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finntheehumaneater · 3 months

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These dirt roads are empty, the ones we paved ourselves

part two

Just a short little thing so that I can’t panic and back out of finishing this fic. Based on this post by @eddie4bat-president. And I hope it was okay that I wrote it, it just SPOKE TO ME

title from “A House In Nebraska” by Ethel Cain (as always 🩵)

Steve knew that Nancy wasn’t going to work out. He knew, but he was holding onto what little hope he had left that maybe, just maybe, he was wrong. That maybe this would last and he wouldn’t have to end up alone again—crawling back to Tommy like a fucking obedient dog because even though he was friends with Billy, he was still all Steve had left.

Carol didn’t talk to him anymore. She went off with her friends. Nancy said that was a good thing—that he was away from Carol and Tommy and that he was friends with Jonathan now, even though he and Jonathan only ever hung out when Nancy forced them too. But she didn’t understand. Tommy and Carol may have been assholes, and he had always known that, but he had been one, too, but they knew too much to just drop him like they had.

It hadn’t been easy. There had been yelling and fighting when they all met up at Steve’s house the next time. Tommy had thrown something—a vase, maybe—and Steve had gotten in trouble for that when his mom had gotten home. He had told her that she had broken it. She wouldn’t have believed him if he had said it had been Tommy, but he didn’t want there to be a chance. His mom was bad, but Tommy’s mom was worse.

“Steve?” A voice cut through the fog shrouding him and he turned, his eyes searching Nancy’s face. She had that look in her eyes—like she was mad at him. He didn’t know what for. It was expected and annoyed, and it made his shoulders drop.

He cleared his throat.

“Yeah? Nance?”

“I asked if you brought your things?” She repeated, slowly. Like she thought that Steve wouldn’t be able to hear her if she talked normally. It stabbed through him like a knife—but he wasn’t mad, he knew she was just annoyed and she didn’t mean anything by it. She was just…like this.

“I, uh…” he spun around, looking over his shoulder and nearly bumping into something. Lots of faces. Loud. Lockers….oh. School hallway. Right. He forgot it was Tuesday. “No. No, I left…my backpack in the kitchen.”

Nancy scowled, and Steve wanted to be anywhere but at school. The people here didn’t like him anymore, not since Billy. He didn’t want to be shoved around by people who thought he was worthless now that he wouldn’t make fun of people.

“You left it in the kitchen,” she repeated, her eyes narrowing.

Steve nodded, his face flushed. It wasn’t his fault. She had practically thrown herself at him near the counter, pushing him against it with something desperate in her kisses and her touches, smoothing over his arms and his chest and his shoulders. It hadn’t really seemed like she was into it, but she had started it, and he knew better than to ask—just going along with it and letting her have what she (maybe) wanted from him. Anything if it kept her close and (maybe) happy. “We were…we were kissing, I…”

“You forgot it because we were kissing?” She sounded accusatory now, her fingers twitching from where they were digging into her white cardigan, arms crossed over her chest. It was one of the ones with little pink flowers—that he had gotten her from Christmas—laid over the long green dress that sweeped to her ankles, winched at the waist and sort of pleated, the cotton scratchy. His mom had bought that for her after she found out they were dating. Said she deserved something nice from her since she seemed like such a nice girl. And she was. She was a nice girl.

“I got distracted,” he whispered, stepping forward and cupping his hand around her elbow, knowing that she kind of hated when he got touchy in public now—didn’t get why because she used to love it—because he just needed to touch something or he was going to lose his mind among the kids smoking over by the bathrooms and the girls chatting by his locker. One of them was leaning against it. He was dreading asking her to move in a minute. “I-it’s fine, though, Nance, really. I have all my books in my—in my locker. I’ll be okay.”

He watched careful, cautiously, when the corner of her mouth quirked up and she breathed out a laugh, pressing her hands to his shoulders and pulling herself up onto the toes of her sneakers to press her lips to his cheeks, murmuring, “what am I going to do with you, Steve Harrington?”

Steve smiled, wrapping his hands around her waist and shrugging, feeling her hands press down a bit harder when he did to keep herself steady. “Dunno, Nancy Wheeler.”

She scoffed, leaning back slightly and falling back to flat feet, slipping her hands down to his chest, lightly gripped at the fabric of his t-shirt. An old one that he let her take without asking because that’s what girlfriends and boyfriends were supposed to do, right? She never wore them out in public like Carol wore Tommy’s clothes, though. But Nancy was different. “Don’t call me by my full name.”

“But you can call me by mine?” He teased lightly, pressing a kiss to her hairline, moving down to her eyebrow and only stopping when she laughed and gently grabbed his jaw, pushing him back. His hands slipped from her waist.

“Yours sounds better.”

“Mmm, does it?”

She nodded, crossing her arms again. “Yeah.”

“I mean—Nancy Harrington…kinda sounds nice, don’t you think?” He was only joking—and he didn’t mean to make her upset by it, honest, it was a joke—but he watched as her shoulders rose up to her ears, tense and tight, shrugging and looking away. Towards one of the posters for that weird club her younger brother wanted to join. They didn’t take middle schoolers, though.

“We should get to class. Steve,” She whispered, saying his name as an afterthought, like she forgot who she had been talking to. She reached out to brush her hand down his arm quickly, fixing the sleeve of his t-shirt from where it had hiked up before she turned. He didn’t follow her for a moment.

He didn’t know how he had fucked this up so badly. She had her future all planned out—and apparently she didn’t know if he was a part of it. She was going to go to some fancy college up north and become a journalist. And he fit in there somewhere if he was still around.

He had thought that she was in his future, too. A house, six kids, long drives on the coast to beaches that would leave sand in their shoes for years…he hadn’t told her that, though. She wouldn’t have liked it. Called it what it was. A dream. Because who would want kids with him? Everyone turned into their parents. And six controlling and manipulative people was six too many. Seven too many if you counted himself. It was only a matter of time before he started to enjoy those meetings he was occasionally dragged to. Before he would cut his hair short—buzz it, even—and marry young. Get rich. Get hateful. Get sick. Spend the rest of his life wishing and hoping that things would work out when they wouldn’t.

That’s what was in store for Steve Harrington. Never Steve Wheeler.

He asked the girl leaning on his locker to move and she did. Her hair was cut short, to her shoulders and light brown. She had been talking about band practice. Trumpet, maybe? He grabbed his books and walked to the classroom door. He stood outside and waited. For what? He didn’t even need to finish highschool. He could drop out. Work for his dad. Run away into the woods. Drown in the ocean with sand in his lungs.

Someone pushed past him, arms full and frizzy hair down past her shoulder, twisting and curling in a flash of deep, rich brown. Her leather jacket rubbed against his arm and she muttered something. Maybe a sorry, and then there was a thud, but she didn’t stop to pick up whatever she dropped—maybe she didn’t notice?

Her voice was deep. Pretty.

“Eddie!” Someone called, and he turned to see where she went but she was already gone. The thing was still there, though. A notebook. It looked a bit fancy, like she had spent a lot of money on it.

Eddie The Banished, it read on the first page. There were some notes, half-assed and not at all coherent. But mostly it was covered in drawings. Of things with horns and claws, people with pointed ears and flowing dresses, swords. Lots of swords. So many swords to the point that it was kind of concerning.

He picked it up. He would have given it back, but…the girl was gone. And he needed a notebook anyways…he’d find her after school. Besides, how many Eddie’s could there be? Maybe she belonged to that demon club thing. It seemed…like a place where people who really liked swords would hang out.

He slipped inside the classroom and gave Ms. Click a smile and a wave. She smiled and waved back, didn’t comment on how he was late or tell him to do better. Just watched him until he sat. The trumpet girl was behind him, glaring at him. That didn’t matter because Nancy was next to him, tugging the notebook out of his hands. “What’s this? I thought you left yours?”

He grabbed it back quickly, shrugging it off and setting his books down next to him. “Found a spare in the locker. Don’t use this one all that much. Dad bought it for me.”

Nancy eyed him suspiciously, like she didn’t believe him, but she dropped it. He looked up as the door opened and that red head walked in. Tam….Tammy? Tammy. Yeah. Her. It wasn’t like he hated her or anything, she was nice. But she was too optimistic. A total dud. Wanted to move to Nashville and become a singer. She couldn’t even sing, god, it was like she was tone deaf. And, because she always was, she was humming as she sat at the desk next to his.

And I need you now tonight….

And I need you more than ever…

He opened the notebook after giving her a small wave and a polite smile. He had forgotten lunch in his backpack, too. But it was good that he didn’t have a class before this today, because otherwise he would have been too tired. It was his off day from sports. To relax and hang out with his girlfriend.

He was going to miss his bagel, though. They were the highlight of the school day.

It was hard to find a blank page in the notebook, but when he did…the one next to it looked…great. He would have never been able to draw a hand that good. The lines were smudged, like the person was in a rush, and the page was crinkled slightly. He smoothed over it, careful not to damage the drawing further.

The hand was familiar, but he couldn’t place it. He saw a lot of hands in basketball. A lot of hands everyday. But there was a small dot on the side of the pinky. The hand was curved, like it was throwing something up and out. He looked down at his left hand. There was a dot there, too.

Next to the hand drawing was a shoddy person, just a shoulder and shirt collar with some curved lines for tousled hair at the neck. There were dots on that drawing, too. He felt behind his jaw, over the thin raised line from shaving yesterday morning—when Nancy had told him that his stubble had gotten too bad and it felt weird to kiss—and…shit, there were moles there. Three. Like in the drawing.

He flipped the page before anyone could see the drawing—didn’t need to be made fun of for being a nerd and for being soft—and tried to focus on Ms. Click as best as he could, all while feeling the piercing glare of Trumpet Girl and Tammy’s soft gaze. Nancy’s side-eyes as she made sure he was looking up towards the chalk board when Ms. Click wrote. His hands kept drifting back to his jaw. His mind kept drifting back to the drawing.

It was weird that the person in the drawings were (maybe) him. But it made sense. Girls at this school liked him. Tammy liked him. Trumpet Girl didn’t seem to, but he didn’t care. Nancy liked him. She did. She told him she loved him so she did, she wouldn’t lie about that. Not to him.

Maybe it was the same with that Eddie girl. Maybe Eddie liked him, too. That wouldn’t be surprising. He might be soft, but he still had great hair.

DISCLAIMER: this is not a Nancy hate fic!!! I love Nancy!!! Her and Steve are just not meant for each other :)

also I love fics where Steve seems Eddie briefly and goes “woman :)” and then meets him and goes “wait. No. What. Not a woman?”

Permanent taglist: @anne-bennett-cosplayer @estrellami-1 @here4thetrama @goodolefashionedloverboi

people who might be interested…?: @jadeylovesmarvelxo @precioussteveharrington @himbosandhardwear @steddiewithachance

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rreids · 25 days

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IN THE MOMENTS BETWEEN • S. REID X READER

waiting for a case to end; mentions of a hostage situation; mentions of nightmares and fears; anxiety; teasing; fluff. ~700 words. nothing too intense.

You sit in silence with him, thighs barely pressed against his as you sit on the small bench in the empty subway. He’s tense, spine rigid and jaw tensing as he fidgets with his phone, checking anxiously for notifications.

“Spence?” You ask softly and he hums, barely moving his eyes from the small screen he keeps checking. “They’ll call,”

“I… I know,” he sighs. “I just hate not knowing what to do,”

“What, a genius doesn’t like feeling lost? Doesn’t like not knowing?” You gasp in faux shock, delighting in the way his lips twitch at the corners. “It’s good, you know?”

Spencer finally tears his eyes from the phone to study you, brows furrowed like you’re a text for him to tear apart and analyze. “What is?”

“The worry. You still care.” You gently place a hand on his shoulder, and he relaxes slightly under you. “You’re not jaded yet, Dr. Reid.”

“And you?”

“I think I’m fine,” you mumble, unable to hold his intense stare, knowing he's desperately looking for the tells you’ve taught yourself to suppress since getting to the BAU, hunting for insight into your feelings and mind. “I mean, I still get scared. Angry. Sad. I get the nightmares. But I know I do it to make the world a little better, safer. And I know I should feel that way. That’s all I need to keep myself me,”

He nods gently, tilting his head at you. His mouth opens but the words never come, and you let yourself focus on something other than the crushing weight of having to sit and do nothing.

The weight of the silence and anxiety that comes from not knowing how the raid was going. You know they’re competent and that the profile is great, but there’s a hostage. And they’re your team.

You wanted everyone to get home safe.

The whole team did.

You pick up a newspaper from the tower next to the bench, and Spencer doesn’t even warn you about the germs, so you know he’s far into his head and thoughts.

You fold and fold and fold until you make a lopsided and ugly hat from the crinkled and thin paper.

Spencer looks up when the sound of rustling stops, looking curiously at what you made.

“A hat,” you supply, and he chuckles softly, gingerly reaching over to touch and examine it, tilting it in his hands and looking at the headline you placed alongside the biggest side — a heartwarming story about a dog and its dedication to its owner. It’s dumb, but it makes him grin, and you’re glad it worked to tear his mind from the dark worries you could see eating at him.

He surprises you by pulling it from your hands and settling it atop his messy curls and you smile, enthused by how silly it looks on him.

“Cute,” you tell him, and his ears and cheeks tint a light pink. “Really,”

“Thanks,”

You go back to the silence, but he’s much more at ease. You are too, fighting down a smile every time you glance at him.

The call finally comes when you’re half asleep by his side, supported by Spencer’s arm braced behind your back, his hand lightly gripping your hip to keep you upright.

“Yeah. Yeah, I got it,” he sits up straighter, squeezing your hip. The hat stays on his head. “Yeah, thank you. Tell Morgan to shut up for me,”

He hangs up.

Your ears perk up and you stare at him, eyes bleary. “What?”

“JJ,” Spencer tells you. “Everything went how we wanted.”

You nod. “The Morgan comment?”

“He was teasing me from the background, I barely heard it.” Spencer helps you stand, righting you when you stumble — legs unexpectedly asleep. “Asking if I had fun being a lover-boy,”

You smile. “Did you?”

“I like the hat, if that’s what you’re asking.” Spencer teases.

“Spence,” you whine, drawing out the last ‘e’.

“Yes. You helped me stay calm. You know I like spending time with you,” Spencer finally tells you, looking anywhere but at your smiling face. “C’mon. Let’s get you home.”

my first time writing (creatively) in forever, and my first time writing for spence ever so please forgive my struggles w/ characterization and all. i'll improve once i'm no longer rusty, and find a fun and well-done style. hopefully soon!

#my works #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fic #spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid scenario #spencer reid drabble #spencer reid fanfiction

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luveline · 2 years

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something sweeter | eddie munson x reader

summary you get a tattoo. eddie takes care of you [1.5k]

warnings 18+ for suggestive theme, nsfw, established relationship, fluff, hurt/comfort, tattoos, fem!reader, idiots in love, no s4 spoilers besides eddie, requested here

“…something sweeter,” Eddie’s talking in that quiet voice reserved for you, missing his usual bravado. Even softer, he looks at you in the passenger seat through a tangle of dark curls and asks, “You okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine. What’s sweeter?” you ask, smiling apologetically.

You push your clammy palms into the scratchy fabric of your short skirt. Eddie’s unconvinced.

“I was only saying,” he begins, reaching across the gap to wrap his ring-heavy hand around your thigh, “that it surprised me. What you chose. I thought you’d get something sweeter.”

“You don’t like the bat?” you ask, nibbling at your lip.

His rings are cold but his fingers are warm, rubbing a short, comforting line into the dough of your inner thigh. He gives you a quick squeeze before returning both hands to the wheel, concentration face in place as he parallel parks the van outside the tattoo parlour. His eyebrows pinch up.

“No, I love the bat. You’d hope I would, right?” he says as soon as he’s done, pulling the keys from the ignition. He gestures to his arm and the trail of bats flying up his skin.

“I thought about it. Getting something pretty. A garter or a heart or something.”

“Yeah?” he asks.

“But I wanna look cool like you,” you say.

Eddie waves a hand at you, rolling his eyes though he’s smiling. His face is transformed by his pretty smile. He’s ridiculously handsome like this - it makes your chest hurt, his puppy eyes and his almost demure grin, so at odds with his eccentric and, at times, rough personality.

He scratches his collarbone, sneaking a peek down at the watch on his wrist, lips parting. “Are you ready?”

No. “Yeah.”

You pile out the van and into the parlour. Only when you’re lying face down on the chair with someone touching the back of your naked thigh do you remember to freak out. The side of your face pushed into thin, crinkling paper, you give Eddie a wide-eyed look. He chuckles under his breath, eyes flitting between the tattoo artist and you.

Elbows braced on his knees, Eddie holds one hand out to stroke your hairline quickly. “You good?” he mouths.

You nod almost imperceptibly. He sees it. You watch his pupils trace from your narrowed eyes to your smushed mouth.

He sits back in his chair, elbows braced on his knees and hands hanging in between his spread legs. You’ve already had the stencil placed, skin prepped. The tattoo artist tells you he’s about to start, and the needle starts to buzz. Eddie opens his mouth wide, lips an ‘o’, teasing. He’s so hot it almost distracts you from the pain. Almost.

The closer the artist draws to your knee the worse it hurts. You try not to complain. You’re seized up tightly, hands wringing under your stomach, chests aching from being face-forward. Time stretches impossibly long.

It surprises you when tears well in your eyes, sniffling as the artist lays in finishing touches with white ink. It hurts much more than the rest has, but maybe that’s because you’re sore.

“Are you good?” the artist asks.

You whisper uselessly. “Yeah.”

The artist stays paused.

Eddie cups his chin in his hand, fingers pressed over his lips. “She’s good. You’re good, sweetheart.”

You’re good. The tattoo gets finished, the artist wraps you up. All paid up you leave, your leg hurting in a scratching, hot way that makes you wince with every step. Eddie walks behind you with his hand loose on your shoulder, pulling you to a stop in front of the vans hood.

“Does it look good?” you ask, though you’ve both just stared at it in the mirror in the parlour for a good five minutes.

“Looks great,” he says, “very cool. Come here.”

You turn to him obligingly, not knowing what he wants. He takes your face into his hand and holds you still firmly, bringing his other hand up to wipe at your sticky teartracks with the side of his pinky finger.

“You were awesome in there. Even though you cried like a baby,” he concedes lightly, finished with your tear tracks. He cups your face, leans in close. “Super cool. The artist was almost as impressed as I was.”

You flush at his praise. He’s too nice.

His nails scratch your skin gently as he follows the curve of your ear, hands coming down to your neck, thumbs pushing under your jaw. His eyes are wide and impossibly earnest as he says, “And the tat is super fucking hot.”

He grins wolfishly. You groan and shut your eyes, pulling your face from his grasp as he laughs at you.

The two of you climb back into the van and you're incredibly careful not to lean on it.

“Can I put my feet on the dash?” you ask, kicking off your shoes.

“Sure,” he says fondly, searching through the radio for his favourite station. Soon, rock music rattles and your legs are up, nothing to do except watch Eddie as he drives you both back to his uncle's trailer.

He can feel your gaze. You don’t like to beg, but you’re not above it, eyes staring a burning hole into his hand on the wheel and then his face. Whether he gets your hint or he wants to himself, Eddie grabs at your soft thigh, giving you a little shake before he traverses up to your knee, down your calf. He messes absent-mindedly with the lettuce hem of your sock and the climbs back up. When he reaches your thigh again you cover his hand and hold him there.

He smirks.

“When d’you want your next one?” he asks.

You shake your head. “Maybe not too soon.”

“No?” he asks, chuckling. He glances at you. “Know what you want?”

“Something sweeter, like you suggested.”

“Bunnies and puppies?”

You giggle.

He nods to himself, pleased by your reaction, and doesn’t say much else until you’re following him up the steps and into his home, past the living room and into his bedroom. It’s a small room. It smells unmistakeably of Eddie, of sneaky cigarettes and beer, though it’s clean where it counts — he always has fresh sheets when you come around, a window cracked open on the latch — and hiding beneath him there’s hints of you, too. Your perfume, your skin.

He kisses his fingers and presses them to his guitar where she hangs. You bite back a smile at his antics and drop your shoes at the end of his bed.

“Are you hungry? I’m starving.”

You sit on his bed, hiss, and promptly slide onto your stomach, nestling your face into his pillows. “No,” you say, word muffled by fabric.

Eddie sits by your knees, hand going straight to your calf. “Are you sure? We didn’t eat before we went, you don’t feel, like, nauseous? If you throw up in here I’ll never get rid of the smell.”

You look at him over your shoulder. “I’m fine.”

“You’re always ‘fine’,” he says under his breath, without any real malice. More like he’s bemused.

“If you’re hungry, you go eat something, baby,” you say, eyes closed, suddenly tired.

Calling him baby usually has one of two effects. Either he goes gooey soft and does what you tell him, or he gets ravenous. Apparently, despite good intentions, it’s going the second way. You feel your boyfriend's hand as it climbs up the back of your leg, feel the mattress shift as he moves. He spreads your legs and kneels between them. You hold your breath, heart in your throat, looking over your shoulder at him.

A familiar silhouette; baseball tee pushed up at the elbows, tight dark jeans, face framed by messy dark curls. The air in his room feels suddenly heavy, like the breeze before a storm.

“I think you should stick to cool tats,” he says seriously.

“How’d you figure?” you ask.

“‘Cos you’re already pretty sweet without ‘um. Your smile, your…”

His implication is lost as he kisses you. You turn on your side just slightly as he pulls your calf to his mouth, lips skipping up your skin in chaste pecks, his lips part over the back of your knee, a damp half moon left behind. He moves inwards, steering clear of your tattoo, though he does scratch at the edge with his thumbnail.

You whimper, not entirely from his prodding.

“Hurting?” he murmurs into your inner thigh. His hands spread your legs gently, his chain cold where it rubs against your hot skin.

“A little.”

“You want me to make it feel better?” he asks.

You squirm underneath him. His nose pushes into your thigh as he vies to get closer, prompting a wave of chills as his teeth scrape your skin. A curl of heat sparks in your abdomen.

“Please?” you ask weakly.

You can feel his grin.

“I like when you say please, sweet girl.”

He takes a big bite of your leg between his teeth and pulls until you shudder, hiking up on his elbows. He rubs at the flesh he’s just abused with his thumb, mouth hot as he starts on your other thigh.

You end up saying it again. And again. A heaping handful of pleases and a generous, quieter thank you afterwards, the pain of your new tattoo briefly forgotten.

thanks for reading | my masterlist

#eddie munson #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x reader fluff #eddie munson x reader blurb #eddie munson drabble #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fic #stranger things x reader #stranger things 4 #stranger things #eddie munson x reader imagine #eddie munson imagine

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ilguna · 1 year

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☼ lovable friend (Finnick Odair) ☼

summary; you thought you and Finnick were nothing but friends, while he was developing feelings for you the entire time.

warnings; swearing, high school au, emotional cheating.

wc; 2.4k

–

The only reason why you refuse to let your English teacher move you from the back of the class anymore, is solely because she placed Finnick Odair in front of you. If it weren’t for him, you would’ve begged to be moved closer to the window by now.

There’s something about him that makes the class go by faster. There’s never been a day that you don’t look forward to coming in. He’s always the first person to greet you with a smile when you walk in. And his attention doesn’t leave you, because he’ll turn around in his seat just to ask you how your day’s been so far.

