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pucksandpower · 10 months

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Oooh the grid kids series is pure joy! I think it's really cool idea, especially because the drivers spend so much time around one another. Can i request one where maybe back in the day, rbr!seb and y/n were the grid kids of like mark and michael and jenson and back to present times, seb's grid kids are weirded out to see jenson and mark treat seb and y/n as their grid kids please. If that makes sense

Grid Kids: Gentlemen, a Short View Back to the Past

Sebastian Vettel x wife!Reader x platonic!drivers

Summary: once upon a time, the grid parents were grid kids themselves

Series Masterlist

When We Were Young

“Oi lovebirds! Stop canoodling in the garage, will ya?” Mark Webber chuckles, teasingly nudging Sebastian as you blush, having been caught stealing a quick kiss with your boyfriend in the middle of the chaotic paddock.

Michael, ever the protective figure, chimes in, “Leave them alone, Mark. It’s sweet. Remember when we were young and in love?” He winks at Sebastian, who grins, clearly relishing in having backup.

Jenson, leaning against a tire stack, chuckles, “Speak for yourself. Some of us still have it.” He sends you a playful wink and you laugh.

Sebastian wraps an arm around you, “Honestly, with the three of you as mentors, I’m surprised I’ve learned anything about racing.”

You smirk, “Maybe they're preparing you for the important race — the race of life?”

Mark snorts, “Deep, Y/N. Very deep.”

Michael smiles, a nostalgic look in his eyes, “You know, Y/N, you remind me a lot of my wife back in the day. Always grounding us racers, making sure our heads don’t get too big.”

Jenson nods in agreement, “True that. You have a way of making sure Seb here doesn’t drift into the clouds.”

Sebastian rolls his eyes, “Oh come on! You guys are just trying to get on Y/N’s good side because she’s the only one who brings proper coffee to the track.”

You giggle, “Guilty as charged. Can’t have my grid parents falling asleep at the wheel now, can I?”

Rain, Rain, Go Away

Sebastian and you stand with Jenson and Mark, sheltering under an awning as rain pours down, delaying the race. Michael ambles over, shaking off his umbrella.

Sebastian grins, “Typical Spa weather, huh?”

Jenson chuckles, “Isn’t it just? Every year I hope for sun by some miracle and every year...” He gestures at the rain dramatically.

You sigh, “I packed for a summer trip. Look at this!” You motion to your very damp sundress.

Mark smirks, “Rookie mistake. Always pack a wetsuit for Spa.”

Michael nods sagely, “And flippers.”

Oh Simple Thing

The smell of grilled meat wafts through the air as Jenson mans the BBQ at his home. You and Sebastian arrive, bringing along a homemade salad and plenty of sides.

“Ah, the dynamic duo!” Mark greets, pulling you into a friendly hug.

Michael points to the salad, “Trust Y/N to ensure we get our greens. Good on you!”

You wink, “Can’t have you all living on steaks and grilled chicken alone.”

As the evening progresses, stories from their early racing days are exchanged, often leading to fits of laughter. At one point, Mark shares an embarrassing story about Sebastian’s rookie mistake during a test session.

Sebastian groans, burying his face in his hands, “Do we have to bring that up again?”

You pat his back sympathetically, “It’s alright, Seb. Everyone has their moments.”

Jenson, taking a sip of his drink, adds, “That’s true. Just remember, no matter how many times they tease you, you’ve got Y/N in your corner. And that’s worth more than anything.”

Prank or Be Pranked

“Seb! Did you move my helmet?” Jenson calls out, rummaging through his locker as the five of you prepare to go karting, his face a picture of confusion.

Sebastian, feigning innocence, replies, “Why would I do that?”

You, smirking, lean in and whisper to Mark, “Five bucks says he put it on the highest shelf.”

Mark grins, “You’re on.”

As Jenson continues his search, he eventually finds his helmet perched high up, just out of reach. Michael, catching on to the prank, laughs, “Looks like our young prodigy here has learned a few tricks.”

Sebastian shrugs, “Consider it ... training. For reflexes and stuff.”

Jenson, using the handle of a dusty broom to retrieve his helmet, retorts, “Wait till you find out what I’ve done with your boots.”

Sebastian’s eyes widen in horror, “You didn’t!”

“This is going to be a long season.” You lean back against the brick wall as the overgrown children in front of you continue to bicker, fighting a smile.

Thanks for the Memories

Jenson, lounging comfortably in the hospitality area, raises an eyebrow as he watches you try to subtly wipe some oil off Sebastian's face. “You sure you’ve got him all cleaned up for the camera?”

You laugh, looking at a sheepish Sebastian who had been poking around his car earlier. “It’s like looking after a kid sometimes. He’s always getting into something.”

Michael chuckles from across the room, “Ah, young love. Sebastian, she’s got your number. But honestly, Y/N, good on you. We older ones have been trying to teach him some discipline.”

Mark smirks. “To be fair, Michael, I recall a certain someone ending up in a pool with his clothes on in Monaco just last year.”

Michael grins mischievously, “That was different. And anyway, Seb, Y/N, don’t get any ideas.”

You playfully roll your eyes, “Trust me, if he ends up in the water, I won’t be the one pushing him.”

Sebastian wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you close. “But you’d jump in to save me, right?”

You pretend to ponder, “Hmm, depends on how cold the water is.”

Jenson laughs, “Sebastian, you’ve found your match. But seriously, both of you, cherish these moments. The grid, the races, it’s all fleeting. But the relationships, the memories, they last.”

Michael nods in agreement, “Jenson’s right. One day you’ll be the veterans, guiding the young ones. Remember these days, learn from them.”

Mark clinks his water bottle to yours, “To memories and the journey ahead.”

Flintstones, Meet the Flintstones

Michael leans back in his chair, a smirk playing on his lips, “You know, when I started in F1 we didn’t have all this fancy tech and simulations. We relied on instinct.”

Jenson, faking shock, retorts, “Wait, you mean they didn’t have cars back then?”

Sebastian chuckles, glancing at you, “I bet he drove a dinosaur to the track.”

You laugh, “A very fast dinosaur, mind you.”

Mark, trying to keep a straight face, adds, “Michael, be honest. Was your racing suit made of ... loincloth?"

Michael plays along, “Yes and our helmets were carved out of stone.”

You chime in, “I heard they used saber-toothed tigers as pit crews.”

Jenson nods, “Oh, absolutely. And the pit stops? Ten minutes. Had to give the tigers a break.”

Michael rolls his eyes, laughing, “Alright, alright, mock the legend if you must. But remember, young ones, we paved the way.”

Mark grins, “And we’re grateful, old man. But don’t forget, it’s their turn now.”

Sebastian, ever competitive, challenges, “Race you to the track?”

Michael raises an eyebrow, “You sure about that?”

You laugh, “Careful, Seb. He might just bring out his dinosaur.”

Passing the Torch

Michael stands, his presence commanding the room’s attention even without a word spoken. Holding a helmet delicately in his hands, he clears his throat. “In every racer’s life, there comes a time when the tracks call to you a little less, the roar becomes a distant echo, and you realize there’s a world waiting for you outside the paddock.”

He glances over at Sebastian, then to you, emotion shimmering in his eyes. “But before I step into that world, I wanted to leave behind something, a token of gratitude and hope.”

Sebastian’s brow furrows slightly, curiosity evident. “Michael, you’ve already given so much to all of us …”

Michael interrupts with a soft chuckle, “Seb, always impatient! Let me finish.”

He then looks at you, his gaze warm and fatherly, “Y/N, you may not race on the track, but you’ve raced in all our hearts, guiding, supporting, laughing, and cheering louder than everyone else.”

“Sebastian, Y/N,” Michael continues, his voice imbued with emotion, “This helmet, from my last race, isn’t just a piece of equipment. It’s a symbol. A legacy.”

Gently placing the helmet on the table, he pushes it towards the two of you. “It’s about the weight of responsibility, the dreams it carries, the hopes it’s seen, and the love it’s felt.”

The room is silent, the magnitude of the gesture palpable.

Sebastian, clearly moved, speaks up, voice choked with emotion, “Michael, this ... this is ... I’m not sure if we can ever fill the space you leave behind.”

Michael smiles, placing a hand on Sebastian’s shoulder, then moving to hug you tightly. “That’s the thing about spaces. They evolve. They change. You two won’t fill my space. You’ll create your own.”

Pulling away, he raises his glass, “To new beginnings, to timeless legacies, and to family. Always to family.”

Back to the Future

As Max saunters into the room, he stops short, eyebrows raised in surprise. Jenson is teasing Sebastian, ruffling his hair like he’s a teenager, while Mark playfully nudges Y/N’s arm, offering her a drink.

Max blinks a few times, trying to process the scene. “Is ... is Jenson giving Seb a noogie?”

George peers over from his conversation with Lando, both their eyes widening. “It looks like it ... and Y/N’s being drawn into some sort of mock arm wrestling with Mark. What alternate reality did we walk into?”

Charles, mouth agape, chuckles, “It’s like watching a nature documentary: Here we observe the older generation asserting their playful dominance over the younger one.”

Lando giggles, nudging George. “Mate, should we jump in? Even the odds a bit?”

Before George can answer, Mick, who’s been observing silently, leans in. “Guys, it’s kind of sweet. You remember the stories they've told about the old days? This is just ... history repeating itself.”

Max, still trying to wrap his head around the scene, shakes his head with a laugh. “Never thought I’d see the day when Seb gets his hair messed up and doesn’t immediately fix it.”

Lance calls out, “Maybe we should start taking notes. This might be us in a few years.”

Grid Kids and Grand-Grid Kids

Charles saunters over to Mark and Jenson, holding up a race boot he’d just had signed by both of them. “Thanks for this, mates. It will be a special addition to my collection.”

Mark pats Charles on the back, “Anything for our grand-grid kid.”

Charles stops mid-stride, turning to look at Mark with a puzzled expression. “Your what now?”

Jenson chuckles, handing Lando a signed cap. “Didn’t Seb and Y/N mention? Since they’re your grid parents and they’re our grid kids ... well, that makes you our grand-grid kids.”

Lando bursts into laughter, while George, overhearing the exchange, raises an eyebrow. “Wait, so we’re like ... the second generation of grid offspring? This is getting complicated.”

Mick leans in with a smirk, “Hold on. So if I’m following this logic properly, that would mean double the birthday gifts, right?”

Jenson grins, “Well, perhaps but it also means double the expectations on the track.”

Lance playfully rolls his eyes, “Great, double the pressure. Just what we needed.”

Max joins the banter, “Are there grand-grid kid initiation rites we should know about? Because I’ve seen old photos of Seb and Y/N with you guys and let’s just say that fashion has come a long way.”

Mark feigns shock, “You’re dissing our style from back in the day? Careful, young one.”

Charles, cocking an eyebrow, shoots back at Max, “Especially considering the only thing in your closet is Red Bull merch.”

The group bursts into laughter, Max chuckling and nodding in acknowledgment. “Touche, Leclerc. Touche.”

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blackhairedjjun · 8 months

Text

you made my day. ✧༺♥༻✧

pairing: ot5 (individually) x gender neutral reader | genre / tropes: comfort, fluff, slice of life, meet cute, strangers to (potentially) lovers; reader is an intern in yeonjun's and a student in taehyun's | word count: 900 - 1k each | warnings: profanity, food & drinks in all except beomgyu's, getting scolded in yeonjun's, getting lost in beomgyu's

summary: you're having a bad day and things don't go as planned. but a chance encounter with a kind and handsome stranger makes things a little bit better.

author's notes: this was supposed to be posted in time for the release of the seasons of txt: youth photos, but then i got writer's block working on kai's and then i got super busy with work so i finished this only now. this is my first time making a fully ot5 work, and it was a lot of fun coming up with unique scenarios for each member. i hope you enjoy!

(all mini-fics are under the "keep reading" cut! photos are left uncropped to preserve the original uploader's watermark. photos are from bxmgyx_13 on twitter.)

1. soobin 수빈

of all the days for you to forget your umbrella, it’s on a day when it actually rains.

you stand underneath the awning of the convenience store, sighing and clutching your bag of snacks. even as you silently wish for the rain to stop so that you could walk to the subway station, head home, and enjoy your food, the downpour only grows stronger as if the universe is playing a cruel prank on you.

today is supposed to be a relaxing day. maybe the sound of the rain would be calming if you were at home munching on a bag of your favorite chips... outside, not so much.

a few minutes pass. the rain abates ever so slightly, but not enough for you to go home safely. you glance up at the sky still covered in clouds, then back at the street view in front of you, losing hope.

you don’t mean to make eye contact with the tall stranger passing in front of you.

at that moment, two thoughts cross your mind. the first: he looks like an actor, i swear i’ve seen a handsome face like that before. the second: wow, a tall man with a big umbrella, if i were more shameless i’d ask him to cover me to get to the subway station.

the universe, once again, decides to humor you.

the young man stops in his tracks, still staring. then he turns away, bowing his head a little, as if trying to make himself smaller. you watch while he stays like that for a little bit, shifting his weight from one foot to another, clearly embarrassed by your encounter.

your face grows hot with embarrassment too and you bring your free hand up to cover your eyes. what am i doing? you chide yourself. just because he has a nice big umbrella doesn’t mean it’s okay to stare!

but before you can scold yourself too much, you hear a soft voice in front of you.

“do you... want to share?”

slowly you remove your hand from your eyes. the tall man is looking at you, and though he seems shy, you see a faint smile of politeness on his face.

“yes, please!” you nearly shout. “i mean 一 i’d like that, thanks.”

he bows a little as he moved forward and tilts his umbrella towards you. “sorry for staring, you just looked really sad standing here like that一” he stops, realizing what he just said, and presses his mouth shut.

cute.

“no, it’s okay. i’ve been wanting to go home for a while, so yeah, i was feeling pretty bummed.”

“oh... sorry about that.”

you shrug. “it is what it is,” you say as you stepped under the umbrella. when you tell him that you were headed to the nearby train station, his eyes light up; he passes it by on the way to his dorms. the setup is perfect for both of you.

the tall man, you notice, seems naturally shy; even as you walk together under the rain, he makes sure to keep a polite distance from you, even if it meant one side of him getting slightly wet. his umbrella is slightly tilted towards you to make sure that you’re well-protected, even at his expense.

“hey, you’re getting rained on 一 it’s okay, you can bring the umbrella a bit more to your side.”

“it’s fine, i’m worried about your bag.”

“oh, this?” you lift up your bag of snacks on your free side. “don’t worry, they’re just bags of snacks. the packaging will keep them from getting wet.”

“oh? what snacks did you get?”

you tell him about your bags of chips and your packs of bread that you bought and his eyes start to shine. “i was gonna have a nice day to myself, just watching movies and eating these,” you say. “i picked out some dramas to watch this morning...”

“if you want really good bread, there’s a shop that just opened a few blocks away from the subway station! they make everything fresh, and i’ve been stopping by there after my classes.”

“oh! i’ve passed by that place, but i’ve never tried...”

as the two of you continue talking 一 turns out he has a lot of anime recommendations for you to binge while eating 一 he slowly starts to open up. he still looks handsome like an actor, but he has an adorable smile and a sparkle in his eyes that make him less intimidating and more endearing. he feels like someone you could hang out with, someone you could relax and be yourself around.

it wasn’t long before the two of you finally arrive at the subway station entrance. the rain has stopped, and the young man sets his umbrella down; now that you can see his face better, you take in the shine in his eyes and the dimples on his cheeks. oh, he’s so cute.

“hey, thanks so much for walking me, uh...”

“soobin.”

“thank you, soobin.” you feel your cheeks grow warm at you mentioning his name, and he seemed to blush a little, too. “this was nice of you to do.”

“ah, it’s nothing to worry about...”

“do you want to meet up at the bread shop sometime?”

the words tumble out of your mouth before you can stop yourself. oh god, what are you doing? you start to chide yourself again for asking to hang out with someone you’ve known for ten minutes. all he did was walk you home out of courtesy, and yet一

“yeah... that would be nice.”

he seems to be trying his hardest to look at you straight, but you can tell that the shy smile spreading across his face was genuine. relief washes over you and you can’t help but smile back.

the smile doesn’t leave your face as you hand your phone over to him to exchange numbers. while typing in your contact details, a thought crosses your mind: maybe the universe knows what it’s doing after all.

2. yeonjun 연준

the walk home from your internship feels like a walk of shame.

you messed up a pretty urgent task, delaying your team’s entire project, and your boss had little patience as he scolded you in front of the other interns. even as you make your way back home where you can forget and perhaps drown your sorrows in ice cream, you can still hear your boss’s voice rising and ringing in your ears, and feel the interns’ eyes on you as they watch you get a dressing-down. some looks are ones of pity, others of annoyance 一 but they sting at you all the same.

it’s hard for you to push away the memory as you trudge down the familiar route to your apartment, the sights around you barely perceptible to your troubled mind. you don’t even have the mental energy to pay attention to the pedestrians around you, walking down the same sidewalk and headed who knows where, when一

bump.

“shit!”

you feel the splash of coffee on you and see a stain of dark brown spreading across your work shirt.

“oh shit, i’m so sorry一”

a bit of spilt coffee shouldn’t mean much, but today it’s the final straw. you burst into tears, unable to stop yourself from sobbing in a crowded street of strangers. everything about this day is conspiring against you: you can’t do your job right, you embarrassed yourself in front of the rest of the intern team, and now you can’t even get home without looking like a complete idiot. you want to disappear into thin air but all you can do is cry, which just makes you feel even more ashamed... and then cry harder.

“hey, please don’t cry, i didn’t realize that it was that bad一 did you get burned? i can walk you to a clinic一”

at first you barely pay attention to the young man who spilled his coffee on you, but now it’s hard to ignore the way he looks at you with eyes wide with worry. his hands hover just inches away from your shoulders, ready to comfort but not crossing the boundary of your personal space, and despite your tears your heart softens a bit at his willingness to help.

“it’s fine,” you sniffle, wiping your tears away with the back of your hand. “i一 i didn’t get burned一”

“i’m sorry for making you cry, i wasn’t paying attention一”

you can’t help but burst into a small laugh.

now the man looks confused, tilting his head at you. “wh-what’s so funny?”

“it’s not your fault that i’m crying,” you say, the last of your tears finally falling. “just had... a bad day.”

“oh.”

you watch the look in his eyes shift. he was looking at you with panic and desperation, but now his gaze softens. his hands fall to his sides but he leans toward you to listen to you better.

“sorry about your day.” his voice is softer now. “and it’s alright to cry it out, it must’ve been hard for you...”

you simply nod. your gaze falls to the sidewalk and you notice the spilled cup of coffee by your feet.

“s-sorry about your coffee...”

the man stares at you and tuts, shaking his head. “you just had a bad day, and you’re worried about my coffee? it’s fine, it’s nothing compared to what you went through.”

“i guess, i just... can’t help but feel bad.” you chew on your lip. “can i buy you a new one?”

he let out a chuckle and the sound makes you feel light. “will it make you feel better if you buy me a coffee?”

perhaps it would do you good to do something right for someone today, you think. besides, he seems nice, and he does deserve a coffee for trying to soothe you.

“yeah, sure.”

“then i’ll let you if it makes your day a bit better. there’s a cafe across the street, we can just stop by there, yeah?” he shrugs off the open button-down he’s wearing over his shirt and hands it to you. “and here, wear this to cover up the stain.”

“it’s fine一”

“c’mon, you can wear it.”

you hesitate for a moment, but the young man looks at you with such wide eyes that you can’t say no; you take the button-down and put it on over your shirt. it’s big on you, but that’s good for covering up most of the stain. and while soiled clothing may be the least of your worries, it preserves your pride just enough that you smile for the first time today.

“there, you’re smiling already. you feel better?” he says, returning the smile.

oh, he’s handsome.

your smile widens and a blush starts to creep on you. “yeah... yeah, i do. and i guess some coffee would help.”

“then we can grab some together.” he offers his arm out to you. “i’m yeonjun, by the way.”

you thread his arm around his as the two of you walk towards the cafe. it’s an oddly intimate thing to do with someone you just met, but it feels right.

“nice to meet you, yeonjun. and thank you for helping me.”

maybe today isn’t such a bad day after all.

3. beomgyu 범규

where the hell am i?

it’s the first thought that enters your mind as you step off the train, and it’s the thought that comes back to you again and again as you wander around the unfamiliar station. the whole place is unnervingly quiet; no other trains passing by, no hustle and bustle of the city, not even other passengers chatting and waiting for the next train to come. you open your phone and check your map 一 and you realize that you have gone horribly, horribly off course.

you did everything right; your friend gave you the name of the train station close to their new apartment, and you even looked it up before your trip. you know that the apartment was quite far from your place, but this is too far altogether. sighing, you open your chat with your friend and start texting them: hey i think i’m at the wrong station can you please help. you pace back and forth as you wait for a reply.

nothing.

the cell signal in the station weakens. you can’t even send your friend a follow-up text.

you almost let out a scream until you notice that another passenger has appeared on the platform: a young man bobbing his head to whatever music he’s listening to. he pays you no mind as his attention is absorbed by the earphones connected to... a cassette player?

you squint. does anyone still use cassette players in this day and age?

in between his little listening session, the young man catches at you staring at him. he tilts his head at you, pauses his player, and takes off his earphones. “what’s up?”

“uh...”

should you ask him for help? if he’s waiting for his own train, maybe he’d know the station better than you.

he follows your gaze down to the cassette player in his hand and frowns. “hey, i like vintage things, okay? my dad gave me this and it still works.”

“n-no, it’s not that...”

your confusion and frustration must be too obvious, because the young man slips his cassette player into his bag and takes a step towards you. “uh, are you okay?”

fuck it, you can’t solve this yourself anyway.

“i think i’m lost.” you head over to him and show him your phone: the station name your friend gave you, a screenshot of the route you took. you explain to him where you’re headed, and he nods along as he listens and examines the map screenshots on your phone.

finally, he lets out a nervous chuckle. “uh, sorry. i don’t know how to get there either.”

your heart sinks.

“but i know where the helpdesk is, maybe we can ask them? let’s go there together.”

“aren’t you waiting for the next train though...?”

“it’s fine, it’s coming in around 20 minutes. let’s go, then?”

he gives you a sheepish grin, and somehow it’s the most reassuring thing you’ve seen all day.

the two of you make your way through a maze of staircases and walkways to get to the helpdesk, which the young man explains is on the far side of the station. all the while he sticks close to you, arms nearly brushing as you walk side by side, and it makes you feel anchored in an unfamiliar place.

“i’m sure your friend must be worried about you,” he says.

“yeah, and i can’t even text them to tell them where i am.”

“we gotta make sure you get back then. don’t worry, the helpdesk staff are super nice. they’ve always helped me out here, so they’ll surely be able to help you too.”

he smiles and nods at you as he says it, and it makes you believe him. he’s kinda cute, too.

the young man is in the middle of telling you about how he’s visiting his family when you spot the HELP DESK sign in front of a modest booth. you nearly sprint to it, but your companion manages to keep up and get there first.

“excuse me, could you help my friend here? they’re supposed to get to...”

you lend your phone to him as he explains your route to the middle-aged woman behind the help desk. she lets out a laugh as she hears him out 一 it turns out that there are two stations close to each other with similar names, and your friend gave you the wrong station name. “don’t worry, it’s a common mistake,” she says. “you’re not the first person i’ve seen make it. here, i can trace your route for you...”

a few moments later you hold a paper map with a post-it explaining which lines and stations you’re supposed to take. you relax visibly as you scan the instructions, and a new wave of energy fills you to get to where you need to go.

you look up at the young man and he seems even more excited than you. he’s grinning from ear to ear and bouncing slightly on his feet. “we did it!”

“thank you so much,” you say with a bow. “couldn’t have done it without you.”

“don’t get lost again, okay?” he says with a laugh. “or else i’ll have to come pick you up or something.”

“i’ll be fine, don’t worry. what, do you want me to text you when i get there?”

you’re joking but you freeze. what on earth were you even saying?

the young man goes from excited to sheepish, though he hasn’t stopped smiling. “i mean, yeah, that’s a good idea.”

“yeah...”

you find yourself exchanging phones with him, and when you get yours back, you glance at the new contact. beomgyu. there’s a little teddy bear emoji next to his name.

“text me when you get to your friend’s place, okay?”

beomgyu’s gaze softens, and you feel yourself growing warm.

“okay.”

4. taehyun 태현

you shouldn’t have checked how much progress you’ve made.

in the middle of your study session you flip through the pages of your chemistry textbook to see how much you have left to read... and you still have three-fourths of the chapter left. after that you have two more chapters to go. you flip through your own notes and realize that, as dense as they already are, they aren’t even halfway done. then you check the time on your phone: it’s been forty-five minutes.

oh, it’s going to be a long stay at this cafe.

you can feel the worries rising in your throat, but you take a sip of coffee to try to wash them down. it doesn’t work, but you don’t have the time to self-soothe right now. you only have so much time before it gets too dark and you have to return to your dorm.

your head is spinning with chemical equations and diagrams when the empty seat across you shifts. the muffled noise is enough to make you look up, and you notice a stranger hovering near the seat. the rest of the cafe is full.

“may i sit here?” he asks.

“sure.”

you pay him no mind as he settles down, and you continue studying.

half an hour and one finished coffee later, and you still aren’t done with that first chapter. your notes started out neat but have since devolved into a half-legible mess of symbols and equations that might as well be ancient runes to you. the last ten minutes were spent scrolling on your phone because you would rather distract yourself at this point. groaning, you throw down your pen and rub your face into your hands.

i’m not understanding anything.

the soft thwack of your pen against your textbook catches the attention of your table-mate, who has finished his pastry and is sipping his drink while typing some notes on his phone. you glance up at him and see the name scrawled on his coffee cup: taehyun.

he glances at your pen, then at your textbook, then up at you. “is this for a chemistry class?”

you nod.

taehyun examines the textbook again, then your notes. “oh, i took the same class last semester. do you want help?”

you want to yell oh my god, you’re a fucking lifesaver, but instead you say, “yes, please!”

you allow taehyun to flip through your textbook, even your messy notes. his eyes widen as he takes in every detail, and when he looks up at you he gives you a tiny smile. there’s a little sparkle in his eyes that washes down just a bit of your worries.

“this is pretty good progress you’ve made. you got the fundamental parts right.”

“oh, i… did?”

and here you thought your mind was just flailing around.

“yeah. you’re doing great.”

“but i’m slow.”

“it’s better to be slow and understand everything well than to be fast but not absorb anything,” he says. “do you have an exam coming up soon?”

“uh-huh… tomorrow. and i’ve got two more chapters after this.”

