#art is supposed to ask the questions voices fail at

[philosophiums]

hooooo boy i haven't posted a fic here in a long time but @hinamie's itafushi art fully possessed me so please take this offering as my first ever jjk fic

--------------------

Night has set in like a bruise – a dark sky framed and mottled by light pollution, a memory of violence hidden behind a veneer of something almost pretty. There’s evidence of life in the distant city, but nothing close by. Megumi can hear a soft thrum of traffic and the occasional shout or laugh, but the immediate vicinity hosts only crickets and the restlessness of his companion.

Itadori is pacing at the bottom of the staircase Megumi is sitting on, and Megumi watches him closely out of the corner of his eye. It’s nothing new for Itadori to hype himself up before a fight, so Megumi isn’t worried, exactly, but there’s something abnormal in the fierceness of his movements, the rolling of his shoulders, the way his head tilts like he’s trying and failing to have a conversation in his head. 

He doesn’t want to mention it. Conversations with Itadori are often marred by the reality of what the finish line looks like – they can’t both make it out alive. They both know it. Itadori likes to pretend he hasn’t grasped the reality of the situation, but Megumi understands the depth of the haunting he carries around when he thinks no one is looking. Which means that when Megumi asks after him, inquires into his wellbeing, Itadori brushes it off with a smile and a laugh. And his smile is as brilliant as the sun, so of course Megumi has to look away to protect himself.

Somewhere in the nearby bushes, several of his rabbit shikigami are maintaining a perimeter around the area, allowing him to relax while still doing everything he can to stay on high alert. Shibuya shouldn’t have turned into such a mess, and maybe it wouldn’t have if more people had been suspicious to the point of paranoia. It’s too late to fix that, too late to take away Itadori’s scars, too late to take back the suicide pact he himself signed, but he can at least look ahead to whatever future awaits them. He can do his best to keep them safe. 

“Fushiguro.” 

Oh no. Nothing good ever comes from Itadori’s serious voice. 

Please. 

If I die, you’ll kill me, right?

He blinks and finds himself looking at a stationary Itadori, hands in his pockets and eyes on the building behind Megumi. “What is it?”

“Are there really curses in there? I thought they couldn’t step foot in a church.” Itadori looks genuine when he asks, and it wouldn’t be the first foolish question out of his mouth, but the tone he used to call Megumi’s name just… doesn’t match with the question. Seriousness followed by off-handed curiosity isn’t exactly Itadori’s style. This isn’t what he had wanted to say, but something made him pivot into an unplanned conversation. 

Maybe Megumi has been paying too close attention to him. Maybe Megumi should know better. It’s all doomed anyway – a heat death guaranteed to happen. There’s no point in devoting so much time trying to learn someone’s intricacies when they’re inevitably going to leave, by force or otherwise. He should save himself the heartache. He should have learned his lesson the first time Itadori died.

His arms shake with the phantom weight of Itadori’s body in his arms, limp and lifeless and bloody with that stupid soft smile still on his face even in death with a hole in his chest. His parting words still circle in Megumi’s head sometimes.

Part of him wishes that Itadori had cursed him in the end. Maybe it would have been easier.

“You’re thinking of vampires,” Megumi says. “Or demons. Curses can go anywhere.”

Itadori makes a sound like he’s not really sure he believes Megumi, which is insane because Megumi is not the one who watches movies with vampires and demons in them. At least, he hadn’t before Itadori walked into his life and demanded movie nights at the school and midnight viewings at the theater.

“A church, though?” Itadori continues, insisting. “Aren’t these supposed to be, like, full of positive energy?” He tilts his head up and to the side, and the closest streetlight reflects across his face, highlighting his jaw, catching in his eyes until they glow damn near gold.

Megumi has to look away. His chest hurts if he stares too long at everything he can’t have.

“Just because something is comforting doesn’t mean it can’t be a curse.” As soon as the words leave Megumi’s mouth, he knows he shouldn’t have said them. Even in his peripheral, almost entirely out of his view, he can see Itadori look at him with his expression opening into surprise or something worse.

Fuck. He really can’t allow himself to be so obvious, especially when they’re hours away from stepping through the barrier around the first Tokyo colony and into the Culling Game. They’re about to put their lives on the line again. Now isn’t the time to lose his composure.

Before he can catch himself, his hand is in his pocket, digging out the pack he keeps for what he considers emergencies. There’s a cigarette between his fingers in a matter of seconds, and his lighter is in his other hand a moment later.

Itadori swipes it before he can light up, and Megumi is left with wide eyes and a cigarette dangling limply between his lips as he looks up at the boy suddenly standing over him. He forgets, sometimes, just how fast Itadori is. 

“Since when do you smoke?” Itadori asks, all childish curiosity, not an ounce of judgement in his tone. And yet, the stolen lighter feels like judgement – a withholding of something, well… harmful, sure, but it’s not like Megumi isn’t aware that every inhale of nicotine is an inch closer to his death. What does losing a minute or an hour or a day matter when he’s probably not going to reach the age of thirty, anyway?

“Since middle school,” Megumi replies, reaching out to attempt to quickly reclaim his lighter, but all Itadori has to do is lean his torso to the side and it’s out of reach. “Can I have that back, please?” 

“Why?” Itadori hasn’t had such a soft look on his face since they dragged themselves kicking and screaming out of the warzone Shibuya turned into.

“Because there’s a cigarette in my mouth and it would be a waste not to smoke it.”

Itadori makes a face, a petulant little pout just this side of sticking his tongue out. It’s cute, and Megumi has to close his eyes for a moment. “I meant why did you start smoking in middle school?”

The sigh that leaves Megumi’s lungs is heavier than he wants it to be. He’s not… good with emotions, and he’s even worse at expressing them. It wasn’t a problem when he was all alone, with the second-years distant due to their classes, and Gojo either a nuisance better avoided or thousands of kilometers away taking care of a curse too powerful for anyone else to handle. But then Itadori, fresh off the loss of his grandfather, sacrificed himself for not only his friends but for Megumi as well. And he has refused to leave, no matter how hard Megumi tried at first to put up his barriers and protect himself.

Because the truth is that Megumi was helpless from the moment Itadori jumped through a window and crash landed on a curse. He is the very definition of someone with an unshakeable character. The fact that they’re here, now, on the backside of a slaughter, newly scarred and traumatized, and Itadori can still smile at him in a way that softens his eyes proves beyond any doubt that he is who he is and that won’t change. And it guts Megumi from the inside out because everyone who has ever touched his life has become poisoned by him.

He takes the cigarette out of his mouth and holds it between his knuckles. “I don’t know. I wanted…” This time when he sighs, it’s softer, and he moves his gaze away out of embarrassment more than anything else. Itadori and Kugisaki already made fun of him for how he acted in middle school, and he doesn’t want to go through it again. “I wanted people to be afraid of me – teachers, students, upperclassmen, underclassmen, it didn’t matter. I wanted to look and be as aggressive as possible so they didn’t mess with me or Tsumiki.”

Itadori snorts, and less than a second later he’s laughing with his head tilted back and his eyes closed. For the moment, he’s unguarded, and Megumi uses the opportunity to stare. In the low amber light, he looks impossibly young, soft around the edges where his scars and personal losses have hardened him. The pink of his hair dims into the gentlest of dawns, and the happy tears that pearl in the corners of his eyes are more stunning than the thin veil of starlight overhead. In a world overflowing with curses, Megumi has never believed in angels, and yet it’s the only word he can conjure that comes even close to describing the boy in front of him. 

Megumi knows he’s in love; how could he not be?

“That’s just like you,” Itadori says, breathless, and Megumi suddenly feels like he’s falling even though Itadori is the one suddenly dropping to sit on the stairs beside him.

Itadori is a morning person, even though he’s slow to wake up. He won’t drink coffee unless it’s iced. He never tucks in his shirt tags. When he’s upset, he throws himself into social situations to hide behind other people’s laughter. He carries snacks in his pockets and will offer them to everyone. These are all details that Megumi has collected about Itadori, stashing them away like a crow with shiny objects, hoarding them as the treasures that they are and that he can never truly have.

He had never once considered that Itadori has been observing him just as studiously in return.

Their knees bump, and Megumi knows he should pull away, but he can’t bring himself to. The night isn’t cold, but Itadori’s warmth is a comfort, anyway. Megumi hasn’t had many comforts in his life.

“Give me my lighter back,” he says instead of acknowledging anything else. His chest hurts. His heart is too loud in his ears. Itadori is right there, lips twisted by his scar, eyes flashing with the humor that’s still rolling through him, shaking his shoulders as he looks back at Megumi.

Instead of answering or acquiescing, Itadori leans forward until their shoulders press together, blocking out the ghost of a breeze flowing in from behind them, and rolls his thumb over the spark wheel until a flame catches. His hand and Megumi’s both come up at the same time to cup around the other side, protecting the small flame from the elements, and it’s tender and intimate when Megumi’s fingers brush against the curve of Itadori’s palm.

He pretends not to notice as he puts the cigarette back between his lips and ducks his head. The first drag to catch the paper and tobacco on fire takes a while, and he is so incredibly aware of how close Itadori is, of the protective shell they’ve made with their bodies as they keep this flame going between them. He can’t think about it, can’t acknowledge it, can’t –

As soon as he sees embers, he sits up and leans away, creating a small pocket of space for him to exhale into. But the flame stays lit, Itadori’s thumb still pressed into the fork to keep the gas flowing out. 

Megumi smacks his arm without looking at him directly. “You’re wasting the butane.”

Without protest this time, Itadori listens, and the flame dies with a soft click as the fork snaps back into place.

The stillness of the night around them settles again, crickets becoming the dominating sound over the gentle rattling of leaves and the far distant honking of a car horn. The tobacco sizzles as the fire slowly eats through it every time Megumi takes a drag.

Itadori’s unwavering gaze on him feels like a physical weight. There’s a tender smile there, Megumi just knows it, but god damn it he won’t look. This can’t be a this. There’s nothing here but a road that dead ends on a bottomless cliff. No one has forever, despite claiming that they will, but he and Itadori don’t even have years. They could die tomorrow, the moment they step through that barrier. Fuck, the curses in the church behind them could come out and catch them off guard right now, and no one would know where to look for their bodies.

So it doesn’t matter that Itadori sometimes looks at Megumi like he hung the moon. It doesn’t matter that Megumi understands the plight of Icarus when he sees Itadori smile. He is not going to create a situation that is doomed to end early. He is not going to push his feelings into the world just for the universe to stomp them into the dirt. He is not going to let himself muddy the lines on a friendship that is already too good to be true.

He takes a drag in that’s harsher and longer than the last, fast enough that his lips burn from the fire racing too fast through the cigarette towards the filter. He lets it hurt, tells himself he deserves it, and exhales the smoke slowly with his eyes closed.

For a moment, he just sits there, his arm draped across his knee, which is still pressed into Itadori’s knee, and tries to pretend that everything is fine. It’s normal. It’s just a crush. It’ll go away. He would rather die with longing in his heart than risk living long enough to experience a loss that will crush him.

When he brings his hand back up to take another drag, fingers on his wrist stop him in his tracks.

“Fushiguro.”

“Itadori?” He turns his head and opens his eyes in the same movement, wondering if there’s a problem, if all the actions he took to be obsessively vigilant were for naught, if somehow something got the drop on them. “What –”

The press of Itadori’s lips against his own shuts him up fast and leaves his mind spinning and his lungs devoid of air.

What?

Why…?

Itadori makes a noise at the back of his throat – soft, questioning, encouraging – and Megumi forgets every reason he has ever had on why this is a bad idea.

He kisses back.

It’s not a desperate kiss. There isn’t a sudden light switch that flips on and turns them into feral horny teenagers crawling all over each other, desperate to touch in as many places as possible as fast as they can. Three points of contact is all they started with and all they still have. Their knees, digging into each other in a way that almost hurts, but the warmth is so strong that it doesn’t matter. Itadori’s fingertips oh, so gently resting against Megumi’s wrist, not even touching skin. And the tentative slide of their lips as Megumi tilts his head and Itadori seems to crack a smile.

Itadori’s lips are chapped, and Megumi can feel the texture of scar tissue as they blindly search for an angle that feels better than the others. It probably wasn’t meant to be a long kiss when Itadori first leaned in, but Megumi can’t bring himself to pull away even though there’s absolutely nothing physically holding him here. The instinct to jerk back with his hackles up is there, just under his skin, but every exhale of Itadori’s sounds like a blissed-out sigh as it shivers across Megumi’s cheeks, and he finds himself more and more willing to just have this.

Itadori is the one to break the kiss, but he doesn’t go far, resting his forehead against Megumi’s and just breathing into his space. Megumi feels like he just ran five kilometers; it’s impossible to suck enough oxygen into his lungs to stop feeling lightheaded. His cigarette is still between his fingers, slowly burning itself down to the filter, but Megumi has completely forgotten about it. 

“What was that for?” Megumi whispers, eyes flicking back and forth looking for clues in the depths of Itadori’s eyes. It’s an accusation, yes. They could have kept pretending. The pain at the end of this is going to be unimaginable. But it’s also a desperate plea. 

Don’t pretend it didn’t happen. Don’t apologize. Don’t say you didn’t mean to.

“I don’t know,” Itadori admits, and that crooked smile is back, perching on his mouth in a way that tempts Megumi to kiss it away. “Good luck? Felt like the right time.”

Megumi drops the cigarette by his foot and moves his hand to Itadori’s face, cupping his cheek and the curve of his jaw. He can feel himself shaking with adrenaline and the fear of an unknown dark path laid out in front of them. “You’re an idiot,” he says, but even he can hear the fondness in his voice. 

“Mhm, yeah, you’ve said that before.” Itadori’s hand covers Megumi’s, and the shaking subsides. “But you kissed me back, so what does that make you? Reckless?”

“Insane,” Megumi offers, just to hear Itadori laugh. He isn’t expecting the second kiss that follows, but he’s glad for it, anyway.

It’s funny, he thinks, even as he pushes a little closer and sighs into the shape of Itadori’s mouth, that regardless of the church behind him, regardless of the temples he has walked through time and again, regardless of the habits he hasn’t broken of prayers during the new year in exchange for fortune slips that hold no merit to him – despite religion flowing in and around his life, there is no higher power in the universe he believes in as much as he believes in Itadori. 

If anyone can defy fate, if anyone can push through to the other side of certain tragedy, it will be Itadori. 

Start by saving me, he had said, and this isn’t exactly what Megumi had meant. But his chest is warmer than if he had tipped back some sake, and he certainly feels like he could face down a special grade curse and win right now.

They’re not going to have forever. They may not even have twenty-four hours.

But they have tonight. They have right now.

“You better not die tomorrow,” Megumi warns, just barely breaking away enough to speak.

Dying alone is all but a guarantee for jujutsu sorcerers. One day, one of them is going to leave the other behind, and it’s going to rip the survivor to pieces and scar like a phantom limb. Even without a confession, their feelings have splattered like a hemorrhaging wound onto the staircase between them. No amount of backtracking, of lying, of pushing each other away could mop it up now – they’ve left a stain, and their hands are doomed to always have each other’s blood caked under their fingernails.  

“Would be a shitty good luck kiss if I did,” Itadori says before leaning back with a smile as broad as the sky.

Megumi pushes him away with the hand on his cheek, and Itadori’s laugh overtakes the crickets and the wind and the far-off traffic as he pulls himself back into Megumi’s orbit with their fingers tangled together.

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #itafushi #jjk fic #itafushi fic #this is going up on AO3 as well probably as soon as i think of a title for it #3.2k of pining and longing and denial and - finally - acceptance #I DON'T KNOW WHAT I'M DOING ANYMORE AAAAAAA #just take it i cannot keep staring at it #my fic

[oneangstymotherfucker]

Tw for vague csa/abuse mention

Sometimes, yeah, I "get off to" the fics I write. And I definately like hearing that other people enjoy them, because I think everyone deserves things they enjoy and it truly makes me happy to provide a little of that for others.

But the reason I write what I write is so my brain has a place to spin out scenarios to try to make it okay. And by that I don't mean the things that happened to me. By that I mean the fact that I exist as someone who those things happened to. The fact that I live every day with the rammifications of one man's evil decision, wrapping themselves up and weaving themselves into every aspect of my life. And when I write I come at it from all angles- including sexual because I was a prematurely-sexually-awakened kid and that can make a person's relationship with sex a little confusing to say the least- to try to figure out how to live with it.

Fic writers don't write to normalize abuse. We write to normalize suvival. And survival isn't always pure and pretty and fluffy. I was not healed by a wholesome loving relationship, I was not healed by friendship or forgiveness or by trying to banish all darkness from my life and mind. I am healing myself by looking it in the eye. By getting elbows-deep in the darkness, letting it coat my skin again now that I am grown and safe. By forgiving myself for the tracks it left in my mind and body, accepting that it is part of my story and trusting myself to keep me safe.

That's what I'm trying to normalize. That it's good you survived, and it's okay to be "messed up by it". You are normal, and your existence isn't bad or tainted or dirty or wrong. You are good and innocent. You deserve to be here and you deserve a full, satisfying life with all the things you enjoy in it.

#proship #pro fiction #abuse cw #tw csa mention #ship and let ship #dark fic #sexuality #healing #dark ships #art exists for a purpose #it is not supposed to be sterile #if it is sterile it is not art #art is supposed to ask the questions voices fail at #say the things words fall short of #write what you need to #draw what you need to #create without boundaries and do not be afraid #shipping discourse

[luveline]

𝐚 𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 | 𝐚𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐞𝐫

You're not sure you're ready to come back. Hotch has total faith in you. Or, your transition back into the team after your abduction doesn't go as smoothly as you'd hoped. 

6k words, fem!reader, bau!reader, some mutual pining, reader is suffering from effects of ptsd, allusions to kidnapping + torture, hurt/comfort, hotch has a soft spot for you (as do most of the team)

༺༻

Reid was abducted, once. 

You can remember the anxiety of it like a hand around your throat. It feels cruel to say that his abduction and torture had effected you more than if it had been a stranger, but you meet so many people, so many victims of cruelty, that the fear starts to blunt. 

Though it doesn't blur. You find it impossible to forget the people that you've failed, and failing a team mate? That had been excruciating. 

Only when you'd been taken yourself had you realised it wasn't a failure at all. 

You wish the others would understand that. 

"Are you feeling okay?" Prentiss asks as you sit down. 

You suppose you had gone down a bit hard. "Mm?" you hum in question, pulling a copy of the initial case file toward you. 

"You looked a little wobbly." 

"Long night?" Morgan asks.

There's both sympathy and mirth in his voice. If you did have a long night, it wouldn’t be from anything fun. He knows that. Everybody knows that. That's why they're treating you like glass. 

"I actually slept really well," you say softly, returning his smile with one that's entirely genuine. 

"That's good, considering," he says, bracing his forearm against the conference table. 

He's been your number one supporter since you came back. Probably because he feels very guilty about what happened. You'd been paired up at the time. 

"Actually, it's common for people who've been abducted to sleep incredibly well for a long period afterward. It's similar to the leisure sickness phenomena- Your body would have been in defence mode, and-" 

"Reid," Hotch says firmly, stepping into the room with his usual lowbrow. 

"Sorry." 

And the spiel begins. JJ lays out the details of the case she's triaged and the team gives their first input. The barest beginnings of a working theory. You try to contribute and find your tongue a leaden weight in your mouth. Ever since you got back, you've been useless. 

You can't do your job, but thank god you can sleep at night, right? 

You miss the start of his sentence, your focus latching onto Hotch's conclusive, "Wheels up in thirty." 

Your team are standing in seconds, trained in the art of quick departures. You used to be good at this part. You're a good agent, even when you're a mediocre profiler. 

"L/N?" 

You blink. "Mm?" you hum, meeting your unit chief's concerned look with a perfected blasé. 

You've come to a stand in front of the table, and everyone else has left. It's you and Hotch alone. 

"If you're not ready to go back into the field, that's okay." 

If you were Reid, or Prentiss, or especially Morgan, you'd get defensive here, and you would lie well, but you’re a bad liar and Hotch is a great detector for them, so you tell the truth. 

"I'm not sure that I'm ready, but I'd like to go. I won't be a burden. I can work effectively." 

"I know you won't be a burden." 

You tilt your head to one side and feel your hair shift over your thick sweater. You haven't felt like showing much skin, lately. Everybody has noticed, because they notice everything, and nobody has made you feel bad about it. In fact, your fellow agents have made numerous comments about the chilly weather. It's July. 

Hotch's eyes fall to your long sleeves for a split-second. 

"Do you think he's alive?" you ask.

"Sorry?" 

You nod your head toward the board, where the portrait of your kidnapping victim hangs in full colour. "Do you think he's alive?" 

"Unless there's evidence that would suggest otherwise, we shouldn't assume. You know that." 

"I know that that's the answer you're used to giving." 

His voice goes too soft, like he's talking to somebody in grief. "I think he is." 

You honestly can't stand it when he talks to you like this. You tilt your head a little further and see him the way he'd been that morning, his tenderness, his fear. He'd opened the door and suddenly you'd known you were safe. 

He hasn't looked at you right since he found you.

"I have all my best clothes in my go-bag," you offer. 

"Well, go get it. This might be a long one." 

—

The jet is a really nice jet. 

It's hard not to feel impressed by it. It's a vehicle that can take you from one crime scene to another, and it's a necessary expense, but it feels lavish. The clean smells, the comfort, the kitchenette. It has a full-sized toilet. 

"Missed this?" Morgan asks knowingly. 

You wheedle your way into one of the four seats surrounding the main table and smile when he drops down next to you. "Missed using you as my personal pillow, maybe," you tease. 

"Table hogs," Prentiss complains, sitting on the armrest of the couch in defeat. 

You laugh under your breath. Morgan pulls out his laptop and turns the screen so everyone can see Garcia, and as soon as the jet's taken off the second round of speculation begins. 

You regret sitting where you had quickly. You can feel Hotch's analysing gaze where he sits opposite. He doesn't believe you're ready to come back. 

You lick your lips.

"Why would she cut him open just to kill him straight afterward?" JJ asks. "I mean, if she didn't assault him?" 

"It's unlikely that she's a sadist," Reid infers. 

