#would she have changed her strong nose if not for beauty culture? who knows because that isn't the world we're living in rn | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

angelisverba · 3 years

Text

thinkin’ bout you

in which harry owns a flower shop and has a major crush on a girl who comes in to buy flowers every once in a while (and he’s too shy to ask for her number)

word count: 17.3k

paring: florist!h and y/n

warnings: just some pinning and lustful yearning. m for mature...

author’s note: i’ve been working on this forever. not to pick fav’s but i think florist!h comes second to sl23... hes just so.......well, you’ll see!!

* * * * * *

When Harry was given the option to go on a playdate with his car-loving and dirty-nailed schoolmates or spending the weekend at his nan’s house, he would often pick the latter.

He preferred to spend his afternoons frolicking with her Siamese kitty in her wild-flower filled garden, sunbathing in the open grass, or napping on a quilted blanket under the large, round oak tree, with the kitty nestled into his tummy, keeping him warm. When he woke in the arms of his nan as she carried him inside the house for a glass of cool lemonade, he bore a band of pink sunburn over his button nose, and the blue and white striped Mickey shirt was sticking to the areas where his furry friend had provided an extra heat.

So, it was safe to say that from the start, Harry’s tastes weren’t what could be considered ‘average’ or ‘normal’ or ‘straight’ for a heterosexual male of his age in current society.

Not that he ever valued those opinions, but their impressions rang in the back of his loving head when the women who he brought to the comfort of his home made hurtful ‘joking’ comments on how ‘peculiar’ his choice of decor was or giving him prolonged strange looks before shaking their heads and yanking their clothes off so that they landed in a forgotten heap in some unimportant corner of his room.

Granted, he still got a good shag, but it wasn’t enough to fulfill his desires regarding any actions associated with relationships. He wanted someone warm and soft and kind. Someone who wouldn’t judge his home, his music choices, his clothing, or anything else about him. A girlfriend, not a fuck.

Long ago, he’d stopped caring about what others said about him. Adopting this mindset had given him some of the happiest and healthiest moments of his life (albeit occasionally, doubts merged with the ghastly shadows of his loneliness). Business at his flower shop increased as his charm increased with positivity, and a new life within him bloomed like a baby rose bud when he accepted that being single was okay. The ribbons of his bouquets bouncing with an added umf and the mist that landed on his skin when he changed the water in the flower buckets only enhanced the golden hue of his skin.

Harry even took to renovating his home a bit.

Coincidentally, his apartment was located on the floor above his flower stop, and contained a significant amount of singular flowers in vases or bouquets in empty corners to prove it. An array of pastel colors smeared on the once blank walls. Bambi pink in his bedroom, sage green in his kitchen, and a French blue in his living room. The couch was a suede papaya three-seater with black and white checkered pillows, and the coffee table was an emerald-tiled piece standing on top of a geometric lavender carpet, a soft contrast against the dark oak of his floorboards. Harry’s taste in pop-culture, art, and literature was displayed on the frames hanging off his walls. Pictures and posters of his favorite pieces like Matisse’s Blue Nudes and Goldfish and The Dance II. An enhanced, enlarged photo of maraschino cherries and a raven haired pin-up girl. Another glass table by the end of the couch held a silver candlestick and a small statue.

Sometimes, the miniature Greek statue he bought at a thrift store of a man with his nakedness pure and unobscured to the viewers' eyes made his dick bloat against the seams of his pants. If he stared at it for too long, his eyes drawn to the softened cock between thighs that looked so flesh-like even though it was carved out of some clay or ceramic material, his mind would travel to sensual, honey-red places that he hadn’t been in so long. Harry’s imagination explored- as cheesy as it sounds- the sexual aspects of the male genitalia, and therefore his own sexual expeditions and how much he missed giving or receiving a good fuck. More often than not, he ended up with himself in his fist, forehead sparkling with perspiration under the candle lights in his room as his thighs and abdomen clenched with every buck of his yearning hips.

The doorknob of his room was in the shape of an eye, the iris colored a brilliant blue. His king bed- no, frame, just a minimalist white base, pushed up against the wall with two tables on either side, both of them loaded articulately with vintage trinkets and ceramic ring trays shaped like seashells to hold his jewelry. His bedsheets were a stylish combination of pastel colors; lilac comforter, mint and sky pillows. Previously, they had been snow white sheets with strawberry print, but a woman he brought over said they looked like the sheets her five-year-old niece had.

He changed them the week after that.

On the windowsill, a pot in the shape of a white, blue-eyed kitty with vines of string of hearts kissing the floor. A mirror in the shape of a heart with a pink trim besides the lightswitch, above his brown dresser. In the corner, a bookshelf stuffed with books that spilled over the seams, and perpendicular to it, the home of his pet chameleon, Owen (he wanted a cat, but when he went to the pet store and saw the dehydrated creature, he couldn’t leave him there). A 16 x 16 x 30 inch tank filled with a branch that cut across halfway. It was full of all the things he might need, maybe even too much of it, but it didn’t matter because when Harry was home Owen spent most of his time hanging off the collars of his shirts or snuggled in the ruffles of his hooded sweatshirt on his shoulder. The small, color changing friend adored his owner, and only morphed into a mild red color when Harry didn’t feed him more mango.

The renovations occurred in his bathroom; a cherry-red covering the walls because it looked boring before (at least in his opinion). The gold piping of the sink accentuated nicely with the darker color, and the sun seemed brighter when it streamed in through the window above his ceramic claw-footed tub. Owen particularly liked the misty showerhead stall in the corner, and as long as he kept his eyes to himself, Harry didn’t mind it if his green friend wrapped around the showerhead and enjoyed the mimicked tropical atmosphere.

For awhile now, it had been just him and his chameleon (and maybe his mum’s cat if she was going out of town and needed a sitter) but he didn’t mind it.

He got to meet new people everyday within the parameters of H’s Garden, and they all tended to overshare when it came to buying a bouquet. ‘My wife just had our son, want to see a picture?’ or ‘my boyfriend and I have our anniversary on Saturday’ and even ‘my sister had plastic surgery so me and my dad need something that says ‘congrats you look like Kim Kardashain now’ how ‘bout it?’

Stories ranged from sweet, to grotesque, to sad, to funny, and sometimes even evil- Harry didn’t like customers that gave flowers as a ‘fuck you’. He thought it was a waste of beauty and sacrifice. Flowers were living things that had their lives cut short in order to provide momentary satisfaction and life long memories to the receiver, not bitter feelings of revenge. Although it was still business, it pained him that such a pretty arrangement be misused. It was one of the cons of his work. He created what he considered to be masterpieces, and had no control over where they would end up, whether it be as a centerpiece for a candlelit dinner, or in the trash after the apology for a strong argument hadn’t been enough.

However, Harry couldn’t deny that he didn’t love his job, because he did.

When he turned 16, he’d determined that he wanted a peaceful life with a job that wouldn’t bore him. He wanted to be as stress free as possible, with his spirituality as a prominent highlight in his lifestyle. When he turned 18, he had determined that he wanted to be a florist, and began to save up to open his own shop with the occasional help of his friends and sister. He refused to take anything from his mother because he wanted to be the one giving her gifts and money and everything good after all of her sacrifices in raising him. Call him a momma’s boy. Harry loved his mother.

Online seminars and college classes became his best friend, teaching him everything he needed to know about accounting, stocks, and how to keep his business going. He was a businessman first, florist second. During the slow seasons (the start of winter and an awkward half-week between summer and spring) he relied on his investments to triple-ensure that he had enough money to stay afloat.

On his 22nd birthday, as a gift to himself, he signed the lease to the building that housed all of the pretty plants in temporary buckets full of flower food and water, and hired a graphic designer to design the cursive, golden letters that spelled out the name of his shop above the front door.

Now, three years later, he lived as happy as can be.

And he wasn’t lonely anymore.

Well, if you wanted to be technical, his relationship status was still a checkmark over the box labeled ‘single’, but his heart couldn’t be fluttering any harder at the sight of one of his regular customers, and she was there, creeping around in his brain to keep him company.

She was the complete opposite of every girl he’d ever been with. She was sweet, kind, funny, and didn’t judge him for the way he dressed, or his profession. In fact, they bonded over things that previous women had… slyly berated him for. The color of his nails, the lace of his collar, the pattern of his flared pants, and even the sheep on his baby blue sweater vest.

She stole his heart the moment she walked through his door with a soft smile on her face, a sparkling gleam in her warm eyes, and placed it in her pocket the moment she said, “it smells lovely in here!”

Harry, awestruck and blushing because well, she was pretty and wore a shade of purple that somehow made her hair look so soft. Two strands of hair were pinned at the back of her head, essentially keeping the rest of it away from her face save for the few baby wisps that rested gently against her cheeks like a lover’s caress. The stuttering, stumbling cupid’s-bow-struck fool replied with, “thank you. It would be my pleasure to help you with anything you’d like,” and that had been his name, signed on the dotted line of a soul contract. Only she was not the devil. She was an angel.

But even then, it wouldn’t matter. If she was the devil, if she was an angel, something in between or something new entirely he wouldn’t care because he was half gone for her already.

“In that case,” she smiled, and Harry’s heart sang a melody it never had before. It was like the sun beamed from the spaces between her teeth and tickled the fuzzy spot beneath his earlobe. She had the most amazing voice, tranquil and clear and ethereal. “I just moved into a new apartment and wanted the place to feel like home. I thought maybe flowers would give it a little life.”

He vividly remembers that the color of her cheeks changed to that of what is called a ‘blush’, but he didn’t know if it was a trick under the light, or a product of his wistful imagination. Her fingers gently skimmed the petals of a rose from it’s bucket near her hip, and one of the straps of the tote bag on her shoulder disrespectfully dropped away from her shoulder. He wanted to simultaneously rush over and fix it for her, and yell at the inanimate object for not being grateful of the fact that it had the opportunity to cling to her shoulder.

But, before either of these inner-conflicts met a sound resolve, her delicate fingers righted what was once wrong, and Harry cleared his throat, embarrassed because he’d stared for a little too long. He wanted so badly to ask for her name and how she liked her eggs in the morning, but instead he said, “there’s nothing like a bit of something pretty to brighten your day. Did you have something specific in mind?”

He hoped that the meaning of his words wasn’t caught on her, or that would be totally embarrassing and ‘loser’-like.

When she walked out the door with a content smile on her lips, his own heart was beating faster than the flapping of a hummingbird’s tender wings. He was sure that he had never laid eyes on a pair of lips like hers, neither the feeling that blossomed in his chest at the thought that she might be smiling just for him to see and enjoy.

Of course, it was a silly crush. One that clawed and gripped onto his sweaty palms with no sign of letting go. Maybe, Harry thought, it was because he hadn’t wet his wick in so long, and the interaction he’d had with her had sparked irrational, poem-inspiring feelings within the love cavern of his ribs. Because how could he fall head over heels with someone he didn’t even know? Surely, the swarm of hormone-pumped butterflies in his stomach was the beginning of a dead-end infatuation.

Right?

Harry went that entire day, appalled at the apparent angel he had the fortune of being in the presence of in her short fall from the tender heavens. He wondered where she placed the flowers she bought (an arrangement he was particularly proud of, full of lilac, delicate stems of lavender, and puffs of baby’s breath wrapped with a white bow) and where that tiny extension of him was. At the entrance of her home, right below the place she rested her hand against as she tugged her shoes off? At the center of her table? Maybe besides her bed? Where she would see the purple petals and white of him as he wrapped it every time she woke up or went to bed? He hoped- as much as it was a romantic thought- that it wasn’t the last one. He’s been so awkward, so pink. A blush on his cheeks he hadn’t remembered being there since the time he yelped, startled, at the unexpected pain of a tattoo needle, the artist pointedly peeved. Acting like such a boy.

Right before crawling up the steps of his apartment, heart still bleeding with love-blood from the deadly tip of Cupid’s arrows, he made himself a mini version of the bouquet he’d made her, and placed it at the center of his tiled coffee table.

*********

A few days trickled by, and the memory of her face drifted in and out of his mind like a giant sway of fabric slowly billowing in the wind. He was just so… struck by a slab of awe, stunned by her kind of beauty. Natural, the kind that hooks you in it’s purity, like the golden beams streaming in through transparent curtains on a warm spring afternoon.