“oh.” taehyun blinks and goes quiet for a few moments, pondering what to do. at last, he picks up your pen. “you could probably go faster with some help, then.”

a wide smile spreads across your face.

taehyun guides you through each lesson, pausing once in a while to check if you can follow him. you resume taking notes and they’ve gotten neater again, and all the strange symbols and diagrams and equations start to make sense. the panic in you starts to fade away little by little, and the fog in your mind from all your worrying starts to clear. with that gone, you find yourself understanding each lesson much more quickly.

“you’re good at this,” you say as taehyun finishes drawing an example chemical structure on a napkin.

“i am?” he lets out a small chuckle and you blush a little. he’s sweet. “well, i did enjoy my chemistry classes last time. but it only really counts if you got to learn something.”

“i did, i honestly did,” you say, eyes scanning your notes.

taehyun follows your line of sight and once again you see the sparkle in his eyes. “that’s good, then. and i can tell from your notes too, you already figured a lot of it out. you’ll do fine in your exam.”

“you think so?”

“yeah, really.”

“well...” he’s right, you admit. you exhale slowly and allow your shoulders to slump a little bit. “thanks.”

in the end you manage to finish just two out of three chapters before it gets dark outside, but taehyun makes a cheat sheet to help you. you watch him as he scrawls his notes on a loose sheet of paper 一 oh, he’s a lefty! you note 一 then tucks it in between the pages of your textbook. as he slides the textbook over to you, he gives you one more look with wide eyes.

“good luck tomorrow. you can do it!”

“thanks! and, uh 一 thank you. i couldn’t have done it without you.”

taehyun lets out a little chuckle. it sounds tiny, but to your ears it could fill the whole cafe. “you should let me know how it goes. i’ll be here tomorrow too, same time.”

“oh...”

there it is again, the twinkle in his eyes. you feel yourself grow warm at his words as you look at him. you still have your exam to get through, but now you have something to look forward to tomorrow.

“sure, i’ll be here,” you say. “see you.”

5. huening kai 휴닝카이

perhaps a little ice cream will put you out of your misery.

the line for the ice cream truck in the park is long, as expected on such a hot day. one part of you understands this rationally, but another part of you is antsy, an inner five-year-old grumbling and stomping their feet on the verge of a temper tantrum. sure, everyone in this line is sweating under the sun as much as you are, but your patience is wearing thin and you just want that ice cream now.

you would have been more patient if you’re getting that ice cream with your friends as originally planned, but your plans fell apart at the last minute. one by one, they texted you their reasons why they couldn’t make it: they have to work overtime at their job, their boyfriend suddenly showed up for a surprise date, their cat got hurt and had to be taken to the vet... by the time you read the last ones, you were already waiting at the park, your carefully planned outfit wasted and slowly being stained with sweat.

if it happened to someone other than you, you would have laughed at the unfortunate string of coincidences. but instead the sheer bad luck taunts you, and now all you can do is take out your handkerchief and wipe the sweat off your forehead with a sigh.

you don’t know how long it takes 一 perhaps a few minutes, perhaps an hour 一 but you finally make it to the front of the ice cream truck. you bounce on your heels as you turn to face the ice cream man, ready for a little bit of ice-cold, sweet comfort on an otherwise terrible day...

“sorry, we just sold out.”

“WHAT?!”

the ice cream man flinches. you didn’t mean to scream so loud, but the frustration building in up in you is just too much to hold back. the people in line behind you start to disperse, a few of them stopping to stare at you. you apologize for your outburst but slink away in defeat, head bowed from resignation and sheer tiredness.

just then you feel a tap on your shoulder.

“uh... y-you can have mine...”

you turn around and see a young man with tousled black hair holding out a popsicle still in its packaging. he smiles sheepishly as he hands it to you. “sorry, i got the last one...”

with one look at him, whatever irritation and frustration you feel melts away. you can see the sweat around his forehead and the slump in his shoulders, then your eyes fall to the gym bag hanging by his side. he must have been exerting himself under the sun, you think, and there’s no way you can take an ice cream from someone like that.

“no, i’m 一 i’m sorry for shouting like that. you can have it.”

“no, it’s okay, i promise!”

“really, you don’t have to give it to me.” you start to walk away, hoping to deter him, but he only follows. “keep it, it’s gonna melt if you don’t eat it soon.”

“take it! please?” he steps to your side and you notice how much he towers over you. his face betrays his height, however 一 he glances at you with big, pleading eyes, and your resolve softens.

“okay, okay.” you take the popsicle from him and unwrap it.

the two of you sit down on a park bench. you taste a little bit of the popsicle, now soft from the heat, and the fruity flavor instantly gives you a little burst of energy. you smile as you dig in to the rest of it, trying to savor it before it melts.

you pause for a moment to look at the young man who handed you the popsicle. he looks content as he gazes out at the park scenery, without a hint of bitterness that you took his ice cream from him. he turns to you with a smile, and you can’t help the little flutter in your heart when he does.

“that looks so good,” he says.

“it is! uh, sorry i took it from you.”

“nah, it’s okay. they ran out of my favorite flavor anyway so i’m not too sad.”

“oh.” you finish the popsicle and place the wooden stick inside the packaging. “it would’ve been nice if we both had one, though. it’s really hot today.”

“yeah, dance practice was extra brutal today under the sun...”

“dance practice? oh my god, that sounds exhausting.”

“yeah, everything hurt so much! but i finally figured out our new choreo, so it’s okay.” he glances over at you and opens his mouth to speak again, only for him to look confused and turn away. oh, he’s a shy one.

you decide to fill in the silence. “do you want to hear something funny?”

“sure!”

you tell the stranger about the slow thwarting of your plans for the day: the sudden overtime, the surprise date, the cat at the vet. your companion’s eyes widen with each new detail. when you finish he starts out a high-pitched laugh, and the sound makes you laugh too.

then he realizes he’s laughing at you and he stops. “oh一! oh, i... that’s so unlucky... and the ice cream running out too... i’m so sorry.”

you shrug. “today’s just not my day.”

“i’m glad i gave you that ice cream, then. you needed it.”

“yeah... thanks.” you glance down to fiddle with the edges of the popsicle wrapper, and you feel your lips curl upward in a smile . just then an idea enters your head, and you look up to meet your companion’s eyes.

“do you want to meet up here again next week? maybe we can get an ice cream for the both of us next time. my treat.” you tilt your head at him. “i’m y/n, by the way.”

slowly a wide smile forms on your own companion’s face, and his eyes start to twinkle with giddiness. “y/n... ah, i’m kai. and i have outdoor dance practice here every week, so i’ll see you after?”

“that would be nice, kai.”

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jeanboyjean · 6 months

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you're the worst - ft jean kirstein. mdni!!

summary: you and jean are rivaling lawyers on the partner track and it’s your firm’s xmas party. what better way to prove you’re better than him than to fuck him?

content: (nsfw) f! reader, rivals to lovers, coworkers, fucking at your work christmas function … in a storage closet!! f! oral receiving. p in v. unprotected sex oops. big dick jean, light choking

a/n: inspired by (actual irl) boyfriend's beef with his coworker. she recently got a promotion over him and he wont shut up about it so i was like wait … i gotta write this down this is a great idea HOLD AWN. their xmas function is next week and theres always drama!! enemies to lovers is THE TROPE for meee so i may expand on this later on and make a long fic but for now this is it. ty to @gallliard + @cowgirlikets for beta reading bc im goofy!! tag: @poopwons

2.7k words

String lights twinkle from the ceiling as people mill around you. Music is thumping from the large speakers near the DJ stand as you make your way to the bar to get another drink. Your law firm’s annual christmas party is in full swing right now and it's around halfway through the night - about the point where everyone’s finished their dinners and washing them down with drinks. The cocktail tables you had initially stood around at the start of the night, schmoozing with partners, have been cleared to form a crowded dance floor. You carefully thread your way between your coworkers while they let their hair down after yet another busy year.

When you finally reach the bar, you flag down the bartender and order another drink. In the holiday spirit, the firm had requested custom themed drinks and he sets down a very festive vodka cranberry in front of you. You're taking a sip, turning away to lean your back against the counter when a figure next to you catches your eye.

You sigh. It’s your coworker, Jean Kirstein - a.k.a the bane of your existence.

The two of you had joined the firm at the same time as new grads and had moved up the ranks together. Now, he’s your biggest competition, the one thing standing in the way of you becoming junior partner. He’s good, you’ll give him that. You both are. The two of you are the firms biggest rising stars, pulling clients and racking up billables like it’s nothing.

Unfortunately, he’s also a bit of a dick. At first, you couldn’t tell if his cocky persona had been an act, but after working alongside him these years, you’ve just come to accept that he is naturally a loud, smug asshole. The breaking point had been when you had stayed up late one night in your third year, working on a proposal, only for Jean to rock in the next day with his own that overwrote everything you had done. You’ve never really forgiven him for stealing your thunder and have used every opportunity you can to shine over him. Since then, he’s been nothing more than your rival and enemy. This was even more so lately, what with the announcement coming up next week to reveal who would be getting a promotion.

Jean turns his head to follow the bartender and meets your eyes. You quickly turn away and sip your drink.

“Hey,” you hear him say. He’s moved across to stand next to you, leaning his side on the counter.

Inwardly, you tense a little, always on guard when he interacts with you. “Hi Kirstein,” you say stiffly. “What’s up?”

“Just thinking how good it’s going to feel when they call out my name for junior partner,” he grins smugly.

You roll your eyes at him. “Yeah, in your dreams.”

“Not my dreams if it’s a fact,” he sings and you bristle at his words. There’s no way he could know this for a fact. Everything’s been kept under wraps and you know you have just as much of a chance as him. You both went well over budget and the partners love you equally. It’s anyone’s game at this point.

He laughs. “I’m just kidding. I’m 99% sure it’s gonna be me but who knows what could happen. You might still have a shot.”

“Fuck off, Kirstein,” you snap at him, getting ready to leave.

“I’m kidding! I’m kidding!” He waves his hands. “It could be either of us. Or maybe even Reiner might pull an undercover steal and take it from us.”

You can’t help but laugh at his words. Reiner’s good but he’s far from partner material so you know Jean's taking the piss.

Jean straightens up, demeanour becoming a little more serious. “You know … I think it might actually be you this time.”

Your eyebrows raise. “Are you playing mind games with me, Kirstein?”

“Nah. I think you deserve it, that's all. You worked really hard on that last merger with the Reeves company and it paid off. All the partners are raving about it.”

His voice is sincere for once and your mouth hangs open in shock. You can’t remember the last time you had a conversation with Jean that wasn’t the two of you throwing jabs back and forth. It’s no secret to anyone that you can’t stand the other’s guts.

It's strange. For some reason, he's smiling at you and that fact that you don't feel the need to snap back at him makes you want to smack him.

The lighting at the bar brightens up his sandy brown hair like a halo around his face and his eyes glow as they stare intently at you. Fuck you Jean Kirstein and your perfect hair and your perfect face.

“You look nice today,” he admits, gaze travelling down to give you a once over. The surprises won’t stop coming.

“Yeah, you clean up well too I guess.” It's not a lie - he's definitely attractive. The problem with Jean though is he knows it. You have to be careful with what you say so as to not feed his already bloated ego.

He smirks, obviously pleased by your admission. He hums, eyes wandering around at your surrounding before landing back on you. There’s a split second where you swear they flicker down to your lips briefly. “You wanna go dance?”

Your eyes widen in surprise. “You want to dance ... with me,” you say flatly, eyebrows furrowing.

“Yeah, why not?” He gestures to his body. “You know you want to.”

You roll your eyes. “Fine, Kirstein. I’ll indulge you this one time since you so clearly want to.”

Whirling around, you down your drink then stalk away to the dance floor. You hear him snicker behind you as he follows. Once you find a free spot, you turn to face him, suddenly a little unsure. He’s got a devilish grin on his face as he steps in closer to you. His hands come to rest on your waist and your body lights up at his touch. Hesitantly, your arms come up to wrap around his neck as you let the music guide your body, alcohol pumping through your blood.

After a few minutes, his head dips down and you shiver when his nose grazes your neck. Lips at your ear, he murmurs, “I mean it by the way. You look really good.”

“Don’t tell me you have feelings for me now, Kirstein,” you say in response, trying your hardest to hide how his words rock you to your core. He doesn’t say anything and just laughs, shoulders shaking.

When you look up at him, his eyes are fixed on you, glowing molten lava. Your breath catches in your throat. It feels like the world disappears beneath your feet as you find yourself trapped in his gaze.

Wanting to break free of the moment, you spin around. His hands are still on your waist so you find yourself pressed with your back against his chest. His grip tightens, hips still rocking to the music. You let yourself be moved along too, trying your best to calm your racing heart.

The song is slow and bass heavy, soulful vocals crooning - a little sensual for a conservative law firm like this. When the last few notes trail off, his head drops again to your shoulder and you can feel more than hear him groan.

“Shit,” you hear him mutter. He goes to move away from you but it’s too late. There's an unmistakable hardness pressing firm against your ass. You still and slowly turn to face him.

He has the decency to look embarrassed now, sheepish expression on his face as he puts his hands up in surrender. “I’m sorry, I just got carried away. Please … pretend nothing happened.”

You stare at him, blood thumping in your veins. Despite everything, heat pools in your stomach while a wetness builds between your legs. You shake your head and grab your hand. “Let’s go.”

“What-”

You drag him through the crowd, turning into the corridor towards the bathrooms. With a tug, you pull him into a storage closet and shut the door behind you. He looks at you in a mix of confusion and curiosity. “What are we doing in here?”

You roll your eyes and step in towards him. “Do you want to do this or not?”

His eyes widen and they flicker from yours to your mouth and his breath catches in his throat when your tongue slides out to lick your lips.

Without a word he closes the distance between the two of you. His hands come to grip your jaw as he presses his mouth hard against yours. You share a messy kiss, your hands tangling in his hair, his sliding down your body.

He places wet kisses down your neck as one hand cups a breast, the other groping at your ass. You moan, head falling back as he sucks into your sensitive skin and pinches a nipple through your dress.

“I want to take this off,” he almost pleads, tugging at the fabric. “Can I take it off?”

You nod, letting him unzip and feeling it fall to the floor. His eyes roam your body. “Fuck. You’re so hot,” he groans.

He walks you back until your back hits the closed door behind you. Kisses trail down your body as he falls to his knees and hooks a leg up over his shoulder. He licks a wet stripe up your inner thigh, pulling your underwear to the side to reveal your glistening folds. Wasting no time, he dives forward to lick at your wet slit.

“You taste so good,” he moans into your skin. You’re breathless above him, eyes screwing shut with pleasure as he works his magic.

He takes your sensitive clit into his mouth, swirling around with his tongue and sucking. A finger dips into your folds and you clench tight at the intrusion. He curls it inside you, searching for the sensitive bundle of nerves and it’s obvious when he finds it because you jerk above him, moaning in delight. You feel his lips lift in a smirk and he’s relentless now. Another finger joins and he’s pumping, massaging your slick walls, still sucking at your clit. Your toes curl, heat building in your core.

“Come on, pretty girl. I want to feel you cum on my face,” he moans into your soaking cunt. At his words, it only takes a little more before you feel yourself let go and your orgasm takes over. Waves of pleasure rip through you as you pulse and squeeze around him. Your knees buckle and he catches you with one hand, pinning your hip against the surface behind you.

He grins as he removes his fingers, sucking them clean before wiping his face with the back of his hand. He stands, pulling your face into a messy open mouthed kiss. It feels nasty, the way you're panting into his mouth as you taste yourself on his tongue.

You reach down to palm at his crotch, feeling his hard cock straining against his pants. Eagerly, you pull them down and release him, feeling him hot and heavy in your hand. With all of his arrogance, you had been sure he was overcompensating for a lack of something downstairs but now you're sorely (or maybe thankfully) mistaken. He's easily the biggest you've ever had.

“Shit, I don’t have a condom,” he says.

“Oh,” you say in response, but all you can think is, damn he's big. You shake your head. “I’m clean and on the pill so I’m fine if you are.”

Jean grins. “Sounds good to me.”

He kisses you again before spinning you around to face the door. Your hands fall in front to catch you and he presses into your back. His cock is hard against your ass and he takes a moment to grind against you slowly. He guides it with his hand to slide a few times over your slit, gathering the wetness. You hold in a whine, already a little overstimulated when he finally lines himself up and pushes in slowly. There's a little resistance but you relish in the feeling of stretching around him.

“So tight,” he moans into your hair, cock throbbing inside you.

Jean moves slowly to begin with, letting you adjust to his size but it’s not long before his pace picks up and he’s fucking you in earnest. His hips thrust against your ass, cock sliding in and out, reaching areas you didn’t think were possible. You moan as you rock back into him, desperately meeting his movements.

Your head falls back onto his shoulder and your eyes screw shut as you feel him driving in relentlessly, letting your body go limp in pleasure. One of his hands grips the door next to yours, while the other reaches up to wrap around your throat to hold you up against him. He’s only resting his hand there really, but it makes you clench around him even tighter.

At the sensation, he hisses, hips stuttering. “Oh, you like that?” His hips snap in hard. “I knew you would, you dirty girl.”

His fingers tighten around your neck, lightly cutting off your air supply. It’s enough to make your head spin, stars forming in your vision. He pants into your hair, softly muttering curses as he pounds in quicker. You’re at his mercy now, moaning freely, as your orgasm builds again.

Legs shaking in the effort to hold yourself up, you lose yourself in the moment. Electricity streaks through your body, lighting up all of your nerves. The lack of air is making your limbs tingle, heightening your senses. The hand he’s using to steady himself falls down to your hip, sliding down to your pussy. You jerk when his fingers find your clit, the pleasure almost too much to bear. With a few quick circles at your sensitive nub, you're crying out as you cum around his cock. Your walls clench tight, uncontrollably and your hands claw at the door.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he moans, hips stuttering, all finesse out the window. “You’re squeezing me so tight. I’m gonna fucking come.”

He fucks into you without abandon, using both hands to grip your hips tight enough to leave bruises. He pounds into you relentlessly, the slick sound of your skin meeting each other filling the air, before burying into you all the way as he cums. His hips falter and slow as he reaches his high, spilling deep inside you. His forehead drops onto your shoulder, as he tries to catch his breath and carefully, he pulls out, his cum leaking out of your cunt down your thigh.

You fall forward, catching yourself with your forearms against the door. You turn around to face him. His hair has fallen out of its careful styling, a few stray strands sticking on his damp forehead. He grins at you, blinking slowly, lids heavy with contentment. You’re a little surprised when he dips down to capture your mouth in another kiss. His lips are more gentle now, movements softer as his hands lightly hold your jaw. When he pulls away, you’re breathless and frazzled, completely taken aback by the entire sequence of events.

“You good?” he asks you, eyes twinkling with mirth.

You nod in response, racking your brain to think of something to say but coming up empty.

“That was so hot,” he says in your silence. “I knew all that tension between us would lead to something great.” He smirks. “Didn’t think it would be so easy to get you like putty in my hands.”

You straighten at his words, batting his hands from your warm cheeks. “Fuck off, Kirstein. It was just unexpected. You’ll see. Next time you’re the one that’s gonna be putty.”

His chest heaves with laughter as he bends down to pick up your dress and hand it to you. “Next time, huh? Good to know.”

“You're the worst,” You groan, making a face at him as you step into your dress and slide the straps back up over your shoulders. You turn around, holding your hair up with your hands to let him zip it back up.

A shiver runs down your spine when his fingers graze your bare skin. He presses a light kiss against the side of your exposed neck. “Let’s get back out there then,” he murmurs into your skin.

You pretend your legs don’t buckle a little at the feeling of his touch and shake yourself off, smoothing down your dress. You can still feel the ghost of him inside you and his sticky cum dripping down your inner thighs.

Next time, Jean Kirstein. You’ll see.

#attack on titan #jean x reader #jean kirstein #jean kirschtien #jean kirschstein #aot x reader #✎ . chloe wrote smth

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harmshake · 3 months

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pairing: Roman Reigns!sub x Kalifa (fem!black!oc!domme) | warnings: none...for now, girl �� | word count: 775

a/n: Y'all know I'm bad about posting my WiPs in order cuz even though we agreed Rhea was next (as well as Carmelo)...I'm kinda excited to gon' on and share this Roman fic. 😍

Here's a lil snippet and I hope you like! 🥹

"The Boudoir"

The rain outside was a little frightening, pounding against the pavement like bullets and beating down on Joe’s back as he hustled out of his limo and ducked for cover under the awning of the brick building nearest to him. Thankfully, this was where he was supposed to be. 616 Jasmine Boulevard. The address was a winding, vintage script next to the black door hidden behind the matching strings of tear-drop-shaped beads that were a curtain, quivering and clanking in the harsh, chilly winds of the storm. Joe wasn’t safe from it even as he stood by the door, his back and pants legs soaked and cold from the rain as he hurried to find the door knob and let himself inside.

The warmth that embraced him as he entered the establishment made him sigh with relief. The lobby was quaint, cozy, and yet made Joe feel bigger and taller than he already was, like he was taking up too much space. He could probably touch the eclectic paintings that hung from the room's four walls from where he stood if he extended his arms. Instead, he took a moment to simply admire the artwork: Rustic gold frames and heavy brush stroke portraits of Black women, tastefully nude, bending their bodies into beautiful shapes, a few bound into those positions with ropes tied into intricate designs he’d never seen before, but they intrigued him and ignited a curious heat in his chest.

The tiny lobby as well as the paintings were tinged with a soft red light from the little lamp on the side table at his left. Joe nearly knocked it over as he reached behind himself to close the door and keep the rain out, quickly reaching out to steady the lamp as it wobbled. He wasn’t usually so clumsy, but the unusual weather and the unusual business he was about to attend here in this unusual yet charming place made him a bit off-balance, albeit tantalized.

He took a deep breath through his mouth and exhaled slowly through his nostrils as he walked deeper inside, and in only four big strides with his long legs, he arrived at the wooden service counter. He could hear his black Nikes squishing with each step and he switched around to see he tracked giant, wet spots on the floor which made him feel bad. There was a golden call bell next to a stack of business cards, black laminated to showcase a small, red, scrawling font that Joe couldn’t read even with his glasses on his face. He had a good idea of what they said, anyway, as he gently tapped on the bell with his large, slightly trembling palm.

A framed scroll that had seen better days caught his eye beyond the counter and read “Boudoir Rules” in big, bold letters. As he waited, Joe leaned his elbow on the surface, able to read them, and nodded his head to himself in silent agreement, his nerves slowly shifting into excitement.

“Welcome in.” An almost raspy, melodic voice wafted from his right.

He turned his head to find the person it belonged to and saw a tallish, Black woman approaching him. He recognized her immediately and she was more gorgeous in person than in her photos online. He couldn’t take his eyes off her, her deep brown skin of her exposed shoulders and arms in her strapless, black corset dress glistening like she was well-moisturized and soft and succulent to the touch. If Joe sniffed the air deep enough, he swore he could smell her lotion, something sweet, almost like pineapple. It made him run his tongue over his lips as he watched her walk behind the counter, likening the shape of her round and full eyes, nose, and lips to a life-size doll. He liked the way her dark, wavy afro was stylishly split with a deep part as it fell to her shoulders. He had a feeling her coils were soft like her skin when she reached her hand out to him to shake his.

“Joe, right? Or would you rather I call you Roman?” she asked in that pretty voice of hers.

“I prefer Joe when I’m off the clock,” he replied with a charming smile spreading on his face, still holding her hand in his. It felt almost dainty and he was tempted to plant a kiss on it like a gentleman does when meeting a lady, but he refrained as he feared it might break one of the rules. Yet she smiled back as his thumb brushed her knuckles before he let her go.

“I’m Kalifa. I’ll be your Domme tonight.”

another a/n: I started working on this early last year before I read @claymorexpunisher's "Liberación" which is similar and VERY GOOD PLEASE READ IT. 🥵

tagging: @empressdede @woahdude9481 @wrestlingprincess80 @michaeljacksonlighterpost @elisewithak @blueskyesims4 @sassginaswanmills @kindofaintrovert @lilmamajada @truefant4sy @novamoon8206 @johnnieluvr @gabbywontlose @pittieprincess22 @ghost-waves @eliana221 @murrylove @thecookiebratz @armanibook @anoaievans @reignsboy19 @adoreesun

If you'd like to be tagged in this (as it's not your usual Roman story), let me know! 💗

#roman reigns #roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns imagine #roman reigns x black oc #roman reigns x oc #black writers #black fiction #spilled ink

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thornsnvultures · 2 years

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ooey gooey ♡

Lumberjack!Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: Every morning, Bucky comes to your store for terrible coffee and maybe something a little sweet on the side.

Words: 2.5k

Warnings: fluff, pining, lots of food talk, fingering, dirty talk, pet name (sugar), mild angst, Sam's a little shit but a great (accidental) wingman :3c

a/n: this was written for @buckysbirdie 's #BirthdayBashWritingChallenge 💖 and the prompts I picked were: "🍦 Waffle Cone: Bucky Barnes 🪵 Moose Tracks: Lumberjack 🍮 “I have to leave.” 🍩 “Rock paper scissors for it.” 🌰 “Don’t get shy on me now.” 🍓 Mutual pining 🍫 Friends to lovers"

Birdie, this was so much fun to write, I hope you like it! 💖

a/n 2.0: unbeta'd, moodboard by me, edited by me. if you see any mistakes, no you didn't :)

18+ BLOG, MINORS DNI. IF YOU INTERACT AND YOU DON’T HAVE YOUR AGE VISIBLE ON YOUR BLOG YOU WILL BE BLOCKED. 18+ BLOG, MINORS DNI.

Your lumberjack was here again. Well he's not yours exactly, but a girl could dream.

Every morning Bucky Barnes would roll up to your small town's only general store in his big red pick up truck before work at the lumber yard. And every morning you would watch from your perch behind the counter as he'd meander through the short shelves in search of the ancient coffee maker. The coffee that machine produced could only be described as sludge, but he filled a cup to the brim every morning without fail.

You'd told him on more than one occasion that you admired his iron gut for being able to withstand it day in and day out. His usual response was that it was strong, that it put some extra hairs on his chest. Then he would puff said chest out and thump it with a closed fist and the two of you would laugh while your thighs clenched together at the thought of running your fingers through whatever amount of hair really did reside on his thick chest.

You never saw him in less than a thermal Henley or his thick fleece lined coat. Yes, even in the summer time he wore long sleeves. What hid underneath those layers was another in a long list of mysteries you wanted to unravel about the gentle giant.