In a way, you’d consider him to be one of your closest friends, despite never hanging out with each other outside of the classroom. You’ll see him in passing periods, at lunch you’ll spot him across the room, and you share a few mutual friends like Johanna and Peeta. Still, you’re never at the same place at the same time, except for here.

And today, he’s nowhere to be seen.

Which is fine, of course. You’ve missed a few days of school yourself. However, each time, you managed to find yourself feeling a little absent because you missed your piece of sunshine for the day. A bright smile, the crinkle at the corners of his eyes, his contagious laugh.

You push yourself to the end of the day to see him, because he can make your day better than anyone else you know. You wonder if he feels the same way that you do, sitting on the edge of his seat, waiting for you to round the corner. While you brace yourself to hear his shout.

You’ll survive without staring at his bronze hair for the entirety of class, dodging his head to see the board for even a second. Maybe you’ll finally understand a lesson enough to not have to ask for his notes, teasing him about the fact that the two of you should switch seats.

You sigh, doodling a flower in the corner of your paper. It’s going to be a long hour.

“Where’s your boyfriend?” Cashmere asks. You assume she’s talking to someone else, probably Enobaria. Her newest boyfriend is a weightlifter. You’re not sure how she finds him attractive. “Hey, I’m talking to you.”

You’re in the middle of drawing another flower, this one intertwined with the first, when the side of your desk is kicked by a white tennis shoe. You pause what you’re doing, taking in a breath through your nose, before turning to look at Cashmere. Not only is she looking at you, but so is Enobaria and Gloss.

These three are the reason why you would’ve moved closer to the window a long time ago. They’re loud and annoying. You’re not sure who decided they should be the popular and well-known friend group of your grade for all these years, but they chose the worst. Out of all the people you’ve tried to make friends out of, they were the first you got rid of.

Which is a shame, because you like having friends in all corners of the school, in case you need to pull a favor out of thin air. It’s worked, the yearbook team has already agreed that you’ll be nominated for the ‘lovable friend’ title, which is something you’ve been gunning for since your freshman year.

Cashmere, Gloss, and Enobaria are just plain mean, though. There’s no point caring about their opinions, because you already know how everyone else feels about you, and that’s all that matters. They must’ve figured this out, though. It’s why they try to get under your skin at every chance they’re given.

“Where’s yours?” You shoot back, watching Cashmere’s nose crinkle.

Enobaria looks you up and down, “Maybe he finally got tired of you.”

“Not as tired as I am of hearing your nasally voice.” You roll your eyes.

“Ouch, that one really hurt.” Cashmere mocks, flickering her curls over her shoulder.

They don’t say anything else, so you go back to your flowers, trying to make this one more detailed. It doesn’t work, it looks like the other flower, which loosely resembles a daisy. You try to draw a tulip, or a rose, and they all fall flat, so you settle on erasing it all, leaving a dark smudge on the corner of your paper.

“Johanna, I told you to drop it.” A familiar voice snaps.

Your eyes dart up, you straighten up at your desk at the sight of Finnick, who’s clearly agitated by his best friend. Johanna’s a hard person to make a friend out of. She’s like Cashmere in a way, but less bitchy and more straight-forward. While Cashmere has a tendency to be mean behind people’s backs, Johanna has no problem airing her issues to your face.

“It’s kinda hard to drop it when Annie’s been hounding me for the past two weeks.” She snarls. Following Finnick up the aisle. He briefly locks eyes with you, and immediately his face twists at the sight of you.

You sit back in your seat, crossing your arms.

“I don’t know what she wants from me. I broke up with her.” He drops his bag on the floor carelessly, the strap whips your ankle, you let out a hiss. In return, both Johanna and Finnick glare at you.

There’s an uneasy feeling rising in your stomach, so you avert your eyes and try to rub at your ankle without drawing too much attention to yourself. It stings for a few seconds. When you’re done, you pull out your phone to scroll through tweets while they argue. You know, to give them the false idea of privacy.

“She wants a reason, Finnick.”

“I don’t have to give her a reason.” Finnick shakes his head. “I like someone else, it’s as plain as that.”

“Except, you’ve been dating her for three and a half years!” Johanna suddenly bursts, slapping her hands onto his desk. A few students around her quiet briefly, before trying to resume their conversation. You wince at her tone, partially wishing you could disappear into thin air when she sends you another look. “And now you have a crush on miss—!”

Finnick stands up from his seat, getting within inches of Johanna’s face. You can’t stare at your phone, gritting your teeth, slightly afraid for her. You’ve only seen this side of Finnick when he gets competitive. It’s almost like he becomes a completely new person.

“Don’t.” The word is firm.

The bell rings. Your teacher normally sits next door until the bell rings, so it’s only a matter of time before she comes into the classroom. Despite this, neither of them move, and it’s arguably the longest thirty seconds of your life. It looks like they’re playing a game of chicken, as if Johanna’s trying to see if Finnick’s bluffing, but he holds his position.

It’s only when the sound of heels on tile is heard, does she finally move. “You don’t even know her, Finnick.” She shakes her head, and then heads to her seat. She used to sit to his left, but got moved up front when her grade dropped. She pays more attention to her phone than she does the class.

“Go ahead and take her side, Johanna. It shows what kind of friend you are.” He says back.

She sends him a look over her shoulder.

Finnick makes sure she doesn’t turn around to retaliate, before he bothers to sit in his seat again, back facing you. You were halfway expecting him to finally say something to you, but that fight obviously has something to do with you. JOhanna blatantly glared, and she’s right, it’s not like Finnick to break up with Annie. He gushes about her too often for that. And yet…

You bounce between staring out the window and writing down what little notes you can see on the board. You can’t focus on what she’s trying to teach, so you hope that you’ll be able to make out the notes later on. If Johanna was implying that FInnick likes you… You try to keep track of time, counting down the minutes until your escape. You think it’ll be faster if you go around the back of the classroom instead of the front. Even if that means you run into Cashmere and Enobaria.

The worst part about this, is that you really don’t want to get caught up in whatever’s happening in their friend group. You know Annie, and Blight for that matter too. They are a tight-knit group. When they get in fights with each other, it’s usually a big blowout, because they don’t fight often.

Annie and Finnick have been together since freshman year. They’ve been elected homecoming king and queen of your class every year so far. The yearbook group was talking about putting them on the ‘perfect couple’ page. If they’ve actually broken up, it’s going to be the most talked about subject of the school.

And if Finnick did it for you—not saying that he did, but you have a strong feeling that it’s the case—then you can kiss that yearbook title goodbye, as well as most of your friends. The last thing you want to be is on everyone’s shit list because Finnick developed feelings for you. You never thought that you’d care about status this much, but it’s the only thing you have going for her.

Besides, the idea of the Finnick Odair having a crush on you is a joke of itself. He’s gorgeous, and funny, and a complete dreamboat of a boyfriend. He’s the epitome of popularity, everyone knows his name. You can ask anyone how they feel about him, and all good things would come out of them. If you asked who his soulmate is, they’d all say Annie.

You let out a quiet laugh to yourself, hiding your face in your hands.

You need to stop thinking about this before you get your feelings hurt. Finnick doesn’t like you. He’s just a friend. There’s probably another girl that he’s got his eyes on, and Johanna was just mad because you were clearly eavesdropping. Although, maybe she should consider lowering her voice next time if she doesn’t want you listening in.

As soon as the bell rings, signaling the end of class, you shoot to your feet. Your bag’s swung over your shoulder, and you’re turning to leave, when a hand grips onto your wrist like an iron lock. You don’t move from where you stand, staring at the bookcase in front of you, before closing your eyes.

“(Y/n), can we talk?” Finnick asks, fingers loosening.

You take in a shaky breath, forcing a smile while you turn around. You don’t look at him first, though. You find Johanna, nose flaring, face turning a shade of red at the sight of the two of you. When she meets her eyes, she shakes her head at you, telling you not to do it.

“Don’t look at her.” Finnick murmurs. You find a small smile on his face, and he’s doing the thing where he looks through his lashes.

You swallow thickly, wondering if you can smother the butterflies that are swarming in your stomach. “Um—only for a minute, I’ve got something planned with Katniss and Peeta.”

“Unbelievable.” Johanna sighs, stomping out of the room.

Finnick lets go of your wrist, which feels bare without the warmth of his palm. Your teacher looks up at the clock, before clearing her throat. “I’m going to the teacher’s lounge for a minute, Finnick. When your club gets here, can you let them know?”

“Of course.” Finnick smiles, “Can you shut the door? I need to talk about a student council surprise with (Y/n), and I can’t have anyone listening in.”

“Not for long.” She gives him a pointed look. “Five minutes at most.”

“Five minutes.” He agrees.

On her way out the door, she sweeps up the door stopper. You and Finnick watch in silence as the door shuts tightly, sealing the two of you in here together. Five minutes begins.

You take in a breath first, “Please tell me that argument with Johanna had nothing to do with me.”

Finnick makes a face, tilting his head. “I really wish she hadn’t said that.”

“Well, you two were looking at me between sentences. It wasn’t subtle.” You murmur, rubbing your wrist.

He lets out a sigh, “Listen, I wanted to do it a different way, but Johanna has a way with ruining stuff when a situation doesn’t go the way she wants it.” Finnick gives you a smile, “I like you, a lot.”

You stare at him, waiting for him to laugh, a part of you hoping that this is some sort of cruel joke. There’s no way that he would throw away a three year relationship because of you. You almost never talk to him outside of this classroom, so what does he really know about liking you? He doesn’t even know you. Johanna’s right.

“Are you sure?” You ask, watching as he jerks back in shock. You keep your voice steady, “Because right now, it feels like you’re confessing on a whim. It’s been two weeks. I’m a rebound.”

“I’ve liked you for months.” He tells you, “I broke up with Annie because I want to be with you.”

You raise your eyebrows, staring at him wordlessly. This really has to be a prank.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Why?”

“How could you like me, when the only time we talk in the day is this class?” You shake your head, “You see how you sound ridiculous?”

“(Y/n), you have listened to me more than Annie has in our whole relationship.” He sits up, “You’ll bring up stuff that I wouldn’t expect you to remember. You’re kind, and passionate, and beautiful—on the inside and out.”

You don’t know how he wants you to react. This is so surreal.

“Fine, don’t believe me.” He stands up, and your gaze directs up to continue to watch his eyes. “I’ll give you time, I’ll wait, because I have no issue doing that. Please, just think about it.”

There’s pounding at the classroom door, drawing the two of you out of the conversation. Finnick turns slightly, and you peer around him to see the faces of his friends, pressed against the glass. He lets out a sigh before turning back to you.

“Promise me that you’ll text me later.” He grabs your hands. They’re warm.

“I promise.” You whisper, “But this feels wrong, Finnick.”

“It doesn’t have to feel that way.”

#ilguna #finnick odair #finnick odair imagine #finnick odair fanfic #finnick odair x reader #finnick odair oneshot #finnick x reader #finnick imagine #finnick fanfic #finnick oneshot #finnick odair x yn #finnick odair x you #finnick odair x y/n #thg #the hunger games #angst #requested

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lunamaraproject · 2 months

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LUNAMARA: Fragments [8]

👑

The old paper crinkles pleasantly under Felix’s fingers. For all he loves the sleek design of the tablets he usually teaches from, sometimes the tactile realness of paper is more enjoyable. Plus, when it comes to educating the princess, such luxurious materials are nigh on expected, so he can get away with requesting them.

“So this is you,” he explains as Elsie leans halfway over the desk, her hair spilling over her shoulders and nearly blocking his view.

“It doesn’t look like me,” she critiques with the honesty one can only expect from a girl barely 60. She grabs the nearest pencil and starts drawing hair and a dress onto the anatomical model.

“Okay, you fix it. Will you listen to my explanation while you fix it?”

“Mmhmm!”

She’s fairly good at multitasking, so he presses on. “When you eat manna, it goes down into your stomach here,” he both holds his hand on his belly, and taps on the diagram with his highlighter. Helpfully, she draws a star where he tapped. “Yes, there. Once it’s in your stomach, your body takes the manna, and breaks it down. What does it break it down into?”

“I dunno,” she says first, but he waits, until eventually she hedges a guess. “Maen?”

“Yes!” he grins brightly. “Maen is the energy that makes up all magic in the universe. It’s actually a shortening of ‘magical energy’, neat right?”

Elsie is too busy adding frills to the hem of her dress to actually agree with him about how interesting etymology is. A shame.

“Once the maen is in your body, it travels around it on the maen circuits. They run right next to your veins and nerves, and have special ‘pools’ all over, where the maen gathers. Can you draw more stars where I point?”

“Yeah,” she agrees, and he begins working around the body. First, travelling up the chest, then the neck, then the head. She has to draw the stars very small here, because there are so many points particularly on the face and skull. It looks like the figure sneezed on a constellation. “I can’t even see the eyes any more…”

“That’s okay, we’ll draw a bigger head in a minute so you can fit the stars in better,” Felix chuckles. “It’s important to know where the pools are, because they’re the places where maen exits the body when we use it to cast magic. Different kinds of magic use different pools on the body. So when I give you a kiss on your booboos, it’s not because I’m trying to eat you up!”

Elsie gives him a dry look. “I know that. I’m not 40.”

“I know you’re not!” he holds his hands up in surrender. “But I’ll always remember the time when I pretended to eat you, and you got really scared!”

“Well I don’t remember that at all,” she sniffs, then turns back to adding more details to her dress on the paper. “Are there pools on the hands?”

“Yes there are, very good! And also all up the arms here…”

It doesn’t take long to cover the rest of the figure in stars, on the front and the back side. Meanwhile, Elsie’s dress design is also coming along swimmingly.

“Did you get the idea for this dress from the present you got from the Naribians?” Felix asks.

“Yes, but I’m making it better with my own parts,” she says airily.

“You know, humans have maen circuits too!”

Now this finally gets her full attention. She looks at him like he’s grown a second head. “They do?”

“Yep! They’re veeeery thin and don’t get used much. Unlike starfolk, humanfolk can’t use their maen circuits by just thinking about it. So do other animals and plants, but even smaller, nearly not there at all.”

“Ohhh…” she trails off, mulling this new information over. “Doesn’t it hurt?”

“No, it’s not like with us where it hurts them to not use magic every now and then. They can live their whole lives and never use it, and be perfectly healthy!”

She continues to chew on this new fact for another minute of silence, before suddenly saying. “But what if that’s why they die fast? Humans, and animals.”

Admittedly, Felix wasn’t expecting that. Leave it to kids to come up with unexpected questions. He’s struck silent for a moment, pondering this himself. Who knows, maybe that was the reason. He’s not educated enough to know for sure. But then, when he’s not even an adult himself, he’s not sure what people are expecting.

“You know what, I don’t know!” he finally says with a laugh. “Let’s make a note of it, so we can look it up later in the library or with one of the professors.”

“Okay,” she agrees, scribbling the note in the top corner of the paper. “It doesn’t make much sense that the plants like trees live almost as long as we do, but the humans don’t. Humans look almost just like us, but their ears are weird and small and their bodies are big and hairy.”

“Sure do!”

"Do you think if I tried I could grow hair on my face like them?"

"... Maybe one day, Elsie!"

🌗

More from LUNAMARA:

Fragments [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8]<-- More every Thursday!

Comic [Prologue]

Art by Luka (http://nousanti.tumblr.com/) Story by Pidge (http://pidgestories.tumblr.com/)

#felix cygnus #princess elsennae #lunamara #lunamara project #pidgestories #nousanti #artists on tumblr

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burnyouwithacigarettelighter · 3 years

Text

part i, autonomy in your coherence | c.g

With something like time that runs round with the world — ignoring it’s inhabitants and stealing things that you’d hidden away for safekeeping — you’ve taken up the hobby of art, furiously sketching faces that are six-feet under.

The skill is beautiful and horrific all the same, watching like a person with amnesia as the portraits begin to lose their depth, the freshness, the personality that came free with who you’d chosen to print on the page.

You’ve forgotten your feelings for Carl, because he didn’t feel the same.

You just wished you did a better job at it.

WARNINGS: mentions of death, suicide ideation

this is a continuation of watch you burn away and i recommend you read that, first! this is also part of a series, so here is the masterlist if you need it!

(cross-posted on ao3!)

Your father once told you he had a patient that died from heartbreak.

“Your heart can’t really break, though, right?” You’d said. A doctor for a father and a laboratory technician for a mother made you more than aware of things, seeing through the myths and pretty white lies of figures like Santa and the tooth fairy.

(They had gone through with it anyway, because although their child knew, it was a gateway to normality in such a busy home.)

Your father scratched his chin, unsure how to respond. “My patient had died from a broken heart, though the process wasn’t as simple as it’s term name. A broken heart — the nonliteral meaning — can be the cause and the domino toppling to many things that could lead to death.”

“Like what?” You’d said with little admission into the conversation, having been flicking through a novel you’d picked up a while back (which featured a one eyed pirate and his partner who’d ended up dying in the end — not that you knew, yet, at least.)

“I don’t know, er,” Your father swirled his coffee lightly, gesturing wildly with his free hand, “Mental health issues, for one. Erratic actions, depression, a lost sense of self. Obsession.”

“Huh,” You muttered, looking up at your father for the first time. “A lost sense of self? Really?”

“What is your father teaching you?” Your mother said, stepping into the kitchen with a questioning expression. The conversation ended there, without so much as a thought after.

You wish you pried your father for further answers. What you’d give to get the workaholic of a man to dump his duo psychology medical major thoughts unto you with little care.

The knowledge would be gold in your time of need, when pulling and pushing distance further between you was like venturing through a field of thorns.

(Perhaps you just missed your parents. But that couldn’t be it, right? They’d died and you had lived, their blood on your hands and the gun in your fingers, their glazed over eyes and your own that nearly matched, cold and willing without a drop of emotion.)

But you’d gotten through it for him— without him. Without anyone, quietly harboring scratches and bleeding from the field with little effort.

If someone asked, you would tell them with full and honest confidence that you harboured no more attachments. You were a naive teenager, running through your feet and over yourself for something that was just a crush.

Crushes are — in their whole singularity and purpose — temporary.

They are brief, and momentarily something that causes ripples and waves in your thoughts, just the slightest mention or faint sight makes you detour down a road of sickly sweet dreams and fantasies.

He was first love (like? You didn’t love him, no, it was a crush and it was something for the unattainable and the inappropriate — in which with full truth, he was.) so you poured the honey glazed remembrances and rose coloured lenses over your memories, because he was a first love, and you know that those were cracks in the heart, growing vines and constricting the part that was him — the part that’d always, always be there, without a doubt.

(However much you didn’t want it to be.)

The leaves and the venomous flowers that sprout in decaying grooves come with age, and you are older now.

You bear fresh scars that litter your entire being and wear newly buried bones of people who were once not just that, the dirt still sitting in the crevices of your nails, and you seem to forget their voices with each passing day.

More and more, the faces look like reference art rather than a taken from life picture, which was all telling them to sit still and watching their eyes crinkle at the edges when you show them the result, voices echoing and asking if they could have it.

Everyday, as it has become a peevish habit like biting your nails or obsessively reminding yourself your stove is off, you draw pictures of everyone.

If you are close enough with them, you ask the subject to sit and model for you, analyzing every breath and laugh they take when you crack a joke or engage them in meaningless conversation just to see how the light hits their brows when they raise, the shadows pooling in their aging lines.

Everyday, you wish and hope and even fucking pray that their portraits continue to be something of anxious routine, rather than trying to dump their image out of your head and onto paper so you can see their faces one more time.

His image seems to change with each moment he sits in for you, once a face with two piercing blues, then a patch and eyes that looked at the dusty wooden floor, and later, someone who looks at you straight, something that told you he was a survivor, who bore his battles proudly, the scar on the right of his face sitting ruggedly and bewitchingly.

You draw him, exactly the way you see him, and when you show him the picture, he laughs, and says “You made me look too pretty,” and you shake your head, “It’s exactly the way I see you.”

You do her, too, upon request. When she sits, you draw her almost like it was professional, drawing the curvature of her face with exact precision, intense shading, marking the features she holds. The dip in her nose, the straight of her hair.

(You often forget who you’re drawing in these moments, and when you step away from the canvas you’re hit with whiplash. It’s subconscious, the way you do these things to please him, wanting to see so clearly how his face spreads delicately with delight.)

It takes a little while for you to convince Ron. When you first propose the drawing, he gives you a confused face, before walking off to do shooting practice. He’s gotten better with the gun over the years, and doesn’t respond when you tell him you know why.

(His mother didn’t come out of it alive, and his brother didn’t come back without harm. The younger boy was alive, but would grow up with only his brother by his side and one less limb to account for.)

The second time, he makes a snide comment, albeit with no bite, about how ‘you must be a horrible artist, to ask me of all people to model for you.’

The third time, you’ve dragged him to the small office you makeshifted for the drawings in the garage. He studies every slit of paper you’ve ripped out of your book, the unfinished sketches or yet-to-be painted canvases piling up against the walls. Complete works sit proudly on your wall, displayed for the world to see.

His hands hover over the paints sitting on your desk, charcoal, dirt, sticks, paintbrushes, handmade dyes, wallpaper cut-outs.

“Why?” Ron says curiously.

“‘Why?’ what?” You echo, fiddling with a fork you grabbed from the kitchen, splaying out a thick lather combination of beet dye and cement onto your finger to check the consistency.

“Why do you draw these portraits? I get the others because,” He says, leaving the words “because they’re dead” hanging in the air between you two in mutual and regretful acknowledgement, “But you draw these everyday. You drag Carl and Enid off, or just sit on the benches and draw Maggie and Glenn knee-deep in the dirt.”

You sigh a dreadful breath, wiping the rest of the beet-cement mix onto the page with the pad of your fore-finger. “We’ll forget them one day.”

He looks at you, unblinking. The dead, the gone, and the soon to be long forgotten only existed in your memories, in your words, and when the time came that the world had moved on and stopped, they would cease. Their whole memory relied on the living, nothing about them able to reach and grasp life on their own. Memory was all that was left, and it was all you could do to wash away regret.

“And the rest?”

You bite your tongue hesitantly, your movements rigid, “You see their portraits. Everyday they get less and less coherent. When — when time comes , these drawings will be the only thing getting me by.” You whispered.

The ball had dropped. Coping and grief in it’s big and ugly form, preying on your conscious hungrily, taking shelter in your largest worries. Claws sunken in your flesh, the monster was a thing that felt like it would never go away, because it would loom right alongside death itself, watching and waiting for the moment they’d deemed someones time to have been enough.

(It would never be enough. Enough meant they’d pop in from next door and ask to borrow something, enough meant they’d swipe dirt across your face to make you angry — enough meant they would come in everyday and sit for their portrait once more.)

A creaking on the floorboard caught your attention, eyes watching as Ron’s feet walk to the corner of the room, before hopping onto the wooden seat with little effort.

“I’m not going. I never will. But — do it anyway. I’d… like to see how I look on paper.” He said cheekily, picking up a thin pencil off your desk and handing it out to you.

So you did. Seconds turned to minutes and minutes snowballed into hours in the dim lighting of the garage, asking the blond to turn his body, stretch his head and make different expressions, fulfilling and destroying the little worm of worry sitting in your head.

When you’re done with the charcoal, turning it around for Ron to see and to inspect, he asks, “What about you?”

