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#alas they were not strong enough for the 2 surprise things

iliektehhaxs · 4 months

Text

Sweet Longing

Summary: Clive’s hopelessly in love with you, but you’re already in love with someone else.

Warnings: Voyeurism, afab reader, 18+, MDNI

Part 2 here!

Clive was raised to be a gentleman, from the moment he was born he was instilled with values that make him the man he is today—strong, noble, honorable. That sense of justice—of right and wrong—is what makes him who he is, even through years of servitude that is the one trait he made sure to hold tightly to his breast; his entire moral code is based around chivalry, to do the right thing at all times—so why is it that he had eyes for you, a woman already taken by another?

Racked by inner turmoil, the constant shame he feels as you rise to your toes and kiss your beloved on the cheek is enough to burn a hole through his chest, even more so when he sees it’s his own damn leader at the receiving end.

(Cid smiles when you whisper into his ear, kisses you back in response. Clive has to actively remind himself that he’s in public, and that staring is less than appropriate.)

Your adoration sets his nerves on fire, makes his heart heavy with grief—this is a familiar sight to him, and a familiar pain. There is nothing honorable about the way he imagines your touch, nothing noble about his longing for you, nothing strong about the way he forces his head to turn away as if a second more of this display could kill him. The way you hold Cid close, whisper at his side words of devotion before leaving the hideaway…

“Be safe, my love. Come back to me in one piece.”

Founder, he wishes it was him you were speaking to, wishes it was his face your warm hands slid over, tracing over his features with soft fingers tickling at his skin. Would they move as delicately as you do, or would they be incessant, greedily latching onto him and refusing to let go?

His conscience speaks to him, rips his focus away as it tells him—

You will never find out, you hopeless fool.

(And he knows; between his endless yearning, he knows.)

You were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, even more than the stars he would pray to every night; Pretty lips that separated to reveal an even prettier smile, brighter than even Metia itself. A shining beacon in this otherwise bleak endeavor.

You were a busybody—if it needed to be done, you were the woman for the job, no matter how difficult. If clothes needed to be repaired, you did it. If the scouts came back weary and hungry, you would run down to the kitchens and prepare them a meal.

Everyone in the Hideaway knew of your kindness, how you’d gladly give the clothes off your back to help others in need, but to witness it for the first time is a memory Clive would never forget.

The day he had told you his life story, of his home being destroyed and his brother killed, your eyes had displayed so much sympathy and care he hadn’t been shown in years since the disaster that took his freedom from him. You, sweet, caring you, had jumped into his arms swift as a coeurl, comforting him in your warmth, shocked at the sudden embrace.

“I couldn’t imagine what you’ve gone through, but it will be alright.” You said softly, rubbing his back soothingly. “You’re safe here.”

Close displays of affection were a luxury a bearer could never afford in captivity, he had nearly forgotten what it felt like to be embraced, to feel wanted.

A tear could have fallen from his eyes, and threatened to do so the longer you stayed in his arms. It had been so long since he had been hugged that he was almost scared to return the gesture, arms hovering at your sides before slowly accepting it in its entirety.

It’s no surprise that you had caught the eyes of one Cidolfus Telamon, who had set out to make you his long before he had met the former Rosarian shield. A jealous part of him dreams that it were him you had met before, that it was him your starlight eyes gazed at so lovingly.

It was not fated to be, alas, and every time he bore witness to those same eyes gazing at Cid he felt his chest tighten—tortuous, like a sword to the chest.

Stop that, the voice cries out to him. This is wrong.

It didn’t help that Cid was eager to speak of your good graces either. In the middle of the night when everyone was asleep, the two men would talk, and inevitably your name would be mentioned once or twice; how adorable you looked this morning waking up, a pout on your face as the light hit your figure, or how Cid felt his heart clench when you redressed a healing wound, kissing the fresh bandages softly.

It hurt, to say the least, but he also welcomed it. In some sick, twisted fantasy he would conjure up images of you doing the same, only it was Clive’s injuries you were tending to, that it was him who saw your form tangled in the blankets. Guilty as he felt, he couldn’t stop himself.

It was only made worse by how kind you were. He almost wishes he could find fault in your actions, wishes that you’d realize his affection and reject him outright. Maybe then he could finally let his aching heart heal, but he knows if you kicked him away he’d crawl right back.

Your kindness was a double edged sword, for every interaction only fed his delusion, made his guilt worsen when his thoughts of you slowly evolved from the innocent to the sinful. You would smile at him, and instead of focusing on your face he could only focus on how soft your lips looked, on how they would feel against his, on how they might feel pressed against his—

“Clive? Are you listening?” You ask, waving a hand in front of him. He comes to his senses soon enough, so lost in thought that he almost forgot why he was accompanying you in the first place.

The vibrant sun embraces your skin wonderfully. In your hand is a basket full of plants, medicinal in nature as you stand confused at Clive’s sudden far away look, waiting for an answer.

“Hello? Is something wrong?” You repeat, slightly concerned now.

“I apologize, my lady,” he says, focusing on you again. “It won’t happen again.”

His eyes wander over you, but can’t seem to meet your eyes. There’s a coyness to your tone when you reply, shoulder brushing against him.

“Now what were you thinking about that’s got you so distracted?”

He only feels more embarrassed, turning his head with a slight blush. “Nothing you need concern yourself with.”

You don’t look convinced, but you drop the subject either way, basket swaying in your arms as you walk ahead.

“Alright then Clive, keep your secrets, just don’t let yourself get lost in the clouds when you’re supposed to be protecting me, yeah?”

You tease him as you bend down to pluck some more herbs for Tarja, an array of plants already brimming your nearly full basket. He raises his eye at you, to your basket that’s nearly bursting with flora and back. At the sight of his judgemental stare you reply—

“There’s no such thing as too much medicine.”

He leaves you to your work, keeping watch for any signs of trouble, but also keeping a watchful eye of you.

This is a problem, a very serious problem. You plague his thoughts, his dreams, it’s almost too much.

Maybe it was foolish, but he had to tell Cid.

To lust after another’s beloved, especially if it was the love of his friend is a betrayal of trust he wasn’t equipped to deal with, and holding this secret inside was only making it worse. It was with this realization he lay awake at night, leaving his bed to make his way to Cid’s bedchambers. Consequences be damned, he needed to say something.

When he arrived at the door however, not a sound left his mouth. When he raised his fist to knock it was stopped mid-air by what was a high pitched whine, from what sounded like you.

Surely he was imagining things, but another noise of pleasure left your lips and he felt all logical thought leave him.

You were inches away from him, making the most beautiful sounds his ears had ever been graced with. A melody of not-so-hushed whispers, of pleading followed by the unmistakably gruff voice of one Lord Commander—

“Lay back and take it, just like that—“

Immediately followed was your voice, moaning with reckless abandon.

Clive could only imagine what was going on, and imagine he did. Maybe you were on your back, legs spread enticingly for your lover to see. Perhaps you sat atop his body, hips rising and falling in sweet desperation. Were your pretty thighs shaking? Maybe your hands would hold him as he brought you to climax, singing his name over and over as your eyes closed in bliss.

“Clivecliveclive—!”

He’s not sure when he undid the front of his pants, when his hands met his frighteningly hard erection or when he stuffed his hand against his mouth to keep silent. Hunched over, head against the door to listen closer, memorize every pitch and tone of your delicious noises, how delightful you sound when getting brought to pleasure. His hand moves faster and faster on his cock with every moan, sweat dripping from his brow.

Founder, he was in the hallway, if anyone should see him now it would be plain as day what he was doing, but his hand had a mind of its own. Squeezing at his shaft, thumbing ahead the head, violently shuddering when he feels his self-control waning.

I need to stop, I need to stop—

He repeats in his head, the tip of his length so sensitive, more than he’s ever felt before. Everything is so hot, it hurts to breathe, he damn near pierces his flesh with how hard his teeth clamp down on his palm and even then a noise threatens to slip out.

I have to stop, founder above—

But then he hears you cry to the heavens, your voice hoarse from overuse, and his hand moves faster on his cock, knees buckling and sending him to the ground.

I can’t stop, don’t want to stop, fuck you sound so good, moremoremore—

He’s lost himself to his lust, thighs shaking as he slumps against the wall on his haunches. Knelt before the door, praying you don’t hear him, that you don’t hear the slick sounds of skin against skin.

His mind runs a mile a minute, nearly incoherent as his guilt and lust fight a dangerous battle. What if they found out? What if they hear him stroking himself into a fucking mess?

You’re muffled, but he can pick up your pleas through the wooden door.

“More, please, ‘m so close—“

A creak, and then you cry out again. He decides in that moment that he doesn’t fucking care about the consequences, not when you sound like that.

Clive’s eyes clench shut as a shiver runs through him, you serve as fuel to fan the fire scorching his very being, flashes of you in various positions occupying his mind, a being of lust and nothing more. Ears ringing, heart battering in his chest, a tightness in his abdomen that grows ever taut at the sound of your voice growing higher and higher.

Cid’s voice interrupts the cacophony of your sounds, strained and deep. “There’s my girl, come on, let go for me—“

At that moment you let out the loudest sound he’s heard from you, a final crescendo to the music that leaves your lips. You’re a mess of slurred speech and half-uttered praises, Clive is only able to pick up a few words as his cock throbs with need.

“Yesyesyes, so good, I can’t—fuck—I can’t—“

“Yes you fucking can,” Cid interrupts, and the sound of skin meeting skin is more intense. “Be good and let me see you stain the sheets love.”

That does it for him. With a muffled cry he chokes out your name into his hand, the taste of iron coating his tongue as he lets go, the evidence of his shame soaking the front of his pants.

He can’t move, shaky and unbalanced, but he forces himself to anyway, moving through the hallways back to his own chambers. He slides against the old oak door, fully spent and panting.

What the fuck did I just do?

He raises his hand, and just like he thought there was the smallest mark on his palm where his teeth broke his skin. His pants are uncomfortably wet with cum, he could barely muster the energy to lift his head, much less walk, and the worst of it all was that your voice still echoed in his mind and made his cock twitch against his leg.

Founder, help me.

#robo writes #final fantasy xvi #final fantasy xvi smut #clive rosfield #clive rosfield x reader #Clive rosfield smut #I love it when men are pathetic husks of themselves

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sunsents · 1 year

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Jake Sully - Trust Your People

Here, have another one 🙄 Comforting Jake Sully in his sexy toruk makto uniform typa one shot because LAWD, im obsessed. Heavily inspired by this edit , please watch it before reading it to amp up the experience.🤭 also this is unedited but aren't we all

Read part 2 here

Summary —> Jake is apprehensive about the upcoming war, and you, firmly against his dreamwalker origins, are there to comfort him.

Pairing: jakesully x fem!reader (no use of y/n)

Words: 2027

Warnings: mentions of war/insecurities/Jake is too hot

DON’T REPOST MY WORK

vocabulary: Kelutral - Hometree

Vitraya Ramonung - Tree of Souls

Tawtute - demon

Kuru - queue

Atokirina - woodsprite

Muntxa - mate

Narlor - beautiful to the eyes

Kelku - home

———II——— Blue for stealth, red for strength, and green for luck and hope.

The intricate patterns painted on your skin seeped into you, joined your bloodstream and gave you the courage to fight. But the thrumming of your heart was too loud to say otherwise.

After the wreckage of Kelutral - your heart still squeezed at the memory - Jakesully had reemed himself in the eyes of Eywa. Though, this did not mean he redeemed himself in yours.

So, imagine your surprise when you saw him kneeled before Vitraya Ramunong, speaking to her. You had only wanted to calm your racing heart and gain courage from Eywa's children and your ancestors, alone. You did not expect a tawtute waiting for you in your safe-haven - though, you suppose he was one of the people now.

Still, you were wary around him. He was the cause of this, after-all. If only he didn't know your ways, if only he didn't lead the Skypeople to hometree, if only-

You pause, take a deep breath, and count to five. If Eywa deems him trustworthy, so will you.

Said man's head is hung low, his kuru connected, muttering something you can't make out. He still hasn't noticed your presence, or maybe he did but does not want you to approach him. But alas, you do.

The crinkling of your steps alert him, and his head snaps back to your form. You stand straighter, holding your chin high. Shifting awkwardly against your heel, you clear your throat.

Jake merely watches you with wide eyes, the strange hair above them rising high. You had seen that expression before, but could never decipher what those feathery...things mean. They furrow when he can't get his arrow to land on the target straight, waver when you talk back to him and he smirks with that stupid, soft lips of his - and the worst of it all, they rise slightly when he looks at you - which is an obscene view, especially when his eyes look hazed and soft, contrasting to the eye-brow.

Eywa is bent down, washing her hair in the pond that circle you, her soft wisps greet the water and sway against the wind. The vines that surround you making you feel content and safe enough to let down your guard against Jake, you tentatively offer a touch of reassurance on his firm shoulder.

"Erm," you start, unsure but hopeful. "You know Eywa cannot respond to you."

Jake gives your an incredulous look, and your stomach drops. Trust yourself to say the most unbecoming words in times of need. "That was, not what I meant to say." You give him a wince - you hope it looks like a smile.

Jake hums, "Hey, you touching me means somethin', right?" he chuckles, laugh reverbating around Eywa's tendrils, "At least you don't avoid me like the plague anymore."

Your ears twitch at the unfamiliar word, "What I meant to say was, Jakesooly, Eywa does not take sides."

"I know that," mutters Jake, "but surely, she also wants the Skypeople gone."

You nod, and Jake slowly stands up. His beaded hair - courtesy of your youngest niece, Aëteyna - clink around each other. He looks breathtaking, and the sight does just that. You stop breathing almost entirely as his side-profile levels with your face. The eye-brow is furrowed again, and his eyes are closed, face angled down. His strong jaw ticks when your eyes trail the sharp line of it that connects to his neck. His neck, oh Eywa, he wears the beaded choker he made himself in celebration of Toruk.

Bioluminescent light breathes on his white freckles, reminding one of blowing on Atokirina and watching it take color and flight. Jake's just so beautiful, his white freckles starting from his smooth forehead, down his romanesque nose, and around his sultry, curved lips that beg to be kissed. And down continues the freckles, on his strong pecks and robust arms that bulge with muscle, and down...

His stomach and hips are corded well with muscle with smooth, soft skin stretching enticingly - you're writhing in your place as Jake gazes down. Touching his warm skin, squeezing his strong arms, and his dominant, engulfing heat all work together to make stars dance around your eyelids.

He holds himself like a strong, attractive warrior. He is a warrior, the best one in Omaticaya - after yourself of course. Though, now that he was Toruk Makto, you weren't sure who outdid who.

You crave for him to be your warrior. The intense need to have such a strong, dominating mutxa take care of you, and you to reciprocate back - it almost makes you pass out.

How could this be? How could a dreamwalker look sculpted by Eywa herself to specifically ruin you and your insides?

But you can't. You're on the brink of war, and he needs comfort. You need comfort.

That's the only excuse you can think of. It's easier to be cold to him, disregard his efforts and his beauty rather than expect something you can never have. You can never bring yourself to accept your attraction towards the dream walker, not only does it hurt your pride, it's against your nature. Thus, you opt to hating him.

Though, you're sure Jake has no issue reciprocating it back. Although he never outwardly verbalized his animosity towards you, you have eyes. They see how you get under his skin, scorch him from the inside out and leave him with nothing but irritation. His jaw ticks, hands twitch, and his face flushes. It's quite funny sometimes, especially when you take your quips a little too far.

But now, you can't bring yourself to be callous. Not when he's looking at you with such anguish and worry.

"I-" He starts, suddenly placing his gaze on you. Your heart squeezes at his pained expression. He looks afraid, and it hits you. That's why he's here. To ask for guidance and reassurance. Eywa could guide, but not reassure. Which is why she led you here. You were tasked to put the young warriors heart at ease.

"I'm afraid, ____." his heart is open to you fully. To admit one was afraid was incredibly private, not to mention intimate. Admitting it meant that he seeked comfort in you, and your heart swells with pride.

You puff out your chest, then put a soft hand on his cheek. "That's okay, Jakesooly. Everyone is, including the Skypeople."

JakeSully sighs, nodding and you continue.

"But we have to fight for our home," you put a hand on your heart, then move the one on his cheek onto his heart. "We are Omaticaya, and we will fight for what is ours. We all have each other Jakesooly, you are not alone...winning is not your burden to bear. Trust yourself, and your people."

Jake's tail swishes from side to side, and he closes his hand over your heart. "This is the first time we aren't arguing, and you probably said what I've been wanting to hear the moment I arrived on Pandora."

You laugh, "Sure sure, flattery won't get you compliments JakeSooly."

Jake smiles, then his face morphs into an expression much serious than what you're comfortable with. The way he looks at you is too intense that you immediately remove your hand from his heart. Jake catches it mid-air, placing it back.

"It's not flattery, ____. I'm serious, thank you.", his deep voice rumbles from his chest, and you shiver. Jake looks back at Vitraya Ramonung.

"Thank you Eywa," he says, then looks at you.

And Eywa hears. Two, sizely wisps of Atokirina float between the two of you. Your breathing stops, turning ragged and deep. What does this mean? Surely, Eywa was reassuring you both that the war was going to play out in your favor. The Atokirina's only purpose was to put your minds at ease and strengthen your hearts.

You feel to need to verbalize this, in case Jake gets the wrong idea.

The wrong idea? What was the wrong idea, you think. That you were to be bethroted-

No.

Neytiri had confessed to Jake the night of his Iknimaya, and was gently let down. Jake had told her it was too soon, and of course, dangerous. But he didn't completely deny her feelings. You were not close with tsakarem, but it was common knowledge around the clan that she wanted to claim Jake.

Jake clears his throat, stopping your train of thought. You suddenly remember the situation you're in. Where was Neytiri to comfort him, and guide his heart towards tranquility?

"These guys seem to like me alot." chuckles Jake. He's looking at you now, and you roll your eyes.

"Well," you cup your hands around the sprite, inspecting it. "You are Toruk Makto. Besides, I think the great mother is trying to tell us to be at ease."

"Yeah," he sighs, deep and slow. "I just..." trailing off, his arms suddenly fall limp. You tilt your head in worry at the man before you who looks utterly hopeless.

"Hm?" you make no further noises to inquire so he can regain his strength, and share his worry. You're afraid to push him, though you can't help but feel curious.

Jake shakes his head, "It's stupid."

"It probably isn't." You raise your chin and let the Atokirina float away.

"Okay," he starts, "I feel lost, I guess."

"How come?" you ask, genuinely curious. Feeling lost is such an unfamiliar concept to you. You had grown up belonging to a community, known exactly where you stand, and your purpose; to protect.

"I don't know what I'm doing half the time. The people expect me to be brave and have a well thought out plan," he suddenly jumps forward, "Which I do!"

You smile, nodding at his words.

"But, everything I've achieved has been pure luck. What if I'm not so...lucky this time."

It's your turn to frown now, luck? "Jake," you say softly, grabbing his arm again and kneeling him down on the lush carpet of flowerage and vessels. He follows your movement almost too quickly, bending his knees before you and looking deeply into your eyes with expectation. You can see yourself in his irises, all dressed up in war attire and fierce. - you're practically shining with the way his eyes are wide and hazy.

"Luck is not when you tame Toruk, and luck is not when you complete Iknimaya. Luck is never with Eywa, she plans all, and balances all. I understand your worry, but know this." you're firm with your tone now, hoping it gets through his thick, beautiful skull. "What happens is already planned out, and we cannot change it. We can only do our best. So stop worrying your narlor head, and trust."

Jake chuckles, shaking his head in disbelief. "Why you gotta always use words I don't understand?"

"Well, you should have listened to Neytiri better, hm?" you mirror his playful smile, flicking his cheek - a movement you learned from him. Though, it was hard for you as you had four fingers, less strength in your flick.

"Yeah yeah," he catches your wrist just as you retract it - it seemed like Toruk Makto was quite set on touching you today. "Careful what you say. I'm Toruk Makto now, remember?"

You pretend to think for a moment, "Really? You have to refresh my memory. I do not currently remember anything about Toruk or Makto." taunting him in your broken English, you chuckle at your joke.

Jake watches you with a stupid smile, all toothy and wide. His glistening eyes survey your face, making your heart sputter and warn you in panic. She tells you to stop joking around with him, pull your hand from his grasp, and take on your cold, arrogant attitude once more. But she also tells you to let yourself fall into his strong arms, let him surround you with his manly, musky scent, and nuzzle his face into your hair as he whispers sweet nothings to you.

You blush, cursing her. You didn't have a strong heart at all. She was bipolar and mean, and you were going to have a firm talk with her once in your kelku.

Now though, you can only stupidly stare back. You were on the brink of war, what were you even doing? Suddenly regaining your senses, you quickly stand up, pulling your hand from his firm hold. Then, you give him a curt nod, one that halts the intimate moment with professionalism and rebuilds your walls of self stability.

"Well then Jakesooly, we shall head back to the clan. A great day awaits us."

——II——

Lmk if you want a part 2 of this, and I'll cook sm up 🤭

#jake sully x reader #jake sully #avatar the way of water #avatar #avatar james cameron #avatar quaritch #jake sully drabble #jake sully oneshot #jake sully x you #jake sully fanfiction #fluff #avatar fluff #neytiri sully #neytiri

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diavalsquil · 2 years

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𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘦 - Morpheus x gn!reader

wc: 2,029

There's been way too much talk of throne smut with Morpheus and not enough action in doing so. Alas, here we are. Enjoy ;)

Also it's 2:38 AM and I am not editing this.

_______

Plot: helping Morpheus release some stress after a long day of ruling The Dreaming.