Her strawberry lips curved elegantly under her nose, and displayed a smile that leaked some sort of heady drug into the air because the air was sweet when he breathed it in. And when he handed the bundle of flowers over to her, the pads of her delicate fingers skimmed the rough ridges of his knuckles. He wondered immediately what kind of moisturizer she used, and if it smelled like honey or lavender or peaches. She smelled sweet. Sweeter than all of the flowers in his colorful soul shop put together. The colors that belong to her, on her person and worn by her, were more captivating than any of the tones that painted the petals on his plants.

Owen got a kick out of this whole ordeal, though. Harry’s passionate mood had him divulging in munching and nibbling on things that tasted the way he felt; ambrosial, fresh and pure. It resulted in the purchasing of endless amounts of fruit, with many bites given to the tiny chameleon. Mangoes, strawberries, oranges, grapes, pears (Asian pears, if the store carried them, they were Harry’s favorite), peaches and guavas. The sudden craving for fruit might be explained as just a casual craving, but deep deep down inside, Harry knew that it was because he wanted to replicate the feeling that coursed through his golden veins when she giggled at something she happened to find funny.

He wished that he had caught her name. The girl had paid in cash (and left a five dollar tip Harry fawned over), so he couldn’t have read it on her card, and he was halfway between charming and awkward that he didn’t even think of asking for it until the minute the door closed behind her, bells tinkling in announcement of her exit. He wished for a hundred different things, but he was not the type to live in regret. Not anymore. So after about a week of floundering in her memory, he meditated for an hour, tropical incense on one of his bedside tables, and cleared his mind as best he could.

The next morning, he did the same thing. Woke up with heavy limbs, plopped himself down on his blue mat and stretched in various positions, his white boxers hanging low on his hips. His lips and eyes were sticky with sleep, and the back of his nose ached with cold air that he must’ve breathed in throughout the night after forgetting to close the window (again) but the pleasurable twinge of stretching aches between his joints were the perfect way to start his day. They urged his mind to transform into the still surface of water, clear and collected from any unproductive-pinning thoughts towards a girl he would most likely never see again.

Even his clothes reflected his refreshed mindset.

Harry donned his favorite pair of flared trousers in an earthy brown color, nestled snugly on his slender hips and around his thighs. The tight fit accentuated the way his back tapered into his waist, glutes shapely and sculpted. A maroon sweater vest that had a teddy bear embroidered on the middle of his chest, the small latte-toned stuffed animal seemingly childish, but on him it only directed attention to the spotlight daze of the velvety heart sheltered underneath his breathless plate. Underneath, a mustard long-sleeve shirt with tiny cherries printed on them. Some straight, some tilted or lopsided. His shoulders and biceps were hidden in the floofy bunches of cloth, anonymity given to the true thickness of his ink slathered skin.

He looked like a corduroy dream. A thick milkshake of patterns and colors, but he managed to pull it off.

A tiny gold hoop on his right ear gleamed under the morning sun coming in through the windows and a pearl necklace rested against the downy skin of his throat. Slender fingered tipped with a coat of pure white, with his ring fingers accented in a shimmery pink. Chunky rings adorning the base of his digits; a silver rose, a band of dancing teddy bears (a running theme with him), two gold rings with his initials H and S on one hand, and a simple ruby stud from his graduating class.

He looked good, he knew that he looked good, and was ready to begin a bright, healthy, non-pretty-girl-thought-polluted day. Even the old woman had pinched his cheek whom he had been assisting- a regular-had said he looked like a proper ‘nice boy’ along with ‘when are you going to her a lovely girl to help you run this place, Harry?’. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that he had momentarily sworn off women until his broken sentiments healed, and they had a long way to go.

In the middle of wrapping a smashing set of tulips and fern stems with a cherry red bow, the bells adorning the top of the door frame dinges, announcing the entrance of another pleasant customer and giving passage to a gust of chilly air. Harry looked up to greet the customer with his usual pleasantries of ‘welcome! I’ll be with you in a moment!’, but the words died on his throat in a desperate hussle, just as the little mermaid had given up her voice to meet her gallant prince.

It was his own personal little slice of heaven presented to him on the black and white checkered floors of his shop. Hair loose against her shoulders again, eyes cast downwards to inspect a bucket of fresh daisies that tickled the space above her bare knees. How she could wear a skirt in this biting weather, he didn’t know, and it partially prevented him from continuing his pursuit of admiring her because the first thought his caring mind jumped too was, ‘is she cold? And if so, does she need a sweater? Because I will gladly give her one.’ His second thought, however, was ‘how could someone be that beautiful?’. The third was something along the lines of ‘all my yoga has gone to shit, and I’m okay with that’.

He cleared his throat, tightened the bow around the stems of the flowers in his hands and said, “I’ll be with you in a moment, love!” His head bowed, looking at his work because he wasn’t sure he could afford the medicals for the paralysis that was sure to take over his meek self if they made eye contact so soon. Harry needed a moment of homeostasis, his soul adjusting to her dulcet presence.

The woman he was assisting, Edna, spoke, drawing him out of his daze, but he had been so deeply in thought that he had not heard what she said.

“What was that?” He asked her. He grabbed Kraft paper from the roll by the register to wrap up her arrangement.

“The girl. You like her?” She was smiling at him, wagging a finger the way his nan used to do when she caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. “Don’t lie to me, I recognize that look. I’ve given and received that look many times throughout my life.”

The woman was not wrong. With age, comes wisdom, Harry thought, smiling to himself at being caught. A dimple carves itself into his cheek, nestling onto the space above the corner of his mouth as if he had no choice in the matter. The apples of his cheeks were shadowed with a dusky pink, and the tip of his nose was twitching like a rabbit when it stood on its rear and sniffed the air, only he was coy after just being caught and wanted to avoid the question as much as possible.

“I’ve got no idea what y’talking about,” he chuckled, keeping his voice low so that the intriguing stranger in the store didn’t hear that their topic of discussion was her. He moved over to the register to ring her up, and even slid in a discount he applied to customers he liked.

“Next time I come in,” Edna said, passing Harry her debit card, “I hope to hear that you got her number, dear. Don’t let these opportunities pass you up. Life is short. And who knows? She could be the one.” Harry gave her the card back after charging her, and handed her the flowers, too. All the while Edna was grinning at him, shaking her head like she knew something he didn’t.

“Take care, Edna. And don’t forget to change the water every 2 days with the flower packets I placed at the stems,” he reminded her, sweetly wiggling his red-lacquered nails at her retreating woman as butterflies awakened in his stomach in a furious flood of nerves. The girl was looking around, her hands hovering over the up-turned faces of a bundle of lively sunflowers, browsing and quietly humming to herself as she waited.

There was no backing out of this, even if he wanted to. And he didn’t! He didn’t want to back out. The girl was a customer, and he would have to approach her no matter what. But she was so pretty it was also intimidating. He doesn’t remember ever being this nervous while approaching someone, especially one he harbored feelings for. His heart was pounding so loud, he was sure it was audible.

“Hello,” he wanted so badly to add ‘love’ at the end of his greeting. “Are y’finding everything a’right?” He asked her, his hands wringing themselves, palms moist with sweat from his unyielding need to impress her. The pink tip of his tongue poked out to swipe across his full bottom lip, and soon after that his teeth sunk down into it, nibbling with uncertainty. Harry made sure that he was standing straight, body aligned to face hers because in that psychology course he took once, he learned that it was a subconscious tactic to engage interest and pleasant replies to attempts at wooing another.

At the sound of his voice, the girl jumped, startled at the sudden vibrations of Harry’s husky voice. Her delicate feet, he noticed, skittered on the floor from her tiny jump, and her doe eyes widened, shouldered rising and falling at a quicker pace than before from the new rush of light fear. When she realizes that it’s just him her hand flattered over the base of her neck and her collarbone in attempts to soothe her racing heart.

“M’s sorry,” he whispers, his hand clamping over his mouth, and then lowering to his chin when he speaks again, “didn’t mean to scare y’love.” This time he can’t restrict himself. It comes so naturally, like the endearment was meant for her, and when a flush covers the bridge of her nose his first instinct is to coo at her for looking so cute. The second is a surge of guilt for having scared her to such an extent.

“It’s okay,” she says, a little out of breath. The blush on her face was partly because she was embarrassed at her own reaction, while the other was that she had let herself act so freely and uncoordinated in front of someone that looked like him. Handsome and sweet and eyes so green they refreshed you upon first glance. Like the cool burn of water going into a mouth that had just chewed a stick of minty gum. “I want to buy these flowers.”

God help him. Her voice alone was enough to make him melt. The lilts and melodies of her voice swarming all four of the ventricles in his heart with warmth, and every blood cell that passed contained a glowing heat, buzzing with her energy.

She points to the sunflowers, her gaze lingering on them with longing. A soft smile toying on her mouth, and Harry could see the tendons in her throat stretch as she inhaled to add another thought to her sentence, “Do you sell vases by any chance?” The girl looked at him shyly, her eyelashes almost twinkling as she blinked, and his heart soared, “I had a really nice one in the shape of a big Coca-Cola bottle, and I accidentally knocked it over, so now I have nothing to put them in.”

Harry is incredibly enamoured by subconscious gestures that take over her hands as she speaks, fiddling as if the vase she spoke about was in her hands, all in one piece before it was broken. He’s quiet throughout her tiny ramble, listening and taking note of her enticing antics. She’s looking down at the floor or the flowers or her hands, and when her eyes dance over to his steady gaze, “I’m rambling aren’t I?” she murmurs bashfully.

“No, no it’s a’right. I can look in the back for something if y’like?” He suggested, arrowing a thumb to the ‘back’ he mentioned. “Did y’want anything in particular?”

“Oh, I don’t wanna be a troubling customer!” She squeaked, concerned with becoming a nuisance she didn’t want to be.

“Y’not a bother, love. M’promise. I’ll go look f’you. What color did y’have in mind?” He asked her, tone calm and soothing to reiterate his sentiment. She was not a bother. The only thing about her that bothered him was the fact that he did not know her name, and even that was his own fault for not asking her.

His hands rest on his hips, tattooed cross momentarily hidden by the bunch of his sweater vest as he waits for her to respond, his eyes locked on her mouth, her own tongue subtly licks her lips, adding a sparkly sheen to it that only drove him crazy. Ever the jilted fool, his mind jumps to what it would feel like to kiss her, or what it would feel like if she kissed him in other places. What fruits she tasted like, and what kind of kisser she was. A timid one? With a patient mouth waiting to be broken open with the force of his own? Frugal? Opening her mouth and giving him everything she had to offer.

“Something pink, please. If you have it.” That smile again. One that told a million apologies it didn’t owe, with her eyes pinching at the corners with whatever nonsense culpability she felt. Her voice was sweet, Harry thought, like wind chimes on a summer morning.

Feeling guilty for allowing such dirty thoughts to gallop through his mind when she was so… so pure. Like an angel. Even her way of presenting herself was shy and sweet, yet he was thinking about kissing her. Was that perverted? She was a customer he had seen twice, and his mind was already running wild with luscious assumptions; a sunday topped with a red cherry of sensuality. How awfully dirty of him.

But! But those were not the only thoughts he had. He wanted to ask her what happened to cause her to drop her vase, and where she had bought it. If it was vintage, considering it was a Coca-cola bottle, and if she had any accidents while cleaning up the mess of broken glass. He wanted to hear her thoughts. No, better yet, he just wanted to hear her talk. He wanted to get to know her. To know if she was as nice as she looked.

“‘Course,” he mumbled, his eyes shamefully downcast to the floor. “Be righ’ back.”

Harry stalked off to ‘the back of the store’. Truth was, there was no back of the store containing vases. There was only a small closet with boxes of items he might need around the store, like flower food, rubber bands, and decorative paper for the bouquets. A crate of bottled water for when he got too lazy to climb up the back stairs and into his home.

His home.

Plucking the keys from his pocket, a ring that held a ceramic swan his closest friend Mitch had gifted him with a humble admission of ‘saw this at a thrift store and thought about you, H, I had to buy it’, and five keys: one to the front door of his shop, one to the cash box in the register, one to the mailbox, another to the front door of his apartment, and one to his car. The one to his front door was painted at the head with pastel pink nail polish, so it was easy for him to pick out when he was dead tired after a long day of being on his feet (spunky shoes that he liked to wear sometimes didn’t help ease the ache on his back, and neither did his posture).