Most mornings you were the only one who spoke out of the pair of you. Rambling about your weekend plans, past or future, or whatever hijinks your precious cat Turkey had gotten into the day before. But Bucky was always there, listening intently like whatever you said would be the most interesting thing he'd hear all day.

"Ms. Linda said she needed help setting up for Bingo Night at the VFW hall so of course I offered to help since her husband was so generous fixing the hole in the awning above the stoop."

Bucky poured a generous amount of creamer into his cup of sludge. He may boast about not minding the taste, but you saw how many fixings he added every morning.

"Bingo Night, huh? I could see you up there calling numbers for all those old biddies," he smirked at you as he popped the lid on. "It's a shame I can't come, maybe I could've gotten lucky."

A laugh bubbles up and out of you before you could stop it. He can't be serious. He can't be...flirting?

Bucky Barnes does a lot of things. Takes the trash out for his elderly neighbor, offers to shovel the stoop out front of the store when the weather gets rough, and drinks the garbage coffee you make every morning, among many other things. But one thing he's never done before was flirt with you.

You don't know how to respond. You've always liked the man but he's never shown any interest in return. Never taken you up on an offer to get drinks or visit the actual coffee shop in town that makes actually good coffee.

So instead, Bucky's been a good friend. A good, kind friend that had no interest in you in a sexual way. Which was fine. But that kind of talk coming from him out of the blue was baffling.

Why is he flirting with you now after all this time?

The bell above the front door jingles, pulling your attention from his eyes watching you above his styrofoam cup.

"Buck, c'mon we gotta get a move on." Bucky's friend and coworker, Sam, stands in the doorway tapping the silver watch on his wrist.

"Sammy, why're you rushing? Got a hot date?"

Sam laughs and shakes his head.

"No, ma'am. Me and 'loverboy' here have to get in this truck and get a move on. Got a delivery up north to make."

If Sam sees the shocked look on your face, he doesn't say anything about it. You're too shocked to even comment on the 'loverboy' nickname he gave to Bucky just now. Bucky never goes out on the road anymore. Not since the accident that took his arm. He doesn't talk about it much, but everyone else in town sure does. How he had been on the road too long on his own and fell asleep at the wheel. You stopped listening then, when anyone but Bucky decides they have a right to tell his story. Like somehow he died that night and his ghost haunts the lumber yard.

Sam reaches in front of Bucky and grabs the last Ooey Gooey butter cake from the stand by the register.

"Now wait a minute-"

They're Bucky's favorite, he always grabs one before he heads out in the morning.

Sam halts at the door and turns around, slowly beginning to unwrap the package.

"Rock, paper, scissors for it," Bucky practically shouts over the rustling of plastic wrap.

"Bucky, you don't have to-"

Before you can finish your sentence the cake is back on the counter and the men, boys really, are pounding their fists and chanting the words to the game. Bucky's metal fingers open to the shape of a pair of scissors while Sam's stay closed to form a rock.

"Eyyy! Better luck next time, champ." With a smile pointed your way and a, "see you in two weeks," Sam slaps two dollars on the counter and heads back to the truck parked outside.

"Damn."

Bucky looks so cute when he pouts. He'll argue and say he doesn't pout but how else would you describe the way his pink lips purse and the space between his eyebrows crinkles? He's a pouter for sure.

You tell him to wait there for a moment. You've got something better for him in the back. His eyes roam your body like he's searching for...what? You don't know. You're not sure if you want to know with the way he's biting his lip.

You make your escape to the back room just left of the counter and Bucky can't help but follow. Like if he takes his eyes off you for one moment you'll disappear.

It's dark in the storeroom, only enough sunlight to illuminate the desk and chair in the makeshift office that takes up half the space. The other half is full of boxes of snacks and other necessities waiting their turn to be stocked on shelves.

You quickly grab the box you were looking for and turn, bumping into a curious Bucky in the process and spilling half its contents onto the floor.

"Oh shit. I'm sorry, sugar."

Bucky hurriedly bends down to help you pick up the contents of the box. Did he just call you "sugar"?

"It's...fine. Thanks, Buck."

In your arms is a cardboard box full of the butter cakes that Bucky grabs every morning with his coffee.

"Is that..."

"Take them."

Bucky reels back, and that cute crease between his eyebrows returns.

"All of them?"

"Well," you shrug, "Sam said 'two weeks' right? How many do you want for two weeks?"

"Sugar, I can't take that many."

You nudge the box into his arms which he accepts reluctantly.

"If you take all of 'em you won't have to fight over them with Sam."

"He can't have any."

"Bucky!"

You laugh until you realize he's not joking. In fact, Bucky looks quite serious.

"Not if they're from you. He can't have them."

The blue of Bucky's eyes are dark, murky like the lake that sits a few miles outside of town.

You didn't think he would be so possessive over a box of sweets. Or that your kind gesture would mean so much.

"Bucky?"

The box falls to your feet, spilling packaged cakes onto the floor again. But you're not worried about picking them up this time because Bucky's suddenly on you, his hands on your face and walking you backwards and into the desk at your back. You don't even mind the pain when your butt bumps the wooden edge when you feel Bucky's lips on yours.

His stubble is prickly against your skin and he tastes like burnt caffeine but you can't get enough. The rough pads of his fingers caress your cheeks, years of hard labor imprinting on your skin through his touch. The metal of his left hand is colder than you were expecting, but only on his fingers. His palm is warmed slightly from holding his coffee, a meek simulation of the warmth pouring off his right.

You don't think you'll ever forget how he lights up your senses. How he sounds when you slip your tongue past his lips to curl around his. How he shivers when you run your hands up his chest and around to the back of his neck where his hair is short and bristly under your fingernails.

Suddenly you're being lifted, placed on the desk behind you with a gentle thud.

"You don't know what you do to me, sugar. So damn sweet."

His hands are on your waist now, his fingers digging into the dips of your curves to pull you closer so he can nip and lick at your neck, your jaw. He's starving for you and all you can do is roll your head back to give him space to feast.

"I should've given you that box sooner."

Bucky's breathy chuckle blows past your ear and sends a shiver down your spine. Your gasp spurs him on, moving to lift your baggy work t-shirt up before you stop him.

"Everything okay? Don't get shy on me now."

You run your hands across his shoulders marveling at how massive he is, how small he makes you feel. How safe. But you're unsure and Bucky can tell.

"I've wanted you for so long, sugar, just thought you could do better than someone like me."

His shoulders shrug under your palms. You want him too, so badly.

"Bucky that's not -"

"I know, I know it's silly. But I've been seeing someone. A therapist," he rushes to clarify when you raise an eyebrow at him. "She said I deserve things that make me happy. That what happened to me doesn't mean that I'm too broken to be happy."

Bucky leans into your hand on his cheek as he speaks. His eyes are searching yours and you hope he can see the love you hold for him there. And you do, you love him. As much as you can from seeing him every damn day for the past two years. He's grown so much since he came back home after the accident and you're hoping you're on his list of things that make him happy.

"You do deserve those things, Bucky."

His fingers trace a pattern you can't decipher under your shirt.

"Do you know why I come in here every morning?"

"Is it not for the coffee?"

"To see you."

He presses a kiss into your palm.

"I see you and the rest of my day is sweeter for it, sugar. The only thing better would be seeing your pretty head on the pillow next to mine when I open my eyes every morning."

You'd damn near slide off the table if Bucky didn't have a hold on you.

"Now, I want to feel you before I'm gone and losing my mind in that cab with Sam for two weeks. Will you let me, sugar?"

"Yes. Please, Bucky."

Your shirt is on the floor by the time you're finished speaking and Bucky's ripping your leggings down. It's good you have a spare pair of sweatpants in your locker just in case because they're definitely ruined.

You don't care if you have to work naked if Bucky's keeps mouthing at your chest the way he is now. The delicious burn of his stubble offset by the hot, wet suction of his mouth around your nipple is driving you insane. Your hands tug at his cropped hair, your body shaking with the force of your need for him.

"Bucky, please. T-touch me."

He doesn't waste any time teasing, just pushes your ample thighs open and presses a finger to your weeping slit. You cry out, grinding against his finger as he marvels at how wet you are already.

"All this cream for me, sugar?"

"Fuck, yes Bucky. It's yours."

He kisses you, stealing the moan that pours from you when he sinks his fingers past the lace covering your pussy.

Bucky groans, pulling away from your mouth to stare down at your puffy lips. His fingers circle your hole and he can feel you clenching around nothing, begging for him to fill you. But not yet.

Instead he slides his two fingers up and circles the swollen bud of your clit. The pressure and the wet sound it makes has you writhing on the desk, clawing at Bucky's arm as he works you over.

"That's it, sugar. My fingers feel good?"

"Yes," you can't help but shout.

Belatedly, you realize that the front door of the store isn't locked and anyone could walk in and hear, or even see, the two of you like this. It should make you push Bucky away and straighten yourself so you don't startle some poor shopper but if anything it makes your gut curl tighter. More of your juices spill and you don't hold back your cries of pleasure.

"So loud, sugar. What if someone saw you like this, huh? Coming so pretty for me, making a mess all over this desk."

Bucky shoves his two fingers inside you and you cry out even louder. Gripping the desk beneath you for dear life as he pumps into you hard and fast, finding that spot deep inside you that you could never reach. He curls his long, thick fingers into it and your eyes roll back.

"Listen to how wet you are. Give me what I need, sugar. Come for me."

Bucky's fingers pump into you two more times before you're screaming, pulsing around his digits until you can't move anymore.

You watch as Bucky slides his fingers free and into his mouth, sucking up your juices like the most delicious candy treat he's ever had.

His light touch makes you jump when you feel him slide your panties back in place.

"What about- "

"When I get back. Can't leave Sam waiting for me out there longer than I have. I already get enough of his teasing over you." Bucky smirks and tugs on an exposed nipple.

"Hey! That's not my fault!" You laugh and smack his chest.

Bucky laughs and grabs your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm and placing it over his heart.

"I have to leave, sugar."

"Come back to be, Bucky. I'm not done with you."

You're smiling but there's worry in your eyes.

"I'm not done with you either," Bucky winks. "And I'll be alright. Sam will be with me. He's a pain in the ass but I trust him with my life."

You sigh and lean into his chest, soaking up as much of his warmth and his scent before he has to leave.

"I'll call you. Every morning no matter where I am on the road. I'll call and we can talk while I eat my favorite breakfast," you smile when he points to the discarded box on the floor.

"Sounds wonderful, Buck," you press a kiss to his pec right above his heart. "And if you get lonely at night in those dusty, old motel rooms you can call me too."

He scoffs and smiles at your cheeky grin.

"Jesus, maybe my sugar ain't as sweet as I thought she was."

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orchidyoonkook · 1 year

Text

To What We Were Before, And All The Things After | JJK | Ch. 3

Title: Greenhouse Muses and Surprise Guests

Pairing: Prince!College Student!JK x Fine Arts Major!(F)!Reader

Series Rating//Genre: (M) | College AU, Mild Royalty AU, Smut, Angst, Fluff, S2F2L, Indiffernce to lovers, sloooowwww ass burn

Summary: You need to think out this whole situation, and where better than your favourite place on campus? The one place where no one ever goes and where you can truly do your best problem solvi—wait who the hell is sitting in your supposed place of undisturbed tranquility?

Warnings: PG18, heavy swearing, photography jargon (hopefully nothing tooooo confusing, I intentionally over explained a bit for those unfamiliar but a quick google search should clear up anything), euc=short form for eucalyptus “Youke”, art jargon but less, 1 (one) mention of metaphorical murder, and a bit of angst and fluff. I think that’s all?? Hella internal dialogue

Word Count: 10,804

Release Date: March 2, 2023, 4:00PM

A/N 1: she somehow went from 8k to 10.8k???? Hope you enjoy!!

A/N 1.5: I’m literally so tired of looking at this, I’ve read it at least 10 times in three days.

Series: Chapter One | Chapter Two

Jungkook’s sitting at a table outside what he considers to be his new safe haven, making a mental note to thank Yuri for showing him the greenhouse cafe—is that its name? He should’ve asked.

He can see himself coming here all the time for quiet morning work sessions. The coffee is great, the snacks are delicious, and there aren’t a lot of people around either—zero—to be precise. So he really considers this a win in his book.

The cafe is just southwest of a medium sized greenhouse, not even a minute's walking distance between the two. He could clearly see all the flowers and plants within from his seat outside. And behind the greenhouse was nothing but a small grass field followed by thick, dense forest.

It doesn’t even feel like he’s on campus. Just free about the world, grabbing a coffee and sitting down to work on a project like anyone else would. Like anyone else could. Another face in the crowd instead of the one on magazines in every corner store, book shop and grocer.

He can dream about it. Take in these small moments, but it will never be his reality. Not really. Even in this little corner of blissful nowhere the barista who served him his coffee knew who he was, addressed him properly, albeit a bit stuttered.

And he can’t blame her. It’s what she’s supposed to do. How she’s ‘supposed’ to react to him.

He’s someone big and important. Someone people look to and see their future in his hands. Someone who merits reactions when in the presence of others.

Someone who...

Someone...

So he dreams. And is thankful for what little normalcy he can get.

Taking a deep breath in, he holds it and he shakes his head, dismissing the thoughts before releasing a steady, controlled exhale.

Reset.

The cafe has an awning over its small patio, four tables on either side of the doorway, two that seat four and two that seat two on their respective sides, eight in total. He’s chosen to sit at the table of two furthest from the greenhouse, closest to the cafe. It has more shade, allowing him to see the screen of his laptop better.

Jungkook needed some time alone without anyone finding him, he gave that stupid speech on Monday for many reasons, but one of the most important ones was that he wants to be able to exist in a public space and to do his school work without a crowd gathering.

He’s taking this university thing seriously, and that means doing good work, excelling in his chosen subjects. It requires no distractions and lots of effort.

He doesn’t want to have to be cramped up in his dorm the whole time, too scared to leave for fear of never being left alone. He left that behind when he stepped foot onto the campus.

No more worrying about cameras or security or kingdoms. No more watching and tracking his every step.

This is his time to be a young man, not the prince. Just Jungkook.

And so far? He’s doing okay.

But just in case, he’s also wearing a hat, hoodie and mask for extra protection while editing some pictures.

Old habits die hard.

His Design and Visual Culture professor had given out an intro assignment to the class so he could get a read on everyone’s skill levels and to see where his starting point would be. Professor Hirmer asked everyone in the class to each submit three images: one portrait; black and white or colour, one still life of the photographers choosing, and one image of whatever your preferred style was. Then edit them to the best of their abilities, and submit by noon the following Monday.

Jungkook’s already finished his portrait. He hasn’t really made any friends here yet, so he just took one of himself, which made it easier in the long run because he was so used to his picture being taken.

Slicked back hair, a black tight fit shirt, silver chain and white background made up the shot aside from him. He’d decided on butterfly lighting because he’s always found it to be the most flattering aside from Rembrandt. Don’t get him wrong, Rembrandt’s a nice technique, Jungkook just didn’t want his portrait to be too dramatic.

He got the one he wanted to use in no time, and it required very little editing. Black and white is forgiving like that.

Currently, he’s working on his still life.

A latte with a basic heart design in a dark navy mug sat on the keys of a mahogany wood grand piano. The mug sat on the right side of thirds, and a couple stems of eucalyptus half cover the keys to the left, the tips of it just barely covering the bottom of the mug. He kept his depth of field wide so that most of what was in the frame was in focus, but the primary focus of the entire image is intended to be the drink and tips of the eucalyptus.

Jungkook managed to get one of the six guards his father insisted on him having here to go to a local market to grab the euc stems. Their remains were currently hanging in his shower, smelling wonderful and fresh.

The latte he did himself, a small talent after needing coffee constantly in his teen years to keep up with everything.

And as for the piano? He booked a music room for an hour with one in it. Work smarter not harder.

He’d kept his lighting dark, but gentle, really highlighting the whites of the piano keys while keeping the rich hues of the mahogany and navy present. The eucalyptus is comfortably set in the middle, having some brighter and darker tones to balance it out.

He’s quite proud of it, having created a visually pleasing image that had equal amounts of high, medium and low tones. But he wants the edges of the picture to blur slightly, so he’s adding a very subtly feathered vignette to the image.

He knows most of his peers will likely be doing a traditional still life of fruit or flowers, so he took a risk and made the prompt his own. He just hopes it pays off.

While editing, Jungkook’s simultaneously trying to brainstorm what he wants to do for his third picture. His style of choice is candids, takes them constantly, yet he doesn’t have a single one he wants to use for the assignment.

He likes them best because candids are those perfectly imperfect moments that show who a person truly is, when they’re at their happiest and saddest moments and everything in between. Candids are for when someone’s so caught up in what they’re doing that they look entirely serene in their task, and you want to capture that, forever. A small sliver of them, existing purely as they are.

Nothing fake, nothing practiced, no do overs. Just capturing genuine moments as they happen. A true reflection of humanity without filters or editing.

Jungkook’s thinking of maybe going undercover in the courtyard to snap some pictures of random people to see if that could work when a movement in the corner of his eye catches his attention.

Someone, with their back facing him, is very unceremoniously dumping their tote bag at the table most opposite him; the table for two that’s half covered in sunlight, half shaded.

Clad in loose fitting paint and charcoal covered overalls, a white shirt and bandana, they’re taking out what appear to be art supplies.

Brushes, small metal tins filled with paint, a very chaotically colourful water holder, and painting pad all gather onto the little table. He’s surprised at how they make it all fit.

It seems like he’s not the only one who’s seen this place for its potential.

But when they turn around, it’s…You?

It’s you.

Of all people.

What are the odds?

He wants to say hi, but hesitates, still aware of your conversation from earlier and hopes there’s no harm in a friendly hello between people who are acquainted, regardless of pending decisions.

But Jungkook watches your eyes pass right over him, unaware or uncaring he’s there. His half-raised hand falls along with the smile that’s found its way onto his covered face as you continue into the cafe.

A byproduct of his upbringing is being able to read even the subtlest of body language and facial shifts in people. And in your case, it’s like you’re screaming at him without actually speaking.

He knows from your closed off posture alone that you don’t want to be disturbed. But your expression…it's like a mixture of anger, worry and thoughtfulness.

Jungkook knows better than to interrupt someone when they look like that, and he decides against saying anything, returning to his assignment.

A minute later the bell on the door chimes, signaling your exit.

Looking up, he notes the cup of warm whatever it is in one hand, a very full looking pastry bag in the other, and a water bottle tucked into your side via your elbow.

He wonders what’s inside the cup. Coffee? Would you drink caffeinated or decaf? Or maybe you’re more of a tea person. But would it be black or green tea? Do you use milk? What about sweetener? He can’t decide but that doesn’t stop the thoughts from racing across his mind.

Why does he care so much?

You settle down into your seat, the shaded one of the pair, and—somehow—place your newly acquired goods on the already jam packed table. Truly a talent within itself.

But a sip from your cup, and a bite of something that resembles a tart later, you wipe your hands on your overalls and pick up a brush, wetting it from the colourful container. Bringing the empty, water only filled brush to the paint pad in front of you, you start.

Your back blocks most of it so he can’t see much, but your eye line is honed in on the greenhouse. And if he had to guess just by looking, you’re focused on the orchid that sits front and center.

He couldn’t name it specifically, but he can see why you’d want to commit it to paper. It’s pretty—yellow and red, very exotic looking, and he doesn't mean to—doesn’t even realize he is—when he finds himself watching you work instead of doing his own, mesmerized.

Your hand moves gracefully from paint to paper to water and back again. Occasionally, switching out brushes or wiping the one you had on your pants, drying it or maybe getting the last bits of colour off. He’s fascinated with how you know exactly what to use and where to put what in order for the image to spring to life. Most likely years of practice and muscle memory guiding you.

Sort of how he does photography. Years of experience and knowing which poses and angles to use to really make an image pop. For a moment he wonders if anyones looked at his art the way he’s looking at yours.

When you take a small break, stretching out your back and limbs, Jungkook snaps out of his daze and looks at the clock on the bottom right hand side of his screen.

He’s been watching you for nearly 30 minutes.

That’s creepy as hell Jeon, he thinks to himself, lucky you didn’t notice, and returns his sights to his laptop.

Fuck. What was he doing again?

Staring at the still life in front of him, it takes a minute before he recalls.

Oh right.

Professor Hirmer’s assignment. The third image. A picture of his preferred style—his preferred style of candids. What could he do for his candid shot?

He thinks. A candid shot. Candids. Caaaannnndidddssssss. Caaaaaa—

A lightbulb goes off and he feels like both an idiot and a genius.

Retrieving his camera from his bag, Jungkook glances your way and sees you painting again.

Perfect.

Quietly, he gets up from his seat, moving just enough to be able to see a sliver of your painting and a small portion of your face. You're so focused that you don't even notice him, like nothing outside the page matters. And only for a second does he wonder what you’re thinking about.

Your body is easy to read, it’s your mind that remains a mystery.

The sun’s moved ever so slightly so that your page is now fully doused in sunlight, while you remain under the gentle caress of shadow from the awning.

Smart girl.

But your face is bathed in the subtle glow of your papers reflecting illumination. And it's like you’re the one creating light with every brush stroke.

You look transcendent.

With that sight in his viewfinder, Jungkook takes a few shots in portrait framing, his thumb covering the speaker that lets out the ‘click’ noise of a picture being taken, before adjusting his shutter speed.

These pictures all have you in focus, with the background consisting of half somewhat blurry cafe wall, half very blurry forest green. And they’re okay, they work. But he wants to have your movements and surrounding materials in the image as well, to really show the process of an artist at work. So he switches to a landscape framing and settles on a slower shutter speed to create a longer exposure.

Waiting for you to clean your brush in the water cup before snapping the capture button, Jungkook holds steady as it’s a couple seconds before the image takes. It makes him wish he had his tripod with him because it would make this so much easier, but he can make due if he has too.

And he has too. Because he doesn’t want this opportunity to pass.

After a few more shots and near leg cramp later, he brings the results of his efforts up on the viewfinder for review. Jungkook’s thrilled to see that the movement in the piece was taken exactly how he wanted. Your arm steady on the canvas, but all your movements prior shown like angelically lit rays due to the angle of the sun, creating an ocean of movement around a steadily focused you.

They’re hauntingly beautiful.

He takes a couple more like that for good measure, getting in different movements and shutter speeds before slowly making his way back to his laptop and table.

Popping his SD card into his computer for closer inspection, Jungkook sees there’s definitely more than one useful candidate and gets to work on narrowing down his favourite.

He is going to pass this assignment with flying colours. And it’s all thanks to you.

As you arrive at the cafe you notice a guy in a black hoodie, hat and mask with his head stuck in a laptop at the furthest table on the patio. Internally, you sigh that there’s someone else here; it’s almost always vacant and that’s why you love it. No people, no distractions, just you and your work, and your thoughts.

You try not to worry too much about it, doing your best to just ignore him and have hope that he leaves soon. At least he’s as far away from your spot as he can get.

Dropping your tote on the chair in the sun, you start placing all your things on the table. It’s an exact science you’ve perfected over many, many paint sessions and far too much spilled liquid. Countless art projects have fallen victim on this table, some you were able to salvage, but most were added to its body count.

Setting down your paint tins, you still can’t get the conversation with Yuri out of your head. Not leaving the building, not crossing the campus, not all the time it took you to get way over here either, no matter how hard you tried.

You huff.

Was your reaction really that unjustified? Could she not see how insane she was acting? Why did she jump to you being jealous? Why would she even think you’d be jealous?

You have Nel.

A prince isn’t going to change that.

And speaking of, you didn’t even get to tell her about your conversation with Jungkook.

After this fight though…you don’t think you will.

He seems to be becoming a sore spot between the two of you, ridiculous as that is, so you think it best to just not bring it up and deal with it on your own. That’s how you usually do things anyway, and you were only going to ask Yuri as a thinking out loud type of thing, hoping she had some input. But it’s clear now that none of it would have been useful anyway.

Finishing placing your things down—all fitting perfectly, by the way—you dig into your tote for your wallet and head into the cafe, still doing your best to ignore the other patron. Hopefully you can give off enough of a vibe that he takes the hint and leaves.

The bells hanging on the door sound as it opens and shuts.

“Hey YN,” Vivian, the barista, calls at your entrance.

You two know each other well, enough to be on a first name basis. You, being one of—if not the only—regular, and the cafe—being a little out of the way of anything else—not having many students make it a part of their routine.

A comfortable, welcomed sort of exile. One you gladly share with her.

“It’s good to see you,” she says, looking at the window closest to where you sit, “Are we painting again? I saw they switched up the flowers in the greenhouse on Monday. The ones they have out now are so beautiful.”

“It’s great to see you too, Viv” you respond, eyeballing the pastry display. You notice they have your favourite egg tarts in today.

At least one thing is going right for you.

“And yeah, they are,” you say warmly, regarding her comment. “I’m thinking I’m about to get real sick and tired of looking at that orchid they placed front and center.”

Viv laughs, patiently waiting on your order, though she’s got a good idea of what it’ll be.

“Could I get a hot chocolate with whip please?” You ask, and drum your fingers on your legs deciding how many tarts to get—two or three? Two or three?—before remembering, “Oh! and if you still have the not so super secret stash of mini marshmallows that you don’t have here,” throwing up air quotes and a smirk for good measure, “Could you toss a few of those in too? I’ll tip you extraaaaa.”

Viv only gives you a look that says yes they do but that she’ll never admit it out loud, and you’re grateful to her.

You’d spotted them one day by chance in first year and asked if you could have some with your drink. Viv merely stated that they don’t have marshmallows at the cafe while slipping a few in under your lid with a wink. You’ve been eternally appreciative for that kindness ever since, and tip her handsomely for it, but you’ve never known why it was such a secret.

Maybe one day you’ll ask.

Coffee isn’t really your thing, only turning to it during exams season, and you weren’t in the mood for tea, so hot chocolate’s always your favourite alternative.

But hot chocolate with whip cream and marshmallows?

Instant mood booster. And you definitely need that after the afternoon you’ve had.

“Anything else?” Viv asks, adding the large amount of whip cream she knows you like to the top of your drink.

“Yeah actually,” you smile, “could I get a water bottle and three of the egg tarts? They’re my favourite.”

Three seemed to be the most unreasonable option, therefore it’s the one you had to go with. And soon, a much too small, very full paper pastry bag finds its way onto the counter, accompanying your drinks.

“I’ll let bossman know about your dragon-like hoarding tendencies with the tarts and see if we can get them in more regularly,” Viv says, unsuccessfully keeping in a giggle at the end of her subtle jab and it makes you laugh too. “I mean, I don’t see why not seeing as you pretty much single handedly keep this place afloat anyway.”