“And what about me?” You say. His questions never make sense without further discussion, but the boy always has to wait for you to pry and ask him to elaborate.

“You don’t have any drawings of yourself. You’re the artist, the photographer, the one who makes these things that will stay longer than the memories and the words — so what about you?”

It’s rare that Ron delves into his emotions and the things he really means, but when he does, it’s something that stays, for a long while.

“I,” You didn’t have an answer for it. You weren’t one to do a self-portrait, it not being the same as having someone to sit and take from. “I don’t want to.” You finished simply, an ice cold realization coming to reality in you.

“Why?” He says the same words as before, but the words hold a heavy weight.

“I don’t know.”

You knew.

Maybe one day, you’d wished that you’d wash away like seafoam on the beach. You wouldn’t leave a single portrait behind of you, and the memories and the words were left mum behind his lips, because you knew how he got in a loss.

Quiet and unfeeling, it was so selfish of you that you’d counted on how he got in that state to leave you behind, neglecting you like the fruits of your memories you’d never get to bear.

Ron’s gaze bore into you like he knew exactly what you were thinking, telepathically taking in every thought you’d conveyed at your dispense.

“You should.” Is all he says, before stepping off the wooden stool and out the door.

What was wrong with you? You feel so… entirely foolish. Obsolete. Embarrassing.

You walked past the remnants of those who were gone everyday, obsessively creating canvas over canvas of them and the only thing you could think was that you’d wish to position yourself beside them?

This world was catching up to you, and fast, but you’d just have to run faster than it could.

#twd #carl grimes x reader #carl grimes #chandler riggs #angst #the walking dead #twd x reader #the walking dead x reader #the walking dead carl #carl grimes x you

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heyhoneyybunn · 2 years

Text

Chocolate Escapes

Relationship: Miya Atsumu x f!Reader

Synopsis: One thing that rivals your love for Atsumu besides your two beloved children has to be chocolate.

Warnings: fluff, reader has children

Word count: 1.0k

A/n: This is was supposed to be like 200 words rip

Hiding in your little fortress of solitude, a heavenly sigh leaves your lips. The events of the day dissolve as you sag against a jagged box – the pain was bearable and worth it for this very moment.

“Oh, how I’ve waited for you,” you simper longingly, anticipation looping through your body at the exciting prospect of waiting for the burst of flavours on your tongue. Nimble fingers are hard at work to carefully unwrap the bar, you don’t even realise you’re salivating as you pry the wrapper apart like a child opening a Christmas present. You can almost taste it.

Granted, it was a strange image for anyone to stumble across. You, hidden away in the closet, smouldering at a piece of chocolate at your mature age. Utilising your stealthy ninja skills during your shop visit earlier, you manage to smuggle a large bar of chocolate, hiding it under the orange bunches and yogurt cups – the two monsters in the trolley are none the wiser.

“Babe? Y/n?”

Confusion decorates your husbands voice, you freeze in your – very uncomfortable – spot. With a comically large breath, you wait for him to inspect the bedroom, give up and go back to his own devices, but this is Atsumu you’re talking about – a man who never gives up, never surrenders, a man with so much determination it’s usually admirable but right now it’s making your eye twitch.

“Where are ya?” You hear him mutter under his breath, his voice drawing closer and closer until he’s on the other side of the thin door that separates you. The need to pee that you only experience when hiding from someone emerges, you try not to shift around.

After a few seconds, his footsteps begin to dissipate, relief crashes over you in strong waves. Your eager fingers working on the bar once again, a rookie mistake of impatience really. When the unusually loud, clear cut crinkle of the paper sounds, you wince.

“Not again.”

Heart palpitating and palms growing sweaty you mull over your choices. The options are limited, ranging from playing dead, meditating or pretending to not know how you got in here, but time slips away and the situation falls out of your control. With one short stride and a rush of gusto, he slides the door open, exposing you to the cold, unforgiving world filled with beasts and monsters and little humans that won’t give you a moment to yourself.

You shield your face, hissing like a vampire exposed to the sun as a mop of blonde hair stares down at you with an expression that clearly reads, thanks for leaving me alone out there to fend for myself while you’re sitting in here and having what looks to be a party by yourself.

“Tsumu I -” You try to explain, to soften the blow. But then his eyes drop lower, filling with a gut wrenching betrayal, your grip tightens as he purses his lips.

“Ya promised ya’d wait,” his cold demeanour melts in a heart clenching pout, his lower lip jutting out adorably. But then he holds out his hand, beckoning you to hand him the contraband. With great reluctance you hand it over, a loving expression turning sour.

“It was too tempting! I would have saved you some,” Now you’re pouting too, mirroring his own look of hurt.

Although he rolls his eyes at your antics, in truth he was fighting one of his radiant smiles, one that he reserves for you only. When he caught you in the closet, ready to gorge on the chocolate alone, he’s ready to burst at the seams with love at your innocently hostile expression. The expression you gifted him when your plans to indulge in the treat was interrupted was priceless, something he’ll never forget.

“Scooch over.”

You begin to protest, there’s not possibly enough room to accommodate you and a 6’0 athlete built like a sculpted statue, but they’re caught short as he wiggles his way in, daring to delve deeper into the curtain of clothes and into complete darkness.

Hastily, you reach out blindly for the doors as he climbs over you like a climbing frame. Once again, you’re plunged into darkness but this time there’s a third party. You, the chocolate and Atsumu sit in silence.

You hear his skilful fingers complete your unfinished work, revealing the golden prize to your greedy attention. The snap of the bar is like music to your ears, your taste buds and soft munching noises adding to the symphony. Atsumu places a piece on your tongue and you melt into his chest.

“Y’know, you could have eaten it behind the bed, like a normal person,” He says in his usual loud voice with no regard to caution. You nudge him gently with your contrasting hiss for him to talk quieter.

“They’ll find me, they always do. This is the only safe space.”

Like sharks to bloody water, the sound of a sweet wrapper in the Miya household was a cry of war. Two toddler soldiers, armed to the teeth with tears, tantrums and occasionally some toys, ready to do what they need to, to get what they want…a sugar overload.

You love them really, they’re your pride and joy, but when sweets are involved they turn into little crack heads. With one small bite they want more, and more, and more until there’s endless tears and unforgiving tantrums. As you ponder, you can kind of see which parent they get it from.

“Just wait until they’re tall enough to open the door themselves.”

You shudder at the thought.

“Anyway, both of them went out like a light.”

You clutch onto his arm tightly to give him a glimpse of the severity of the situation, “It’s still not safe. It won’t be until this entire bar is finished.”

He playfully salutes you in the dark, you can barely make out the outline of his face but can hear the cheesiness of his grin, “Yes Ma’am.”

“For the safety and well-being of the household,” You both say at the same time, clinking the sugary goodness together like a toast.

Out of pure clumsiness he fumbles the wrapper, managing to catch it in time but not before a loud crinkle escapes. You hold your breath as Atsumu gives you a look, “I hardly think they’re going to wake-”

It’s quiet for one more moment before the distant cries of your beloved child ring out. Sinking deeper into the web of clothes you smirk triumphantly, “Told you so.”

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thesmokingguns · 3 years

Text

Thrift Store

Word Count 1916

Fluff

You rolled your eyes watching the man walk into the thrift shop you owned. The bell had rung drawing your attention to the tall man with teased hair and leather from head to toe.

This was the type of person you were used to seeing duck into the shop on The Strip looking to score some piece of cool clothing for their stage outfit. All of them loved chatting you up about what night their band was going to play and how you should totally check them out because they were going to make it. The only place they were going to make it was to third base with some bottle blonde.

You flipped your magazine, eyes looking up to the man who was dragging the metals hangers to the side looking through the leather jackets. Typical of him to be in that section. He didn’t look like the type to steal so you didn’t really pay that much attention to him until he was right in front of you a few minutes later.

“Excuse me.” You dragged your eyes up looking at him. He was holding up a black jacket you had found at a yard sale last weekend, “This doesn’t have a price on it. Could you tell me how much it is?” The jacket would look good on him and it would definitely fit better than the one he was wearing that didn’t even cover his wrists.

“Ten dollars and the jacket you’re wearing.” You replied to him. You could redo his jacket and sell it for triple the price. He seemed surprised but was tugging off his jacket and sliding the new one on already.

You were right, it did fit him perfectly. It took away the little boy playing dress up and made him look like a man. He looked in the mirror and you watched this small smile, confidence slipping into his face. That’s when you really took him in and appreciated the way he was built. He had a strong jawline and these olive eyes that were the kind that got girls into trouble.

“Listen, I know you’re cutting me a huge deal. Can I buy you a drink tonight? My band is playing at the Whisky at midnight. You can meet me before or if you want to stick around after I’m sure there will be a party at our apartment.” There it was. The line where he invited you out because he needed more chicks in the audience.

“I’m really busy tonight. I’m sorry.” You actually felt sorry when you lied. But there was no way you, you were going to get sucked into going to see some shitty club band when you could stay in bed and not be annoyed with people. You held out your hand taking the crumpled bills he handed you.

“That was a shitty line, wasn’t it?” He rubbed the back of his neck and you watched the leather stretch over his bicep. Jesus Christ, he wasn’t like one of the thin chicken boys who came in. He had muscles and was filled out.

“Look, I’m sure your band is great but I’m not going to go see them because you bought a jacket from me.” He nodded understandingly, “But you do look good in the jacket so at least you have that.” You teased him, loving how he smiled from the corner of his mouth, he had to be older than you by a few years and there was this mystery about him that had you wanting to ask more questions but instead you took the jacket he had been wearing, throwing it on your bag for home and went back to flipping through your magazine.

He was still standing in front of the register as if he hadn’t quite worked out that you weren’t going to go out with him. A sigh escaped your lips as you looked back up at him.

“It’s past lunch time but maybe we can grab a beer and a burger now?” Your eyebrow shot up at his offer. A beer and a burger was much better than seeing a shitty band play. You looked around the shop, it was 1:30pm on a Friday. Soon the place would be mobbed with kids from the Valley looking for new clothes to wear for their weekend nights in Hollywood. This was one of your busy days and you knew that you couldn’t leave.

“I can’t leave. It’s busy here Friday afternoon but if you wear that jacket tonight I’m sure that you’ll find a great girl for beer and burgers on Saturday afternoon.” You smiled. He seemed confused about why you kept turning down your advances.

“Well, if you won’t go out with me can I at least have your name?” You heard the bell ring and looked past him to the two young teens walking in.

“It’s Y/N. Now you need to get out of here because I have customers.” You moved around the counter slightly grazing against him as you moved down the aisles to check on the kids who seemed like they wouldn’t have a problem stuffing things into their bags. You watched the man walk out of the shop, smiling at the whole encounter.

The night was steady. People crammed into the small store and it turned out to be a great day for business. You locked the safe at the end of the night and jumped out of your skin when you heard a knock on the glass door. Your eyes narrowed seeing a man shifting outside and you grabbed the baseball bat next to the register.

It was dark outside but you could hear people laughing as they passed outside, which just heightened your senses as you got closer. It suddenly dawned on you that it was the guy from earlier. He noticed you finally at the door and held up his hands. One hand was holding a six pack and the other a brown paper bag with grease stains on the bottom.

“It doesn’t seem busy now.” he yelled through the door. The way he was standing there made you shake your head, turning the lock as you opened up and let him inside the shop. His eyes took in the bat you were holding as you locked up the door, “Are you in a late night baseball league?” You roll your eyes, locking the door up.

“I thought you had a show.” He tosses you a beer and you’re taking him in wondering what angle this man is trying to come at you from.

“We play at midnight. I have an hour to have burgers and beers with you, Y/N.” The crinkle of the bag makes you watch his movements, “There’s this little hole in the wall joint that makes the best burgers around the corner from here.” The stranger is handing you a wrapped red and white checkered burger.

“I don’t know your name and you expect me to just have dinner with you.” The suspicious nature you have makes it hard to tell if this guy is usually this spontaneous or if he wants something from you. Knowing how the men in this area are, you're sure that he is going to try and get something.

“I’m Nikki Sixx.” The name makes your eyes roll. Another boy with a fake stage name and dreams of being a rock and roll superstar but he brought beer and burgers so you can’t just kick him out.

It’s a quick hour and after the initial eye rolling over his name and the slight boredom when he talks about his band you find yourself listening to him talk. Actually listening and caring about what he says. The way he describes his dreams isn’t with the youthful nativity you have come across from your time in Hollywood. No, Nikki has a plan to achieve his dream and it includes a lot of hard work. He isn’t afraid to work for his dreams because he knows that is how he will get them.

He’s easy to talk to and you find yourself laughing so hard you’re covering your mouth at the stories he tells you. From the way his band does maniac things to funny stories of schemes he’s done to survive. You don’t know why it’s so easy to laugh with him. But what you like the most about him is how he asks questions about you that would get lost with other people. He doesn’t make the hour you have together all about his rockstar dreams but he turns the conversation to what your goals are. His eyes are thoughtful, watching you as you speak about fashion design and how the store is a stepping stone for you. He even gets you to show him some of the things you altered and designed. The usual embarrassment you might feel void because of how comfortable he makes you feel.

Eyes keep darting to the clock and you know he’s stayed past the hour he had told you he had before his show. Until finally he’s pushed his time back as far as he could and he’s getting up to leave, knowing that he’s going to have to run from the store right onto stage..

“I’m glad that you let me in tonight. I had a great time getting to know you, Y/N. The band doesn't play tomorrow night so if you’re around Sunday I’d like to tag along to your yard sales you were talking about.” He’s saying it because he wants to spend time with you and the fact he’s willing to hang out on a Sunday afternoon to see something you like has you softening to his charms. He is a lot different from the usual clientele of the store with a self centered nature and a rock n roll attitude without the fame.

“Well, you know where I work. My apartment’s above here. If you’re serious, meet me at 11am Sunday and we can go explore together.” Nikki nods at your words and you wish he’d invite you to the show again but even in the short time you’ve talked to him you know he won’t. He doesn’t want to be rejected twice for something that he cares about. But he has shown such a sincere interest in your passions and you find that you want to see him play. “Do you mind if I walk to the Whisky with you to see the show? I heard there’s a pretty good band playing tonight.” His eyes flash up and it’s nice to see you’ve surprised him by changing your mind. He doesn’t seem like the type that is surprised too often

As you’re walking, chattering nonstop with the stranger you met in the shop this morning your mind wanders to the leather jacket he’s wearing. That jacket was made for him to wear. As soon as you saw him holding it you knew that he was going to go home with it. If he hadn’t come looking for that jacket your day would have been a lot different. Now you were with the bassist of a band going to the Whisky to see another band try to make it off the Strip and into the stars. But the usual apathetic feeling you had about these bands were gone and you were thinking that this person would really make it. And you were rooting for him.

#Douglas Booth! Nikki Sixx #The Dirt imagine #The Dirt headcanon #Dougas Booth imagine #Douglas Booth headcanon #Douglas Booth Fanfic #Douglas Booth! Nikki Sixx headcanon #nikki sixx x you #Nikki Sixx YOu

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joannasteez · 3 years

Text

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍: 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐀 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: EZ Reyes x GradStudent!Reader

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: Dedicated to my fav @appropriate-writers-name because she deserves>

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆: Mature Themes.

Credits to the gif maker always @hvitserkk

Based on this post

Trying my hand at writing a headcanon... hopefully this isn’t long winded but if it is.... I don’t think that’s an issue right? The more EZ the better lol!

Also... thanks for 500 followers💋

☠︎

Nocturne No.1 in B Flat Minor rides on the air that flows around you like a whisper, the soft piano lead melody slipping over your ears in a delicate manner that calms the atmosphere of the room. It’s perfect music to write to.

But it doesn’t stop the cramping in your fingers, the ache dull because your muscles have gone numb and taut but you can’t stop writing, for God sakes as your mind runs and rambles you have to keep going or run the risk of losing your train of thought.

There are books and articles everywhere, scattered along the sheets in a manner that is dysfunctional to the point of perfection. The mess makes sense to you of course but it’s dysfunctional nevertheless, a tangible representation of the clutter your mind is in at the moment.

Whoever thought of Grad School as an idea can go to hell.

Who ever thought of 15 page papers can go to hell as well.

Just as the music breaks for a moment and a half, the intensity of the piano suspended for the tiniest second of eternity, and in that suspension of sound, your stomach grumbles obnoxiously. A ripple in your abdomen and a dryness on your tongue.

But what’s food when there’s work to be done right?

There’s a jangling sound at the door and for a second your fight or flight takes hold, reducing your flesh to goosebumps, your heart sinking at the possibility of someone attempting to break in..... and then you realize, if they have a key, then you’ve given it to them.

You know exactly who it is, heavy footed steps thumping against your floorboards.

“I gave you that key for emergencies”.

Ezekiel’s in the doorway of your room, a bag of something savory in his hands.

“It is an emergency if I haven’t seen or heard from you in three weeks”.

Your face scrunches, trying to recall where the time went... It hasn’t been that long has it? It couldn’t have been.

“Yes three weeks.... I counted”, he grumbles. Resting the food on your dresser and coming to the side of the bed.

He kisses you, lips chasing yours with a hunger that is unyielding, the build of his body nearly forcing yours to lay against the sheets, and it almost does, till a paper crinkles and you remember what you were doing. You push him away.

“I’m sorry baby but bad timing, I have to finish this”.

He huffs, neediness rising in him to such a point that it tingles all over his body. Not having you in ear or eye shot for three weeks was more torturous than he wanted to admit. He wanted to lay up under you, feel your kiss, hear your voice; the whispers, the whimpers, the moans, the laughs, the sweet rasp of it from the morning, the sultry form it took when he’d had you spread and ready for him, the sweet melody of it when you sang doing random things around the apartment. He just wanted to hear you, feel you, have your fingers delicately trace his chest in the relaxing way that you do at night. Fuck he missed you.

“You can’t take a break?”

Your eyes cut to him “No I can’t”.

“The papers probably not due till next month”, he accuses.

And he’s right, but your inspiration for this course hasn’t struck you the way it has now in months, all your thoughts and ideas need to be written now, and not burned to flames by the mood EZ is about stir up which you’ll no doubt fall into if you don’t put a stop to it before it starts. He’s got that way about him, it’s uncanny, but sneaky nonetheless.

He starts out with an innocent kiss to your lips, chasing and prying them open with his tongue, and in between these he’s whispering things that make you fall deeper into his little trap, that husky tone dripping into your ears and making your body pliant against the bed.

Something like, “I love your lips hermosa”, “they’re so soft”, “they feel so fucking good against mine”.

You moan in response, like a reflex, the functions of your body laden with the urge, the need to fulfill desire. Your mind can’t keep up and by the time it does he’s got you so far gone. Right where he wants you.

He’s a good trouble you can’t afford to indulge into right now.

EZ gets rid of his kutte and the t-shirt lying beneath.

Fuck! Ok maybe a little indulgence wouldn’t hurt.... right?

Your finger points at him in a way to warn him, “30 minutes, that’s it”.

“An hour”, he argues back. 30 min is BS and you it.

“Fine”.

He’s all cheesy now, rushing the papers and your laptop away neatly enough before he’s laying at your side, attacking your lips with a satisfied groan, the thick rugged feeling of his hands running over your thighs, purposely overwhelming himself with the feel of you to sate the teeming desire he feels but it isn’t working. He needs more. He’s lavishing your mouth with slick tongue kisses, those stocky fingers running warm strokes over the inside of your thighs, pinching and pulling the flesh as he nears the thin cover of your panties.

Three weeks out of action and away from him has you breathless, your body sensitive and fast to respond.

He’s at your ear now, tugging at the shell of it with sharp teeth. “I fucking missed you baby girl”.

You moan at the name, voice airy. “I missed you too”.

He’s got your legs wide in swift motions and with the pulling sensation of his eyes, he’s drawing you into him to be fully consumed. Your stuck in them, falling deeper and becoming less conscious of where you are. Anything that isn’t him no longer exist. You’re completely done for.

Has it been mentioned yet that Ezekiel is a tease?, a man with the ability to manipulate your nerve endings to such a degree that they are now permanently susceptible to his every whim? Well if not mentioned before, let this truth be known now as he demonstrates it, the loneness of his thumb giving your slick slit slow rubs once your underwear are out of the way. His lips twitching up to a sly grin as he watches you squirm.

He’ll deliver you to your release slowly first, present you to the highest peak of bliss with measured thrums of his thumb, the pad of it delivering lazy circles to the wet flesh of your clit. He’ll draw it out of you, root up those pretty, wispy sounds that he likes first because they make his heart swell with pride. Only he can have you like this, writhing against the sheets in delirium.

You roll your hips, desperate for friction, his eyes trialing to the slick pink of your opening. The lewd slip of his finger against you puts a sinful spark in his eye, tongue peaking out to wet his lip as he watches you drag your hips lazily. “Fuck that shit is pretty”, he groans, laying a little slap to you that has you gasping for air, your fingers rushing up under your shirt to pull at the hard peaks of your chest. When you respond with the deep grind of your hips he does it again, laying another teasing slap to your bundle nerves making you whimper. Your head falling against the pillows as your spine arches.

Your voice is ragged as it leaves. “Don’t tease Ezekiel, I can’t take it”.

His eyes go to your fast, and they’re dilated. Completely blown. “Yes you can. You take whatever I give you, you hear me?”

When you don’t answer right away, he gives your clit another slap, a little harder this time, and it has you answering in a quick succession of yes’s.

He delves a finger into you, curving the digit as it glides out, eyes peeled again to the way you’re taking in the tanned finger. The feel of you is constricting, desperate for him not to leave. When he reaches to add another you arch high off the bed, the hook of them reaching that deep place in you that makes the darkness behind your lids go all white and splotchy. He loves the response, he lives for it, for you. “That’s it mi amor, you’re squeezing my fingers so tight. My pretty girl is being so good for me yeah?”

“I’m always good for you”, you purr. Your hips grinding as he gives you hard hitting thrust.

He moans at your answer. Gearing up to add to your pleasure. “Can you take another finger mama? Can I give you another?”

You nearly sob. “Please”.

The fit is tight, a slight ache of pressure at the fullness but you’re floating now. Completely gone as he works you up to that blissful peak.

“Look at me”, he calls but you don’t hear him. Hips rolling on auto pilot.

With the idle hand he’s had laying at the side, he reaches to grab your face, placing a number of teasing and gentle wet kisses to your lips as those fingers stroke you deep. The juxtaposition is jarring to your body, something in your belly fluttering before it spreads through your skin.

You’re so close.

He’s holding your eyes with his again, giving your hairline soft sweet caresses as he stares into you deep, searching for your soul to claim as a personal possession and all the while those fingers are tormenting you with lewd thrust, the wetness of them making obscene noises that fly into the air, the impact of them causing tears to slip from your eyes to your cheeks. Your eyes are glassy as he fails to stop delivering you to that release, a new droplet falling when he guides his thumb back to that glistening nub.

“Oh my God”, you whimper. The knot in your belly threatening to burst.

As the tension builds the tears flow, your body overwhelmed to such an inexplicable degree, and all the while he maintains eye contact with you. Irrevocably enthralled in the way you’re responding to the things he’s doing to you. Your body loves him just as much as your heart does, responds to him just as much as your mind does. He’s got you delirious off his three fingers but you’ve got him wrapped around just one of yours.

“Come for me hermosa”, he rasped.