The back door that led to the stairs had locks on both the inside and the outside. A deadbolt and chain on matching sides of the door to ensure comfortable sleep at night, and peaceful work time during the day. Not having to worry about curious children opening doors or nosy customers relieved him. It was a little amatuer, but the door made a loud noise when opened because it wasn’t quite level, and he had a tiny key so he could lock it from the outside, too.

A loud shucking noise resonated through the store as he pulled the door open, and then again when he closed it behind him. The delicacy of his dainty yet large hands were nearly comical around the tiny golden pin stud that hung from the chain, almost slipping from his hands with nerves as he slid it in place. Harry didn’t think that she was nosy or anything like that, bit if he was going up to give her a vase of his own personal collection, he didn’t want her to find out and feel even more intrusive that she already did.

He was a huge giver, and upon hearing her say that she broke her flower pot, his mind was already thinking about the perfect one to replace it. It just so happened to be sitting on his shelf with a bundle of dying lavender. Climbing up the stairs (the ache in his thighs was a mere twinge compared to what it was when he first moved here), Harry huffed and thought to himself all the ways he could ask for her name and number.

Listen, I really like y’and would like to have y’number?”

Do y’wanna have my number so we can go out sometime if y’feel like it?”

“Is it alright if I get y’number so we can go out sometime?”

“Hey, love. What’s y’name?”

Nothing’s making sense to him. The pick up lines he had stored in his head for the rare times he would flirt with a girl were slipping from him. None of them seemed worded right to use with her. Too abrupt or too brisk. Not sweet enough. He wanted to treat her gently and to be worthwhile of her time. Plus, it also had to be smooth enough that it made her forget she was paying him for flowers or it would be awkward. He was a twenty-six man for crying out loud, not a twenty-one year old smile at the bar looking for a good time. This wasn’t a ‘good time’. This was… a courting. An inquiry to a relationship. A rose rose in a candlelit room.

Harry opened his front door and moved in a quick jog to a table besides his hi-fi that held a translucent pale pink glass, fat at the base before twirling and widening a few inches at the lip. An image of a nude mermaid puffing out at the front like an engraving. Cuddling it into his breast, he grabbed the lavender, speed walked back to his kitchen where his toe banged against the metal of the trashcan as he pressed on the lever to open it. He hissed fuck under his breath and shucked the dead lavender into the bag before turning back to his door, closing it behind him, but not locking it because he didn’t want to keep her waiting. His feet moved quickly down the stairs, the one hand not holding onto the vase cupping a hand over the side of his hips that held his keys so they didn’t make much noise.

The button on the chain slipped from his fingers a few times from their repeated clamminess, and when he was ready to finally twist the knob, he paused to take a breath and collect himself. Harry ran a hand through his hair, fixed his collar, and dusted off his pants legs. He wanted to look perfect for her.

“Don’t be stupid,” he murmured to himself. He had a good feeling about this. About her. And if he messed this up because he looked bad or said something weird he would kick himself into a muddy ditch.

Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and calmly walked back, “I’ve got the last one,” he said, tapping the tip of the vase with his pointer finger. It was a lie, right through his teeth, but he was happy to tell it in return for the way she was looking at him in that moment. His eyes rounded out as he approached her, like the curves of hearts that made up the heart-eye emoji, or the puppy-dog face. Just another physical display of his growing affinity towards her.

“Oh my god!” She said, “It's so pretty!” The trapped crystals in her irises twinkled with bewilderment at the treasure Harry’s presented her with. She’s got a smile on her face, and he can’t help but think, ‘wow, she looks like a freshly bloomed white lily’.

There’s a vintage print hanging in his corridor, a ‘flower language chart’ with different types of flowers and a sentence beneath them describing the messages they send. For example, red carnations= my heart aches for you. The description beneath white lilies reads ‘my love is pure’.

She asked him if it wasn’t too pricey, and he made up some fake sale he had going on about a hybrid BOGO in which if she bought an arrangement she would get a vase included in her purchase (he added “I’ve got a shipment of new ones coming in an I need the space cleared out before they get here” just to make sure his fib is believable.) And he explains this so shyly. Harry can’t keep his eyes locked on hers because she’s staring at him with an intensity that lets him know she's really listening, and it makes him squirm. The tips of his fingers tap against the vase, and he’s tripping over his tongue, which is ridiculous because he already talks so slow.

“I guess I was right in waiting then,” she said casually, waiting for Harry to finish ringing her up.

His finger froze over the touch screen of the sleek, modern device (he wanted nothing but the best for his store) and listened to the exciting roar of blood through his eardrums at her words. I guess I was right in waiting then? What did that mean? That she was planning on coming back to see him and didn’t? Of course, it could also mean that she was going to buy something else somewhere else, but he couldn’t stop the vine of ripe hope that swelled around his chest. And she looked so apprehensive while saying it. As if she was walking on glass and was looking for cracks as she stepped. As if she was waiting on him to catch on to something.

Harry cleared his throat and looked at her through the corner of his eye, trying to be as discreet as possible as his fingers continued their deliberate work on the screen, “What d’you mean, love?”

“I was going to stop by sooner, but I just got in my head about it,” the girl shrugged, and adjusted the ends of her cardigan so they wrapped around her torso. She had a different bag this time, one of those reusable market bags that was made up of holes, and it was filled with two books and a can of green tea from the vegan store down the street. Harry thinks he can make out one of the titles on one of the spines, which looks suspiciously similar to something that he has on his own shelf.

“Why would y’get in y’own head about coming to m’flower shop, hmm? It’s hardly that intimidating,” he chuckles to play off the dashes of pink and red that are painting themselves across the bridge of his twitching nose, “I don’t bite, either.”

And he hopes that his wistfulness isn’t meddling with his vision because he swears that he can see a matching reaction on her own doll face. “I know! I know, it’s just that I can’t help it sometimes. Talking to other people makes me nervous.”

Harry could coo at her right now. He doesn’t, though. He nods and smiles at her before reading her total out to her, “That I get, too. But y’doing just fine with me, love.”

Waiting patiently as she digs through her bag for cash, he tries to not stare. However, it’s impossible. His eyes had a mind of their own dragging against the forces of his will to feast on her image again. Her hands and the tip of her nose. The base of her neck and gentle swell of her clavicles. The swoops of hair that hung in a curtain from her shoulder as her head tilted in search, and the how her teeth bit down into her lip in concentration. Harry counted the amount of times her eyelashes met her waterline in those few seconds of comfortable silence. Three.

“I thought I had cash on me today,” something in her bag clicks, and she pulls out the rectangular card Harry’s become familiar with, holding it out to him between two deft fingers, painted with red hearts on a white base. “I guess I used my last twenty at the organic food store down the street,” she said.

“It is pretty easy to get lost in there, isn’t it?” He took her card from her, and tried not to make it obvious that he was eager to read her name off of it as he inserted it into the machine. The embossed letters into the plastic read y/n y/l/n, and when he turns back to look at her, he can’t help the smile that spreads across his boyish features.

Y/n.

Y/n, y/n, y/n.

This is what it must feel to be let in on a secret that’s worth millions of dollars. It must, because Harry’s heart is soaring with a closure he didn’t know he needed. Y/n, y/n. Her name tickled him. Stroked him. Lathered him with the honey smoothness of the beeswax shampoo he bought at that fateful organic store. It was a fitting name. Sometimes, one could tell a person ‘you know, I actually thought you were a Amy or a Jessica’, because their looks and style just didn’t match the strength or modesty of their name. But not y/n. It fit her like a glove. There was no other way to make sense of the way Harry’s brain was thinking. The name was her.

“What?” Her lips quirk up into a smile and her eyebrows dip in confusion. Why was he looking at her like that? Did she have something on her face? Here she was, opening up to a cute stranger and she had something on her face? This, she thought to herself, is humiliating. Her finger dusted off non-existent crumbs from the corners of her mouth, “do I have something on my face?”

“No! No, no.” Harry’s careful beam simmered down from it’s previous brightness, and his hand nervously filed through the swoop of chocolate curls sitting on his head like a cinnamon roll. “I just think y’name is pretty thas’ all.”

He murmured the last part so that it was practically incoherent, and lowered his gaze as a searing heat stretching like saran wrap around his head and the divot on the nape of his neck. Oh, God. He was fucking blushing. Great Harry. A normally favorite among the ladies had been reduced to murmurs and thick, uncoordinated movements.

Like dropping her card when she piped up again.

Voice as small and quaint as his had been, "you think my name is pretty?” Her fingers are wrapped around the frail straps of her bag, tight enough that her knuckles were white and Harry was scared that she’d bury her fingernails into her palm.

“I think y’very pretty.” He whispered back. He can’t even bear to look at her in fear that he’s totally fucked himself over once and for all. His logic was this: what girl wants to be told by the guy they’re buying flowers that they’re pretty after he reads her name from her debit card? Especially one who (if outside female sources are to be believed) dresses “the way my mother did when she was a girl in the seventies”? Jesus, fuck. He must’ve looked ridiculous.

Harry opened his mouth to backtrack and apologize for being so unorthodox in his workspace, a breath sitting on his tongue with words ready to spew out, but the bell began to chime and it yanks his head from the register to the front and instead he said, “welcome! I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Flustered and full of regret, the flower connoisseur returned his wired gaze back to y/n, who… was smiling at him? The kind of smile that said ‘oh my god, I can’t believe you just said that. Now please say it again’? Was he… dreaming? Did he have to pinch himself in order to verify that he wasn-

“Thank you... what’s your name?” Y/n looked at the card from his hands and sunk her hand- carefully, as to not get her fingers stuck in any of the tiny holes- and there was another clicking noise before she took her hand back out. That angel-like smear of girlish happiness was still on her, decadently radiating positivity and secret affection. Goodness leaked from the seams of her bones; through the cracks of her breastplate, radiating from her chest to Harry’s. He could feel it now. He could feel that his previous assumptions about her nature were true. She was altruistic and tender, like the inside of a bird’s wing.

“Harry. M’name’s Harry.” This time, he didn’t hide his happiness. Even his eyes shone with a heightened, clear and sparkly shade of liquid evergreen. The joy that bounced inside of him like ricocheting metal balls in a pin game machine. His slender hand, fawn-skinned and graceful like the legs of a deer, stretched out between them. His mother had taught him that along with the first introduction of his name, a handshake must be present, always. Dipping his head slightly, and his words spongy with love-ditz, Harry rumbled, “Nice to meet you, y/n.”

She placed her hand in his, and was practically swallowed by only his palm. He curled his fingers around her, thumb and middle finger overlapping around the clammy center of hers. So she was nervous, just as he was. Y/n was trained on their embracing limbs, and he could feel a spot on his neck where the skin palpated from the rush of blood as she observed their entwined digits. Their hands moved up and down, up and down between them for longer than necessary until her chin twitched back up to meet his, and she blinked mawkishly, slowly, like the videos of rehabilitated barn owls Harry sees on his Instagram.

Then, suddenly, as if she remembered she was not the only one present, y/n jolts upright and shakes her head dazedly. “It’s nice to meet you, too, Harry. I like your nail color,” she added.

He’s cheesing. A shit-eating grin too big for his face and it carves dimples into the flesh of his cheeks. His name on her tongue had never sounded so appealing, like it was made for her and only her to say. Not even the turtle-doves that cooed outside his window in the mornings sounded as beautiful as she did saying his name. And she complimented her nails! She hadn’t scrutinized him like others had, instead, she displayed her admiration for them. No one- well, actually he can’t say that without offending Mitch- no female of his age had ever received him with such open-mindedness as hers. If he didn’t have any self-restraint, he would giggle. Instead, Harry pulled his hand back so that their perfect moment wasn’t sullied with bouts of bad timing, “thank y’love. I like yours, too. You’ll have t’come over sometime and paint mine, yeah?”

Y/n laughed, and he breathed a sigh of relief that he hadn’t been too bold, “I’d love too!” With glee frozen on her, she turned to look over her shoulder at the customer who was browsing the flowers Harry had in buckets, “I don’t want to hold you back from a customer for so long. I’ll stop by again soon, Harry. Thank you so much for your help.”

The moment her hands reached for the wrapped bundle of sunflowers and the mermaid vase, a metaphorical grey cloud of rain and thunder manifested in the space above his head, and blocked all of the sunshine from spanning across his toned, lithe body. Did she really have to go? He wanted to whine. Maybe even wrap himself around her ankles like a child that refused to leave the park. They were only just getting to a mutual spot of comfort! Forget the other customer, he wanted to shout. Harry would kick them out and flip the sign to ‘closed’ if it meant only a few more minutes in the presence of her candy-coated charisma.

