#pov the quality is terrible

[here-a-lee-there-a-lee]

You guys....

I gathered motivation and I made a video...

(me posting on youtube after nine months? NEVER.)

#colonial america #founding fathers #1776 #1776 the musical #1776 1972 film #john adams #1776 musical #benjamin franklin #1776 movie #william daniels #abigail adams #thomas jefferson #pov the quality is terrible

[adrinktostopyourthirst]

Bucky Barnes | Rebellion Series | Caution

Part one of the Rebellion Series

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Plot: By some miracle, you get saved from the consequences of your own actions. You’re reluctant to join a supposedly good cause. What happens when the good cause is not so legal? And what - or who - is your soft spot?

Warnings: Angst, fluff (?) and mentions of sex.

Words: 34OO

You have started shaking again. With every tremble of your body, the restraints around your legs and arms seem to tighten and you shudder even more at the awful memory of that feeling. It took weeks for the shaking to stop. Weeks of being locked up into this modern dungeon until you were nothing but silence and numbness.

You knew the rebellion could end in death, knew the consequences would be catastrophic, but at least you’d stood for something, fought for something. And you would choose death any day over the endless silence of this prison. You know for a fact that you’re surrounded by an ocean, but no matter how hard you listen, you cannot hear the wild sea crash. Can only hear the low hum of the air being circulated through your metal cell.

And today, approximately three months after the start of your sentence in the most secured prison on the planet, you have started shaking again. It can hardly be because today of all days, your brain has decided to make you go completely insane. That would be too random. Which means–

Your head snaps to the window, spotting the other cells. Empty. This floor is reserved just for you alone. Because apparently you’re too dangerous to interact with anyone. They even got machines bringing you your daily sustenance. An empty floor like every other day, yet something seems different. Something’s off.

A metal door flies through the middle of the circular space connecting all of the cells and you stiffen. You look at the ground again, keeping completely still. Maybe they don’t know that you’re here. Oh God, oh God, oh God. No, they can’t get to you. Not again.

The destruction clangs through your body and you tremble violently, curling up as much as you can and staring hard at the floor. The cold metal ground blurs with images of the rebellion. The things you gave up, the energy your summoned and wasted, the people you lost. The blood, and pain, and screams and– and– and…

“She’s in there. Grab her and then we get out of here.”

“Steve, I–”

“And hurry up, we don’t have much time!”

Two combat boots step into your vision and the stomps echo in your head, booming you back to reality. But not quite. Your eyes vibrate with fear and you swallow the nails in your throat. Then a pair of knees appear in front of you and a black gloved hand reaches forward. It hesitates, then retreats. As if choosing not to touch you. Wise choice.

“Hey.” The voice is low. And smooth as liquor.

But you don’t look up, focusing on trying not to tremble more and taking the firm contraptions wrapped around your shins and forearms as the protection they now are. Maybe this is another nightmare. It’s different from the ones you usually have, but black gloves… They had black gloves, too. And those firm boots. They may have kicked you in the stomach with those boots once. You don’t remember.

“I’m here to get you out,” the voice speaks again and you can only listen to the tone of voice, the way it sends a shockwave through your body and lessens the violent trembles. “Look up for me.”

You ignore him and focus on your breathing.

“Is she coming?” That first voice. Impatient. Panting.

The male before you turns to the centre of the floor and gives a frustrated sigh, “She’s pretty out of it.”

Before waiting for the other man to respond, he turns back to you and studies you. Even though you don’t see him, his stare burns right through the flimsy clothes they put on you. He lets out a soft sigh and flips out a knife from the holster at his waist, still kneeling before you. You stiffen, preparing yourself for the sting at your throat as they finally decide to get rid of you, but he tries his best not to touch any bare skin as he saws through the materials binding you together.

The relief of pressure from your skin make you feel so uneasy, you nearly throw up, but a gentle hand covers your arm and you finally look up. Warm, dark blue eyes connect with yours. Below heavy brows and above the faintest cluster of freckles. His mouth is soft and pillowy and his bone structure is otherworldly symmetrical.

“It’s okay,” he tells you gently and offers you a smile that you can tell doesn’t come to him naturally. “Can you walk?”

He pulls you to a stand with a firm, but comfortable grip and you instantly stumble on your feet at the weight suddenly put on them. One arm flies around your waist and hoists you into his side as he catches your fall.

“Okay, okay,” he grunts with a gentle laugh. “I got you. Let’s get the fuck out of here, alright?”

Your throat feels like sandpaper as you hobble along with the wall of a male dragging you along, “Who are you?”

He spares you a brief glance and smiles once more, following ‘Steve’ out of the building and onto an air craft that is way too loud. “Bucky. We’re here to help you. Or I suppose you’re here to help us, little rebel.”

…

Steve gives Bucky a knowing glare, only breaking it by daring a glance at your bedroom door which you have been effectively hiding behind for weeks now. “You know I can’t go in there, Bucky.”

“You know I won’t let you,” Bucky answers drily with a shrug. As opposed to his best friend, Bucky hasn’t stopped staring at your door.

“You’re not even hiding your possessiveness when it comes to her,” Steve breathes through a laugh. That makes Bucky finally look at his friend.

“I’m not possessive,” he says matter-of-factly. He’s not even offended, just practical. “I’m protective. The last thing she needs is all of the nosy people in this tower swirling around her when she doesn’t trust a single soul.”

“Has she started to trust you?”

Bucky has to keep from wincing at Steve’s question, and he clears his throat. “Sure,” he lies.

If Steve caught the lie, he didn’t let on. It was as much of a dismissal as he was going to get. After watching his best friend walk off to do captain things, Bucky braces himself to step into your room. He has no hope that his interaction with you will be any different than the previous ones.

“Another day of convincing me to be your weapon?” you nearly snarl when he walks into your room.

If Bucky is entirely honest, he thought you would have turned into this damaged girl that would morph into a wild animal as you worked through what had been done to you. He didn’t really expect this perseverance and defiance from the woman he saved from that prison. But he supposes he should have seen that question coming. It wasn’t his best work; starting that day he saved you with all of the things you could be doing for them. Why they had saved you. Simply for their own gain. Or that is how you understood it, at least…

He has never been good with words. That has always been Steve’s thing. Bucky was reliable physically and he paid attention. He never had to use many words to make his point. Yet you keep asking these questions – rhetorical, he thinks – and you keep giving him this penetrating stare until he answers. Which is a sure way to make him fuck up, because how do people do that? Bring sensible thoughts into words and make it make sense?

Especially when the woman asking said questions is so damned… pretty.

“It’s time for you to get out of this room,” he tells you plainly. It seems the tactic of ignoring your questions is effective. It only took him six days to figure that one out.

He strides over to cross the room, not sparing you another glance in your chair in the corner, and rips open the curtains. The cat-like hiss coming from you has Bucky nearly biting back a smile. He turns and watches you stand from your chair, stalking over to him with your chin high and a scowl on your face. He raises an eyebrow with amused intrigue.

“And what, exactly, will I be doing outside of my room?” you ask.

He dips down slightly, but you keep the proximity. “Whatever you want. I don’t care.”

“If you don’t care, why hunt me out of my room?”

He shrugs, “Captain’s orders.” He isn’t entirely lying.

“Why isn’t the captain telling me himself?”

Bucky smirks and leans even closer, making you feel his minty breath fan over your face. “Because I’m the only one who isn’t scared of you.”

You snort at that and roll your eyes before breaking away from him. “I’ll get dressed.”

Bucky tries his hardest not to look too stunned as you retreat into the bathroom. A deep sigh leaves his lips as he paces through your room in wait for you to get ready. It takes a whole lot of effort to muster a smirk when it comes to his interactions with you.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.?” he asks quietly.

Just as quietly, the house responds, “Yes, Sergeant Barnes?”

“Has she asked for anything from you? To contact friends or family, or other information?”

“No, she hasn’t.”

“Does she have anyone left?” he tries, chewing his lip as he dreads the answer.

“Not that we’re aware. Mr. Stark had me run a background check, but she seems alone. No sign of anyone missing or deceased. No sign of a network at all.”

Bucky doesn’t know why that feels worse in his chest and he swallows. “Alright, thank you.”

A few moments later, you step out of the shower and find Bucky lounging in the chair he found you in, leafing through one of your books. Just as you’re about to check whether he has gotten his hands on one of your smuttier books, your eyes snag on the clothes laid out for you on the bed.

You pause long enough to make Bucky look up from the book. “Did you… Did you seriously pick out this underwear for me?”

Bucky eyes the lace panties dangling from your fingers and shrugs with a smirk. A smirk had never looked so enticing, but you sharpen your stare on him. “Do you prefer the grey, cotton ones in the back of the closet?”

You grit your teeth and scowl at him again, before morphing your mouth into a vindictive smile. “Why? Don’t you?”

His eyes dance at that. “Wouldn’t make a difference to me.”

And it’s the way he said it, with so much casual amusement and… promise. Heat rises to your face and you duck your head down. Snatching the clothes from the bed, you retreat back into the bathroom to get dressed.

…

The rest of your conversations had been purely functional as Bucky lead you down into the building where Steve was waiting. Bucky rolled his eyes at his friend’s horrible attempt at hiding his surprise. Steve hadn’t seen you since the day they came to save you, he must have never expected Bucky to be successful in his retrieval.

Bucky also hadn’t missed the meaningful look Steve then gave him that indicated he tucked away some valuable information. The information being that if they ever needed to get you to do something, Bucky is the way to get you to do it. Why? Steve seemed to have his theories and Bucky didn’t like it one bit.

However, for now he doesn’t care. Instead, he sticks by you after you reluctantly agreed to join Steve on a walk.

Strolling down the path through the surrounding woods, Bucky catches himself bracing for a fight every time Steve gets a little too close to you. He doesn’t like it. The last time he was this sensitive to proximity, he had just ran from Hydra. He’s seen other traumatised people before, but this feels different. And instead of listening to your and Steve’s conversation, he tries to figure out what it is. He supposes it’s because you have no survival instinct. In the few videos he’s seen of your rebellion and the encounters he has had with you the past weeks, you see danger or conflict and run straight toward it. Nothing scared or cautious about you. It sets his nerves on edge.

Bucky is well aware of what Steve is telling you and he has to refrain from rolling his eyes at the careful way Steve tries to coax you into their plan, when earlier that week they had not been nearly as careful as they calculated how to get you involved. But even Bucky had to admit that they needed you – specifically, everyone who would follow you into the grave. When Stark had shown him the videos, he was perplexed as to how you got such a huge following when what you fought for was so terribly dangerous. But one look at those sharp eyes and one deep command from you, and Bucky had seen it. That unwavering will and that brilliant brain that was always calculating. Steve could learn a few tricks from you on being a strong leader. And considering Bucky wildly admires his old friend, that is saying something.

They need you. Bucky knows it, too. They need not just someone with great leadership skills and a loyal following, but someone that does it out of empathy for the people mistreated by the system. Because that is who they’re going to be fighting – the system.

Again.

…

“You haven’t said anything about what Steve told you,” Bucky says on your walk back to your room. The offer to escort you back to your room hadn’t been entirely selfless.

“I need to think about it,” you murmur, deep in thought.

Bucky suppresses his sigh of sympathy. They are asking you to join a cause you were so passionate about, and that after failing so miserably last time. He can barely imagine the things you must have witnessed and endured with your last upraise. How you had gotten so influential that the government decided to treat you like you were a super-human and punished you accordingly. You had been put in the same prison as Wanda. Wanda. That is how powerful you were.

“It can’t be easy to revisit everything after all that’s happened,” he resigns and you blink from your thoughts to raise your eyes to his face. You study him and it takes all of Bucky’s might not to shift under your assessing gaze.

Then you speak up, “I’ve always done the right thing. Steve knows I can’t walk away from it…”

Bucky smiles at that. “Just like him.”

Your eyes narrow at that comment, but Bucky finds no venom in the look. You continue, “Sacrificing my life for the cause was never an issue. But to lead others into that same fate again?” The guilt had eaten you alive. All those people that had gotten arrested, split up from loved ones, hurt– worse…

Bucky interrupts your thoughts before they get a hold on you by clearing his throat. “Tonight, we have dinner with everyone. You’re welcome to join if you’d like.” Your heavy stare on him makes him quickly add, “Don’t give me that look. There will be no talk of overthrowing the government. Just dress fancy.”

The snort of a laugh that comes from you feels lighter to Bucky than he’d like to admit. And to ease the tension, he forces another smirk to his face. You narrow your eyes again warily, “What.”

He shrugs, turning to leave you alone at your door. Then he winks. “Let me know if you need me to pick out some underwear for you.” And then he’s gone.

Bucky hangs onto that cockiness all the way until dinner, where the entire group has showed up. Even Thor said he’d show up for a drink. Barton flew in from his family home to join the group as well. He remembers a time when he’d felt more than uncomfortable around this group of people. But so much has changed. They all saw him as a great asset to the team and even relied on him more and more to supervise the missions. He’s at home with them now. Heart swelling with affection, he listens to his friends – his family – laugh in the kitchen while they pour the drinks.

And then all of their faces turn into one direction, some of them pulling taut, few of them giving warm, comforting smiles. Bucky follows their gaze and it is like someone punched him in the gut, air whooshing out of his body. He doesn’t really know why – other than the obvious fact that you look ravishing of course. But he looks at you and clears his throat to welcome you to the group.

Natasha beats him to it though and it has Bucky’s hackles rising. She shoots him a knowing smile and then he backs off. His pride wounded like a cat booped on the nose. Natasha is good at it, charming people until they feel comfortable. Or take their pants off. But there’s an easy smile on your face – one Bucky knows is at least slightly forced – and you blend in with the crowd easily.

Suddenly, Sam’s at his side. “I know what you’re thinking,” he grumbles with his eyes on you and Natasha, followed by a swig of his beer bottle. “Those two together can only mean trouble.”

Bucky can only grunt in agreement.

…

“What on Earth are you talking about?” Natasha drawls with a guilty smile.

Barton shakes his head. “The poor schmuck didn’t stand a chance. There is no way you could have taken him if you hadn’t slept with him the night before.”

Natasha shrugs. “Look, a girl has her needs. He met them and the next day he met his fate.”

“Really, Nat?” Steve nearly cringes and Bucky reins in his laugh. “The guy’s moral compass was straight from hell and you decided to sleep with him?”

Natasha barely manages to open her mouth before you decide to pitch in, raising a glass to her. “I get it. Terrible morals do add a little spice in the bedroom.”

Nat clinks her glass with yours and mutters a ‘she gets it’, but Bucky’s eyes are searing through your skin. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised at such outrageous claims coming out of your mouth. There is nothing innocent about you. Good, yes. Innocent? No. Yet perhaps it isn’t ‘surprise’ that is warming his body from the inside out.

Conversation flows easily between the Avengers and the food Tony had made easily beats the Brooklyn comfort food Bucky usually seeks out. Cheeks turn rosy from the drinks, voices get louder, lights get dimmer. Bucky has to really look to be sure what he’s seeing. You, relaxed and happy. Such a stark contrast to the woman he found in the prison. No wonder you’re so good with people. People make you good.

He can barely manage his smirk however, when he notices the strain in your body to keep from looking at him. Why you are so adamant to avoid him, he can’t really tell. But this is now your weak spot, so he cannot help but tuck the info away for later.

The night carries on and everyone switches places, catching up on endless memories and adventures and being surprisingly considerate to include you in most conversations. Bucky ends up at the head of the table, you on the seat closest to him, both listening to Sam. You listen closely and Bucky can only assume you have some relief from being actively distracted from him. And being the arrogant bastard he knows he can be, he ‘accidentally’ brushes a knuckle over the back of your hand that’s resting on the table. He watches you stiffen and swallow, but like a true rebel, you show no other sign that it affected you.

A few more stunts like that had Bucky pressing his knee to your thigh under the table and it takes everything not to pull away from it. So you gaslight yourself to let the touch ground you. To absorb his warmth and relax even more into the touch. And if you guess it correctly, the way you respond to Bucky’s touch is not what he expected… So you find yourself having the upper hand again.

And if you’re going to join these people in their cause, what’s a little game with your menace of a saviour?

#oh my fucking god #im doing it #im posting a slow burn #with buckys pov for crying out loud #i am terribly sorry for being gone for so goddamn long im a busy woman #BUT quality over quantity amirite? #enjoy my lovelies and please let me know what you think #feedback does genuinely make me post quicker (i cant help it) #rebellion series #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x reader #writing #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes oneshot #series

[kathy-rah]

Fulgrim The Phoenician

#Pov: you're a remembrancer who is about to die very very very terribly #Ngl I'm getting faster at drawing like this #My first digital drawing about warhammer took me 11 hours and it was so simple comparing to this one which took me barely half time #Tho I feel the quality is going down #Enjoy the snecc boi #Fulgrim #my art #warhammer 40k #warhammer #digital art #warhammer 30k #primarch #emperor's children #Chaos #Slaanesh

[satorena]

❝ 𝐈 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐖𝐄 𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐘 𝐎𝐍 𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐀 ! ❞

꒰ FEATURING ! ꒱. g. satoru, f. toji, g. suguru, n. kento x afab!reader

꒰ CONTENT WARNINGS ! ꒱. cybersex, camgirl!reader, facetiming, onlyfans account, dirty talking, usage of toys, reader wears lingerie, fingering, anal play, consented video taping, feminine pet names, let’s pretend toji has money okay? okay.

RENA’S NOTE. big shoutout to my dawgs @screampied ! would’ve suffered a bad writer’s block if not for them <3 ly pooks

𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔

“yeah baby~ fuck, arch your back just like that—shit!”

you complied to his request, moaning as you arch your back and push your hips backwards, deepening the angle of which your dildo penetrated inside of you.

from your facetime call, you faced the camera and propped your dildo to the wall behind you. you watched as your ass recoiled like waves, flesh bouncing off the wall in hypnotic motions, giving your boyfriend the pov he demanded at the start of this call.

you watched through your laptop screen as your boyfriend held his cock tightly with one hand, his other hand propped at the back of his head. his stomach clenched tightly as he matched your pace with his jerks. your wet squelches filled the atmosphere followed by your moans, arms stretched out to claw at the silk sheets on your bed.

“mmh—fuck baby, wish you were h-here right now,” you whine, bringing your fingertips to your lolled out tongue, coating the digits with your saliva, before slipping them between your thighs to focus on your neglected clit.

drawing figure eights to the bundle of nerves, your cheek smushed against the mattress, face heating and tears streaking down your cheeks.

bottom lip tucked in his teeth, gojo narrows his cerulean eyes to zero in on your figure, the sounds of your creamy pussy rocking back and forth on your dildo, your teary eyes watching him with such want— and fuck if he doesn’t wish this conference meeting overseas would end so he could blow your back out.

“i know, ‘m sorry— hah, princess,” he whines, thumbing his leaking slit as the hand behind his hair starts to grip at his own locks. the stinging feeling reminded him of you and it only turned him on further.

“just a f—few more days, yeah? and i’m all yours, promise baby, wait out for me,” he prods further, upset at the fact he has to reach out to you virtually. even behind the low quality of your camera, you shone like an angel sent from heaven, lashes wet with tears and your lips glistening from your smeared gloss.

you nod your head, before fluttering your eyes close as your gut begins to coil. your limbs grow hot and limp, toes curling and you up the pace of your rocking, the drag of the customized silicone dildo against your velvety walls stretching you in ways that reminded you an awful lot of your boyfriend.

“toru—fuck, i’m cumming!” you arch your back deeper, chest pressed flat against the mattress, fingernails scratching the softness of your sheets.

gojo had been on the brink of an orgasm eons ago, but he held back for you. to him, nothing beat busting a nut at the same time you did. his snowy white hair matted to his forehead, cheeks flushed a pretty red as he now focuses on his stiff cock with two firm hands.

he mimics circular motions you usually do, fighting to keep his eyes open as his orgasm washes over him just from the sight of your cries alone. your body shudders, your own orgasm washing over you from head to toe as you mewl out his name, spraying your juices all over the wall behind you and down your plush thighs.

your back arches outwards and you’re drooling all over yourself but gojo doesn’t think he’s seen anything prettier in his entire life.

“shit—oh fuck, cum for me princess, make a mess all over—ngh, yourself for me—my perfect fuckin’ girl.”

𝐅𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐎 𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈

“welcome back everyone~”

there was something terribly sinful in the way the girl currently clothed in skimpy lingerie, fingers rubbing at her pussy in lazy circles with a dildo to her lips, tip of the toy teasingly grazing at her pink tongue—was also the same girl toji paid money to babysit his kid whenever he was away at work.

toji was no good man. this was definitely wrong on many personal levels, but alas he was still a man, if the way his dick hardened painfully quick at the sound of your honeyed voice alone.

he shifts in his chair, leaning back into it as he palms his hard on through his sweats. he watches with narrowed green orbs as you finally swallow the silicone toy down your throat, the dildo lubed in your saliva whenever it came out of contact from your mouth.

“wishin’ it was your fat cock instead, mmh,” you swirl your tongue around the dildo, before arriving to the tip and latching your plump lips around it.

you simultaneously increase the speed at your folds, fingers soon growing sticky with your essence as the obscene wetness fills the room. you moan around the toy, spreading your lips for the camera while clenching around nothing.

dick long freed from his pants and tucked tightly in his fist, toji groans as he watches your pretty pussy flutter and basically beg for him to fill you up. he hacks up some spit and drips it down on his girthy length, before roughly going back to jerking at his dick.

“i wonder which one of my lucky viewers is gonna get to fuck me next live?” you breathlessly giggle, before lowering the dildo in your free hand to your gaping cunt.

your comments flood with praises and pleasantries, with money flowing in easily—anything to capture your attention and have you notice them. they’re desperate, toji thinks, but realizes he’s definitely no better—hands already moving to donate a much bigger sum than whatever pussydestroyer69 could ever offer you.

“ooh, four bills is a hefty amount,” you tilt your head to the side, your pretty lips stretched in a perfect smile. you giggle when the comments start to insult toji but he’s too far enamoured in the way your free hand now travelled to your breast, groping at the mounds and flicking at your stiff buds.

you return to the regular programming, pressing the tip of your dildo to your cunt, dragging it up and down your wet folds, teasing yourself with your legs spread open for the viewers to see.

“fuck— this feels amazing, mmh, ‘m sooo sensitive,” you whine, applying a small amount of pressure to slightly push the tip in but pull it back out.

this was torturous— your thong pushed to the side to reveal your puffy lips as it leaked your essence. toji let his mind run to how badly he wanted to taste you. he was sure you’d be as sweet as honey, a potent taste on his tongue, and the thought of you face down with your ass up, begging for him to eat you out had his balls tightening with eagerness.

“fuckin’ shit— what a tease.” toji grunts, throwing his head back as he rubs the callouses at his palms against his veiny skin. his hips jerked up in anticipation, feeling his limbs run hot while his thumb circled at his reddened tip.

“y’wanna fuck my gaping pussy? yeah, ‘m all wet and tight just for you— hnng, bet i’d have you cumming quicker than you ever had~” you taunt, and finally push the toy all the way in, moaning at the stretch of the toy at your pussy.

your toes curl and you tighten your hold at your tits, slowly thrusting the dildo in and out of your cunt, the slick sound of the friction enticing toji as he matches your pace, fanged teeth biting down at his bottom lip.

you pout your bottom lip, small whines escaping your throat as you fuck yourself desperately. “feels’good— shit, need you to fuck me daddy!”

call him delusional but he felt you spoke to him and not the rest of these bums, legs opened and pussy clenching down at the dripping toy, as your hips rocked upwards to try and meet the dildo for further pleasure.

the telltale of his dick twitching uncontrollably told he was on the brink of an orgasm, one that has him cursing incessantly and brings sweat to his hairline. he pries his eyes open, refusing to miss out on how your folds get abused by yourself, multitasking between thrusting inside and attacking your clit.

“‘m gonna cum daddy—please lemme cum—ngh!” you plead, and as if some force between the two of you is pulled, you spray your essence all over yourself, slick dripping down your sheets and wetting your lingerie, staining your panties soaked as toji calls out your name, hips bucking into his tight fist as ropes of hot cum are pulled out of him.

“there we go baby—damn, keep creamin’ just like that.”

𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐔

“c’mon mama—don’t you let up, fuck, keep bouncin’ f’me.”

you whined some more, thighs aching and trembling from your consistent riding mixed with the added stimulation to your rim from your gifted anal plug. behind you was geto’s set up, computer camera propped as your back faced it, with geto seated at the edge of the bed.

hands planted firmly onto his chest, you stabilized yourself as you continued to rock your hips, dragging yourself up and down on his inches of dick, feeling his hardness stretch out your walls.

“sugu, ‘s too much— shit, want you to fuck me already!” you moaned, leaning your head downward to his broad shoulders, forehead slippery with sweat.

geto chuckled at your neediness, clicking his tongue as he lands a firm slap to your reddened ass. you all but moaned, hips moving back and forth as you clenched your mounds around his cock.

“but baby,” geto complains mockingly, slipping his hand in between your bodies and thumbing at your swollen clit. “y’wouldn’t wanna disappoint your fans, would ya?”

as he spoke, he glanced over your shoulder to check the comment section, as it was filled with numerous donations, praises as well as degradations. the more his viewers donated money to him, the quicker the toy plugged in your ass vibrated.

the triple stimulation had your brain gone to mush, your golden spot brutally toyed with as the foreign but pleasurable feeling in your puckered hole stretched it out, added with the circles at your bundle of nerves, sending shivers all throughout your body.

“uhn uhn,” you shake your head, all but against the idea of ruining his live stream simply because you were tired. more than anything, you wanted to cum, even if it had been in the most torturous way you could think of.

“that’s my good girl,” geto presses his lips at the crane of your head. his praise sends tingles in your belly, core licking with heat. his hands find their way to your ass cheeks, groping the soft mounds as encouragement, the actions causing a shift in the toy to be pushed slightly deeper inside of you.

“f-fuck—don’t do that, i’ll cum!” you complain, arching your chest into his, sensitive nipples brushing into his own.

the creamy mess at the base of his cock clearly accessible to the viewers sent a massive amount of money right into geto’s account and straight to your ass, as you jolted into his hold, clinging your arms around his neck.

