#I was blanking out on my canvas for a solid hour

[b1rds3ye]

I love your writing style!

(also love how you always go for gn!reader!)

Silly request for another masked reader?

Masked reader who has those more solid material masks that can easily be cleaned has in the past painted their mask during one holiday just for the fun of it and they boys wanna do it too. Variation of it; masked reader got injured and has to stay bed bound for a while so their mask is being written and painted on like people do with casts :D

(there would be so many pictures)

PLEASE THIS IS SO CUTE (also tysm anon!! It means a lot that you like my writing and writing decisions AHHHHH). I'm thinking a white-hockey mask sorta vibe that can look intimidating for missions, but also far too tempting for the 141 to wreak havoc on. Of course, they'll ensure you always have at least one spare blank mask so you can keep being the ominous badass on missions, but when a mission goes south and you escape with barely your life, they do what they can to make your bed-bound recovery as entertaining as possible.

Soap in particular truly treats your mask as a canvas. I already touched that Johnny has a journal of alternative designs for your mask and with a plain mask his mind is racing with so many ideas! He also has a general knack for drawing, in the quiet nights when he's done with training and can visit the med-bay he can spend hours just drawing on your mask with a thin sharpie (think like those highly intricate black-ink tattoos). His art is a little rough and scratchy but the artistry is there. He also provides his signature which lacks the tact of his art - if another member of the 141 hasn't he'll be the one stamping his name across your forehead with an obnoxious "SOAP WAS HERE!!".

Ghost is not an artist. There isn't a single artistic bone in this poor man, when he draws a circle it somehow looks like a square. Instead, Simon writes. A card is too sappy but your mask makes the perfect patch of parchment. His handwriting is legible but far from aesthetic, it's practical and hastily done with your head shaking slightly as he writes on it. Eventually he has to stabilise your head with his other hand, and his hold is surprisingly gentle. It's a general message wishing you get better soon, and a special military pun for everyone to read when they see your mask. He says that now your mask is a little more customised it almost looks half as good as his. While being unable to draw, he does accompany Johnny or Kyle if they pay a visit to vandalise your mask.

Price is straight forward. You want people to sign your mask? He'll sign your mask. John is surprisingly sentimental, he genuinely treats your mask as a get-well-soon card. He encourages you to rest - which is admittedly redundant since you can't get out of bed - but also to hurry up and get back on the field because he's losing his mind putting up with the rest of the 141. His handwriting is small because he has a lot to say, his message taking up the expanse of your cheek. He puts effort into his message and handwriting, it's going to be on your mask for everyone else to read and when he tries the captain has some exceptionally nice cursive. When he's done, he pulls away and lets out a satisfied huff at his message and how it looks on you... and then a consequential sigh when he looks at what of the rest of the task force has done to your poor mask.

Gaz does everything with your mask. He first covers the basics, signing his name and a quick, encouraging message for your health. Then Kyle goes ham on redesigning your mask and making it look as terrible as possible. Because it's a plain white mask, in particular he loves to use coloured sharpies on it. He'll shade panda-like eye bags where your eye sockets will be, or colour the area of your nose with a bright red circle like a clown. If you ever complain he'll just say this is the price you pay for getting injured and being sent to medbay. It's a joke but the underlying concern isn't missed from you. He's not the best artist but he'll leave a cute little doodle like a flower or that "S" sign that's used to graffiti everything known to man. He also enjoys giving you something to do (laying in med-bay all day must be terrible!), taking your hand in his to guide your hand across your face so you can draw a simple little star or love-heart on your own mask.

Surprisingly, it's Simon who initially asks for your permission to take photos of your mask. He says it's for the rest of the task force so they can have a reminder of what they're fighting for as they continue doing operations in your absence. John did add on that it was also simply for the memory as it's expected that you'll keep the mask once you've gotten better - unless you're willing to auction it off in which Kyle already called dibs.

It's only when you can freely move around do you take off your mask to realise that under your chin would be, generally obscured from view, one of them drew a shoddy little penis. You have half the mind of chasing up on who it was but it was simply too funny and you let it go. (Also because you already know deep down it was Soap)

Masked Reader Masterlist Call of Duty Masterlist

#cod x reader #call of duty x reader #cod x you #task force 141 x reader #captain price x reader #john price x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #john mactavish x reader #soap x reader #gaz x reader #kyle garrick x reader #anon mail ❤️ #/*avery checks the mailbox*/ #/*avery actually writes*/ #/*cod x masked reader*/

[steddilyfallingdeeper]

I haven't written any sort of fic in at least 7 years, and I was known to ramble even back then, so god help you guys now. So this is a fluffy little Steddie oneshot that just would not leave my brain, please enjoy, and feedback welcome ✌️

Eddie had told them all. Time and time again. "I hate my birthday, dudes. It's just society's excuse to celebrate my shitty parents for dumping me into this world without a choice. Plus it's tacky as all hell. If you're gonna celebrate me I'd rather you do it on a random day in July with some sort of satanic ritual that'll rile up Hawkins into another manhunt."

And that's exactly what Steve decided to do. Well, minus satan and the manhunt (that was a trauma they didn't actually need to revisit).

So July 14th was "Eddie Day" (Steve had asked Dustin to come up with a better name, something more inventive, but "Ed-day" felt lazy and "Munson's Merriment" was too difficult to fit on a banner). So far they'd only had one Eddie Day to date, but Steve didn't need years of experience to know that the day he gets to dote on Eddie, buy him gifts, hold him close and make out just that little bit more than usual is the best day imaginable, already his favourite day of the year.

This year was going to be extra fun too. Both boys off work for the day, the deadbolt firmly in place on their apartment door, clothes optional. And that wasn't even the most fun part for Steve (although it was plenty fun), no, Steve had a plan for tonight, a plan for the party, just a little thing, a stupid thing, but it made him giddy.

Eddie had caved, decided and declared to the party one night, earlier that year, over shitty pizza in their cramped living room. 

"Eddie Day needs a tacky birthday party. Fuck pretence. Turns out I'm not as cool as you losers think I am and I want to heal my inner child with streamers, balloons and sheet cake! And," he shuddered slightly, "pop music. Screw it. I want to dance with my friends in the obnoxious July heat, to music that would normally make me want to spew, until it stinks like a sweat lodge in our apartment and the downstairs neighbours have to actually hit their ceiling with a broom." Steve had just sat there beaming during this particular speech, so happy he could burst, and a plan already forming.

When the big day finally rolled around, when 7pm hit and the boys had finally dressed for the evening, every one of their friends was there to celebrate. Their squashed bodies filled the dinky one bed to the brim, teen boys already sweating profusely before they even started dancing, teen girls giggling at the flustered boys, the corroded coffin guys now part of the gang (and only finding the musical stylings of Abba and Blondie slightly abhorrent), and then there was their core 4, Stevie, Eds, Nance and Rob, sitting around the small kitchen table doing shots as Eddie had deemed this a mandatory part of his tacky birthday party, and necessary for him to listen to Madonna and not hurl. In fact, Eddie had actually gone back on his promise to listen to pop for the whole of the party when Steve had started making a mixtape for the occasion, he heard the soft tones of Tears for Fears and immediately retracted his request, settling for a collaboration, mostly of his mixtapes and a carefully curated few mixes he had allowed Steve to create under his supervision. Madonna had still made it (what can he say his Stevie is undeniably a Material Girl).

The party was in full swing when Robin declared it was "time to dance bitches" and they pushed any pushable furniture to the sides of the main room, creating a somewhat blank canvas and reminding Steve just why certain furniture had been strategically placed (he needed the landlord to change the carpet before he thought too long about the stain the TV usually sat atop). Robin ran to change the tape to one of the pop mixes after a solid hour of pure metal ("we need something we can do more than just headbang to Eds") and Eddie held in a groan remembering he'd asked for this in the first place. And with the tape being switched Steve immediately dragged Eddie to the middle of the makeshift dancefloor and held him tightly against his body, almost as if they were about to slow dance at the Spring Fling, but a touch more handy. Eddie would have probably questioned this move had Steve's hand not lingered on his ass for a solid 15 seconds (and counting) and no one else seemed to think it strange as Steve held Eddie tight anyway, so who was he to argue. (27 seconds).

Then it happened, the tape kicked in and before Eddie could even roll his eyes at the (not approved he might add) song choice, Steve was singing along, low and just for Eddie and wait... Actually for Eddie.

Come on, Eddie Come on, Eddie Poor old Stevie H Sounded sad upon the radio Moved a million hearts in mono Hellfire Club cried Sang along, who'd blame them?

This fucker was singing Come on Eileen like it was some sort of love ballad. Eddie was nearly crying at COME ON EILEEN, just because his Stevie had changed a few words, and switched a name. Steve Harrington was actually the worst person Eddie Munson had ever met!

You've grown (you're grown up)

And now Dustin was joining in!? Backing vocals and a shit eating grin as Steve releases Eddie from his hold to take his hands and dance him around the room as the song picks up steam.

So grown (so grown up) Now I must say more than ever (Come on, Eddie)

"Not you too Robert!?" Eddie screeches, he would've sounded betrayed if he weren't giggling like a school girl dancing with her middle school crush, I mean that's kind of what was happening right now, he was being spun and dipped and serenaded.

Too-ra-loo-ra Too-ra-loo-rye-ay And we can sing just like our Hopper

Come on, Eddie Oh, I swear (what he means) At this moment You mean everything You in those jeans My thoughts, I confess Verge on dirty Ah, come on, Eddie

"Not in front of the children!" Eddie slapped Steve's arm playfully but couldn't take the ecstasy out of his smile.

Steve sung the whole song, a few lyrics changed here and there, he danced with Eddie in joyous abandon while their whole family pitched in with some patchy but unequivocally loud vocals and sweaty excited limbs. Eddie had never been happier than in that moment, he's not sure he ever would be again, he'd peaked (of course this is categorically incorrect; the day Steve asked him to marry him, their fully unlawful wedding day, his daughter's first steps, that one time Dustin would fall off a roof into a pile of leaves just as he tells Suzie he loves her for the first time, but those are things he wouldn't dare to imagine, couldn't predict).

Later that night as Eddie Day merged into plain old July the 15th, Steve got a surprise of his own, a surprisingly lyrically accurate rendition of Uptown Girl, and that might just be the happiest Steve has ever felt (probably nothing to do with the tequila, right?).

Next Eddie Day and every Eddie Day since has started and ended with Steve's sweet tones in the morning and a chorus of Eddie's hodgepodge family rehashing Dexys Midnight Runners' greatest hit. Eddie will deny it, to his grave, but it might just be his favourite song.

#steve harrington #steddie #steve x eddie #steveddie #eddie x steve #eddie munson #eddie stranger things #harrigson #my post #steddie headcanon #steddie fic #steddie ficlet #steddie oneshot #my writing #absolute trashy fluff #please correct my spelling and grammer #Come On Eddie

[joestylee]

Wizkid- Nigeria’s Fashion Icon

Also known as Starboy and Bigwiz, Ayodeji Ibrahim Balogun is a man of style, the best-dressed pop star. In his interview with Alex Frank of Vogue magazine in 2016, his response to the question about his style icon being Pharell reveals his high sartorial inclinations. He went on to say, ‘It’s not about the brands. It’s how you put them together.’ This is the secret code of every stylish person; understanding the how of putting together a look and this response shows you that Wizkid gets it.

Although critics may bemoan his lack of a message or world view and castigate his music for just being about vibes, Wizkid definitely understands the interplay between feel good music and feel good fashion.  

What is feel-good fashion? Feel-good fashion is fashion that doesn’t over think. It’s a feeling-myself, can’t-hold-me-down, laidback, love-my-life kind of fashion just like feel-good fashion which is eclectic, a mix of everything -Wizkid’s songs which combine different elements and styles, definitely fall under this category.

The Building Blocks 

Wizkid, one of the best-dressed pop stars, knows that a good wardrobe starts with investing in the basics - Tshirts. Solid color Tees in red, black, white and orange are his wardrobe staples. A T-shirt is like a blank canvas where all artistic ideas begin, layers and colors can be added, but it all starts with a good T-shirt. His love for T-shirts is seen in his ‘Made in Lagos’ merch with PUMA featuring Tees with slogans scrawled in catchy calligraphy. 

The Chic Toughness of Leather 

Noble, durable and warm, the Starboy loves to layer with leather. He combines the cotton simplicity of a T-shirt with the glossy thickness of leather for an aura of sophisticated grit, a signature look for his stage performances. One of such notable looks is his Monogram Admiral Jacket by Louis Vuitton for his performance at the O2 Arena - Starboy Fest 2019.

The Kiss of Accessories

Stylish people understand the power of accessories. The right accessories should never betray you. Unlike clothes, some weight and your favorite clothing doesn’t fit anymore.  Investing in statement accessories can stand you out; belts, scarves, hats, jewelry, shoes and bags that they will rock for years to come.

Accessories can become the focal point like Wizkid’s red beret in the picture below or they can pull together the look like the second picture below showing him in mustard color sunglasses and matching mustard coloured sweater, paired with silver jewelry. The trick is to keep it personal and simple like Wizkid does.

Never without his sunglasses, neck and finger jewelry, the Starboy is a true wiz with accessories.

The Fun of Prints

From hoodies to jackets, to pants he always finds a way to insert a little drama with unpredictable patterns. Sometimes it’s quirky, sometimes it’s cultural but always eye-catching and inviting.

Afro-inspired fashion definitely leans more towards more prints as showcased in Joestylee.

Who Inspires WizKid’s Fashion?

In his A Day in the Live, a 3-hour live coverage of a typical day in Wizkid’s life with Julie Adenuga, he says he never had a lot of clothes growing up and reveals for the first time that his keen sense of style was inspired by his late father’s dapperness. My father made me fall in love with clothes. I would see my dad going for an outing wearing clothes made by his personal tailor and I would be like, check this out’. Watching his fashion stylist, Karen Binns hand him outfit after outfit in preparation for his exclusive performance of songs from his Made in Lagos album you realize that his style really is intentional; he may have clothing already picked out for him, but he keeps mixing and matching until it feels just right.

Wizkid style is rooted in a strong understanding of self. The lyrics of his song Ojuelegba from the album, Ayo summarize his life story of hard work, hustle, street-smarts and faith. These qualities are all reflected in his fashion style; grounded, unpredictable, easy and self-loving. For the man who knows what he likes, appreciates every inch of his journey because it’s made him who he is and knows that life is to be lived boldly with fun and swag; for a variety of looks.

#"Wizkid Nigeria’s Fashion Icon #Wizkid

[db-reviews]

#159 - Black Hole / Blank Canvas - Motorpsycho (2006)

After the impressive jazz and country efforts of In The Fishtank 10 and The International Tussler Society, Motorpsycho would have an unsuspected turn of events as the band’s longtime drummer, Håkon Gebhardt, left the band. The rest of the group, Hans and Bent decided to continue on as a duo. Not only that but the two decided to try something new, still continuing the psychedelic rock sounds, but with more of an edge that could be found on their earliest releases of Lobotimizer and Demon Box. The duo wanted to go for a more hard psych approach combining elements of shoegaze, alternative rock, post-punk, and garage rock to create one of their more ambitious efforts, that being Black Hole / Blank Canvas.

Even as a duo, the passion for their sound remains unmatched, as this album gives way to some of the group’s best numbers in my opinion. Kill Devil Hills, Devil Dog, Sail On, L.T.E.C., and Hyena to name a few are some of the band’s most enjoyable songs they’ve released, having this very energetic motion that is carried every second along the way. The album’s heavy nature really lets these songs reach the same heights that Timothy’s Monster and Demon Box gave me with their giant, really gravid songs.

I think Hans’ guitar work on this album is really nicely done, just giving out this huge bassy sound that I find myself really loving to sink my teeth into. Not only that, but Bent finally showcasing more punchy jams into these songs is a fantastic need for any classic Motorpsycho fan, and for me who really likes the more heavy psych nature this album exudes. This is the best heavy sound the band has attempted in a long while, and they still manage to make it sound super fresh by combining more garage and prog infused efforts into it.

Guest starring on this record is Jacco van Rooij on drums and Øyvind Brandtsegg on the vibraphone. I think these two do a great job in creating more of an atmosphere and tension within the album, especially Jacco on the drums. While I think Håkon managed to really set the score and dynamic that previous albums exude, Jacco does a fine job in replicating it for this effort, and I think he does a really great job at it. It gets the job done, and what came of it was some really stellar percussion.

Now, I will say though that while these songs are good, I find this to be one of the only “bloated” Motorpsycho records, much in the same vein as Trust Us was. I am fine with hour-long albums, but I think 17 songs is a bit much, especially for this caliber of music. It comes to a point where I feel like, after 13 songs, I kinda want it to wrap up. Not to discredit the band’s hard work, but I just never enjoyed the album completely, and it is a real shame since these are some really good songs. I think if the band split the two discs into two separate albums then I think this project would be more beloved for me, but as it stands, it can become a fairly overly ambitious onus to get through.

Another really good effort from Motorpsycho, as expected. This is, what I think, would be the turning point for the band, as 2 years later they’d go skinny dipping into the prog trenches more than they have before, but that is a story for another day. As it stands, while it is a bit zealous to get through, this is another really solid display of musical workings that Motorpsycho delivered in the 21st century.

4/5

#music review #album review #progressive rock #rock #psychedelic rock #motorpsycho

[tonkiluck]

Define poser

Incidently I just realised that by describing a poser as someone who describes a poser XSkater2099 is in fact calling himself a poser. Poser is a 3D CGI rendering and animation computer program optimized for models that depict the human figure in three-dimensional form, mostly used to pose and animate the figures in a similar way as a mannequin. It's usually these people who get pissed when someone lies about being able to do a trick, they didn't spend 3 months learning to kickflip only to have some joker who can't even ollie tell the chicks he can kickflip a 4 set. They might get pretty good but if they're only doing it to impress people then they're missing the point. They buy all the gear and they practise a lot to get the tricks down so they can show their friends (and the ladies) what they can do. Now some people out there like to Skateboard because they think it is a great way to impress people. Poser can take care of this for you via the make:poser command, so you can call php. noun pejorative, slang A poseur someone who affects some behaviour, style, attitude or other condition, often to impress or influence others. noun Someone who, or something which, poses a person who sets their body in a fixed position, such as for photography or painting. Both of these classes should extend the Poser/Factory abstract class. noun UK A particularly difficult question or puzzle. Why? For me I couldn't care if someone lied about being able to kickflip, they'll never get the feeling of satisfaction that those who spent ages learning it would have got, they won't experience that great feeling and spend the rest of the day smiling like a dofus. To set up the factory for this, create a class (we suggest a Factories directory in your tests folder) called UserFactory (you can also just call it User, but we think the Factory suffix helps), and a class called CustomerFactory. If someone who can't skate says they can kickflip it can really piss some people off. not, part culture genre just fit in.Don such Thomas, you only listen Metal because all your friends do, you big poser MechaniX March 10, 2008FlagGet the. It's the same when you learn any trick but that particular trick was a real pain to learn (Not that landing it once constitutes getting it solid!).Īnyway on with my point. The day I landed my first kickflip I was so high I just spent the rest of the day with a big grin on my face. Art posers have been known to mistake light switches in galleries as part of the sculptural exhibit. They frequently use the word 'ambiguous' and will spend half an hour offering a pseudointellectual analysis of a grey, or blank canvas. Eventually you can do it and you get pretty stoked about it. Art posers often stand around in galleries, pretending to find deep meaning in other art posers work.

#Define poser

[just-here-for-the-moment]

Agent Whiskey/Lactation Kink - 300 Followers Ask

A very special thank you to @fandom-blackhole who let me borrow the codename “Cherry” for the reader character from this lovely Ask she wrote for me! Both @kesskirata and @beskarprincessjenny spun this character/kink combo from the "Wheel of Smut" for my 300 Followers Celebration.

Here we go!!

Word Count: 4500+

Rating: Mature, 18+ only

Outline: Agent Jack “Whiskey” Daniels x “You” Code name: Cherrybomb (female reader insert/Statesman agent; “blank canvas”/no physical or racial descriptors/no use of “Y/N”)

Warnings: References to Kingsman-canon-typical action and violence; Reader is injured and is recovering from being shot; experimental spy drugs; lactation without pregnancy; reader gets loopy; lactation kink; Whiskey being charming and yee-haw horny and getting his massive hands and loud mouth on you; a sprinkle of size kink if you squint; lactation kink, lactation kink, and oh yeah, did I mention lactation kink?

—

Your head swam as you pulled yourself up out of the darkness. Your dreams had been wild and nonsensical, legs tangling in the sheets and sweat drenching your body while you twisted and turned. You moaned, feeling spent and dehydrated. Everything hurt. Everything.

You blinked as your bedroom came into focus in the soft morning light, and shards of the previous week shook free in your mind… the shootout at the warehouse... a hospital room at Statesman HQ... Whiskey sitting next to your bed, holding your hand in his huge ones while Ginger and the techs took your vitals, administered meds, changed your dressings... Jack pulling you out of the bloodbath and into the icy night air... the groggy ride home from HQ after days of being in and out of consciousness... the taste of blood in your mouth and the solid warmth of Whiskey’s body as he cradled you close to him, held you tight, told you that you were gonna be fine... the metallic tang of fear that overrode your training when the gunfire started... Whiskey murmuring to you in his low drawl as you lay half-conscious in your hospital bed, his large, warm thumb running over and over the back of your knuckles… the sting and the burn and the indignation and the numb shock of being shot… how warm and safe Jack made you feel…

Not that you would ever admit the last part. Not to him. Not to anyone.

Jack was… competent. A fine agent and good in a pinch, handy with the lasso and his whip and the guns. Not great company on a stakeout, too charming and smarmy and self-interested. You were certain there wasn’t much under the surface, that his charm was a thin veneer over an even thinner intellect, that his personality was as painted-on as his tight jeans. But that was before the accident. His behavior during the shootout, during your recovery, during the three or four days of your drugged-out haze and painful healing had been… quite nice.

You didn’t remember very much, but what you did recall was warmth, safety, a feeling of security during the minutes you were in his arms, watching the puffs of your breath steam into the cold air as he held you outside the warehouse. A deep sense of belonging, of being needed and wanted. Despite Whiskey’s superficial flirtations and tendency to yee-haw his way both into and out of danger, you had gotten the feeling that he would have missed you if you had died.

And all the hours he’d spent by your bedside, talking and reading to you- wait, reading? Had Jack actually been reading to you at some point? More shards of your shattered memory floated up, snippets of story and dialogue, and the sudden realization hit - Whiskey had been reading from one of your favorite books. A title you had mentioned to him the first month that you worked at Statesman and not said a word about since then. Had he remembered?

No. You shook your head as if to clear the impossible feeling of warmth that was threatening to envelop you the longer you considered your jackass fellow agent. It must have been a coincidence, or a title that Ginger pulled from your file and recommended that he read out loud, to help you regain your memory, to help you recover faster. There’s no way Jack would have remembered it on his own, was there?

You swung your legs out of bed and winced. Everything hurt. But there was no sense in whining about it, might as well get back to work.

—

“Cherry, just what the hell are you doin’ here?”

“Hello to you, too Whiskey.” You winced at the bright sunlight streaming in behind him as he stood in the doorway of your office. Your voice was gravelly and thin, no malice behind your next words. “You trying to blind me, too, on top of getting me shot?”