Warnings: terribly dirty smut, degradation, oral (male receiving,)

Gender neutral~

_______

Ruling a kingdom was no easy feat, no matter how strong the ruler thought themselves to be. It was no different for Dream, who was an Endless himself, but the weight of his responsibilities was beginning to sink his shoulders in. Sleep was the last thing he needed, but after centuries of being the God of Dreams, he was so, so very tired.

Being the workaholic he was, it was Lucienne who had to drag him away from his work. Otherwise, he'd drown himself in his duties, and push everyone else away without thinking. He's only trying to put his kingdom first, and all of its residents were as grateful as could be, but the toll it was taking on him was obvious. Their lord needed to rest.

Morpheus practically collapses into his throne. He makes himself comfortable, propping his head on his hand as he stares off into the abyss. He sighs tiredly. Right now, all he wanted was you.

And no matter where you were, the two of you always seemed to be on the same page. Without him saying a word, you stroll into his throne room. It was a dark, grand room, with large white stairs that led up to the twisted, iron throne he sat upon. His coat is sprawled out around him, cascading against the white floor. It almost seeps through, as if it were made of ink.

"My love." The dark look in his eyes brighten, until his irises gleam a longing blue. His chin lifts from his hand in eagerness. “I’ve missed you.”

"Dearest." You smile, striding up the steps with surety. Each step you take allows you to better assess your lover's condition. His eyes were tired, shoulders caved in, posture deflated of pride. Who would have thought that gods got burnt out too?

Finally, you've made it to the top. He smiles at you and you move to take a seat on his lap, carefully stroking his pale cheek. Your hand fits right against his skin, like the fate of a perfect puzzle piece.

Morpheus sinks into your touch, eyes closed in pleasure as you kiss his forehead. Ever so gently, you continue stroking his jawline. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer, never getting enough. Your heart rate picks up happily, excitedly. You were the only one Morpheus ever truly allowed himself to feel vulnerable with. To let go.

"You've ought to rest," you murmur against his soft skin.

He groans, shaking his head as he buries his nose into your neck instead. "Rest is for mortals."

Butterflies swarm through your stomach at the vibration of his voice against your neck. Your fingers clench around the collar of his trench coat, trying to keep your composure. "I'm sure some relaxation would serve an Endless just as well."

His lips find your neck, kissing the skin tenderly. It made you smile, but you could feel the exhaustion hidden behind it. The stubbornness as well.

But to your surprise, Dream gives in.

"I should like you to show me," he replies quietly. His voice comes out as a mere rasp, words so small that for a second, you think you'd imagined them.

"Show you what?" you ask, not thinking he could possibly be thinking about what you were thinking.

He pulls his head from your neck, blue eyes meeting yours. The softness in his voice tapers with each word. His gaze bores into yours, challenging you. "Show me how to relax, then," he repeats, "If it will do me so much good."

Your jaw drops open, mouth wide, but before you can say anything, Morpheus nods in approval. "You're a fast learner, aren't you?" he muses, rubbing his thumb against your lips.

A smile finds your lips and you lean in for a kiss. A long, passionate kiss that floods stronger with each wave. It leaves you thirsty for more. You kiss him until your lips are swollen from the nibbling and fighting for dominance, until his hair is tussled and your own arousal is too much to bear.

The tent in his trousers grows harder with every passing second. You can feet it beneath your thighs as you bring him closer, allowing him to kiss you more passionately, but the passion turns into more. The passion blooms into lust, it leaves your lips tingling like the fire that trickles through your veins. He scorches your lips, each kiss leaving like a burn, until even that is not enough.

His hands find the slope of your neck and pull you closer, never letting go. The kisses grow angrier. You knew he'd been stressed these past couple of days, but you'd never expected him to take out his anger on you. You liked it. Loved it, even.

"Ow," you wince, pulling away from Morpheus' tight grasp.

He lets you go only slightly, thumbs not pressing into your neck as hard, but still not releasing you entirely. With a deep lust in his eyes, he glances down towards your lips then to your eyes.

"Go on," he chuckles. "Do as you dare to your lord. Show me how mortals relax. Please me the way mortals like to be pleased." His eyes narrow, taunting you even further.

You lean in close. "Why would I do that when I could please you the way a god deserves to be pleased?"

He could practically bust from that comment alone, the added grinds you make against his pelvis do little to help. Before he knows it, you've gotten on your knees and there's something about the sight of you before his throne, aroused and ready to please him that makes him want to fuck you like there's no tomorrow.

You start by palming him through his trousers, you can feel the erection hard and stiff on the other side. He throws his head back and releases a deep moan, thrusting his pelvis upwards just a little. Your name escapes his lips.

"Forgive me, my lord. I believe this has been long overdue."

"And to that, I agree," Morpheus groans, clenching his fists against the arms of his throne. “So please, no teasing.”

You chuckle, shaking your head as you stroke him slowly. You watch as he writhes in his seat, completely lost in the pleasure and you were barely touching him. To think, Morpheus, Dream of the Endless, God of Dreams, was completely succumbed to your pleasure. You had him in the palm of your hands. Literally.

But then Morpheus leans forward to cup your jaw roughly in his hands. Any sign of the gentle sir he'd just been before had vanished. In a dark voice, paired with equally menacing eyes and downturned lips, he says, “I’ve asked you once, love, please,” he says softly, but the gleam in his eyes darkens with a me menacing stare that pierces your soul.

You submit at once, wanting to fall through the ground. "I'm sorry—"

"Can we not follow simple instructions?”

"I assure you, I can."

He leans back in his seat, pleased with your answer. "Keep going," he says softly, but that didn't take the edge of his voice. He knew what he wanted and he wanted it now.

You unbuckle him at a noticeable faster pace, feeling for his dick until you can fumble it free. The sight leaves your mouth watering and you're ready to proceed at once.

Morpheus gasps at the cold air hitting his tip, you take notice of this and blow on it gently. He hisses in pleasure as you rub your hands up and down the shaft as well.

"Tighter," he orders.

You do as he says, wrapping your hand around him tighter. In hopes of giving him the best experience possible, you move it faster too. He hisses again, this time throwing his head back and he moves a hand to stroke your face.

"Perfect, just perfect,” he whispers to himself, but you catch his words. Surprisingly, it turns you on and encourages you to move faster.

His moans are deep, passing through the air in an airy rasp, every now and then. You can tell he was trying to be quiet. Maybe it was about keeping his dignity, maybe it was about not wanting to be heard. You didn't care, you wanted to hear him, so you move faster, smearing precum all around his cock.

Morpheus lets out a long airy moan, he clenches his fingers, and swallows hard as you bring your face dangerously near his erection.

"Mouth," he orders. "I want it."

Without hesitation, you slide his dick into your mouth, circling your lips around the tip and swirling your tongue. Just like that, you were addicted. You bring it further into your mouth, sucking harder on the salty taste. Before you know it, you're moaning all over his cock.

"Perfect," he praises between groans. "You’re so dirty for this.”

He brings one hand to the back of your head, casually leaning back in his throne as he forces you to go farther down. You gag once he forces it past the point you could manage, causing you to choke and pull away, but it only turned you on farther. You didn't care if you gagged, you were willing to put all that aside as long as he felt good. This was all about him.

"I thought you could do better than that," he scolds. "Please me the way a god deserves to be pleased."

"Morpheus," you moan against his dick, but it comes out as a muffled whine. You suck harder, faster, forcing it down your throat as deep as you can manage.

Morpheus' fingers clench in your hair, jutting his hips up into your mouth as he fucks your face without mercy. "Yes, just like that," he moans. "You like this don't you?" he muses. "Sucking me off like a slut.”

"I like this," you try to say, but again, it's muffled and incomprehensible.

"You're a mess," he chuckles, fucking you faster in the mouth. He watches in awe as you fall apart, gasping as he rams into your mouth. You're finding it harder to breathe. He's finding himself closer to a climax. "You're a complete mess,” he chuckles in disbelief.

Saliva runs down your chin and over his cock, dripping onto the floor below. Morpheus gazes at you in pure amusement as you suck him eagerly, not slowing down even as your jaw grew tired.

"Don't fucking stop," he mumbles, eyes clenched shut as he stops moving to give you a break. This allows you to reposition yourself, placing your hands on his lap to spread his legs apart and get your lips closer to his base, which you lick circles into happily. “Ah…” he moans. “You please me like a whore.”

You return to his shaft, using your hands to make up for the amount your mouth can't handle. Morpheus is completely lost in the feeling, murmuring praising words to you, moaning your name so much it becomes a mantra. The wet sucking sound paired with his deep groans is music to your ears.

"Please me, love, you feel so good. You look beautiful like this. Don't stop..." he murmurs. "I feel it coming."

Simultaneously, he tenses beneath your lips. You bob faster against him, sucking him lovingly, eagerly, looking up at his with seducing eyes. He meets your eyes, murmurs an "I love you," and more words of praise. Then some of degradation. Then a mixture of both.

You melt into the mess of it all, ready for him to explode into your mouth. And then he does.

"Oh, yes," he moans deeply, dragging out the last word for a few lustful seconds. He has a hand on the back of your head again, keeping your head in place as hot ropes of cum shoot out and fill your mouth. You think it'll never stop until it does.

"Swallow."

You obey.

He pulls his cock from your mouth, stroking your bottom lip admiringly as his shaft dips between his legs, dripping with saliva and leftover cum.

"You did well, you should be proud," he says, a small smile finding his face beneath his dazed and fucked-out eyes. "I'm relaxed now, thanks to you."

"I pleased you well?"

Morpheus kisses your forehead. "Like a god."

#the throne smut everyone wanted #Morpheus #dream x reader #Morpheus x reader #Dream of the endless #the sandman #the sandman netflix #x reader #oneshot #lord morpheus #morpheus x you #dream of the endless x reader

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annesstardustchords · 7 months

Text

I'd Go Through it Again (If I Could Hold You For a Minute) - Part 1 / Simon “Ghost” Riley X Reader

hi babies! im so sorry ive been MIA lately, school is fucking me raw and I haven't been doing mentally well at all. that being said, yall deserve some good, angsty smut. luv u all <3 (smut will be in part 2)

(my mental slump may have slipped into this one a little bit...)

Description: Ghost had passed away; killed in action and DOA a couple months prior. You hadn't been handling it well. He was the love of your life, your rock, your muse; all of it. After one particularly bad day at work, you shuffle home in tears, but what you don't know is that there's a little surprise waiting inside for you...

CW: angst, fluff, sobbbbinnnnggg

TW: Mentions of death, suicide, self-harm (non-graphic)

READ WITH CAUTION!

MINORS DNI! I WILL TELL UR MOM!

Four months ago, you received the letter; he was gone - Fuck it, dead. No need to put it nicely.

The love of your life, torn from the warmth of this earth, from you, in a split second. A bullet the size of a pill had ripped through his chest, surpassing his heart and exiting through the thickened muscle of his back. How can something so small do such damage to someone as strong as him? How can something so small take a life? How could he be gone, just like that? How could he leave you?

Angry, intrusive questions swam around in your mind every second of every day; replaying the moment he was shot, the moment he took his last breath in your brain as if you were there. abut you weren’t. You could see it; his massive frame falling to the ground, suddenly appearing small as his eyes widened, and his breath stopped. It haunted you, knowing he was alone when it happened. Soap hadn't found him until hours after he'd passed. "DOA" the letter had read. Dead on fucking arrival. How long had he been there? You could've saved him, you think. You should've been there. But alas, you were deployed to another field, another team just days before. You couldn't protect him.

"Aye!" your superior calls out from behind you, "Head in the fuckin' game, soldier!"

You snap out of your thoughts, raising your gun to the practice target and firing without thinking. You were a great shot naturally, but not these days; your mind focused solely on Simon, your eyes fogged with his decrepit silhouette inside of his casket. It was open the day of the funeral; not your typical soldier send-off, but you had requested it. You hated what you saw when you looked inside that box. You had lifted the mask to ensure it really was him, and sure enough, it was. His scarred face, and tight-shut eyes. It haunts you everywhere you fucking go.

You hit the white plastic of the target, not even close to the drawn body of the thing. The Sergeant laughs from behind you and you toss your gun to the side, embarrassed and exhausted.

"Thank god this is just target practice, eh? You really did a number on 'em, probably killed em' with that fuckin' shot," he cackles as you walk past him and grab for the door handle, "Ay now, Soldier. Where do you think you're goin'?"

"Home, sir," you bluntly answered, too disappointed and spaced out to give a shit about your current ranking or the fucking novelty of the trade.

"You go home now, Soldier, and you're done," he barks, "You understand?"

"Yes, sir," you respond bluntly, swinging open the door and walking out with a huff.

You weren't one to disobey your orders. You weren't one to leave your post. You weren't one to quit. But, honest to god, if you had been put on the field the next day as planned, you would've thrown your un-armoured body against the first bullet shot.

Anything to see him again.

As you gathered your things from your locker and left the base, you could feel tears burning down your cheeks beneath your mask. You didn't sniffle, you didn't wipe them away. You didn't care. You just needed to be home. Being around this many guns, around a fucking armoury, couldn't be safe for you in this state. The morbid fascination you faced daily following Simon's death was nothing short of constant, but you were scared. What if he got into heaven, and you couldn't?

God, you just needed to go to bed.

You held your keys tight to your hand as you walked to the door of your apartment, the harsh metal breaking skin; not that you noticed, though. You turned the key and walked in, locking the door behind you and chucking your belongings onto the floor along with your shoes. You tore your mask from your face, and walked down the hall. As you made your way towards your bedroom, you noticed the familiar shine of your lamp seeping through the slightly ajar door.

Certain you hadn't left the light on yourself, much too weary of hydro costs, you quickly grabbed the gun from your safe. You hadn't even looked at the gun since that wretched day, untrusting in yourself and your thoughts, but with your job being what it was, you couldn't take any risks. You hold the gun tight to your side, slowly opening the door, and raising it to the dark figure sitting atop your bedsheets.

"Get the fuck out," you harshly whisper, "I don't have fucking time for this."

"Hi, darling," a familiar voice says as the figure turns his head.

Your heart nearly stops then. Your eyes meet the ghastly white of a skull mask, one you were all too accustomed to. You wrap your finger around the trigger, ready to end this sick joke immediately.

"I don't know who the fuck you are, or what the hell this is, but you need to go. Right fucking now," you bark, tightening your grip on the pistol.

"Y/N, please, put the gun down," the soft, British voice pleads.

"You're real fuckin' stupid if you think that's gonna happen."

You take a step inside the room, pressing the gun hard against his forehead as you take an unwavering breath.

"Make a move, and I swear to god, I will put a bullet in your brain," you mutter, "Who are you?"

"It's me, Y/N. I promise it's me," the man says, confident but composed, fully aware of the gun pressed between his eyebrows though seemingly unafraid of it.

"Is this some kind of sick joke? Hm? Putting a fucking widow through this?" you nearly yell as you press the barrel harder into his skull, causing him to wince, "You wanna beat me, interrogate me? Fucking fine, but this... this is sick. He's gone. I saw the body myself."

"Y/N, I-"

"Don't say my name," you snap, "Who fucking sent you, huh?"

"Love, please. Back up, let me take my mask off, yeah?" he asks, carefully lifting his hand to your wrist, tapping it gently in request.

"Don't fucking touch me. You're not him. God, when Price hears about this..." you dryly chuckle, trailing off when you notice a bump under one of his gloved fingers.

"Take your glove off," you demand, motioning your head towards it.

"Wha- I... Okay," he stammers, lifting both of his hands cautiously and removing both of the gloves. You grab his left hand, tugging off the band prominently placed on his ring finger. You raise it to your face, your other hand still firmly holding the gun to his head.

"Y/N L/N, in combat and in devotion," read the inside of the ring, matching the words circling the ring placed on your left hand in similarity.

"Where'd you get this?" you whispered, your once stern demeanour shifting into something much smaller; more pathetic.

"The pastor on our wedding day. Gaz got them made for us," he answers calmly.

You pull the gun off of him, raising your hands to your face and pressing your palms to your eyes as you turn around.

"What the fuck is going on?" you cry, hardly audible.

"Y/N, it's me. I'm so sorry," he whispers, shifting to stand.

"Sit the fuck down," you yell, "Take your mask off."

He nods, turning around to check the curtain is closed before gradually and carefully tucking two fingers under the hem of the mask, lifting it over his chin and nose.

You feel tears brim your lashes, slick to your under eyes as his mouth and nose come into view. It's like a b-roll as the mask is lifted higher and higher off his face; the scar on his right cheek, the dark war paint, his furrowed brows, his fluffy hair. He discards the mask, tossing it next to him and grabbing a makeup wipe from your bedside table to rid himself of the smeared paint around his blue eyes.

"See?" he says, a sad smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Your hands shake as they go to cover your mouth, holding in the deep wail threatening to pour from your lips as you sob. The man you loved so much, the man you fucking married, the man you buried just four months prior, was here; alive.

"Si," you whimper, throwing your full body weight onto him after placing the gun down, your thighs on either side of his hips as you wrap your arms so tight around his neck that he nearly chokes.

"Hi, Lovie," he whispers into your neck, wrapping his strong arms around you and pulling you close to him. You take in everything; his scent, the feel of him so close to you, his scruff against your jaw. All of the things you swore you'd never get to feel again, tucked between your limp arms.

"How could you fucking do this to me?" you croak, your throat raw as you slam your weakened fists against his vest-clad chest.

"I know, I know, darling," he says, pulling away just far enough that he could see your eyes, lifting your chin to look at him before holding your face between his strong hands, "I had no choice. Trust me, I wanted to come back to you the second it happened."

"Then why didn't you? Do you know what I've been through? Do you know what it's like to watch the love of your life get fucking buried?"

"No, I don't," he sighs, "but I do know what it's like being dead to you, literally and metaphorically, and that's nothing I ever wish to relive."

"So why'd you do it then? I can't fucking live without you, I tried to fucking kill myself just to see you again, Simon," you accidentally admit, tears falling off your face and down your neck.

"Oh, my love," he sighs, worry adamant in his gruff features as he gently caresses your hair, "I wish I could've called, sent a letter, fucking anything. I'm so, so sorry I put you through this."

"Tell me what happened, Si. Tell me there was a good reason you faked it all."

"Two of the opposing had intel on you. They must have seen you without your mask, or someone let something slip; I'm not sure. I got cornered by two of their men, and they gave me an ultimatum; Either I take the bullet, or they tell all divisions outside of 141 your identity. Knowing your past with OpFor, I couldn't let that happen - couldn't risk your safety. Soap shot both of them before I could say anything," he explains, never breaking eye contact.

"So, they're both dead. Why did you have to-"

"There's more," he says, taking your hands in his, "There was only one other opposition out there who knew about you, and I couldn't come out of hiding until I was sure he was dead, so I faked my death under Price's orders to give us more time and to keep you safe. As long as this guy knew I was alive, he wouldn't have let it rest until he ruined you. This guy was good - stealthy, and stayed hidden. I knew you were safe as long as I was out of the picture, and that's all that mattered to me."

"Oh my god," you whimper, the tears seeming to be endless, "Please tell me you caught him? I can't risk losing you again."

"He's gone, baby. We caught him. I wouldn't have come back if I knew it could put you in jeopardy," he softly smiles, wiping your tears away with his thumb once more as you slowly smile.

"Si-" you choke out, a look of realization crossing your soft features.

"Yeah, love?" he asks, concerned.

"I'm so sorry, I-" you sob, unable to get the words out, choking on your own tears.

"Baby, baby. Shh," he coos, trying to stop you from hyperventilating, "What on earth are you apologizing for?"

"I was so angry at you. I- I was so mean. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have blamed you," you mutter, letting your forehead fall against his.

"Oh, my love. It's okay. I can't even imagine what you've been through over the last four months. I don't know what I'd ever do if I lost you," he admits, grabbing at the nape of your neck gently as his eyes flutter shut.

"It was hell. I walked out of target practice today. I can't even aim anymore. I don't think Sergeant is gonna let me back," you confess.

"He'll let you back, baby. Price and Soap both know what happened, and we've all got your back, okay?" he says, gently rubbing along the back of your head.

“I don’t even care if he does, I’m just- I only care about you; about you being here,” you softly smile, wrapping your arms tighter around him as you sniffle.

“There’s that pretty smile,” he whispers, “I missed that face of yours so much.”

“You can’t even begin to understand how much I missed you,” you say, gently kissing his soft lips, “I thought I’d never get to do that again.”

“‘M not goin’ anywhere baby. Never again,” he murmurs, kissing you back, “I couldn’t bare knowing how much I’ve hurt you again.”

“I love you, Simon,” you whisper, the words rolling off your tongue like an oath, like a god damn prayer.

“I love you, too.”

You know it’s more than just words; it’s a promise. He’s yours.

#cod mw2 #cod modern warfare #ghost simon riley #ghost #simon riley #smut #cod smut

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nonbinaryeye · 8 months

Text

Myths of Gods (and their Godly bickering)

Written for @lonelyeyesweek

Day 2 - Mythology

There are many great myths and legends about Gods and their Godly deeds. But days of Gods cannot always be filled just with battle of wits and armies. Sometimes they are filled with petty little arguments.

Read on AO3

…

Gods are quite peculiar creatures. Born just from one’s belief. So powerful, greater than life, yet dependent on silly mortals and their prayers and faith. Luckily humans just love believing in stories and so for now there is no reason to worry about their Godly existence. Well at least the better-known Gods do not have to worry. There are also many of smaller ones, less important, those that will get forgotten almost as soon as they are born, worshiped by one village, one long winter from getting forgotten by their believers…

But no need to worry about them. They are not important to be given a proper legend. No, those are saved for the important Gods. Gods of Flame and Destruction, Gods of Deception and Insanity, Gods of the Death and End, Gods of Vast Skies and Space, Gods of Disease and Rott, Gods of War and Killing and so many and many more playing the starring roles in great number of ballads and dramas and songs and epic poems.

