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lundenloves · 9 months

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SIMON TAKING HIS DAUGHTER TO BASE

{✧} dad!simon once again, no one faint i don’t have insurance coverage. soap may be able to fireman lift you home.

{✧} i just wanted to write something with his work and daughters combined and thought, hmm the idea of war, blood and death doesn’t quite match up to a five year old. therefore, this was born. if you don’t fw it don’t tell me, i’ll nosedive into a pit of lava without hesitation. happy reading, kids.

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“Right,” Simon crouched down to his daughter's level, taking her small hands in his. “You stay with dad, yeah?” His finger tapped the side of her nose, the two of them stood by his jeep outside of the base. This was not allowed. He knew that.

But — today was dedicated to paperwork in his office, that was the sole purpose of coming in on his time off. The only issue being, it was a day off for someone else too. His kid. “Can you do that for me?” Thumb smoothing across her cheek, standing back up upon her nod.

“What are we even doing?” She took his extended hand and swung her arms, watching as he swiped a pass through a reader and pressed down on the bar of the door to open it. “How long will we be?”

“It shouldn’t take long, lovie.” He looked down at his little girl. “Just stay with me. Don’t let go of my hand.” Her grip tightened and Simon crossed through seemingly endless corridors and rooms to little eyes, each passing soldier giving her father a firm nod followed by an utterance of ‘sir’ in acknowledgement. She found herself looking into every crevice she could find on their voyage, straying from his side a few times to touch things.

“Where’s uncle Soap?” For every two of Simon’s steps, five of her own were taken, little feet switching between hops and skips each time.

“Not a clue.” Simon mumbled more to himself, looking around corners and turning his shoulder with every voice. “He’s here somewhere. ‘M sure he’ll find you first, kid.” She nodded, trailing her finger across the wall until they had reached his office. “Right,” He continued, fumbling in his pocket for a set of keys. “We won’t be long here, alright?”

“A’right.” She said enthusiastically, her own accent mirroring his and following him into the room. Simon hung by the door for a moment, arm above the threshold to hold himself out.

“Johnny.” He shouted after a group of men, his sergeants mohawk a dead give-away. Soap turned around instantly, something between a respectful soldier and a puppy. Ghost nodded back to his office, planting a hand on his daughter’s shoulder when she had stood next to him, on her tiptoes to see over the passing men. She was barely up to Simon’s waist.

“See him?” His hand moved to her back, eyes flitting between her own and Soap who was wrapping up a conversation, her smile growing to a grin when he had crouched down in the now clear corridor — slapping his knees before holding his arms out.

“C’mere you.” His hardy Scottish accent echoing in the bleak narrowness. She ran toward him, shrieking laughter as he tickled her sides, undeniably gathering a fair amount of attention from soldiers in close proximity. “Alright sweetheart?” Johnny picked her up, holding her against his hip and walking back to Simon’s office. “Is she allowed to be here?”

“No.” Simon answered, holding the door wide for him.

“No one’ll say anything anyway.” Johnny let her down. “Ae, missy?”

She shrugged, moving behind Simon’s desk and climbing onto the seat, small hands fidgeting with the pens that were lying around. Ghost placed his hands on his hips. The dark hoodie he wore was usual, minus the bulky tac vest and belt. “You busy?”

“Will be in,” Soap held his arm up, checking his watch. “Fifteen minutes.”

Simon nodded, looking toward his daughter who had found post-it notes, clicking a pen and doodling across multiple of them. “If you see Price, tell him I'll only be twenty. Maximum.” His eyes hadn’t left her, nodding in approval once she had held up her drawing to him. A stickman.

“Will do, Lt.” Soap crossed his arms over his chest and shifted in his stance. “She’s looking more and more like you. Getting big.” He mumbled the last part, shaking his head slowly as if time had passed like he was a pensioner.

“Hm,” Simon grunted in response. “I’ll see you before I leave, yeah?’

“No bother.” Soap saluted the little girl, taking a post-it she had held up toward him. “Is that me?” He pointed toward himself, folding it and slipping the note into the pocket of his tac vest after she had nodded.

“You’re leaving?”

“I have to darlin’.” His thumb caressed her cheek, taking the discarded pen and doodling his own drawing of her. “Whose that?” He smiled, sliding the post-it toward her.

“That’s not me.” She giggled, pushing it back toward him with a grin. “You’re bad at drawing.”

Simon tsked, moving behind his desk and picking her up to sit on his lap. “Eh! That is so you!” Soap’s accent bounced off the walls causing an eruption of laughter from the little girl and Simon turned the computer monitor further toward him. Thick arms huge next to hers that clung onto them to get a better view of the desk.

A short knock sounded through the room and Johnny moved from the door, hands clasped together as Price walked in. His eyes and demeanor instantly softened at the sight. “Kept this one quiet, Simon.” He chuckled, taking short steps forward to pass him some documents stamped with red classified text.

She smiled at Price although shyed into Simon’s neck, “What is this?” He asked, bouncing his knee up and down to subconsciously entertain his daughter.

“Read it later.” He instructed, nodding once at his sergeant. “Johnny, aren’t you on drill today?” Price stood with his legs a good distance apart, thumbs slotted into his pockets to splay fingers wide over his thighs.

“Ten minutes, sir.”

“And Simon, you’re eh— you’re off aren’t you?” Price continued, smiling at his daughter who was staring up at him with small hands clung to her dads neck. “Take it you’re not here for long.”

He shook his head, leaning back in the chair with hands behind his head. “Just ten minutes or somethin’, finishing these off before Monday.”

“Right.” He nodded. “Mind and not stay for long, yeah? You’re scheduled off for a reason.” Soap held the door open for him, watching as he left with a cautious look on both sides of the corridor before stepping out.

Soap leaned out of the door, eyes following the captain until he was out of view, spinning back on his heel to Simon. “Open it.” Came his intrusive thoughts, nodding toward the classified envelope that had been tossed to the side.

“No.”

“Aw c’mon, we’re both 141.” He slid a seat out in front of the desk, “Just open it.” The letter opener was spun across the desk. “Ae?” Face scrunched up in a convincing nod toward Simon’s daughter. Although, she was busy attempting to climb onto the desk, and would’ve had her fathers hand not prevented it with one swoop. “Tell your dad to open the wee letter.”

“Open the wee letter.” She repeated, maneuvering onto her back across his lap and slowly sliding down onto the floor.

Johnny held his hands out in a way that proved his own innocence, as if that saying was her own doing. “The boss has spoken.” He gestured toward the little girl who stood on her tiptoes to look out the small window.

“Haven't you got drills to run?” Simon said bluntly, dotting his pen and blankly staring at Soap.

“Oh shit.” He pushed the chair in haphazardly.

“You’re leaving now?”

Johnny nodded toward the small girl who held her fist out for him to bump his on. A habitual thing learnt by none other than the Scotsman himself, much to Simon’s unreasonable displeasure.

“Shit.” She mumbled to herself.

“Johnny.” Simon scowled.

“Catch ye, Lt!”

i’m clawing the walls for price.

simon ‘ghost’ riley taglist: @vamppxncess @crowbird @misshoneypaper @tallrock35 @fluffmonster @islanderr @blueoorchid @lea3773 @coldflapjack @rayhawk05 @han11dh @liishook @melovetitties @fallonx @rvjaa @fuckmelifesucks @bhayatsara @takeomisbitch @local-spidey @konigsblog @penutjuice @babychoi03 @sheluvzeren @sparklingtragedy @maviee @wiserebelpartypie @daddylorianisastateofmind @bhayatsara @mistydeyes @writingmysanity @johfaam0 @idkjoequinn @gressseyy @fwibblefwobble @shibble @maladaptivedaydreamingbum @airghostlyfox @hotgirlsshareaccounts @simpxinnie @dilfdotgov

as always comments are reblogs are greatly appreciated! if no one pats me on the head every now and then i’ll sit in a hole.

↳ requests are open for dad!simon stuff although see the masterlist for more info.

#simon ghost riley #cod mwii #cod mw2 #cod mw fanfiction #ghost mw2 #simon riley #simon riley headcanons #ghost headcanons #ghost call of duty #ghost cod #cod mw ghost #ghost #simon riley fanfic #ghost fanfiction #cod fanfic

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frantic-fiction · 4 months

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I'll Find My Way Back to You

(Can't find source of pic if it's yours let me know)

Astarion x GN!Reader

Prompt: A century after Tav passes Astarion comes across an artist who is oddly familiar and paints moments that seemed to be pulled straight from Astarion's life.

Thank you to @justporo for letting me use their idea. Go show them some love.

Warnings: Tav's death, brief mention of s*icide, angst with a happy ending

Word Count: 4.6k (Oops kinda went overboard)

Masterlist

“There’s no world I wish to live in without you,”

“My dear Astarion, we will find our way back to each other. This is not the end.”

Over a century has passed—a long, lonely century without Tav by his side. Astarion doesn’t understand how he’s endured, not with the void in his chest that appeared the moment he laid them to rest. The absence of his person, his love, his Tav, has left Astarion once again alone.

For nearly a decade, he found himself trapped in a state of near-catatonia, a prisoner of time within their empty home. He wasted away, the days blending into one another, each marked by a silent ache in his chest—the void left by Tav’s departure. Tears soaked into the earth of the carefully tended grave, adorned with vibrant flowers from Tav’s garden. He often contemplated surrendering to the sun’s embrace, letting its rays turn his existence to ash for a semblance of peace.

He yearned to end the pain, yet he refrained. He made a promise whispered with heavy hearts and painful sobs—a promise that forced them to confront the harsh reality that Tav would always leave first. Instead of embracing the end, Astarion wasted away, a ghost of his former self, yearning for the return of his love. Change arrived when Tav visited him in a dream; the details were blurry, but Tav’s beautiful smile was etched in memory. The sweet words in that dream eluded him, yet upon waking, a faint lightness settled within him. Astarion graced the night with a flicker of energy for the first time since Tav’s passing.

Tav would have wished for him to move on. They would have wanted him to live. The stagnant life he clung to wasn’t what Tav would want for him. So that day, Astarion gathered his essentials into a bag and set forth as soon as the sun dipped below the horizon. Only momentarily stopping to bid his love a final, tearful farewell. Since that moment, he hasn’t stopped moving.

Astarion believed Tav would take pride in the life he’s built—the good he’s accomplished over the many years. He traversed all over Faerun, from Waterdeep to Skull Crag, never lingering in one place for too long. He wasn’t the hero Tav was, but he aided towns against monsters, dispatched goblins, and took odd jobs to help however he could. Throughout his travels, he dedicated most of his time to sharing stories of Tav, ensuring their memory lived on. When he first heard the bards’ songs recounting the Hero of Baldur’s Gate, he knew he had succeeded. Now, you can’t sit in a tavern without hearing tales and melodies about Tav.

Every day, he longed for Tav to be by his side. He yearned to feel their soft skin, experience their tender kisses, and sense their warm arms encircling his waist—the echo of their laughter dancing in his ears. He missed every aspect of Tav and would do anything to see them again. Yet, the world ran out of miracles for him. Instead, he learned with time to cope, to come to terms with their absence, and keep them close to his heart.

***

Astarion traverses the dusty cobblestone of Wyrm’s Crossing and finds himself back in the heart of Baldur’s Gate—a city he’s consciously avoided for most of the century. It’s a place drenched in memories from his past life with Cazador, but mostly, the streets seem to be haunted by the presence of Tav.

His return to Baldur’s Gate remains shrouded in mystery. All he can discern is that he awoke one day in Daggerford, gripped by an inexplicable yearning to revisit the city. A compelling force tugging him down the Sword Coast, Astarion initially dismissed it as mere homesickness, scoffing at the notion. Yet, the persistent thought lingered, infesting his mind until he could no longer ignore the instinct to return.

The city remains strikingly unaltered despite the passage of time and the trials it endured. The same piss-stained cobblestone, alleyways cluttered with remnants of urban life, and a diverse array of inhabitants navigating the night. It’s an unsettling constant, especially juxtaposed against the transformation of Astarion’s existence.

Wandering through the back alleys and side streets, Astarion meanders aimlessly. Occasionally, a sight triggers memories, evoking a lump in his throat. The Elfsong Tavern, once familiar, now bears a different name and identity, a formal establishment concealing the echoes of nights spent in Tav’s comforting embrace. Bloomride Park, the graveyard, and the docks—all weave together, painting a vivid tapestry of Tav’s omnipresence.

Amidst the tumult of emotions, Astarion grapples with why he subjected himself to this emotional turmoil. The urge to retreat, to flee Baldur’s Gate before the dawn breaks, lingers within him. Yet, the itch persists, buried deep within his bones, propelling him forward. He silently promises himself the night to wander the city, and by this time tomorrow, he will be on his way to another town for another adventure.

Venturing into a dim, isolated street, Astarion observes a solitary lamplight spilling its soft glow from a store window. Peering through, he discovers a small art studio. Within, a graceful elf seems to dance with a paintbrush, each stroke deliberate yet flowing. Like a harpie song, Astarion is mesmerized and utterly captivated. He watches on silently, observing the elves happily consumed with their work. It gives him a wave of nostalgia, moments of watching Tav as they painted, unaware he was watching from the door. Astarion could almost hear the sweet hums that filled the room between brush strokes.

Then he freezes, gaze snapping to the paintings that adorn the studio, scattered reflections of his life. Images of Karlach, Shadowheart, and all the others grace the space. However, it’s the depictions of himself that seize his breath. Compelled by an unseen force, Astarion walks right into the studio. In a far corner, he sees an intimate portrayal—an embrace that resonates with familiarity.

The bell rings, and you break from your artistic trance. Startled, you look up, and there stands the pale elf in the doorway—the hero of Baldur’s Gate, Astarion—the man who has clouded your dreams for as long as memory serves. Startled, you look up, and there stands a pale elf in the doorway—the hero of Baldur’s Gate, Astarion—the man who has clouded your dreams for as long as memory serves.

The dreams began as mere fragments—white curls, sharp teeth, delicate hands. Gradually, they evolved into more vivid scenes—muffled conversations by a campfire, laughter and gentle shoves, and stolen kisses between bed sheets—private moments of a stranger, a byproduct of an active imagination intertwined with an elven crush. Or at least that was what your mother would say. Now, the subject of those dreams stands before you.

Astarion, surrounded by the art that mirrors his life, fixates on a miniature portrait. The details are hazy, yet he recalls the campfire, the desperation in his gaze, and a significant confession followed by an embrace.

You pick up a fallen brush with a trembling hand, placing it in a water cup. Asterion was just as breathtakingly beautiful as your dream portrayed, but to see him in person has your heart hammering in your chest and your breath quickening with nerves. Wiping paint-covered hands on your smock, you took a deep breath and gathered the courage to approach Astarion.

Staring at the portrait, you utter quietly, “This one’s my favorite. Though I wish I could have captured the others’ images better.”

“Tav.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The person you painted. My partner Tav, they used to paint too,” Astarion’s voice carries the weight of unspoken emotions.

“Oh, yes. They were the leader of your group, if I remember correctly. I’m sorry for your loss.”

Astarion remains silent, the canvas now a source of unbearable memories. He moves through the studio, examining the art up close. It’s weird to have your muse perusing around your gallery. It’s embarrassing to have Astarion see just how many pieces have been dedicated to him. What do you do at this point? Should you follow him, tell him about each piece and the dreams behind them? No, that seems pretentious, so you retreat to the canvas you’ve been working on for the better part of the week.

This piece was different—a symbol rather than a person or scene. Rings of unknown runes fan out in jagged edges, evoking a sense of beauty tinged with profound sadness. It disturbed you to your core, but you needed to paint it. It’s how it always goes. Once a dream pops into your head, whether it’s a scene, a person, or a symbol, it refuses to leave until you’ve laid it on a canvas. Picking up the brush, you dip it back into the red paint and continue to bolden the lines.

“Who are you?” Astarion’s voice is right behind you; you jump, knocking a pot of paint over. Cursing softly, you quickly right the pot, attempting to salvage the spilled paint. Paint isn’t cheap, and in your non-upper-class circumstances, every drop is precious.

“Oh, I’m sorry; I have been very rude,” you offer your name. “I, of course, already know you, Astarion. It’s hard not to come across the tales of the heroes of Baldur’s Gate, but I guess—” Your rambling trails off pathetically as something changes in Astarion. There’s tension in his shoulders, a coldness in his eyes. Nibbling on your bottom lip, you nervously play with a loose thread on the smock.

Astarion scrutinizes you with a piercing gaze, his eyes lingering on your face as if searching for hidden truths. The air becomes taut, charged with an almost palpable intensity. Then, as if propelled by an unseen force, he reacts like a tightly wound rubber band snapping. Reaching out, he harshly pulls you to him, bearing his teeth at you. Your stomach drops, shocked by the aggression.

“Have you been following me? Stalking me?” His voice carries a storm of anger, his grip on your shoulders unyielding, the coldness of his touch akin to ice piercing through the fabric of your being. “Don’t lie to me because I’ve shown one person that fucking scar, and I buried them.”

Your heart races, fear coursing through your veins as you whimper a response, tears welling up in your eyes. “I-I don’t know, I’m sorry,”

“Don’t lie!”

“Please, I’m so, so sorry. I don’t know; I have dreams; I don’t know why, b-but I dream of you,” your voice falters, and your vulnerability is laid bare. “I dream of you, your friends, and places I’ve never been. I’m sorry, I’ll stop, I promise.”

As abruptly as his hands seized you, they vanished, leaving you stumbling to your knees, unable to contain the torrent of tears streaming down your face. Curling in on yourself, you can’t stop the cries of apologies and promises of never picking up a brush again, of burning every last piece in the room.

