once loved had hurt you so badly, in so many ways. “You lost me a long time ago, and Elvis had nothing to do with it, you cheating, lying, drunken bastard!” You lean over into his face, your voice low and biting, “And don’t you ever, ever, lay your hands on me again, or next time I won’t stop him from tearing you apart.”

You watch the mixture of surprise and contempt and fear play over Jack’s features for a moment before stepping back. You look back at Elvis and see his lip curl into a sly grin.

And then it all hits you at once. All your mistakes. Everyone staring at you in shock. Your dirty laundry aired out for all to see. The blood and pain bruising on your face, your head pounding, your vision hazy. The mortifying violence that has occurred in your name. Your lover almost murdering your husband.

Oh, god.

Suddenly, vertigo hits you hard and you are so dizzy that the room swims and sways in front of you. The bile rises so quickly that you don’t even have time to process what is happening before you are hurling your dinner onto the shag carpet.

Something is quite wrong, you realize. All your anger and doubts and regrets and love drain from you with a tingling coolness, and everything and everyone feels very far away, their cries muffled by the pain in your head. Then you fall into a dark oblivion, leaving the pain and consequences of your actions far, far behind, and you wonder fleetingly if it was all worth it.

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seat-safety-switch · 8 months

Text

The Mafia of Incompetence is out to get me, and not even for the first time this week. There’s all kinds of reasons these non-aligned dimbulb thugs wish me harm, but chief among them is my insistence that I must always receive my RockAuto magnets.

Perhaps you are unfamiliar. You see, RockAuto is a modern e-commerce corporation. It exists as sort of amorphous blob. Old-school parts warehouses, retail operations, and liquidators go out of business all the time. RockAuto scoops up those car parts and sells them over the internet. One of the things they include with every order is at least one small, rectangular refrigerator magnet, of another freak's car.

Time was, you could count on four things in life: gravity, death, taxes, and RockAuto magnets showing up with your order. Now, fewer than that many things are true. Border patrol has been getting increasingly sticky-fingered around my part of the world, and I'll often have a RockAuto package show up with different tape on it, missing all of its packing material and – critically – the magnet.

I've complained to my local political representative, using virtually the same words as I'm speaking to you now. They ignored me, because they have real problems to solve (what caviar to pair with which wine, how to give a larger tax break than 100% to oil companies.) I had to take matters into my own hands. Contrary to popular belief, a background check for the federal government is really easy to fake. Soon, I was the government's newest parcel snoop.

That's where I met my then-coworker, now-friend, Shaky Tim. You see, he was the one stealing the magnets. I caught him red handed my first day. When all the other border guards went to lunch, he stayed behind and hacked open a bunch of the RockAuto packages. His desk at work was laden with the things, a cascading pile many inches thick of gleaming hot-rods, warm-rods, and even cold-rods.

Ethically, I was in a bit of a pickle. Reporting him to my "superiors" would stop the flow of my magnets into his pockets, but it would result in no other benefit to myself. Ignoring him was out of the question: my refrigerator still had at least a few square inches of empty space on its fascia. When in doubt, make like King Solomon: we decided to split the booty. I wouldn't report him, and he'd punch my time card for me and come by with a shopping bag full of magnets every weekend.

We've been doing this for a few years now, and everything was going great. My boss had been giving me glowing performance reviews, based entirely on my ability to not embarrassingly fuck up at work. And my pension was fattening nicely. Unfortunately, Shaky Tim was the weak point in the whole apparatus. He had a crisis of conscience, and quit the government altogether rather than admit his horrible crime. Doing so backed up the entire works: all the remaining border guards were not nearly as motivated to process RockAuto packages quickly. I didn't get my new Mikuni carb floats for, like, a whole week.