But he knows that’s unrealistic, and settles with, “it was my pleasure, y/n,” a flirty wink (at least he hopes it is), “I’ll be waiting f’your next visit.” His taffy lips wrapping effortlessly around his smooth words, fueled by her welcoming receptiveness to his advances. It would be easy to be himself in the future, a little smoother and eloquent in his language and feeling. He was usually clear with what he wanted from anyone, and made it a pleasurable experience in all aspects for both parties involved (once it was three). Harry wanted to sweep her off her feet, and he wanted it to be an enjoyable experience for the both of them. Revel in that feeling of blooming emotions in a new relationship. A healthy one, in which he wasn’t receiving back-handed compliments all the time.

He wasn’t superficial enough to push anyone off the table based on looks alone, but it did help that y/n had the disposition of an angel. An ethereal voice, supple lips that looked so silky and soft they had to feel that way, too, and hands that felt so tender in his. Perfect for holding on a late night stroll, or over the center console of his car when -if they go out on dates.

What really hooked, reeled, and sinked him, though, was the fact that she was so nice to him. From the start, she’d been nothing but polite and sweet with him. Don’t even get him started on the way he swooned at the tone of her voice when he said that her name was pretty! So quiet and velvety, careful and calculated like she wanted him to know that it was okay. That she wasn’t thrown off by his comment. He nearly toppled over, clutching his heart with his legs jutting straight up into the air like a frightened goat.

It wasn’t until the bells stopped ringing the sad notice of her exit that Harry realized he passed up the perfect opportunity to ask for her number, and as he kicked himself over it, he walked with the perfect customer service face he could muster to help the other person in his store.

***

Harry was having a shitty morning.

Not the kind of morning where every aspect of his routine is a terrible mishap, but like the water being too cold and the stove not working or the bottle of oat milk in the fridge being empty so he couldn’t make coffee. No, everything was fine and rolling smoothly, as it should.

His water was the perfect temperature and ran down the toned bumps and divots of his muscles like the relaxing thrums of a lover’s caress in the midst of prowling heat. As soon as it hit his back, he released a sigh of contentment, his shoulders hunching and head rolling back and his hands roamed his shoulders and the back of his neck, rubbing away any aches that existed. The branch of eucalyptus that hung from the golden pipe of his showerhead fused a thick minty scent into the steam that fogged the glass wall, and the calming aroma helped the tendons loosen like the deflating limpness of untied shoelaces. He spent a few minutes just standing there, inhaling and exhaling deeply and feeling his lungs open and stretch beneath his rib cage.

It almost made him wish that he’d opted to use his tub for a hot bath instead.

He was able to cook an egg just fine on his stove, with dashes of Everything Bagel Seasoning with a side of avocado and a slice of toasted cranberry walnut bread, the same thing he had every morning. The carton of oat milk was brand new from his trip to the market the day before, and his coffee tasted the same as it always did. But… he was just... sad. An melancholy soreness that eroded against the insides of his body, consuming him slowly but surely and leaving him with a lost feeling of emptiness and unimportance.

He thinks he might know why he’s feeling this way.

While he’s stirring his scrambled eggs, he’s wondering how y/n likes hers. Over easy? Sunny-side up? Scrambled, like him? Did she even like eggs in the morning? What did she eat in the morning? He knows that some people ‘aren’t hungry’ in the mornings, though that’s only because they’ve gone hungry in the mornings before for an extended time period, and after so long of not feeding their growling stomachs, their brain discontinues the signals of hunger. Harry hopes that isn’t the case with y/n, and that she’s eating the proper three meals a day every day.

And while he dipped a mini vegan chocolate croissant that he got at Whole Foods, he also wonders what she likes to dip chocolate croissants into, or if she even likes chocolate croissants. If she was a person who likes sweet treats, like strawberry tarts with powdered sugar over them or something lighter, like fruit cut into small squares in a bowl. When Harry was younger and would visit his nan on the weekends, she would pick fresh strawberries from her garden and cut them up for him when he’d woken from his nap. Sometimes, she would even sprinkle half a tablespoon of sugar over them. He wonders if she’d ever eaten strawberries like that.

It’s been a week and a half, he still hasn’t seen her, and his heart is yearning.

Harry knows he’s not in the correct headspace to assist other people with a cheery disposition about an hour before opening time, and decides it’s best if he writes a note on the door about how the shop wouldn’t open that day because he didn’t want to taint the reputation of his business by snapping at a customer for the only bundle of sunflowers he had, or dissolve into a puddle of love-sick tears in the middle of ringing someone up. Though really the notice just says ‘H’s Garden will not be opening today. Sorry for the inconvenience!’ followed by a frowning face and a lopsided, filled-in heart.

Harry drags his feet back up the stairs, his lower lip jutting out in a discreet but depressing pout, and grabs Owen from his tank so that the chameleon could curl into the shoulder of Harry’s hoodie while he moped on the couch to sappy rom-coms that would only make him think about her more. At least there was someone there with him, even if his small green friend only used him for mangoes and papaya. They sit together for the entirety of Romeo + Juliet, and when it’s over, Harry’s sniffly and standing up to return Owen to his enclosure and to clean because the riotous emotions that whirl within him are too much to process while sitting down.

Cleaning wouldn’t help him solve his problems, but it would help him cram all of his worries into a tight corner at the back of his mind- sort of like when dirty laundry began to overflow in the hamper and it requires extra force to shove it all in, only to come all back out like a memory sponge. His tormented thoughts on y/n could be compared to a dramatic inner monologue, very similar to how Romeo feels about his Juliet. But, soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and y/n is the sun. Harry has the play on his book shelf (the one with the side-to-side modern English translation because he was never quite gifted in the English department) and as he reaches for a bandana to tie his hair back, he finds himself resonating with a particular line: parting is such a sweet sorrow.

There was no need to change any of his clothing, since he was already dressed in one of his more impromptu outfits; grey sweats and a white t-shirt that read ‘women are smarter’ in black across his chest. He tied the red bandana into a knot at the back of his head, and lifted it over his chin so that it settled on his forehead, sweeping his hair back with a final push back. It doesn’t get in his way when he crouches to clean his various tables, spraying cleaning products with his shirt pulled over his nose, another organic product that’s supposed to be less harmful and smells like cinnamon and sandalwood. His shoulder blades begin to ache because he’s being a little more aggressive than he has to be, but the green tiles were sparkling so he was content.

He washes the dishes, mops the kitchen floor, vacuums the carpets, cleans Owen’s habitat, and tidies the mail that piled up on the table when he finally calls it quits. Scouring his brain for something to do, to keep him busy- his brain busy, Harry settles on the floor with his back to the edge of his bed. He’s shirtless now, and is in need of another shower but he’d rather not because he knows he might end up crying over the possibility that he’s scared y/n off. There’s a book in his hands and a Frank Ocean record playing softly in the background that mentions something about ‘I've been thinkin' 'bout you, do you think about me still?’ and it’s not helping his case at all.

It’s no use.

There’s a plague of darkness buzzing like cicadas in his ears. He fears rejection and criticism. That maybe, she was only pretending in order to make the situation more pleasant so it ended sooner. Most of all, he feared that it would always be this way. That he would never find someone who embraces who he is as a person. Always met with mean side-eye glances or second looks of displeasure and confusion. It isn’t always that way, though, because then that would mean he gets absolutely no action, and that isn’t true.

Harry is very… well-educated in matters that concerned sexual intercourse, but it was always a one-night stand ordeal. It was never ‘I really like you we should go out sometime’. In fact, he noticed that only time his approaches were well received were those in which he was dressed in a calmer manner. Simple, solid colors with sneakers or a t-shirt. Girls would flirt back, make good conversation, allow him to buy them a few drinks, and when he’d take them to his apartment they’d ask why he lived on top of a flower-shop, and if it was his sister or female-friend’s palace that he was crashing. Sex would ensue, but his heart wouldn’t be as present and engaged as he wanted it to be.

Wrong. It was always so fucking wrong, and God, if he didn’t get out of this apartment he’s going to breakdown and cry and there’s no one to call to come over because Mitch is on a trip with his girlfriend, Sarah, and his other friend Jeff is on his honeymoon in Sweden. They were the only two on his mental speed dial list during the rare occasions he had a crisis, as they were the two that Harry had ever really opened up to. Mitch was a bit closer to his heart. They’ve known each other since their school days and practically grew up together (at one point they had small crushes on each other, which were confessed years down the line). Jeff was the owner of Winsome where… where y/n had mentioned spending her last twenty dollar bill. He didn’t have an issue opening up to them. He liked opening up to them, but he didn’t understand why they were the only two that ever truly opened their arms to him.

A walk, he decided, would help him… air out his brain. Calm down. Breathe a little deeper, a little easier.

He threw his white shirt back on, and a forest green sweatshirt that donned the emblem of the school he went to earn his business degree that fit him wide around the shoulders and felt like a marshmallow. Putting on a pair of beat up shoes, he shoved his keys into his pocket, hobbling and nearly losing his balance because he was moving way too fast. The door closed behind him with a slam, and even though he was still wearing the bandana around his head, wispy stray curls framing his face in a wild mane, his distress palpable through his appearance, but he doesn’t care. He just needs to get out and feel the cool air against his skin.

There’s a backdoor behind the stairs that will take him to a small alleyway that leads to a back parking lot where other shop owners that live at the top of their stores on the same side of his street parked their cars. He unlocks it from the inside, and throws his shoulder into it, desperate to her out. When it shuts behind him, he doesn’t turn back because it’s the kind to lock from the outside when closed. His fingers curl into the ends of his sleeve so that the tips of his fingers (nails now changed to a sparkling silver color) are the only parts of his hands visible.

Rounding the corner, he whistled the cheeriest tune he can muster. His lips are puckered and his cheekbones high with the extension of his mouth. He’s not very happy on the inside, though he remembers reading something somewhere that if you pretend to be something long enough, you’ll eventually become it. If he pretends to be happy, then he’ll actually be happy.

Right?

Harry rounds the corner of the parking lot and turns on to the main street. It’s only two in the afternoon, so there's people crawling in and out of shops anywhere. He even sees a man and a woman peeking into the window of his store, and he would feel bad if he wasn’t in a shitty mood already. He’s so out of it, that he nearly yells ‘get your hands off my windows!’. He doesn’t though, because for a moment the woman becomes y/n and the man becomes him, wrapping a ringed hand around her waist and whispering in her downy ear ‘they’re closed, darling, let’s go somewhere else’ and she straightens dejectedly, pouting playfully and standing up and her tippy toes so that she could press a quick kiss to his lips.

That image fades though, and the couple continues with their stroll, hand in hand, and his heart is wrenching, writhing and trying to yank itself free from it’s place in his chest because it hurts too much to stay.

Cars whizz past, and he skirts in and out of people on the sidewalk, keeping his pace fast and focused. There’s no intended destination, he’s just moving with the intent to forget the pretty girl who haunts him. Her voice is all he can hear. Her smile is all she can picture. And the rest of her is all he can imagine, which is exactly what hurts the most. Imagination only goes so far, fulfils so much with uncertainty of what the truth was and what wasn’t. Harry could imagine her with her feet up on the lip of a bubble filled tub, a glass of wine in her hands, but then…what kind of wine did she like? Or did she even like wine? And did she even have a bathtub to stretch out in after a long day?

He curses the crimes he may have committed in past lives to deserve this torture. This unbearable pain that felt like he was being dunked in a slow-acting acid. He can do nothing about it but keep walking with labored will power. He passed his shop, and a bakery and a small thrift store that sells used clothing for way too much money. At the propped open double-doors of Jeff’s Winsome, he decides to talk in and browse. There’s so many items that smell good and taste good, that it was fun to just walk in and look.

“Back again so soon, H?”

Spinning on his heel, Harry comes face to face with Niall, a brunette, fit, Irish bloke with a chummy smile and a killer sense of humor. The two have brokered a sort of friendship, considering the amount of time (and money) that Harry spends there. Niall has even started calling him ‘H’ in silent homage to his flower shop.

“Y’know I can’t stay away,” Harry attempted to joke, his lips pulling up in a weak smile, “plus, I think I needed s’more of the peppermint essential oils f’my diffuser.”