You adore Viv. She’s real and kind, and very much someone you consider to be a bosom friend of sorts. You can tell her if you’ve had a bad day or a good one, and she’ll do the same, no shroud of inane pleasantries. You two having escaped the somewhat awkward ‘you work here and I go here so lets be nice to one another’ worker-customer relationship to a genuine friendship, and it makes the whole experience that much better.

But it also allows for pulling on one another’s legs, like you do now.

“You’re so mean to me… and lucky I like you for it,” you say, opening your wallet, happy to pay whatever number you’re given plus 30%. The marshmallows and Viv are worth it. “How much will it be?”

She lets you know the total and you hand her a couple of mandatory bills plus a few extra, telling her to keep the change. You’ll lose any coins you have anyway, might as well give them to someone who’ll use them.

Viv says thanks and you make your way back to your spot, hands full and mind feeling a little lighter.

Thanks Viv.

Sitting down, you take a swig of your drink, a bite of your newly acquired tarts and get to work.

Starting with a wet on wet approach: you brush the canvas with water where you’ll eventually put some colour so it bleeds intentionally, and glance up every couple seconds to make sure to get a proper likeness.

It’s a yellow tiger orchid, truly beautiful—you’re a bit of a flower nerd because of your mom, but especially with orchids because they’re your favourite. They just come in so many different forms, it’s hard not to love their diversity.

Dipping into your paints now, you add some yellows in slowly, deciding to think of it as less of a flower study and more of an artistic interpretation so you don't have to use your brain too much. You’ll be using it enough to think through this whole Jungkook thing, no need to get caught up in the details and strain yourself even more.

Carefully put and one by one, more and more colours make their way onto the page and you settle into the calmness of creating. It leaves the open space you need for your mind to finally start working through the whole Jungkook–Yuri, Yuri–You, You–Jungkook situation before immediately correcting that there is no You–Jungkook situation.

He just wants to be friends, and that doesn’t constitute a situation. More of a predicament.

Yeah, that sounds better.

You switch out your brush in favour of a tart after getting base colours down, takinge a hefty bite and chasing it down with more hot chocolate. Damn it’s good, you need to ask Viv what magic she puts in it to make it this amazing.

Another swig and you think it’ll be better to just jump right into your mental debate. Get it over with, hash it all out.

So that’s exactly what you do.

It isn’t that you do or don’t want to be friends with Jungkook, he seems nice enough.

It’s a matter of if you can be.

Jungkook is probably a very self-disciplined individual—if you knew anything about his upbringing—so it’s not like he wouldn’t understand your drive. He’d probably understand you in that respect more than Yuri does. Why you work so hard, why you don’t slow down. You can’t.

You won't. Not for anyone or anything.

And he can clearly understand social cues so you don’t have to worry about things getting awkward. He would act appropriately, never pushing boundaries—

Using a thin angled brush, you add more yellow to create sharper lines.

—And had he been just Jungkook, you wouldn’t even be sitting here having this ridiculous mental conversation with yourself. Because who stresses this much over a new potential friendship? You certainly never have before.

But that’s the problem, he isn’t just regular old Jungkook.

He is His Royal Highness, Prince Jeon Jungkook.

And as much as his title doesn’t mean shit to you, it sure as hell means a whole lot of something to everyone else.

He’s heir to the biggest kingdom on this half of the planet. On the cover of every teen magazine and online news article. Only child to the King and Queen.

Powerful. Attractive. Single.

In short, Jungkook has been incredibly well known and incredibly important since the day he was born 24 years ago.

So you have to sit and think out what would happen if you became the prince's first female college friend. Well… aside from Yuri, but you don’t know how long that’s going to last, given where she thought things were going.

Being seen with him publicly would immediately put you in a spotlight you don’t want. You hate being the center of attention, but that’s the least of your worries.

You worry greatly that you wouldn’t firstly be known for becoming ‘YN, globally renowned painter, artist and business woman,’ selling pieces for more than they’re worth and then some. Galleries from all over the world knocking down your door, begging for your work. Having billionaires auction off paintings you’ve done for charity, being flown around the world for and by people to have you create something for them. Be it portraits or murals or even a performance—

Some burnished red now, with a small thin tip brush to begin the rorschach like patterns on the petals.

—You wanted to be successful by your own hand, and then and only then would you occasionally speak of your very, incredibly platonic, not at all romantic, years old friendship with the prince, who you’d met in your college years by chance.

But you know that if you say yes, if you agree, all of those worries would prove true. That none of it would happen. None of the future you’ve worked for the better part of a decade on would come to fruition.

Oh no, no, no. That wouldn’t be the case at all.

Why would it? If you said yes, you’d become this week's most hot and trending piece of gossip. You’d be ‘the first girl Prince Jungkook was seeing in college,’ and everyone would ask ‘are you his new girlfriend?’ or ‘just a fling?’

If you said yes, it would be a constant barrage of:

‘Where did you meet?’ ‘Is he a good kisser?’ ‘How long have you been dating?’ ‘Have you met the king?’ ‘Does he like you?’ ‘What about the Queen, does she approve?’ ‘Has The Prince mentioned marriage at all?’ ‘Can we see the ring?’ ‘How many children will you have?’

At the grocery store, the mall, the hallways of your school, your hometown, the bathroom of a restaurant. It would be everywhere all of the time, constantly, and your head is already spinning at all the potential bombardment to your currently nice and relatively quiet life, so you take another snack break and stretch.

Finishing your first tart and making a good dent in your second, the hot chocolate is half gone at this point. Whip cream and marshmallows having long melted, making the drink extra smooth.

Returning to your painting and back on topic; you’re not dense. You know how the media does what it wants with the people they see as mere puppets. As if they aren’t living breathing individuals with lives outside the very narrow-minded, click bait titled, news articles.

Their ‘reporters’ have absolutely no regard for what they say and how they act. They have not a care in the world for what their claims do to all the innocent individuals whose lives they write about after they’re done with them.

Selfish is the nicest word you can think to describe them. They’re vicious, heartless, vile people, and you have no desire to ever be the object of their attention.

The flowers are springing to life beautifully as you put layer after layer of detail. You add some darker hues, deciding to go with a more vivid red rather than the burnished one from before. Your wet on wet approach is working magic on blending the colours seamlessly for you. It really accentua—

—And another thing! If you did say yes, you could just see it now;

After your successful career launch, you’d always—no matter what you did—always be questioned about your relationship and what could have been with the prince. Or you’d be asked if knowing him is what got you to where you were, if he gave you a leg up, so to speak.

As if you would let him have any hand in making you what you were always going to become.

You didn’t and don’t need his or anyone’s help.

But it would always be, ‘YN? Oh you mean that artist got that much recognition just because she knew Prince Jungkook?’ or ‘YN, the Prince’s ex from college?’ no matter how hard he or you pushed that you were just friends. Because who would listen to either of you after the speculation was already there? After the seed was planted in their minds.

People love secrets and thinking they know all the dirty, gossipy scandals more than anything. Thinking they know more about other people's secrets than they do their own. As if they have nothing better to do with their lives.

Sighing, you drink the last bit of hot chocolate, wanting another one once it’s gone, but not the sugar headache that comes with that. Water then.

Adding some dimension to the petals by using a clean, damp brush to remove some pigment, you can’t help but let your mind wander to the most obvious conclusion that would be made and sink into it.

You’re almost scared of the social pariah you’d become with every other woman and handful of men on campus. One dating rumor and you're done. Gone. Dismissed.

Or worse. One dating rumor and your popularity will suddenly skyrocket. You won’t have another moment to breathe alone so long as you’re still in school.

Jungkook is the most eligible bachelor on this side of the planet, potentially the whole world. His potential matches are princesses and the daughters of the filthy rich.

Who are you?

No one.

At least right now you are.

You aren’t royal, aren’t of ‘noble birth,’ aren’t a wealthy socialite. You aren’t even an independent, wildly successful career woman yet.

You’re just a scholarship kid who’s only at this school because she worked her ass off for it. Who has to continuously work her ass off for it if she wants to continue to be here.

And you do want to. You want to work hard and become who you’ve always known you’d be. One invisible, important step at a time.

From the first sketch to the last brush stroke.

So to summarize.

You don’t want to be the media’s plaything. Something for them to have their fun with and be bored of in a week, the future you’re working so hard to create destroyed before ever seeing the light of day. Fizzled out like a candle in a pouring downfall, only smoke remaining from the once bright and proud flame.

Secondly, you don’t want to be the social outcast or new campus favourite simply because you made a new friend. Having either icicles thrown at you from every set of eyes on campus or clout grabbers following your every footstep, begging for attention. Snubbed from any group projects, crowds parting like the red sea at your arrival, or never getting a moment to yourself again, late to every class due to your own personal assembly.

You’re exhausted at the mere thought of the possibility of either.

And lastly, you don’t want all the possible implications that come with knowing and befriending a man like him. Plain and simple.

What you want is to establish yourself because you worked for and earned it. What you want is to be successful, putting your near decade of practice and studying to good use. What you want is to have media attention, but for your talents, your efforts, and accomplishments.

Not his.

Not because you happened to treat the second most important person in your country like a normal, regular person.

Like he’d asked literally everyone else on your campus to do.

It isn’t your fault you're the only one who has ears that work.

But…on that note…

This is the prince.

And you are his citizen under his family’s monarchy.

You don’t know if you’re even allowed to say no.

Can you?

He said you could…or was that him just giving you the illusion of choice? Don’t you have to listen to him? By royal decree or whatever it was that forced people to live under the royal family’s rule?

You have no idea, and choose to sit on it some more. There has to be a better solution to this.

You wish you could just talk to Yuri. She’s been your sounding board for the better part of two years now. But that’s definitely a no-go after today. You worry what bringing up anything prince related would do to your friendship right now. You’ve had enough arguments and mental taxation for the time being, thanks.

And if not Yuri…You would talk to Nel…

But Nel’s in a completely different country—a completely different time zone—right now. Already halfway through his night and you don’t want to wake him.

Wait, Nel.

Fuck.

Nel is another thing you have to consider in all this. You aren’t sure how he’d react to any form of relationship you’d have with Jungkook.

How would he react to the media’s coverage of you with the prince?

Would he believe you when you denied everything?

Five years is a long time.

To know someone. To love them. To trust them. And you both know where you stand. You know where your future lies; with him. And he knows his lies with you.

But Nel is only human, and every human has flaws. No one is perfect. Everyone can have moments of weakness. Every person can feel jealous no matter how secure the relationship.

And jealousy can kill a relationship just as quickly, if not faster than anything else.

Jealousy can make you think things so irrational that it breaks down the wall of trust you built on a foundation of cement and bricks like it was nothing more than two twigs being held up by sheer luck and willpower alone.

A horrible rumor.

A gust of wind.

What’s the difference?

Five years of love, trust and communication could crumble to dust because of some asshole with a camera, an angle, and a computer with an internet connection.

You don’t want that to happen. You cannot express fervently enough how badly you never want something like that to happen to you or Nel.

You love your relationship. You love Nel, and you can’t do anything to jeopardize that. Ever.

But surely he’d understand if the heir to your nation's throne asked you to be his friend.

Surely he’d believe you when you told him that absolutely nothing was going on between you and Jungkook and that the media is just having a field day because he was the prince, and you were a girl around his age.

Surely he would…

Surely…

Five years is a long time.

But it’s also short. If you consider that for just over two of them you were long distance 9 months out of the year. And that two and a half more of them were when you were in highschool doing 60 hour weeks while he had football practice before and after school every day.

When you spent most of your weekends at galleries, or portrait study or cramming for a test.

When he spent his studying and practicing and catching up on all his lost sleep from practice.

Maybe…

Maybe you shouldn’t bring it up to him.

A fire can’t start where there isn’t any kindling…right?

An argument can’t start, mistrust can’t begin, jealousy can’t exist if he just…never knows about it.

If nobody knows about it.

Actually.

Maybe that’s exactly what you’ll do. Just not tell anyone.

It’s not lying, not really. It’s just omitting a very, very small part of your life.

And it’s not like you’ll be doing anything bad. It would most likely just be Jungkook asking about where to bring girls on dates or if you’ve seen the newest tv show that’s been on.

You’d tell him Azorè’s is the restaurant closest to campus that’s actually nice, and that no, you haven’t, because you don’t watch a lot of TV if you can help it.

That’s not devious, it’s normal friend stuff—just without the immense social pressure and potential repercussions of knowing him and being female at the same time.

Holy Shit.

This might be crazy enough to work.

And this way… this way you don’t have to say no to Jungkook, and Yuri won’t be mad, and Nel won’t get jealous, and you’ll stay out of the spotlight.

This way works out for everyone.

This way solves everything.

You huff, relieved.

Now you just have to convince the prince that it’s a good idea.

He’s used to omitting things, isn't he? He must because of his future job. Don’t they train future monarchs in the wise and ancient art of social deception and secret keeping—to keep the peace or whatever?

You don’t think it’ll be that big a leap for him.

The longer you ruminate, the more you like the idea, deciding that when you get back to your dorm later, that’s what you’ll tell him. And if he doesn’t like it, well then problem solved all around anyway.

You reach for your hot chocolate, remember it’s empty, and switch to your water instead. Celebrating by mentally patting yourself on the back.

Always trust the greenhouse cafe. The greenhouse cafe is good. The greenhouse cafe is wise. The greenhouse cafe is all kno—

“That’s beautiful.”

You almost jump out of your seat at the voice, knee hitting the table in the process. It makes everything on it bounce and clang loudly and the hand holding your brush that was also nearing your water flies to your chest, leaving a splotch of red paint on your cheek.

“Ow, fuck,” you say, reaching to rub your now throbbing knee. That’s going to bruise. You’re just lucky nothing spilled, you certainly hit the table hard enough.

Looking up to see who your unintentional heart attack provoker was, you blink a couple times before a worried looking Jungkook with big eyes comes into focus.

Though, his worry is brief it seems, as his attention shifts to the painting in front of you, the small smile from the day you met making an reappearance.

Didn’t he just see you jump ten feet in the air? Because of him???

“What the fuck Jungkook?! You scared the shit out of me,” you say scowling, giving him a piece of your mind while your heartbeat returns to a healthier pace. “Didn’t they ever tell you not to sneak up on people in that big, fancy house of yours?”

Jungkook doesn’t think he’s ever heard anyone call the palace a ‘big, fancy house’ before. Another first with you. And he’s about to say as much when his gaze finally meets your own and see’s how upset you are. Right, he spooked you.

The hand not holding a laptop into his side slides behind his neck and he looks away. You swear you can see the prince blushing.

Did you cause that?

Wait.

Stop.

Rewind.

You look him up and down quickly.

Hoodie. Hat. Laptop. Mask around his wrist.

Jungkook was the guy sitting on the patio from earlier? How did you not recognize him? Like at all?

He has the most famous face in the world and you couldn’t recognize it when it was 20 feet away?

Wow.

Actually.

Hat to hide the hair, hoodie to hide the body, mask to hide the face.

Impressive. He really knew how to blend in when he wanted too.

But he hasn’t even said hi or sorry. And he undoubtedly saw you earlier as you weren’t exactly subtle in placing your things on the table.

So much for wanting to be friends. He can’t even say hello to you?

...or maybe you got lucky and he saw that you really didn’t want to talk to anyone.

Thoughts aside, you won’t admit to him you find his camouflage techniques exceptional. He doesn’t need the ego boost.

Jungkook's hand recedes from his nape and he looks at you again, blush almost gone.

“Ah.. sorry.” He cringes a little. “I’ve always been told I’m light on my feet and I constantly forget when I’m around new people. I didn’t mean to scare you. Sorry, YN.”

So his manners haven’t completely escaped him.

You give him a hard time as you point a finger his way. “You’re paying the hospital bill if my kneecap’s broken.”

It only takes a second for the joke to land this time, and a small laugh escapes his lips.

“Yeah, that’s fair. You break it, you buy it?”

It’s the first joke you’ve heard him make, and honestly, it isn’t bad. You chuckle.

“Something like that, sure. Here,” you say, holding the canvas up a little higher for him to see. “It’s a Yellow Tiger Orchid. The greenhouse likes to switch around the plants every other week, but these guys are always my favourite. Make for a fun challenge.”

Jungkook's loose hand touches the edge of the canvas lightly, careful not to disturb the still drying paint.

His words are almost thoughtless, entirely too focused on your work as he says, “You’re incredibly talented, your parents must be so proud.”

“Parent,” you correct, not harshly, just so that he knows you’ve only got the one. “And thanks, it stems from my many years of practice and a shady deal with an even shadier witch. All I know is I owe her my first born.”

That smile of his makes a comeback, only bigger and followed by a snicker.

You match it.

“But yes, my mother’s incredibly proud and a large part of the reason I’m here, never once having stopped supporting my goals.”

That’s true. Very true. Your mum never once thought your dreams were out of your reach, only ever pushing you towards them where she could. Placing steps down for you where she was able to.

She signed you up for lessons, drove you to galleries, bought you book after book on all your favourite artists and painting techniques. She got you paints and palettes and canvases, and did everything she possibly could have to get you where you now are.

She’s your number one fan.

And, in true proud mom fashion, she told everyone she could about how her daughter got into RABFA on scholarship all by herself—except you didn’t. You’re here because of all the support she gave during those years as well as your efforts, but she refuses to take any of the credit.

“I’m happy to hear it,” he says genuinely, before hesitating. Looking like he wants to say something but is debating it. “Can I–Do you–,” he inhales deeply, clearly not used to fumbling over his words.

It’s...cute.

“Would you mind if I sat down?” he finally gets out. “I’d love to see more of your work.”

You think about it only for a second, taking a quick scan of your surroundings. There’s no one around besides Viv, and she’s probably working in the back. Plus, you're pretty sure he’s seen or even spoken to some of the greatest artists of your time. Not to mention, you’d love to hear his input.

“Yeah, sure.”

Instead of sitting on the chair your bag is currently using, he puts his things on the table to your right and spins one around from there, settling down with arms folded over the back of it.

“Thanks.”

You hand over your sketchpad. A perk to using a heavily water based medium is that your painting’s already dried in the time since you first spoke.

Jungkook flips his way through the pages slowly, taking his time in studying each painting as an individual piece. It’s not long before he reaches the one you were working on today. Having just started this pad a month ago, there isn’t much in it yet.

He searches back through to one right near the beginning.

“This ones my favourite,” he says, spinning the canvas around for you to see. It’s a tiger lily painting you’d done late in the summer at home.

Your mother is a notorious gardener, and has several flower beds that could rival a plant nursery with the sheer size, magnitude and variety of flowers in them.

Rose bushes, dahlias, sunflowers, snap dragons, carnations, tulips, daisies, chrysanthemums, you name it, they were there.

So it wasn’t uncommon for you to spend an afternoon out in the garden sketching different blooms or picking one out in particular to paint.

She’d gotten the bright orange tiger lilies this past spring. They were the first ones you’d chosen when you got home after second year to paint. And then you just didn’t stop. They take up about a quarter of your summer sketchbook.

You couldn’t help it. They were hypnotizing.

“Why that one?”

“It’s my birth flower,” he says, lifting the sleeve on his right, revealing a forearm full of wonderfully inked designs. At the center of it is a tiger lily in matching bright orange hue. “It’s always had significant meaning for me because it’s something that represents me that didn’t come from my lineage, position, or name.”

“Oh.”

You sit there for a moment, stunned, yet to release your gaze from the sight of his arm.

The designs that cover it go all the way up to his elbow and don’t stop.

From an artist's point of view, you’re incredibly impressed with the quality of the work. Intricately placed mixes of black, white and colour. Never one or the other for too long. Strong clean lines. Clear, unmuddied colours. Striking.

Beautiful.

You shouldn’t be so surprised, knowing only the best would be allowed to grace his skin, but still. It was rare you were this taken aback by art.

The colours chosen on the more visual pieces are gorgeous together. Bright, brilliant, bold. And the few quotes mixed in? Their linework is just… spectacular.

Jungkook doesn’t seem to mind your staring, twisting his arm to show you some of the designs previously hidden from your sight.

The quality doesn’t lessen.

It’s after you're done intaking the art on his body that you see the strong muscle underneath it. And you let yourself appreciate the discipline that goes into achieving said strong muscle instead of how it makes your mouth water.

Long distance does not help your libido, and you’re only human.

Not that you would ever cheat. You do have a functioning moral compass, and a person you love that you could never do that too in a hundred years.

It's just that you have working eyes... and it doesn't hurt to look every now and then.

To make sure everything’s still working.

It is.

You bring your line of vision back into his.

“I never thought of my birth flower like that before. My mom keeps an entire garden full of them—only child and all.” Like him, you realize. “They’re one of her favourites too. I guess they hold a similar importance to her as yours does to you.”

Jungkook nods as he asks for your birth flower and you tell him. He says he can understand why your mum would be so fond of them, they’re a beautiful and elegant flower, suiting for you.

“Thanks,” you say, brushing off the subtle compliment.

He holds a hand out for the pad and you give it to him, watching as he turns the pages to another drawing before returning it again.

This one’s of your mother, in the small breakfast nook by a window in your home. It’s drawn with dark pencil lead and painted loosely, a slight blending of the two mediums.

She’s drinking a cup of tea and reading a book. It’s one of your favourite pieces that you’ve done recently because it’s your mom, existing naturally.

Not posed for a portrait, or a painting, or a reference, just her enjoying her morning. You couldn’t help but sketch it quickly when you saw her, adding the bit of colour later.

“Is this her?” he asks, taking it in again as if seeing it for the first time.

“Yeah, that’s our breakfast nook. But she reads there more than eats, always saying the window lets in the perfect amount of light.”

“I see where you get it from.”

“Get what?” but he just smiles at you before switching the topic.

“Who do you draw inspiration from, or look up to? I’d guess but I only know the bigger names.”

You inhale, knowing that this answer is always long for you. You get it semi-regularly—it’s a part of being a visual artist the same way asking a musician who they look up to is.

“Well, there’s a couple bigger names in the mix,” you start, “Van Gogh comes to mind first because his work feels like freedom. Lines placed seemingly wherever, yet so meticulously put at the same time. Some aren’t like that, but even then, they still flow like water. I adore his work,” another breath. “Da Vinci. Always. I stand by that fact that he was a genius and I strive to have an ounce of whatever he did. Michelangelo is another. Enough said. The sheer magnitude he was capable of creating was incredible.

“I have a lot of smaller artists I love too. People I’ve seen at local galleries, people I’ve found online, teachers from past classes. Some not nearly as well known artists from a hundred years ago who broke the barriers of art in their time,” you’re smiling like an idiot as you recall all your favourites and how they inspire you.

“I like the people who create and created just because they could, because they loved to. Because it meant something to them to make something with their hands. I mean, look what their passion got them. They all created for themselves, perfected their craft for themselves and that was enough. A satisfying, fulfilling life. I can only hope to have that. But a part of me wants to be one of the lucky few. The ones who shared their art so that others might not feel so alone. They became some of the greatest artists of all time.”

“Also some of the saddest,” Jungkook adds. But he’s looking at you differently now. You can’t put your finger on it but it’s not bad. Something close to curiosity. Or wonder.

“That just goes hand and hand with being a creative person. I don’t know a single one who doesn’t express their pain through their art.”

“Do you?”

“Of course, but those are just for me.”

“Shame.”

That catches your attention. “Why?”

Jungkook doesn’t hesitate for a second before saying, “Because some of the most beautiful things in life are created out of pain.”

You don’t really know how to respond to that.

You know he’s right. People are most likely to bare their soul into their art when they’re hurt, just to get it out. It’s cathartic for them in the same way crying or breaking things is for others.

The most magnificent things can come from that vulnerability, and it isn’t something you ever take lightly when you’re shown.

You’ve heard enough music in your life to know that the most beautiful songs are the most gut wrenching. You’ve seen so many dance performances you know the ones created from anguish and heartbreak are the ones that make for the most delicate movements; the most fragile moments on stage. You've painted enough pieces in grief over your lifetime to know that when someone doesn’t hold back what they’re feeling when creating, it’s the most emotionally provoking when looked at, listened to and experienced by others.

The audience can feel it in a piece. They can feel it in the movement and in the melodies. In the soul of what was created. Of the creator.

“Yes, they are,” you agree, near solemn, and that’s all that needs to be said.

And a moment of comfortable silence later, he hands you back the pad and you pick up your brush to continue with your orchid.

He watches your every stroke. You pretend he’s not there as you add green to the leaves.

“Have you given any thought to our earlier conversation?” he asks. “I know it was only a couple hours ago, so I understand if not.”

Jungkook looks nervous when you wash your brush in the colorful water jar. His face reads like he thinks you’re going to say no, like he’s preparing himself for the rejection but his body language gives him away. He’s wringing his fingers under the table, and his leg won't stop bouncing.

It makes the corner of your mouth quirk. You thought he’d be better at hiding his tics, being prince and all.

But maybe he feels like he doesn’t have to around you.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the chair, Jungkook feels like he’s sweating buckets. Unknowingly showing every nervous habit he has, but can’t help it.

He doesn’t tell you that he doesn’t have a lot of friends. Doesn’t have a lot of people he trusts enough to even consider them friends.

Yeah, he’s always surrounded by people. But they were just that. People. He barely knew any of them, and they only ever wanted to be near him for what it said about them, for what being near him could give them.

He doesn’t say how can’t pinpoint it, but that there’s just something different about you.

So he’s really hoping you say yes.

Because it’s been…a long while…since he’s made a new one.

And it would be really nice too.

But he’ll respect your decision either way.

Just please say yes.

Mercifully, you end his suffering.

“I have,” a brush stroke—more yellow. You don’t look at him while you speak, focusing instead on what’s in front of you. “That’s actually why I came here. To think. I come here for that a lot, or to get work done. It’s my favourite spot on campus. Secluded, pretty, quiet.”

He silently agrees with every word, but is also impatient. “And?”

You try your best to ignore the stars in his eyes when you look up from your painting.

“And I’ve thought hard about this, Jungkook. I didn’t just once over the idea and choose on a whim, I fleshed out what it would mean for me—what a friendship with you would mean for me, that is,” putting the brush down, you allow your most recent details to dry. “And I have a condition—just one. It's one you may not like, but it’s the only one you’d have to agree to in order for me to agree.”

Jungkook deflates a little, wondering what you could want. Because everyone always wants something. He was just really hoping you’d be different.

His mind runs through all the possible answers he’s used to hearing; money, clout, pictures, gifts, vacations, an audience with his father, donations, sex, power, the list goes on.

He doesn’t want to think these things about you, but he can’t help it.

After so long… you get used to it.

“What’s the condition?” he asks, bracing himself.

“That nobody knows we’re friends.”

What? He thinks.

“What?” He asks.