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kineticallyanywhere · 1 year

Text

the way Normal and Scary parallel each other and contrast each other and share traits with each other and don't share traits with each other

the way Normal has never really had a choice but to be part of this story. it's literally in his blood and DNA and his heart is simply too big to look away. there's no other place for Normal to end up than here, there's no other path for him to go down than this one. Normal knows by now that there's no other direction for him to go than the one he decided in that church, and wherever that leads him will depend entirely on the cooperation of the people around him.

the way Scary could leave whenever she wants. can't even blame her, she didn't sign up for this, she didn't marry into this family. but she chose to participate anyway, despite it going against everything she says about not caring. they way Scary gets option after option to decide who she is and what kind of person she wants to be and still her choices don't add up. does she want to help, then why can't she work with others? does she want power, then why does she still care about what others think of her? for all the voices in her ears, she's the one who gets to pick where she's going.

the way so much of Normal's family has been based on performative cooperation, but when he found out that cooperation is his authentic performance, it gets rejected. the way Scary's family (and step-family) is blatant and honest (often to a fault) and has nothing to hide, but she's turning into a compulsive liar when it comes to herself.

the way Normal has been bombarded with rejection and doubt but he accepts everyone around him and tries to get them to accept themselves. the way Scary's surrounded by hands reaching out to her and offers of acceptance but she throws denial and pushes away like it's instinct.

the way Normal behaves selflessly but deep in there is a root of selfish desire for acceptance for himself. the way Scary behaves selfishly but, again, she put herself on a mission to save the world.

the way these paths they're going down keeps sticking them together like opposite magnets

the way Scary is (per Beth:) looking for the trauma that will justify her feelings while Normal is looking for the feelings that will justify his trauma

I am going to lose my MIND

#dndads #dungeons and daddies #dndads 2 #scary marlowe #normal oak #me talking #i dont know how coherent this is i just needed it in Words

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flordeamatista · 2 years

Note

qué voy a hacer con mi amor

All Of Me

pairing: mafia!Ari Levinson x fem!reader

concept: Your world is controlled by the hands that you're holding.

word count: 800

warnings: Poetic fluff that makes you want an Ari, a little bit of angst

a/n: This fic is dedicated to you,@angrythingstarlight. Hands = love, and 'All of Me' is connected to them. My friend, you are truly a star.

Masterlist

His love.

It weakens and trembles you, filling you with need.

This is all it takes.

Your voice captures his attention from across the room, and he immediately focuses on you. His face lights up with a kind, nostalgic, and somewhat grin as you carefully close the door behind you. You feel a magnetic force field drawing you closer to him as your feet move silently toward him.

Your expression can only be defined as loving, loaded with understanding and kindness. You move your fingers in a circular motion around the man's face, following the contours of his veins as they go from his arms, down his neck, across his shoulders, and finally to his lips. While you’re caressing him, he observes you closely, knowing and familiarizing himself with your features.

You recall his hands from the very first time he touched you.

Your world is controlled by the hands that you're holding.

It is all of me that loves you. You are so perfect in all your imperfections, your curves, and your edges.

While you stand in front of him, you put your hands behind his back and allow him to rest his head on your shoulders. Your cheek nestles on his chest as he pulls you closer. There is nothing except the rhythm of your hearts beating for each other in that room.

Seeing the ocean blue eyes of this man, your eyes seem to glow.

While staring at each other's eyes, you exchange words of strength, solace, and encouragement. In your arms, all the world's cruelty and monsters he stoked become irrelevant.

You are his queen, and he takes great care to maintain the sanctity of his throne.

His forehead rests against yours, his eyes are closing in sync with one another, and a heavy, deep sigh rises from his chest.

"A penny for your thoughts, Butterfly?" he asks, caressing your skin with his fingers.

He wraps his fingers around your wrist and makes circles with them. This is a passionate touch that only lovers know.

Your life has been reduced to that. It was what he did to you.

"About us," Interacting with your fingers along his pulse and into his palm, you tell him. His fingers brush against your wrist, tickling it; how his strong fingers are warm and thick; your body flushed and humming as the flame of anticipation burns brightly.

An act of kindness from Ari. This is the only act he performs, showing you the real Ari around you.

His other half is the only one who can witness it.