Jack huffed an indignant noise, but he moved out of the doorway and stood opposite your desk. “I’m serious, Cherry. You should be at home resting. There’s nothing we need you here for, and you shouldn’t have driven yourself in, not after all the drugs Ginger gave you.”

You fought the urge to roll your eyes at his bossiness. “Well, I made it here in one piece, so I might as well get some work done. Nothing to do at my place but stare at the walls.”

“Well maybe that’s what you should be doin’. Do I need to pick you up and carry you outta here?” Jack scrubbed a hand over his eyes, and his ornery tone softened. “Look, if you agree to let Ginger check you out before you leave, I’ll drive you home myself. Might even stop on the way for one of them gourmet milkshakes you love. My treat.”

You nearly scoffed, until the realization of what he had said hit you. How did he know about your favorite milkshakes? Another tidbit from your file, courtesy of Ginger? Or was it something you had said offhand months ago and Jack had filed it away?

You bit your lip, scanning your desk for any important scrap of paper, any excuse you could cling to in order to stay. There was nothing. You gave in. “Okay, you win. You’re right. I should probably be home in bed.”

You sighed and stood up, grimacing at the aches and pains that protested your every move. Jack stepped toward you, his hands outstretched to help. You swatted him away, and for a brief moment, almost too quick to catch it, you saw something sad flash across his handsome features. He buried it quickly with a scowl, but you were certain he had been genuinely hurt by your refusal to let him help. You sighed in annoyance, mostly at your own stubbornness and unintentional slight toward Whiskey. You could be nicer, especially considering how much time he had spent with you in the medical bay. Jack really hadn’t been anything but kind to you since you got shot.

It gently dawned on you that Whiskey had really only ever been kind to you, since the first day you joined Statesman. Sure, he was a bit of a jackass, kind of a loudmouth, way too flirty with every woman in his orbit, and a lot bossy, but none of his jabs and teasing had been mean. None of it had ever been designed to hurt you. So why were you so reluctant to accept his kindness now? You shook your head and held your elbow out to him, just a bit. A tiny gesture intended to show your willingness to accept his help, but not overt enough to feel embarrassing if he didn’t catch on and left you hanging.

Your stomach did a wonderful little flip when Jack wrapped his big hand around your elbow and walked you all the way to medbay.

—

“So what still hurts?” Ginger tapped the screen of her tablet. “Gunshot site? Incisions from the emergency surgery? Muscle aches?”

“Everything, Ginge. Everything hurts.” You hummed a small moan, and didn’t even try to stop the tear that slipped down your cheek. You were way past the point of trying to be brave. “My head hurts, my muscles ache, my jaw hurts from grinding my teeth. I swear to god I even feel like my boobs are swollen and I’m about to get my period.”

Ginger made a soothing noise and tapped her screen again. “Okay, I’m gonna give you another dose of painkiller. It’s experimental, but Champ cleared it for you. We gave it to you a few times while you were in recovery, so this’ll be your…” She tapped her screen once more. “Eighth dose.”

Ginger put on gloves and readied a syringe of milky liquid. She rubbed an alcohol swab on your arm and pinched as she administered the injection. You hissed out a breath and fixed your eyes at a point on the ceiling until the sting faded.

“Okay, all done.” Ginger disposed of the hypodermic needle and snapped her gloves off into the trash. She pulled a red lollipop out of the pocket of her lab coat and handed it to you with a smile. “How about a lollipop for my brave girl Cherrybomb?”

You both broke into girlish giggles and you let Ginger wrap you in a warm hug. “I know this sucks, Cher. I’m sorry. We fought really hard to save you, but it’s gonna be a while before you start feeling normal.”

You sniffed, unwrapping your lollipop. “Okay.” Your voice sounded very small to your own ears and tears started to flow more freely. “Okay… I’m okay.” You sniffled and took a tissue from the box next to you, sticking the lollipop in your mouth.

Ginger left the room, and a few minutes later Jack swaggered his way in, seeming to fill the small, sterile white lab with his cheerful aura. For once you weren’t irritated to see him grinning.

“Ginger says you’re cleared to depart, Cherrybomb. Now where can your loyal servant Jack take you, hmm?” His lips quirked up into a smirk and he rubbed his hands soothingly over your shoulders. You smiled and mumbled around the lollipop, “Home.”

Jack frowned, “No milkshakes?”

You shook your head, pulling the candy out of your mouth with a sniffle. “Nah, just home. That shot is starting to kick in and I’m feeling a little drowsy.”

Jack pulled you toward his chest, and you let yourself fall and rest your forehead there for a moment, feeling his big hands soothing over your back as you sighed. He smelled amazing. You took a deep breath in and took a chance.

“Jack?”

“Hmmm?” He hummed, and you decided you wanted to stay there forever, wrapped in his big warm embrace with his lovely cologne enveloping you.

“Thank you for taking care of me.”

His voice sounded warmer than you’d ever heard it. “My pleasure, Cherry. Now let’s get you home.”

—

The ride home in Whiskey’s Bronco was fun, your giggles and loopy conversation filling the silence as he drove.

“I swear, this is the best lollipop I’ve ever had.” You hummed as you sucked on the candy, then pulled it out and held it up to look at it in the sunlight. “D’you think she gave me cherry flavor because my code name is Cherrybomb? Or was it just a kwin, uh, kwin-sid … um, not on purpose?”

Whiskey tilted his head at you and smirked from behind his sunglasses. “I have no idea, sugar. But I bet it’s not nearly as sweet as you are.”

You felt tears sting your eyes. “Oh my god, no… you’re so sweet, Jackie. You’re the one who dragged me outta there, who sat with me the whole time I was recovering. You even read me my favorite book…” You closed your eyes and leaned back against the headrest. “You’re the best, Jack. The best one.”

Your brain swam, and you suddenly realized you needed to apologize. You popped your eyes open and lurched across the front seat to put your hand on his forearm where he gripped the steering wheel. You belatedly realized you were squeezing and feeling the taut muscles under his jacket sleeve, perhaps a little excessively. “I’sorry I thought you were a jackass.” You erupted in giggles.

Jack’s brows drew up and the little crinkle appeared above his aviators. “A jackass? Well, I’ve heard harsher insults from much worse people, sugar. No harm done.”

“Good… because this lollipop is good! And I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.” You slurped on the candy as Jack pulled into your driveway. He parked and took the keys out of the ignition, then turned to you.

You made wide eyes at him as you realized something horrible. “Oh my god! I didn’t offer you any!” You held the lollipop out, “Want some?”

Jack erupted in a warm chuckle. “No, Cherry, that’s all yours.”

The sunlight slanted across his face, and you could see his warm brown eyes behind his shades. His glance landed on your mouth before flitting back up to meet your own. You felt like you were underwater, moving extra slow, as you opened your mouth to stick the lollipop back inside your lips. You felt entirely helpless to stop a little drip of cherry-flavored saliva that escaped. Jack’s eyes riveted to your mouth, and before you could stop him, he swiped one broad thumb over your chin.

He looked uncomfortable for a moment, like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t have, and he cleared his throat and looked away from you. You put your hand on his knee softly, and he turned his gaze back to you.

“See? Taking good care of your old pal Cherry.” You squeezed his thigh, and Whiskey smiled at your own bright grin. Everything was running at half-speed, and you weren’t sure if you voiced or only imagined your next words: “You’re the best.”

—

You woke up in your bed hours later, the late afternoon sun slanting across your face. Your mouth was sticky and dry, but everything hurt less than it had that morning… well, mostly everything. For some reason your boobs felt hot and tight and sore. You groaned and sat up in bed.

You lifted the neckline of your white tank top away from your chest and stared down at your cleavage in horror. Your breasts were engorged, and from this angle looked to be about one-third larger than their normal size. The skin across the top of each breast was tight and smooth, and both nipples were erect. You poked the top of one boob experimentally and gave it a squeeze- “Ow!!”

You felt a slight tingle at the nipple, and then a few drops of warm, milky white liquid erupted, soaking the fabric. Within seconds, the other breast started leaking, too. “The FUCK?!”

“You okay in there, Cherry?” Jack’s voice floated in from your living room. What was he still doing here?

Before you could call out and stop him, Jack’s heavy footsteps thunked down the hall and he appeared in the doorway of your bedroom. His face immediately changed from quizzical to shocked upon seeing you sitting up in bed, the front of your tank top stained with twin pools of fluid, your face twisted in revulsion and surprise at your current predicament.

You belatedly realized that you were between the sheets with only a white tank and your underwear on, your hands still fisted in the fabric of your shirt, pulling the neckline open. Had you gotten yourself undressed and into bed? Had Jack helped you? You let go and patted the top back into place, pulling your covers up over your chest.

“It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

Jack dragged his eyes from your covered chest up to your face. “That didn’t look like ‘nothing,’ sugar. I think you need to call Ginger - now.”

Ten minutes and one phone call later, your head was spinning with Ginger’s best guesses at an explanation… experimental drug… must have stimulated the pituitary gland… you can manually express the milk if the buildup is painful… prolactin production… cold compresses… hormone pre-production chemicals… should wear off soon…. lactation as an unforeseen side-effect…

You disconnected the call and sat on the edge of your bed, stunned and immobile. What the fuck?

Jack had retreated to your living room so that you could have privacy to call Ginger, and you heard him sitting on your couch, flipping through a magazine while he waited. He cleared his throat and flipped another page. After a moment he called down the hall to you. “Any news? What’s Ginger’s advice?”

“Umm…” You trailed off. “She said that it’s probably… breastmilk?... from the, uh… the drugs?” You were stone-cold sober, no more wobbly-wavy loopiness from the shot, but your whole being felt off-kilter at the ridiculousness of it all - the surprising fact of suddenly having breastmilk, and the situation of talking about it with your fellow agent, and trying to sort through how to deal with the apparently benign but very messy side-effect. Your breasts throbbed and you absentmindedly scratched at an itchy spot near your nipple as you let out a deep exhale.

Jack’s silence from the living room was heavy. You suddenly felt shy, like you had done something awkward and needed to smooth things over.

“You gonna… say anything out there, Whiskey?”

Jack cleared his throat, and then again. “Ah, well… what would you like me to say?”

Irritation rose in your chest and you leapt to your feet, stomping down the hall to the living room. “Well say something! Like ‘Oh, Cherry, I’m sorry this happened.’ or ‘Gee, Cherry, that sure sounds painful and terrifying.’”

You braced your hands on your hips, glaring daggers at Jack as he sat dumbfounded on your sofa, his hat and sunglasses resting on your coffee table, magazine held limply in his hands. “How about offering to get me a milkshake, or offering to help me figure out how to fix this!” You gestured at your boobs where they pressed against your thin tank top, the wet spots a bit drier now, but still spread transparent over each nipple like a neon sign.

You suddenly realized that you had stormed out of the bedroom in just your panties and tank top, forgetting in your spurt of anger that you were half-dressed at best. Whiskey just sat with his jaw dropped, and even in your haze of irritation you noticed that his gaze was fixed firmly on your chest.

You snapped your fingers rapidly and pointed at your face. “Eyes up here, Cowboy.”

Jack's big brown eyes snapped to yours. He gulped. “I, uh- how do you want me to help fix it, sugar?” He shifted on the couch, and then tugged at the fabric of his tight jeans, high up on his thigh. He cleared his throat again and laid the magazine to rest over his lap. A flush of pink tinted his ears and cheeks.

“Christ on toast, Jack! Do you have an erection right now?” You were incredulous. “I’m in pain and scared, and you have a hard-on?”

Jack tossed the magazine onto the coffee table and adjusted the denim fabric right over his crotch as he stood up. He raised his voice into the ornery tone you were so familiar with. “Yeah, I do! It’s not intentional, honey. I didn’t mean to embarrass you or make light of the situation. It’s kinda something that happens when a beautiful woman is half-naked in front of me with her tits leaking.”

“Oh, this happens a lot, does it? You’re familiar with this kind of thing?” Your tone dripped sarcasm. “You spend a lot of time training for this? Do a lot of planning for exactly this scenario?”

“Yeah, I do! I spend hours and hours thinking about you. I-” Whiskey’s voice cut and he snapped his mouth shut. He looked angrier than you had seen in a long time, maybe ever. He bit his words off with a clench of his jaw. “Forget it.”

Jack snatched his hat up off the table and moved toward the front door to retrieve his leather jacket from the wall hook. Panic rose in your throat at the thought that you had finally pissed him off enough that he was going to leave you high and dry. In all the months of ribbing and taunting, he hadn’t ever been this angry at you. Had never refused to help you out of a scrape or declined to help you solve a problem.

Tears rose and you couldn’t help the hiccup that bubbled out of your throat. Through a blur of tears you saw Whiskey punch his arms roughly into his jacket sleeves and reach for the door handle.

“Jack, wait!” He paused, but didn’t turn to look at you.

You stomped your foot once on the floor, frustration ebbing away into fear. “I’m- I’m really scared, and I’m upset and I’m in pain. I don’t know what to do and you have to help me. Please, Jack, I- I need you. I’m scared and I need you.” You buried your face in your hands and sobbed once- a rough, wet sound that echoed in the open room.

You heard Jack sigh and walk over to you and then suddenly you were wrapped up in his big arms, with his cologne and his warmth and his solid presence helping you remember how to breathe. You tried not to feel embarrassed at how his shirt was probably getting wet with your tears and snot and breastmilk. You sniffled and pulled back, fixing your eyes on a shirt button near his midsection. “I’m sorry, Jack. I-”

“No, I’m the one who should be sorry, Cherry. I shouldn’t’ve gotten upset with you.” He squeezed your shoulders once in reassurance. “I should’ve offered to help, not run out on you.” Whiskey lifted your chin with two fingers, tipping your face up toward his.

His warm brown eyes looked determined, and your breath caught in your throat as Jack looked at you with such intensity that it felt like he was looking through you, looking into you and seeing everything you ever were or ever would be. You felt as if everything would be okay, as long as he looked at you like that forever.

Jack’s voice was husky, his words slightly hesitant as he spoke slowly. “Cherry, I- if you want- and only if you want, I can try an’ help you out. But I need to tell you something first- and goddamn if this isn’t the worst timing ever…”

Your brows drew together in confusion, and you waited to see what he would say next. Jack cleared his throat and took a deep breath.

“I know it sounds like I’m just tryin’ to take advantage, sugar. But you have to know that I wouldn’t do that just when you’re vulnerable. Please believe me when I say that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you for months… and that whatever is happening with the drugs and the side effects right now, I might be the perfect person to help you out.”

“What? Wait, you- you think about me? Like… think-think about me?”

Jack looked slightly embarrassed. “Well, yeah, Cherry. I meant what I said before… You know that you’re gorgeous. I really have spent hours and hours thinking about you.” He smiled. “And while this isn’t exactly how I would’ve planned it, I can’t deny that I’d love to take you into the bedroom and get to know you a whole lot better.”

“Really?”

“Well, yeah. And then there’s the fact of the matter that you’re… making, you know, milk… and that’s one of my, uh… let’s just say I like to think about that, too. And I would definitely not be opposed to, you know, using my mouth to… help.” Jack’s cheeks and ears went a deeper shade of pink.

Your eyes fluttered shut, your head feeling dizzy and light at hearing the veritable flood of new information… Jack thinks I’m gorgeous… and he wants to go to bed with me… and he’s into whatever weird shit is happening right now… and he wants to put his mouth on my tits… and he’s been thinking about me this whole time…

You felt your heart beating faster, and an echoing pulse throbbing between your legs, the excitement of it all making your pussy clench. You opened your eyes and nodded vigorously at Jack.

“Yes. Please, Jack. Take me to bed. Please.”

In a flash Jack’s mouth was on yours, his strong hands sliding down to cup your ass and squeeze you through your underwear. You moaned at how eager he was, the feeling of his erection suddenly hard against your abdomen. You opened your mouth and let his tongue tangle with yours over and over again. Jack nipped at your lower lip and then licked at the swollen flesh trapped between the blunt edges of his white teeth. You slid your hand down the front of him and palmed his cock through the stiff denim of his jeans.

“Fucking hell, Cherry.” He panted between kisses. “You’re gonna fucking kill me. I’m gonna blow my load before we even get to the bedroom.”

Jack pulled back and dropped to his knees before yanking the hem of your tank top up and exposing your painful, swollen tits to the cool air. You gasped a bit as he brought both of his large, warm hands up to cup your breasts. Jack looked up at you, all dark lashes and deep coffee eyes, and then he opened his mouth wide and sealed his lips over one nipple. You put your hand on his shoulders for stability and stared down at him, not able to tear your eyes away from the sight of Jack closing his eyes and moaning softly, almost reverently into your swollen flesh. His tongue massaged your stiffened nipple and he applied some suction and then, oh-

“Oh, god! Oh fuck, fuck!” You threw your head back, experiencing the oddest sensation of pins and needles, sharp prickles just behind each nipple and you felt something break. Jack moaned, almost a growl deep in his chest. You looked down just in time to see him roll his big brown eyes open and look up at you, naked want and adoration in his gaze as he sucked and sucked. You barely noticed that your free breast, cupped in his huge hand was leaking, too - tiny rivers of whitish liquid running down the back of Whiskey’s hand and soaking the leather sleeve of his jacket.

Your pussy throbbed at the sight of this strong man, this quick-shot cocky agent brought literally to his knees to worship at your flesh and consume you. He pulled off with a sucking noise and switched sides, licking at the spilled milk on the back of his hand. You gasped out a laugh at the sight of it, at his eagerness to capture everything, to not waste a drop.

—

“Cherry, baby?” Jack’s voice seemed far away, and you rolled over onto your stomach and buried your face in the pillow. Your breasts felt empty and good, no longer hurting with the buildup of milk, although your nipples were sensitive as they brushed against the sheets.

“Hmmph… time’s it?” You really didn’t want to get up, but Jack’s soothing voice coaxed you up out of your slumber.

“It’s 7 p.m. I thought you might be hungry after all that activity, sugar, so I went out and brought you back one of those milkshakes.”

---

“Everything bagel” tag list: @quica-quica-quica @anaaaispunk @justanotherblonde23 @gracie7209 @nicolethered @honestly-shite @driedgreentomatoes @dihra-vesa @1800-fight-me @the-queen-of-fools @juletheghoul @kesskirata @honeymandos @silverwolf319 @mourningbirds1 @greeneyedblondie44 @spacedilf @maxwell–lord @anxiousandboujee @cevvie @sherala007 @writeforfandoms @libellule2001 @deadhumourist @mandoalorian @javierpinme @eri16 @mandocrasis @pilothusband @bastillealmighty @eri16 @jitterbugs927 @babiiface95 @toomanystoriessolittletime @yespolkadotkitty @fisforfulcrum @prettylilhalforc @mswarriorbabe80 @littlemisspascal @wildemaven @coreychick @castleamc @coreychick @astoryisaloveaffair @fan-of-encouragement @nolanell @deadhumourist

#pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal x you #pedrostories #pedro stories #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal fanfiction #Agent Whiskey x you #Agent Whiskey x reader #Agent Jack whiskey daniels x reader #Agent Jack Whiskey Daniels x you #kingsman fic #kingsman fanfic #kingsman fanfiction #Agent whiskey fic #Agent Jack Whiskey Daniels fic #Agent whiskey fanfic #Agent Jack Whiskey Daniels fanfic #Agent whiskey fanfiction #Agent Jack Whiskey Daniels fanfiction

[couldyouspeakmyname]

Ok so all your shishigumi content reminded me how much I adore Hino like uhh💖💖

He looks tired sexy and we love that

Could I interest you in Hino and an artist reader Maybe reader was in a gore mood so they went to the back alley market for some inspo and bummed into him and the rest of the boys and immediately asked Hino to be their model? I wonder how he'd react and if maybe a romance could blossom from that 👀

I'll leave the format and rest to your talented hands dear writer and I wish you the best of days ✨

I think this is my first Hino oriented ask? I love me a tired boi. 

-Maeve

You had heard a lot about the black market. It was no secret that many carnivores frequented the area, and it wasn’t unusual for you to visit a friend just to find that they had some sort of meat hidden in their fridge. At this point it was a secret everyone knew, but no one talked about. You had never been, despite the occasional invite. It wasn’t really your thing, and from the sounds of it, the Black Market was dangerous just to go to. There were gangs, fights, feral animals, it just sounded like a death trap, carnivore or not. 

You had never considered really going before, until you fell into a major art rut. You couldn’t think of anything to do. You’d stare at a blank canvas for hours and hours, and still...nothing. It wasn’t until your friend visited, and you began a movie binge that inspiration finally struck you. It was some old horror movie from twenty years ago, and while the effects were bad, and the blood was obviously fake, you suddenly had an idea. You finally had the urge to create and climb over the blockade your had been trying to climb over for the past few weeks. Finally! 

As an artist, you were used to this sort of feeling. It could make you feel like you were on cloud nine, then drop you to rock bottom in the matter of a few moments. When inspiration struck, sometimes it was at the worst time or place possible. Such instances usually involved when you were about to fall asleep, or when you were in a long car ride, or out shopping. Unfortunately for you, it wasn’t unheard of for previously brilliant idea you were so excited about to loose it’s appeal by the time you could get to a point where you could do something about it. This time though, the idea you had and the itch to make it a reality didn’t fade. It nagged at the back of your head. You knew you wanted something dark, bloody, edgy, exciting. 

While you loved your friend, you almost couldn’t wait for them to leave. 

There was just one problem, you didn’t know what to create. You had an urge, a concept, but no details. Nothing you sketched out seemed good. It was all lacking...something. Your frustration began to grow as days passed. The urge never left, the concept of a gory piece of artwork kept clawing at your brain. You tried going online, asking a few friends, but nothing you created seemed good enough. Nothing satisfied you. More than once a sketch was discarded, colors were replaced over and over. You wanted to create, the need was there, but no solid ideas seemed to stick. 

You really had no other choice.

“You’re coming?” Your friend grabbed your shoulders in excitement. They seemed so pleased you agreed to go with them. 

“Only for inspiration for my project! I’m not buying anything,” They didn’t seem to hear you, and were quick to try and drag you out the door. You were barely able to get your art supplies. 

You were going to the market.

The ride there was fast. It was probably due to your nerves. Your friend didn’t hesitate to jump off the train and drag you up the station stairs and onto the street. The station was a few block away from the market itself, and as you walked, the buildings seemed to age quickly, many becoming questionable and dilapidated. The last building of any note that you passed, ‘The Hidden Condo’, seemed like one of the most questionable places to live you’d ever seen. You suddenly were grateful for your home, even if it was a little worn down and small. At least there weren’t animals pushing some sort of weird energy drink on your stoop. You and your friend gave that group a wide berth, and continued to chat normally as you entered the market. 

The smell hit you first. Cooking meats, savory spices, and even the scent of raw flesh hit you all at once. Your friend wasn’t phased, but why would they be? They knew this place. Most carnivores your age did. High schoolers knew what this place was. You suddenly felt very out of place, but not your friend. They even gave a small wave to a friendly stranger that were on their way out of the market, leaving with a sealed and taped cooler. You’d seen coolers like that on the all carnivore train before, and while you had suspected what was in them, now you had confirmation. As you walked along the stalls, the slabs of meats were displayed in such a way it’d be easy to forget that they once belong to someone else. You wondered how they got them, but you didn’t ask. 