"Disembowelment is a pretty painful, horrific way to die. Maybe she realised that and killed him," Morgan suggests. 

"Remorse?" you murmur. "Could mean she's… younger. And revenge killers don't always see it through." 

"Why take another one if you can't commit to the first?" Prentiss asks. 

"Maybe that's why she took him. She wants time to work herself up," you mutter. 

You hide your hands under the table. It's hard to ignore the similarities with the current case and the one you're investigating. The unsub who'd taken you had been narcissistic and self-righteous, punishing the BAU for stopping her second murder — you'd predicted her next victim and moved him before she could take him. 

So her victimology had changed, and she'd stolen you. 

She couldn't commit to her first session of torture: hesitant cuts, loose ligatures. By your turn she'd improved, but her tentative resolve had remained and she'd run after three days. It's the worst thing she could've done, buying herself less than a week on the run and leaving you with no outside communication. 

You'd almost died of dehydration. 

"She's choosing from a specific group," Reid says. He holds up a photograph of the first victim. He'd been murdered in his bedroom, and the walls are plastered in playboy. Kill all men has been written across his forehead in red lipstick. "Our abductee, he was wearing a t-shirt featuring popular bikini model Miss Olympia. In a state of undress." 

“Is that specific?” Prentiss asks wryly.

"She's angry," you say. 

Hotch leans forward and clicks Garcia's call button. "Garcia?"  

"Sir." 

"Are there any prolific feminist groups in the area? Radicals?" 

They fall into conversation, a pulling and pushing of information. Something about online forums, flame wars, political arguments. 

It's not the strongest theory in the world but they can make it work. You should be making it work with them. 

The flight is an early morning longhaul to Idaho and you work the case the entire time you're in the air. There's an abundance of coffee that you reject because you're worried it'll rehash your on-again off-again migraine, and while your teammates are offering theories, intertwining details with bright eyes and bushy tails, you struggle to keep up. 

There's a lull before landing where everybody parts ways. JJ moves to sit with Prentiss where they talk in hushed but conspicuous giggles. You hear the words Will and dishes and back rub and decide to stop listening for your own sake. 

Morgan laughs, having heard what you just heard and liking it a far deal more, and stands. "Coffee?" he asks as you yawn.

You shake your head sluggishly. "Be quick, we'll be landing soon." 

"I know, sweetheart, I heard the same announcement as you." He takes your empty water glass with a supportive squint. "Let me get you another." 

"Thanks." 

You'd regretted your seat as soon as you'd taken it, the feeling of being boxed in having grown and grown over the course of the journey, and Morgan’s brief departure gives you some much needed space.

You squeeze your hands together until your knuckles ache. 

"L/N?" 

Hotch is looking at you. You know exactly what he sees. Someone who isn't ready to be back in the field. Someone who isn't being effective, as you'd promised. 

"You okay?" 

"Just warm,” you lie, pushing your hair away from your neck. 

You're a bad liar. He gets up to turn on the air conditioning anyway. 

You slouch down in your chair and pretend to nap for the rest of the flight. 

—

Crime scenes where people died smell bad. It's a fact. They smell like pee, the sharp stick of ammonia, and the metallic aftertaste of blood. You're trying hard not to fall into your own memories of the two. 

You need to move past what happened. The only way you're gonna be able to do that is to re-desensitise yourself, and that includes volunteering for the nasty stuff when Hotch tries to relegate you to questioning witnesses. 

"I'm not good at interviews," you'd said plainly. 

And he'd taken it for what it was and let you do what you usually do: you look for clues. If anybody could hear you think that you'd be ridiculed, but they can't. You enjoy yourself. 

Let's Scooby Doo this bitch. 

"Careful," Hotch says, holding a hand near your hip. You'd almost stepped into the largest puddle of blood still wet in the very middle. 

Right. He'd let you take the gross job but now you're being babysat. 

What did she do in this room? Why did she kill him here but abduct the second man? 

"If it weren't for the photos, I'd never link this victimology," you confess. 

The photos. The unsub had sent pictures of her abductee with Kill all men written across his forehead. In lipstick. 

What changed the MO? Why kill the first at home and steal the second? 

The political theory feels more plausible. 

"I think you would've." Hotch casts his gaze over the desk. "This is a messy one. Opportunistic but personal. Our unsub, she…" His voice turns to a mutter, as it tends to do when he hits a roadblock. "She wants attention, because the first murder didn't do what she'd hoped." 

"What is she hoping for?" 

He picks up a piece of coloured paper and holds it up to his chest so you can see it. It's a flyer for speed dating at a Café Martini, every Friday at 6PM. 

"Where was Paul last seen?" you ask. 

"Good question." 

He takes his phone from his pocket to call Garcia. 

You listen to their conversation for a while, his serious questions and her flirtatious answers. 

You look back to the floor and push the white toe of your tennis shoe into the rug until the rubber's red with blood. It's not good practice. You're now a walking biohazard. Why is the blood still wet? It should've sunk into the carpeting hours ago. How much did he bleed? 

When you'd been abducted your unsub hadn't been keen on torture. She'd made small, quick cuts over your upper arms, more to punish you than because she truly enjoyed it, and she'd hit something important by accident. 

The blood had pooled in the crook of your elbow. It had stayed wet for a long time. You remember trying to clean yourself up with your t-shirt, too drugged up to move right, and eventually the drugs had worn off and it had really, really hurt. 

This boy had been cut from hip to hip. 

"Maybe you should go sit in the car," Hotch says. 

"Why?" 

"I've been talking to you."

"I've been listening." 

"Don't lie." Hotch takes a step forward, black shoe close to your white. "Look at me." 

You look up, eyebrows raised as you try to blink yourself awake. His eye contact is something you've always struggled to hold, knowing he's learning a lot more from your expression than you are from his. You press the backs of your hands to your cheeks and find them hot with embarrassment. 

"I'm really sorry," you apologise, eyes aching. Not burning, just aching. Like a bruise. 

Hotch nods, expression impassive. "It's okay. Go sit in the car." 

He outranks you as an SSA, he's your boss for every intent and purpose. He's your friend, sometimes, and you've yet to see him make a bad call. You listen and go back out and down to the car. You've already broken your promise not to be a burden. 

Best to play along and play well. You don't want a desk job. You don't want to lose the team. 

In the car, things feel better. It smells like new and you take some time to breathe it in with slow, deep breaths. The pine tree air freshener hanging from the rear view mirror is still soft and wet to touch. You rub it between two fingers, pensive, until Hotch appears from the house. He looks severe and solemn as usual when he opens the car door and climbs inside. 

"Tell me if you can't do this," he says. He never beats around the bush. You wish that he would. 

"I don't know." 

"I need a yes or no." 

You're screaming at yourself to say yes. Hotch stalls with his hand poised at the ignition, waiting for your answer before he turns the key. If you say no, I can't do this, he'll take you back to the room. You know he won't hold it against you because he'd tried to persuade you to take more time off, as much as you needed. 

Being alone reminds you too much of your abduction. You hate how you can't stop thinking about it. At work, at home. What if this is it? This is the only thing you're going to think of for the rest of your life. 

Unless you can get some new memories. 

"I can do this." 

"I know that. Do you know that?" he asks firmly. 

You lean your head back against the headrest and turn your face to look at him fully. You hadn't been expecting any praise, any softness. You're fucking up on a time-sensitive case — he should be reprimanding you. He should send you packing to Virginia. 

"I'm sorry," you say softly.

"For what?" he asks. His eyebrows pinch up at the starts, his lips curve into a frown. 

It's startling to see so much emotion on his face on the job; Aaron Hotchner has a switch. He comes to work and he turns off everything that doesn't help the case. Only on rare occasions do you get to see him as a friend — his laughter over group dinner dates, his gentle smiles when he'd kept you company in the hospital. 

"For being- For being disorganised," you explain choppily. It is not the right word. 

He turns the key and reverses out of the parking space before speaking. "You are an asset to this team. If you can't be an asset right now, that's fine. If you need to go home-" 

"I don't need to go home." 

He doesn't seem offended at being interrupted. "Your wellbeing is more important than your effectiveness as a profiler. But you can't get in the way." 

"I won't." 

"I know you won't. Just…" He pulls his phone out of his pocket, dials a number. He's not looking at you when he finishes, "Calm down. Stay present. We need you with us." 

You turn your face to the window so he can't see your smile. He hasn't been this nice to you since your birthday. 

—

The thirty six hour mark comes to pass quickly and you find yourselves no closer to a positive ID on the unsub or their location. Any leads you follow dry up, witnesses won't cooperate, nobody has slept properly (besides yourself), and the boy's parents are hysterical. Hysterical and an irritant. 

You can hear them arguing with Hotch and the police chief in the other room. 

"You look amazing," JJ says tiredly. You can't tell if her annoyance is genuine or not. 

"Did you sleep?" you ask. 

JJ looks amazing herself despite what she might say, all perfect skin and lovely blonde hair like a moving sheet of silver-gold. You revere her pretty thin sweater with poorly hidden envy as she yawns and stretches against her straight-backed chair. 

"I slept. Bed was about as comfy as this chair," she says ruefully. 

"Ninety percent of all abduction victims are killed within the first thirty-six hours," Hotch says as he enters the room, in what Morgan would call his drill sergeant's drawl. "Every hour past that point, the percentage increases." 

Everybody in the room knows that statistic. His passive aggressive reminder serves to electrify a dozing Reid and a slumped Prentiss, both of which sit up in their chairs and pretend to be busier than they are as he makes his way into the room.

"Actually," Reid whispers to you, voice rough with fatigue, "the math isn't that simple." 

"Do you want to explain it to me?" you whisper back. 

You can't admit to really truly listening to Reid's explanation. You want him to feel heard even when you don't have the capacity for it, so you nod and hum as he explains, heads bent together as the rest of the team trade new theories. He talks surprisingly quickly for all his fatigue, and before you've realised it he's talking about something new. 

"Reid," you intrerupt gently, "can I ask you a question?" 

"Go ahead." 

You look up. Everyone seems too busy to be listening to you. You take what semblance of privacy you can and push your chair an inch closer. 

"Do you think I've been an efficient agent these last two days?" 

He juts his head forward. "You've been distracted. Tired, unfocused. But your insight on the unsub's age and what you said about her propensity for regret are both incomparable parts of the profile." 

"But easily something someone else would've suggested?" 

"Not necessarily." He smiles at you, a mirthful quirk. "Psychologically, the effect that working a case so close to your own trauma," — you bite your tongue in surprise — "would render the average person prone with memory. It also gives you a thought pattern that not everybody else would have." 

"You have it." 

"Let's focus on the behaviour pattern," Hotch says. 

You'd agreed to run point today. Or rather, Hotch had said, "L/N, you'll run point," and you hadn't argued. After all, yesterday had been telling on how much you can handle. Crime scenes are a no go. 

Not that there's any crime scene left to analyse. Your team have spent hours and hours trying to draw blood from stone. The case hadn't felt so impossible on the jet, and now… 

"I'm benched," you murmur. 

"You're not benched," Morgan says, which is irksome because you'd been talking to Reid. "If you were benched you'd be back in Virginia typing up my paperwork." 

"She doesn't care about the crime scene, she doesn't care about the crime itself. There's nothing in it for her besides making a statement. So why take a hostage with no ransom, no instruction? Why tell us you have a hostage and cut communication?" 

You rub your eyes at Reid's questions and find you have no theories to offer. You have nothing. 

"Work the problem," you mumble to yourself. "Work the problem. Where would she go?" 

She cut that boy from hip to hip. She killed him quickly after rather than leave him in pain, but she disembowelled him for the statement it would make. For the… mess? 

You feel off-kilter enough to stand. You weave through people and hesitate in front of Hotch where he's reading over the timeline, waiting for his face to turn before you talk. 

"Hotch," you say tentatively, "what if she's like… an arsonist? Disemboweling is messy. The blood was still wet when we got here two days later, and it ruined the floor." 

He thinks for a second. "Her escalation from a private mess to a public one would make sense."

"We thought the pathway from murder to taking a hostage was a step backwards, but what if it's not about the murder at all, it's about the blood?"

"It's common for arsonists to suffer paternal violence," Reid chimes in. "Could explain the unsub targeting men with outward misogynistic attitudes." 

You turn to find the whole team looking at you, a familiar drive on each of their faces. 

They rebuild the profile. Reid fiddles with what you've said, they specify, they redirect. 

Your moment of clarity dissolves quickly but you try to help as they move on to possible locations. If the unsub wants to make a scene, light a metaphorical fire, there are plenty of places she can do it this weekend. 

Surprise surprise, Garcia confirms a 'men's rights' rally happening in around two hours, and suddenly everybody's in motion. Hotch lists instructions and the team disperses. You've done it all a hundred times before, Hotch quadruple that, Rossi octuple.

"L/N," Hotch says. 

You lift your face to his. 

He's really quite close. 

"Do you want to stay here?"

You take note of his wording. Do you want to stay here? 

His phone is already in his hand. You don't wanna waste anymore of his time. You're pretty useless during movements anyways. 

"Is that okay?" you ask. 

He doesn't say yes or no, his head doesn't give the slightest nod or shake. His eyebrows remain in their usual pushed down position. "Expand the profile. Make sure we haven't missed anything." In case the unsub isn't where you think. 

And then he leaves. 

You take your seat at a now hastily vacated table and spend an hour on the laptop with Garcia. She's mostly at the beck and call of the rest of the team, but it's nice to listen to her clicking away. 

She hangs up when the team are about to storm the rally venue and things get difficult. 

You'd passed all your psych evaluations to return. You can be an effective agent. You can work. 

You know all of this. 

It won't stick. 

You don't have a clue how long you spend staring at the table when your phone starts to ring. "Morgan?" you ask, pressing the screen to your cheek. 

"Hey, sweetheart, we got her. And Paul, safe and sound. You ready to go home?" 

"Uh," you say, trying to understand what he's said. "I'm not sure." Your migraine is coming back. 

When a person gets dehydrated your head starts to pound. It's like a heartbeat, a pulsing ache at the base of your skull and your temples. 

You know that it's all in your head, but ever since you got back you've been victim to what feels like a hundred headaches. 

Your head hurts, and you look at the floor and suddenly the floor isn't the dull blue carpeting of the police station, but the plywood of your unsub's warehouse. 

"Are you there?" 

"Morgan, I don't feel well," you say. Your mouth is full of cotton. 

"What?" 

You cast your gaze around the room. 

You leave your phone on the table, unsure if you've hung up, and make your way out of the conference room they've delegated to the BAU. You're in two minds. You know where you are, and who you are, but you feel like you're back there. The walls look like the police station walls but the floor looks like the base plywood of the warehouse. 

I'm just thirsty, you think. When you'd been kidnapped you'd become dehydrated somewhere between the fourth and fifth day, and that had come with some minor auditory and visual hallucinations. Dark spots in your peripherals shaped mildly like people, murmurings that could've been the cicadas. Right now, there's a low pitched ringing in your ears. I'm dehydrated. I'm fine. I need a drink, and I'll be okay. 

You don't have the facilities to smile at the people you pass, easing your way through officers and into an empty break room. There's nobody here. 

You round the table in the middle of the room and move to the cabinets and the sink basin. You take a mug into shaking hands and turn the faucet on. 

The water is frigid and soon your fingers are like ice. You part them in the stream, watching the water worm down your palms and wet the cuffs of your sleeves. 

"Agent L/N, is everything okay?" 

You turn with a smile, ready to assuage any fears, but it's her. 

It's obviously not her. It's not her, but she looks like her. Same face, same hair. You turn back to sink and fill your mug. 

"Agent L/N?" 

"Please," you say quietly. 

"Agent L/N?" 

"Detective, would you excuse us?" 

His voice. Your shoulders relax just enough to ease the ache in your neck. You hear the woman depart, but you're disorientated enough to ask, "Is she still here?" 

"She's not here." 

“She looked-“ like her. You press your wet hands to the bottom of the sink. It's silver and covered in scratches, a thousand scratches that glow white with the fluorescents. "I don't think I should be here," you mumble. 

"I think you're overwhelmed." 

"I am." You cringe at the numbness spreading up your arms. "I don't know how to make it go away." 

Hotch isn't just your boss. He's a father. He was a husband. He knows how to comfort somebody and he's proven that to you already, but you're still surprised when he pulls your hands out of the sink. He holds both in one palm while he turns off the faucet, and then he tears off a wad of paper towels and starts to dry your fingers. 

"You're not in any danger here," he says, turning your hands palm up. "There are a wall of people out there who would stand in front of you. Nothing is going to happen to you." 

Despite his careful reassurances you're curling in on yourself, trying to hide. You don't want to be here. You're not sure where you want to be. You have the self-awareness to know you're being awful, that this is embarrassing, and you've put Hotch in a position he likely doesn't want to be in, too.  

You blink at his chest. "Where's your suit jacket?" you ask. Your voice sounds far away in one ear and too loud in the other. 

"I left it in the car," he says lightly. "We just got back from the rally. You were waiting for us here." 

"I didn't go." 

"No. You haven't been at your best." 

"I'm trying." 

"I know," he says softly, thumbs rubbing over your warming fingers. "I know you are. You're doing really well. Why don't we sit down?" 

You let him lead you backward into a hard-backed chair. He doesn't sit with you, but he doesn't let go of your hands. They're limp in his and smaller, colder. 

You think he might be the only thing keeping you here. 

"I've never been that scared before. I've had a… gun to my head and… it wasn't even her-" You choke on it. "Her. She hurt me and it wasn't even the worst part." 

He frowns down at you. "What was the worst part?" 

You let your fingers unfurl across his open palm. He pulls your hands to his chest, sandwiches them between his own hands and his crisp white shirt. His tie feels silky soft. 

"I didn't want to be alone. I," — you close your eyes and press your chin to your chest, hiding, always hiding — "knew I wasn't going to last long by myself. I could see that bottle of water on the table and I couldn't reach it and I just kept waiting for somebody to open the door and pass it to me, and I was so scared that nobody was ever going to do that.

"I close my eyes and- and I see it. I see the wood flooring, and I see the table. I can't remember anything that she said to me anymore, but I remember thinking you weren't ever coming to get me." 

You can see the way the light from a crack in the corrugated roof had lit the water bottle up like a lamp. You barely have to think about it and the image of it is there. Your mouth had ached.

You can see him if you try a little harder. The door flying open. Hotch in his vest with his hair falling onto his forehead, a gun in one hand and a flashlight held high in the other. His broad, quick sweep, and then the way he'd leapt for you. His voice, shouting, screaming instructions. You can feel his hand behind your head, his fingers pushed roughly into your hair. 

"You're okay," he'd said. 

You trust him with your life. You've never had cause to doubt him. But you hadn't believed him then, and you're not sure you do now. 

His expression changes slowly. He moves both of your hands into one of his own and squeezes them reassuringly as he cups your cheek. It's a quick touch, a half-second of contact. 

"You made a mistake, in that case," he says, hand moving from your cheek to the hill of your shoulder. 

You tamp down a wince. "Yeah." He's being generous. You'd made hundreds of mistakes. Every opportunity to save yourself wasted. 

"Your mistake," he says, holding your eye, his voice gritty with severity, "was thinking I wouldn't find you.”

He turns to a blur the longer you stare at him, panicked tears welling up with nowhere to go. You tip your head forward so he can't see them, and he steps closer in turn, ushering your face into his abdomen. 

His hand falls to your trembling back. 

"That was your only error. You did everything else right." 

Your tears come thick and fast. Hotch doesn't baulk. 

—

You agree to take some more time off. 

Realistically, you can't be an effective agent or a reliable member of the team whilst smothered in memories as you are. You don't take it personally when Hotch insists, as he takes great care to explain to you what's happening. 

This isn't a punishment. You need more time. 

You're a safety risk. Not that your consultation isn't valuable, it is, you're still a good profiler — an amazing profiler, if your team are to be believed — but you're in the aftershocks of a traumatic event. 

A wound can't heal if it's being picked at. 

"He said that?" you ask quietly, bed sheets upto your chin. 

Hotch's voice rings scratchy with tiredness down the line, "He said you can have all of the blue ones." 

"He's generous. He gets that from his dad." 

"He's much kinder than I am." You hear a small voice on the other end, and then a muffled, "Yeah, g-man, I'll tell her. I'll tell her right now. Okay. Y/N?" 

"Yeah, still here." 

"Jack says," he recounts, parent tone in play that tells you his son is nearby, "that you can have all the blue and all of the green band-aids, if you need them." 

You stare up at the white plaster ceiling of your apartment, a tiny smile playing on your lips. 

"Tell him I said thank you. I'm sure they'll make me all better in no time." 

He tells Jack what you've said. You hear his lovely voice saying something too quiet. "What was that?" Hotch asks him. 

"I said," Jack says, voice close to the receiver, "she just needs a kiss because they always make me feel better." 

"I've been getting lots of kisses!" you promise him, turning to look at your nightstand. 

Propped up proudly is a picture of you and your team in that restaurant in Las Vegas, where Reid hadn't been able to use his chopsticks, and where Hotch had laughed so loudly you'd felt your heart skip twice. It's surrounded by a sea of 'Get Well Soon' cards, and backdropped by a small bouquet of sweetpeas. 

Tell me when they wilt, Reid had said. And I'll get you another bunch. It's been proven that flowers have a long term positive effect on moods. People who received flowers regularly reported less agitation, less depression, and an overall sense of satisfaction. 

Beside the sweetpeas, in pride of place, is a handmade card from none other than Jack himself, though the message inside was penned by an older hand. 

"I'm well looked after," you say, smiling softly. 

"You're well loved," Hotch adds. 

That, too. 

༺༻

again, im not that used to writing hotch so despite my character study he may feel a little ooc that's my bad, hard to show him pining bc he's such a professional at work. thanks so much for reading!! if you enjoyed, please consider reblogging i promise it means so much to me ♡

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner x fem!reader #aaron hotchner x female reader #aaron hotchner #aaron hotch imagine #aaron hotch fic #aaron hotch hotchner #aaron hotch fanfiction #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x y/n #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner fic #bau!reader #aaron hotchner x bau!reader

[ahgasegotarmy116]

The Art of Etiquette Part 5 | Jeon Jungkook

Summary: Jungkook accuses you of being taken and starts to shut you out. Pairing: f!reader x Etiquette instructor Jungkook, slow burn Word Count: 1.3k a/n: a bit of a shorter chapter since I'm stuck on how I want to continue it but I hope you guys like it anyways 💜

"You're late" I hear Jungkook say as I rush into the room we use for our more etiquette based classes. 