Here in this room, he is weak and displays his demons, unlike out in the world, where he is feared and owns every piece of soil.

Your mouth opens in a soft breath of yearning, and his nose nuzzles up against yours as his lips slide across the tip of yours in a sweet, passionate kiss.

You take a deep breath, then open your eyes and stare into his.

Your beautiful smile fades as sheer desire takes control of your face. His movements are so smooth and unstoppable that you can't help but be drawn to him. As you get closer, he meets you halfway, enthralled, in need of your assistance and desiring your love.

You are so close that silence envelops both of your hearts like a comforting shawl, no matter how heartbreaking and unnecessary the farewell is while taking deep breaths inside the tiny space between your faces.

Stillness makes you feel safe and secure, like when you're wrapped up in a love blanket.

Your mouth is gently surrounded by his tongue as he nibbles your top lip and lower lip in a delicate, almost inquisitive kiss. As he kisses you, he is engulfed by the sounds emanating from your lips and overcome with all of the pain, worry, and repressed need he has felt throughout the day. Whining, you virtually collapse into it as you move your hand from around his waist to cradle his neck and draw him closer to you.

"My love," drifts across the silence between his kiss and your moan.

You have a firm hold on him, encircling both of your legs around his hips and grabbing his sides. You preserve your embrace by holding him close.

Still pressing together, his hands are clasped securely around your waist. He draws you closer to himself.

The touch of his hands on your skin. Because the hands are all of him and he is you.

As you untie the strings of your body for him, he will drink the perfume of your skin and glide a rose over your body, inspiring love.

#la hacienda de alice ─ sleepover #mafia!ari levinson #ari levinson #ari levinson x f!reader #ari levinson x reader #ari levinson imagine #ari levinson drabble #ari levinson x poc!reader #ari levinson x latina!reader #ari levinson x female reader #ari levinson fluff #chris evans fanfiction #chris evans characters #ari levinson fanfiction #ari levinson x you

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burningupp · 1 year

Note

for the celebration could you do stray kids reactions to idol!reader’s comeback changing to a darker concept? thank you!!

i combined these bc they were similar, hope that's ok <3

i loved writing this tbh, it was really fun. i hope you enjoy all of them!

pairing: f!idol!reader x skz

warnings: most of these are a lil suggestive, nothing explicit tho, female reader

wc: 3.8k

Chan

When the two of you first got together, you decided that you would keep comeback concepts as a surprise. While there was no avoiding hearing the songs from somewhere since you trained in the same building, it was a fun game for you to try to figure out what performances would be like. It also helped the two of you talk about things other than work, because honestly, it’s hard to be an idol sometimes; a break where it’s just the two of you, no discussions of fans or the industry, are the best moments you have.

You are generally a very bubbly person; he usually compares your personality to an explosion of color and flowers, and he has yet to talk to someone who disagrees. This is why his jaw drops as soon as he sees you get up on stage for the performance. You’re wearing a black dress, your makeup is pretty dark and defines your features in a way he’s not used to. That said, you look amazing.

The way you move on stage surprises him infinitely more. Gone are the cute bounces you usually perform, replaced with body rolls and slow, sensual movements. He thanks whatever coincidence led to him being backstage during your performance, because he’s certain that he wouldn’t have been able to control his expression even if he tried. He’s just so in love with you, and you’re showing him new things about his favorite person on the planet - how is he supposed to not look at you with all the love in the world?

As soon as you come backstage, he envelops you in the tightest hug he possibly can give you. You giggle at the show of affection, squeezing him right back. He releases you sooner than he would like, because even though there are no cameras around, some staff members have been known to talk.

“Did you like it?” you ask sweetly, and the change from your stage persona back to your usual self is a shock to Chan’s system - a welcome one, though, because you’re the one he loves.

“I absolutely loved it, darling,” he tells you softly, interlacing his fingers with yours. “It was so different! I didn’t know you could act like that.”

“Mm, there are many things you don’t know about me yet,” you tease.