“holy shit—one thousand?” geto asks breathlessly, followed by immediate more pinging indicating more donations. “you’re a hit baby—they fuckin’ love this pussy. too bad it’s all fuckin’ mine though, hah,”

you’re flattered by it all, and hit with a final wave of confidence before you’re sure the dam in your gut will snap, you push him back to lay on his bed. geto watches you with a cocked brow and smug smile, baby hairs messily framing his flushed skin.

“oh?” he asks, amused by the sudden turn of events. he never lets go of your hips, instead tightening his hold on you as you plant your feet to the mattress.

you hop up and down, his dick nearly slipping by how far up you rode him, with your palms pressed against the plane of his abs. feeling tears build up at your lash line, you moan and wail, dick penetrating deep into your cunt deliciously.

“fuckin’ ride this dick, ‘s all yours mama—shit, gonna make me cum all inside that pretty pussy, mmh. give it all t’me,”

it doesn’t take much between his constant praising, the slickness of your wetness around his cock and the additional vibrations to your ass to have you cumming hard around him. you clamp your walls down, momentarily pausing your riding as you let it take over your entire body.

geto comes through, hips bucking upwards to further your orgasm and you’re sure you momentarily blacked out, eyes rolling to the back of your head as your tongue lolls out of your mouth.

“what a pretty fuckin’ face baby, all mine. goddamn, ‘s too bad your biggest fan won’t get to see it— ain’t that right, satoru?”

𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎

“k-kento—oh fuck daddy, ‘s so fucking deep!”

his wrist ached as he worked his way up and down his cock, tip throbbing an angry red. he watched himself hold your waist with one grip of his hand, the other propped up to film the lewd scenery, capturing you in all your glory.

nanami maintained a steady focus, pistonning into your cunt at a ruthless pace, a ruthless angle, and judging by the sound of your broken moans, he was thrusting into that spot that had you seeing stars and slurring your words.

on the screen showed you face down with your ass up, hands bind by his tie behind your back, face planted into his bed as he fucked into you passionately. your pussy gripped onto his cock greedily, sucking him in as the ripples of your ass bounced on his pelvis.

“my perfect girl, fuck, keep taking it just like that.” his large hand held at your waist firmly, bottoming out just to pull out all the way to where your lips latched at his tip, coating his dick in your creamy essence.

his hand made it to the top of his shaft, and when the screen presented him an erotic view of both your body fluids— semen, juices, sweat— sticking between both your damp skin, where you lowered yourself on his cock and where he pushed forward to fasten the process, his thumb grazed over his slit tauntingly, the same way he’s seen you done it dozens of times.

it’d never occur to him that watching himself plow into you would turn him on so, but you were so far away and he was immensely turned on.

his button down now unbuttoned, his chest heaved up and down as he panted heavily, sliding his other hand down to cup at his balls, the way you’ve done to him so many times. he winces at the feeling, dick painfully hard as it twitches in his hold.

“holy fuck— my perfect fuckin’ girl, shit.” he groans, narrowing his eyes to focus on the hypnotic sight that had his erection crying impossibly further.

the sight of you unable to do anything but take his dick like the slut you were made to be for him had him curling his feet and thighs tremble rather quickly. your fingers twitched as you begged him to free you, to let you touch him, but all that resorted to was your ass getting slapped for your disobedience.

“behave princess.” nanami warned you while rubbing his hand at the reddened skin, and you whined a ‘m so sorry daddy but obeyed nonetheless, and whatever kink triggered in nanami activated, as he jerked off faster, desperate to chase that release.

in the video, nanami pulled his dick out momentarily, causing you to cry out at your pussy’s emptiness. lowering the camera to your abused cunt, your pink walls gaped and clenched around nothing, practically calling out for him to fill the void. he chuckles behind his phone, before grabbing at his cock and lining himself at your entrance, teasing your folds by dragging his tip up and down before bottoming out again.

“fuckin’ hell, i need you right now,” nanami cussed, wanting nothing more than to feel your warmth around his cock instead of his own hand, to feel you clamp and suck him into your pussy, to have you squirt on his cock and still beg him for more despite your sensitivity.

between the pornographic sight of your cunt clenching down on his cock, your asshole winking at him, the recoil of your ass onto him and the sinful arch of your back, nanami soon painted his fist white in his cum, head thrown back as he was overtaken by an orgasm.

“damn it—shit, just like that princess—keep gripping onto me, gonna fill that pretty pussy full of my cum.”

yes, gojo was the generous donator on geto’s live stream. pervert

#stargirl★rena. #www.tumblr.com/satorena #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jjk x you #gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru smut #gojo x reader #gojo smut #toji fushiguro #toji fushiguro smut #toji fushigro x reader #toji x reader #toji smut

[honestsycrets]

enfócate | tutor!miguel o'hara x reader

❛ pairing | tutor!miguel x student!reader, fake boyfriend!peter x reader

❛ type | explicit

❛ summary | jess is clear: miguel o'hara is a terrible boyfriend. he'll inevitably hurt you-- but peter has other ideas. or, you blow miguel in a library.

❛ tags | spanish tutor!miguel, bratty reader, a kiss with Peter, Miguel's jealousy, bjs, fake boyfriend!peter, slight obsessive qualities, fuck buddies, undefined relationships, fuck boy Miguel.

❛ reqs fulfilled | see here.

❛ sy's notes | the pov on this piece bothers me, it jumps between reader and Miguel. however, i did write two separate pieces for this request (a combined 25 pages vs my usual 11/12). so, i decided to meld them together to create this piece. anywho, if it bothers you, i understand! ❤️ I yoinked a lot of the Spanish from my Spanish learners textbook, hopefully, it's acceptable.

He knew he wanted you from the first day he saw you in the tea cafe. 

Jess and he rarely visited the tea shop. It was settled on the edge of campus. Close to the social sciences and arts, but far from the work he did in the Genetics department. As a Ph.D. student, however, not all the work was done in the lab. Jess liked to see the different types of people that came to this tea cafe, where the chair cushions were fluffy emerald pillows and plants hovered overhead.

“Miguel? What's---” 

You stood apart from the other students with their sloppy, half-cropped, or frumpy appearances, there was a particular care you took to dressing. It was the embroidered bow in your hair that drew his attention. When you left to fetch a refill of chai, he noticed the soft, frilled socks in tiny ankle boots. He just knew you would taste sweet, leering as he watched you at the drink bar. Jess glanced in your direction, the way you adorably bowed your head after the tea artist gave you your drink, and just knew. Jess looked over her shoulder. 

“Not her.”

Jess’s voice was a drawn-out sigh of your name, punctuated by her fist beating the table. Miguel perked at the mention of your name. Oh, so she knew you. She was probably sick of his shit. Good, he was also sick of being used as a vibe check for the lesbians she wanted to pick up.

“Don’t you have enough side pieces?” 

Miguel didn’t respond. 

“She probably has a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend. Look who she's with.” 

That finally got a response. 

“You don’t know that,” he kept his eyes straight ahead. You caught him staring, wiggling your little fingers in a hello as you sat at a table. "I want her."

You sat with an incredibly frumpy, annoying photography student who once took his picture for the lab website. Could he be… his attention wavered when you pulled out a book: Español para el siglo. His lips quivered into a wildly sardonic grin. Oh no, no no. It was too easy. 

“You’ll ruin her. She’s too innocent.” 

He leaned in. 

“Are you going to help me or not?” 

“Buenas tardes,” 

Two chairs and a thin desk. The small study room was more of a glorified broom closet for its students. You were lucky that there was a large window that looked out over the student union, flowers blooming up its brick siding. Bits of lush dark green ivy poked into the window’s view from the library’s tall wall. As the sun set on campus, rich orange and pink settled over the sunset on that warm Friday afternoon. At least the sight was pretty for how overwhelmingly small the space was.

It wasn’t the space that bothered you. It was your tutor.

He was big-- big big. Not just a little big, but really big. The kind of big that was on bodybuilding competitions. It made his long, blue-grey muscle shirt and grey sweats look tiny, sucked to his well-pumped muscle. The room felt a lot smaller as you looked at him, his long brown hair whipped back over his neck. His eyebrows raised on his dark forehead, arms turning one over another, a bundle of muscle.

“Ah... you're him? The man from the tea shop.” 

He pulled free his sunglasses and set them down. His warm chocolate eyes glanced from the edge of your now too-short skirt to the glint of a dagger necklace that beat between your breasts. He’s staring. Why is he staring-- you finger the dagger between your thumb and index fingers, soothing yourself with the manipulation.

“Miguel.” He warmed, pulling the seat out beside him. His voice was buttery and smooth, almost like rich caramel. The lilt in his voice lightened, inviting you to take a seat by him. You should. You thought. Sit down. “Siéntate." 

You stared.

"I said sit down.” 

That was a bad idea. You paused, slipping the bag down from under your shoulder and onto the beige tile by the door. Miguel watched every slight movement. That’s fine. It’s natural to do that. You tugged the bottom of your skirt and took a seat beside him. Miguel pushed the chair back in, pushing your chest to the edge of the desk space. Oh-- oh boy, he was strong. Of course, he was, he was built like a-- 

“Bueno. Now you're settled. How can I help you?” 

Do that again.

“Me? Oh! I... Jess said you could help me need to pass a test,” you murmured. The four semesters of Spanish seemed relatively easy compared to being stuffed next to this Adonis in this tiny study room. Your legs settled over your skirt, hands working over one another to will down the pulse of your wily excitement. What was wrong with you? “To pass my language requirement.” 

You should have been able to do that alone but-- let’s say you weren’t the most applied to the language in your childhood. A tutor was a great alternative to embarrassment and thousands of dollars in classes. If only he didn’t look like… this. His large hand left the pasty back of your chair.

“Hm,” he paused. “¿Puedes hablar español?” 

“Sí,” you murmured. “My mami was-- well, I should have listened to her.” 

Hm. 

You want to know what Hm means. Your leg tremored on its own accord. He swept a leather bag by his side up and pulled out a thick folder, running across several tabs. Lab notes, diet plans, pruebas. 

“It happens,” he notes, sliding a page free. “Let’s see how much you know, princesa.” 

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t want to know more, to hear the hum of Spanish bouncing off his lips. It was a world apart from your mother’s shrill screams on Saturday mornings to clean an already clean house. It held its own beauty and mystery when he spoke it. You took the page from him, setting it down on the bland tablespace by your phone, lighting up with a notification.

Jess When you meet Miguel, don’t do it.

"¿Princesa?" you asked.

"You dress like one. Don’t worry if you fail,” you plucked out a pink mechanical pencil, complete with little animated characters tightened around the wrapping. You perked at his words, choking a small smile. “I expect you to.” 

Why was he like this? You took another unfortunate look at him, his large forearm plastered over the desk, making the book he had to look like peanuts in comparison. God, he was hot-- you felt comparatively hideous, drooling over a man that was out of your league. Maybe he could be your piece of eye candy this year. Your phone buzzed along the table again. Miguel’s eyes shot to it, a frown pulling at his lips. 

Jess Don’t fuck him. He can’t keep his dick to himself.

He reaches over, flipping your phone down with an overworked smile sundering his expression. It’s almost fake. 

“Are you…” you turned your eyes to the questions on the page. “A student?” 

“Grad student,” Miguel answered. So, older than you then. “I graduated with a BA in Spanish and a BS in Genetics.” 

“Oh! A dual degree?” The man couldn’t be normal. He had to do both. “Did it… take a while?”

“No, it was accelerated.” 

He was unreal. There was no way this man was ordinary. It was physically impossible for the man to be that hot and successful. You scribbled across the page, nipping the back of your pencil at particularly hard questions.

“So you just do this for… a living?” you asked him. 

“I teach and train clients, yes.”

“Train?” 

“Gym,” Miguel set his cheek on his fist.

“I do cardio with Jess. No strength training for me.” Jess-- who suggested Miguel to you. You had some shit to bitch at her about the next time you saw her. Namely, why she didn’t warn you about Miguel. He was a boon for chaos in your life.

“I’d waste your time. I’m all marshmallow,” you pat your soft belly. “All pan dulce and burros.” 

He chuckled. 

“You have a beautiful body.” 

And that was that. You set the pencil down on a page half full of answers, glancing toward his full lips. They were quirked into an arrogant smirk. He knew the effect he had on women. He glanced to the page, then to you, his lips growing into a smile laden with arrogance. 

“Your hips--” he glanced down, “My girls couldn’t pay to get them.” 

He noticed. You supposed that the miniskirt wasn’t the best choice for meeting a new man.

“Do you talk to everyone like this?”

“No. Only the ones that look at me like you did." 

Oh. 

 If it were a game of whom ate whom up first, you had to be honest-- it may have been you. You couldn’t shoot anything back at that, angling your head down at the page guiltily. A sigh fell from his chest. His large hand came to the back of your head, cupping the thick bow on the back of your head. His fingers ran across the silk, teasing it between his fingers.

“Calm down, you’re not the first one to do it. You won't be the last,” he turned your head to look at him, large fingers combing through the strands of your hair. He chased the panic in your wide eyes, doe eyes blown wide. Your heartbeat soared into your chest, choking you there, looking for an outlet from your shame. 

“Breathe for me,” he leaned in, his warm breath tingling your ear. His cologne was clean, like the lapse of the waves on the shore back home where the tropical heat was a second skin. You listened, taking a weary, deep breath in, then out again. Again. 

“Go on.” His knuckles rapped on the sheet. Miguel’s hand fell away. You found yourself longing for it again. 

“He’s gorgeous.” 

“I told you not to fuck him," your superior, Jess said, her feet bouncing off the stairstepper effortlessly.

“I didn't-- I just, he called me beautiful.” 

“He would call anyone beautiful if it meant fucking them. Don’t fall for it.” 

You knew Jess wouldn’t say it unless she were serious. She always knew what you needed help with, where to locate a good solution, and had the right words to calm you down.

“How?” you said, louder than you intended. You were suddenly thankful for the pounding music that beat down on your ears in your school’s gym and the rush of people that came and went. “Jess, you’re a lesbian. You don’t understand-- he’s thick. Like, he’s luchador status big. Big, big.” 

“I’ve dated some thick women.” 

“And he likes me,” you said pointedly, rushing to the topmost step, remembering his words. The way he calmed you down from your embarrassment, seeming without concern for his own body. It was… sweet. “Men usually don’t like me, Jess. I’m too… soft.” 

“Okay, girl, whatever,” you were pretty sure she rolled her eyes. “Unless you’re going to be another one of his fuck toys, just ignore him.”  

“How?”

Her stare trained on the floors lapsed. Thirty and she was still going. “If you don’t want him, just fire him. What’s going to do? Come find you?” 

You stopped for the entirety of five… or ten seconds. Enough to consider her words. Enough to quite literally get plop off the stair stepper and onto the cold floor. Jess exhaled a stale breath, reaching over to jam the STOP button on your machine. Ow.

“Good job.” 

Miguel likes to tutor you. Not because you’re good at Spanish, no, for a girl that grew up with a Spanish mother, your skills are quite poor. But he likes the opportunity to have you in a room all by yourself, late at night. Wednesdays are great days for that. 

Your soft buttercup yellow dress is short today, exposing your thick thighs that take up so much of the chair. He pretends that he’s listening as you go over a list of irregular verbs, your lip pouting in response to the irregular verbs. Some were simple in their familiarity like poder with endings such as pudiste; but the plurals and other irregular verbs, you pouted at. It was cute. 

“Miggy, it’s not funny, ” Oh, nicknames now. Miguel throws a glance at your glossy lips, undoubtedly sticky but oh so soft looking. 

“I never said it was.” 

“You’re smirking.” 

“Then don’t whine,” he said. “It’s cute.” 

“Oh--” As to be expected, you shifted your hands between your legs, drawing your skirt in between your legs. He faltered and took a glance, coasting his eye over its edges and memorizing the way it fell over your skin. You’ll ruin her, he remembers Jess saying. She wasn’t wrong, he sensed the bit of it now, how close you sat-- 

“Take a break, princesa. Vocabulary-- ascendencia.” 

Rather than take a break, you turned and caught the corner of his lips in what was a terrible, cherry-red kiss that would stain his skin. But the connection of your lips, puckered in a pouting kiss on his skin, caught him off guard. 

“Descent,” you took his red pen out of his loose grip, scribbling descent by the word. Fuck. Miguel took a sip of now cold coffee. A smile kept pulling at his cheeks, looking out of the window and catching the slight reflection of your lipstick smeared across his lip and cheek, he bobs his head into a nod.

“Correcto.” 

You’re with Peter the first time you see Miguel with another woman. 

It’s at lunch. Tuesdays and Thursdays are regularly spent running to the College of Arts, waiting for Peter to get out, and a picnic. Today, you forgot to bring lunch, running off to the union hand wrapped around his elbow as he talked to you about a bright new camera lens filter.

“These new pictures are going to come out perfect! Thanks for lending me the money,” he beamed. You loved the way he talked about his art-- stopping to show you his newest pictures of the camera that hung around his neck. Peter was always good with a camera, catching you in all the prettiest angles in your trade of photos for… sponsoring a lens or whatever. Or, at least, bringing down the cost. “Look at this one. Look how pretty you look in that dress, kinda like a pin-up! We should do some’a those next.” 

Feet thumping over the pavement, you failed to sense Miguel's presence until you smelled his peppery cologne carried on the air. There, on a bench, he sat next to a girl. She was pretty, with long dark hair and soft skin. Her hand was on his thigh and his arm around her shoulder, eating the last bit of a flaky empanada-- your eyes burned, the closeness of her head on his shoulder, clearly done and finished, waiting for whatever next plan he had. You don’t want to know what that could be.

“Huh? Oh. hi Miguel!” Peter waved to your dismay. You held onto him a little tighter, wringing circles around his sleeve. Miguel spares you two a glance, his eyebrows pushing together. But he waves, lazy and short. You stifle the hot prick of tears at the corner of your eyes and yank Peter away. “Wha-- I’m coming, I’m coming!"

Days later, Peter has a plan.

“I’ve got it-- the solution to your tea guy problem! You should have told me sooner that it was Miguel.” 

Peter was very excited. Why, you weren’t sure. He liked to feel helpful. That’s why he was a photographer. Photography lets others feel beautiful and seen. He picked at your lunch, his head flopped on your thigh as he worked through his camera. 

“I’ll be your boyfriend!”

“You want to be my boyfriend?” you offered him a grape. He opened his mouth with an adorable ‘ah’ of his his lips. You slipped the grape between his lips. He chewed appreciatively. “I don’t know, Peter. Isn’t it lying?” 

“C’mon, I know Miguel. He’s macho. The kind of guy you have to make jealous. And I can do it! I’m boyfriend material. Aren’t I?”

“Sí. But I don’t think I can make him jealous.” 

It was a sunshiney day, sprawled out at lunch on a cool picnic blanket, tracing the clouds when you heard his voice. Soft, smooth, inviting. Your head spun around, this time with a lean blonde-haired girl-- her legs were long, tummy nice and flat, blue eyes shining like little sapphires set in her pale face. She swooned on his arm. The perfect sorority princess. What if he called her princesa, too?

“--close lab with me--” 

“I can do it myself.” 

Miguel’s eyes caught yours, raising his hand lazily to greet you as he walked down the sidewalk, undoubtedly back to his genetics lab on the other side of campus. Over where brilliant boys and girls and theys were, rushing through accelerated scientific programs while you figured out how to fix broken artifacts. He lived in another impossible world. A realm far away from Peter and you: photography and the maintenance of culture and art.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Peter's eyes were glossy with concern. “It’s okay. We don’t have to-- did I say something wrong?” 

You shook your head. Peter sat up, his eyes bounced up-- from Miguel over his shoulder to your sudden sad eyes. Peter set his hand on your cheek, the fibers of his soft pink cardigan tickling your jaw. Your eyes tore from Miguel, whose pace became sluggish as if steps along took immense effort. Peter’s nose bumped against yours, clumsy and oh so Peterish-- his hand on the middle of your back, his warm but cracked lips swallowing the gasp that tumbled from your lips. He tasted of sweet fruit, the sloppy lunch you shared, and a silly comfort. 

He watching? Peter murmured against your lips. 

You nearly forgot to return the kiss, captured in the way Miguel stared-- something in his warm brown eyes was almost wounded. Peter shoved you onto the picnic blanket, a soft sorry murmured under his breath as his thin frame fell between your legs. Miguel stomped away, his bumbling blonde rushing to keep up. 

“Oh yeah,” Peter rolled over onto his back, crossing his legs one over another. You watched Miguel stomp past the tall hedges, out of your line of sight. “He’s gonna be mad at you.” 

“Peter!” 

Miguel was still in a bad mood hours later. 

“¡Qué surpresa!” he murmured, offering you your paper blotted with red circles. “You did remarkably shit on this test. Do you focus on anything? Or just Peter?” 

“Perdona me.” Your focus was shot with his consistent presence in your life. Not that he could appreciate that. 

“How long are you going to keep wasting my time?” 

“Are you talking about the Spanish or--”

Miguel set the red pen down, a sharp slam snapping the pen under his force. The fragile plastic snapped into shards of plastic. He flicked it away, paper and pen both, his large hand flexing in and out of a closed fist. You traced the tracks of his veins along his forearm.

“Are you mad that I kissed you?” 

“Stop.”

“Or are you angry that Peter did?” 

 “Don’t touch me.” 

Though he said that, you didn’t listen. You slid out of the chair and in between his spread legs, your hands trailing his handsome jawline. He jerked back when your lips caught his, the legs of his chair hitting the wall. Though he said no, his mouth opened to your kiss, and his palms flushed against your soft cheeks. You pinned him between your body and the wall-- and though you were sure he’d quickly whirl you off if he really wanted to, he didn’t. His tongue pushed into your mouth, owning yours. His hands skimmed your back, trailing lower and lower down your deep red dress until he connected with your ass. 

“You need to stop.” Miguel broke from his kiss. Though he said that, he brought you onto his lap. You felt little in his large arms, his hands guiding your hips over his crotch. “Before I do something you’ll regret.”

You listened to the sounds of the library’s floor. The scrunch of take out into the trash, the sing of a door opening and closing. It was dinner time. Most everyone had gone to get their snacks— and here you were, looking down at Miguel with rapt eyes. 

“Peter is just a friend.” 

“A friend who happens to jam his tongue down your throat,” he turned the word over on his tongue and found offense in it. “Now why do I doubt that?” 

“He only wanted to help.”

“By kissing you?” 

Your fingers trailed his jaw, dipping back down for another kiss if only to say you could. That Miguel couldn’t tell you what to do. A sound of frustration ripped up his throat. You felt him, his dick twitching to life behind those sweatpants. He felt big. You bit your lower lip— a movement that didn’t escape his attentive eyes. 

“By making you as jealous,” You slid off his lap and onto the dirty floor. But as you lifted a hand, cupping his dick through the heavy fabric, he couldn’t bear to stop you. 

His lips pulled in a wicked grin, your soft palm stroking along his length. He hooked his thumbs into his sweats, yanking them down over his knees and onto the floor. His cock kissed his belly, straining with droplets of moisture at the tip. Miguel set his hand on your shoulder and forced you to heel on the floor. His temperament evened out. “You were jealous.” 

“Yes--” you murmured. “Are.. those girls, are they special?” 

“Special? No, none of them are.” 

“I want to be.” 

“That so?” Your soft hands trailed along the dark hair on his calves, up his thighs, settling your nose where his muscular hand tightened around the root. He wrenched his swarthy hand along his length, drawing along his veiny cock shamelessly. "Let's see how much you do, princesa."

“Please.”

“Aquí se habla español.” Miguel teased. Your fingers dipped down, small tickles of your fingertips as his heavy balls. He watched you massage them with half-lidded eyes, his lips pursing in a pleased hum. 

“Por favor.” 

“Abre,” you did, sliding your soft mouth open, a well of saliva on your tongue. Miguel slid himself into your warm mouth, a ruptured groan fizzing in his chest. You didn’t want to be too loud— someone might look into the small window on the door, and see you on your knees between Miguel’s thick legs, sucking his cock down when you should be going over that test you just failed. 

You caught the salty beads at Miguel’s top on your tongue, sliding sloppily around his thick head, and lapping at his slit for more. Your soft hands stroked along his length, clumsy and shy. He hummed in approval, a sound you were more than thankful to elicit. Miguel took a fist full of your hair and drove himself into your mouth, your tongue stroking the underside of his length. 

“Pero mira esto,” Miguel wrenched his head in your hair, grabbing handfuls of it in his palm. “You can focus on something. Sucking my dick.”

Even if you wanted to look up, Miguel drove your head down onto his dick, the dark, trimmed tuft of his pubic hair tickling your nose. He drew his hips back. You nearly pulled off him, if not for his hand assuring that you wouldn’t move off of it. Drool coursed down from your lips, soaking your chin and neck, connecting to his cock as if it were a spiderweb. Your cheeks flushed with blood— you must have looked a mess. 

“Coño," Miguel tutted with his tongue, grasping his phone. Your lips pursed around his tip, eyes flickering up to catch the lens of his phone camera on your ruined face. A picture or a video, you weren’t entirely sure. Only that it sent thumps of pleasure down your core to know he wanted to record it, keep it close. You suckled along his sensitive head, working his moans free. He set his phone aside. 

Miguel stood and dragged your head along with him to pin you between the ledge of the desk space and his wonderful hips. His hands slipped behind your head, keeping you still and steady, driving himself deep into your mouth. Past your tongue, down your throat, it felt like he hit parts of you that you could only dream of. You struggled with his size, choking the urge to swallow him when he forced you to hold him there. As if your throat was just a hole for his pleasure. Your sad attempt to suckle him down was tempered by the rocking of his hips, his needy face fucking. Your eyes screwed shut, bits of color dancing behind your eyes, the easiest way to deal with this was to focus— on the way he tasted, the scent of his fresh body wash, the light judder of his hips as he came close. 