But God cannot always be in some great battle or planning some genius scheme or either helping or torturing mortals… So there of course are theories and stories of how their free time looks as well. And as it was established before… If enough people believe it, it must manifest into truth…

“Jonah!” God of Loneliness angrily enters the shrine of God of Knowledge. It is a glamorous and spectacular building filled with books and priceless artifacts and of course decorated by the characteristic All-Seeing eyes – it is said that the God of Knowledge can see from them everything that is happening anywhere in the world. Not exactly a place where the God of Forgotten would feel the most comfortable. Alas for once he is annoyed enough to ignore the uncomfortable stares from all sides.

“Yes, that happens to be one of my names. Is there any particular reason why you come here screaming it, Peter?” addressed God puts down his Quill and raises his sight of the manuscript as if he only now noticed his Guest and was not curiously watching him for the entirety of his way here.

“You know very well why I am here!” Peter folds hands on his torso, a gesture that is a bit ruined by his toga sliding off his shoulder. It is quite simple, dark blue with a silver rim yet Peter still struggles with how to fold it around himself properly. Jonah is dressed in much more complex and fancier toga in bright green colour decorated with intricate golden hem which he manages to wear in much more noble fashion. However, it is not exactly clothing either of them would choose, unfortunately people and their drawings were quite clear regarding Godly dress code.

“Do I?” the God of Watching asks with theatrically overdone surprise. His uninvited guest does not seem to be amused. And well, to say Jonah knows why exactly he is here would be a bit of overstatement. His state of knowledge to this particular subject is more like strong suspicion than certainty.

To make it clear, what exactly their titles of Godhood actually are, one must understand that even though there are some universally known and accepted Gods, people do not always agree exactly what their area of power exactly is. They are understood and worshiped the same way in different parts of the world, often even bearing different names.

For example Jonah is God of Knowledge, of Watching, of Seekers of the truth and of Innovations and Discoveries, and also of Perception and Sight and sometimes even Towers and many other things as it tends to be with Gods. Because if you need help with something and you are not currently keen to create a new God you can always just decide that it belongs in a jurisdiction of an already existing one. So of course, Peter’s list of things he was supposed to be God of is not any shorter. From the main ones he is God of Loneliness, of Forgotten, of Solitude and among many other things sometimes also God of Fog or even God of Sea Voyages.

“So, are you going to elaborate?” Jonah tries to prompt his conversational partner after the silence starts getting way too long. It is not as if he had no idea what could cause all this fuss. On the contrary. There are way too many things he is aware that he has done that could upset the other God and he would hate to accidentally confess doing something Peter was not aware of yet.

“You stole one of my priests,” God of Loneliness finally speaks his accusation and… is that really all? Jonah honestly did not even think he would notice. Besides, his accusations are not even technically true…

“Priests-to-be! He was not even your follower for that long. And people change who they worship all the time. You know how fickle they tend to be… So, really no big deal I would say.” He should have known it would be something like this.

“I was quite fond of him…”

For how long they know each other, the God of Loneliness never stops surprising him as he never cares about things Jonah would expect him to and makes scenes about little things like these.

“There are plenty of lonely boys around. You will find a different one,” God of Knowledge waves his hand as if it is not worthy talking about any longer because it indeed is not. The other God, as always, does not share his opinion. He frowns, calculating look in his cold eyes. He leans closer to him.

“Ah, yes, I’ve noticed scholars tend to be quite solitary, maybe I should steal one of your precious followers in return.”

“Oh, go ahead and try it! You stand no chance. Their loneliness comes from their dedication to studying and learning. You can offer them only the exact opposite of what they want…” Jonah leans to him as well.

“Are you daring me? You know I would never refuse such a bet.” A spark flickers in Peter’s eyes and Jonah immediately regrets his words. He loves a good wager, but he also does not like to play a game of chance. Statistically speaking it would be foolish to fully trust in the full commitment of all his worshippers.

“Do what you want I will not play with lives of those devoted to me…” he tries to play it safe. And also a bit of a change topic seems like a good idea, now where were they- “Nevertheless, your favourite little priest-to-be would never commit to you anyway. If it was not me, I have from… hm… reliable sources that Anabelle had her eyes on him.”

This seems to indeed catch Peter’s attention. Unfortunately he immediately follows it with: “One more reason why you should have included yourself into it, you seem to already have enough disagreements with her.”

Yes, Jonah ironically has not the best relationship with the Goddess of Relationships. She was also Goddess of Connections, of Manipulation, of Spiders et cetera et cetera, as she was getting too close to his territories being also the Goddess of Secrets. And what else is a secret than a valuable information, a knowledge, that should be his area of and not hers! He would never tell her that openly of course. But he might be a bit daring and he already stole one of her priests before. But it is not like she was not meddling with some priestesses of his before so it seemed only fair…

“Thank you for your concerns but I have everything under control.”

“Do you now?”

“Yes. Yes, I do,” he tells Peter much more certainty with himself than he feels like. He knows, of course that he Knows, that he has been testing her patience a bit too much lately. Peter’s remark is the proof of that. His action must appear to be really bold when, even someone oblivious as he is, notices them. It is only natural that some Gods were getting along better than others but most of them are quite competitive and hostile towards each other. And as much as it is a normal state of affairs among Gods, the God of Forgotten for once does have a point. The enemies of the God of Knowledge seem to be unfortunately growing and so it might not be wise to boldly laugh at the one of the few allies he still does have…

“Anyhow, enough about Anabelle. Shouldn’t we move back to the topic of your gracious visit?”

“Yes. I want my priest back.”

Jonah takes a deep breath. Peter, like a spinning wheel, repeats over and over the same line. As if he did not know as well that they do not tend to directly affect the life of humans… it is mostly just suggestions and gentle nudges… he cannot just appear to his priest and tell him how whiny is the God he was considering dedicating his life before him and whether would be so kind and convert because he is tired of listening to that.

“You know that is not how it works. He made his decision-“

“I don’t care.”

Ah, this will be a long debate. Is the fragile allyship really worthy?

“Alright, alright… I am certain we can come to some agreement.”

“I am not interested.”

“First hear my offer then refuse!” he puts on his charming smile. Luckily, he Knows God of Loneliness to his dismay quite well. “Of course, I would not dare to strike any deal without offering you a glass of ambrosia.” That indeed peaks Peter’s interest. He seems to be contemplating it for a while but then he resigns.

“Just make it short… Also, do you have any place here without all those eyes?”

“You’ve been in my shrine plenty of times, Peter, you know very well then I do not.”

They have quite an interesting relationship – the God of Knowledge and the God of Forgotten. Or at least so people seem to believe. They seem like opposing powers yet somehow they get along – as much as Gods are able to get along. Of course, in some parts people believe that they despise each other and that sometimes really is the case. In other parts some worshippers believe that they are lovers. Some branches of their worshippers might even go as far as to claim they married. It makes a lovely story of opposites that attract and such. Those naïve enough trying to find some consistency in both of the ideas might even decide both claims might be true and they get a divorce from time to time. Afterall what would be any good religion without at least a tiny bit of drama?

#It's more just a silly worldbuilding than a story #But I have quite fun turning entities and avatars into Greek-mythology-like Gods #lonelyeyes #tma fanfic #magnus archives #peter lukas #jonah magnus #mEye fic #lonelyeyesweek2023

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thornychairman · 6 months

Note

📁 but surprise it's for leon.......

/planespc

ROSE CHILD #355

NOTE 1: A most promising candidate. Initiated into the Rose Children through one of the affiliated academies.

NOTE 2: Compatibility with Wishing Stars 99.9%. Little to no reactions. Issued a prototype Dynamax band at 90% power.

NOTE 3: Rose Child was introduced to Specimen E. Capabilities were proven through the trials of the League Challenge. Compatibility with Specimen E alarmingly high; unlikely reactions occurred once two subjects were introduced. Lost control of both Specimen E and Rose Child #355.

================================================

There was perhaps the smallest twinge of love for the child now in intensive care.

Wrangling him had not been easy -- even Rose bore a few scars for his troubles, as the only one capable of taking down the possess Leon and the chaotic Eternatus. Well, taking down an eldritch being was no small feat in and of itself. Rose had only been capable of such a thing because he had been confident enough before and was confident he could do it again.

Such beings were bound to the rules created for them by human hands and he made use of it time and time again to keep raging Eternatus sealed away and under his thumb. Ah, even in Wyndon he can hear the enraged whispers of the cosmic beast.

Leon's mind would be wiped of the incident, in order to protect himself and everyone else from further danger. Seemed as if his compatibility was too close with the monster, leading to Eternatus puppeting the child, which was not the result Rose had wanted. He sought out a strong trainer under his control to keep Eternatus under Macro Cosmos' grasp.

Alas, this child was so close, but failed ultimately.

Oh, well. There would be others. Not a big loss. Rose had enough time to keep looking; this was all a project for his own ends, after all. To make his life more comfortable. Having a god of endless potential and power keeping Galar lit for years to come just worked out for everyone else. How else could he so easily convince people to turn a blind eye?

But no matter his feelings, he could just as easily cut the boy off. He had served his purpose. There would be nothing more for the two of them.

Leon would be turning eighteen soon; that would be excuse enough for him to be suddenly cut off. For them to gain distance. A child becoming an adult was the best excuse to give him 'freedom'.

He wondered how lost the boy would feel, suddenly having everything taken out from under his feet?

Oh, well. There were plenty of downtrodden children at the academies and Rose Orphanage he could pick up. It wasn't smart to put everything in one basket; Rose Child 356 and 357 were ready for further testing...

#turnecoat #headcanon is everyone who is issued a dynamax band outside the rose children are given ones with 10% power because er #COSMIC RADIATION FROM THE BANDS IS A THING #anything higher than 10% for a normal person not compatible with wishing stars and eternatus at a percentage of 75 and higher #would be the equivalent of getting high key chemo therapy #people will weaken and start losing hair and all sorts of side effects #so anyways #rose had such high hopes for leon #but alas #his higher percentage caused him no small amount of truble it seems #alas #planespc

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the-sinking-ship · 2 years

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Happy birthday, Lynn!!

New fic announcement!

I’ve got another one on deck, friends! And I'm dedicating this one to one of my favourite people on planet earth in honour of her day of birth (which is TODAY).

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, @fictional!!!

Alas, I’ve never been on time once in my life, so it’s not ready. It’s so close, but I’m a perfectionist, and Lynn is endlessly patient, so here’s hoping it isn’t as late as last year’s gift (no promises). Instead, allow me to offer a snippet — a teaser of what’s to come, featuring Lynn's 5 Favourite Tropes: pining, jealousy, fake dating, only one bed, and praise kink.

For now, enjoy a little (unedited) snippet from the first chapter, wherein Draco and Harry both find themselves woefully dateless at a destination wedding in Italy. The scene picks up as they hide from the masses, and commiserate over their rotten luck.

Coming soon (in like... 2 weeks): Nights With You

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

“Do you love him? McLaggen, I mean,” Draco asked, because even though they'd split, it was all he wanted to know.

Harry’s head snapped up, and he looked at Draco with wide eyes.

“I —” Harry’s mouth worked, but no words came out, until, “I thought I did.”

“And now?”

“Now, I don’t know what to think.”

Draco took a breath and then nodded. “Maybe give the thinking a break. Clearly not your strong suit. And anyway, weddings make everyone feel strange; all twisted up and confused, worried you’ve picked the wrong path, made a left turn with you ought to have gone right, and bungled the whole thing up. Something about seeing everyone paired off and making plans. But once it’s over and you go back to your normal routine, you’ll probably realise that life with an insufferable prat in possession of no redeeming qualities and who is fucking the yoga instructor isn’t worth your time.”

Harry frowned, but a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Cormack didn’t do yoga.”

Draco sighed. “That’s what they want you to think.”

“Is that… is that what happened to you?” Harry asked with a grimace. “Erik left you for the yoga instructor?”

Draco took another swig from the whisky bottle, coughing lightly. “What, Pansy didn’t tell you yet? Thought she’d told everyone by this point.”

“I learnt to ignore Parkinson years ago.”

Draco snorted, then dared a glance at Harry. “Pretty embarrassing, don’t you think?”

Harry shrugged. “Reflects worse on him than it does you.”

“How do you reckon? Because I’m feeling like a right arse.”

“Should be used to it by now,” Harry said with a smirk, and Draco pinched his arm hard enough to make him yelp. “Ouch! I just mean, it shows he’s not in it for the right reasons if he’s ready to jump from one pretty face to the next.”

Draco lowered the bottle and leaned in, close enough to feel Harry’s surprised exhale. “You think I’m pretty?”

Harry licked his lips, but his smirk widened. “Sure. As if you didn’t know, the way you peacock around.”

Draco worried he might be putting off light, because on the inside, he was absolutely glowing. “I’m telling McLaggen you said that.”

“God, he’d hate that.” Harry huffed a laugh.

“Is that so?”

“Oh yeah. He always kept an eye on you.” Harry tugged the bottle from Draco’s hand, and Draco was forced to withdraw slightly as he took a drink.

“I’m flattered he considered me a threat.”

“Malfoy, everyone considers you a threat.”

Draco’s left brow twitched up.

Harry rolled his eyes. “You flirt with everyone.”

Draco gasped, indignant. “I do not! I’m very choosy.”

“Hermione’s date was not pleased to meet you. And didn’t you see the way Nott scowled when you kissed his girlfriend?”

“Granger? Really?” Draco flapped a dismissive hand. “At least Theo has reason. Astoria and I were betrothed, after all. She’s a lovely girl, but it would never work between us, and Theo knows it. She lacks the necessary… equipment.”

Harry blinked at him.

“A cock,” Draco clarified, twitching his hips up, which drew a burst of surprised laughter from Harry.

“Yeah, I get it. You’re not interested in women.”

“Are you?” Draco asked without thinking.

“Interested in women?” Harry shrugged. “It’s more about the person than the… equipment.”

“Liar.”

Harry’s mouth fell open. “What do you mean? I’m not lying. Why would I be lying?”

“Because McLaggen has all the substance and intrigue of a shapely rock. There is no way you were with him for anything more than his cock. Was he that good in bed?”

Harry choked out another laugh. “I’m not talking to you about that.”

Draco gave an exaggerated wince. “So he wasn’t good? Bloody hell, Potter, sounds like you’re better with nought but your hand. I’m sure it talks back less.”

“The mouthy ones aren’t so bad if you know how to shut them up.” Harry smirked as he lifted the bottle to take another drink, but Draco stilled Harry’s hand with his own and leaned back in. The smirk melted away.

“And how do you do that? I’m dying to know,” Draco purred.

Harry’s eyes darkened and dropped to Draco’s mouth. Draco’s breath stuttered in his lungs because Harry was actually considering it, considering him. And he never thought — he never imagined —

“Harry?” A voice echoed from around the side of the building, and Draco clenched his jaw to keep from hissing. He pulled away just as Weasley rounded the corner. To Draco’s surprise, he had Pansy in tow.

“Oi, Harry, there you are. Daphne is demanding photos of the wedding party,” he said, then scanned Draco with narrowed eyes. “What are you lot doing back here?”

Harry held up the bottle, now a quarter empty. “Drinking.”

“And hiding from the unnecessary pity party, now that it seems everyone at the wedding knows of our unfortunate predicaments.” Draco’s attention swung to Pansy. “Might you know anything about that, darling?”

“People ask questions, Draco. Do you expect me to lie?”

Draco sighed nosily, then watched with displeasure as Weasley snagged Harry by the elbow and tugged.

“See you,” Harry said. He shoved the bottle into Draco’s hands, gave them a little wave, and allowed Weasley to pull him away.

Draco watched him go, appraising him from the back with his bottom lip clamped between his teeth. “Potter’s fit, don’t you think?” Draco asked.

Pansy clicked her tongue and extracted the bottle from Draco’s loose grip. She took a swig and didn’t even flinch, simply dabbed the corners of her painted lips with her fingertips.

“Yes, Potter is fit. Everyone knows Potter is fit,” she said.

“Do you think I could… you know?”

“Do I think you could fuck Potter?”

“Well, I rather fancied he’d fuck me, but yes. Same idea.” Draco chewed his lip. “Do you think he would, though?”

Pansy’s face softened for only a moment, then she wiped it clear. “You're gorgeous, darling,” she said. “He’d be crazy not to want you.”

Draco beamed and took the bottle she held out to him. “Cheers.”

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

(proceed beyond the cut for the VERY soppy dedication)

I’m going to warn you now, this dedication is going to get emotional, not because I’m an emotional person, but because today is @fictional’s birthday, and talking about her gets me feeling things. So if this reads like a love letter, that’s because it is.

I’m not exaggerating when I say that not only is Lynn one of my favourite people in fandom, but she is one of my favourite people in the entire world. She is a fixture in my daily life. I spend days without her feeling as though something is missing. Like I’ve left the house without my keys, wore my shirt backwards in public; a morning without coffee, a brunch without champagne.

Lynn is such a unique talent. She’s so original it makes my head explode. Some of my favourite artists are those whose personality bleeds into their work, not as a performance, but because they just shine that brightly. And Lynn’s artwork is dazzling, intelligent, and tender. It’s fun, and fucking funny, and hot as hell. She creates a magical world in a rainbow spectrum as vibrant as she is (where everyone also has really great eyebrows).

I know that when you meet a person like her, one whose soul touches yours, you give them whatever you can for as long as they allow it. And in my case, all I know how to do is write a lot of stupid words. So, I wrote her another fic and tried to cram in everything that she loves. If she cracks a smile once, I’m calling it a win.

Thank you, Lynn, for being my friend for over a year. For deciding me worthy, and showing me who you really are. For listening to me vent, holding my hand when my heart hurt, for being one of the main reasons I keep writing, even when it seems pointless. Darling, you’re a real one. And I’m your biggest fan.

I hope this rotation around the sun gives you what you deserve, which is fucking everything.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!

#storiesfromthesinkingship #Nights With You fic #gift fic #happy birthday fictional!!#drarry fic

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parsnipspages · 3 years

Note

Hey Alex! I have a headcanon request! How would be the brothers and dateables react to realizing they want to marry Mc after Mc protects Luke from a Lesser demon (*Cough* beats the hell out of the demon by them self! And didn't get a scratch lol *Cough*) Thank you, stay safe and get some sleep!