"I'm sorry Jungkook the-" I start to explain but remember that he's told me that 'excuses will get you no where' as he so graciously put it. "I'm sorry" I settle on and set my stuff down before walking up to where he has his back turned to me while he's thumbing through a book. 

"Was your boyfriend one of the reasons you failed to arrive on time?" he asks snapping the book shut, startling me with the harsh movement. 

"Boyfriend?" I question, completely lost before remembering the events of last night. "Oh I do-" "Whether or not you have a boyfriend is none of my concern just make sure this fellow doesn't interfere with the work that is being done here" I shut my mouth and listen as he spouts off nonsense since he doesn't give me a chance to get in a word edgewise before I try again. 

"Understood but Jungkook h-" "On second thought maybe we should keep things on a more professional level. I think we might've gotten a bit too comfortable with each other" he interrupts again, giving me a pointed look. "Meaning?" I question not really sure what he's getting at because the only time he had shown any sign of being comfortable with me was just recently and from my perspective no real lines were crossed. 

"Meaning I would like for you to continue to address me as Mr. Jeon. Understood?" he questions, looming over me no doubt trying to use intimidation to try to put that wall up between us again. 

"Understood" I respond in a small voice but loud enough to avoid further scoldings. 

When he turns to walk aways I grab his hand, leaving him stopping in his tracks, this being one of the few times I've initiated physical contact, catching him off guard. "He's not my boyfriend" I say hoping that will keep him from trying to shut me out so harshly, "and he wasn't the reason I was late. My class ran over and there was a car accident that I had to go around" I say looking down at where our hands are connected and smiling at the fact that he hasn't tried to shrug me off yet. 

"If it makes you feel any better" I say looking up and just noticing the fact that he's been looking at me, making me feel a bit nervous, "He's definitely more into you than he is in me" I say and see his face scrunch a bit in confusion. 

"He's gay Mr. Jeon" I finish putting it plainly and I see a small smile crack his icy façade. "Duly noted" he chuckles dryly. 

"Can we please go back to being a bit more civil with each other? I felt that things were a lot better after having warmed up to each other" I ask, smiling up at him to which I swear I could almost see a light dusting of pink cover his cheeks. Before I can take another second to study it more he's already turned his head and cleared his throat almost confirming my suspicions. 

"I suppose that could be arranged" he says refusing to look at me. "Can I call you Jungkook?" I ask trying to angle my face a bit to catch his glance. 

"If you so desire" he mumbles still refusing to meet my gaze. "How about Jungkookie?" I tease and watch him whip his head around towards me, "Absolutely not!" he says, putting his foot down so to say. "Duly noted" I laugh while enjoying his flustered state. 

"So should we get started?" I ask, trying to move past this and show him a little mercy. "Get started with what?" he questions, clearly very very caught off guard from my slight advances. 

"With my lessons" I say, trying hard to hide my amusement.

"Oh! Yes! You're right, my apologies. Where were we?" he asks, going through his notes that he's been taking to keep track of my progress in the ridiculous course schedule he has laid out for me. 

"You were scolding me for being late" I say walking over to my things and putting on my heels that I haven't changed into since I had been pressed for time. 

"Right, well like you had explained earlier it wasn't your..." he says trailing off and watching as I struggle to get the clasp fastened around my ankle, this being the first time I've worn these shoes that seemed to match my outfit a bit better that my usual ones. "Wasn't my what?" I question, lifting my head, and catch him checking me out. "What?" he asks, breaking out of the trance he had been in for mere seconds. "Never mind" I chuckle and go back to trying to fasten them but for the life of me I can't get them to close. 

"Allow me" he says getting down on one knee and fastening the clasp gently before reaching for my other leg to take off my regular shoes I wore to school today and replacing it with the heel, his hands roaming up and down my calf and ankle to accomplish his goal. 

"Does that feel alright?" he asks and I don't even realize how far I had leaned down to observe his ministrations before he straightens up and is close enough that he bumps his nose against mine. 

"I-" I start but my voice gets caught in my throat, my mind going blank from being this close to him. He leans back a bit only to give himself a chance to look down at my lips which I have been nervously chewing on ever since he knelt down in front of me. 

Bringing his hand up and resting it against my cheek he brushes his thumb ever so slightly on the corner of my lips before dragging it along the bottom of my lip and presses down slightly as a silent plea to release it and I comply. 

He runs his thumb along the bitten and reddened lip before almost placing it on the tip of my tongue. 

"Words" he says in a husky voice, bringing my focus back on him and not only his touch. My eyes glance back up at him with a glossy dazed look in them, cheeks no doubt a bright pink color as I had been so lost in the feeling that I didn't remember the question. 

"Huh?" is all I manage to get out, not wanting to be broken out of this moment just yet. "I asked you to use your words. Do they feel alright?" he asks again slowly, his warm breath fanning my lips with a slight sent of spearmint while his fingers toy with the clasp on my ankle, no doubt as a way to remind me as to what he was asking me. 

"Yes" let out, almost inaudibly. "Yes what? he asks, leaning in closer and switching to running his nose just barely along the side of my neck, sending butterflies through my stomach and causes me to take too long to respond. "Yes what?" he asks again, nudging his nose against the base of my neck. "Yes they feel fine" I choke out and just barely feel how he's almost smiling against my skin. 

"Good" he says, leaning in again to nudge his nose against my sensitive skin before standing back up and finally giving me space to breathe. "Hurry up so we can get started" he says giving me an almost smug smile, delighted at my reactions. 

Once he turns his back on me I realize just what he's done.

 He's settling the score. 

I take a deep breath and clear my throat before standing up and walking towards him to begin our lesson. If he wants to play around with me like this then I'm not backing down anymore. If he wants to level the playing field that's fine but I plan on coming out on top.

prev / next Series Masterlist

Taglist: @jkslipppiercing @trina864 @kaitieskidmore97 @goddesofimortality @coolbluedude @00frenchfries00 @bangtans-momma @coralmusicblaze @pastelpinkjoon @joonwater @marvelbun @j3nni-rs @evidive @beomieboi @forevrglow @jesssssmaybankk @teugiie @chaconnelatte @whoa-jo @snehal @xumyboo @mindurbuzznezz @diorh0seokie

Join my Taglist!

Feel free to fill out the form or just comment on any of my fics to be added :)

#jungkook fanfic #bts jungkook #jeon jungkook #jungkook fanfiction #jungkook series #kpop #fanfic #fanfiction #kpop fanfic #bts #jungkook #jungkook x reader #jungkook bts #bts jeon jungkook #bts jk #jungkook x y/n #jungkook x oc #jungkook x you

[krnzysh]

BODY AND SOUL !

SUMMARY after a certain pyro user plagued your mind, you find yourself failing to catch sleep. but what would happen if the same person you were trying oh so desperately to get your mind off of finds you and reveals unspoken feelings?

CHARACTER Diluc Ragnvindr x gn!reader

WARNINGS gender neutral reader, mentions of death, mention of the word 'fuck' once, slight abandonment issues, kissing scene from an inexperienced writer, not proofread! lmk if I missed any

WORD COUNT 1269

[💬] LOVE, AIKA uhm another fic inspired by pride and prejudice from me<3 this is a small fic I made back then and it's been in my drafts for about a month now? so here it is! I hope u enjoy~

The bright sun was only starting to rise, and the cold and gentle breeze from the night before blew dandelions away.

Why were you even awake in the break of dawn? That was the question you asked yourself.

But there was only one answer, you were up all night thinking about him…

Diluc Ragnvindr, the master of dawn winery, the most eligible bachelor, The uncrowned king of Mondstadt himself. The man who has captured your heart just from a single glance.

Meanwhile, you were just an ordinary citizen. You worked at Floral Whisper together with Flora and Donna.

With Donna’s never-ending rants about Diluc — who you have feelings for — you find your heart clenching whenever she does so.

How could someone like him, a noble of high status, fall for you? Nothing less but a mere commoner.

As you shook those thoughts away, you find yourself gazing at the beautiful terrain of Mondstadt. The luscious green grass covers kilometers of land. The streams of water rippled from the smallest breeze of wind. Mondstadt itself truly is a piece of art.

This was supposed to be a night walk to clear your thoughts and help you fall asleep, yet you were so engrossed in your thoughts that you felt as if the clocks stopped and you were in your own world.

You cherished the stillness of the night, no noise whatsoever, unlike how rowdy it can get during daylight.

But the faint rustle of footsteps broke you away from your thoughts, thinking for the worst you freeze in your place.

You close your eyes, hoping that atleast they could give you a quick and easy death.

But to your surprise a touch on your shoulder had you opening your eyes.

Whoever touched you had warm hands, they were so gentle, as if scared they could break you like a porcelain doll.

“Hey, it’s just me…” The person greeted you, the voice soft and very recognizable.

You turn around to see him, the same man that occupied your thoughts, leaving you with sleepless nights.

“Sorry, I thought it was someone.” You apologize for the action earlier, really you couldn’t blame yourself. Although there were patrolling knights, there are still hunters and monsters.

Diluc on the other hand was curious, why were you here? So early in the morning? So to satisfy his curiosity, he asked; “What are you doing here, when the sun hasn’t even risen yet?” 

Taken aback by his question, you kept silent for a while. You just can’t tell him ‘Oh I came here because I couldn’t stop thinking of you’. So you thought of a quick excuse; 

“I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to go on a walk…” It wasn’t really a lie, I mean, you were unable to sleep.

He stared at you suspiciously, as if questioning your answer, he always knew, but he kept quiet, understanding that whatever really was the reason you just didn’t want to share.

That’s why you fell for him, he knew you to the point that you didn’t even need to say anything but he already knew, he could read you so easily as if you were a children’s bedtime story.

Coupled with those behaviors of his, you just couldn’t help but fall for him in general. Everything about him was just so, loveable. You couldn’t help yourself but fall for him more and more as you spent time together.

You got to meet him when he was still a young child together with his brother, kaeya. Your father was Mr. Crepus’ bartender at Angels Share back in their days.

You were with him when he was still smiling so genuinely, with no care of the world.

You were with him when his father died and he broke any contact he had with his brother.

You were with him until he stopped talking to you, pushing you away.

Only a couple of years ago, he finally came to his senses, apologizing for his actions and asking if he could still rebuild that friendship you both once had.

“[Name]!” He called your name, shaking your shoulders, eyes held worry in them. “Are you okay? You spaced out again…” He asked.

“I am, sorry for worrying you.” You give him a soft smile to assure him. But Diluc couldn’t help but sigh, worried for the person he loves so dearly.

He loved you so much, he would fight Celestia and the Abyss for you just to keep you safe. But he was a coward, scared that once you find out his feelings for you, you would both grow apart again.

But he doesn’t know, that you love him, so dearly. You were both in love with each other. It was painfully obvious to the people around you, especially Kaeya.

You both stay in silence for some more time, just gazing at the rising sun. You looked so ethereal in Diluc’s eyes that he couldn’t help but ask himself, ‘Do I really deserve such an angel?’

Although he wanted to stay with you, he still had work to take care of. He turned to leave you alone, sensing you wanted more time gazing at the landscape before you. “[Name], I am going to head out now.”

Before he could even move, soft fingers grabbed the sleeves of his coat, clinging onto them as if begging him to stay. 

You were shocked, your body moved and clung to him.

“[Name]...?” He hesitantly asked, he too was taken aback by your bold moves.

Lowering your head, you looked into his eyes, finally taking that risk.

The nerves got to you, stopping you from uttering a word ‘Fuck, I’m just stalling him’ you bow your head down, staring at the grass and fiddling with your hands.

Sensing your nerves, he just stayed there with you, silently gazing into your head.

“[Name], can I… no, may I tell you something?” He spoke up after a while. To his question, you merely nod your head as a yes.

He let out a deep breath before proceeding; “I would like to tell you…” he started.

Raising your head to look at him, you noticed the tips of his ears burning red, ‘He’s flustered…?’ you thought.

“You… have bewitched me, body and soul, and I…’ He stopped for a little before continuing;

“And I love, I love, I love you… And I wish from this day forth never to be parted from you” He finally confesses, gazing at you with the softest eyes that hold so much love in them.

Shocked… After all this time, he also loved you? After all those sleepless nights of thinking if he loved anyone… 

Who he held so dear in his heart… was you…?

You couldn’t control the rosy tint that was dancing along your cheeks.

Approaching him, you took hold of his hand and rested your cheek on it… “Well, it would be a lie if I said I hold no feelings for you, ‘Luc..”

When he heard those words leave your mouth, a prominent red tint spread across his cheeks.

He brought you closer to him, faces only inches away from one another. 

You closed your eyes and leaned into him, as he captured the softness of your lips with his. You felt butterflies flutter around your stomach, you were sure he felt the same sensation.

In a bystander's eyes, it looked as if you were angels sent by Lord Barbatos himself with the sun rising behind you both, illuminating your figures and giving them a shining glow.

But to you, you were content, here, just having him already felt like heaven.

© aiikalvr, 2023 — do not repost, plagiarize, translate, or adapt my works without prior permission and/or confirmation on any platform!

#333 𓄳 「 krnzysh's anthology 」 #genshin x reader #genshin fluff #genshin impact x reader #genshin x you #genshin imagines #genshin fanfic #diluc #diluc ragnivindr x you #diluc x reader #diluc fluff #genshin impact #genshin diluc #diluc x gender neutral reader #diluc ragnivindr x reader #diluc ragnvindr #twilighttheatre

[abyssruler]

CONGRATS ON 3K!!! May i ask albedo + normal au + soulmate + fluff? I don't have any other ideas so plot is up to you! I'll be happy with whatever you write 🫶🫶

of inks and six toes

albedo x gn!reader

in a world where anything you write on your skin appears on your soulmate’s skin, albedo finds that much unlike his initial expectations, he does have a soulmate, and one that he’s surprised to admit he genuinely enjoys conversing with.

soulmate au, comedy, fluff, written for my 3k event!

Albedo learns how to pen words on his skin long before he learns how to write them on paper.

His master has always encouraged this little habit. Notes, reminders, and quick calculations done on the smooth skin of his arm, hands, and on the days where he’s covered in warm clothing from head to toe, his cheeks.

He’s always been curious, always one to voice out questions—this, too, is a habit his master encourages—but he’s never thought to ask why he must write more on his skin than on paper. It was simply a way of life. You sit on a chair, you drink on a cup, you bend the laws of physics using the forbidden art of khemia, and you write inconsequential things to your skin.

Must check test tube #32 on 06:45 and observe any difference, he writes to the inside of his wrist.

With every year that passes, his master becomes more and more displeased with him, claiming his lack of progress, but Albedo doesn’t understand. He’s been doing exceptionally well, excelling in his studies and furthering his knowledge with research, he’s even acquired the small hobby of sketching. He doesn’t understand which aspect he’s lacking in.

It isn’t until years later, when his master deems him mature enough to accompany her in one of her supply trips in a nearby town, that he learns about soulmates. And only five months after that trip does he finally understand what his master meant by progress.

There, written near an absentminded reminder by the inside of his wrist, is a shaky scrawl akin to that of a child’s.

Wat deos experiment meen?

✧

Albedo learns a lot of things within the span of a few months after his soulmate finally responds to him.

The first being that his master seems to be more satisfied with him lately. After the initial shock of the revelation that a synthetic human such as himself would even possess a soulmate, he hurried to show his master the scribbles you made on his wrist. Her threats of leaving him should he fail a certain task has also lessened, almost to a nonexistent degree. Perhaps having a soulmate is the greatest proof of life an artificial person like him could have.

The second is that he never knew talking to someone would be something he would find himself looking forward to everyday. To form relations such as friendship and actively put in the effort to maintain it were not things he anticipated to be this enjoyable. Or perhaps it’s because the person he’s speaking to—rather, writing to, is you, his soulmate.

And lastly, within the first few minutes of conversing with you, Albedo discovers that you are young. Incredibly so, in fact.

…Not that he’s in any position to call anyone young, being that he’s barely a decade old despite looking like a young man already. He supposes he should be thankful to have been born with fully functional limbs and motor skills, his master isn’t exactly the best caretaker for a child, much less a good parental figure (never mind that he already thinks of her as his mother).

hau old ar yu?

How old are you, he corrects, all while mentally calculating exactly how old he is. His master would know down to the very last second, but he can’t bother her with something as mundane as this. Truthfully, the first few years of his life were spent learning as much as he could about the world and alchemy, such that he never took much note of his age until he learned the concept of birthdays. He thinks his master celebrated him being a decade old about a month ago—and by celebrate he means she let him sketch as much as he liked and gave him a break on his studies.

He estimates that he is about ten. Probably.

So that’s what he answers to his soulmate, he does you the favor of writing it in numerical form to make it easier to read.

wow yur old! The words come alive on the back of his hand slowly, each letter uneven and some even written backwards.

You’re, he corrects, more out of habit than any real desire to teach you proper grammar, and 10 isn’t that old. Once you get older, you’ll find that 10 is considered quite young.

It takes you a while to respond, and within that time frame, Albedo finishes transferring a heated whooperflower extract into a test tube. It’s an exercise in patience, and thankfully he has plenty of it. He regrets not using easier words for you to understand, but erasing the ink on his hand and writing new ones will probably confuse you more than you already are.

okey! papa sed im 5 yeers old, turneeng 6 tomorow

You must be very smart to be able to read and write already at that age. I’ll make sure to wish you a happy birthday tomorrow, he replies.

It takes another few minutes for you to write back. but you’re smarter then me so wen did you read and write?

Albedo lets himself feel the slightest hint of pride at how you spelled ‘you’re’ correctly this time around. You’re a quick learner.

I learned before I turned a year old, but please don’t tell anyone. Not that anyone would believe you if you said your soulmate learned how to read and write (and transmigrate a small branch into a flower) before he was one, but better to be safe than sorry.

oohh is this wat mama cals a secret?

Yes, it is, and I would be very happy if you kept it.

okey! i wont tel enywon! :)

Thank you.

He spends the next few minutes making light conversation with you, occasionally correcting your spelling and explaining any concept you seem confused about—until his master berates him for neglecting his work, and he has to bid you a hasty goodbye and apology. You’re quick to understand his circumstances, even as young as you are, only writing a goodbye next to his with a small, misshapen heart that he strangely finds adorable.

The next day, right as the clock turned to 00:00, he writes Happy Birthday on each side of his cheek. His master raises a brow when she sees it, but the excited little drawings you write on your wrist more than makes up for the humiliation.

✧

Tomorrow is my first day of school!

Your grammar and spelling have improved drastically within the span of a year. Albedo deduces you’ll be outdoing your peers in class. Not that he’s the best judge for how a child would normally develop mentally, but from what he’s read, you’re clearly very advanced.

Good luck.

Thanks! I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow :D

I look forward to it, and he finds that he does indeed look forward to it.

✧

Hey soulmate what nation are you from?

You’ve developed the habit of calling him that due to his lack of interest in sharing his name.

Aren’t you in class right now?

Yeah but it’s boring :( tell me more about alchemy

You said yesterday that you find alchemy boring as well, he points out.

But alchemy’s the less boring subject

You should still pay attention in class.

Poopy head. Oh no the teacher is look———

✧

Who is Mondstadt’s god?

The Anemo Archon, though if we’re referring to his name, it’d be Barbatos.

What’s the name of Sneshneya’s capital?

Snezhnaya, he corrects, and it’s Zapolyarny.

And many more such questions, most of them only needing the most basics of knowledge.

Albedo answers them all dutifully, wondering whether this is a test to see how knowledgable he is regarding Teyvat. His master would not be pleased to see him idling about, doing nothing as he waits for his soulmate to write back to him instead of spending his time doing research.

Wow! I’m the only one who scored perfectly on the test!

His eyebrows rise, an idea forming in his mind at the same time as amusement.

A test? he writes back.

Yeah, for my school! You’re so smart! Thank you, soulmate ♡

Something swells in his chest. Warm and pleasant that leaves in him a sense of satisfaction he might akin to the feeling he gets after a successful experiment, or that of the heat that settles in his stomach after a hearty meal during a cold, winter day.

Fondness, he decides, it is fondness.

You’re most welcome. Although next time it would be better to consult me while you’re studying so you would not have to resort to cheating.

Hey! It’s not cheating, it’s called using the resources you have to your advantage.

He has to stifle a smile at how clever you’ve become. Though not clever enough to answer your own tests, it seems.

Using my words against me?

Of course, I learned from the best!

Learned…

To be able to impart knowledge upon others, it is something he had not thought possible until recent years, not with how isolated he is and his only human contact being his master. It is amongst many other less shallow reasons that he is glad to have met you.

To be able to influence others by teaching them what he knows. It is a wishful thought, but he thinks he’d like to do such a thing in the future.

✧

Aunt Alice just gave birth to a baby girl! Her name’s Klee and she’s so fat, are all babies this fat?

Albedo spends a long time staring at his wrist before managing to snap himself out of his haze.

He doesn’t believe in coincidences, but what are the odds that this Alice you were speaking of is the same Alice who just sent a letter to his master the other day about how she finally spawned a daughter. If they so happen to be the same person, then fate truly has a strange sense of humor, though perhaps he should have known that from the moment fate decided a homunculus should have a soulmate.

Yes, he finally responds, a little plumpness isn’t considered fat; in fact, it’s often a sign of healthiness. Also, please don’t call the baby fat right to her mother’s face.

Too late! Aunt Alice just laughed and agreed with me. Isn’t she the best?

He shakes his head in amusement and distantly notes how your Aunt Alice’s personality seems to align with his master’s friend.

✧

I’m joining the Knights of Favonius.

He blinks at the sight that greets him first thing in the morning.

Ah. Well, he supposes this finally confirms all his suspicions of you hailing from Mondstadt.

The clues were there, practically spoon-fed to him, from the innocuous mentions of a certain flower or the structure of a building you found ridiculous, but he didn’t want to form a solid conclusion until you confirmed it yourself.

Is there a particular reason for this decision?