"Hah-- ay, qué rico," his nails scraped the back of your neck, sloppy and undefined thrusts filling your throat. He spurts thick ropes of his cum down your throat and mouth, withdrawing to jerk the last bursts of his cum over your lips. Miguel’s breath fell from his lips in heavy gulps, meeting yours down on your aching knees. Strings of coughed-up cum connected your sodden lips to his cock, globs of his seed slipping between your breasts. You ached. 

“Tate quieta.” 

You don’t know where you’d go, your palms catching yourself on the floor. He snapped another photo, humming appreciatively. Miguel reached into his gym bag, pulling a sweaty shirt free. Your fingers dipped into his warm cum that spattered across your warm chest, drawing it to your lips. He tasted salty, tangy, and just right.

"You look so-- so beautiful, princesa, just perfect," Miguel bent down, wiping the rest of his mess from your chest and face, gently stroking away all evidence of your face fucking before cleaning his cock and tucking himself away into his sweatpants. He chucked the t-shirt back into his bag, glazing his eyes over your hazy, exhausted eyes. He crouched down. 

“Rule one, I never share my women,” he settled his knuckle under your chin, urging you to look him in the eyes. Something told him you wouldn't be as easy as the others, but for some reason, he shrugged the thought aside. “As long as I'm fucking you, you date no one but me. If I find out you are, we're done. Am I clear?”

He was a walking red flag. But for once, in your good girl life, you wanted that. You wanted to fuck in the library-- against the genetics building late at night-- to kiss him during a sunny picnic. More than you wanted a lot of things. His eyes went soft with your answer. 

“Claro que sí, Miggy.”

He loves it when he gets what he wants.

#miguel o'hara x you #miguel ohara x reader #miguel o'hara oneshot #miguel x reader #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara/reader #atsv imagines #atsv imagine #atsv miguel imagine #atsv x reader #atsv x you #miguel o'hara smut #spiderman smut #spider 2099 x reader #spiderman imagine #spiderman imagines

[stargirlfeyre]

“Mor went through similar trauma as Nesta so why does she hate her instead of helping her”

…..

It is because of Mor’s trauma that she is reluctant to help Nesta.

Let me break this down and make it simple for you. Mor is a victim of familial abuse. She grew up in a place that was prejudiced, classist, closed minded, misogynistic etc. Now she has a friend, Feyre, who is a victim of familial abuse (just like her though the types of abuse was different) from Nesta.

I don’t think a lot of you were listening (or comprehending) when Mor said that Nesta reminded her of the people from the CoN. Y’all became too angry because of that sentence that it stopped y’all from actually comprehending what Mor was saying. From Mor’s pov Nesta is a slut-shamer who is also prejudiced, close minded, and abused her sister…why would Mor like or want to help her when from the outside looking in she shares a lot of the same qualities as the people who Mor grew up with?

Even during their first meeting Nesta looks down on Mor for what she wears…something that her family did. Nesta looks down on Cassian for being an “Illyrian bastard”…something that the CoN does. Nesta abuses and degrades her little sister…something Mor also went through. I feel like a lot of Nesta fans are just too in denial about how terrible she actually comes across because they don’t want to accept that every person who has disliked Nesta has had a valid reason to do so.

I don’t know why this fandom sees Mor as a tool for the Archeron sisters to heal and not her own person with trauma and experiences. Just because she helped Feyre that does not mean she is now obligated to help or understand Nesta. Just because they are both traumatized women that does not mean they are obligated to help one another. I mean you never say Nesta should have helped Mor with her trauma? You never call her out for slut shaming her…so why is Mor expected to? Why is Mor expected to reach out and connect with a stranger who has never once been nice to her?

“She should be mature enough to overlook Nesta’s prickliness and see that she’s hurting” shouldn’t Nesta be mature enough to not go around slut-shaming strangers and seeing women (even her own sister) as competitors? That’s your feminism icon?

Just because Mor is Feyre’s bestie that does not mean she has to connect with Nesta. I mean you don’t see us saying the Valkyries should go to the River house and help Feyre with any of her issues…

#feyre archeron #nesta archeron #pro feyre #morrigan #pro morrigan #feyre x mor #mor and feyre #feyre #mor #nesta #acotar #acomaf #acowar #acosf

[mcntsee]

Fires of Passion, Ashes of Hate I

next part

Summary: Lovers (mentioned) to enemies and “I didn’t know where else to go.” all in one 3.2k words fic.

Warnings: Hate (?), mentions of near death (kinda), curses, blood, and injuries.

Note: I actually really like this. Kaz’s thoughts are in italics. Part two will be y/n’s pov and three is going back to kaz’s. Enjoy and let me know what you think! <3

* ੈ✩‧₊˚

It was amusing, in a twisted way. Kaz and Y/N had loved each other intensely, to the point of pain. The love had hurt so deeply that they had to break apart, and with that much love bottled up, anger began. Hatred followed suit.

They hated each other. So much that it pained them, for they had once known each other. Once, they had shared laughter. Once, their love had been so intense that it twisted into hatred.

Hate born from love. How cruel.

In certain aspects, they were undeniably alike. The way they thought, fought, manipulated, and even shared laughter echoed each other—a symmetry they once found endearing.

They cherished locking eyes, finding solace in the reflection of qualities that mirrored each other, even if not in the physical sense.

They had once adored the similarity, but now they detested it. Every move, every thought, every word in their conflicts felt predictable, like battling an unyielding mirror. The annoyance grew as they found themselves entangled in a struggle against the very likeness they had once celebrated.

Kaz had been seated at his desk for what he felt was an extended period, and that, in itself, spoke volumes.

Despite the persistent urge to infiltrate Lehos' house, his thoughts incessantly circled back to her, and he hated it.

He found himself pondering how she would approach it—her plan, the route she would choose, and the exit strategy she might employ. It was exhausting and he knew that if he didn’t devise a plan soon, she would inevitably outsmart him.

His thoughts, however, were abruptly interrupted by a sudden, or rather, a terrible attempt at knocking on his door, capturing his attention.

Quickly glancing at his pocket watch, he realized that by this time, his crows would all be fast asleep. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand. A chill going down his spine.

With no apparent reason for a knock at this hour, he braced himself for a potential confrontation.

He held his breath for a second, then two. With no one bursting through the door, he took a deliberate step forward, his hand gravitating towards the doorknob.

The color drained from his face as swiftly as he yanked the door open. The sight before his eyes was too dreadful to fathom.

"I didn't know where else to go."

With that, she fell forward, her full body weight crashing against his chest and propelling him back two steps.

His eyes swiftly scanned his surroundings, darting from the blood covering the outside of his door, where she had leaned, to the pool of it where she had once been standing.

“Y/n?”

That was it. She was dead. They finally got her. Those were the only words echoing in his mind as he clung to her lifeless form, glancing down to see his hands and vest now tainted with the same crimson hue that stained his door.

And then, he heard a faint hum. Weak, but enough for him to recognize it as coming from the girl, confirming he hadn't hallucinated it. "Y/n!" But the hum was the last sound he heard from her before he felt her body sliding down from his arms, slipping from where they had once been standing.

With all the strength he could muster in their awkward position, he pulled. He pulled and pulled until he reached his bed, pushing her over so she was now lying down on it.

“Saints.”

He stood there, torn between conflicting impulses. A part of him urged to lift her and cast her out of his room—she had no business being there, and he had no obligation to assist her. Yet, another part hesitated, acknowledging she hadn't known where else to go.

That realization alone prompted him to help her. He could envision the difficulty she must have faced to come all the way here. Moreover, he understood the gravity of her situation for her to seek help specifically from him.

“I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.”

Were the constant words his mouth kept repeating as he tore clothes off, exposing whatever wounds he could see through the blood.

Her blood that had now painted almost the entirety of his room red.

A soft "I know," slipped through her parted lips, the words resonating and sending shivers through the entirety of his body. "I know."

His heart burned, as intensely as it did when the hate began. The flames of their love had been an inferno, reducing everything to ash.

Ash that had filled their lungs, the very lungs that were once the sanctuary for the breathy laughs they had once shared.

But he couldn't let her die, not like this. If her time came, it would be by his hand, not someone else's.

He alone possessed the authority to extract this overwhelming amount of blood from her. The exclusive right to make her suffer and beg belonged to him.

Beg for what? Forgiveness, perhaps. But what was he supposed to forgive her for—loving him? For making him love her?

He presumed that when the moment arrived, clarity would come. For now, he had to concentrate on the hate coursing through him. The hate that, if wielded wisely, could prolong her existence until the time he could exact his own form of destruction.

“Saints. I really do detest you, love.”

It was the only explanation. He had long ago extinguished the flames of the love they once shared, carefully dusting off the ash from his heart, and decisively leaving her behind.

Each day, she haunted his thoughts, transforming into a relentless fire, hell-bent on destroying his heart.

He moved with urgency, his leg protesting in pain. From her side to the bathroom, he returned with hands laden with bandages. Swiftly turning back, he grabbed a bucket, filled it with water, and returned with it in one hand, a cloth in the other, and a sewing kit clutched between his teeth.

His hands trembled uncontrollably. It was so absurd to witness his own hands shake that a humorless laugh escaped his lips as he shook his head in disbelief.

The room reeked of desperation and the unmistakable scent of iron, and it made him nervous. Nervous enough to prompt him to pull his gloves off, hoping for a better grip on the sewing kit.

He let out a frustrated grunt. Somehow, the damn kit refused to open, as if the crystal lid had been sealed shut with invisible glue.

With time slipping through his fingers like sand in the wind, he covered his eyes, turned his face away, and then, with frustration, raised his arm. Swiftly moving down, he forcefully smashed the kit into the ground, letting it shatter into pieces.

He quickly dropped to his knees, his shaky hand fumbling around in search of the needles. "Fuck," he muttered as a shock of pain ran through his palm. He had found a needle.

Grabbing the thread that had slipped under his bed, he rose as swiftly as his bad leg allowed, promptly placing the needle between his teeth, and tucking the thread into his pocket.

As he took the damp cloth, his gaze lingered on her face. Her eyes moved back and forth behind close lids, and he found himself wondering if she was lost in a dream.

Perhaps, in her dreams, she wandered back to him. Maybe it was a recollection of their laughter reverberating through a moonlit alley, back when times were simpler. When the city’s shadows seemed less ominous, and their love had yet to transmute into hatred.

He only fully returned to his senses when he felt the crimson wetness clinging to his hand.

Each swipe across her wounded body intensified the sensation—the stickiness, the warmth, the almost magnetic pull of her life force seeping into the fibers. It was as if the blood itself whispered secrets of their past, demanding acknowledgment.

He wanted- no, he needed to know, “Why here? Of all places, why did you come here?”

His voice, through gritted teeth that still clung to the needle, was almost as harsh as his scrubbing on her skin. He wasn’t being gentle—she didn’t deserve it. “Answer me!”

Only silence followed, fueling the hate in his heart.

He scrubbed harder, longing for a moment when she might wake up and respond to the questions haunting his mind. Yet, she remained unresponsive. Even in the face of death, she found a way to infuriate him.

Once he had cleaned as much blood as he could, he retrieved the thread from his pocket and took the needle from between his teeth.

Despite his shaky hands, he deftly threaded the needle. After all, he was the barrel's finest lock-picker.

That was something he prided himself on—an ability that, despite his attempts to teach Y/n, she never excelled at.

He took a deep breath and moved forward, his hands approaching the nasty cut just below her ribs.

As much as he craved answers, he was somehow relieved when he glanced up and found Y/n's eyes still glued shut. Just as she had never learned how to quickly pick a lock, he had never learned how to painlessly sew a wound shut. It was going to hurt.

But that was inconsequential to him. He believed she deserved the anguish, and he would have welcomed the sound of her screams.

Yet, he wouldn’t have relished the teasing likely to replace the cries of pain, highlighting how inept he was at this.

In what felt like an eternity, mere minutes passed before he wrapped the gauze he had fetched from the bathroom around -what seemed like- her entire body. Successfully covering every wound he could see.

Having done his part, whether she woke up or not was now in her hands. However, he hoped it would be soon. After all, he was going to need his bed back at some point.

As he waited, his gaze delicately traced her face, pausing at her chapped lips. He once had wondered what they might taste like—whether they would carry the same flavor as the fragrance he associated with her; cherries.

And, at some point during this ordeal, he had found himself hoping her heart would cease to beat.

He hoped that, in some twisted way, this would serve as a justification for his mind to release him from the haunting grip of his past. That it would allow his body to break free and lead him to press his lips to hers in a desperate attempt to bring her back to life.

With a sigh, his gaze shifted from her face to survey the room. The effort required to scrub y/n's body clean of blood made him anticipate the daunting task of cleaning his room.

Not to mention his clothes. His once dark green vest was now adorned in red, gradually transforming into a somber brown. One of his favorite vests now resembled an abstract painting, and it was all her fault.

And he dared not contemplate about his gloves for long. He was usually swift at cleaning them whenever blood stained the fabric, making it easier. He knew delaying the process would complicate matters once the blood had dried. However, exhaustion weighed heavily on him, compounded by the persistent pain in his leg.

His eyes scanned the chaos his room had become once more before returning to her. The desire to push her off his bed and crawl into it tugged at him.

That was until he remembered that he now, too, had to clean the sheets he had just washed hours ago, unless he wanted to sleep on bloody linens.

He groaned, his spine curving against the back of his chair as he threw his head back, his hands quickly coming up to cover his face.

Despite knowing her like the back of his hand, he found himself clueless as to why she had chosen to come here, and the lack of understanding grated on him.

At some point during the night, the weight on his eyelids became too formidable to resist. With one final gaze at her chest's gentle rise and fall, he allowed his chin to lower and rest on his chest, surrendering to the embrace of dreamland.

His dreams, as always, were haunted by her presence. The sparkle in her eyes upon receiving a rose, the comforting weight of her hand in his, and the melody of her laughter as she watched him attempt to knot a cherry's stem with just his tongue.

He had seen her do it countless times, each one effortlessly. The way her lips would glisten with sunlight as she parted them to place the stem inside her mouth.

"It's not that hard, Kaz. Watch."

And he would. His eyes piercing into the pink of her lips, observing as her jaw moved, and the bump her tongue created every now and then on her cheek.

His gaze would shift up to her eyes as he watched her squint one, focusing, her nose scrunching up.

Yet, his admiration was consistently interrupted by her triumphant exclamation, her hand rising to her mouth to retrieve the now knotted stem.

Back then, the task seemed impossible to him. He had made multiple attempts and failed each time. Now, however, he could knot the stems with little to no difficulty.

After the hate started and they drifted apart, he had spent much of his time attempting to forget her, but it proved impossible. After all, he was too engrossed in hating her to erase her from his thoughts.

Before he formed connections with any of his crows, and during the period when y/n and he were no longer on speaking terms, he occupied much of his free time by indulging in cherries. Their flavor, helping rid his mouth of the disgusting taste of jurda.

Popping the stem into his mouth, he tirelessly practiced the art of knotting it over and over again.

One day, he succeeded. From then on, it became progressively easier.

His slumber was rudely disrupted as someone burst into his room, and the daylight struck his eyes in a way that prompted a hiss of discomfort.

“Kaz-“

He was angry at whoever thought they could push his door open and rush in without even knocking first. Then, he remembered the state of the outside of his office, and the anger slowly dissipated.

“Inej.”

“What happened here?”

“Nothing that concerns you.”

Inej fell silent for a moment. Her gaze traced from the now brownish blood on his doorknob to the strangely persistent vibrant red pool by his desk. Following the trail of blood, her eyes paused at the shattered sewing kit before slowly moving to the back of Kaz’s head.

"Are you hurt?"

Kaz's head shook, a humorless laugh escaping his parted lips as he stretched his arms above his head before answering with a simple "No."

She cautiously inched forward, apprehensive about what she might discover but relieved to find Kaz was not in immediate danger. "Then—"

Kaz looked at her, anticipating her continuation of the question. However, before she could proceed, her eyes landed on y/n's form.

“Is that-“

“Yes.”

“What-“

“I don’t know.”

“Why-“

“I also do not know, Inej.”

Kaz had never spoken to Inej about Y/n. He knew he didn't have to provide details about who she was for the crows to be familiar with her. After all, her name, like his and his crows', was whispered in fear throughout the Barrel.

The sole piece of information the crows held about Y/n and Kaz was their mutual animosity. Thus, Kaz could envision the surprise Inej must have experienced when her mind finally comprehended whose blood had stained his office and whose unconscious body still lay on his bed.

"Is she going to be alright?"

"Sadly, yes."

With that, Inej nodded and silently slipped away from his office, mentioning something about instructing one of the dregs to clean the blood off the exterior before it induced another heart attack.

As if prompted by Inej’s comment, he stood up, emitting a grunt as his leg protested with pain. Retrieving his gloves, cloth, and bucket from where they were carelessly left the night before, he made his way to the bathroom.

He vigorously scrubbed at his gloves, desperate to erase any trace of her blood. In the process, vivid memories from the previous night flashed through his mind.

The images of her irritated skin as he scrubbed at the blood covering it, the slow breaths that escaped her parted lips.

With his gloves, he was gentler than he had been with her. His nails delicately digging into any bumps of dry blood, and freeing his gloves from them.

As his eyes met the mirror, he realized that her blood stained not only his gloves but also his left cheek and hair. He assumed it had transferred during his frantic run of fingers through his hair, or when wiping away the sweat from his cheek.

In the midst of rolling his eyes, a flicker of movement seized his attention – the movements that were coming from the second reflection on his mirror.

“Why here?”

He had been unable to extract the answer he desperately sought before, but now that she was awake, he was determined to put his mind at rest.

“Hello to you too, Kaz.”

“Why here?”

In the reflection, he observed her struggling to sit up, her hand pressing against her side, an attempt to alleviate the pain he was certain she was experiencing. Good.

“Look, Kaz-“

“I’m asking you one more time, and that is it. Why here?”

He observed her eyes wandering through the room, surveying the chaos it had devolved into. A subtle flicker of her tongue emerged, moistening her lips as if seeking to revive them from their chapped state.

His patience wore thin once again. With a sigh, he dropped his gloves into the sink and turned to face her. Arms crossed over his chest, he shot her an intense glare.

"Answer me."

He recalled uttering the same words the previous night as she lay on his bed, losing an insane amount of blood. If he concentrated hard enough on the memory, he could still smell the metallic scent of her blood.

“Where else if not here, Kaz?”

“Anywhere but here, Y/n.”

Her eyes finally locked with his, presenting an unusual sight compared to what he was accustomed to. The sparkle within them had long been extinguished, and the white now bore a haunting tint of red.

A bruise darkening the top corner of her eye, creeping toward her eyebrow, caught his attention. It seemed like the result of a forceful impact, possibly delivered by a fist adorned with rings. Gang boss.

Besides Jesper's penchant for rings, the exclusive wearers of such accessories were typically barrel bosses. The rings, often bulky, proudly displayed the insignia of the gang presided over by the person donning them.

These particular rings had a notorious reputation for leaving agonizing bruises, similar to the ones marking her face.

“The slat was the closest-“

“I don’t need your sob story. I want to understand why you believed I would be willing to save your life.”

“Is that not what you did, Brekker?”

There it was. She had transitioned from addressing him as Kaz to resorting to Brekker. He could sense the anger emanating from her, her face contorted in pain, and he permitted himself to relish the spectacle.

He savored it so thoroughly that he opted to add complexity to her situation, even though he wouldn't be there to witness the repercussions.

"It wasn't a favor without a cost. I have a meeting. When I return, I anticipate finding this place spotless, and I want you gone."

#six of crows #kaz brekker x reader #six of crows x reader #fanfiction #kaz brekker #angst #fluff #kaz brekker x fem!reader #kaz brekker x you #kaz brekker x y/n

[randomjreader]

Hi sorry if this is weird but I've looked all over the internet for the rwrb bonus chapter and I can't find it but I saw a pic of it in one of your posts in the tag and I was wondering if you wouldn't mind sharing the rest of it? I would just buy the book but im a minor and I live with a homophobic family so I probably won't be able to do that. Again u can ignore if this is like a weird request I just love the book and it's v comforting for me so I would rlly appreciate if you could share the henry pov chapter

Hi!! I'm sorry for the late reply, I haven't had time to sit down and scan out the pages until now. Here's the link to the file:

This is a word version, but I think a lot of the text is cut out?? (I can't use technology to save my life) I'm not sure if it's just me tho, so if you can't see the whole text either, try this link instead:

I really am sorry for the terrible quality, I tried my best but the pages wouldn't lay flat and it's currently dark out where I'm from so I had to use a lamp which uh, definitely does not help. If it's really unreadable, drop me another ask and I'll try to rescan and see if I can bring up the quality of it.

But apart from all that, I hope you enjoy the bonus chapter!! And for anyone who happens to see this post feel free to access the link too :)

#red white and royal blue #rwrb #rwrb bonus chapter #henry fox mountchristen windsor #alex claremont diaz #firstprince #casey mcquiston

[wavesmp3]

[csc] ode to you

inspired by 'daisy jones & the six'

pairing: choi seungcheol x reader (gn) genre: band au, strangers to lovers, angst wc: 13.7k warnings: cursing, heavy alcohol usage and often in an unhealthy way, one mention of blood (a terrible case of largely irrelevant side characters, an attempt at writing song lyrics, switching pov’s without any real indication, story existing in a vacuum of time and space loosely based off of 70s usa)

synopsis → The Numbers are a band well on their way to commercial success with Seungcheol as the dreamy front man, Soonyoung on drums, Joshua on guitar, Minghao on bass, and Junhui on keys. But all that changes the second you step into the studio to record “Begin Again” with them. The song is an instant hit, launching you from a singer-songwriter nobody to the biggest new name in music and catapulting the Numbers into a larger limelight than they’ve ever been in before. So with the entire country singing your song, the pressure is on for you and the Numbers to create an entire album that lives up to their expectations. But while pressure builds, something akin to feelings for the front man builds with it.

You go to knock again on the door, heavy footsteps and heavier breaths, but just as soon as your knuckles make contact with the heavy wood, the door swings open. 

Jihoon looks disappointed. “You were going to knock again, weren’t you?”

You roll your eyes, pushing him aside and going straight for the marble bar cart you know sits in the sitting room off the formal dining area. 

“You know you really have to work on your patience.” He says to you from the foyer, voice already sounding a bit far away. You always forget how big acclaimed-music-producer Woozi's house is. Although, you think, staring at the array of top shelf liquor arranged neatly on the bar cart, mansion is probably a more apt word for it. 

You pour yourself a glass of whiskey. 

Jihoon joins you in the room once you’ve already taken a seat in one of the brown leather arm chairs. 

“How many glasses is that?”

You scoff. “I have a show at the Roxy after this.”

He hums, flicking the square paper in his hand. 

You sit up slightly. “What is that?” Jihoon takes the paper over to the record player in the opposite corner of the room. He slips a clean black record out of the manilla slip and carefully places it into position. It doesn’t take long for the gentle hum of the record spinning around the platter to fill the room. 

God, I love music. You think to yourself sitting back slightly in the armchair and allowing your eyes to shut. 

“I want you to listen to this.” You hear Jihoon say, followed by the small pop of the decanter being opened and the quiet trickle and crack of liquor falling over ice. The sound of a bass overtakes the room. It’s somehow… gentle. 

“Who’s it by?”

Jihoon doesn’t answer at first. You hear him sit down in the armchair next to yours while drums fill in the spaces of the songs and a guitar starts to hum along. And the sound that comes from the record player next–in all honesty, you don’t think Jihoon could have prepared you for. It’s a man’s voice, polished, in a way that you just know he’s been doing this for a while. His whole life maybe. There’s this rough, almost growly quality that amps the song up even more, and yet, simultaneously, his voice glides over the lyrics like honey spilling over the side of its jar. There’s so much depth in every note he hits. You don’t know if you’ve ever heard a voice–a sound–quite like this. 

“Who is this?” You ask again once the first chorus comes to a close, opening your eyes and taking a proper look at Jihoon. He looks mildly amused.

“Have you heard of the Numbers?”

Seungcheol hurries into the studio from the car, guitar in one hand and lyrics in the other, fully expecting to get chewed out by his producer. “Jihoon, I’m so sorry. There was tra-”

Seungcheol stops in his tracks. The control room is empty. He steps back into the doorway and rereads the signage. He has the right room, so then… where is everybody?

“Seungcheol,” he hears a voice call for him from the recording stage. It’s Soonyoung, waving him inside and pointing at you. You smile at him, give him a nod of sorts. His eyes dart to Jihoon, giving him a look that says, who the fuck is that? 

He walks into the recording booth hesitantly. 

“Hey.” Jihoon says casually. “I don’t think you guys have met yet.” 

You stand and approach him, sticking out your hand. Seungcheol just looks at it. 

“The label thinks you guys would sound good on one track and want you to try recording ‘Begin Again’ together.” 

He ignores your outstretched hand and looks straight at Jihoon. “Can we speak privately?”

—

Seungcheol had assumed he’d be the one getting chewed out in the studio today. Oh, how things have changed. He’s worked so hard on this song. More time and effort than he’s ever put in any of the band’s songs that came out before it. He can’t believe Jihoon would allow anyone else to try and taint it. “Begin Again” is his song. And he’ll be damned if he’s not the only one singing it. 

Seungcheol’s ready to say all of this, but, “Before you say anything,” Jihoon doesn’t even let him speak, “I know how you feel about this. But the decision came from above me, okay. The Number’s last album didn’t do as well as the label hoped. They think another voice in the band could shake things up. And who knows, “Jihoon continues with a shrug that only makes Seungcheol fume more, “maybe this could be what you guys have been missing.”

Seungcheol cannot believe what he’s hearing. “We aren’t missing anything.” 

“Don’t be dense.” Jihoon pans with a sideways stare. “I know you guys are good. I know you guys are gonna be big, but the rest of the world needs some convincing. Just try this, okay? This could be it.”

Seungcheol just shakes his head. 

“I scouted them out myself. They’re a good singer and even better writer-”

“Writer?” Seungcheol nearly screams, arms flying to point at you through the control room window where the two boys are talking. “You want them to write on the song too?”