You inhale again, wiping your hands on your pants and straightening your back.

Here we go.

“The more I thought about it, the more I realised that being seen with you publicly all the time would not go over well for me and my future. Anyone can be seen with the prince, but one girl over and over? People will talk about me. And it will be about me, because I’ll be the new shiny toy for them to play with. What I’m wearing, if we’re dating, who am I, what do I do, how did we meet, are you interested, blah blah blah,” you flick your hand, cringing at all of it. “I also don’t want my current relationships to change because of it. I don’t want my mother being cornered in a grocery store by a stranger asking about how her daughter knows Prince Jungkook and if she’s willing to give a quote,” you may actually come close to murder if that ever happened.

“Not to mention the social repercussions. I can deny everything all I want from here into next week, but the second anyone knows we’re friends? I’ll become either the most popular girl on campus—which is a waking nightmare for me—or the campus leper, which is a close second. And before you say anything to the contrary,” you fix him with a hard stare, unwavering. “You know I’m right.”

He tries to speak but you hold up a finger to show you’re not finished, and take a deep breath.

Collect yourself YN, sum it up, drive the point home.

“I don’t need nor want that in my life. So if you want me to be in yours, nobody will know except us and whatever royal people need to so I don’t get tackled for being near you.” He cracks a smile at that.

“If that isn’t okay with you, then that’s fine, I understand. It’s probably an ask you’re not used to hearing, but I hope you understand that I have to put myself first and that this is a hard boundary for me. I’ve worked too hard to get where I am and I won’t let anyone get in my way. Not even a prince,” you say. “Not even you.”

Jungkook waits a second this time, making sure you’re finished. Then leans back, deep in thought, eyes still trained on you.

He’s never been so impressed with anyone in his life.

It’s been a very long time since he’s met someone with such blatant, hard earned self respect. Such candor and veracity, who spoke to him with confidence, completely unwavered. Let alone a woman.

He’s so used to the fawning that he’s forgotten he likes it when a girl has backbone. Forgotten he likes a girl who doesn’t bend because he asks her to, who doesn’t need him or anyone to get what she wants.

She can do it herself.

If he’s completely real with himself, his pants are fitting a little tighter as he remembers. As he continues to stare into your unflinching eyes.

But he dismisses that feeling immediately.

He should have known better. You’ve always been honest with him up until this point, sparing as those moments were. So he shouldn’t be as astonished as he is; you’re the one that has yet to break pattern.

Yuri’d fed him piece after piece of information about you. How you almost never leave your dorm when not in class, how you’re always studying or practicing all hours of the day, how school is your number one priority above all else—she really liked to talk.

He should’ve known you wouldn’t let anyone get in your way—not even him—given how the first time you met, you told him point blank that you would’ve rather been in the library than be forced to see him talk.

Confident and direct from the very start. Unwavering in your goals.

Jungkook should have known when you said you had a condition, that you didn’t want anything from him, but privacy for you.

You are young, driven, smart, and beautiful.

He’s never wanted someone to be in his life more.

Fuck.

He shifts in his seat, primarily for comfort, but also to buy a bit more time. You’ve yet to break his gaze.

Yes, it is a strange request, and yes it isn’t one he’s ever gotten before, but he can work with it. He understands your need to not be in the public eye. To not have your image decided by the public for you.

Most importantly, he knows what being seen with him can do to a person via the media. It’s terrifying. They’re like vultures, ready to pick the flesh off of any victim they deem fit.

More than one woman has been slandered off the palace grounds because of it. He also should have considered that before asking, but like he knew—like he knows—you’re smart. There’s no reason why you wouldn’t have thought this through thoroughly enough to weigh upon all of the possible outcomes.

It was a day full of realizations. On both your parts is what he didn’t know.

So he really, seriously should not be as stunned, surprised and…still partially hard as he is.

Here you are, staring at him, expecting a reply while his mouth is slightly parted and apparently speechless. It’s rare for him to be given such a harsh truth instead of the immediate yes he is so used to hearing. For someone to have this kind of power over him.

When he’d asked you, Jungkook had just wanted a friend. Someone to talk to, maybe hang out with, share jokes with. Someone to spend time with so his college experience isn’t as lonely as it’s turning out to be.

But where he saw a potential friendship, you saw potential disaster.

Because as much as the title grants him, being Prince isn’t a great thing for everyone around him.

Sometimes it destroys them.

He’s still learning though, that you aren’t just smart. You’re calculated.

You are a scythe in a field of grass, a gust of wind in a foggy gulf, a sunbeam shining through the clouds on a rainy day.

You think things through to their every possibility, finding the best outcomes and worst fallouts. You did it with his request, and managed to find a solution that works at only a small hindrance to him.

So who the hell would he be if he didn’t take it?

The outside world already knows all of his friends. Granted about 95% of them are men, but that’s what you get when you grow up having the sons of the guards, groundskeepers and chefs around. The other 5% are the girls he met during childhood, the daughters of other royals and titled individuals.

And even then with them, the speculation never stopped. Not after years of platonic friendship. There was always a ‘what if?’ thrown onto them. So he understands that if he starts hanging out with a new girl, the media will go wild. Understands that existing in the same place as you and his social etiquette towards you have the power to make or break you, mentally, socially, even physically.

He understands.

So, everything considered?

Your one condition isn’t so bad after all.

And he has no problems with it.

“Agreed.”

You blink, clearly not expecting him to give in so quickly, or to at least debate it. Your eyebrows scrunch as you sputter, “Just like that?”

He grips the back of the chair, and leans forward again.

“I would never expect you to give anything up or be forced into an unwanted narrative because I asked you to be my friend. Of course I agree. It’ll be nice to have someone I don’t have to worry about the press bashing. To have someone normal, who I can be normal around, and who will, clearly, call me out on my shit or set me straight when I need it. So yeah,” he sucks a tooth, “Just like that.”

You flinch a little at his words. “Wait I lied, I have one more condition.”

He’s intrigued, especially considering the look on your face. “Go for it.”

“You can’t throw me in a dungeon for calling you out. My safety needs to be assured for any and all potential verbal ass whoopings you may receive in the future.”

A full, loud cackle sounds from Jungkook, eyes crinkling as he says, “Deal.” And holds out his hand.

“Deal,” you say, shaking it and laughing with him. Because you know there aren’t any dungeons in the palace.

And somehow, you know that even if there were, he still wouldn’t.

Chapter Four: Sunday Nights and Lost Memories

A/N 2: we do be getting into though.

A/N 3: I know I’m jumping ahead here but I’m excited for you guys to read chapter 4, it’s one of my favourites so far!

<- Back

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 6 months

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Walking on Sunshine 2

Sister series to Sunshine, Lollipops, and Rainbows

Warnings: non/dubcon, antisocial behaviour, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Characters: God The Bounty Hunter x reader

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You stopped eating in the lunchroom after your second week with the company. That’s a few years back now but you don’t miss it. You never liked searching for a place to sit or being lonely in a room full of people. Instead, you leave the office and go for a walk, opting to sneak it nibbles at your desk after.

That day is just the same. You’re happy to see the rain has cleared up and so you won’t have to just stand and watch the downpour from under an awning. You grab your jacket, a brown wool with roses sewn into the lapels, and your wallet in case you get a temptation near the cafe.

You take the stairs. Not only is your little strolls meditative, it’s exercise. Sitting all day in your squeaky chair doesn’t do much for your cramped muscles. It’s a small thing but you enjoy it.

Your footsteps echo around you as you fumble for your earbuds. Sometimes it sounds like you’re not alone in the staircase as your soles scuff and reverberate in the empty space. You get to the bottom, catching your breath as you shove the wireless buds in your ears.

Despite using the time to detach and refocus, your choice in content is less than relaxing. The true crime podcast begins with its usual warning and sets your pace as you come out the front doors of the building.

You head down along your usual path; just down towards the next corporate tower, through the path, and around the park. On the other side of the green, there’s a street full of businesses, including a cafe that sells jelly-filled muffins. You lose track of the narrative of a cheating husband and vengeful wife as you contemplate a sweet treat.

You get to the other side of the park and continue down the street. You pass the vintage stop you’d been in a total of one time and swiftly evacuated upon seeing a price tag. You carry on and stop in front of the cafe… it’s only Tuesday, you should wait until Friday.

You give a bittersweet smile and cross the street, turning back in the direction you came as you round out your usual cycle. As you get to the pavement, you hear the cafe door but the dark figure disappears inside as you glance back. You shrug and keep your pace, just to the other end, back across, and through the park, this time along the small bridge that arcs over the trickling river.

There’s always hot chocolate at the office. That’s good bait to keep your feet moving.

🌞

Around two, you start to feel the day sitting on your eyelids. You yawn and sit back in your chair, the loud creak drawing the mutter of your seat neighbour. You apologise and steady the chair, bracing the arms as you stand. Your calves are all knotted up.

You shuffle away from your desk and go into the break room. You peek around, your earlier run-in still looming in your mind. You go through the usual routine; rinse your mug, turn on the kettle, and wait. As the water boils, you catch yourself checking over your shoulder. Still alone.

You stir in the powder and toss the stir stick. You turn and nearly cry out at the next surprise. No, it’s not that man, it’s the girl in her bright sweater. She skips through the door as you dribble hot chocolate down your fingers, switching hands to shake off the scalding droplets.

“Oh, hello!” She trills brightly, “mmm, hot chocolate?”

You nod and smile. You try to at least. You want so much to say something to her. To do more than stare back dumbly. Like that man.

“Um,” you chew your lip, “I like your sweater.”

“Huh?” She looks down and tugs at the bottom of the pink pullover, “oh, thanks! I sewed on the hearts myself.”

“That’s so cute,” you squeeze the mug handle.

“I like your blouse! Is it thrift?”

“Hmm?” You scrunch your brow, “oh, uh, yeah, totally vintage.”

“That’s awesome! I love thrifting. I found an old rotary phone the other day, I put it with my squishmallows.”

“Squishmall-ows,” you enunciate curiously, “cool.”

“Oh, let me show you,” she pulls out her phone. Her eagerness, her absolute carelessness, both surprises and calms you. She’s not that intimidating. She shows you a picture of very happy looking stuffed toys.

“Cute,” you remark.

“Right? Oh, I’m Lollipop, I just started in finance.”

You swallow and muster your name and title. Nothing fun, mostly policy reviews.

“I love that name. Well, I’m sorry, I don’t wanna keep you from working… I keep getting in the way.”

“Uh, yeah, they do make you feel like that around here,” you grumble.

She grins, “oh, so I’m not the only one.”

You chuckle and she continues on to the coffee machine. You leave, feeling accomplished. You don’t expect to be good friends but it’ll be nice to have someone to say hello to.

As you get to your desk, you set down your mug and sit, careful not to squeak the chair. You stop short as you reach for your mouse. What’s this? A small brown paper with the marquee of the cafe stamped on it. How…

You lean forward to unfold the top, glancing inside at the crumbly top of the muffin. The smell of apple and cinnamon has your stomach growling. You’re pretty sure your neighbour can hear as they sigh again.

It smells so delicious but where did it come from?

#god the bounty hunter #god the bounty hunter x reader #dark god the bounty hunter #dark!god the bounty hunter #drabble #au #series #walking on sunshine #ghosted

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ayanokouji-reik0 · 11 days

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First Meeting with...

— William James Moriarty was something you had never expected in your life. Heck, you didn't even think someone like him actually exist. You bumped into him coicidentally when you're just about to depart from the orphanage, oddly tempting you both to engage in a conversation, and so you did. After chatting for a while, you realize that he immediately got to your good side, finding it impossible for a man this friendly to be evil. if only you knew... Moving on, you two became friends eventually growing even more closer to something else entirely.

— Albert James Moriarty was something you'd overseen, seeing as he's the noble you were originally engaged to. But now that his parents are dead, you both met up to discuss about the engagement, whether to break it off or not. The meeting turned into a dinner date as you both became engrossed with each other, losing track of time and unofficially had your first date. During the whole time of supposed discussion, you've chatted with the Earl, getting to know him better and decided to go through with the engagement, seeing as both of you had no problems against it. Plus, he doesn't necessarily seem to be against it, since he quite possibly and obviously took an interest into you. In his mind, it's rare to meet someone who have the same opinion about him regarding the aristocracy of Britain, successfully making him to feel something for you.

— Louis James Moriarty was peculiar. Infact, it's not exactly considered as the first meeting. It was raining at that time, and you had embarrassingly forgotten your unbrella, despite beng told to bring it with you. Here you are, standing under a shop's awning, waiting for the rain to cease. As you did, you saw a glimpse of an overly familiar boy in the corner of your eyes, making you turn to him. Surprised at the sight of your childhood friend, a smile makes it way up to your face as you called out to him. Hearing his name, Louis turned to you in both confusion and nervousness, feeling slightly alerted with how the so called stranger knew of his name. Explaining yourself, his composure returned and he visibly relaxed before smiling at you. "How have you been?" he's ask, finally remembering the pretty face he had fallen in love with.

#william james moriarty x reader #albert james moriarty x reader #louis james moriarty x reader #gender neutral reader #yuukoku no moriarty #moriarty the patriot #moriarty brothers

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mysteriesmuse · 1 year

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“Whoops! Watch the Jacket.”

A/N aight idk bout anyone else’s campus but mine has been wet and miserable allllll week as so that is what has inspired me to write this! enjoy some warm and fuzzies instead of the wet and ickies 🥰. ——————

You had just made it to Dynamites agency . . . you were busy aggressively shaking off your umbrella underneath the roof and awning of the entrance way to the Dynamite Agency before stomping your way in through the giant glass double doors. Quickly, you hastily put your umbrella in the little umbrella stand, which was understandably full at the moment. Oh how you wished the relentless sky would open up and show the sun again . . . or some regular non-rain clouds. You could go for that too Nevertheless, you stomped your cute little rain boots off onto the mat. Taking care to wipe your feet, trying not to track anything in. You squeaked your way into the lobby.

———

Bakugou’s agency was always bustling, even despite the awful rainy season weather hitting Japan lately: tsuyu. A handful of sidekicks breezed past you as you pulled back the hood of your raincoat and wrinkled your nose at the dispersal of rain water onto your face that accompanied it. Just as the next smattering of sidekicks went past you towards the door, a sneeze shook your chest and ruffled your hair. “Ah-choo!” Dynamites team all turned and beamed at you. All hastily saying a ‘bless you’ as they made like the red sea and parted around you. you gave a sheepish smile back as you waved to some familiar faces of the team, just before seeing Bakugou himself.

——— There was Katsuki Bakugou in all his glory. He was wearing his causal work outfit: a tight thin ribbed turtleneck, olive cargo pants, and his signature pair of clunky boots. His broad and muscled back was facing you. deliciously defined muscle teasing you underneath the thin layer of his, surely warm, sweater. He turned. A flash of gold caught your eye amongst his fuzzy ash blonde hair; his earring. He turned. and faced you, furrowed brows easing up as he saw you. Crimson pools shimmering, a sparkling smile, crinkled eyes, as he approached you. Large footfalls striding over to you with his arms held out in a t - buff arms itching to hold you in an embrace.

A chain glimmered around his collarbone. - the one you got him for his birthday last year

His husky voice enveloped you faster than you could move.

“Kat!” Arms already pressing you close to his chest,

“Babe, M’ missed ya’. Whatcha - shit.”

You tried warning him. Stupid hero reflexes and speed. Tilting your head, you brushed your cheek against his pec to better see his face. a little pout pushed his plush bottom lip out above his stumbly chin - you mummered a honeyed tease, your arms still clamped to your sides in his embrace.

“What Katsuki?” “M’ all wet now.”

“I know. I just came from outside. If you’d let me just take my coat off then this wouldn’t be - HEY WHAT’RE YOU?!!” ———

faster than you could think Katsuki had forcefully unzipped your jacket amoungst your blabbering and thrown it onto the receptionist table. Katauki picked you up as your arms dumbfoundedly rested on his shoulders before blinking out of your stupor as the man stared at you with a blank face, but with an intoxicatingly loving stare. Before your brain finally acknowledged what was happening and you wound your arms tightly around his neck. He breathed you in; placing chapped kiss to the wet and shivering skin of your neck. mummbling out a “missed you, sunshine” that made you giggle as the stubble around his jaw tickled your skin. ——— pulling back you grinned, holding his face in your chilly hands as he beamed at you like you were the sun, the stars, and the moon. Katsuki leaned in to press your noses together thoughtfully and in the sternest voice he said, “just tryin’ to warm ya’ up. y’re cold.” and you just closed your eyes and beamed in your boyfriends embrace. nose rubbing against your in an ecstatic eskimo kiss all bc he heard your sneeze and decided you were too cold for being inside.

espically when he, your excellent explosion boyfriend, was right there to warm you up.

#☔️#katsuki bakugou #bakugou katsuki #bakugou headcanons #bakugou drabble #bakugou x reader #bakugou katuski x reader #katsuki imagine #bakugou fluff #mha fanfiction #man i wish #so cheesy

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visualtaehyun · 8 months

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I still have yet to finish ep. 4 of Naughty Babe because I keep getting side-tracked by pronoun choices, the tiger symbolism, the color-coding, and my draft about Yi and his name(s). Since it's all starting to merge in my head, I figured I'd at least attempt to combine the easy ones for a start:

More pronouns (and some names)

Disclaimer: not a native speaker of Thai, still learning 🙏

Diao's father: Sattha ศรัทธา /sat thaa/ = faith, belief; have faith/confidence

- calls himself อา /aa/ = lit. younger sibling of father; uncle - calls Yi: คุณอี้ /khun Yi/ = Mr. Yi; Yi is his nickname - calls Diao: คนเดียว /Kondiao/ = Diao's full nickname

Diao's stepmother: Orn อร /awn/ = beautiful (woman); make happy

- calls herself น้า /naa/ = lit. younger sibling of mother; aunt - calls Yi คุณอี้ /khun Yi/

Diao's younger siblings: Tam and Tem แทม & เทม /taem & tem/ = I don't know that these hold meaning, might be shortened from something like Tambourine, Thames etc. or they've just been given these nicknames because they sound good together

- call Diao พี่เดียว /phi Diao/ = lit. older sibling; polite, used for anyone older - call Yi เฮีย(อี้) /hia (Yi)/ = lit. older brother; polite, of Chinese origin, and used for an older male, it's how Diao, Kuea and Yi's sisters all call him

Yi's father: Makorn มกร /ma gawn/ = dragon, sea monster

- calls Diao น้องเดียว /nong Diao/ = used to address any younger person; calling someone nong+[name] reads as affectionate - calls himself ป๊า/ป๋า /bpaa/ with Diao and with Yi generally only when Diao is present lol = dad, Pa -> Diao uses these reciprocally, so Makorn ป๊า/ป๋า /bpaa/ and himself น้องเดียว /nong Diao/ which is so endearing

- calls Yi มึง /mueng/ = rude informal 2nd person pronoun - calls himself กู /guu/ with Yi = rude informal 1st person pronoun -> these are the same pronouns Yi and Lian use with each other for example -> Yi calls his dad ป๊า/ป๋า /bpaa/ and himself ผม /pom/ = polite male 1st person pronoun

Yi's younger sisters: Ing-Ing Chatchada * อิงอิง ฉัตรชฎา * Aun-Aun Chatchanok * อันอัน ฉัตรชนก * ฉัตร /chat/ = a type of royal regalia shaped like a multi-tiered umbrella + ชฎา /cha daa/ = a headdress used in Thai classical dance and theater + ชนก /cha nok/ = father *the sisters' last name(s) are unknown afaik

- call Yi เฮีย /hia/ - Aun-Aun calls Diao พี่ธชา /phi Tacha/ that one time = Tacha is Diao's first name

Aun-Aun, Ing-Ing, and Yi-Yi

Yi Phayak Chatdecha Chen อี้ พยัคฆ์ ฉัตรเดชา เฉิน พยัคฆ์ /pha yak/ = tiger + เดชา /deh chaa/= power, heat เฉิน /chen/ = a common Chinese surname

Kuea and Diao think he's lost his marbles because he just went /ee ing ing an an/ as if he's making baby babbling noises lmao until Kuea realizes that Chinese nicknames commonly use reduplication and all three nicknames go together... almost like they're siblings haha... who'd have thunk, what a funny misunderstanding, hia Yi 🫠

Yi-Yi is delightfully cutesy for Mr. tiger himself, no?

ผมฉายาพยัคฆ์กระดูกเหล็ก /pom chaa yaa pha yak gra dook lek/ = I'm called the iron-bone tiger!

Sure, honey.

#naughty babe the series #maxnat #max kornthas #nat natasitt #local woman harps on about linguistics #thai bl

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sunjaesol · 1 year

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now the sun burns my heart and the sand hurts my feelings

zutara | outsider pov (aang) | post-southern raiders | one shot |

////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Aang didn't know when it all changed. Which, frankly, wasn't entirely his fault. As the Avatar, his attention was and should be centered towards mastering his bending and, consequently, defeating the Fire Lord. The latter with quiet dismay, but nonetheless: he didn't have time for distractions… even when he loved them so.

But he hadn't seen Katara and Zuko coming. Not one bit.

He intrinsically knew Katara hated him up until their mission to avenge her mother — something he still felt sick to his stomach thinking about — and saw her forgiving him on the docks. It all happened right under his nose! And yet!

One moment he performed hot squats and built elaborate sand castles with Toph, the next he turned around the corner of the Fire Lord's Beach house and found the two sitting cross-legged opposite of another. Zuko held a plant between his fingers as he spoke. Katara inspected it critically, her eyes flicking between the herb and the boy with tender patience.

It knocked Aang off balance.

On the one hand, his altruistic side, he was happy the two benders finally got along. They were a team — Team Avatar, as Sokka would proclaim — and they needed to be a strong unit if they wanted to have a chance at ending the war. Aang knew that.

But on the other hand… since when did Katara voluntarily spend time with Zuko. Wouldn't she want to spend time with him? Aang deserved some of her allotted time, right?

Tentatively stepping closer, the two looked up from their conversation and Katara smiled first. “Zukoʼs been teaching me about herbs native to the Fire Nation.” She plucked the herb from Zukoʼs fingers. “This is saffron, you should smell it!”

“I'm good,” Aang weakly countered. “Uh… I'm gonna find Sokka. D'you know where he is?”

“The city,” Zuko responded. He looked totally unbothered by it all, a stark contrast to Aang's current frenzied spirit. “He and Suki are trying to find the perfect mango, or something.”

“Suki and him,” Katara corrected. A gleam in her eye pushed her to rib— “What, don't tell me the education system of the Fire Nation is lacking as well?”

A tick of a smile appeared on his lips. “Yeah, maybe. Too busy with shoving propaganda down our throats, I think.”

Katara laughed. Aang frowned. Zuko was many things, but a comedian wasn't one of them; it wasn't even a joke to begin with. Pushing the bitterness down his throat as though sucking on a frozen frog, he left the two behind and jogged down to the beach to sit with Toph. He'd wait for Sokka there.

The next instances took a few subtle cues for him to catch it. During dinner, they sat next to each other. While he sparred with Toph beneath the burning afternoon sun, they sought solace under the cool awning washing dishes or scrubbing clothes clean. Whenever Zuko dared anyone to a game of Pai Cho, Katara offered herself almost immediately despite her terrible track record. When an argument angered Katara to the point of storming away, Sokka's eyes organically slid to Zuko, waiting for him to make a move.

He'd never done that to Aang, that look, and it made him feel so incredibly, awfully juvenile.

What skills did Zuko possess that Aang didn't? He knew Katara way longer than he did, understood her better, and had seen her in more situations than he could count. Zuko just got here. Though Aang was fond of him, it left an ire sting travelling up and down his spine. Spirits! What was going on?!

Then the play threw all his worst fears on stage: Zuko and Katara, personified by the Ember Island Players, holding hands and proclaiming their love and totally disregarding the fact that Aang and Katara had history and chemistry and that he loved her! Their mocking of the term "Avatar's girl" made his stomach churn, so much so that he didn't notice the real (and mortified) Zuko and Katara shifting inches away from each other.

Had he seen, maybe he wouldn't have tried to kiss her during intermission. Maybe he wouldn't have felt the desperate need to prove himself to the girl; that he was right here and actively loving her and why was she so confused about it?

Had he seen, maybe he wouldn't have pushed the two towards each other later that even. While he sulked in the corner of the living room, sprawled across a recliner as he listened to Toph gloat about her character, Zuko and Katara had slipped away. Unbeknownst to him, though his heart quickened and clenched (something akin heartache) when he did realise.

Jumping upright, he ignored Toph's shout that he should sit and listen, and turned into the dark corridor that held their bedrooms.

Knocking on Katara's, no sound came. His head popped around the corner of the sliding door and saw the room was empty. Her bed tidy, her clothes folded on a chair, no litter on the floor — a complete 180 to Aang's room.

Oh, no. His eyes widened in horror. Behind his eyelids, the vision of the Players struck closer to reality than he thought. Taking a steadying breath, he trailed to the end of the hallway and, against better judgment, pressed his ear to the door.

And there it was: the soft chime of Zuko's laugh, the murmur of Katara's voice.

His hand raised to knock, but before he could or flee, it smoothly slid open.

Katara looked down at him, worried. “Everything okay, Aang? I felt you standing there.”

A seed of hope bloomed in his chest. “You felt me?”

A wry smile ticked up her lips as a finger curled around a dark lock of hair. “Yeah, it's the full moon, so it's kind of hard to miss. So?”

“Y-yeah, I'm okay. I was just, uh, looking for you. To, uh…”

What was he doing here? Just a couple hours ago, Katara had rejected him and this didn't help! Zuko had the decency to look bashful, however, the boy seated on the rug with a cup of tea unable to quite look him in the eye. At least the firebender seemed aware that Katara, despite the debauchery of the Ember Island Players, was his girl, not Zuko's.

But if he was aware, that didn't explain why they sat in private. What could they possibly talk about that the group wouldn't understand?

Aside from the tea, a handful of books covered the floor. A lit candle stood on his night stand. Too romantic for his taste.

And so he blurted— “Why're you in Zuko's room?”

Her expression soured. “To talk. Do you have a problem with that?”

The boys finally locked eyes. Golden irises blinked at him, earnest and merciful, though Aang knew he had no ground right now. If he went insane over them drinking tea, then she wouldn't speak to him until the Comet.

“No,” he puffed. “No. It— when can I talk to you?”

“Tomorrow,” she replied, curt.

“Okay.”

“Goodnight, Aang.”

He nodded. “Goodnight Katara. Goodnight Zuko.”

As the door of opportunities slimmed, the last split second showed the resurgence of Zuko's smile, a kind he hadn't seen before, and only reserved for Katara. His Katara.