I just feel a bit inadequate. I’m already fifteen but one of my friends has been a captain at the Knights since last year. I’m stuck here stagnating while the rest of my peers move on.

Albedo isn’t the best at comforting people. Years of isolation and limited contact have made socialization one of the fields he doesn’t excel at. He can be a bit tactless, as you once said. He’ll try though, for you.

You don’t need to conform to other people’s standards. Each person moves at their own pace. You needn’t pressure yourself by placing such high expectations on your shoulders. He ponders more on what he could say, until a thought occurs so he adds, With that said, do you want to join the Knights of Favonius or are you merely joining because you feel that you have to?

It takes you a good few minutes to write back. He patiently waits for you to compose an answer, abandoning the on-going experiment he has on the workbench in favor of investing his full attention to you.

Yeah, I think I do want to. Not just because I think I should, but I really want to join.

Then I wish you luck on your future endeavors.

He was about to turn back to his neglected experiment when he sees ink forming on his inner wrist.

And soulmate? you write, your handwriting shaky in a way he hasn’t seen since you were young.

Worried, he hastily scribbles, Yes?

I think I Thank you :)

✧

What should we say to each other if we ever meet in person?

Would you mind elaborating?

I dunno, cause I like to think I’d recognize your handwriting anywhere—and it better be the same case with you! So maybe we should have a secret phrase between us to identify each other.

I’m not very imaginative when it comes to these things. How about you think of a phrase?

Okay! How about this: Barbatos has six toes.

Pardon?

No one in Mond would ever think to say such a thing, which means no one would ever say it out of the blue and confuse us. It’s perfect!

Ah, I see. Alright, if that’s what you wish.

See this is why I lo you’re my favorite person ever :D

✧

Congratulations on being promoted to captain.

Thanks!! Only took about three years, of course, but totally worth the time and effort! I can finally boss people around :)

Please don’t.

No promises!

✧

I got a vision!

That’s a sign of acknowledgement from the gods, or so they say. Would you like me to congratulate you?

No need for that. Just try and guess which element I got!

Pyro.

How’d you guess so quickly?!

The element suits you. Passionate and driven, it was only a matter of time before you were given one.

I really heh who knew you thought so highly of me?

Who wouldn’t?

✧

I’m going to be busy for the next few days traveling.

Okay stay safe!

My master has entrusted me with a heavy task. This is the first time I

You’re going to do great. You’re the smartest and most capable person I know, soulmate!

Thank you.

✧

“So, this new guy, he’s an alchemist?”

“Yes, and apparently a very good one,” Jean answers your question, walking with you side by side as you make your way to the entrance of the Favonius Headquarters to meet this ‘Albedo’ fellow. Well, more like Jean’s on her way to meet him while you’re on your way home.

“Huh. Reminds me of someone I know,” you muse.

She looks at you with amusement. “You mean your soulmate?”

You laugh sheepishly. “I never shut up about him, do I?”

“That’s an exaggeration, I’d say you’re just very in love with him.”

“What?!” you screech, whipping your head towards her.

Jean laughs into her hand. “You’re not fooling anyone with how excited you get whenever he writes back to you.”

“I-I mean,” you deflate in defeat. “I guess it is kinda obvious…” you sigh, only to straighten when you reach the massive doors of the entrance of the Headquarters.

There’s a person with ash blond hair standing right by its awning, looking over something in a clipboard. He turns at the sound of your approaching footsteps. Your eyes meet, and within that brief moment of contact, it feels like you’ve known this stranger your entire life.

Jean greets him. He nods his head at her and introduces himself. She then turns to you, “I’m assigning you to be his guide for the next few days. Be kind, alright?”

Your jaw drops. “Wha—why me?”

“Because you’re the closest available captain in the area,” she answers with an uncharacteristically sly smile. Oh, you lament, she really needs to spend less time with Lisa.

“Fine, but I can’t do it today. I promised Klee we’d go exploring this afternoon,” you concede.

“It’s settled then!” Jean claps her hand before giving the two of you an encouraging smile and leaving briskly. What a busy lady…

You then turn to Albedo who’s been silently watching your interaction, and you find him looking at you like you’re a puzzle he can’t quite discern. Shaking off his strange behavior, you pull out a pen and offer your hand to him. He looks at it curiously before placing his hand into your palm.

“May I ask what this is for?”

You uncap the pen. “Just gonna write down the time I’m free tomorrow, y’know, so you don’t forget.”

“I see.”

Writing on the palm of his hand almost feels wrong. Somehow. A strange feeling you can’t quite place.

It’s probably the spoiled milk you drank earlier.

“And there! Now that’s done, I just need to…” you trail off, seeing a blot of ink in the palm of your hand.

Excitement fills you. Abandoning your new acquaintance in favor of putting all your attention to the new words in your palm, you don’t notice the look of realization that crosses Albedo’s face once he sees what you’ve written on his hand.

1:30PM, Tuesday on the…

Your mind blanks.

You don’t read much beyond that.

This.

This is your handwriting.

But you didn’t write this on your hand, you wrote this on—

Turning a shocked look to Albedo, who if your suspicions are correct, is your soulmate, you find him looking at you with that same wide-eyed look mirrored in your face.

After a few moments of staring, something seems to occur to him.

“Oh, right,” he suddenly speaks up.

He grabs your hand—the same one that has your free time tomorrow written on it—and looks at you with such seriousness, you couldn’t have possibly hoped to predict what he was about to say next.

“Barbatos has six toes,” Albedo says with a straight face before furrowing his brows in question. “That’s our phrase, isn’t it?”

Finding your soulmate unexpectedly, finally getting to hold his hand after fantasizing about it for so long, and him saying those damned words you’d meant as a joke all those years ago.

You can’t help it anymore.

You burst out laughing.

3k word count

#3k event #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #albedo x reader #albedo kreideprinz x reader #gn reader #soulmate au

[nocturnalazure]

📩 Simblr question of the day: Choose as many sims/ocs as you'd like for this question, What's something INCREDIBLY obscure and/or out-of-pocket about your sim/oc? Something that nobody (fellow sims and/or your followers and mutuals) knows 👀 (This could be things about their social skills, physicality and/or birth defects, or it could be something they vaguely remember, a dream they had that actually predicted the future, etc etc... whatever you come up with)

( p.p.s freely share this SQOTD around, anon or not, and use the # SQOTD ~ 💛 )

Oh, thank you Anon! What a lovely question!

I love daydreaming about my OCs and I can come up with a thousand little details about them. I also love integrating those details into my story whenever possible. But the game is sometimes limiting and I can't show everything that I'd like to show, that's why I'm so grateful for OC asks: I get the chance to mention all those things that make up my characters and that would never get mentioned otherwise.

(I'm writing a whole essay again, I'll try to make it short)

So here are a few facts from previous character development questions/oc asks in which I've mentioned a detail that was simply never mentioned or shown in the story, directly or indirectly. :)

Nathaniel: drives too fast and gets speeding tickets. Would have liked to be a piano teacher.

Theo: got the 'heart of stone' lifetime reward. Likes Carmina Burana.

Ralph: was an alcoholic at some point. [NB: that's actually more or less induced in the very first scene in which he appears, which is in a watering hole] Listens to country music. Likes to sniff Pippa's belongings (like a dog!).

Sam: is a fan of Lily Allen. Has a husky voice. Tried to make latte art but failed. Uses "moron" a lot. Is a spendthrift.

Noah: was supposed to become a gigolo in my original storyline for him. Is a repressed Borderline.

Ash: actually strongly autistic-coded. He described love as being (I quote) "a four-leaf clover". Forgets pens everywhere he goes.

Uli: is scared of pigeons.

Ivy: her mother died of cancer when she was a baby. Is scared of old age and her body failing her. Likes sex toys.

Seth: the car he repaired at some point in the story was bought by Yu Wong (Anh's grandmother). His greatest fear was that Erik would suffer from something he's done. Doesn't like people touching him (except his wife).

Tristan: his rings are signet rings (the one on his thumb bears his family crest, the one on his little finger has a rather unidentifiable gemstone coming from his mother). Met in person King Louis XIV of France, Bach and Charlie Chaplin.

Laurie: his favorite drink is Gin & Tonic. Has a Discord account.

Anh: loves mooncakes. Watches anime.

Eloise: doesn't like video games. Loves the holiday season and listening to Tristan playing the piano.

Erik: is a fan of Deadpool and Wolverine. Loves the smell of gasoline and cinnamon.

Romeo: went by Federico in gay bars. Would like to adopt a cat. Is an excellent swimmer.

Jamie: dips his chip back into the salsa after taking a bite. Doesn’t call ahead when he’s late. Chews on his fingernails.

Omar: loves pistachios and Candy Crush.

#replies #character development #sqotd

[fizzydrink698]

chemistry | yeji

kinktober day 6: mirror sex

pairing: hwang yeji x reader

word-count: 4.5k

genre: college au, dance class au, rivals to lovers

warnings: swearing, sexual content (oral sex, masturbation), reader has some pent-up issues regarding inferiority and more than a little fixation on yeji, misplaced feelings that eventually get sorted out healthily with a lil nudging

summary:

It hurt, sometimes, to look at her. In those little moments between run-throughs, when she would drop her performance energy and just be her for a few moments, you found yourself constantly looking over. It felt like you couldn’t help it, she just demanded your attention like that.

You hated it. And her.

You really hated her.

Five, six, seven, eight.

You hated her.

For the first eighteen years of your life, you had been the best dancer, in every class you took, in every performance you did. You were the one that the teacher would point to and go “like this, everyone, this is perfect.”

And then, you got to university – and met her.

All of a sudden, you weren’t getting the solos. You weren’t the best, you weren’t the example, because you just had to be in the same team as Hwang Yeji.

She was just…perfect. In everything she did, and it fucking infuriated you. It was like she exposed every single weakness you had. You felt so clumsy dancing next to her, you felt like an idiot for ever thinking you could go anywhere with dance. Every new showcase, you went head-to-head for the solo, and nine times out of ten, they went with Yeji.

Your rivalry had taken over your life. You would lie in bed, stare up at the ceiling and all you could think about was her. The way she picked up routines without a second thought, how fluidly she could move, her perfect lines, how she just…

Ugh, fuck her.

She infected every part of your life, even outside of dance. It was like every conversation just couldn’t go on without something forcing you to bring up Yeji. Arranging plans for the evening? You had to practise to beat Yeji. Studying for the next assignment? You were exhausted from staying up and watching recordings of old showcases Yeji danced in.

Anything could be traced back to Yeji. Anything.

“He’s cute,” Aisha, a friend of yours, pointed out over lunch one day. She was referring to a blond guy by the salad bar, trying and failing not to look disgusted as his loud friend loaded his bowl with croutons and pineapple chunks. “I think he’s in my art class.”

He was pretty cute, you supposed. It had been so long since you’d been interested in anyone, it almost felt weird to acknowledge it. But there was something about him that just…

“What’s his name?” You asked, brow furrowing.

Aisha raised an eyebrow, and you realised she looked genuinely surprised. At your question? No, maybe not. Probably the fact that you’d shown interest at all. “Begins with a H, I think. Hyunjin? I can find out if he’s seeing anyone, if you’re interested.”

Hyunjin?

You looked back over at him, narrowing your eyes. He looked almost familiar, had you seen him before? Somewhere on campus? Something about that bone structure, the body language…

The loud friend suddenly elbowed Hyunjin in the ribs, and when he nodded his head over to you, you realised you had been caught. Hyunjin turned his head, eyes finding you, and there was a brief second when you took his appearance in and thought maybe you would take Aisha up on her offer, look at that face, the little shy smile he was giving you, and–

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you groaned, turning your head away sharply to squeeze your eyes shut and pinch the bridge of your nose before you had an aneurysm. “That’s fucking Yeji’s brother.”

With your eyes closed, you didn’t see Aisha’s expression as she paused, but you definitely heard the weird tone in her voice as she replied, almost amused. “Of course it is.”

Why was she everywhere?

Studio B has been closed for nearly a year for renovations.

Initially, the work was supposed to have been finished in a few months, but the budget had apparently run dry halfway through, and wouldn’t be finished until the start of the next school year when the department got a little more cash to burn.

The studio was deemed unsuitable to hold classes in, thanks to the half-finished flooring and bare concrete walls, and very few people had access to it.

You were one of those people. You’d been lent a key at some point last year when you helped out with the younger students, and apparently everyone had forgotten about it.

For once, you supposed, not being the centre of attention had its perks.

With Studio B, you had access to a practice space whenever you wanted, with no need to book ahead and no one else interrupting. It was the perfect way to catch up to Yeji, especially considering the upcoming showcase looming on the horizon.

That showcase was going to be headlined by duo performance, not a solo. On one hand, you wouldn’t have to compete with Yeji for the same spot. The two of you were the best in your group, you were the obvious choices and you’d passed the audition easily.

On the other hand, you would be sharing a stage with Yeji. Just the two of you alone. Every single move you made would be directly compared to hers.

You needed every bit of practice you could get because you just weren’t a natural like her. She picked up every little detail of choreography so quickly, every run-through she did was clean and fluid and purposeful.

This fact was only made more obvious by The Mirror.

In the initial stages of renovations, Studio B’s mirror had been removed – and revealed, for some inexplicable reason, that Studio A’s mirror was one-way. This wasn’t an issue when the two studio mirrors were back-to-back, but now?

You had a front-row seat to her practice sessions, whenever you came into the studio at the same time. You got to see just how fucking great Yeji could dance, even just rehearsing.

And because that fucking duo piece involved so much synchronisation, you had to dance move-for-move with her. It did wonders for your timing, you’d admit. Your instructor had said just as much, clapping her hands together after your most recent group rehearsal and – for once – complimented you on just how well you could move beat-for-beat with Yeji.

“You make wonderful partners,” she had told you. “The way you interact, the chemistry, it’s fascinating.”

It was infuriating, maybe, that you could only be praised after working so hard for so many hours on something that came to Yeji naturally. It got to you, having to dance in this barely-lit room, exposed timber and sawdust everywhere as your backdrop, copying Yeji’s movements as she danced in the light.

It hurt, sometimes, to look at her. In those little moments between run-throughs, when she would drop her performance energy and just be her for a few moments, you found yourself constantly looking over. It felt like you couldn’t help it, she just demanded your attention like that.

You hated it. And her.

You really hated her.

One night, you booked a few hours in Studio A. You needed the full-length mirrors, just to double-check your lines, and that was something Studio B just did not have.

Yeji was waiting for you inside.

She was standing in the centre of the room, arms crossed over her chest. For a moment, you thought she might have just finished a session right before yours. She was in her usual dance practice attire – sports bra, comfy sweats, her dark hair tied back in a sleek ponytail – but the absence of any sweat, any flush of exertion to her skin, tipped you off otherwise.

She didn’t just happen to be here. She specifically chose to be here.

For you, apparently.

Yeji shifted her weight from one foot to the other, looking uncharacteristically serious. “I know about Studio B.”

You froze.

“…What, that we have one?” You asked, evasively, shifting your gaze away from her. “Wow, you catch on quick, Hwang.”

She ignored the jab. “You know what I’m talking about.”

“Do I?”

“Yes, you do. You’ve been practising in there.”

You did your best to let the accusation roll off of you, but inside, your stomach clenched. “What makes you say that?”

“I had a weird feeling for a while,” Yeji said, calmly, and when your eyes darted back to her, you found her watching you. “Sometimes when I dance, I thought I could hear an echo. And then yesterday I was going through the floorwork part of the choreography where we hit the ground and…”

Fuck. You remembered that. You had even been happy at the time - the two of you were supposed to smack your hands against the floor at the same time, but Yeji didn’t. It seemed like she’d forgotten the choreo for that tiny portion, and you had been overjoyed.

Now, all you can think about is how loud your slapping the floor might have been. How much of a giveaway had it been?

Enough, apparently.

Your silence was enough to confirm Yeji’s suspicions, and you were surprised to see her jaw set. Her eyes flashed with anger. “It’s dangerous in there. They said they ripped all the flooring out, and…I can’t believe you were dumb enough to even try it. What if you got caught? What if you got injured?”

This was too much. You felt something sick and poisonous building in the pit of your stomach, spreading to your chest, knotting in your throat and choking you. The feeling of being caught out, the humiliation because how could you even explain this? That the only reason you took this stupid risk was because you’d never be as good as her without it? That without practising hours and hours every day, you’d look like an embarrassment next to her?

You tried to swallow down the lump in your throat, and forced a shrug. “I wanted some extra practice time.”

“Then practise with me,” Yeji exclaimed, incredulous. “This is our piece, we should be rehearsing together anyway! You could have just asked to share the studio during my time. I wouldn’t have minded.”

You pictured stumbling around, trying to get the choreography steps into your head, and perfect Yeji smirking to the side as she did every move flawlessly.

“No, thanks,” you retorted bitterly.

Yeji blinked, thrown for a moment, and then visibly stiffened with rage. You almost took a step back, as she shouted. “God, would you just get over yourself?”

“Me?” You said, almost recoiling, your voice rising in volume to match hers. “What about you? Why don’t you get your nose out of my fucking business? Why do you even care?”

“Because I’m worried about you! Especially if you’re doing stupid shit like this.”

You grit your teeth at the way her voice shook, at the way she was staring at you, like she was fucking…disappointed, or something. Fuck her. Fuck this.

“No, you’re not,” you said, dismissing her outright.

She scoffed, as if you were being the unreasonable one, and stepped forward. “Yes, I am.”

“Why?” You asked, matching her with your own step forward, dropping your bag to the floor with a loud thud. “Who cares if I get injured? Someone else gets my part in the routine, and you have nothing to worry about.”

“I don’t want anyone else doing this routine with me, I want you.”

If you were slightly more observant, if the rage-induced (Yeji-induced) blinders dropped for just a fraction of a second, you would have noticed the edge to those last few words.

As it was, you just kept pressing onward. “Why? Why does it have to be me? Why does it matter?”

Yeji squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head slightly, as if she just couldn’t comprehend your stupidity, and something in you burned at that, spiteful, hurt and–

“Because I like you, you fucking dumbass.”

You stopped in your tracks, faltering. It was like your brain crashed, or something, barely able to do anything more than replay her words, tripping over them, like a scratched record.

“And I know you like me,” Yeji added, challenging you. “Before you say anything.”

You choked, spluttering. “What?”

“You’re constantly looking over at me in class,” she pointed out, taking another step forward. “Like, all the time. It’s cute, how much you’re obsessed with me.”

“I am not obsessed with you–”

“Then, what? If you don’t like me, why are you doing all this?” Yeji asked, gesturing vaguely but animatedly around her. “Is it just jealousy? Is that it?”

You bristled at that, affronted. “I’m not jealous of you. I don’t want to be you, I…I just need to…”

You needed to be better than you were. Because the idea of looking dumb and clumsy and bad was just unthinkable, especially in front of…

In front of…

You stared wide-eyed at Yeji, pieces falling into place. There was a tiny split-second of charged silence, where you were lost for words, where Yeji stared at you with a look of dawning realisation.

Oh, fuck.

Oh, fuck.

Slowly, she took another step forward, closing the distance between the two of you almost entirely. You didn’t step back, but you felt something small starting to flicker inside of you. A new nervousness, an anxiety, an unsurety for what might come next.

Yeji lifted her hand, and the moment it touched the curve of your jaw, you felt a burst of something in your chest. Equal parts apprehension and anticipation.

“Yeji…” you murmured, her name slipping out of your mouth. You weren’t sure what it was. A warning? A confession? The voicing of the one thought that had been tormenting you constantly for months now?

Yeji paused at the uncertainty in your voice, and maybe she would have pulled away, had you not given into the temptation to lower your gaze to her mouth. It was quick, brief, just barely even a look, but she caught it.

Emboldened by it, she leaned in and kissed you.

You expected kissing Yeji to feel weird, or confusing, until your body and brain were able to catch up to this sudden revelation.

Instead, there was a rush of sensation that just felt right. Like a sigh of relief, like your brain was suddenly shouting this is what I was trying to tell you the whole time. It was intoxicating, almost overwhelming, a release of something that had been building for months, if not years.

She must have realised something similar, because for a first kiss, this was astonishingly bold. Instead of a mere peck, Yeji parted her lips slightly, moving her mouth against yours. You followed suit, after a second’s hesitation, your tongue just barely brushing against her lower lip.

Your hands immediately went to her waist, warm and bare under your hands. Your fingers curled inwards, nails scraping gently against her skin. Yeji’s response – a quiet little noise, almost like a hum but not quite – sent something electric coursing through you.

You didn’t know where to go from here. Where did you even start? You wanted everything and anything, you wanted to touch every part of her body that you had stared at in practice, you wanted to slide your hand up and inside of her bra and glimpse what had been hidden to you on a body you’d fixated on for so long that you felt it burned into your mind.

Yeji broke away, and something akin to pride swelled within you when you realised she was breathing just a little heavier. “See? We could have been doing this the whole–”

Impatience overwhelmed you, and you cut Yeji off by pressing your lips to hers once more. She seemed to accept this without complaint, curling an arm around your hips to pull you closer. You stumbled only slightly, just a half-step, in your urgency to draw even closer. One of your hands flew up to the back of her head, and after a second of fumbling, you removed her hair tie.

Fuck, her hair was perfect. You wanted to run your hands through it, you wanted to tangle your fingers in it and pull, you wanted to see what it looked like in your fist. All of it, all at once.

So horribly, unfairly pretty.

She slid the hand that had been cupping your jaw down, along your neck, onto your shoulders. Her palm sat nestled against your collarbone, and you imagined it sliding even lower.

You felt her hand twitch, as if she were thinking the very same thing.

“How long did you book this room for?” Yeji murmured, pulling back only slightly to speak, her lips still brushing yours.

“An hour,” you replied, heat blooming in the pit of your gut at her question, at all it implied.

You felt her grin, felt her open her mouth to say something – before hesitating. “Maybe we should stop here, for now.”

Your response was not a whine, but only through sheer self-restraint. “Why?”

She laughed a little, but it wasn’t unkind. Endeared, maybe. “We’re going kind of fast,” she noted.