Astarion looks down at you, his expression shifting from anger to a complex amalgamation of horror and something else—perhaps realization. Stepping away, he leaves you rooted to the spot. Your gaze fixed blankly out the window. Odd and conflicting emotions swirl within you—fear, confusion, longing?—all clashing fiercely. Amidst the tumult, one thought emerges with undeniable clarity—this won’t be the last time you see Astarion.

Astarion’s breaths come in ragged gasps as he runs through the barren streets, escaping the grasp of the haunting memories that threaten to consume him. His thoughts are a raging storm, and he pays no heed to the bewildered faces of those he rudely pushes past. The town of Rivington is a blur as he sprints through it, a desperate escape, picking a direction and refusing to stop until his body aches, halting only when the sun begins its ascent above the horizon.

In his frantic need to run, there was no consideration for shelter from the sun’s relentless rays. Mercifully, he stumbles upon an abandoned cave. Dry, dusty, and shrouded in darkness, it becomes his refuge. In a corner, he sinks slowly against the cool, rough wall to the ground, seeking solace in the obscurity.

Astarion pulls his knee to his chest, pressing his forehead against his crossed arms. Shaking and shivering, a stark contrast to the bitter summer heat enveloping the cave, he clings to his vulnerability. Eyes shut tight, jaw clenched, fingernails dig deep into his arms as if attempting to anchor himself in the reality that threatens to crumble around him.

Desperation claws at him, and he yearns for Tav. The desire to feel Tav’s warm embrace, hands crossing over his chest, pulling him close, torments him. He longs for the soft whispers of love and the gentle press of lips. Astarion can’t navigate this without Tav. He’s a mess, barely holding on, living each agonizing day, acutely aware that the best part of him is gone, and he can do nothing to reclaim it.

The cruelty of encountering such intimate moments from his past life with Tav wounds him deeply. These were moments meant for him and Tav alone. Realizing that a stranger could capture those cherished memories intended for one person alone turns his stomach.

Anger becomes a conduit for his overwhelming emotions, and the terrified look on the artist’s face is etched in his mind, an indelible scar on his conscience. Shame burns within him, a searing reminder of the boundaries he violated. Physically assaulting someone in their own space—what would Tav think of him now?

The artist adds another layer to Astarion’s confusion. The familiarity is uncanny—the excited calf raises, the almost-stumbles afterward, the nervous lip biting, puffed cheeks during deep concentration, and the mindless dancing when no one is watching. Every little thing the artist did mirrored Tav, and with all his memories physically displayed, Asterion finds himself lost in a sea of confusion. Why does this stranger resemble his love so deeply?

The bards’ tales of soulmates and reincarnation, once dismissed as mere children’s stories and fiction, now claw at the edges of Astarion’s consciousness. What if? What if Tav found their way back to him? Weirder things have happened in his long life, and the possibility plants a seed of hope within him.

Yet, he forcefully suppresses that hope. It won’t serve him, not now. Instead, he resolves to learn more. By nightfall, he returns to the city, catching the first boat to Waterdeep. After a day and some change, he stands outside the Wizards’ tower, resentment simmering as he contemplates turning to Gale, his best chance at answers.

A groan escapes Astarion as he hangs his head, and a series of knocks echo on the thick wooden door. “This better be worth it…”

The door swings open on its own into a dimly lit foyer. Astarion follows a familiar path, the cool air and faint scent of ancient tomes embracing him. He ascends the staircase with nostalgia and reluctance, each step echoing the countless times Tav and himself sought knowledge and assistance within these walls.

As he pushes open the study door, a scene unfolds before him. Gale is hunched over a worn scroll, graying hair ruffled, and a small pair of reading glasses set on the tip of his nose. The room is bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, creating an intimate ambiance. Notes adorn the margins, evidence of Gale’s ceaseless quest for understanding.

Gale looks up, a broad, warm smile gracing his features, and Astarion is momentarily transported back to the times when this sage was only a joke he poked fun at across camp. Removing his reading glasses, Gale pushes up from his desk, an air of welcoming familiarity enveloping the room.

“Well, look who the tressym dragged in. How are you, Astarion?”

Astarion stiffens as he is pulled into a spontaneous hug by Gale. The embrace is both unexpected and oddly comforting, a physical manifestation of the genuine camaraderie they’ve shared through the years. Astarion, unaccustomed to such displays of affection, awkwardly pats Gale’s back before gently pulling away.

“I’m afraid I’ve been better.”

Gale’s eyes convey concern and understanding as he gestures for Astarion to sit. The worn chair creaks under the weight of memories and the weightier burden of Astarion’s troubled soul.

“Then sit down, my friend, and tell me how I can help.”

***

Days of tireless research and a network of favors exchanged between magical acquaintances have led them to a glimmer of hope. Though not expansive, the discovery hints at the possibility that souls entwined so tightly may have a magnetic pull toward each other. A pull is so strong that souls can find each other in different lifetimes. Tales have described soulmates experiencing memories from previous lifetimes together, but they were vague at best. The specific remains elusive, shrouded in mystery, yet it’s enough to kindle a spark of hope within Astarion’s lonely heart.

Gale, ever the bore, offers a gentle reminder, “Now, just remember, if you try to force feelings before—”

“I would never!” Astarion’s retort carries a venomous edge, an unspoken warning to watch his following words carefully. Gale raises his hands in defense.

“My point is the brain is a prickly thing. It’s best not to rush anything it’s not ready for.”

“Yes, yes, you have said this five times already. Would you please activate the portal? I have an apology to make.”

Anticipation hums in the air, a palpable energy that courses through Astarion. A fleeting smile graces his lips, and for a moment, the weight of his grief is replaced by a glimmer of life.

Looking at Astarion with a fondness born of shared trials, Gale responds, “Of course, Astarion.”

With a confident shake of his wrist, he activates the magical circle, and the room is bathed in a radiant glow of bright runes, their purple luminescence dancing in the semi-darkness.

Astarion steps toward the portal, his heart pulsating with trepidation and newfound hope. However, before crossing the threshold, he turns around to face Gale, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Thank you, Gale. I will not forget this.”

“It was my pleasure. Now, I expect to meet this lovely artist sooner rather than later.” Gale’s parting words hang in the air, infused with the hope of rekindling a connection beyond the realms of understanding.

Back in the heart of Baldur’s Gate, Astarion swiftly navigated the bustling streets, an air of anticipation accompanying him. His purpose was clear—to reach your studio and beg for your forgiveness. A brief pause along the way allowed him to acquire a small bundle of daisies, a spontaneous choice fueled by the memory of Tav’s fondness for these delicate blooms.

As Astarion approached the studio, a surge of uncertainty clawed at him. Hesitation gripped his every step, the shadow of fear etched across his features. The fear in your eyes during the last encounter was seared into his memory. Had his previous outburst irreparably damaged any chance of reconciliation? The conflicting forces of his desire to see you again and the instinct to flee wrestled within him. Yet, he pressed forward, forcing himself down the street, and there you stood.

The scene that greeted him was a chaotic masterpiece of colors. Paint adorned your cheeks and arms, a testament to the artistic fervor that consumed you. Your hair, a cascade of untamed strands, framed a face that mirrored both exhaustion and creative passion. Astarion had a sudden urge to brush the strands away and press a soft kiss to your cheek, something he often did with Tav.

Your weariness was palpable—shoulders slumped, eyes half-lidded. Perhaps, he pondered, he should postpone this encounter, allowing you the reprieve of rest. The realization that he might be the last person you wanted to see compelled Astarion to take a step back, an unspoken retreat.

But just as he moved to leave, your eyes jumped up to meet his, you froze mid-stroke, and Astarion couldn’t read your expression. He should go. Why did he think this was a good idea? He’s just about to run when you nod for him to come in. Obliging, Astarion found himself standing awkwardly within the studio; you went back to painting. Your brush danced across the canvas, applying a vibrant shade of blue in deliberate strokes. Astarion’s attempts to break the silence faltered, his words dissolving into the room’s stillness.

“What are you doing here, Astarion?” The steadiness in your voice pierced the calm. You tried to hold on to your anger for the man all week. But upon seeing him standing so lost on the street had your resolve crumbling. You can’t deny the mild excitement that fluttered through your veins upon seeing him again.

His voice, momentarily lost, found its way back. “I-I came here to apologize for last week. My behavior was deplorable, and I wish to make things right.”

A wry amusement flickered in your eyes as you evaluated the bouquet, now slightly worse for wear under his tight grip. “And you believe a bundle of broken daisies would win you my forgiveness?”

Astarion, caught off guard, looked down at the bruised bouquet. “Um…well, I was hoping for roses, but they were fresh out.”

A snort escaped you as you put down your paintbrush and approached him. A tentative touch on his forearm transferred the flowers from his grasp to yours, eliciting a shiver down his spine. The longing to reach out is strong, but Astarion holds still as you retreat.

Intently studying the daisies, you began to divide the bundle into two piles. Astarion watched silently, recognizing echoes of Tav’s essence reflected in your actions. While understanding that you were not Tav, the profound sorrow gripping his heart seemed to ease in your presence.

“Half,” you declared suddenly.

“Pardon?”

“Half of the daisies survived.”

“And where does that leave us?”

With a theatrical flair, you pondered the question, pacing the room. “That, good sir, is the question. What is my forgiveness worth? I did luck out; daisies are my favorite, so you’re a step farther than roses would have gotten you.”

Astarion, grasping the playful undertone, decided to play along. With a hand on his hips and a wicked smirk, he responded, “Well, I am a pretty lucky man. Now, please, I beg, what more can I do to gain your forgiveness?”

You hummed softly, tapping your chin. You keep Astarion in suspense for a moment before you suddenly turn to the man. “How about…I get dressed, you take me out to dinner, and we’ll go from there?”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” The agreement hung in the air, a hope for something more lingering.

***

The dinner evolved into an evening stroll, a seamless transition from pleasant chatter to playful banter. It was an unexpected evening, but the time spent with Astarion was so easy, so familiar you didn’t want it to end. Reading about the saviors of Baldur’s Gate was intriguing, and dreaming of a vampiric elf held its allure, but nothing compared to the tangible presence of the real Astarion.

Astarion embodied the epitome of perfection – handsome, intelligent, and endowed with a wit that had you giggling all night. He was the quintessential gentleman, the embodiment of every mother’s hopeful wish for their child.

What started as a single date quickly snowballed into a series of enchanting encounters – one date led to two, then five, until you found yourself drawn into his orbit every week. The pace was exhilarating, and being around Astarion felt like being charged with an electric current. It was not just addictive; it was a whirlwind of happiness, and you couldn’t help but revel in it.

If one indulged in whimsical tales, the idea that Astarion might be your soulmate would have crossed your mind. His ability to read you so intimately sometimes felt like he delved into the depths of your mind.

The dreams persisted, evolving into a kaleidoscope of memories that intertwined your moments with Astarion and a phantom era where someone else shared his company. Astarion, at times, would cast glances at you as you transferred another dream to canvas, an anticipation lingering in his eyes. Despite his attempts, he couldn’t veil the disappointment when the visions resulted in nothing more than another painting adorning the wall.

Then, it occurred on a serene spring day, three years since Astarion first entered your studio. The sun had yet to set, and you found solace curled up with Astarion. Limbs tangled, chests pressed together, hands intertwined – a tableau of intimate connection. His cold nose nestled against the crook of your neck, his white curls playfully tickling your nose.

Behind your closed eyelids, soft images of a forest clearing unfolded – Astarion shirtless, beckoning you towards him. Something clicked, and suddenly, the foreign memories that greeted you each night became a mosaic of your own experiences. The floodgates opened, overwhelming you with a lifetime of moments – kisses beneath the stars, laughter resonating around a campfire, and heart-stopping close calls with death.

Astarion often spoke of Tav, a robust and kind soul who played a pivotal role in shaping him. He wouldn’t be who he is today without them. You now knew a bit better; yes, you had nudged him along the way, but his growth was his own, and you couldn’t be more proud. To think of the years he spent without you, the grief he must have had to push through. If the roles were reversed, you don’t believe you would have been strong enough to keep going.

Startled from his slumber, Astarion found your body descending upon his, your hand meeting his chest with firm slaps. “Stop you, little gremlin.” Groggily, he attempted to restrain you in a tender embrace. He was met with your swift departure from his lap. He heard the patter of your feet retreating from the bed.

“You are a bastard, Astarion!”

Fully alert and by your side instantly, “What did I do, my sweet?”

Worry etched into every crease of his face as he cupped your jaw, looking frantically into your eyes. You intertwined your fingers with his, your other hand reaching out to caress the skin of his hip. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Your voice is barely above a whisper.

Astarion scrutinized your face, his eyes delving deep into yours. The faintest furrow of his brows betrayed his thoughts. As if following an unspoken script, he pulled you in by the waist, foreheads gently meeting.

Glistening with unshed tears, Astarion whispered, “You remember?” His voice trembled.

“Yes… maybe it’s all still tangled. But yes, I remember Tav – well, I remember us.”

Astarion’s smile widened, his fangs peeking out, and his lips met yours in a heated kiss spinning the two of you around the room. It was a slow dance of lips as if Astarion had all the time in the cosmos to savor this moment. While you could quickly lose yourself in the embrace, you were privy to all his subtle tricks. You turned your face when he attempted to draw you back into the kiss.

“Gods, Astarion, for three years, you knew and never said anything. I’ve painted you for almost as long as I could wield a brush, and for three years, you knew why!” Another slap graced his chest, and tears trickled down your cheeks, eagerly wiped away by his thumbs.

“I wanted to, my love. The moment I realized I wanted to. But this couldn’t be rushed; you can’t rush the mind.”

“Star, I’m so sorry I took so long,”

“No, stop; you took as long as you needed to return to me.” His forehead rests against yours once more, and the room stands still for a moment. “What matters is you’re here, in my arms, and I’m not letting go anytime soon.”

A choked sob mingled with a chuckle, and you nuzzled closer into Astarion, hiding your face into his neck. “Gods, I love you, Astarion.”

“And I love you.”

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Okay loves, let me know what you think. I've been working on this for over a week and still find some sections I'm not all that happy with, but I want to move on to other pieces. Any and every interaction makes my day.

Taglist: heartfully10, ayselluna

#astarion x reader #astarion x tav #bg3 #reader insert #astarion imagine #bg3 astarion #astarion ancunin #astarion #fanfic #writing #soulmates #soulmate au #reincarnation #frantic fiction

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miserycanary · 1 month

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A FIXED HEART IN YOUR HAND ᡣ𐭩 previous ⤶

♡⃛ ‘My Hell For Your Love’ alternative ending

pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley & fem!reader

synopsis: is it done? hopeless love? How Ghost is after the break-up

tags: :3..

Ghost swears he’s going crazy. In his eyes, the walls are dimmer and everything seems… out of place. He seems out of place. Not when you’re not there with him. “Fuck,” he grumbles, tilting his head back on the headboard of the bed you used to share with him. He knows it’s disgusting but he hasn’t had the courage to change the bedsheets since that day, too scared he’d forget how you smell. Ever since you came over for the last time to take your things, he lost everything in the apartment that reminds him of you— that reminds you guys happened.

It seems like he’s in a worse state than he thought when even Price came up to him, asking him to hang after work shifts. Ghost knew that he was not in the best state and everyone in the base was muttering about it. Seeing as he had nothing more to lose (you were all he had), he agreed.

The bar was filled with cigar smoke and the smell of cheap liquor. It was bustling with bodies grinding on each other everywhere. He had let himself go but his build still managed to attract stares, often getting hit on by ladies looking for someone to fix their daddy issues. And each time he turns them down until he sees a familiar figure. Like a dog, he chases someone who seems to be you but only to feel a pang of disappointment.

The night seems to pass quickly. He’s suddenly in bed with the girl who looks like you. He knows it’s wrong to play with her, but he needs you— one way or another. It just ended up with him more frustrated. She wasn’t like you. The way she felt, her look, and her voice. Everything was so different.

He didn’t even stay the night, unable to process the fact he laid with someone who wasn’t you. Placing some bills on the bedside table, Ghost takes one more look at her sleeping figure that paints a scowl on his face. Even the way she sleeps wasn’t like you at all. The walk back home was exhausting, with a cigar between his lips and a burden in his heart.

His steps halted when he found himself in the familiar street of your unit. “I’m really going nuts,” he chuckled to himself, peering up to look at your unit that always had its windows open. He was about to risk it all when he heard your laughter and a voice. The sight before him made him lose it. You had a guy over. Someone who doesn’t even look like him! Ghost snaps back when he realizes he let go of his cigar. Looking down at the still burning light, he contemplated. Was it done? Were you gone from him forever? No, right? It’s a one-night stand, convinces himself.

It wasn’t a one-night stand, he realizes. Holding the wedding invitation in his hand 2 years after that. The words printed on the dedication had his stomach churning.

‘To my old friend, Simon,

I invite you to my wedding. Thank you for being with me for many years. You have helped me become who I am today, so I would love if you’ll be there. We promised we’d be with each other during our happiest moment, right?

All love,

Y/N’

꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱: the last and final part. Go read the alternative ending! Sorry if it’s rushed!!

dividers by @cafekitsune

Please reblog!! Ask is open!

⟢ taglist is open! Comment if you want to be tagged in the next posts.

check out my other works in the masterlist: ୭!

#simon ghost x you #simon riley cod #simon ghost x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #cod x reader #cod modern warfare #cod mw2 #simon riley call of duty #ghost riley #simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #ghost x you #ghost cod #canary’s melodies #RUSHED #simon riley #ghost angst

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inniebin · 8 months

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What nicknames bf!skz would give you~

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Pairing - ot8 x reader

Genre - Fluff, angst-ish for Seungmin (sorry minnie stans 😭)

CW - Smacking (affectionate!!), mention of worshipping, bad language.