“‘Course ya do! You're worse than the bloody vegan mums that come in asking for gluten free baby powder!” Niall cups a hand over his mouth and loudly whispers to so that only Harry catches his verbiage. There was a woman in the back of the store, looking through soaps in the limited kid’s section, the same exact kind that Niall was speaking about. “Go on and look around then, I’ll be here when you’re finished.” He said.

Harry only nodded his acknowledgement, and moved in between wooden walnut shelves. The entire store had a caramel brown color scheme, with only the inventory adding color to it. Macramé potted succulents and plants added to the natural, outdoorsy feel. Winsome had an interesting mix of smells from all of the aromatherapy based products it housed, but it only added to the appeal.

Currently, he held a packet of four lip balms that advertised to be ‘100% all naturally derived ingredients with no artificial additives' infused with ‘healing power of crystals’, two of them ‘citrine cherry' flavored, and the remaining ‘garnet guava’. The brand name is something in Italian that he can’t read, packaging thick and a triangle made of arrows in the corner signaling it can be decomposed and/or recycled. He had the same exact ones at home, only they were all misplaced and-

“Harry?”

A small, timid voice called his name from behind him, and he froze. He knew that voice. It was the same one he had repeated over and over in his head for the past week, waiting for her promised arrival with a hopeful heart.

His eyes go wide with recognition, body still and stiff like a deer caught in headlights. His heart begins to rump at a furious speed, loud in his ears like a million stampeding hooves. The packaged products in his hands shake, and then she speaks again, “Harry, is that you?”

Is this really happening right now? He’s embarrassed at having been caught with lipstick in his hands of all things, but he can’t put them back now. It was too late for that. He lets them hang at his side, and turns around. He hopes there isn’t perspiration dripping from his temples because all of a sudden he wants to yank his sweater off.

Harry turned, slowly. He feared that if he moved too fast she would fly away like a startled dove.

“Y/n…” He’s breathless, but he manages a pitiful quirk of the corner of his mouth, which he licks over right after, “hi.”

She’s wearing a dress this time, frilly at the hem which fell just above her knees. It’s pink and covered and lined with blood red trim at her forearms. A string of pearls glistens at the base of her throat, and her lips are covered in a sheen of lipstick. Her hair, however, is a tousled mess, pieces of it framing her face and untucked from her bun as if she had been jostling around. Her cheeks are flushed with the cold, and clearly that thin beige cardigan hanging off her elbows is doing nothing to keep her warm.

Y/n smiles at him, with the same shakiness, “f-for a second I thought I was talking to the wrong p-person.”

It’s quiet again, and they’re both fidgeting. Y/n’s knees knock together as she shifts her weight from foot to food, and Harry idly rubs his finger under his nose and sniffs boogies that aren’t there. She’s staring at the ground and rocking back and forth on her heels and he can’t think of anything to say because he’s so paralyzed by the fact that she’s actually standing in front of him, and looks as gorgeous as ever. Had he somehow manifested her presence?

While she’s hiking up the ends of her sweater so that they’re situated properly on her shoulders, he says the first thing that comes to his mind. “Aren’t y’cold?”

Her head snaps up and she peeks at him from under her lashes while flattening a hand at her thigh, “a little bit.”

Harry watches her tuck her hair behind her ears and wonders if she came walking from her apartment again. In the cold. Dress as she was. Not that he had a problem with the way that she was dressed! He understood that sometimes when people grew bored they used the smallest occasions to dress up and have some fun and get out of their homes. He did it too, sometimes. To clear his head. Hell, isn’t that what he was doing now?

“D’you need a ride home?” He stumbled over his tongue to backtrack, not wanting her to think that he was a wierdo or anything like that, “t-that is if y’walking, I wouldn’t want you to get sick or anything like that. S’bit chilly out today.”

Y/n smiles shyly at him, a blush on the highest points of her cheeks, and rubs the side of her face against the fabric of her cardigan, “thank you, for the offer, but uhm… it’s my friend’s baby-shower-gender-reveal thing today and I came with my other friend to some last minute gifts and some flowers. I was going to buy some stuff from here because she’s crazy about the whole ‘no preservatives’ and all but, and I was also going to stop by your shop to buy some flowers, but I saw you were closed so I…I’m rambling again.” She sputtered out the last bit, and pressed the tips of her three middle fingers to her lips to stop the words from coming out.

Harry smirked at her antics, but it’s more of a repressed smile, and the rest of his humor gleamed in the sea-glass of his eyes like a message in a bottle.

“S’alright, love.” He’s still holding the lip balms in his hand, and he can feel the moisture that’s collecting on his palms dampening the Kraft like material as he gestured to her dress with the tip of his chin. “Y’wearing pink. I take it y’want the baby to be a girl?”

“Actually, I know it’s a girl. She told me,” y/n pips, shrugging smugly.

Harry laughs at her this time, “Did you finish with all your purchases here? I can make an exception and open up f’you.”

“Oh, Harry, I don’t wanna bother you! Because if this was your day off then-”

He lifts a hand to get her to stop, and uses the opportunity to twist around and put back what he had in his hands. The conversation is flowing so smoothly now, that all of his previous worries are gone. He can only focus on her and the way her eyelashes fluttered and the crystalline sparkly in her voice.

“Y/n, it’s fine. D’ya finish here? We can head over to the shop now if you’d like.” Harry points a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the door.

“Uh, no. I just got here so I still have to go grab some things,” she said, pushing her hair past her ears again. He thinks that she can probably tell the disheveled state her hair was in, because she begins to pop off a pin in her hair to readjust it. He doesn’t mind it, though. He thinks she looks cute. Angel-like.

He nods, rolling his hands into fists within his sleeves so that the cuffs hang over his knuckles, and tries not to trip over his legs as he backs away. “A’right. I’ll wait f’you in the front, then. Take y’time, love.”

“‘Kay,” she gleams at him, biting down on her bottom lip, and Harry turns away fully before he starts whining about how cute she is or before there’s a dent in the heather grey fabric of his sweatpants.

At the front, Niall has his chin at the palm of his hand, and as he gets closer, Harry lifts his head to see that the brunette is wiggling his eyebrows mischievously. There's a shit-eating grin on his face that clearly points to a mountain of teasing in the near distance.

“A little love-struck, mate?” He said, as soon as Harry was within hearing distance. At least he had the decency to keep his voice down, he thought.

Harry flips him off, “oh, bug off.”

Silver glitter sparkling on his nails, and his gaze strays to the floor, bashful of how clear his affection was. He turns to rest his bum against the counter and pulls out his phone to appear busy as he waits for y/n, mindlessly opening Instagram to have something to do (and to stop him from glancing at her ever two seconds).

“Yup. I knew it. Have y’asked her out yet?” Niall doesn’t stop to let Harry refute his question, “y’know she comes in sometimes, after stopping by your place? And she just will not stop talking about how nice yeh were to her.”

Harry’s head snaps up from his screen so fast, something at the back of his neck creaks with the force. Instagram is long forgotten.

“What? Are you fuckin’ with me right now?” He doesn’t mean for his words to come as aggressive as they do, but the thought of her speaking to someone else about him is… well, it’s thrilling.

Alarmed, Niall’s hands come up near his face in the motion of surrender, “no, man! Dead serious. Think she likes yeh, honestly.”

He can only say: “Fuck me.”

Niall is about to respond when a quiet voice breaks their stares, “I’m all finished.”

“Already, babe? I’ll rig ya up, then!”

He’s quick to slide the few products over the scanning square, and y/n and Harry stand beside each other silently, their height difference laughable. Niall’s gaze flickered between them with no commentary, and his lips pucker with a wiggling smile when he finally announces her total. A bit too much for a small changing blanket, oatmeal-based baby lotion, pacifiers with a lavender infused towel attached to ‘aid with goodnight night’s sleep’, and a bamboo hairbrush with a tuft of soft bristles.

Nonetheless, she provides the money with a pleasant smile. Harry can see a bit of tightness around her eyes that suggests discomfort, but he doesn’t say anything. Niall hands her a paper bag with her purchase, “there yeh go! Have a good day now, y/n! And be good, to Harry!”

Harry’s eyes widen at Niall’s last comment, and it takes every bit of self-restraint in him to not reach the other counter and whack him in the back of the head. Instead, he shakes and ducks his head in near shame.

Y/n, however, quips back with “I’ll be nice only if you’re nice,” and bumps her shoulder against his before walking towards the door, looking over her shoulder at Harry who’s smiling wide now, and trailing after her with no regard to Niall at all.

He shouts something after them about being rude lovebirds, but Harry doesn’t care. He’s floating after this heaven-sent like cartoon characters being led to a freshly baked pie with their nose on the scent. His rump high in the air like the Lorax disappearing into the light in the clouds, utterly ignorant to everything else.

When they’ve both stepped outside, they speak at the same time,

“Let me just-”

“Do y’wanna put-”

Harry and y/n giggle at each other,

“You go first.”

“Y’speak first.”

And then they laugh again. Harry pretends to zip his lips and throws away the key, and she says radiantly, “I’ll drop this off in my friend’s car really fast and we can walk to your flower shop.”

Watching her approach a car parked two spots away, a girl with blue, pink, and brown hair leans over to the passenger side, seat belt straining against her throat and when she sees Harry, she waves and it makes y/n push her back to her spot behind the driver’s side. Whoever this girl is, she and Niall have to meet, seeing as they can’t mind their own business. He chuckled and waved back, that girl laughing along with him and it made y/n cover her face with her cardigan covered hands.

“I’m sorry about Charlotte,” she said when she got back, “she doesn’t know how to mind her own.”

“A bit like Niall, it seems.” Harry said. He waits for her to catch up before beginning to walk down the street. Side to side, shoulder to shoulder. They’re so close, Harry can feel the warmth of her body heat through the fleece of his sweatshirt. It’s cold, and she’s still this warm?

“Maybe,” her eyebrows raise, and her head tilts towards him, “they should meet.”

“Tha’s exactly what I was thinkin’!” His voice rises with his excited agreement, and the tip of his nose wiggles as he scrunches his nose.

As they get closer, to H’s Garden, Harry reaches into his pocket for his keys, fingering through them so that they wouldn’t have to stand in the cold for so long. He didn’t want her to get sick.

“I’m sorry, Harry. I feel really bad about this,” she whispered beside him, looking up at him with doe eyes as she worried her lip between her teeth, the sheen of gloss adding an extra allure to her image at that moment. “It’s your day off, and I’m bugging you.”

They stood in front of the door now, underneath the green umbrella cover that extended from the top of the door and down the side of the window. Harry waited for her to step into the little alcove created by the indent of the door before stepping in after her and jiggling the key into the lock. He resisted the urge to pull his lips down into a cooing frown at the look on her face. She really was worried about disturbing him. If only she knew that he spent the entire day moping (and nearly crying) over her.

He sucked on his teeth, “oh, love, please worryin’ about it. Don’t wanna see that frown on y’pretty face anymore okay?” His confidence was slowly coming back, “s’not my day off, I just didn’t feel like speaking to customers today.”

Shrugging, he opened the door, and took a step back to allow her to step through first. Y/n ducked her head as she passed him with a murmured ‘oh, okay’, and he followed right after her, wanting to get away from the cold too because he knew that his nose was probably pink at that moment, but what he didn’t anticipate was for y/n to stop right after breaching the threshold, and bend over at the waist to pick something up from the floor, causing Harry to bump into her at such an awkwardly sexual angle with all of his momentum.

Considering he was half twisted away from her and in the middle of pulling out the key from it’s slot, the amount of force in Harry’s push from behind was enough to cause her to nearly fall forward, a surprised whimper slipping from her lips. Harry, determined not to see her fall, lets go of the key and reaches out just in time to grasp her hips on either side, pulling her back towards him mid-fall so that she doesn't collapse on her face.

However, in the midst of all of this Harry forgets himself and uses a bit too much force. Not to mention, the implications of their position makes him hyper aware of every single place their bodies touched, her small frame against his lithe, tattooed body.

This moment only lasts for a few seconds, but he can feel everything.

He can feel the easy give of the skin of her hips underneath each finger that touched her, the softness of the flesh on her thighs against his sturdy knees. The fabric of his sweatpants is suddenly non-existent, and it’s almost as if he felt every taught tendon of her legs, frozen with efforts of helping catch or brace herself. The heat of her groin is flush against his, and it makes him want to scream with a sudden sensitivity. Her ass is practically seated on him, full and malleable against the points of his laurel covered hip bones. Harry’s semi-hunched, as her weight also pushed him back, and the position is doing nothing to help his frenzied mind settle. He feels like shit because he’s being a horny, pubescent kid instead of asking her if she’s okay, but then y/n moves back into him to straighten fully and their centers grind. Her dress is semi-bunched at the halfway point of her bum, and he can feel heat emanating from her, radiating back on his bloating cock. He has to stifle a moan when she pushes herself up with the tips of her fingers.