This place was perfect. 

“I know you said you didn’t want to try anything, but there’s this shop that makes the best ramen!” You tuned your friend out as they babbled, and focused your surroundings. You took notes of the tall buildings, the broken street you walked on, the seemingly pleasant patrons. You quickly took out you sketch book, and began illustrating what you saw. The deeper you went, the more inspired you became. 

A booth had legs set up for sale, minus the feet. One shop boasted about the fowl they sold, and another had a sign announcing the sale of their pork ribs. One shop even had whole sale rabbits, who looked quite peaceful in the window. You tried not to think of a classmate you had in your previous art class. 

“Tussle!” You heard someone yell, and your friend grabbed you arm and began dragging you the direction of the yell. You almost fell. 

“They’re going to fight!” Your friend seemed excited, like they were a child again and describing the latest roller coaster ride they wanted to go on. They were practically skipping the direction of, what you could only assume, was the ongoing violence. 

“Who are?”

“The Shishigumi,” They dragged you over to the edge of the sidewalk where a large crowd had formed. Even on the edge, there were still a few rows of animals ahead of you, blocking the majority of your view. 

“This is their territory, and those guys,” They pointed to a group of leopards, or what you assumed were leopards. The crowd made it difficult to see. “-are infringing on their territory. They fight to settle things,” You gave them a look. 

“So you want to watch a gang fight?” You sounded skeptical. Wouldn’t that be dangerous? What if they started shooting?

“Yeah, don’t worry though. It’s not going to be to bad since there’s a crowd here,” Ah, they didn’t want to kill any bystanders and hurt business. You tried to stand on your toes to see, especially when a distinct thud hit the ground. Your friend seemed to catch one and yanked you forward. A few more animals, and soon you were about the second row of the crowd.

In the street were a few leopards, and a few lions. The lions, as a group, seemed to stand a ways back, except for two. Just the two alone seemed to handle the leopard with little effort. The violence itself was great for your sketches, and you jotted down a few notes and ideas before they flew out of your head. As the fight ended, the crowd applauded the winning lions. You looked up from your book to the see the victors. The two who partook in the violence seemed to be bragging to their companions, but they weren’t your focus. No, instead your eyes caught sight of someone absolutely stunning. Despite the bags under his eyes, he seemed so relaxed. His mane had these gentle waves that really seemed to suit him and frame his face. Even next to his violent companions, he just looked so calm. 

You needed to know who he was.

“Who’s that?” You inclined your head the beautiful strangers direction, and your friend shrugged. 

“Not sure. I don’t talk to them. They run this area, but they’re not the kind of animals you just walk up and talk to. The most I know is that the big one is Miguel, the one with the tattoos is Free, and that’s it. Those two fight more than the others, so everyone knows their names. I think the one with the face scar is Doc or something?” They shrug, and look down at your notebook. 

“I need his name,” Is this what tunnel vision felt like? You just kept your gaze on him, and even when the group began walking away, you kept watching. 

After that? You were hooked.

Your art piece began to take shape. The first drafts would end up burned in a dumpster, and you’d revisit the market, hoping to catch that stranger. You spent hours working on it, reworking it, and redoing everything from scratch. You had ideas, and the background came together first. The nitty-gritty streets, the market goers, the stalls displaying limbs severed from their owners, but something was missing. You knew exactly what, or who, it was, and you knew couldn’t finish it without him. You weren’t going to even try. You knew nothing you’d put would fit quite right, not like him. So, you visited the market again, and again. Your friend would go along, just happy for the company. The shop keepers didn’t mind you either, since your friend was a loyal customer. You’d usually buy meals and just end up giving them to your friend as leftovers and a thank you for always coming with you. 

Even though you were now a regular at the market, you hadn’t seen him again. It was like trying to find a needle in a haystack, and your friend refused to go deeper into the market where their hideout was supposed to be. 

Still, you persisted. 

. . .

You woke up suddenly one night. The window was cracked, cool air blowing in. The breeze caused a gentle rustling of paper, and a few pencils had rolled off your desk and onto your floor. Even so, that wouldn’t have been enough to wake you up. There was no reason for you to be awake. Yet, there was an undeniable urge forcing you out of bed and into your street clothes. 

You knew you had to go back. 

This time though, you went alone. 

You put on your shoes, and locked your apartment up tight. In your pockets were nothing but your phone and keys. You didn’t bring your book, your instincts told you that it wouldn’t be needed. You trusted them. You had to, they had gotten you this far. 

The subway wasn’t running so late at night, and you had to walk. You found that you didn’t mind. A carnivore yourself, you were at less of a risk than an herbivore would be. Even so, you knew it was stupid. You shouldn’t be going alone. You should call you friend, but you didn’t. You just allowed your feet to carry you to the market. 

You finally reached the entrance, and went in.

At this hour, even the most desperate stall owners had closed their doors. The only things that remained open were strip clubs, bars, and hotels that never questioned their patrons. It had taken you and hour to get there, and your footsteps seemed to echo on the broken cobblestone road. You were smart enough to avoid ally ways, and stay under flickering street lamps. 

You didn’t know where you were going exactly, but you just walked. You held no fear, despite the location, and just pressed onto into an area of the market to which you had never been. The streets got worse, and the buildings seemed to be watching you. 

That’s when you spotted him.

He was alone, sitting on a bench that was rusted and worn. The metal arm on one side had been broken, and parts of the seat were splintered. There was noise coming from inside a building a ways down, and you realized it was probably a bar that had stayed open for, what you could only assume, was the rest of the Shishigumi. 

He was looking up, almost as if he was trying to spot the moon that was hiding behind rooves and the bright lights of the nearby seedy hotels. It was impossible, but it still seemed like he was looking. 

You saw your chance and took it. 

You quickly walked over to him, causing him to snap back from whatever train of thought he seemed to be on. He quickly straightened his back, and eyed you. He used one arm to get up, so he could stand taller than you, and his grip made the old wood of the bench creak. 

Even in the cheap streetlights, he was glowing. You couldn’t waste this chance.

“Hi, my name is Y/N,” You continue to approach him boldly, making him take a step back in shock. He didn’t even know he’d done it. Your voice cut though the muddled quiet of the street, and seemed impossibly loud. 

“I saw you a few weeks ago in the crowd, and I uh. I’m an artist, and I’d love it if you could model for me? I have a few examples if you’d like,” You made sure to lower your voice, to make it less shocking. You pulled out your phone and held it up for him. He didn’t say anything and just took it, a little dumbstruck. 

“Hey! Those look pretty good,” Neither you nor, who you’d learn, was Hino noticed that his companions had come up behind him. Felines were known for being light footed, but it really wasn’t fair they could walk up so quietly in dress shoes. Your phone was quickly snatched away by a lion behind him, who then began showing the rest of the group.

“Hino, you’re leaving us to go do modeling? Boss is going to be so sad to loose you,” An obvious joke, and Hino tried, and failed, to snatch the phone back. It seemed Free was having a good old time paying keep a way with your phone. You’d eventually learn Agata was the one he kept tossing the phone to. 

“That’s enough,” The larger lion, Miguel, took your phone from the now pouting Free, and handed it back to Hino. Hino looked exhausted by the small exchange.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can do that,” His voice was so warm. You could listen to him for days. 

“Please? I just have one piece to finish, and I really need you, I could pay you!” You weren’t going to accept defeat so easily. He seemed a little surprised by your insistence, and your questionable lack of fear. You were in a dark streetway with a cluster of gangsters. Weren’t you worried? Even a little? Apparently not, since your gaze never left his. 

“Hey, do you know who we are?” Free butted in again, as if reading Hino’s thoughts. 

“The Shishigumi, one of the gangs,” You disregarded Free’s interjection and kept your focus on Hino. One of the other lions snorted in amusement in the background.

“Please,” Hino didn’t say anything. his shoulders slumped, and he looked at your phone again, flipping through the images. They were impressive, but a lion of the Black Market? Sure his looks were used for jobs but, you seemed like an actual artist. What could you possibly want with him? The other lions seemed tense, waiting for a response. He could feel their eyes on his back. 

Hino felt even more tired, if possible. He exited out of the folder of your artwork, and began going through your phone itself. You had websites, sketches, some pictures of you and your friends. You just stood there, gaze never leaving him. He felt a lot of pressure both from you, and from his gang behind him. 

“Here,” He offered your phone back. You took it, looking at the screen. He had added his number in, but before he let go completely he gave you a pointed look. Okay, you could play it cool.

“Get out of the market safe, it’s dangerous at night,” He turned to the other lions, who began giving him various jabs about the interaction. You just looked at your phone, and grinned once they were out of sight. 

You got what you came for. 

#hinoxreader #hino x reader #beastars imagine #beastars x reader #beastarsxreader #this got out of hand #whoops #NO REGRETS #I hope it's okay!!! #I can do a part two eventually if you'd like #it's over 2000+ words so I stopped OTL #I haven't forgotten about the yafya one either #Im so excited I got to write for Hino

[confused-as-all-hell]

i am thrilled to announce the second installment in my idle series, focusing solely on jesper and wylan. i would simply like to remind everyone, however, that these are meant to be poetic and full of prose, rather than serious and solid fics, that's all.

tag list was removed for bewildering reasons, but anyways

Wylan Van Eck hadn't always loved him.

Once upon a time, he had only been a quiet boy from the largest city in the world, lips smudged with paint, copper lashes low over eyes bluer than the fucking summer sky.

Once upon a time, he had spent his days sequestered in his favourite studio, head tilted just so slightly, dappling the canvas in shades of green and gold, a spare brush between his teeth.

Once upon a time, his evenings were spent alone at the piano, slim fingers hovering over the keys as if he could wring his childhood from the notes, copper curls damp with bathwater.

Once upon a time, artwork meant slender brushes and sticky gouache and glass jars of paint; now he could only define it as eyes like dusty sunlight, soft lips that tasted of forgiveness, a grin to light the world aflame.

And Wylan was fucking aflame.

He was burning.

When he was sketching sleepily at his desk, the sun a dying cinder at his back, sharp angles and vivid coats and pearl-handled revolvers sprawled from the tip of his charcoal pen.

When he was laying alone in the bath, water lapping over the hard planes of his body, the room aglow in soft shades of bronze and green, all he could do was dream.

When he was sitting in a lecture hall, information and dates and names pounding through his ears, all he could see was the elegant figure before him, scrawling down his notes, one leg kicked up against a girl's chair.

Wylan couldn't help but track the careful movements of his hand, the graceful loops and lines of his writing, one finger braced against the metal spiral of his notebook.

His name was Jesper, he knew. Jesper Fahey.

A soft name, the sound a rolling wave on his tongue, rising and falling. It tasted like whiskey, smooth and sweet, every note rich and unfettered.

He wanted to find out how it would feel in his mouth, during the final hours of the night, how it would sound.

He wanted to hear his own name on Jesper's lips, a breathless gasp, a quiet moan, a pleading whisper.

He wanted to hear Jesper say his name, so simply.

He wanted to hear his name.

The very first time Wylan painted him felt like taking a drug. He was sprawled in his bed, staring dazedly at a dark spider clinging to the leftmost wall, and he was losing his fucking mind.

He couldn't get the image of Jesper's hands out of his head. In the chamber of his mind, he had locked away the sight as if to keep it safe and sheltered; those fucking beautiful hands, broad and warm, lines etched into the calloused palm, nails squared off, three rings circling each finger.

He wanted to draw them in charcoal and graphite and ink.

He wanted to paint them in gouache and acrylics and watercolour.

He wanted to line them in silver and bronze and emerald.

He wanted to lift those hands to his mouth and kiss them.

And so at three in the morning, still in his pajamas and hair utterly bedraggled, eyes swollen with exhaustion and limbs sore, he was setting himself up before a blank canvas.

"Just one painting," he whispered, touching a slim finger to a brush.

He promised himself a quick sketch, just the soft shape of his hands, or the lilt to his smile, or maybe even the blazing hue of his eyes.

One painting.

He made quick work of locating his favourite paints, a set of vibrant gouache his mother had gifted him, bottled neatly into little glass jars.

And, so fucking tenderly, he selected every single colour that he had likened to Jesper.

Rich gold and heady crimson, molten copper and softest ivory, prussian blue and clinging silver, dreamy amethyst and clear chrysocolla.

They stained Wylan's hands as he dappled the bare canvas in every prismatic hue, smudging over his wrists and fingertips and the limber handle of his brush.

When the sun rose, fierce and proud against a backdrop of blue blue blue, he only wiped a droplet of copper from his lip and kept going.

There was something utterly consuming about being locked away in that room, the strong scent of paint and turpentine, the haze of shades and light and quiet piano music, the blur of being trapped in lands one never wanted to leave.

He spent hours kneeling there on the floor, head bowed over the canvas as if the painting was his altar, reveling in every last detail. And there were Jesper's hands, soft and gentle, and the sight nearly drove him mad.

He wanted to feel those hands tangled through his hair.

He wanted to feel them on his bare skin.

He wanted.

"Just one painting," he echoed, and set down his brush.

But when he glimpsed Jesper laughing in the fields, snow dripping down his cheek like tears, he wanted to capture that indomitable joy in acrylics, brilliant in their beauty.

But when he caught Jesper downing a mug of his friend's coffee, he never wanted to forget the way he winked, the way his hand wrapped carelessly around the cardboard cup.

But when he saw Jesper dancing against a curvy girl in red velvet, he couldn't tear his eyes from the sharp set of his jaw, the lowered lashes, the vulnerable angle of his bare wrists.

He wanted to trace them in charcoal, wanted to preserve the sight in paper, never to be lost or forgotten.

Jesper grinned lazily at the girl, one corner of his fucking beautiful mouth lifting, and then he was pressed up against a different boy, head thrown back in laughter.

He whirled past his partners, leaving them with only a whisper or a slow, deliberate kiss. They grabbed for his attention, for the gift of his smile, reaching out with greedy hands.

Then Jesper was scanning the club, honey eyes roaming over the floors and walls and bars. They locked on Wylan, and something in his gaze lit.

A blazing match.

A building on fire.

A city burning, burning, burning.

And Wylan never knew how he found the courage, but suddenly he was striding up between the writhing bodies, and the ocean was roaring in his ears, and he was saying lightly, "Would you favour me with a dance?"

It was not graceful and elegant and slow.

It was stumbling and gasping and and breathless laughter.

It was drowning within the cacophony of pulsing music.

It was drowning within the steady depth of Jesper's eyes.

The flashing strobe lights were pulsing blue and green and red and pink, and the sounds of laughter and shuffling steps filled the club, and there was music echoing up the walls and skittering up the vertebrae of his spine.

It felt like being trapped in a prism where time did not exist.

Wylan's eyes fluttered shut, and he thought, I will burn as those cities burned.

And when Jesper lowered his head and whispered, "What would you say to a kiss, Wylan Van Eck?" he was fucking gone.

Jesper had never looked more handsome, his lashes low, the curve of his jaw sharp, every glint of gold in his eyes sparkling.

Wylan wanted to draw him bare and asleep in his own tangled bedsheets, the elegant lines of his body extended, every single angle and plane etched deep.

He wanted to draw the way he looked in that very moment, beautiful and brash and bold.

And that was a terrible idea for so many reasons.

It was a terrible idea because Jesper was raucous and brazen as the sun, and Wylan was soft and elegant as the moon, and neither of them could read the stars, but surely it was fated somewhere that dark and light did not find peace within one another.

It was a terrible idea because they were two fucking stupid collage kids who could never, ever find a life together.

It was a terrible idea because it was Achilles and Patroclus all over again, the boy who thought he could save his heart, the fucking idiot who believed love was indomitable.

Love would not absolve Wylan of the quiet terror that had sunken into his bones. Love would not ease the addictions that had crept upon Jesper like hungry vines.

He would not be the boy waiting, dishonored and broken, in the war tent.

He would not be the boy who watched as the world's cruelty took all that was dear to him.

He wouldn't.

But there was Jesper, with his lilting smile and the fierce look in his eyes, the scent of brandy clinging to him like smoke, and all Wylan could do was croak, "Yes."

And when Wylan staggered home at four in the morning, his hair a tangled copper halo, he couldn't help but think even Achilles and Patroclus might have hoped once.

They might have made out like teenagers and laughed in between kisses.

They might have been doomed, fated to die within the stars, but perhaps Wylan and Jesper would defy the odds. Perhaps Wylan could bear the magnanimity of his father's terrors, and perhaps Jesper could set down the playing cards and walk away from a bad hand.

They didn't have to be the heroes made history, legends turned legacies.

They could just be Wylan Van Eck and Jesper Fahey.

And in his paintings, they were.

In his paintings, they were very simply two boys kissing in the dark, all roaming hands and breathless gasps, shirts unbuttoned and sleeves rucked to their elbows, lips that tasted of redemption.

But as the days whirled past, and spring blossomed, Wylan came to realize life was so much more than soft, secret paintings. Life might even have been better.

Because life was Jesper asleep in his bed, one hand tucked beneath his cheek, limbs sprawled out across the silk sheets, sunlight gilding his bare body.

Life was standing at the stove with Jesper beside him, bickering over who got the first waffle, nearly doubled up in their laughter, exchanging sleepy kisses that tasted of sugar.

Life was laying in the fields with Jesper, leaning against him ever so slightly, their shoulders pressed together, the quiet brush of the wind lulling them to sleep, sweet as any melody.

Life was Wylan playing the piano in the midst of the night, cold moonlight easing through the blinds and slanting across the elegant notes, and Jesper's head was pillowed on his lap, and he was whispering, "I love you, I love you, I love you."

Wylan hadn't known love could be so simple.

He hadn't known.

And sometimes Jesper would read to him, the low cadence of his voice a melody sweet as sunlight, and Wylan would listen with his eyes fluttering shut, and he would think, If this is burning, I will spend the rest of my life with my hands in the fire.

There was the fierce freedom of open roads and summer air and vibrant artwork and daring kisses.

There was the quiet freedom of elegant piano music and large windows and scalding coffee and history books.

There was the unfettered freedom of them, of leaping across the broad rim of a water fountain, Wylan turning his face to the sun, warmth and light and the soft glitter of water, and Jesper's eyes were the colour of hope in the haze of dusk, and he whispered, "You look like a fucking prince, Wy."

Ice cream on his hands and seawater dampening his curls and blinding sunshine everywhere, and Jesper thought he looked like a prince.

What do I see, when I look at him?

Starlight slanting through their windows, grazing the idle curve of Jesper's lips.

Chocolate ice cream dripping down the cone, catching on Jesper's tongue.

Glittering rings of silver and amethyst and veined gold, looped around Jesper's fingers.

What do I find beautiful about him?

Was it his laughter or his smile or the way he buttoned up his shirt in the morning?

Was it the soft cadence of his voice as he read aloud, or the way he stroked Wylan's curling hair idly?

Was it the clever lilt of his smile or the quick wink of his lashes or the mocking shrug of his shoulders?

Was it the very simple fact that when the morning sunlight swept through the windows and slanted over the bed, Jesper looked as though he'd been crowned by the gods, a vision in bronze and gilt and amber? With his hair rumpled and his lashes low and the hard planes of his bare body clear as he knelt, Wylan had never seen anything so fucking wonderous.

What do I want to remember?

Their mornings, a sleepy haze of pancake batter and orange juice and tangled bedsheets, of rambling stories and dazed kisses?

Their afternoons, a blissful tangle of shared smiles and iced coffee and inside jokes, of hurried texts and chocolate bars?

Their nights, a frenzied blur of pulsing music and strobe lights and bedraggled hair, of breathless moans and fizzing champagne?

All of it. I want to remember all of it.

So what do you see, when you look at him?

Wylan saw love.

He saw salvation.

He saw soft lips and blazing eyes and broad hands.

He saw cities burning, burning, burning.

He saw Jesper Fahey.

#mmb writes #also happy pride month #cheers #jesper fahey #wylan van eck #wesper au #wesper fic #six of crows #soc #crooked kingdom #ck #rule of wolves #row #i... #this isnt too bad #right #i will burn as those cities burned #anyways im going back and forth #but here we go #leigh bardugo #i want to tag her shes done so much for me #even if she doesnt know it #i want to be like her #shes a fucking icon #anyways #my work #mine #all of it #im sorry to say i wrote this

[winter-fox-queen]

Fire Meets Gasoline: It’s Dangerous to Fall in Love

Fire Meet…Chapter 1

It’s Dangerous to Fall In Love

Warnings:  This will be dark.  The main character is female, a librarian, but blank canvas — but she is being stalked and has been trying, very hard, to stay out of an abusive relationship.  So triggers may be abusive relationships (Ezra is a jewel and won’t hurt her) and stalking.  She is doing her best.  I think you will like her.  No smut this chapter, I curse like some people breathe so let’s just assume there’s cursing.  Passing food mention.

This is mostly just set up. Next part, we start to get to the good stuff. I think.

He arrived in town in a beat up truck, like some kind of Wild West fairy tale.  He had a guitar that he liked to tell people he won in a poker match — but really, he got it at a garage sale.  It was one of the few things he kept in the cab, the rest, rain, snow or shine stayed in the back.  None of it was worth much, and he figured, if someone wants to steal his worn out clothes, they can go right ahead.

His name was Ezra, and he had both his arms (despite a very, very vivid dream about his step sister cutting it off the other night) a somewhat useless English Doctorate Degree (he’d been sleeping with the Dean’s wife, he found out and told the Council of Trustees and the President of the University that Ezra was having an inappropriate affaire with his seventeen year old daughter, who, righteously displeased at the whole of the situation went along with the lie— the moral of the story, never fuck around until yhou have tenure), some enemies, some larcenous skills, and the deed to a disreputable looking bowling alley.

Oh, Lord above, was it disreputable looking.  The parking lot was more weeds than asphalt.  The neon sign — The Bowling Green — flickered weirdly and the bowling pin at the end was half hanging off the otherwise featureless brick wall.  “Oh, Uncle, you meant well but I do fear you have done me wrong.”

There was another car in the parking lot, fairly new.  He parked next to it,  close to the door, neither of them worrying over sticking to the non existent parking lines.  He unlocked the peeling green painted door and went down the hall, past the office, past restrooms, to the only part of the place that still looked taken care of — the bowling lanes themselves.

There you were.  His uncle had told him about you — a sweet woman, a little lonely, but nice.  A librarian at the local middle and high schools.  You came in every week day at 3:30 on the dot, checked around the place for problems, then spent a solid hour bowling.

Ezra leaned against the door jamb, taking you in.  Something tugged at him, his heart felt like it was waking up, stretching its arms and looking around for something to love, and there.  There you were.  Beautiful, relaxed in your element, still in your work clothes, your bowling shoes looking well loved but old enough to predate the building.

He turned around and walked back down the hall, opened the green door again, slammed it loudly, then walked back down to the alleys, whistling, jiggling his keys.

You were less relaxed now, as he came into view.  Bowling ball held defensively.  Back straight, eyes wary.

“Hey!”  He calls your name.  “I”m Ezra.  Uncle Mike told me about you…hopefully he returned the favor, without much elaboration upon my past trespasses.”

Slowly, the stiffness eases out, and you lower the ball, smiling a little.  The kind of smile that makes a heart wont to jump right out of its chest, run over, tug on a lady’s pant cuff to see if she’ll pick it up and keep it.