It makes Chan’s heart skip a beat; he can’t wait for the day he finally knows every single thing about you.

Minho

Minho being a music show MC is both a blessing and a curse. He loves meeting people, he loves getting to see so many great performances, and he loves the fact that when your group has a comeback, he sees you more often than ever. Usually, your concepts are so cute and lovely he can’t help but smile, which is fine - he’s supposed to smile for the camera, anyway. The curse only strikes now, when he has to interview you before your performance looking like an absolute vixen.

“Wow, you guys look incredible,” his co-host tells your group, and you all smile and bow at the compliment.

The way you’re smiling is messing with his head, because how in the world is he supposed to connect your usual sweet personality with the way you’re dressed? You look like a maneater, and while he can’t say he’s complaining in general, it’s definitely not easy for him to resist looking like he wants to devour you. Maybe because he does.

“Your concepts are usually very refreshing and innocent,” Minho begins. He has to follow the script, afterall. “This concept of yours is kind of surprising.”

The leader of your group smiles brightly. “Yes, it is a bit of a difference, but we all enjoy it a lot, I think.”

As soon as your boyfriend hears your laugh, he struggles ten times as much to not look at you. He can’t help it, you’re like a magnet to him. He may not be very touchy in public, but if there’s anything that describes him, it’s that he’s completely obsessed with you. The two of you are the only ones who know, but he doesn’t mind that much, and he doesn’t think you do either.

The interview is over, and he’s relieved at first, but then he sees you dance and he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to keep going. You’re a great dancer, you always have been, but he’s never seen you dance like this and it’s absolutely destroying him. Fuel is added to the fire roaring inside him when some loser a guy calls out how much he loves you from the crowd.

Minho needs you to know how much he loves seeing you like that. After the show he tells you with words, but he also shows you with his actions. He can’t bring himself to detach from you for even a second, and his compliments for your dancing are endless. He’s not usually that vocal about it, but he knows this concept has been worrying you for a while, and he will give his girl what she needs; not doing so isn’t an option in his world.

Changbin

Changbin has alarms set on his phone for every single piece of material that will be released as part of your promotions. Needless to say, the first concept photo he sees makes him absolutely lose his mind. He calls you immediately, and prays to whatever higher power who might be listening that you will pick up. His efforts aren��t in vain, it seems, as you pick up on the fourth ring.

“Baby, hi–”

“You cannot be serious,” he immediately yells in his loud-ass voice. You pull the phone away from you, stretching it as far away as possible to avoid hearing loss. “How the hell am I supposed to survive this comeback?! You could have at least warned a guy, oh my god.”

You listen to him rant for a few minutes, giggling every so often and attempting to get a word in. You fail, obviously. After a while, though, he starts to calm down. He’s breathing heavily, which makes you laugh even more despite your cheeks and sides already hurting from laughing so much.

“Baby,” you start, and he sighs deeply but doesn’t interrupt you again, so you continue. “Hi. I missed you. I hope you’re having a good day. Thank you for the compliments, my love, I’m really glad you enjoyed the image!”

Upon hearing your words, Changbin doesn’t know what to do. He’s still overwhelmed with your concept photos, the dark and sultry look something he won’t soon forget, but then you’re so sweet and lovely it makes his head spin. He just sputters for a second, and you gently remind him to breathe through an airy laugh. He heeds your advice.

“Sweetheart,” he says slowly once he’s composed himself.

“Yes?”

“I love you. I love you so much. Please make time to come see me today? I might even skip the gym, as long as it gives me more time with you.”

The crazy part is that he’s so serious when he says it. Did he skip going to the gym when Jeongin asked him to help him build furniture? No. Did he skip the gym to help Yongbok show his childhood friend around Seoul? No, he joined them late and the two of them got lost. Would he skip going to the gym simply so he could hug you and hide his face in your neck for a few hours? Abso-fucking-lutely.

“Binnie, that’s so sweet,” you coo, and he can imagine your wide, glassy eyes, so thankful to him for offering such a thing. He melts without even seeing it. “I was thinking I could join you though? I know you don’t like missing it.”