“They have a couple of…” Jihoon sighs, choosing his next word with extra precaution, “revisions.”

“Fuck that, Jihoon. I wrote a great song. It–”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“You wrote a good song.” Jihoon refutes, matter-of-factly. “You wrote a good song, and they,” he points at you, “they made it a great one.” 

Seungcheol is speechless. 

“Here.” Jihoon pushes a piece of torn notebook paper into his hands. 

If Seungcheol wasn’t so aware of the line Jihoon was drawing, he would’ve pushed harder, but at the end of the day, Jihoon is his boss and his lifeline in this business. If Jihoon says so, really says so, then there’s not much Seungcheol can do to fight it. Seungcheol is stubborn, but he’s not a fool looking to waste his own breath. He looks back into the recording stage. The band looks happy chatting to each other. And you, well, you’re staring at him.

A red light flashes on the sound board beneath him. “Talk over the changes.” Jihoon says to the band and you through the intercom. “We record in ten minutes.”

— 

“It’s nice to meet you,” you say to Seungcheol sitting on the stool in front of the second mic. Seungcheol’s never even seen a studio setup with two mics before. He swallows a scoff. “Jihoon showed me the song the other day, and your voice it—“ 

“What does this line mean?” Seungcheol cuts in, taking his seat on the stool next to yours. “I changed my heart. I morphed my mind. You don’t have the right to tell me I didn’t try.” 

Your face drops immediately. “Are you serious?” 

Seungcheol raises a brow–a challenge.

You let out a breath of pure disbelief, focusing your gaze just above his head, and hands starting to make motions in the air. “It’s about changing yourself to be with someone. It’s about them never acknowledging that.”

“That’s not what this song is about.”

You give him a pointed look. “What do you think the song is about?”

It’s his turn for the disbelief. “What do I think the song I wrote is about?” You don’t falter, not even for a second. Seungcheol grasps at the words, mouth agape. “It’s about redemption.”

“That’s too easy.”

“How is that too easy?”

“Look,” you huff, mouth opening and closing like you can’t decide what it is you want to say. You end up reaching your arm out, palm open like you want a fucking hi-five or something. In the back of his mind, Seungcheol wonders if you’re still waiting for the handshake he never gave. “Give me your original lyrics.”

He does, you snatch the paper keeping your eyes on him for a second too long before finding whatever it was that you were looking for. “Right here,” you say, finger pointing at the tattered paper and eyes darting back and forth between him and his lyrics. Your face lights up. You look like you're holding back a smile. You look… excited. “Here, in the bridge you wrote: take me home, welcome me on those familiar roads, embrace me in your arms, oh please, tell me I still belong.”

“What about it?” Seungcheol asks, almost forgetting that he’s upset at Jihoon for this whole arrangement, nearly forgetting that he’s supposed to not be accepting any of your revisions because for the first time in so long, he’s able to really talk to someone about his lyrics. 

You look up at him fully, and almost sadly, you say, “You really don’t get it, do you?” Seungcheol looks down at the lyrics you gave him, scanning them again. Funnily enough, that line is the only one of his you’ve kept. 

“The song’s not about redemption,” you tell him. “It’s about guilt.”

—

Seungcheol, you, and the band end up recording your version of the song. It’s a good song. It’s still his melody, his hook, and his bridge, but almost none of the lyrics are his. Just like that, “Begin Again” becomes as much your song as it is his. If he wasn’t so angry at Jihoon, maybe he would’ve had the mind to notice how good you sound singing it.

Choi Seungcheol is an asshole. 

That you learned in the recording studio with him and haven’t been able to get out of your head since. Unfortunately, he’s got one hell of a voice and gift for creating a good melody. And him and Jihoon together in the studio, god, they’re magic. You went out and purchased The Number’s previous record after you recorded “Begin Again”. You haven’t stopped listening to it since. 

It’s one day when you’re working a shift at the diner that you start humming the song playing over the speaker while grabbing an order from the kitchen. You don’t even think twice about it. That is until you make it right in front of the table whose orders you’re holding and start to hear your own voice.

You nearly drop the four plates of burgers.

You rush over to the jukebox, not believing your ears, not believing that your voice, your words, your song is playing for the entire diner to hear. 

And there, right at the bottom it reads: “Begin Again” by the Numbers ft. you

“Holy shit.”

The desert wasn’t too far from home, but it could not have been more different. There was so much nothing for as far as your eyes could see. There was dust everywhere, all over the place, sifting up through the air and in your lungs. How are you supposed to sing like this?

You hear the bands’ voices come up from behind you. 

“Hey,” Seungcheol says, coming up next to you and resting an arm on the same wood railing as you. “How are you feeling?”

“Great.” You answer truthfully. You could barely believe it when you got the call from Jihoon saying that they wanted you to play the festival along with the Numbers. Although, considering that your song is playing on every radio station, it probably shouldn’t have been as surprising as it was. 

The crowd roars as the previous artist says his goodbye. 

“Have you ever played for a crowd like this?”

“Nope.”

He nods slowly. “It’s a lot. The first time especially, for sure. But just go with it, and uh,” he smiles, towards the ground, “it’s a lot of fun once you get past the nerves of it all.”

You look at him, battling against the grimace forming on your face. “Is this pep talk for me or for you? Cause I’m fine.”

His smile disappears when he sees your face. You must’ve lost the battle. 

He inhales sharply. “‘Begin Again’ is last. Come out after I introduce you.”

You nod, and he joins the rest of his band. 

The crowd cheers when they get on stage. The first song starts with a familiar guitar riff and the pound of the drums, followed by the crowd going ballistic. You’ve been playing on stage for a while now, but only ever in small clubs with small crowds. You’ve never seen a crowd like this, and it makes you ecstatic. 

You hear Seungcheol sing the final words of the song and Junhui play the final chords. And you don’t know if its the crowd or the shot of vodka you took during the bridge or the fucking look Seungcheol gives you, but something, something, makes you forget what Seungcheol said about waiting and walk right onto that stage. 

Joshua and Minghao look confused. Seungcheol looks vaguely pissed. Junhui and Soonyoung barely notice. But you don’t register any of that. All you can think as you walk onto that stage, grin flashing and arms up in the air is: this crowd was fucking waiting for me. 

You step up to your mic and wait until the crowd quiets down. You introduce “Begin Again” as a song you wrote. The crowd erupts. You look over at Seungcheol, smiling, no–grinning, loving how annoyed he looks. Minghao doesn’t miss a beat, starting the song immediately. Your body moves on its own, dancing to the song, belting out each note, and loving every second of it. It’s sometime during the second verse, the one Seungcheol sings alone, that you notice how entranced he is. His eyes are half closed, and his fingers fly across his guitar like he’s not even thinking about it. He smiles at the crowd. You think you hear someone faint. He looks your way then, right before the pre-chorus, smiling still as if he wasn’t just glaring at you. It hits you almost instantly: nothing else matters to him right now. He’s in it, like really in it, and the only thing he seems to care about is putting on a good show. He’s loving this as much as you are, and maybe that’s enough to prove that you and Choi Seungcheol are more alike than either of you think. 

You leave your mic stand and start dancing towards him. His entire body turns towards you, waiting for you, his eyes following. You meet right in front of his mic just as the chorus begins. And you’re left with no choice but to stand next to him, singing into the same mic with your faces so close you can feel every ragged breath he takes, see the sweat rolling off his hair, and hear the blood pumping through his veins. Take me home. You both sing with your entire chest. Welcome me on those familiar roads. You see him turn his head to face you. You mirror the motion, and sing the next line looking right into his eyes. Embrace me in your arms. Have his eyes always been this big? Oh please, tell me I still belong. And of course it’s this line you’re singing to each other like this. Of course it’s the one line in the entire song that you didn’t actually write and the one line he did. 

The chorus ends, and you slowly back away from his mic and move back towards yours. He rips away on his guitar, fingers still flying like it’s the easiest thing, all while never taking his eyes off you. Staring at you like he found something. Staring at you like it’s only you and him on that stage. 

You don’t even remember the song ending. 

Music flows through Northside Tavern. A jazz band is playing today, and the piano player keeps making eyes at you. 

“I heard the show over the weekend went well.” Jihoon says into your ear. You just nod. “And that the label really liked what you did with the song.”

You laugh. “Not just the label. The whole country liked it.” You give one last look to the pianist, before turning to Jihoon fully. “I don’t know if you’ve forgotten, but I have a number one single.”

You head over to the bar and ask for an old-fashioned. 

“Not just you.” Jihoon yells behind you to be heard over the cheers after the band’s last song. 

You pivot. “Excuse me?” 

“It wasn’t just you.” Jihoon flags down the bartender, orders a scotch, neat. “It was the Numbers too.” 

The bartender slides over three drinks. 

You lean in over the counter. “We only ordered two.” 

Wordlessly, the bartender points to the other side of the bar. The piano player holds up their drink. Jihoon grabs his drink, and you grab the remaining two. You lift them both up towards the pianist who gives you a rather charming smile, and then take a simultaneous sip from the straws of both drinks. You taste your old-fashioned and what seems to be a margarita. 

You and Jihoon make your way over to a booth. 

“What I wanted to say,” Jihoon continues, “is that the label likes you with the band, and they want you to make an album with them.”

“An album?” You suck in your bottom lip, feeling a sudden rush from all the alcohol. An album is exactly what you’ve been pushing and working so damn hard for. So then why does this feel bittersweet?

“I think this is going to be a good thing.” Jihoon tells you sincerely, eyes softening. “You and Seungcheol…” he hesitates for a moment. You hate when he chooses his words like this, picking out the bad ones and testing out all the others. But perhaps you only hate it so much because you lack the ability to do it yourself. “You guys work.”

You take another long double sip of your drinks, squinting at Jihoon skeptically. “What did Seungcheol say?”

Jihoon’s mouth parts. There. There it fucking is. Running your tongue over your top set of teeth, you say, “you haven’t asked him yet, have you?”

“No, we haven’t asked him yet–”

“I can’t believe this.”

“–but the rest of the band is already on board, and we all thought it’d be smarter if you agreed before we asked him.”

You tilt your head slightly. You thought Jihoon knew you better than this. “I’m not saying anything until he does.”

“Be honest with yourself here,” Jihoon says seriously, pushing his drink to the side and leaning forward, “it’s no secret that you and Seungcheol don’t get along. And I get it; I really do. But I know you see it.”

You cross your arms over your chest. “See what?”

“Most people in this business spend their entire lives looking for what he and you found during the ‘Begin Again’ sessions and again on the stage at the festival. And most people fail. Don’t throw that away over whatever bullshit he gave you when you first met. Don’t throw away the chance you’ve been waiting for because of that. You guys belong together. Focus on that.”

You don’t say anything after Jihoon finishes his little speech. Instead you reach for your drinks and finish them both in one long, prolonged sip. You ignore his annoyed ‘tsk’. 

Putting the empty glasses down and to the side, you nod up at him, pursing your lips. “Are you done?”

He takes a long, final swig of his drink. “Yes.”

“Ask Seungcheol first.” You pull out your wallet and drop a couple bills on the table. “Then, you can call me.”

Today is already off to a bad start. 

Seungcheol had come into the studio ready to record and knock out at least 2 or 3 songs off the album today, but then Minghao wanted to talk about the album’s direction and Soonyoung wanted to request everyone to add as many drum parts as possible. 

And it’s as he’s listening to Junhui and Soonyoung argue about the addition of piano solos, that you walk into the studio. 

Jihoon welcomes you with a hug. Hansol, the sound engineer, offers to make you tea. Meanwhile, Seungcheol can’t understand why you deserve any kindness at this moment. Your session started an hour ago. 

“You’re late.” Seungcheol says, bringing the rest of the band to notice your arrival. 

You look at him with a smile, gesturing to the two boys who were just arguing. “Doesn’t really look like I missed anything.”

“We were talking about the album’s direction.” Minghao says from behind Seungcheol. 

You nod, putting down your stuff and taking a seat. “Okay, shoot.”

Seungcheol puts his hands up. “Well since we’re talking about it. I’ve been working on a couple songs, and,” he hesitates, pulling out a couple sheets of paper that Jihoon helped him print and handing them out, “I think I might have something good that we can build the rest of the album off of.”

Everyone takes a moment to read. Seungcheol watches the room carefully. Joshua clears his throat. Junhui plays a loose note. 

Your voice is the first that comes out of the silence. “Are you serious?”

He whips his head around. “What?”

“‘Will you still love me when I’m old? Will you still love me when I’m proud.’” You read aloud, before shoving the paper back towards him, that mocking smile still plastered on your face. “I’m not singing that.”

He scoffs, tongue swiping at his lips. “Why not? They’re good songs.”

You shrug. “They’re cheesy.”

“You haven't even read the whole thing.”

“I’ve read enough.”

“Are–are you… is this–I mean, like, you…” Seungcheol only knows one thing for sure right now: you might be the most insufferable person he’s ever met. “Jihoon!” 

“Okay, you know what,” Jihoon’s voice comes through the intercom. You both turn towards it. “How about you two go home and figure out some way to work together instead of wasting my studio time. Write one song, just one, together, and the rest of us can go from there tomorrow.”

He slips a curse between a breath. 

“Okay?”

You and Seungcheol look back at each other. It’s you who speaks first this time. “That’s fine with me.”

—

It’s a nice day out today. The sun shines through big clouds. There’s a nice breeze, and the roadways are empty. You’re sitting in the passenger seat humming something he can’t hear over the wind while Seungcheol drives. In all honesty, he doesn’t even know where he’s heading, but it might be the first time he's felt some semblance of peace with you around. 

The announcer on the radio station introduces the next song. Seungcheol turns it up and sings alongside Kim Mingyu’s voice. You stop humming.

“You like this song?” You ask. 

He quickly glances at you. “Yeah, who doesn’t.” The song was insanely popular a year or two ago. If you didn’t like it at first, you heard it enough on the radio and in every store until you did. Although, it doesn’t actually take anyone very many listens to fall in love with it. Unfortunately, the rest of Kim Mingyu’s songs never quite lived up to this one. 

“I wrote this song.” You say to him, as if it’s the most simple thing. 

“Oh, really?” Seungcheol replies with a chuckle. “You worked with Kim Mingyu?”

“Well, not all of it, but the melody and most of the lyrics, yes.” You tell him seriously, like you haven’t even registered that he thought you were joking. “I mean, worked is a strong word, but we did date for a bit.”

 Seungcheol stops at a red light and spends it staring you in disbelief. 

“Come on,” you say after a moment, “you really think Kim Mingyu wrote this song?” 

Seungcheol listens to it again: They could never get it out of their heads. Like a scene on repeat. Like a mountain falling. Something unforgettable, but forgotten still. Something like you. Someone like me. 

And instantly, it clicks–of course you wrote this song. Of course it’s the case that Kim Mingyu’s best song and one of Seungcheol’s favorites was written by none other than you. 

He looks over at you while at another light. Your head leans back against the car seat, and your arm hangs over the edge of the open window. You don’t look like you’re enjoying listening to the song even if you are the one that wrote it. In fact, you look mildly annoyed, nose scrunched while inspecting your nail beds, teeth grinding. 

Seungcheol changes the station thinking: why’d you let him take it?

Before he can really think about it any further, you sit up in your seat and point at the next light. 

“Turn right up there. I know a place.”

— 

When you had said that you knew a place, Seungcheol imagined that it’d be a coffee shop or an empty bar or anything other than the middle of the woods sitting on the rocks along a stream. 

Although, he must give you credit: the setting you’ve taken him to is beautiful. There are birds humming and life strumming all around you. The water is a blistering blue that glistens and shines in the sunlight streaming through the trees like a million coins falling from the sky. The water has a small current running through it, and it beats against the rocks lightly, like the lightest, most gentle drum beat. The breeze is nice and cool on Seungcheol’s skin, sifting through his hair and past his limbs. And maybe the best part is how all around him, on every single side, he’s surrounded by green. 

It would have been perfect, if not for the fact that you and him have been here for two hours and still have absolutely nothing. 

“Okay,” you relent, after he turns down another one of your ideas for a song, “how about this melody?”

You start humming one of the worst melodies Seungcheol’s ever heard in his life.

“Absolutely not.”

You grunt frustrated, arms falling through the air. Your head follows suit, settling in your hands, face buried from his view. 

“Why’d you even say yes to this?” You snap, looking up at him after a moment, brows furrowed and hands gesturing vaguely in the air. “If you have no intention of taking any idea I give you seriously, why did you say yes to this?”

“I didn’t.” Seungcheol reminds you. “Neither of us did. Jihoon kicked us out of the studio.”

“I don’t mean that.” You flare. “I mean letting me in to do this album with the Numbers. Why’d you agree to it?”

There’s a change in the wind. A sudden quietness that must be attributed to some insect dying. Seungcheol hadn’t expected you to ask this. He hadn’t even expected you to think it. 

“It wasn’t…” he starts, looking for the words in the space between you and him. He looks up at you, hoping to find them there. Instead he finds hope in them. 

Seungcheol has been in this exact spot before–sitting in front of someone that wants to believe in him and is asking him to give them a reason. He’s seen this before, and he has no interest in repeating his past mistakes. He sees no need to add you to the list of people he’s disappointed. With a short laugh, he says, “You know what, let’s just get back to writing.”

“Fuck that.”  You respond immediately, grabbing at his guitar.

“What are you–”

“No. Fuck that.” You repeat, successfully pushing his guitar off his lap. “If this is going to work, you have to at least pretend like you trust me. Song writing isn’t just strumming on your guitar all day and hoping for the best. It’s vulnerability, and it’s pouring your heart and soul and life into something and praying that someone out there feels the same way. That’s what ‘Begin Again’ was. And every single person who listened and liked that song and every single person who sang with us at the festival is saying that they feel the same way. So, what are you so afraid of? Why do you feel like you can’t trust me?”

Seungcheol gulps. “Which question should I answer first?”

You inhale slowly. “The latter.”

Seungcheol just shakes his head. “I don’t know you.”

“Ask me then.” You say desperately, like it should have been obvious to him, “whatever it is that you want to know just ask it.”

Seungcheol nods. In truth, there’s a million questions he wants to ask you about everything, but at this moment, all those questions sink to the bottom of his mind and only one rises to the top and travels to the tip of his tongue. “Why’d you let Kim Mingyu take credit for that song?”

You lean back slightly at his questions. Looking away from him and towards the murky waters before answering. “Believe it or not, I wasn’t always like this.” You tell him, laughing lightly. “I used to let guys like you walk all over me.”

His heart jumps into his throat. He’s barely able to choke out a, “guys like me?”

You nod, still refusing to meet his eyes. “Guys who don’t believe that I have what it takes.”

“I never said that.”

“But you showed me.”

“When?”

You look at him then, squinting. He hopes what you see is genuineness. He asked the question sincerely. “When you were so quick and ready to dismiss my changes to the lyrics during the ‘Begin Again’ takes. When you let me join your band on this album, and then expected me to sing an entire record full of songs that mean nothing to me. I’m a songwriter, Seungcheol. It’s the one thing about me that no one can take.”

Something between intrigue and malice slips in behind his tongue. “So what can people take?”

You shake your head, smiling ever so slightly. “My turn. What are you so afraid of?”

Seungcheol inhales sharply. “Well, I’m afraid of dying and of heights and–”

“Stop that.” You cut in, like you really mean it. “Why are you so afraid to say what you really think?”

He sucks in his bottom lip, shrugging. “‘Begin Again’ was your song more than it was mine. What if people don’t like what I have to say? What if they can’t relate and just think I’m fucked up and crazy?”

Your eyes soften, and your smile lines deepen. It takes a moment for him to register that you're smiling, really smiling, at him. He’s never known a smile could feel so inviting. 

“But what if they do?”

Seungcheol takes a moment to think about what you’ve said. And in that moment, whatever insect had died gets resurrected, returning to nature’s hum, filling his ears. Seungcheol looks all around him. The hum of life, the beat of water, the tune of leaves falling. He’s surrounded not just by nature and greenery, but also by music. And it’s erupting from every corner of these woods.

His eyes finally land on you.

“I think I found our melody.”

When you come into the studio the next day, the song is done. You went to sleep humming it still and running through the lyrics over and over again in your head.

“Let us sing it for you first,” Seungcheol suggests to the rest of the band with Jihoon listening in from the control room. “And whenever you feel like you got it, just hop in with what you think works, and we can refine and shape it from there.”

You watch the rest of the band as Seungcheol explains it. Minghao looks shocked, but excited. Soonyoung looks proud. And you can’t really read what the other two are thinking. 

“Jihoon, are we good?” Seungcheol asks, turning around to the window into the control room. 

“Whenever you’re ready.” Jihoon replies, voice filtering in through the intercom. You nod. Seungcheol nods. The rest of the band nods. Jihoon presses a couple buttons and says, “This is ���Can You See Me’.”

Seungcheol starts playing the chords he found yesterday. You’re not sure why or how but it reminds you of those woods. His voice starts singing the first line of the song. You close your eyes and take it in. You join him for the chorus, singing alongside his voice feeling the words flow. It’s Junhui that joins you two first, playing a couple loose notes, testing things out. By the end of the chorus, he’s found it, playing a little more confidently and adding a whole new level of depth to the song. A depth that makes you feel like you’ve only ever known two colors your whole life and in a matter of seconds Junhui added in a third. Joshua joins in next, as your voice takes over for the second verse, playing off what Seungcheol was playing but making it his own. Seungcheol goes over to where Soonyoung’s sitting and says something to him in his ear. Soonyoung nods. Seungcheol goes over to Minghao, but Minghao shakes his head, already starting to play something. Seungcheol heads back to his mic right before the second chorus starts. You turn and sing the last line of the pre-chorus to him

And I know that you never trusted me. 

He joins you for the chorus, singing back.

Can you see me standing from there? And can you see the blood on my hands? If I give you all of the parts to my heart, Will you care that I’ve been scarred and stitched up?

Soonyoung starts playing then, the drums filling in the last thing the song needed. You listen to the rest of the band play and marvel at how insanely talented they all are to pick up and play something that actually works after only a minute of hearing it. The song needs polishing, yes, but it’s got a good sound and it’s heading in the right direction.  

You don’t take your eyes off Seungcheol, and he doesn’t take his eyes off you. And for the remainder of the song, you sing to each other. 

The song ends. The last one playing is Junhui. And for a couple seconds, no one says anything. 

It’s Jihoon’s voice that comes out of the silence first. “I’m a fucking genius.” 

You smile at Seungcheol. He smiles back. 

After recording and polishing ‘Can You See Me’, you and Seungcheol fall into a song-making rhythm of sorts.

(We don’t always have it perfect.)

“I feel like this lyric in ‘Puzzle Pieces’ doesn’t fit.” You say to Seungcheol, before muttering the lyric outloud. “It’s too shy. I don’t know. I just think it’s missing the mark a little bit, don’t you think?”

Seungcheol groans tiredly. “God, I can’t think about this anymore. Can we take a break? Go get some food or something?”

“Yes, but before we do, do you think ‘I see us standing in the distance’ or ‘I see you standing in the distance’ works better here?”

Seungcheol just stands ignoring your question and muttering ‘no’ repeatedly. 

You follow, running after him and begging him to listen. 

(Boy, do we fight.)

“I think there should be more drums in the hook.” Seungcheol announces after the third run through. 

“Why?”

His eyes widen, sarcastically. “Because there should be.”

“Don’t do that.” You scoff, used to his antics. “Answer the question: why?”

He sighs, resting his hands on his hips. “It’s missing something. The song still feels empty. I mean, the lyrics allude to a love that’s blooming and growing between two individuals, but nothing behind the lyrics build up with it. There’s almost a disconnect between the words and the music.”

“I disagree.” 

He scoffs. “All that for–”

“I think it works just fine without the drums, and if you add the drums it’ll become more suspenseful. The song is supposed to feel like falling.”

He shakes his head. “It’s supposed to feel like butterflies.”

“It’s supposed to feel like peace.”

(Sometimes you win.) 

“Let’s vote.” Seungcheol suggests. “If you’re for the drums, raise your hand.”

Only Soonyoung (the drummer), does.

(Sometimes you lose.)

Jihoon presses the red button on the sound board, announcing to the recording stage, “Take 3 of Aurora. Seungcheol, try softening your voice a little for this one.”

“Jihoon, can we just try one take with me in it?” You ask him. “I think even if I were just singing a harmony or in the background of the bridge, it would add so much.”

“No.” Jihoon says, scribbling something down in his notebook. “I’m with Seungcheol on this one.”

“Jihoon, you haven’t even heard my–”

“This song doesn’t need your voice.”

(But sometimes, we get it just right and fit like the last two puzzle pieces.)

“No,” you say, shaking your head as Joshua and Minghao finish off the last chords of the song, “It needs to sound murkier.”

Joshua, Junhui, Soonyoung, and Minghao just stare at you blankly.

“Less cymbals, Soonyoung.” Seungcheol says over the speaker from the control room. “And Minghao, ride out the low tones more.” 

You turn and see him. He catches your eyes, smiling slightly, reassuring you. Like he gets you. 

From behind you, you hear Junhui lightheartedly mutter, “since when do they have their own language?”

Joshua and Soonyoung laugh, but you barely notice because you see him. You see the way his brows furrow when he’s thinking. You see the way he sticks out his tongue when he’s focused. You see all of it. 

And for a moment, he sees you. All of you. And he doesn’t turn away from it.  

Today’s songwriting session quickly turned into a field trip from the studio to grab food which then turned into you leading Seungcheol’s car to the beach. You and Seungcheol sit on a stone ledge, right where the sand begins, 20 paces away from the ocean. Between you sits leftover fries and your untouched song notebook. You watch the sun dip into the sea and listen to the waves crash over and over again. The wind pushes furiously, tossing his hair to the side and pushes his head away from it. It just so happens that away from the wind means towards you. 

“So,” you begin, popping a fry in your mouth and dusting the salt off your hands, “when are you going to answer my question of why you let me in the band?”

Seungcheol figured this question was coming. He’s been avoiding answering it. “You really want to know?”

You look at him sincerely. “Yes.”