“All he ever said was that you were a good boy…and that you talk an awful lot.”

“I didn’t work myself through college to use one word when seven will do.” He grinned back, and his smile grew when you giggled.

“I like that.  So.  Do you mind if I keep bowling?  I mean…like…”. Uncertainty again.  “I really do like coming in every day, so if I need to pay now, or if it’s not convenient…”

“I wouldn’t dream of changing a thing.  I’m not sure if I am going to open this place up again or not…but it’ll be nice to see the lanes being used.”

“Thank you.”  You said, the sheer relief in your tone striking him odd, but he put it aside.

“Want to play a couple frames before you have to go?”

“Yes!”  You walk over to the screen and clear the previous game, then typed in his name.  “There are some shoes in a plastic box behind the counter…I moved them when I realized that the mice were enjoying chewing on them.”

“I do hate mice.  Bold as brass, they are…”. He found the box and rooted through.  “I have not played…oh, not since I left to get my master’s degree.”

“What did you get your degree in?”

He dropped a pair on the floor, slipped off his well worn in Toms, and shoved his feel into the stiff bowling shoes.  “Poetry.  Almost got into trouble because I didn’t want to specialize…I love it all.  Byron, Neruda, Stephen Crane…the Bard himself.  Why should I deny myself any pleasure?”

“You sound like me,” You say, as you wait for him to choose his ball.  “I hoard books like dragons hoard gold.”

Ezra thinks of the well duct taped plastic bins of books in the back of his truck.  A sliver of the library he’d had once.  “Nothing like being surrounded by books.”

“It’s my retirement plan.  I keep buying books and hoping I’ll live long enough to read them…anyway…you first.  I have to get home before dark, so we can’t play too long.”

“Drat.  And I was hoping to convince you to let me buy you dinner, in thanks for being so kind.”  He releases the ball, the feel slowly coming back to him, winces when it goes right for the gutter.

You blush a little.  Look tempted.  “Some other time, maybe.”

Another gutter, and he gives up the floor to you with a bow.  “Well, the way I’m playing, this is going to be a short game.”

“You’re just rusty.”  You let the ball go, with just a little curve.  Just when he thinks it’s heading for the gutter it curves right and takes out the middle pins.

“Do you like being a school librarian?”

You stop as you reach for your newly returned ball, your side eye and sudden stiffness communicating, loudly, that she was well aware she has not told you where she worked.

“My Uncle told me.  He used to speak often of  you — the old goat was quite fond of you.”

“And I him,” you take your steps, release your ball, and take out the rest of the pins.  “What else did he tell you?”

Little bird, what happened to make you so suspicious?  “That you like bowling because it gives you an outlet after a hard day at work.  That you like the job and the kids but it’s hard.  Lots of stress.”

You nod, as if that makes sense.  As if you are willing yourself to think it is OK.  The rest of the frames go better.  Ezra is more careful, filling the silence with junk about himself, about his Uncle, and you relax, little by little.  You even step a little closer, both of you staring up at the board at the winning score.

“Not bad, you could probably go on the circuit, make money.”

You laugh.  “Go pro?  Not happening.  You are a flatterer.”

“Why flatter when the truth is too good to use?”

You sneak a look at your watch, nod, and start to put things away.

“I’ve got it,”. Ezra says.  “Maybe I’ll play a few more frames, get better in case you ever grant me the honor of allowing me to play you again.”

Another flash of one of those lovely smiles.  “Later, Ezra.”

“Will I see you tomorrow?”  He calls to your retreating back.

“Nope.  Never on a Saturday or Sunday.  But Monday?”  You turn and point.  “Monday, I’ll give you that rematch.  So you have all weekend to get better.”

“Since I am currently utterly abysmal, it will not be hard.”

You laugh and wave and go out the door.  The light is the golden-hour gliding of the sun just going down, you’d have time to get home before dark.

He sighed, and wondered why it was that important.  The town was fairly safe, as far as he knew.

He switched the machines off, and started grabbing his things out of the truck while it was still light.  Time to get his things indoors, and then investigate the horror that was surely to be the upstairs apartment.

***

You made home before nightfall.

Sometimes, you thought, a smart woman might just move out.  Move away from the lonely farm house at the end of a lonely lane.  A place where no one would hear you scream, if someone attacked you.  No neighbors to run to, to beg for help.

You sat there, as the shadows lengthened and the golden sun went down behind the trees, as if it did not want to see what happened next.  You listened as the engine went tick, tick, tick, waiting, breath held.

Then you nodded, once, grabbed your stuff and ran up the steps to the porch.

The door was locked, when you tried it.  Good.  You unlocked it, dropped your stuff in the chair by the door, dead bolted it, then started the circuit.

How did they do it, you wonder.  How did you mother, your grandmother, your aunt all live here, in this old pile that creaked and grumbled, with its millions of niches and shadows and closets that were always left open so you could see inside, see that no one was there.  The cellar with the bar across the door.  The steep stairs with the sharp turn that announced that you were coming to anyone who might care to hear?

You check the bedrooms, the bathroom, then go down the other set of stairs, check that the bar is on the kitchen door, then go and lay the thick beam of wood in the hangers on either side of the front door.  Never bar the door until the house was clear.  Now you could use the bathroom, take your stuff to the office.  Turn on the TV so the white noise would cover the incidental creaks and groans and animal scrapings on this old solitary house.  The sounds that meant nothing but would drive you crazy.

You’re contemplating dinner when the phone rings.  You were half expecting it, but you still jump out of your skin.  It’s the old landline, which you have to keep to have internet — and the ring is loud and harsh.

“Hello?”

“You’re home.  Good.  I thought you were running a little late today.”

“Principle Micheals.”

“Sweetheart.  Is that anyway to address me?  It’s after hours…you know what I want you to call me.”  His voice is affable, but there’s this little hidden bite.  You remember his hand around your throat, pressed right against this wall, and you shake.

“I know what you want.”  You try to strip all emotion from your words.  “But you know the school board…”

“Funny thing about that.  I found out exactly who put forward that motion, that a principal can’t date his subordinate.”  The last word is stressed, made insulting.  “Your predecessor — Mrs. Whitcomb.  Aren’t you shocked that someone you thought was your friend would deny you the happiness of being with your one true love?”

You wanted to argue the one true love bit, but it would not…no.  That was never good, or helpful.  Instead, you said into the waiting silence, “I am sure she means well.”

You did not tell the truth, that you went to her, begged for her help, and this was the best the two of you could come up with.

“Can you leave?”  Mrs Witcomb asked.  She already knew the answer…she was the librarian when you were a student.  Your friend, book supplier, hero…she knew you could not leave the house.

“…In any case, she won’t be on the board much longer.  Maybe we can ge them to revisit that stupid rule, yeah?”

You are paralyzed.  What to say?  What to say?

“It’s rude not to answer, sweetheart.”

“I think.  I think.  She’s right, that a man in your position of power should not be dating someone under him.  If it went…bad, if things went wrong it could be very miserable.”

“You think things would go bad, honey?”  His words, again, were velvet wrapped around a razor blade.  If you grabbed them, the razor would slice right through and cut you open.

You hear the crunch of gravel.  “Someone’s outside.”

“Oh, that’s just my little brother, Al.  Go ahead and wave to him, so he knows you’re alright.”

“I have to hang up, ok?  The cord can’t reach.”

“I know that.”  A smack of impatience.

You hang up without a word.  You know you will probably pay for that later.

You walk up to the window by the front door.  A black and white unit is parked next to your car.  You wave, then mime that you’re on the phone.  The young man…plain, bland, doughy faced…nods once, and backs out.

Things are going to get so much worse, if that kid gets elected sheriff.  But the Sheriff — another Whitcomb, but this one was the ex-librarian’s cousin — was popular, and you think, you hope, you have another couple of years.

You should go.  Leave.  Burn the place down and never look back.  But there are bills — so many bills — and the fact you own your home is the only source of security you have.

“Eat.”  You say to the echoing house, too large and too small at the same time.  “You have to eat.”

Thank you to you lovely people for being on my tag list, if you want added or dropped just let me know.  <3

@grogusmum @mishasminion360 @hnt-escape @littlemisspascal @pedro4ever @writteninthestars18 @fromthedeskoftheraven @sharkbait77

@quica-quica-quica @eri16 @the-blind-assassin @ayoungpascallover-readings @songsformonkeys @fan-of-encouragement @thegreenkid

#fire meet gasoline #pedro pascal #ezra x reader #ezra au #TW:domestic abuse

[dawsons-justice]

He Promised, You Trusted.

Part Two to “I Promise, You Trust”

A/N: Reader is between 14-17, so this is a Father Figure!Antonio x Reader. No romance, 100% platonic. 

TW: Nothing horribly graphic, some mild angst, but mostly just to lead up to the fluff

Masterlist

It sure was cold outside. Chicago had been cold, but Minnesota somehow was colder. Your aunt had apologized she couldn't pick you up from school but it wasn't really her fault. She had to pick up some extra shifts to keep up with the bills. You're just glad she let you stay with her. 8 months ago, you really had no idea where you would end up.

8 months ago...

Detective Dawson ran off to make some calls, leaving you to your own thoughts. You noticed the worried glances of his coworkers watching you from the unit floor. You didn’t know any of them, they were all sorta intimidating in their own way, well, except for the woman with brown hair, she looked nice. It just felt better to block them out and focus on the mug in your hands. The hot chocolate had gotten cold in the time it took you to process everything and really you haven’t truly processed anything.

Dawson came back in the room, his face muddled with several emotions. There was some stress, determination and anger but you made out the sympathy on his features most of all. Most people don't want sympathy, but you were just glad someone was caring enough to do so. Trailing behind him was another cop, older, you'd seen him before, just didn't know his name.

"You got anyone we can call?" Antonio asks. you had to wrack your brain a bit. It hadn’t occurred to you that this would be important. "I have an aunt. I haven't talked to her in years. My dad and her don't get along."

The two men exchanged a glance. And you understood now. If you didn't find a home yourself, they'd have to put you in a group home. That was not good. You had heard stories, everyone has. Group homes only provide shelter to trouble. If you ended up there who knows what would happen to you after. You hadn’t thought this through, this was a bad idea. In some sort of a desperate plea, you grab the detective’s hand as he’s about the leave with the other guy.

"Wait no no... I can't live in a home. I can't. I'd rather go home to my dad. Please no." Panic evident in your voice. His face softens, kneeling down to your height. He was just going to try to comfort you. You forced yourself to remember whatever he says can’t change the truth. He isn’t the one making the rules. You’re not naive.

"Hey, hey kiddo. Not there yet, let's give your aunt a ring and see if we can get ahold of her. You got a name?" His voice calm, if he was worried you really couldn’t tell now, unlike when he first returned. You gave her name, not knowing anything besides she lived in St. Paul. But they were cops, you figured they could track her down.

The other guy, Voight, left, you heard him call out to someone named Halstead to run your aunt's name. Antonio didn’t move, just kept holding your hand looking around as if he wasn’t. The fact we seemed unbothered by the comforting gesture put you more at ease, yet you still were struggling with this.

"B-but what if she doesn't want me?"

There was a look of disbelief in his face, as if you were made of solid gold. It was fake and you knew it, still, it was comforting. "We're gonna figure it out, ok? I'll tell her myself what a great kid you are."

"I'm sorry."

The detective didn’t have to say anything, but you knew he deflected your apology. Somehow you just knew the minute you said it what his response was going to be. He didn’t feel bothered. And on top of this it was going to work out. He would make sure it worked out.

And it did. Given the explanation of the situation, your Aunt was happy to take you in. Antonio pulled some strings and you spent one night with his colleague Kim Burgess (the woman with the brown hair) before your aunt took over custody. In less than 48 hours you were on your way to Minnesota with a bag you packed and your dad had no clue. For once you knew there was at least one person who was worth trusting in this world.

The snow crunched below your feet. It was only another mile or so to your aunt’s place. The roads were pretty clear. Much of the snow had been packed down for days, but a recent heatwave melted and refroze the roads to solid ice. The deceiving snow was only an inch or two thick on top of the slick icy layer beneath. So, when you hear tires squeal, it is not in any way surprising. You were learning to drive yourself; ice roads were something that even your aunt had trouble managing let alone teach you how to navigate. You had respect for anyone who was able to successfully manage those roads in two-wheel drive. Whipping around, there’s not a two-ton car sliding towards you as you had expected, planning to dive roll into the snow. There’s a black van with a guy in a ski mask running towards you.

Crap.

Taking advantage of the ice, you threw your backpack at him, hoping he’d lose his balance and walk onto the more slippery road. Yet things do not go to plan as he easily recovers and continues to pursue you, reaching you and wrapping his arms around your waist. You fought. You screamed, wailed, bit, flailed, kicked and every other defensive action your subconscious could think of. It didn’t work, he was just too much bigger than you. You were thrown into the back of the van.

no no no no no this can’t be happening.

You considered yourself a calm person, but that was before you were tied and gagged in the back of a van. The darkness seemed to only escalate your fears as you had a blank canvas to imagine your worst nightmares becoming reality. "Please, just let me go” you must have said it 40 times before something heavy hit your head.

Things faded in and out. Darkness and light fought a battle, but you could never really tell if you could see or not, it was all just shadows. The nausea was also coming in waves, paired with the throbbing sensation on the back of your head. You had been pistol whipped. But of course, you didn’t know that. The sheer terror of the entire situation still had you disoriented. You couldn’t feel the time pass, most people know what a minute or five minutes feels like, but you couldn’t focus. It was all too much.

 When the van doors slide open you hear the guy who grabbed you talk to whoever was driving. “I still can’t believe this guy.” His gruff voice scoffed, close by.

“Well, he had the money, who are we to judge.”

“Guy? Had someone hired them to take me? Was I about to be sold or something?”

 You’re embarrassed to say the next voice you heard brought you half a millisecond of comfort, it was misplaced. “You had to put a sack over her head?” It was your dad. How? Better question why would he ask that question though he had no emotion in his voice.

The men and your dad talk as you wrestle with this entire shock. Suddenly someone picks you up and carries you over their shoulder. You figured it was guy who grabbed you, but feeling that whoever was holding you gently lowered you to the floor, you made the new assumption it was your dad. The blindfold and gag came off in a quick motion. You were met with the hollow face of your father in some sort of abandoned room. He gave a sickening smile, one that brought no relief with it. “I brought you back sugar!”

“Dad, let me go.”

He nodded and started to undo your restraints. It couldn’t be this easy. Taking a moment, he was preoccupied with removing the duct tape glue from your arms, as if he cared, you jumped up, running across the room to open the metal door, but it was locked.

“Open the door, dad.”

“Y-you’ll just leave.” He whimpered, face looking offended.

This wasn’t your dad. The eyes were too hopeful and the demeanor was too caring. This was you dad having some sort of a mental breakdown. The pieces came together as you watched the tremors in his hands. Not knowing the man in front of you felt more terrifying than the man you ran away from. Before, you knew somewhere buried deep in his subconscious he would never seriously harm you beyond some bruises. But you stared into eyes you didn’t recognize. It was entirely possible he was going to kill you. All of that mess 8 months ago just to end up dying in Chicago and nobody knows about it.

But that’s where you were wrong.

Within a 25 mile radius…

“Detective Dawson,”

The somewhat uncaring police deputy at St. Paul started running down the situation. There wasn’t much to tell. Your backpack was found in a snowbank near some blood in the snow with you nowhere to be found. Your aunt had been adamant that the deputy at the front desk reach Antonio. And of course, the detective roped his unit into the situation. Voight made it a priority. It didn’t take a psychologist to see that Antonio cared about you, he cared about all his teen CIs. They were his secondary kids. He would find you, even if he hadn’t promised you to do so. He promised himself. When word had come in that your dad had been behind the entire situation it was not much of a shock. A man with a past of petty crime and domestic abuse with mental health concerns did seem like a high probability suspect. He had also rented out a storage container on the industrial side of town. Antonio and his team suited up. He was going to end this situation here and now.

 “CHICAGO PD OPEN THE DOOR”

In a frenzied craze, your father throws you to the floor. It would make sense for him to run, but logic wasn’t a key factor right now. His foot goes to your neck and the gun points to your head. The gun must have been on his back, you hadn’t seen it until now.

I don’t want to die.

Not like this.

Not here.

Please no.

Please.

 Bursting through the door you make out several people with weapons drawn on your dad. Light floods the dark room leaving the two of you partially blind, yet the tension still filled the air.

“LET HER GO.” It wasn’t a request. It was an order. Regardless, your neck was still being crushed. Air was slowly waning from your lungs. And then it wasn’t. In an instant you felt his foot roll out from over you, giving you a chance to scramble away.

“Y/N, Y/N, it’s ok. We’re police.”

And that was likely the only time anyone from your side of town was happy to hear that phrase. But still, you couldn’t quite comprehend it. It was a full mess of tears, screaming, wailing and shaking. You had been mere seconds from death by gun or choking, you couldn’t just suck it up. Not even you were that badass. Nonetheless, the cops weren’t getting anywhere with calming you down.

“Call an ambo.” Calls another voice, a woman. “Tonio, you ok?”

“Yeah” And under normal circumstances you would have connected the dots, but as it has already been overly reiterated, you were not stable right now. The only thing you could register was the familiar hand on top of yours gently squeezing your arm below.

“Shhh shhh, it’s ok kiddo, we got you. He’s gone.”

Hold it, you know that voice.

And what would you know, you finally grasped it. Staring down at you is Detective Dawson, once again saving your neck, literally. It was probably against some rule, but you just buried your head in his shoulder trying to block out everything outside. He let it slide, just holding you there, seemingly not in any rush to move you till the paramedics arrived. In time you realized the other officer trying to calm you down had been Burgess, but you just hadn’t recognized her. You’re in pain, but not horrendous amounts, must be the adrenaline. Regardless, Antonio calls another officer, Atwater, to carry you outside to the ambulance. Before you know it, the ambo is driving away from the scene to Chicago Med, leaving the Intelligence Unit to deal with the aftermath including Dawson.

Sitting in the ER, you wait for test results to return on your head scan. More had happened in the last 12 hours than in the last 8 months. You realized how much you liked the simplicity and (relative) safety of Minnesota, but now you’d at least carry pepper spray. You’re pulled from your thoughts as you see Dawson peak from the side of the curtains. You had not felt too lonely or afraid before given the officers stationed outside your room, but seeing him made you feel better.

“Hey kiddo, how’s the neck?” he smiles, moving into the room slowly as if he was trying not to scare you.

You smile weakly, still exhausted. “Alright, considering.” You noticed tape on the base of his neck on one side extending underneath his shirt where you couldn’t see. “What happened?”

“I might be getting a little long in the tooth for tackling suspects.” And by suspects, you knew he meant your dad. He was the one who got him off you. “Are you ok?” You ask. “All good, just had to get my shoulder checked out.”

“Ok, glad you’re ok.” And you truly were. You would feel awful if you had been the reason he had been seriously injured, especially after you were supposed to be out of his hair.

He nods, fiddling with his hands on the rail at the end of your bed. “Hey, your aunt is on her way to get you, it’s gonna be awhile, but I talked to your doctor and they said they’ll keep you till she arrives to monitor your concussion.”

You nod. “My dad?”

“We got him, he’s going away for a long time.” You notice his lack of enthusiasm in that response, obviously thinking that justice had not been fully served.

“But not forever.” Your voice soft, barely over a whisper.

He shook his head. “Long enough you’re not going to need to worry about him.”

“But you’ll come rescue me again if he tries, right?” You cocked an eyebrow, knowing it wasn’t a promise he could make, but every reassuring thing he told you made you feel better anyways.

“As much as I love the job, I don’t know if I’m going to be on the force in 40 years.”

“Yeah, you might not be able to a shoot a gun while using a walker with tennis balls on the bottom.” The two of you laugh a bit at that visualization.

As you quiet down you notice he looks a bit more serious.“But yeah, I’ll get you.”

Once again, probably against some protocol, but you just had to reach out and hug him burying your face in his leather jacket. He leans forward to pull you in. Something about it was just natural, you knew he’d protect you, you knew that now.

“Thank you so much. I’d be dead.”

“Of course,” He pets your hair, resting his chin on the top of your head.

“T-thank you for caring.” He pulls back to look you in the eyes.

“I checked your record, no priors since you left. Thank you for being worth it.” He smiles.

The two of you sit there for a minute, staring at each other, his hand still the (good) side of your head. You’d never really had a dad moment like this, but if this was the first and last dad moment you ever had, you were ok with it. It was perfect. He stands up, stretching out his back as if he’s about to leave. But instead, he pulls up a chair.

“You don’t mind if I stick around till your aunt arrives do you?”

You gently shook your head. Truth was, you were too afraid to ask him to do so, but of course, somehow, he knew what you needed. So there the two of you sat. Talking about the extremely normal things you had been involved in back in Minnesota. You swear he kept a small smile on his face the entire time. Just happy to see you moving on. It was done.

 When you turned 18, you reached out the Antonio again and asked if he would be willing to meet up for lunch, now that it was “legal” to do so. And now it has become an annual event with occasional bonus trips when you somehow wind up in the Windy City. Your lives may have grown apart in distance but something would always keep the two of you together. He’d always be there for you, and you needed that. Maybe not everyone needs a perfect father figure to survive in the world, but knowing a tough boxing detective would be by your side in one phone call gave you the freedom of safety. Your aunt is an amazing woman, but Antonio Dawson is really the one who you owe everything to.

He promised, you trusted, and it was the first decision of your life that truly mattered.

A/N: I know my presence on this account is sporadic, but I hope some people enjoy this. I’m going to dive into my drafts to work on some of the partially written responses I have for some old requests. (: 

#antonio dawson #antonio dawson x reader #Chicago PD #one chicago #antonio dawson imagines #antonio dawson imagine #antonio dawson baby #fanfiction #fandom #fanfic

[dreamssoftly]

i made that tres leches! it turned out okay but was fraught with trial and error. not because i got distracted and forgot a step, usually my cause for failing, or the confusing recipe directions, quite the opposite, but unpredictable dairy substitutes! the sponge turned out beautifully with almost no effort. zero complaints. i tried to soak the milks with cinnamon pieces and almond flour overnight bc i didn't want to make horchata. the coconut-based sweetened condensed milk was as though someone put simple syrup at the bottom of a can of cheap coconut oil. horrible; would not emulsify with the rice milk and left a cloying sweetness, permeating stale coconut odor. come morning, i strained coconut solids out of the mixture and replaced the volume with vanilla coconut milk, the kind from the "shelf stable until opened" milk section. i was afraid it would be too sweet, or the bad coconut aftertaste would remain, but it was balanced just fine: nutty, vanilla forward, lilt of coconut.

the sponge came out a little dry in the center after soaking. the bottom and sides, + areas where i thought I may have poked too many holes, were fine. im unsure if the holes were too sparse, i didn't use enough liquid, or 14 hours was insufficient. im leaning towards a combination of the first two. live and learn.

anyway. i was making this for a group of dairy sensitive lesbians. of course the frosting had to be vegan. i just had a bad experience with a canned coconut product and couldn't bear overpowering flavors. I opted for a vegan whipping cream substitute over the coconut cream in my cupboard. it was a nice blank canvas for coffee and rum. the only problem was that it was my first time using the product, and it needs a lot of encouragement to whip up. even then, it doesn't come close in volume to the original. i overwhipped the first iteration. the second try was cut with the coconut milk from above, double the powdered sugar for structure, and whipped only until stable. it's held for over a day so I can safely say I know how to use it now ... but I don't think I will again. i would rather have a container of tapioca/corn starch on hand and greater flexibility with my base milk.

all that being said, I'll try again sometime in the near future with improvements in mind. i want to put rum in the sponge. increase the sponge recipe by 1/3 to fill up the pan. go half rice milk/half coconut (carton). simmer on the stove w cinnamon vanilla and almond flour. cold brew method didn't cut it. destroy the sponge and soak it within two hours of coming out of the oven. need to do more research on making a dairy free whipped cream out of vegan milk and starch, possibly gelatin, but I will find out!