Chan;

There was one time when him, Changbin and Jisung were working on an upcoming comeback and you were sitting on the couch with the younger members of 3racha while Chan was on his chair. He had gotten a notification on his phone and looked down to read it and spoke without looking up, "Baby girl, can you go get the food we ordered? It's just arrived." You stood up and ushered a quick "Yeah" as you left the room while Changbin and Jisung were looking at each other with their eyes wide. Chan hadn't realised he had called you 'baby girl' until you had left and he heard the other two burst into laughter and tapping his shoulder. He quickly smacked their heads and told them to shut up before you came back in. You came back and didn't even question why Changbin and Jisung were wiping tears from their eyes and catching their breath while Chan was blushing like crazy.

Minho;

You two were just cuddling on the couch watching some shitty movie on the TV when you looked up at Minho and called his name. "Hm?" he hummed without taking his eyes off of the screen. "I want a kitten" you said which got him to look down at you, smiling "Already have one." He laughed when he saw your confused face. "You do?" You thought he only had Soonie, Doongie and Dori. "Yeah, you. You're like a kitten, clingy as hell and always pestering me." You smacked his arm, "Hey! Rude..." He smirked at your reaction. "I never said that was a bad thing, Kitten." You blushed and tried to focus on the movie again, not before catching him smirking into your neck before giving it a peck.

Changbin;

Honestly? He calls you by a bunch of nicknames but his favourite has got to be 'princess'. He thinks that you look like a princess so he most definitely thinks that you should be treated like one. He pretty much worships you and the ground you walk on. You can't even go an hour without him calling you 'princess'. Be it when you're spending time together and just chilling or when he texts you while he's producing another song or practicing in the dance studio. If he's the one to text first then you should fully expect to see it starting with 'Princess' or 'Hey princess'. His goodbyes definitely include the word too, "Bye Princess!!" or "I love you, see you later princess ❤". Blushes like mad and tells you to stop when you call him a nickname but thinks it's fine to call you by one 24/7. Gets all giggly when you call him 'Prince' because he thinks it's cute that you two have matching nicknames.

Hyunjin;

Stays want to know why his favourite thing to paint are flowers. The answer? That's the nickname he has for you. He has a whole sketchbook just for drawing and painting flowers. If you dye your hair? He paints flowers only that colour until you change it. He has a second sketchbook that he fills with flowers. Every page is covered, except the middle two. Those two pages have a drawing of you in the the middle and at the top "My Flower" is written in cursive. Around the drawing of you are things he has written himself. Things that remind him of you and how he feels about you. On your 1 year anniversary he had given you the complete sketchbook and once you see the middle pages, you start to cry which in turn makes him cry too. Little did you know that he would do this every year and when your 4 year anniversary hit, instead of it being a drawing of you it was a drawing of a ring with the words 'Will You Marry Me?' at the top.

Jisung;

I know this is simple but... 'baby'. Whenever he's writing a romantic song he makes sure to have at least one 'baby' in it. He knows that you know it's his nickname for you so he found a way to dedicate every song to you without mentioning your name. I also think that Jisung would want to be more private with relationships. I'm talking private, not even the members know about you. Jisung told his members about you a few weeks after your 1 year anniversary, announcing it publically 2 months later. He thought that his first live after the announcement was hell. STAYs were constantly teasing him in the comments about finally knowing who 'baby' was in all his songs, making him blush while you're laughing at him from the other side of the room.

Felix;

He called you 'Chick' once when you firsted dating and it kinda just stuck with him. He was so happy when he was able to choose his SKZOO to be a chicken. Whenever they are touring and you're not able to join them, he'll steal some of his favourite perfumes of yours and spray Bbokari with them. He likes to pretend that it's you that he's hugging every night to help him fall asleep. Not before sending you a 'goodnight' voice message obviously. If you wear an outfit that he loves then he'll try find Bbokari a matching version and get you to take photos together and put the in the 'family photos' album on his phone.

Seungmin;

He doesn't really like nicknames so when he does use one on you it's normally 'love' and it normally means he's done something that he thinks you'll be mad at or he's just not had a good day. Today? His day was horrible. He kept messing up choreography to the point where he had to sit out and he just couldn't get his lines right in the studio. You walk through the front door to see all of the lights off, the only source being the reflection of Seungmin's phone on his face as you see him lying on the couch with himself wrapped in a blanket as you go to make yourself a drink in the kitchen. He notices you and whispers a small "Hey, love." Your attention is immediately shifted from your glass to him. "What's wrong?" You look at him with a worried expression. His eyes start to tear up, "Today was just shitty..." You rush over to him when you hear a quiver in his voice and kneel down so you can hug him. "Hey... you're fine, tomorrow will be better. I promise." You say before you tell him to scooch over and let you under the blanket so you can smother him in cuddles.

Jeongin;

He had just got back to your shared apartment after a long day of preparing for a comeback, stuff like practicing choreo and recording lines. He was too tired to even get himself to your bedroom because he caught sight of you watching TV on the couch and literally plopped next to you. His head was resting on your right shoulder and you moved your left hand up so you can play with his hair. "Hm... Bub that feels nice." He muttered as he started nodding off to sleep, 'Bub?' you thought. You decided not to wake him up and quiz him on it, deciding to do that in the morning so you could also see his flustered face.

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dewdropdinosaur · 2 months

Text

Redemption is Best Served Hot

LUCIFER x READER

Part Two

Summary: You are like the mom Charlie always wanted. And like the partner Lucifer wishes he had.

Warnings: NONE.

REQUESTS ARE OPEN! See pinned post for details

In the bustling underworld of Hell, where chaos and mayhem were the order of the day, there stood a peculiar establishment known as the Hazbin Hotel. Run by the optimistic and determined demon princess, Charlie, the hotel aimed to rehabilitate wayward souls and give them a chance at Heaven.��

You, an older demon, found yourself entangled in the unique tapestry of the Hazbin Hotel. Drawn to Charlie's mission and warmth, you had become an essential part of the hotel's daily operations. As the pseudo-mother to Charlie and the other inhabitants, Y/N provided a sense of stability and care in the tumultuous underworld. A pillar of support for the lost souls seeking refuge within the hotel's walls, helping with the cleaning, aiding anyone with anything; you were in fact quite literally acting mother to all six inhabitants. Not that they minded, each loved you in their own way. Even Alastor, who would not admit it to himself that maybe your cooking could have rivaled his own mother’s.

“Nifty darling, here. Don’t run around with that old knife. This one is much sharper.” “Oooooo, thank you! BUGS PREPARE TO DIE!”

“Angel, poor thing. Come here, let me draw you a bath and we can talk all about it….or we can just sit in silence. Whatever you would like.” “Yeah…that woulds be good.”

“The new shipment just arrived, Husk! Do you want me to help you carry it in?” “Nah, I got it. But thanks.”

“PENTIOUS! What did I say about letting the Egg Bois into my kitchen?!” “Sssssory Mssss Y/N.” “It’s alright dear, just…please be more mindful of them. I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

“Vaggie, no you may not kill Alastor.” “But..!” “No buts! You will respect Charlie’s wishes. And that goes for you too, Alastor.” “Oh me? Darling, it would be a pleasure to do as her highness commands.”

And so on and so forth as the world goes.

Over the years, Lucifer, the charismatic and charming ruler of Hell, found himself increasingly drawn to you after the original spout with Heaven. It wasn't just your unparalleled dedication to the hotel or the unwavering support you offered to Charlie; it was a magnetic force that pulled him towards you. Lucifer, accustomed to the chaos and seduction that surrounded him, found the calm demeanor and genuine kindness irresistible. In the dimly lit chambers of the hotel, Lucifer found himself captivated by your unwavering dedication and boundless compassion. He admired the way you effortlessly navigated the tumultuous currents of Hell, offering solace to those who had long abandoned hope.

One evening, as the residents of the Hazbin Hotel gathered for a makeshift family dinner, Lucifer couldn't help but steal glances at you throughout. Laughter echoed through the room, bringing an unusual warmth to the usually cold and unforgiving realm. Lucifer found himself captivated by the way you effortlessly connected with the diverse souls seeking salvation and he felt his heart twinge a little. The scene was sweet, almost too much so. It made him long for something he had never had with Lillith or thought he could ever have. He hardly touched his food all night, too enthralled with you and your presence. You were like an angel, ironically so.

After the meal and asking the Egg Bois to clean up(they were kind enough to oblige), you retreated to the hotel's back rooms with a book in hand, a haven of peace in the chaotic underworld. Lucifer followed, the air thick with an unspoken tension. You, engrossed in a book, hadn't bothered to notice the King of Hell until he cleared his throat. With a small flush of embarrassment at accidentally ignoring him, you looked up and met Lucifer's piercing gaze with a soft smile, setting your book aside.

“What can I do for you Lucifer?”

"Quite the family you've built here," Lucifer commented, his voice a silky blend of charm and authority.

Smiling and setting the book aside, you laughed softly. "They're a unique bunch, but they deserve a chance at redemption, don't they?"

Lucifer nodded, taking a step closer. "And what about you, Y/N?”

Your gaze met Lucifer's, eyes reflecting a depth of understanding about the true meaning of his question. "We're all seeking something, aren't we? Redemption, forgiveness, a second chance."

Lucifer reached out, gently tracing a finger along Y/N's cheek. "And what do you seek, Y/N?"

Your heart fluttered, and as you took a deep breath you held his gaze. Oh how he loved that dazed look in your eyes. He wanted you to look up at him that way everyday if possible. Just the way your sparkling and your lips parted so sinfully sweet, he knew even the original sin barrer himself could be tempted. "I seek a chance to make a difference, to maybe bring a little of Heaven down here when I could never do it when I was alive."

Lucifer leaned in, his lips dangerously close to your ear. "Perhaps you've already brought light to the darkest corner of my realm."

Lucifer then pulled away, a small flush gracing his cheeks. He tipped his hat in acknowledgement before leaving the room without another word. Once outside the door, Lucifer pressed back up against a wall and could feel his undead heart about to beat out of his chest. Placing a hand over his chest in order to calm himself back down, the King of Hell flew back to his castle with a giant grin on his face.

You too were no stranger to the effects of his…flirting. A giant grin and flush appeared on your face as you sunk back down into the chair you were sitting in. Giggling like a schoolgirl, you kicked your feet happily and ignored the book you were once reading.

A forbidden connection sparked between Lucifer and you, a dance of redemption and desire in the heart of Hell, where the Hazbin Hotel stood as an peculiar beacon of hope. For in the heart of Lucifer Morningstar, amidst the chaos of Hell's domain, love had found its most unlikely champion.

#romance #hazbin hotel fandom #vizziepop #hazbin hotel lucifer #lucifer morningstar #lucifer x reader #Lucifer Morningstar x reader #lucifer magne #hazbin lucifer #imagine #lucifer imagine #hazbin hotel 2024 #hazbin hotel #dad beat dad #lucifer hazbin hotel #king of hell #take that depression

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dotster001 · 2 months

Text

Leech Vs Morality

Summary: Jade x gn!reader When paired off with Jade for a class, the two of you have a debate about morality.

A/N: dedicated to my pookie wookie @tiyoin who has Jade leech brain rot right now. I present you with one of the few moments you will ever fluster Jade Leech 😁.

You were paired up with the second years in potions today. The love potion you would be making was extremely complex, so Crewel had thought it safer to have an older student guide you.

You winced as you watched Floyd bouncing off the walls while Jack stared straight ahead. Poor guy got stuck with a rough partner.

Meanwhile, your partner was a little too good at this potion. But you weren't going to think about it.

“And done. Excellent work, partner,” Jade beamed at you. It had taken ten minutes to complete it, and he'd finished like it was nothing. All your classmates were still on step two. You weren't going to think about it.

“Thanks for the help, Jade,” you sighed, slouching in your seat.

“It was no problem.”

You sat in silence for a moment, until Jade broke the silence.

“You look like you have something you want to ask.”

You thought for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah. Why did we make this?”

“Love potions are an important staple in potion making.”

“But why?”

He laughed lightly, “I'm not sure I follow.”

“Well, aren't love potions unethical?”

He froze, the atmosphere between the two of you becoming tense.

“Unethical?” He laughed hoarsely.

“Yeah. You're forcing someone who wants nothing to do with you, to love you.”

“I wouldn't use the word unethical, perse..”

Was he sweating? He looked clammy.

“Why not?”

“Well, a love potion doesn't last forever. So if you want the object of your affections to love you, you either need to invest a lot of money into making potions forever, or you need to figure out how to get them to love you in the time limit. Simply put, it is getting your fin in the door.”

“But it's still a love born on lies, and the abuse of free will!”

He slowly pulled out his phone, his expression had long since turned back to normal, but his typing was hurried.

“They're quite common around here. If someone were to use one on you…” he trailed off, his brow quirked in amusement.

You stared at him, not nearly as amused as he was.

“They would never have a chance of me even speaking to them once it wore off,” you said firmly.

“Hmm.”

His phone rang, and he stood up.

“That's Azul. I have to take this.” Without waiting for your response, he left the room in a rush, hurriedly saying something in a language you didn't recognize.

“What'd you say to upset Jade so bad?”

You shrieked. You had been so focused on Jade leaving, that you hadn't noticed Floyd take his seat.

“I didn't say anything! And what do you mean upset, he looks fine!”

“Nah. He's upset. I can tell. Absolutely devastated,” Floyd grinned excitedly. “So, spill! What was it?”

“All we were doing was debating whether love potions are ethical or not!”

Floyd burst into laughter.

“What's so funny?” You snapped.

“You're just so adorable, Shrimpy. Gotta be careful about that, or some shark is gonna eat you up-”

He was yanked from the chair, and you started as Jade held him an inch off the floor, by the collar.

“Fufu, Floyd,” his tone was a warning. Of what you didn't know, but you were a little too scared to ask.

“Jade,” Floyd responded with a giggle.

“Don't you have your own partner to assist?”

“Just lookin out for my brother, that's all!”

Jade set him down, and Floyd threw you a wink, before skipping back over to Jack, who mouthed you the word, ‘help’.

Jade sat in his chair, and scooted closer to you.

“So, Y/N. If someone were to win your heart, without a love potion, how would they do it?”

....

Tag list- @eccedentesiast-sapphic @leoll @pikeru565

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #jade leech x reader #jade leech

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macfrog · 9 months

Text

rack 'em

the girlies watched triple frontier last week and it was the single most inspiring thing i have ever seen so here’s a lil frankie fic to cleanse my mind. dedicated to my babies @gracieispunk (who put this concept in my head for the wee laddies), @hellishjoel & @strang3lov3 🤍

pairing: bbf!frankie morales x f!reader

summary: when your parents ask you to housesit for them, you take the opportunity to spend some quality time back in your hometown, hanging with your older brother and...getting reacquainted with his best friend

warnings: 18+ (minors dni!!!) reader is santiago's younger sister, she and frankie do not get along, teasing & touching, dubcon (reader is a little drunk, frankie is not), oral sex (f receiving), alcohol consumption, quick mention of dr*gs, cursing, frankie's a bit of a dick but reader gives as good as she gets

word count: 6.1k (cause apparently i don’t know how to write short fics 🤪)

main masterlist

When you were four, a new family moved in across the street. Nobody knew them – your mom spent two straight days trying to scoop for information. Who they were, where they’d moved from, what was with the banged-up Ford pickup they drove. Nobody knew a thing.

You didn’t take much interest, being four years old – two months shy of your fifth birthday, by the way – and too invested in whatever politics a woman of your age finds herself wrapped up in, but you noticed one key thing about them.

The mom had tattoos.

Two full sleeves. Colorful ones, too. A bright red heart on her shoulder, a green snake wrapped around her forearm – among others. It was fucking cool, alright? No matter how much your mom whispered to Ms. Teller over the fence about them.

One night, when you were supposed to be in bed, you snuck out of your room and crossed the landing to your brother’s. Santiago and his friends were all staying at Tom’s, and you knew that in his desk he had permanent markers. You clicked the door open, as quiet as you could, and crept over his matted carpet to the drawer. You took one Sharpie, and spent the night adding snakes and hearts and whatever else came to mind to your Barbies’ arms, legs, faces, necks.

They looked fucking awesome. Just like that mom across the street.

But somehow or other – and I’m not blaming anyone – the next morning, a drawing appeared on the bathroom wall. In Sharpie. Your mom hit the roof.

As soon as Santi got home, she dragged him by the ear into the bathroom and pointed a trembling finger at the drawing. You forget what it was – it’s been years, and you were never much of an artist.

His plea of innocence helped him none; she knew he owned Sharpies, knew he sucked just as bad as you did at drawing, and he was grounded for three whole weeks. No soccer practice, no TV, no PlayStation. Which, at thirteen, is basically a stint in Rikers.

Your brother, though…he was always better than your mom at reading your mind. He saw the guilt on your face plain as the black marker behind the toilet tank. He cornered you in your bedroom as soon as she went back downstairs, and established three key rules going forward.

One: do not enter his room ever again.

Two: no touching his stuff.

And three: anytime he took the fall for you, you owed him. Big time.

You’ve followed the rules ever since. You barely knew what the inside of his room looked like, growing up. But it worked, ‘cause ever since the Sharpie incident of ’99, you two remained closer than most siblings with an eight-year age gap.

So, now, two days into a two-week stay back in your hometown to housesit while your parents head off on a cruise to celebrate their anniversary, you’re in the car with him. Listening to music, bitching about your mom, arguing over the best Cola flavor.

It’s like old times.

“She said, How’s my baby girl?” you yell over Stevie Nicks’s voice, reading from your phone.“And when I said I’m fine, she said, No, I meant the dog. Is she fucking serious?”

Santiago’s head tilts back with laughter, dark curls nudging against the headrest. He’s driving you to Lucky’s, a local sports bar he and his buddies frequent. He promised when he picked you up at the airport he’d take you out, get you drunk, and he was holding to it.