And you do, convulsing against the bed. His body beside yours, guiding you through the amazing mess of your release.

#mayans mc #ez reyes #ezekiel reyes #ezekiel reyes x reader #ez reyes x reader #ez reyes x black!reader #mayans headcanon #long headcanon #ezekiel reyes x black!reader #ez reyes x poc!reader #joannasteez

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dizzydancingdreamer · 3 years

Text

Everything, Everywhere | The Mikaelson Boys

Hello Lovelies! I circled back to my element and wrote a more traditional Mikaelson Boys fic. Did I reuse the theme of a ball? Yes, I am a weak and lazy woman. Did I make the fic completely implausible and touchy? You know I did, they’re vampires and I will let them touch whoever they want (with consent of course). Anyway, it’s honestly just a cute, kinda steamy romance. I altered some of the points from the universe but you have to squint to see where. You know, my entire gambit. You could use this as a prologue for my other fic, Big Decisions, but this is more than fine as a standalone. Anyways, I hope you are all doing well and that this story brings you joy! Until next time <3

Description: Y/n is part of a founding family and gets invited to a Mikaelson ball. Somehow she manages to enamour three of the brothers. They soon discover she has a few secrets that they’re more than willing to indulge.

Pairing: Fem!Reader x The Mikaelson Boys

Warnings: Kudos to me I think there are none

Word count: 10k (oops)

Tags: Fluff, smut if you squint (more like nudity)

“Are you heading home this weekend?” Lily twirls a strand of blonde hair between her fingers, “Mama told me there’s an event.”

Your best friend lays on your bed as opposed to her own, her legs dangling over the edge. Her eyes are closed, probably halfway to being asleep. It’s been this way since the two of you left for college three years ago, always more in your space than her own. You’re lucky that way, you have a best friend who would follow you across the country if you wanted her to. Honestly, you would do the same. Luckily, though, you decided on only two hours away away from home. Just far enough to find your footing. At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

You smile softly at her, swiveling in your chair, “what event? My parents haven’t said anything to me.”

Your family is a founding family, just like Lily’s is. That’s how the two of you became best friends, it was practically destined. You were babies at the same time and your parents brought you to every meeting together. You were inseparable long before you can remember.

Lilly yawns, curling her legs to her chest, “I think it’s some sort of ball. I’m not too sure, I think we got invitations,” Lily rolls her eyes as if the concept of a hand written letter offends her very being, “and they probably just forgot or assumed I would tell you. Isn’t your mom, like, the head of the committee now?”

You nod at her, closing your own eyes for a second, “yeah she’s always got something going on. I swear she forgets she even has a daughter half the time.” You let your mind drift to the other half of the conversation, “Invitations? That’s exciting.”

You don’t have to look at her to know that she’s rolling her eyes again. You crack an eye open anyway just in time to glimpse her do that very thing. You giggle lightly, shaking your head.

Always one for theatrics, “careful, Lil, your tomboy is showing. What would your mother think if she could see you up in arms over a silly, little note, hmm?”

She scowls at you before letting the grin crack through, flipping her middle finger up at you and mouthing bite me.

You lean your head back against your chair, “I’m not even sure if mama wants me to come. She hasn’t said anything about this to me. She called me yesterday and it didn’t come up once. Maybe I should just stay here.”

“Not true,” Lily curls her fingers at you, beckoning you to join her on the bed, “she’s just busy these days. Remember how she was when we were little?”

You move to the bed, curling next to your best friend, “you mean how she was always around? She went from helicopter parent to too busy to text me back.”

You yawn, closing your eyes and letting the lullaby of sleep on your limbs sing a little louder. Lily cuddles closer to you, almost gone herself. You wish you could hold onto these moments. These fleeting minutes of comfort in your best friend’s arms. It’ll be gone all too soon. You almost don’t want to fall asleep. Laying next to her feels like the calm before the storm and you want to soak up as much of it as you can. Your heavy eyelids, however, have other plans.

“You’re coming. If I have to go then so do you. I’m sure this weekend will be different,” her voice is the last thing you hear before you drift off, “I can feel it.”

* * * * * * * * *

Sure enough, when you pull into your parent’s driveway after dropping Lily off at her own house, your mother bursts through the door, a wide smile on her face. You let your own smile drown the nerves you’ve been fighting for the last three hours, practically falling out of the car to get to her. She wraps you in a hug, her familiar honeysuckle and lilac scent trickling around you.

“I missed you, mama,” you whisper against her shoulder and she squeezes you tighter for a second before letting go.

“Oh honey,” she crinkles her nose at you, her face the picture of serene joy, “what’s to miss? I’m always right here. I, however, missed you so much.” She leads you into the house, her arm around your shoulders tight, “Tell me all about everything!”

You suck in a breath as you enter your house, letting your shoulders sag as you pass over the door frame. You’re home, finally. You glance around quickly at everything you’ve missed for the last few months. You glance at family photos, most of which include Lily, and the random trinkets your parents have collected over the years. There are a few new ones and you make a mental note to look at them later.

You settle on a stool at the kitchen counter, leaning your head in your hand, “you first, mama. What’s this about a ball? And an invitation, hmm? You’ve been holding out on me.”

Her eyes widen, telling you everything you need to know. She forgot. You really aren’t that surprised. It makes you feel better, at least the reason she didn’t tell you wasn’t because she didn’t want you to attend. Lily was right, you’ll have to let her say I told you so when you see her next.

“Oh shoot,” she snaps her fingers, rushing to the foyer, her voice floating to you as she turns the corner, “I’m so sorry honey, it completely slipped my mind. I barely had a chance to glance at my own invitation,” she comes back into view, now with two envelopes in her hand, “here you go!”

She hands you the envelope and you almost gasp at how luxurious the paper feels in your fingers. The cardstock is definitely of the more expensive selection and you blanche. Who on earth could be sending this? You read your name on the card drawn in an elegant script. Handwritten. You had been joking with Lily when you thought that but now, looking at it first hand, it almost offends you as well. You could never write like that.

You open it carefully, making sure to not taint the red seal. You’re pretty sure your heart would collapse if that happened. This has to be one of the most beautiful things you have ever touched. You pull the equally luxurious note from the envelope, your eyes dancing over the paper.

Please join the Mikaelson Family this coming Saturday at seven o’clock for dancing, cocktails, and celebration.

Your heart stops. This coming Saturday. Saturday. As in today Saturday. You whip your head up to stare at your mother, your mouth falling open.

“Mama,” this time your eyes widen, “this is tonight!” you hiss, your brows shooting up, “I can’t attend this! There’s no time, it’s two in the afternoon already!”

She rolls her eyes and for a moment you picture Lily and how she would call you dramatic. You can practically hear her voice. Just wear jeans you princess. You scoff at imaginary Lily. You can’t attend a ball in jeans, not that that would stop her at all.

“You can and you should attend,” she places a finger under your chin, drawing your eyes to meet hers, “the Mikaelson’s are new to town and have invited us. It’s only polite that we attend. Besides,” she winks at you and your cheeks flood with heat, “they are quite the handsome bunch. Perhaps you can end this dry spell? Give me some grandbabies?”

You choke at her words, pulling your face from her fingers with burning skin, “oh my god, mama! I’m almost certain you should not be condoning grandbabies! Besides, I have nothing to wear so I highly doubt I’ll be the one pulled from the crowd. Reproduction rates are looking slim, I am sorry to say!”

She laughs, her eyes crinkling, and you can’t stop yourself from joining her, “alright, alright. No grandbabies. Yet. However, I’m not so sure how you can be so certain when you haven’t even looked at what I picked up for you. I quite think you’re going to change your mind, honey bunch.”

Your laughter stops abruptly as she leaves the room for the second time. You hear her jog up the stairs and your interest is officially peaked. She never jogs. What on earth has she done? You rack your brain, trying to picture what she’s going to show you now. You don’t have much time to sit on your thoughts, however, because soon you can hear her feet on the stairs again, still jogging, now humming a tune you can’t place.

When she comes back into view, your mouth falls open. In her hands is a gown. No, not just a gown. In her hands is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen. It’s a black, sequined number with a full skirt and a slit that looks like it will rest a touch lower than your hip. The straps keeping it on the hanger are thin, almost nonexistent, and the bodice has a deep but modest dip. When she moves it sparkles like a diamond, catching the sun rays pouring in through the kitchen window. She holds it up, letting it flow to its full effect in front of you, and you gasp, your hands flying to your mouth.

You can feel the tears prickling at the edge of your vision and you silently scold yourself for being so emotional, “mama, where did you get this? It’s too much!”

Her smile falters, minutely, but you still see it and curse silently, “you don’t like it?”

You stand quickly, your eyes wide, “no! That’s not it,” you take the dress from her, afraid it’ll disappear if you don’t touch it, “this must have cost a fortune is all! How can we afford this?”

It’s true, the dress looks like a million bucks and probably costs as much. You’re a founding family, sure, but that doesn’t instantly equate to old money. It doesn’t even mean new money. Your family has never struggled to get by but you also know that something this extravagant would have definitely set your father back a pretty penny. You don’t want your family to waste their hard earned money on something this frivolous, even if it is the most stunning thing you’ve ever laid your eyes on.

Your mother’s smile returns to its full brilliance and she shakes her head, “it didn’t cost me a thing, honey, don’t worry. Mrs. Jackson down the street owed me a favor and I asked if she had anything particularly pretty laying around. She pulled this from her closet. She also told me to let you know that it’s yours if you would like.”

You hug the dress tiger to your chest, your mouth gaping further, “I can keep this?”

Your mother giggles, bobbing her head up and down quickly. She looks like she’s ready to start jumping. You don’t blame her, you’re half a second away from doing the same thing. You could scream from how ecstatic you are.

“Come, honey,” your mom grabs your hand, dragging you up the stairs with her, “I think it’s high time we start getting ready for tonight, don’t you think? You have some Mikaelson’s to wow!”

* * * * * * * * *

When seven o’clock rolls around you’re standing outside the biggest mansion you’ve ever laid your eyes on. Its white pillars taunt you, each one large enough to hide your body. Twice. You’re alone, spare the people around you milling in and out of the large doors. Your mother had dropped you in front while her and your father went to park the car. Never before in your life has a house made you feel this small. This alone. You pull your shawl, a sheer black number, around your shoulders and shrink slightly.

A hand lands on your shoulder and you jump, spinning around quickly only to be greeted with Lily, whose face is twisted from the laughter pouring out of her. She clutches her stomach from the force, wrinkling the red satin dress she’s wearing. You take a moment to admire how much it suits her. It’s a little bold for your tastes but she wears it like no one else could. Her hair is twisted on the top of her head, a few curls falling to frame her face. She looks amazing, not that you had any doubts.

You lightly smack her shoulder, finally letting a few giggles loose, “you scared me you idiot!” You turn your eyes back to the mansion, swallowing the lump of nerves growing in your throat, “take a look at this place, will you. It’s huge! Have you ever seen a house this big? What could someone possibly need a house this big for?”

“Yeah it’s something alright,” her eyes drag down the hulking facade before meeting yours once more, a naughty smirk now on her red lips, “and I’m sure the inside is even nicer! Let’s go!”

She grabs your hand, all but dragging you over the threshold. Light pours over you, catching the sequins on your dress and making it sparkle delicately, something that would usually make you squeal however your attention is currently elsewhere. That elsewhere is the dual grand staircase in the center of the room. It’s encased in pillars, the feature leaking in from the exterior of the mansion. It’s bronze railings are strung up with thousands of twinkling lights. The staircase is easily the focal point of the foyer.

But not because of the lights.

Lily digs her nails into your hand, pulling you to a screeching halt, “are you seeing what I’m seeing right now?”

Her eyes are glued to the same place that yours are, dragging up and down the staircase with little care to whoever might be watching her little show. You choose a less outright form of gawking, opting to look all around the room while still making little glances at your main focus.

“Yeah, Lil, I think I am,” you gulp, your eyes training on three sinfully gorgeous men, “mama said they were handsome but this,” you let the end of your sentence drop, not having nearly the vocabulary to explain the Mikaelsons.

In total, there are five people on the staircase. Four men and a woman. Each one is gorgeous in their own right. You mull over the woman first. If you thought that you looked nice before you left, that’s pretty much gone now. She’s absolutely stunning. Her blonde hair lays in a sheet over her shoulders, winding almost to her base of her spine. She wears an emerald gown, one fitted to every dip and curve of her body like it was spun by Aphrodite herself. You have to look away, she’s the kind of pretty that makes you feel like you’re not worthy of seeing it.

Your eyes travel to the man next to her and your mouth goes dry. He’s tall. That’s the first thing you notice. If you were next to him he would easily tower over you. Not just because of his height, though. You shift your focus to his arms and the way the sleeves of his tux hug them tightly. You have no doubts this man could rip you in two if he wanted to. He stands at ease, his eyes wandering the faces of those closest to him as he lifts a hand to smooth over his brown hair. At least he doesn’t look to be in the killing mood.

Behind him is a man with blonde hair. Even from across the room it looks softer than silk and your palms itch to run through it. He leans against the railing, a glass of champagne loose in his fingers. His eyes are on the others but he has the appearance of a man who is a thousand miles away. Your heart hurts at the thought but you brush past it. You don’t know him and you’re most likely wrong. Still you give him another brush over, wishing slightly that he would crack even a hint of a smile.

You shake your head, moving to the man at the top of the stairs. He’s alive with something fiery, speaking to the others with animated hands and laughing hard. You can’t hear him over the crowd around you but, gods, you wish you could. It’s probably nothing important but, by the looks of him, he could make anything sound special. He throws his head back laughing, his brown hair flopping wildly. You can’t look at him for long either but not for the same reason you couldn’t look at the woman. No, you can’t look at him because you’re afraid if you look any longer than you’ll be sucked in forever.

When you look at the last man you shiver. It’s not the kind of shiver that makes you feel exhilarated though, it’s the opposite. Your blood runs cold when you look at him and, when his eyes meet yours, you look away instantly. You can feel his eyes burning into your back for a few moments after and you hate it. Unlike the rest of them, this man makes you feel ice cold.

You tug on your best friend’s hand, desperate to get away from the man, “come on, Lil, let’s go find the champagne.”

Lily’s eyes light up at the thought, instantly taking the lead on this new expedition, “girl you read my mind!”

You take one last glance towards the staircase as she pulls you into another room, momentarily catching three pairs of brown eyes before scampering around the corner. Your cheeks are hot when you’re finally out of their vicinity. You hadn’t realized how heavy the air around them had been. Now that you can’t see them your bones feel marginally lighter. Something nags at you though, a loss of sorts. You rub a hand over your chest, massaging the ache away.

Lily pushes a cool glass into your hand, lifting her own to her lips. You follow suit, breathing in the sugary scent before letting the sweet bubbles flow down your throat. They pop, soothing your flaming chest.

“Shit,” Lily breathes, “everything about this screams money. The invitations, the house, this damn champagne. What’s next? A pool of synchronised swimmers?” Her eyes wander the room, her fingers tight around the glass, “I’m not used to this Great Gatsby level of wealth. It’s making my head spin a little. This is my parent’s scene, not mine.”

You nod lightly, her words everything you’ve been dying to say. It’s magnificent but you’ve never felt more out of place. Not even the founders day balls are like this. At least Mrs. Lockwood has the good sense to cater to the modesty of the town. Before you can answer, however, a voice joins your conversation.

“My apologies, my brothers like to go overboard when throwing parties. It’s not quite my taste either, a little too stuffy if you ask me.”

You spin around to the sight of the woman from the stairs and your heart pounds hard in your chest. She’s even more beautiful up close, like a Van Gogh masterpiece. Her voice is accented and smooth, impossibly so. You feel like a peasant in her presence but her smile is light and it helps to soothe your nerves a touch. When you look at Lily, though, her cheeks are beet red and her eyes are wide.

“Oh my, I am so sorry! I didn’t think anyone would hear me besides,” she nudges you lightly, the smile she’s plastered on her face sheepish, “this one here. It really is gorgeous. Perhaps university has lowered my standards.”

You watch Lily fumble her words and you don’t blame her. This girl seems like she was made to insite insecurity and you mean that in the very best of ways. Despite her slight enthusiasm, though, Lily’s eyes flow over the woman slowly. You can tell she’s interested. By the way her stares are being reciprocated, you would say she isn’t the only one. You smile at that.

The woman laughs, her eyes filled with mirth, “your standards aren’t low, this party is just a nightmare. I’m Rebekah, one of the many Mikaelsons you will surely encounter tonight,” she looks over her shoulder, her eyebrows furrowing slightly, “and it looks as though you’re going to get the immersive experience.”

You, too, look over her shoulder and your heart stops. The three men from the staircase, the ones who didn’t make your blood run cold, walk towards you slowly, stopping here and there to welcome guests. The tall one catches your eye and you freeze, a deer caught in the headlights. He says something to the other men and they join in looking at you. You swallow hard, your insides doing somersaults at the sight of them. A deer caught in three headlights, it would seem.

You look back at Rebekah, your eyes blown wide from the panic rising in your chest. She isn’t looking at you, her eyes still locked on your best friend. They’re in the middle of a conversation that you haven't been paying attention to. You tune back in just in time to hear Lily ask about the gardens behind the house. You scrunch your nose. What gardens?

“Yes, they’re marvelous,” Rebekah leans towards Lily, a glint in her eyes, “and much less crowded. I could show you around them if you’d like?”

Oh no. No no no. You can see the gears turning in your best friend’s head and the smile that blossoms on her face. You know what’s about to happen and for a moment time stands still. She’s really going to do it, isn’t she?

She looks over at you, tossing you and apologetic squint before meeting Rebekah’s wondering eyes, “I would love that! Lead the way.”

You watch in slow motion as your best friend wanders away, once more looking over her shoulder to mouth a quick I’m sorry. You roll your eyes at her, murmuring a silent you owe me. You close your eyes briefly, tipping the remainder of your champagne into your mouth. You set your glass down as the alcohol swirls in your stomach, adding a kind of weightlessness to your movements. You embrace it, your eyes scanning the ornate walls. What the hell are you going to do now?

A breeze swirls around you, a myriad of spices hitting your nose just as a honeyed voice breaks your daze, “this house was built in the seventeenth century. As a matter of fact, those are the same walls. I do apologize, we’re a little slow when it comes to modernization. I know it can be a lot to take in, if you need another moment to confront them I do understand.”

You turn quickly, your cheeks hot to the touch, and you find yourself inches away from one of the men from the staircase. You bite your cheek, you really need to figure out their names. Up close you see that you were right about him, he does indeed tower over you. You have to bend your neck significantly to make comfortable eye contact. You almost wish you hadn't, though, his dark eyes flooding your chest with butterflies.

“I think I’ve had my fill of the walls but thank you for your consideration,” you pull your wrap tighter around you, clutching it like it's the source of magic that is helping you keep your composure, “and for the history lesson. This house is beautiful.”

He smiles widely, an action so doused in beauty that your head spins, “thank you, it was my father’s. I am Elijah, I don’t believe we’ve met before,” his eyes flit across your face and you can feel the blush begin to creep down your chest, “something which I’m beginning to understand is a terrible misfortune on my part.”

Your heart pounds painfully, your throat dry. This man clearly has a deep grasp on words and knows exactly how to use them. You wonder for a moment to what extent. What would he sound like in a more intimate setting? What words would he use when no one else could hear him?

Your eyes widen, your chest burning at the thought, “I’m y/n. Perhaps you’ve met my mother, Mary-Anne?” you glance around, trying and failing to locate your mother, “She’s around here somewhere, she has a hand in most of the happenings around town so it wouldn’t surprise me if you do know her.”

Elijah’s carmel eyes fill with recognition, “ah, yes, I believe I’ve seen her in town. Never you, though.”

Though he doesn’t ask, the question is clear in his tone.

“I attend university out of town,” you clutch your chest lightly, your fingers curling around the top of your dress, “I’m actually only home for the weekend. My mother was adamant I attend this evening.”

Elijah tilts his head, his eyes flitting quickly to where your fingers slip down your dress. When he looks back at you his eyes are a touch darker than before. Your heart pounds harder as well and you bite your lip slightly, thankful your mother didn’t make you wear lipstick.

“I see. I suppose that means we must give you a night to remember,” his eyes linger on your mouth for a moment and the heat that was swirling in your chest sinks lower.

“Indeed we shall, brother,” a voice from your left pulls your attention.

You’re greeted with the blonde from earlier, the one who looked like he was on another planet. Standing in front of you now he looks much more aware. His eyes, a touch lighter than Elijah’s, skim down your dress, lingering on the high slit on your hip before meeting yours again. You suck in a breath but there is no oxygen to be found.

“I do hope my brother is giving you a proper welcome,” his eyes flash, a cheeky smile tugging at his lips, “I wouldn’t want you leaving here tonight without a proper taste of the Mikaelson charm.”

The way he says the word taste, the way it rolls of his tongue, is positively sinful. It hits you straight in the stomach, spreading like poison through your already airy body. It anchors you to the ground, to him. You glance at Elijah who’s already watching you like a hawk. You feel naked under his gaze but, for some reason, it isn’t a wholly unwelcome feeling. You actually kind of like it.

You smile lightly at him before turning back to his brother, “I think he’s doing a marvelous job. His introduction skills, however, need a little bit of a touch up.” You giggle at the glimpse of his furrowed eyebrows from the corner of your eye, “Too much talking about walls for my liking.”

“Ah, there you two are,” a third voice joins your arsenal of men, standing on your right and piercing you with a voice accented enough to make the gods fall to their knees, “hogging all the pretty girls tonight, are we Klaus?”

You meet the eyes of the third man, the one who made laughter look like a gift, and your heart sings. He grins at you, his eyes, much like his brothers’, a warm brown. Having all three of them this close to you is more intense than you could have imagined. They make the room feel smaller. Intimate. You’re not sure if you want to run away screaming or move closer to them. They’re magnetic, you’re just not sure if being pulled in or pushed away.

He takes your hand, an action that sends your heart into overdrive. His eyes light up, as if he can hear every rapid beat of your pulse. You scold yourself inwardly. Don’t be stupid, y/n, that would be impossible.

“I’m Kol,” he brings your hand to his lips, laying a kiss that renders your knees weak against your knuckles, “it’s a pleasure.”

Your heart thunders at the feeling of his lips against your skin. You feel like a schoolgirl, dizzy from the slightest touch from your playground crush. His lips are warm and soft. Is this how princesses feel? God, you need another drink.

“So,” Klaus steps towards you, his eyes swirling with something barely contained, “what’s this I heard about us giving you a night to remember?”

Your heart stops on the spot and you almost choke, not missing any of the implications behind his tone, “I have to head back to school tomorrow is all,” you breathe, trying to play off some of the heat swirling under the surface of your skin, “please, don’t let me keep you from the rest of your guests. I’m sure there are quite a few more important people than me here tonight.”

Elijah chuckles, the sound piling on top of the many other ones you’re already holding tight to, “the guest list is merely a formality, it would really be my pleasure to show you around.”

He holds his hand out to you, his eyes warm but challenging. You swallow thickly, a string of indecipherable emotions rushing through your chest, circling your lungs. You know it’s just a gesture so why does it feel like something more? Why does the thought of taking his hand feel like stepping into the rest of your life? You take a breath, squaring your shoulders and slipping your hand into his. Bring it on, destiny.