“I don’t care,” you retorted. Now that you knew what this had been, just why you’d been so fixated for so long, the idea of holding off whatever was building here – and for how long? Hours? Days? Weeks? – horrified you. You knew what you wanted, waiting wouldn’t change that.

Yeji was proving insistent, however. “We should…like, talk, at least.”

“We can talk,” you argued. “Right now, if you want. Just keep touching me.”

Yeji laughed again, but this laugh was a little less innocent. When she leaned in again, her lips found your neck, and you made the softest of noises. Her hand slid down to your chest, squeezing it just shy of roughly, but enough to draw another noise from you.

“You’re very responsive,” she observed, enjoying the way you shivered when the pad of her thumb brushed your nipple through the fabric of your top.

You swallowed, closing your eyes. “I…I just know what I like.”

“Could have fooled me,” she teased, her hand moving again.

“That was…” you trailed off, inhaling sharply, when her hand slid under your top. “That was different.”

Yeji didn’t respond, content to watch your reactions as she played with you. You felt yourself relaxing under her touch, losing yourself for a few moments, letting your brain finally take a rest from how much you’ve been overthinking…everything, apparently.

Yeji only stopped kissing you when she needed to – when she had your top in both hands, and pulled it up over your head to remove it. You lifted your arms willingly, eyes opening to see Yeji staring completely unashamedly at your chest.

Oh, Yeji wanted you. It still felt surreal, and it only just really clicked, but Yeji really wanted you.

Your eyes met again, and Yeji’s face flushed. Still, she couldn’t help but grin. “I swear, anytime you wore that blue sports bra, I wanted to cry.”

You blinked. You knew the sports bra she was talking about, it was one of your favourites. But you didn’t wear it often, because… “It’s a little small for me.”

She grinned wider. “I know.”

Your face burned.

“So, you…” you mumbled thoughtlessly, tongue two steps ahead of your brain, and you were a little embarrassed to finish this train of thought. You got the feeling, though, judging by Yeji’s expectant expression, that it was a little late to avoid it now. “You, like…actually like me.”

Yeji raised an eyebrow. “Have I not made it very obvious yet?”

“OK, fair-“

“Because I can try harder,” she said, her eyes suddenly gleaming. “Get on the floor.”

An hour ago, if someone had told you that you’d be taking orders from Hwang Yeji without complaint, you would have laughed in their face.

You swallowed, a little nervous and a lot turned on, and lowered yourself to your knees. Maybe, if Yeji had remained standing tall, it would have been a little too much – but she matched you every step of the way, joining you on the floor.

Her knee slotted itself between your legs, and maybe you’d mistake it for an accident, if you hadn’t spent so much of your life noticing how very good Yeji was at making the most subtle of movements look incidental when they were very much deliberate.

For a while, you did nothing more than kiss – which felt like a pretty simplistic description for something so overwhelming. It didn’t account for the way your hands roamed Yeji’s body, the way it felt hearing every noise she made, the expression she made when you bit the bullet and ground against her thigh.

Eventually, though, her hands found the waistband of your leggings.

“Tell me if you change your mind,” Yeji said, very seriously. “No matter when, or what I’m doing. This is…this is fast.”

Not really, you wanted to argue. Not when it felt like the last six months had basically been foreplay between the two of you.

Still, Yeji’s seriousness gave you pause.

“Same goes for you,” you told her. “If you really do want to stop and talk first, we can. I don’t want to just…”

You trailed off, as Yeji’s gaze dragged along your body. You couldn’t imagine what she saw, as you lay under her, but whatever it was made her visibly swallow.

“…Let’s save the talking for later,” she decided, fingers hooking under your waistband. She pulled it down, just a few inches, just enough to expose the lacy edge of your underwear. “Fuck. Maybe talking’s overrated, actually.”

You wanted to laugh. You probably would have, if it weren’t for the distraction of Yeji lifting your hips up, removing your leggings slowly and discarding them to the side with barely a second thought.

She kept hold of your leg, lifting it up just slightly above the floor, and began to press a trail of kisses from your knee upwards. You let your head slump backwards against the floor, eyes closing, breath catching with every other kiss, trying so hard to remain patient as she got agonisingly close to where you needed her most.

Infuriatingly, she got as close as the top of your thighs before diverting away, planting a kiss in the dip of your hipbone. You whined, hands itching to grab her by the head and nudge her back to where she should be. Your head lolled to one side, and it was only when Yeji pushed your underwear to one side that your eyes opened.

To discover the reflection of you and Yeji in that full-length mirror.

You made quite the sight, the pair of you. You couldn’t help but stare, captivated, as Yeji ducked her head, and–

“Fuck, Yeji,” you cried out, torn between closing your eyes and keeping them open and fixed on the sight of Yeji between your legs. You felt yourself clench around her, in part due to that visual of a fully-clothed Yeji, kneeling before your very naked body, face buried between your thighs.

You rocked your hips against your mouth, and a sick little thrill rushed through you when you realised you could watch the way your body moved, the rhythm of it. You could see Yeji’s grip tightening around your thighs just as clearly as you could feel it.

You were so distracted that you didn’t even notice Yeji glance up at you, not until you saw her in the mirror, the way her eyes followed where you were looking, and the way her reflection met your eyes.

You snapped your head back to look upwards, towards the ceiling, but it was too late.

“Are you…staring at yourself?” Yeji asked, pulling away from where she was doing unspeakably wonderful things with her tongue.

“No,” you replied, too quickly, too panicked.

“You are,” she said, vaguely accusing, unable to hide her smirk.

“I’m not, not like…I’m just trying to wrap my brain around this actually happening,” you explained, tripping over your words a little. “And that’s, like…proof that it is.”

Yeji raised an eyebrow, but nodded once, understanding.

And then, her smirk deepened.

“Keep watching, then,” she said. “Let me put on a good show for you.”

Before you could react, Yeji hiked your thigh up over her shoulder, exposing you further, and she ran her tongue along your folds in one slow, long stripe. As she began to swirl the tip of it around your clit, you shuddered, gaze returning to your reflection.

This was almost overwhelming, as Yeji found the exact rhythm and pressure that made your toes curl. Your hand found her hair, carding your fingers through it, letting your fist ball in it as she continued to unravel you. Every breath that left your mouth was accompanied by a whimper, as the sensations began to build and build and build. There was a very strong chance that you were going to cum embarrassingly quickly.

“Yeji,” you breathed, gasping between syllables, and she met your stare through the mirror again. She didn’t look away once, maintaining eye contact, and you couldn’t help but squirm even more under her. “Please…fuck, I…Yeji…”

She held your stare, and you watched her reflection as she slowly, deliberately, slid her own hand into her sweatpants.

You choked, hips jerking up against her, and finally tore your gaze away from the mirror to look at her directly.

She was perfect from this angle, face flushed and slick, dark eyes moving to peek up at you through her lashes. You couldn’t quite see what her hand was doing from here, but you felt the vibrations of her moan against you, and you watched her eyes briefly flutter shut before opening again.

“You’re…fuck, you’re gorgeous,” you admitted, unfiltered thoughts just tumbling out from between your lips. “Perfect. Always…always thought so–Yeji, fuck, please…”

You were going to cum, you were absolutely going to cum.

Yeji seemed to pick up on this, and one particularly ungodly flick of her tongue had you tumbling over the edge. Your vision whited out, like you were almost literally seeing stars, the force of it almost punching your moan out.

It took you a good minute or so to recover, only doing so when Yeji’s increasingly loud whines broke through your orgasm-induced haze. You blinked, brain slowly returning from its temporary mush-like state, to find Yeji with her eyes shut, hand apparently working furiously.

You sat up, room still spinning slightly, and leaned forward to press your mouth to hers. She responded eagerly, sloppily, moaning loudly against your lips. You fumbled with the drawstring of her sweatpants, eager to slide your hand in alongside hers, when she suddenly cried out, her entire body shaking. She collapsed against you, panting, lost in her own climax. You smoothed a hand over her back, rubbing soothing circles into the exposed skin there, and – out of sheer impulse – pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

“Fuck,” she mumbled, out of breath, burying her face into your neck.

You realised how much you liked her there, how much you liked her curled up against you.

She suddenly laughed, just a little, breathless.

“Wait ‘til they get a load of our fucking chemistry now.”

#kinktober #itzy smut #hwang yeji x reader #hwang yeji fanfiction #hwang yeji smut #itzy x reader #itzy x y/n #hwang yeji x y/n #yeji smut #yeji x reader #yeji x y/n #college au #rivals to lovers #dance rivals to lovers #hwang yeji fanfic

[toiwen]

Love, Yet The Jedi Code. Foreword

Summary: Their friendship blossomed quickly. It felt as right and completely unexpected as finding your cyber crystal among many others in the Ilum caves.

How they first met was quite spectacular.

Obi-Wan was sure it clearly paved the way. However, the circumstances of their first encounter were unfortunate for him.

He was in trouble. But she helped him avoid punishment for some time. With grace and humor.

Needless to say, what a vivid impression she made on him, the initiate.

Over the years, she never failed to surprise him like she did even before they properly talked. It led them to a dangerous and unstable position where restrictions faded.

And the Jedi Code was broken.

Relationships: Obi-Wan/Original female character

Tags: hurt/comfort, slowburn, fix it, from friends to lovers, canon typical violence

Disclaimer:

English is not my first language. This fanfiction doesn't strictly follow the canon. And I'm a slow writer :)

I love reasonable criticism. So go ahead!

This fanfiction is also posted on ao3.

That's all. Enjoy the chapter!

***

A Jedi initiate Obi-Wan Kenobi walked out of a History classroom, looking pensive at notes on his datepad and then closing them with a tired sigh.

Master Aqwu finally moved from Evolution of AgriCorps to Jedi Code Establishment, which seemed a far more useful and captivating theme to Kenobi. He even asked for additional literature on the subject. However, the creche mates did not share Obi- Wan’s enthusiasm and continued to imitate writing down while they were actually sleeping. He could not blame them for lack of attention. Not when it was clearly visible that Master Aqwu preferred any tedious mission to teaching children the curves of history.

Though it would have been pretty nice to have someone who had heeded the lecture that day. Because Obi-Wan was not capable of shrugging off the incompleteness of the master’s words and texts that were given within the course.

He automatically rounded a corner to exit the Study Wing.

Master Aqwu said that Jedi numbers were much higher. About forty Jedi Temples and other objects like fortresses and libraries were built throughout the Galaxy. In a dozen of them, children were taught Jedi arts. Then the rise of the Sith came and left behind ruins.

Obi-Wan wanted to learn what had gone wrong.

“How did the Jedi of those times miss the increasing threat of the Dark Side?”, he asked Master Aqwu, almost interrupting her monotonous voice.

The master gave him a slightly exasperated look, he recalled. Obi-Wan’s curiosity was somewhat insatiable that day.

Kenobi knew he was slightly unbearable that day and did not stop.

Master Aqwu always praised interest despite her own lack of involvement. So Kenobi did not restrain himself from asking questions. It cost him several eye rolls from peers and a bit of overwhelming awkwardness, which did not really matter.

“As I mentioned before”, Master Aqwu stressed, “the techniques of the Sith had not been fully examined before this massive attack. For instance, merging with the Force and not being exposed was one of them. The Dark Side kept their whereabouts, relocations, and schemes in a strict secret as well. Even followers themselves didn’t know every detail. Few who knew didn’t dare to spread information, fearing awful consequences”.

Obi-Wan frowned.

“But to destroy Temples they needed a decent amount of support. It is impossible to control what so many recruits and allies say. Something might have slipped”

“Pieces of details did”, the master nodded.

“Operations were organised on the basis of it”, she added, noticing the inquisitive glances of woken initiates.

“I see. And what kind of operations?”, Obi-Wan enquired politely.

“Well, mostly collection of information, spying missions included. It was vital not to cause panic, so our predecessors adhered to quiet politics”.

“I suppose it was a way to handle the situation”, Kenobi agreed cautiously, and did his best not to give out scepticism in his voice.

Fortunately his attempt was successful. Aqwu smiled kindly and renewed the lecture.

Obi-Wan passed by the windows. Outside them, the metal and glass of Coruscant were blazed with sunset light. He glanced at the beauty of it.

Kenobi repeated the lesson in his head to clarify if he understood correctly. The Jedi were taken aback because they did not act against the Sith openly.

Did they only make sorties to enjoy the sight of the evil Sith doing their shady deals? This passive behaviour sounded unreasonable. Not the way of the Jedi at all. Obi-Wan hoped to find answers in archives and books. In this case, he wished to be wrong in his assumptions.

Kenobi decided to hold the reading and headed to the training rooms down the hall. They must be gone by now, but he did not mind being on his own.

However, he was not the first person to think that one late practicing was good that day.

Apparently, the first one was supposed to be Bruck Chun.

Kriffing Kenobi’s luck.

“Hello-hello, Oafy-Wan. What can I see? Have you come to train your saber skills? I’m afraid it’s useless, my dear friend. Firstly, you will be sent out soon. Secondly, let’s remember that you’ve been incapable from birth. Considering your midi-chlorians and all.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes flashed with anger. He was sick of the everyday mockery of him. Often his friends were caught in the middle of it. Bruck always slithered into his mind and bit vulnerable parts like a snake. It would have been wiser to cope with him as such.

Kenobi barely contained himself from a bunch of good insults.

“Well, if I’m incapable, what are you doing here? You were here before I came”, he replied curtly, clenching fists.

Obi-Wan turned on his heels for tactical retreat. He was not in the mood for a word fight.

Bruck was not either. He despised Kenobi and did not need more to ignite his lightsaber.

“I’m here because I was guided by the Force to beat your arse”, Chun snickered and lunged.

Obi-Wan expected it and grabbed his weapon just in time to strike away Bruck’s blow.

The opponent recoiled and targeted Kenobi’s leg. Obi-Wan met the other boy’s blade, stepped back to keep distance, and redirected his lightsaber to the opened left arm. Chun parried and moved towards the rival. Obi-Wan meticulously exchanged Bruck’s attacks to his blocks.

And the track of time was lost in sparring in the empty hall.

Bruck saw that Obi-Wan was choosing mostly to catch his lightsaber hits than to make onslaughts himself. Chun pushed harder. Kenobi stubbornly raised his blade again and again, meeting blows without a miss. He played the game of waiting and reacting, no matter how tiring it was. Obi-Wan knew for sure it would lead to the win when Bruck could not carry on at full strength.

Obi-Wan firmly ducked Chun’s saber and drew his weapon above the rival’s torso to strike hard. But he quickly discovered that he should have defended longer.

Bruck’s blade swirled swiftly and jabbed his opponent’s arm. Obi-Wan hissed in pain and suppressed the urge to grasp the injured limb.

He sensed Bruck’s triumph flowing around in the Force. Kenobi cursed his impatience and the fear of being punished for fighting. Obi-Wan ignored the bitterness inside. He tried to calm down. Kenobi repeated “there is no emotion, there is peace” several times and swung his blade to cross it with Chun’s.

Obi-Wan called the Force to assist him, gritting his teeth when it was for naught.

He clashed his lightsaber against the aggressive blade of his rival. Bruck’s forehead was wet from the sweat. Kenobi could make a guess that he was not in a better shape either. Especially when his arm began to ache more. But the hope of lasting enough to win was still with him.

Obi-Wan watched Chun’s attacks closely and tried not to lose faith. After multiple moves from Bruck, Kenobi’s opponent indeed appeared to be less and less precise. Obi-Wan allowed himself to feel a bit happy about it.

Then Bruck suddenly stopped strikes. He stretched his arm forward, trying to knock down Obi-Wan with the Force.

Kenobi barely stayed on his feet. Obi-Wan was about to meet the wall by his back as he desperately attempted to dive into the Force. Obi-Wan closed his eyes. He let the Force envelop and guide him. Kenobi took a deep breath. He found it.

Obi-Wan hit the floor harshly and jumped to the height of the huge doors which lead to the training rooms. He never leapt this high.

Kenobi flipped in the air several times. His head was clear despite the spins he was making. The Force hummed pleasantly. It assured Obi-Wan of the rightness of what he was doing.

So when Kenobi launched, he stood firmly. Chun’s stance gave him an opportunity, and Obi-Wan did not hesitate. He pressed his blade against Bruck’s dominant arm with an abrupt swing. Chun yelped. A boy who taunted Obi-Wan dropped his lightsaber.

Obi-Wan summoned it and smiled broadly, not believing himself. Bruck’s weapon laid heavily in Kenobi’s hand. Obi-Wan looked at Chun's lightsaber hilt. It was a blue, shining material with twisted vines on it. There were few scratches on the handgrip.

“What a scruffy guy you are”, Kenobi teased, raising an eyebrow.

Bruck’s shock was still evident on his face. Soon, it was replaced with his hot shame.

“Don’t think you’re the best if you win once, Kenobi”. Chun spitted out.

He snatched his lightsaber out of Obi-Wan’s grip and walked away mad. His strides were long, as if Bruck hurried to get out of this hall. Obi-Wan thought it was hilarious.

He smiled even more broadly when Chun kicked the carpet on the floor.

But right after it, Kenobi’s high spirits ended sharply.

He saw how Bruck’s figure was tilting. Chun stumbled, collapsing on the floor with a thud. Obi-Wan ran towards him. Kenobi shook Bruck’s shoulder and called out his name.

Silence was the only reply.

Obi-Wan panicked. The air was sucked out of his lungs. The skin of Bruck became bluish.

They were rivals, yes, but he did not wish Chun dead.

He looked around, disoriented, and lowered to Bruck.

"The Halls of Healing were pretty far from here," the reminder raced in Obi-Wan’s head.

He measured Chun’s pulse. It was unsteady.

“It means you must move, Obi-Wan”, Kenobi ordered himself, putting his palm on Bruck’s back.

“Alright, let’s get...let’s get you to...”, Obi-Wan whispered to no one in particular.

Kenobi pulled Chun’s body to take him, brushing aside the pang in his injured arm when someone with really long hair rushed past him.

It was a girl dressed in fancy robes. Surprise filled Kenobi’s eyes.

“Leave him on the floor”, the girl got down and rolled up her sleeves.

“I’ll help him”, her voice sounded so confident that he obeyed.

Obi-Wan did not know what to do with his hands.

What if he went too far in the sparring.

What if he should have let Bruck win.

The girl lifted Bruck’s legs and bent them at the knees. She slackened Chun’s collar of his Jedi apparel. The girl rested her hand on his chest. Obi-Wan, who stood frozen until this sight, turned away, feeling oddly embarrassed.

“How long does your friend have problems with his heart?”, she asked, almost demanding.

The girl met his gaze, which he had brought back to see the passed out boy. Her irises were yellow. Obi-Wan dismissed the stupid Sith association, thinking about what she had just said.

Worry sank in his mind. He frowned.

“What? The heart problem?”, he encountered himself struggling with words and cleared his throat.

Instead of continuing the talk, she closed her eyes. The air buzzed as the swarm of invisible insects dashed to the girl’s pressed palm. The Force concentrated around her fingers. Obi-Wan stared in awe as waves of energy seeped past him to her. The skin tone of Bruck was lightning to normal colour.

“His heart beats as it should”, the girl breathed out in relief and distanced from Chun.

Kenobi noticed the tremble of the girl’s hands before she hid them in the rich fabric of her clothes.

At the end of the hall, several figures accompanied by droids came out. A woman and a man floated graciously behind Master Yoda. Their robes were embroidered with the same patterns the girl wore.

The girl and Obi-Wan hurried to stand up.

Master Yoda spoke up first.

“Lucky we are today. All the missed children we at once have found”, he chuckled.

“Obi-Wan, what misfortune with Bruck has occurred?”

“He fainted, Master Yoda”, Kenobi said, deciding not to elaborate.

Obi-Wan realised his brevity was spotted immediately. However, he could not help but want to keep himself unexecuted longer.

“I see”, Yoda hummed, “to the Halls of Healing you should Bruck take”.

Obi-Wan bowed and moved to Chun, but the girl politely intruded.

“Master Yoda, if my experience, not so extensive as it is currently, is any indication of how to treat patients, you should leave the passed out boy on the floor for some time. Otherwise, it can lead to repeated fainting as the passed out boy evidently suffers from heart disease. He will need a rest and a full examination. I’m sure his friend Obi-Wan will give the boy a hand as he tried to do when I came here. He will take the passed out boy to the Halls of Healing when he wakes. I suppose it’s necessary as my parents and I are needed to take care of the health of one of your masters. I deeply apologise for causing an obstacle through my absence. I heard many wonderful stories about Jedi Temple and wished to see it personally as soon as possible”.

She deeply bowed, imitating Obi-Wan’s manner. Her parents shared a smile with each other, albeit secretly and not ruining their composure. Master Yoda seemed amused as well, rubbing his chin.

Obi-Wan was quite flustered. His thoughts were darting. The girl called Bruck “the passed out boy” several times, even though she remembered Obi-Wan’s name from Yoda’s words. Obi-Wan swore she mocked Bruck.

But most importantly, the girl saved him from being punished. Not entirely, yes, but she did it.

And she did it for him.

Obi-Wan blushed and tried to conceal it.

“I should apologise for my long talking as well, I assume”, she said sheepishly, “it might have been tiring to listen”.

“Long you were speaking but making good points you were”, Yoda calmed the girl.

“Your advice we should listen. Obi-Wan, wait when Bruck wakes up and to the Halls take him. And I our guests will lead”.

The group proceeded, now the girl closed the procession. She winked at him and turned away.

Obi-Wan strangely felt warm.

#ao3 fanfic #obi wan kenobi #obi wan kenobi x reader #star wars #obi wan x reader #kenobi series

[heilith]

For the gif ask game! Possibly with either Haldir or Legolas. 💕

Hey! An awfully jumpy and incoherent Haldir for you. :) Enjoy and don't hate me.

P.S. Let me know if there're any mistakes, my eye has turned soapy.

The art is by Khrymson-Taibhsean

@lathalea @fizzyxcustard  @absentmindeduniverse @court-jobi @middleearthpixie @sotwk @emmyspov @evenstaredits @guardianofrivendell  @way-too-addicted-to-fandoms @asgardianhobbit98  @a-music-undergrad @errruvande

The intrusion into your personal space was as masterful as it was unexpected.

In sober truth, you’d thought it out badly, and were courting danger since the moment you had stepped onto the same talan with him and nodded softly in response to his reserved greeting.