A part of him died on that threshold that night. It smelled like naivité and tasted bitter.

The next day, he apologised to Katara for kissing her and she accepted, though kept her distance.

The group didn't feel off because of it. Everything ran smoothly, as usual; Toph erupted cities out of sand and roughhoused Sokka in the mud, Suki practiced hand to hand combat in the atrium and scoured the regal bedrooms for fashion, Katara did her duties and lounged around the ocean, as did Zuko, though he preferred the courtyard for his bending. Aang was the only one feeling unmoored. At least he had Momo to commiserate with.

Despite the Comet's looming arrival, the days were long and the teenagers needed time off as well. One couldn't train from sunrise to sundown. He learned that the hard way.

Rare moments like these reminded them of their youth, so really, it wasn't weird that Katara tapped Zuko with a water whip as she cackled out her magical laugh, but it did surprise Aang. He thought that when he apologised, she'd act playful towards him again, but… she didn't.

Sokka and Toph gawked in surprise at the action, but what took the cake was Zukoʼs smile as he launched himself from the courtyard onto the beach — feet thudding hard into the sand — and began sparring with Katara on the shore.

Scratch that: he couldn't call it sparring. It was playfighting. It was what Sokka and Suki often did.

Zuko liked Katara. The realisation thundered as an earthquake through his lithe body. It was so obvious now! Why else did the firebender behave so differently towards her? But how in the monkey feathers could Katara like him back? Zuko redeemed himself, sure, and he was now part of the group, but…

Aang faltered. He couldn't come up with a reason. Zuko was a child of war just as much as they all were. Maybe even more than Aang. He technically stood at 112, as opposed to Katara's fifteen and Zuko's seventeen. That made him pause.

Was that it? Did he lack a sense of humanity that Zuko possessed? Although, the Avatar defined humanity and led by example, so shouldn't he be the perfect person?

Maybe it was a phase, Aang supposed. Just like her lapse into anger when she travelled to the Southern Raiders, this too would pass and she'd see Aang belonged with her.

But what could he do about Zuko? From experience, Aang knew it was tough to not like Katara.

Oh! But if that angry knife-throwing girl got out of prison, then Zuko would turn to her again! Genius! Another incentive to win this war.

“How cute!” Suki cooed. He hadn't noticed her coming.

Aang scowled, “They're fighting.”

“They're having fun,” Suki countered, waving at a buried-in-the-sand Sokka. Toph smacked his cheek. Then Suki smiled down at him. “You should do something relaxing, too, Aang. Savour it while you can!”

The nail in the coffin happened three weeks later when the doom of Sozin's Comet lurked around the corner. In less than five days, the Fire Lord and him had to fight to the death; a death he didn't wish upon anyone. His group was furious with him for his stance, but Aang refused to budge his entire belief system for the definite solution of killing someone.

Katara had fallen quiet then. Hope bleeding out her eyes and left to seep into the soil, no longer in her heart and chi. He knew he hurt her with this. And still. There had to be another way to defeat the Fire Lord.

Right before he went to sleep, restless and keyed up, he stopped by Katara's door. Soundless, he slid it open just a crack, only to feel his stomach gutted out his body.

Zuko and Katara: hugging.

Not the quick embrace she'd previously given him, a real hug. One where Zuko's arm wrapped around her with no space left, one where Katara clung to him as though spirit water laced his veins. Her head tucked beneath his chin, their eyes closed yet content, his hand rubbing smooth circles on her lower back.

"Monkey feathers," he exhaled.

The two didn't jump apart like he expected, nor did Zuko flush red or dodge any repercussions by fleeing out the room. Their eyes cracked open and they stayed.

“Have you changed your mind about killing my father?” Zuko rasped.

Aang shook his head, blood pounding in his ears making it difficult to hear or breathe or think. Katara liked him too… more than she liked me.

“Katara?” he whispered.

Her eyes welled with unshed, shimmering tears. Remorse thickened her voice. “I'm sorry, Aang. I can't support you on this one. I just can't.”

Before he could save any semblance of a relationship, she burrowed herself back into Zuko's tight embrace. It looked unnatural, inhumane, it should be him.

And then he vanished.

#zutara #atla fanfiction

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fortheloveofwonderland · 8 months

Text

Rusty | Chapter 4 | S.R

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Chapter Summary - Whilst you get acquainted with the locals, Spencer deals with the aftermath of his dissociation. You have a little too much to drink and another fight ensues.

A/N - tread lightly from here on out and please read the trigger warns. It’s going to be a lot going forward. I hope to not offend anyone with my portrayal of the locals, it’s meant to be over exaggerated and comical.

Paring - Spencer Reid / Fem! Reader

Category - strangers to friends to lovers | angst | smut minors DNI

Warnings - swearing, drinking, slightly pervy men, smoking, blood, accidental self-harm, mental health diagnosis, PTSD, dissociative amnesia, Spencer’s dirty thoughts and intrusive thoughts, tears, mentions of male masturbation, arguing, drunk reader.

WC - 6.2k

Chapter 4 - The Ballad of the Lonesome Cowboy

You drove for miles. You drove for miles but somehow didn’t make it very far.

Your intent, after you stormed out of Spencer’s ranch, was to continue your drive to Mexico and never look back. You had no ties here, no reason to return.

Spencer had coerced you into helping him when you hadn’t wanted to and when you finally agreed he’d snapped at you for doing the one thing he’d asked of you.

No, you didn’t allow anybody to talk to you like that no matter how pretty they were.

You tried to follow your original path, back on your route further down south but for some reason you just kept driving in circles. Up to Pipe Creek, back down to Bandera Town, back up to Pipe Creek and so on.

You wished you’d had the forethought to grab the bottle of scotch before you’d left. Not that you condoned drinking and driving but you were just so fucking angry.

So you continued to drive. Up and down. Up and down. The same stretch of road passing before your eyes again and again.

Heading back through Bandera you saw it. It was like a sign from the heavens, a flashing beacon of good fortune.

You pulled the car to a stop on the other side of the road and didn’t hesitate in jumping out. Crossing the empty street you glanced up at the old rickety looking building, that seemed to be moments away from collapse.

11th Street Cowboy Bar. Don’t mind if I do.

Outside sat three motorcycles and one lone horse tied to a hitching post. You gave the creature a wide berth. You stepped up the high curb, under the rusty tin awning and shoved open the saloon style doors.

As soon as you breached the entrance, five sets of eyes landed on you and you instantly froze in your tracks at the heavy, penetrating stares.

Two old men with thick grey beards, stetsons, and dressed head to toe in denim perched on bar stools, eyeing you up as though you were a large steak and they were hungry wolves.

The bartender peered at you between them, he was slightly younger but still ebbing into his late fifties. He had thinning dyed black hair, a comically oversized moustache and a red neckerchief tied snug around his throat.

At a table nearby two other older gentlemen, in the midst of a game of cards, halted their game to stare at you too.

You swallowed, unsticking your dry tongue from the roof of your mouth and tugging at the hem of your oversized sweater.

The ten wandering eyes stayed on you as you took a few hesitant steps forward.

To call this place a bar would be overselling it. It was no more a shack, barely bigger than Spencer’s living room. It was warm and musky, the scent of sweat and tobacco heavy in the air.

It became apparent as you got further in the room that the man tending bar was chewing on tobacco between his rear teeth. One of the old men at the bar puffed on a cigar. You approached with an abundance of caution, rolling your lip between your teeth as you pushed towards the bar.

“Howdy there ma’am.” The bar tender offered you a smile in which you caught a glimpse of the soggy tobacco in his cheek. “We got ourselves a city slicker, boys.”

You ground your teeth together, figuratively and metaphorically holding your tongue from saying something you would regret.

“I reckon you’re about as pretty as peach.” The old man and his smoky cigar breath moved closer, lingering.

“Now, now Boone, don’t scare the little miss. Don’t mind him. Not his fault, he just didn’t know any better.” The tender spoke first to the cigar huffing old man - Boone - and then to you.

“No bother.” You replied curtly. “This a place where a girl can get a drink?”

“‘Pends what she’s drinking for.” The other elderly man piped up.

You narrowed your eyes on them both and from this close there were distinct similarities between the two. As if reading your mind, the bartender spoke again.

“Twin brothers, ma’am. This here is Boone and Butch. Regulars by all accounts.”

You turned back to him briefly, looked back at the brothers and smiled as amicably as you could.

“Charmed, I’m sure.” You nodded.

“And I’m Cole, the proprietor of 11th Street.” The bartender - Cole - got your attention back.

“Elizabeth.” You offered him a nod too.

“What brings you to our neck of the woods, Miss Eliz-a-beth.” Boone spoke again, puffing smoke at you and pronouncing the name as if it was three separate words.

“Oh you know, running from old Johnny law.” You winked at the old man and he blanched beneath his beard.

Butch slapped a meaty hand on a meatier thigh and yee-hawed loudly, almost knocking himself back off the bar stool.

“Funny and pretty, hot damn.” Butch cackled.

You glanced over your shoulder briefly, the two other men had now resumed playing cards and weren’t paying a blind bit of notice to you and the others.

“Most definitely running from something though, am I right sugar?” Cole picked up a tumbler from under the counter, eyes sparkling as he eyed you in a knowing way.

“What gave you that impression?” You huffed.

“See here,” he pointed over his shoulder to the clock hanging on the wall. “It ain’t even lunchtime. People only drink before lunchtime when they’re running from something or they miserable.” He nodded his head towards the twins and you stifled a laugh.

“I’m simply passing through.” You drew your pack of cigarettes from your pocket and cradled one between your lips.

Before you could even think about looking for your lighter, Boone was proffering one towards you, flame flickering.

You leaned a little closer until your cigarette touched the flame and nodded at him in thanks.

“Didn’t I see y’all earlier in the General Store with that Cosmo?” Cole cocked an eyebrow which hit his receding hairline.

He was scooping exactly three cubes of ice into the bottom of the tumbler.

“Might have done.” You spoke between drags, following Boone’s lead and flicking the excess ash on the floor.

“Strange one he is.” Butch spoke up now, cupping his bearded jaw in mild contemplation.

“How so?” You gave him your attention.

“Something…off about him. Don’t sit right with me.”

“Nor me.” Boone agreed. “He thinks the sun comes up to just hear him crow.”

You turned back to Cole who was now pouring three fingers of a rich amber liquid into the tumbler. Your expression asked silently for an explanation.

“We’re friendly folk, ma’am.” Cole began, setting the bottle back in its rightful place. “Some might say we’re cliquey, maybe we are. We take care of our own for sure, but we’re amenable to new faces. Cosmo never so much as stepped foot in here, never said a damn word to any of us. Heard more outta your mouth right now than I ever heard him.”

“What d’ya know about him?” Boone leaned closer again.

“Nothing really. Only met him yesterday, he was in a spot of trouble and I helped him out.” You shrugged. The tumbler of amber was being slid towards you and you gave Cole a curious look. “I didn’t order.”

“I know what folks are hankering for, Miss Lizzie.” He winked at you and you fought back a smile.

You picked it up with your free hand and swirled the liquid and ice around the glass. You brought it to your nose and sniffed. You detected notes of woody grains, a mild hint of fruit and after a second sniff, even a touch of caramel.

You tentatively lowered it to your lips and took a small sip. You held the liquid in your mouth and swilled it around a few times. It was smoky and a little nutty with undertones of that fruity scent. Certainly whiskey but not a variety you had ever tasted before.

You swallowed it down, it burnt a little as it went but it was pleasant. Strong though, incredibly strong.

“You like that missy?” Cole smirked at you and you nodded. “My own concoction. Stronger than any other whiskey you can buy from that damn general store.”

“Stuff’ll put hairs on your chest.” Butch cackled again.

You took a drag on the cigarette, flicked the ash on the floor, and brought the glass to your lips again. The three men watched in amazement and mild horror as you downed the remains in one.

Once it was emptied you slammed the glass on the counter and pushed it closer to Cole who looked utterly speechless.

“Keep ‘em coming.” You told him with a tilt of your head.

“Sure thing, sugar.” He took the glass and poured you another while Boone and Butch stared on.

***

When Spencer came to he was sitting in his bathtub, completely naked aside from the cast on his arm, the shower was off. The first thing he was consciously aware of was the pain which seemed to encompass every fibre of his body.

The second thing was the fact he was covered in blood.

He blinked against the pain, trying to piece together how in the hell he had ended up here. He remembered your argument, you storming out and the rage bubble brewing in his stomach. And then...nothing.

His first experience suffering a dissociative episode was a few weeks after his release from prison. It was possible that he’d undergone a minor one when he had Cat Adams up against the wall with hands around her throat but he couldn’t be sure.

But the first one he was aware of happened a few weeks after his release.

The last time he’d dissociated was the day after he’d arrived home from being held hostage by Ben’s Believers.

That was when he made the decision to leave, to walk out on the team and move somewhere far away in the hopes of protecting those he loved from his inner Hulk.

But the anger still swelled inside of him, the bitter pill that was losing someone he loved because of the trauma he’d sustained in prison, the trauma which had been completely out of his hands.

He had let the anger consume him and he’d dissociated. When he came around that last time after his close brush with death, his apartment was trashed, books ripped apart at their spines, pages torn into confetti. His beloved chess set was even snapped clean in half.

But the more worrisome thing was the blood.

He’d found the source of the bleeding with ease, a six inch cut down the centre of his left forearm starting at his wrist. Blood poured from the wound and he’d quickly tried to stop the flow with a shirt he’d found on the floor.

He’d had to drive himself to the emergency room, given the amount of blood seeping through the shirt he held pressed against it, they saw him pretty quickly. When he was asked by the kind nurse who was stitching him up what had happened he told her the truth: he didn’t know.

Well, that’s not to say he didn’t have an idea. There was no one else in his apartment and he was almost certain he hadn’t gone out in the time he had been detached from reality so it stood to reason the wound was self inflicted.

And that was why Spencer knew, as he laid in his bathtub now with blood coating his one good hand, he’d inevitably hurt himself again.

His left arm was encased in his cast so he looked further down his body. Sure enough it wasn’t long before his eyes landed on a series of horizontal cuts on his left inner thigh; six of them to be precise.

The wounds weren’t entirely shallow but weren’t as deep as the cut he’d inflicted on his arm before. The blood had mostly pooled in the basin of the tub, trickling down towards the drain which he sat upon. It was then he realised he could feel the sticky substance coating his backside.

He groaned viscerally at his utter stupidity. Spencer had, what was surely, a multitude of mental health issues, both diagnosed or not, but he’d never entertained the idea of self-harm, at least not until he dissociated.

He had been diagnosed after prison with PTSD and mild Dissociative Thematic Amnesia. Combine that with a sprinkle of social anxiety and you got a Spencer Reid cocktail.

But he wasn’t depressed, he wasn’t suicidal - was he? No, he didn’t think so, at least Spencer Reid didn’t. But maybe his inner Hulk did.

The weapon for his self-inflicted wounds lay abandoned in the tub. He wasn’t surprised it was the same culprit as last time: the shiny blade from inside his shaving razor.

Without thinking he brought his good hand to his face and rubbed but stopped quickly when he felt the sticky claret transferring to his skin.

He groaned, throwing his head back in frustration against the lip of the tub. The effort caused his back to hum in disapproval but he ignored it.

“Why am I like this?” He mumbled under his breath, staring up at the shower head. “No wonder he left you, it's no surprise he walked out, you’re a goddamn lunatic!”

He let out a scream, sitting back up and once again ignoring the pain pulsing through his spine.

“Jesus Christ, you’ve got to get your shit together, Reid. Fucking hell you’re a mess. A fucking goddamn mess!” He slammed his hands against the side of the tub, his cast thumping against the porcelain and the impact vibrating up his arm and ricocheting through his broken bones. “FUCK!”

He started screaming at the top of his lungs, a long, constant sound that would be swallowed up by the rolling hills outside long before they met any prying ears. He screamed until his throat was ravaged, his voice tapering off when he physically couldn’t scream anymore.

By the time he was done, hot tears seared down his face. He shook his head, huffing out a breath. He needed to clean himself and try to shake this off.

He braced his right hand against the side of the tub and trying to use only his uninjured leg, attempted to push himself up. He groaned in pain, which irritated his scratchy throat. It took several failed ventures and caused a lot of agony, but eventually he was on his feet.

His knee throbbed with the effort, his back achy and his arm pulsed beneath the cast. He switched on the shower, only realising his oversight once it was too late and the water was already flowing.

He hurriedly stuck his casted arm out from behind the shower curtain in a vain effort to keep it dry. He had the sleeve the doctor had given him but would cause further irritation to his sore limbs to try and scrambled out of the bath and back in again.

Instead he tried to shower with one arm sticking out to his side, which was no easy feat. He picked up the bottle of body wash, rolling his eyes as he popped the end of it in his mouth. He held out his right hand and using his teeth, squeezed the little bottle until enough pooled in his palm. He dared move his face towards his left hand peeking out of the shower and managed to deposit the bottle between the fingers sticking out of the cast without getting it too wet.

He was gentle in rubbing the shower gel against his inner thigh, lightly lathering it over the dried blood and open wounds. The blood mixed with the soap creating some kind of pink froth which made him oddly think of Penelope.

Once the wounds looked clean he moved his lathered hand around to his backside where he could still feel the blood clinging to his skin.

In an attempt to distance himself from the idea that he’d hurt himself in this way again and he was having to clean his own blood from his skin after another episode, he closed his eyes and thought about you.

He focused his mind back to earlier in the day sitting in your car outside his lodge and the words you’d uttered which had caused a flurry of excitement in him.

“They aren’t the kind of stallions I usually like to have between my thighs, if you know what I mean.”

“Fuck,” he mumbled under his breath, the same vague twitching it had elicited in his groin when you said it afflicting him now. “Come on, come on.”

He pictured your face, the flirty smirk you sent his way. He imagined your sinful lips on his body, trailing lower…lower…lower…

Another fluttering in his stomach and a twitch of his groin. His hand moved from where it had been cleaning himself to glide across the planes of his stomach.

Lower…lower still until they reached right where he needed them to be. He screwed his eyes shut tightly, picturing you on your knees in the tub, water droplets beading on your flesh.

“They aren’t the kind of stallions I usually like to have between my thighs, if you know what I mean.”

Another flurry, blood was unhurriedly rushing south. He inched his hand lower until his fingers were in his pubic hair.

Your lashes wet from the shower, large eyes looking up at him as you took him in your hand.

With that he dared wrapped his hand around the base of his semi-erect cock. It was the most tumescent he’d been since…since -

“Oh my god, he’s enjoying it! Fucking punk is enjoying it!”

- Prison.

In an instant his shaft was flaccid again and his hand fell to his side as his eyes shot open.

“GOD-FUCKING-DAMNIT!” He screamed, tearing his throat further as he slammed his fist against the wall.

It didn’t hurt. Or maybe it did. It wasn’t any worse than any other pain he was suffering at that moment.

Hot tears escaped his eyes again and not caring if he was clean or not, he shut off the shower. He lowered himself to the lip of the tub gently before swivelling his way out, disregarding the pain it caused.

He hobbled to the towel on the back of the door and slung it around his waist, tears still hindering his vision.

In truth, Spencer had never been a regular at self pleasure. He wasn’t an overly sexual person, didn’t necessarily find himself getting turned on unless he was with another person and there was kissing and touching and preamble.

There were odd occasions when he used masturbation as a tool for escapism. After particularly bad cases, when his stress levels were high. Self stimulation allowed the logical side of his brain to shut down, to turn off all the insipid thoughts that followed him after bad cases.

The flood of dopamine, the pleasure chemical and oxytocin during orgasm was a nice reprieve to him when he was low or frustrated. But it was merely a coping mechanism, not something he held much stock in or something he was bothered to indulge in most of the time.

But it was always good to have that on the table, the idea he could do it should he need to.

But that ability had been taken away, snatched from him as though in punishment for lack of use. He couldn’t masturbate if he couldn’t get an erection. And he couldn’t get an erection without thinking about -

“It’s not…stop it, please? Please? It’s n-normal.”

“He’s enjoying it! Hah!”

“It’s a-adrenaline. It happens when we-we’re excited or scared. S-sexual arousal and fear a-arousal have many of the same bodily f…please stop!”

It was a natural response, logically he knew that. Fear caused a narrowing of attention - tunnel vision - making it difficult to think of anything other than the perceived threat. If the threat is external then it can cause a groinal response.

Fear increases the heart rate which in turn increases blood flow. It made perfect, rational sense that while his heart was furiously pumping his blood through his veins that some of that blood would travel south.

He’d been in a horrifying situation and his body had simply acted on impulse. And the irony was that in getting aroused at quantifiably the absolute worst possible time, he now couldn’t get erect at all. Not without an immeasurable amount of guilt setting in before inevitably becoming flaccid soon after anyway.

He padded over to the medicine counter, grabbed his bottle of pills and swallowed one dry, ignoring the ache in his throat from his previous screams.

Prison had taken so much more from him than anyone would ever know. What he’d endured in his time at Milburn, he’d never told another soul. How could he? They would never look at him the same again.

He’d never been exactly normal but this just made him a whole new level of unusual.

He grabbed the first aid kit from the cabinet before closing it and hobbling to the toilet. He lowered himself slowly until he was seated on the lid and used the towel to pat dry his inner thigh.

On further inspection now the cuts were clean he could tell they weren’t deep enough to warrant medical attention. What a relief that was, he had no way of getting to the hospital anyway.

He retrieved a large reel of gauze from inside the kit and began wrapping it around the wounds. Round and round it went, creating layer upon layer of barriers between his eyes and his idiotic dissociated cutting.

He pinned it together with a safety pin to keep it in place and it took great effort to push himself back to his feet. He limped his way back to the bedroom to dress in a pair of clean jeans and a fresh t-shirt.

As he wondered, in absent-mindedness, where you may have gone, if he ever might see you again, the landline in the kitchen started to trill.

A frown adorned on his features, in two years of living here that phone had never rang. He sometimes wondered if it even still worked.

Using the kitchen counter to aid his balance, he dragged himself over to the handset, brow still furrowed. He picked it up off of the latch and held it to his ear.

“Uh, hello?” He leaned against the wall.

“This Cosmo?” A thick southern drawl met him.

“I, uh, I guess so.” His frown was still deepening. “Who is this?”

“Names Cole, I own the 11th Street Bar.”

“The old bar down on 11th Street?” The words came out of his mouth before he had a chance to realise how stupid that sounded.

“Well looky here we have a smart one.” Cole chuckled.

“How did you get my number? I don’t even know my number.”

“You live out at the old Clements ranch. Jimmy Clements and I, we went way back.”

“Uh…okay? What can I, uh, help you with?”

“Git a friend of yours down here in a spot of bother.”

Spencer straightened against the wall.

Friend? What friend?

His brain started firing off thoughts quicker than he could focus on them. Penelope? Emily? JJ?…

…Luke?

“Sorry, what friend?” He forced the words out.

“Pretty young thing. Elizabeth I think?” Cole huffed out.

Elizabeth? Who on earth is…

“Clyde Barrow and Bonnie Elizabeth Parker of Bonnie and Clyde fame.”

Goddamnit.

“Right, uh, is she okay?”

“Just a little on the dangerous side of tipsy is all. I had to confiscate her keys so she wouldn’t go and drive herself to her death. Said she knew you, chance you can collect her?”

God-fucking-damnit.

“I don’t have a car.” Spencer scratched the back of his head.

“Git a horse dontcha? Seen ya riding her around town.” Cole scoffed.

“Yes but I’m…” he trailed off. Doctor Rhodes had advised him not to ride until his pain subsided. But this was an exigent circumstance wasn’t it? “I’ll…I’ll be by as soon as I can.”

“Right you are. I’ve cut her off and I’ll keep an eye on her for ya.”

“Thank you.” Spencer breathed with a nod of his head before hanging up the phone.

You were starting to become a hindrance. He’d asked you for help but you were causing him more grief than anything. Frustrated, he threw his jacket on and toed on his boots whilst using the wall to try and alleviate some of the pain warping his spine and flooding his knee.

He grabbed his keys and hobbled out of the lodge, cursing you as the pain shot spikes though his leg as he pushed up towards the stable.

It was still light out but due to his dissociation he had no idea what time it might be. A glance up at the sun's position in the sky he would estimate it to be around three pm.

It took him longer than usual to trudge up to the stable and his leg was howling by the time he made it. He unlatched the barn and was greeted with three sets of happy mewls from his companions.

“Hey guys,” he whimpered a little in pain.

He patted Franklin on the snout and the younger of the two stallions neighed and nuzzled into his owner's palm. He gave Wilbur the same treatment but he wasn’t quite as receptive, slightly more aloof than Frank.

Willow actually seemed as though she lit up when she laid eyes on him, she often had this look when she saw Spencer. Her large eyes grew larger and she tapped her front hooves in a little dance.

Spencer couldn’t help the smile he offered in return. Willow was his lifeline. He loved all his animals but he had a special bond with the blue roan. Willow had given Spencer a reason to get out of bed in the morning even on the days he felt crippled by his trauma. She tethered him to reality when nothing else could ground him.

Maybe Alvez was wrong about dogs being man’s best friend, because Willow was without a doubt Spencer’s.

“Hey girl,” he patted her head and then frowned a little upon seeing her riding gear still atop her back. He shook his head in displeasure at your oversight. “I’m sorry Will, she doesn’t know.”

Willow snuffled and then neighed, as if trying to tell him it was okay. He unlocked her paddock and took hold of her reins, leading her to the mounting block which she happily complied.

Stepping up on the block was a struggle in itself and he used Willow’s strong body as leverage. Leg throbbing, he clenched his jaw as the realisation hit him.

He’d been taught to mount a horse from the left side, the only way he’d ever mounted a horse. However this meant his left foot was the one slotting into the stirrup, essentially taking his full body weight while he swung the other over the horse's body.

His left knee was his injured knee. And given his left arm was in a cast it meant he couldn’t use it to counterbalance any weight off of his leg.

“Jesus Christ,” he hissed, eyeing up the stirrup. “This is going to fucking hurt.”

He let go of Willow’s reins for a moment to grab his wallet out his jacket pocket. If he screamed he would startle his horses and he didn’t want that. Instead he stuffed the leather wallet in his mouth, between his teeth and bit down on it. He took hold of the reins again and counted to five in his head.

He stepped up, toed his left foot into the stirrup and tugged himself upon the horse using the reins. His weight bared down on his leg, sending stabbing pains through his knee.

He moaned around the wallet, a few tears pricking at his eyes as he tasted the leather on the roof of his mouth.