“Wait just a moment brother,” Kol’s fingers slip around your wrist, dragging down your palm until your fingers are locked together, “stealing her away from me so soon? I’m not sure I can let you do that.”

Elijah and Kol stare at each other, something wild brewing in their increasingly dark eyes. You tense, feeling like the rope in a game of tug of war. This doesn’t feel like a game, though, this feels real. You’re not a rope to be fought over, you get to decide what and who you want. Even if that’s all of them.

You squeeze both of their hands, drawing their attention back to you, “I’m sure this house is big enough for us to all comfortably go for a tour.”

Elijah’s eyes widen, dragging over you once more as if seeing you properly for the first time all night. He, like his brothers, lingers on the most delicate parts of you for just a few moments longer than he should. It’s a hole in his armor, a hint past the gentleman front. You want to leap at it and pull until all that’s left is the darkness swirling beneath his surface.

You glance at Kol who meets your eyes head on, a toothy grin already on his face, “marvelous, darling. What a great idea.”

He begins pulling you, and by default Elijah, out of the room but you halt, feeling a tad off. You look behind you at Klaus and sigh, your heart heavy. He stands tall but you catch his eyes and the way they glance at your hands, both of which are still being occupied. He squeezes his hands into fists, shoving them in his pockets. You tilt your head, pouting slightly at him.

“Mr. Mikaelson, are you coming? Time is of the essence,” you nod your head toward the foyer, a coy smile on your lips, “we can’t can’t afford to waste any now.”

His face lights up instantly, walking towards you with flames dancing behind his eyes, “time isn’t real, love. Tonight we have as much of it as we want. As much of it as you want.”

You swallow hard. You want it all.

Kol pulls you towards him, twirling you slowly, making your dress spin around your legs like a ribbon, “where to first, darling? What do you want to see?”

Your hands land on his chest, your cheeks flushed and legs wobbly from the spinning. His other hand goes around your waist, his fingers squeezing gently, his thumb pressing into your side in a way that makes you want to draw his body closer to your own. Your thoughts from before ring through your head. He makes everything sound special. More than that; he makes everything feel special.

“Everything,” you can’t tear your eyes away from his, you don’t want to, “show me everything please.”

He leans down, his forehead inches from your own. You can feel the heat rolling off his body even through his tux. It’s luxurious and mingles with the last dregs of the champagne. When combined with his scent, a nutty blend of cloves and cinnamon, you feel lightheaded.

“Very well, darling,” his eyes flit to your lips, “everything it is.”

An arm snakes around your waist, pulling you away from whatever mischief is brewing beneath Kol’s honey eyes. He tilts his head at the person who grabbed you, his aura turning from playful to down right frosty.

You turn away, breaking the hold of one Tyler Lockwood. Your ex. You squint your eyes. If you were a cat, your hackles would be raised. You wouldn’t claw his eyes out but you would be damn close. Memories from your senior year pour through your mind, twisting your gut painfully. You blink them away. Contrary to Klaus, you don’t have time for this.

“Tyler,” your voice courteous but cold, “what is it?”

He doesn’t catch your tone or, if he does, he doesn’t act like it. He reaches towards you again, no doubt to pull you into a hug, but you back away. Unlike with Kol, you don’t want to touch him. You definitely don't want him touching you. That part of your life is over.

“Y/n,” his voice is light, happy, “I didn’t know you were back! Mom didn’t say anything. How have you been?”

The atmosphere around you thickens. You don’t have to look at the Mikaelsons to see that their shoulders are tense. You feel them take a step closer to you, surrounding you with some much needed warmth.

You clench your jaw, forcing a smile on your face, “yes, well, I didn’t know if I was going to be home this weekend or not. University and all, I’m sure you understand. I’m fine, thank you.”

He nods enthusiastically and you grind your teeth slightly, wishing the floor would just swallow you whole. You dart your eyes to the side, briefly skimming Klaus as he rolls his eyes. Lily would be proud. Kol and Elijah don’t look amused either. You’re not sure how you know but you have to get them away from Tyler as fast as possible. The air drops another few degrees and you shiver.

“Oh well, no harm done!” Tyler steps closer to you, “say, how long are you in town? We should grab a bite at the grill.”

You drop your fake smile, your heart stinging slightly, “sorry, Lily and I are heading back tomorrow morning.”

You feel the boys once again tense, as if they don’t like the information you just shared. You don’t have time to think too hard about it though before Tyler closes even more space between you, grabbing your hand. You flinch back, hitting something hard and warm. The smell of pine trees, a whole forest of them, swirls around you as a hand circles your waist.

Tyler scrunches his brows, his smile slightly faltering, “tonight, then? I would really love a chance to talk. Catch up a little.”

You almost laugh. He just isn’t giving up. He can never make it easy for you, can he? The hand on your waist squeezes and you look over your shoulder, your heart stuttering. Elijah is staring at Tyler, something swirling under his irises. Whatever it is looks untamed. Not in the good way, like how he was looking at you earlier. No, whatever he’s feeling right now is dangerous. Time to go.

“I really can’t, my night has been spoken for. Maybe next time, Tyler,” you turn to Elijah, “Elijah, did you say that you saw my mother looking for me? Would you mind showing me to her?”

Elijah’s eyes sparkle, clearly taking your hint, “indeed, she was right this way.”

He pushes you gently, blocking you from Tyler as he leads you out of the room. You can hear Tyler call out to you but you keep walking. Two other sets of footsteps join you, Kol grabbing your hand and twining your fingers together once more. When you break into the foyer you let the anxiety that had been building drain. That was more exhausting than you would like to admit.

Elijah leads the four of you silently to a room off to the side of the foyer. He pushes the large mahogany door open, ushering you in before shutting it again. The smell of ink and old pages hits your nose and your mouth drops open at the sight. You’re in the biggest library you’ve ever seen. It’s like something out of The Beauty and The Beast, the ceilings high and the walls lined from top to bottom with shelves upon shelves of books. You break away from the boys, your fingers itching to touch what is no doubt an impressive collection of history.

You hear a chuckle behind you but you don’t turn, your fingers skimming an older looking manuscript. Upon closer inspection the handwritten inscription on the cover reads Vonya i mir. Your heart stops and you quickly pull it from the shelf throwing all common courtesy out the window. This can’t be what you think it is. You flip it over in your hands, taking care not to crack the spine too much. Lev Nikolayevich Tolstoy.

You whip your head up, meeting three curious glances with wide eyes, “this is War and Peace! Like, the original manuscript. This is,” your heart pounds, your eyes glued to the yellowed pages in your hands, “this is history. I can’t believe I’m holding this.” Your heart stops, “Oh my, I should not be holding this! This belongs in a museum! What am I even doing, holding it like it’s nothing.”

You set it carefully on a desk behind you, looking apologetically back at them. Your cheeks heat rapidly. It’s very much not like you to go into a stranger’s home and start groping their collectables. You pull your lip between your teeth, lowering your head.

A hand gently grabs your chin, “you didn’t mention you’re a classic literature major, love.”

A small smile toys on Klaus’ lips, his thumb skimming over your jaw. Your heart stutters when he says love, warmth spreading through your chest. You reluctantly move your head from his hand, turning to motion at the manuscript.

“That’s because I’m not. I am a history major, with a focus on Russian culture. I’ve read War and Peace more times than I care to admit,” you smile lightly at the book, thinking about the hours you’ve spent pouring over it, “never in Russian, though.”

You glance back at Klaus, your hand flying once more to your bodice. He studies you carefully, his head tilted to the side.

“And what do you think of it? Do you prefer the war or the peace?” He steps towards you, his words filling the almost nonexistent gap between your body and his.

Your breath catches. He’s close enough to touch and, gods, do you ever want to just reach out and pull him against you. First Elijah, then Kol, now him. You’re really gunning to end that dry spell in one night and three ways aren’t you? Heat creeps up your neck, your ears flaming at the thought.

“You can’t have one without the other,” you glance over his shoulder at Elijah and Kol, both of whom are hanging on to your every word, “war is inevitable but peace,” you look back at Klaus, “peace is fundamental.”

Klaus brushes a strand of hair from your cheekbone, sending shivers racing up your spine, “fundamental to what, love?”

His voice is low, his accent wearing down any reservations that you had at the beginning of the night. Your mother’s voice rings through your ears. Give me some grandbabies. She had clearly been joking but your body clearly has no concept of satire, heat pooling between your legs at the thought of making those babies. You close your eyes, sucking in a deep breath. It does nothing to quench the heat. You’re in the thick of it now and there is no escaping the white hot fire growing inside of you.

You sink your head into his hand, “happiness.”

An arm hooks around your waist, spinning you into a pair of spiced arms. Kol. You crack your eyes open and, sure enough, you’re correct. You shouldn’t have been able to guess that already. You’ve known them for no longer than an hour. This is insane. He lowers his face towards yours and your heart slams against your ribcage, his lips inches from yours. You swallow hard, your hands finding the lapels of his jacket. Instead of kissing you, however, he rubs his nose against yours. Oh. That feels nice.

“What makes you happy, darling?”

You laugh softly, his question catching you off guard, “I’m not sure, to be honest. I haven’t had many opportunities to find out.”

“Well then, If you could do one thing that you think would make you happy what would you do?” Kol lifts a hand to your face, his thumb, like his brother’s, skimming your jaw.

You don’t have to think about it, the answer is on your tongue as soon as he asks the question, “I would leave this town,” you glance down, the truth of your statement making you feel all too guilty, “and I’m not sure that I would ever come back.”

His thumb stills and you hold your breath. Perhaps you should have answered with something a little less full on. You haven’t even told Lily that you want to leave and never look back so you honestly have no idea why you just divulged one of your greatest kept secrets to three men you just met. Maybe because it doesn’t matter. Who are they going to tell, right? But no, that doesn’t feel right. You didn’t just tell them because. You had a reason, you just can’t put a name to it.

“I see,” he draws his thumb over your lips, an action that both surprises you and steals the air from your lungs, “and where would you go?”

Again, your answer is effortless, “everywhere, Kol. I would go everywhere.”

Kol smiles, his eyes lighting up with his grin. Your heart skyrockets, fireworks shooting through your chest from the slightest tilt of his perfectly red lips. They look soft; perfectly kissable. If only you had half of his self-assurance. What you wouldn’t give to run the tips of your fingers over his lips.

His hands draw back down your sides, “what was going on back there? You didn’t seem pleased to be speaking to that,” Kol clicks his tongue distastefully, his accent thickening, “boy. Is he the reason you want to leave?”

You pull back slightly, your hands tightening on his coat. How are you even supposed to answer that? The story is a long one and there are very few enjoyable moments to lighten it. Tyler is not the reason you want to leave but you surely wouldn’t be doing yourself any favors by staying for him either. He’s part of a long past, one you’re not going to tell them about. Not today, anyway.

“It’s a long story,” you gently remove yourself from his hold, “one that I assure you none of you would care to hear. But to answer your question, no. Tyler has nothing to do with me wanting to leave. That’s entirely my own, for better or worse.”

He nods, the understanding clear in his honeyed eyes, “in that case, darling, tell me something else.” He pulls you back to his chest, “Do you like the stars?”

* * * * * * * * *

They left the party. Their party. They just up and left the party that they were hosting. You’re shocked. You were shocked when they dragged you out of the mansion and you’re still shocked now, laying on a blanket a few miles away with your mouth hanging open. You hadn’t thought anything of it when Kol asked you about the stars. You thought he was continuing with his little game of twenty one questions. You didn’t think he was serious! Who the hell just leaves the party they’re hosting?

Elijah shuffles his hands through your hair, pulling pins from it left and right and letting the hardwork your mother put into it fall. Yes, indeed you’re laying across the lap of one of the most eligible bachelors you have ever come in contact with, your face pressed against his warm thigh. Your fingers are wrapped around a bottle of the sweet champagne from earlier.

“You know,” you murmur quietly, your eyes locked on the spray of stars above your head, “when you host a party, it’s usually expected that you attend. Running away is frowned upon.”

He laughs and you can feel it through your entire body. It awakens the butterflies sleeping in your chest, sending them fluttering to your guts where the beating of their tiny wings create an inferno so large it sets you on fire from the inside out. You always wondered what it would feel like to be burned alive. You would have never guessed that it would make your toes curl.

“I thought that was what you wanted,” he drags his fingers through your scalp, the final blow to your once styled hair, “to run away. Here’s a start.”

You rub your cheek against his thigh, your face heating when he tenses at your action, “we’re pretty terrible at this running away thing then,” you hum, pulling yourself to your knees, “we only made it five miles. If I focus I think I can still hear the music. We’re lousy escape artists.”

A breeze blows over your shoulders and you shiver, your thin shawl doing nothing to veil you from the night. You’re just thankful it’s still warm enough to be outside at this time of night. Soon the nights will be getting colder and you won’t be able to do this. It’s one of the many reasons you long to move away. A pair of hands draws over your shoulders and you shiver again, this time from something entirely unrelated to the elements. You smile lightly. Maybe not. The Mikealson’s have more than proven that they are a force of nature.

Klaus’ voice is like ocean waves in your ear, cresting your skin with every low syllable, “well this is just the beginning, love. How far we go is up to you.”

He’s joking, of course. He has to be joking, right? You turn to look at him, seeking out his eyes in the darkness. They burn into yours, no hint of humor anywhere on his face. His gaze pierces through the night and your breath catches, your heart pounding at all the possibilities of what he meant. You bring the bottle to your lips, using the cool liquid to stall while you gather your feelings.

Kol takes your hand, bringing it to his mouth, “So, darling,” he kisses one of your knuckles, his lips like heavenly fire, “how far are we going?” Another knuckle, another kiss, “what is it you want?” He nips lightly at your fingertips and you gasp, the feeling akin to tiny zaps of lightning against your skin, “where do you want to go?”

Your head is spinning, the champagne settling once more over your bones, “I wouldn’t know where to start. There are too many places,” you swallow hard, “too many things.”

Klaus’ fingers toy at the straps of your dress, skimming down your arms with them in tow, “the first place that comes to mind, love. What is it?”

Elijah pulls you towards him, his hand sliding up the slit on your thigh and curling around your hip. His fingers whisper over your bare skin and you tighten your hand on the bottle. Not out of fear, though. No, you use the bottle to keep your hands busy. If your hands were empty you can’t be sure where exactly they would be. On who they would be.

Elijah squeezes your hip and you gasp again, this time louder, “New Orleans,” it’s the first place that comes to your mind, “I want to go to New Orleans.”

Time stills when you finally answer the question. You can hear the wind rustle through the trees and crickets chirping in the distance. Three smells, each of their own element, wrap around you. Klaus’, like water, pouring over your back. Kol’s, like fire, burning up your arm. Elijah’s, like earth, sliding down your hips. You, the air, curl around each of them, pulling them close with your very essence.

And then, with a far off howl, time unfreezes and Klaus rips the straps down your arms, “New Orleans, hmm,” He sweeps your hair back, his nose skimming down the side of your neck, “a woman after my own heart. When shall we go?”

You laugh, the sound breaking through the almost reverent atmosphere, “we can’t just leave, Klaus. You have to plan things. I can’t just drop everything and run to New Orleans.”

Kol pulls your arm through the strap, furthering the tantalizingly slow process of peeling the dress from your body, “but you want to, darling. Am I right?”

His lips find the crook of your elbow and you almost moan, “of course you are but it’s not practical.”

Elijah tugs at your hips again, pulling you onto his lap. Kol and Klaus move with you, clinging to you like shadows. Kol’s hair tickles your arm, the soft strands brushing against you as his blazes a trail of open mouthed kisses up your arm. Klaus nips the back of your neck, his fingers wrapped in your hair and pulling lightly. It should feel wrong, you know it should, but by god how could something this ethereal possibly be wrong. Your body feels like it’s made out air and for the first time you’re free to breeze wherever you choose.

“Neither are we. It’s simple,” Elijah leans down, grabbing your jaw and steering you to meet his eyes, “would you like to go, y/n?”

Your heart stops when it hits you that they’re dead serious, “to New Orleans?”

It’s dark but you can still make out the smile on his face. It says it all, his words only reaffirming what your brain has been screaming at you.

“Not just New Orleans, darling, everywhere,” Elijah murmurs, his lips just in front of yours, his peppermint breath fanning your face delicately, “do you want to go everywhere?”

Just like that, your heart restarts, a rush of adrenaline spreading over your bones. Very rarely in life are you presented with the opportunity to go everywhere. You can’t even fathom what everywhere means. Surely there isn’t time to go everywhere, right? You suck in a breath, one that makes it feel like before this moment you were never truly breathing at all. Who cares if there isn’t enough time, you think to yourself.

You slide your arms around Elijah’s neck fast, nodding your head furiously in lieu of all the words that refuse to form a coherent sentence. You tangle your fingers in his hair, the strands like silk against your skin. You don’t take your time to admire it, though, you just yank his mouth to yours, smashing your lips against his and hoping it says everything that you can’t.

His hands squeeze your hips again and this time you don’t hold back, moaning into his mouth with the force of the tropical storm building under your skin. Your dress feels much too tight all of a sudden, the sequined material biting into your flesh. You shuffle, pulling your other arm from the strap before wrapping it back around Elijah’s shoulder, your fingers digging into his back through his tux jacket. That needs to go too. Now.

“Darling,” Kol’s husky voice whispers against your skin, his face buried in the other side of your neck, “as beautiful as you look right now I’m about half a second away from ripping this dress off your body.”

His words barely register but you catch the important parts, peeling your lips from Elijah’s just far enough to utter, “please don’t rip it, it’s the prettiest thing I own.”

His hands, which are curled around the back of your bodice, stall momentarily, “well that won’t do, now will it?” He muses, his mouth skimming your shoulder with each word, “New Orleans is fine, you won’t need many clothes at all I’m sure. But Paris will demand more of us, darling. We’ll have to fix this.”

Your heart shudders, along with your body. Paris. Surely now he’s joking.

He opts instead to use the zipper rather than tearing it apart, his knuckles softly skimming your bare back as it becomes exposed to him. Inch by inch, cool air wraps around your skin. When he gets to halfway, his mouth begins following his hands. He nips at the bumps of your spine, biting down harder when he gets to the base. Your hands, which are still on Elijah’s shoulder, tighten as flames roll through your body.

Klaus’ hands slip around you, tugging this time at the front of your bodice and pulling it down to reveal your bare chest. He pushes the fabric down your stomach, trailing his fingertips over your ribs as you arch into his chest, a string of incoherent praises falling from your lips. You’re pretty sure you murmur his name somewhere in there though, because his chest rumbles against your back and, before you know it, he pulls you up to your feet.

“Klaus, what are you-” your words are cut short from the night, swallowed instead by lips which taste too much like oranges and rum for you to even consider trying to repeat yourself .

His tongue slips into your mouth, his hands flying into your hair, pushing it away from your face and using it to tilt your head to an angle that makes you see stars. The cold air sweeps over your breasts and you shiver again. It doesn’t last long before a pair of hands are sliding up your exposed sternum and over your chest, cupping your breasts. Kol’s cinnamon musk furls in your lungs as he pulls you into his now bare chest. His skin is hot against yours but you wouldn’t expect anything less from the flame made man.

Klaus detaches from your lips, pressing them once more against your swollen mouth before moving down your neck. He pulls your skin into his mouth, his tongue swirling over the dip in your throat. He courses a river down your front with his mouth, stopping to leave little love bites all over your collarbones and shoulders before heading south. He falls to his knees, shrugging his jacket off before pressing his lips to the valley between your breasts.

You moan, loudly, and thread your fingers through his hair, tugging him harder against you, “god, you’re too good at that,” you roll your head against Kol’s shoulder as Klaus lips flow over your skin, finding your nipple between Kol’s fingers, “we should not be doing this.”

Another pair of hands, the last pair, pulls your face to a pair of lips, the last pair of lips, “Is that what you think, darling? Do you want us to stop?”

Elijah’s lips skim over yours as he speaks, sparks igniting with each touch. You don’t have to think about his question.

“No,” you press your mouth against his assertively, “please don’t stop. Never stop.”

With that Klaus pushes the rest of your dress off your body and, well, the rest of the details of that night remain between you, Kol, Klaus, Elijah, and the stars.

* * * * * * * * *

You lean your head against the cool leather of the seat, your eyes closed as the wind whips your hair behind you. You’ve never ridden in a convertible before but, much to the trend of Mikaelson fashion, it’s luxurious. Elijah slings his arm around your shoulders and you smile, cracking your eye open to glance at him. His hand is on the wheel, his eyes focused on the road ahead of him. He looks peaceful. Happy. He looks over at you, tossing you a wink before turning back to the road. Butterflies flutter through your chest and you welcome them with open arms.

You glance in the rearview mirror, your grin growing when you see two sleeping men. Kol is leaning back, his mouth half open as soft snores fall from his mouth. You giggle quietly. Last night must have exhausted him. He wears his slacks still but now, instead of his jacket, he wears a wine colored hoodie. His hair is mussed and you swallow thickly, thinking back to how it felt between your hands.

You move to Klaus, shaking your head slightly to defuse your slowly heating skin. He, too, no longer wears his jacket but, unlike Kol, he only has a t-shirt on. His arms are folded under his head as he leans against the seat. His body is relaxed, his legs spread in front of him. You yawn looking at him, fighting the urge to crawl over your own seat and into his lap.

“Are you tired, love?” Elijah’s voice mixes with the wind, floating over you like music.

You meet his glance for a moment, smiling sheepishly, “yes but it’s nothing.”

“You should try to sleep,” his voice is slightly concerned, his eyes slipping over your bruised skin before turning back to the highway, “we still have about seven hours before we’re even in Louisiana.”

You stifle another yawn, pulling the sunglasses on your head over your eyes as the sun breaks over the trees blurring past you, “not yet, Eli. I don’t want to miss anything. I’ll sleep when we get there.”

You hear your phone beep from the bag at your feet but you ignore it. That’s another thing that you’ll wait until the Louisiana state line for. Instead you lift the book on your lap, your fingers skimming delicately over the words on the cover. Vonya i mir. Your heart warms as you open it to the first page, settling into the leather seat. Elijah looks over at you and chuckles, the sound even more musical than last night. This is going to be the easiest seven hours of your life.

626 notes · View notes

mxvladdy · 3 years

Note

Hi! just finished reading your Tumblr request on AO3 and I just looooove your writing ;; if it's not a problem I wanted to ask how you imagine that Lucifer, Mammon and Beel would react to a MC who is usually very quiet and not very expressive, impossible to embarrass or make nervous, to suddenly, one day manage to make her blush for the first time (Also, English is not my first language, so I hope this is okey) I wish you a lovely week ❤

A/N: This is adorable! Sorry for the slow turn around, I hope you enjoy!❤

Lucifer

Stoicism is something he normally finds very attractive in a woman. To be able to keep such a level of calm outlook during even times that might even shake him. He loves the idea of a power couple, and the way you hold yourself. You definitely make one.

It does grate him that he can’t fluster you like you do him, especially during your time together in private. He tries multiple ways to even just draw some color to your cheeks. Flowers in the classroom, hand written invitations to private dining establishments and venues, he even went to the human realm just to find some kind of familiar comfort to give to you. You love them all he knows but he wants, craves to see an uninhibited reaction from you. He’ll get it one day, his pride depends on it at this point.