But you played on, with your smiles, with your wit, even with your silence.

Whatever came out of it was your own goal and doing…

The twilight was his friend more than it was yours. All it could do for you was to conceal the colour that had rushed to your face at being locked in ice-cold arms and pulled into an embrace so intimate it had you freeze in your skin, too.

“Be calm. I mean no harm.”      

“Haldir…”

You couldn’t tell whose heart had skipped a bit - the single throb echoed in your chest unpleasantly. It would have made you so much calmer, had you been sure it was yours.  

“You sought for my affection. Why does it pain you to accept it?”

The tone of detached curiosity clashed with the softness of his hand, running down your hair slowly, with little intention to stop, as if you were begging him for it.

His touch was plain and perfect. Careful, marked with respect and yet heavy with a promise of better things to come. And sweet. A true dream of a maiden in love.   

Oh, how you would have triumphed by now…had he been not him.

It helped you to remember why you’d come here for. And it helped you to close your eyes, when he brought your palm against his face – why was he so cold still? – and leaned into it to admit to his surrender.  

It felt like the kiss would leave a flaming mark on you for weeks ahead...

It all ended as abruptly as it had started.

In one fleeting second, his arms were no longer around you. You tried and failed to recollect when he had managed to get himself out of your reach, let alone your touch.  

“He left,” said he, the level gaze holding your uncomprehending one, “You can go now, too.”

You betrayed yourself too quickly. Against your will your glance darted to the talan mallorns and mallorns away from yours.

Empty.

The clipped chuckle from the direction of your companion told you there was no use in more pretense.   

“Why did you do this, Haldir?”

He shrugged, as though the reason was self-evident.

You nearly hated him for that knowing look.  

“You wanted him jealous. What else was I to do to grant you your wish?”

You didn’t utter a word of apology. He didn’t expect any, you supposed, seeing how he already turned away from you, seemingly distracted by some tiny motion in the depth of the woods.  

And yet you’d barely moved to leave, before he spoke again, his voice lower than you could expect it.

“Y/N, why me?”

The question was the only one you could answer without much thinking.

“Because you wouldn’t care.”

A short sound came out of the Warden’s lips, a laugh he swallowed almost immediately, offensive with its bitterness.

“Next time you come for someone’s jealousy…,” he paused just to go on with an effort one long moment after, “Bear in mind that I can offer mine.”

#haldir #haldir x reader #drabbles

[separatist-apologist]

A Tight Little Skirt

Summary: If Feyre wants to graduate on time she can't fail her algebra class- again. What do artists need to know math for, anyway?

Her professor intends to explain just how important a thorough education is.

For the college/university AU of Feysand month @unofficialfeysandmonth2022

Teacher/student romance. All adults but know your limits

Feyre Archeron was never going to be a math person.

Case in point—she was in Dr. Rhysand Moreno’s class again, surrounded by baby-faced freshmen despite her status as a junior. When was she ever going to need to know algebraic formulas with an art degree? 

She’d failed his class once already. It wasn’t her professor's fault, though she would have liked to blame him. Dr. Moreno had sent several emails offering help after class, and had recommended tutors and math games she could play that might help bring up her grades. Back then, Feyre had ignored them all. She didn’t want to spend her free time learning to solve for x when she could be in the studio painting.

If she failed again, Feyre was in danger of losing her scholarship. This go around, she had to take his class seriously, an impossible task for two wholly different reasons. The first, of course, was that math was made-up bullshit and everyone who was good at it was entirely too smug.

And the second was Dr. Moreno’s stupid, ridiculous, utterly ethereal good looks. He was distractingly hot, and everyone was aware of it. Every day he strolled in dressed in tight pants and a crisp buttoned-up shirt. He’d roll the sleeves up his elbows, letting everyone see the corded muscle of his golden brown arms. 

His dark, blue-black hair was perfectly styled off his face though when he got excited a lock of it would flop into his violet eyes. Every inch of his muscular body was on display, despite his professional clothes. He made derivatives sexy somehow—Feyre often caught herself staring at the sensual curve of his lips or the impressive cut of his jaw.

Sometimes her eyes drifted between his legs and she wondered if he was lovely there, too. 

Feyre had tried so hard to take anyone else's class. The problem was the exact same as it had been when she was a freshman—Dr. Moreno taught at night, and during the day Feyre liked to sleep late and paint in the afternoon. 

She kept to the back of the class, ignoring Dr. Moreno’s cheerful emails, and refusing to participate. She’d done her best to study, and yet when he called her up to pick up her first test, and Feyre saw her grade—a pathetic 27, he stopped her from retreating back to her desk.

“Let’s talk after class,” he murmured in his rich, dark voice. Feyre suppressed the shiver threatening to overtake her. He was only her professor—he wanted to help, and it was her with the problem.

Everyone knew he was hot. Even as she walked to her chair, Feyre saw the way the majority of the female eyes were on him, sliding down his broad body like a lover's caress. How many of them offered to get on their knees for a little extra credit? Feyre shook her head, pulled out her iPad, and began doodling even as Dr. Moreno started teaching. 

This was why she was failing. She knew it, and judging by the disapproving stare on his handsome face when she looked up, he knew it, too. Feyre hung back while the rest of the room filed out. It took forever. Half the class lined up to giggle and talk to him, leaving Feyre to watch the spectacle. It was embarrassing, though she couldn’t explain why.

If it bothered him, he didn’t say. He smiled and answered questions politely, all the while directing particularly flirtatious students to the tutoring center on campus or his office hours. She supposed he didn’t trust her to do either—or he meant to lecture her for the next ten minutes about the importance of math.

“Do you have somewhere to be anytime soon, Ms. Archeron?” he asked, half sitting against the table at the front of the room.

“No,” she admitted. Just her bed, where she’d lay and pretend it wasn’t his face she was thinking about as she pulled the vibrating toy from her bedside table. 

“Good. Let's take this to my office.”

“Professor—” he raised a hand, effectively silencing her as he stood. Feyre sighed, gathering up her bag and following him out into the sanitized, gray-tiled hall of the university.

“I’m upstairs,” he explained, pulling open the stairwell door and gesturing for her to go up. Feyre didn’t dare look at him, though the height difference between them was making her feel a little light-headed. Did he need to be so tall? Couldn’t he have pursued a career in modeling or acting instead of harassing her with his good looks while she was trying to skate through math? 

Dr. Moreno led her down a narrow hall that looked distinctly older than the one they just left. Wooden doors with the names of professors lined the wall in golden plaques. Down, down, down, until he pulled a key from his pocket and opened his own door for her.

It was exactly what she might have expected from him. A large, dark mahogany desk was the focal point of the room. Positioned in front of a shaded window and overlooking a wall of shelves covered in books—mainly about math—, Feyre thought it was the sort of office a professor ought to have. He even had a little globe of the world that she spun with her fingers as she made her way to one of the leather chairs on the opposite end of his own.

He perched himself atop his desk, legs slightly spread as he looked down at her. She couldn’t help but notice that he’d closed the door behind him. 

“Do you intend to fail my class twice?” he asked her, folding his hands in his lap. 

Feyre sighed. “I’m doing my best.”

His smirk was infuriating. “Oh? Is drawing during my lecture your best attempt at learning?”

Embarrassment and shame flooded her cheeks. Looking down at her paint-splattered shoes, Feyre mumbled, “I don’t get math.”

“What don’t you get?” he asked, his tone reasonable. “Let's drag a whiteboard in here and sort out your misunderstanding.”

“I don’t get any of it,” Feyre explained desperately, daring to look back up at him. That was a mistake—the excited intensity in his gaze made her heart race. He liked math and she liked him.

How was she supposed to learn what integers were from someone with his face? “Maybe I should go to the tutoring center.”

At least there she’d get someone her own age. Someone who didn’t look like he belonged on the cover of a magazine. 

He rubbed his fingers over his lips. “You won’t. Why don’t we cover the basics today, and build from there in weekly sessions? You don’t have to be an expert…you’re an art major, correct?”

“How did you know?” she asked, hating how breathless she sounded.

“There’s paint on your cheek,” he told her, reaching out one of his large, strong hands to touch her skin. “I wish I could say this is the first time I’ve seen it…but it’s not.”

Oh, God. Feyre swallowed hard. “Yeah, I’m an art major.”

“Well, c’s get art degrees,” he told her, dropping his hand back to his lap. “Now. Let’s start with derivatives.” 

It was a miserable hour of sitting across from Dr. Moreno as he explained the concept of derivatives. Feyre did her best, but it was clear by the time they’d hit the forty-five minute mark that she’d only absorbed about a third of what he’d told her. His face was closer, watching her write out the formula with disapproving eyes. Even if she memorized the formula, that didn’t mean Feyre could magically solve the equations he kept offering up.

It was obvious that this, at least to him, was simple. Frustrated, Feyre rose from her chair, tossing his pad of paper back to his desk. 

“This is a waste of time,” she told him dismissively. “Just fail me.”

“Sit back down,” he ordered, his voice devoid of the warmth from earlier. Feyre froze, looking over her shoulder as he stood. “I’m not done with you.”

“I…”

“You’re not sufficiently motivated,” he continued, watching with unamused eyes as she sat back in her chair. 

“I’m not good at math,” Feyre squeaked, clenching her fists in her lap while he came ever closer. Dr. Moreno bracketed her body, his hands bracing the arm of her chair as his legs straddled her waist. He brought his face closer, dragging the rich, masculine scent of sea salt and citrus with him.

“You’re not being a good girl, Feyre.” T

he sound that erupted from her throat betrayed her. 

A smile curled over his mouth. “That’s what I thought. You need a reward for all your hard work, don’t you, Feyre darling?”

“I…”

He straightened, leaning for the pad she’d tossed on his desk. Feyre’s eyes slid to his legs and the noticeable bulge just between. He handed it back to her, daring her to tell him no. Feyre didn’t, not when some strange fantasy was playing out in his little office. She was committed if only so she had a coherent story for the title nine office. 

“Solve this correctly,” he murmured, handing her a pen. “And I’ll give my good girl a reward.”

“What kind of reward?”

“Find out.”

She could guess, from the way he was angling his hips away from her, that his idea of a reward involved bending her over his desk. Feyre was shrewd enough to recognize that maybe he’d been hoping for this for a while. All those offers to tutor her two years ago seemed less benevolent and more calculated given his closed office door and the fact that he seemed six seconds from bending her over his knee and spanking her.

She was going to let him fuck her—but she was going to get something out of it, too. 

And so, Feyre solved it purposefully wrong. She didn’t know if she would have gotten it right had she tried, but she knew he recognized that she’d rushed through it, coming to the wrong answer before offering up his pen with a saccharine smile. 

“How’s that, professor?”

His sigh was long-suffering. “You didn’t even try.” “How am I supposed to focus?” Feyre asked, sliding to the very edge of her chair so she could drag a finger over his muscular thigh. “When my teacher looks like a fucking god?”

He sucked in a soft breath and Feyre almost laughed. She sank to her knees between his still-parted thighs and reached for the buckle of his belt. 

“I’m trying to pay attention,” she lied, pulling the black leather from the loops and tossing it loudly to the floor. He didn’t move, didn’t seem to breathe as she worked. “But all I can think about is what you look like naked.”

Their eyes met. “Is that so?” he asked, arching one of his well-groomed brows.

She undid the button of his pants with her teeth. He had to be in his early thirties, while Feyre was twenty-two—how many other women just like her had gotten on their knees in his office for a passing grade?

And why was she so jealous? 

Feyre reached into his pants, unprepared for what she’d find. If there was a god, he surely played favorites. Dr. Moreno, with his beautiful face, had an equally beautiful cock. Thick enough she just barely got her hand around it, and so long there was no way she’d be able to impress him by taking all of it. Not without giving herself an injury, though, for a passing grade in his class, she thought she’d try.

“I knew it,” she lied, letting her breath fan against the hard, swollen skin of his erection. He gripped the edge of his desk, watching her hold him in her hand. For one moment, Feyre’s panic replaced her lust. What the fuck was she doing? He was her teacher. She could get in trouble and could fuck up her entire academic career.

“Feyre,” he whispered, drawing her thoughts back to the present. White knuckling his desk, her professor looked like he was just barely keeping himself together.

“Yes, Dr—”

“Rhys,” he panted, gathering up her hair to hold off her face. “My name is Rhys.”

She held his gaze. “What do you need, Rhys?”

“Suck me,” he whispered, his eyes rolling upwards when she dragged just her lips over the underside of his cock. “Please.”

“I want a passing grade on my next test,” she said quickly, catching the way his expression darkened. Feyre punctuated her request by doing exactly as he asked. She swallowed as much of him into her throat as she could manage, using her tongue over every inch of his bruisingly hard skin. 

He groaned softly, fingers tightening in her hair. Feyre was good with her mouth, had always had a talent for sucking men. Her professor might have a Ph.D. in math and might have been respected in his field, and yet Feyre could bring him low like he was no better than some half-drunk frat boy getting a blowjob in the bathroom. 

Feyre used her hand to make up the difference, sliding up and down his skin in time with her aching jaw. Above her, Rhys was mostly silent, though his jerking hips betrayed his need. She was pulling out all the stops—if she was going to suck him off for a passing grade, she might as well make it memorable. She wanted him to think about it every time one of her tests came across his desk. 

Feyre hollowed out her cheeks, sucking him deeper into her throat. He gripped her hair roughly, pulling her off him with a wet pop. Strings of saliva hung between them, wiped on the back of her hand as he dragged her to her feet.

“If you want a passing grade in my class, you’re gonna have to do a lot more than choke down my cock,” he growled, yanking her closer for a bruising kiss. Rough hands pulled at her shirt while his tongue explored her mouth, filling her with the dark, intoxicating taste of whatever alcohol he’d been drinking. Feyre could only cling to his muscular shoulders, remembering at the very last minute that his cock was still pressed against her hip.

She stroked, rubbing her thumb over the tip to tease at the moisture beaded over his slit. Rhys groaned softly, hips bucking in her hand even as he removed her bra with one very skilled hand. It was impossible to say who had the upper hand at that moment—Rhys was letting her pump him like a horny high school boy, but Feyre was so wet she could feel it dripping into her panties. 

“You and those fucking skirts,” he groaned, teeth grazing her neck as he pushed her shirt from her shoulders. “Sometimes I imagine you spreading your legs under your desk, and I get to see what’s between.”

She moaned softly. “Would you like me to sit in the front row next week?” she asked, arching her back when his lips sucked against the slope of her collarbone. His cock jumped in her hand, answering even when he did not. 

She hadn’t realized his hand was on the clasp of her bra until it fell to the floor. He took a second to admire her even as she pumped him through his pants. She took a step towards him to free of him his own clothes but Rhys put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her back into the chair.

“Another equation, Ferye,” he said, as if his dick wasn’t jutting against the teeth of his zipper. “Only good girls get rewarded.”

She sighed loudly, reaching for one of her nipples. Rhys swatted at her hand and wrote yet another equation for her to solve. “Solve it correctly and I’ll give you something you want.”

“You’ll take all your clothes off?” she asked. Surprise flashed over his features and she wondered if he’d thought she wanted him to fuck her. Which, to be fair, Feyre very much wanted. If he was going to torment her, why shouldn’t she? Feyre stood with enough force her tits bounced. Rhys watched with parted lips, even as he offered her up the marker. 

“An artist doesn’t need to know math,” she reminded him.

“If you want to keep touching my cock, you need to be able to solve for x,” was his infuriating response. 

Feyre did try that time, though, from the way he watched, she could see it was still wrong. 

“You forgot to isolate the variable,” he murmured, rising from where he’d been leaning to show her the missed step. One hand slid over her bare shoulders while the other plucked the marker from her hands and drew an arrow, showing how she ought to have done it.

“Well,” she retorted defensively, “I tried.”

“Yes, darling. You did so well,” he praised, eyes bright. Feyre was surprised by how much she liked that look of pleasure—and how much she wanted to try in order to keep it from slipping into disappointment. 

“And my reward?” She tried to tease, but Feyre was far too breathless. 

“I am a man of my word,” he agreed, already working the buttons on his shirt. Feyre was antsy with anticipation as inch after inch of his golden skin was revealed. Dark whorls of ink covered his shoulders and biceps, begging her to trace each line with her tongue. She wondered what they meant, but found herself far too distracted by the cut of his abdomen and the enticing trail of dark hair that slipped into his pants. 

He remedied that quickly, pushing his dark pants over his muscular hips. “Jesus,” she whispered at the sight of his powerful body.

“I like to work out,” he told her, flexing his bicep ever so slightly. Standing, Feyre tried to run a hand over the vein trailing the side of his stomach but Rhys caught her wrist. 

“What about my reward?” 

“What do you want?” she asked, unsure what he’d done to earn a reward. Perhaps his mere existence was enough to earn anything he wanted. She sure felt compelled to give it to him, especially when he turned her around and hefted her up on his desk.

“What’s under your skirt?” he asked, eyes wholly focused on her. 

“Find out.”

“Fuck, Feyre,” he whispered, though he did exactly as she told him to. His fingers were callused, catching over the smooth skin of her thigh as he went up, up, up. She arched when they brushed over the damp fabric of her underwear. He sucked a breath through his teeth, the proof of her arousal clinging to his fingers. 

“Take off that fucking skirt,” he whispered, his eyes burning with heat. “Before I rip it to pieces.”

Feyre hooked her fingers against the hem, sliding them back and forth with idle strokes. Her gaze never left his face, drowning in his own unguarded arousal. She felt powerful—seen, even—to have a man like him want her the way he did. 

“Feyre,” he growled. She lifted her hips and shimmied out of the fabric, adding it to their ever-growing pile. She wondered what would happen if someone walked in, if they saw their clothes strewn about, Rhys naked with an utterly erect cock and Feyre splayed out in a chair wearing nothing but a pair of blue boyshort underwear. 

“Do you study art or are you the art?” he whispered with appreciation. Feyre squirmed beneath his gaze, suddenly embarrassed. Rhys was on his knees in a flash, one hand gripping his cock while the other pushed her legs further apart so they draped over the arms of the chair. 

“Pretty, pretty Feyre,” he whispered, kissing her inner thigh. “I was so excited to see you on my roster again.”

“Yeah?” Feyre’s lashes fluttered when his lips kissed her through her panties. 

“I was going to bide my time,” he said, tongue tracing the outline of her. The combination of his hot breath and the fabric dragging over her sensitive folds was making Feyre needy. Desperate, even. “Wait until you graduate. But at this rate, you’re never going to finish, and I want to take you out.”

“Take me out?” she questioned as his finger hooked against the strip of fabric still covering her pussy. “Or eat me out?”

“Who says those two things are mutually exclusive?” he replied, eyes flicking to her face. “I treat you to dinner…you provide dessert…I believe that is what is called going dutch–”

“You know that’s not true!”

He slid his finger up the center of her, coating his skin in her sticky arousal. “There are a lot of things I don’t know. Like how you taste.”

Rhys dipped his finger into his mouth while she watched, sucking himself clean. Feyre was losing her mind. She was tired of his game, of his teasing—he wanted to taste her? Then he should put his literal mouth where his money was. Feyre leaned forward, threading her fingers through the thick strands of his dark hair, and pulled him against her. His eyes sparkled with delight, though the only sound he made was a heady groan. Feyre wondered why he hadn’t taken her underwear off until he bunched them in his hand, using the fabric to rub against her aching skin while his tongue found her clit. 

Feyre arched out of the chair, held steady by one of his broad hands against her hips. Rhys moaned, punctuating his earlier desire to eat her for dessert nicely. Feyre was used to college-aged men—boys, she supposed. She got on her knees and they sent her home to a vibrating wand. If they did go down, it was short and often lazy.

Rhys was an expert. She was tempted to ask if his Ph.D. was also in pleasuring, given how well he worked his tongue in tandem with her own clothes. And when he tired of the teasing, Rhys yanked them roughly off her, tossing them to his desk like they were his little trophy. 

“Don’t let me catch you wearing those to my class again,” he warned, putting his mouth back against her before she could argue. She fully intended to bring his fantasy to life next week, if only to see how smooth he was when she had her pussy out in class. 

“Rhys,” she pleaded, still gripping his hair. Feyre’s hips rolled against his face, grinding desperately as she pulsed upwards. He groaned again, pushing a long, strong finger into her body. Feyre was desperate for anything to hold, and the added friction against her sensitive walls only drove her closer, faster. 

Release gathered along her spine, making her mindless. She didn’t want to be done and couldn’t stop herself from chasing how good the wet glide of his tongue was. It was the first orgasm she’d had without her own help in ages. She wondered if he knew. Vowing she’d tell him later, Feyre let go of her remaining restraint just in time for Rhys to clap his hand over her mouth, silencing her as she came. Feyre couldn’t breathe and didn’t care, chasing the incandescent pleasure that rolled through her like a mindless creature. Rhys rode her through it, withdrawing his hand long enough to stand and grip his own cock.

“Holy shit,” he whispered reverently, eyes burning. It was Rhys’s turn to fist his hand in her hair. Feyre lifted up on her elbows, expecting to be put back on her knees. Instead, Rhys offered her a messy kiss that tasted like her own arousal while he notched the head of his cock against her.

Feyre couldn’t say a word, not when her tongue was just behind his teeth, drinking in the heady, masculine taste of him. Instead, Feyre wrapped her legs around his waist and dug her heels into his ass, forcing him to thrust himself fully into her. 

She hadn’t been prepared—not like she thought she was. Rhys was big, stretching her far beyond regular capacity. She realized, when he grunted with surprise, that he’d meant to ease his way into her and let her adjust inch by inch. Now Feyre had to remind herself to breathe, the walls of her still convulsing pussy clenching tight around him.

“Feyre,” he gasped, kissing her again and again, each time whispering her name. Like he was coming undone, like he, too, had been robbed of every last inch of air from his lungs. “My pretty Feyre.”

She didn’t know who was panting harder. All she knew was her nails digging against his muscled shoulder blades, tongue sliding over each inky whorl of his tattoo. Rhys began to shift, pulling himself out with small strokes while Feyre adjusted to the fullness. In one fluid motion, Rhys had managed to ruin her for all other men. How was she supposed to move on, knowing sex could feel like this? 