And if it takes him another 15 minutes to screw his head on straight because he can’t possibly love you any more than he already does, you don’t mention it; because you’re perfect for him.

Hyunjin

Hyunjin knows that he is being filmed by fans, and that’s most likely the only reason he hasn’t sprinted onto the stage to kiss you senseless yet. Emphasis on yet, because he honestly can’t guarantee that it won’t happen. Chan is keeping an eye on him, though, so he considers himself likely to be stopped before he traumatizes his members and shocks the entire world.

You’re dancing so well, and your voice is so sultry, and your makeup is absolutely perfect. What is a man supposed to do? He can’t look at you too much, he can’t look too impressed or interested, but if he doesn’t do something he’s sure he will explode. Minho, that little shit, is grinning at him and wriggling his eyebrows. He knows this is hard for his younger friend, just as it would be for him if his girlfriend did something like that.

All of the boys are cheering, wowing, and making an absolute spectacle over the performance; after all, it’s very on brand for them to enjoy performances in this way. It also helps mask some of Hyunjin’s fascination, but he’s aware he needs to be careful. Your groups are openly friends, so he can get away with a lot, and he couldn’t be more grateful. He’s so sure there would be dating rumors sooner or later, because damn does he suck at acting unbothered, but he can’t bring himself to care. He’ll cross that bridge when he gets to it.

In the bridge of the song, you are in the center. Hyunjin has never been more captivated than right now, watching you slide slowly onto your knees on the floor, legs spread wide so it looks like you’re straddling an invisible figure beneath you. Just that would have been enough, but the way your voice is so husky and sensual makes him gulp out loud. He spirals further when you send a wink into the audience, and while its target is very ambiguous, he knows it’s for him.

He hears his members gasp and cheer, yelling about how you’re tearing it up, but he barely registers it even though he agrees fully. His ears are ringing, his hands trembling, and he’s actually sweating. What the fuck was happening?!

After the show, both groups meet up to grab dinner together. You decided to keep the makeup on, and Hyunjin doesn’t know whether he should be cursing or thanking you for your decision. You look so beautiful, but he is quite literally unable to function around you when you look like that. The complete dichotomy of your personality to the stage concept puts the nail in the coffin for him.

“Please,” he whispers in your ear as soon as you are a small distance away from the others. “Please let’s leave. Let’s go home.”

“Needy, are we?” you chuckle teasingly, but you don’t disagree. “We can go home. I don’t have the stage outfit though, sorry.” You wink.

Even the thought of your short skirt makes him groan in absolute despair. He’s so fucking lucky to have you.

Jisung

Jisung is live on YouTube when someone in the chat finally mentions your group’s comeback and the music video. He says he hasn’t had time to watch it yet, which obviously prompts every single person watching to spam him, asking him to react to the video live. All according to his plan.

Except maybe it wasn’t a very good plan. He had been avoiding all the spoilers, going so far as refusing to see you for the week leading up to the release date just to not accidentally hear you hum something and ruin the experience for him. The staff sitting behind the camera makes sure to send him a warning look before he starts the video, and he sends them a reassuring one in return.

He shouldn’t have been so overly confident, because wow. You look absolutely lethal, and his mouth waters without his permission. He tries his best to keep his expression at a solid mildly entertained level, but it’s so hard to not explode into cheers and yells - especially whenever you come onto the screen. He keeps his outbursts as minimal as possible, only exclaiming in the first chorus and the bridge. Not too suspicious, considering his usual reactions to performances.

The regret sets in even deeper when the video is over and he realizes that he can’t watch it over and over again. He puts on a brave face and gets through the rest of the livestream, chatting with fans and telling funny anecdotes from the dorms. He doesn’t think anyone suspects anything, and when the staff member tells him he did well after the live ends he decides to not worry about it.