Luck graces him one evening after a hellish work day. A fight in the school yard leading to property damage he had to do extra paper work for. The only saving grace of that was it wasn’t one of his brothers, this time. Only followed soon after by a report of yet another racket engineered by Mammon. Then, to top off a horrible day one of Belphie and Satan’s little “pranks” blew up half his office.

All his loose or unprotected paperwork, gone. Nothing but smoldering bits of ash. He was now more than ever thankful to have you by his side. Before he could get his hands on the two you stepped in shooing him away to deal with the other fires that needed to be put out while you handled his office.

Things got done, in record time for once. He was able to rewrite his notes for the next council meeting, but at the cost of your weekday dinner together. A pity, but he knew you understood. Trudging up to his room he looked forward to perhaps a few hours of sleep before the next crisis struck. Then he found you.

He chuckles to himself quietly leaning against his door frame. You had beaten him to his favorite resting roost. You sat on his favorite armchair, rolled up tight in his comforter. All he could see was a tuft of hair and the very tip of your nose. Beautiful as always, but he wanted to rest. Well-two birds, one stone and all…

He scoops you up envious of how deeply you could slumber and places you on his lap. Kicking off his shoes he sighs blissfully before resting his head back on worn leather.

Mini fic

You didn’t expect to see Lucifer tonight. Today has been the absolute definition of a shit show, on nights like these it wasn’t uncommon for you not to see him at all. You would normally place your bets on him being unconscious at his desk. Though, he couldn’t really do that tonight. You pat yourself on the back mentally knowing that he would be pleased with the work you and the brothers did cleaning up his office. While you couldn’t get them to apologize to Lucifer you at least got them to clean up what was salvageable in his study.

After a few hours of cleaning his office was back in working order and your feet were screaming for a break. Bidding the two miscreants farewell and making them promise to hold off on the pranks for at least a week you let your body lead you to Lucifer’s room. The room was how you left it that morning. Your slippers next to his by the door and your robe tossed haphazardly on his linen sheets. You make a beeline for the only piece of furniture Lucifer loved dearly. How many nights had you snuck in only to see him melting into the old chain. His long legs sprawled out and tangled in his foot rest, while his body sinks into the imprints he has left from years of use like a lover's embrace.

Yanking the thin comforter from his bed you curl into the divots with a yawn. Before you know it your eyes close and the crackling of the fireplace lulls you to sleep. You awake with a jolt, confused and disoriented for a moment before your sleepy brain catches up. You fell asleep alone on the soft leather but woke to something unyielding beneath you now.

Lucifer sits underneath you snoring softly. His arms rest around your blanketed body. His head tilts down over you, his nose tickling your hairline. Like always he sports a mild look of annoyance. His lips were drawn in a scowl, brows crinkling in displease. You could tell his jaw was tense even while he slept.

Freeing your arms from your cocoon you reach up from him moving to cup his twitching jaw. With practiced ease you began to message the pin joints. You smile to yourself moving down to his tense neck and shoulders. This had become a nightly ritual for you when you shared a bed. When you knew he was asleep you would start trying to work away some of his tension from the previous day. You swear in the morning that he looks better on the nights you get the chance to.

This was your little secret though. You couldn’t bear the thought of him knowing you did this. Not that you thought he would disapprove. Lucifer appreciated acts of service, but just the thought of him knowing made your whole body heat in a flush. You push the thoughts away focusing instead on the extremely tight muscles underneath his brow line. It amazed you that he didn’t have any wrinkles after all this.

So engrossed in your perusal of his features you didn’t notice him stirring till his warm palm traps your hand to his cheek. Before you realize it his lips push a firm kiss into the flesh of your palm. Scarlet eyes meet yours crinkling around the edges. They were warm and radiant. “You’re blushing.” His voice was deep and husky from what little sleep he got.

“What?” You stammer.

Lucifer leans in tapping his forehead on yours. He studies your wide eyes and pink face for a moment before cracking a smug grin. “I’ve never seen you flustered before. Your blush looks good on you.”

“You caught me off guard.” He nods, kissing the tip of your nose tenderly taking impish glee in your squirming.

“Good-I will strive to do so more often. I wish to see you as undone as you make me.”

Mammon

Stoic MC? Rare pair? Rare pair. Mammon wears his heart on his sleeve. Nothing about him is slick. From week one everyone knew he had it bad for you. He is so open with his affections whether he likes it or not. Unlike you.

Honestly, how were you always so controlled. Ain’t the dame supposed to be all blushy and giggly too? It-it makes him think he isn’t doing something right. Is he not treating you right? Were you unhappy?

So he goes to do what he does best. Scheme. There has to be someway to crack that stoic disposition of yours. He gets clingy-well clingier now. He starts springing random vacations on you. Expect to skip class whenever he thinks he won’t get skinned alive for it.

He’ll take you anywhere all his internet research tells him to. Black sand beaches, crowded boardwalks to see the lights, deserted hiking trails late in the evening to watch the fireflies. He is sure it will work. But nope, nada. You love every moment of it and show him with a soul searing kiss and sweet words of praise. But damn you if you aren’t always so cool about it.

He is about to throw in the towel when he finally gets what he wants. At work no less. It was completely by accident but he isn’t one to complain. Perhaps he should go to work more often.

Mini Fic

“Pucker up!” Mammon’s make-up artist orders, squeezing his cheeks between her thumb and forefinger. “And for Diavolo’s sake put your phone down.”

“Shove off Cazzin.” Mammon sputters around the sour tasting lip stain and plumper. His eyes still glued to his screen. His freshly done nails swiping at picture after picture of fancy hotels and spas. Just thinking about taking you a private spring got his blood boiling in the best ways.

“Woooow.” Cazz whistles through her fangs looking at his screen. “Who is the lucky lady you are trying to impress this time?

“Mammon bristles, shooting her a murderous glance. The smaller demon blanches, purple skin turning ashy with fear. Her eyes drop to the floor immediately in submission, a sincere apology falling from her lips. “My girlfriend.” He says finally after cooling down. “I’m-I’m trying to impress her or something.”

“Well, pretty sure with a price tag like that anyone would be impressed.” Mammon only grunts barely glancing at the excessive amount of zeros on the page. Any other girl he knew would be a blushing mess after getting a gift like this. Hells, even Cazz was eyeing the site with open envy and excitement. Yet, this wasn’t the first time he had done something like this with you. Every time he did all he got was a blisteringly radiant smile and kisses that probably could send him back to heaven if he didn’t have a life long ban there. Not that that was a bad thing...but he just wanted more.

“You would think so…” He trails off clicking his phone off to focus on the rest of his routine. No sooner had his hair and make-up artist finished then his director was stomping and shouting down the hall for him to get his ass on set. Grimacing Mammon slides off his seat stretching to spare himself a few more seconds of peace. He stops at the door taking one last look at his get up for this shoot.

Damn, he looks good. It was time for a new spring collection, but more importantly, his most popular season. The light spring colors always brought out his best features. The pastel cotton shirt they “fashionably” threw him in hung casually around his frame. Buttons “tastefully” undone to show the smooth planes of his freely waxed and oiled skin. The linen board shorts and finishing touch of leather sandals gave him the perfect beach vibe. At top dollar mind you.

Hmmm-perhaps he could borrow this outfit for your next beach outing.

Unable to tone out his bosses shouting anymore Mammon makes his way to set. He thinks hard on what else he can go or take you to impress you, ignoring the poking and prodding of his camera men and set designers. His partners today, two incubus twins stood sourly next to him. They had been at this for hours and even he was ready for a break from the sweltering heat of the lights.

“Alright! Alright!” The director broke an hour later tired of the twins whining. He throws his hands in the air in exasperation. “We’ll break for an hour for lunch- lost the light as is.” He huffs stumping off for a smoke break.

“Finally,” Mammon sighs from his pose on the ground. “Think I got sand in my ass.” He gets up from the ground grimacing as he tries to brush the grit off his legs. “Shit starts to burn when they get hot.” One of the twins nods looking down at their own arms. Tiny burn marks showing on their fair skin, they will heal by the time the shoot resumes, doesn’t mean they will be happy about it.

“Want to grab lunch?” The twins ask tossing him a towel to blot at his sweating brow. “New food truck is coming in today.” Mammon shakes his head. You had packed him something to eat this morning and he kind of wanted to enjoy it in peace for once.

Waving the two off he hurries back to his room already salivating at whatever tasty food you got him. Halfway to the door he stops, the fine hairs on his neck standing up. Someone was in his dressing room. Devil’s please don’t let it be another rabid fan. He pleads before creeping forward to check. Whoever it was left the door ajar, peaking in he stares enraptured.

When did you get here? It wasn’t abnormal for you to just drop by while he was working, but you usually waited for him on set behind the cameras. You sit humming to yourself reading something on your lap, feet kicking out innocently while you wait for him. Flipping a page he gets a glimpse of what you’re reading. His feathers ruffle in satisfaction. He had plans on showing you these shots before their release date. They still needed approval from his director but he knew they were great. You flip through shot after shot humming or nodding at some. One shot makes you stop fully, eyes growing wide.

Mammon snorts to himself, knowing exactly which photo you stopped on. The next issue was focusing on “Elegance in the work space”, whatever that means. His designer for the projects went a little overboard with the cuts and designs of the business suites he was to model. The sketches and drafts she had thrust at him had made his head spin. They were all amazing in his opinion, but one had been killer, everyone had agreed on that. If he didn’t know any better he was certain that it would put him on the cover. By the way you were looking at it, he was hoping it would.

That suit really complimented all of his features. It was form fitting accenting his slim waist but hid the slight sloping of his shoulders. The gold of the threading of his vest was done up in soft floral patterns that popped against the dark navy blue of the suit's fabric. The dark blue really brought out the lightness of his eyes. The look was topped off with a bright yellow silk pocket square, polished leather wingtips and gold cufflinks. He was about to interrupt you when he saw it, that one thing he wanted more than anything.

The pink starts at your ears swiping across the bridge of your nose before blooming on your round cheeks. It was breathtaking. Thinking he was being sneaky, Mammon whips out his phone for a quick picture, no one would believe him unless he had solid evidence. But the flash gives him away.

“Mammon!” You jump caught, hands flying to cover your warm face.

“Oi! None of that!” Mammon moves quickly snatching your hands away from your face beaming. “I’ve been waiting for ages to see this face on ya, an’ all it took was a picture of me?”

“You- you clean up really nicely, Mammon.” His hearts flutter at your soft admission.

“Huh,” Mammon scratches his neck, feeling his own blush coming forth. “Well- I mean I could do that more often, so long as you keep looking at me like this when I do.” He picks up the stack of photos from the floor where you dropped them in surprise. “Ya know- I still got that suit.”

Your face turns molten- oh he was going to have a field day with this.

Beelzebub

Doesn’t even notice at first. He is kind of the same way with expressing himself too- unless food is involved. So if you are content then he is content, so who cares if you don’t show it on your face?

Well- he didn’t care, until Belphie brought it up. His twin didn’t mean anything by it; he knew that, but it made him wonder. He trusts you when you say you are happy, you have no reason to lie to him. But date nights, game nights, and family dinners you were always so impassive.

It makes him wonder, not enough to ask you though. Truthfully, he is a little embarrassed that he can’t read you as you do him. He won’t force it like his brothers might. He is patient and hopes one day it will just come naturally like it does for him around you.

Mini Fic

Beel watches you over his lunch. You two were silent as you ate, but that was to be expected on days like these. The school cafe was packed with students all jockeying to get a place in line for today’s special. He had gotten there early for the both of you to gap a few of the specials and sides before they were gone. “Are you ok?” He puts his fork down leaning in close to speak to you across the small table. It creaks dangerously under the weight of his elbows on it. You look up from your tea mug. He smiles at your perpetually mild expression, your eyes were hard but your lips and brows were relaxed giving away nothing.

“Of course.” You smile up at him, face smooth and controlled. “Just excited about tonight.”

Hmph, could have fooled him. Beel leans back, studying you intently. He hopes you were as excited as he was for tonight. A new arcade had opened on the edge of town last week and he thought it would be a great date night for the two of you. He had expressed to you on several occasions how he was looking forward to the roller rink and the hoop games. You seemed eager, giving him a closed lip grin every time he brought it up. “Me too.” Beel says finally turning back to his food. “Think we will win any prizes?”

You snort dismissively. “Us? The dream team? I would be surprised if we didn’t win something. Have you seen the plushies?” You pull out your phone and show him their Devilgram. “I want to try and get the hydra one…” You prattle on and scroll through all the cute prizes on their site. He nods along taking a mental note of all the ones that you pointed at, determined to get each and every one for you.

School goes by quickly, far too quickly for him. Each tick of the clock caught him by surprise, jacking his nerves up more and more. It wasn’t like it was his first date with you, but it never stopped the butterflies from starting in his stomach. After school he changes quickly and waits for you by your bedroom door. He fiddles with the zipper of his jacket until you finally open your door.

“Ready?” The smile you throw up at him is breathtaking. “Hope you don’t mind my get up. You mentioned a roller ring so I figured something sporty and functional would be appropriate.” You kick out a leg waving a hand over your bright sport leggings.

Beel chuckles offering you his large hand. “You look adorable as always.”

Being with you was as easy as breathing to him now. After all your time together in the house getting to know you you became one of his closest friends, even before you started dating. You shared many of his interests and wasn’t afraid to argue your point if you saw fit. You fill the train ride to the arcade with idle chatter, goofy selfies to send to his siblings, and annoying the other passengers with your ill-contained chuckles.

The place itself was packed but well spread out to handle the massive throngs of demons and beasts coming for drinks and a good time. “Come on!” You shout over the other very drunk and very loud customers tugging at his sleeve. “Let’s get some coins and find an empty station.” He lets you lead. You take full advantage of his impressive frame to part the crowds around you as you hunt for a free spot. “See anything?”

Beel peers over the heads of most of the demons and looks out. In the far corner sat a few jump rope games that were free. “Stay close.” He murmurs in your ear wrapping a protective arm your shoulders so you wouldn’t be swept away in the flow of the crowd. The games were...hard. Mentally Beel kicks himself. Of course an arcade in the Devildom wouldn’t be geared for humans. They were built for demons' fast reflexes and inhuman strength. You were a good sport about it though, cheering him on when the games began to move too fast for your senses. If a game broke in his zeal to get you tickets, well you were both fast walkers.

“Think we have enough?” Beelzebub asks hours later around a popsicle. His jacket pockets bulge with multicolored tickets screaming to be spent.

You hum around a scoop of ice cream. “Possibly-” Your eyes flick to the prize booth. “And extra, you want a plushie too?” He shrugs. No doubt the moment it got into his room Belphie will steal it to add to his horde.

You end up getting your stuffed hydra and a giant fuzzy minotaur to keep it “company”. You clutch them close to your chest, seemingly happy with your bounties. After that you spend a bit at the roller ring before you finally had to call it a night. Exhausted you lag behind Beel as you make your way back to the train station, feet dragging with each step.

Wordlessly, Beel stops just in front of you. “Here,” He squats, offering you his back, arms stretched out behind him. “I can take us the rest of the way to the stop.” He feels you hesitate for a moment before climbing on to his back.

“Thank you.” He thinks nothing of how soft your voice was, just barely a tickle at the base of his neck. Beel treks one once you are secure, stuffing his hands in his pockets to lock you in place. The rest of the walk was quiet but he didn’t mind it, your warm body and soft breathing in his ear was a comfort.

He stops at the benches with a few minutes to spare before your train. “We are here. Do you want-” He gasps quietly, cutting himself off before he could accidentally wake you. You sleep on unperturbed by his voice. Your hold on around his neck was tight, your head buried in his neck.

It seems only when you're sleeping do you let your guard down. A blush sweeps across your face, your lips pulled up into a serene smile. You looked-happy. Happy in a way he never saw before. He won’t say anything about it, he decides. He’ll cherish this tiny expression all the same. Perhaps one day he’ll see when you're awake too.

#Request #om beelzebub #om lucifer #om mammon #im slowly cranking them out!!!#obey me shall we date

100 notes · View notes

5uptic · 3 years

Text

hey fanfic spotlight again:)

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Summary: No summary.

She said to me, Oh Death / Come close my eyes by Anonymous (Apollo/Steve, general rating, m/m | 1k words)

Summary: Steve thought the words on his wrist were the coolest thing ever, but they just didn’t make sense. No, really; he even asked 5up–had called him in a possibly drunk state on his twentieth birthday, when a prickling sensation on his arm made him think that he was about to die, 5up, help, and was reminded drily that it was his soulmark, dumbass–and the best his smartest friend (self-proclaimed) could offer was, “Maybe your soulmate’s a poet?” Completely useless. Steve remembered hanging up on him, the click of his mobile cutting off his indignant exclamation. It was only the next day that he looked, properly looked, at his soulmark and tried to make sense of it. Nope. That didn’t work out either; he blamed the hangover. For the longest time ever, he just dismissed it as the universe fucking up. A slash in the middle of a phrase? Ridiculous.

why’d you only call me when you’re high? by LVTO (5up/Steve, teen rating, m/m | 1k words)

Summary: “I miss you,” Steve mumbles through the phone, and his voice has that soft, honest tone that it always does when he’s like this. 5up’s heart clenches. It’s these moments that keep him from leaving like he should’ve done four months ago, these soft-spoken truths that time and time again have him believing that maybe, maybe this time will be different. It never is. or 5up receives a phone call and ponders his life.

jealousy, jealousy by planetwitch (5up/Fundy, teen rating, m/m | 1.1k words)

Summary: 5up and Fundy are best friends and have never crossed that line into something more. Until Fundy gets jealous at 5up's constant admiration for a certain 6 foot tall musician.

mimi's menagerie of the miraculous & the mundane by 5280ft (5up/Steve, teen rating, m/m | 1.1k words, chaptered WIP)

Summary: a drabble for the word of the day, every day, for 100 days.

5up & Co. Throw Yarn at a Wall (and more) by WhenTheFogClears (general rating, gen | 1.3k words, chaptered WIP)

Summary: Hafu neither confirmed nor denied, instead snatching the half unraveled ball of yarn out of his hands forcefully, a cheshire grin finding its way onto her face. Before 5up could clearly decipher the situation, she flung it at him, smacking him directly in the center of his face. or 5up loves throwing yarn at walls, and everyone else quickly picks it up from him. But in different ways.

Inside My Mind by SilverSprinklez10 (5up/Apollo, Apollo/Steve, teen rating, m/m | 1.4k words)

Summary: Soulmates are usually a blessing. But sometimes, a soulmate connection can feel like a curse.

(2021, 190 x 172 cm, oil on canvas) by 5280ft (5up/Steve, teen rating, m/m | 1.9k words)

Summary: Nobody ever painted anything if they’ve never painted the way 5up closes his eyes when he laughs, how his slender fingers wrap around a new tube of paint, how his smile is all teeth and eye-crinkling. Cabanel’s Fallen Angel has curls, but they aren’t 5up’s, are they? Hyllas, in the nymphs, has fair and delicate hands but 5up’s are prettier, especially when he accidentally squirts paint everywhere and slams his palms on the table and goes “fuck!” Steve cackles until he can’t breathe.

Don't Take Me Tongue-Tied by AoDity, LovelyDayForIt (5up/Sleepy, 5up/Apollo, teen rating, m/m | 2.2k words)

Summary: "Sleepy found the ring by luck, something that matches his lover's graceful beauty that he could still afford. Twisted strands of thin silver with a little shimmering opal in the center, it was perfect." Aka: Sleepy's love for Five brought him heartache. If they try, there's still a chance the two could be happy.

implying that the ferris wheel's your body (and i'd really love admission to it) by homeward_bound (David/Hafu/Steve, mature rating, multi | 2.2k words)

Summary: Steve might be drunk out of his mind, but David's just really hot, okay? [or, steve propositions david, kind of. hafu and dumbdog bear witness to his lapse in judgement.]

mi casa es su casa by some_spooky_shit_right_there (Apollo/Steve, teen rating, m/m | 2.9k words)

Summary: Apollo's soulmate is cautious. Except, apparently, when it comes to coffee. Because, for the fifth time this week, Apollo wakes up to a burnt tongue. It's annoying. He can't really be mad though, because he has given his soulmate so much worse. The occasional burnt tongue is a meager act of penance, comparatively.

I love you too (I love you too) by some_spooky_shit_right_there (5up/Apollo/Steve, general rating, multi | 3.9k words)

Summary: Apollo comes into 5up's coffee shop. He always gets a cup of coffee and either a bagel or a croissant. He always seems tired, and he never comes in on weekends. Steve would really love to find out just who, exactly, he is.

i'm more fool than wise by 5fu (5up/Steve, unrated, m/m | 5.8k words, chaptered WIP)

Summary: Steven Suptic is a brilliant crewmate - ask anyone. Okay so don't ask Janet. Or Dk. Or Koji. You know what, don't even ask - it's pretty obvious he is. But when new recruit and stunningly intelligent 5up boards the Crewfu, Steve isn't so sure he can compete. Not that he cares. Totally. Absolutely. On their mission to gather intel on Polus and find out what happened to the previous crew that disappeared from the planet three years earlier, Steve may realize that maybe he was indeed more fool than wise - and maybe it wasn't a bad thing.

i was praying that you and me might end up together by Qupid (Apollo/Steve, teen rating, m/m | 7.8k words, chaptered WIP)

Summary: Four years at Polus University. Four first weeks of school. Two strangers become two friends, and maybe even something more. Apollo hates being seen, hates having attention drawn to him, hates living in a world that feels like a game where everyone knows the rules except him. Steve thrives on attention, purposefully draws the gaze of everyone in the room, making his own rules as he floats through life. They're a match made in hell, but Apollo finds that when Steve looks at him, gives him nothing but attention, he doesn't mind being seen after all.

Long Journey Home by some_spooky_shit_right_there (Apollo/Steve, teen rating, m/m | 9.6k words)

Summary: Homesick and lonesome and I'm feeling kind of blue Feeling kind of blue, boys, feeling kind of blue Homesick and lonesome and I'm feeling kind of blue I'm on my long journey home

there’s so many ways to say “i love you” and i wouldn’t wanna waste ‘em (on someone who, don’t feel it too) by Dear_MaedaysUnwelcomedGhost (5up/Steve, 5up/Hafu, 5up/Ellum, 5up/Kimi, teen rating, multi | 13k words, chaptered)

Summary: Love was a strange thing, 5up found. It was everywhere. And not in the way it may seem. It wasn’t in the adverts of perfect couples with artificial lighting. It wasn’t in the glittery cards made by factories or the flowers sold at grocery stores. Not in the TV shows made to bring in cash and be thrown out, with couples who don’t have anything to hold onto but brief infatuation and physical attraction. But in the friendly smiles of strangers as they pass by. In a mother cutting fruit up for their child. Running a hand through the hair of your partner, as their eyes flutter close and to sleep. Helping a stranger pick up their dropped papers, asking for nothing in return. In the graffiti on the wall by the alleyway you walk by everyday to get to work. To the goods baked by small independent bakeries. Flowers planted in parks to make it just a little nicer, or the ones growing out of pavement cracks with determination.

Also!

GuardianPuppy‘s this city needs to be destroyed or at least painted in a different color collection.

spaded_ace’s Casino in the Sky collection.

5fu’s among all this pain collection.