[canyouhearthelight]

The Miys, Ch. 134

Since I am queueing this chapter the same that I queued the last one, I just want to say:

If you have found my story in the last week, and liked it, thank you. It makes me smile when that happens.

If you shared my story with others, and they liked it, or even found a little bit of themselves in it, I’m very glad. Thank you for sharing something with your friends that they enjoyed.

As always, thank you to @the-raven-fae, @anotherusrname, @baelpenrose, and @charlylimph-blog for being my ports in all storms and the family everyone deserves to have.

Annnd the podcast. Don’t miss the podcast!  I don’t profit from it in any way, shape, or form, but the idea of a version of this story that is more accessible for people who would struggle to read it is something that should always be supported! 

A week later, I was wincing and out of breath when I reached my office for the day.  Tyche had enthusiastically agreed with Arthur’s suggestion, and after some tests from Maverick showed that I could apparently kick hard enough to break a grown man’s pelvis - although not without also breaking my foot - I had been expected to be in the gym for nearly two hours every day.  My legs hurt and my feet looked worse than the time I tried to learn ballet en pointe.  As if that wasn’t bad enough, I was also apparently very slow in reacting with my legs as a result of years learning to fight with, you know, my hands. Like a normal person.  This meant I was also wearing five pound weights on each ankle, all day, including when sparring.

So far, the only thing I had noticed was a demonstrably shorter patience and a reduction in how much I bounced my legs. Or sat comfortably.

I was so absorbed in my bad mood and how badly my legs hurt that I had already gotten coffee, greeted my mentees, and sat at my desk before I noticed something out of place.  As usual, Parvati and Hannah were across from each other at the table they typically sat at, but Parvati was standing and demonstrating something.

While using the table emitter, which they only ever used for my benefit.

Tilting my head in what probably looked like what Sparkle’s expression when she was denied a treat, I watched as Parvati picked up a vaguely pen-shaped object - it really looked more like a sonic screwdriver than a writing implement - and started making neon pink lines of various widths, swirls to test the slant it would make, and using it at various speeds before closely considering the color of each line.

“What in the world is that?”

“Paint testers,” Hannah explained. “Charly dropped them off with Vati last night, along with the programming to simulate how they work so we could test them with an emitter and not a wall.”

“Paint?”

“For the Festival. Charly designed these for us to use instead of trying to get permission to use actual spray paint.  The fumes of spray paint are apparently very caustic to Noah.”

I shuddered. “Yeah, no spray paint, clearly.”

Apparently satisfied with the pink, Parvati keyed her datapad to clear the emitter and picked up a different pen.  This one was a beautiful lapis blue. “She’s quite brilliant,” she murmured as she tested the pen. “The pens work like an airbrush, but she took some inspiration from something Arthur Farro gifted her several years ago and ensured the pigment will only last three Ark-days.  It also only appears under certain lighting.”

“And it’s non-toxic, of course,” Hannah added with a smile. “Because, you know… Charly.”

I hesitated before asking the next question. “How non-toxic are we talking?”

To my utter horror, rather than respond, Parvati opened her mouth and used a different button on the pen to paint her entire tongue blue. “They’re edible.” She closed her mouth with a smile before her eyebrows shot up. “Oh! That one is pomegranate!”

Hannah furiously made notations on her datapad before looking back up at me. “Vati already tested them on canvas in her quarters, but we also wanted to make sure the simulation software works so that we don’t waste pigment trying to figure out the design elements.”

“We’re also rather curious about what flavor each one is,” Parvati admitted before swapping to a toxic-looking green. “This one is peach, I do remember that. The pink was popcorn.”

I shook my head. “Do you want people licking the walls? Because this is how you get people to lick the walls.” I walked over as I was speaking and idly picked up one that was labelled as Titan Black.

Hannah snatched it away quickly. “That one is scotch bonnet flavor. I found that out the hard way.”

“I get making them non-toxic, but why are they flavored?” Hannah arched an eyebrow at me and I held my hands up defensively. “Other than the obvious application. Why design flavored paint pens for the Food Festival murals?”

Parvati blanked the emitter again and swapped pens. “That is going to be part of the design and experience,” she started to explain. “We originally wanted them non-toxic in case of the non-zero event that Else tries to eat the paint off the walls.” I nodded since ‘non-zero’ was putting it lightly. “Then I had the idea to include the possibility of Else eating the mural into its design.  Rather than worry that Else will eat it, I am planning on it: I am going to create a piece that changes as the various colors are devoured.”

“Annnnnd how do you plan on controlling what order Else eats everything in?”

She waved to the row of pens on the table. “These are each in a flavor that we know Else likes. I am currently testing in my quarters what the order of preference is.”

As my mind started to catch up, I started nodding. “Your test swatches last night.”

“Precisely. I have them laying out in a grid, easily accessible to Else, and they are being monitored. We will take the recording and determine what the order of preference is from there.”

I shook my head with a huge grin. “That’s one hell of a performance art piece.”

Hannah straightened her posture in an imitation of Pravati’s normal ramrod-straight demeanor. “There is nothing more fitting for a celebration of how humanity persists in surviving, despite how transient and brief life can be, along with a clear showing of how we intend to welcome and embrace the differences between ourselves and those most different from us - even those who once nearly destroyed us but wished to make peace.”

“That’s frighteningly good,” Parvati praised nonchalantly as she squirted a fluorescent yellow into her mouth. “It makes no sense for that one to taste of something spicy.”

I took the pen and forced myself to spray it in my mouth. I perked up when it was actually very familiar and delicious. “It’s gochujang…” They both looked at me skeptically. “Apparently Else likes spicy food?”

“I’m starting to think this is how she flavors her popcorn,” Hannah murmured.

My head shook on that one. “No, all her popcorn is decidedly popcorn-flavored. The coloring is added while it is being made, along with the flavoring. Same thing with her ice-cream, and with the candy bars.”

“I agree,” Parvati added. “This pigment is quite wet, it would never work on something like popcorn.” Pausing in her testing, she turned to me. “She has made popcorn in your quarters before, did you notice how she colored it?”

I thought back to the movie night, fighting through how nostalgic and relaxing it made me feel. “It has to be a high-saturation powder.  Other than the actual oil she used to pop it, everything she put in was powdered.”

“But it was toffee popcorn,” Parvati argued. “I remember because it was such a lovely shade of purple.”

Hannah and I both glanced at each other before turning concerned looks to Parvati. I was the one who eventually spoke. “You make toffee popcorn by adding sugar and salt while it’s being popped, Vati. Both are powders.”

“And how am I supposed to know that?” she demanded with a scowl before picking up a pen.

I looked back at Hannah, who was as baffled as I was. “Vati? Do you cook?”

She scoffed. “Of course not. Xiomara is a brilliant cook, why would I give that up?”

“But you know how, right?” I prodded. “We always have cooking classes going on here.”

She decidedly ignored us.  I gaped at Hannah, who eventually crowed with laughter. “Oh my god! We found something Vati doesn’t know how to do!”

“Xio does make a wicked roti with veg curry,” I tried to defend her. If she was deflecting, Parvati clearly didn’t want to talk about it.

“And I can cook,” Parvati argued. “I can roast meat, and forage edible plants, and clean them both.”

“Works for me!” I chirped, trying to defuse the situation before Parvati actually got upset. “If you can cook enough to feed yourself in an apocalypse, I consider that a solid fundamental basis.”

Hannah finally took the hint. “Well, if you ever want to learn more, gods know you have plenty of friends who can teach you. Hell, Sophia taught Maverick to cook, and when they first met he had a very iffy relationship with the concept of food in general.”

That got me a look. “He had been through a lot, okay? You spend thirty years with everyone blaming your sensory issues with food on just ‘being picky’,” I used air quotes for emphasis, “and yeah, you start living on the three foods you like and a lot of vitamins and protein drinks.”

Parvati stopped in her tracks and slowly turned her head toward me before taking a seat. “How did someone who doesn’t even eat to live end up with two people who live to eat?”

I felt my face heat up, but managed to limit my reaction to a shrug. “If he said he didn’t like something, I took that at face value and didn’t make him eat it. If he never had it, I thought really hard about how similar it was to things he did or didn’t like, and offered it to him - or didn’t -  based on that.  I never took it as a challenge I needed to make him overcome, just as a challenge I needed to rise to.”

She considered this for a moment, glancing to Hannah who nodded in confirmation, before speaking. “This is why you cook.” It wasn’t a question. Parvati stated it as a fact.

And I confirmed it was, indeed, a fact. “One of the few things Huynh and I agree on is hospitality. I don’t want anyone to come to my table and feel they can’t eat.  It’s how I was raised.  There will be food they like, and plenty of it.”

I heard a popping noise from Hannah’s direction, and turned only to realize that it was her neck popping when she turned from Parvati to me.  Eyes wide, she was barely audible when she whispered, “That’s why the Food Festival is so important to you…”

It took several attempts and a lot of nodding to swallow the lump in my throat. “We were all scared, and all strangers in this insane reality that we weren’t even sure was actually real.  I thought - knew - it would ground us, and even start uniting us. If we could all see that arroz con pollo, paella, chicken biriyani, chicken etouffee weren’t all that different? What’s more familiar than chicken and rice, or fried puffs of dough, or pancakes?” I shook my head. “I remember my first day on the Ark. I was in a mess hall, and even with my sister and cat, I knew I was luckier than most but so lost.  I just - “ I gulped and fought back tears. “I wanted shepherd’s pie so bad it hurt my soul. And I tried and tried to get it from the food consoles, and it was never the right thing. I must’ve tried eight times. It was so frustrating!” I didn’t catch myself in time to keep from slamming my fist a couple times on the table. “I felt even more lost.  Someone came up to me and asked what I was doing.” 

I took a deep breath to banish the concept of Arantxa from my head. “And dragged me to Conor because she realized that what I was saying and what she was hearing weren’t the same thing.  That’s how I actually met him. And, bless his face, he knew exactly what I was asking for and got it for me if I promised to help him get French toast, of all things.”  The memory made me smile. “Believe it or not, that moment mattered more to me than even waking up on the Ark when I should have been dead. Just… the idea that this person who knew nothing about me except what I wanted for dinner, was able to fix that lost feeling.  I want everyone to have that.”

Parvati was staring at me like she was watching the most romantic story in the world, but at least Hannah nodded seriously. “Steak and ale pie. I always want that when I’m stressed.”

I snapped my fingers and pointed at her. “Exactly. And multiply that by every type of steak and ale pie anyone can possibly make on the Ark? I know I don’t have to convince you two to keep the Festival anymore, but yeah.  That’s why it matters so much to me.”

I turned to Parvati, who was drumming her fingers and looking down somewhat sheepishly. “Most cultures have a kind of curry, so I never really thought about it,” she admitted. “But it makes sense, from that perspective. I never thought about it.”

Reaching out to pat her hand, I gave her a serious look. “That doesn’t mean you have to learn to cook anything more than what you already know,” I assured her. “It’s my motivation. No one else’s. If you ever want to learn to make something you don’t know how to, I’ll be happy to teach you. If you never want to learn how to make anything you don’t know how to, I will be happy to cook for you. Just… don’t ask me to bake? That’s a Tyche thing.”

She groaned. “Those mini black forest donuts….”

“Exactly. Don’t ask me to make them, I’ll ruin them ten times out of ten,” I laughed.

“She should make donuts for the Festival,” Hannah suggested wistfully. “Do you think we could talk her into it?”

I held up my hands in surrender. “I’m not asking her to do it, so have fun.”

“But you’re her sister.”

“How the hell do you think I know not to ask?” I gave them both a flat stare that set them giggling. “Donuts for the family? Fine. Donuts for the whole entire Ark? Not touching it.”

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#the miys #found family #charly #food festival #humans are weird #aliens #apocalypse #post apocalypse #post post apocalypse #humans are space orcs #humans are space fae #hfy #earth is space australia #science fiction #sci fi #original science fiction #original sci fi #original writing #my writing

[oftenderweapons]

Love Talk - Taehyung

Pairing: Taehyung x reader (nicknamed Lace)

Wordcount: 11k words

Genre: smut, fluff, (Taehyung is moody but no angst I guess) dating au, idol au

Rating: 18+

Finally! I can post this! My inner praise-thirsty brat has been missing y’all’s attention so here I am!

Actually I’ve managed to write the end this afternoon after I finished writing a whole chapter of my dissertation (God, why do I need a degree...)

Anyway, here is Taehyung’s take at love talk. This is clearly smut, so minors please, do not read or interact.

Quick recap/everything you need to know before reading. Taehyung and Lace (in this fic called many many nicknames since “Lace” hasn’t sticked yet) have been dating for a couple months and Tae has been taking it slow, they have done some coupley stuff and have made out, but they haven’t been really physical yet. Until he visits her late at night after coming back from a trip in Paris with Jimin. And he has a gift which might spark up something interesting. 

Disclaimer: Personally, I don’t see Lace as the stereotypical slim girl, but there’s a very generic reference to this. Also, Lace has taken bondage and basic domination lessons in a dungeon. Taehyung knows this. Both of them treat this fact as something serious rather than a kinky fun fact, since it comes from one of Lace’s insecurities.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: woah. so. Foreplay, mostly masturbation (male and female receiving), making out and grinding, marking, biting, Oral (male receiving), duality king Kim Taehyung, mental health and depression, body image issues, the characters discuss public sex, food play, oral sex, sensation play and impact play, wax play, tantric massage, BDSM, domination, bondage and submission, sex toys, exhibitionism, dungeons. Both the characters have had same-sex experiences and relationships. There might be a few swearwords here and there.

Wordcount: 11k. This thing is big so I’ll come back and edit it a bit at a time. 

Here is my masterlist!

And remember to vote for next prompt :) (link in bio!)

Enjoy <3

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“Hey.”

“Hey.” He replied right back. He was standing in the empty corridor at three a.m., the light coming from your doorway illuminating his chocolate curls, his eyes gleaming darkly. “Can I come in?”

You nodded, opening the door and letting him in. 

The low lights of your hallway made him move slowly in the room, since he’d never ventured upstairs before. Reaching your living room, you switched on the small lamp beside the sofa, a gentle yellow warmth diffusing. 

“Your house is very pretty.” He said, looking around. 

“It’s basic. I’m still trying to buy some pieces as I go.” You commented, your mind still slowed down by sleep. 

“I’m sorry. I know it’s late.” He said. He was being extremely scarce with his words. “We arrived in town ten minutes ago.”

“How was our trip?” You asked out of habit. You were still trying to understand what to expect from this. 

“Very tiring.” He murmured. “I think I’ll be jetlagged all the way to next week.”

He had been in Paris with Jimin after being in London for group schedule. Of course he’d been conflicted between coming back to you and spending some time with his best friend, but at the same time, he thought you'd been dating for a short time and after all, he should give Jimin the priority. 

You smiled. “Eight hours?”

“Seven.” He corrected. “May I?” He gestured to the sofa, a two-seats dark red velvet number dominating the room entirely. 

You nodded. 

“You look incredible.” His low voice made your insides shake. “Have you just woken up?” He shook his head in disappointment. “I’ve woken you up, haven’t I?” He shook his head, reprimanding himself. 

“It’s okay.” You said, sitting beside him at a respectful distance. “What brings you here at three a.m. on a workday?” You asked, mischief tinting your voice. 

“I wanted to see you.” He replies dryly. 

What’s with the atmosphere?

Something felt off. It wasn’t just your sleep-addled mind. There was tension. 

“Okay.” You argued back in his same attitude. 

He shook his head, throwing his spine against the pillows, inflating his lungs. As he turned towards you, something lustful and obscure possessed his eyes. “Say yes.”

You furrowed your brow. “To what?”

“Fuck, just say yes, ____.” He begged with a growl. 

You bit your lip and nodded.

He was on you in a millisecond, kissing you with an intensity that you didn’t think his lithe figure could muster. Yes, of course he was solid under your touch but his body was sinewy rather than bulky. It was a matter of kinetic force rather than actual strength. 

He smothered you under his torso, your lungs constricting with the impact. The kiss wasn’t even an attempt at gentleness. It was a matter of teeth and tongues and sucking straight away. Your hand gripped the hair at his nape, trying to control him, slow him down. If he kept this up, he was going to bruise your lips. Soon he grew breathless and parted from your lips. His body was thrown over the sofa, over your lap, into your arms. 

“I’ve been thinking of this single spot for days.” He murmured, diving for the crook of your neck, immediately nibbling on it. One hand already on your hair, he tried to move the other one around you, between your back and the soft burgundy velvet. “And I find you all fuzzy and warm from sleep, skin tender, freshly woken up, wearing this sorry excuse of a nightgown.” He snarled.

“Taehyung.” You murmured. 

“Lace looks incredible on you, dove.” He lowered his head and started sucking on the upper curve of your left breast, clearly intending to leave a bruise. 

You combed his hair back, looking at him while his eyes stared into yours. 

“Tae, baby. Why don’t we get more comfortable? I have a queen size bed in the other room, are you sure you want to stay on the sofa?” You offered gently. 

He shook his head, still latched onto you, no intention of letting go whatsoever. 

"Taetae, you're gonna get a cramp, darling." You caressed his face with affection, his wide-eyed look making you weak. 

He finally parted from you and inspected the bruise. Happy with the result, he kissed the mark, drying it with his cheek, slightly scratching you with his stubble. "I think we should stay on the sofa." He argued with a rumble. 

He wouldn't answer for himself if he had you in bed. And it was too early to go all the way anyway. Of course his aim was getting his hands under your clothes — and possibly your hands under his, — but he also knew he wanted to take his time. His will was still strong enough to wait, but he knew, were he to be tempted, he would not hesitate. And he knew he wanted to play it slow, go one base at a time before diving all the way in. 

"Were you listening, Tae?" You asked, noticing the absent look on his face. 

He shook his head with an innocent look, his curls tickling your bosom. 

You giggled, fondness warming your gaze. "You want to stay here?" 

He nodded, his hair grazing your skin once more, his expression sparkling with a playful smile. 

"Then we'll stay here." You declared. "Do you want something to drink? Something to eat? To you it should be dinner time, right?" You fussed. 

"No, I'm okay, I'm trying to adjust." He explained. His expression went blank for a moment before lighting up in an Eureka! moment. "I have a gift for you!" He chimed happily. 

"Really?" You replied, incredulous. 

"It's a bit artsy and sexy, but it's from Paris, so…" He shrugged. 

"Oh, now I'm curious." You combed his hair back, exposing his forehead. 

"Let me—" He sat upright, disentangling himself from you. He sat cross-legged on the sofa and dove for his canvas bag. "Here." He said, handing you a paper bag. 

"Is it…" It was heavy. Very. You opened the bag and you were met with the heavy scent of printed paper. "A book." You realised, taking the volume in your hand, gently removing it from the bag. It was still covered in a thin layer of plastic. "Oh, God! It's that book! How did you find it?" 

He grinned. "A friendly bookseller. A connoisseur." He winked. "I didn't open it. I didn't want to ruin it. And I wanted to open it with you. Do you like it?" He dove into the crook of your neck once more, shaking his shaggy locks against your tender skin. 

"Thank you, baby." You kissed his cheek. You were still getting used to his mood swings from dark, charming gentleman to his bubbly tiger cub persona. “Do you mind if I go grab a glass of water and then we leaf through it together?” You asked. 

“Yeah. Grab one for me too.” If he had to have you half naked beside him for an hour or so, he’d better have something to keep him cool.

As you did your thing in the kitchen he looked around, wide eyed. The relaxing golden light coming from the lamp illuminated a shelf of fashion books and a series of black and white pictures on the walls. He recognised one as a feather. It looked very classy, still he knew you had bought it in a cheap shop downtown, a vintage parlour the two of you had visited during your fourth date. 

“Here, Tae.” You said, entering the room, putting the glasses on the small tables at each side of the sofa, one of which hosted the lamp. 

“Thank you.” He was sitting comfortably, legs slightly parted, his back laying on the sofa, elbows propped on the pillows. You stood in front of him, admiring him a little. 

He was used to being watched, but your scrutiny was so fierce and detached that he felt crystallised, as if any movement would send him shattering on the floor like a frozen leaf.

He looked up at you, mesmerised, but also so terribly afraid of your next move. Like you could incinerate him with your eyes. Slowly, he raised his back from his slouching, hands naturally meeting your hips. It was intimate and cold at the same time. You felt afraid of the intensity he could evoke with a simple touch and a glance. 

He called your name and it felt like an awakening, like you had never had a name before. His long lashes covered the upper part of his irises, giving you the sultriest, darkest look.

“Taehyung.” You whispered back, in hope you would sound just like he did. 

His hands moved from your hips to your waist, bringing you closer, right in front of him. He scooted closer to the edge of the cushion, his nose skimming the soft silk of your nightgown from your sternum to the dip of your navel. “I missed you, darling.” He kissed your belly, propping his chin on your stomach. 

Again, you combed his hair back. “I did send you a small gift, though.” You reminded him coolly. 

Once again he remembered the picture, the voice text, your breathy moans and needy whines as you whispered how much you were missing him, how dumb you had been to tell him that you could wait one more week before seeing him again. Your relationship wasn't sexual yet, but during his short stay in Paris you realised how quickly it had escalated, feeling the need to simply tell him how he made you feel, how hot it was to listen to his deep, warm voice as he talked about his day. He could have been reading his shopping list and you would get wet anyway. 

"You did send it." He replied. "And it was wholeheartedly appreciated." He said with a growl. 

You licked your lips as you noticed his legs spreading farther, parting to accommodate your standing figure. 

"Are you gonna make me beg for it?" He murmured, a pinch of worry in his voice. 

You raised an eyebrow, playing confused. 

Shaking his head, he tutted and grabbed your waist, his strong fingers digging into your skin as he turned you with his back to him, making you sit heavily between his thighs. "I won't beg for you tonight, Lace." He huffed minaciously in your ear, one arm coiling around your waist while his other palm dragged possessively from your hip bone to your knee, fingers digging into the soft skin of your inner thighs. 

“Let’s look at your kinky, niche art book.” He growled at your ear.

Nodding silently, you bent to the coffee table, lunging for the book, your hair tumbling forward and exposing the naked expanse of your shoulders. 

Of course he profited from the moment, lunging forward, drawing the line of your spine with the tip of his nose, from the upper hem of your nightgown to your nape, inhaling the flowery scent of your shampoo. 

You almost lost your grip on the heavy book, your body responding to his touch with a deep shiver and a slight loss of balance. He gripped your waist tighter, helping you up. “Did you like that?” He asked. 

You let your short breath and stumbling heartbeat speak for you. 