Just as quickly as it started, it’s over. Y/n is dusting her bum off so that her dress falls and covers her modesty, and she’s beet red in the face, not looking at him. Which was fine by him, he was too ashamed to look into her eyes.

He clears his throat (something he’s doing a lot around her) and asks if she’s okay.

“Yes. Yes, I’m okay. This was on the floor,” she squeaked, holding up a neon yellow notice sheet in her hand. That damned thing was what caused all of this?

It’s a notice from the delivery men that said, ‘sorry! We missed you!’ with a time and date messily scrawled on the dotted lines. Harry had forgotten that he was getting a shipment of several plants that morning.

Cursing, he takes it from her, “t-thank you. Now how ‘bout those flowers?”

It’s awkward, obviously, but y/n is severely silent. Harry’s still stuffy in his pants, but he ignores it and doesn’t add any fuel to the fire because there’s more pressing matters at hand than a boner. Y/n is the most quiet she’s ever been around him, considering all of her word vomits and ramblings, and he’s suffering. Definitely beating himself up in his head for having ruined the moment. He held onto her for a second too long, frozen. She must feel so embarrassed, and he was self-endulging like a fucking asshole.

Harry asks her questions on what flowers she’d like, and she answers by pointing or bringing a stem to him, laying it on the counter without a word. A mixture of dahlias and baby’s breath with a handful of feverfew to make the pink in the dahlia’s stand out. He lays them out on his work table, cutting the ends at an angle where they need to be cutted and laying them out on a sheet of clear, dusty rose paper. Three packets of flower food are strewn at the corner, and y/n busies herself by fidgeting with them. He grows concerned when he makes a comment on the kinds of ribbons he had stored and she doesn’t say anything. Not even a nod or a hum.

Eventually, he decides he’s had enough of her neglect, and pauses his work to devote her some attention.

“Love, I’m sorry about what happened,” he said softly, trying to catch her eyes, “I know it probably made y’uncomfortable, and I didn’t do much to make the situation better, but I just didn’t wanna see y’fall.”

Y/n’s head is already dipped, so he can’t see her face, but when her shoulders begin to shake, he knows he’s utterly fucked. She starts to sniffle, and his eyes go wide. The paper crinkled as he set down the baby’s breath he’s holding in his hands. He hates seeing people cry, not because he didn’t know how to deal with it, but because he often ended up crying along with them. Also, he just didn’t want to see her cry. Harry wanted her to be happy, glowing, and smiling. Not dull with dollops of woeful distress in liquid form.

He rounds the corner and spares a look out to the street, wanting to make sure that there is no strange onlooker eavesdropping on their interaction. His hand reaches out to stroke her back or shoulder comfortingly, but he thinks better of it and drops his arm. She most likely would not like to be touched, considering what just happened between them. He drops his head, seeking face-to-face interaction, and speaks as gently as he can, “y/n, what’s wrong?”

She avoids his search, and turns the other way while sniffling, “you probably think I’m weird now or something after that.”

“No!” Harry exclaimed, jerking his head back as if he’d been struck, and her words practically had. He can’t believe that she would think that and even go as far as verbalizing her thoughts when he worshipped the ground she walked on and didn’t even know her that well, yet. “No, no. I don’t think that. Y’tripped, that’s all. Happens to everyone. If anythin’ I’m the weirdo for grabbin’ y’the way I did, and I’m really sorry about it.”

Y/n dig the heels of her hands into her eye sockets, “that was so embarrassing, I should’ve told you I was gonna stop or something. I always embarrass myself in front of cute boys and I never know what to do. I just-”

Harry interrupts before she can dig herself further another hole. He highlights a segment of her words, dropping everything else in hopes of changing the conversation and taking her discomfort away, and mostly because he was bursting with relief and happiness. She had said that she thought he was cute, just how he thought that she was adorable, and nice, and everything good. They were on the same level, their minds in sync. Did that mean…

His voice is airy and light because of what she had just admitted, “y’think I’m cute?”

She stills with awareness of what she’s just said, and a puppy-like noise seeps from the back of the throat before her hands sink further into her eyes, embarrassed. Harry tenderly wraps his fingers around her small wrists and pulls her hands away from her face, murmuring about ‘don’t rub y’eyes anymore, love, y’gonna hurt’ with nothing but kindness. A millisecond of distraction speeds through his mind at the softness on the inside of her wrists.

There’s a trickle of blubbering in her part, her bitten lips bumping against each other as she attempts to backtrack, “I mean- I- I-”

Harry decides that it’s now or never. It was a bit inconvenient, perhaps, but with her revelation his confidence soared and he was more prepared now to ask than he ever had been. So, he goes for it, “can I have y’number?”

A moment of semi-uncomfortable silence as the unknown tips the scale. Would she say yes? Would she say no? His head was spinning and he hoped his nose didn’t start bleeding or something because y/n nods slowly, smiling, and then, “okay.”

He’s elated. He was the polar opposite of what he had been that morning. If only Owen could see him then. He doesn’t waste any time reaching into his back pocket and handing her his unlocked phone. They don’t share any words, only coy glances and flirty quirks of the lips as the tips of her fingers move on his screen. Harry can’t believe that he’s finally getting her number, after nearly a month of pinning.

When she’s finished, she clicks it off and sets it next to him with an added pat to the back of his suspiciously clean white phone case while he’s tying the flowers together with a loose rubber band at the ends to attach the food packets. He’s fine with working in silence now that she's not crying anymore. He throws occasional glances in her direction, and catches her watching his hands while fiddling with her own. Her brows were furrowed and her mouth was twitching.

“Will you text me?” She asked him.

He’s careful not to bruise any of the petals as he sets them down again, pausing with his ministrations to pick up his phone. He wiggles his eyebrows at her and types a quick ‘Hi. It’s Harry :)’. He hits send, “until you’re sick of me.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.” She shakes her head, and Harry’s reminded Rachel McAdams in The Notebook while she’s in complete denial of her feelings for Noah. The comparison makes his heart flutter, considering the romance of the onscreen couple. “How much do I owe you?”

Harry waves her off, “it’s on the house.” She begins to argue, but Harry stops her before she starts rambling again, “y’better go or you’ll be late, love.” He holds out the arrangement to her, tufts of baby’s breath poking out from between the vibrant dahlias like fluffy clouds, the feverfew looking like miniature white daisies in the center.

She looks at it, and back at him before huffing, “fine, but you’ll have to let me return the favor.”

“Of course,” he smirks, “with dinner, maybe?”

They’re both gleaming at each other now, “okay.” Y/n takes a step back, her body half twisted as she walks away, but it remains like that for a moment as her eyes rake him up and down, a murmur following, “bye, Harry.”

His veins charge with electricity, and his dark taffy lips part at her actions. Had she just checked him out? He doesn’t recover quick enough to return her goodbye because the previous swirl of arousal in his navel was bristling back to life at the implications of that look. Calm, slow, steady, and her eyes remained doe-like and innocent.

She had to have known exactly what she was doing, whispering his name the way she had, looking over her shoulder and under her eyelashes the way she did. Deviously provoking his thoughts to begin a new with a reinspired fervor. The space in his underwear was growing tighter by the second, a blissful ache swelling.

Before any other customer stepped in after her, Harry locked the door, and jogged up the stairs to prepare himself a nice, hot bath, simultaneously cursing and thanking the stupid fucking delivery men.

********

Harry can’t stop thinking.

Obviously, this is a huge issue for him. He was constantly thinking, and well, who wasn’t? The process of thoughts wisping around in his brain was one that he often put an unnecessary amount of energy into because he had no one to filter these thoughts onto, releasing them through a conversation to prevent the exhaustion of his brain and heart. A prime example of these mishaps being the depressing slump that occupied his demeanor that very morning.

This?

This was different.

As soon as the apartment door was shut behind him, Harry pulled the suffocating sweatshirt off of his upper body, fingers hooking in at the collar and yanking it off with a swift tug. It landed somewhere on his kitchen floor, and he didn’t stop to take note of its final destination. Instead, his legs instinctively took him to his bathroom.

Chest heaving, Harry walked to the small window leaking sunlight and rolled the stick between his fingers to close the blinds. His thumb dipped into the waistband of his boxes and dragged them down lopsidedly, the tiger tattoo roaring as it became exposed. When the blinds are fully closed, the white extension clangs against the shutters from his aggressive release. His body was slowly being consumed by a raging fire stoked by the illicit images his brain conjured of the innocent, unsuspecting y/n.

His inner turmoil consisted of guilt for using her image that way and justification from the conspiring rake of her eyes along the upper half of him that was visible behind the counter. He was so fixated by her, that her look alone felt like a tempting caress along his skin. And it all happened in a matter of fucking seconds. That’s how gone he was. That’s how fucking gone he was. Harry guesses that the easy excitement also had to do with the fact that he hadn’t gotten laid in a while (he only ever gets lucky when he goes out to the bars with Mitch or Jeff, and they’d been gone for a significant amount of time) and the strong affinity he had for the girl who bought flowers from him.

Explanation or not, he had to do something about the problem in his pants. He was painfully hard, and when he shucked his pants off fully, his underwear dragged with the movement and pressed against the tip of his swollen prick. A darkened patch of moisture bloomed where the head was, and he saw stars at the short pressure. He wouldn’t take his pants off just then, though. He liked to stall his pleasure as much as he could so that when he finally did cum, his stomach muscles contracted and his toes remained curled for more than ten seconds.

He twisted the golden knobs of his tub so that the water would come rushing out at a borderline scalding temperature, and opened the small cabinet above the toilet for a bottle of almond and coconut shea butter bubbles. He uncapped it and bent over the edge of the tip, the cool, porcelain lip touching his crotch and provoking a choked whimper to leave him. Jerking his hips back, he poured the soapy liquid into the spot where the water cascaded, and retracted his hand when the beginning of froth formed along the surface.

The heady sweet smell permeated the air with the rising levels of bubbles, and Harry couldn’t wait any longer. Because he liked to torture himself, he closed his eyes and slowly dragged the hell of his hand over the outline of his cock, a groan ripping though the silence. It’s so painfully good, that he does it one more time, and he jolts forward. He removes his hand, slips his thumbs underneath the waistband of his boxers, and lugs the fabric down his hips at an excruciatingly slow pace. The head of his member smearing precum all along as he moves and when he gets caught in the ripples of his boxers the muscles in his thighs flex at the ripple of pleasure that zips into his nerves.

“Fuck,” he hissed under his breath. His mind was a spinning vintage reel of slideshow images of y/n. Y/n on bruised knees, her mouth wide open and her own drool on her tits, the tip of his cock flat on her tongue as she pleads with weepy eyes for him to cum down her throat. When he finally springs free of his underwear, a hefty slap rings out as his dick collides against his abdomen, right on the space underneath his belly button.

There’s a stripe of liquid on the trail left by the mushroom head of his prick, and Harry’s eyes roll to the back of his head, throat straining as he hovers over the bathtub. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s ever been this hard over a girl before, and it’s driving him crazy. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to last as long as he usually does. As he swings a leg over the edge of the tub, the hot water encasing his calf, he’s thinking about how soft she is. The inside of her wrist and the palm of her hand. If she’s that soft on an external part of her body that’s used everyday, he can only wither away at the idea of what the inside of her thighs feel like.

Bubbles are swarming up now, swathing his thighs and buttocks as he sinks into the sloshing water. When he’s completely seated and satisfied with the belly-button level of water, he clumsily throws a hand in the direction of the knobs to shut them off, and reclined his head against the curved end of the tub with his eyes shut.

He hikes up his knees so that they’re resting against the porcelain walls, and mindlessly ruts up into the water at the filthy images he’s picturing, white foam collecting in sparse clouds over the math on his chest. He doesn’t know what’s gotten into him. It’s as if his body is being transported back to the moment his hips clashed with y/n’s. At the recollection, his mouth drops and his eyebrows pinch in a silent moan. The feel of her flesh underneath his fingertips has him bobbing in the water, and the next ideation has him gripping the base of his cock.