FAQ:

Wait what is this: pretty straight to the point! i’ll regularly share crewfu-related fanfictions to this blog :)

How regularly is “regularly”?: great question! LOL. it depends on the flow of fanfics that get uploaded, which i do not have any control over, but i’m looking forward to do this twice a month. after all, it’s only me doing this and i often run on a tight schedule.

What’s the format like?:

[title of fic with link] by [author of the fic with link] ([main pairing(s)], [fic rating: eg, general rating], [relationship: eg, m/m] | [word count in k], [added prompt to specify if it’s complete or not])

Summary: [summary provided by the author. if it doesn’t have a summary, a “No summary” prompt will be put instead]

(What does WIP mean again?): Work In Progress :)

Why are you doing this?: from the beginning, my blog has hosted conversations about RPF (real people fiction) and crewfu pairings. this has evolved into people sending me updates about certain fics in the crewfu tags every now and then, but i wanna take the next step and just do these things myself. after all, i’m already lurking in the tags often to see the fics that get posted. as someone who is both a writer and a reader, i wanna appreciate fanfic writers and help out other people that want to read fanfic and consume more fandom content!

Will it be AO3 only?: well, ao3 has a very helpful tag system that makes finding fics incredibly easy, as well as allowing people with no accounts to like and comment on fics, so that’s the site i will personally look in for fanworks. but if there are any fics you’ve written or liked in any other platforms, such as wattpad, you can always contact me through my inbox (send an ask or a dm!), and i’ll make sure to include for the next fanfic spotlight :)

Does it mean you won’t reply to fic asks anymore?: yeah, i guess. since i’ll be doing the searching myself it seems counterproductive. but if i ever skip a fic or again, it’s in another platform, or you’ve posted/read the fic a while ago and you want to get more traction on it, hit me up and i’ll take it into consideration!

Will you read every single one of the fics on your list?: oh no. again, i run on a tight schedule, and also i have my own taste when it comes to fics. i won’t be reviewing fics or any of the sort, and my intention extends to simply sharing these fics to this page so people will have easier access to them :) that’s where ao3 tagging becomes SUPER useful!!!

So what’s the criteria for the way you’ll sort out the fics in your list?: word count, going from lowest to highest. in case of fics in other platforms, i guess i’ll put them at the top of the list. i’ll also be looking for fairly recent fics, so let me know if you want any old-ish fic to be included.

I see you talking mostly about 5up/Steve and Steve/Apollo. Can I still send/see other crewfu fics?: why yes absolutely! my goal is to push every fic which heavily features regular crewfu characters - 5uptic and supdog just happen to be very popular pairings. so, to give you a list: core 4 (5up, hafu, dk, steve), apollo, aipha, annie, janet, kimi, ellum, koji… you know the drill. it doesn’t have to be centered on a relationship, or about 5up in specific, etc. my only requirement is that any of the previously mentioned members are a central part of the fic or are HEAVILY featured in it (sorry, minecraft fics with 50+ tags who only mention 5up as an afterthought won’t make the cut :/).

Isn’t shipping Bad™?: well, it’s a little more nuanced than that. i will go out of my way to discourage and shame people who often violate CCs’ boundaries by acting like so and so has a crush on this person, or that this and that are Actually Into Each Other or secretly dating. any sort of tinhat bullshit is a big nono (think larries). but i run on the assumption that people who write rpf understand that what they’re doing is simply write a completely fictional story using real life personalities, and understand the boundaries necessary to do it - aka they’re not tinhats, they understand they can’t assume everything about CCs’ thoughts and personalities, they understand that what they’re writing is strictly fiction, they keep these works only in fandom circles, etc. (but again, it’s only one me doing this, so please be kind if i don’t happen to know that this person is Actually a tinhat or whatever).

show fic: NO. (seriously. i don’t feel comfortable putting my ao3 account out there. please respect my privacy on these trying times <3)

I REALLY don’t care about your rpf/fic talk: fair! i’ll be tagging every single one of these posts as “fanfic spotlight”, so just mute the tag using tumblr settings so you’ll never have to look at these! likewise, you can follow the tag if you want to keep up with it, or search it on my blog to look at the other entries you might have missed.

Hey, my fic is here and I don’t feel comfortable with it being shared over here: no problem! let me know as soon as you can and i’ll take it down <3

#crewfu #fanfic spotlight #long post #finally a steve/dogfu fic.... come kiss me author

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starcrossedkaiju · 3 years

Text

Kingslayer AU: Chapter Seven

This one is very nice I think you will like it. I call this the “Scott accidentally makes friends” arc.

Scott had just returned from a boring mining trip. Thankfully it wasn’t netherite duty this time. He was looking forward to sitting down after putting everything away when he looked out the window.

Martyn was perched on top of the walls, he seemed to be writing something. Scott’s interest was piqued. It was just after nightfall and cold out. He wondered what the other man was doing as he quietly opened the door of the Renchanting base. It was one in the morning when he checked the clock. There was time to spare.

The world was silent save for a chorus of crickets. It had stormed the night before and a thin blanket of snow preserved the land in tiny crystals. Scott did his best not to crunch the ice beneath his feet as he approached the ladder strung over the high walls.

Looking up, he saw that the sky was clear and brilliantly lit by the stars. A third quarter Moon hung in the air. Obfuscated by the only bank of clouds in the night sky.

He climbed.

As Scott approached the top, he wondered what he was even planning to do. He was going to talk to Martyn, then what. The whole Red Army was still walking on eggshells around him. Of course he didn’t mind. No, he wasn’t supposed to. He was a spy.

That’s what he told himself to sleep better at night.

Yes, ever since he’d started “intermingling” with the Red Army he had grown to admire their friendship. Not between himself and them so much as between each other. It was refreshing. Scott caught himself smiling along with their jokes, tapping his foot to the beat of whatever song was on the radio.

He didn’t dare laugh, or start a conversation, that would be out of line for him. Not yet. Not right now. When tensions were still so high.

Scott poked his head over the top of the wall. Ever so slightly, glancing at the deserted surroundings. He ducked down just enough so that Martyn wouldn’t be immediately aware of his presence. Still contemplating whether or not he was making a good decision.

“You know, if you’re aiming to be sneaky you should really think about investing in a hat,” Martyn’s voice shook Scott from his thoughts.

It also shook him from his perch on the ladder. He jumped in surprise and threw his hands up, conveniently forgetting about the rung he was holding onto.

“Well, this is it,” Scott’s mind said to him, at least his green life track record wasn’t too shabby.

A hand clasped around his wrist, suspending him in air with his feet braced on the ladder.

Scott stared wide eyed up at Martyn, who looked like he was contemplating letting him go. Then he pulled the other back to the ladder and sat back down.

“Uh, thank you,” Scott almost whispered. Pulling himself up onto the wall.

“Well it would be very hard to explain to Timmy,” Martyn replied.

“Jimmy,” Scott corrected, still looking at his feet.

“Timmy,” Martyn said back immediately.

Scott shut up.

“Major?,” Martyn looked over at him. Scott’s head snapped to attention.

“Jesus! Are you possessed?” He asked.

“No. I’m fine,” Scott assured. He didn’t want to admit to himself that the Hand made him nervous.

Martyn laughed at his expense, “calm yourself Major,” he clapped him on the shoulder.

Against his best interest Scott flinched a bit. Trying to laugh off his discomfort.

“What brings you out here in the middle of the night?” Martyn changed the subject.

“I- uh. I saw you up here,” Scott scooted a bit closer, swinging his legs over so that he was facing the same way as the other man. He looked over to see what Martyn was working on.

A book with plain pages was splayed across his lap, the page open was about halfway through the well loved sketchbook. The first half’s papers were crinkled and discolored from use. On the open canvas was a few disconnected sketches of figures that Scott didn’t recognize. Smudges and erase marks scattered the page.

“What’re you drawing?” Scott asked. Aiming to redo the icebreaker.

Martyn held out his art book so the other could see better, “these are just some sketches of people I used to see on TV. That’s Metal Man. I’m certain he wasn’t actually called that; but I can’t remember his real name,” he explained.

Further down the page was “Scarlet Witch,” then there was a drawing of Ren that neither of them mentioned.

Scott pointed to the last drawing, a bust of a superhero-looking man, “that one looks like you,” he observed.

“Mm, maybe a little?” Martyn replied with a bashful inflection.

“Yeah that’s totally you. He even has the little swirly thing on the chest,” Scott said. Martyn made a dismissive gesture.

“Aw come on. Like you never wanted to be a superhero,” he replied quietly.

Scott giggled. He wasn’t making fun of Martyn. It was just funny, a little, to see the Hand of the King up here doodling cartoons.

“I usually come out here to draw the sky. It’s different every night, always pretty,” Martyn flipped the page back to reveal a drawing of the night sky.

It took up two pages, landscape style, entirely pencil. The scenery even included some landmarks like the very top of Big B’s base. Scott noticed that Martyn’s fingers were covered in excess graphite from blending out the stars.

It was beautiful.

“Helps me umwind,” Martyn flipped a few pages forward to a blank spread, “you should try it,” he suggested as he put the sketchbook in the other’s lap.

Scott sat cluelessly. Staring at the page when he was handed a pencil.

“I’m no artist. Not like you are,” he tried to pass the supplies back but the other refused.

“Whatever you want. It doesn’t have to be the sky, it doesn’t have to be anything recognizable,” Martyn encouraged.

Scott nodded. He adjusted his grip on the pencil and positioned it above the page. It stayed there motionless while he thought.

Martyn had grabbed his hand on that ladder. He let him sit next to him while he was completely vulnerable, trying to get away from reality on top of the wall as long as he could. Martyn showed him pieces of his world. The world the way he saw it, the way he chose to preserve it. Remember it.

He shared it without question and now he was telling Scott to do the same. Show him a bit of his reality so he could understand.

This was a leap. Scott knew it, straight out of his comfort zone; and there would be no turning around, but something in the back of his mind screamed that he couldn’t keep hiding from people.

So a line showed up on the paper, followed by another. Scott pulled the image out of his mind and funneled it through the pencil, the foreground and then the background. A landscape that shaped itself across the whole page. There were mountains fading into blue against the skyline, he remembered, a river with a house on one of its banks.

A floating mass of land in the sky with vines hanging from the bottom, and a building on top.

Martyn didn’t say anything. It was like he wasn’t even there. Scott started drawing a figure to occupy the space. Reaching deep into his mind to see their face. Their faces. Soon instead of one person there was two, then three, then four. He drew every attribute and detail that came back to him.

Twelve people. He didn’t want to forget them.

When Scott finished he put the pencil down next to him. So Martyn knew he was done. He held the page up to study what he’d made, looking for anything he may have forgotten.

“That’s pretty cool,” Martyn complimented him.

“Really?” Scott asked.

“Yeah, I like that dude. The one with the wings,” Martyn pointed to where Scott had drawn a man gliding through the air with huge wings, holding onto his striped hat.

“I don’t remember his name,” Scott admitted. Mostly to himself.

“He had a name?” Martyn asked.

“They all did. I can barely remember their faces,” Scott replied, running his fingers over each of the people he’d drawn. An ugly feeling of guilt made a home in his chest.

“It’s a lovely picture,” Martyn said after a few seconds. He took the book from Scott and ripped a chunk of the pages out, “here,” he held them towards Scott. Including the one he’d been drawing on.

Scott was shocked that the other had desiccated his art book so quickly, but took the pages. He may as well.

“Use em’ however you like. I have plenty more,” Martyn instructed. He clapped Scott on the back again.

Scott flashed him a smile, hoping he didn’t look too much like an idiot, “Thank you,” he said.

“I have to go,” Scott jumped quickly back onto the ladder. He made it a few rungs down before pausing and returning to the top.

“Sorry for kicking you in… You know,” he apologized.

Martyn threw his head back in laughter, “thanks Major,” he replied.

“Bye,” Scott responded. He descended the ladder quickly and jogged to the exit of Dogwarts, fumbling with the doors and then trudging down the hill to make way for his flower forest.

“Remember to get a hat!” Echoed from behind him.

Scott turned around momentarily and nodded to Martyn on the wall, then continued into the trees.

#fwiendship???#i think next chapter is my favorite of the recently written ones #kingslayer au #3rdlife smp #3rdlife #3rd life smp #inthelittlewood #scott smajor #dogwarts

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consumeconstantly · 4 years

Text

Summer Photography (aka the thirst trap)

Summary: Marinette is forced to take pictures for Gabriel in order to pay for her summer graduation trip with her best friends from lycee. Adrien, her primary model, wants to avoid the summer heat and pulls in one very attractive bad-boy motorcycle man to be his replacement.

_______________________________________________________

July in Gotham comes with an almost rancid kind of heat.

The kind of heat that is impossible to banish unless the air conditioning is set to 65 degrees and there’s a dehumidifier in the room. The kind of heat that makes babies cry with discomfort and adults curse whenever they have to take a foot outside. The only age population that enjoys it are the teens. More precisely, the teens are more fans of being on summer vacation, rather than the sticky warmth, but they find ways to work with the heat, rather than against it. Some teens gather on apartment rooftops, taking in the rare, smoggy breeze with pleasure. Others frequent their local swimming pool, an ice cream parlor or convenience store. If they get really desperate, they take shelter in the library.

Should a teen be forced out onto the muggy sidewalks full of sweaty bodies, they drift towards parks or areas of ‘city beautification’ and find a tree to rest their weary bodies under.

Of course, there are always exceptions to these norms.

“Marinette,” Adrien groans, sweat on his brow. “Can we please do this not during peak heat?”

“No,” Marinette says. “Your father insisted on having pictures of a male model at precisely two in the afternoon, and it took me months to convince him to let us come on this trip, so we’re not going to do anything to jeopardize it.”

“It’s not like he can do anything now. We’re literally an ocean away.”

“Suck it up, sunshine,” Marinette swats her hand at a lazy fly, not bothering to look up from changing the lens on her camera. “Maybe I’d let you get away with a substitution. Gabriel didn’t specify that the person in the pictures had to be you, but we don’t know anyone in Gotham, and everyone we’ve come across so far isn’t exactly the friendly sort.”

Adrien flicks the collar of his t-shirt, desperately trying to generate some sort of a breeze so he doesn’t melt. “This is all Nino’s fault. He and Alya insisted on going to that couple’s show when he could have been out here, taking my place. If Luka were here, he wouldn’t have deserted me like that.”

“We all know of your and Luka’s undying love for one another, but he is busy touring. He’ll meet up with us in New York, though, and you can have your disgustingly sweet love-fest over there. Meanwhile, I’ll be forever alone.”

“Don’t put yourself down like that, Marinette. At least five people in each city we’ve gone to so far have tried to go on dates with you.”

She crinkles her nose and does a test shot, making sure the light setting works out. “Yeah, but they all reeked of desperation and alcohol. Plus, at least two of them were just looking for a person to cheat with.”

“No good,” Marinette says, frowning at the shadows the tree cast. “Gabriel won’t be happy with these kinds of photos. You’re going to have to move out of the shade.”

“No!” Adrien wails. “I refuse! It’s bad enough that you dragged me out here, but to make me go in the sun? You know I burn easily.”

“Yeah, yeah drama queen, but these photos aren’t going to take themselves, and I’m one hundred percent sure that you don’t want to have to do this twice. Which is what we’ll end up having to do if you don’t get your little butt out into the sun so we can take quality shots.”

Adrien whines before a motorcycle revs in the not so far distance. A very Chat Noir smile creeps onto his face. “I don’t think I will. I’ve just found my substitute.”

Marinette follows his gaze, then shrugs. “If you think you can convince him to substitute in, you’re free to go. But remember, it’s Gotham, and if you get jumped, I’m not going to help. It’s too hot for a fight.”

“You underestimate my charm.” Adrien says, already triumphant.

True to form, Adrien somehow manages to get motorcycle man over to her.

“Not sure how Adrien convinced you to do this, but I guess he gets a free pass.” Marinette knows exactly what Adrien’s going to do with his free time. He’s gone on and on about Gotham’s Museum of Vigilantes, and to be quite frank, Marinette doesn’t want to get caught up in another one of Adrien’s rant sessions on the Bat Family. “Anyways, nice to meet you. I’m Marinette, and my awful boss has come of with the wonderfully creative idea of Summer Heat for a photoshoot in the summer.”

She has a bone to pick with Gabriel Agreste. More than one, actually. In fact, she’d say that out of the 206 (well, 207, if she counts the fracture she got in her left pinky toe after that last akuma battle that weirdly, still hasn’t healed) bones in her body, she’d pick a fight with Gabriel over at least 200 of them. The lack of originality is one thing, but she’s not sure how she feels about his blatant attempts to set her up with her son during this trip. Somehow, he still hasn’t grasped the fact that his son doesn’t swing her way despite having hundreds of pictures of being lovey-dovey with Luka all over the internet. In fact, maybe it’s because Adrien and Luka have that many pictures that Gabriel is trying to push for a heterosexual relationship. A lack of vision both for his photo shoots and for his company. Marinette doesn’t understand how she once looked up to this man.

“It’s no problem. I’ve got nothing better to do, anyways.”

Marinette blinks, then reassesses the man in front of her. Not only does he have a sinfully attractive voice, but his visual appeal isn’t that bad, either. “It’s still nice of you to do this. Should be a pretty quick shoot. Five outfit changes and a few poses in each-- shouldn’t take any longer than an hour, hour and a half.”

She rummages through her bag, fishing out a stack of paper. “You’ll get paid for your time. $250 for the whole shoot, and if you want to keep one of the outfits, feel free.”

If she’s being completely honest, she thinks that Gabriel’s summer collection is a hot mess, and she doesn’t particularly want the burden of bringing back the disgusting articles of clothes back with her in her suitcase. Should motorcycle man not want any of them, she’ll send them back via express mail.

“Don’t need the money, but I’m trying to stay out for as long as I can. Any way you could make the shoot go on longer?”

“You want to stay out in this heat?” Marinette asks in disbelief, taking out a small bag of makeup to apply to his face. She motions for him to sit in the shade of the tree while she sees what she needs to cover up.

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Motorcycle man says.

“Like the owner of a custom Harley-Davidson is poor,” Marinette quips. Humming in approval after giving his features once over, she decides that foundation isn’t necessary, only concealer to cover up the dark circles and some old scars.“You have great skin.”

During their summer trip, Marinette has become makeup artist, photographer, public relations manager, and trip advisor. It’s a taxing job, but well worth the reward, which is an all-expense-paid graduation trip with her friends from lycee. Well, Nino and Alya had to pay, but between Nino’s part time DJ gigs and Alya’s ad revenue on the Ladyblog, it wasn’t hard for them to raise enough for the two month long, seven city, four country trip.

“One of my siblings is insistent that we do our best to minimize the scarring. Don’t know what his deal is, it’s not like our faces are sellable commodities.”

“That’s where you’re wrong-- you’re pretty good looking and could easily go into modelling or acting if you wanted. So props to whoever your sibling is. And thank your genetics too.”

Motorcycle man snorts. “Not cut out for that lifestyle. I like more… adrenaline inducing jobs.”

Marinette almost-- almost laughs. The placement of the scars on his face do imply that he’s gotten in at least one or two knife fights before, and there’s a thin line on his neck that definitely looks like it hurt. Motorcycle man has definitely been in trouble before, but he’s also good enough to get himself out of it. She’s not going to bother asking what his job is. She doesn’t want to be an accessory to any of his crimes. “Action movies, then?”

“Oh sweetheart, I make action movies look like a kid’s fist fight.”

“Wow, we have a bad boy on our hands, ladies and gentleman.” She finishes applying highlighter and sits back to admire her work. His jaw can cut glass. “Okay, Motorcycle Man, it’s time to take pictures. If you’re good, maybe I’ll draw the shoot out-- I’m not a fan of this humidity.”

Summer is better than winter, if only because she’s acquired a weird habit to almost hibernate when the temperature gets too cold. It’s easy for Marinette to shrug off the heat most days, even when her friends complain constantly.

“The name’s Jason.”

“I think I’ll stick with Motorcycle Man. Alliteration, you know? Now, one hand in your pocket, the other at your collar. Left leg out a little, like you’re ready to take a step-- perfect. Walk forwards a little, yeah, just like that.”

Jason is Adonis personified. The perfect package of cocky, arrogant, and bad boy. It doesn’t hurt that he’s well muscled either-- even Adrien doesn’t have thighs like that, and he spends hours as Chat Noir jumping from rooftop to rooftop.

“You’re a natural,” Marinette praises. “Have you ever modeled before?”

“Not like this, but I’ve got my fair share of pictures on the internet.”

She’s going to regret asking this. But curiosity killed the cat, not the ladybug. “If not for modelling, then what for?”

“Oh, you know. This and that. A few odd jobs here and there.”

And if that doesn’t make Jason sound more like a criminal, she doesn’t know what will. Marinette decides that she definitely won’t bring up a day job, let alone a night job.

“All right, next outfit.” She pushes a muscle tank top and light, ripped jeans into his hands. “You can change in the public restroom, and if anything doesn’t fit, just let me know.”

He takes the outfit, but pauses at one of the other outfits she has in her bag. “Is that… leather and fur? For a shoot with the theme of summer heat?”

“I don’t call the shots, I’m just the poor lackey who has to make them look good. Trust me, if I were in charge of design, the only outfit that might still be in the bag is the one you’re holding right now.” Gabriel is definitely losing his touch. But hey, doing this weird intern summer program for him isn’t the worst thing she’s had to do in her life. It’s good to learn from other people’s mistakes, rather than making them herself.

“Don’t worry. Crappy fashion isn’t going to scare me away. Have you seen some of Gotham’s villains?”

At that, she couldn’t suppress a laugh. “You’re talking Gotham villains? How about Paris?”

“Paris is some weird alternate dimension. It doesn’t count,” Jason protests.

“I could say the same for Gotham. Really, why are there so many Robins? Can’t they come up with another name?”

“I almost wish I could argue with that.”

He comes out of the stall, and Marinette feels the summer heat. Jason, Motorcycle Man is ripped. Yeah, his thighs are probably some of the thickest she’s seen, but his biceps are to die for. She’s half tempted to ask for his workout regime, but she’s sure that somewhere he’ll casually throw in ‘beating up random people on the street’ or ‘punching people who piss him off.’ Those are just the kind of vibes that Jason gives off.

“The arm holes are kinda tight.”

“I’m sure they are,” Marinette breathes, chest tight. Jason’s eyes smoulder. He knows exactly what he’s doing as he places an arm on the door frame and flexes. She thinks she can die happy, now.

They wrap up the shoot quickly. All of the clothes are promptly packaged up except for the tanktop and jeans.

@jasonette-july-2k20

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For the other jasonette prompts i’ve written for so far, i think i’ll probably continue them eventually, so lmk if you want to be added to the tag list for that. pretty surprised these are getting such a good reception thank you guys for that ;)

#jasonette july #jasonette #jason todd #marinette dupain cheng #maribat #miraculous ladybug #dcu #summer #jason has thicccc thighs #marinette is a ho for muscles #adrien agreste #original content

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flowercrown-bard · 3 years

Note

If you take prompts. Jaskier dis reincarnation every time he dies. He borns in his own body, but he doesn't remember about his other lives. He only remembers a horse, a daughter, amber eyes and some parts of a song he wrote about his love.

After Jaskier died in his arms Geralt became a wither again. Who doesn't belive he deserve to be happy.