“Did you like that, sweetheart?” He asked again.

“Yeah.” You huffed. 

He chuckled gruffly. “Open the book.”

You used your nail to open the thin plastic foil, ripping it until you managed to open the cover. The first page was an unmade bed, the title printed in a dark, heavy font. 

“Passion portrayed”

The theme was very… French. Your ex-flatmate had recommended you the book, printed by one of her former university classmates. 

It didn’t even feign being ordinary or appropriate. From the very title of it, it was unmistakeably an erotic book, meant to expose intimate parts of the subjects’ life, exhibitionism in its most artistic vest.

“How does it work?” Asked Taehyung, his chin settling on your shoulder. 

“It’s a book.” You said, matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, but the theme.” He said, taking the book from your hands and turning it around, searching for an abstract.

You shrugged. “From what I’ve been told, some couples asked the photographer for a series of intimate pictures. They loved the results so much that they asked if the author ever thought of publishing them as a collection. The pictures were selected and rearranged to create this book.” You explained, using your forearm to sustain the back of the book, your hand turning the first page. 

“I like this.” Taehyung said, the page printed fully offering a wide, light green clearing in the middle of a wood. The straw field was bathed in orange twilight, the light cutting perfectly into the lens, creating small, interference halos in the picture. 

You smiled, nodding, your hair brushing against his cheek. 

He exhaled, his body relaxing. You felt so soft. Like his personal teddy bear. The skin of your thigh was warm against his palm, if slightly clammy. You were holding the book so to allow his hands to wander and he felt somehow confused and grateful for it, not knowing whether he could take advantage or whether you were just testing him. 

“Tell me when you want me to turn.” You said quietly. 

“Turn.” He said. The following two pages were only partly printed, hosting a smaller photograph on the center of each page. Both offered the same setting as before with a change of perspective, one lowered to the ground, in a picnic, the traditional chequered blanket laying on the ground, a wicker basket, small glass cups for wine, grapes, cheese and picturesque, cliché sandwiches; the other filtered through the backseat of a pickup. The definition of an American Sixties teenage rendezvous. “I can kind of figure where this is headed.” He murmured. 

You snickered. “I can only imagine.”

You turned the page again. Black and flashes of neon pink. Probably a club, empty. 

“Wow.” You said. The atmosphere had changed dramatically, contrasting with the previous page. The juxtaposition was somehow interesting. 

“Turn?” He asked.

You obeyed. Same disposition of pictures: two, smaller, at the center of the page, same setting — the club —  but through a different cut. A gothic black velvet armchair, the seat surrounded by elaborate swirls of sculpted ebony. The glimmering of metal in the darkness, reflecting the neon hot pink. 

“It looks like an adult club.” He murmured, his finger exploring the vague shape of chains hanging from the wall in the picture on the right. 

“I think so, too.” You agreed. “Have you ever visited one?” You asked, turning slightly to examine his reaction. 

He denied with a tut. “I’d like to visit one, though. It would be curious.” He shrugged.  “Have you?” 

You cocked your head to the side. “Kind of.”

He waited for you to elaborate. 

“Call it an occupational hazard of sort for a lingerie retailer. You just get used to a lot of crazy stuff, meet a lot of crazy people, get into a lot of crazy hobbies.” You approximately justified yourself.

“Was it for your… extracurricular?” He asked, a lazy smirk on his face. 

“Yeah.” You confirmed, licking your lips.

He nodded delicately, trying not to punch his chin into your collarbone. “Next?” He called and you turned the page. 

A bluish bathroom. Maybe a spa room, it had a massage bed. But everything was blue. Entirely blue. Blue tiles, blue floor, blue carpet, blue supplies. Blue. everywhere. Soothing, calm. “So much blue.” He commented. 

“I think she’s going through primary colours. Yellow, reddish pink, blue. We’ll see what’s next.” You explained. 

Tae stared at the picture. “Do you like it?”

“I’m not sure.” You turned the page. Again, two smaller pictures at the center of each page. The first one was a closeup of the massage bed, with its plush blue cover and a small shelf of products and candles. The other picture contained another detail, a white, thick candle and its burning wick against the dark blue tiles. 

You nodded with a knowing huff. 

“Want me to turn?” You asked. 

Taehyung hummed in approval. 

Black. And white. And grey. This is the same setting as the title page: bedroom, silken, glimmering sheets. But now you could figure out the rest of the room. A plain bedroom, the headboard made by a sophisticated tangle of iron swirls and bars, the rest of the scene empty except for a big wardrobe and a drawer. The setting in time is completely anonymous, the black and white chromatism killing any light that could suggest day or night or twilight. 

“Turn.”

First detail: the silken sheets appearing through the iron bars at the foot of the bed. 

Second detail: some absolutely ordinary, if not cheap and old clothes abandoned on the wooden floor of the room. 

This is where it starts. 

Taehyung was growing impatient, his hand getting restless on your leg. He started drawing small circles with his short nails on your inner thigh. "So…" 

You stopped turning the page, leaving it perfectly standing, pinched between your fingers. 

He suddenly shut his mouth, as if he had decided not to speak, however his glance gave him off, his eyes stuck on the page you had just uncovered. 

He moved his hand from your belly, catching your wrist and making you turn the page fully. 

On the page on the left a dainty, lithe female body occupied most of the picture, picturing the torso and lower body, covered only slightly in a cute, gingham lingerie set with small embroidered cherries. It looked like coquettish demureness, the combination extremely girly and juvenile on the model’s barely-there curves. 

You turned to Taehyung as you felt his adam’s apple bob against your neck. He was staring at the picture on the other page, where a wooden honey dipper hovered over the girl’s lower abdomen, dripping the sticky, sweet liquid on her skin, her bent thigh hiding her crotch from the camera. “I like the angle. And the colours.” You commented.

He nodded simply. 

You observed the picture for one more second before letting your fingers reach for the corner of the page to turn. 

“Would you let me do that to you?” He growled, leaving a soft kiss on your neck. 

Let him cover you in honey? “Would you lick it away?” You asked, curious, trying as hard as possible to play it cool. Secretly you were self-combusting. 

“Duh. Of course.” He kissed you again. 

“Yes.” You replied, without even thinking about it for half a second.

The following page moved back to the club, all black and magenta. This time everything you could see was the silhouette of someone laying on their front, naked, on a flat surface. It was impossible to recognise a male or female anatomy. It made everything more interesting. On the page beside, the picture focused on the dip of their spine, showing a vague outline of the shoulder blades and the frilly tip of a feather barely grazing the skin, as if the person in the room with them was running the… tool? down his or her spine. 

“And you, would you let me do this to you?” You asked, curious, looking at him. 

His fingers clawed at your lower thigh, making you hiss at his vicious grip. “You want to torture me, sweetie?” He teased, parting your thighs. The cool air licked at your sweaty skin, raising goosebumps in its wake. “Want to make me furious? Get me mad?” His lazy, soft kisses turned into an aggressive nipping, his main intent that of making bruises bloom on your tender skin. 

“I want to see you wild.” You replied, still hoping to sound detached, even though at this point it was your own arousal rather than your sweat making your thighs clammy. “I’ve seen your stages. You roar.” You used your free hand to grab and knead his knee, but unfortunately he stopped you. 

“Hands on the book.” He reprimanded. “What about my stages?”

Flashbacks of his Singularity performances ran through your mind. “You’re sultry. Seductive. Predatory. And so aggressive.” You explained. “So sinful...”  You admitted.

“I know it drives you crazy.” He whispered, nuzzling into the underside of your ear. 

“Fucking insane.” You huffed out, leaning into him. 

He chuckled. “You’re so weak for me.” He mocked you. 

You wiggled a little in his hold, your backside brushing against his lap, a deep, vibratoed moan exiting his mouth. “You’re so weak for me.” You teased back. 

And then you squealed. He had just bitten your shoulder. “Turn the page, you menace.”

You did as you were told. This time it was a woman for sure laying on the massage bed, her body covered from chest to knee by a pale fluffy towel. Again, everything felt a bit too blue. You liked that she looked overall fuller, curvier than the previous models, the towel draping around her curved belly, her fleshy thighs. It wasn’t that strategically planned plumpness. It was genuine, showing both the traditionally attractive and the socially unaccepted parts of body fat. It wasn’t all tits and ass. It was arms, calves, belly. And it looked beautiful. Still, you couldn’t see her face.

“You like her?” Taehyung asked. 

You shrugged. “Her body's non-canonically beautiful. You can tell that she loves her body. I like that she didn’t let society kill her vibe, that she likes her body so much that she wanted to have this kind of pictures taken. I think she trusts the photographer a lot.” You shook your head. “I’m so dumb. All of them must have trusted the photographer a lot. I don’t know why a curvier person would be more insecure about her body than a slimmer person.”

“I think society kind of taught us that people who don’t adhere to a certain beauty standard should or actually do feel ashamed for it.” Taehyung mumbled. “I don’t see why a curvier girl should be ashamed. And curvy is not just the sexy curve. Curvy is fleshy, handfuls everywhere. I don’t really care. I just want flesh and fullness to grip while I’m fucking.” He continued mumbling with a slightly careless but also complaining tone. 

Suddenly the meaning of the hand coming around your middle, gripping the skin on your side and occasionally your love handles changed meaning. “So that’s what you were doing when you gripped me?” You asked. The first time he did it during one of your previous dates, you had felt wary, almost called-out by his action. 

“When?”

“The first time we kissed. And then some.” You blushed. “I thought you were pointing out that I’m fat.”

“You’re not fat. You’re beautiful and sexy and yeah, you’re soft, so what? You feel so good. And we all have body fat. You like eating. You eat regularly and healthily. You care for yourself and love yourself. You’re one of the most confident women I’ve ever seen.”

You dipped your head, trying to avoid spilling the tear almost rolling down your cheek. “Thank you.”

“And you make lingerie look like sin.” He added, turning your head and holding you tighter. “I grip you and grab you because you’re sexy and because I need to stop myself from doing dumb, ridiculous stuff. And you’re squishy. It calms down my nerves. It soothes me.” He kissed your cheek. “If you ever decided to lose weight I would support you, of course, but if it were for me, I wouldn’t want you any other way.” He kissed you again. “And look!” he pointed to the following photography. “She seems to like curvy girls too.” He pointed to the other female figure appearing in the picture, standing beside the bed, untucking the towel and revealing the top of the laying woman’s breasts. “I like that they have a same-sex couple. Do you think they’ll have two boys too?” He asked. 

“Are you interested?” You asked, no judgement or excitement in your voice, trying to silently communicate that he was safe whatever his reply would be. 

“I mean, you have two girls, why not two boys?” He said, raising one shoulder. “Plus, I’m not opposed to it.”

“Have you ever had a boy?” You asked, quite blatantly.

He tutted. “It was a quick thing. I prefer girls, I think. The female body is more attractive.” He confessed. “It has way more secrets. It’s more interesting to explore.” He pushed his hips against your backside. “I think that the moment I feel attraction and curiosity, I let myself experience it. I don’t limit myself to something as dumb as gender.”

You loved his eclectic, versatile tastes. He is experimental and seductive, a natural hedonist. 

“That sounds good for you.” You admitted. 

“Have you had girls?” He asked, curious. 

You smiled. “Yeah. I was in a relationship with a girl, in uni. A small thing.” You told him. “And yeah, they’re more interesting.”

“Right, you mentioned.” Taehyung remembered.

“I don’t wanna sound rude or pervy but… how was the sex? I mean, is it different, other than anatomically speaking?” He asked. 

You exhaled, thinking about it more accurately, trying to remember. “Every person is different. I never really had male lovers, but the few subs I had all  had something special and different — not that I had that many, that is.” You blushed. 

He nosed his way through your hair and against your nape. 

“It was more… conversational?” You tried finding the right word. “We gave each other a lot of constructive feedback.” You reminisced. “And fuck, I loved how responsive she was.” You scrunched your face. “I do miss fucking a girl every now and then. Wrecking a pretty girl gives me quite a boost of adrenaline and self esteem.” You admitted with a wild, embarrassed laugh. 

“I agree to that.” He laughed too, his diaphragm moving with a belly laugh that ricocheted from his stomach into your back. “I can’t wait to wreck you.” He spoke with a dirty, hot, gruff voice. 

You arched your neck, offering him the curve of your shoulder as you licked your lower lip. “Why aren’t you inside me already?”

The hand on your thigh, which had lost some pressure, climbed half an inch higher. “Because you couldn’t wait to see this book.” 

You shook your head in disagreement. 

“And because I’ll put my fingers inside you first.” He said aggressively. “And because I’m waiting. When I’m so desperate that I’ll wake up sweaty and horny in the middle of the night because I was dreaming of your dripping, sweet cunt on my face, then I’ll come fuck you until your entire body is nothing but a pretty toy trained for my pleasure.” His hand shifted from the harsh grip on your side to the devious, light, teasing fingertip tracing your puffy areola and erect nipple which were pushing against the satin of your nightgown. "I need to wake up so fucked out that I can conjure your taste in my mouth, that I can almost feel the wetness of you around my fingers. Your pretty, red lips around my cock.” 

You hummed at that, wanting nothing but the stretching feel of his blunt, long erection inside your mouth, warm and salty down your throat. “Fuck my mouth, Tae. Please.”

He snarled and snickered. “Not a chance, darling. Now, turn the page.” He felt dumb for turning you down, but he had plans. He needed to resist. Good boys go to heaven. 

Turn the page. The black and white felt soothing after all the coloured shots. “Oh.” 

Taehyung breathed out loudly. “Fuck.”

You were too fascinated by the picture to look at him. 

“Yes?” He asked. 

“Yeah.” You replied. 

“You’d let me?” He asked again. 

You nodded. “Would you? Let me, I mean...”

“You wanna tie me up?” He asked, raising an eyebrow. 

You momentarily put the book on your legs joining your pointer fingers together at the fingertip. “I have taken lessons, so...” You bit your lip, blushing.

He kissed your shoulder. “I can’t wait to try that. With you.” He gave you small bites this time, playful and caring. “And I’d be very happy if you taught me too.” His hand caressed your belly gently, the other one digging in the valley between your joined tights. 

“Thank you, baby.” You pressed your shoulders into his chest enjoying the solid feeling of his body supporting yours. 

“Anything for you.” He replied politely. “Now, can we move on?” He asked, trying to ignore the picture that had sparked the conversation, where a man wearing only boxers laid in bed, his wrists tied to the bedpost with a sturdy, rough rope. 

You nodded, picking up the book and turning the page. Back to the babygirl in the field. This time her lover had his mouth on her; the shot a closeup of his stubbly cheek and chin and his open mouth sucking at her inner thigh. In the matching picture his mouth was on her small breast, sucking her nipple over the fabric of her bra. You clenched your legs slightly, wiggling a little in your seat. 

It went maybe unnoticed. Maybe. Taehyung stopped breathing for a second, until you settled and he managed to gain his cool again. 

You managed to keep it cool with the second set, the dungeon, where the only thing really happening was for the feather to caress the submissive’s ass, in the picture on the left, only to be substituted by a furred glove on the following photograph. 

The third set had Taehyung gasping and moaning. You simply breathed out a small laugh. “Will you do this to me too?” You asked. 

“I’m gonna worship you head to toe, dove.” He grinned, observing the pictures. Both involved the standing woman massaging the laying one, with strong, oiled hands kneading the round globes of her ass and thighs, the soft and pale plants of her feet. 

“I love your hands.” You murmured, placing yours atop the one on your navel. 

He smirked. “Don’t you?” He twisted his wrist to intertwine your fingers. 

Nodding, you added: “They look so strong. And big.” You took a deep breath, daydreaming about the feel of them grabbing your breasts, your ass, your neck, pinning your wrists, moving inside you. Your brain had a special gallery dedicated exclusively to his hands. 

“I bet you can’t wait to have them inside you.” He teased, the hand on your thigh climbing a little closer to your heat. You were wondering how long it would take for him to find out about your little surprise for him. 

Let him live in innocence for now. 

“That, yes.” You admitted, not even playing coy. “And also I can’t wait to see them on yourself.” You provoked him, hoping that he would understand. 

“You want to see me touch myself?” He asked, his face absolutely impassive. 

“Yes.” You replied plainly. 

He laughed with a series of quiet exhales. “We’ll see.”

You turned a few pages, observing all the small details of the four different foreplay scenes. 

“Would you do it outdoors?” He asked at a certain point, his stare fixed on the coquettish blonde angel sucking off her partner at the picnic. 

You raised an eyebrow. “If the setting was right, yes. Though here in Seoul it's quite difficult.”

“We could visit my hometown. There are a lot of empty, remote fields over there.” He said, his arm holding you tight as he made both your bodies scoot back, away from the edge of the sofa.

“I would rather avoid you risking your career for a fuck out in the open air.” You commented pragmatically. 

“We’re only risking that if we get caught. And I’m sure we’re smart enough.” He tried to convince you. 

“What about insects? Bugs? Safety?” You asked, concerned. 

“We’ll think about it in detail if we ever decide to walk down this path, yeah?” He suggested respectfully. 

You pouted, nodding in agreement. 

“Holy shit, look at this.” You commented, quite shocked. In the dungeon, the dom was sprinkling glitters on the backside of his submissive, which you had discovered being — much to Taehyung’s chagrin — also a man.

“I want that. Oh my God, they're gonna get all over the place.” He replied, frowning at the thought. “You can go through major catastrophes and those bitches would still colonize every nook and cranny of your body.” His brow creased. “But fuck it looks amazing.” Especially since in the second picture the dom was using a leather glove to spank his sub, making all the glitter disperse into the air at the impact, creating a purplish halo around the silhouette of the spankee.

“I’m gonna spank you.” He said, out of the blue. “I hope you’re okay with that.”

Yes, sir, Your slutty brain replied. “We’ll see,” you said out loud. 

Ha laughed dryly. "You'll want me to. It's only a matter of time."

You turned around, smirking at him. You tipped his chin back with a finger, kissing him with a cruel tenderness. His eyes closed, initially surprised, but then he became more than eager to deepen the kiss. Still you drew back, while his mouth tried to chase after yours. 

"No." You whispered. 

"Are you telling me no?" He asked gruffly. "Mh?" The hand between your thighs had kept rising and by now his palm laid on the junction between your hip and thigh, his index tracing your mound. "Is it a no?" 

You moaned lasciviously. Was he going to discover your surprise for him? 

He finally reached your sex, expecting to meet a wet patch on your underwear. "____. Where are your panties?" He murmured in your ear. 

You bit your lip. "Not wearing any." You murmured gently. 

"Say it again." He growled. 

"I'm not wearing panties, Tae." You mewled tauntingly. 

He moved his hand from your navel to your breast, the other one cupping your crotch. 

"Naughty girl." He snarled. "Bad, bad girl." His mouth latched at your neck while his hands pushed you further into him, his erection pressing against the small of your back. 

"I want you." You whined. "So bad, Tae. Please." 

"You're wet for me?" He said, his mouth parting from your skin long enough to interrogate you, only to continue to lick you as soon as he was done talking. 

"I'm drenched. I want you. Make me cum, Tae, please."

His chest shook with an evil laugh. "You told me no earlier." He replied. 

"I made a mistake. I only wanted to tease you." You cried out, your free hand trying to reach for his between your legs. 

"Hands on the book, bad kitty." He said, nibbling your earlobe.

You obeyed with some quiet complaining. 

"Why would you tease me?" He asked

"I wanted you to want me." You confessed. "I wanted you to stop resisting me."

"I'm not gonna fuck you." He repeated. "But nothing is stopping me from making you cum with my fingers." He kissed your temple. "Are you okay with that?" 

You nodded. "Just make me cum, Tae." 

He snickered. "Then keep your hands on the book. Keep watching your kinky pictures. Let's see what makes you even wetter."

You whimpered as his long fingers moved against your folds, and you parted your legs further to grant him better access. 

On the following page, the women had moved from a tantric massage to a steamy, slow session of waxplay. The receiving partner was now laying on her back, her breasts exposed for her lover, her skin glistening with oil as the other woman let a droplet fall on her unmarred skin, however you could tell it wasn't the first drop from a stain barely visible in the corner of the picture, out of focus. 

Taehyung interrupted your musings with a twitch of his fingers, while he spoke directly in your ear. "What about waxplay, darling? Would you like to try that?" 

You exhaled at the movement, your head falling forward as the muscles on your neck went slack. 

"Your body would be a work of art, covered in coconut oil, sweat, droplets of wax and my cum."

You felt your soul leave your body. From your seated position your inner organs were positioned so that his fingers perfectly reached your g-spot. "Fuck, Tae, you're fucking perfect."

He kissed the corner of your mouth, the hand on your chest toying with the hem of your nightie until he slipped the strap off your shoulder and uncovered your naked breast. "Oh, you like it." He bent some more trying to reach for your mouth. He thought about using one hand to turn your face but he was content with where they were at the moment. 

The black and white bondage scene turned into a submission exercise, the woman standing on her knees over the face of the laying man, using a vibrator to pleasure herself. 

And he simply laid there, mouth open, waiting. You almost turned when Taehyung stopped you. "I'd love to try that." His voice was slightly strained, probably from the strange angle he was in. Both his arms were busy and working from a difficult position. Not that you noticed. 

Ever since he had started touching you, you had been in a haze, your head feeling extremely light and floaty. 

"Anything you want." You replied before your voice broke in a mewl. "I'm close." You were, already, and incredibly so. All you needed was for him to keep talking. "I wanna hear your voice."

"What do you want to hear, Lace? How soft your cunt feels on my fingers? It feels like fucking velvet, darling. Do you want to know how much I wanna eat you?" He moved closer to your ear. “I wanna hear you scream for me, Lace. I want you to be so loud that everyone will know you’re having the best orgasm of your life.” He bit your earlobe. “I’m gonna make you cum so many times you lose count. I’m gonna make you regret teasing me. I’m gonna make you cry in every best way possible.” His fingers moved faster between your legs, his thumb meeting your clit. “I’m gonna fuck you so much you’re gonna hate yourself for complaining I haven’t fucked you yet.”

His dirty words got to your head like liquor, your hips undulating to find the final stimulus you needed to come apart. You felt your backbone roll dangerously and in a few seconds you snapped forward, his forearm on your chest keeping you upright through your climax. “That’s it, Lace. Ride my fingers.” He commanded and you complied, like the needy, desperate animal you are for him. Only for him. 

Never in your life had you experienced the need to bend over backwards for anyone, least of all a man; yet, here you were, pliant like putty in his hands, feeling submissive for the first time of your life. “Taehyung.” You whispered, too lost to realise it was barely hearable. Still, he noticed, slowing down his movements. 

“Are you okay, dove?” He checked on you, his voice warm and caring. 

You shook your head yes. “I need a second.” You said through heavy breath.

He moved away the hand on your breast, bringing it to your cheek, making you ease back against him and cradling your body gently. “It was beautiful, Lace. Beautiful. I can’t wait to see you do that again.” He murmured, comforting you and praising you. 

You giggled cutely in reply, turning toward his face and puckering your lips. 

He read your cue and pressed his lips to yours chastely. “Need some water, dove?” He asked. 

You nodded and for a second he thought how he could possibly grab the closest glass with both his hands busy. Noticing that, you caught his dirty hand and brought it to your face.

“Lace.” He groaned as you observed the slick coating his fingers. 