Vividly, he pictured her on all fours, keening back onto him as her pussy enveloped him in warmth, a warmth that is almost replicated by the temperature of the water, dripping and making a mess of him but what’s turning him on most of all is the easy flushness of their bodies. He had felt the way her bum gave way under his hold, and he imagined the bounce of her flesh as he thrusted into her.

He moaned a broken call of her name with his eyes still shut, and heard the trickling of water as his fist rolled up his stiff prick, squeezing at the tip so that a few more droplets of precum dribbled out. With his thumb, he rubbed over the red mushroom head and lathered it in slow, leisurely circles, a throb pulsating with the beat of his heart as he returned to flicking his wrist over himself.

The way that he looked at him and the sound of his name on her lips seared into his memory. Airy and willowy, similar to it resonated in his brain with the fantasy of sinking into her for the first time, stretching her and having her preen and arch with desperate whimpers of his name for more. Harry considered himself to be ‘well-endowed’ and his size was a factor of what sent him careening over the edge as girls mewled over his size after he’d bottomed out. He wanted y/n to mewl under him, both of them falling apart at the seams at the mutual pleasures because if Harry’s this broken over just the thought of her, then he’s sure he’s going to lose himself beyond recognition after he’s buried himself into her velvety walls, slick with her arousal and so fucking warm.

Just as she had been earlier that day. There had been two layers between them- the fabric of Harry’s pants and her panties- yet, he was still able to feel an immense heat from the apex of her thighs against his cock. He needed more than this. He needed her, not just his hand driving him closer to the edge.

His jaw clenched as he bit back on a particularly loud moan, for no reason other than he enjoyed self-sabotage from time to time, and the speed of his jerking hand increased. His other hand gripped the side of the tub, and his legs flexed as he began to thrust up into his own fist, a trail of bubbles sticking to the tanned muscles. The cut rectangles of muscles of his abdomen glistened like freshly chopped cubes of apricot with the droplets of water that remained clinging to him. His breath came in labored, strained puffs as the palm of his hand twisted, tightening at the tip and loosening at the base.

For a moment, he paused and cupped his balls, massaging them as the fantasy in his head continued. His mouth wrapping around y/n’s nipples, her eyes glazed over from previous orgasm that he wanted so badly to give her. She’d whine something soft and quiet to match her personality, ‘please, Harry, please I want more. Need another Harry, please’, and he’d speed up the movement of his hips, driving deep into her and cooing into her ear about, ‘c’mon, darling. Give m’another then. Y’want it so bad, yeah? Give me a’fucking ‘nother’, and she’d release a peircing moan that explodes in his eardrums while arching into him. She’d squeeze impossible tight around him, gushing with her own cum.

The water in Harry’s tub sloshes around his ankles, and the muscles of his abdomen clench so that he’s closing in on himself, sputtering on an outrageously loud cry that he can’t contain and his hand increases the speed of his filthy ministrations because he’s right on the edge. He’s about to fucking cum and the back of his eyelids burns with the possible variances of y/n’s face in ecstasy provided by him with his nose deep in her cunt, lapping at the sweet honey that spills with every whimper of, ‘please let me cum, Harry. I’ll do anything, I’ll be good, please let me cum.

He tensed violently, his face contorted painfully as white ropes spurt from the tip of his cock over his fist and onto his chest, blending with the white almond foam. His feet are braced against the edge of the tub and his head falls back and his stomach tenses even further, the final leaks of his cum dribbling out.

With the fuzziness that comes after an orgasm, his body melts back into the water that’s still warm, and his jerks with a pant as he allows his softening prick to sink into the water. The head on his hair is matted in a chocolate smear across his forehead, and his lips are a raging heart of cherry blossoms, parted with arduous gasps of recovery breath. His hands fall into the water at his sides, and with the lapping movement of the liquid against his sensitive member, he ruts into nothing again.

Reclined with his eyes closed and heartbeat slowing, Harry murmurs a final, “fuck me,” at the extreme sensations that had raked through his body.

Somewhere in the muffled distance, his phone dings with the notification of a text message, and with a tired noise of resentment, he sits up and reaches for his sweatpants that lay in a messy puddle besides the tub. His fingers drip darkening spots onto the grey material as he rummages for his phone, and then he finally clicks it on...

It’s her name, lighting up his screen, and the text reads:

y/n <3 : so… dinner?

Harry doesn’t think he’s ever crushed on a girl this hard before because even though he’s just completely physically spent himself, there’s something stirring in the depths of his tummy just at seeing the heart she put next to her name.

He couldn’t be happier.

* * * * * *

and here he is!! what do you guys think?? pls pls pls leave your feedback in my askbox! i’d love to hear your thoughts! and if you really really loved it, don’t be afraid to press that reblog button <3333

3K notes · View notes

cipheress-to-k-pop · 3 years

Note

Hi, I absolutely adore your writing and it’s quite inspiring and making my imagination go WEEWOO!

Could I request something for YJ With Dick? So like a headcanon or one shot (which ever you prefer queen) where the reader is quite reserved, snarky and can get angry real fast. They have feelings for Rob and they are especially snarky to him to hide their feelings, but they eventually start to open up more and during the events of episode 24 (you know, the one at haly’s circus), they open up to him and they confess? And he does the same?

Flower Language

Pairing: Dick Grayson as Robin x Reader

Warnings: Blood and injuries and plant death.

Word Count: 3.8k words

A/N: This is kind of my take on the Hanahaki disease, kind of. This was so much fun to write honestly, I didn't realize I like all this floral stuff so much. It also reminded me of another 'True Love's Kiss' trope I wrote for Dick Grayson as well. Also I changed the episode this was based on because I’ve already done something based on the episode with Haly’s circus @hanbedumbaf I really really really hope you enjoy it! Sorry it was so late, I finished it a month back but it was in my queue.

Adrenaline was a common feeling to you. A little too familiar. The life of a superhero puts you in peril more times than you would like but it was the only life you had known. You knew the familiar feeling of sweat forming on your skin and your heart pounding so loudly that you could hear it in every step you took.

However, when you heard the pounding, it was because there was a supervillain, usually hairy, chasing after you and determined to get your head on a stake.

Although, feeling your heart jump to your throat was becoming more familiar whenever you were around a certain someone. Robin annoyed you to no end, whenever he was around you couldn't help your face from growing warm and your lips from tingling to form a permanent smile on your face.

Having a crush was irritating, you couldn't think or even function without thinking of him. It was frankly humiliating, you were always so gung-ho about being bold and to the point and yet whenever you were around Boy Wonder, you couldn't help but bend your personality to something you felt like would appeal to him more.

Sometimes, you couldn't even stand yourself.

And so, as a pathetic act of rebellion, and maybe as a clear-cut sign that you had no idea how to handle emotions or anything similar to it, every time your heart got just a little soft, your tongue got a whole lot sharper. Probably not the best way to win a boy’s heart. But you weren't here for a romance story.

It was also a true sign that you had no idea how to flirt, thinking that borderline insulting witty banter was the way to go. Or perhaps it was a way of controlling your emotions, since being bitter and snarky was the thing that came easiest to you.

You seriously needed better tactics.

It was also your oblivious mistake thinking that Robin only saw what you wanted him to see. He was raised to be a detective, of course he was more observant than that. Papa (or let's be real, Alfred) didn't raise no fool.

You made the mistake of thinking Robin saw you as strong and independent and bold, just as the rest of them did. But he saw much more than that.

Robin was distressed by the number of crying faces around him, the kids were inconsolable which was understandable because of just how many things went wrong in the past couple of hours. To be quite frank, Robin was a couple seconds away from having a fit himself.

"Shh, little one," He heard distantly and his neck practically snapped. You were crouching in front of the few who were crying, with a small nurturing smile. It was the first time he had seen you out of uniform, usually referring to you as Antheia, named after the goddess of flowers, but this wasn't she.

"I know you're scared, my flowers, but I promise, we will find your parents." You soothed, gently wiping away their tears. They still looked up at you apprehensively and with uncertainty.

"I'll show you a magic trick." You began, grinning as the kids began to smile back at you. You pulled a seed out of your pocket and held it between closed hands, using a bit of your powers and felt it grow in your palms. When you revealed what you were holding, they collectively gasped.

A bud of a flower now rested in your hand. You smiled at their innocent eyes and held it to them, "Now I'm going to need your help for the next part. Everyone has to blow on the flower."

They nodded eagerly, crawling around you and on the count of three, everyone followed your instructions. And low and behold, the bud bloomed into a beautiful blossom right between your fingers.

One of the girls clamoured into your lap to hold the flower herself and you chuckled, wrapping your arms tightly around her, "You know what this flower means?"

They shook their heads, "It means faith, and hope. If you have faith and hope in us, then you'll get something beautiful in return."

For once, they look contemplatively and you chuckled, feeling pride at the fact that you managed to sow some wisdom in their minds. The girl that had been sitting in your lap turned in your grasp, with the flower in her hand and then reached up to tuck it behind your ear.

"For me?" She nodded happily and you smiled widely, kissing her cheek, "Thank you, petal."

Satisfied that you were able to calm them down, you gently placed the girl back on the floor before moving away from the group. Just as you were about to join the others, you ran into Robin. You didn't know he had just seen the whole thing.

Pulling the flower from behind your ear, you handed it to him, "You know in some cultures, this flower means to pick up the slack and stop looking like a confused chicken." You snapped.

Business as usual.

Robin looked back to the flower you had slipped into his hands, you had said it meant faith and hope, and you had given it to him. He looked back up to see you shuffling away from him quickly, a blush on your face. He smiled.

You were more nurturing and kinder than you let on, it was like it was programmed into your personality and yet you never showed it when you knew they were watching. That wasn't the only part of yourself that you were hesitant to show them.

And the more Robin observed you, the more he realized that you used flower language to depict a lot of your emotions. It was a silent way of letting them out, without having to tell other people what's really in your heart.

You thought you were sly about it, but nothing went under Robin's radar.

Everyone was watching a movie on the flat screen in the rec room. You hadn't realized you were so tired, the movie was boring, something that M'Gann had picked and you hadn't slept the night before, busy patrolling your city.

Your eyelids began to droop before you could even understand what was going on, your head lolling as you drifted in and out of consciousness.

Robin hadn't realized that he was napping through the movie until he felt a weight on his shoulder. He nearly jumped awake and glanced to his side to see you sound asleep, breathing gently. He nearly chuckled, was this what you looked like when you weren't scowling at everybody?

His heart skipped a beat, god, were you beautiful. The smell of flowers vaguely hit his nose and he noticed the red gardenia plant growing steadily in the corner of the room.

'Red Gardenias means a secret love,' Robin recalled from a book he had read, 'It's a secret way for someone to say I love you.'

He glanced back at you still sleeping peacefully, face completely relaxed and briefly wondered if your powers were taking the lead on your emotions and making gardenias grow around the cave. Or were you dreaming about something?

Something in his heart grew, here you were sleeping against his shoulder, making symbols of a secret love grow around the room. This had to be a sign of something, right?

Before he could contemplate it any further, you squirmed and then began to stir. Your eyes fluttered open, hazily taking in your surroundings before they landed on the boy beside you and widened in size, skin darkening with a blush.

"Why the fuck didn't you wake me up?" You snapped and turned on your heel to stomp out of the room without even waiting for a response from him. The others who noticed the way he was just staring at the place you were in surprise. You always do such a 180 when you're around him and conscious.

"Wow, sunshine's crabby in the morning." Wally commented from beside him. When he didn't get any response, he looked over to see Robin with a silly smile on his face.

Dick couldn't stop himself from grinning. The gardenias were still blooming.

***

"Antheia, do you think you will be able to stop the plants from growing any further?" Batman turned to face you, only to find you staring at him with a hazy, blank expression.

"Antheia?" Robin called but you didn't even flinch, your eyes were locked onto the holo-computer, seeing the thick vines that were twisting and turning. Their call was overwhelming, you could feel them grow even beneath your feet. It was like a siren was blearing through your head.

You couldn't tell what they were trying to say, it was like they were muffled. It was confused and lost, following Ivy and it was happy listening to her. And yet, it was feeling pain, the Justice League was busy pruning her as we speak. It was scared, crying out for someone to help them and you felt obligated to help. Your mind was getting heavy, throbbing with an oncoming migraine.