You pull your legs down off the dash as he turns into the parking lot, pulling in right under the white fluorescent sign, four-leaf clover flashing under it.

“She’s looking forward to seeing you when they get back,” he tells you, switching the engine off.

“Oh, yeah? That why she didn’t even hang around to see me before they left?”

He hands you a smug grin, shrugging his shoulders. “Can’t have it all, big shot. You move a thousand miles away, you forfeit your chance of being the favorite.”

You swing your door open and hop out, chasing him around the car to follow him inside. “You say that like I was ever in the fucking running.”

He snorts, pushing the door open, and a loud cheer roars through the bar. You blush as you follow your brother across the room to two tables full of familiar faces.

“Hey, baby.” Your best friend’s arms pull you in, her gold hoop earrings cold against your cheek. She smells like rose and cedarwood.

“Mal,” you hum, smiling as she pulls away.

“My mom said your parents only just made it on board,” she says, detaching strands of her long, black hair from the cuff of your jacket. “Said they had a flat tire and had to race to get to the boat.”

Your head jerks back. “She never told me any of that. Just asked how Ange was.”

Mal snorts.

“Hey, lil Santi!”

You glance over your shoulder to watch as Benny Miller stalks over, almost shoving some old guy off his feet, arms wide open, wide grin spread across his lips. His brother, Will, follows behind, and gives your shoulder a loving slap when Benny pulls you in for a hug.

“How’s Boston treatin’ ya?”

“Good,” you reply. “How’s…MMA treating you?”

“Good!” he echoes, eyebrows almost reaching his hairline.

It’s kinda part of the deal that your older brother’s friends become brothers in their own right to you, especially when you’re as young and easily-influenced as you were. They used to use you in their elaborate plans – send you in as a distraction while they filled their pockets with food at parties, or use your smaller stature to their advantage when attempting to break into places they shouldn’t.

By the time you were old enough to follow their orders, they were well into their teens. Which is basically grown-up, as far as six-year-old you was concerned. They were always allowed to do things you’re still not sure your mom would permit you to do at twenty-eight, like disappear all day without checking in, or come home black and blue after an organized street brawl with the boys from the other side of the neighborhood.

But there was no denying they cared about you. Will, Benny, and Tom, at least. They showed their affection by ruffling your hair as they passed, or sneaking you candy under the table even after your mom had told you you’d had enough. They’d christened you ‘lil Santi’, a name that – despite the embarrassment it always casts over you anytime you hear it – still sticks to this day.

Your brother’s friends were family to him, and, by extension, family to you.

Well. All but one.

Frankie Morales – nickname Catfish: long-time best buddy of your big brother, and long-time fucking asshole. There isn’t one thing on Earth that you two see eye to eye on, except for that very fact: he hates you almost as much as you hate him.

Always have, always will.

He’s in trouble almost regularly for drug-related stuff you don’t bother asking Santiago about. You don’t need to hear details to know he’s a pain in the ass. He’s been antagonizing you for as long as you’ve known him – where the others ruffled your hair, he’d shove into your shoulder as he passed, sending you – and whatever you were holding – flying. Any attempt you made at conversation with any one of them resulted in an argument between you and Frankie.

You hated him. Fucking hated him.

And tonight, you almost think yourself lucky. Almost go over to thank Santi for not inviting him, when you notice the silhouette of his baseball cap and that denim button up hunched over in a bar stool, and your eyes narrow.

You can’t help yourself. It’s been a years-long feud. And you’re old enough to take him on now. So, you stride over.

“You here to poison my drink?”

“What?” he asks, shaking his head. Already exasperated just by the sight of you.

“I bet you cheered the loudest when I walked in.”

He shrugs. “Cheered when your brother gave me fifty bucks to show face.”

Your upper lip curls. When the bartender notices you standing, elbows propped on the bar, he leans over.

“Beer, please.” Your smile twists into a grimace when you catch Frankie watching you. “What are you doing here? You have to be the person least excited to see me home.”

“I told you,” he says, lifting the bottle to his lips, “I’m bein’ paid.”

“Alright, so what do I gotta pay you to make you leave?”

Frankie scoffs, opens his mouth to answer what you’re sure is a comment laced with just as much venom, when Will’s strong arms slap down on each of your shoulders.

“We buyin’ our favorite veterinary nurse a drink, Francisco?”

You take your beer from Nick’s outstretched hand, sliding him the cash in return, and hold it up to Will in reply. “I’m good, thanks. Wouldn’t wanna eat into that fifty bucks, Catfish,” you mutter, turning to wander off.

You weave in and out of bodies, making your way to the opposite side of the bar where the pool tables sit. Doused in the warm strip light over the green felt, Santi chalks his cue ready to play against Mal, who’s already lining up her shot.

You hop up on a stool right next to the table, glancing back over to the bar where Frankie sits, now turned to face your direction. His elbow sits on the wooden surface, head turns from the football game showing behind the bar, over to you. And when he sees you looking, turns back to the TV screen, cool expression never changing.

“You done?” Mal asks Santiago, feeding the cue through her ring-decorated fingers.

He nods, tossing the chalk back over to you. “Better get your purse out, Bennett. Lotta sober people in here, all gonna want a free drink once you lose.”

“As if,” she breathes, and breaks the rack.

Somewhere throughout the game – a grueling and controversial one, by all accounts – Frankie makes his way over, following Will. You’re thankful when he plants himself on the other side of the table, one hand in his jeans pocket, the other around a bottle of beer. Though the light only comes up to his chest, right where the last button is done up, you notice him looking. Every fucking glance.

It pisses you off. Not the glancing. The way it makes you feel having him watch you. Wherever it comes from, you swallow it down with one big gulp of alcohol.

The game ends in a questionable loss. This side of the table swears the white skimmed off of Mal’s final solid when Santi hit it, right before it potted the black. The other side objected, claimed it was a clean shot ‘n you all know it. A winner wasn’t officially announced, but, being that Mallory Bennett is a force of nature where her competitive nature is concerned, Santiago was forced to buy the loser’s round.

She saunters up to you with her free whiskey in her hand, silver jewelry clinking off of the cold glass.

“Proud of yourself?” you ask, smirking.

She hands you your third beer of the night, sweeping her silky hair out of her face. “It hit it, alright? I saw it move.”

“Was that before or after you nudged the table?”

Mal holds a finger to her lips. You swat her hand away and the pair of you giggle, leaning into each other like schoolgirls whispering secrets in the playground.

“You know something,” Santiago materializes over Mal’s shoulder, shaking his head, “if you gotta cheat to beat me, I’ll give you the win.”

“Oh, get out,” you throw back. “Don’t blame her for your bad aim. Ms. Teller could’ve hit that shot and she’s got cataracts in both eyes.”

Your brother nods at you, tongue in his cheek. “Alright, smartass. Grab a cue.”

You scoff. Look around the room, shaking your head. The crowd has dispersed a little, folks have turned back to the TV screens, shifted focus back to the alcohol in their glasses. And then you look back to Santiago, holding his arms out.

“Alright. Fuck it.”

You hop down and snatch the second cue, wandering around the table while he racks the balls. He lifts the triangle, rolls the white over to you, and tells you to break.

The multicolored balls scatter in a fleet, two stripes tumble into pockets, and you stand back to survey your options. There’s a third stripe close to a pocket on the right, so you wander around to your left and turn.

“’scuse me,” you mutter, nudging Frankie’s stomach with the bottom of your cue.

He shoots you a dead-eyed stare, and takes one step back. And then his eyes drop, and you feel like you could slap him.

But you’re three – almost four – beers deep, and there are heads turning to watch how this plays out, and you can feel the bassline of the music rippling up from the soles of your feet all through your body, and you can feel the heat of his stare on the backs of your thighs, right where the hem of your dress sits.

Suddenly, slapping isn’t what you want to do to him.

Your head turns back to the pool table and you bend over, drawing the cue back between almost shaking fingers, and slam it into the white. It fires into the red striped ball, which hits the corner of the cushion, millimeters away from falling into the pocket.

You sigh, straightening up and waiting for your brother to begin his taunting, but it never comes. Instead, he fishes into his pocket for his phone, tapping the screen and holding it to his ear.

“Yep?” There’s a pause, Santiago’s face sours, and then he glances around the bar. “Right now? Really? No, it’s just…” He sighs. “Alright. I’ll be there. Just…I’m coming. I’m coming.”

He hangs up the phone and curses under his breath, then turns back to you, answering the question on your expression with: “One of our informants just got himself killed. I gotta go.”

“You haven’t even taken a shot yet,” you huff, taking his cue when he holds it out.

“I’ll make it up to you, hermana, promise. How are you gonna get home?”

You shrug. Mumble an, “I dunno.”

His eyes scan the room, passing over Will – already worse for wear, leaning shakily against a nearby table slurring to a group of strangers, then to Benny – stumbling out of the bar door with some girl on his arm, and finally land on the figure behind you, sliding a bowl of peanuts across the table to himself.

“Morales,” Santiago calls, and you throw the cues down on the felt.

“No, no way,” but your brother is already pushing past you to get to his friend. “Pope, no fucking w–”

Frankie turns, handful of nuts, cheek full and chewing.

“I gotta go, trouble at work. Can you do me a favor, man, ‘n make sure she gets home alright?”

“No,” you repeat. “He is not taking me home.”

“Baby,” Santi pleads, “just go with him, please?”

“I’ll walk. It’s, like, a twenty-minute walk.”

“No way. Mom would kill me.”

“Well, then, we just don’t tell her. Pope, please.”

He ignores you. “You are not walking home after dark. No.”

“Probably be safer than in the truck with him.”

Frankie’s head stops flitting between the two of you and his glare settles on yours. “Fuck you,” he spits, shaking his head.

“Right back at you,” you reply, insincere smile on your lips.

Santiago puts his palms together and holds them out to you. “Look, just – please. Just this once. I’ll owe you one.”

He doesn’t owe you one often. Makes a point of deliberately trying not to owe you one. This is an interesting offer. You sigh, and roll your eyes.

“Fine. You better fucking pay me back, though!”

“You got it,” he says, patting your shoulder. “Thanks, man,” he whispers to Frankie as he passes, slipping through the crowd toward the exit.

You and Frankie are left, two feet apart, filled with silence and resentment.

“You looking for someone else to hand your ass to you, lil Santi?” he asks, tossing another handful of peanuts into his mouth.

“You’re funny.” You hand him a smile, which drops the second he looks at it.

But when you turn back to the table and lift the cues, you hand one to him. Push it into his chest, shoot him a narrow-eyed glance.

“One game. And only ‘cause I need a sub.”

He dusts his hands together, shrugs. “Shouldn’t take me too long.”

You stalk back over to Mal, who’s giggling into her glass. “You two are unbelievable.”

“Don’t.” You hold your hand up, taking another swig of beer as Frankie lines up.

On his first shot, he pots that same red you were trying to hit before. His eyes lift only for a second, but you catch the cocky look he throws you and screw your face up.

“Fucking…ass,” you whisper.

Frankie’s shoulders jump, his teeth take his bottom lip. He’s laughing to himself when he takes his next shot, and pots another stripe. And then he stands up straight, holds his hands out.

“Just tell me when.”

“When what?”

“To start going easy on you.”

Fuck off. Fuck off, fuck you, fuck this. Fuck!

One more ball potted and finally, fucking finally, he misses a shot. It’s an impossible shot, anyway, there’s no way in hell he was gonna make it, but that’s not what matters. What matters is the way you twirl your cue in your fingers, then lift it and wander around the table, squeezing between Frankie and the wooden edge to get to your shot.

Your ass brushes past his jeans, and when you turn your head to whisper a sarcastic Sorry, he fucking growls. Low, almost inaudible. But just enough for you to notice, and enough for you to keep pissing him off.

The buzz you’re getting from antagonizing him this much must awaken some sort of billiards skillset you never knew you fucking had, because you pocket four balls in quick succession. Red, then green, then blue, and purple. There’s one ball between you when Frankie rounds the table, eyes scanning the felt for the next best shot he can take.

“Hurry the fuck up,” you mutter as he passes by you, on his third lap of the table.

He tsks. “Impatient,” he replies, shoulder brushing yours heavily. You feel the rough denim of his jeans graze your thighs, the weight of him against your backside for the second time. You push back, leaning into him as he moves past, then leans over, slinks his cue between his fingers, and takes his shot.

The yellow sails into the nearest pocket like there’s a magnet pulling it. The purple does the exact same – he barely has to tap it with the tip of the cue and it’s dropping in atop its predecessor.

Frankie turns, shimmying a little up the table, hip nudging yours out of the way. “Move,” he mumbles, shutting one eye to aim for the black. “Come on…” he breathes, and then shoots.

It bounces off of the opposite side of the table, thudding off of the cushion before it’s rolling toward the pocket and dropping in with a plunk.

He stands, fixing his baseball cap, and leans the cue against the table. “Good game, loser,” he says, ruffling your hair as he passes you.

“What age are you?” you sneer as he wanders back off to his beer, waiting for him on the table next to his bowl of peanuts.

Will wraps an unsteady arm around your shoulder as Frankie tips his bottle against his lips. He’s swaying, dragging you left and right with him as if you’re on a boat.

“He’s…he’s always been the best outta us all,” Will slurs, using his bottle to point at Frankie. “’s why he’s such a good pilot. Good aim.”

You sigh, pushing his heavy arm off yourself and slip back over to Mal, who hands you a sad smile and fixes your hair.

“It was a good attempt,” she says.

“Oh, shut up,” you reply, tossing your bottle up and draining the last of it onto your tongue. “I need another drink.”

You cross the room, suddenly less blurry and tilted, more boring and flat, and lean over the bar. “Nick,” you call, and he twists around, “grab me another–”

“It’s alright, Nick,” a voice yells over your shoulder, “I think she’s good.”

You spin around and it’s that stupid fucking baseball cap and the stupid denim button up again.

“What, I’m not allowed to drink now?”

Frankie’s head cocks. “You don’t think you’ve had enough?”

“I’ve had three. Three beers. The fuck is your problem?”

He tuts, glances left and right, and then back to you. “I think I should get you home.”

“I think you should mind your business.”

“Are you this fucking difficult with everyone when you’re drunk?”

“Nope,” you beam at him, “just you.”

He lets go of the grip he has on your arm and starts backing away. “I’m leaving, baby,” he tells you, nodding goodbye to Nick. “You’re either coming, or Pope’s gonna hear all about it.”

You ball your fists, watching the door swing closed behind him. Your feet stay rooted to the ground, eyes flitting from the parking lot over to Mal, who lifts her arms in a question. You shake your head in response, and her shoulders drop.

Sorry, you mouth, beginning to walk off in Frankie’s footsteps.

Mal blows you a kiss, winks once, and then salutes you goodbye. You shoulder out of the bar.

The ride back to your parents’ place is silent, except for the dull drone of whatever fucking music Frankie has choking out of his radio. You watch your hometown pass by, never taking your eyes off of the blurry streetlights or passing mailboxes, refusing to turn your head further than the middle of the windscreen at him.

He’s humming along to the song, jaw swinging as he chews on gum, arm hanging out of his open window. Everything he does is so fucking irritating, like a constant buzzing in your ear, an eyelash stuck in your eye, the feeling of stepping on a wet floor in socks.

So why, every time you do sneak a glance of him out of your peripheral, does the sight of those focused brown eyes, the strands of gray in his beard, the way his curls flick under the brim of his cap – why does it all stir something inside of you?

Frankie pulls up across the street from your house, white wood a milky blue in the moonlight. You unbuckle your seatbelt and let the strap whip off of your body, rattling against the interior of the truck. The most you’re willing to offer him is a nod of the head in thanks, which he returns, and your fingers hook around the door latch.

“Hey, mind if I come in ‘n use your bathroom?” he asks.

You pause. “Uh, yeah. I mind. No.”

“Come on, baby, I gotta piss like a racehorse.”

You scoff, ignoring him and slip down out of the truck. The door slams closed and you wander over to your parents’ drive, hearing a second slam as you cross the street.

“Uh, where do you think you’re going?”

“If your mom knew you weren’t letting me use her bathroom, she’d kill you, ‘n you know it.”

“My mom doesn’t know you like I know you, asshole,” you retort, but he’s still following you to the front door. “Just – alright. Do me a favor and disinfect it once you’re done. I don’t need them coming home to piss all over the floor.”

“You think my aim’s that bad? Just schooled you in a game of pool.”

You sigh, refusing to rise, and open the door. There’s the gentle scuffing of claws on the wooden flooring, trotting nearer and nearer in the dark hallway, and then the weight of your childhood dog shoves into your body.

“Hi, Angie. Hi, girl,” you whisper, scratching the dog’s white fur, her front paws against your tummy.

She jumps down when Frankie slips in behind you, wandering over with her tail swinging back and forth. He crouches down and holds his hand out, cooing, “Hi, baby,” as she nuzzles against his palm.

“She likes most folks who come by,” you utter, hanging your coat over the banister. “Don’t think you’re special.”

“She always loved me most,” he says, still fussing over the pup, “didn’t you, girl? Yeah, yeah you did.”

You roll your eyes and wander upstairs, leaving Frankie to find the bathroom, use it, and fuck off on his own.

It’s been almost eight years since you last lived here, but your room still looks oddly similar. Same bedframe, different sheets. Same wallpaper, only not covered in posters of your favorite bands. Same shelves, too, just that they hold stuff like vases and seashells and other random ornaments your mom’s picked up, rather than a collection of your favorite movies or framed photos of you and your friends.

You pull your dress over your shoulders and kick your boots off, grabbing a tee from your bag to sleep in. The Nirvana logo lies loose across your chest, the hem dancing along the line of your panties.

As you kneel on the mattress, tossing the million and one fucking pillows your mom has stacked down to the foot of the bed, you hear the door creak open.