TW: A mention of blood and alluded violence. This is written assuming that you have been with a specific character for a time before this. Most likely after arc 2 somewhere. This is a LONG one folks! Just over 2k words in total. GN!MC as always, with literally everyone that isn't Luke!

~~~~~

The first thing he heard was Luke shouting, the next, You shouting. His first instinct was his only thought as he threw himself into a sprint. He had to help you. To protect you from any that would bring you harm. His worry it seems, was misplaced. Arriving at the scene he found you standing over a lesser demon with your hand still curled into a fist. The last echos of a spell hung in the air and sizzled at the lessor demons unconscious face as the blood evaporated from its heat. You glanced back then, looking over to Luke, thrilled as he was that you had managed this. Then your gaze hit him. He had never loved you more.

BROTHERS Lucifer He had been ready to more or less go to war for you, but he didn't seem to need to. Lucifer was quick to chastise you for being so rash but he was practically preening from your resounding success. His dear human had come so far since the start of the exchange. After his stern words and thorough examination of your condition, he did complement your victory. Such things should be rewarded, and a dinner out with him seemed to be more than enough. Perhaps he could finally have the conversation he had been hoping to find a place for. Surely you were ready for life in the Devildom at this point, especially one by his side. He was glad now that he had already thought out that moment a thousand times, then a thousand more. The perfect dinner, the perfect speech, the perfect ring. The perfect spouse. He would have it all. Mammon The fastest of his brothers, Mammon saw you land that blow on whatever poor sap tried to touch Luke. The demon giving a pained wheeze as they hit the grass of the mall. He could barely hear the little angel celebrating behind him as he rushed up to you and wrapped his arms around your waist and his wings around your shoulders. Going on and on about how he had taught you so well. You were okay. You were more than okay! You had won! The question fell from his lips before he could even think to stop it, having been on the tip of his tongue for months. Mammon froze as his flush raced down his back, waiting to play it off as a joke if you said no. Hoping beyond hope he wouldn't have to. He had the ring in his pocket anyway, he even saved up to get that stone you liked... Leviathan Leviathan had been at school that day, somehow, though that didn't matter now. He was out of his seat as soon as he heard your aggrieved voice ringing in the air in that same tone you used to command him and his brothers with your pacts. By the time he had made it to you you were busy fussing over Luke, holding his cherubic face in your hands and looking him over with worry painting your features. He felt jealous now, if only a little, as he caught his breath and walked up behind you, wrapping his tail around your middle and nuzzling his way into the crook of your neck, mumbling everything between praise and fretting over your well-being. He never wanted to let you go again, he couldn't wait forever. Plans brewed in his mind of taking you somewhere special, maybe that beach you had liked... or maybe one of the many quiet corners of the Devildom where you two would hide away and chat the hours away... so many options. He couldn't let himself mess this up. Not this. Satan His tail lashing as he ran, Wrath itself raced down the halls as Satan came to your aid. Abandoning his book-bag in the library nothing crossed his mind as he focused solely on whatever piece of garbage had threatened his love. All of his thoughts of violence and retribution came to a crashing halt as he saw you, standing over the unconscious demon now bleeding into the grass. Luke huffed indignantly as he rushed to your side, clawed hand carefully running over your waist as he stares into your eyes looking for any hint of fear or pain. He found none, and pulled you into a kiss before smiling. He should have known better than to worry about you. Stronger than steel with nerves to match. Maybe he had been wrong when he had thought that staying with him would be too risky for you. You were the most amazing things in his world, and he was willing to do so much to keep that. He had plans to make now, and they would be perfect, just like you. Asmodeus Asmodeus wasn't usually one to be found running, let alone sprinting, yet here he found himself. His wings aiding him as he hopped over railings and ledges focusing only on reaching your side. To save you from whatever ugly low life would dare touch his darling. He didn't stop until you were in his arms, his fingers worrying at every piece of you as he babbled. He hadn't even seen the damage you had dealt to the demon, more concerned with every little hair on your pretty little head. It took a

few minutes to calm Asmo enough for him to stop preening over you before he saw what you had done. He tisk-ed as he looked over your nails and knuckles, covered in the fine dust of a magical spell. He took you then, back to his room so he could fix what you did to your lovely nails and hands. As he ran the polish back over your nails and saw the way you were watching him with that little smile on your face, he came to a realization. His hands stilled as the thought hit him, he had never wanted this before. There was always room for something new though, and you were the most welcome of changes he could imagine. Beelzebub Beelzebub had promised. That night he made his pact with you he promised to protect you, and he had already failed once before. Never again. Thankfully for him and the school buildings he was never far from your side nowadays. His demon form boiled to the surface as he sprinted to you from across the mall. Your fist slamming into the lessor demon before he had even made it to you. Their body hitting the ground as he came to a stop in front of you and Luke. He gave the angel a glance as he rubbed his knuckles and stared down at you. Your face lit up when you saw him, fist still raised as that sparkle lit your eye. Maybe you could protect yourself now, just a little. Beel frowned a bit as that now familiar warmth spread into his chest and onto his cheeks. You were so strong, and so amazing. He ignored Luke as he carefully picked you up and set to taking you to one of his favorite spots to picnic with you. A lunch date was in order after all of that, you had to be hungry right? And he had a conversation to have that would be between just the two of you. Belphegor Normally impossible to wake, Belphegor was attuned to your emotions now. His magic flowing through your shared pact telling him your emotional state at all times. Your rage had brought him back to the land of the wakeful, jumping from his nap spot near a heat register to run to you. Though when he arrived he had to laugh as he saw that lesser demon sprawled out stupidly on the grass. He could smell your magic on the air, the delicate spice of it tickling his nose as he sauntered up to you and tapped you on the head with his bushy tail tip. Look at that. You made him run all the way over here and for what? Nothing. Now you owed him a nap session, no fighting it. His fingers laced into yours as he lead you away from Luke, ignoring the chihuahua as he yapped away. His yawn covering his smile as he looked at you. You were stronger now, he knew that. Maybe now you would be comfortable to stay with him. He had a question or two, and he desperately needed your reply. ~~NOW DATABLES~~ Diavolo Diavolos' thoughts were twofold as he ran to you. One, his mind desperately clinging to the hope that you were okay. Two, what student at his school was getting expelled for aggrieving that which was his. He almost ran into you as he came upon the mall, shocked for a moment to see your raised fist and the felled demon below you as Luke cheered for your victorious actions and quick thinking. Diavolo could feel the familiar hiss of your magic on the air and he carefully placed a hand onto your shoulder, asking quietly what had happened. He was shocked to find that you were defending Luke in much the same way as he had intended to defend you. His warm smile spread across his face as he grabbed your hand and kissed your knuckles. Another thing to add to his list of reasons for loving you. Another reason to propose the idea of letting the public know he had found someone he wanted to officially court. He could almost see the looks on the elders faces when they found out, and he couldn't wait to have your permission to announce that much to them. Barbatos You would have thought that Barbatos would have seen this coming with his powers long ago. Alas he had promised both himself and you that he would let you have the surprise and the enjoyment of your time together without the careful pruning of timelines. You had said that the little mistakes kept things

interesting. A fistfight on the mall was not a little mistake. Neither you or Luke were quite sure when he had arrived, nor how he got there. His gloved hands ran over your knuckles as he stood between you and the cretin who had dared threaten both you and Luke alike. Not only his love, but the angel boy he cared so much for. Before long the lesser demon was dragged away and you found yourself in the kitchen watching the two bake away. Barbatos letting Luke do much of the work as he thought on his feelings from the day. He couldn't bare to let anyone bring you harm or forbid lose you to another. Maybe a little dip into human tradition was in order. Simeon The angel had left you and Luke only momentarily to run back to a classroom and grab a couple of forgotten notes. Simeon was stressing already when he heard Luke yelling, that feeling boiling over into borderline panic as your voice joined his. Notes forgotten once again he ran back to the mall. His heels deafeningly loud on the stone as his mind raced. Coming around the corner he saw the demon on the ground bleeding. Your magic hanging languidly in the air. You with your hand on Luke's' back as you lead him away from the scene. The smaller angel babbling on about how you had showed that demon what was what. His hand fell over his chest as he let out a breath and jogged to the two of you. Simeons arm wrapping carefully around your shoulders as his other hand found your arm. He had thought he had the will to fight the urge to make you his. To save himself and luke the possible consequences. But seeing you defending the boy. Seeing you doing what you thought was right by your family. He knew that those consequences didn't matter, you were more than they would ever be. Solomon Solomon wasn't typically one for worrying. He knew that you had your pacts to keep you safe and beyond that you had the spells he had been teaching you. He couldn't help but worry though, as he heard your shouts and Luke's and the distinct crackle of a force spell being cast. A recent addition to your arsenal and you were already having to use it. He came to you as fast as he could, stopping the reaction he had been brewing safely before coming to you. The lessor demon was standing by that time, rubbing their jaw as they stood and wincing at the burns from your spell. Solomon found you sitting with Luke and Simeon at a bench as you regaled the tale to Simeon. He leaned against the wall beside you as you spoke and he waited. He waited for Simeon to meet his eye and take Luke away to Purgatory hall. He waited for the brothers to say their goodbyes for the evening. He had waited for over a month already, and tonight he would stop holding back. He was allowed to be happy, and so were you.

#Anonymous #obey me #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #obey me diavolo #obey me barbatos #obey me simeon #obey me solomon #obey me luke #obey me MC #obey me HC #obey me Headcanons #parsnips printings #Headcanon heresy

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advernia · 2 years

Text

WILL YOU SAY NO?

ONE —

When he walks into the Octavinelle common hall, what he gets is a group of stares and a wash of silence. That is not uncommon, but someone actively stopping him from advancing, from going to his shared dorm room with Floyd... now this was a surprise.

Jade eyes the person standing in front of him. A third year of Class E. Has occasionally worked part-time at the Mostro Lounge as a chef for the past five months. Specialized in defensive magic. Grades were above average, a member of the Art club. If memory served him right, this person had never been Azul's client.

Ah, but perhaps this gentleman might have found a reason to be. Jade smooths his expression into a smile.

"Good evening. Is there something the matter?"

The third year doesn't answer. What he does however, is to take out his magical pen out from his blazer's breast pocket. Jade merely blinks when said pen was directly pointed at his face, the silver hue of the gem sparkling under the lights.

What were hushed whispers around the hall immediately became a frenzy of interest, onlookers gaping at the scene.

"Jade Leech of Class 2-E," the third year says, voice loud and unwavering within the hall, "I challenge you for the position of Vice Dorm Head!"

The smile on Jade's lips simply grows wider.

TWO —

How do I get stronger?

Ah, that is quite the question - it is one that begs for a lot more questions to follow in its wake. For instance: what does it mean to be strong? What does one define strength to be, in the first place? Is one's definition achievable, or a lofty ideal? What is the threshold, when do you say that 'you are strong' enough for you to be satisfied with your gathered power? These were simply questions at the tip of the iceberg, and the iceberg in question is always as large as the breadth of the sea.

I won't get any stronger by just standing still.

That much is a truth, but blind searching is one, as well. In the pursuit for a perceived strength, one may overlook talents and abilities that suit themselves better, that apply to their interests better. But alas, when one is desperate and when one is eager, what one wishes to do is to move forward. A fault of many, to believe that progress is only measured by how much you have moved, how much you have done.

Teach me to become stronger.

Rook gazes at Epel and smiles, eyes glinting with an odd light.

How brave, how bold, how demanding, those words.

THREE —

If I were to challenge our current Dorm Head, are you willing to accept the position of Vice Dorm Head?

That was what Riddle said yesterday.

Today, well... Trey finds himself running through the Rose Garden, a clear violation of Rule #29. Not like that even mattered since the Dorm Head - good Sevens, the Dorm Head - wasn't around to tell him the usual spiel he tells the others who insisted on running about the Garden sometimes.

I don't mind if you're in a hurry, but watch yourselves among the roses. Their thorns can still snag your clothes or hurt you if you're not careful.

Trey curses under his breath, narrowly missing a collision with a rosebush. Dammit. He starts running again, making his way through a narrow path then a corner, a few more twisting turns, then -

The first thing he sees when he gets to the clearing is Riddle. Riddle, with his back facing him, standing tall as ever.

There was Riddle, and just a few paces away was the Heartslabyul's Dorm Head down on one knee, something strange upon his neck.

Trey swallows a lump going down his throat.

FOUR —

The words come out of his mouth before he can think about it.

"Yo-y-you... want me to go?"

Coach Vargas lets out a hearty laugh, rests a hand on Deuce's shoulder. Deuce's barely registers the weight that pats his shoulder twice, it has his knees shaking for a bit where he stands.

"Do you doubt my eyes, Spade?" the man flashes Deuce a thumbs up, complete with a smile of full white teeth. "You've honed yourself well these past months that I've found you worthy enough to join in the National Track and Field Meet! You have the passion! The energy! The muscles!"

"A-ah... I-I do?"

"Don't doubt yourself now, boy! If it makes you feel any better, you and Howl are the only first years I've decided to register in this meet!" Vargas crosses his arms across his chest. "That is, if you decide to man up and take this challenge head on. Are you ready for this, Spade?"

Deuce's mouth still hangs itself half-open. He was chosen? Even though he was just a first year? Even though there were older and faster members? Even though he barely kept up with the coach's regimen during his first month in the club?

I... was chosen?

"Ye... yes."

The words come out too shaky, too soft. They don't sound like him, either.

"What was that? I couldn't hear you!"

"... Yes, sir!" Deuce shouts with all he has, eyes glittering. "I promise not to let you down!"

1: no dupe lmao! here's everyone's context:

jade -> but why should i?

rook -> oh, what a conundrum!

trey -> ... do i have a choice? (pre-game)

deuce -> ...of course not! (see: deuce ceremonial robes card)

#twisted wonderland #jade leech #rook hunt #trey clover #deuce spade #lmao the vice heads are personally chosen by their dorm leaders but eyyy! challenges! bc why not #if nrc students are rly hot-blooded then i wouldn't be surprised if there was contesting for the second-in-command position in a dorm too #q&a

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kurowrites · 3 years

Note

Can I give you 2 prompts for wangxian fics? 1: meddling Xichen (to ship) + jealous lwj + oblivious wwx and 2: kissing practice + childhood friends + caught red handed by lan qiren. Thank you so much! I love your modern au fics.

I am relatively sure that this is NOT what you wanted, but you know, something something beggars something. ;) Once it had been planted in my mind, I had to do it.

---

Lan Wangji was aware that due to his distant nature and his courtesy name, some people falsely assumed that he was blind to all worldly concerns around him.

This was, however, a completely wrong conclusion. He was very much aware of what was happening around him. Just as much as he was aware that this supposed ‘conference’ that they were all attending was little more than a shoddily hidden marriage market.

Which would have been fine, it was not like Lan Wangji did not see the necessity to build stronger ties between the sects. It was not his place to judge such things, and, after all, marriage was a necessity to sustain a stable society. He might not approve of the vulgarity of some of the participants of this conference, but he did not deny the necessity of such an event, however impractical and distasteful it might be to him, personally.

However.

Why Lan Xichen, his own brother, seemed to have made a very strong connection with Wei Wuxian at this conference, was completely beyond him.

Out of all possible matches, Lan Xichen seemed to favour Wei Wuxian over anyone else!

Lan Wangji was unable to make sense of it, no matter how long he considered the case before him.

A marriage between them would not only be questionable in terms of inter-sect politics, he also doubted that their wildly different personalities would be a good foundation for a successful marriage. Lan Xichen should be perfectly aware of these things, and yet, he seemed to prefer Wei Wuxian’s company to that of anyone else.

And Wei Wuxian… Lan Wangji did not want to make unfounded assumptions, but aiming for a sect leader seemed to be reaching very high for someone in his position. Especially when there were other suitable matches to be made that were much closer to his own age and status. Such an attempt was sure to incur the displeasure of all other major sects, and several minor ones, too.

He considered bringing the evils of such an unsuitable match to his brother’s attention, but he did not want to hurt his brother’s feelings, and Lan Wangji knew that no matter how carefully he chose his words, they would end up sounding petty and biased.

His brother knew very well how he felt about Wei Wuxian. He had been a witness to more than one fight between Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian, and yet he seemed to have decided on Wei Wuxian without hesitation. None of Lan Wangji’s words would be able to change his choice now, he was sure.

It was just.

The thought of having someone like Wei Wuxian as his brother-in-law was unbearable. Loud and obnoxious and infuriating, how could his brother bear the presence of a person like that? And even worse, bring such a person to Cloud Recesses?

Perhaps, after the marriage, Lan Wangji would be allowed to go into seclusion for a while, in order to work on his cultivation in silence and contemplation. Once Wei Wuxian was installed at Cloud Recesses, there would be an end to all peace, that he was sure of.

He tried to make peace with that thought, and redoubled his own efforts to evade all the potential marriage partners and their families that seemed to have set their sight on him. As the second son of a prestigious sect, he had proven to be rather more popular on a marriage market like this than he had wished for, and by now, he sincerely regretted letting his brother convince him to accompany him to this sham of a conference.

He was determined not to accidentally fall into an engagement, and planned to leave the conference as the same staunch bachelor he had been before.

“Lan Zhan!” came the loud voice that Lan Wangji would have preferred not to hear right now, or ever again.

One moment later, Wei Wuxian bumped into his shoulder.

“Ayoo,” he said once he had glanced into Lan Wangji’s face. “Someone is grumpy today. Are you getting tired of being hounded by pretty girls? You should be happy! You can pick any girl you like, they’re basically throwing themselves at your feet!”

If Lan Wangji had less self-possession, he might have felt tempted to strangle Wei Wuxian right there and then. Alas, he was in control of his emotions, and so he only levelled Wei Wuxian with a disapproving glare.

He did not want anyone to throw themselves at your feet. He did not want to get married. He did not care for pretty girls.

Wei Wuxian seemed to take his quelling glare as encouragement, and laughed heartily.

“I see, Hanguang-jun does not approve!” he teased. “There is no one good enough for Lan Zhan, after all!”

Lan Wangji wondered about that particular remark, because Wei Wuxian obviously believed himself to be good enough for Lan Xichen, who arguably was above Lan Wangji in dignity and respect. Lan Wangji was only the second son.

But perhaps Wei Wuxian was teasing him, alluding to his taciturn and forbidding nature. That made more sense. After all, Lan Wangji’s brother was the more friendly and approachable one between the two of them, no competition at all.

It needed far more than a gentle smile to impress Lan Wangji.

Wei Wuxian rambled on about all the dramatic scenes he had witnessed during the conference, the little jealousies that had been happening among those that were looking for a marriage partner in order to secure the status of their sect.

Lan Wangji did not really care about these things, but he let Wei Wuxian talk nonetheless, content to listen as long as he was not required to speak.

“Seriously though, Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian ended his excursion. “You don’t have your eye on anyone? Come on, tell me! I’m not going to tattle! I’ll help you!”

That was precisely not what Lan Wangji wanted, and the last thing he needed was ‘help’ from Wei Wuxian, of all people. So he tightly closed his lips, and walked faster. Unfortunately, Wei Wuxian was almost as tall as him, and so he easily kept pace with Lan Wangji easily.

“Lan Zhaaaaan, come on, don’t be so stubborn,” Wei Wuxian pouted, swishing his ponytail back and forth in disappointment. “I’m trying to be supportive.”

“Wei Ying had better mind his own business,” Lan Wangji said curtly.

“Wei Ying has no business to mind,” Wei Wuxian whined, his pout growing impossibly more pronounced.

“What were you discussing with my brother, then?” Lan Wangji asked impatiently.

He regretted his words as soon as they had left his mouth.

“Oh, you saw that?” Wei Wuxian replied, perking up immediately. “Xichen-ge has been trying to convince me to come to Cloud Recesses again, to study some more or something. I wonder why he’s so insistent on it, I wasn’t that bad of a student, was I? I shouldn’t need special education!”

Lan Wangji looked at Wei Wuxian in surprise, but there was no impish glint in his eye, and no mischievous smile on his lips. Wei Wuxian was entirely serious.

“Brother asked you to come study at Cloud Recesses again?” Lan Wangji asked.

“Yeah,” Wei Wuxian agreed. “Though I’m not sure why he would ask. I feel Lan Qiren will have a qi deviation if I visit a second time.”

Lan Wangji needed a moment to process this new information.

Apparently, Lan Xichen had invited Wei Wuxian to Gusu. But there seemed to have been made no promise of marriage, or Wei Wuxian was expertly deceiving him on that account.

But there was no real reason for Wei Wuxian to be deceptive. On the contrary, Wei Wuxian would probably enjoy to lord an engagement to his brother of Lan Wangji with gusto.

Which meant that his brother had never made an offer. And yet, he had invited Wei Wuxian to Gusu.

He had invited Wei Wuxian to Gusu.

Deliberately.

Without making an offer of marriage.

Lan Wangji froze for a moment and gripped Bichen, considering.

He looked at Wei Wuxian, who looked back at him with a half-smile on his face, evidently confused about Lan Wangji’s strange reaction to his words.

Oh, it was starting to make sense now.

It was all clear.

He was going to have to commit fratricide.

“But, you know,” Wei Wuxian said, now smiling fully, clearly unaware of Lan Wangji’s dark, dark thoughts.

“If Lan Zhan asks me, I will come.”

#kuro writes #the untamed #wei wuxian #lan wangji #wangxian #mdzs #prompt #mdzs prompt #anonymous

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monstas1ut2 · 3 years

Text

(1/2) Sanji Vinsmoke

(๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ

DBSB, 3272, nigga, that's my potna dem

G-L-O-B-E, A-B-B, nigga, that's my potna dem

Softly touching up the edges, the orangish, red hair color was now apart of you. Just staring into the mirror as you let go a bit of a smile. The only time you smile when you look at a mirror is when you're staring at your face... any more inches down and it's like you could just puke.

"I like that color on you (y/n)!"

Glancing towards the phone that was on the sink , you just gave a kissing noise. The woman on the other side of the screen happened to have the same color hair, though hers was natural.

"Thats what's up Nami, it was a lotta money... but...Sanji brought it fa me..." You muttered that last part, still feeling bad about even talking about him.. It caused the female to sigh, she knew your problems.. and your issues that you face everyday. Nami is caring, as well as the other female who happened to be in the call. Robin, and Nami had always been on this agonizing journey..

Their bodies were beautiful, just perfect. While you, felt as if you'd be better off covering up with a jacket. It's bad, really... Sanji is your lover, you've accepted to live with him and yet you still cover yourself up anytime he's around. A jacket is always in arms length.