He finally pulls up the video again, and admires it in its entirety once more before going through specifically your parts. The song is sexy, painfully so, and he doesn’t know how to act around you after this. His normally cute, somewhat shy girlfriend is staring into the camera as if she’s going to eat it alive, and it’s doing things to him.

It’s less than half an hour after the live ended when you send him a text, teasing him about his reaction to the video. Others don’t know him that well, but you? You can tell at a single glance that he has no idea how to feel about your appearance in the video. It’s kind of fun to have him be the shy one for once, but you tell yourself you won’t torture him too much.

As soon as your text reaches him, your poor boyfriend is scrambling to call you as fast as he can; he can’t wait to absolutely gush about the video, even though it most likely will consist of incoherent rambling for the most part. It also probably won’t help with how desperate he is to see you, but he can’t bring himself to care right now.

“That was fast,” you chuckle on the other end as soon as you pick up. “You okay?”

“It’s so good!” Jisung yells without an ounce of shame. “I literally- you- I’ve never seen you like this before, and that’s an atrocity. It’s not fair that everyone else gets to see you like that, too!”

You hear the whine in his voice and giggle a little - you make sure your schedule is free so he can come see you later tonight.

Felix

You had hinted to Felix that the comeback was going to be very different to what you and your group usually did, but this? Completely unexpected.

You looked so fierce with your eye makeup dark and heavy, your lips stained a dark red. He almost couldn’t recognize you on stage, but of course he did - you were the love of his life, after all. He absolutely loved the song, he loved getting to see you confidently complete the choreography with a smug smile on your face.

The only problem, really, was the fact that he was watching your comeback from the dorms. He wanted to get his hands on you, crush you in the tightest hug and tell you how fucking amazing you are and how well you’re doing, but he can’t. Stupid schedules. On the upside, since no fans or cameras are around to see him, he’s free to lose his mind as much as he pleases. And boy, is he.

He watches the video fifteen times in a row. Seungmin comes out of his room to check what the hell Felix is even watching, only to laugh mockingly when he spots the poor man’s girlfriend looking like the complete opposite of what she usually does, in a very good way of course. He decides he can’t blame him and just pats him on the shoulder reassuringly. Felix hasn’t closed his mouth since the first time he saw you on the stage.

love of my life: did you watch it?

Fuck, he forgot to text you. He wanted to, he had planned to, but the shock of the performance still hadn’t left him. He gripped his phone tightly, hands shaking and fingers refusing to cooperate as he attempted to reply.

sunshine <3: of course I did! baby that was amazing, oh my god!

He knew you wouldn’t be able to call him right then, too much probably going on backstage for you to be able to have a private conversation, but he wanted to hear your voice so badly. He somehow couldn’t connect you, his sweet and loving girlfriend, with the absolute minx that he just saw on stage. God, how he loved it.

Seungmin

“Hey Min,” you grin at Seungmin as you enter his dorm. He smiles and hugs you tight in greeting. “Did you see the broadcast?”

“I did,” he hums back, letting you go and smiling softly again. “You did amazing.”

“Thank you,” you smile back.

You can’t help but feel a tad bit disappointed, though. Seungmin never really lets on to what he’s feeling, as evidenced by whatever kind of relationship limbo you’re currently in. Do you guys kiss, cuddle, and do more explicit things together? Yes, very often. Has he asked you to be his girlfriend? No. You would do it instead, but you don’t actually know how he feels about you - kissing and all seems to interest him, but he’s never outright told you whether he likes you or not.

You had kind of been hoping that this new, very different concept for your comeback would have somehow flipped a switch. You had never been so heavily made up for a stage, never worn lipstick so dark or clothes so tight and revealing. You had wanted some kind of reaction, at least, but you didn’t even get that. Oh well. At least he had invited you over, so that’s good, you suppose.

“I figured maybe we could watch a movie together? You must be tired,” Seungmin says, breaking you out of your thoughts. “You can even pick.”