“Damn,” Frankie mutters, glancing around the room, “haven’t been in here since I was, what, seventeen?”

“Weren’t welcome then, still not welcome now.”

“You still got that Black Eyed Peas poster rolled up somewhere?” He’s walking in, boots scuffing along the wooden floor.

“Are you lost?”

He looks over to you, stood by the bed, t-shirt barely reaching your thighs. “You know something, you ‘n your brother are so fucking different, it amazes me you’re related.”

“I imagine there’s a lot that amazes you, dumbass.”

He scoffs. There’s a hint of genuine humor in it. Like he’s impressed. And then his eyes scan down your body, lingering on the bare skin of your legs, shifting up to the pink cotton of your panties. They shoot back up when you speak again.

“Seriously, dude. What are you still doing here?”

Frankie turns to the dresser by the window, adorned with framed pictures of you and Santi as kids. “Making sure you get home alright, like Pope told me to.”

“Well,” you shrug, “I’m home, ‘n I’m alright. So…”

He picks up a silver frame; inside, faded by the sun and years that have passed, lives a photograph of you and your brother. He’s on his BMX bike, wide, toothless grin, and you’re behind him, standing on the pegs and gripping onto his t-shirt sleeves as you battle not to fall off.

Frankie laughs a little, turning the frame to show you. “You were always so fuckin’ annoying, you know that?” And then, with a shake of his head as he sets the frame back down, “Still are.”

You cock your head, throwing your hands up with an infuriated sigh. “If I’m so annoying, then why are you still here?”

The look he gives when he turns back around answers that question for you, in a way that his words never could. Never would, to be honest. He’d never admit the thoughts running through his head right now, same as you won’t admit that, likewise, they’re running through yours.

It’d be fucking weird. It’d be wrong, hooking up with his best friend’s little sister. Santi only asked him to get you home safe, not follow you inside, walk straight into your bedroom, look at you the way he’s looking at you right now, silhouetted by the streetlight shining through your still-open shades.

So then, why can’t he walk away?

You make to step forward, and Frankie’s already moving. He meets you halfway, stood on some fancy-looking rug your mom probably spent too much money on, his arms instantly finding your waist underneath your short tee.

“You fuckin’ piss me off, you know that?”

“I know,” you breathe, bottom lip brushing against his, “I know.”

He pushes you backward, sends you stumbling across the floor on your toes until the back of your calves hit the mattress and you fall, dragging him down on top of you. You knock the baseball cap from his head and run your hands through his brown curls, pulling him nearer as his hands begin to move north under the worn cotton of your shirt.

His rough hands cup your breasts, kneading and pinching your nipples as his lips fall to your neck, sucking a bruise into your soft skin.

“Frankie,” you breathe, “what the fuck are we–?”

“Shut up,” he whispers back, teeth grazing over your collarbone. He’s moving down, kissing over your tee as he goes, until he’s kneeling on the floor, your legs dangling off the bed either side of his body.

You push yourself up onto your elbows, watching him as he presses fleeting kisses to the insides of your thighs, making his way closer and closer to your center, covering ground painfully slow.

“Would you – just – fucking – get there?” you ask, head tilting back with a groan.

“Always so fucking impatient,” he mutters, pulling your legs further apart. “Makes sense, though,” he whispers, finger hooking around your underwear, “already so wet.”

“Dick,” you hiss, laying back flat on the bed.

Frankie holds the lace off of your core and then dips his jaw, lips lightly ghosting across your folds. You hum with a mixture of pleasure and annoyance, ready to buck your hips up to him if it’ll just make him move faster.

But you don’t have to wait a second longer. He licks one broad stripe up your center, pressing one chaste kiss to your clit before his tongue dips where you need him most. Your legs go to clamp shut, stopped by his shoulders.

“Fuck, Frankie,” you moan, hand coming down to knot your fingers in his hair.

He hums against your pussy, tongue lapping inside you, nose at the perfect angle for you to rut your clit against.

“Fuck…” you repeat, and he fucking laughs against you. “Quit it,” you hiss, and he lifts his head.

Your eyes shoot open, finding his. Alarmed meeting cool.

“Fine,” he says, smirking. “I’ll quit it.”

“Don’t you fucking– Frankie.”

“Your words, baby.” He shrugs, eyes flitting down to your cunt, soaked under his touch.

“I didn’t mean it,” you moan. “Why are you such a fucking asshole?”

He looks back up. The corners of his mouth pull his smirk into a grin. Some devilish grin, thick with arrogance.

“I’m an asshole,” he echoes, elastic of your panties shifting up to his knuckles.

He watches your cunt as he does it. Runs two fingers between your folds, coating them in your arousal, dipping them deeper until they’re at your entrance.

Your head hits the bed heavily, your body writhing over the white sheets as he pushes closer and closer. His free hand comes up and pushes down on your tummy, holding you steady to the mattress, then –

“I’m the asshole.”

He inserts his fingers, curled, thick, stretching you out over his hand as he pushes in deep. A gasp passes through your lips, exchanging itself for a throaty moan when Frankie begins fucking you on his hand, lowering his lips to your clit again.

His wrist pumps in and out, tongue swirling over the swollen bud, palm pushing harder into your stomach to keep you from upsetting his rhythm with how badly you want to move around.

Your fingers lock a vice grip around his hair, your hips the only part of your body he’ll let you move. You establish a pace of your own, fucking up to meet his fingers, grinding yourself on his wet tongue.

“I’m close,” you pant, Nirvana logo distorted in ruffles at the base of your neck. “So fucking close, Frankie.”

And he can feel it. Feel you tightening around his hand, feel the rhythm of your hips start to miss beats, move clockwise instead of up and down. He can hear as your mouth stops rounding the words, fading into slurs and breaths and moans instead of coherent language.

“F-Frankie,” you cry out, and it’s like music to his ears. “’m there, I’m–”

“On my mouth, baby,” he mutters, withdrawing his fingers and replacing them with his lips again, tongue pushing inside you as you fall apart all over him.

Your back lifts from the bed, fists ball around his hair, pushing his face even harder against your cunt as you ride out your high. You’re moaning his name over and over, echoing off the walls of your little room, escaping out the door and swirling around the hallway.

If you could hear yourself, or cared enough to try, you’d feel fucking embarrassed at what you’re doing – coming apart under Frankie’s touch. It’s Frankie.

The same Frankie you started an argument with one Fourth of July over which was better: ketchup or mustard; the two of you spitting insults over the striped tablecloth, obscene hand gestures being thrown up over plates of burgers.

The same Frankie who’d found out it was you who drew on the wall, and from that day on used it as leverage anytime you set a foot out of line. Used it to shut you up, anytime you so much as thought about talking back, or ratting on the boys.

You’re supposed to hate him. Ask anyone – Santi, Mal, your parents. They’ll all say the same. Like cat and dog.

And yet, here you are. Begging him not to stop, keep his hands and his mouth on you; gasping for breath when he eventually lifts away from you and you collapse back into the bed.

You glance down from under heavy lids, watching as he kisses your thighs again, slowly bringing you back to the room. His chin’s glistening, covered in your cum, beard soaked in you.

You slowly sit up, holding yourself steady with two palms pushed into the mattress. Frankie readjusts your underwear and sits back on his heels, running a hand down his chin and wiping himself clean.

“That was…” you pant, waiting for him to finish the sentence.

He just nods, breathing heavy himself. “Yeah.”

“I gotta…I gotta let…Ange out,” you say, words swaddled by your breath.

Frankie nods again. “I should go.”

You stand at the same time, straightening up face to face. His right side is lit warmly by your bedside lamp, the brown of his eye reflecting a tiny yellow orb back at you; the left side is darker, flecks of hair lit in the pale light from the street, face dark and unreadable. Like he’s two different people, split down the middle now, a before and after.

You’re staring at one another, mapping every inch of the other’s face. Learning it, like it’s new. Like you’ve never really seen each other until right now.

And then he’s turning, picking his hat up from the floor in one swooping motion, and walking out of your bedroom. A deep sigh passes your lips as he goes, relief mixed with satisfaction. And then you follow.

Angie circles him when his boots thud down from the bottom step. He bends to give her more attention, waiting for you to softly pad down alongside him. The dog trots off toward the kitchen, and he turns to you.

He’s back to his unphased self, jaw circling around the gum that he’s still fucking chewing. “Two drinks you owe me, now, lil Santi.”

You cock your head. “Hm?”

“One for showing your ass at pool, ‘n another for that.”

“Get the fuck out of my house, Morales.”

He snorts, wandering off down the hall. You spin on your heel and follow the sound of Ange scraping the back door, throwing a glance over your shoulder.

Frankie meets your eye, and like a reflex, the pair of you toss the finger to one another. He laughs, stepping out onto the porch.

“Anytime you feel like losing again, you know where I am, baby.”

----------

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kookslastbutton · 2 months

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Those Eyes Chico ༓ myg (m) | chapter one

✑ Summary: As the new marketing director for Min Yoongi’s upcoming D-Day album & tour, you’re expected to bring your expertise to the table. This shouldn’t be a problem—you’re the best in the business and you’re used to drawing a strict line between your professional and personal life. But what happens when the lines you’ve fought to keep as separate blur for the first time?

pairing: idol!yoongi x plus size!poc!reader

genre/AU: angst, fluff, smut, slowburn, coworkers2friends2lovers, winter setting, forbidden love,

word count: 6.5k+

warnings: oc is 28, Yoon is 30, oc is not originally from South Korea, oc has light brown eyes, swearing, mentions of alcohol consumption, mentions of anxiety, panic attacks, body insecurities, fear of being blacklisted, emotionally restrained yoon, unstable parental relationships, conservative parents, rude Hybe executive that should be fired, bestie!tae is wonderful support 🥹, and cute yoon and oc interactions bc yeah....its thier first time actually meeting so it must be cute!

now playing: Sweet Dreams by The Last Shadow Puppets

a/n: YAHHH chapter one!! Ok i apologize if the meeting is so long and drawn out...I really tried to make it fun but so much info is needed too haha. Anyway this series is dedicated to my wonderfully crazy friend and sorta beta, Gloom @theuselessdaydreamingidiot, and to all our fellow Yoon lovers bc we miss our sweet man SO MUCH 🥺 Enjoy! 🥰 Also huge thank you to @itaeewon for designing this beautiful series header! Love it!!

Series Masterlist | next chapter >>

Winter in Seoul feels like stepping onto the set of your most beloved holiday film.

As the brisk air wraps around you, delicate snowflakes gather atop your head, urging you to cocoon in your finest wool trench coat. Yet, despite the chill, the sight of frost-bitten trees basking in the morning's golden rays offers a source of warmth and delight. Perhaps the most radiant tree of them all is the towering Christmas tree that sits proudly in the heart of the city. Adorned with shimmering red and gold baubles, the giant evergreen catches the eye of every person that walks by–both tourists and locals alike.

Nearby shopping malls buzz with holiday fervor too as shoppers scour for treasures, couples engage in friendly competition to find the ultimate gift, and children line up to take their picture with Santa. But the best part is when night falls. The whole city comes alive with joy and laughter as loved ones meet one another on the ice-skating rinks, while karaoke bars echo tipsy renditions of timeless songs sung by overworked professionals, each with a bottle of soju in hand.

Yes, Seoul is a place for making memories and you’re in the thick of it.

Having been in the city for three years, one might assume you’ve become well accustomed to the energy of the season. You've really grown to love it here. But adjusting to the new environment is still proving to be a challenge, the most outstanding being the prevailing beauty standards.

Massive billboards featuring stunning models serve as constant reminders of the type of beauty one should aim to achieve as you commute to work. Impossible to miss are the shining examples themselves – iconic k-pop groups Seventeen, Red Velvet, EXO, BlackPink, Mamamoo, TXT, and of course BTS plastered on the side of every flat surface imaginable. You’re not exactly complaining about that aspect as you’ve helped design a good handful of them as a top marketing and advertising professional. But the strict image of what constitutes a beautiful and worthy individual weighs on you more than you’d like.

While a conventional body type isn’t what you’ve been given in this life, you don’t consider yourself to be completely unattractive either. Having high cheekbones, a strong jawline, striking light brown eyes, good enough ass, and a full chest shouldn’t classify as undesirable. Still, you wish you’d adopt this more body positive mindset rather than your current overthinking one. It’s easier said than done, being that you not only see idols everyday on the streets in digital form but at work as well.

You continue further into city until a set of tall, glass doors meet you mere steps away. You tilt your head back to catch the name of the skyscraper before nearing the building’s sturdy, silver handle.

BigHit Music.

Feeling its cool metal under your fingertips, the door swings open with an easier pull than imagined to welcome you into the bustling lobby. You feel a rush of confidence return to you upon entering– this is your domain, this is where you truly shine.

“Did you get the files I sent to you?”

The woman nods her head in affirmation while sweeping a few pieces of her long, silky hair behind an ear. To strangers, she appears to look about 24 which is only four years younger than yourself but nonetheless she’s the same age as you. Hei-Ran is her name, meaning “graceful orchid” according to Korean translation.

Hei-ran is one of Hybe’s newest hires and based on her experience, a near perfect fit to being South Korean boy group Tomorrow X Together’s new marketing manager. Until about three months ago, this had been your job.

You never imagined giving up the position after three years of working in the role. But with December right around the corner Hybe had other plans for you.

"Graduated summa cum laude with a bachelors degree in BTech in Electrical and Electronics Engineering and a MBA in Marketing from NYU Stern. You worked two years as a brand manager for U.S record label Atlantic Records immediately after graduating, and are now working at BigHit Music as a marketing manager for TXT including liaison with their global marketing team.”

You recall Bang PD's voice vibrate in the back of your mind from mid-August. You thought you were called into his office to discuss details of TXT’s latest promo, so having your resume read back to you was a sweeping curve ball. Your determination must have far exceeded the heaviness you felt in your chest because before you knew it you, you were shaking hands with your boss in acceptance of your role – the new marketing director for Min Yoongi’s upcoming D-Day album & tour.

The tedious knot that’s formed in the nape of your neck reminds you that as surreal as the situation might be, it’s undeniably real.

Months spent drafting a comprehensive marketing proposal for D-Day; often until the wee hours of the night, inevitably takes its toll on even the mightiest of warriors. An entire new team of fifty people, all of who you’ll be in charge of orchestrating for the next eight months, doesn’t provide much to relief either.

You’re excited nevertheless. Working with one of the most respected artists in the music industry is an opportunity you couldn’t let slip by, especially since the album’s rock-inspired genre aligns closely with your own music taste.

“Thank you so much for helping me get settled __,” Hei-ran’s gentle voice returns you to the present. “I appreciate the time you’ve taken these last few months to train me despite the tight deadlines you have.”

Smiling, you shake your head. “It’s no problem at all and if there’s anything you need in the future, feel free to give me a call or stop by my office.”

“On the 16th floor right?”

“1656A. Take a left off the elevator and walk to the end of the first hallway. The door on the right is mine.”

Referring to any room on the 16th floor as your own is something you don’t take lightly. For one the offices are double the size of any other office spaces in the building. Yours in particular has a giant skyscraper window draped with heavy white curtains. Secondly, the floor above is the 17th floor which is exclusive to Hybe artists only.

"How's the proposal coming along, by the way?" Her curiosity is palpable, genuine in its nature. You’ve always appreciated that in an individual.

“It’s done,” you respond. “Only thing left to do is to prepare for our meeting with C-suite executives next Monday. It’s nearly perfect as is, but the presentation could use a bit of refining in terms of organization.”

Hei-ran is silent for a moment longer than usual before her next inquiry, which is undoubtedly the question on both of your minds. “I can't help but wonder what it'll be like to meet him for the first time,” she muses.

You don’t bother asking for clarification on who the “him” is; you’re already well aware that it’s Min Yoongi. The same subject has managed to intrude your own thoughts more and more as the date of meeting him draws closer. It's peculiar honestly, considering you’ve encountered him before.

Granted, it was only a small handful of times the hallway, both heading in opposite directions. Min Yoongi typically greeted you with a hoarse 'Good Morning' those instances, along with a curt nod of his head. You would nod back with a brief 'Morning' yourself. Deep down you feel he'd make a quality friend, though it's only a premonition. It’s not like you actually know much about him beyond those small exchanges.

"I'm not sure what to expect, honestly," you admit. "I imagine it'll be similar to previous professional collaborations—composed, focused, and intense. D-Day is poised to become a global sensation for the next year, so it's going to need our full, undivided attention."

Hei-ran gives a knowing nod. “Good luck __,” she wishes you well as you head towards the elevator doors. Breaks over, back to work.

After another late-night prep session for Monday’s D-Day proposal, you trudge through your apartment door well past 8:30 pm with an empty stomach and a throbbing headache. Good news is that your graphic design team seems to be well on track with their album mockups ready to present.

The same can’t be said for your U.S. promo team however, who required additional guidance on their projects. The social media team was in a similar boat. Somehow several of their members lost track of time and were convinced the proposal was still two weeks away.

Despite the hiccups, you managed to tie up the loose ends, but it meant that none of you got to leave early.

When you finally get to curl up in your fluffy sofa, a loud, exasperated sigh leaves your lips. Your lids flutter shut too as you rest your head against the soft cushion. Silently, you make one last mental rundown of all the tasks you checked off today.

Did you miss anything?

D-Day is the most crucial project you’ve ever taken charge of—you need it to be flawless.

When nothing pressing comes to mind, you grab the tv remote from your dark oak coffee table and aimlessly flip through the channels. You’ll unwind for an hour and then call it a night.

Ten minutes into an episode of Brooklyn Nine-Nine and the light chime of your phone's notification bell catches your ear.

Tae 💚: Haven’t heard from you all day. Everything alright?