“More,” she pleaded, tired of their games. He nodded, nipping at the crease of her neck and shoulder. Rhys held her tightly, smushing her breasts against his firm chest as he dragged himself all the way out of her body. Feyre whined, turning to kiss him as an incentive to return.

Rhys thrust roughly, just like that first time. She arched against him, the walls of her cunt tightening.

“You take my cock so well,” he praised, repeating the motion again and again, like he was trying to recapture that first moment. “You were born to hold my cock.”

How he managed to remain coherent, Feyre couldn’t say. All she had were her soft, whimpering moans of agreement and the new onslaught of arousal threatening to wash her away. 

“Are you going to stay very quiet for me?” he whispered, lips pressed to her jaw. When had he wrapped his hand around her throat, she wondered. Feyre nodded, looking up into his eyes. Rhys was wild, his pupils blown, his cheeks flushed. He looked like a dark god, like some fantasy creature released from its mortal bindings. 

“No one gets to hear you come but me, do they?” he continued, his hips working her harder. Rhys had some kind of otherworldly skill, dragging the silken head of his cock over just the right spot until her pussy was drenched and her orgasm was building again. Twice in the same day had once been a fever dream to her. 

“I want to feel you come on my cock, Feyre. Darling, come for me,” he whispered, fingers tightening against her throat. “Come for me so I can fuck you again.”

Whatever magic he’d cast around them seemed to converge right then. Feyre, who’d never liked when men bossed her around during sex, did exactly as she was told. His free hand was once against covering her lips, keeping her from screaming like she wanted to. She felt his bruising pace stutter, like he’d lost control of himself. Rhys groaned into her hair, eyes squeezed shut. He thrust deeper, like he was trying to physically connect them in an unbreakable way. It was instinct, to want to drive as much of himself into her as he could, and the sensation only heightened Feyre’s own arousal.

He panted, spending himself inside her until there was nothing left of either of them. Only the shared breath between them once he pulled his hands from her mouth and throat.

“Take me out of here,” she whispered, brushing a piece of hair from his face. “I want to be loud.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, clearly dazed. “Yeah. My bed is…we could…fuck, maybe the couch or—”

“Let's start by getting dressed,” she suggested, gently pushing the pleasant weight of his heavy body off of her. Rhys ran a hand through his hair, wincing when he pulled his cock out of her body. A flood of their shared release slid to the floor, proof they’d done something. He watched with wide eyes and she wondered if regret was seeping in. If he wasn’t suddenly realizing what he’d done and that he shouldn’t have.

“On second thought,” he murmured, sliding back to the floor to push her legs open again. “Maybe we’ll stay here a little longer. Hm, Feyre darling?”

“You can’t be—” his mouth was back against her clit, fingers pushing into her body without preamble. Rhys was very serious. 

And Feyre was happy to let him do whatever he liked.

#feysand month #feysand month 2022 #feysand #feyre archeron x rhysand #feyre archeron #rhysand #shameless smut

[whumpcloud]

Things End | People Change - A Pleasure To Meet You

taglist: @whumpsday @whumpycries @whumpwillow @why-not-ask-me-a-better-question @whumpshaped @suspicious-whumping-egg @chibichibivale @melancholy-in-the-morning

content: vampire whumper, creepy/intimate whump, manipulation, period-typical (1820s Europe) attitudes about gender and relationships, frankly lyfelde is an older man who is uncomfortably predatory towards a younger man and i'm not sure how else to warn for it so there

Vincent is, as he often is, utterly stupefied and unable to think of the right words to say.

His eyes glance to the fingers brushing his jaw, then to the man in front of him, then to his jaw again, where the hand has been drawn back just as quickly as it was placed.

"Apologies," the man says, and his voice is certainly not tinged with a French accent, but Vincent can't place it at all. "I thought you were someone else."

The glint in the man's eye seems untrustworthy, but Vincent isn't going to be rude and accuse him of lying.

"I, um--" Vincent clears his throat. "Is that not still… quite…"

"Odd? Forward? Yes." The man sighs and gestures vaguely. "I've really no patience for such etiquette. I like to be close with my companions."

"No, I meant…" Vincent feels small. This man's presence makes his hands shake. "To do to another man, in particular. Perhaps if the companion you were seeking was a close female companion, but I… I hope you didn't mistake me for one, however briefly."

The man rolls his eyes. "Again, I've no patience. Why should anyone get to dictate exactly how I interact with the people around me? It's ridiculous, really."

Ridiculous? Etiquette is Vincent's lifeline. It's the only way he understands society, learned from watching how effortlessly Henry would glide around rooms, letting Vincent all but cling to him, excusing Vincent's actions with a charming smile and an Ah, my brother. He's a little shy.

"You're English, aren't you?" the man says, tilting his head in curiosity. "You speak French like an Englishman."

"U-Um, yes, sir," Vincent nods.

"Excellent," the man says, in English. "I'd rather speak to you in the language you're most comfortable in. Ambrose Lyfelde."

Vincent swallows. He has no real way to back out of the conversation now. He holds out his hand. "Vincent Maddox, sir. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Vincent." Lyfelde says Vincent's name as though he's tasting it. "Wonderful to meet you, Vincent."

Being on first name terms with a stranger is so deeply unnatural that Vincent almost corrects him, but he bites his tongue. He absolutely cannot do that, especially not with the way this man carries himself. If his attitude didn't suggest otherwise, Vincent would guess that Lyfelde was of noble birth. Even failing that, Lyfelde is clearly much older than Vincent, and Vincent is socially aware enough to realise he should defer.

"You've been standing rather awkwardly by this table for a while, Vincent." Lyfelde smiles disarmingly. "Are you here alone?"

"Yes, Mr Lyfelde," Vincent says, dropping his hand - Lyfelde doesn't appear interested in shaking it - and attempting to return the smile. "Most unfortunately."

"No friends could accompany you?"

"No friends to accompany me, sir," Vincent replies. "As you noted, I'm an Englishman. I'm on a study trip."

"Oh!" That sets Lyfelde's golden eyes alight. "Oxford or Cambridge, perhaps?"

"Oxford, sir."

"Oxford, wonderful."

It's half a lie, Vincent supposes. There's certainly a lot to be learned about the arts and culture in France, were he so inclined. But it is simply the summer before the final year of his degree, and that is far too much of an ending for comfort, and all Vincent wants to do is postpone thinking about it as much as possible.

"What do you study?" Lyfelde asks.

"I mean no d-disrespect, sir, but I feel a little interrogated," Vincent says, doing his best not to stammer. "You walked up to me and simply decided we were speaking. I was under the impression you were searching for someone?"

Lyfelde laughs, a soft laugh, though not quite a kind one. "I do apologise. I was not, I simply thought I recognised you by happenstance. I'm making idle conversation with a lonely young man. Is that disallowed?"

Lonely? Is he being insulted? Vincent genuinely isn't sure.

"Of course not, Mr Lyfelde," Vincent mumbles. "...I'm studying classics."

"Classics! You must be rather bright."

Vincent blinks, and glances away. "I- I wouldn't say so, sir."

"Don't put yourself down," Lyfelde says, rolling his eyes. "Studying a thing as nebulous and complicated as the arts requires a lot of work. You're certainly more intelligent than I in those matters."

"Oh." Vincent feels his face grow warm. "Thank you, sir. I don't often get complimented on my intelligence."

If Vincent was more worldly, more experienced, more mature, he'd notice the way Lyfelde's closed-mouth smile widens a fraction, the way his fingers twitch as he resists reaching out, how much closer he's gotten since the conversation began.

"Forgive me, but you look awfully uncomfortable among this crowd," Lyfelde says. "Perhaps we should go somewhere quiet?"

Vincent isn't quite sure why he goes along with it. Lyfelde simply takes him by the arm and Vincent doesn't have the wherewithal to refuse or to stop him. He is simply led along, out of the halls and onto the near-silent, darkened streets.

"There, isn't the fresh air much better?" Lyfelde says.

Vincent takes a deep breath, then nods. "It… it is, yes. Thank you, sir."

Lyfelde leans on his cane, watching Vincent with curious eyes. "You're a very reserved one, aren't you?"

"I don't make an effort to be," Vincent replies. "I a-apologise if I have put you off, sir."

"No, no." Lyfelde has to keep from laughing as Vincent breathes a sigh of relief. Pathetic. "Come here. What are you standing so far for?"

Vincent hesitantly steps forward. Lyfelde raises his eyebrows, and finally smiles to show his teeth.

Fangs.

Vincent doesn't get to scream as he's pressed against the wall, out of sight of any passerbys, Lyfelde's hand crushing his throat. He's a fool to trust a stranger the way he did, and they will not hear of his death for weeks and they will not know how he died, because who in the world would believe a vampire had killed him?

But Lyfelde doesn't. He stares at Vincent pathetically gasping for air, and leans in. That Vincent can't feel the man's breath on his skin is the most unsettling part of it.

"It's so interesting," Lyfelde whispers. "How humans value air. It's so easy to rip away, don't you think?"

Vincent whimpers, scratching at the hand around his throat. Lyfelde lets go, and Vincent drops to the ground, coughing and wheezing. The moment he tries to stand, Lyfelde presses his cane to Vincent's chest. The pressure is enough to let him know that Lyfelde could break his bones and think nothing of it.

He stays still.

"Oh, you're good," Lyfelde laughs, tipping the cane so it knocks against Vincent's chin. "Look up at me."

Vincent obeys. What other option does he have?

"When was the last time someone praised you?" Lyfelde asks, like he isn't a creature holding Vincent hostage. "Other than me, of course."

"U-Um." Vincent's mind races to think of an answer. "A few… months ago? A lecturer praised my essay on- on architecture."

Lyfelde's laugh is startling, and Vincent shrinks into himself.

"I was going to drain you," Lyfelde grins, like a predator toying with his prey, and Vincent is so acutely aware that he is the prey. "Foreign student, all alone, so easy to lure in with just a little social nicety. You make the perfect victim, you really do."

No, he won't be a victim, he won't let this happen! But the moment Vincent resolves to do anything, Lyfelde leans down, and all he can do in his panic is weakly cry out in the desperate hope someone will hear him.

No-one does.

"But I think killing you would be a waste of the mind in that pretty head." Lyfelde taps Vincent's skull with his cane. Pretty? "So I'm going to offer you something."

"I d-don't--" Vincent tries not to let it show as tears fill his eyes. "Stop it, just let me--"

"Shh, shh," Lyfelde says, almost like one would to a wailing child. "Hear me out, would you? Being the way I am isn't quite so terrifying as you seem to think it is."

"I don't understand, please--"

"Shh." Lyfelde leans in closer, and Vincent shuts his mouth. "There we are. You'll understand, I think, if you see it."

Lyfelde produces a card from his coat, and places it in Vincent's trembling hands.

"My current address," Lyfelde smiles, and Vincent can see the fangs even in the darkness and he wishes he had the strength or the courage to at least try to get away. "Call on me, if you'd like. I have a few friends who you should meet. I think you'd make an excellent vampire, Vincent Maddox. You just need a little convincing."

Lyfelde lets the cane fall to the side and grips Vincent's jaw. Vincent whimpers, eyes wide, as Lyfelde tugs and forces him to bare his throat.

"Shh, now, it won't be painful," Lyfelde whispers. "I came all this way to find tonight's meal, so I may as well feed on you while I have you in my grasp."

He's truthful, in that it doesn't hurt. Vincent's hair stands on end as the fangs sink into his throat, but the least gentle thing about it is Lyfelde's iron grip on his jaw.

"There we are," Lyfelde whispers against Vincent's neck. A few drops of blood stain the tiny wounds. "If I didn't think you'd be better turned I'd take you with me. You didn't resist at all."

Vincent swallows back any protests. It isn't as though Lyfelde's wrong. Vincent didn't move a muscle. His vision swims.

"You'll be a little dizzy, but that's all," Lyfelde grins, and picks up his cane. "Have a good night, Vincent Maddox!"

He calls it behind him as he walks away, leaving Vincent's awkward tangle of limbs on the ground. Vincent fidgets with the card, turning it between his fingers. There's not a thought in his mind, just the dazed recollection of the past few minutes and the horrible racing of his heart.

He puts it in his pocket when he finally tries to get up. There's nothing that could make him return to the gathering now, so he simply resolves to stumble home.

What is he supposed to make of any of this? He was just attacked. And yet a part of him is considering Lyfelde's offer.

Call on me. For what, exactly? Lyfelde seemed to imply that he wanted Vincent to become a vampire too. Vincent wants to dismiss it as utter nonsense. He can't.

Lyfelde called him intelligent. So surely he's intelligent enough to understand what he would be walking into, were he to accept. But Lyfelde didn't turn him right then and there. He wants to watch. Wait. Convince him.

Vincent can always say no, in the end, can he not?

#polly's prose #vincent maddox #ambrose lyfelde #whump #whump writing #vampire whumper #creepy/intimate whumper #i wasn't INTENDING to post rn (girl help its 4am) but i couldn't sleep until i did #so if there are any typos or mistakes no there isn't <3 #things end | people change

[sitp-recs]

omg DOES ANYONE KNOW OF KNIGHT DRARRY AUS i would die for that

Hi anon! Yesss I’d love to see more of this trope (maybe a fic where they’re both rival knights and fall in love??). Here are some stories that came to mind:

Our Little Life by @tackytigerfic (M, 7k)

Sometimes Harry dreams. Only they're not really dreams at all, and Malfoy is always in them. It's time travel, but not as we know it, and Harry just needs a good night's sleep.

Every Kingdom by thistle_verse (E, 7k)

Every kingdom needs a prince. Every prince needs a good and useful knight. Draco and Harry play their parts and renegotiate some borders while they’re at it.

how quickly the blade becomes you by @softlystarstruck (E, 7.6k)

“I will not go down without a fight, but you must give me a fight to begin with.” Draco’s voice rings clear across the ruins of his birthright, a voice that should bring men to their knees, but the knight simply maintains a light grip on his sword, as immobile as before.

His Noble Love by keyflight790, mothermalfoy (E, 9k)

Prince Draco has been betrothed to King Thomas of Riddelia, but his path to the throne will be anything but pure.

Weapon of Choice by @lou-isfake (T, 25k)

Sir Malfoy is in need of a sword. The blacksmith isn’t supposed to ask why.

Privileges by dysonrules (M, 29k)

Alternate Universe. Harry is a false knight given the charge of a royal prince. Neither of them are happy with the arrangement and only time will tell if Harry's duplicity will be discovered.

The Compact by astolat (E, 64k)

Hermione frowned. “The real question is why the magic of Britain would be failing now, in fact.” “That is not the real question!” Ron said loudly; he’d woken up fully by now, and Harry had too; it was starting to sink in that they’d found the problem. “The real question is, how do we fix it?”

Bonus: art!

A Gallant Rescue by @kryptidfox (G)

Knight Harry heroically saves Lord Malfoy from treacherous monster.

Protector by @slytherco (G)

Harry Potter, knight and member of the Crown Guard, tasked with protecting the lives of the royal family, staring longingly at his beautiful Prince.

Dinner and Diatribes: 1 & 2 by @swymsuyt (M)

#asks #anon #Drarry reclist #knight AU

[buttersmama]

Chapter 4 (667 words)

The next time they met wasn’t planned. It happened on a cloudy afternoon when yn was rushing to the library, his mind preoccupied with the student council campaign and the never-ending assignments. As he walked through the crowded school courtyard, he failed to notice the figure approaching from the opposite direction until it was almost too late.

“watch out!” a familiar voice called out, and yn’s reflexes kicked in just in time to prevent a collision. He stumbled a step back, heart racing as he looked up to see Beomgyu standing there, an amused smile on his face.

“seems like you’re always in a hurry, yn,” beomgyu said, his tone teasing.

Yn couldn’t help but roll his eyes, though there was a small hint of lingering smile on his lips. “and you’re always where you’re not supposed to be.”

Beomgyu chuckled. “Fair point. I was actually on my way to the art room.”

Yn raised an eyebrow, suspecting. “the art room? Why? Some girl asked you to come there or something?”

Beomgyu’s smirk grew wider, and he shook his head. “nope, no confessions this week, I’m kinda worried as well. But to answer your question, I’m working on something for the campaign.”

Yn couldn’t help but get intrigued, “really? Then what are you working on?”

Beomgyu’s eyes lit up with excitement, eager to tell what he has been doing recently, “designing some posters! I thought I could put some of my talent to good use.”

“I didn’t know you were well acquainted in the art sector as well, can I see them?” yn asks

“hmm, lemme think about it,” Beomgyu teased, tapping his chin in a playful manner. "I mean, I can't just show my brilliant creations to anyone, you know. They're a work of art."

Yn couldn't help but chuckle at Beomgyu's antics. "Alright, Picasso, I'll take your word for it. But seriously, designing posters for the campaign sounds like a great idea."

Beomgyu's grin turned genuine, and he nodded in agreement. "Exactly! That's why I thought it would be a nice addition to our campaign strategy. I'm planning to make them extra vibrant and catchy to grab everyone's attention."

Yn leaned against a nearby wall, his fatigue momentarily forgotten as he listened to Beomgyu's enthusiasm. "You really seem passionate about this."

Beomgyu's expression softened, and he met Yn's gaze. "Yeah, well, I believe in making things memorable, and this campaign is important. Besides, working on it gives us a chance to, you know, spend more time together."

Yn's heart skipped a beat at Beomgyu's words. He had to admit that there was something about Beomgyu's presence that he found oddly comforting. "I suppose it does."

When they entered the art room, yn was greeted by a burst of colors and the faint scent of paint. Beomgyu’s sketches were scattered across a large table, and as yn approached, he couldn’t help but be impressed by the creativity and attention to detail in each one.

“these are amazing,” yn said genuinely, his eyes still fixated on the sketches.

Beomgyu chuckled softly, and yn felt a warm shiver run down his spine. “thanks, yn. I wanted them to reflect our school’s spirit.”

As Beomgyu explains yn each and every process for creating the enchanting posters, yn notices their shoulders against each other more than once. Every accidental touch sent a jolt of electricity through him, making it increasingly difficult for him to focus on the conversation.

Beomgyu must have sensed the tension because he suddenly ceases the talk and looks up at yn, meeting his gaze. Their eyes lock for a moment, and yn feels his cheeks flush. He wasn’t sure if it was the atmosphere of the art room or something else.

Their proximity was electrifying, and when Beomgyu finally breaks the silence, his voice was softer, more intimate. “you know, yn, I’m really glad we’re working on this together.”

Yn swallowed hard, his heart ponding in his chest. “me too.”

Prev. M.list. next.

Tag List: @haocovr @hyunjin-1third @nootnootpinguuu @soobinsman

Comment something on this if you wanna be added to the taglist!

A/n: okay this chap was vv time consuming for me to write cus i didn't get how i could have yk improved their romantic interests in each other, but i think it turned out well (atleast I hope so)

I hope you all enjoyed this chapter as much as I did writing it!

#txt #tomorrow by together #txt post #txt x male reader #txt x reader #male reader #txt yeonjun #txt beomgyu #choi beomgyu x male reader

[vibratingskull]

Chekmate

Part1

Thrawxf!reader

When you're worried about the final exam, Thrawn may be just the teacher you need. Maybe.

"... And that's how it almost exploded at my face! I wouldn’t have thought a simple mouse droid could be this dangerous. J.C what do you think about this?"

"Mmmmh…"

"(y/n) put down your datapad."

"Fascinating, Eli. A really… Enthralling… Story…"

"(Y/N)!"

"Wh-What?"

You suddenly get back to reality, realising you are in the cafeteria with your datapad almost taped to your face. Eli seems pretty annoyed by you, to let him speak uselessly in the void.

"What are you even reading?"

"I'm just revising our classes for this semester." You answer, getting back at your screen.

He rolls his eyes with a sigh.

"Maker, I thought you would be more fun to be around given your nickname, but you're like Thrawn." He teases. "No, you're even worse than him, he has the decency to stop when it's time to eat."

"I wouldn’t need to do it if I were like Thrawn, believe me." You laugh.

"What would you not need to do if you were like me, exactly?"

You jumped when Thrawn's voice resonated behind your back. One day he will give you a heart attack. He sits next to Eli who tries to make you stop.

"She has been glued to her datapad since last week. Impossible to get her to drop it."

"I don't want to fail the Final Exams, that's all." You start to get irritated, there is no need for drama over such a petty thing.

"Your grades are already good, you don't need to worry about this exam. Come on, shut it down and eat, you didn't touch your plate."

Indeed you haven't touched it yet. The food must be cold by now but you still don't drop your pad. You choose to tease him back instead.

"I didn't know you were an overprotective mother Eli. You are supposed to look after Thrawn, not me you know?"

You both laugh along while Thrawn keeps eating silently without picking up the joke. He must look like an exhausted father forced to supervise some troublesomes teenagers.

"Anyway, I don't simply want good grades, I want the best grades! I'm sure Thrawn will support me on this one."

"I am inclined to agree. To be at your best capacities in any field must be a goal for anyone."

"Ha HA!" You laugh triumphantly at Eli and steal him a bite of his meal as a trophy.

"But Eli is also right to tell you to take a break from your device. You are not doing yourself a favor."

Wait, what?

"Ha HA!" Eli replies back and steals your dessert as revenge.

"In this case, why won't you give me a hand, since you know better." You ask sarcastically while taking back your fruit.

"If this is what you wish, I am happy to oblige." He answers without hesitation.

"Wait, really?" You honestly didn't believe he would accept, you can't say you associated him with philanthropy. "I thought you would keep studying and scrutinize humans through our art." You ask while exaggerating your gesture for a dramatic effect, trying to obtain a reaction from him.

He looks at you in the eyes as he always does, without blinking at your act.

"There is nothing to prevent me doing so while assisting you. We can meet at the library tonight after your chore."

You consider his proposition, you asked this question to irk him but if he is serious about it why not benefit from the situation?

You turn to Eli.

"Is it okay for you Eli? Since you are supposed to assist-"

"I have no problem with this. Go on, work well!" He responded immediately, too happy at the perspective of one or two hours alone without Thrawn to "supervise".

"Well, in this case, I accept your generous offer, Thrawn."

"Very well, let us begin."