After a long time Geralt and Jaskier's paths cross again. Jaskier remembers the every bit of the song.

Dear nonny, can I just say how much I love this prompt? <3 I know I've taken far too long to write anything for it, but I got so excited that I had to write a multi-chapter fic for this (I hope that's ok. I know it's not really normal to write more than a one shot for prompts. If you're comfortable telling me your URL I could tag you on the next update or you could subscribe to the fic on AO3? Sorry for making this complicated.) Also, I changed it a bit, to make it so Jaskier will get his memories back, when their eyes meet again.

And I just need to tell you about my favourite fic of all time: if I'm good will you come back by @pansexualbuchanan. Based on your prompt I think you'd really like that story.

A new us will begin (1/ 11)

word count: 1k

tw: major character death (old age)

AO3 part 2 / part 3 / part 4 / part 5 / part 6

Dol Blathanna was beautiful in spring. Jaskier had written countless of poems about the blossoms and the beginning of a new life as an adventurer that this place had given him.

Geralt had all of them memorised. Every verse, every line, every word. He hadn’t wanted to, it was just something that had happened as the years had turned into decades and Jaskier’s hands had gotten too shaky to write his verses on his own anymore. He had started dictating them to Geralt who had done his best to do Jaskier’s words justice with his spidery handwriting.

He had always known that this was where Jaskier would want to go when the time came. In the very same place where his new life as the travel companion, friend and lover of the White Wolf had begun, he would draw his last breath.

Geralt had known – and yet nothing could have prepared him for the terror that clawed at his chest as he now sat amidst the flowers with his husband.

He hoped Jaskier could at least still see the colours of the flowers. He hoped he could still notice the dandelions around them and make a wish, despite not having enough breath left to make the seeds fly off like birds. He hoped he could still see Geralt and recognise his touch as comforting. But it was impossible to discern whether the crinkles around Jaskier’s eyes were laugh lines or wrinkles painted onto his skin by time.

Gently, Geralt caressed those wrinkles. He had come to love them and even though he wanted to hate them with his entire being, he couldn’t. Even this sign that Jaskier’s time was up, was still a part of Jaskier and there would never be any part of him that Geralt would be unable to love.

Geralt had wanted to protect him. From the very beginning, from the moment Jaskier had followed him to the elves, Geralt had known that he wouldn’t always be able to, but he had never stopped trying. For a lifetime, he had protected Jaskier from people whose ire Jaskier had provoked. From monsters and enemy soldiers. He had sat by his side in sickness and caressed his brow while a healer he had called made sure Jaskier would not embrace death just yet.

But this, time, was the one enemy Geralt couldn’t protect him from. Death had come to claim Jaskier at last and there was nothing for Geralt to plunge his sword into to keep it away from Jaskier.

There was nothing. No saving Jaskier. There was only one thing he could do for him.

The very same thing that Jaskier had done so many times to protect Geralt. When people had hurled stones and insults at Geralt, Jaskier had composed a song to sway their opinion. When coin had been sparse and Geralt could afford neither food nor shelter, Jaskier had sung for their coin. And when Geralt had lain awake at night, haunted by images of pain, fear and hatred, Jaskier had softly sung a lullaby to him.

It had been Jaskier’s gift to him and now it was time that Geralt gave it back.

Years ago, when Jaskier’s mind had still been clear enough to form such thoughts, he had described his life as an old man as being half-asleep, not knowing how much of his being was awake, what parts were walking through a dream and what parts were imprisoned in a nightmare.

Back then, Geralt hadn’t understood. It hadn’t taken long for him to learn exactly what Jaskier had meant. The life they had led had always seemed like a dream to Geralt, something too good to be true, something he would surely wake up from one day to find it gone.

Seeing it disappear right in front of him wasn’t like waking up. It was like a dream slowly turning into a nightmare until there was nothing left but the ache in his chest when Jaskier saw right through him and the fear of losing him to a different kind of sleep, one he wouldn’t wake up from.

Geralt hoped it would be a peaceful sleep once Jaskier drifted off, but now his face still twisted into a grimace at each movement that made him ache and his mind still wasn’t kind to him.

So Geralt did all he could to soothe Jaskier during this nightmare.

His lullaby sounded wrong on Geralt’s lips. Even if he had known how to sing, his voice cracked and his throat was tight with tears Geralt didn’t know how to shed.

His fingers caressed Jaskier’s paper-thin skin and wove through his grey hair. All the while, Jaskier’s eyes didn’t leave Geralt and his heart beat in rhythm with the song.

The hint of a smile danced across Jaskier’s lips, even as his eyes fell shut.

The beat of the song stopped and Geralt’s voice broke off mid-song.

“Jaskier?”

There was no answer. There never would be an answer again. No more banter, no more laughter, no more songs would ever leave Jaskier’s lips.

“Jaskier, look at me!”

He didn’t. His eyes didn’t open, never would again. No more would they look upon flowers, on sunrises, on Geralt.

“Jaskier!” Geralt’s cry was broken. As was he. As was the life Jaskier had made him believe he could have.

“No, no, no, don’t go! I can’t lose you. Don’t make me lose you!” Geralt cradled Jaskier’s body close, pressing his face into the crook of his neck, pressing his chest against Jaskier’s. Jaskier’s breath should have ghosted over Geralt’s skin, but there was nothing. It was too late. He was gone. “No, Jaskier, look at me. Please, let me see your eyes, just one last time. Come back to me, please.”

The last word was whispered, carried off with the dandelion seeds dancing off in the wind.

It was only a figment of Geralt’s cruel mind, but for a brief, beautiful moment, he almost thought he heard a voice in the wind. Birds singing and bees humming in tune to the unfinished lullaby.

Geralt’s grip on Jaskier tightened and his shoulders shook. It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair.

Geralt was a witcher. He should have been able to save Jaskier. He should have done something to stop this.

Jaskier had told him that he could have happiness, that his story didn’t have to end in blood and agony.

But Geralt was a witcher and Jaskier had always been a dreamer. Witchers didn’t get to keep their happiness and dreamers had to wake up at some point.

Jaskier would never wake up again.

Geralt moved without feeling a thing as he dug the grave. Witchers didn’t feel. They hurt and they killed and they shouldn’t let themselves dream for what they couldn’t have.

As he buried Jaskier, so did he put the dreams Jaskier had brought to life in the ground.

He left Dol Blathanna without a song accompanying him. He left it alone, with a new scar that he knew would never heal and not feeling a single thing.

Jaskier had left Geralt smiling, as a dreamer.

Geralt left Jaskier as a witcher.

#the chapters will get longer #as they always do XD #mcd #geraskier #fic #witcher fic #geralt #old jaskier #reincarnation au #angst #i swear i haven't abandoned my other wips #i just want to get to this prompt first and then write my exams and then i can focus on my wips again #so sorry #my writing #fanfic

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boonki · 3 years

Note

Ooh!!! "No more today, you’re at your limit.” ? ❣❣

Hi anon!! Thank you so much for sending this prompt in, I had so much fun writing it (also thank you for waiting, I’ve been a little slow with writing lately)

do we want 3.2k of obikin in the bath? idk but i wrote it! (also do the apartments in the jedi temple even have baths? idk. in this story they do LMAO)

as always, i write at 3 am, so if there are any mistakes, please.. just dont look at them

enjoy!! 💖

____

Obi-wan throws a side kick that lands square in Anakin’s stomach, sending him stumbling backwards. He rolls over a shoulder, ready for the next attack. He blocks a fist to the face, and counters with a punch to Obi-wan’s stomach, which is easily batted to the side.

They’ve been going at it for hours, lightsabers tossed to the side in favor of hand-to-hand combat. Their robes lay messily off to the side of the training room, discarded hours ago as the room sweltered in the summer heat, the pair left only in their pants rolled up at the ankles. Anakin can see Obi-wan faltering, making easy mistakes that cost him light bruises; he must be incredibly tired, just having returned lightly injured from a mission to the Outer Rim. Anakin would so much rather see Obi-wan resting and curled up over a cup of tea, or taking a nap on Anakin’s chest so he can pet his hair down and hold him. But Obi-wan had wanted to spar, and Anakin would never say no to that.

Anakin sees the opportunity and tackles Obi-wan to the ground, straddling his bare stomach and pinning his arms above his head. Obi-wan bucks his hips to roll Anakin over, but Anakin had been prepared for that, digging his knees into the mat to keep grounded. Both of their chests are heaving, and a droplet of sweat drips off of Anakin’s chin and onto Obi-wan’s neck.

“I think we should call it quits for today, old man.” Anakin releases his grip on Obi-wan’s wrists and perches back on his heels, looking down at him.

Obi-wan smirks. “And stop while you’re ahead? No, let’s go again.” He makes to get up, pushing his elbows into the mat, but Anakin stops him with a hand to his chest.

“I’m serious. No more today, you’re at your limit. You’re going to hurt yourself.” Anakin’s tone is serious as he can be, his eyebrows raised, features stern.

Obi-wan falls back to the ground, closing his eyes as he catches his breath. “As far as I was aware, it’s you hurting me, but point taken, love. You win.”

Anakin leans down and pecks a kiss to his cheek, tasting salt, and stretches his lips in a wide smile. “I’ll grab us dinner from Dex’s and I’ll meet you back in our quarters, okay?” He shifts his weight to the side so he can slide off of Obi-wan, wincing at the ache in his already sore muscles. “And go shower? You need one.”

Obi-wan shoots him a wry look. “What, you don’t like the smell of sweat? I can’t, anyhow, I have to go report to the council first.”

“Do you want your usual?” Anakin ignores his sarcasm and hops to his feet, making his way towards their forgotten robes, wishing he had remembered to bring a towel with him.

“Of course, darling.” Obi-wan answers from the floor, still lying on his back with his arms stretched out above his head.

Anakin dons his robes loosely, grabbing his ‘saber from the floor, and takes in the sight: Obi-wan is covered in a thin sheen of sweat, making him glow, and his hair is pushed back, giving him an oddly attractive tousled look. Anakin’s dick twitches in his pants, wanting to do nothing more than take him apart right then and there. But the desire to get some food in Obi-wan and see him rest and relax overwhelms the sexual urge. There will be time for that later on, no doubt.

He makes his way back to Obi-wan in easy, long strides and squats down, kissing him sideways, holding his sweaty head in between his palms. “I’m serious, you stink. The council can wait. Go shower.”

Obi-wan snorts. “No, they really can’t. Tell Dex I said hello.”

____

Anakin shuffles through Padme’s favorite body shop, where she used to drag him when they had briefly dated years prior. He never would’ve admitted it to her, but he relished the fancy baths she had created for them, and had returned to the shop alone innumerable times since they politely ended things. His body always thanked him after a hot soak.

With how tired Obi-wan seemed when he had come back from his mission and padded into their quarters earlier, and how sore he must be after today’s intense practice, Anakin wants to do something special for him. Besides, they’ve barely been able to spend time together because of the war, and Anakin misses it just being the two of them. He hopes the bath won’t be too much for Obi-wan, but he knows the man has a soft spot for fancy things under that rigid exterior.

The shop is crammed and dense, with low ceilings littered with dried flowers hanging upside down, casting a faint rose hue over the entire place. Soaps in muted colors, wrapped in bright shades of paper line the walls, leading down to the wooden tables that hold syrupy oils and linen bags of flowers and herbs. Coarse soaps and lotions in clear tubs sit in wire baskets underneath the tables. The whole room smells like a meadow in bloom, and Anakin eyes the candles burning in the corners of the room in consideration.

Thankfully, he’s the only one in the shop currently, so he can take his time picking the right products. He pops the cork out of a bottle of bath oil and takes a whiff: light, and flowery, with a faint hint of jasmine. Throwing it in his cart, he adds some cream soap, and, hesitating a little, a bag of assorted flower petals to hover on the surface of the water. He already has floating candle lights for the bath at home.

“Are you all set?” Sasha, the elegant female Twi’lek that owns the shop, leans against the register, eyeing him fondly. She used to tease him all the time about coming here alone, but they’ve moved past that, into a tentative friendship.

“Yeah.” He slides his basket onto the counter between them.

She eyes his items, cocking an eyebrow. “Is this for someone special?”

He can feel the blood rushing into his cheeks and ears, but doesn’t want to admit it one way or the other. “Maybe.”

She barks out a laugh at his bashfulness. “Lucky person, whoever it is.”

“Uh.” He doesn’t really know how to answer that. “Thanks?”

Her smile is playful, like he’s a child that just said something particularly cute. With the efficiency of someone who’s been doing it for years, she rings out the total and wraps all the items up in a paper satchel, sliding it back across the counter at him.

“That’s going to be 83 credits.”

He really hopes the council doesn’t look into his expenses, he wouldn’t know what to tell them.

____

The door to their quarters swings open cautiously and Anakin peeps inside, worried that he took too long. After popping by the body shop, he swung by Dex’s as promised, and Dex had wanted to catch up, and rightfully so; it had been too long. Anakin had shifted from foot to foot the entire time though, anxious about getting home to draw the bath before Obi-wan returned from meeting with the council. But Dex is a viable source of information, a fantastic cook, and most importantly, a long time and loyal friend, so Anakin had plastered a good natured grin on his face and quieted the nag of unease in his stomach.

The living room and kitchen is quiet, and Anakin doesn’t hear any noise coming from either the ‘fresher or their bedrooms. Anakin is in the clear.

He drops the food off unceremoniously onto the kitchen counter, throwing his outer robes over a chair on his way to the ‘fresher, bag of goods in hand. Flipping on the light, he starts up the hot water and pulls out the candle lights that sit underneath the sink. As the scalding water rises to the top, he pours in the oil and soap, and sprinkles the flower petals across the water, deliberately placing the candle lights in last so he could perfect their destination. They glow to life as soon as they make contact with the water, and Anakin smiles at the sight.

Stretching back up to stand, he turns the light off and shifts the door shut, letting the dim incandescence float through the room, a heavy orange that immediately adds intimacy to the space.

He has to admit, he’s outdone himself.

Then: a creak of a door hinge, the shuffling of tired steps, and crinkling of the take-out bag as Obi-wan no doubts sneaks a fry in before Anakin catches him.

Anakin bounds back to the kitchen, like a child bursting at the seams.

“I have a surprise, before we eat,” he says to Obi-wan’s back. (He is sneaking a fry.)

“That’s never good.” Obi-wan replies, turning around to lean back against the counter, chewing thoughtfully.

“All my surprises are good surprises.”

“Oh, like the time you superglued my datapad to the ceiling so I would pay more attention to you? You could have just asked, dear one.”

Anakin huffs, and covers the distance between them in two short strides, nudging Obi-wan towards the ‘fresher, covering both of Obi-wan’s eyes with his hands.

“Just,” Anakin murmurs, “trust me on this one.”

They lumber towards the ‘fresher, Anakin pushing a blinded Obi-wan forwards with each step. When they make their way to the entrance, Anakin stops them, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Smells good, at the very least.” Obi-wan hums, in no hurry to have his sight back.

Anakin, however, cannot wait and eagerly pulls his hands back, watching Obi-wan’s face for a reaction.

The smile begins in Obi-wan’s eyes as they crinkle, and then it moves down to his cheeks and into his mouth, which is pulled back in a twisted, tender way. Joy sings through every feature, and Anakin is elated.

Obi-wan turns his head to look at him, his gaze tender. “Is this for me?”

Anakin bites the inside of his cheek. “For us, to share, if you want. Unless you want to be alone, I’m more than happy to go lay down, but I thought-”

“For us, then.” Obi-wan leans in and kisses him on the jaw, already undressing. For the second time that day, Anakin looks down at a small heap of clothing. He closes the ‘fresher door behind them.

As soon as he slides his legs into the water, Obi-wan moans, and Anakin, no matter how many times he’s heard it, blushes, his breath quickening. Obi-wan is somehow both the most proper, and most obscene person Anakin has ever had the good graces of knowing.

The petals dance away from Obi-wan, ripples in the water sending them cascading in circles. “Come on, then,” he says to Anakin, who is still staring down at him with a dopey smile on his face.

Anakin makes quick work of his clothing, standing naked next to the bath. He motions for Obi-wan to lean forward so he can nestle in behind him.

The water is still piping hot, almost uncomfortably so, but Anakin makes a small ahh noise at the feeling of it on his sore muscles. He snakes his legs on each side of Obi-wan, pulling him back so that Obi-wan’s back lays flush against his chest, having to shoo a candle light out of the way. It bumbles along their sides, and out towards their entangled legs, illuminating the peachy bubbles and sunset tinged petals that bob in their wake. Obi-wan tilts his head back, resting it on Anakin’s shoulder, and sighs in contentment.

He drops a kiss on Obi-wan’s temple, breathing him in, his arms finding their home around Obi-wan’s waist. The skin on Obi-wan chest, arms, and face glimmer in the candlelight, flickering orange, more radiant than any Tatooine sunset, and Anakin wants to fall face first into the radiant gleam of his heart, wants to crawl into Obi-wan’s chest and bask in the warmth of his love, his light.

“This is lovely,” Obi-wan whispers, fluttering his eyes closed. “Thank you.”

Anakin’s hold around his middle tightens a bit in response, trailing a hand up and down Obi-wan’s stomach in repetition, a mindless gesture. “You seem tired lately.”

Obi-wan turns his head toward Anakin’s, resting his forehead in the crook of Anakin’s neck. He doesn’t get a response for a few heartbeats, and Anakin wonders if Obi-wan heard him. And then:

“Well, we are at war.” Obi-wan’s tone is flat, nondescript. Anakin knows Obi-wan is mincing his words for his sake, and as a bad habit of holding tight to all of his problems, like sharing them would break him. Anakin wants to share the load with him, help carrying the burden.

“Are you sure that’s all?” He mumbles into Obi-wan’s humid forehead, sweat beginning to glisten at his hairline from the searing water.

Obi-wan lets out the faintest of sighs through his nose, carefully considering his response. “I wish I…,” he grabs Anakin’s hands in the water, laying them on top and threading his fingers into Anakin’s, “I wish I could help more. Do more. None of it ever feels enough.”

Anakin gazes over their tangled legs, barely visible underneath the bubbles drifting over the surface, and aches all over at the thought of Obi-wan feeling inadequate. He wishes Obi-wan could see himself as Anakin sees him: brave, selfless, the entire backbone of the war, and a brilliant General and inspiring leader. Anakin has, and would a million times over, follow him into the depths of hell. The petals stick to their skin, creating a small halo of reds and purples where their bodies meet the water.

“You’re doing enough.” Anakin sighs. “You barely sleep, you’re always doing briefings and writing reports, and when we’re finally on a break you’re off training younglings, sitting in for the council, kriffing asking for sparring practice.” He huffs a laugh of disbelief into Obi-wan’s hairline. “You practically run this war yourself sometimes. When do you ever rest?”

Obi-wan is silent for some time, probably thinking of some way to deflect everything. He comes back with rare and unusual honesty. “It feels selfish, taking time for myself when I know there are people out there dying. Innocent people.”

Anakin scoffs. “How are you supposed to help them if you’re ready to keel over yourself, hm?”

“We’re jedi, that’s what we do. Besides,” Obi-wan rubs his face on Anakin’s neck, tone turning sweet, “I have you to make sure I don’t.”

Anakin grins into the wet curve of his head, his hair plastered to his skull from the steam wafting up around them, making the edges of the room disappear into a soft and warm fog.

“You’re enough, and you deserve rest.” He plants an overdone kiss on Obi-wan’s skull, rougher than usual to make a point.

Obi-wan hums noncommittally and tightens his hold on Anakin’s hands, somehow sinking further into Anakin’s chest.

He squeezes once and then untangles his fingers from Obi-wan’s hold to trace over his body. The tops of his thighs are as far as Anakin can reach, so he starts there, letting his fingertips graze over sensitive and supple skin, over soft hair and old scars. He moves to the base of Obi-wan’s stomach, purposefully ignoring his cock in favor of showering him with pure adoration and affection. He’ll let his hands wander there after they’ve eaten and gotten into bed.

Anakin loves the broad plain of Obi-wan’s chest, loves to rest his head on it after a long day, so he spends extra time there, dragging his fingernails across the pink skin, smoothing the sting down with the flat of his palm. He glides up to Obi-wan’s neck and into the base of his auburn hair, gently massaging the tense bundles of nerves that always seem to gather after a long and stressful day, and Obi-wan melts into him, humming sleepily.

Overwhelmed that Obi-wan is his, that this breathtaking man is resting in his arms, seeping into his chest and finding home in his heart, he can’t help but want to stay like this forever: clean, warm, safe, and together.

“You’re so beautiful,” Anakin breathes out, voice cracking, “and I love you so much.”

The petals gleam in agreement, hovering in reverence near him, their red hues like Anakin’s beating heart, holding Obi-wan in place. He understands their predicament; he, too, would bloom and fall and bloom and fall for this man, would reach out as far as he can from the wet and mossy ground to be regarded and gazed at, plucked and taken home. Even if it meant dying, wilting away, it would be worth it to be held near his face, to be carefully tucked into a vase to watch over him in the final days. Him and these flowers are one and the same, always gravitating towards the brightest point in the room, his sun, his reason for blooming.

Soft and slow breaths escape Obi-wan, and his chest evens out in a regular cadence. He must have fallen asleep. Good, Anakin thinks.

Anakin holds him close and watches the bubbles pop, one by one, as the time passes. Candlelight reflects off of the still surface of the water, the rise and fall of Obi-wan’s chest the only movement causing faint ripples. This is the closest he’s come to meditation lately, and it feels so wonderful.

He’s not sure what time it is, and can’t be bothered to care if anyone has comm’d him. Here in the four corners of their shared space is Anakin’s entire universe, and bliss simmers in his chest.

Anakin’s fingers are starting to prune and sweat drips off of chin. The water is starting to cool, though, and if Obi-wan hadn’t been stuck to his body, he probably would want to get out. He doesn’t want to wake him though, as sleep is rare and precious these days.

His stomach, however, has a different idea, and growls loudly, startling Obi-wan awake, who chuckles at the sound.

“Maybe we should go eat that food you brought back,” he teases.

Anakin can’t help the guilty smile that creeps its way onto his face. “How does eating and going back to sleep sound?”

“Sounds like the best plan you’ve ever improvised, my dear.”

Anakin makes a psh noise. “I don’t ever improvise.”

Obi-wan scoffs, a high pitched laugh from the back of his throat. “So this was all planned, then?”

Anakin sees the opportunity and takes it. “What, falling in love with you? No, but that has been my greatest achievement this far.”

Obi-wan raises his head from Anakin’s shoulder and meets him at eye level, twisting his body around to kiss Anakin deeply, biting his lower lip and sucking. Anakin snakes a hand to the back of his head and kisses back, trying to pour all his love, his entire heart, all of him, into Obi-wan’s mouth. He wants Obi-wan to pluck him, and know he loves me, he loves me, he loves me with the pull of each petal.

Obi-wan breaks their kiss and leans back, staring into his eyes. “Well, unlike you, I do actually plan, and my greatest achievement this far will be devouring the order of fries waiting for me in the kitchen.”

Anakin laughs, and flicks water at his face.

#obikin #boonki writes #obi-wan/Anakin #obi wan/anakin #obi-wan kenobi #anakin skywalker #swcw #star wars #fluff #pure fluff #anakin is king of fancy baths #fanfic #writing #why do i always write at 3 am?? i am too tired to edit this

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