Taehyung, your best friend. You smile fondly at his message as your thumbs hover over the reply button. He's always checking in on you. You and Taehyung have been friends ever since you first moved to Seoul and started working at Hybe. You didn't expect your friendship to become this strong, but both of you are sociable individuals, which led to discovering several unexpected commonalities. One of those is a shared love for jazz, which has been one of your all-time favorite genres for as long as you can remember.

You: yeah, I’m good. Just tired. Been working on D-Day's proposal for months and finally got it fully prepped for.

Tae 💚: Well, that's amazing news! You feel good about it?

You: I don't know. I’m definitely ready for this project but I’m also starting to feel a little burned out. The proposal is only the beginning you know, and it's already taking the wind out of me.

Tae 💚: Sorry to hear that 😞 I'm sure it must be draining, but I also know this is your territory. No one is more fit to head this project than you. Everyone thinks so. How about you take the weekend to rest?

You: Yeah...I'm watching B99 rn

Tae 💚: B99?! Without me?

You can't help but giggle. Somehow over the course of three years you've roped your best friend into becoming obsessed with your mindless sitcoms. You've done more than a handful of binge watching together, until all hours of the night.

You: Wanna come over for an hour?

The company might be nice.

Tae 💚: Be there in 20 🏃

Your door bells rings exactly twenty minutes after you and Taehyng finish exchanging texts. He's so prompt it scares you sometimes.

“Hey.” His deep, baritone voice greets you first, along with a friendly hug. Taehyung slips his snow covered boots off upon entering your apartment and hangs his wool jacket on your coat rack. His limited edition Gucci scarf is next. Taehyung loves the winter as it’s the time he can wear his most luxurious clothes.

“What’s this?” You peak inside a brown paper bag that Taehyung has conveniently set on your kitchen countertop. He flashes you a playful grin and gestures you to open it. Naturally, you're suspicious but it all washes away when a new, unopened bottle of whiskey presents itself. “Oh my god, you didn’t!" You swat his arm in a rush of excitement.

“I had to!" Taehyung opens a kitchen cupboard and grabs a glass from the top shelf. He's been in your apartment enough times that he’s grown comfortable with your place. That and he's also your best friend.

"With all the recent events you've had going on, I think it calls for a celebration." Taehyung expertly pours you a glass of the smooth, rich liquor and offers it to you.

“Thank you, Tae," you say, taking the glass from his hand. "Come sit down. Jake's about to sing I Want It That Way with the police lineup.” Taehyung pours himself a glass of Pinot Noir and follows your lead.

After about forty minutes of sitcoms and booze with your best friend you begin to feel yourself relaxing. Whatever challenges lies ahead, you know you'll be able to handle them one whiskey at a time.

All stream of thought is interrupted when your phone dings off again. It's now half past 9, who on earth is trying to reach you?

Fuck.

You tighten the grip on your phone as soon aa the message appears. Taehyung, previously occupied by the end credit scene, catches the sudden shift in your demeanor and calls your name but he's inaudible to you.

Mom: It’s been almost two weeks since we last heard from you. We know you're busy but your father and I want to know if you’ll be coming home. The holidays are coming up right? Why don't you use some of that time to come see us? There's someone we want you to meet.

"__, who is it?" Taehyung's voice manages to break your intense concentration.

“Just my mom.” You answer briefly, still averting eye contact.

“What’d she say?”

“She wants me to come home for the holidays.” You shut your phone off in an effort to calm yourself.

Unlike Taehyung your relationship with your parents has always been rocky. Expectations are set high from birth and you never see eye to eye. Likely, the only accomplishment that's earned genuine praise from them was when you accepted your initial job proposal with Hybe. A respectable career is only second to health to them after all. Your father was more torn with the news that you’d be moving hundreds of miles away than your mom however, not that you’re surprised.

Of course while having a healthy and respectable career is priority for your parents, there is no mistake that their greatest wish is to see their daughter married. A stable man with ample resources to provide her a secure home and healthy children is preferable.

You love your parents and you'll always be there for them, but you must admit that their traditional outlook is one you can never live up to. They tried setting you up dozens of times before, and tonight's request to have you come home "for the holidays to meet someone” is simply another attempt to marry you off.

Yes, you would like some sort of companionship in your life and you hope if you find it that they’ll approve. But giving your hand in marriage to the first notable suitor isn't your forte. You consider yourself to be an independent woman with a tender heart, and you'd rather be single for the entirety of your life than be forced into another obligation.

Preserving your independence is highly important to you. So no, you draw the line when it comes to relational affairs.

If only you could be firm and repeat all the above to them aloud, rather than within your own head— if only.

“So are you gonna go?"

You don't respond immediately, still weighing out your options. "Not sure," you murmur. "I don't really want to but maybe I should. I haven't gone home to see my parents since last year."

Taehyung recognizes the growing tension in your voice as well as the flushed expression playing on your face. He wishes he could take it all away but instead he moves closer to your side of the sofa and lets you rest your head on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry." He's silent for a moment before continuing. "Why don't you tell them you can't go because of work? There must be a number of things you'll need to get ahead of for Yoongi's album."

"True. But it's too easy, they won't buy that. I have to go."

"What if you say I invited you to celebrate with my family this year? We're going to a nice, cozy cabin a few hours north of here for Christmas."

The offer is temping and you know he means it but it's also not enough.

"No," you reject. "They'll think we're dating and ask to meet you."

"I'll do it!" Taehyung's voice lifts into a more playful tone, earning a soft chuckle from you.

"Very cute Taetae, but no. Neither of us are going to say 'that was a good idea' in the end, trust me. I'll have to make this decision on my own."

Taehyung grimaces slightly at your last choice of words. "I really think you should consider telling them you can't due to a full schedule. We don't get that much time off at the company any way. Don't your parents live at least 7-10 hours away? Come on, spend the holidays with me and the guys. Plus, it'll be my birthday soon. I want you there at my party."

When you look at your best friend to gently scold him for not so sneakily using the guilt tripping technique, he's pouting. Like a baby. Not even you can resist him with that face on.

"Fine. I'll think about it."

"Good," Taehyung chirps and snatches the tv remote to flip through episodes of Brooklyn Nine-Nine. "I want you to be around those closest to you, especially around the holidays. You're my badass best friend who deserves more than some stupid forced marriage to a guy with an unhealthy alpha male complex. Should we top the night off with one more episode by the way?"

You nod and Taehyung hits play on the remote. "Thank you," you coo, feeling a tad better.

The weekend is a blur at best and you’re back at the office before you realize. Of course this is no ordinary work day however, given that today signifies the day you officially start work as D-Day’s marketing director. You’ve been perfecting every detail of the proposal like a madman since the beginning, meticulously obessing over every element. Your new team members must have a pretty eye-opening understanding of what it’ll be like having you as a lead for the next year–you pity them to be honest.

Between your fingers clutches a small tube of lip balm, berry flavored with a faint tint to match. You love chapstick for some odd, inexplainable reason and you felt the need to apply a generous amount of it on your lips for good luck.

“No one’s here yet,” Yi-joon, one of the members of your graphic design team, speaks first upon stepping foot into your assigned conference room. Others hum, unsurprised. Being the ones leading the presentation, you’d be startled if anyone actually arrived beforehand.

A grand mahogany table, seating up to 14 individuals, boasts itself to you in the middle of the room with every chair lined in genuine black leather. Traditional seating arrangements have one chair at the head of the table, but today’s meeting has two, both positioned to face the wide presentation screen at the opposite end.

Undoubtably, they’re reserved for Bang PD and Min Yoongi.

A momentary shiver courses down your spine, yet fades quick when one of your team members asks if anyone's seen the remote to the projector. There’s no time for nerves to be acting up, you remind yourself calmly. Only 15 minutes remain until every C-suite executive in Hybe congregates into the room.

With a composed demeanor, you swiftly gather your thoughts and respond, "Try checking inside the podium. It's likely close by, but if not, we can always power it on manually." You then start delegating tasks to the rest of your team, mentally rehearsing key points of the proposal between each instruction.

Time appears to have vanished in the blink of an eye because in a matter of seconds a gentle breeze slips through the conference door, accompanied by the arrival of several Hybe executives. You offer a polite "good morning," which is briefly reciprocated as they take their respective seats around the conference table.

You count twelve at the table in total, including your own team.

"Sajangnim should be here in about–"

Hybe's Chief Finance Officer doesn't get to finish his sentence when an older gentleman in a freshly pressed suit walks through the door, fully immersed in conversation. The person following close behind him is none other than the man of the hour himself–Min Yoongi, fitted in a clean white dress shirt that's unbuttoned at the collar and sleeves rolled to the elbows. His soft, raven hair falls gently in front of his eyes, framing his face a little too well.

Unexpectedly, both your gazes shift from Bang PD and onto one another. His dark, intense eyes pierce through you as they observe you from the opposite side of the room. You're certain he recognizes you from your previous shared encounters, though you don't have the slightest clue what he's thinking. Min Yoongi has been known to be many things, but an open book isn't one of them.

He then walks in your direction until he's directly toe to toe with you for the very first time. Completely against your wishes, you feel all the tiny hairs on the back of your neck stand straight. You've never officially met before.

"It's nice to finally meet you __-nim. Those nods we give each other in the hallway hardly count as a proper introduction." He extends a hand to you, offering you a sturdy handshake which you accept.

"Absolutely, it's a pleasure to meet you as well Min PD-nim," you say, smiling warmly. "I'm looking forward to working with you on your new album. I truly appreciate the opportunity."

For a split second, Yoongi allows his professional demeanor drop. "I should be the one thanking you. You'll be the one leading this whole operation right? So I'll be in your care."

You want to respond with gratitude, but you're not given the chance due to an authoritative voice speaking up from behind.

"Min PD-nim," Hybe's Vice President calls out to the man in front of you, requesting his attention.

Yoongi is hesitant to leave you mid-conversation but you assure him that it's alright. "Please, feel free to take a seat," you offer. "The presentations will begin soon."

A small, subtle smile graces Yoongi's lips before he turns around to take his seat beside Bang PD at the head of the table. He engages in small talk with Hybe's Vice President who's conveniently seated across from him. Yet despite their conversation, he's only half focused; his eyes repeatedly wandering back to you. At this point, however, you've already stopped looking at him.

"Good morning, all," you address the room when the time comes to commence the meeting. "We'll be getting started now that everyone's here. I'm sending down samples of the album design our graphics team has created for D-Day. Please pass them along." You hand the stack of copies to Hybe's Chief Technology Officer who smiles courteously.

"On behalf of my team and me, I want to thank you for joining us today to discuss our marketing strategy for Min PD-nim's upcoming D-Day album. Our agenda will be as follows," you guide everyone's attention to the presentation board, which provides a rundown of all the points you plan to cover for the remainder of the meeting.

"Let's begin with introductions. My name is ___ ___, I hold a Bachelor's degree in Electrical and Electronics Engineering from NYU Stern, as well as an MBA in Marketing. Over the past five years, I've worked in the music industry as a marketing manager. Three of those years were spent here at Hybe. The recent promotional campaign for TXT's The Chaos Chapter was lead by my previous team and me, resulting in a positive return on investment. Now, with a new team, I aim to achieve similar success with Min PD-nim's D-Day album."

Once you finish your introduction, you introduce each member of your team. This is soon followed by a brief introduction from each c-suite executive.

The whole room falls silent when you begin diving into the bulk of the proposal; every measurable objective, goal, and market analysis is shared for D-Day. When it comes time to present the brand guide and album design, you invite your graphics team to speak.

"You'll notice that we have two versions of Min PD-nim's albums on the sheet in front of you," Yi-joon refers to the mockups you handed out earlier. A few executives nod quietly as they study the proposed album packaging while Yoongi leans over to Bang PD. He's whispering something but you're far to distant away to hear. His expressions aren't telling either.

Does he like it? Does he not? You don't know.

Nevertheless, you give a subtle smile to Yi-joon as encouragement to continue.

"We've opted for a sleek, pitch-black design for the first version, and a dusty brown for the second. The first version symbolizes the past, characterized by societal expectations and internal struggles, while the second represents the present and future, conveying a message of liberation. To complement these themes, we've selected a bold and daring font to exude the album's transparency. This design consistency extends to the album's contents; for instance, lyrical cards will reflect the respective color and style of the version they belong to."

Hybe's Chief Marketing Officer appears to be in approval with the entirety of the plan so far, yet it's short lived when a low voice interrupts.

"I think the vision of album's design aligns closely with mine, so I like what I see in front of me." Yoongi pauses and places the mockup on the table. "There's one aspect that I'd like to discuss in hopes of some insight however. I've been mauling over it for a while now."

"I'll do my best to–" Hybe's Chief Marketing Officer opens his mouth to respond yet closes it immediately when he notices Yoongi's gaze sharply shifts to you. It's a signal that it's your insight he specifically requests.

"Please go on," you reply.

"Regarding the name under which the album should be released, should it be 'Agust D' or 'Suga'? I'm personally biased towards Agust D because it holds more weight for me. It's close to my heart and the stories I have to tell as Agust D are heavier than those of Suga, right? The D even stands for Daegu, my hometown where I grew up and where my parents still live. Suga on the other hand is my stage name, which I have some identity in as well."

You don't answer immediately, preferring to carefully process everything he's said. Your team has already proposed to release the album under 'Agust D', yet he makes a valid point that 'Suga' is also a part of him.

"I understand that releasing the album under 'Suga' has its merit. However, I still support the original idea of releasing it under 'Agust D'. As you've mentioned, the name carries a deeper meaning, evoking memories, emotions, trials, and tribulations. I'd also like to emphasize that by releasing D-Day under 'Agust D', you can showcase who the real Agust D is. The collaboration with IU in People Pt. 2 already has you one step in that door."

Like you, Yoongi considers your words cautiously, weighing them in his mind. "Thank you ___-nim," he finally speaks. "Your perspective is reassuring. We'll proceed with releasing the album under 'Agust D'.

Following your short discussion, the graphics team continues presenting their design materials. Minor comments are made by Hybe executives, but Yoongi doesn't comment again until half-way into the social media segment.

"Why do we need to schedule this many Weverse Lives? People might get tired of seeing my face after so many in a row. ARMY will read, 'Min Yoongi started a live' and say to their friends, 'This is the fifth time in a row, is he in love with his own voice or something?'." His joke sparks a light in the room as Bang PD gives a chuckle.

"I don't think that's going to be an issue for you Yoongi," he replies. "Don't you know the strength of your own fanbase?" Bang PD's statement is undeniable. Everyone in the room is well aware of Min Yoongi's international fanbase who willingly stay up all hours of the night just to catch a glimpse of him. In fact, rather than seeing less of him, they hope to receive his live notifications more, as Yoongi isn't as active on Weverse as other idols.

It's clear that compliments like these aren't easy for Yoongi to take though, judging by the flushed look that subtly sweeps over his face. You'd react the same way to be honest.

"If I may Min PD-nim," you speak up, deciding to offer an alternative plan. "Leveraging Weverse Live to help promote D-Day will draw significant international engagement. We know that time differences pose to be a challenge which is why we proposed an increase of live sessions per week. However, we understand that going live this often might be exhausting. Would you consider reducing the frequency to once or twice a week instead?"

"I'm open to once a week but didn't we film the 'Suga: Road to D-Day' documentary for a similar reason? Won't it be too much to add more than two Weverse Lives throughout the entire promotional phase?" Yoongi's challenge is met with an unanimous hum of support from his fellow executives. You'd feel intimidated if you didn't already have a justification mapped out.

"The objective behind releasing 'Suga: Road to D-Day' on Disney+ differs from that of Weverse Lives," you rebuttal confidently. "While the documentary presents a structured behind-the-scenes view of D-Day's development, the Lives focus on building hype among your existing fans who know you well, will spread the word to their peers, and will likely pre-order the album. As you're aware, Lives are more personal and stripped down, allowing your fanbase to feel closer to you."

Thinking of no further objectives, Yoongi, still somewhat unsure, accepts your suggestion. "Once a week will be fine then. While we're still on the topic, do we know when 'Suga: Road to D-Day' is set to release on Disney+?"

"Our digital marketing and promo team will be reviewing the specifics of that soon," you inform. "Right now we have the documentary releasing April 23 of next year. The poster for the film will release a week and a half earlier on the 12th."

Rather than furthering the discussion, Yoongi sends an understanding nod your way which allows the social media team to resume their portion of the proposal. Recording more Weverse Lives than usual remains a pain point for him, but he's willing to move forward if it means connecting with his fanbase.

Alast, after what seems like three hours of social media; followed by financing & budget talk, the last team to present their material takes lead of the meeting.

"We'd like to provide a timeline for D-Day's promo schedule as a way to wrap up today's proposal," So-hyun from your digital marketing and promos team explains. "Promotions will begin April 10, 2023 and will run until April 25th. During this time the album's track list, concept photos, MV Teaser, and official MV will drop. As far as concert schedule, we're proposing April 26-June 24. These dates include U.S, Asia, and Korea Tours."

"We might need to rethink concert dates but for now I'm on onboard." Yoongi remains brief in his interjection, allowing So-hyun to continue.

"As far as other marketing channels, we plan to implement both print and digital methods including billboards, banners, paid search ads, and YouTube. We'd also like to reach out to a variety of magazines like Rolling Stones Magazine for interviews. If we want to extend our global reach even further, we can book a time slot on the Jimmy Fallon Show. Bare in mind that if we go this route, we'll need to decide fairly quick, as slots are in high demand."

You notice Bang PD whispering amongst Yoongi and his Chief Finance Officer when Jimmy Fallon is mentioned. Yoongi seems the least interested. Perhaps he isn't fond of being front and center of talk shows, you guess.

"When will we need a decision for the Jimmy Fallon Show?" Bang PD inquires for the group.