“Tae.” You groaned right back at him, turning to give him a nice view before you put his fingers in your mouth, sucking lewdly. 

His hips rolled below you, his eyes fighting to stay open while his forehead met your temple, jaw hanging low in a silent invitation to slide your tongue in his mouth. What you did, your devious will overpowering you, was to free his digits and part them in a V against your lips and chin, lashing your tongue out in the valley between his middle and ring finger to make out with him. 

The sound he emitted was something so dirty and lewd that you found yourself turned on again, ready to slip his hand between your thighs once more.

“I cannot fuck you tonight.” He reminded himself once he parted from your tongue — and his hand. 

“I still don’t see why.” You teased, always the temptress in a wild attempt to lure him into your bed. 

“I need to take my time.” He gave himself the whole talk. “I need to learn you, your language, your tells and cues. Let’s run the bases and then I’ll take it home. Let’s enjoy every little step that takes us there.” He explained, giving you his whole vision. 

You nodded. This is what he wanted. To make every single milestone meaningful, important, unique. “You should have said.” You caressed his face. “I wouldn’t have been so bratty, had I know of that.” You kissed his cheekbone. 

“It’s cool.” He breathed out, eyes shut, teeth gritted. 

“Are you okay?” You asked, fondling him some more.

“I’m just… dealing with something.” He replied, stressed, pressing his hips against your. 

And you felt him. He must have been pretty big. 

“Would you let me take care of you?” You questioned tentatively.

He shook his head. Then waited a few second. “Would it be okay if I grind against you?”

You raised your eyebrows, only to grin madly after it. “Yeah. Whatever works for you, love. Touch yourself, grind, I don’t care, just… let me be there for you.” You comforted him. 

“Water first.” He said, using his clean hand to reach for the glass, mourning the departure from your chest for a quick second. As soon as he brought the glass to your lips, you took it from his grasp and placed his palm back to your chest, taking a small sip and and offering him some. He stretched over your shoulder and you helped him drink, tipping the glass carefully to avoid him choking or spilling. As soon as he was done you moved the glass back to the small table, grabbing the book in the process. 

“Okay, back to where we left.” His hand covered in a dried up mixture of your and his spit laid on your navel, hiking up your nightie. The other was cementified to your naked breast, toying with your nipple. 

On the pages there was an escalation of foreplay, the American sweethearts moving on to her offering him a blowjob.

“You okay with that?” You asked Taehyung, refusing to assume that all men love blowjobs. 

“I think so, yeah. I hope in the near future I’ll be able to feed you my cock multiples time a day, sweetie.” He indulged in your kink, still shocked by your earlier request to suck him off. 

You had to stop yourself from asking him to feed you now. He had asked for one step at a time. You owed him that. “All you need to do is ask, Tae.” You simply reminded him. 

“Can’t wait to see you on your knees for me.” He mumbled, his hips thrusting up against you.

“What about spanking tools?” He asked as you turned the page, amazed by the riding crop that the dom was sporting. 

“I’ve used them in the past, but I’ve never had them used on me.” You confessed. “I tested them on myself first before using them on someone, obviously, but I was never… I’ve never been truly dominated by someone else, so—”

He moaned and caressed your neck with the tip of his nose. “That’s okay. We don’t have to...”

You shook your head. “I want to, though. Just— easy. As you said, one step at a time.”

He ohed at that, nipping at your jutting collarbone. 

You went through some more pages, discussing details, objects, feelings. 

Of course your fascination with the dungeon scene grew when Taehyung cupped your pubis once more as a flogger appeared in the picture. “I’m close, I just wanna feel your wetness.” He explained. “I’d love to use that—” He indicated the flogger with a gesture of his chin “—to tease you. Drag its soft tips from your toes to your breasts, flick it innocently over your sensitive nipples. Draw lazy circles on your belly. Watch you lick, suck and hump the handle.”

You awed at that. Most importantly you awed at how he was pressing his hard on against your asscheeks through his trousers and your nightie. 

“I’m close.” After ten minutes of being on the very edge of it, he gave up and brought his hand to his crotch, just adding more pressure. You felt somehow disappointed that you wouldn’t feel him on you anymore. 

The next page was his undoing. In the bedroom scene, the man was still bound, propped up against the pillows, wide eyed, imploring. On the right page you discovered why: the woman was showing him her backside, on her knees, chest to the mattress, fucking herself with a huge dildo. “Fuck” he growled. “Lace, would you?” He asked, needing you to talk, to give him a scenario. 

“Yes, I would. I would do it like that but I would also do it with your cock in my mouth, the dildo making me so relaxed that I could easily deepthroat the monster you’re hiding in your pants, mister.” You teased. 

He smiled like the devil, barely holding in a snicker. “Fuck that, Lace, you just want my cock in your mouth, don’t you?” He mocked. 

“I’ve never been so hungry for a cock, Taehyung. I just want to see you fucked out.” You had never felt so dirty and sexy in your life. You were fighting with your teeth and claws for him. There were so many people out there willing to do anything to get him. Might as well set the bar up high and offer him more than anyone else would ever dare to. 

He whimpered, his forehead pressed to your nape. 

You turned, grabbing his chin, making him look at you. “Let me see that bliss, Tae. Show me your pretty face when you cum for me.” You spurred him on gently. “Give me your best look. Come on, I wanna save that for the next time I fuck myself with my toy. Please.”

And he crumbled, holding your gaze, precipitating into oblivion. His mouth hung open, releasing a deep cry while his chest fell into your shoulders, pressing into you. He couldn’t care less about cumming in his pants, or messing up his trousers, in that moment he was only looking for a way to let his soul slither under your skin and tangle with yours. He wanted closeness and warmth and to leave his body and feel light. 

When you saw his eyelids tremble, you tutted repeatedly, calling for his attention. “Keep looking at me, baby bear.”

He whined at the nickname, fighting the postorgasmic haze threatening to drag him under. 

You fumbled with your hold of the book, freeing a hand to caress his wavy hair. “That’s it, baby.” You murmured, finally allowing him to let go of the snippet of control he had left over his body. “Are you okay, Tae?”

He nodded and inhaled against your neck, his mouth opening and laving your skin with heavy, wide and wet licks. He still had his hand between your legs and it looked like he was very happy with it.

"Are you happy, baby?" You asked him, combing his hair back. 

He simply offered you an elated smile, nodding and nuzzling into you. 

"You look so pretty when you cum, Tae. And so damn sexy." You praised him, being absolutely straightforward about your thoughts. 

"I feel so good, ____." He said, his expression completely blissful. 

"Do you want to keep leafing through the book?" You asked, still completely focused on him. 

He scratched his cheek and nodded, even though he barely hid a yawn. 

After making sure that he really wanted to keep going, you took hold of the book again. The couples in the pictures moved on from foreplay to actual intercourse, simply showing the closeness of body parts, but never including genitals in the photographs. It was only possible to identify which belonged to whom because of the light and setting. You appreciated the so-to-say gender neutrality of the shots.

"It's interesting how all the couples feel the same. The positions are slightly different but still there's always the same closeness, intensity, passion and intimacy." He noticed. 

You agreed. 

"It feels like they're together not just as in doing stuff together but actually exist together. They're one." He said, running his finger along the same possessive pose of the arm — snaking around the lovers back and keeping them close — which was featured on four different pictures put together, side by side, from each of the couples. 

And finally it was the open mouths, the hard grips, the arched backs of an orgasm. 

"It's so… Natural. The way we feel pleasure." He murmured, his heavy breathing and the movement of his lips teasing the sensitive spot behind your ear. "I mean, I know that there are some people who don't like sex. Or who don't perceive it as a necessity. And that's natural too." He thought about it some more. "But this feels like a universal language. Like music. You can read it in its little signs." 

You were growing impatient again. The book was almost over, only a few pages left. What happens now? Does he want to leave? Is he going to stay? 

You hesitated before turning the page, but he spurred you on. 

This was aftercare. While the other photographs looked like they were made for the observers' aesthetic pleasure, this looked like invading the models' privacy. 

"I feel uncomfortable." You spoke gently. 

Taehyung worried. "Is it… Do you need space?" He asked, realising that you've been sitting for almost an hour in a very uncomfortable position. He started unraveling his hold on you but you stopped him, blocking his hand between your legs with the muscles of your thighs and blocking his other arm by catching his wrist. "I was talking about the pictures. It feels like I'm seeing something that I'm not supposed to see."

"Yup." He agreed. "But I like the one in the field. The one with the sweethearts." The sun had almost completely set behind the trees and the boy and girl were sitting exhausted in the backseat, her body perched on top of him, his head resting on her breast. "I would stay inside too." Taehyung said. "It's so warm. Intimate. And when you're tired and vulnerable it's so good to feel that emotionally together with someone. To stay sheathed inside." He mused. 

You felt his fingers twitch almost imperceptibly on your folds. A wave of wetness oozed out. 

"Oh, you're ready for another, doll?" He grinned, brushing against you more pressingly. 

"Tae." You cried out. 

"Yes, Lace?" 

"Let me suck you." You said with a more imposing voice than before. 

He made you turn your head and look him in the eye. 

"You want that so bad?" He asked mischievously. "I guess you won't have any problem saying it again as you look me in eyes if you're truly so desperate for my dick."

You shook your head briefly. "Please Tae, let me suck your dick. If you don't give that to me I swear I'll go down the street and suck it to the first attractive man I see." You said, growing impatient both to his denying and his teasing. 

"How can I say no to that?" He grinned sardonically. "Plus it would be dumb of me to put you at risk, wandering through the streets at this hour of the night wearing that skimpy mess of a nightgown." He parted your hair and moved it to the side, removing the locks that had stuck to your neck because of your sweat and his saliva. "And no panties.” His hand squished your breast aggressively. “You're driving me crazy with all this lace, baby.” He took a small pause, like he was thinking. “Come on, you want my cock in your mouth? Get in position and be ready to take it." He directed you harshly. 

You put away the book, only the acknowledgements page left unread, and jumped to your feet, much to his chagrin, kneeling on the floor with the speed of a lightning. 

“God, you sure are hungry for my dick, uh?” He kept getting cockier and cockier. 

You probably should have played it cool, but you were too into it to fake aloofness. “Undo your trousers, Tae, please.”

He smirked, his eyelids lowered to look at you on the floor. He looked like a sex god, the kind of god that teaches unspeakable, sinful things. 

His hands moved slowly and deliberately, so that you had the time to spot a wet patch of fabric where his tip was located. As soon as he undid his belt, you threw your hands at his button, but he stopped you. 

“You don’t want me to block your hands, do you?” He warned you. 

You raised an eyebrow as if doubting his words. 

“I know basic knots, doll. Don’t test me.” He growled. 

You pouted and looked at the floor. 

He tutted. “Have I offended you, doll?” He questioned. 

You rocked your head in a way that meant “so and so”. 

He shook his head. “I’m so strict with you. I’m sorry, Lace.” He took a moment, thinking about how to make it up to you. “Would you be happy again if I asked you to pick a toy to play with while I use your mouth, doll?”

Your mouth opened slightly in surprise as you processed his request. You looked up at him. His zipper was undone, his cock partly out, his hand slowly, heavily petting it. 

“Is this what you wanted to see, doll?” He threw his head back, licking his lips and giving you quite the show. “Go pick your toy, nymph.”

You sucked your lips in, indecisive between staying and not losing one second of this view or going to get something to relieve yourself.

“Go quick, doll.” He ordered. 

Staying with your eyes fixed on him, you stood up and walked backwards to your room, running as soon as he got out of your sight. You quickly fished your favourite dildo from your bedside table, rushing back to the sofa. 

“Here already? You chose quickly, doll. Are you sure you chose wisely?” He questioned, his voice caving when his hand reached the tip and circled it slowly but energetically.

“Yes, Taehyung.” You said, showing him your candidate, turning it so he could analyse it. 

“It’s a very nice toy.” He commented, “It looks squishy.”

“It’s a special silicone.” You explained. “It was expensive but it feels amazing. And it’s safe, most importantly. No silly, cheap rubber.”

“Excellent, sweetie. Come kneel, doll.” He invited you and you complied obediently. “Such a good girl.” He praised you. “Look at you, all pretty, diligent, cute and wide-eyed. Who would guess that you’re the filthiest nymph ever?” He sat on the edge of the pillow, spreading his legs as far as his trousers allowed.

“May I roll them down?” You asked, leaving the toy stranding on its base on the floor while he nodded, your hands tried to push his linen trousers to his calves and ankles. 

“I want you to put the toy inside, doll.” He growled. 

You looked at him with an endearing expression. “Will you make it wet for me?”

“Want me to spit on it, doll?” He asked and you nodded neutrally. 

He started collecting some saliva in his mouth before ducking to collect the accessory and rolling his tongue out, letting the liquid spread over the thick head. 

“The base is important.” You tipped him, “it’s were I need it to be more slippery, since it’s thicker.”

“Okay, dove.” He said, his lips puckering dragging a thick coat of wetness all around the base. 

It looked very erotic. Especially with his other hand stroking his shaft

What looked even more erotic was to see him stare at you before sliding his face up, all the way to the tip, his mouth opening and swallowing two thirds of the impressive length. His hand became faster on his hard-on.

“Holy shit, Tae, I— ” Words lost sound and meaning when you saw him bob his head on the toy, closing his eyes and moaning. He played with it for a minute or so before slipping it out of his lips, offering it to your chin. 

There is a saying. No sub is truly trained unless they kiss whatever their dom puts before their lips. 

And you kissed it. 

He grinned with lust-fevered eyes. “Put it in, Lace.”

You took a second, staring at him. Your hands naturally reached the hem of your nightie and dragged it up and away.

“Fuck, doll. Look at those tits, you’re delicious, babe.” He praised you, and you beamed up at him, retrieving your toy and bringing it between your thighs, the tip already at your entrance.

“In, Lace.”

Once more you obeyed.

A moan escaped your throat and echoed from his own lips. He had moaned himself. 

“Shit, all the way in nymph. All the way.” He said, replicating your pace on his cock. 

When you bottomed out, he gripped his base, slipping his hand down to his balls and squeezing them delicately. With his eyes closed, head thrown back, he rumbled: “leave it there. Don’t move. If you can make me cum before you do, I’ll stay the night. But remember I won’t be fucking you.” He regained his controlled demeanour, staring at you, voice empathetic. “It’s up to you. I’ll still go if you want me to. Just know that there’s a way, if you want to make me stay.”

Distracting yourself from the filling sensation, you dragged yourself back to reality, making the best of the moment. As his hand gripped his base, you leaned in and licked the head with the tip of your tongue. 

His rumble sounded like an earthquake. “Do what you want to, doll. Remember our game.”

Grinning, you opened your mouth and took him in as far as he would go. 

You took maybe one third of him. 

God, he was so big, his skin glistening, his veins pulsating so fascinatingly just under the surface. 

He caressed your face and hummed. "Beautiful." 

You took two more inches, eyes watering, lungs burning, but oh so determined to take all of him. 

Backing up a little, you released some of his length to focus on the tip, twirling your tongue around it as you regained your breathing. 

When you felt ready, you sinked again, adding one inch to your previous goal. 

"Fuck, so tight, doll, you're a crime." His hips jutted forward and you opened your eyes wide, a little surprised by the motion. A single teardrop spilled, not due to discomfort but only to his shaft hitting the back of your throat. 

"You okay, doll?" He checked in on you as soon as he felt the droplet hit his thumb. His hand gently tangled in your hair and pushed you back delicately, trying to free your mouth. You whined as his tip slipped out of you with a pop, even though you had tried to suck on him to keep your hold.

"Listen carefully, _____. I need to fuck your mouth, nymph." He said, panting, trying to control himself. "Can I put my hands in your hair? Is it okay if I stroke in?" He asked, worried.

You just nodded. "I want that, Tae. Just use me." You pleaded, caressing his erection, placing small kisses on the thick underside. 

"Good. I just thought it was good to warn you. And make sure that you like that, doll." He combed your hair. "Now let's get it, sweetheart."

He showed no mercy. The moment you sucked his tip past your lips, he started pushing in with short, quick jabs. However, when he saw you getting more and more of him inside, he lost all semblance of control. 

In the meanwhile you had lost any sensation apart from those coming from your mouth, almost forgetting the toy inside you, of which you were reminded the moment he started thrusting so hard that your whole body began to roll back and forth. 

He groaned before murmuring deeply, "I'm gonna cum." At that he zoned out, going completely silent, his thrusts getting sloppy before he spilled into you with a long, raspy hum.

You welcomed his taste in your mouth, as he fussed, whimpering ‘don't swallow’. His first spurt was already down your throat but you focused on the second, the third, the last one a weak series of drops. He stayed still a few second and you admired his form: lush ringlets of hair sticking to his forehead, head tipped back as he filled his lungs hungrily before huffing out, his breathing pattern quick and heavy. His lashes fluttered and his brows knitted together every few second as he tried to get a grip on himself. He licked his lips, which had grown too dry with all the panting, his eyes finally opening and focusing on you. 

You slowly pulled him out of your mouth. 

"Lemme see." He growled. 

You knew what he meant. 

"Such a little nymph." He praised you, and you felt your inner walls flutter at that, moving the toy inside you. 

"Do you want to swallow it? Drink me?" He asked with a condescending tone. 

You nodded, trying not to spill his release from your tongue. 

"Do it." 

Eagerly, you did, the gulping sound almost too loud in the quiet room. 

"Show me." He said, just as you parted your lips to do just that, assuring him that not a drop had gone to waste. 

"Come here, doll. Keep the toy inside.” He grumbled, lowering himself to put on his boxers, coming close to you and kissing the top of your hair in the process.

Biting your lip, you stood up, quickly propping one knee on the sofa and straddling him, one hand gripping the base of the dildo. 

“Tae.” You whispered. 

He kissed your lips delicately, simply pressing his lips to yours. “Want me to do it?” He asked. 

You nodded. 

He caught your hand on your crotch and substituted it with his, the other one grabbing your ass. “Can I move?”

You nodded, “I just need hard and fast, please.”

Taehyung grinned, kissing your forehead as you lowered your head, looking at his veiny forearm starting to pump the toy inside. “Is it good like this—”

“Faster!” You exclaimed, your hand tugging at the hair of his nape. 

In response he placed his lips on your cheek, nibbling at your soft skin. He hammered the toy inside you, teasing you on how nasty, kinky and absolutely divine you were, how incredible you looked, how much he wanted you to cum, how he was going to destroy you the moment he’d get to be inside you. 

You felt on the very edge of pleasure, the sensation so disturbing since you felt like something was missing. 

“Tae?” You asked with a whiny voice. 

He slowed down, trying to let you focus on talking“What is it, doll?” He huffed gently.

“I need to touch myself.” You said with a pout. 

He nodded and bent to your mouth. “It’s okay, sweetie. I’ve got you.”

He kept his pattern slow, trying to adapt it to your fingers on your clit. He synced up so nicely that you managed to rub yourself for maybe a minute before the tip of the toy reached the perfect depth, making you come apart in Taehyung’s hold. 

“That’s lovely, doll. Lovely.” He whispered in your ear, speaking sweet nothings that you couldn’t quite register from your fucked out state. 

After a couple minutes you managed to go back to reality. “Are you okay, Tae?” You asked. 

“I should be asking that. You moaned your lungs out, doll.” He kissed your lips, bringing your wrist up from your mound to his mouth, smearing his lower lip with your wetness before licking it sinfully. 

“Kim Taehyung.” You said in warning and exasperation. 

He looked at you wide eyed, playing innocent. “I believe you earned me as your sleeping buddy tonight.” He joked. 

“Indeed.” You said, wincing a little as he extracted the dildo. 

“Are you sure it’s okay, you’re okay?” He asked. 

You simply nodded. “Let’s just head to bed. It’s four thirty. I’ve got work tomorrow morning.” You explained. 

“Can we have have breakfast or will you have to rush out?” He asked, already in tiger cub mode. 

Your body deflated in desperation over your lost sleep but you smiled gladly when you looked up at him. “I’ll be happy to wake up early and have breakfast.”

Cleaning up was a bit messy, especially finding sleeping clothes for Taehyung, still you managed to hit the bed at five am, Taehyung managing to stay in his lane for maybe five minutes before cuddling up against you and falling asleep like a toddler. 

Of course your head tried to process how you felt about the whole event, but your exhausted body and his gentle embrace cradled you to sleep. 

#bts smut #bangtan smut #kim taehyung smut #love talk #taehyung imagine #Taehyung one shot #taehyung reaction #taehyungxreader #taehyung fanfic #bts smut blog

[kpopfanfictrash]

Canvas

Author: kpopfanfictrash

Pairing: Jungkook 

Word Count: 1,470

Rating: PG-13

Summary: An accompanying drabble to The Holi-Date. This drabble takes place after the events of The Holi-Date and follows Jungkook (a side character) + attending an art class and drawing nude models. 

[ PART OF MY JUNGKOOK BIRTHDAY DRABBLE GAME ]

Adjusting the easel before him with one hand, Jungkook concentrated on the blank sheet of canvas and not on what lay beyond.

An entirely nude model spread out on the chaise.

Jungkook had decided to take this class on a whim; it had been recommended to him by Taehyung and really, he should’ve known better. Taehyung tended to have a chaotic streak masked beneath that uber-straight-faced exterior. Still, when Jungkook had mentioned wanting to try out an art class, in order to better understand the work he curated, he had never suspected Taehyung might lead him this far astray.

It wasn’t that Jungkook had a problem with nudity, per se. He was fine with it and obviously, he liked being naked with certain people, but to have a stranger so brazenly displayed like the model before him – Jungkook couldn’t help it; he blushed.

Dabbing his paintbrush in the cup of water before him, Jungkook chanced another glance at the model.

She was attractive, which he found to be part of the problem. At the start of the class, their instructor had recommended separating the model from their painting, but Jungkook found this advice to be somewhat contrary. His favorite works at the museum were those which captured the humanity of their subject; those which solidified the intangible with paint.

It was one thing to accurately display a likeness on canvas. It was another thing entirely to convey a soul, to grant another person insight through a window unseen.

Hesitant, Jungkook lifted his gaze from the canvas again.

The model’s gaze remained fixated on a point over his head and somehow, this made Jungkook relax just a little. Oddly enough, he felt like he was the one on display, not the model. The fact that she was entirely open about her nakedness wasn’t what made Jungkook embarrassed. More embarrassing was the fact that looking at her made Jungkook realize he could never do the same.

Frowning at this, Jungkook fiddled with his brush. When he glanced to either side, he saw both of his neighbors were well underway. It seemed no one else had spent the first twenty minutes of class having an existential crisis over the fact that they’d never dropped trou for a room full of people.

Forcing himself to look once more at the model, Jungkook refused to blink until his eyes watered a bit. He made himself see her – truly see her – until some of the novelty began to wear off.

There; that felt a bit better.

Teeth gritted, he bent and made his first broad stroke on canvas. The teacher had gone over different techniques at the beginning of class; how to hold their brush, how to angle their bristles to create different textures. How fast you needed to paint at some points of the painting; how slowly at others.

From what Jungkook had gathered, this wasn’t a beginner’s class. Again, he cursed Kim Taehyung in his mind. Well, Taehyung would see who got the last laugh when Jungkook banished Vante’s next exhibit to the museum’s back alley, or something.