Seungcheol looks out to the water. “After our first album, Jihoon prepared a tour for us. It was this tiny tour, not even big enough for a tour manager. We played in the smallest venues with okay-sized crowds. I mean, it was barely a tour, really more of a way to get our name out there. And after the northern leg of it, I…” Seungcheol closes his eyes and sees moments from that tour flash behind his lids: strobe lights, bodies in bed, empty glasses, and negative pockets. Sometimes memories can feel like nightmares. “I was just in a really, really, bad place. By the time we were halfway down the east coast, I was barely even able to play. Jihoon saved me then. He saved my fucking life. But he had to cancel the rest of the tour in that process. The rest of the band, man, they couldn’t even stand the sight of my face. Minghao especially. It was Jihoon who ended up being the one to convince them to let me back in. I owe Jihoon my entire livelihood and my life. So when he asked what I thought about you joining the band for this album and when I saw how badly he wanted it to happen, I owed it to him to say yes.”

It’s been so long since he’s recounted that story, even to himself. It doesn’t hurt as much as it once did. That knowledge surprises him. 

“Where are you now?” You ask suddenly, pulling him out of his head.

He turns to you. “What?”

“If you were in a bad place then, where are you now?”

The wind quiets for a moment; he feels a warmth overtake him in its absence. “Someplace better.”

He looks down, not even noticing the smile growing on his face, and catches sight of your notebook. He points at it, asking, “may I?”

You look down at it as well, grabbing another fry. “Sure.”

He flips through the pages of your notebook. The first half isn’t even songs. It’s snippets, words, singular sentences taking up an entire page. It’s only halfway through the book that it actually turns into something that could be called songwriting. He asks you about it. 

“Ah, that’s when I met Jihoon.” You tell him, smiling fondly. Seungcheol puts the notebook down and waits for you to explain. “Before him, I had songs, but they weren’t real songs, you know? They were just some combination of all the snippets and sentences I had written down. But then Jihoon heard me play at the Eastern, and said that I had a good voice. He asked if he could give me his card so that we could talk more, and I said that I wasn’t interested in people who only saw me for my voice and walked away.” 

“You’re insane.” Seungcheol mutters, baffled. He remembers the chance encounter he had with Jihoon right after he and the band moved down here to make a name for themselves. He remembers how hard he begged for the same chance Jihoon offered to you so simply. “So, how’d you end up working with him then?”

“He found me again at the diner I used to work at after that. I told him I still wasn’t interested, and he asked if I had written the song I played that night at the Eastern. I said yes, and he said that he was only interested in my voice because my songs weren’t there yet.”

Seungcheol chuckles.  “So he’s always been an asshole then?”

“Oh yeah.” You nod, mirroring the sound. “He was an asshole about it, but he was right. And it was the first time that someone believed in me enough to think that I could be better. That is what made me want to try and write a song that would make him see that I’m as good of a songwriter as I am a singer. I spent a lot of time working and got out one good song. I sang it all across the strip. He finally saw me play again at Ben’s Garage. I let him sign me after that.”  

“What was that song about?”

Your lips do this half frown thing that makes Seungcheol want to peer inside your brain and figure out exactly where it came from. “It was about what all songs are about.”

“Which is?”

You look at him like it’s obvious. “Love.”

It feels like a shot of sunlight through his veins. 

Seungcheol drives you back home after the beach. You had gotten nothing done in terms of the album, but you felt happy, and you felt free. You watch him from the corner of your eye. You’ve only known each other for some months now, but it feels like so much longer. You’ve told him more about yourself and your past than anyone else you’ve met in your adult life. You’ve told him your deepest worries and darkest secrets, and he never turned away from you, not once. Instead he took your insecurities and turned them into beautiful melodies. He turned all your doubts into celebrations of hope. And he did it for you. 

Suddenly, it no longer feels like you only met him when you recorded ‘Begin Again’ together. Suddenly, it feels like you’ve known him since you were a teenager and like you’ve been in love with him ever since. Your palms start to sweat. Your heart sinks past your lungs. Is it all those goddamn fries or him that’s making your stomach turn?

He turns onto your street. This is it, you think to yourself. This is everything I’ve been waiting for.

He walks you to your door, and you stand facing each other on your porch. 

“This was nice.” You tell him, taking another step towards him. 

“It was.” He mumbles, a lazy smile on his face.  

You take another step towards him. He doesn’t move back. His mouth parts. You watch his lips, trace them with your gaze. You think about what it would feel like to kiss them. 

“Do you want to come in for a bit?” The words come flying out of your mouth involuntarily. You barely register that you’ve said them. They didn’t come from your mind but from a tiny spot deep in your gut where the urge to take another step towards him lies. You give into that urge without thinking twice about it. You’re closer to him than you’ve been in months. The last time you were this close being that moment on stage during the ‘Begin Again’ performance. You’re surprised you remember that. His breaths then were ragged, uneven. His breaths now are barely there, like he isn’t even breathing. You can smell the mint he popped in his mouth when you left from the beach. You can smell whatever perfume he must’ve sprayed on his neck this morning. 

And you’re so wholly aware of the fact that his eyes are looking at your lips. 

He turns away from you and glances at your door, saying, “I should go.” 

You feel something in your chest sink and sink and sink. 

“I’ll see you in the studio tomorrow.” He continues. “We still gotta help Junhui figure out his part for ‘Puzzle Pieces’.” 

And with that he’s off, and you’re left standing on the porch alone wondering how someone can look at you like that and then just leave. You look down by your feet and see your heart sitting there, next to your shoes. You leave it there and head it inside. 

The next day, Jihoon cancels your studio time without explanation and reschedules you and the band for the following day. 

When that day finally does come, Seungcheol doesn’t show up on time to help you and Junhui figure out the right notes to play for the song you wrote together like he said. Instead, he stumbles into the studio late with a song in his hand wearing the same clothes he wore with you at the beach. And that alone, feels like a betrayal of some sort. 

“What’s it about?” Joshua asks.

He looks around the room, excited. “It’s about my new partner.” 

You feel the urge to vomit all over the recording stage. 

—

Jeonghan, it turns out, is Seungcheol’s partner’s name. Seungcheol had brought him into the studio a week after they started dating, and he’s been coming routinely ever since. As much as you hate it and as much as it makes your heart bend and break, Seungcheol looks really, genuinely happy with him. You wonder if he ever looked like that with you. 

You really wish you hated Jeonghan, but you don’t. He’s actually quite nice and gets along with the whole band so easily. He even makes friends with Jihoon. You thought he might be a distraction to Seungcheol while writing and recording, but Seungcheol is more focused and productive and creative than ever. The song he wrote right after meeting him is good, like stupidly good. There isn’t a single word in it that needs changing. 

With your help, Seungcheol writes another song about him, called ‘Light of My Life.’ It’s while writing that song that you find out that Jeonghan was never a stranger, and that day after the beach was not their first meeting. It’s Soonyoung who tells you how Jeonghan is from their hometown and how Seungcheol and Jeonghan used to date. 

The day that you record ‘Light of My Life’ Jeonghan is also in the studio, sitting in the control room and laughing at something with Hansol. 

You light up my life even when it’s dark. You both sing together. It’s an acoustic song; only Joshua stands behind you guys strumming the chords on his guitar. The rest of the band didn’t even come in today. You color my world even when I’m feeling blue. You glance over at Seungcheol. He isn’t looking your way. He’s looking at Jeonghan through the control room window. When I’m with you, I never feel alone. You think about the times when he used to look at you while recording. When you hold me, baby, I feel at home. Jeonghan looks back at Seungcheol. It hits you how beautiful he is, with his dyed silver hair and slender face. You don’t blame Seungcheol for writing such a beautiful song about him. You don’t blame yourself for helping him. I can’t believe this has happened to me. Seungcheol wrote this song for Jeonghan, but he wasn’t the only writer on this song. Right before the next line, Seungcheol finally finally turns and looks at you. I feel alive because of you. 

Seungcheol turns back to the control room, and for the rest of the song, you wonder that if Seungcheol wrote this song for Jeonghan, who the hell did you write this song for?

—

A tune comes to you while you drive home that night. You scribble down a couple lyrics in your notebook as soon as you walk through your door. 

Silver hair. Silver skin. Sliver of my heart you took with him. 

Joshua throws a party that weekend. A housewarming for the house he bought with the ‘Begin Again’ checks. Stepping in through the foyer, you question whether you should be buying a house too. You forget that thought by the time you reach the drinks table. 

After your hellos to the rest of the band and all the small talk with people Joshua wanted to introduce you to, you end up standing alone in his backyard, sloshing around the dark liquid in your cup. Truthfully, you’ve barely left your apartment all week. You hadn’t been in the mood for a party. But it’s nice out here. The air is fresh and crisp. The lights, which Soonyoung and Minghao enthusiastically and drunkenly told you they helped put up, are warm but not too bright. You imagine you’ll stay out here for the rest of the party. 

“Hi,” you hear a voice say from behind you. You turn around only to find Jeonghan. You hope your face doesn’t betray you when you greet him back. “What are you doing out here?” 

You gulp down a bitter sip of your drink. “Just wanted some quiet.” 

“Same. Junhui started doing karaoke again.” 

“Oof.” You groan sympathetically. “Already?” 

He just nods with a laugh. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen all of them.” 

You like Jeonghan. You really do. It’s just taken you until now to realize that you don’t really know him apart from small talk in the studio and the two songs Seungcheol wrote about him. “When did you move down here from your guys’ hometown?” 

“Oh.” His chin juts out a bit. “I moved down with the band actually.” 

You don’t hide the surprise on your face. 

“I take it no one told you that then.” Jeonghan chuckles darkly. You shake your head. “Uh, well, yeah,” he continues, shoving his free hand into his pocket, “Seungcheol and I started dating right when the band formed. I used to do the photography for them. And when they proposed moving out here, I thought I ought to come with. And I did.” He gulps his drink. “It was good for a while. Really fun in the beginning. But then I got my job taking pictures for the paper, and they were doing the album. And well,” he looks at you like you already know what he’s about to say. You don’t. “It already wasn’t really working anymore by the time the album was finished. And then they went on tour…” 

He leaves that part blank. But based on what you heard from Seungcheol about that first tour, you can piece together what might’ve happened. You question whether Jeonghan left that empty to spare Seungcheol or to spare himself. Then you question how he knew you knew about it. 

“Oh.” Is all you say. You don’t ask about when they encountered each other again. You don’t want to hear it. 

“You know,” Jeonghan begins again, “I actually used to watch you play at the Tabernacle.” 

You groan immediately. You only ever played at the Tabernacle when you first started. You cringe thinking about what you might’ve sang on stage in front of him. “Oh my god. I’m so embarrassed to even think about those days.” 

“No! Don’t be!” He reassures, kindly. “You were really good. I especially liked that one song that went like… The days were wide open, as far as the eye could see.” 

Your heart nearly soars straight out of your body. You had forgotten about this song. You used to love it dearly. You join Seungcheol’s boyfriend for the second line.

The world was mine to take, but I’ve never been good at accepting things. 

“You and the band together,” Jeonghan says a moment after you both stop singing, “it’s magical, don’t get me wrong, but that song,” he smiles at you, “it’s a damn good song.” 

You can’t help but smile back. “Thank you.” 

“Cheol showed me a couple of the songs from the album.” Jeonghan mentions, and it instantly and heartbreakingly reminds you who you’re talking to. You hate that he has a nickname for him. “They’re amazing.” You look at him. He seems genuine. “They’re so good and real and raw that it almost makes me wonder…” his voice tapers off, losing the sound to a small exhale that appears as if it was meant to be a laugh, “Nevermind.” 

“What?” You poke, instinctively leaning in towards him.

He meets your eyes, creases running along his forehead and frown lines more prominent than ever. “It almost makes me wonder if there was something between you both.” 

You swallow, pointing at your chest. Your voice comes out raspy without you meaning for it to. “Me and Seungcheol?” 

He nods. “Yeah, I mean the lyrics in ‘Begin Again’—“ 

“That song’s not about me. Or about him.” You defend. “We didn’t even know each other when we wrote that.” 

“What about ‘Can You See Me’?” 

Your breath catches. Truthfully, you answer, “I don’t know what that song’s about.” 

—

When you get home that night, you finish the song you started writing about Seungcheol and Jeonghan. 

When you breathe in his lips, do you think of mine? What kind of songs were we making? Were they all lies? 

“What’s it called?” The question comes from Soonyoung. 

You look up from the paper in your hands filled with the lyrics you had completed over the weekend and after Joshua’s party. You notice he looks sad. You turn your gaze to Minghao. You can’t really tell what he’s thinking in that moment. 

“Uhm–I don’t know. I haven’t thought of a title yet.”

Seungcheol walks in then. “What are you guys talking about?” He asks, setting down his stuff. Then, more to himself than to you guys, he murmurs, “And where are Junhui and Josh?”

Soonyoung and Minghao don’t say anything. Instead, when Seungcheol asks what you’re doing, they both look at you. You imagine even if Junhui and Joshua were here, they’d do the same. Have you really been this transparent? At what point did they put together all the pieces? 

You hand Seungcheol the song. You have no idea what his reaction will be. 

He just nods, like he has no idea what the song is about. Like he doesn’t see his name and Jeonghan’s scribbled in the margins. 

“Call it ‘Silver Lies’.” He says. 

Minghao makes a noise. “Call it ‘Silver Linings’.” 

“Vote on it?” Seungcheol proposes. 

“No.” You look at Minghao. He stares back at you. Something unspoken lies in the space between. “We’ll call it ‘Silver Linings’.”

A party rages around you. Flashing teeth and flashing lights. Another drink, another riff. You don’t even know where you are right now. You remember coming home after working on ‘Silver Linings’; you remember wanting to forget your own mind. This is the only way you know how.

You don’t even know how long it’s been. 

This is what you do know: You’re sitting by a pool. Your feet are wet. You haven’t been this drunk since your 18th birthday. Choi Seungcheol is standing across the pool from you. 

Your face breaks out in a smile. Sober you will regret that. Sober you will also regret how your first thought is that he looks beautiful. You’ll regret the fact that you finally, drunkenly but honestly, admit to yourself how pretty you think he is, how you’ve thought so since your first time hearing him sing, and how you’ve been so painfully aware of it ever since. 

You let yourself fall in the water. Head sinking for a moment, before breaking the surface again. Floating on your back, you start humming the melody to ‘Silver Linings’ in your head. 

Silver hair. Silver skin. Sliver of my heart you took with him. 

You can’t tell if it’s the chlorine or something more pathetic that burns the corner of your eyes and runs down the side of your cheeks. 

You feel something tug on your arm. The sudden jolt makes you lose your balance, falling beneath the water. You’re so fucking wasted you forget if you even know how to swim; you almost forget to not breathe. 

You feel a pair of arms pull you up and hold your head above the surface. You know who they belong to. It strikes you in the back of your mind that this is the first time you’ve been touched by him. So maybe that’s why you relish in the feel of his arms around your waist and the way his hand grips at your hip. 

He looks at you like you’re filth. Just as all your partners before him did. First they’re sweet and charming, but it always ends like this. In their arms, simultaneously wanting to be far away and fighting the urge to beg: love me, please. 

Even if he wasn’t your partner, even if all he was was a hope and a ‘what if’. 

You barely even register it when you say, “you're just like the rest of them.” 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He rages back, not even acknowledging what you said.

“Nothing.” You tell him, smiling, wishing like hell that you believed it. 

“You missed our studio time. We were supposed to record ‘Silver Linings’.” He fumes at you. “Do you know what time it is? Do you even know what day it is?”

“Do you know how much of a fucking mood kill you can be?” You bite back. 

“What are you on?” He looks repulsed. You hate it. Hate the way that you showed him your whole heart and that he still looks at you like this. 

Seething, you say, “What do you think?” 

And that—that is what breaks him. What makes him lose his shit and start screaming. 

“Jihoon is fuming at us!” 

You barely notice it. Instead, you repeat in your head the words to the one song you truly, wholeheartedly wrote for him. 

“The record label isn’t going to let this slide, you do realize that, don’t you?” 

When you breathe in his lips, do you think of mine? 

“You wasted an entire day of recording!”

What kind of songs were we making? 

“No.” You say finally, voice coming out quiet. It sounds so misplaced and so wrong next to all the yelling between you two. “We wasted so much more than that.” 

Were they all lies?

For the first time since you’ve seen him tonight, he doesn’t say anything back. He just stares at you, like he can see straight through. The party continues all around you. It never stopped. It never quieted down. And yet, it somehow feels like you and him are the only ones in this pool. Like you’re stuck in time. Like you’ve created your own world with him and that’s where you’ve retreated to now. 

“Was any of it real?” You ask before you can stop the words. You hate how pathetic you sound. You hate how desperate it all is. 

All he says before leaving you in the water alone is: “I’m with Jeonghan now.” 

He splashes water in your face on his way out. 

When Seungcheol walks into the studio, you’re already there, talking with Jihoon and someone else he doesn’t recognize. 

“Hello.” He says cautiously to the group.  

The man says hi back. You don’t look at him. Jihoon is the one that finally explains. 

“Seungcheol, hey, this is Wonwoo. He’s from the paper, The Stones, and he’s going to be doing a piece on the band and the creation of the album.  It’ll be an inside look into the process of making an album and a bit about the band itself.” 

“Hey, man,” Seungcheol greets properly, extending his hand to shake. Wonwoo fumbles with a place to set down the pen and notebook in his hand for a second, before shaking it. Seungcheol doesn’t miss the way you scoff under your breath. “Wonwoo, right?” The reporter nods. “Anything you want us to do for you or for the piece?”

“No. Not at all.” He shakes his head profusely. “Just keep working on the album as you would normally. I might pop in here and there with questions, but other than that, it’ll be like I’m not even here.”

Seungcheol smiles brightly. “Well, you’re in for a treat today because we have a song to record.”

For the first time that day and for the first time since that night in the pool, you look at him. “No, we don’t.” He wonders if you remember that night, what you said to him, what he said back. 

“Actually,” he reaches into his bag and pulls out a piece of paper he’s been working on for the past two days. He hands it to you. “We do.”

You read the lyrics silently for a moment, then frowning, you read them aloud. “I’m used to making games out of broken hearts. Silly me for trying to play around with yours.”

Wonwoo makes a noise. “Damn. I wonder who that’s about.”

You snap, whipping back around to Wonwoo. “What happened to ‘it’ll be like I’m not even here’?” 

He mutters an apology and quickly scribbles something down in his notebook. You turn back to Seungcheol. “I’m not singing that.”

He ignores you and looks at Jihoon. “Let me see the song.”

You extend the paper out to him without taking your eyes off of Seungcheol. In Jihoon’s defense, he’s been working the hardest to keep the peace as early as when you recorded ‘Being Again’ together. Nonetheless, your face still morphs from hurt to angry. Seungcheol doesn’t blame you, but he also doesn’t really give a fuck. 

Jihoon, sounding more exhausted than Seungcheol has ever heard him sound before, only sighs. “How about we just try the song?”

—

Recording first starts with the instrumentals. The rest of the band recording their parts exactly as Seungcheol heard it in his head. 

Finally, with the rest of it recorded, he focuses on vocals. 

He only wants you singing it. 

“Take one of...” Jihoon starts, speaking through the intercom. “What’s it called again?”

Seungcheol answers: “‘We Are Not Done.’”

You’re the only one in the recording stage. Seungcheol sits in the control room with Jihoon, Hansol, and Wonwoo. The rest of the band is either home, in the lobby, or behind him in the control room. Seungcheol’s already demonstrated for you the general beat of the lyrics against the instrumental. You still hold the lyrics up behind the mic, brows furrowed at them. 

“Pour me a drink I–for all…” Normally, you’re a picture of confidence in the recording studio, but your first attempt to sing the song is an absolute train wreck. 

Seungcheol reaches over Jihoon’s shoulder and presses the red button. “Cut. What’s going on?”

You look through the window, exasperated. “I don’t get it. The words, they just–”

“It’s–Pour me a drink for all the fools made out of me.” Seungcheol demonstrates again. “I can’t live with myself half past 12–and it’s just like that for this whole verse.” He waits a moment. “Good?”

You stare at the lyrics, brows still scrunched together. “Yea.” 

“Okay. Take two.”

You sing: “Pour me a drink for all the fools made out of me.” Your voice is timid, almost. Seungcheol’s never heard you sound or act anything close to timid before. “I can’t live with myself half past 12.”

“Cut.” Seungcheol stops you again. “You have to sound larger than life singing, like you don’t care if people see how fucked up you are.”

“Excuse me?” You nearly scream at him.

“I’m talking about the song.”

Jihoon shakes his head. “Take 3.”

You look mad now. At least that will be closer to what Seungcheol wants. “Pour me a drink for all the fools made out of me.”

“Cut.” Seungcheol can see you biting your tongue. “Sing it looser. Less restrained. Don’t worry about hitting the notes. Take 4.”

“Pour me a drink for all the fools–”

“Cut.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Even looser. Take 5.”

“Pour me a drink f–”

“Cut. Let your voice get ‘ugly’. Take 6.”

“Pour me–”

“Cut!”

— 

(Wonwoo’s interview with Seungcheol)

Wonwoo: So, Seungcheol, I remember there being an impossible number of takes for the track ‘We Are Not Done’, specifically for the vocals. In the end, How’d you get them to sing like… that?

Seungcheol: Sometimes all it takes is a little push

—

(Wonwoo’s interview with you)

Wonwoo: ‘We Are Not Done’ is such a force of nature. How’d you end up singing it like that?”

You: Well, let’s just say that Seungcheol is really good at what he does.

Wonwoo: And what does he do?

You: He inspires. 

—

The red light flashes again. “Take 32.”

The only thought you have when the blue recording light turns back on is that you fucking hate Choi Seungcheol, but you still want him and you hate that he knows that. 

The track starts. 

Pour me a drink for all the fools made out of me. I can’t live with myself half past 12. I’m used to making games out of broken hearts.  Silly me for trying to play around with yours. I know you’re with someone new, But is that really true  If you’re still thinking of my kiss and my tongue?  I’m your wildest dream. I’m your best nightmare. You and me, baby, we are not done. 

You’re beyond pissed driving home from the studio that day. 

The first fucking day with the reporter and Seungcheol chose to make you look like an idiot. He chose to make you sing that song with Wonwoo sitting behind, taking it all in. 

Not to mention that that was the first time you’ve seen him since he showed up at the party while you were trying to get over him the only way you know how. When he held you in his arms, made you feel so stupidly warm, and then left with someone else’s name on his lips. 

You hate Seungcheol. Maybe joining the band wasn’t worth it. Wasn’t worth him. 

Your vision goes red and all you can think is: isn’t he over this yet? Aren’t I?

Suddenly, there’s a bang. A puff of smoke. The airbag releases. Your entire body clenches, lurching forward and then back again harshly. 

A crash, you register belatedly, staring at the hood of your car folded up like a piece of paper. 

Paper. 

You dig inside your glove box for your notebook and shove your hand in the space between the passenger seat and the center console to find a pen. 

“What the fuck?” The man from the car you hit screams, stepping out of his car.

You ignore it. A song, you had it just then. You had it.

“You hit me!” He yells again, getting closer.

Your pen hits the paper, and it doesn’t stop until the song is on it. Not even when you notice blood drip. Not even when the man starts banging on your window.

Is it over now? Do you have the guts? To call it quits, baby, Say I’ve had enough. Is it over now? Can we say the words? I used to love you, Now I’m not sure. 

(Wonwoo’s interview with you)

Wonwoo: What’s it been like working with the band? From ‘Begin Again’ to now?”

You: Oh, well, ‘Begin Again’ was a totally different story. I wasn’t really part of the group or anything. I was more just an outsider that Jihoon and the label had brought in. I changed up most of the lyrics, but the song was never really mine. I think it’s taken me a while to realize that. But, now, I mean, working on the album together couldn’t be more different. Seungcheol and I co-write almost all of the songs. It’s been a much more collaborative project compared to ‘Begin Again’. It’s been exhausting and tiring and life-consuming, but um, it’s been a lot of fun.

Wonwoo: So, going back a bit, if you rewrote all of the lyrics to ‘Begin Again’, how is it not your song?

You: Seungcheol already had some lyrics written for that song. I was just the one to figure out what he was really trying to say with them. 

Wonwoo: Hm

Wonwoo: So what’s it been like working with Seungcheol? 

You: Well, it definitely wasn’t easy at first.

Wonwoo: Why not?

You: I think we were both just used to writing alone. We learned a lot in those first couple writing sessions, and I think we’ve both grown a lot since then. 

Wonwoo: What’d you learn?

You: We’re very similar people. We think about love very similarly. We have fought the same battles, and we’re both able to turn our pain and struggling into something beautiful. 

Wonwoo: How would you describe you and Seungcheol’s personal relationship?

You: What do you mean?

Wonwoo: Friends, lovers, enemies, etc.

You: We have chemistry, but

You:

You: But I think that to write together there has to be love. What else would all the songs be about?

Wonwoo: Is that what ‘Can You See Me’ is about? Love?

You: That’s for each listener to figure out for themselves.

Wonwoo: You also said that you co-wrote most of the songs with Seungcheol.

You: Yes.

Wonwoo: So, did you guys co-write ‘We Are Not Done’ and ‘Is It Over Now?’?

You: 

Wonwoo: No need to go into details if you’re not comfortable. I’m only really looking for a yes or a no. 

You: It–

You: It’s not as simple as a yes or a no.

—

(Wonwoo’s interview with Seungcheol)

Wonwoo: What’s it been like working with someone else for the song writing on this album?

Seungcheol: It’s been hard. There’s a lot of push and pull for each word in each song, but I think at the end of the day, we’ve been able to put together an almost complete record of songs that we’re both proud of.

Wonwoo: It’s been said that the two of you have chemistry–

Seungcheol: Who said that?

Wonwoo: –do you agree with that?

Seungcheol:

Seungcheol: It’s not what you think.

Wonwoo:

Seungcheol: Look, whatever chemistry people think there is between us, I mean, it–it’s for the music and for the songs, not for each other. 

Wonwoo: Are you saying it’s all fake? 