"No later than three weeks from now," So-hyun answers. "It's a tight deadline but it can been done if we get the official go."

Bang PD directs his attention to Yoongi who's chosen to be silent in this conversation. "What do you think, Yoongi? It's your call."

"Maybe," he says, "give me a day or two to think on it."

Another ten minutes of productive overview with your promos team pass and soon, you're standing up to adjourn the meeting. You have to admit that out of all the proposals you've given in your career, this goes right to the top.

Your team was phenomenal today, and despite the the fact that several Hybe executives are biting at the bit to finally go on their lunch break, you feel confident that everyone is leaving on the same page.

"Min PD-nim."

You're ears inevitably pick up the conversation in front of you as you make your way out of the conference room. Yoongi and his Chief Financial Officer are running through some quick numbers only a few steps steps ahead, but with everyone simultaneously rushing in the same direction, neither must have realized you were within earshot.

"There's no doubt that she's good at what she does," Hybe's Chief Financial Officer continues. "Still, it's hard to believe that she's only 27 or 28. A person should take better care of themselves don't you agree? Like our Eunchae for example."

If there was a way to erase what you just heard, you'd do so, because in an instant, all previous successes you felt from today's proposal shatters to the ground. You're no stranger to receiving these sorts of comments about your appearance, yet it leaves your confidence fleeting, along with any amount of resilience you've built.

Blinking back the tears that threaten to spill, you exit the conference room the first chance you get. You have no desire to stick around for Yoongi's reply.

Not long after you leave does you phone ring off.

Tae 💚: Hey! How's the meeting going? Still available to get lunch this afternoon? I'm heading to the cafeteria as I type this.

You: It went okay. But I don't think I'll be coming to lunch, just a lot to do. I'm also not that hungry.

You second-guess how convincing your message is, knowing that it's your best friend on the other line. Regardless, it's the only words you can come up with right now. You really do have a lot of work ahead of you though, at least that part is true.

Tae 💚: Are you sure? I was looking forward on hearing how the meeting went! Wasn't there something you had to give me too?

The meaning of the last line suddenly dawns on you as you make your way down the long hallway. How could you forget? You made Taehyung one of his favorite foods to surprise him for lunch; Japchae, a sweet and savory dish of stir-fried glass noodles and vegetables.

You: Right, sorry it slipped from my mind for a second. I'll meet you in the cafeteria to give it to you.

"Why won't you stay and eat with me?" Taehyung devours the homemade Japchae you made for him with delight, a pair of chopsticks clamped in his hand.

"I don't have much of an appetite, Tae."

You've already told him this twice already, clarifying that you'd be heading back to your office once you deliver his food. Evidently, he's not letting you slip away easily.

"Then take a break with me instead, even if it's only for ten minutes." You watch as your best friend swiftly pulls out the chair next to him from under the table, gesturing you to sit. "Tell me what's got you down," he says. "Did Yoongi say something to you? He can be a bit too outspoken with his opinions sometimes."

Feeling defeated, you slide into the chair. "No, the meeting was fine. I'm just overthinking something that happened."

You then proceed to explain what you overheard Hybe's Chief Finance Officer say about you from earlier, that you didn't look healthy enough for your age and using Eunchae as an example. The scowl that appears on Taehyung's face as you retell the incident is unmistakable–he's clearly pissed.

"First of all," Taehyung starts once you finish, jaw clenched. "Eunchae is 17 and is a part of a Korean girl group. She has an entire team dedicated to making sure her appearance is flawless. It's the idol life; trust me, I'm well acquainted with it, so it's not a fair comparison. Secondly, Hybe's CFO is an asshole who I'd replace in a day. I don't want you letting him make you feel insignificant just because you don't conform to his narrow idea of how a woman should look."

You appreciate Taehyung's efforts to cheer you up, though you remain unaffected. Besides, he still isn't aware of Yoongi's involvement since you purposely left that detail out due to their close friendship.

"Yeah, I don't know. We don't have to talk about it anymore." You decide to dismiss the topic entirely and reach for your phone, along with a pair of earbuds bundled in your pocket. "Wanna listen to something?"

Music has always bonded you and Taehyung's friendship, as you've frequently found yourselves fully immersed in timeless songs from King of Leon and Led Zeppelin together. Taehyung nearly accepts the offer to listen with you once again, but then he freezes all movement. An eager grin follows close after.

"Hyung!" His voice echos though the room, earning the attention of Min Yoongi who's just entered the cafeteria. This time, you feel nothing but discomfort when the man looks your way.

"I have some material I need to review from my promo team. I'll text you later, okay?" You leave your best friend no time to reply as you quickly rise from your chair, stick your phone in your pant pocket, and head for the nearest exit. Yoongi attempts to make eye contact with you on your way out, but you avoid it completely.

When he approaches Taehyung, he acknowledges your semi-odd behavior. "I didn't mean to make her leave," he states, joining the younger at the table.

Taehyung offers a light shrug in response. "Don't worry, you didn't. She had other matters to get to. Something with her team members I think."

Yoongi grabs a fresh clementine from a nearby fruit bowl and beings peeling it little by little. "You two must be pretty close if you're having your lunches together."

It's not hard for Taehyung to read between the lines of what his member is insinuating.

"We've been friends for a while," he clarifies. "Just friends, nothing else."

a/n: Hope you enjoyed! Lmk what you think 🥰

Masterlist | Requests: closed | Taglist | Fic Recs

#yoongi angst #yoongi fluff #yoongi smut #yoongi x reader #yoongi fanfic #bts fanfics #bts fanfic #bts angst #bts fluff #bts smut #bts scenarios #fic:thoseeyeschico #kookslastbutton

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ryker-writes · 2 months

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Hiiiii thanks for making my day your the best, I give you so many hug (or high fives if you don't want hugs!) If I may ask can you write a broken relationships with malleus pretty please with a cheery on top? ( Also can I be lizard anon please! 🦎)

I would gladly accept any and all hugs! And I will devour that cherry while I write this-

Malleus I feel would be one of the ones that actually would be a good sibling so it's difficult to think about how a broken sibling relationship with him would be lol

Note: I haven't read any of Chapter 7 yet

Request Rules and Masterlists

Broken Sibling relationships

Malleus as a sibling (Broken relationship)

To say that you and Malleus were different would've been an understatement.

Even as kids, you two were very different. He was always treated as the best and the golden child, seen with much love, and he was naturally talented at just about anything. He had no problems with magic, no threats, and no flaws. He was the perfect heir for the throne of Briar Valley

And you? You were his younger sibling.

Compared to Malleus, you were never anyone's priority

Of course, you had servants and knights helping you just like him, but anything Malleus needed always took priority

Your help could be taken away at any moment for the sake of Malleus getting help

In the beginning, it didn't bother you as much because you and Malleus were together a lot of the time! He would spend a lot of time with you, and the two of you had so much fun together

You two would spend hours together in the library, and Malleus would read to you books on magic and history, but he got really passionate when he read about gargoyles. The two of you even ran around the castle once, trying to identify each gargoyle, both of your laughter echoing through the halls for guards and servants to hear

But as the years went by, things changed. Malleus had to become more of the heir he's meant to be. He spent most of his time alone or surrounded by guards

You started to get used to being in Malleus' shadow and not taking priority. Your brother had helped you feel less alone and more equal in the past, but he was too busy for you now

everything only got worse once you two had gone to Night Raven College

Malleus was praised from the moment he got there of course. He was recognized as one of the greatest and best of everyone there. He even had knights in training with him here, and a personal greeting from the headmage. You however...

"Who are you?"

You weren't even recognized or known. Not to the headmage, not to anyone. Why would you be? You aren't the heir of Briar Valley. You aren't the great wizard that Malleus is. And you aren't nearly as important.

Even after explaining who you were, people would just go "Oh." and ask about Malleus

To them, you might as well not even have a name. You were barely noticed. Barely recognized. And even when you were, you were simply known as Malleus' sibling. Nothing more.

And to top it all off: You weren't even invited to things

If people couldn't remember to invite Malleus, there's no way they remembered you. They probably didn't even know you existed. You're just in the background

You saw all the games he played in, all the praise he got, heck one of his knights practically worshiped the ground he walked on, but not when it came to you

People avoided him, they didn't notice or ignored you

Eventually, your birthday came around, and of course, no one noticed. Malleus didn't even see you at all, and didn't say anything

Your own brother didn't remember your birthday...

Are you cursed or something? Cursed to never be seen? Cursed to forever live a life that no one will notice? It's so cruel...

It's not like you wanted anything grand. You didn't need some big fancy party for your birthday

You just wanted to be acknowledged. For one day.

But compared to Malleus, you might as well be insignificant. He shone too brightly for anyone to even see you, hidden in his shadow

Even on a day that should be dedicated to you, he was the one being praised and followed around. He was the one everyone adored. Malleus, the prince of Briar Valley...

You were insignificant, unimportant, ignored

At this point, you can't even help but wonder if even Malleus himself forgot about you completely

you had assumed that was the case

that is, until you opened the your door the next morning. Sitting outside was a neatly wrapped gift box, and inside, a small gargoyle statue

#twst #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #malleus draconia #malleus x reader #malleus draconia x reader

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prythianpages · 3 months

Text

Dandelions | Azriel x Witch Reader

summary: it's your baby girl's first day of school and Azriel isn't ready to let her go.

warnings: fluff/angst; some suggestiveness at the end (bonus scene)

a/n: This is part of my ABBA x ACOTAR series (masterlist) where I dedicate a song to a character (: but also my Azriel x witch reader series. I really adore this song and this was the only series I could apply it to. This can pretty much be read as a stand alone imagine. All you have to know is that reader is a witch and is an established relationship with Az.

In the quiet hush of morning, Azriel and Melaina find themselves at the breakfast table with sleep in their eyes. The floor is cloaked in their shadows, joining one another at their feet in a vast sea of darkness.

Yet, the dance of their shadows harbor distinct meanings.

Though he tries to hide it, your keen eyes pick up on the subtle poignant unease in Azriel's demeanor. An undercurrent of melancholy taints the air, prompting you to send a reassuring tug through your bond. Azriel returns the gesture, his hand finding yours across the table. Meanwhile, Melaina quietly finishes her breakfast. Her shadows, a whirlwind of nerves and excitement, betray her impassive appearance. Today is her first day of school, the precipice of a new chapter in her life, and Azriel can't help but grapple with the realization that his little girl is growing up far too quickly.

“All done, my pretty?” You ask softly, gaze alight with admiration as her small wings flutter behind her.

She’s the mirror image of her father with her captivating hazel eyes–a perfect blend of greens and browns that remind you of the nature you’re so fond of. Two braids cascade down her shoulders and delicate bangs accentuate her sun-kissed complexion. When she was born, you had joked that you had given birth to Azriel’s carbon copy and little did you know that even her personality would match his.

Melaina nods and you rise, taking her plate to the kitchen sink. The corner of your lips lift up into a smile when you hear Azriel ask, “Are you sure you want to go to school? You can always start next year.”

“Mel is more than ready for school,” you lightly chide Azriel, who chooses to ignore your words of consolation.

His gaze is fixed on Melaina, a plethora of scenarios plaguing his mind. He wishes he could see what’s really on her mind–to be able to foresee any worries she may have and ease her through them. The same way he’s eased her through every milestone of her life thus far. He was there when she took her first steps, when she first got hurt from tripping over a rug that he immediately disposed of after, when she said her first word–which much to your dismay was your cat’s name, Binx.

But now, she was ready for school. Her first time being away from home without you or him or his brothers by her side. Her first time being on her own. What if the kids in her class don’t take well to her? To her shadows? He remembers the apprehensive looks he’d receive in Windhaven when growing up and the thought of anyone doing the same to her pains him. What if they are mean to her? What if they hurt her?

The obsidian tendrils at Azriel's side stir with an eerie melody, commanding Melaina's shadows to rise. They snap to attention like disciplined soldiers heeding orders. An unspoken promise unfolds—her shadows would help guide her and protect her from any lingering stare or slightest suspicion of malintent. They return to her side as she rises to her feet, tickling her sides and causing her to giggle.

Azriel smiles and shares her laughter, capturing every minute of it, the feeling in it.

There’s that odd melancholy feeling again as he stands in front of the school with Melaina on one side and you on the other. He can’t help the frown that settles over his face when she wiggles her tiny hand out of his grasp to run to her cousins. You’re following after her, tugging Azriel along with you to join his brothers and their mates at the front of the school.

“Good morning, Azriel jr,” Cassian greets her with a smile, playfully tugging at one of her braids. “Are you ready for your first day?”

Melaina lets out a huff. “Of course I am, Uncle Cas.”

Cassian then looks toward Azriel, who continues to brood, and chuckles. “It doesn’t look like your daddy is.”

Azriel glares at Cassian. You leave his side to hug Feyre and the frown leaves his face at the delighted squeal that comes from you, his shadows singing in response. He turns his head to see you and Feyre exchange smiles while you gush in excitement over her growing belly. Though Feyre looks at Azriel with a knowing smile, her words are directed to you.

“Rhys was the same way with Nyx,” she muses and out of the corner of his eye, Azriel catches his brother rolling his eyes. But he doesn’t deny it.

“So was Nesta,” Cassian adds, propping an elbow on Nesta’s shoulders. She shoves him off with a shrug before chiding after their twin boys, Cardan and Calian. The aftermath of the aphrodisiac you made–or rather, remade–for her after Azriel accidentally drank the first batch.

“I’m surprised you’re faring well with this,” Feyre says with a raised brow at you.

“Well, someone has to be the strong one,” you tease, side glancing at Azriel and squeezing his hand.

Azriel lets out a small huff, similar to the one Melaina let out earlier. He knew you were also stressed and a little sad but you were surprisingly able to hide it better than him. But unbeknownst to him, just in case the obsidian necklace she wore was not enough, you had casted a protection spell over Melaina before she went to bed…and packed her bags with a variety of charged crystals.

The gathering of students at the school's entrance slowly disperses, and Azriel tenses beside you, acknowledging the imminent moment of having to say goodbye. Nyx, ever courteous, takes it upon himself to accompany Melaina to class. Azriel suspects Feyre's influence in Nyx's gesture, as if she intuited the added difficulty for him and you. He watches as Melaina walks back to you and you lean down, gently smoothing her bangs before placing a kiss on her forehead.

“Today will be a wonderful day for you,” you affirm for her with a radiant smile, making Azriel's heart melt at the sight of the two girls he loves the most. He wishes that he could freeze the picture and save it from the funny tricks of time.

Your hand delicately reaches for the obsidian crystal suspended from her neck, lifting it tenderly to your lips. There’s a flash of green light that engulfs the crystal and as you release the necklace, Azriel notices the new sparkle to it. “Love you, my pretty.”

Though Melaina doesn’t verbalize it back, her eyes radiate a golden glow and the soft caress of her shadows against your face feels like a tender whisper that articulates, "I love you too.” You pull her in close, hugging her smaller frame and lean down to whisper. But Azriel’s attentive senses still catch it.

“Now hug and give your daddy a kiss so he doesn’t cry.”

Azriel resists the urge to roll his eyes. Feeling a tug on his sweater, he leans down to meet his daughter at eye level. Opening his arms expectantly, a surge of warmth envelops him as she eagerly rushes into his embrace. A tender kiss graces his cheek, accompanied by the familiar caress of her shadows against his other cheek similar to the way they had done with you. He pulls away to look at her, holding her gently by the shoulders. He knows her shadows will do well to protect her and if those aren’t enough, her older cousins are just a couple of classrooms down the hall. But he needs to hear her say it.

“What will you do if someone is mean to you?”

Melaina’s eyes light up and she steps out from his hold. True to the goddess you named her after, she's a tiny vision of nightmares and madness, as she assumes a defensive position, her shadows dancing around her.

“Kick them in the face!” She exclaims as she raises her leg up with a glare directed toward her nonexistent enemy. “I'll make my enemies bleed.”

Cardan and Calian follow after her while Nyx wisely keeps a safe distance, amused by the spectacle of his younger cousins engaging in an imaginary brawl. Cassian watches them fondly, striking punches of his own into the air but you’re shaking your head with furrowed brows. Azriel catches the pointed look you send his way and a subtle blush overtakes his cheeks as you’ve discovered his secret. He continues to read Melaina, those books you told him not to.

“No, Mel, that’s not–”

“That’s my girl,” Azriel grins as he rises to his feet, feeling slightly better. He rustles her bangs fondly.

The sound of the school bell echoes through the park as a final warning that class should be beginning shortly. Azriel reluctantly shrugs Melaina’s backpack off his shoulder, the small bag looking ridiculous on someone of his stature. He adjusts it on her with careful consideration for her delicate wings and feels an ache in his chest as the backpack nearly engulfs her smaller frame.

As the faint rustling, reminiscent of rocks shifting, comes from the bag, it is Azriel’s turn to send you a subtle yet pointed look in your direction. A suppressed smile tugs at his lips when you quickly avert your gaze and he realizes he wasn’t the only one keeping a secret.

“Off you go, my little shadow. See you later.”

Once the backpack is secured to her, she takes Nyx’s waiting hand and runs off to the entrance with him. Azriel almost frowns but then, at the top of the stairs, she turns around, waving goodbye with a small absent-minded smile.

He watches her go into the school with a surge of that well-known sadness. Tears prick his eyes and though he knows he’s being dramatic, he can’t help the feeling that he’s losing her forever. His sweet little girl who keeps on growing. She’s slipping through his fingers all the time.

Bonus scene

Before his family could indulge in making fun of him, Azriel grasps your hand, drawing you close as he summons his shadows. The inky tendrils swirl around you both, transporting you back to the familiar sanctuary of your home.

"If this is your reaction on her first day of school, I can only imagine what you’ll be like when she has her first crush," you say, a teasing sparkle in your eyes.