Once, Sanji almost walked in on you changing and in result in hating yourself.. you immediately threw the bedsheet over you. This obviously made Sanji feel some type of way but at the same time he respects you. As strong as you are, as much as you deal with just being a black woman.. he respects you...

Sanji hasn't touched you in any way, not sexually, nor in a domestic type way. His hands are always to himself.. as much as his insides hated it. All Sanji begs to do is touch and love on you. Alas, you overthink and wonder why Sanji is even with you..

"You neeed to tell him how you feel, (y/n)... the situation will only become worse... Your relationship is so strong that sex was never needed.. you're a beautiful woman... You're unique, and fun to be around... give it a chance, yes?" Robin's soft voice echoed slightly in your brain, just sighing out in retaliation. Nami's face showing that she definitely agreed.. but it's just not that simple..

You wish it was that simple.

"(Y/n)-swan~~~~ I'm home!"

A jolt rushed through you as the look you gave the two females happened to be a rushed one.

"Imma talk to y'all later Ight..?" You gently spoke before ending the call as quickly as you could. Moving from the bathroom and you grabbed your black jacket. It was quite huge on you and it had 2pac's picture on the back of it, his name on the front. This jacket originally came from your brother, but you claimed it of course...

Throwing your phone on the bed, you gently walked into the hall and went downstairs. The house you both lived in was a dream. Sanji isn't a poor man... he has his own restaurant, and it rivals with Gordon Ramsey's restaurant... come on..

"Hey, you feelin' ight..?" You gently spoke as you were finally off that last step. Your blonde man standing in front of the door as he blew some of the cigarette smoke. It was something you didn't mind.. the house was big so.. not everything smelt like it...

Though seeing your beautiful, slightly chubby face and your beautiful new colored hair made him die inside. His throat and lungs giving up on him as he choked and coughed. A huge blush rushing quickly to his cheeks and ears... Even now he just.. he gets all school girl on you.

"Babe! Babe! You Ight..!? Aye..." you kinda panicked actually, just softly touching his arm and moving to pat him on his back. The coughing fit he was having eventually surpassed and you were now holding onto his arm. His arm happened to be between your breasts.. he could feel it, he didn't need to see it..

Thing is, you didn't even realize...

"I'm fine.. it's just, you're so beautiful... I bought that right..? Glad that was a thing.." Sanji rambled off to himself as he then finally stared at you and chuckled. That genuine smile causing your insides to twist and turn.. your face was burning up, but your ancestors gave you the ability to not show the blood rushing to your cheeks..

"Oh.. you like it..? Thanks baby... thanks for buyin it fa me..." your voice soft as you got on your tippy toes and wrapped those arms around his neck.. well you tried.. he had to lean down a bit.. his lips connecting against yours and all you could taste was cigarette smoke, but it was this hint of sweetness.. probably from whatever he cooked today.. nevertheless, you were used to it.

The kiss was short like always, and Sanji didn't dare touch you. His hands weren't inching whatsoever, as much as he wanted to... he didn't want to make you feel uncomfortable.

"Oh, since you worked today, d'want me to make you sum to eat?... or.."

"Actually, I wanted us to go to my restaurant and eat... we haven't done that in awhile." Sanji's gentle smile and that shrug made you feel completely bad. The two of you rarely go anywhere together.. it's just that you hate the fact that Sanji has to go anywhere with you...

A little smile appeared on your face, it seemed a bit forced but as good as your acting skills were, it probably passed. Fidgeting on the heels of your feet, you kinda shrugged as well. The hoodie that you had on suddenly felt tight and honestly you hated it. Did you look huge in this too...?

"I-.. Ight.."

(๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ

What in your right mind possessed you to say 'ight'?! Just flailing around in your walk in closet. As many clothes you had, as many outfits.. you never touched them. They collect dust every day. But that's nothing compared to what you were doing now, the clothes being scattered across the floor as you looked at your final option..

"I'm not goin..."

The words you spoke made your eyes kind of tear up, just staring at the soft, white dress. It was soft and it wasn't tight, but at the same time.. it clings to your skin. It shows every bump and curve. Not to mention how it had little slits on the side.. to show more of your thighs that were already showing... Nope.. just Nope..

Though another bomb was going to come rushing down, because how the hell were you going to tell Sanji..? What were you going to say? Jesus Christ...

Actually, there is this one thing... yes.. for sure..

"Yeah... it just started... can you get me them pills in the cabinet? Ion wanna move... we can literally go next week though.." you gently spoke when you were now in front of Sanji in the bedroom.

It was odd, just a few hours ago you were perfectly fine... not to mention how your period just went off a week ago. The blonde keeps notice of these things, he's not a dumb male who doesn't pay attention to his girlfriend. He's only collecting notes, he'll go with your maze run for now.. but in the end.. he'll find the way.

"So.. you're just up for me makin somethin..? I can teach you the gumbo you wanted to learn..." you gently spoke, only because the atmosphere was kind of tense? Or maybe it was just you... Sanji was laying on his back and he was smoking like usual.. but it seemed like he was thinking hard about something.. and it made you want to go shit.

Have he finally had enough..?

"I thought you'd never ask (y/n)-Chan" Sanji gently purred with those same hearts in his eyes as he decided to follow you out the bedroom and to the kitchen. There was some things Sanji just didn't know how to make. Yes he's an amazing chef and you're sure he'll get this in one go.. but he doesn't know much about.. let's say : black people dishes.

You've just been teaching him about the wide range of things.. and he's been having a blast. As well as being enamored with your aave...

Sanji just loves being with you... didn't matter what it was.. he's obsessed with you, even though his touch is limited..

(๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ

The night had already been here, though it was now 11 pm, the house being ripped of all its lights that were on. Sanji made sure everything was cleaned up because it wasn't a surprise that you were knocked out in bed already. His own attire consisted of just his underwear... which you didn't mind but that's probably because you wore that jacket to sleep every night..

Sanji snapped out of his thoughts and he noticed the light to your closet as was still on. His body maneuvering over to go inside and turn it off.. though.. the mountain of clothes restricted him. His eyes widening as the cigarette from his mouth had dropped ever so gently to the floor.

The closet was a mess.

(๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ Masterlist 2

#black reader #poc reader #smut #one piece x poc!reader #one piece x reader #vinsmoke sanji

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uselessundertalefacts · 2 years

Text

Frisk Month ‘22 Day 8 - FIGHT

Warning for character death on this one folks!

“HUFF…. PUFF… WELL!” Papyrus finally, finally stops attacking. “IT APPEARS! YOU CAN’T DEFEAT ME!”

Frisk is down to 2 hit points with no healing items. They don’t know how they survived that final attack. They were sure they’d be killed by the giant field of bones. But they have a talent for staying alive, and now they’re here, feeling like they’re about to pass out.

“YEAH!! I SEE YOU SHAKING IN YOUR BOOTS!!” Papyrus is sweating, but otherwise he isn’t showing the impact of Frisk’s blows at all. It’s like he’s unshakable, with how he still has all this bluster when Frisk has been trying so hard to make him stop fighting.

“THEREFORE!” He puts his hand on his chest and puffs up. “I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, ELECT TO GRANT YOU PITY!”

Frisk’s head is swimming. It’s so hard to stand still while Papyrus is monologuing. So hard, to keep listening to his lies about friendship.

They really thought he’d be nice to them. He said he wanted to be friends… but in the end, he’s still a monster, and Frisk is still a human, and the only thing monsters want is for Frisk to die. Even Papyrus, who knows them better than anyone else down here, has no problems with throwing them away like garbage.

They’d told Toriel that they were strong enough to survive here. They couldn’t prove her wrong.

It’s their turn, and they don’t hesitate. They don’t think. They launch themself at Papyrus and punch him as hard as they can with the worn out boxing glove.

At first, it looks like Papyrus is unswayed. Then his head falls off. He catches it. “ALAS!” he says. “POOR PAPYRUS!” His body crumbles to dust.

Frisk looks down at him. His expression hasn’t changed at all. They wouldn’t be surprised if he could still hurt them like this.

“WELL!” He says, muffled because his jaw is wedged in the snow. “AT LEAST I STILL HAVE MY HEAD!”

And then, his head turns to dust. Frisk feels a familiar rush of power as their LV increases.

It’s quiet now. The fog has cleared, and it’s just Frisk standing there in front of a pile of dust.

They push their feelings away. They had no choice. He was going to kill them. They have to live. They can’t give up. They can’t. They can’t.

They keep walking forward.

(author's note: this happened to me on my first playthrough... in my defense it was like 2am though)

#frisk month 22 #undertale fic #ok this one’s darker.#neutral route #my fic

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wevegottogetaway · 3 years

Text

El Patrón

I’m so excited to finally be posting this piece. I’ve been working on it for the past few days and it’s been consuming my mind. If you like angst, smut, art student Harry, and great plot twists, this story is for you, so buckle up, cause you’ve got 13700 and then some waiting for you! And on that note, I don’t thing I have many words left in my brain... so, hope you enjoy xx

TW: smut, fool language

After her first day back to classes, Y/n is not surprised to see Harry Styles’ lanky frame standing behind the bar of Bottom’s Up. She hoped that he would bugger off to work some place else but alas, all her summer prayers were unanswered. For yet another semester, she would have to endure bartending by his sides, trying with all her might not to jab a corkscrew at his throat every time he opened his gob. Granted, she could have switched jobs herself, but the pay is too good to turn down and the bar sits literally right around the corner from her place; a match made in heaven if you ask her. Besides, she’s been mastering the art of tuning out the insufferable green-eyed prick for two years now, so what’s one more? Of course, knowing it is likely to be the last - having just kicked off the final year of her psychology major - makes the news easier to stomach. And with any luck, the fool did some sort of soul-searching over the break and came back a changed man.

"Well, well, well. Look who decided to grace us with her delightful presence again. Knew you couldn’t stand to live without me, y/l/n." Harry greets her with a smirk as he looks up from his phone.

Well, some much for change, but luck has never been on y/n’s side anyway; she knew it was wishful thinking to entertain the idea of a pleasant or even tolerable Harry. "Shut it, Styles. I’m not in the mood for your bullshit," she quips back and goes straight to the employee’s locker room to dispose of her stuff and swap her top for one bearing the bar’s logo. Once done, she takes a brief look in the tattered mirror still hanging by the door to readjust her ponytail, before joining her co-worker behind the counter. The bar is rather quiet for now, clock having not chimes 6pm yet, but y/n expects the place to be soon crawling with students drinking the classes’ return off their mind.

The next few minutes are spent in unexpected peaceful silence, y/n prepping for the upcoming rush while Harry idly sits by, not lifting a single finger to help her out. Admittedly, he’s completed all his pre-shift duties during the last hour, but y/n doesn’t think it warrants the smug look painted on his face as he watches her battle a jar of olives with an old opener and a concentrated frown. So peaceful silence was a bit of a stretch, maybe.

Then to make matters worse he decides to taunt her, "I see you’ve grown zero muscle strength over the break. Too busy vegetating on the beach?"

The surge of anger triggered by the provocation is enough impetus for her to crack the can open, but it doesn’t stop her from turning to face him, "I see you’ve grown zero neuron in that thick head of yours. Too busy making people miserable instead?" she counters with flaring nostrils and a look of disdain hardening her features.

"Ah, still got a feisty mouth on you. ‘Was worried you might turn soft on us." Harry sasses back, but y/n doesn’t bother telling him off this time. No matter how strong her comeback, he’ll just brush it off with that smile of his that irritates her to no end. That’s the thing with Harry, the bastard has the thickest skin of all, he’s downright unattainable. And believe it or not, bad-mouthing doesn’t come naturally to y/n, he just seems to draw it out of her, perhaps as the trigger of some kind of survival instinct. Time and time again she’s tried to come up with a quip that would leave him speechless, tail between his legs, but he always has a wittier reply to throw back at her. For so long they’ve been playing this debilitating game of ping pong and she has yet to claim a point to his countless wins.

It’d been the case since their first meeting on that dreadful Friday two years ago. Y/n was about to embark on her second year at uni and decided to get a job so she could afford her own place instead of the dreary dorms she’d gotten used to. Bottom’s Up had seemed to be the perfect choice, a 2 minutes walk from the sweet little apartment she’d just visited a few days prior. She’d been excited for her first shift that night, air still warm from the Indian summer sun drawing a plethora of eager students to come enjoy their last day of freedom. Her happy jitters had quickly dissolved once she’d made her way in the staff-only area located behind the bar though. There, she’d walked in on a very frustrated Harry vociferating at a lost-looking colleague, "how many times do you have to fuck up before doing your bloody job, Steve? Stop sitting on your lazy ass, or I swear I’ll-"

She’d come to this Steve guy’s defense then, furious at the tall curly hair jerk for bullying his way around, "stop it, you asshole. You can’t talk to people like trash, who do you think you are?" Granted, she didn’t know it at the time, but the lost look on Steve's face was in fact pretty standard for the amount of weed in his system; nor did she know that the lad could actually win the Olympics of lazy asses hands down, should such a discipline be appended. It was too late to call off the hostilities though. War had been declared, and aside maybe from that one time he had graciously accepted to cover for her when she’d had a trip to Brighton planned for one of her classes, no truce had ever been reached. Besides, she’s sure it was more so because he was low on cash rather than to fulfill the hidden desire to help her out for once in his life.

Now, as she finishes wiping her work surface with a wet cloth, y/n wishes more than ever to be teleported in a parallel universe where she doesn’t have to work with the bane of her existence, much less see his annoyingly handsome face four times a week. (Also, exams would only be optional in this alternate reality of hers, but that’s another fantasy for another day.) Mainly, she’s just glad she doesn’t see him around campus ever, the art building standing all the way across from the psychology department. At least she’s Harry-free the moment she steps out of the bar; she’d probably have a nervous breakdown if she had to put up with his antics outside of work.

***

A month in the new semester, the novelty of it all has finally worn off to make way for routines to settle in. Y/n’s weeks now consist in a well-practiced cycle of sleep, study, eat, work and occasionally go out with her best friend Mia. Her shifts at Bottom’s Up still prove to be challenging because of the company she’s forced to keep but things seem to have calmed down at the bar too. Students are now less inclined to party the week away, mainly indulging during the second half of the week, but more importantly, Harry appears to be less of a smug bastard and more of a sulky sod. For some reason, the lad has been stuck in a sullen mood, constant frown wrinkling his forehead. He has reverted to distant one-word answers as though he is saving a dictionary worth of words for whatever conundrum is going on in his brain. Y/n doesn’t mind though, and almost welcomes the transition if it means less digs taken at her expense.

Now y/n finds herself on her way to the campus library for a much needed paper-writing cramming session (the assignment is due the following day and she barely has two thirds of the work completed). After a quick stop by the coffee shop down the block, she finally strides in the lobby of the library, ready to dive nose first into the riveting matters of cognitive psychology. She’s already so focused mulling over concepts’ definition in her mind, that it takes her a minute to realize something is going on.

It’s nothing major really, no big fire rushing around the premises or fist-fight breaking the crowd into a frenzy. No, just everyone seemingly hushing and gasping, bewildered expressions etched upon their faces as they keep pointing towards the nearby study room. Truthfully, y/n might have been completely oblivious to it, it she weren’t a psychology major; but reading people’s feelings and interactions is kind of her thing, so she does notice the bubbly energy infiltrating the usually quiet space. What could possibly have them so intrigued, she wonders as more students come out of the room with the same looks of wonder.

Her confusion is finally quelled when she steps into the study room in question and her eyes fall on what has everyone so engaged. On the wall to her right, between two sets of shelves brimming with decades-old books, hangs a life size canvas of audacious shapes and bold colors. Not one seems to have been left out, the painting seemingly transporting the viewer in a psychedelic albeit appealing trance. It’s full of contrasts, an embodiment of serenity and boldness at the same time, and y/n can’t stop ogling the masterpiece for the life of her. The amount of passion is so obviously overwhelming, yet she can feel all of the artist’s emotions underneath each of the brushstrokes.

After another minute of wondrous observation, her thoughts are interrupted by a foreign voice. "El Patrón? I wonder who that could be," the stranger wonders aloud, and her eyes immediately drift off to the bottom right of the painting to catch the small but unmistakable signature: black cursive letter spelling the two words withholding the real artist’s identity. The mystery only adds up to the appeal of the work and y/n already feels a bubbling feeling in the pit of her stomach at the idea of ever finding out what beautiful soul is responsible for such mind-bending work. She hopes this won’t be last she sees of it.

***

It’s Friday night and unfortunately for y/n, she’s stuck at work with her least favorite person in the world. It’s all the more unfortunate that Harry seems to be back to his usual annoying self, his thoughts finally free from whatever trouble had plagued them, and eager to fall back into nuisance mode. Less unfortunate for y/n and much to Harry’s discontent, Mia decided to stop by and keep her company. Though she feels slightly sorry for her having the act as her buffer for the night, y/n figures she’s more than making up for it with every free cocktail she keeps sliding towards her friend. Their conversation is scattered at best since patrons keep interrupting them for a fresh pint of ale, but as the night slowly dies down they manage to talk longer than 20 seconds.

The manager of the bar has long clocked off and gone home, as per usual on Friday nights, leaving both her and Harry the pleasure to indulge in a few drinks of their own. They don’t do it every week and always keep it low-key of course; Mia’s tonight presence mostly accounting for y/n’s partaking while Harry just likes a nice glass of tequila when the week-end comes around and there’s nobody to tell him off about it. One thing they never do though, is drink together, like two friends celebrating yet another week they survived at uni. Come to think of it, the only thing they do share is a job position and their never-ending bickering. Cheers to that, y/n takes another sip of her gin martini in sarcasm.

She’s brought back to reality by Mia as the tipsy brunette lets out a loud gasp before she inquires in a slightly high-pitched voice, "y/n! totally forgot to tell you, went by the library today and you’ll never guess what was there!"

"Oh my god, you saw the painting too, didn’t you" y/n answers, excited at the idea of discussing the whole thing with her best friend. Truth be told, the majestic work of art hasn’t left her mind since she’d first seen it a few days before.

"Yes" Mia squeals in confirmation, "I mean, it’s kinda impossible to miss. I wonder how they got it there without anyone seeing."

Y/n has wondered the same thing and she came to one conclusion, "they probably sneaked in last Sunday after the library closed, it’s the only time the building is empty," Mia humming in agreement. The campus library is opened 24/7 all days except on Sundays, so realistically speaking it is the only window of time that would allow for such an experiment. Whether said experiment required an actual break-in or was conducted in full legality remains a mystery but that is just bygones in y/n’s eyes. She’s much to mesmerized by the work to give a damn about how it got there in the first place.

"Oi y/l/n! What are you two fawning over this time" Harry chirps in the conversation, uninvited as always, and y/n hates how condescending he just sounded.

"Not that you could ever understand something with substance, if your lack thereof is any indication, but it’s none of your damn business," y/n spats out dismissively but Mia’s Margarita-induced brain seems to have forgotten all about their concerted hatred for piss-taking bartenders.

"Harry, you’re an art major aren’t you? D’you know who’s behind that beautiful painting at the library?"

Y/n tilts her head back in a sigh at her friend’s behavior before turning to watch the puzzled look on Harry’s face. He seems to silently gauge the both of them; for what, y/n doesn’t know, and then his whole expression switched to a blasé look. He shrugs in disinterest, "who cares? ’s just one more Banksy wannabe who’s trying at it too hard ‘f you ask me."

Y/n takes it as a personal offense, her admiration for the painting outweighing any instinct she has of avoiding the brazen man taking a sip of his tequila on rocks across from her, "of course you’d say something like that. You’re just jealous you’ll never compete with his talent."

Harry raises a brow at her accusation, "and how would you know since you’ve never seen any of my work?"

It’s a valid point, but not enough to rebut her. "Doesn’t take a genius to know a shallow mind like yours could never create something as deep and transcending. That would require actual emotions from you Harry and we both know the only emotion you’re capable of spreading is irritation."

For once she’s confident she’s gonna have the last word, but in true Harry fashion he just gives her a bored look as if to say ‘is that all?’ towel thrown over his shoulder, "right, and here I thought talking to people like trash was a bad thing. You should really take a page out of your own book, y/n, wouldn’t want anyone to think you’re as big of a jerk as I am." Then he turns back to face the room full of customers, and tends to one disheveled looking guy slurring out an order.

Y/n barely registers the friendly "alright Joe, but ’s the last one," Harry rasps out to the guy, her ears are still ringing from the last words he’d said to her. More specifically, the little truth they held despite how much he deserved the backlash, and y/n absolutely loathes the way her throat seems to be closing in on itself. She’s afraid she’s turning like him, bitter words at the ready and always trying to outdo his own taunting spiels. Before anxiety can settle in her bones though, she swallows back the knot tightening in her airways and goes back to serving customers and conversing with her friend.

***

The next time it happens, she expects it even less. A couple weeks have passed since her gruesome interaction with Harry at the bar, and along with her doubts, all thoughts about art have seemed to vanish from her busy mind. She’s had a few tests occupying all her free time and now that they’ve been done and over with, all she can think about is calling Mia up to plan their next night out; she needs a few drinks that she didn’t make for once.

She’s about to take her phone out of her pocket to send her best friend a text, when she enters the lecture hall of her Monday experimental method and research design class. The déjà-vu feeling that creeps up her spine stops her from completing the action, and y/n frowns at how her fellow students seem to be all entranced in deep conversation, exchanging baffled looks with one another. Even the sleeping kid that sits at the back seems to be more alert than during their last fire evacuation procedure test.

It’s then y/n turns around to see what is hanging at the front of the room, covering the large board. This time, the colors were carefully handpicked by the artists, flashes of pink and yellow dancing along to a frenzied rhythm of salsa as their union creates powerful jets of oranges across the canvas. It vaguely reminds her of the pendant she wears on a daily basis, rose gold laurels wrapped around a delicate sunflower, an orange topaz incrusted in its center. The painting is of abstract nature much like the last one, but the movements of the brush still bring her mind back to the jewel presently nestled between her collarbones. How odd.

The piece is slightly smaller than the last but no less impressive, catching the attention of even the least artistic eye. The sensibility of the artist is so distinct, intentions clearer and more in touch than most people with their own. For a second, y/n thinks she’s glad the pieces have only been ones of unadulterated happiness and colorful bliss so far, because god knows how heart-wrenching the outcome would be if all this uncorrupted honesty was used to fill canvas with pain.

As the professor enters the room, everybody settles back on their seat, and wait for the chap’s reaction. "Well, that sure is something. It seems we have a bit of a mystery painter on our hands, don’t we; and a talented one at that," y/n’s professor smiles at the class as he pulls a computer out of his satchel and places it at top of the front desk. His words make her look back at the artwork, this time settling on the small signature reading El Patrón on its corner. And it’s all it takes for Y/n’s obsession with the anonymous artist to be back in full force.