At these words, Thrawn snatches the pad out of your hands.

"Hey! What are you doing?!"

"I want you to stop studying during break times." He states while turning off the datapad.

"I can use those times as I want and I want to study!"

You try to take it back but he simply lays the device beside him on the bench, out of your reach. You let out a frustrated grunt.

"Why do you care?!"

"Pauses are scheduled for a reason, Cadet (y/f/n). If you constantly work while you should let your brain recover, you will learn a mixture of irrelevant and useless informations. Forcing yourself is counterproductive, good work comes with good methods." He preaches.

"Oh that's rich coming from you!"

Eli stays silent, careful to not bring himself into the fight. His expressions worried more and more every time you raise your voice.

"Would you care to remind me what we studied at the beginning of the week?" Thrawn inquires with his composed voice.

"Of course, we have seen the Williamson Maneuver for large ships." You respond confidently, crossing your legs.

Judging by his unimpressed expression, you have misplaced your confidence.

"Cadet Vanto, if you please?"

"We studied the Titor hyperdrive model... For large ships." Eli looks at you with "sorry" speld in his eyes.

Damn it! The maneuver lesson was last week, John Titor invented his model of propulsor after to make it easier.

You cross your arms over your chest, displeased by the turn of the conversation. In front of you, however, Thrawn is content with himself.

"Now that the point has been made, eat please. This is not the first time that you neglect to feed yourself, as Eli pointed out."

This is with those casual remarks that you remember he has eyes everywhere, especially on those who are somewhat close to him.

Bless Eli for what he must endure all day long, he surely has it worst.

"Could you give me back my pad?" You ask, exasperated.

"I will return it to you once the noon break is finished."

"Oh come on!"

---------------------------------------------------------

You walk down the corridor in silence, passing by other students going about their daily business.

You're apprehensive of the next hour. It will be the first time you will be alone with Thrawn after your little discussion in the classroom. Even though your relationship is now… let say cordial, the situation is less comfortable than what you’ve anticipated. You know he won’t try anything, but you can’t muffle your inner voice telling you to stay on your guard around him.

As you enter the academic library you are immediately welcomed by the familiar sounds of keyboards and murmurs. Each step you make resound inside. You absorb yourself with the serious and studious atmosphere reigning here. Despite its factory's design and architecture, the library is still the least suffocating room of this Academy. You should try to come more often.

As you're wandering between the bookcases and the desks, you saw Thrawn in an alcove away from the main agitation, comfortably consulting a holobook on who knows what.

He notes your presence and closes the holo as he rose from his seat before you could join him.

"Thank you for arriving on time."

"Did you expect me to be late, sir?"

"I expected to discover it this evening. Please, take a seat."

You sat in front of his previous chair while he brought an old suitcase on the table. The latches are used and dislocated, even the insignia of the Academy graved in the case is passed. He opens it and takes out a demesne.

"Do you play Shah-tezh?" He asks, presenting the board to your eyes.

"I used to, some time ago." You respond, unsure of the meaning of all this. You were pretty sure you agreed on working your classes, not a game evening. "Does Chiss play Shah-tezh?"

"Indeed we do, Cadet (y/f/n). We possess our own version of the game."

"Nice! But what's the point? I thought you would help me to revise."

He finishes placing all the pieces and sits.

"It is part of the processus. We will play a game then we will study the theorics."

Your gaze travels between the board and him.

"You expect me to win a strategic game against you?" You ask, incredulous.

"I do not expect you to win, I expect you to progress. You may start."

After staring at the board you just place your Craft randomly, without conviction. He immediately responds with his Dowager and you realise you don't have much left of your previous games. You add your Beast in the mix before watching him slowly slide his Vizier all across the board.

"Checkmate. Two moves."

You stare at the corridor you opened for him during the game, dumbfounded by your own stupidity. A beginner's mistake.

You wiggles on your seat, out of shame. He doesn't say a thing as he replaces the pawns.

"Let us start again."

He politely invites you to begin the game and you innerly thank him for not bringing you down over… this.

You gather your thoughts and search for an idea. You place your Craft in the exact same position as later and wait for his reaction.

Ho this is a petty idea, but you can’t resist it.

He plays along and does the same with his Dowager. You place yours in the same case of your side of the demesne. He places his Vizier on the left side and you mirror him once again.

He squints at you and you smile back .

"You know you cannot win with this attitude."

"Who says I'm trying to win? I'm trying to learn!"

His eyelid twitches at your insolent answer.

"Very well."

He slides the Dowager of three cases and announces with a cold tone.

"Checkmate."

You sigh and let yourself slouch down your chair. Now you're just fed up and grumpy.

"You're not funny."

"I am not trying to, I am trying to teach you."

"It's a game!"

"It is a strategic game." He corrects you.

You see him place back the pawns again. Is he not down? What does he hope to achieve with all this?

"I don't see how becoming a Shah-tezh master will help me with a Final about theoretical subjects." You muttered.

"It will. You misunderstand my intentions, I will not make you a Shah-tezh champion but I will engrave some ch'af… I mean mechanisms in your brain that will help you think logically and with pragmatisme."

It's the first time you heard him stumble over a word, it's surprising coming from someone who likes to use delicate phrasing. You wonder if it's because Eli is not here to help or because you seem to get under his skin at this moment. Maybe both.

"But I cannot do this alone, I need you to work with me. If you do not want to use my methods, we will simply cease. But if you want to try my way, I will ask for your cooperation, this is not something I can do instead of yourself."

You roll your head and straighten your back. Okay, you will give him a chance, lets try it seriously.

"Alright, I will concentrate. But I really hope it's effective and you're not wasting my time!"

He starts the game this time, and advances his Disciple.

"Patience, (y/f/n). This exercise will come to fruition soon enough."

---------------------------

"Very good. This is much better than our first games." He states calmly.

"I still didn't beat you." You respond disheartened.

After a whole month, you didn’t find a way to break down his defenses, whether it’s in the game or in real life. But you feel like you're getting to know him better, little by little, your relationship is getting more relaxed.

You stretch your body from hand to toes, trying to crack your spine. After an intense dance lesson and two hours on the chair without moving, your body is completely numb. Thrawn raises from his seat with ease and starts to put the pawns away in the box, you feel a pick of jealousy for his physical condition.

"This is not the point of those sessions."

"Yes, but it is my personal challenge." A sly smile grew on your face. "To beat you at your own game, Sire."

"Do you think you can do it?"

"Don't you?" You blink.

He slightly shakes his head, closing the box.

"No, I think not.”

"Well thank you for your honesty, I guess…” You reply with an exaggerated strangled voice.

“There is no use to react in such a way, cadet (y/f/n). It was not an insult.”

“How? Then what was it, lieu-te-nant Thrawn?”

You imitate his posture, bringing your hand together in front of your face with your back and legs straight while scrutinizing him.

"It was a simple observation. From my analysis your talents led somewhere else. You would make an efficient ISB member."

"HA! No. Not even in dreams."

It was a thing to distance yourself from your Drug Lord grandfather and family, it was another to apply to the very organization that seeks them out.

He flashes you a smirk.

"How unfortunate. However if I judge by your recent feat in the storehouse earlier, you are more than capable in thief and infiltration."

"Hey, I did it for you and Eli! Either way you would have looked ridiculous without a proper uniform for the Gala. But if you prefer, I could use my infiltration talents to put them back and leave you to fend for yourself…" You tease.

He glances at you from the side and chuckles. He quickly covers his mouth with his knuckles as if it had escaped him.

You, on the other hand, were expecting a sneaky remark, not a laugh.

It is so unexpected, you are bewildered by how it sounds, so sparkling, so…

Crystalline.

You are not sure how to react, you've never heard him laugh. You thought he didn’t.

Ever.

You realise you have never seen him as a person of his own, but rather this aloof and cryptic alien only here to infiltrate the Empire.

Despite his intelligence, you've subconsciously deprived him of his person…

But this laugh sheds a new light on him. You imagine him smiling and joking along with his peers, maybe his brother or sister.

That's right, he had a life before getting here. He surely had friends, a family, dreams and aspirations, maybe even a spouse… His exile must have deprived him of so much more than his world.

And you, you were prompted to classify him as the stranger one, the Other one, because it made your life easier to keep the view simple and unnuanced.

Gosh, you deserve to be slapped sometimes.

He clears his throat, recovering his composure as quick as he could, but a slight grin remains.

"Come on... Do not be so radical in your threats. One day you may execute them. Let us move on to the theoretical subjects."

You observe him take a seat at your usual terminals in the library, his chest still shaking intermittently with the last laughters.

You like how he sounds, it's refreshing.

And his smile…

So genuine.

You will make an effort to understand him better, maybe you will see more of him.

----------------------

It's weird.

You're weird.

Since your last dance lesson together, you're feeling weird.

You’re hot with sweaty hands, your thoughts are fuzzy, you stutter sometimes when you talk to…

It's happening again!

Get over it, damn it!

You try to concentrate on your screen, but you can't help yourself and look at him from the corner of your eye.

Thrawn is entirely focused on an article on his terminal. Straight and unmoving, his gaze travels on the screen as fast as his brain devours information.

You wonder if you could guess what he is looking at by analysing his posture… Since he doesn't deprive himself to do it to everyone else.

From what you've observed during those two months with him in the library he tends to join his hands in front of him while reading, he will fold them if he's analysing what he's seeing, if he watch a video he will keeps his legs parallel with his arms on them but will cross his limbs if he disagree with anything presented to him.

Currently, one of his arms is crossed over his chest while his other hand is resting on his chin… So he's not analysing, he's investigating.

He doesn't make moves to slide the screen, so not a text, and the shadows casted over his face are still, not a video either.

So he's scrutinizing an image…

You recall seeing some old tapestries on his datascreen earlier this afternoon, he must be studying the subjects further.

You keep observing him as discreetly as you could, gathering as much information as possible.

…

Fascinating how his hands are in comparison to his more muscular stature. With long and tapered fingers which balance out his noble and large palms, they appear elegant and delicate.

Now that you think of it, his hands were surprisingly soft in yours for someone who has trained all his life. Does he follow a routine or is it a Chiss adaptation from their environment?

Go figure.

…

He really has a superb profile…

"Is there something wrong, cadet (y/f/n)? Do you need assistance?" He asks you, out of the blue.

You blink in surprise, realising you were fixing him in complete silence for several seconds. You turn back to your screen confused, clearing your throat to give you composure.

"Nothing Sir, sorry Sir. I was just wondering what could captivate you like that… Sir."

"I am studying the necropolis plan of an early Togruta civilisation. I must admit, their sarcophagus made of cocoon and wax is one of the most intriguing funeral rites I have ever studied."

Because he studied a lot of funeral rites?

Creepy…

"What are you working on, Cadet?" He politely inquires, facing you fully.

"Ho, some battles simulations with randomly generated variables. I'm getting better at those, thanks to your teaching!"

You smile to ease any suspicions but your speech voice is higher than ordinary. You hope your answer satisfies him and give you time to appease the growing fluster in your bowels and mind.

You feel a weird warmth spreading as a mist through your body when he lays his eyes on you.

"Splendid. Let me see your progress."

What!? No.

Nononononononononononono!

He doesn't let you time to protest as he rises from his seat to slip behind you, his hands fold on his back.

Without a word, he observes your tactical and managerial skills in a battle of pixels where your hypothetical fleet must rescue and secure a freighter of explosives against two groups of separatists. A high coefficient subject in the final exam, and you couldn't give a single fuck about what was happening on the screen while he was standing this close behind your back.

You summon all your willpower to focus on your terminal, but your body is so tense it's stiff.

You're running on autopilot, blindly applying the manual's tactics. You try to shake you out of that state, but everytime you look at your screen the reflection of his incandescent eyes gets your attention and you lose track of the battle.

You had to bite your inner cheek to snap off of it and recompose yourself.

At the very moment you're finally concentrating on your simulation, Thrawn intervenes in one of your maneuvers.

"You are fighting two different groups of enemies. They have formerly agreed to form a coalition but they did not pledge allegiance to one another. How can you use those informations against them?"

You hesitate a moment, you thought he would have just watched how you were handling the mission and went back to his own screen.

Your mouth is completely dry when you answer.

"Hmm… I could harass one of their ships, pushing them to make mistakes against their allies and to fight each other?"

You see his reflection nods in approval, and you hear a little smile in his voice.

"Show me."

And like that, everything seemed easier, your muscles relax and you feel a surge of pride. You chide yourself immediately.

Something is definitively off about you. You need to take charge of your behaviour and mind.

But it is so pleasant to hear the warmth in his voice, you could indulge yourself a little.

Just a little.

You suddenly feel his hand on the backrest of your chair, cutting you off guard.

"There is a more efficient way to apply this tactic. Let me demonstrate."

Without further explanation, you feel him bend over your shoulder to grasp your mouse.

You are completely frozen.

He is so close your lips would brush his cheek if you dared turning your head.

Him, however, is stoic and focused as usual. His eyes directed toward the screen, his voice calmly details how to subdue your opponent with less casualty, but you're deaf to his speech.

All his words melt in a dulcet melody, you can feel his warmth reaching and diffusing through your body, all your inspirations are filled with his odor and it's spreading to the depth of your lungs.

You swallow with difficulty as your blood makes your cheeks go crimson.

Granted, you have already been closer than that when you teached him how to dance, but it was in context! Now, this just…

You're suddenly keenly aware of yourself, your sweat, your own odor, your body as flexible as a metal door…

How can he not notice? He prides himself on his abilities to read people and here?

Nothing?!

Is he blind?!

Your toes curl when his arm grazes yours, you keep crossing and uncrossing your legs.

How can he keep talking so mundanely while you were on the verge of spontaneously combusting?

You swear, if nothi-

"Thrawn! Here you are. The librarian told me you had borrowed a holo I could use."

A boy of a different class just passed his head in the alcove, breaking the tension in the air.

Thrawn straightens up, still unaware of your inner turmoil, to help this other student.

"Which holobook do you need?"

While he proceeds to recommend a whole bunch of holos to this guy, who clearly didn’t know what he was up to asking him for help, you seize this occasion to release a breath you didn't realise you were holding.

You feel your blood so furiously batting in your temples you can hear your own heartbeat resonating inside your skull.

You carefully massage your temple while taking long and deep breaths

Slowly your heartbeat slows and you begin to calm.

Good.

A quick glance at Thrawn indicates he's still talking with the other cadet about something you didn't care in the slightest.

You decide to finish all your battles simulations then you will call it a day.

_ _

You stretch your body at full lenght with a deep sight.

It took you longer than what you anticipated, but at least you had time come to your right senses.

This lesson had been… exhausting.

Both mentally and physically.

As you ease the tension in your neck you study the library, coming to the realisation it was dead silent. The usual sounds of footsteps and keyboards are absent and the disparate lights of the buildings are on. No silhouette in sight.

You didn't realise it was so late already!

Why Thrawn didn’t warn you? He must be back to his room by now.

You curse yourself for your negligence. After this joke of a battle simulation he must have lost his patience for the evening and headed back to his quarters with his less embarrassing friend…

… human?

What are we both to him?

You gather your stuff while you torture yourself with questions.

You rise from your seat to leave and stop dead on your tracks.

Thrawn is still here at his terminal, hidden by your own.

He did wait for you.

He is…

… sleeping?

His respiration is steady and calm with his hands folded on his lap, only his head slightly bent forward could be seen as unusual for him.

You carefully approach him, unsure what to do.

On one hand sleeping in this position is bad for the spine, on the other he looks so peaceful. You don't have the heart to disturb him.

After reflection, if you don't wake him yourself the librarians will do it, with less precautions.

You kneel to his side and try to wake him up as gently as possible.

"Sir? Sir. Come on, the library is hardly heated, you will catch a cold."

Really? A cold? For someone who originated from an iceworld?

You silently berate yourself.

His scent slowly reaches your nose once more, making you feel a little fuzzy once again . Under the smell of new leather and Iron, when you focus yourself, you are sure to perceive a familiar fragrance… like a forest after the rain.

You like it.

"Thrawn… Come on, wake up. We are the last one."

You slightly squeeze his shoulder but are only rewarded by silence.

He must be a heavy sleeper. It's funny, you would have bet the opposite.

The thought makes you smile as you study his face in more detail. Even closed, the red glow of his eyes is still perceptible. Your eyes lazily follow the lines of his cheekbones, then his nose before laying on his lips.

You stare at them a few seconds, your imagination running wild.

You wonder… how they feel.

How they taste.

Your mouth waters mildly at this only thought.

They are quite a tantalizing sight… really...

You bite yours with envy as you slowly lean toward him.

They look soft, and… inviting.

You wet your lips to soften them. Only one, like a secret. You close your eyes to savor the instant aND WHAT IN THE WORLD ARE YOU DOING?!

You jump away from him as reality hits you.

What were you thinking?!

Is that you now?!

A girl incapable of controlling herself to the point of taking advantage of a man during his sleep?!

Is that everything your former relationships had taught you?!

REALLY?!

You're so ashamed you abandon the idea of waking him up.

You put your jacket on his shoulder to prevent the hypothetical cold and run off from the library in a mad rush without looking back.

You need to cease these sessions.

…

It's a good thing you didn't look back.

Who knows how to interpret that piercing red sight following you in silence as you escaped?

@exoplorationn, @bluechiss

#thrawn #grand admiral thrawn #mitth'raw'nuruodo #thrawn x y/n #thrawn x reader #thrawn x you #jaw crusher #fanfic #vibratingskull

[angelltheninth]

How Do You Take It?

Pairing: Childe x Fem!Reader

Tags: fluff, cafes, flirting, first meeting, barista Childe

Word count: 0.9k

A/N: Next fic for my 5k event. The prompt for this one was 'coffee shop au' with Childe. I think he'd be a very charming barista. Actually I think I wanna commission some art of that, so if any of you know any good Genshin artists please tell me. If you want more fics from this event you can go to my wholesome list or to my darker list. What ever you're in the mood for.

It was actually quite the slow day for you. You just went through the motions, a little bit tired, more than a little stressed, you just wanted to go somewhere quiet to relax. You head about the Fatui Café and apparently it was always quiet in there. Weather it was from the atmosphere itself or the lack of business you did not know. You decided to see for yourself.

Upon opening the door the ambiance was simultaneously hot and cold, with lots of dim blues, almost grey mixed in with faint yellows and orange colors, creating a contrast in the café.

"A customer!" You heard a cheerfully voice, which apparently belonged to the brown haired man behind the counter, "Arlecchino we got a customer! I told you someone would walk in!" He looked toward the door in the back where you briefly saw a flash of black and white, "And she's cute too." He said a little quieter and winked your way.

Heat rose to your cheeks and you knew damn well it wasn't the temperature of the shop.

Looking around you noticed that you were actually the only one in the place. So the quiet is from the lack of customers. One mystery solved. Hopefully it wasn't because their coffee sucked.

"Hello." You give the man a small smile as you approach.

"Hey there. The name's Childe!" He gestures to his name tag, "Welcome to the Fatui Harbingers. Or the Fatui Café as is the legal name." He leans in a little bit closer and smirks at you, "But between you and me I think my name is way cooler." He whispers that last part before straightening up.

Now that you're a little closer you can see that he has a very handsome face, with a smile that is downright infectious. And his eyes? You've never seen ones with such a pretty shade of blue, like looking at a crystal.

"How do you take it?" The question takes you back, so far back, almost feeling you had the wind knocked out of you.

"E-Excuse me?!" You feel your cheeks heat up quickly. Childe gives you a knowing smirk, his eyes giving you a quick lookover, which only adds to your already burning face.

"Your coffee. What will it be?" His voice drops just a little, with just a hint of breathiness, his semi-gloved hands tapping on the counter along with the clock handle.

"Oh. Maybe something slightly sweet? I don't know what's good here."

"Everything is good here. The coffee that is. But uh... some of my friends... they scare people away." He leans forward again, this time looking straight into your eyes, "Don't worry though, I can protect you from them if you decide to come back."

"Protect me?" You were so lost in Childe's eyes that you failed to notice the woman approaching the two of you.

"Stop flirting with the customer kid. Just give her what she asked for." An older woman smacked Childe on the shoulder, which made both of you jump. Judging from the color of her hair she was the woman you saw a glimpse of earlier.

Childe made a slightly pouty face, "Just trying to be friendly. Unlike you. And I wouldn't do anything while on my shift. Unlike you and Columbina. And you're supposed to be examples."

You had no idea who Columbina was or what Childe was talking about but clearly it irritated the other woman who have him the sharpest look you've ever seen anyone give to someone. Even you could feel your blood running cold from it.

"Okey, okey, fine. Don't kill me for telling the truth." He put his hands up in mock surrender, which earned him and even sharper look somehow.

"No flirting." She looks from him to you and back to him, like a mother scolding her kid, before she takes her leave.

Childe exhales, "Well that was one of them. Just be glad it wasn't her girlfriend. That woman if crazy with a capital 'C' and even more scary." He shoots you a what you assume is a reassuring smile, "Anyway you can take a seat anywhere you want. I'll bring you something that will knock your socks off." He nods his head in determination and turns around to begin his work.

You have no idea what he's going to make but you can't deny the little spark of excitement.

There are many places to choose from to sit so you make yourself comfortable towards the middle of the shop, not too close and not too far from Childe.

When he finally brings you your coffee he also has a small plate with various baked goods, "On the house. Not every day our shop is graced with a pretty lady." He winks at you again as he sets the tray before you. You watch him turn on his heel and walk back to his spot, his pace slightly slow, his arms behind his head.

Only when you look at the coffee cup to you notice a phone number and a small piece of paper beneath the plate of baked goods. You exhale slowly as you pick it up and read it.

"Arlecchino said I can't flirt while I'm on my shift, said nothing about after. Shift ends at 7, text me after if you wanna talk ok cutie? Hope to hear and see you again soon. Childe." That was rather forward. You don't think you'd go on a date to him just yet though. But a little flirting doesn't sound bad. You put his number in immediately and catch a not so subtle 'Yes!' coming from behind the counter. And he's cute too it seems.

Maybe, just maybe, you found your new favorite café.

#genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #childe #childe x reader #genshin imagines #genshin fanfic #tartaglia #tartagalia x reader #childe fluff #genshin fluff #genshin impact imagines