Actually – Jungkook tilted his head. He might be onto something there.

A teaching assistant had set up their easel before him, showcasing the students how he laid out the model on canvas. Jungkook glanced at this for a moment before he finally began.

In time, his wrist gradually loosened, posture relaxing as Jungkook fell into a rhythm between brush and canvas. He grew less awkward with each glance at the model until eventually, his gaze was as bold as she’d been when she dropped her robe.

By the end of the hour, Jungkook had to shake himself free when the instructor called for them to stop.

“Paintbrushes down!” she said, clapping her hands. “I’ll see you all back here next week to continue – please place your canvases on the drying racks in the next room. You should clean up your stations according to the instructions on the board. Thank you!”

Jungkook busied himself with said instructions and by the end, he felt vaguely pleased as he untied his apron. His painting wasn’t the best in the room, but it was by no means the worst among those on the drying racks.

Assuaged by this fact, Jungkook adjusted his sweatshirt as he turned, nearly tripping when he ran into the model behind him.

“Oh!” he blurted, hair flopping forward as he straightened himself. “S-sorry!”

Noticing his stammer, the model just smiled. “It’s okay,” she laughed, ducking her head. “I kind of snuck up on you there.”

“I – well, yeah,” Jungkook said, a bit embarrassed.

He forced himself to look only at her eyes, and not on the curves he knew lay beneath her clothes. The determined way he stared must have given him away though, since she knowingly smiled and – oddly enough – did not look displeased.

Jungkook belatedly registered this.

“This was your first time in class, right?” she asked with a slight tilt of her head. “I don’t remember seeing you here before.”

“Yeah.” Jungkook managed to nod. “I’ve actually uh, never taken an art class before… I only draw in my spare time. When I have the time, that is. I’m a curator at the Art Museum? Do you know it?”

Looking vaguely amused by his question, she nodded.

Jungkook nearly face-palmed. Of course, she knew it – this woman modeled for a fucking art class. Cheeks feeling about the same temperature as the sun, Jungkook wished the earth would open and swallow him whole.

Unfortunately, the earth refused to listen and remained stubbornly solid.

“Anyways,” she said, tucking her bag close to her chest. “You’ve got a really solid attention span. Very focused. Very deep.”

The corner of her mouth quirked, as though she were laughing with him, not at him and Jungkook felt a strange sort of buzz in the back of his throat. Was she flirting with him? The answer seemed like yes, but Jungkook had left the museum so little recently, it had become hard to tell. Everything about dating felt rusty and strange.

Hell, he hadn’t even managed to work up the courage to ask out the girl he had a crush on. Admittedly, Mina had just broken up with her dickwad fiancé and was in no place to date, but Jungkook wouldn’t even know how to go about asking her out if he wanted.

Eyeing the model before him, Jungkook straightened his spine. She seemed nice, was very pretty and had actually sought him out at the end of the class. Jungkook usually wasn’t the type to casually date, but wasn’t that why he’d sought out this class in the first place? To broaden his horizons, try something new and gain different experiences.

“I didn’t think that you’d notice,” he finally said with a smile. “You were so busy staring at the wall over my head.”

“You really were absorbed in your painting, huh?” Gently, she laughed. “I was actually scolded by my boss for missing the time I was supposed to turn.”

Jungkook blinked. “Turn?”

“Mhm,” she said with a conspiratorial wink. “I’m supposed to turn around halfway through class. I didn’t, though. I wanted to keep facing you.”

Jungkook found his mouth had gone suddenly dry. “You did?”

He was aware he sounded a bit like a parrot, but he’d never been very good at the small talk thing. Give Jungkook a museum and he could talk your ear off, but every day wordplay and chitchat? No good. 

Maybe he could get better, though.

“Yeah,” she said, fiddling again with her bag. “I saw your painting of me and thought it was nice!” Bashful, she smiled. “Will you be here again next week?”

Jungkook, who had been at the start of class seriously considering not returning, felt something entirely different unfold in his chest.

“Yeah,” he said, hair falling into his gaze when he nodded. “I think that I will.”

She smiled and turned, walking out the door and Jungkook was left all alone in the room. He fixated on the podium for a moment, wondering if he’d ever feel bold enough to be a model himself.

It seemed near-impossible, but then again, Jungkook would’ve deemed this entire class to be impossible mere hours ago. He’d been stuck in the same place for so long that any sort of change seemed inconceivable. That didn’t mean it couldn’t happen, though – after all, two new things had happened to him in one day. Who was he to say what would happen tomorrow?

Feeling slightly more excited about next week’s class, Jungkook turned on his heel and he walked out the door.

© kpopfanfictrash, 2020. Do not copy or repost without permission.

#jungkook fanfic #bts fanfic #jungkook drabble #bts drabble #jungkook fluff #bts fluff

[divineluce]

Tower Rising || Solo (Sorta)

Timing: August 14th, 2021

Location: Empire Tattoo in Boston, MA

Tagging: @divineluce​ and an appearance from @beatrice-blaze​

Description: With her phoenix fire wound healed, Luce gets a new tattoo.

Luce kept her eyes closed, head bobbing slightly to the music that pulsed through her headphones. The pain of the needle had grown over the hours that she’d sat in the chair, the nerve endings of her arm firing as the sharpened point jabbed over and over and over into the skin. It was temporary though. Temporary pain for a lifetime of beauty.

But, that’s what she’d thought about her original tattoo. The beautiful peonies and wildflowers that ran from her forearm up to her shoulder, the belly scales of the intertwined snakes, their tails curled around her wrist. She had thought the image would last forever when she’d drawn it, all those years ago. She’d gotten it days after her first art exhibition. Twenty-one, two years older than Bea had been when she’d had her first main stage show. A fact her mother couldn’t help but tell everyone at the exhibition. How if they appreciated art, they should see the shows at Illusions of Grandeur, that it was more of a performance piece really, how Bea could make fire dance almost like an artist painting on blank canvas.

Luce clenched her fist of her free hand, swallowing at the memory. She’d watched, unable to do anything other than sip nervously on her wine, as people’s eyes slid over her painting and instead were drawn to her parents. Her mother, her father. Well intentioned, probably. But ruining everything. That night, she’d locked herself away in her room and drafted up her tattoo— the wide, open maw of a snake, body curled around another snake that was only too content to go along with the whims of the other. But they were only part of the design, decorations in the background. Because the flowers, the peonies and wildflowers she’d spent so long recreating on her canvas, they were the real focus of the tattoo. They were nothing more than snakes in the grass, sliding through the leaves. The intricate blooms were what mattered.

Or they used to be. Only months ago, the skin of her forearm had been ruined by phoenix fire. The images she’d so carefully crafted blurred and smeared under a mottled layer of scarred, darkened skin. The poultices Nell had given her, they’d made the healing process more bearable. Leah had offered her phoenix tears because of course she had. But Luce hadn’t wanted them. The tears would have removed the scars, would have wiped the slate clean. And she couldn’t do that. After everything she’d been through, she didn’t want to lose that. She didn’t want to forget. She couldn’t forget what had happened.

“Nearly done.” Brandon said, dipping the tip of the machine into a small cap of ink. “Just a few little details and we’re good.”

“Hell yeah.” Luce muttered. She’d driven down to Boston to have him do it—partly because he knew his shit when it came to tarot and partly because she didn’t want one of the guys at the shop to do this tattoo. They were too close to home, too close to the real reason behind it. When Brandon saw the healed scars on her arm, he’d asked and she’d given him a lie about an accident in the house. He hadn’t questioned it. And that was fine. It was better this way. Better than the concerned looks that Ulf would be giving her, asking her if she’d really let the wound heal, if she was sure if this was what she wanted to do. If she really wanted this tattoo.

And it was. She wanted it. She needed this.

 “All done. Check it out.” Brandon said, wiping away the ink and plasma with a damp paper towel.

Rising from the chair, Luce approached the mirror and stared at the fresh tattoo that wrapped around her forearm. The thick stone columns she’d drawn for the stencil stood out, highlights of white in the places where the scar tissue was too dark or too thick. The tower, with bricks laid overtop a skull of death, it climbed up her forearm. Smoke poured from the windows, her scars giving the plumes body and weight. And at the top, the watchful eye emblazoned in the crook of her elbow was wreathed overhead by what remained of her old tattoo. The blossoms of peonies and what remained of the two snakes loomed above the tower. The open-mouthed snake stared back at her in the reflection. But so too did the eye of the tower.

“What do you think?” Brandon asked as he peeled off his gloves.

Luce stared at the tattoo for a long moment, her fingers hovering over the dark black lines. “It’s perfect. Thanks. For doing this for me.”

“I’m glad to. You know I like tarot and…” He shrugged. “This seemed like it was important for you to get done.”

“Yeah. It was.” She said, glancing down at her arm. To everyone else, the tower stood upright but from her perspective, it was inverted. To the rest of the world, what had happened might seem like catastrophe, but to her? It was a mark of her growth, the transformation she’d undergone, the crisis since averted.

Walking back to the main area of the shop, Luce held out her arm, now covered in plastic wrap. “What do you think?”

Moments of calm silence were something that Bea had learnt to treasure over the last year. Much of the time she spent with Luce were those, simply quiet, enjoying that the other was there. They didn’t have to be doing the same thing, didn't have to understand what the other was doing to find peace in the company. This trip held that silence, a contemplative overtone to the time spent together. 

Most of their lives had been spent at odds with each other, unable to find a common ground to understand. Their comfort with each other was new, lines still crisp like the lines of Bea’s tattoo. She hadn’t understood tattoos until after, realized why Luce found joy in creating art in their lives and skin. There was still understanding needed, still questions that they had to find the answers to about each other, but finally they could ask them. 

She stood, looking to see if Luce loved it first before she answered, then she took in the tattoo. Her art was found in a different media, but she could still see the meaning here. Luce poured herself into her art, where words weren’t needed to express. Her eyes prickled, though tears did not form, as she saw what her sister was presenting to her. “Might be my new favorite of yours, Luce. It’s really, really beautiful. You and Brandon did some really amazing work together.” Turning on her heel suddenly, she went to her bag, pulling out a small lunch bag. “I figured you would be thirsty or hungry after that though, so I have snacks for you. Then we can go off to dinner, if you want?” 

At Bea’s words, Luce couldn’t help the sense of relief that washed over her. “Yeah. I’m really happy with how it turned out.” She’d long since given up trying to to impress her sisters-- to impress anyone, really. But, that wasn’t what this was about. Bea was here because she wanted her sister here. She wanted to share this with her. It was a new tattoo, marking a new chapter in her life.

“Thanks.” She said, taking the brown paper bag from her sister. There were some snacks, a bottle of apple juice, sugary stuff to help counteract the shock. Bea had paid attention when she’d talked about people passing out on her table during the drive down to Boston. Cracking open the bottle with her good arm, Luce took a long drink. “Dinner sounds good. There’s a pretty solid Thai place that Brandon likes around the corner.” She said with a nod before looking down at her tattoo again. The inverted tower. Upheaval. Destruction. But that didn’t mean it had to be for the worst.

“Then we can go back home. I don’t want to leave Nellie alone for too long.” Not again. She’d needed to make the trip down here, to go somewhere people wouldn’t know the meaning behind the ink that decorated her skin. But she couldn’t be apart from her sisters again, not after everything they’d been through. This tattoo was more than just a tarot card, more than just a sign of what she’d been to.

It was a monument to all that they’d been through, the storms they’d weathered and the turmoil they’d overcome. They would persist, the tower would stand. And so would the Vurals.

#p: tr #solo #p: bea vural #wickedswriting #//to explain where luce has been while ive been outta commission

[myelocin]

home is along the sky, because you are the sun

synopsis: “if i ask you the question about what you wanna ask from life and how you’ll feel if you let go, how would you answer?”

characters: hirugami sachiro, you, hanamaki takahiro

genre/warnings: fluff, domestic!au, poly(?) relationship [or friendship idk it really depends on how u], baker!makki, aspiringphilosopher!sachiro, just fluff rlly

wc: 2,400+

a/n: wow, how where do i even go from here. this is for you, @strawbericream, the person who created a safe space for me to find home in even before i started this blog (also the inspiration why i started this blog in the first place). all my love and good wishes for you & the path you take. continue to see the beautiful parts in life, teresa :)

-

Hirugami Sachiro asks you to watch the stars with him one day and the story begins like that.

“Do you even know anything about the constellations?” you ask, leaning back and watching the midnight blue unfold. From your peripheral vision, you see him shake his head. He was probably smiling at your question too. You don’t turn your head to confirm; it’s safe to say you know him well enough to be certain of that.

“I don’t,” he replies, traces of mirth swaying in the tone as he cranes his head to face you.  “I just like to watch when the world is still and pretty.”

“Poetic,” you comment, then later chuckle when he knocks his shoulder against yours. Sachiro had a habit to be soft in both his actions and words—something you adored, you decided.

“I try to be,” he admits with a sigh, hands raised in mock surrender. He sounds a little dreamy, you think; fitting for someone like him.

Despite the occasional sound of the cars zooming past your building in the streets below coupled with the constant buzzing of your phone against the plastic Tupperware next to you, the moment you stayed in silence with him felt almost dream like. The good kind, too.

Because at 23:11 in an open rooftop of the apartment complex you’ve been living in, you stare up and render yourself speechless when the milky way above you begins to dance in the sky.

Slow swirls, twinkling stars, and wisps of something you don’t know but think is beautiful anyway. It’s much like life and the world, you suppose. Just filled with moments of things that pass your eye every day, but only truly see its beauty when you clear your mind and just look.

You look at Sachiro beside you, looking like he’s within the clouds and smile.

“What do you think about when you see the world?” you ask him.

“I just try to observe and not really think,” he replies, and you nod because he says it in a tone that makes sense.

There are too many hours within the day where all that consumes your thoughts are questions of whether you’re taking two steps forward or four steps back. In a sense, Sachiro’s words hold a semblance of truth to them because sometimes what you really need to do is just look at the world as you allow it to just be.

Where you don’t question why the sun rises, sets, or moves with a pattern in the sky every day. Why the moon is the reason for the push and pull of the waves that also happened to be the representation of the desire to be “free”.

Of what makes the blood in the veins flow and represent life even if the sight of it could also mean the loss of life.

In the irony of things, your thoughts spiral after Sachiro beside you tells you to do the exact opposite of that.

So you look up.

The stars above look like splattered dots as some merely blink, while others twinkle. You can’t decide which one you prefer; they all connect to you in a way. And as you keep staring, you come to realize that the night isn’t pitch black, but rather a dull gray—because when the clouds of a deeper hue roll in sight, their colors are vibrant.

The wind says hello and you shiver in time with the ruffle of Sachiro’s hair. It looks soft, you muse. You know it’ll feel like it too.

“If I ask you the question about what you wanna ask from life and how you’ll feel if you let go, how would you answer?” he asks, turning to face you.

You look at him, taking note of the expression on his face that sort of borders the edge between teasing and genuine curiosity and sigh—pondering about his question.

Life is well, too unpredictable to ever commit your heart a hundred percent to one stationary thing and expect life to deliver it. Even though there are some things you want, at the same time, asking life to deliver the specifics would be like trying to balance on water.

And as for letting go, well, you turn your face away from him and look up into the sky again. At the clouds looking like heavy cotton on a blank canvas. You can still feel Sachiro’s stare at your profile when you exhale and sigh, “I don’t think there’s answer; just live life and let the current flow I guess.”

He smiles; Sachiro knows you got his message.

“It’s gonna rain,” you comment, breaking the silence again as the wind picks up and the blinking stars hide behind the clouds aching to weep,

Beside you, Sachiro hums.

“We’re not gonna get up are we?” you add with a laugh, realizing his intention.

He laughs, eyes meeting yours in the middle when you crane your neck and do the same. Even under the dim lights, you could still make out the hue of a soft walnut.

The color of warmth—promising. And it was fitting, because you always found that Sachiro’s words were rather nurturing.

“Why don’t we just let the world be,” is what he says as the two of you lack back down and face the sky, basking in the world and letting the current be, as the raindrops begin to fall.

-

You consider Hanamaki Takahiro as the being that’s heaven sent because two days after letting the world “be” and laying in the pavement, drenched in the rain with Sachiro, you’re at home with your head held in between your hands and a sniffle to remind you of the cold you’re braving through.

“On a scale of one to ten how much do you regret laying in the rain and pretending to be in a music video for fun?” Takahiro laughs as he plops down on the seat next to you.

Sniffling, you roll your eyes and grab the mug he held out to you.

The mug in your hands felt warm, and when you inhaled you smiled—Takahiro was quiet in many ways about his affections, always preferring to mix his comments into bouts of humor, but he was always the one to remember the little things.

You recall that you’ve only mentioned your favorite kind of tea once as a passing comment when you were at a grocery store together some years ago, but every time you’re at his apartment, you always smile when you see the familiar packet tucked into the corner of the pantry next to the mug he knows you like the best.

“What were you even talking about?” he asks again, shuffling closer to pull the blanket closer around your frame.

“He said some poetic shit again and I got carried away, so look at what happened,” you pout as Takahiro’s own expression lights up in mirth in front of you.

“Did you learn something, though?”

“I always do,” you answer him with a soft sigh, bringing the mug closer to your lips.

“So am I the dumb friend that only gives you tea while Sachiro’s the one that gives you life changing advice?” Takahiro huffs, expression one of mock offense as he leans against the seat.

Smiling, you close the gap in between the two of you as you sit next to him and drop your head on his shoulder.

“No, you’re the one that always grounds me back to earth and make me feel like the ugly world is okay,” you confess, craning your head up and pressing a kiss on his jaw.

Takahiro hums, stretches one hand over your shoulder as he brings you closer to him while his head drops on top of yours.

“Warm,” you murmur, your mug of tea set on the table but hands still warm against Takahiro’s palm.

“You’re leaving soon, aren’t you? How do you feel?” he whispers, his hand rubbing your shoulders and chest rising and falling in time with his breaths. You can still taste the lingering flavor of the tea on your lips, and the low rumble of Takahiro talking about nothings in the room vibrates your cheek pressed against his chest.

“I feel warm,” you murmur again, then smile when his other arm comes around and secures you in a solid embrace. He smells faintly like pine; and for a second you slip into the thought that it’s winter outside, and you’re under your covers while the world outside swirls with the current.

“Of course you do,” Takahiro laughs, then presses his face against the crown of your hair.

You fall in to slumber with the thought of home the only thing in your mind.

-

When you wake up, you’re in bed facing the window. You’re left feeling a little groggy for a few moments as you sit up and rub your eyes, thoughts a haze as you gradually allow reality to trickle in your senses.

The blinds are shut and the blankets pooling in your lap still feels warm. Warm like sleep.

Like the mug of tea cradled between your hands earlier.

Warm like Takahiro’s chest as the scent of pine and spring lulled you to sleep of what you could guess to be just hours ago.

It’s already 12:03 am, you realize when you open the door and take slow steps into the hallway, your slippers making light noises over the wooden floor. Blinking away the lingering remnants of sleep, you peer into the hallway, faded light trickling from the kitchen into the area where the hallway opened into the living room.

Then, when the haze in your thoughts clear, you blink and scrunch your nose when you realize the room smells faintly like strawberries. Bunching up your blanket and draping it over the back of the couch next to you, you walk towards the kitchen in curiosity.

The room around you feels warm; like the kind of warm that lingers in the room when you’ve been cooking all day.

“There she is,” you hear a voice to call as you round the corner and enter the room.  It’s Sachiro, you notice. He’s leaning against the counter to your far left as Takahiro next to him stands with a bowl of something whipped balanced in his hand. You have half the mind to ask you why they’re at your apartment instead of at home, but you suppose that because their presence is always welcome, at the moment you don’t really seem to mind.

“Morning,” Takahiro greets as he turns his head to look at you.

“It’s midnight,” you comment as you take a seat in the table on the side that faces the two of them.

“It’s also your birthday,” Sachiro laughs as he carries the rack of what you assumed to be cooling layers of cake and takes the seat opposite to yours.

You scrunch up your nose and fold your arms over one another as you lay your head and face him. He smiles, in the way that’s gentle and patient before reaching over and booping the tip of your nose.

“You forgot about it didn’t you?” Takahiro adds with a laugh as walks over and takes a seat in the side between the two of you.

“It’s still night in my book, so I’ll feel like it’s my birthday when we hit tomorrow,” you yawn, feeling your eyelids grow a little heavy. “Why are you two baking a cake?”

“Because we know your schedule’s only gonna pile up from now,” Sachiro says in a matter-of-fact­ tone.

“And because it’s your birthday,” Takahiro points out, scooping a dollop of the cream into the first half of the cake.

At the sight, you perk up and scoop a little of the excess on the side of the bowl, plopping it into your mouth. You brighten up, smiling as you recognize the taste.

“Strawberry cream?” you grin at Takahiro.

“It’s your favorite isn’t it?” he asks, despite already knowing the answer.

“Happy birthday,” Sachiro greets in a sing-songey voice, leaning his body forward and grabbing your hands in his. He stares at you, smiling eyes and all as the warmth in his voice ricochets in the quiet room.

“You excited to start this new arc?” Takahiro asks, taking a break and facing you with his head propped up by the palms of his hand.

“I am,” you reply softly.

“Issei, Tooru, and Hajime texted early saying congratulations,” he adds and you beam at the mental image of them. They always did bring you smiles, you realize.

“We’re proud of you,” Sachiro says, squeezing your hands.

You smile, thinking back to his question that night. Of what you wanted to ask of life, and you realize that instead of asking it for something you want to say thank you instead. For the good parts, good memories—lasting memories and connections you’ve made.

In reality, the current you’re on still flows without assurance towards any direction, but for now, you realize—in this room, in this moment, the waters are nothing but calm.

You hear Takahiro scoop another dollop of the strawberry cream into the second layer of the cake as you listen to Sachiro pose another question where you know would let your thoughts drift into unknown waters again.

But in the moment, because you’re home, you smile and tell life thank you.

Takahiro and Sachiro look at you as you stare at them, a dreamy look in your eye that only tells them you’re drifting somewhere good.

The two share a look and laugh softly.

It’s a little past 12:40 in the morning when the streetlight visible down the street from your apartment window flickers like it’s going to go out anytime soon, and Takahiro’s finished crumb coating the cake, that the three of you finally snap back to the present and share a smile towards each other.

Your schedule with the unmarked checkboxes lay next to your laptop at your desk while the plans for tomorrow piece themselves together at the back of your head. Wherever the current takes me, you think.

“Thank you,” Takahiro says, and beside him Sachiro’s smile mirrors his.

“For?” you laugh.

“Just cause,” Sachiro laughs and intertwines your hands with his once more.

When you smile at them, they catch themselves a little blinded.

They’ve always thought that you’ve belonged with the sun. 

-

Thank you for the stories and smiles, Teresa. Here’s our wishes to your future! May you always always tread in the beautiful parts of life. <3

#haikyuucreations #haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu scenarios #hq x reader #haikyuu imagines #nic talks #haikyuu fluff #hq #hq scenarios #hirugami sachiro #hirugami sachiro x reader #sachiro x reader #hanamaki takahiro #hanamaki takahiro x reader #makki #makki x reader #makki scenarios #hirugami sachiro scenarios #sachiro scenarios #hanamaki takahiro fluff #sachiro fluff