***

That night she can’t stop raving about the painting as she starts closing the bar after a long and tiresome shift. She’s got a shoulder pressing her phone to her ear, Mia on the line, while she absentmindedly sweeps the floor. Normally the exertion of the job would have her stifling yawns and her bones aching but tonight her voice is perky as ever as she recollects the pinnacle of her day, "you shoulda been there Mia, it was gorgeous. And same as last time, like you’d be minding your business, doing your thing and then boom, it’s there. Damn, this guy is a genius."

As she comes back around the counter, Harry makes sure she notices the roll of his eyes. He’s been wiping and tidying the bar space after making sure everything is stocked up for the next day, all the while listening to her drone about El Patrón and his stroke of genius, praise after praise falling from her lips. She completely brushes off the patronizing gesture and that’s perhaps what irritates him the most. She’s barely acknowledging him or his stunts with all her attention placed on the mystery painter and well, Harry quite likes riling her up. Doesn’t do it out of spite, but merely because he likes the way it ignites a fire in her that he’s seldom seen in people. But now, all her fire is directed elsewhere and he doesn’t know what to think of it.

***

Over the next month, the rumors around El Patrón spread like wildfire as more and more of his works are found scattered around campus. Much to y/n’s delight, she always seems to fall upon them as though they’ve been placed specifically on her path. It didn’t start as obvious though; the first following pieces hung in common areas around campus such as the lunch hall or the student center but as time went by they tended to follow her whereabouts somehow. Y/n knows she’s probably fabulating but when she’d stumble across two absolutely stunning pieces in the lobby of her gym and at the entrance of the psychology building, she couldn’t help but feel deeply attached to them. And the possibility that this mystery artist might have the same attachment to her, only fuels her obsession further, sending her reeling with all but one nerve-wracking question: who is this guy?

And it’s not like she’s the only one pondering over their identity either. Hell, the genius has literally everyone on campus under their spell, trying to uncover the enigma of the year. Everyone seems to be determined to find clues, easter eggs hidden within the paintings that could lead them closer to the truth. El Patrón has effectively turned the whole uni into a large-scale game of Cluedo, people speculating left and right and swapping theories about who it can or cannot be, what year they are probably in, or whether they have an accomplice. Nobody has ever executed such a tour de force in the history of campus, and it has everyone one edge, y/n included, desperate to be in the loop.

The fact that each painting is more beautiful than the last and always seems to connect with her in personal ways doesn’t help her daydreaming either. Take the one she found at the gym for example, for a few second she’d sworn she was looking at a familiar piece of the English South Coast, dark hues of blue fighting dots of white, reminiscent of the way foam always seems to top even the most raging waves as they crash along shores. She’d only had to close her eyes to feel the wind blowing her hair in a thousand directions and the sand engulfing her feet, making its way between her toes and every crevice of her skin. She was still in the middle of her gym when she reopened them though, her sport bag straddling her shoulder as she kept gaping at the painting in adoration.

Her suspicious keeps nagging at her head, the desire to unveil the identity of her beloved artist getting stronger by the day. The feeling is almost unbearable when she spots yet another work of his across from Bottom’s Up. The coincidences keep piling up and the more she mulls it over, the more she’s convinced this mystery guy is talking to her. Damn, is it possible to have a crush on someone because of their work? After months of this cryptic scavenger hunt, she’d dying to know if all her theories are right and the fact that she has no way to find out, is positively killer her.

That’s why when she stumbles across a flyer for a midterm exhibition gala hosted by the art department as she waits in line at her favorite coffee shop, she doesn’t think twice before jotting down all the info. In a week time, most of the uni’s art students would be gathered up in one place to present their term’s work. The chances are too high for y/n to pass up the opportunity, her guts telling her he’ll be there. It makes sense doesn’t it? Surely, this El Patrón ought to be an art student if not a teacher. How else would they have access to all the campus amenities most of the paintings were found in?

As she goes to pick up her coffee from the counter, y/n walks with a newfound spring in her steps; she really can’t wait for this gala to happen.

***

Y/n stands at the entrance of the art building, a black floor-length long-sleeves open-back dress hugging her curves in all the right places. Her heart speeds up at the nervous jitters crawling underneath her skin, and the million question swarming her frantic mind. What if he actually doesn’t know her and doesn’t give a damn about her thoughts on his work? What if it’s actually a woman and she’s been hiding a man’s pen-name to consolidate her deceit? Is she about to make the biggest fool out of herself by coming to this exhibition? She doesn’t know anyone here, nor has she ever been to this kind of event before but she’s decided this guessing game has run its course. Maybe this all thing has nothing to do with her and that’s okay. All she really wants is to have a chance to tell this exquisite mind how remarkable their work is; the rest be damned.

Y/n slowly makes her way inside, and after a quick stop at the coat room to dispose of the unnecessary garment, she is finally greeted by a room full of dressed-up people roaming and chatting around, champagne flutes in hands. How cliche, she thinks with humor, before picking up a glass of the bubbly beverage. It’ll help sooth the nerves, she reasons as she starts walking around the place to observe each of the displays. Despite not having had a glimpse of her number-one painter yet, she finds herself having a good time. Most of the work offered to her is engaging in one way or another; some pieces quite provocative is their depiction, others straight out pushing the limits of 2D, with structures coming out of the canvas as though they were about to grip at the viewer.

Turning at a corner, she comes across his art before she sees him, having almost forgotten art was supposedly his thing too, and she realizes she actually knew someone here apart from the mysterious painter. She takes a brief look at his tall frame, the baby blue suit over his crisp white shirt fitting him perfectly. A black tie is completing the look, and it makes y/n waver for a second. She’s never seen him dressed in anything other than jeans and the bar’s t-shirt every employee is supposed to wear on call. Granted, even that he can make work better than anyone else she can think of, but that suit is something else altogether.

Her eyes shifts back to his work, not wanting to waste too much time on his appearance; she is here on a mission after all. She can’t deny his painting is good as much as she wants too. It’s made of a perfectly executed optic illusion that has her pause for longer than she intended to. The colors are picked wisely only adding to the entrancing design, tempting the viewer to reach out to the painting to convince themselves that this is fact a pretty subterfuge and no reality; the frontier between both worlds much too hard to distinguish. Just like for the rest of the exhibition, a single plaque hangs underneath the canvas, introducing the title of the piece above the name of its artist: Fine Line by Harry Styles. Damn, the bastard had to be talented…

"Is it as depthless as you thought it would be?" A hoarse voice interrupts her inner thoughts. She knows it’s his at the first word and already she regrets ever thinking positive things about him.

"Funny, I would have shared a compliment but you just had to go and open your stupid mouth," she bites back as she fully turns around to face him. She can feel is eyes shamelessly scanning her body, sending her nerves on overdrive. She wants this exchange to be as curt as possible, she’s got important matters to tend to.

"Here for you mysterious bloke, I presume?" he inquires in a taunting voice.

"What’s it to you, anyway?" y/n dodges the question with another, hoping it’ll steer the conversation toward its end.

She’s answered by rosy pouting lips, a hand on his heart in faux vexation, "ouch, was just hopin’ you’d come to see me, and now you’ve just crushed my dreams, love."

The pet-name is not lost on her and Y/n has had enough. In own gulp she downs the rest of her champagne and forces the glass to his chest for him to hold as she makes her way past him, "just leave me alone and go be a pain in someone else’s ass, Harry." She doesn’t wait to see if he’s following her as she marches across the room in long and purposeful strides.

Something in the corner of her eyes catches her attention right then. Halting abruptly, almost making someone walk right into her, she turns her head to the side and that’s when she finally sees it. A whole part of the wall has been dedicated to his work, a shrine of his most outstanding pieces randomly hung against the white surface. Y/n recognizes each and every one of them, but then her eyes take in the extra work added for the exhibition: next to each of the pieces are displayed a bunch of photos capturing the students’ expressions as they first discovered the paintings. Dozens of faces lighting up in amazement, widening eyes and finger pointing at the unexpected intrusions; some show confusion and puzzlement while others simply behold laughter and animated conversation.

In the center of the wall, a video is projected. It’s a compilation of those same moments but this time captured on tape. The sound was removed, but as y/n takes in the faces of her fellow students she can almost hear the sound of their laughters; she’d been there for most of it after all. She thinks the idea is amazing, El Patrón has managed to make the viewer a permanent part of the art. The paintings are marvelous of course, full of emotions and passion, but the mysterious artist has gone one step further by also displaying how those emotions had reflected back on the audience. It is an ode to art, to the power of sharing, and proves art is limitless; not owned by museums, not bound between walls and certainly not restricted for trained-eyes only. Because art isn’t all about beauty, it speaks for the need for sharing that human have but often forget, and this is a perfect reminder of it.

The next tape playing has her eyes doubling over the video, a small gasp escaping her lips as she takes in her own figure. It was taken the day she found the painting at the gym and unlike all the other videos she’s alone. No group of students by her side elbowing her in disbelief, or sharing a puzzle look with her. Just her doe eyes gleaming at the painting, lips slightly parted in pure wonder, as she studies every inch of the canvas. And the feeling that this might mean just as much to him as it does to her comes back crashing on her. She’s not paranoid; this artist his using her as some kind of inspiration, she’s sure of it. Random cannot be this accurate, it would defy any laws of statistics.

After the slideshow finally moves on to the next video, y/n looks around in the hopes of finding the man that has wormed his way into her heart. She’s imagined it a thousand times over during the past week. A young man would be discretely standing on the side, watching the evening pan out and waiting for her to find his work. Then they would make eye contact and he’d make his way over to greet her and share more of his beautiful mind with her. That’s the happily ever after she’s hoped for since that first painting in the library, but alas everyone around her seems to be engrossed in conversation about this and that.

"I thought he would be there too," the unexpected voice makes her jump. She recognizes the student from that first day, she’d also be intrigued by the mysterious man.

"I know, all of his work is here, he has to somewhere around," y/n tries to convince herself. She hasn’t given up yet, she won’t let herself unless she goes home tonight empty-handed. Only after that will she stop searching, she promises herself. If he doesn’t show up tonight, then that’s because he doesn’t want to be found.

The girl next to her has the same disappointed tone when she explains, "you’d think so, but I’ve been asking everyone around and nobody has a clue still."

Before y/n can come up with her own rationalizations, someone starts speaking in a microphone, asking for everyone’s attention. It’s a man in his early fifties making a speech about the whole reason behind the exhibition so y/n pegs him as the head of the art department. "Thank you all for coming tonight, it is always a pleasure to see so many of you supporting our young talents. As you may know, tonight’s exhibition signs off our students’ final work for the semester, and will also see one of them receive a one-time collaboration with a renown art gallery in the city. Now, before the judges finish deliberating, let me tell you a bit about the topic of this exhibition which, by the way, serves as the main criteria for this contest. Our artists were asked to work around audience engagement and crowd reaction. The task was to produce art that would prompt an active response from the viewer and go beyond a passive experience. I hope this info helps this event take all its sense, I’ll let you all meander for a couple more minutes before we announce the winner. Thank you for your presence."

Since she has a couple more of minutes, y/n decides to take advantage of the fresh insight she was just given about the artwork and goes around the exhibition one more time. The whole thing does take on a new meaning, now that she knows what was going one in the students’ mind as they first got their assignment. But what has her in awe really, is El Patrón’s coup de maître in all of this, because unlike any other applicant here tonight, he’s had the strongest reactions from the public for months now and had even documented it. So really, in a way he’s already won, no bias to blame. The amount of work and planning behind such a tour de force surely has exceeded everyone’s expectations and secured the number-one position for the still-to-be-revealed artist. In the pocket, as they say.

"Alright everyone, without further ado we are going to announce the lucky talent selected by the judges tonight," the head of department speaks up again. "On behalf of the whole department, I would like to salute each and every one of the students that presented their work tonight. Skills are certainly not scarce among you all, and as always it gives me great pleasure to see you all grow into yourselves alongside your craft. As you know, there can only be one of you coming up to this stage tonight and I must say, this semester has proved to be full of surprises. Never in my 26 years working here have I ever seen something of the sort, so ladies, gentleman, I have no idea who is about to join me now, but please give a warm round of applause for El Patrón!"

The room explodes in loud cheers as people clap their hands in honor of the mysterious artist. Y/n probably the loudest amongst them all, is still craning her neck in every possible directions trying to catch sight of anyone moving towards the stage. The standing ovation quickly fades into silence as everyone realizes nobody is coming to claim their prize. The usual hushing following any of El Patrón’s stunts is once again spreading across the room to match people’s incredulity at the situation. It was one thing to keep their identity a secret, as it was clearly a crucial condition for the plan to work, but now that it is all over and done, prize ready for the taking, it doesn’t make much sense.

"Mister El Patrón? I think you more than deserve to drop your mask and receive your prize," the host reiterates in hopes that the much awaited artist comes out of his lair, but he’s met with the same result. Perhaps he’s not here after all, or perhaps y/n was right to think he might not want to be found, but regardless a strong feeling of disappointment takes over a body. He won’t be coming, she knows. No matter how many times the host calls for him, he won’t be coming.

She lets out a long sign in frustration then, she really thought tonight was the tonight. But now that the evening is coming to its end, tears pearl at the corner of her eyes and she just wants to go home and forget all about El Patrón. Aren’t artists supposed to be dark and twisted anyway? Maybe she just dodges a bullet, she tries to make herself feel better, but no amount of sarcasm can save her from the painful pinch at her heart. As she comes to term with the fact she won’t get any more answers by staying (and possible ever), she decides it’s her cue to go.

On her way to the exit, her eyes fall upon Harry’s slightly hunched figure. He seems deep in his thoughts, eyes fixed towards the floor though he’s not looking at anything in particular. For some unknown reason, y/n is not irked by his presence like she usually is. He’s just lost a great career opportunity so his preoccupied disposition is understandable. Feeling as though she needs to end the night on a different note - whether positive is yet to be determined - she approaches him slowly as not to startle him. "Your painting is really good. I’m sorry you didn’t win, but you should still be proud," she softly tells him to cheer him up. At least, one of them might get to go home in higher spirits.

He looks up at her then, curls bouncing on top of his head, as he aligns his two glistening emeralds to her own gems. He seems quite surprised to hear her voice, probably rightfully so since he can count on one hand (scratch that, one finger) the number of times she’s actively sought him out for conversation. She can tell he’s debating whether to say something or not, as they keep their eyes locked. It’s probably the longest and only civil exchange they’ve ever had, and somehow it manages to soothe some of her sorrows.

Y/n likes this reflective side of him, she realizes. Not that she wishes him any torments (at least not tonight) but his quietness makes him look vulnerable in that beautifully human way for once. That’s twice he’s proven her wrong about the assumptions she had on him, tonight: first his talent, now his character; she doesn’t know what to make of it. Silently, she accepts the timid smile and light nod he offers her in gratitude, before making her way to out at last.

***

Two days after the night of the exhibition, y/n still has a hard time to let her grievance go. Her mood has yet to upgrade from crappy at best, and the fact that all the artwork has been removed from their previous spots is not helping much. Of course she knew they had been put down for the big night, but her heart still missed a beat when she went to the gym only to find the walls of the lobby bare of any craft that would liven up their otherwise dull and colorless structure. Just like her state of mind, she’d joked. And y/n is not one to throw pity parties, especially to herself; but then again, she’d never fallen under the charms of a faceless virtuoso because his art brought to life parts of her that she’d believed otherwise dormant, only to be metaphorically stood up at the end of the process. So really, what does she know anymore?

Now that she’s back at work, she revels in the constant effort she has to provide. The ever-growing list of task to complete gives her mind reprieve and focus, but she still hasn’t budged from her unusually distant and withdrawn self. Even harry’s own standoffishness hasn’t caught her attention; a week ago, his awkward demeanor would have flashed red flags all over her radar. An unfiltered narcissistic prick he could be, but y/n has never known him to be anything even resembling reserve; apart maybe from that one fate-less night not even 72 hours ago when she found him on the outskirts of the attention even though she knew full well that he is more of center kind of guy.

As they’re about to start closing, the awkwardness becomes more palpable by the second. They’ve skirted around it during the whole shift, the steady solicitation of customers enough to ignore the growing tension; but as the last of the patrons finally make their way out of the bar, an eery silence settles in their wake, making them both want to crawl out of their skin. Even the heavy-served drinks they’ve indulged in, despite the absence of their respective motives, hasn’t help assuage the strain between them. Instead, they start their usual routine in overrated silence, y/n in charge of the floor while he tends to the bar. Then before long, Harry bursts the uncomfortable bubble they’ve locked themselves in, voice void of its usual teasing tone, "so, what’s got you so grumpy?" he inquires.

"Please don’t start, Harry. I really can’t be bothered tonight," y/n sighs in response, failing to recognize the note of concern in his question and thinking she wouldn’t survive another bickering session. It hasn’t been the lad’s intention though, so her false accusation has his thick skin itching against his will. To be honest, Harry’s never taken much offense from any of their past squabbles no matter how hard she’d come at him, but this one he can’t brush off. Not when for once, he’s trying to be decent, dropping the attitude he knows rubs her the wrong way and she responds by telling him to get lost.

"Fuck sake, I wasn’t tryin’ to start anythin’" he berates her for lashing out unjustifiably, "you need to take a chill pill." The hostile reaction as her pausing mid-swipe in the middle of the room. He was always so unbothered by everything she said, she hasn’t expected him to be so hard on the defensive (or even know what a defensive is in the first place).

Still, she doesn’t appreciate the same chastising tactic he’s used on her countless times, especially because given his serious temper, she knows he means it for real now. "Oh I’m sorry Harry, I didn’t know what sympathy actually sounds like coming from your mouth," she quips back in sarcasm.

The response makes him livid, "you tell me I’m a jerk every chance you got, but you sure know how to be a bitch, y/n" he spats before finishing wiping the counter. As his hand reaches the end of the surface, he finds his half-empty glass of tequila, most of the ice completely melted through the amber liquor by now. He takes one long sip in a vain attempt to calm his nerves but the alcohol merely tingles the back of his palate and warms its way down his stomach. His mind is still burden with frustrations he doesn’t know how to alleviate; the end of term, the exhibition, his career’s future, and y/n’s stubborn nature all wreaking havoc in his tired brain.

"Shut the fuck up, Harry. I didn’t ask for your attention," y/n retorts, trying not to expose how bruised her heart is. While he’d mocked her plenty during the past two years, he’d never resorted to calling her names, unlike her; so the insult does more damage than she’s willing to admit, even coming from Harry. And to think she’d thought of him as a half decent being not three days ago…

"Right, I forgot only anonymous bastards are worthy enough of your attention," he replies before checking the shelves behind the bar to make sure they’re stocked enough for the next shift. "And even when they turn out to be cowards, you still choose them over the people that are actually around you. You need to open your eyes and wake up, it’s pathetic."

Y/n has almost finished cleaning her area but at this point, she’s ready to call it quits and run as fast as she can, away from him. "Go fuck yourself, you don’t know anything you’re talking about," she manages to croak past her swelling throat and quivering lips. The man in front of her is breaking her heart even though he’s never had it in his calloused hands, and y/n doesn’t know why.

"Fuck this, ’m done," he quite literally throws in the towel, leaving it in a bowl on the counter before making his way back to his drink. In a swift movement, he grabs the bottle of tequila to pour himself a new one. "You keep blindly mopin’ about your precious painter, I don’t care, you’re probably right anyway," he says before chugging the bitter spirit in one go and slamming the bottle of tequila down on the counter in a loud bang that has y/n jump in fear. "I don’t anything about bloody anything," is all Harry says as he locks eyes with hers, before making his out of the bar, not bothering to put the bottle back to its rightful place.

Y/n is still trembling from the exchange, and it takes her a hot minute before she can finish what she was doing. As she resumes wiping the floor with shaky hands, she tries to even her breath out. Why had he been so hurtful? What could have possibly impelled him to utter such malicious words? The questions are still reeling in her mind as she twists water out of the mop for the last time. Once the floor is spotless and all the tables are no longer sticky with spilled alcohol, chairs stacked up onto them upside-down, she makes her way back behind the bar, checking that Harry didn’t leave any of his duties unattended before his theatrical exit. She spots the bottle of tequila sitting lonely on the counter but just as she goes to reach for it, she freezes.

It’s a cold shower pouring over her body all at once then, dots finally connected as her eyes read over the label of the fat bottle she’s seen him take out of the stack countless times before. Everything that happened for the last few months falls into place and suddenly there is no mystery left to be solved. ‘You’re probably right, I don’t know anything about bloody anything’ Harry’s final words keep playing on a maddening loop in her head.

Y/n takes in the small bee design printed under what is unmistakably the last piece of the puzzle she’s been craving to complete: one word that has her stomach churning in a myriad of emotions she can’t possibly untangle. Anger, relief, surprise, fear, curiosity, warmth and more, are all rushing through her in one colossal wave, because printed on that bottle in black capital letters is the brand of Harry’s favorite drink: Patrón.

***

The next day, y/n navigates through her classes purely on autopilot mode. She doesn’t quite remember picking the floral blouse nor the light-shade pair of jeans she’s wearing, and barely recalls the brief conversation she had with an old lady during her bus commute to campus. One thing she sure as hell hasn’t paid one iota of attention to, is the behavioral psychology class she’s just got out of. Two hours she spent pacing up and down every twist and turn of her mind only to come out more lost than she’d started. Add to that the fact she’s running on 4 hours of sleep, she’s quite simply a recipe for disaster. Fortunately for y/n, she isn’t due at work tonight, having called sick this morning, because sleep-deprivation aside, she still has no idea how she’s supposed to face Harry.