He got situated on the saddle, got his right foot in the other stirrup while removing the wallet from his mouth. A trail of saliva dribbled down his chin. The teeth indentations in the leather were so deep they pierced through it.

He continued to grind his rear molars as the pain didn’t let up. On top of his knee, his fresh thigh wounds were rubbing against Willow’s body and they hadn’t even started moving yet.

This was going to be hell.

His heart was hammering from the intense pain and his hands were sweating around the reins. The hardest part was over. He would be okay.

He took a moment to calm his breaths before giving Willow an almost imperceptible tap with his right heel and immediately she started trotting forward through the gate.

His face was contorted in his anguish as he passed by his two stallions. As was customary, Willow stopped in her tracks outside of the stable so Spencer could lean over and lock the barn door behind himself.

It was made considerably more difficult with the use of only one hand and took longer than usual to achieve. Once he had it locked, he tapped her gently again and Willow was on her way.

***

You sat on the curb outside 11th Street Bar, sucking on a cigarette and hugging your free arm around your body.

The street around you spun from the alcohol consumption. You couldn’t see straight, not even as far as your car on the other side of the road.

It was still daylight, not late enough to warrant being this drunk.

The cigarette was acrid on your tongue and you ended up dropping it on the floor and trying but failing to stamp it out.

You lost track of time but at some point the sound of hooves on the asphalt alerted your attention. You could make out the blurry outline of a large horse with someone on top of it heading your way but Cole’s homemade whiskey didn’t allow you to make out any features.

“I hope you know what a huge inconvenience this has been for me.” A male voice you recognised but couldn’t place entered your ears.

“Huh?” You swayed where you sat.

“I am in agony, Y/N! Or should I say Elizabeth.”

That tone…that irritating, grating, slightly whiny…

“Spencer?” You frowned.

“Yes it’s me, who the hell else would it be?” He came to a stop in front of you and you glanced up at him, blinking against the sunlight.

“How’d you find me?” You slurred.

“Doesn’t matter. I’m taking you back to the ranch.”

You tried to stand but stumbled back down. You tried again and were slightly more successful.

“I’m not getting on that…” hiccup “creature.”

“Well there is no way I am getting off of her without the help of a mounting block so you’re either getting on or walking. Your call.” He spat.

“I don’t want to go anywhere with…” hiccup “you!”

“Too bad. I pride myself on being private, and you’ve been here all of five minutes and the nice lady at the general store thinks we’re screwing and now the bartender of a place I’ve never been to has my phone number. You will come back to my ranch and sober up and then you can do whatever the hell you want.” He was gripping Willow’s reins so hard and the leather was abrasive on his palm.

“You’re a real jerk do you,” hiccup, hiccup “know that? No wonder you want to keep yourself to yourself! No one wants to know you!”

Your words were knives, flying from your tongue straight to his chest. He wobbled a little on Willow’s firm back and grit his teeth hard.

“You want to be a petulant child, fine. I offered you a place to stay. I can see you’re running from something, whether it be real or imagined I don’t know. But I was trying to help you because god knows I’ve been there. And no one helped me.

“I know what it’s like to feel as though the world has turned its back on you and I thought, hey maybe we can be of assistance to each other. But if you’re going to be like this then you’re on your own.”

With a light tug on the reins and an even lighter tap of his right foot, Willow turned back to face the direction she’d just come and started trotting back down the road.

You clenched your hands into fists at your sides watching them go. A fury rose within you, you couldn’t let him have the last word.

Your legs wobbled as you started after him, jogging to catch up with the mare and swerving on your feet as you did so.

“F-fuck you!” Hiccup. “Did it ever occur to you that I didn't…” hiccup “want your help? You self right…right…” hiccup “righteous asshole!”

Spencer didn’t look at you, kept his eyes trained forward and kept a tight grip on Willow’s reins, his casted arm resting against his chest.

His leg was on fire. From his knee up to his thigh. He was taken back to his early days of learning to ride and the burning in his thighs as they rubbed against the horse.

“Does it always…chafe so much?”

“You’ll build up a tolerance to it.”

And he had over time. But the wounds on his leg, despite being wrapped in a thick layer of gauze, were rubbing rampantly against his trusty mare’s side.

“I’m so sick of arguing with you.” He sighed with a soft shake of his head. “I have barely had any human interaction in two years and you are exhausting me.”

“I’m exhausting…” hiccup “you?”

He took a corner with a nudge of Willow’s reins and you scrambled to take the turn with him.

“I appreciate you helping me yesterday but consider yourself off the hook. I’ll make do on my own. I always have.” He hated the self pity dripping from his words.

“Fine.” You huffed but you continued following him anyway. “Why are you…” hiccup “like this? You asked me for help and then when I actually tried to help you, you…” hiccup “push me away!”

“It’s better that I do, trust me.” He petted Willow’s neck encouragingly.

“There you go with your damn self deprecation again.” Hiccup. “Goddamn fucking hiccups!”

“It’s not self deprecating, it’s a fact.” He hissed through a new wave of pain in his thigh. “I am not good to be around. I have a lot of issues that I would rather not drag anybody else into.”

Willow seemed to speed up, or maybe you slowed down but you hurried to catch them up.

“That’s what paroxetine is for, right?” Hiccup.

Tugging on her reins, Willow came to an abrupt stop and so did you. Spencer turned his head and looked down at you, scorned.

“How the fuck do you know about my medication?” He growled, feeling the telltale signs of the rage bubbling in his stomach once more.

He knew how, it was a redundant question. The only way you could know was by going through his things.

He was partially to blame for letting a stranger into his home while he wasn’t there. Some of that anger was directed at himself. But he’d thought himself a good judge of character, he had not seen this betrayal of his privacy coming.

You didn’t speak. You averted your gaze to the floor with another hiccup hiccup hiccup, whilst scuffing your toe in the dirt.

“You went through my things.” He answered for you. “Unbelievable.”

He gave Willow’s side a light pat with his heel and she was moving again. You looked up when you heard the hoofbeats on the ground and quickly followed.

“I had a headache,” hiccup “I was looking for pain meds.” Despite your inebriation, the lie came easily to you. You hurried after him but he wouldn’t look at you, wouldn’t talk to you. “So what is it? Depression? Anxiety? PTSD?”

You saw his jaw twitch at the last one, barely perceptible but even in your intoxicated state you noticed it. He clasped his hand around the reins, squeezing, releasing, squeezing, releasing.

“That’s none of your goddamn business.” He spoke harshly, keeping his eyes on the road ahead of him. “You shouldn’t have been going through my things, it's a complete invasion of privacy. I am not well, okay? Mentally speaking. And I think it best once you sober up that you leave. It’s safer that way.”

You opened your mouth to speak - hiccup hiccup - but before you could reply he’d given Willow another soft tap to indicate to her to pick up her speed which she did. She went from a slow trot to a canter, not so fast that you couldn’t keep up but it was certainly made a lot harder and you assumed that to be his goal.

The last thing you remembered was running to stay close, your lungs on fire with the exertion, before the alcohol cleansed you of any more memories.

@andiebeaword @measure-in-pain @muffin-cup @dreatine @matthew-gray-gubler-lover @justreadingficsdontmindme @spencer-reid-wonderland @theblooomingeagle @kalulakundrum @small-and-violent @voledart @katrina0_0 @bakugouswh0r3

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x fem! reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n

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keyaho · 3 months

Text

p. a witch in the plan

summary: every year the Tribal Chief makes his rounds around the different territories under his control, his family’s control, for decades. The scent of betrayal had made it’s way to him and he was going to weed it out before it had a chance to grow. during a trip to the hargrove conservatory, the Chief makes a discovery that changes everything.

story themes: a/b/o dynamics, paranormal fantasy themes (shifting), romance, dom/sub relationships, werewolf lore, daddy kink (eventual), yandere!Roman, violence, dark themes (physical violence, racial slur usage, gore imagery, ect,) not your average werewolf pack and not your average werewolf story.

warning: this story is not for minors under 18 years of age.

He’d been standing in front of the large windows, looking out into the dark night as Cecelia Hargrove recounted financial statements to him. The Hargrove Conservatory for Omegas was just south of the Anoa’i Reservation. It was a place for the more, weak members of families. Orphaned, cast out, this boarding house had fed, clothed, and housed hundreds of Omega’s and never once did was the Headmistress questioned. Until now.

She was standing on the side of the desk, flipping through pages like she had been asked when a hard knock popped her ears. She fumbled with the papers in her hand and resigned herself to opening the door when they fell to the floor.

“Chief,’ Jey, one of Roman’s most trusted Betas, stomped into the room.

There was mud on the boots, but not just any mud. Red clay. Cecelia swallowed and couldn’t keep her eyes off the floor where the red clay had stained her white fur rug.

“You should come see this,’ Jey looked to Roman with an expression of anger.

“It can wait,’ Cecelia said while going back to the desk.

Unbeknown to him, her palms were sweating, the shirt she wore was suddenly too tight, and her nevers were on edge. Just as she spoke, thunder cracked the sky and a downpour splattered against the windows in an inconsistent, but pleasing, sounds.

“We’re almost do-’

It was rare Jey cut off Roman when he was speaking. He held too much respect for his Chief to ever do so, but what him and his brother, Jimmy, found was going to make the Tribal Chief just as pissed at they were and there was no way they were going to let him leave without seeing it.

“It can’t wait.” Jey looked to Cecelia. “She might cover it up as soon as we leave.” ‘

“There is nothing to cover up,’ she argued, though lying.

That the Alpha could smell. Mingled with her lie was fear and they both smelled disgusting on her. HIs eyes flickered to Cecelia’s face. She avoided eye contact with him until a growl rumbled in his chest. He folded his thick arms across his chest and Cecelia unknowingly licked her lips at the move. Roman was an unmated and untamed Alpha, one of few in the region. He was muscular in all the right places, tall, with beautifully tanned skin. It was also noted how much weight he carried. As most Alphas were, he was very well endowed.

Roman crossed the room, stopping only when he was toe to toe with Cecelia.

“You want to tell me first?” He asked.

“Chief, just go look. I’ll make sure she doesn’t go anywhere.” Jey stood at the door, arms crossed.

Sparing Cecelia one last glance, and chance to speak, Roman strode towards out the room. He followed the mud tracks until he came upon the back door. Attached to the kitchen, it led to one of two courtyards. As soon as he stepped from under the awning, the rain beat against his body, soaking his his before running down his neck and shoulders, his shirt sticking to his skin. He followed the sound of hoarse cries, until he broke through the shrubbery. He’d seen a lot in his life, but this was by far one of the more infuriating scenes he’s witnessed.

Clad in only dirty panties and an over sized shirt was a woman he hadn’t seen before. Her prided himself on knowing all the girls that came through the conservatory, but she wasn’t ringing any bells. Jimmy was struggling with her. Her eyes swollen shut, mouth caked with dried blood, cuts along her thighs and legs. Upon further inspection she looked as if she had been whipped. The black shirt she had on was ripped.

“What the fuck?” Roman hissed.

The alpha took a step towards them, aiming to help, when he suddenly stopped. His head lolled back and he worked his shoulders to loosen the sudden tension in his body. It was an unfamiliar feeling, but he knew the meaning.

“Get her inside.”

“She’s chained to a post.” Jimmy pointed to the puddle of water.

He grabbed a rock and threw it in and they both heard the faint thud as it sunk to the bottom of what he thought was a puddle. It was a hole.

“Was she in there?”

“I heard screaming over here, then nothing. I ran over and saw the top of her head. I had to yank out the pole,’ he points behind him, ‘these chains are old and rusty, I need a key to open it. I don’t want to crush her wrists.”

“Help me,’ she choke, vomiting water and whatever was left in her stomach.

“Get her inside.”

Jimmy managed to snap the chain from the pole with his hands before he scooped up the crying woman in his arms. As he passed Roman, he was clasped on the shoulder by his Chief.

“Prepare her ready for travel.”

⧫⧫

He prided himself on his restraint. His caution. His respect for women. However, that pendulum had swung back, just the way his hand struck Cecelia in the face. Sprawled out on the floor of the basement, Cecelia spit out the blood pooling in her mouth. Roman stood there, bloody hands tucked into his wet jeans she pushed herself to her hands and knees.

“I gave you a chance,’ he bellowed mercifully. “You had the opportunity to tell me what Jey found.”

“I-...i’

“If it hadn’t rained, I would have never known, then you would be explaining a death.” He clicked his tongue across his teeth. “I wonder how you would explain that.”

“It wasn’t my decision to leave you in charge, and that was a mistake.” He grunted, boot swiftly connecting with Cecelia’s side.

She flew across the floor and her back slammed into the cement wall.

“That’s only a fraction of what you deserve, Cecelia. Get her up!”

Jey and Jimmy both worked to bring Cecelia to her feet. They held her up as Roman walked over. His expression was dark, frightening, and unreadable. She whimpered under his gaze.

If only it hadn’t rained!

“Code of conduct dictates I handle this one of two ways. You are exiled and replaced. The other is death.”

Cecelia began pleading for her life. Begging and apologizing. She didn’t want to die because some girl couldn’t drown fast enough

Roman’s was a strong man. Tales of his strength spread all through their community, but so did his anger and rage. There were very few things that could anger Roman to the point of violence, especially against a woman, and when his anger flared, no one was safe. Poor Cecelia had no idea what she had gotten herself into.

However, he chose to show a hint of mercy.

“Fix the money issue and run.” He growled.

Cecelia’s eyes widened at the grace he had shown her, but he quickly snatched it away.

“I want to give you a head start, because Solo is going to hunt you down like the animal you are and bring me your hide.”

#roman reigns x oc #roman reigns x black!reader #roman reigns x black reader #roman reigns x original character #a/b/o au #a/b/o dynamics

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adore-laur · 7 months

Text

JOYRIDE

— corruption in tokyo brings two partners together again to seek retribution while also fulfilling their desires🚦

ハリー

Midnight in Tokyo.

The city transforms into a neon jungle once the moon takes the stage. Illusionary indigo and hot pink advertisements scale the sides of skyscrapers, their vibrant pixels reflecting off the slick thoroughfares bestrewed with puddles. Cosmopolitan emporiums attract visitors like clusters of moths drawn to a flame, ranging from luxury retail stores to vintage boutiques that line the sidewalks. Many diverse eateries sit snug in the passageways, the limited seating where conversations are struck with writers and poets alike. Whimsical art sculptures placed in hidden spots showcase Japanese culture, and the expressive pieces greet tourists from around the world.

It's an urban utopia straight out of a futuristic fantasy.

Digging deeper into the complex metropolis, right in the heart of the infamous Kabukicho District, is where nightlife is most vivacious. Foreigners flock to clubs and bars for ritzy entertainment and exuberant thrills. Alleyways conceal doorways to more private establishments, their explicit thresholds exposed by flickering arrows that guide those who dare to enter. It's sinfully atmospheric, the smell of smoke and sex lingering past the brick walls lit by dangling paper lanterns.

The vicinity is two sides of the same coin. In the daytime, families wander through a maze of honorable restaurants and hotels, but at night, the devil comes out to play. Risqué signs lead to unlawful pleasure. Curtains cover hostess clubs of endless inebriation. Intimate shops are out in the open to pique the interest of innocents.

However, on this rainy November night, Harry Styles seeks only one unholy cove. He doesn't need to be lured into it by silhouetted street hawkers. Ignoring them is easy when the red light just around the corner holds his true desire.

As his polished dress shoes clack against the wet pavement, a black umbrella looming over his head, he fishes into his trouser pocket to snag a piece of chewing gum. He unwraps the aluminum, pops the green gum into his mouth, folds the rubbery substance using his tongue, stretches it between his two front teeth, and then bites down on it with his back molars. A refreshing burst of spearmint hits the back of his throat, crisp and cool. He begins whistling a catchy tune he heard on the metro subway the other day, the trill echoing off the narrow walls surrounding him. New graffiti on them catches his attention. Considering the city strictly prohibits street art, it's a rare find, so he admires the esoteric visuals before they're removed by patrolling police.

Taking a sharp left, the top of Harry's shadow reaches his destination before he does. He stops in his tracks and breathes in the hazy air. Smoke seeps under the rusted garage door, and the muffled bass coming from inside is a straight injection into his veins. The Japanese script, emboldened by neon red, spells out the name of the strip club.

ジョイライド

JOYRIDE

Guarded by a towering man in a black suit and maroon tie, it's the only barrier left. Luckily, Harry is well-versed when it comes to sneaking into elite establishments. He shakes his umbrella out, the droplets creating ripples in the asphalt pools beneath his feet. A step under the hipped awning saves his expensive clothing from becoming soaked. His long, houndstooth blazer of a dreary grey color and a dotted scarf wrapped once around his neck make him blend in nicely with the darkness.

Harry clears his throat and politely bows to the daunting watchman. "Kobanwa," he greets, hiding the gum under his tongue out of courtesy. (Good evening.)

"Kon'nichiwa," says the man with a reciprocated bow. "Anata no mōshide wa nanidesu ka?" (Hello. What is your offer?)

Opening the breast pocket of his blazer, Harry plucks out three bills. He unfolds the creased paper one by one, revealing the printed face of an esteemed writer and a five-digit number representing a hefty amount of yen. His desire is worth significantly more, but he'll undoubtedly be spending the rest of what's tucked in his wallet for reasons that will never be publicly disclosed.

"Sakura," Harry says with unwavering eye contact.

He only needs to speak a single name for the man to challengingly stare back for three seconds. He then takes the yen and inspects it for possible counterfeit, his nimble fingers flipping the banknotes over with a particular procedure. After an anticipatory moment of crinkling sounds and drowned-out electronic music, he raps a rhythmic knock on the garage behind him. It instantly lifts with a grinding creak, the smoke releasing from underneath and crawling up Harry's legs like ivy on a brick wall.

"Anata no norimono o tanoshinde kudasai." (Enjoy your ride.)

Harry gives the man a fixed smile and then enters his paradise. Weeks of lousy business trips that required him to globetrot across continents have led to this. Tokyo always has something sensational in store for him. He comes back to the sleepless city time and time again for the unpredictability.

Disappointment doesn't exist here — escapade does.

The metal stairs leading to the underground club are grungy and steep, so Harry uses the shaft of his umbrella as a makeshift cane to traverse down the dilapidated steps. Every footfall ends in a squeak until he reaches the velvet carpet at the bottom. Thumping music loudens, the scent of cigarettes grows stronger, and the beat of his heart pounds faster in anticipation.

Red curtains are suspended in front of him, and distant chatter that eclectically ranges from foreign to familiar dialect echoes from behind them. Harry sets his umbrella by the nearby coat rack, then takes his scarf and blazer off to hang them next to a pristine suit jacket. He takes a glimpse at his own suit. It's black cashmere with a contrasting white button-up underneath and a silk tie. He adjusts the collar, tugs on the lapels, and swiftly unclasps the single button. With a final ruffle of his flattened hair and a crack of his neck, he's ready for total immersion.

Pushing the curtains aside, he crosses the threshold. There's no turning back now.

The seductive ambiance immediately invades every one of his senses. There's red everywhere. The spacious room holds the key to subliminal distraction, from the ruby wallpaper to the vermillion leather booths. It's a sub-rosa room where players can have fun after dusk. Every soul that wanders in leaves with a newfangled perspective on the divine beauty of women. At least that's what Harry left with the first time he traipsed in as a fresh face from Europe, a wax-sealed invitation in his hesitant grasp.

He wouldn't call himself a loyal customer, per se. He's not dependent on the half-empty glasses of Yamazaki malt whiskey presented to him on serving trays, only to be respectfully declined. Nor does he come for the puffed cigars and joints perched between persuasive fingertips and lips.

No, it's the stage in his peripheral he floats toward. It's where his desire lies.

His Sakura.

She's on the round stage amid her nightly performance, one leg hooked around a silver pole protruding from the middle of the platform. A red spotlight shines down on her contorted body, her limbs reaching out like slender branches of a cherry blossom tree. Her long hair is snaked into six braids, four twisted up high and two tinier ones falling over her forehead. The audience of men, some standing close and some sitting in booths, piercingly whistle over the loud music while throwing wads of yen at her when she spins into an upside-down position with ease, gripping the pole using just her ankles. It gives everyone a full view of her leather bodysuit, the glossy black material with cutouts revealing peeks of smooth, brown skin.

Harry stuffs a hand in his pocket and lingers at the back of the club where no one can pester him with invasive questions about his intentions. They don't understand. He's not here to 'get some,' as they often assume. Sure, he'll leave the place feeling satisfied, but they don't know he gets to take home the woman they're currently fawning over.

Her pole dancing performance nears its end, with a final layer of smoke hovering over the circular platform. The mystique she exudes as she slides into an effortless split is tantalizing. Harry swallows thickly as his hand curls into a fist, every fiber of his being practically itching to be alone with her. He never grows tired of watching her, yet he's utterly addicted to what happens in their designated private room.

The red spotlight switches to a bright white, and his Sakura smiles dazzlingly while collecting the bills thrown her way. Harry smirks and applauds, then pushes off the wall to give her his own special offering. This part seems to always occur in slow motion for him. His eyes are locked onto her as he waits until she catches his hypnotic gaze. He weaves through the crowd while chewing on his now flavorless gum, mumbling apologies when he bumps into people's drunken sways until he finally reaches the stage. Slightly opening his suit, he reaches into the interior breast pocket and pulls out a plucked cherry blossom. Technically speaking, he breaks the law every time he acquires the pink symbolism of human existence, but it's of little consequence to his morals. He has much worse crimes under his belt.

Harry gently holds out the blossom amidst flying yen, a pastel pink delicacy in a sea of brown riches. The following moments play out like a scene in a movie. Time seems to freeze as he homes in on the sound of her high heels clicking closer. He steadily looks up, taking in her tall legs and heaving chest. She tucks a few yen in the tight seam of her bodysuit, then provides him with her undivided attention.

"For me?" she mouths over the deafening music.

His lips break into a wide smile at the sound of her euphonic voice he so longingly missed. "Always for you."

Bending down, she takes the cherry blossom from him and brings it under her nose. Her eyes flutter shut as she smells the fragrant flower. It's flattering that no matter how often she's received one, she still sticks it behind her ear like she does now.

The surrounding men marvel over her, but they'll be distracted soon enough. Two more poles emerge from the stage, and a group of stripper girls come out to continue the regularly scheduled show. Harry doesn't lose focus on his Sakura, simply backing away slowly and jerking his head toward the VIP rooms. It's a drill he aims to follow through with zero problems arising. Almost everyone here is a stranger, so that means they cannot be trusted in the slightest. It's why he doesn't speak to them. If any outsiders find out about the dirty business he deals with on the side, it's a downhill slope into deep trouble.

Harry stops at the opposite side of the room and faces another security guard, but this time, it's one he knows quite well. "Ryōji," he says while bowing. "O-genki desu ka?" (How are you?)

Ryōji bows and withdraws a small gold key from one of the ten hooks behind him. "Okaeri nasai," he responds. (Welcome back.)

Welcome back, indeed. Harry quickly glances around and then places a heavy hand on Ryōji's shoulder, leaning in so no one else can hear him. In English, he murmurs, "We've got another one out back. Do you think you can get some men to handle it before sunrise? I'll have the money sent to you by next week."

The deep inhalation Ryōji takes always makes him nervous. A dreadful silence passes before he says, "Yes, sir. Any special instructions?"

Harry gives him a friendly pat on the arm and takes the key. "Just the usual. She already took care of the hard part."

"As you wish."

With that, Harry gratefully nods and then walks into the back area, where several red doors, some open and some closed, present themselves in a semi-circular fashion. Steering to the right, he throws his gum away and goes to the door with a black '七' on it.

Lucky number seven for a joyride in heaven.

The room is a perfect size, with curtains hanging over the walls for a more intimate experience. Two velvet couches are placed on either side, and a table with glasses and a bottle of an unknown alcoholic drink sits nearby. And, of course, a red light emits from the low ceiling.

Harry gets comfortable, tugging his pant legs and sitting on the plush couch. Precious time ticks by, the songs slowing into more sultry beats as he waits. He checks his diamond-encrusted wristwatch — it's half past midnight, yet he doesn't feel tired. Maybe it's the adrenaline coursing through his veins. Only the mysterious aura of Tokyo can bring him an electric charge like no other.

At last, Desiree struts into the room and daintily falls sideways into his lap. Her stripper name is Sakura, but her real name is used when she's alone with him. She jumps right in and holds his scruffy cheek, kissing all over his face as the red lipstick she wears stamps evidence on his flushed skin.

"I've missed you," she whispers in his ear.

Harry holds her waist and rolls his hips for some relief. "It's all my fault, isn't it? I've been so busy."

Desiree takes the key from him and quickly locks the door. When she returns, she straddles him and says, "You came back to me, though."

He nips her neck, short and tender. "I got your text message and flew straight here."

She grips his chin. "That message wasn't about seeing me."

Harry swallows thickly, his throat suddenly parched. "We don't need to talk about that right now," he murmurs.

"But it will be dealt with?" she asks, her eyebrows dipping with concern.

"Yes, my love."

"Okay." She gently passes her thumb over his eyelashes like they're pages of a well-loved book. "That's all I need to hear."

Harry distracts himself from the dangerous subject by twirling one of her braids around his pointer finger. "I like it when you wear your hair like this, Desi. So pretty."

"Yeah?"

"Mm-hmm. I've gone far too long without you."

She begins loosening his tie. "Tell me what you need."

Sifting through his brain, Harry contemplates his options. The club doesn't allow actual intercourse inside its perimeters, so there are limited, albeit creative, methods that are used. Desiree once told him that the strippers are given a manual of all the diverse ways they can please a customer. There was a specific one he heard her briefly mention in passing. At the time, he was too shy to ask for more details, so he went home and researched the term. Needless to say, it sounded worthwhile.

"Can I have the... red light special? Is that what it's called?"

Desiree smirks and remarks, "That's new. You've never asked for that before."

He blushes with a lackadaisical shrug. "Sorry. Being edged just sounds really fuckin' good right now."

"Why are you apologizing?" She pushes lightly on his chest so he can comfortably lean against the couch. "Relax. Let me take care of you."

Harry couldn't possibly argue, especially when she doesn't waste any time and starts with a green light. Gripping his shoulders, she smoothly rocks into his body with quick movements. His hands knead her ass, the bodysuit bestowing the perfect amount of skin for him to grab. The tension in his muscles alleviates as she applies pressure to his growing bulge, every perpetual grind making him harder by the minute. His eyes and neck roll back, and he forgets why he was ever stressed hours prior and instead succumbs to the satisfying ache she provides him.

"Oh, my God," Harry moans, spreading his legs further apart. "Fuck, Desi, you feel so good. I'm all yours."