Seungcheol: No, but it’s not real life either. 

Wonwoo: So you guys fabricated some of it to sell records?

Seungcheol: I just don’t want people to get the wrong idea. 

Wonwoo: Which is what?

Seungcheol: That there’s something between us romantically. There isn’t. 

Wonwoo: Not even a little bit?

Seungcheol: Not even once.

The photo shoot for the album they decided should be in the desert. You’re not really sure why. Probably something to do with the desert show where you and the band first played together. You didn’t have a choice in the matter. If you did, you would have suggested the opposite. Maybe something on the shore. Nonetheless, you let them tell you where to sit and exactly how to do it.

The photographers look between each other after each flash of light in your face. Thank god they aren’t actors. You can read on their faces how much they hate each photo taken. 

“You know what,” the head photographer says to the band, “let’s just take 5.”

You’re up immediately, walking away from the weird set they’ve put together and heading straight to the snack table. You say hi to Jeonghan standing there with a camera around his neck. 

“Did the paper send you or did you come with Seungcheol?” You ask lightheartedly, picking at some grapes.

He laughs, fiddling with the lens. “No, not the paper. I just like to bring my camera with me sometimes. Plus,” he adds with a far off smile, looking up the hill at Joshua, Junhui, and Minghao talking, “reminds me of the old days.”

You look up past those three to where Soonyoung and Seungcheol are laughing at something you wish you were privy to. “I get that.” 

“Actually, Seungcheol and I wanted to talk to you.” He says. His lips look pressed, eyes bright, fighting a smile but also fighting something else far beneath that. “Once the album wraps, we’re, uh, we’re gonna get married.”

“Oh.” 

“Yeah, I know. It was his idea, but I’m really excited about it too.” He tells you, abashedly. “We’re gonna keep it small, I think. Do it back in our hometown so that our families can be there and everything. I think most of the band is gonna travel back too to be there, and, uh, I know it would mean a lot to both of us if you were there too.” 

You look at Jeonghan. You don’t really think he’s lying about the last part, but that still doesn’t make it any easier for you to swallow. “I don’t really know if that’s a good idea.”

“I do.” Jeonghan doesn’t falter. It reminds you of you before Seungcheol. You wonder where that version of you went. After a moment, his face softens, lips turning down a bit, but eyes looking as kind and as big as ever. You notice that his hair isn’t silver anymore. 

“I know that it’s complicated between you and Seungcheol. And I’m not going to act like I get it because I don’t. But I like you and I know he loves you. If not for anything, then for this.” Jeonghan gestures to the shitty set they prepared. You look at it, chuckling. It’s shitty, yes. But Jeonghan’s right. This must’ve cost the label a fuck ton of money. “He and the band wouldn’t have any of this if not for you. You did that for them.” 

You turn back to Jeonghan. Genuinely, you tell him, “Thank you.”

You open your arms to him. He welcomes it, hugging you back. You exhale. You can barely remember the last time you did. 

“Congratulations, Jeonghan.” You feel him grin. 

“Please come.” He requests. 

You don’t know if you will. But you do know that you’re happy for him. 

—

The next round of photos are no better than the last. You hope at least Jeonghan, who’s moved on to taking pictures of the scenery, is having a better shoot day than the label-hired photographers. 

You find Seungcheol again during the next break, standing in the back at the top most part of the hill, sun shining down directly behind his head.

“Hey.” He says to you, not casually but not maliciously either.

You stop in front of him, just staring. Without you even meaning to, you frown. Seungcheol must notice. He tilts his head. “What’s up?”

You inhale sharply. “You’re getting married.”

His mouth opens, then closes. “I’m getting married.”

You shake your head. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I-it never..” He stops trying to find the words. You find that as more of an answer than anything he could’ve said. “I’m sorry.”

“Take me home.” You recite, thinking of the first window you ever had into Seungcheol’s heart. “Welcome me on those familiar roads. Embrace me in your arms. Oh please, tell me I still belong. It was always about him, wasn’t it?”

Seungcheol doesn’t say anything. You know him too well to think he would. Instead, he sucks in his bottom lip and turns his gaze to the ground. You bend your neck to see his face, see his red eyes. This is the only time you’ll have him like this again. This is it.

The only thing you have left to say to him is: “I hope you’re happy.”

—

When you go home that night, you drink yourself past consciousness. It’s only when you wake up with a pounding head the next morning do you see the song sitting next to you, written in sloppy, drunken handwriting. 

Tell me was it worth all the pain Tell me would you do it over again Tell me was it worth the lights and your name Tell me was it worth the sound of my shame Tell me was it worth the album and the songs That I only sang thinking they were about us Tell me some it was true, not in my head Did we only kiss to sound how you wanted?

I know I’m not yours But let me your wildest dream You think of again On a bad night After a bad fight

(Wonwoo’s interview with you)

Wonwoo: Who wrote the last song on the album: ‘Not Yours’?

You: I did.

Wonwoo: When?

You: Right after the album cover shoot. 

Wonwoo: What inspired it?

You: Well

You: I think that song had been singing in my heart for a while before I finally wrote it. 

—

(Wonwoo’s interview with Seungcheol)

Wonwoo: ‘Not Yours’ is such a heart-breaking song. What was it like recording it?

Seungcheol: Believe it or not, it was one of the easiest. 

(Wonwoo’s interview with Jeonghan)

Wonwoo: It’s nice to finally meet you.

Jeonghan: You too. If I can be honest, I really didn’t expect to be called about this piece.

Wonwoo: Oh

Wonwoo: I just like to get all sides of it. 

Jeonghan: Okay.

Wonwoo: I wanted to talk to you about the album photo shoot. 

Jeonghan: Oh yeah of course.

Wonwoo: From my understanding, the picture that was chosen as the cover, was one that you took. Is that correct?

Jeonghan: Yeah. I took it during one of the breaks. 

Jeonghan: I mean props to the photography team that was hired, I’m sure they’re amazing, but it wasn’t hard to tell that they were really struggling to photograph the band. 

Jeonghan: I just happened to have my camera on me, and you know, I had photographed the band in the past, so I just kind of knew what to look for. And when I saw Seungcheol and them go off to the side to talk, my eyes just happened to follow them. And

Jeonghan: Well, I don’t know what they were talking about, but you can see it in the photo, you know? 

Jeonghan: They’re looking at each other like it’s a very important conversion. And well, let’s just say that I know Seungcheol very well, and he’s never been a good actor, so it must have been. And, and the sky is so blue and so clear behind them which, I don’t know, to me sort of represents how there’s nothing coming between them in this moment either. There’s nothing that isn’t being said.

Jeonghan: 

Jeonghan: When I saw that, I just knew I had to capture it.

Jeonghan:

Jeonghan: I had no idea that Jihoon would want to use it for the album cover. I wasn’t thinking like that. 

Wonwoo: Was it weird at all?

Jeonghan: How so?

Wonwoo: To capture a picture of your finance and his bandmate looking at each other like that?

(Wonwoo’s interview with Jihoon)

Wonwoo: So does the album have a name?

Jihoon: Yeah. Of course.

Jihoon: Aurora

Wonwoo: Can you tell me anything about the band maybe going on tour?

Jihoon: Well, can’t say anything for sure yet, but there’s definitely been some talk from the label about it.

Wonwoo: If there were to be a tour, are you able to give us a sneak peek as to what it’ll be like?

Jihoon: Hmm

Jihoon: Did you happen to see the band play the festival in the desert?

Wonwoo: No, I did not.

Jihoon: Well, I’ll tell you what anyone who saw that show would say.

Wonwoo: Which is?

Jihoon: Get ready for the best fucking show of your life. 

(Wonwoo’s interview with you)

Wonwoo: I heard most of the band is heading back to their hometown for the break. 

You: Yeah, they are.

Wonwoo: Do you plan on joining them?

You: No.

You: I don’t think I will.

Wonwoo: What do you plan to do during your time off?

You: Well, I bought a one way ticket to Italy, so that should start something. Maybe I’ll go to Nepal or Japan or Brazil after that. I haven’t really decided yet. 

Wonwoo: So, traveling.

You: Yeah, I guess. 

You: Can you believe that the festival show we did is the farthest I’ve ever been from home?

You: It’s time I saw a little more of the world.

Wonwoo: The fans are really looking forward to a tour. Can you speak to when you will be coming back?

You:

You: Who’s to say I will?

#seventeen scenarios #seungcheol scenarios #scoups scenarios #mine #*ode to you #scoups x reader #seungcheol x reader #seventeen x reader #seventeen imagines #seungcheol imagines #scoups imagines #scoups fluff #seungcheol fluff #seveneteen fluff #scoups fanfic #seungcheol fanfic #seventeen fanfic #scoups angst #seventeen angst #seungcheol angst

[ihavemanyhusbands]

Hi hi 🩷🫶🏻 before anything i'd like to say that this blog is my comfort space 🥹 idk how to explain it but the vibes are so cozy and fun, not to mention your incredible writing skills! You're amazing, thank you for sharing your talent with us 💓

I also have a fun lil request lol, i was wondering what your ideas and theories are regarding the type of women Will, Hanni and Duncan are into, doesn't have to be 100% accurate obvi but just curious about your pov

Howdyyyy!! Awww omg thank you so much!! This is soooo sweeeeet 😭❤️🥹 I’m really really glad you feel this way about my blog!! Thanks for being around!! ❤️❤️

Hmmm as for preferences I won’t touch the subject of appearance for the sake of reader insert neutrality! But here are some of my ideas on personality:

Duncan

Either the polar (ha!) opposite of himself or someone similar in temperament. He NEEDS to be put in his place from time to time and he likes a woman who can test him and push him.

But he also needs someone who can understand him and the things he has been through, without the cloud of judgement over his past mistakes or actions. He needs (like all three men, honestly) some softness in his life. Someone who can remind him of why it’s worth living it, despite all terrible things that have happened or may happen. He needs constancy too, bc no one in the past has stayed for him (ooooof its true even if it hurts). He’s very much into physical touch, so someone affectionate for sure. Maybe borderline clingy, even. He’s been so starved for it for so long it’s what he yearns for.

——

Will

First and foremost, someone PATIENT. Will has his quirks and things he’s very particular about, so he needs someone who’s understanding of that. When he becomes withdrawn or is in a bad mood, patience is important for knowing when he needs space and time. Also, because he is a fisher and he will 100% bring you along with him, so it’s pivotal.

Ideally, someone who has similar dry humor as him. Able to keep him in check and ground him when he feels himself becoming unmoored. Someone he can be comfortable enough with to just be in companionable silence. He is also, unsurprisingly, very much touch starved, so affection is more than welcome. Someone tender hearted is his weakness.

——

Hannibal

Some of Hannibal’s favorite qualities are a quick wit and a certain level of cunning. He values intelligence, both street smarts and book smarts. Above all though, he cares most about loyalty, open mindedness, and clear communication (it may seem terribly ironic, but if he lets you get close to him, it’s a requirement).

He needs someone who sees him for who he truly is, and love him regardless. Trust is literally of utmost importance!! But while he loves doting on his partner, he definitely likes to be a lil spoiled in return. Contrary to Duncan, I believe he wouldn’t be very into someone super clingy, but he still likes to get loved on for sure!

——

#hannibal lecter x reader #will graham x reader #duncan vizla x reader #anonymous #minors dni #hannibal fanfiction #polar fanfiction

[queeninthesouth-side]

also not a request, im writing what i want to read at the moment, it seems! The lowdown: there’s angst, sex and romance, all Lannister style. He growls. You’re welcome. Very reader focussed, but about a third of it is Tywin’s pov. Possessive, protective husband vibes. Again, you’re welcome. He’s Hand to Joffrey (gag) so it’s set post Robert’s death, but canon? We don’t know her. Also, can we agree Genna is the sister in law we all need?

Coming in at a whopping 8,112 words

In Time, the Lion Loves

Tywin Lannister x fem!Reader

It was a purely political marriage, one that occurred a mere fortnight after your meeting Lord Lannister of Casterly Rock in King’s Landing. He had been taciturn and serious bordering on standoffish most of the time. You were embarrassed that your father had all but forced his hand, what with Lannisters paying their debts and all. And saving Jaime Lannister from the Starks and returning him home when Lord Lannister couldn’t? It was a debt large enough to warrant a hopeless, trustless marriage between you and he.

“Let’s retire,” he said from beside you at your wedding feast, an ostentatious event organised by the Boy King Joffrey and his mother. He’d been unexpectedly amicable, in the way lord husbands were supposed to be with their wives. He’d let you sip from his wine goblet and had given you first pick of the plate you both shared. You enjoyed the roast pheasant while he preferred beef.

“Time for the bedding ceremony!” the King announced, face flushed terribly from the wine he’d indulged in, and green eyes sparking with malice. The King had always looked at you as though he might pounce, and tonight of all nights, you had to rein in your fear of him. As soon as men rose and began tugging at your beautiful gown, they stopped.

Lord Lannister had slammed his hand on the table, the boom echoing throughout the hall the feast was being held.

“No man but I shall touch my wife. Get off her,” he growled. The men around you couldn’t flee fast enough. Then neutral green eyes settled on you, readjusting your sleeves that had come down your shoulder some in the tugging and offering you his hand to escort you from the hall.

He poured you more wine once in the Tower of the Hand, but you did not move to drink it. You had let go of your fear of this man in particular, especially as he’d kept you close to him all evening, and had gently seated you beside him at the feast. It could certainly be a ruse, one to make him seem the perfect Lord even in a marriage he had not chosen.

“Stop thinking so much, you’ll make yourself dizzy.”

“I was thinking how much I appreciate your manner, my Lord. It would not have surprised me if you were a cruel man in private, though I am beginning to see there isn’t any needless cruelty in your body.”

He looked at you then, watching as you took a single, gracious sip from your cup, before turning and looking at him too. You were beautiful, this he knew. He was a widower, not blind, and he had appreciated privately any particular woman of exceeding beauty. But he’d always been a jealous and possessive type of man, and you were almost made more beautiful by the fact you were his alone. His wife. He’d need to get used to that again.

“You will bear me sons, and manage the Rock should we return. It would not do to sully our alliance so soon.”

“Of course, my Lord.”

“Are you nervous, Lady Wife?”

“No, my Lord. I snuck off to a brothel before we travelled to King’s Landing and had a whore explain to me the truth of a marriage bed.”

Already he felt a flare of possessiveness take him. The thought of you in any brothel made him twitch. Had any men seen you? Had anyone touched you? He found the thought entirely unacceptable, and was sure to say so.

“I knew I’d be married shortly after my arrival here, my Lord. I did not want to be uninformed, and septas take a vow of chastity. How could they give me an objective insight into married relations?”

“While it is an admirable quality to seek out your own answers,” he said, walking over to you and looking down as you sat opposite his desk. “You will not set foot in an establishment like that again. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my Lord,” you said, looking up at him with earnest eyes. He liked them, he decided, when they were settled on him.

The first night, he’d answered any questions you’d been left with on how a woman takes pleasure from her husband, and gods, did he give you pleasure. In short order, you’d found yourself looking forward to the hour or so an evening he’d dedicate to getting an heir on you. You were grateful he’d make it an enjoyable experience.

He was long and hard, and you’d taken him two dozen times at least already, and every time he had to let you adjust, lest he hurt you. It was sweet torture for him, feeling you tight around his cock, sighing and humming for him until he’d draw out more sounds.

Your hands, never stilled once he was inside you, gripped at his back, his sides, his neck. Anywhere you could reach, you would touch, but never outside the bedroom. He used to appreciate this, he realised, sinking in all the way and delighting in your gasp. Not having a clingy little wife who lingered about him at all hours.

No, he realised, drawing back then driving forward more firmly. He wanted you to be clingy with him. It was barely a moon into his marriage to you, and he wanted to possess you as much as you seemed to possess him. With this thought, he dedicated himself to your pleasure. He’d make you enjoy his cock beyond anything else, then he’d make you enjoy him.

“My Lord,” you whined as he brushed a spot inside you that had your eyes rolling back and fluttering shut.

Oh yes, the Lion thought, he’d have you in all ways soon enough.

When you’d both agreed to make small appearances around the Keep, Tywin had thought it’d send a clear message that the Lord and Lady Lannister were united despite the tenuous start of your marriage. It did not quite have this affect, to his chagrin.

Men watched you everywhere you went, he realised on these walks. Their eyes would follow your walk, your hair, your face and any words that floated along the wind sweetly. You were splendiferous in red and gold, and he’d spared no expense on your wardrobe. Bedecked in the finest gowns, second to only the Queen, and even then outdoing his daughter to her distaste. He’d made it as clear without words as possible, you were his. And yet, these cads watched his wife as though she were still an eligible heiress and not his lady wife.

Then began the marks.

On your neck, your shoulders, even your wrists, which he delighted in kissing and licking in rare shows of intimacy. He was an odd man, your husband, but he left you to your own devices apart from your new routine of walking and visiting your bed to procure an heir. He’d stop his attentions once you were with child, you knew, but you ignored the twinge of upset the thought caused. He was not your lover, he was your husband, and you lived in a world where they were not one and the same.

The marks were bothersome, especially if he hadn’t kept to below your collarbones, as you’d told him to. He rather seemed pleased with himself when a bruise was left by your ear or your throat. You’d learned all sorts of hairstyles to cover them, styles that seemed to draw the eyes of others, but none moreso than the Master of Coin.

Petyr “Littlefinger” Baelish was not a man you’d heard of before your arrival at the capitol, but he’d made himself known to you at your wedding, and seemingly every other day since. He’d appeared sympathetic at first to your marriage, though when he saw your irritation at the perceived pity, he’d taken another approach. Whispering words of the deeds your Lord Husband had done to carry on his legacy. The details disturbed you of course, but you were not so foolish to think Baelish would tell you anything of the truth, only what he wanted you to know. Ignoring him was easy, but his presence made you uncomfortable, try as you might to hide it.

“My Lady,” he smirked at you. Sat at a bench in the leafy shade, enjoying the weather and a good book, you greeted him politely but made no move to stand or invite him to sit. He cleared his throat at the ensuing silence. “I had hoped you might walk with me around the gardens, my lady?”

Closing your book, you stood and began making your turn about the aisles of flowers and crawling vines. He walked beside you looking at you out his periphery. You’d mastered the art of looking around a room without moving your eyes, so his attention was far less overt than he’d hoped.

“And what did you wish to speak to me about, Master of Coin?” You felt an odd yearning for your husband then. Surely the sly little man would leave you be if your hulk of a husband were near.

“Have you travelled to Dorne before, my lady?”

The question sent a chill through you. The man was up to no good, you were sure, but your husband would surely not desire to hear your concerns over the, as far, polite attentions of a member on the Small Council.

“I have not, my lord. I don’t much fancy such arid temperatures, so I cannot say I have a desire to visit anyhow. Have you?” you asked to keep your polite façade.

“I have, my lady. It’s a beautiful, if arid as you say, land. I’ve many friends there, and a home of my own, too, for when business takes me that side of the world.”

“If you only wished to inquire about my travels, Master of Coin, I shall bid you farewell.” In a move so fast you hardly realised it’d happened, Baelish had placed your hand over his arm. Coincidentally, your Lord Husband happened upon you both that instant. You pulled your hand from him with a delicate frown and took a step away.

“Baelish,” your husband gritted, eyes glittering with danger. For you or Baelish, you weren’t quite sure. Almost certainly both.

“Lord Hand. I shall leave you to your strolling, my lady. Good day.” And then he was gone.

“You are not to walk about the Keep unattended, wife,” Tywin says lowly.

“Yes, my lord,” you reply softly, turning to return to the Keep proper.

That night, your lord husband drew peak after peak from your body, relentless until you were practically unconscious from the pleasure. You’re mine, he’d said over and over as he drove into you. And he did not stop touching you. Your hair, your face, your lips especially. He seemed to kiss the breath out of you, stopping only when he’d finished a second time, and you could barely speak.

You’d woken the next morning alone, as you always did. Your husband would only share your bed for the act of siring an heir, and would always be gone by the time you woke. It didn’t bother you, you told yourself as you woke cold and sore. It was perfectly expectable for a husband to act this way. And you would do your duty, as you’d been taught to, so it hardly mattered if he was there when you woke. He didn’t need to be next to you in the morning to get a child on you, so why would he? It was this cold logic that helped you through your bath and preparations for the day.

===

Two moons later, and your husband had not refrained from exhausting you thoroughly every night. He stayed a little longer, waiting for you to be asleep before he would make his exit, and sometimes you swore you could feel his fingers caressing whatever body part was exposed to him. Though it was surely the musings of a well-sated, completely exhausted woman.

The Master of Coin’s attentions had not faded either, though this made you less than pleased. It was hard to desire leaving the Tower without your husband, knowing Baelish would find you inevitably. He had gotten into the habit of placing your hand on his arm when he could get away with it, which was often as he avoided your husband at all costs. There was no love lost between Littlefinger and the Great Lion.

“Your husband is making a three day expedition to the surrounding towns. Something the Hand does every year or so.”

“Yes, he’s mentioned it. He’s made arrangements accordingly.”

“You must be excited to see more of King’s Landing, my lady.”

“I have requested to stay behind,” you say offhandedly. You were hoping to gauge his intentions by telling him this. The look of determination, and something much like scheming, settled in his eyes. It frightened you.

With the desire to be away from this man and near to your husband, you bid the Master of Coin farewell and walked away before he could follow.

Entering the Tower and seeing your husband hard at work at his desk brought you a feeling of peace you did not realise he gave you.

“Wife,” he said simply.

“My Lord,” you always replied. There was a settee by the window, and in the time you’d been married to Tywin you’d never seen him sit there. You walked to his bookshelf, grabbed whatever spine took your interest and sat at the settee to read. Your husband made no comment, so you did not move.

A couple hours of silence followed, you reading about agricultural infrastructure and him responding to raven after raven.

“You’re disturbed,” he says suddenly.

“I grew weary of people watching me.” It was not quite a lie, but again, how could you be honest that you were hiding from the Master of Coin? That you thought he was up to something? That and how quickly you tired these days. Being married was exhausting, especially when your husband could not seem to get enough of your attentions at night.

“I leave on the morrow for the Tour of the Hand. I had summoned my sister to come for a few weeks to the capitol and she arrived today, but is resting. Mostly to get her away from that miserable husband of hers,” he added. He’d been doing that over the last few weeks, adding details that he usually wouldn’t if you were anyone else. It felt like a token, of what you couldn’t say, but something from him to you regardless.

Your anxiety got in the way of any warmth. Without Tywin, Baelish would have no deterrent to keep him from approaching you, even calling on you in your chambers if he was bold. Having Genna Lannister (never Genna Frey) would perhaps be a hindrance rather than a help. You didn’t know the woman, and the only other Lannister woman in the capitol made no efforts to get to know you.

“I shall look forward to meeting her, my Lord.” He hummed and that was that.

Later that night, after dinner, your husband summoned you to his chambers. Usually he’d cross the dividing parlour between your rooms and bed you there, but he obviously couldn’t be bothered to make the journey, you thought.

He was undressing you as he made sure to do every night, never letting you do it yourself. You undressed him, he’d instructed you on your wedding night, and he would undress you. It was only when you were splayed across his bed, hair unbound and laid across the pillows when his eyes darted to your midsection.

Palming your lower abdomen, and seemingly finding what he was looking for, he said, “You are carrying my babe in your belly, wife.”

The words brought dread. Would he stop his attentions? You hadn’t realised how much you liked them until they might be taken away. But then his words actually sunk in. A baby. There was a babe in your belly, your own, and in some moons it’d be in your arms, gods willing.

Tywin watched as you smiled small at first, then sat up and felt where his hand cupped the slight swell. He saw a true smile from you, one bright and warm as the fire in his chambers that crackled merrily. Tywin felt annoyed that he would have to leave you come morn, especially now that the next lion of Casterly Rock was in your belly. And quietly, perhaps he enjoyed the way you sat with him, and wanted more of the same.

Feeling pride at making his wife smile, and that he’d gotten a babe in her so quickly after their marriage, he kissed you breathless until you pulled away for air. It didn’t stop him from trailing kisses across your neck and collarbones, down to your breasts, which were heaving by now. He couldn’t wait to see them swell in the coming moons.

You thought he would stop there, return to you and get on with it, but he moved lower and lower, until he was staring into your most private place. It was embarrassing for a few moments, until he leaned forward and began kissing you there too. It was overwhelming. So perfect, making you writhe and pant. You never begged, but if he toyed with you like this long enough, you were sure you would.

“You’ve done well, wife. Allow me to reward you,” he purred before his tongue went inside. This, you decided, was well worth it to have waited for. In no time at all the sounds of him kissing you there overtook the fire and even your own deep, heavy breaths were drowned out. “One lion stronger, soon to be two,” he said as you peaked over his lips and tongue.

===

You woke a little after you’d both fallen asleep, tired and sated and, dare you think, happy at the prospect of the babe. It took you a moment to realise you weren’t in your own rooms, and that this was the first time you were waking up beside your husband.

He was laid out on his back, long legs nearly stretching the entire length of enormous bed, one of his arms bent underneath his pillow, and one stretched to rest under your pillow. You only allowed yourself a moment to admire him before quietly getting out of bed, collecting your clothes and moving like a ghost to your own rooms. It was hardly an hour past midnight, and you felt so tired all the time (from the babe you now realised) that all you wanted was to sleep.

Tywin woke an hour before dawn to an empty bed, and this infuriated him somehow. To be left while he slept made him feel as though you’d taken your pleasure and gone away from him. The only thought that stopped him from barging into your rooms was how that’s exactly what he did to you every night but the one you’d just shared.

Getting up from bed and throwing on a dressing gown to cover his nudity he marched directly to your rooms, finding you curled up by the edge of the bed, as though leaving a space for someone else. This appeased him in a way he couldn’t ascertain, but he needn’t linger. It was early still, and he didn’t need to be up and out of the Tower until after breakfast in a rare change of schedule.

He approached your sleeping form and gently manoeuvred you so he could scoop you up. You hummed, then frowned and blinked an eye open.

“M’Lord?” you mumbled.