The revelation of the night prior is still something she has trouble wrapping her mind around, as it goes against every constructed opinion she’s made about her life. Harry is Patrón, she’s pretty sure. Harry, the allegedly conceited asshole she’s been bickering with since their first minute spent together, is the mind-blowing painter that had taken residence in y/n’s heart since the first time she set eyes on his art. The two characters have yet to fully merge into one in her mind, despite the fact it makes perfect sense to her.

The Brighton painting, the one inspiring her necklace, it was all true. And with that revelation comes two intimidating truths y/n is kind of scared to delve into: one, all this time she’s been right to think she is the muse behind this all scheme; two, if Harry is the mystery painter, that makes her Harry’s muse more specifically. And that’s the part of the equation she struggles the most with, because up until last night she was pretty positive that the twat despised her (the night in itself being prime evidence of that) but now she doesn’t know what to think.

It’s like there are two versions of Harry battling in her brain, splitting her heart in halves; the one that made her miserable at work for years and made her cry last night, and the one she’d gotten a glimpse of at the night of the exhibition. The one that hid a fully blossomed bouquet of emotions behind teasing banter to protect a diamond-rough talent that had the power to touch just about anyone’s sensibility. The one that had her wrapped around his finger in awe with that beautiful mind of his. The question is, can she or will she see this Harry the next time she’s facing him or will all their bad-blood history come crashing down on her instead? Y/n doesn’t think she’s ever fit more the definition of having mixed feelings about something.

On her way home, she makes sure she doesn’t fall asleep against the bus window, despite yawning every thirty-seconds. It feels like the trip is taking forever, she almost lets out a cry of relief when the automated voice finally announces her upcoming stop. Once she’s thanked the driver and stepped out of the bus, she’s met with a gust of brisk air, instantly blowing her hair all over her face. She draws the lapels of her coat tighter around her shivering body and starts making her way towards her apartment building.

It doesn’t take her long to complete the walking distance to her place and tread her way up the stairs, but the sight greeting her in the hallway of her floor almost sends her down on her ass. Because right across from her door, is Harry hanging yet another one of his chefs-d’oeuvre. He’s dressed casually in his usual jeans and t-shirt ensemble, with a thick grey hoodie covering his broad upper-half in a feeble attempt to combat to cold weather raging outside. As he reaches in the back pocket of his jeans to retrieve a sharpie - no doubt to apply his trademark signature - the movements of her feet on the laminated floor catch his attention. Spinning around in a jolt of surprise, he realizes too late that he’s been caught red-handed. There was no going back this time, but he doesn’t necessarily see it as a bad thing.

There is a short moment where they are both just standing in front of each other a few feet apart, as their eyes bounce back in silent conversation, before y/n softly breaths out, "so it is you." The weight of her words has him swallow in nervousness, "of course it’s me," he replies in a gentle tone. A smile pulls at his lips when he realizes she’s not running for the hills or bursting out in a furious rant.

"I just…how? why? I mean, you gotta help me understand Harry, cause I’m pretty fucking lost over here," she blurts out with wide doe-eyes begging him for answers. Her obvious jitters earn her a soft chuckle., and for a hot minute all he can bring himself to do is study her snuggled figure and the way she keeps fiddling with her keys. It’s so endearing to him, if they were at his place, he would have offered to make some tea. The thought has him hesitantly looking at the door across from them, "can we maybe talk inside?" he inquires, beckoning his head towards her place. "I know I haven’t given you much reasons to let me in, but I promise I’ll explain everythin’," he feels the need to convince her, " after that, you can kick me out if you still want."

The last bit has her smile timidly, "yeah, let’s go inside. I wanna hear what you have to say," y/n admits as she steps to the door and unlocks it. She’s intrigued by how gentle and well-mannered the man following her to the living room seems to be, light years away from the rowdy lad she’s come to know.

For a second, y/n is worries about the state she’s left the apartment before she rushed to classes this morning, but her apprehensions quickly go away once she takes in the sight of her rather tidied living space. A velvety throw blanket is covering the couch in a makeshift comforter from the way she spent the night on the couch, and apart from a few class notes scattered across the coffee table, everything seems to be where it’s supposed to be.

They both discard their top layers on the armchair adjacent to the couch, Harry slipping his hoodie off above his head in one swift gesture, while y/n simply lets the sleeves of her coat slide down her arms. He brushes his hair back into submission with one swoop of his hand, before sitting down on the couch and directing his attention back at her. She decides to leave some distance between them, taking the other end of the sofa and the move desperately makes him wonder what thoughts are running through her head. The only way to uncover them however, is if he starts talking first; and so he does.

"So uhm," he starts clumsily, clearing his throat, "remember the first day we met, you walked in on me telling some stoner guy off," he watches closely as y/n nods. "It was our first ever conversation and we fought through the whole thing. I was pretty pissed when it happened, not gonna lie, but once I got home and slept it off, I thought it was really cool how you’d stand up for that random guy." The admission has her eyebrows raising but he keeps going, "and okay maybe, just maybe, I found it a lil hot, the way you tried to put me back in my place."

He stops to make sure he hasn’t offended her, "tried to?" she challenges instead, Harry laughing at her objection.

"Right, maybe you did. My poin’ is, no-one really calls me out on my bullshit, so it was kinda refreshing that you did. But then the next day, you were still mad at me, an’ we bickered that time too. It felt like you’d already made up your mind about me. So in a way, all I had left was doin’ this thing where I push your buttons and rile you up. Know it doesn’t make sense, but it was the only way you’d interact with me so I kept doin’ it, because being jerk-Harry was better than having nothin’."

He pauses for a minute and waits as y/n swallows all the information. All this time he’s been teasing her just to have some sort of connection, no matter how perverse, while she thought he just hated her guts. When she shares this thought with him, he shakes his head with a smile, "never hated you. If I ‘ad, I wouldn’t have bothered talking t’you."

Suddenly, her chest feels lighter, as though all this months of anguish had evaporated from her mind, now that she knew their rocky relationship was the result of miscommunication, "sound logic, Styles," she replies in good humor. Then she remembers the El Patrón’s fiasco so she urges him to go on.

"My final. Right. Well as you know, we were given the assignment at the beginning of the semester, and I came up with the idea of creating this alter ego that would plant his work around campus. I thought by taking people’s by surprise I was guaranteed strong genuine reactions. People are always more opened when they don’t expect it. Like if I had just brought my paintings on the night of the exhibition, the same people wouldn’t have reacted that way, probably because they’d know they’d be observed so they would have adjusted their behavior accordingly." They both know he’s getting slightly off trail, but watching y/n so enthralled with his words makes it hard for him to stop. Fact is, for month she’s dreamed of meeting and picking at the brain of this mysterious painter, and now that he’s sitting on her couch, walking her through his thought process, she finally feels like she is.

"Anyway," he resumes the storytelling, "I started with that painting in the library and it worked so perfectly, I knew if I followed the plan I would have somethin’ really good. But then you just had to go on an’ rave about the paintings without knowing they were mine, and it was killin’ me inside. Because I knew if there was a real chance I could change your mind about me, I’d do anythin’. But no matter how much I wanted to, I couldn’t tell you. Couldn’t jeopardize my final… so I tried to tell you through the art. I started painting stuff that made me think of you and placed the pieces in locations I knew you’d pass through. It was the only way I could tell you."

Harry’s confession had Y/n’s heart beating so hard in her chest, she can almost feel it thumping through her ears. Her next question is on the edge of her lips, but she takes her time tracing each of Harry’s graceful features until his eyes catch hers, "tell me what, Harry?" she asks barely above a whisper.

His response comes in three bashful steps: first his lips curve into a shy grin that has him look down with rosy cheeks; then his hand inches its way along the soft fabric of the couch to gently hold her fingers, thumb grazing over her knuckles; and as he looks up from their joined hands to connect their gaze once more, he finally spells it, loud and clear, "tell you that I like you, y/n."

The sentiment sends her own emotions reeling in a tornado of passion. This is it, this is what she’s been half-knowingly wishing for, and now that she knows the truth in full, she’s ready to embrace it. Her eyes twinkle in bliss, a growing smile illuminating her face as she squeezes his hand in a silent invitation to slide closer to her. Harry is much happy to oblige, and once he’s sitting directly next to her, knees grazing her own, he cups her face with one of his bear-paw hands. A few strands of hair are caught in the cuddling gesture, but none of them care. Harry just keeps smiling at her, waiting for her next move, and his beam grows two sizes wide when she mirrors his affection. "I like this side of you," she whispers fondly, as her thumb draws slow circles across the skin of his cheeks.

Harry closes his eyes at her words, "this is the real me, I promise," he reassures in an almost pleading tone, vulnerability seeping through. And y/n feels like she’s lying down on cloud nine really, because dropping his fortress of pretentiousness is all she’s ever want from him. With a hushed ‘okay’, she finally brings her mouth to taste the rose-tinted flesh of his. It starts off chaste and slow, lips dovetailed in perfect symbioses like they are made to cohabit, but quickly the kiss heats up to a full on make out session. "Show me, then", y/n mutters out when they part for a breather.

Harry slowly nods his head, before helping her straddle his lap and y/n immediately brings both her hands to his neck once she settles her hips against his. The friction already had them deeply inhale, trying not to work themselves up too fast, but Harry doesn’t think he’ll have much self-control when it comes to y/n. Already he can feel his cock fattening up inside his brief, the tingling sensation making him roll his hips up into hers. Their lips are back in a sensual duel, tongues tentatively taking their turn to lick their way inside the other’s mouth. Every now and then, he teases her bottom lip with a graze of his teeth, and the move as her tugging the root of his hair at the back of his head every single time without a fail.

He loves discovering all the quirks and tells of her body, thinks he could spend hours on hand learning every single one of her curves and memorizing each of her special spots. The smell of her fragrance infiltrates his nostrils as he dips his head to her neck to plant open-month kisses along her skin. Head angled towards the ceiling to make room for his ministrations, y/n can’t do much but let her hands scout any expanse of skin accessible to her. She starts at his shoulder, squeezing the flesh to feel out the strong muscle laying underneath, before making her way down his tone arms, then to his hands currently holding onto to her waist. She gives them an affectionate pinch at the same time she presses down onto him with a deep moan, and Harry retaliates with a buck of his own.

As he starts kissing down the exposed skin of her cleavage, y/n finally drops her head to place a tender kiss to his hairline. One of her hand is back at his neck, holding him firmly to her chest as he licks at the valley of her breasts down her sternum. The other worms its way underneath his shirt from the neckline, nails grazing down his back in soft enough pressure not to leave any marks.

Harry’s descent is obstructed by the soft material of her blouse, so he takes the garment off of her in one swoop, and places his hands back on her newly exposed body, rubbing up and own the skin. As his mouth goes back to the supple flesh of her breasts, y/n increases the pace of her hips grinding on his cock. The sensations seem to be not enough and too much at the same time for her; the heavy material still covering their most sensitive parts in the way of her pleasure, while Harry’s work has her going into overdrive under his velveteen mouth and calloused fingers. She starts kissing her way up from his shoulder to the edge of his jaw, and Harry revels in the sound of her moans tickling his ear.

Done with the excess of fabric between them two, y/n grips at the top of his shirt and pulls it upwards, leaving him shirtless. "Fuck, I didn’t know you have so many tattoos," she babbles against his lips, while her hands smooth over the ink.

"Plenty you don’t know about me, love," Harry chirps as he bask in the praise and the feeling of her skin of his.

He then circles one arm around her waist to bring them chest to chest, and the contact has y/n once again intensify the friction between their crotches. "Wanna find out," she murmurs against his neck while she grinds on his clothed member, "Harry, please take me to bed."

He jolts at the quick bite she delivers to his neck, the impish gesture her way of saying ‘now’ but before she can make her way out of his lap to bring him to her room, he presses her back down with both hands on her waist. "Nuh uh, y’not goin’ anywhere. Want you to come once, b’fore I take you to bed, pet," he says, smoothing his hands over her ass to guide her rocking motions. The term of endearment sounds so innocent yet dirty all at once, it sends a chill down her spine. Nobody had called her that before.

"Can’t," she shakes her head, "can’t feel you through the jeans."

"Alright then, stand up," he calmly asserts and she doesn’t hesitate to comply, standing in between his spread legs, in her flimsy bra and jeans. "Take ‘em off then, ’s what you want no?" he sends her a tantalizing look and bites at his lips as he watches her peel the pants off her legs. He can’t help the light squeeze he gives himself through his own jeans, as y/n stands in front of him awaiting his next instructions. "Come sit on my thigh now, think should be enough to make this pretty pussy tingle in all the right places, no?"

Y/n’s insides are already twisting in a knot as she settles back on his lap and lets the rough material of his jeans against the softness of her cotton panties spread a prickling sensation through her pelvis area. Quickly, she resumes undulating her hips, gripping back at Harry’s neck to pull him in a languid kiss, pleasure vibrating against their lips. It is not long before her pace picks up, and her eyes shut at the intensity of her bliss. "That’s it, pet. Already makin’ a mess of me. You’re doin’ so well," he coaxes her with his words.

As promised, y/n feels the lips of her sensitivity start to throb at her impending release, the sensation making her clamp her thighs tighter around his meaty limb. As her knee now presses against his bulge, Harry cries his sudden pleasure out in her mouth, and that’s all it takes for her to let her orgasm consume her. She unravels on top of him, one of her hands shooting to cup at her pussy in an attempt to quell the overwhelming throb. Harry draws soothing caresses down her back as he look at the sticky mess she’s left in her panties, damp patch matching the one tainting the material of his jeans. "All ruined, just as they should be," he smirks at the sight before giving her a sweet kiss.

Flushed skin and blown pupils, she slowly regains her breath, "take off your pants and take me to bed now?" she requests.

"You’re quite demanding for someone who’s just gotten off," he keeps taunting her. After all, winding her up has always been one of his favorite thing to do, and dare he say in the past two years, he’s gotten quite good at pushing her buttons. Now he’s got new ones to figure out and play with, the thoughts has him pulsing in his jeans.

Y/n doesn’t relent in her advances, she’s never been one to bow at his mockery, "thought you like how bossy I could be. Something about the way I put you in your place, if my memory serves right."

"Anytime, anywhere, you’re the boss of me, love. But this," he cups at her cunt, adding pressure on her clit, "this is mine to have. Understood?"

Y/n’s about to combust from all the desire firing up every one of her nerve-endings. His words might be the strongest aphrodisiac she’s ever experienced, she can’t wait to see what more tricks in has up his sleeves. "Now get up and show me the way to your room, pet," he softly commands before leaving a peck on her cheek.

They both get up from the couch, and y/n guides them both down the hallway to her room, her hand wrapped in his tightly. Once they’re standing by the bed, Harry is surprised to face a patient y/n, biting her lips and awaiting his next directive. He doesn’t think he’s ever been more turned on in his life, "undress me, love" he murmurs against her skin after kissing her forehead.

His jeans are quickly discarded but before his boxer briefs follow suit, y/n can’t help but tease him in reprisal, "looks like I’m not the only one who made a mess in their panties."

He lets out a boisterous laugh while she smears open mouth kisses along his stretching jaw, "mmm, I’d rather make a mess somewhere else," his innuendo causing her to gasp while he works the strap of her bra. Once she’s gotten rid of his last piece of clothing, his cock springs up, free of it’s confines, dollop of pre-come already pearling at his tip, and sticking to the skin of his stomach.

With a gentle grip at her hair, he has y/n’s head tilted backward, to let his mouth make its way towards her already pebbled nipples. Since she can’t look down, y/n blindly reaches out to wrap her hand around Harry’s thick shaft and starts massaging him in languid strokes. "Your hand feels so fuckin’ good around me, pet, I wanna fuck you so badly," he hisses around her nipple, before kissing his way back up to her lips.

He starts backing her towards the bed in small steps, but she brings a hand to his chest at the feeling of the edge of the mattress brushing against the back of her knee, "wait, wait, wanna taste you first," she insists and Harry doesn’t think he could ever say no to that face, no matter how much he wants to just sink home inside of her in this moment.

"Fuck, you’re killin’ me, love," he pinches at her waist and lays his forehead against hers, "you want my cock in your pretty mouth, before I drive it home in your cunt, is that it?" She nods, eyes turning into two lustful fireballs. "Okay, love, but y’ can’t keep it on your tongue fo’ too long, cause I really need to fuck you, alright?"

Y/n hastens to lower herself when he bids her "right then, on your knees and open wide fo’ me," and her brows furrow in confusion as she watches him stray from her spot. Picking up a plush cushion from her bed, he places it on the ground for her to knee upon, "there love, want you to be comfortable," he runs his fingers through her hair, and her heart grows three sizes bigger at how tender he can be in amidst his filthy ways.

Sensually, y/n brings her lips around the crown of his cock, her tongue teasing its way across the salty skin. Once she’s licked up all the previous mess, she starts working her way down his cock, hand stroking at the base. After bopping up and down a few time, she removes her month from his swelling cock, and lets a string of spit fall down onto its head and make its way to his balls. "S’right, pet. Get me wet," Harry rasps in appreciation. Now that she’s got him properly slicked, she goes back to pumping his hardening cock and takes him into her warm inviting mouth, determined to have him all the way inside. She feels her throat expands to accommodate his thickness, and the pressure makes Harry tighten his hold in her hair, "fuck, that’s it, love. Take me good."

Muscles already tensing up in preparation for his climax, when y/n’s hand finds his full and swollen balls to roll them together like dice, he is quick to calm her zeal, "Christ pet, you gotta stop before I can’t help myself," but his tone hardens when she defies his demand, "come on now, s’enough."

Once she pulls off, the sight of her flushed face and puffy lips induces an animalistic groan to come out from his chest, as he thumbs through the wetness coating her chin. Taking the hand resting on his hip to guide her up, he captures her lips in a searing kiss, the taste of his arousal blending in their mouths.

His hands come down to knead at the flash of her ass, before he scoops her up and on the bed with a quick flex of his biceps. "Harry, please," she whines in impatience, hands gripping at his sides to pull him down against her. His rock hard cock slides against her clothed pussy, pins and needles cruising along their skin and only fueling their eagerness.

"Need me in your belly, pet?" Harry keeps working her up, as he slides her soiled panties down her legs, "need me to fuck you so good, you forget I was ever a jerk?"

She’s putty in his hold, legs wrapping around his waist to feel the pressure of his member on her bare lips , "yes, yes, I wan’ it," she pleads.

Harry would love to tease her further, have her writhing and proper begging underneath him, but at this point it would be self-torture to even consider. Instead he pumps at his shaft to give himself some relief, their sex so close his knuckles graze at her clit every time his fist comes at the top. "You ready?" Harry utters softly while spreading and skimming her cleft with the head of his cock. It has y/n gripping at his hair, a series of delirious ‘yes’ tumbling form her mouth, so he doesn’t wait a second more to push his tip past her threshold and begins his descent in her warmth. "Fuck, t’feels so good. So wet, and tight, and warm," he thinks out loud once he’s stuffer her full, balls pressing against her ass.

Y/n whimpers against his lips, urging him to start moving to quell the building pressure coiling in her belly. A slow roll of his hips finally gives her reprieve causing her to moan in gratitude. She’s already so close, it baffles her how this man could have her coming apart at the seams without doing much. His thrusts starts gaining zeal then, betraying his own yearning to take the final leap. "So tight, love. Can feel you squeezin’ me, are you close already? Is my girl gonna cum fo’ me again?" he grunts in her ear while he pounds into her dripping cunt. Y/n doesn’t offer a response, too caught up in a daze of bliss, but her clenching muscles is all the answer he needs to start nudging his thumb at her clit. A several flicks across the sensitive bud later, her orgasm is pulsing through every bone and fiber of her body, walls hugging Harry’s cock so tight, it has to pause his hammering.

Waiting for her to catch her breath, he peppers delicate kisses along her cheek, "was that good, love? Think you can give me another, uhm?" he asks when she’s regained some of her senses. The pressure at his groin is growing more and more the longer his cock remains unmoving entombed within her vice, and the luscious agony must be written all over his face, "yes, Harry, wanna be good for you" y/n cups his jaw tenderly.

He nods at her approval, "good girl," delivers a sweet earnest kiss to her pouty lips as he pulls out and spins her around to lay on her stomach. His hand brushes the hair off her skin so he can sew a string of kisses at her shoulder blades and neck. Painfully red, his cock is propped between her buttcheeks, "can I take you like that?" he punctuates his inquiry by rolling his hips backward, tip lingering at her soaked entrance. Y/n clutches the sheets firmly, as she murmurs a faint ‘please’, back arching at the thrills consuming her mind.

Harry plunges in her wet core in one smooth swing, hand digging at her hip to keep her steady as the other one interlaces with hers to lay on the mattress above her head. Unforgiving lunges have y/n cinch around him, face buried in the sheets and muffling salacious wails of pleasure, and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to steer from his end for much longer. He slows his cadence to steady and firm strokes, slipping a hand around her waist to polish her swell.

A million tremors spark off the onset of Y/n’s climax as she shudders in a firework of ecstasy. Harry doesn’t relent until he’s worked her through completion and can no longer stop the coil in his loins from snapping. His release fills her in several spurts of wet warmth before he flops down next to her, positively fucked out.

They both lay unmoving in comfortable bliss for a few minutes, before y/n plops her head on his chest and an arm around his torso, her leg sneaking in between his. "Well, here goes two years of sexual tension," Harry says jokingly, fingers drawing abstracts design on the skin of her back. It might just be his favorite canvas to paint on from now, he muses before chastising himself at the onslaught of filthy thoughts tagging along. A playful slap on his abdomen takes his mind out of the gutter, "don’t ruin the moment," y/n says in fake admonition before placing a tender kiss on the spot she just abused.

"M’sorry, love. M’just really chuffed to be in your bed finally," the last word reminding her that while she’s struggled to come to term with her feelings for him, ransacking her mind for a possible change of heart, he’d only seen her in but one light. The revelation still has her floored and giddy, "can I ask you something?" she asks as there was still one question pacing back and forth the pathways of her mind. Harry hums in acquiescence, "anythin’ love, by brain is yours."

She feels his hand cradling her skull followed by a small peck to her forehead, and she smiles at the gesture, "why did you stay away that night at the exhibition when you got the prize? Why not coming forward?" It’s been bugging her brain since it happened. Although she didn’t have much insight on anything at the time, most of the pieces of the puzzle fell in place after the big reveal; but this, she still can’t make sense of.