You fake gasp, your hands pressing against your chest in reverent surprise. “Me? THE Kim Seungmin will allow me to pick the movie? Why I just-”

He shuts you up with a kiss and you giggle. He smiles, too. Then he pulls you into his room by your hand, and closes the door behind you. You plop onto his bed and sigh, completely exhausted by the day. You expect to feel his weight join you on the bed, but when you don’t you open your eyes and look at the boy frozen by the door of his room.

“What?” you frown, concerned that you did something wrong.

“Uh, nothing,” he mumbles. He’s frozen for a few more seconds, and then he seems to change his mind. “Actually…” He can’t hold it in anymore. Not after that performance. Not when you look like an angel spread out on his bed. His heart hasn’t stopped racing since he saw you perform, and his head is just filled with eternal screaming.

“Yes?”

“Please be my girlfriend?” he finally asks. It’s not until then you pick up on the slight tinge of red on his cheeks, the way his breathing is quicker, and the slight tremble of his hands. “I- I wanted to ask better than this, nicer than this, but I just- the performance-”

You smile at him softly, which further cements your place in his heart, and get up from the bed to stand in front of him. You place a gentle hand against his chest, looking into his eyes before you nod. This was perfect enough for you.

Jeongin

how to stop sweating because someone is attractive

am I having a heart attack

am I in love with my best friend

This isn’t even half of what Jeongin’s been googling for the past fifteen minutes. The last one does make him pause, though; he didn’t even know he felt that way about you. Or maybe he did, and he just didn’t want to admit it to himself. You’re older than him, and somehow it has always felt so wrong to him, like he won’t be enough for you even if he were to try.

That’s why you’re so mean for doing this to him. How dare you just walk on stage in leather pants and a tight top with a plunging neckline, your face made up with the sultriest makeup he thinks he’s ever seen, and just expect him to live with that? For him to live with the knowledge of how sexy you can look? How sexy you could look for him if only he had the balls to finally ask you out?

And let’s not even talk about the new vocal techniques you were trying out. Your husky voice singing the deeper notes absolutely messed with his head. There was also a part in the song with your heavy breathing and he is sure he’s having a heart attack. Suddenly he’s revisiting the list of symptoms of a heart attack.

And then you’re calling him, and he’s yelping out loud as the picture he has on your contact pops up on his screen. The sweet, innocent look that you usually have, barely any makeup on your face and a cute yellow sundress on. Briefly, he feels like he’s dying even more because how in the world are you beautiful no matter what you wear? How do you even do it?

He finally takes a deep breath and answers the phone, trying to sound as normal as he can even when he feels like he’s perpetually short of breath.

“Hey noona,” he answers lightly, and he can see you smile prettily in his mind’s eye. He’s fucked.

“Hi Innie!” you respond happily. “Did you see the music video?”

“I did,” he responds, shutting his eyes tightly to try and block out the image of you in the video. It doesn’t work. It kind of makes it a more prominent image, actually.

“What did you think?” you ask, and your bubbly personality is giving him whiplash.

He spends a second or two trying to compose himself before he starts talking about how much he likes the song, how good you all look (emphasis on all, because he doesn’t think he could handle it if you decided to tease him for finding you beautiful) and your cool new vocal technique that he is trying his hardest not to think about.

“That’s a relief,” you laugh airily, sounding like you actually were worried about his opinion. His chest clenches. “It’s so different, I was worried I wasn’t doing good.”

He wills his heart to stop beating so stupidly fast while he tells you how there’s no need to be concerned about that. He also finally makes up his mind to ask you out some day soon, if for no other reason than maybe finally getting his heart to finally calm down around you.

a/n: i'm so sorry this took me so long, but i hope you all enjoy it nonetheless <3 school will be calming down significantly for me starting end of march, so pls be patient with me until then!

#skz x reader #skz x you #skz x y/n #skz headcanons #skz reactions #skz reaction #stray kids x you #stray kids x reader #stray kids x y/n #stray kids headcanons #stray kids reactions #stray kids reaction #kpop x you #kpop x reader #kpop x y/n #kpop headcanons #kpop reactions

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