Azriel's grip on you tightens. He doesn’t want to grapple further into the inevitability of his daughter's growing independence because to him, Melaina will always be his baby girl. A subtle strain echoes in his voice as he pleads, "Don't."

Easing out of his embrace, you giggle at his dramatics, strolling toward the kitchen with a lightness in your step, intent on brewing some tea. "It's just a couple of hours, Az," you reassure him.

"A couple of hours?" Azriel echoes, a pensive note in his voice as he joins you in the kitchen.

Having taken the entire week off, he had intended to be present for every moment—dropping Melaina off and picking her up during her first week at school. He didn’t plan for much other than that and he was used to spending his days off with his little family but now Melaina was off at school, leaving the two of you alone.

The kettle placed on the stove begins to whistle, harmonizing with the new thought that brews in his mind. You’re raising your steaming cup of tea to your lips, peering over at Azriel as he walks up to you. “What? You want some?” You ask, raising your cup to him.

Azriel shakes his head with a smile. Carefully taking the cup from you, he places it onto the counter behind you. He gently but firmly holds your chin, coaxing you to meet his gaze. The faint blush on his cheeks returns, a soft hue that complements the golden brilliance in his eyes as he looks down at you with adoration because you’ve given him everything he’s ever dreamed of and more.

Still, there's an insatiable desire within him for even more moments, more shared dreams, and more of you.

“Let’s have another?”

“A baby?”

Azriel nods, attentively studying your features for any nuanced emotion. He feels relief when you smile and you voice your answer without having to say anything, flooding him with love through the bond you share. The two of you had discussed having children years ago, almost two years before having Melaina. After she was born, you mirrored each other’s desires for having more but had agreed on waiting but not too long as you wanted your children to grow up together.

“We do have a couple of hours to ourselves,” you remind him again, embracing him with arms entwined around his neck, fingers brushing through the back of his hair.

He hooks his arms under your knees, lifting you up with ease and you’re wrapping your legs around his waist. He grins when your legs tighten around him and kisses you.

“Let’s not waste another second.”

a/n: hope you enjoyed this as much as I did writing it <3 Sorry, I skipped ahead. I do want to eventually write an imagine for when Az & reader first find out they're having a baby. That might be the next imagine for this series.

tagging: @fxckmiup

#azriel x reader #azriel x y/n #azriel x you #azriel imagine #acotar x you #acotar x y/n #acotar x reader #acotar imagine #azriel fanfic #azriel acotar #acotar fanfiction #az!dandelions

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shotosjupiter · 3 months

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I BLINKED AND SUDDENLY I HAD A VALENTINE!

𖤐 sypnosis... you ask them to be your valentine <3

࣪𖤐 note... super fluffy! and al haitham being a little shit

𖤐 ft. tighnari, al-haitham, ningguang, kazuha, and ayato

𖤐 TIGHNARI blinks at you as you stood in front of him, holding out pink and orange tulips. you had researched them, of course, ensuring they represented love. he cocks his head to the side, as you exclaim, a broad grin stretching on your face, “be my valentine, nari?”

he nods slowly, but surely. despite his quieter reaction, you can tell from the subtle twitching of his ear and the slow pink blush creeping up to his cheeks that he’s pleased. tighnari clears his throat and offers you a bouquet that was tucked behind him, waiting for your arrival. he grasps your hand, gently but clearly asking, “and would you be mine?”

“yes! yes, i would love to be, nari.” you lean forward and press a kiss to his (turning) red cheeks.

𖤐 AL-HAITHAM raises an eyebrow at you. “i thought we were already each other’s valentines.” it sounds more like a statement than a question.

you make a face back at him, “no dummy, you have to ask. that’s how valentines work! what if i already had a valentine?”

“… but you don’t.” he responds, deadpanned.

you gape at him and his pure audacity. “i could! i could- i could be going on a valentines date with that guy right over there!” you gesture towards the general area of microbiology shelves where there’s a few scruffy students, busying themselves.

al-haitham glances back at the scholars, and turns back to you. he huffs out a sigh and turns back to his book, annotating something in the side pages as if this conversation wasn’t something he could be bothered with.

then, a note with a doodle of the two of you and a question: will you be my valentine? check one: yes or yes.

you grin, scrambling to write an answer back.

𖤐 NINGGUANG has already planned everything out since new years. she takes valentines seriously and is not to be played around with in such matters. she had committed your work schedule to memory and had taken the day off to dedicate herself to this mission.

she left a trail of rose petals going from your hallway all way to your shared bedroom. there laid the same petals, shaped into a heart. she had cooked your favorite meal, with the dining table set with even more flowers and your favorite drink. lastly, was a small gift of matching charm bracelets that laid upon the table, waiting for your arrival.

when you had arrived, you had rushed to her side after seeing all the decorations and effort put into this. you cupped her face into a searing kiss and then left a series of kisses all over face. ningguang giggled, pleased to see your happy reaction to her proposal. you grinned at her shyly and offered her her own set of flowers and a small cor lapis necklace you had gotten specifically made for her, asking if she would also do the honor of being your valentine. (spoiler: she said yes.)

𖤐 KAZUHA was a man who had to face a hard decision. which poem should he present you with to ask to be your valentine? there were simply too many choices, too many words, and yet, still nothing had the correct wording he had wanted. what was he to do?

it was one of the few days before valentine’s day where he was sitting by his desk, pushing his brain to find the perfect words to present you, when you came and sat right next to him. you grinned at him slyly, “i have something to show you,” and slid a decorated piece of paper towards him.

it was a poem. a beautiful poem asking him to be your valentine. kazuha looked up at you and smiled with laughter and gentleness in his eyes. “you had beat me to it - but yes. i would love to be your valentine, dove.”

𖤐 AYATO is similar to ningguang in which he had a plan prepared in the back of his head for a couple of weeks now. he had bought a necklace with the charm in the center being a sapphire surrounded by silver. the problem was trying to figure out when to present it to you and ask.

luckily, you managed to unknowingly offer him a solution when you asked him if he would like to take a walk with you around the estate. he nodded calmly, while internally his heart soared at the opportunity. the jewelry box was sat in his pocket always, waiting for the opportunity. now he just had to speak the words.

as the two of you walked, the sakura bloom petals billowing around you, creating an evermore romantic environment. you were chattering about the latest house gossip thoma had told you when ayato stopped and grasped your hand and turned you around pulling you into the net of his arms.

he stared at you for a moment as you fixed him with a questioning gaze in response to his behavior. he cleared his throat and showed you the sapphire necklace he had gotten before gesturing, “may i?”

you nodded and turned as you felt his cold hands delicately clasp the necklace on. the brush of his hands elicited goosebumps to raise by your neck before you heard the raspy whisper, “would you- will you be valentine, darling?”

you turned, a pleased smile on your face before leaning into kiss him slowly. you cupped his face gently, letting his soft lips come together with yours. you broke away from him for a split second to whisper back, “of course i will.”

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deluwoo · 4 months

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i love you's

pairing ▸ boyfriend!hiphop line x gn!reader genre ▸ headcannon, domestic fluff, fluff, slight suggestive warnings ▸ food [lmk if there are more !!] wc ▸ 541

eun's notes ▸ i miss writing sm :(( BUT IM PROUD TO BE ABLE TO POST AGAIN!! just a filler post for now bc ik i will get some ideas soon. enjoy, my doves! ★

seungcheol ▸ his i love you’s can be found in hushed giggles and gummy smiles. another smile-line is another year of laughter as two. oversized hoodies and messy hair under bucket hats. i love you’s don’t seem to be words, they are the ideas of you, the actions for you. it is decided he’d move mountains for a lover like you, after all. i love you’s are in the hand placements on your waist when you two are walking in crowded places. its found in his eyes when he checks both sides of the street before walking with you, hands intertwined like ribbons. its found in the ink of his cards that go with every gift. he finds endless excuses to give you them but really, you are the reason of his giving.

wonwoo ▸ i love you’s are in his fingers. tying your stubborn and unruly strands of hair when you wash your hands. when he feeds you the good parts of his lunch bowl. he says i love you’s when he brings you home the snack you were eyeing in the grocery a few weeks ago. he checks everyday to see if its in stock. leaning in and licking his lips when you’re talking to him. his eyes lower down to your mouth, watching as words are formed by the second. i love you’s are in his glances, watching to see if you really enjoy playing animal crossing with him. tender hearts. an antique book store. its smell hanging on to your coats in the winter. i love you’s are in the moments together, because where else would they be?

mingyu ▸ its the second you wake, the aroma of breakfast finding your nostrils. i love you’s are found in the things for you. whether its to cook you a late night snack, or drive you to your errands. the hands that write you letters, hidden all around your room. its found in the silence, head to chest, and the series of lights as the two of you continue to watch the movie.i love you’s are his expressions; ranging from the way his lips curve into a toothy grin while watching you laugh, or the words that roll off him tongue that seem to just make you melt. his i love you’s are in the candles you like. the late nights. the steaming dinner and record player in the back. candle lights dancing in his eyes.

vernon ▸ it’s the paper flowers that flap in the wind, the ones handcrafted with love the night before because he’s allergic to real ones. i love you’s are in the endless playlists he makes, whether burning them on cd’s or adding them to mix tapes. they always have a small dedication, for you are the notes of his life. i love you’s are the things he does for you that seem to suddenly appear. the jacket on your knees when you’re in a skirt, the drink with the specific sugar level. his i love you’s are found in the giggles behind the photos he sends. you can’t tell if the silliness is on purpose or your love is just like that. its the smell of sunlight. the one that seeps between buildings as the two of you walk down the side walk.

NETWORK : @kflixnet @k-labels TAGLIST : none yet (dont be scared to send an ask !)

reblog if i want these ppl ✋😔💔👈 ©eunhae (writer from my old blog wonieweb!!) © DELUWOO – 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭, 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲 𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞.

#★ DELUWOO #k labels #kflixnet #from: eunhae 😼#seungcheol #scoups #choi seungcheol #scoups x reader #jeon wonwoo #seventeen wonwoo #wonwoo #wonwoo x reader #svt #seventeen #svt hiphop line #hiphop line imagines #seventeen scenarios #seventeen fanfiction #kpop fanfic

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sweetcherryharry · 3 months

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Begin Again — 04

Synopsis: Harry and Y/N had a secret relationship for almost two years, until they broke up. A year later, she shows up at one of his Love On Tour shows.

(masterlist)

There he stood, right in front of her, a smile playing on his lips as their gazes met. Y/N felt a rush of emotions, a mix of surprise, nostalgia, and an underlying current of something more profound. The unspoken words of their past seemed to linger in the air between them.

Harry, with his soft brown curls and a simple white shirt paired with jeans and worn-out vans, looked like a page from a memory that she had been trying to forget. Yet, as he stood there, the year they hadn’t seen each other melted away, and they found themselves suspended in a moment that defied time; it seemed like the past months never happened.

The Love Band's living room, with its soft lighting and the faint melody of Fleetwood Mac in the background, turned into a cozy space where only the current moment held importance, at least for Y/N and Harry.

"Hi, sunflower," he replied, the words carrying a weight that transcended the casual greeting. The endearment was a throwback to the days when Harry used to affectionately call her by that sweet nickname, a reminder of their time together.

To Y/N, hearing it from him sounded bittersweet, like the echoes of a melody that brought both the joy of nostalgia and the ache of what they were once.

As Harry spoke, his heart seemed to beat in his chest like the rhythm of a familiar song. In awe of her presence, he couldn't help but marvel at the woman she was. The way her eyes sparkled, the slight curve of her lips as she smiled – it was a sight he had missed more than he realized.

In that suspended moment, their gazes held a conversation that words struggled to capture. Without a word, Y/N found herself stepping forward, drawn by an instinct that transcended logic. Harry, as if guided by the same unspoken force, opened his arms, a silent invitation.

As they embraced, the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the comforting warmth of each other's presence. The hug felt like coming home after a long journey, a familiar haven that resonated with shared laughter, whispered secrets, and the soft melody of their intertwined past.

For a moment, the cozy living room encapsulated the essence of what they used to be – a refuge where their souls met without pretense. The faint scent of Harry's cologne, the gentle rise and fall of their shared breaths, all contributed to the sanctuary of the embrace.

However, as they lingered in the hug, reality began to reassert itself. The made-up living room, once an intimate haven, became a stage where the complexity of their emotions played out. They reluctantly pulled away, a mutual understanding passing between them. The connection was undeniable, but so was the need for boundaries.

"I loved the show, Harry, you did amazing," Y/N said, a soft smile on her lips as she attempted to bridge the transition from the warmth of the hug to the safer ground of friendship. "I love the new album, too."

Harry's eyes crinkled at the corners, appreciating her genuine compliment. "Thanks, Y/N. It means a lot coming from you."

In his mind, he couldn't help but think that she was the muse behind the songs, wondering if she realized the entire album was dedicated to her. The melodies and lyrics, born from their shared experiences, whispered a silent acknowledgment of the impact she had on his creative journey.

"I can see how much you've all grown as a band," Y/N continued, her gaze drifting to the people surrounding them, all engaging in conversation between them, trying to give the couple a little privacy. "The Love Band has really evolved, and it's inspiring."

Harry nodded, a humble gratitude in his response. "We've put a lot of heart into it. It's been quite a journey."

"Speaking of journeys, these are my best friends, Natalie and Maia," Y/N chimed in, a playful glint in her eye, pointing towards the two girls that stood a few meters away. "Let me present you to them; they're fans, just like me." She joked, and Harry couldn't help but chuckle at the playful introduction.

Both Harry and Y/N walked towards them, and as they neared, Natalie and Maia exchanged excited glances, their smiles widening at the sight of the acclaimed musician in their midst.

"Harry, these are my best friends, Natalie and Maia," Y/N chimed in, a playful glint in her eye, gesturing towards the two girls who stood now close to the pair. "Natalie and Maia, this is Harry."

Harry offered a warm smile, extending his hand to each of them. "Nice to meet you both."

Natalie and Maia, both trying to contain their excitement —understanding that he was also their friend’s ex-boyfriend— shook his hand enthusiastically, exchanging introductions with genuine joy. "Nice to meet you Harry, we enjoyed the show so much," Natalie admitted.

Y/N, sensing the formal atmosphere, playfully rolled her eyes. "Okay, you two, you can fangirl. It's okay."

This broke the ice, and they all burst into laughter. The living room, with its soft lighting and the distant hum of Fleetwood Mac's tunes, witnessed the easy camaraderie of new friends. As they settled into conversation, the transition from fan admiration to genuine connection felt effortless, the shared laughter echoing in harmony with the melodies that surrounded them.

Y/N, sensing Natalie and Maia's eagerness to get to know one of the artists they both admired, decided to give them some space. With a smile, she excused herself, mentioning she needed a moment and headed towards the conjoined bathroom.

As she closed the door behind her, Y/N took a deep breath, grateful for the chance to collect her thoughts in the brief solitude. The room's distant chatter and laughter, though comforting, served as a stark reminder of the evening's unexpected reunion with Harry.

As her eyes met her reflection in the bathroom mirror, a mix of emotions played across her face. There was joy, undoubtedly, at the sight of Harry again after a year of separation. His presence evoked a rush of memories, laughter, and shared moments that had shaped a significant chapter of her life. Yet, intertwined with that joy was an ache, a reminder of the emotions she thought time had dulled.

The realization hit her; she had missed him more than she allowed herself to acknowledge. Seeing him, hearing his voice, brought back the echoes of the past, the shared dreams and the bitter taste of the breakup that lingered beneath the surface. It was as if time had folded, and for a moment, the wound felt fresh again.

She held back tears, feeling the weight of unspoken words and unresolved feelings. The bathroom, with its muted ambiance, became a sanctuary where she grappled with the bittersweet truth of their renewed connection. The mix of emotions was a testament to the complexity of their history, a narrative that had left an indelible mark on her heart.

Lost in her whirlwind of memories and emotions, Y/N hadn't realized how much time had passed. The knock on the bathroom door jolted her back to the present, and she hastily wiped away a stray tear. "Coming!" she called out, her voice betraying a hint of vulnerability.

A familiar voice responded, breaking through the door's barrier. "It's me, sunflower. Can I come in?"

Y/N took a big breath, her heart fluttering at the endearing nickname that held echoes of a shared past. With a decisive nod, she unlocked the door, letting him in.

The bathroom door swung open, revealing a smiling Y/N, standing amidst the faint glow of the room. Yet, as normal as she tried to portray herself, he knew her more than she knew herself.

Harry stepped in, closing the door behind him, his green eyes holding a mixture of concern and understanding. "Are you okay?" he asked gently.

Y/N nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. "Yeah, just needed a moment.” The bathroom felt like their own little bubble and privacy; vulnerable. And for a moment, this was her Harry —well, was— and decided to just be honest. “It's just… a lot to take in, you know?"

Harry mirrored her sad smile, acknowledging the weight of their reunion. "I understand. It's a lot for me too." He gently touched her arm in a comforting gesture, a silent reassurance that spoke volumes. "I never expected to see you in the crowd again… after everything.”

For him, the sight of her in the audience triggered a strong sense of déjà vu, as if time had folded back on itself, recalling the moments when she used to be a familiar face in the crowd every night during their time together.

Feeling the warmth of his touch and the weight of shared history, Y/N found herself enveloped in a spontaneous hug. Harry's arms wrapped around her, a familiar embrace that brought a rush of mixed emotions. At that moment, words seemed inadequate, so they let the hug speak for itself.

"I missed you, bug," Harry whispered, his voice tinged with sincerity. "I'm glad you're here."

Y/N, her eyes damp with unshed tears, managed a small, heartfelt smile. "Me too." The simplicity of those words carried the depth of the emotions they both felt. In the shared hug, amidst the echoes of their past and the uncertainties of the present, they found a moment of solace—a bridge between what was and what could be.

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