“Hush,” he soothed, using the voice he’d found you reacted particularly well to. “I woke to find my wife missing from my bed,” he explained softly. “I am simply rectifying the issue.”

“Didn’t think you wanted me to stay,” you sighed, shutting your eyes and allowing him to grip you behind the knees and scoop you by your shoulders. “I’m sorry,” you said, and Tywin was distracted by how sweet and docile you were when sleepy.

“Hush, I said,” he murmured by your temple. You curled closer to him at that, and his chest rumbled in satisfaction. “From now on, you stay in my bed.”

“With you?”

“Yes,” he said, eyes softening, though you’d never know with your eyes shut. “With me.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Tywin, he wanted to say. Call me Tywin, anything but that. He did not. He was asleep again in moments now that you were back in his chambers, and you’d been asleep again before he set you in the centre of the bed.

When you woke, your husband was still in bed with you, an arm wrapped round your waist, hand splayed over your slight swelling. When he woke a few minutes after you, your husband tightened his hold and pulled you closer. This was new, you thought. But delightful. You realised more and more how pleased you were that you married such a fine man, even if you’d never share a love or more intimacy than expected of you in public. This was enough, you told yourself. It had to be.

You both laid together for a while, and during that time you wondered if your husband would truly listen to you if you mentioned Baelish. But then he rose to dress in time for a midday departure, and you decided the moment had past. You would be able to handle Baelish. You were a lion now.

Genna Lannister was already sat at the breakfast table, and you almost did a double take. Where Tywin was sleek apparel and minimal embellishments, Genna was the opposite. She wore a scarlet gown that accentuated her plump figure, gold dripping from her ears and throat and wrists, and hair done so elaborately you wondered how long she’d been awake to have managed such a style. And she was vivacious as they came.

You enjoyed her immediately.

“Sister!” she announced at your arrival, standing and coming to greet you as though you were long time friends. It didn’t feel predatory the way Baelish or the Queen could be, so you smiled and greeted her the same way.

“No greeting to your Lord Brother?” Tywin grouched.

“Oh, are you here as well, Tywin?” Genna teased. He huffed and pulled out your chair, assisting you into it before seating himself and glaring at his sister to do the same so they may eat.

“And how is my big brother, then?”

“You’re only being tame because you think I have a secret.”

“On the contrary, brother, I know you have a secret, and even better than that, I already know what it is.” She turned to face you and smiled truly at you. “Congratulations, sister,” she said sweetly. “And you! What a greedy lion you must be to get a child on her so fast!”

“Genna,” he warned, seeing your embarrassed flush. The blonde only laughed and waved him away. And Tywin let her! What a marvel this woman, her sister, was turning out to be.

“Oh, quit your growling and eat your porridge, brother.” And Tywin did just that.

It was a lively breakfast that came to an end when Tywin excused himself to prepare for his departure. You curtsied when he bowed to you both before taking his leave.

“Tell me, my dear, have you thought of names?”

“I only discovered last night I was withchild, and it was even my husband who’d figured it out. Do you have suggestions?”

“Genna for a girl,” she joked. “Tyton is a strong name. Perhaps Tywin will like it, too.” You agreed, and you did like Tyton. It was a strong name.

Genna, after a tour of the Tower, insisted on a walk around the gardens before seeing Tywin off. Baelish did not appear, to your relief, but his absence was almost as worrying. He was up to something you could tell, but what? Maybe you could confide in Genna?

In the end, you saw off your husband as a good wife should, not even having to pretend very much that you were sad to see him go. The Queen hadn’t paid an inch of attention to you besides a look of distaste after she greeted her Lady Aunt. And then it was back inside for you and Genna to read, then eat and retire.

The next day, you realised that yes, you missed your husband. Already you were wishing the three days would end so he could be by your side again. Your anxiety about Baelish had only worsened since you’d found you were having a babe, and Tywin had suggest you both wait to see the maester until after he returned. The news would spread fast that the Lady Lannister was withchild, and Tywin had said he didn’t want to be far when that happened, in case of anything. You’d wanted to lean up and kiss him when he said that, but you refrained, certain he’d shoo you away.

“My dear, you look exhausted. Come, we’ll prepare for bed then retire.”

You nodded to Genna, who had doted on you in a rather maternal way since her arrival. She’d helped you to undress, then into your nightgown and bed, wishing you sweet dreams before going to her own chambers on the level below.

It was dark when you were disturbed by something. The fire had died down (no one but Tywin could make a fire that would last the whole night) and the room was pitch black. You turned to sleep again when something foul smelling fell over you mouth and nose. You struggled against the stranger’s hand, trying not to breathe in whatever was soaked into the cloth. To your horror, your body was relaxing, your mind losing consciousness. Your last coherent thought was a desperate yearning for Tywin.

===

Genna woke and dressed, her handmaiden well versed in her hair enough to do it all in half an hour, and was sitting at the breakfast table waiting for you. When half an hour past and she heard no movement from yours and her brother’s chambers, she made her way to them herself. If the maids were too incompetent to wake you then she’d do it herself.

Upon entering the room, she stopped short. You were not in bed, and there were no maids fluttering about as they would if you were bathing. Genna had learned to trust her intuition and felt something was deeply wrong, especially as the bed looked as though you’d had a restless sleep. She wanted to believe you were just up early and perhaps strolling the gardens, but Genna knew that wasn’t the case.

She called for the guards, and told them to gather as many Lannister men as they could to search the Keep for the Lady Lannister. She hoped beyond hope she was wrong, but she so rarely was.

===

You woke to darkness and the gentle sway of a ship sailing, and thought yourself dreaming before you jolted upright. You were in a cabin on a ship, that much was obvious. What wasn’t, was why you were there, who’d taken you and where you were going. Dread settled in your gut. Would your husband find out? A silly question. He possibly already knew. What you were frightened to consider was that he might think you’d run away. Your heart gave a fierce pang of longing for your husband yet again, and then steely resolve filled you. There was a desk in the room you were in, one obviously well used, if the stacks of papers, inkwell and sacks of coins were any indication.

You stood, saw a dress laid out on the bed, one of dark blue decorated with swirls in a pattern you knew Baelish to favour. You should have said something, you thought bitingly. You should have gone with your husband. Then you’d be exhausted but safe, and with him.

You dressed in the gown quickly, fearing someone would come in as you were underdressed. The gown had pockets, as was custom in southern dresses now that the Queen had made it so. A plan was forming in your head about what to do, and with the nimbleness of a mouse and the resolve of a lionness, you grabbed the smallest coin pouch, checked to see it had golden stags, then bound the pouch tight as you could to avoid clinking, pocketed it, then sat on the bed and waited.

Baelish came in after a time, not that you were surprised, but you had a part to play now, and you’d need to be convincing. Your life and your babe’s counted on it.

“Lord Baelish?”

“Hello, my dear.”

“My Lord, what has happened? Did my husband send for you?”

“Your husband,” Baelish began, walking to sit beside you on the bed. It was a violation of etiquette, though you didn’t show any discomfort. “Will no longer be an issue.”

Your heart almost stopped, but then you reasoned even Petyr Baelish could not kill your husband. Tywin was too well-protected and too intelligent to be caught off guard as you had.

“He has sent me away?” you asked, playing the distraught little wife.

Baelish made to speak, to deny your words, you knew. Then he paused, and you saw that he considered you believing this the favourable option.

“He did, my Lady. He had men retrieve you from your bed, but my own intercepted them and brought you aboard my ship. I intended to offer you a spot anyway, to come with me to the Vale where my betrothed awaits us.”

You allowed a faux tear to fall, and your head to droop down to your chest.

“He isn’t fond of me,” you admitted quietly. You weren’t sure it was a lie, so it was easy to say so.

“He neglects you, my Lady. You are such a treasure,” he said, the obvious lust making your stomach roll. You only managed to nod. “We’ll be docking soon, my Lady. I sent another ship to Dorne and we will be docking nearby to the capitol to avoid suspicion. Why would we be so close when there’s a ship making to across the sea?”

“Very clever, my Lord,” you said softly. He smirked at you then brushed a lock of your hair behind your ear, you blushed and turned away, and it was enough to deter him from pushing for more. You felt sick that he was touching you, feeling as though you were somehow being unfaithful to your husband. You couldn’t let on that you thought this, so you didn’t.

You waited until you heard Baelish disembarking the ship with great fanfare, stating something about needing to settle some business in the port town you were docked at. It was very late at night, you couldn’t have been sailing for more than three or so hours, but regardless, it was many days walk and at least a day’s ride by horse to return to the capitol. You found a cloak and some old breeches and tunics in a closet, boots that were too big, so you stuffed some cloth under and around your foot. It made you a few inches taller, more convincing in your disguise as a sailor. You pinned your hair back with whatever you could find and slipped out of the cabin to find a guard slumped over in sleep outside your door. You hadn’t known he was there, but by the grace of the Mother, you had a chance.

You walked off the ship in no particular hurry to avoid suspicion, then made your way to the nearest stable you could see, banging on the door until someone answered.

“What d’ya want,” a grisly looking man groused once he opened the door. You placed the coin pouch in his hands.

“Give me your best horse, saddle it immediately and the coin is yours.” He nodded, looking at you strangely before doing as you asked.

“I dunno who yer runnin’ from, girl, but ye better be fast. An’ ‘ere,” he said handing you a pouch of what you discovered to be bread and some apples. “Some for ye, and some for the stallion,” he explained.

“I thank you,” you said quietly.

“Go on now. Sun’s comin’ soon.” And off you rode.

It was in the heat of the midday sun you began to feel poorly. Your legs were sore and chafing, your hips aching, and you hadn’t dared stop to rest or eat lest Baelish discover you. You wouldn’t rest until you were back with your husband, this you vowed.

===

“A raven, milord, from your Lady Sister,” the squire said as Tywin retired to his tent. By the morrow, he’d be back in his own chambers with his wife, and able to be rid of the grime that always managed to build up on the road.

He sat first, poured some wine, and took a long sip before unrolling the parchment and reading the note.

“Prepare my horse!” he roared moments after having read the note a third time. Men sprang into action, some packing his tent and others preparing to depart with their Liege Lord. Within minutes he was riding hard into the night and back to King’s Landing.

His wife had waited for him to be gone then she’d stolen away in the night with his babe inside her. He was furious, and he rode like it. How dare she, he thought. You had tried to make a fool of him and no one fooled the Great Lion and got away with it. Beyond his anger, he realised his chest was tight. She’d left, was all he could think. And he’d fancied himself to be growing fond of her. What a fool.

“I want a patrol to set out immediately,” he said to yet another squire as he marched into the Red Keep. “Find my runaway bride and bring her to me unharmed.”

“Yes, milord!” And away the boy went.

Genna was pacing in his study when he arrived, a worried look on her face she only wore for her family (minus her husband), then regarded him intensely.

“She did not run, Tywin.”

“She did,” he gritted out.

“She didn’t. She fretted the entire day you left, asked me about a dozen times where I thought you might be as the day passed. She did not leave, brother.”

And loathe as he was to admit it, his sister was far more perceptive than she had any right to be. If she believed his wife had not run from him, then he would try to believe the same. His anger immediately turned to angst.

“Then she was taken, and is likely gone to me forever if she is not found in the next days.” His voice was low, growlish, and Gemma saw right through it.

“She’s a smart little thing, Tywin, and we have some leads already. Have hope, brother.”

“She is carrying my babe,” he said, though his sister knew him too well not to know what he truly meant.

“She is your wife, brother, and she at least takes her vows seriously. She would not betray you like this, and I happen to think she will try everything in her power to come back.”

Tywin realised she could very well be dead already. How apt of the gods, to thrust a wife upon him he had no want for, then to take her from him when he did.

“I’ll kill whoever did this,” he said quietly. He felt his sister’s hand on his shoulder and clenched his fists. He wished for his wife in that moment, their easy silences and the way she seemed to seek him out just to be near to him. “And I’ll never let her leave my sight again.”

===

There was a point where even your horse refused to go farther, and you had to agree. It was nearing nightfall, and you were exhausted. Your whole body ached, and you thanked the gods you weren’t heavier withchild or riding wouldn’t have been an option.

You settled for the night, ate the bread the stable hand had packed you and fed all but one apple to your horse, who munched happily on them then the grass, then promptly went to sleep near you. It was a sweet horse, and didn’t mind when you laid next to it, leaning your tired body on its side.

You slept for hardly a few hours before dreams of Baelish catching you and Tywin truly having sent those men woke you. Rousing the horse, who seemed grumpy at being woken, you re-saddled him and began a lighter pace. You had already begun to recognise your surroundings, and made haste again towards the capitol. When you crested a hill and saw the top of the Red Keep in the distance, you burst into tears of relief and pushed your horse to ride on. He seemed to understand your anxiety to be home, and did as you bade him. You patted his neck the entire way through the sleepy King’s Landing, and all the way to the King’s Gate.

“Who goes there,” the gate master called out at your arrival. Your must’ve looked like a commoner with your drab coat and less than quality clothes. They probably thought you stole the horse.

Pulling back your hood, you revealed your face, unpinned your hair and announced yourself.

“I am Lady Lannister,” you said, and heard murmuring follow. A guard came down to you, shone a torch in your face and upon recognising you, he called for the gates to open and for someone to retrieve the Hand.

They escorted you up to the Palace steps, and assured you they’d take care of your horse, before a servant came to take you to your chambers. You could hardly walk, so sore from the saddle, and exhausted beyond belief. You were nearly at the Tower when a commotion caught your attention.

Ahead of you, you saw your husband. He was still dressed from the day and did not look to have slept, despite it being nearly dawn. He laid his eyes on you, and both of you sprang to go to the other.

Your legs protested the pace, but you hurried down the hall to him. In several long strides he reached you and pulled you to his chest, arms locking around you tight. You cried again, clutching the lapels on his doublet.

“Hush, wife,” he said, though you cried harder at his voice. He picked you up into his arms, told the guards to stand by the door on rotation, then took you inside the Tower.

You had cried all through him undressing you, and himself, all through the bath he’d ordered be delivered, and all through him washing your sore, bruised and chafed body. Only when you were back in your bed did you finally settle enough to speak.

“I didn’t run from you, I swear it, I swear it,” you repeated to him, begging him without words to believe you. He caressed your body from hip to shoulder, holding you tight.

“I know you didn’t, wife, though I had initially assumed that to be the case,” he said as though it shamed him to have thought that.

“Baelish,” you gasped. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t think— I didn’t think you’d believe me, but I should’ve said, I should’ve gone with you,” you explained, though you didn’t really explain much at all.

“Baelish took you?” he growled, arms tightening around you. You nodded.

“He had two ships, one to Dorne and one to the Vale. We docked in the night to not look suspicious, and I found clothes and stole a pouch of coin, slipped off the ship and bought a horse. I rode all the way here, I hardly stopped.”

Tywin would be the one to kill Baelish, he decided. For making his wife afraid, for taking her from him and for putting his babe in potential danger. He would make it slow as possible without being outright torture if he could manage, though the idea certainly had merit.

“I was so frightened,” you admitted quietly, looking up from your husband’s chest to peer at him in the eyes. “Scared he’d get me all the way to the Vale, and then I’d never be able to get away. Scared he’d know about the babe and— and give me something to kill it,” you said voice cracking. You lifted a palm to his cheek, the first time you’d ever reached for him outside of marital duties. He leaned into your palm, eyes fixed on you. “I was so scared I’d never be able to see you again, my Lord.”

“Tywin,” he said, desperate, though you couldn’t tell it was that. “You call me Tywin.”

“Tywin,” you breathed, and then his mouth was on you. He called you wife, he called you lady, he called your name, all with ‘my’ attached. He did not leave you as you drifted into an exhausted sleep, nor as you rested. Not for anything. His grandson could summon him and he’d tell him to talk a walk off a balcony railing. He would not let you go, not ever again.

“I’m here,” you whispered in your slumber, arms equally tight around him. “I’m here, Tywin.”

He kissed your hairline, smelling the soaps he’d used to wash you, the ones you always smelled of. He couldn’t believe someone had dared to steal you from him, to take his lady wife.

“I thought you might’ve been…” he could not finish the thought. It would make him think of the familiar grief he carried with him every day, the one of a man who’d lost his wife. He could not compete with gods and nature, but he could certainly compete with Baelish.

“It would need more than a mockingbird to defeat a lionness,” you purred. His worry for you had made you feel needy, and you knew he hated neediness.

“You will not leave me,” he commanded, and your heart gave way to the affection you held off for so long.

“Never,” you agreed. “And if I go anywhere, I’ll take you with me,” you said, kissing him firmly, your fist time initiating such an embrace. He gave into you immediately, ravishing your mouth and neck and chest with those marks he was so fond of, and truly, you were fond of them too. Maybe you’d even be daring enough to leave your own.

He made love to you that morning, as the birds sang so did you, though to Tywin, your song was much sweeter.

It was some weeks before your husband brought up your kidnapping again. He had been fiercely protective since your return to him, and there wasn’t a moment you were unguarded. There was no Baelish in the capitol anymore, so you felt at ease enough to return to the gardens as you used to, though now you had Genna for company, who was doting and funny, and kept your spirits high through the stress of the recent moon.

You were declared in perfect health despite the bruising and chafing by a maester Tywin trusted. You thanked the gods every day since your return for keeping your babe safe through the turmoil.

“My dear,” Genna said, pulling you from your daydreaming. “Have you thought it might be twins?”

That night, you asked Tywin if he agreed with his sister, and after careful consideration, he agreed you were larger than usual for so early on. His eyes darkened, and he pulled you to bed within moments.

Your husband, you’d learned in the recent weeks, was needier than he let on. Always wanting to touch, always wanting to kiss your sweet mouth when privacy allowed it, and gods, did his desire for you become plain as the sun in the sky. He could not get enough of you, how your hips were widening and your breasts were swelling, how your stomach had begun to protrude noticeably. He was prideful as a lion, especially with evidence of his virility in the form of his beautiful wife carrying his babe.

On a day where you wanted nothing more than to nap and read in your husband’s solar while he worked, there was finally news of Baelish. His ships had been sacked by the Greyjoys, and he’d been held prisoner there for a sennight. Tywin allowed you to see his correspondence thereafter with the Greyjoys, and you nearly baulked at the sum of money he’d offered for Baelish, alive.

And, as in most things, Tywin got his way, and Baelish was delivered to the capitol in chains. He certainly looked worse for wear, and you privately found satisfaction in that.

Baelish had demanded a trial by combat, and a knight well known in Dorne had stepped forward to be his fighter. Tywin had wanted to fight himself, but as Hand to the King, he resided as a judge on the case and was not permitted. His son, Jaime, had volunteered to fight on, technically, your behalf, though he was officially representing the Hand.

Jaime arrived to the fight in Lannister gold and red, declared he fought as the son of the Great Lion, and would fight for his Liege Lady. He nodded to you in the Dragon Pit, where the fight was to take place, and you nodded back in appreciation of the message. Even the Queen, who had mellowed around you some with your pregnancy and her aunt’s intervention, had nodded approvingly.

The fight was far shorter than any would’ve expected, the Dornish fighter far more flashy than skilled. He was no match for Jaime, who was considered one of the greatest knights in history.

Baelish’s head hung low as his champion yielded, and Tywin had insisted he be executed then and there. You watched as your husband swung the sword himself, and forced yourself to witness Baelish’s head fall from his shoulders.

Later, when you were finished being sick, Tywin scolded you.

“You needn’t do things like that, watching something so violent. I should have had you escorted back to our chambers.”

You graciously took his hand as he led you to bed after you’d rinsed your mouth and chewed some mint leaves.

“I would not have agreed to be away from you,” you said simply, watching Tywin’s frown deepen and his chest simultaneously puff at your desire to always be by his side.

You’d grown bolder in your affections for him slowly everyday since your return. You touched him all the time now, and he revelled in it.

“Lay with me,” you requested sweetly, patting his side of the bed. Your stomach was certainly too large for a single babe, and sleeping had already become difficult for you, only made easier with your husband’s arms around you. It was inconvenient, but he would sooner bring his work to bed than give you reason to shy from him again.

“And how are my little lions,” he said as he reclined and cradled your belly in his palm.

“They’re— oh!” You exclaimed, reaching for your belly, a frown furrowing your brow.

“What is it?” he asked at once, dread taking him. But you smiled suddenly, grabbed his hand and pressed it firmly to the other side. He was about to call for a maester when he felt the fluttering kicks of his children (he was convinced there were three, though you vehemently hoped not).

“They’re saying hello to their papa,” you sighed as he began massaging your bump, as though playing with the babes inside.

He moved lower on the bed, pressed his mouth to your skin and hummed. You laughed as the babes wriggled inside you, the feeling odd and bordering on uncomfortable, but to see this man, your husband, so gentle with you and with children that did not yet quite exist, your heart felt fuller than ever.

“Tywin,” you called, prompting him to look up at you. “You are dearer to me than any other, my lion.”

Your husband smiled and crawled back up to your lips to kiss them. He did not say anything back, but he made the most gentle love to you, whispering your name and how lovely you were, how good a mother you’d be to his babes. By the time you peaked, tears had been streaming down your face, wiped away each time by the gentle hand of your man.

#tywin x reader #tywin lannister x reader #got x reader #game of thrones #tywin lannister #genna lannister

[iamhereinthebg]

Haven't they broken several rules they've established just for everything to revolve around Tsukasa? Like...

1. A mystery can't be defeated in their own boundary (and yet Tsukasa somehow ripped Kako's heart out in his own boundary)

2. You can't use your tsueshiro in a boundary without permission (and yet Tsukasa ordered his to hold down Mirai)

3. Nobody could move because the school's time was frozen (yet Tsukasa did, as well as Yashiro, and Hanako who if I remember correctly suddenly unfroze on his own to break down into tears)

The earlier chapters were way better at following previously established rules and concepts compared to whatever's going on right now

They did ! :))) (want to explode)

I can understand the idea that Tsukasa is a rule breaker, he did destroy the previous n°3 in his own boundary too and it was an interesting twist! I can understand the idea and why it can be interesting, but the way AidaIro using all others characters/plots to make him stand out is just terrible. Dirsregarding rules is not a new thing about AidaIro unfortunately but Tsukasa really wins all medals on breaking them.

As you said, he was able to move when time was stopped and for which reason?? We don't know. Hanako was able to move once Akane and Teru got to him, probably because Akane is a clock keeper and can somehow give the permission to people to move.

I said it before and I will say it again, but wanting to show a character is powerful/cool by making the others characters look stupid is terrible writing, and that's the feeling I got with Tsukasa in general. (and chapter 109 is just a whole sequence of the characters being made fun of)

We don't know where to stand because he has every kind of tropes attached to him. They want us to understand he is some kind of martyr who is 'omg poor lil Tsukasa who was so selfless at only 4yo boohoo' (no matter which translation I read for the red house arc, he is believable somehow with Kou but then we get the flashbacks with Amane and it's gone). They put him in an 'angel' position and naive position in a lot of aus, want us so bad to understand deep down he is a nice boy. When we watched him do every possible horrors on screen. And don't get me wrong, I don't mind this, it's cool. Him forcing Mitsuba to eat, creating him, the way he treats some characters... It's the way they are not doing that to other characters who is so strange in my opinon. They know how to handle grey characters like Hanako or Teru (from the reader's pov) so I don't why they try so hard to put Tsukasa in a good light.

He is not a believable kid character in the red house arc, being smarter than Kou and Nene is not making him cool, it's just making Kou and Nene absolute idiots.

Him destroying his shackles thanks to Mirai power? It's not him being clever, it's Mirai and the clock keepers being made fun of. Him knowing what Hanako should be doing by using Nene? Not making Tsukasa cool, it's making Nene just as an object for Hanako's love, and to get a reaction out of him, most of the time by making Hanako look stupid. (I could go hours on why Nene is just here to serve as a mean to Hanako's character since some arc rather than being her own person but that's for another day)...

I understand that Tsukasa is like 'the antagonist and should be some steps ahead of the portagonist' but it's just so repitive in the way he is unpredicatble that it became boring and predictable. I was overjoyed to see him like this in chapter 108. (which was let's be honest the only good chapter in this new arc)

Tsukasa is really good here, which is why the drop of quality in chap 109 is even worst. Seeing a new side of him as a supernatural and his sorrow/hatred for Amane is really great. He even moralizes Nene about why sometimes you just need/have to get yourself out of situations alone, and that's how he himself proceeds because his brother never went to see him in 50 years. That he had no choice but to do so. It's great! Really great! To see that he is also an unpredicatble character and who decides to do what he wants not taking people's opinions in mind, because even his older never helped him when he called for him during all this time. It adds a good layer to his character and seeing him weaker/not really knowing what to do is something we desesperatly need for his chacter. But as everything in chap 108, chap 109 throws it out of the window and goes back to the usual ' we have set ups but terrible pay offs' things that has been happening a lot in the recent arcs.

He is also way too OP. As you said suddenly his tsueshiros could move again and he got rid of Kako. Even Hakubo and Teru being ones of the most powerful characters, were defeated once, Tsukasa never was seriously. It's never explained why he is so powerful (probably because he has an entity inside him/he eats others supernaturals) but the difference of levels is just insane, and absolutely not compelling to read.

We don't know why he is doing what he is doing and they try so hard to make him mysterious. They want us to get to know him without saying anything relevant or his backstory. We are left with whole chapters of absolutely nothing. Welp too bad I am not patient enough to see Tsukasa doing random stuff when half of the characters have rushed characters development or none because 'there isn't much time'.

AidaIro want us to understand they love him and that we should too but they are just destroying every other characters rather than make him loveable.

I hate what they did with his character, his role is terrible because it's destroying eveyone else's. Tsukasa is the favorite and it shows, but it's so badly done that I can't help but hate him.

#toilet bound hanako kun #tbhk #tbhk spoilers #tbhk analysis #somehow idk #I will be honest Idc much about Tsukasa since I don't like him so it's really surface level #my opinion too but yes ahah #I am really bothered by how he is written #jshk #yugi tsukasa #yugi amane #I know the manga isn't finished and that we will get more backstory later but I am tired of waiting for him to be a loveable character to m #sorry Anon I used this ask to say why I think Tsukasa sucks #I think his personnality is funny i will be honest #but WOW his role? fcking terrible #jibaku shonen hanako kun #this post could be resume as 'I want him gone' tbh #and ty for the ask! I totally agree with you!