Harry lets out a long breath, organizing his thoughts, "two reasons," he starts off tiredly. "One, I kinda like having this secret business going on, and like, as long as nobody knows, I am in control of how and when it happens, you know? And the moment I let go of that, I can’t go back." He searches her face for any hint of confusion but she’s just patiently listening. "Two, when we bumped into each other at the gala, I got convinced you’d never see me differently regardless of how good a painter I was; and that had become a big part of who El Patrón was."

It’s the first time she hears his alter ego’s name from his mouth and with how flowingly natural it sounded coming out of his lips, y/n suspects that it’d been a conscious decision on his part. She recalls their interaction that night, the way they fell in their usual ways of ping-ponging vindictive words until one of them has enough and leaves the premises (usually y/n). A lump starts forming in her throat at the recollection of all the other fights they’ve had and how they’d all been pointless wastes of time and energy, now that she knows she is meant to be in his arms. She wishes things could have been different but the warmth of his body around her overweighs her regrets. They’re here now, looking bright toward the future, and it’s all that matters.

"I’ll keep your secret if you want, be the Lilly to your Hannah Montana," she tells him lightly before they both laugh at the silly reference.

Happiness and glee has Harry tightening his hold around her shoulder, "nah, I don’t wanna play double-agents anymore. I wanna be the guy who gets the girl." He dips his head to catch her lips between his own, reveling in their newfound intimacy. Turning her face against his chest, Y/n impresses her bashful smile on his swallow-tattooed skin, before she lays a trail of pecks tickling the area underneath his armpits, "well, you got me now."

➪ Masterlist

#harry styles one shot #harry styles fic #harry styles imagine #Harry fic #enemies to lovers #angst #so much angst #smut #I didn't think I could be this filthy lol #uni au #artstudent!harry #art #harry fanfic #harry styles writing #reader insert #harry styles au

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razieltwelve · 2 years

Text

Is It Wrong To Save A Dungeon (Final Rose x Danmachi)

Bell lined up with all the others, eager for his chance to join the Hestia Familia. Who wouldn’t be? They might not be the largest Familia due to their stringent application requirements, but they were, according to the rumours he’d heard, one of the strongest.

A lot of that was attributed to their captain. No one knew exactly where Hestia had found her, but she had been the first member of the Hestia Familia and had rapidly made a name for herself by essentially slaughtering her way through the dungeon like some kind of legendary hero. Even as a mere Level 1, she had supposedly been able to hold her own against some of the strongest adventurers in the city.

She had been accused of somehow cheating the system, even if that was supposed to be impossible. She had answered such insults by challenging those involved and had promptly left a trail of carnage and devastation in her wake so large that her rampage had only been stopped when Hestia herself had begged her to show mercy.

Since that day, Hestia Familia had grown as the goddess and her captain had slowly but steadily added members. It was said that mere strength was not enough. They were interested in other qualities although what those qualities were, they wouldn’t say.

However, Bell was glad. He wasn’t strong or famous or anything like that. He had been rejected by Familia after Familia, all of them claiming he was useless and weak. If strength wasn’t the only thing that mattered, then perhaps he could finally join a Familia.

X X X

Averia ignored the goddess who had, once again, decided to cling onto her like some kind of barnacle. She had no idea how or why she’d been reborn into another world, but she was glad that she’d met Hestia, for all that the goddess was, to put it charitably, eccentric.

Beneath all of the bluster, short-temper, and childishness, Hestia had a good soul. She loved fiercely and wholly, and unlike some of the other gods, she cared for each of the members of their Familia as if they were the most precious treasures in the whole world.

Perhaps, it wasn’t surprising. She had been Hestia’s first follower, and she had seen the conditions Hestia lived in. Setting aside how amusing it was to see a goddess, of all people, working at a food stall, she refused to let the person who’d taken her in and helped her with no thought of reward continue to live like that.

Thankfully, she hadn’t arrived in this new world bereft of power. She had yet to fully unlock it, but Saviour had made the trip with her. Just a sliver of the Semblance’s might had allowed her to slaughter her way through the dungeon with comical ease.

Alas, levelling had proven to be somewhat difficult. It seemed as though the levelling system at least partially took into account the deeds she’d accomplished in her previous life. She wasn’t a boastful person, but she would readily state that she had become a truly legendary hero in her past life, someone whose deeds would resound throughout history.

Compared to the Grimm she’d faced, the monsters of the dungeon were less than nothing. It had taken her almost two years to go from Level 1 to Level 2, and she’d lost track of how many monsters she’d killed to get there. Nobody could believe that a mere Level 1 or Level 2 could be as strong as she was, so they’d accused her of cheating the system.

Rather than let the insult spread, she’d decided to just crush the people involved. She might, admittedly, have gone a little overboard after they’d threatened Hestia - a mistake no one had ever repeated - but the results spoke for themselves. People kept their insults to themselves, and applicants flocked to join their Familia.

Naturally, Hestia had wanted to accept as many of them as she could. The goddess had a kind heart. But Averia knew better. She had insisted on a stringent screening procedure to ensure that only those whose loyalty could be trusted and who would never betray the Familia were allowed to join. Strength was important, but it meant little if it would eventually be turned against them.

As a result, their Familia was smaller than it could be, but it still had enough members to matter. Moreover, Averia had taken to training them personally, putting them through absolute hell to ensure that even their Level 1s could handle themselves. Once she’d worked out how the system operated, she had also taken to ‘power levelling’ those who were capable of advancing. With her at their side, it was possible for them to enter the dungeon without worrying about being killed, and they were able to push themselves far harder and far more often than members of other Familia.

As more of their members levelled, she made sure to impress upon them the importance of continuing her approach. Progress was to be carefully thought out with an emphasis placed on solid foundations followed by targeted growth. It had paid off in spades with the rest of the Familia falling into line as they witnessed firsthand the success of her strategy with the members of their Familia levelled more quickly than others.

Today, however, they were taking more applicants although the current bunch were nothing special. It wasn’t that they were bad, but they lacked the traits she was looking for.

“Why haven’t you approved any of the applicants yet?” Hestia whined. “You said we were going to add more people! We had another two members reach Level 3 last week! We can handle some more members now!”

“Garbage in means garbage out,” Averia drawled, as some of the other members of the guild bit back laughter. Hestia was clingy to everyone, but she seemed to take particular delight in clinging onto Averia. Luckily, Averia was used to that sort of behaviour. She’d spent a lifetime dealing with it. “There’s no point accepting more people if they don’t meet our standards.”

“But we’ve looked at so many today, and you still haven’t picked anyone!” Hestia huffed. “Are you just really grumpy today?”

Averia glared. “What was that?”

“Uh...” Hestia laughed nervously. “Forget I said anything.”

Averia sighed and patted Hestia on the head. “Look, I’m being careful because I know from experience how much damage even one bad apple can do. I want to be sure that if anything were to ever happen to me that the Familia would be fine, that you’d be taken care of.”

“Nothing is going to happen to you,” Hestia insisted. “You promised me.”

Averia had. Back when it had been only the two of them sleeping in that rundown church, Hestia had begged her to never leave her. It had been one of the few times the goddess had shown how vulnerable she was. Averia had promised, and she was not in the habit of breaking her promises. “I did.”

“Good. You better not forget it.”

“Anyway,” Averia said. “I think we’ve got one more applicant for today.”

Her second-in-command, a Renard named Tomoe, nodded. “Yes. The rest have already left.” She glanced out the window. “It is already night, and it’s quite cold outside. Given how we haven’t accepted anybody yet, I think they got discouraged and gave up. Was that your intention, captain?”

Averia shook her head. “No, although it does serve our purposes. Show in the last applicant.”

The last applicant was not impressive in appearance. The boy, Bell was his name, was scrawny and not particularly inspiring in his demeanour either. He appeared to lack confidence, and when he spoke, it was easy to see the desperation in his gaze. He had been rejected by every Familia had applied to, and they were his last hope.

It would have been easy to reject him too, but her instincts told her there might be more to him. First and foremost, she understood what sort of person he was fairly easily. If they took him in and treated him as their comrade, he would rather die than betray them. As someone who had nothing, he would fight to the death to protect those who had given him a place to belong. That alone made him a possible candidate in her eyes. Loyalty of that level was valuable in and of itself and even if he never advanced beyond Level 1, he would still be useful.

Yet her instincts also told her that there was more to him. It was an instinct she’d developed in her previous life, an ability, separate from Saviour and the result of her experiences, that let her sense someone’s potential. And Bell’s potential was very high indeed. Curious, she called on Saviour and looked at him.

What she saw made her lips curl. Very interesting.

“That will be enough,” Averia said, cutting off Bell as he continued to stammer out an answer to the hypothetical scenario she’d given him. His answer had been lacklustre - a result of his youth and inexperience - but she’d been more interested in keeping him occupied, so she could gauge his demeanour and character.

“Um...” Bell cringed. “Can you ask me another question? I’ll do better!”

Averia stood. “There’s no need for another question.”

“Oh.” Bell turned. “I... thank you for allowing me to apply.”

“Did I say you were being rejected?” Averia asked. The boy froze mid-stride and then turned back to face her.

“What? I mean... are you saying that... that...?”

Averia extended one hand. “Welcome to Hestia Familia, Bell.”

The boy scrambled forward to clasp her hand. “Thank you so much!” He bowed so low that his head almost hit the table she and Hestia had been sitting at. “I promise, I won't let you down!”

“I know you won’t.” Averia gave Hestia a quick look. She could tell how curious the goddess was, but they’d have to leave the discussion for later. “We’ll have a room prepared for you at our head quarters. Do you have things you need to get?”

“I... uh. Yes!” Bell nodded again before realising that he was still holding her hand. He made a squeaking sound and let go. “I can bring them over right away!”

“Really, Averia, you need to stop calling it our headquarters,” Hestia said. She smiled warmly at Bell. “That makes it sound scary. It’s actually more of a Familia Compound where all of us live. There’s enough of us now that we can’t all live in one house, but I didn’t want us to get separated, so we bought a bunch of houses, did some construction, and have our own mini-district.”

“That’s so cool,” Bell gushed. “And I get to live there?”

“Yes.” Averia nodded. “You’ll be staying with some of the other Level 1s for a while, at least until we can get you sorted into a squad, but after that you’ll be living with your squad. We’ve found it works out better than just having people live on their own.”

“Right!”

“Get your stuff and come back here tomorrow morning. You can come at dawn if you like, but there will be people here throughout the day. You’ll be expected.”

“I’ll be there.” Bell seemed to be blinking back tears. “Thank you for accepting me.”

Hestia smiled again. “We don’t accept many people, so if Averia wanted you to join us, I’m sure you’ll do great.”

X X X

Author’s Notes

The danmachi world should consider it lucky that it was Averia who showed up. Imagine if Victoria made the trip? She’d be ruling the whole world in a matter of years, maybe less.

#final rose #danmachi #fanfiction #averia yun farron #hestia #bell cranel

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cloud-9ine · 3 years

Text

Roses are pretty cliché, don’t you think? (pt 2)

⤷ pairing - bakugo katsuki x (fem) reader

⤷ fandom - bnha

⤷ warnings - swearing, very slight angst

⤷ summary - bakugo was already out of his element when he went to buy flowers; so he didn’t take kindly to you criticising his preference for roses

⤷ word count - 2.5k +

⤷ pt 1, pt 2

“I’m sorry.”

Her side of the bed was cold when Bakugo woke up. The sheets were neatly tucked in, and the pillow fluffed up as if she had never in slept in it at all. He could only stare at the empty space for a long moment before forcing himself to move and get out of bed. A vase sat on the windowsill, curtains already opened. The tulips had begun to droop, and the carnation petals- previously a stark white- had begun to turn black.

Bakugo’s eyebrows furrowed. He had only given them to Ochako a couple of days prior, certainly not enough time for them to be in such a state already. With a weary frown, he stripped off the sheets, inspecting them a bit more closely. Alas, he knew nothing about flowers, and couldn’t ascertain whether this was normal or not.

Not wanting to expend more energy on tulips and carnations, he stepped out the bedroom, quickly locking on the smell of freshly roasted coffee. Ochako was stood by the pot, seemingly motionless. There was a faraway look in her eyes, as if she was still half asleep, despite the fact it was obvious she had been awake for much longer. Bakugo froze himself upon the sight of her, itching to reach out yet realising that it wouldn’t help.

With a shallow gulp, he took a cautious step forward, gaze tracing her face for any indication she had heard him. If she had, she was doing an excellent job in hiding it. Another step. This time, Ochako flinched, eyes darting towards him. Bakugo could feel his pulse skyrocket as her lips parted before closing again, her eyelashes fluttering.

Ochako was not one to be quelled with tulips and carnations.

Her eyes were dark, lips pursed as she swept past him, coffee left on the counter. Bakugo didn’t need to turn around to know that she had left. With a heaving sigh, he ran a hand over his weary features, fixing himself a cup of coffee which he sipped, more to occupy himself with something rather than a genuine desire for the drink.

Denki’s party was today. Ironically, it was the anniversary of his and Kyoka’s marriage, which only served to form a pit in Bakugo’s stomach. Idly tapping the ceramic, he silently pondered if it was too late to cancel. He cringed, rationalising his thoughts. Denki was one of his closest friends, having stuck with him through him being an asshole for most of his youth, and he wasn’t planning on forsaking that relationship now.

Now, leant back against the cream walls in the corner of Denki’s living room, observing the carnage that was occurring he beginning to he almost wished he had. The bright blue lights and loud music was doing nothing for his headache, but he wasn’t about to leave before anything had really started.

Although they had arrived together, Ochako had left his side the moment they walked through the doors. He hadn’t seen her since, with exception of a few glimpses of her chatting with Asui and Momo in another room. He contemplated trying to talk, but it wasn’t the time nor place to start a confrontation.

Every once in a while Denki would appear- already hammered- thank him each time for showing up (which begged the question as to whether he was just that drunk, or if Bakugo was so unreliable that just seeing that he had stayed for more than 10 minutes was enough of a shocker) and hand him a drink. He had gotten about three beers this way, without even having to move from his corner.

Kirishima, Midoriya, and a few others had attempted to talk to him, but none of them had been particularly successful to withstand him relentlessly brushing them off after every sentence. After a while, they stopped trying.

Bakugo wasn’t going to act as if he wasn’t at least a little self-destructive.

He knew pushing away his friends, self-containing his pity into his own isolation was the perfect recipe to spiral, but he couldn’t seem to care. His mind would go blank on occasion, like now. He couldn’t move his eyes, staring at a singular point in the room. Bakugo wasn’t much of a drinker, but he couldn’t blame this on the alcohol.

The noise around his dissolved into a low static, ringing around in his head like firecrackers. Colours became bleak, and the faces of his friends blurred, the lines between them and the background becoming worryingly hard to differentiate.

For a moment, he thought he was dying.

“Fancy seeing you again,” The colours regained vibrancy and the faces snapped back into focus, the static fading away in favour of your voice, “you come here often?” You were teasing, he knew it, but he still couldn’t formulate a response. There was a beat of silence after your words, Bakugo’s eyes tracing your face as if he wasn’t quite sure you were real or not.

“Should’ve known you’d appear,” he settled on after a minute. He bit back a groan at his brash greeting, but it didn’t seem like you cared.

“Yep. There’s no reason I wouldn’t, after all,” You looked down at your nails, picking at your nail polish before glancing back up at the blonde, “beer? Really?” Bakugo frowned, looking down at his drink and swirling it around in his cup.

“Yeah? So what?” You hummed, taking a sip from your own beverage. It was an electric blue colour, glowing surreally in the low pink light Kyoka had settled on a couple of minutes earlier.

“It’s just a little cliché, isn’t it?” You grinned smugly at his groan, covering your mouth with the glass.

“Do you ever get tired of that bit?” He questioned, glare thinly veiled under a mocking questioning look. You shook your head.

“Not really. Do you ever get tired of being a basic bitch?” Despite everything, Bakugo chuckled, his chest lightening.

“I suppose. What would you suggest, then?” He took the bait, crooked smile gracing his lips as your eyes sparkled.

“Follow me.” With little reluctance, he trailed after you as you darted around the others that were in attendance, once in a while stopping to greet someone or another, before glancing behind to check he was still following and continuing on. He was a little shocked at the amount of people you knew, but figured as a close friend of Denki’s you would probably be accustomed to them by extension.

Out of the corner, Bakugo felt weirdly exposed. Logically, he knew that no-one was looking at him- or at least, for no longer than a passing glance sent in his direction, but his mind was playing tricks on him. There was a large population of the party that he didn’t recognise- heroes that Denki had met and befriended throughout their years in the field. It was unnerving to be in a house with who were essentially just strangers with the exception of about 10 or 20.

He knew had hadn’t exactly made the effort to keep contact with the new people he met during his time as a hero, so it wasn’t a surprise the only people he could really call friends were the ones who he had met during school, but god did this make it so obvious. Hell, even you knew more people here than he did.

Bakugo wasn’t sure at what point he became so lonely, when did he start isolating himself in this way? He glanced around. The fuzziness was beginning to blur the sides of their faces again.

“Hurry up, the night is young, but I’m not gonna be at the rate you’re going!” You yelled over the music, and Bakugo was brought back to the present. Right, he was following you. You were going to get him a great drink, and hopefully it would be strong enough for him to forget himself for at least a few hours.

In all honesty, your voice was a good anchor. He picked up on the fact this was the most animated he had heard you talk, and maybe it should have been some sort of warning that it came with the topic of becoming intoxicated, but Bakugo decided to gloss over it.

“So? What’s the drink of yours?” Bakugo asked once the two of you had arrived at the home bar he distinctly remembered helping Kyoka install for Denki’s birthday a few years back. The lights had faded to blue at this end of the room, the coolness easing the throb in his head only slightly. You slipped around the back of the counter, appearing at the other side with an easy grin on your face. For a startling second, Bakugo was brought back to you in your store, the air of professionalism you held in your disposition hard to ignore.

“Give me a minute.” You called over your shoulder, back facing him as you rummaged around in Denki’s alcohol cupboards. You re-emerged with several bottles in hand, drinks he hadn’t even heard of. With the trained practice of someone of skill, you mixed the drinks together, and Bakugo could only watch your hands move, colours swirling in a mix of pinks, greens, yellows and reds.

Mixing drinks. Add that to the list of things you could do that he couldn’t.

Tapping salt around the rim and sliding a lime slice onto the side for a finishing touch, you pushed the drink before him, the same self-satisfied smirk on your face. He squinted at your creation. It was a starling pink, almost unnaturally so, with a weird gleam of sparkles flowing around the liquid. He glanced up towards you in distrust, down at the drink, then once more at you. You merely levelled him with a composed stare, eyebrows raised expectantly. With an unconcerned shrug, and a sudden indifference to his own bodily autonomy, Bakugo knocked back the drink, taking a few large gulps before setting it back on the counter.

It didn’t burn as it ran down his throat as he expected (and half-wished for, to take the edge off). Rather, it had a bursting sweet flavour, spreading out a warmth in his chest the moment he swallowed. The buzz was immediate, dulling his senses and causing a pink haze the cover his vision.

“So?” You asked, seemingly satisfied as you watched him scan the room with an awe that he couldn’t hide.

“It’s… not like a beer.” You laughed, and Bakugo turned to look at you. Your face, clear as day to see, was silhouetted with purple, the lights mingling to soften your features with an unexpected gentleness.

“That’s sort of the whole point.” The two of you took a sip. He could feel a flush growing on his cheeks, the alcohol beginning to kick in much earlier than he would have liked. The numbness that was beginning to take over wasn’t a particularly unwelcome feeling, however, and Bakugo was for once grateful for his light-weightiness.

“How’s your lady-friend?” You were leaning on the counter, fixing Bakugo with an even stare. He sighed, sobering up slightly at the thought of Ochako.

“Not good. Those flowers I got from you barely survived two days, by the way,” he grumbled, the slight growl in his voice making you purse your lips.

“That’s not good.” You mumbled, taking another sip from your drink. Seeing you, Bakugo did the same, taking a few large gulps that made his thoughts hazy before slamming the glass back down. Wordlessly, you began fixing him a drink, deep in thought.

“Yeah, I know it’s not good! What kinda flowers die in two days?” He barked, cheeks going slightly pink. You shook your head, gesturing to something across the room that Bakugo had to squint to realise what it was.

Irises and magnolias.

Kyoka’s bouquet. One you had made in advance, older than his by at least half a week. It was perfectly alive, purples and yellows glowing almost brighter than the first time he had seen them.

“Hah?” He gaped. You shook your head again, displeasure written on your face.

“There’s a reason my shop is so popular, you know,” you spoke, drawing his attention back to you. Another pink, untouched drink lay in front of him, and he took a nervous swig of it. The taste wasn’t nearly as sweet the first time, but he just pinned that down to having an idea of the taste.

“Why?” He responded, feeling something more serious weigh on his mind.

“It’s my quirk. Anything I cultivate- like flowers- adapts to its environment.” He tilted his head, and you sighed, evident that he wasn’t getting it.

“It takes in the atmosphere. For example, you bring a bouquet of flowers home to a house of love, affection, and- above all- happiness, it will reflect that. Never dying. Looking even better than when you got it. On the other hand, if you bring flowers home to a house of regret, hate and sadness…” you bit your lip, looking away from the stricken expression on Bakugo’s face. His breath hitched in his throat.

“Don’t say it.” He gulped, “Please.” With a sad sigh, you crossed your arms.

“They’ll die.”

Bakugo’s drink suddenly tasted very sour.

“I gotta go.” He mumbled, patting down his jacket for his keys. The barstool screeched against the ground as he stood up, protesting against the sudden movement. You sighed; bringing his drink back into the mixer and combining it with yours before pouring it back out. He almost stopped to admire the purple shine.

“Where are you gonna go?” You asked, voice veiled by a monotone that he recognised as some sort of weird disillusionment you used to hide whatever you were feeling.

“Anywhere.” He growled, rifling through the pockets of his pants. You rolled your eyes.

“Ochako has your keys.” He did stop this time, shoulders slumping down in realisation. You frowned, “I saw her with them earlier, if it helps any.” There was a momentary silence, and despite the music, all Bakugo could hear was a ringing in his ears.

“Sit down.” It should’ve been a question, but your tone suggested anything but. With a sullen resignation, Bakugo did as you said, slipping back into his chair. You pushed the glass towards him, offering the purple concoction with a look of pity in your eyes.

Without a question, Bakugo gulped the drink. It was a weird mix of a coolness that washed down his throat and a fiery heat that bloomed in his chest, a burn in his lungs that he recognised from breathing in air far too cold. He didn’t bother to ask you what it did, but he could feel his muscles relaxing, grip around the glass loosening.

“Thanks.” He muttered. You waved a hand, moving back out from behind the counter and patting him on the shoulder.

“No problem. Let me make you feel better for a while. It’s the least I can do.”

Under the purple lights, he could only nod.