She bites her bottom lip and moves her hips counterclockwise. The switch has Harry gritting his teeth. Shuddering, he opens his mouth and pathetically whimpers while running his hands up her clenched thighs. He feels hot — sweaty, sticky, and salaciously hot. He's burning in a blitz of fiery passion.

Yellow light is when Desiree slows down, still grinding swivels over his pelvis. The throbbing of his cock ceases, and the buildup disappears momentarily. Her back arches as she uses her height over him to palm him with her hand. Leisurely, she squeezes where the head of his cock is through his pants, and a sensitive tingle rushes down his spine as he bites down on his knuckles to suppress his pleading noises.

"Does that feel nice?" she asks, kissing his slack jaw.

Harry's face crumbles in submission. "I need to come. It feels so tight, I- I can't take it anymore."

Red light. He knows he asked for it, but when she stops moving and stands before him, he reaches for her absent touch. "No, come back. C'mon, please. Stop playing around."

She ignores him and kneels on the ground. With one finger, she trails it up his inner thigh until it reaches his covered cock. She fondles with the length of it, erotically squeezing in all the right places while looking at him with eyes of a rich brown color. He often dreams of her mouth puckered around it, wet lips and hollowed cheeks making him fall apart.

Suddenly, his tie is removed, and Desiree holds it up. "Are you ready?"

"I'm so close," Harry breathes out. Inhaling sharply through his nose, he adds, "You're so gorgeous, do you know that? Got me... shit, I'm absolutely aching for you."

She stuffs the tie in his mouth and finally straddles him again, riding his thighs to bring him to his peak. His moans are muffled against the fabric as she gives him a lap dance, her body rolling to the R&B music from the distant speakers.

It doesn't take long for Harry to come, a damp spot forming on his pants shortly after. Every part of his body feels light as he spits his tie out, breathing heavily. He really needed this.

"Ready to leave this place?" he asks, touching himself until he's soft and able to walk.

Desiree kisses him, her tongue delving into his mouth, before nodding. "Are you taking me on another joyride?"

Harry smirks and wipes off the lipstick stain she left on the corner of his mouth with the pad of his thumb. "Full throttle, baby."

——

デザレイ

The first thing Desiree sees when rounding the corner of the alleyway is a parked Kawasaki motorcycle.

The rain has let up, only a light drizzle now falling from the starlit sky. People still pass by with umbrellas, minding their business. The lights outside are stimulating, with signs above casting fuchsia pink and Prussian blue hues over her and Harry's faces. The air reeks of gasoline and smoke, vehicles racing past to hop on the expressway. It's a city of nocturnal souls who get off on cheap thrills, and she couldn't help but get hooked on the appeal. Night crawling on a high-speed bike through the neon streets is the most thrilling adventure she can imagine.

Harry rents out a different motorcycle every time he visits. When they first met, he told her he owned a marketing firm in London, so he had the money to afford such luxuries. The first time he walked into the club, she thought he would be like everyone else — a drunk and lonesome man needing attention. However, he was actually a man of innocence who stumbled upon an underground scene he wasn't expecting. She saw the intrigue in his eyes and taught him how her world worked. She let him choose what he desired without taking advantage of him. She trusted his intentions and let him see every side of her, saintly or sinful.

Their journey leads to the eager way he's looking at her now, one gloved hand holding out a helmet and the other gripping the motorcycle's handlebar.

"Ladies first," he says with a playful smile.

Desiree tightens the belt on her blood-red leather coat and puts the helmet on. It rubs uncomfortably against her hair, but she's not one to place beauty above safety precautions. She then hikes a leg over the back seat, and Harry does the same motions while straddling the front seat and starting the engine. It rumbles to life when he squeezes the clutch, and he attractively revs the engine three times.

"All good?" Harry calls out behind him, using the back of his shoe to kick up the kickstand.

She wraps both arms around his waist and props her chin on his shoulder. "So good."

Reaching back to squeeze her thigh, he speeds into the fast lane. For the next twenty minutes, the brisk wind blows in her ears, and the feeling of flying overtakes her entire body. She spreads her arms, and Tokyo comes alive just for her, blurry colors whooshing past as they accelerate through traffic on the winding expressway. They ride out of the district and towards Marunouchi, where the Shangri-La Hotel is located. With five stars and eleven floors of pure splendor, it's the best place to have a late-night rendezvous.

When they eventually pull up to the hotel, a rectangular building made entirely of glass panes, Harry parks the motorcycle and kills the engine. Desiree carefully removes her helmet and fixes her hair the best she can. Her makeup feels tacky against her skin, but the cool air of an autumn night is refreshing. She looks over to see Harry do the same, his hair sticking up every which way. He sheepishly grins at her and rolls his eyes.

"Hurry up," Desiree says through chattering teeth. She bounces on her heels, feeling the ache travel from her ankles to the tips of her toes.

"All right, all right," Harry mumbles jokingly, holding his hand out. "I'll have a word with Raijin about the inadequate weather."

"Studying Japanese deities, are we?"

Interlocking her numb fingers with his, they head inside the lavish lobby and take the elevator to the seventh floor. The ride is quiet, and exhaustion finally catches up to them. After six beeps, a more prolonged one sounds, and the doors slide open. They walk down the narrow hallway to the back, where the suites are located. Harry swipes his key card and twists the door handle to go inside, Desiree following closely.

The suite is as tidy and stylish as one would expect from a businessman staying there. Two designer-brand suitcases are stacked in the corner by the running air conditioner. A housekeeper must have cleaned and organized his belongings. Crisp white sheets on the king bed look quintessential for bundling up in.

Desiree removes her heels and flops on the firm mattress. She blearily watches Harry open the mini fridge by the door, hearing the clink of beer bottles. Her assumption proves correct when one is thrown beside her, yet her body has no energy left to open the cap and drink the bitter liquid.

Harry takes off his suit jacket and button up, then sits against the headboard and spreads his legs on either side of her sprawled-out body. He takes a swig of beer, his jawline sharp and his throat bobbing. His bare torso, decorated with tattoos, looks like the perfect pillow, so Desiree shimmies upwards to lay her head on his abdomen. She listens to his subtle breathing.

"So, how'd you kill him?"

Well, that's one way to initiate a conversation. Desiree snaps her eyes to his, staring at him a little funny due to her position. "Katana," she answers casually. "Quick and easy."

He hums, sets his beer on the nightstand, and then delicately untangles her two front braids. "Made a mess, huh? Ryōji's men won't be too happy about that."

She fidgets with one of her loose acrylic nails. "They've dealt with worse cleanups."

She knew what she was getting into when she decided to work in Tokyo's Red Light District. There's no way to sugarcoat what goes down in the alleyways. It doesn't feel like a crime to her if she's getting rid of the bad guys. It's justified in her mind.

Harry moves his hands to undo her bigger braids. "I know," he says softly, "but it's getting riskier. And more expensive on my end."

Sighing, Desiree replies, "Asphyxiation is so boring, though. I like my swords."

"Desi, I'm serious." He tilts her head to look at her straight on. "It worries me when you do those types of killings, and I'm not here to handle the outcome. What if something were to go wrong?"

She frowns. "We're a team. You flew out to me without hesitation when I told you my plan."

"Yes, but you act on impulse sometimes," he says, putting her elastic ponytail around his wrist. "I can't always do that with my job. You're lucky I was available."

"So, you only came to help with the repercussions? Not to see me?"

"You know that's not true. If it was, I'd be on a plane back to London right now instead of spending the night with you in Tokyo."

"Just making sure," she says with a hidden undertone of insecurity.

Once all six braids are out, her hair frizzy and free, Desiree sits up and takes her suffocating coat off. Underneath, she has a more comfortable outfit that she changed into before leaving the club. She internally debates whether she wants to go through the hassle of taking everything off, but before she can thoroughly weigh her options, Harry reaches over to open the nightstand drawer, pulling out something crinkly.

"I, uh, bought some makeup wipes," he explains while fidgeting with the package. "I didn't know what brand you use, but it's coconut, and I know you like coconut rum. There's no correlation, but it's the thought that counts, right?"

Desiree is speechless for a moment. This is the first time he's done something like that. "Th-thanks. Can you help me take it off?" she suggests quietly.

"'Course. Scoot over."

She takes one side of the bed and sits cross-legged in front of Harry as he plucks a wipe. He folds it into a compact square four times and then hovers it over her face. His gaze wanders a bit before he starts gently swiping under her eyes.

He speaks up again once the air conditioner clicks off. "Can I ask, pray tell, why you killed him?"

Desiree breathes out a laugh. "Funny," she says as he scrubs the pigmented blush off her cheeks. "I remember when you couldn't even stomach asking me that question. Now you do all the dirty side work."

Harry shrugs. "You're a bad influence."

Sage advice from two people who dabble in reincarnating as a more sadistic Bonnie and Clyde: It's remarkably more fun to have a loyal partner in crime than to be a lone outlaw.

"Let's see," she muses with a dramatic flair. "His name was... fuck if I know. All I was told was that he was a gang member who lured young girls in and brainwashed them into committing crimes around Shinjuku for money worth jack squat."

"Jesus. What about the other gang members?" he asks, wiping her smeared lipstick off.

"I'm not too worried about them. They would never suspect a stripper at Joyride killed one of their own. They'll probably assume it was another gang's doing."

"That's a relief." Harry yawns and tosses the dirtied makeup wipe into the nearby garbage. "All right, I've had enough of killer talk. Shall we get some sleep?"

Desiree grins tiredly and touches the smoothness of her bare face. "We shall. My body aches."

Stripping takes a toll on her joints and muscles, especially since she incorporates performance art into her dancing. Untreated strains and torn ligaments have been left in the past due to years of training, but residual pain still lingers each night when she steps off the stage.

Once they're comfortable under the sheets, Desiree curls into Harry's warm chest. "When do I have you until?" she asks reluctantly.

He wraps an arm over her back and says, "Tomorrow night."

She recounts all the times he's had to catch a red-eye flight immediately after they would arrive at the hotel. Tonight, she's lucky she gets him a little longer than usual.

"It's better than nothing."

Harry scrunches her hair and leaves a long kiss on her temple. "You can always come back to Europe with me," he murmurs. The scent of beer wafting in his breath is mouth-watering.

Desiree shakes her head solemnly. "I can't. I belong here."

"I understand." She feels him smile before kissing her head once more. "A cherry blossom should stay in Japan, right?"

"Very clever." She closes her eyes. There's an elongated pause of internal reflection before she continues. "Listen, I don't want you to feel trapped. I don't want you to feel like I'm using you."

Harry rubs the sore muscles around her shoulder blades. "I don't feel that way. I chose to get involved with how you live your life. If I'm being honest, I quite enjoy the danger of it."

It's easy for him to say when he only has to deal with the business side of it. A pipeline of recruitment occurred where Shyla loosely hired Harry to hire men who would dispose of the dead bodies she threw in the dumpster behind the club. No one dares to roam that haunted alleyway, which makes it the most adequate place to safely hide a killing. Then, he pays them handsomely in cash for successfully completing the treacherous deed.

Desiree cups his cheek and whispers, "Please... just tell me if it ever gets too much and you want out. I'll find someone else."

"It's never too much when your intentions are good."

It's not enough. His safety is her top priority.

"Tell me to stop, and I will," she says sternly. "Give me the red light, and I'll go to Europe with you. You can show me Buckingham Palace and that stupid clock—"

"Desi," Harry interrupts with a thumb against her parted lips. "I will tell you if it gets to that point, okay?"

She takes his large hand and holds onto it like it's the last time she'll ever touch his skin. "Promise me."

"Yakusoku." (Promise.)

His spoken oath doesn't mend the problem she has with herself. There's a constant battle whenever she thinks too deeply about what she participates in. She questions whether it was a mistake getting involved in cover-up assassinations and bringing Harry into it. He used to be innocent. Someone who discovered the darker side of Tokyo and is now stuck in the whirlwind of her immoral faults. Did she make him into a brand-new person? A monster? One that knows her crimes and prevents them from becoming exposed?

Is it wrong that she fell for him in the process?

She can never tell him. No, that would complicate things beyond the boundary lines she drew for herself long before she met him. There are too many risks when feelings are a factor — risks of turning on each other if there are relationship issues. Then there's the plain and straightforward risk of barely seeing each other in person. It's all too poisonous of a pool to dip her feet into. Her guard is up, and it's not coming down for anything or anyone.

However, as Desiree drifts into a dreamland, she realizes her guard is lower whenever Harry is around. With his fingers soothingly scratching up and down her aching spine, she doesn't feel the uncertainty that always clouds her mind when he's not beside her. It clears when she awakes to the smell of brewing coffee and room service breakfast on a cart before she can even open her eyes. It gnaws at her boarded-up heart until the pieces chip away. What's left is a vulnerable girl who seeks refuge but can't leave a place of fortune and frisson. She's a moon in broad daylight.

Does she want to be saved? Or does the red light call her name for a reason?

——

#harry styles fanfic #harry styles imagine #harry styles au #harry styles x oc #harry styles smut #harry styles one shot #harry styles #adore-laur #joyride

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rotworld · 8 months

Text

2: Warped Reflection

(previous)

on your way to prismville, you find an empty town.

->contains mild gore, dubiously consensual touching

One of the trees isn’t a tree. You’ve been keeping an eye on it since you pulled over.

Lunch is your leftovers from Henley Creek. You reach into the box you keep strapped into the passenger seat, half a dozen eggs cushioned by checkered cloth, and watch the thing creep closer. It’s the only cottonwood in a line of aspens. Spindly, bare branches swivel and twitch without wind to move them, bending at joints they shouldn’t have like radio antennae. Even when you’re looking directly at it, watching its gnarled bark shift ever so slightly ahead of its neighbors in the smallest, slowest inchworm increments, your brain struggles to recognize this as movement. It leaves no tracks, no trailing roots or dragging mud in the earth behind it. It seems like it’s always been where it is now.

The eggs are ripe, the shells crunchier. The jam-colored insides form clots of salty pearls that split on your teeth like roe. You lick a cloudy dribble of yolk from the corner of your lips and use your last napkin. It doesn’t look all that different from the other crumpled balls of bloodied tissue stuffed into a trash bag in your backseat. You lean over and pull your hand-drawn map out of the glove compartment, adding a tree with wiggling, finger-like branches to the blank space between Henley Creek and Prismville. You don’t plan on backtracking, but someone else coming south might need to know. While your right hand sketches, your left hand rests in your lap, wrapped in bandages. The pain comes and goes. You feel dead-end sinew twitching, trying to move something you no longer have.

Home is northeast, your heart says. You start the car and pull back onto the road. In the rearview mirror, you see the tree’s trunk twisted and bent. Every limb, every twig, every prickly little branch has curved downward, grasping like aerial roots for the empty space where you were just parked.

[NOW PLAYING ON THE RADIO: NEVERLAND BY LA SCALTRA]

There’s rain just briefly. Water sprinkles the windshield and glistens on the road. There’s a peculiar odor you can’t identify. It smells the way ice tastes or wind feels, whispers and almost somethings. You see shapes in the road and have just enough time to stop, tires squealing, the eggs in the box knocking against each other. It’s a woman in a brown shawl and two young children clinging to her skirts. They walk slowly. She tilts her head, staring directly into your headlights. The wicker basket on her arm is full of thorny weeds, wildflowers and budding, sepal-wrapped eggs. You hold your breath and don’t move a muscle until she and the children cross the road and vanish into the underbrush.

The highway narrows, three lanes merging gradually into a single rough, uneven road. There’s a river ahead and a covered bridge across. Ancient wooden planks groan and rattle beneath your tires. It’s colder on the other side. You see a rust-eaten sign wobbling on metal stilts, jutting out of an overgrown flowerbed. Something corrosive has taken a chunk out of the corner and bit through the gold lettering, leaving only “LCOME TO NEW RIDGEWAY.” A mirror is propped up against one of the signposts.

The fog thins but only a little. You drive slowly between brick apartment blocks and gently lit storefronts. For a while, you don’t see anyone. Not on the road. Not dining under the striped cafe awning on the corner or in line at the burger drive-thru. Not along the riverwalk, or at the post office, or at the crosswalk. There are a handful of cars parked on the street but no one inside. But there are mirrors—thousands of them. Full-length rectangles lean against utility poles and sidewalk trees. A row of small circles in brass frames line an alley, echoing infinite reflections at one another. Hand mirrors dangle from a fire escape, ribbons tied around the handles and looped through the metal walkway.

The abandonment seems recent. Lights are still on. The grass is neatly manicured. “Free Bagels!” proclaims the local bakery’s chalk sign on the sidewalk, the door propped open. You poke your head inside and think you spot movement behind the counter, but it’s just a mirror.

Your bewildered reflection stares back at you. It cocks its head sharply like a curious bird. Then it smiles.

You’ve got one foot in your car and the keys in the ignition when something stirs the fog. A person, the first you’ve seen here, slips out of an alley. Glancing back and forth and ahead and behind him, he walks casually but quickly like someone afraid to draw a predator’s eye. He’s thin and delicate-looking, tugging nervously at the long sleeves of a black turtleneck sweater, long blond hair feathering across his shoulders.

He’s at your window in just a few long strides, knocking softly but frantically. His voice is muffled and he’s nearly whispering but you catch what’s probably “please,” “help” and “be here soon.” You’ve neither rolled down your window nor unlocked your car but he’s presumptuous or maybe desperate, crossing quickly to the passenger side. He tugs uselessly at the door handle and peers at you with wide, teary eyes.

Your fingers perch on the button to unlock the door, indecisive. Then you hear the dragging; stone grinding against stone. A woman lurches through the fog, her suit jacket hanging open and her tie loosened. There’s blood on her shirt but something else, too, watery and dark like motor oil or ink. She moves with a lopsided, lumbering gait because of the sledgehammer she’s dragging behind her.

“Please,” the man says, louder this time. “Please, please, please don’t leave me out here, please!” The woman moves faster. She wraps both hands around the sledgehammer’s long wooden handle and you make your choice.

The doors unlock and the man flings himself into your passenger seat. He’s startled by the box of eggs but quick enough to catch himself against the dash when you slam your foot on the gas. The woman doesn’t give chase but you don’t slow down, watching for anything else moving in the fog.

“Thank you,” the man says. He’s crammed himself into the space in front of the passenger seat, folding his arms over the egg box and peering up at you. “Thank you so much. Can you just—I don’t live far from here. Take a left at the light there.”

“Is it safe?” you ask him.

“Yes. Everything’s just fine as long as you stay inside. Follow this road a while. I’ll tell you when to turn.” His jeans are fraying at the knees and he picks at them occasionally, his nails unusually sharp. He lifts himself just high enough to peer out the window occasionally but mostly he looks at you. His eyes are vivid green. “Why did you help me?” he asks.

“Why?” you repeat, not expecting the question. “You thought I’d just leave you there?”

“You thought about it. I wouldn’t have blamed you.” He plucks at his sleeves again, tugging at them until they cover all but his fingertips. “The Drift is dangerous. So many things pretending to be people. I could’ve been one, but you let me in anyway. Ah, it’s this turn coming up. Go right.”

“I like to see if I can help,” you say. The suburbs are just as dead as downtown. The bins are out for trash collection. A garage door is wide open, an unwound gardening hose snaking around the back of the house. You think you see curtains move in an upstairs window, but you aren’t sure. “If I have to fight, I’ll fight. But I try to help first.”

“It’s that one. The house with a birdbath on the lawn. I’m Elisile, by the way,” he says, managing a small smile. Then he frowns. “You look…disappointed.”

“Oh, no, sorry,” you say quickly. “Just lost in thought. This one, you said?”

“Yes, this one.” He’s watching you while you pull into his driveway. “You’re…one of those, aren’t you? Not just a courier, but…you look so normal…” You put the car in park and unlock the door, not looking at him. “No, I’m—I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean…I used to have a friend in the Stillwoods. She was one, too.” He winces as he squeezes himself out of the small space and gets out of your car, rolling his shoulders and stretching his legs. “Sorry. And thank you again,” he says, offering a soft smile. His eyes are an earthy brown. You blink, startled. Was that the color they were earlier? “I’d ask you to come in but I don’t have much to offer,” he says. His soft laughter dies in his throat as his gaze shifts down the street. You see a car in the rearview mirror, screeching erratically down the street.

“I should probably go, huh?”

“No. She’ll run you off the road,” he says quickly. “Come on. We’ll wait her out.”

You don’t like the idea of leaving your deliveries unattended but the car swerves onto the curb and into the grass, smashing the birdbath. Elisile practically drags you with him up the steps. He doesn’t stop to fumble with his keys. It’s unlocked. He doesn’t think to lock it behind him as you stagger into the entryway so you do it for him, slipping the deadbolt into place just as something hard and heavy slams into the front door.

“We should be alright now.” The house is silent. Dust dances in a beam of strangled sunlight. The hallway is furnished with soft carpet, potted plants and a decorative glass dish sitting on a narrow table off to one side. Elisile watches you take in your surroundings. He’s smiling. Not in a cruel, menacing way but warm and comforting. He looks delighted when you notice the mirrors lining the hall. “I never did explain what happened here, did I?” he muses. “You never asked. That’s so…unusual.”

Elisile takes a step forward and you lurch back, stumbling. There’s a pile of shoes beside the door. Adult’s and children’s. The welcome mat has little paw prints running across it.

“You have to be careful with mirrors in the Drift,” he says. “You know all about that. Special glass, special chemicals. Your car’s all up to code, but in New Ridgeway? These are the old style. Thinner. Easier to move through.”

“Why?” you ask, feeling blindly behind yourself for the doorknob. You’re not careful and slam your wounded hand against it, pain radiating all the way up to your shoulder. He’s coming closer but he’s not stopping you. His eyes flick down to your bandages with interest. “Why would you—why fill a town with them?”

“Why do you help people you shouldn’t, child of the road?”

Your fingers fumble with the deadlock and that’s when he lunges. He goes for your hand, squeezing the tender, throbbing spot where your little finger used to be and slamming you up against the door. He’s cold against you. His breath is frigid and his skin leeches your body heat.

“I’ll tell you why,” he whispers, brushing his knuckles against your cheek. “Because you’re trying to go home but you can’t, so you take what you can get. And they’re close enough, aren’t they? When you’re lost together, you almost feel safe.” You twist out of his grip, fumbling with the lock just long enough to feel his cold fingers ghost across your shoulder. Two stumbling steps out the door, you freeze.

The woman you saw before is right there, clawing to the door on her hands and knees. She’s bruised and bloody, her sledgehammer lying in the grass by her feet. There’s something on top of her. It’s a person, you think. It is, for just a second. Then it shifts and shimmers, fractaling into other shapes. Human, animal, celestial bodies, unnatural angles, it wraps a hand—a claw? A tendril, silver and reflective—around her throat and pulls until she arches uncomfortably, tilting her head up at the thing with a scream caught in her chest.

Elisile’s fingers curl beneath your chin and he guides your gaze back to him, standing beside you in the grass. “You’re more like us than you are them,” he says. “There’s no home for you here. There never will be, no matter how useful you are.”

“Home is northeast,” you tell him. Your voice quivers. His gaze softens with pity. The woman in the grass reaches out with one trembling hand, the other clawing and pulling at the thing around her throat. It squeezes tighter. Its changing fingers and feathers and insectoid limbs hold her head still. Something sharp pricks the corner of her eye. A gushing wound spreads across her forehead. The thing starts to settle, shapes smoothing, colors flattening. It has her eyes.

“I can be your home,” he offers. “I can give you everything they can’t.” His eyes are deep blue, and probably not his. He leans in, pressing his lips to your cheek. It’s cold and sharp. You feel a bead of blood slide down your chin. When he cups the back of your neck, you push him away. You hear him sigh as you rush to the woman, past her and the thing and the toppled birdbath, grasping clumsily for the sledgehammer. It’s heavy and the space of your missing finger still stings. The metal wedge drags through the dirt as you struggle to lift it with your fumbling grip.

“You’ll never find it,” Elisile says, the kindness gone from his voice. His words are flat and emotionless but that welcoming smile and those warm, changing eyes remain. “You’ll search forever. You’ll wander until you die. You’ll do everything they say but you will never be welcome. Do you understand? No matter where you go, child of the road, it. Won’t. Be. There.”

You swing the sledgehammer and the thing shatters. Shards of light and cold and wriggling shape burst apart with a shrieking hiss, black blood spattering your face. It’s cold and stinging. Trying to wipe it off your chin cuts up your fingers. The woman heaves and sputters, clutching her bruised throat. Blood trickles from a gash across her forehead and drips into her eyes.

Elisile is gone. The door to the house is wide open. The sledgehammer slips from your trembling hands.

“Hey, are—are you still there?” the woman says hoarsely. “I saw you earlier, right? In town? I need help getting to my car. Like, now. Before it comes back.” She tries to stand and winces, catching herself with her hands. She’s keeping her weight off of her right leg. “God, I must look insane. Listen, I’m not one of those things. I'm cleanup crew. Check me! Glass mimics are cold to the touch and they don’t sweat. I’m bleeding red, right?”

She’s warm when you sling her arm over your shoulder and help her to her feet. She makes a pained sound and leans more of her weight against you. There’s a leather messenger bag in the passenger seat of her car and papers scattered around the back. Her medical supplies are in the trunk.

“Hey. Whatever it told you, don’t sweat it,” she says. “They like to fuck with people. It’s all mimicry, just copying stuff they’ve overheard. They don’t really get humans, you know? They don’t know what we feel, why we do things.”

“Right,” you say weakly.

“Ugh, I need a shower. You know what the closest town is? There’s fucking nothing out west.”

“Prismville’s somewhere north, but—”

“Civilization! Thank god.” She slaps a few bandaids on her forehead and wipes the rest of the blood on the sleeve of her suit jacket, tossing it haphazardly into the backseat. “Talk later, alright? You lead, I’ll follow. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

You nod, dazed. You don’t have it in you to argue. You hear the woman’s car stutter before it starts. She gives you a thumbs-up in the rearview mirror. You hesitate before pulling out of the driveway, glancing up at the house. There’s no one there. The mimic has retreated for now, moved on to easier prey.

You rub the cut on your cheek where he kissed you. If no one else had been in danger, if you’d been all alone, would you have let him hold you? Would you have let him sink his teeth into your lips? Your neck? Somewhere even more tender? Would you have given him your eyes if he promised you somewhere you could always come back to, knowing it must be a lie?

Home is northeast, says the heart. Your throat constricts and it’s hard to breathe as you ignore the pull and drive due north instead.

(next)

#rotpeach writes #goretober #the drift #i promise this will not just be “weird vague things happen the novel” lol it'll start to make sense #hopefully. potentially. eventually

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