[agentrouka-blog]

Its incredibly funny when people try to paint jon as not-classist and not-shallow, unlike sansa, to prove he is too good for her (in the story, actually she is too good for him), when his first pov chapter began with him dissing other people's appearances and making assumptions about them because he did not like them. He is an asshole to other night's watch boys because he thinks he is better than them (every time people say sansa looked down on people beneath her, i am reminded of this). He literally thinks ygritte's looks are common so she could be pretty in a peasant sort of way but not enough for a highborn lady 💀, his entire attraction to val is superficial based on her looks, he knows nothing about her. He dreams of his mother being highborn and beautiful. Judging this by standards everyone judges Sansa, this is classist and shallow. His best quality is that he learns, but so does Sansa, people just refuse to acknowledge it.

Very true, anon.

Sansa has a very judgmental opinion (that is actually based in the text and not plain projection like the idea that she held disdain for Jon) on exactly one lowborn person and that's about the kid her sister prefers playing with instead of herself, embedded in context pointing out how upset she is that she and Arya have so little in common.

Sansa knew all about the sorts of people Arya liked to talk to [instead of Sansa how dare she]: squires and grooms and serving girls, old men and naked children, rough-spoken freeriders of uncertain birth. Arya would make friends with anybody [except Sansa how dare she]. This Mycah was the worst; a butcher's boy, thirteen and wild, he slept in the meat wagon and smelled of the slaughtering block [TOTALLY UNWORTHY WHAT DOES SHE SEE IN HIM]. Just the sight of him was enough to make Sansa feel sick, but Arya seemed to prefer his company to hers [THE INJUSTICE!!!]. (AGOT, Sansa I)

Mycah is her rival for Arya's company and 12-year-old Sansa lists all his Horrible Terrible Qualities in her head to avoid acknowledging this.

The same way Jon projects his abject disappointment with the Watch on his lowborn fellow recruits and voices some very judgmental and shortsighted misgivings.

People ignoring one thing in Jon and then castigating Sansa for the same thing are hilarious. 🤭

#my pressed and judgmental babies #sansa stark #jon snow #parallels #classism

[welcometothejianghu]

Welcome to another round of W2 Tells You What You Should See, where W2 (me) tries to sell you (you) on something you should be watching. Today's choice: 叛逆者/The Rebel.

The Rebel is a 2021 period drama set during the 1930s and '40s as seen (mostly) from Shanghai by a patriotic young man who just keeps getting injured, ow, that poor baby.

It's a fairly realistic spy drama, by which I mean, there's not a bunch of cute costume changes or fun fake identities. Instead, this is a story about people who live entire other lives for years, keeping their true allegiances under wraps, doing what they can to help their side while sweating out what they can’t. It's way more John le Carré than Ian Fleming -- no James Bond flashiness or gizmos, all George Smiley subterfuge and paperwork. Actual spycraft is tough, kids!

Full disclaimer up front: This show is not a happy fun good time. It's a fascinating, gripping, tense piece of work about a thirteen-year period of history where a whole lot of miserable things were happening. The body count is frighteningly high. Be very careful about which characters you get attached to. Exactly one man has plot armor, so God help the rest of them.

However, if you're up for a quality drama with a serious tone that's so full of HISTORY! it's bursting at the seams, I have five reasons you should give this one a shot:

1. Starring the veins in Zhu Yilong's forehead

Do you feel like watching a beautiful man have a terrible day for 43 episodes straight?

This show is absolutely a Zhu Yilong vehicle. The rest of the cast is great (and more on them later), but he's the star -- and the show just loves to beat him up, both emotionally and physically. His character, Lin Nansheng, exists in a Murphy's-Law situation where if anything bad can happen to him, it will. If you like seeing this gorgeous gentleman in distress, this show has you covered.

Someone please care him.

2. Daddy Issues

Chen Moqun is a bad, bad man. He's a bastard in his first scene, and he's a bastard in his last. He is loyal to exactly one thing, and that is his own survival. He will ally with anyone and fuck anyone over if it means he gets to live another day.

He is also scaldingly hot in his bastardry.

Chen Moqun is the spymaster who pulls Lin Nansheng out of the regular military ranks and into the world of the intelligence services, despite Lin Nansheng's lack of experience in the field. This means that Lin Nansheng is Chen Moqun's little golden boy -- and that means Chen Moqun feels justified in making Lin Nansheng do whatever the hell he wants, and in getting all up in Lin Nansheng's business when he doesn't do it perfectly.

I know there are several of you out there whose tails just started wagging. Good, you've got it.

Alas that he is not in nearly as much of the series as his top billing suggests he would be. He's a major figure in the early arcs, but pretty soon after, Circumstances relocate him to somewhere Lin Nansheng isn't -- and because Lin Nansheng is our POV character, Chen Moqun all but vanishes from the show. He reappears later, but as a much less prominent figure. Still a self-serving bastard, though! Don't worry about that.

I like Chen Moqun as a character for a lot of reasons. He's slimy, but he's effective. He's smart, but he's not a supervillain. He's the kind of competent bastard that it's very fun to watch the good guys outwit. He kind of has to leave the narrative, because he's so sharp that much of the plot would be impossible under his supervision; he gets replaced by [spoiler], whose general incompetence makes him dangerous in a very different way, but who is so self-absorbed that he can't see when he's being played. Pulling the wool over Chen Moqun's eyes is a much nastier business.

At the same time, though, he's a coward. He'll sell out anything and anyone to save his own skin. His lack of inner conviction eventually reduces him to something pathetic, leaving him at the mercy of people he once abused, Lin Nansheng included. ...Ah, your tails are wagging harder now, I see.

Now, for those of you who are not into a Bad Daddy dynamic, may I sell you on how Lin Nansheng also has two Good Daddies?

Honestly, if this show had not been laboring under the weight of [gestures to the state of Chinese media and culture], I'm pretty sure they would have made at least one of these two Older Lifelong Bachelors textually gay. I'm just saying, throw-yourself-into-the-cause-style patriotism is a great cover for never marrying and being cagey about your entire personal life.

Also, I know their super-secret espionage meetups on park benches aren't intended to look like dudes cruising, but come on.

3. A startlingly good love story???

And I say "startlingly" because the love story comes in multiple stages, and I haaaaaate the first one. Fortunately, so does the show!

When Lin Nansheng and Zhu Yizhen start off their romance, she's a wealthy college schoolgirl (which comes off as more than a little creepy, since Tong Yao is clearly in her late thirties) and he's a TA at her school -- except she's actually a student activist working for the Communists, and he's a member of the KMT sent to seduce her and infiltrate her cell. It goes exactly as badly as you'd expect! And when it was clear it was over for good, I breathed a sigh of relief. I liked them both as individual characters, but as a romantic pairing, the amount of malicious deception involved really wasn't doing it for me, to say nothing of how I dislike teacher/student as a trope. (Also, they really have no chemistry together, but whatever, I'm used to c-drama hets by now.) Well, I thought, thank goodness all that's over and we'll never have to come back to it!

But here's the thing: They come together again later under different circumstances, and oh, that's some good stuff. She gets a haircut, he gets to be himself, and the two of them have to learn how to work together even when they can't entirely trust one another.

That amount of deception is great, because that's not lies -- it's opsec. They are both withholding colossal amounts of information from one another, and each one of them knows the other's doing it, even if they don't know what information is being withheld. They both want to know what the other person knows, but they also know that person would die before giving up their secrets.

This does lead to a number of points where you're hollering JUST TELL HIM/HER at the screen, which can get a little frustrating. But, like, you get it. They've got reasons for not sharing information, and grim little reason number one is, the bad guys can't torture out of you what you don't know.

This is not a romance drama; this is a drama that happens to have a complicated romance stitched all the way through it. Sometimes it's the main focus, but much of the time it's a side note. The two of them go years at a time without interacting. They each spend a fair amount of time believing the other is dead. When they do get to work together, they're great partners. When they're separated or at odds, they don't collapse.

I said earlier that Lin Nansheng is the POV character, which is mostly true. However, we do get a not-small amount of the story told from Zhu Yizhen's POV when he's not around, which goes a long way toward making her an actual person and not just an accessory to his story -- and that goes a long way toward making this romance something between equals, and not just a case where a nice guy feels real bad about how much he fucked over the girl he liked.

I'd say that if you're looking for a drama where the love story is a central point of interest, or for a drama without any love story at all, you'll be happier elsewhere. However, if you're a Goldilocks who enjoys a fraught love story when it's there but doesn't miss it when it's gone, this may strike a good balance for you!

This pair is also about as much as the show gets in terms of textual, onscreen romance. Howerver, there are also a number of couples in this show who have to pretend to be married, if that's a trope that does it for you. And speaking of those...

4. My Fair Lady

Lan Xinjie turned out to be maybe my favorite character in the show, which surprised the hell out of me, considering how she was introduced as a pretty throwaway character: Oh, look, a pretty and sophisticated woman at the dance hall, she can use her refined and wordly ways to make The Virgin Lin Nansheng sweat, it's great.

But then she comes back. In fact, she keeps exiting the narrative and then showing up again a couple episodes later! Her continued involvement with these spy boys keeps both ruining her life and saving it. Every time you think she's gotten out, circumstances pull her back into Lin Nansheng's catastrophe orbit, making her maybe the most tragic character in a series full of them.

Here's a thing that impressed me about the drama: Lan Xinjie is a sex worker, but the show never shits on her for that. The show presents what she's doing as negative, but mostly because she doesn't particularly enjoy doing it. She keeps doing it, though, because sometimes it's the best way for her to make money, and sometimes it's the only way for her to make money.

The thing is, Lan Xinjie herself never talks about what she's doing like it's some tragic fate. It's a job. She has to play nice with jackass men from all over the world, and she can do it because men fall all over a pretty girl like her. Whenever Lin Nansheng makes a sad face about it, she basically rolls her eyes at him. She has a very solid grasp of the way the world works, and she's going to do what she needs to do to keep herself and her loved ones alive.

Now: Lan Xinjie definitely functions in the narrative as a contrast to how Good and Pure Communist Girl-Next-Door Zhu Yizhen is. Lan Xinjie is a little too much of a Fallen Woman, so she's never going to threaten Zhu Yizhen's position as the main love interest. However, it would have been so easy to go all in on slut-shaming Lan Xinjie to make that contrast even starker, and the show does not do that. It does not judge her for her choices, in part because it understands that women like her very often doesn't have any.

On top of all of this, Zhu Zhu can act her damn face off. There are story beats that could have been melodramatic and unintentionally comic, but she sells them and makes them devastating. Arguably the best scenes in the entire show are when she and Zhu Yilong are working together, because the two of them consistently turn in stellar performances. This show is not exactly a font of subtlety (see my next point), but both of them manage to play their roles with restraint and dignity that make their moments together shine.

I won't spoil where exactly this goes, but to me, the complicated relationship between Lin Nansheng and Lan Xinjie is one of the highlights of the show. It's a lot of guilt and obligation intertwined with genuine affection, and because it can't be The Love Story, it winds up being a very fraught, intimate friendship that lasts through the best and worst parts of both of their lives.

Also, everything she wears is stunning. Marry me, Miss Lan.

5. Makes you feel real smart!

Hey, nerds! Do you like history? Because boy oh boy, is this a show about history!

It's so much a show about history, in fact, that it occasionally has to break into little documentary-style interludes, where you get to watch pictures of actual historical footage while one of the cast members narrates a small summary of what's going on with the geopolitical situation at that moment. Everyone in the main cast is fictional, but there are plenty of real names dropped all over the place. You aren't expected to know everything already, but you're definitely expected to keep up.

I will admit that I don't know the ins and outs of that historical period well enough to fact-check a lot of the particulars, so I can't swear to the accuracy of its various smaller moves. I do know enough about it to know, though, that this story is a little biased.

And by that I mean: This show is propaganda through and through. It’s all about how well the Righteous Communists did in their battle first against the Terrible Japanese, then against the Wicked KMT (the non-Communist Nationalists). Characters give stirring declarations of their principles at a rate of about one every other episode. There’s a whole scene where two dudes sit on a park bench and talk animatedly about what a great and prescient writer Mao was. Be prepared to be serenaded by a number of (what I assume are) stirring Communist anthems.

This all has zero emotional resonance to me. There were several points I could tell it was making references to events and people and speeches that are surely real historical things, but I lack most of the cultural competency that I’d need to recognize them without explanation. The climactic moment of Lin Nansheng’s joining the Communists (this is not a spoiler, you know it’s coming from the get-go) mostly seemed goofy to me, especially with the closed-fist salute that looks like you’re about to punch yourself in the head.

See what I mean?

All of which is to say: The propaganda did not bother me, because I mostly found it abstract and funny. And for heaven's sake, I'm from the US; I learned how to laugh my way through unsubtle pro-government propaganda watching Saturday morning cartoons.

However, I can imagine people closer to these cultures and events having MUCH stronger reactions. If this is you, yeah, be careful.

What's kind of sad (and by sad I mean funny) is how much the blatant Communism! Fuck Yeah! just turns the show into the "How do you do, fellow kids?" of propaganda. If it had just told the story, it honestly would have done a better job of making the Communists seem like the cool underdogs against the overpowering forces of authoritarian jackassery. But when you have someone all but turn to the camera damn near every episode to make sure you, the viewer, know how good and noble and smart its brave communist characters are, it sure spoils the effect.

I honestly don't know enough about the production team to know how accidental or intentional this was. Is it possible the drama is actually subtly lampooning these hyper-patriotic tropes? Sure, maybe! Is it possible that it actually believes this cringe with all its heart? Could be! Is it maybe neutral on matters of personal belief but playing up this version of history to get the show approved by party censors during the 100th anniversary of the founding of the CCP? Ah, yeah, that's the most likely one. Believe what you want about its motivations. Those who are inclined to be moved by its ideologies probably will be. The rest of us, probably the opposite.

All that said: I actually think it's useful and good to hear obviously biased takes on historical events, especially from unfamiliar and non-western perspectives. This is because all takes on historical events are biased, and it's dangerous and stupid to pretend they're not! Looking at how someone tells a story is as instructive as looking at the story they tell. If you go into the Rebel with that in mind, it adds a meta-layer of interest that I (a historian) find fascinating.

Ready to watch, comrade?

This one's an iQiyi exclusive -- and it's not a VIP exclusive, so if you're willing to put up with some ads, you can watch it all for free.

This is a show I'm probably never going to watch all the way through again, on account of how heavy it is. However, it is also a show I'm very glad I watched, because I find myself thinking about it a lot. Even when it's being hokey and jingoistic, it never stops being interesting. It's just a well-made drama that contains multitudes.

And, of course, one of those is this beautiful man's beautiful face.

#the rebel #叛逆者 #lin nansheng #i made this #rec post

[roseverdict]

Writing Commissions Open!

Hey howdy hey, guess who's broke and whose brain has latched on to the idea of getting a bike or a trike to get places other than the one (1) coffee shop in walking distance!

YEP. I need to open commissions.

However, I do have at least one thing going for me- I'm told I'm fairly good at writing things! Fanfic things, at least. While I'm not dumb enough to outright go "hey, pay me to write fanfiction," I figure I can at least point out some fanfics I've written that seem to have gone over well as examples of my work, since that's most of what I've got for proof of my skills.

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I'd show more, but Tumblr won't let me add more images, and even these fought me Tooth And Nail when I was trying to format them properly. Truly a functioning website.

Hopefully these kind of give an idea of the vibes I'm strongest with, too. Pricing and rules will be under the cut. I do have a target I'm trying to reach here, but depending on how well this goes, I might end up keeping commissions open indefinitely. We'll see. :D

DM me if you're interested!

Things I'm Comfortable Writing:

Original Storylines (Brief primer on the world/characters I'll be writing with will be required)

Things like the pieces shown on my AO3 account

OCs

Y/N-style pieces (both with and without the actual usage of "Y/N")

Mild Romance

Gore/Severe Injury

Body Horror

Whump

Look, if it's in the Danny Phantom phandom and basically nowhere else, I'm probably just fine writing it, despite its intensity xD

Things I Will Not Write:

Smut. There's no shame in enjoying it, I just. Don't.

Incest. Absolutely NONE. Even leaving aside the whole debate about whether or not people should ship incest ships, I would not be able to enjoy writing it, which would make the resulting work of low quality, which would be a huge waste of time for everyone involved.

Pedophilia- specifically, ships with a minor and an adult multiple years their senior. See above. 17yo x 18yo is pushing it, but depending on the circumstances, I might allow it. They aren't exactly in completely different phases of life there. However, I'm in my 20s and don't particularly want to think about or write about kids the age of my youngest brother dating people my age or older, you feel me?

Bigotry presented to the reader as a positive thing. I'm not gonna write your favorite heroic character declaring OOC that minorities are terrible people. If you want something from the POV of a character meant to be terrible, such as someone like Fire Lord Ozai in AtLA, however, I may be willing to write it.

I reserve the right to refuse any commission and not have to explain why. Person-to-person, though, this will likely only come up if someone tries to commission something that crosses these lines and refuses to acknowledge such.

Payment: 5¢ USD per word. This works out to…

$12.50 for 250 words

$25 for 500 words

$50 for 1K words

and so on.

I'll need half the payment up front as a deposit, then the rest upon completion. If, for whatever reason, I fail to write the commission, you will be refunded in full.

If you pay me for a given number of words, I will do my best to stick to it. I will make sure you at least get your money's worth, but if I just can't quite fit the writing into the given limit, I won't charge you for the extra words. Call it 100 words or so of wiggle room.

A commission for a fic 1K or larger that runs 100 words or less over the intended length will not cost extra

A commission for a fic between 500 and 999 words that runs 50 words or less over will not cost extra

A commission for a fic 499 words or below that runs 25 words or less over will not cost extra

A commission for a fic that has enough going on to run over that limit will result in me contacting you to ask for either a scaled-down plot or payment for the extra writing.

I will not consider calling a commission complete until I can hit the target wordcount at minimum.

If it should happen that I just can't make a scene stretch to the full wordcount, but you still want to keep what is written, the words that were not written will be refunded.

#writing commissions #writing comms open #id in alt text #atla #rottmnt #tmnt #gravity falls #gf #msa #mystery skulls animated #ninjago #steven universe #steven universe: future #animator vs animation #ava/m #sticks #su #suf #trike saga

[miss-celestia13]

Everything Has Changed

Jake x MC First Kiss One Shot

Words: 1.4K

I had a sudden burst of inspiration to write a super fluffy kiss for Jake and MC today. I needed something warm and comforting before I dive back into winter and war. I haven't named MC this time, nor have I described her too deeply. Jake has discovered he wants more than he ever thought possible, and now he is free; he won't allow it to slip through his fingers.

Sickeningly sweet, fluffy, and hopeful. I hope you enjoy it. It’s from Jakes POV.

Jake

All he could do was stare at her. Sitting on that park bench, unblinking, hands trembling, breath tight, and his heart was lodged somewhere in his throat, feeling the rapid beats in his neck and ears. Still, he wanted to be here, with her. This woman who dragged him kicking and screaming out of exile, and made him want, made him need more than solitude and the soft glow of a laptop screen. For the first time in years, Jake wanted more, more, more. He gazed into her welcoming eyes, fractured with gold and amber light, sparkling under the late afternoon sun as she studied his face. She said all of two words, and he was dumbstruck.

"Hello, Jake."

A yearning to hear her say his name every day made thinking hard. And the lilting, musical quality of her voice would forever be inked into his soul. He hoped it would haunt him until his last days, he knew somehow that he'd follow it anywhere, and after all they'd gone through to be here, he wouldn't take a second for granted. She was smiling at him, dimples flashing in her cheeks as they bloomed wild with pink roses, and he wondered how they managed to get here. He still hadn't replied, but he didn't need to.

She edged closer, reaching out to ghost her fingers tentatively over the back of his hand as he fidgeted as if making sure he was real, and it settled him enough to breathe her name. A prayer or a plea? He wasn't entirely sure, and he acted without thinking as she made to withdraw, blowing out a breath as he caught hold of her small hand in his and squeezed gently. Her eyes widened a fraction, but soon, she beamed at him, and they were leaning into each other, neither realizing they were doing it. 

"What do we do now?" She whispered.

He chuckled slightly at her, relieved she was as uncertain as he, and he took strength from it.

"Whatever we want, I suppose." He replied, the words strange on his rusty tongue.

She thought about it; his pulse flickered rampantly in his neck as a gentle breeze ruffled her hair and carried her scent to him. Inhaling deeply, his raging heart calmed as her sweet, sensual perfume tickled his nose. It was as beautiful as she, though he admired her bravery and sharp mind, her ability to adapt and survive more than her appearance. Jake didn’t know where to begin with sorting through his emotions. There were so many he refused to acknowledge during his time on the run. Now they demanded release and he no longer wanted to feel nothing.

Usually, he dealt with facts and data. He had no time or room for the softer, often terrible emotions that came with allowing someone inside the steel fortress he erected around himself to ensure his survival. It was an empty life, a half-life, and he no longer wanted it, hadn't since she dropped into his life. Unexpected and unwanted at first, but now, he hoped she never left and could see similar thoughts ripple through her bottomless eyes as she came even closer.

"What do you want to do then, Jake?" She asked, a laugh in her tone as warmth washed over him. Embarrassed at being so inept at simple conversation.

How long had it been since someone asked him that question? He wasn't sure but was so surprised he blurted what he wanted from the moment they'd locked eyes, "Would it be alright if I wanted to kiss you?" 

If his heart beat any harder, it would burst out of his chest, and he smothered an urge to hit himself for being so forward. It wasn't like him, but everything he did after meeting her had been abnormal. Why change things now when he so enjoyed her company and the way she gazed at him, like she couldn't believe he was real and was trying to memorize him. He was doing the same, determined to never forget even one of the freckles scattered like a constellation over the bridge of her nose. The world around them blurred in his periphery, all he saw was her, glowing delicately as she nodded, and he couldn't quite believe he wasn’t dreaming. Lifting his free hand, ignoring the quiver in his fingers as he tucked her loose hair behind her ear, cupping her face reverently as her eyes fluttered closed.

He couldn't recall the last time he kissed someone, a sudden worry that he'd forgotten how was quickly pushed aside as he leaned in and brushed his lips against hers and marveled at how soft they were. She held her breath as he did it again, delicately mapping their feel and shape as she tightened her hold on his hand, a thread of sweet anticipation between them going taught. He wanted to know if she tasted as honeyed as she looked. He wasn't prepared for the burst of magnificent heat and light in his chest as she pushed in and silently encouraged him, her hand coming up to wrap around his nape and tangle in his hair.

Lips tingling, a shiver dripped down his spine, and the voice in his head went blessedly quiet as she opened her mouth with a sigh and let him inside. Instinctively, he tilted his head to deepen it as he tasted her on his tongue, tangling with hers as her fingers buried in his hair. His thumb stroked her cheekbone, she trembled, and he savored the feel of her, braver now. His stomach dipped and fluttered as they smiled into the kiss, each tender caress of their tongues bolder than the last as they taught one another the silent secret code of new love. Blood raced through his veins so fast he was dizzy, cheeks burning as he upped the pressure, and she responded eagerly when he slid his hand into her hair and pulled her impossibly closer.

A strange buzzing in his ears drowned out the birds and the shuddering tree leaves as the warm breeze swirled through the forest around them. Blind to it all, neither wanted it to end, and he was warm to his marrow for the first time in years, the ice shell encasing his heart melting away so quickly it was like it had never been there at all. Months ago, he couldn't have dreamt of this, wouldn't allow himself to out of fear he'd slip and end up in prison, taking her down with him. But all of that was passed, and they had been gifted the chance at a future together if they so wished. Choice. They could choose. He couldn't remember what choices were, but he was ready and willing to relearn with her for as long as they were given. He didn't plan to waste a second of it. There was already so much he had to catch up on.

Imprinting the feel and taste of her into his mind and heart, he reluctantly pulled back. Kissing the corners of her sweet mouth, swallowing her breathless laugh as he couldn't resist stealing one last lingering kiss. Face flushed, eyes aglow with golden light, she was a vision of loveliness and hope. Home. He no longer felt adrift in a cold, furious sea. She was warmth and comfort, steel and silk, all wrapped up in a deceivingly fragile body. He silently promised to never run from her, never hide, or let go.

They had time to learn and grow with each other. Time to settle down and make new lives together. His future always looked bleak, dark, and impossible before she waltzed inside his head and refused to leave. Now, all he saw was sunshine, and though he was aware they would face many storms throughout their lives, they would weather them together, and that was the difference. He wouldn't face them alone anymore. And neither would she.

No longer a victim of circumstance and misfortune, he still couldn't believe the hands of fate had finally woven something extraordinary for him. After all he suffered, it was difficult to trust it, but he knew that distrust would dissipate in time. He recognized similar disbelief in her glorious eyes, and it eased him enough to speak his mind.

"Where do we go from here?" He murmured, tone rough with searing emotion as her eyes lined with silver and her grin turned watery.

"Wherever we want. But first, let's go home." She all but whispered.

Home. He would have to get used to that but found he was very much looking forward to discovering where they would be ten years from now. As they rose on weak legs, and their hummingbird hearts took flight, he let go of who he thought he should be and realized he was excited to find out who he could be. Hand in hand, they left their park bench oasis behind, and began the short walk home.

***************

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. Thank you for any comments, likes, and reblogs if you feel so inclined.

Part two: Sweeter Than Fiction

#fanfic #duskwood fanfiction #duskwood #duskwood fandom #duskwood everbyte #fanfiction #jake x mc #duskwood game #duskwood mc #duskwood hacker #duskwood jake #duskood one shot #duskwood oneshot #oneshot #first kiss #fluff #fluff and romance #hope #romance fanfiction #duskwood family #fanfiction writer #i wrote this in one sitting #short fiction #romance #duskwoodlover #love #creative writing #fluffy #fluff and love #fluff and feels