"(Y/N)!" Your eyes snapped open and focused onto the boy in front of you. Everyone was staring at you in concern and you blinked, suddenly not able to remember what the hell was going on. You were just trying to focus on something other than the screams and cries of the plant.

"......What?" You asked a little dumbly, noticing the concern on Robin's face. The plants were still crying. You couldn't get the painful sound of their screams out of your mind. You felt like curling up into a ball and crying.

"Batman asked if you would be able to stop the plants?"

"Oh, um, no." You answered in a distracted way that made his face pinch with worry. His hands were still grasping your shoulders tightly, keeping his face in close proximity to yours. You didn't even realize, too out of it to even notice.

Robin on the other hand felt his cheeks get uncomfortably hot the more you stared at him with those innocent, beautiful eyes of yours. If Batman hadn't been breathing down his neck, he was sure he would've kissed you in the moment.

Unfortunately for him, his dad always knew how to ruin the moment. And he would continue to for the rest of his life. Until death do them part. Even after the two of you grow up and live together, the Batman would find some way to interrupt your fun.

"Robin?"

"Huh?"

"The mission."

Oh. Right.

***

"Robin!" You screamed when one of Ivy's plants wrapped around his neck and slammed him against the trees. They didn't let up curling tighter around his throat. Fear struck you as he began choking from breath and you knew you had to do something.

Suddenly murderous intent took over you and you glared at Ivy who returned it with a smug smirk of her own. Oh, how you'd rip that smirk off her face.

"Okay Ivy, you wanna play? Let's play." You ground out, slamming your hands against the vine around Robin's neck and it began disintegrating beneath your fingers. He fell to the ground, gasping for breath and you tuned out the sound of the plant crying as it died beside him.

Ivy heard it just as loudly as you had, she screamed and more plants lunged towards the both of you.

"Go help the others! I'm about to snap this twig." You spat at Robin, using your powers to kill the roots as it reached you. It was working slowly, your powers weak to the pain of the plants around you. Even as every cell of your body told you not to, you clenched your fingers into fists and watched as the creeper feel to the marsh, dead.

You engaged in battle with Ivy. Plants were screaming for mercy all around you but you couldn't stop for even a second. Life around you was trembling but you had to keep fighting the villain in front of you because if you hesitated for even a second, many more would die.

Thorns scratched your skin, drawing blood and curled around Ivy, sinking barbs into her skin.

"Face it girlie! You're never going to overpower me!"

"Oh, I'm not trying to overpower you, just distract you long enough for Robin to get rid of the control system." You replied, just as smug as she had been at the start of the fight. Now you got to see her face melt into one of panic just as Robin jumped over her head and to your side with a grin identical to yours.

"Cover your ears!" He sang, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and ducking, covering your body with his own. You were grateful for it; you weren't sure you could even keep your body upright at the moment.

Then you heard the explosion and your heart stopped. Every single fibre of your body burned red hot fire as you heard screams and cries around you. Bile was crawling up your throat and your breathing got thin. They were sobbing a heart-broken wail and your eyes misted at the mere sound.

Without realizing it, you were gripping onto Robin's hand, brows furrowed together. The sound of the explosion cleared, the Injustice League was captured and he pulled you up to stand with the others.

It was silent for a moment. You had won.

And then the consequences of your actions hit you.

Everyone's necks snapped towards you when you let out a heart-wrenching sob. Robin, who was standing right next to you caught you just in time before your body hit the ground. Pain exploded in your chest as you began wailing against him.

"(Y/N)? (Y/N)! What's wrong?!" He panicked but you didn't respond, crying into his chest as you gripped his cape in an iron fist. Everything hurt and all you could feel was sorrow and guilt.

The other heroes crowded around you but your eyes were screwed shut, tears making your eyes sting. Robin held onto you tightly, pulling your body against his as you continued to cry.

"What's happening?" Artemis murmured, looking around to see the environment change before her eyes. Everyone else followed her lead to see how leaves began rotting, then the trees. The smell was pungent. Thorns and weeds were crawling up the dying trees, pulling them into the swamp.

"(Y/N) please, what's wrong?" Robin whispered in your ear but you couldn't hear him. The sounds of plants screaming and wailing was echoing through your mind. How they begged you to save them. How they begged you to stop.

And then it got hard to breathe, your chest constricted and you were wheezing. Robin had to watch in horror when petals and blood poured from your mouth. You were choking, throwing up and sobbing in his arms, and he was unable to do anything to help you.

"Flash get her to the Batcave." Batman said gruffly, he was shocked and worried for you but didn't say anything, not wanting to scare his son more, "Sending you the coordinates now."

"Alfred prepare the med-bay."

Dick watched with a sinking heart as he handed you into Flash's arms. It took him a few seconds for his mind to stop whirring, he was still kneeling in the swampy marsh when the team huddled around him.

"It's gonna be okay." Wally murmured, wrapping an arm around his shaking body.

"We just have to hope for the best."

***

When the others had gotten back to the Cave, you had just been moved there, after being looked over by Alfred. He joined you in the med-bay, wanting to keep an eye on you. But as of yet, you still had to wake up.

Dick wasn't supposed to be listening to the adult’s conversation, but he couldn't help himself, he had to know if you were going to be okay.

"The situation is undeterminable, sir. But as of now, the flowers that are clogging her respiratory system keep growing. If we don't find a cure for this, it's inevitable that she will suffocate and pass."

His heart stopped. Die? You couldn't die, not when he still had so many things to tell you. For so long, he hadn't told you of his feelings, wanting to keep the relationship between the two of you professional. But now more than anything, he wished he had said something.

There were so many things he didn't get to do with you yet. You had yet to give him a bouquet on your first date. He wanted to lay in bed with you, smelling fresh flowers as you told him what different plants symbolized. He had yet to see moments where you can't control your powers and make plants grow around the cave.

He hadn't even given you a flower yet.

"Rob listen, I did some research on this 'disease'." Wally said, falling into step with him, "It's called the Hanahaki disease."

"That's fiction Wal—"

"But that's the best we've got right now." Came his curt reply and Dick's heart clenched.

"Hanahaki disease is a fictional sickness that only occurs when someone is suffering from unrequited love. The victim will cough up flower petals that symbolize their love. This disease is only cured when the victim's feelings are romantically returned." Wally read off his phone before turning to Dick with a smile.

He raised a brow, "What?"

"You have to kiss (Y/N)!"

"What!?"

"Yep! You have to return her unrequired love!"

"Wally that's ridiculous, kissing someone doesn't cute anything."

"Well, it's the only thing we have. And for (Y/N), we need to try anything." He said, pushing him towards the med-bay. His voice was tight and tense, like he was holding onto his as his last hope and Dick prayed that it would work when the door of your room came into his sight.

You were asleep and if he hadn't known any better, he would've thought you were healthy. Wally closed the door behind him, leaving Dick alone with you. The only sound in was the beeping from your heart monitor and your light wheezing. It was getting harder to breathe.

Dick inched his way closer to you, watching as your eyelashes fluttered gently in your sleep. Leaning over the bed you were lying in; he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead before moving his head in line with yours.

"God, please let this work." He whispered and your bottom lip was caught between his. It was feather-light but yet, electricity was buzzing through his veins and fireworks went off in his mind.

For a minute, nothing happened and his heart clenched in his chest before he kissed you a little harder. This had to work because they didn't have any other lead. Dick felt you exhale feebly against him and he almost gave up hope.

But then you took a deep breath, stealing the breath from his lungs and he pulled away quickly to see your eyelids fluttering open. The colour was returning to your cheeks and your eyes were sparkling up at him. You smiled gently and he blinked away tears of relief. Thank goodness.

'His eyes are blue' You thought, staring deeply into them. They were beautiful, alluring. You didn't know why but just looking into his eyes was addicting. Was this what it felt like to be so deep in love? That even his eyes were enough to captivate you?

"I'm so glad you're awake." He muttered, cupping your cheeks firmly and planting another kiss on your lips. You giggled lightly, heart overjoyed to find the boy you had been in love with for so long had returned your feelings and you responded to the kiss eagerly, placing your palms over his hands and leaning into him.

With your regaining strength, you felt a flower materialize in your hands. The stem between your fingers brought you comfort just as the scent of the flower brought you back life.

When Dick pulled away, you delicately slipped it into his hands and he turned his attention to it, blue eyes softening when he recognized this particular flower in his hands.

"It's an Aster." You whispered quietly, lips brushing against his and he chuckled. It was the only flower you thought of when he came to your mind, "Get it?"

Dick turned his eyes away from the blossom and looked at you again. Your heart jumped, noticing just how much love he held in them. Eyes you could swim in, overflowing with love for you. Suddenly you were overwhelmed, feeling adoration and attraction. You needed to be closer to him, even though he was pressed against you.

Your fingers curled into his collar and pulled him closer to you, slanting your lips over his in an open-mouthed kiss. Dick gasped against your lips, startled for no longer than a second before sinking against you and wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you closer.

Your lips moved gently against his, the blushing flower trapped between both your bodies. The smell of fresh flowers clouded Dick's mind with everything that was you. Your hair, your smile, your lips. If you kept kissing him like that, he was certain he'd forget his own name.

And then you pulled away and Dick noted that you were as beautiful as a fresh flower. Your skin was glowing with life and your tired eyes were twinkling. You smiled sleepily at him, eyes closing shut and he lowered you back to the bed. Immediately, you slipped back into slumber, exhausted from the day's events.

He watched for a couple seconds, making sure you were able to breathe without any problems before realizing he should tell the others that you were okay.

He slipped out of the room quietly, stealing a final glance of you sleeping peacefully in the bed and a huge smile grew on his face, "She's awake."

It was only then he noticed just how colourful the room had gotten in the few minutes he was with you.

The walls were covered with vines and roses of different colours, camelias and carnations of different shades. It littered the room, not leaving a single inch of the wall untouched and scattered petals all over the floor like confetti.

Different creepers hung from the ceiling, dusting all the superheroes with sparkling pollen and colourful petals. Not to mention there were stems crawling up the Justice League members, flowers hugging their ankles lovingly.

Batman looked a lot less intimidating with petals in his cape and a rose stuck behind his ear. Robin blushed at the sight of everyone giving him knowing smiles.

"We noticed."

Aster: This flower became a symbol of love when in Greek mythology it was placed on the altars for the gods. So now, when you send a bouquet featuring this vibrant bloom, the message of "Take Care Of Yourself For Me" is implied. It conveys deep emotional love and affection for someone.

Forever Taglist:

@simonsbluee

DC Taglist:

@emmacata

@p--e--a--c--h--e--s

@sometimeseverythingsucks

@sokkas-honour

@unstable1902

@lostgirlheart

@missdisapear

@tadpole-san

883 notes · View notes

imagines-to-quench-thirst · 3 years

Text

Visiting your hometown

What happens when you take your man to your home town? As your memories, people and places come together how will he react?

A small/long drabble to get me back into writing. Enjoy!

Victor Creed

This mutant never thought that he would walk in your hometown. He didn't expect to see cultures that morph together into one special town, your town. A place where you grew up. So keeping all that in mind he was cautious. Various not to offend someone or to say a rude word in your mother tongue. For the first time in his life, he is frazzled and nervous. he will keep in his front pocket a small leaflet some words he heard you say a few times that may be of some assistance. trying to woo you.

-that old hag showed me the middle finger. let's go.

Unfortunately, anything that he says wrong, will be your responsibility to amend it. so good luck.

Loki

you just know that Loki will have your mother tongue in his little finger (that sounds weird but let's carry on) but do not be fooled, he can not survive the morning wave of people in the farmers market. something that is pretty much normal for you. Loki doesn't know how to feel when he sees the local butcher wrapping the meat in todays' newspaper giving it to buyers or how people shove him to the side as his black suit with the green scarf is more than brought down in value. he will hear the near shouts of Famers that are trying to sell their livelihood to him as his head goes from one side to another in a split second. he will easily get reeled in by the old farmer who just smells the innocence on the Midgardian addressed god. you know the moment you grabs his hand he looks at you.

-how did you ever survive in this chaos?

-I thought you said that chaos is your middle name.

-it is however my kind of chaos is more dignified.

-survive just a little bit more, I need to go to that man in the corner.

-oh, no...

Thor

we all in the fandom know that thor is a ball of joy. but when he lands in your city, your territory he is stoic. he is here on a mission and no one should stand in his way. he will glue himself to your side and he will hold the dictionary book in his mighty right hand and your hand in his left. he will not stand for wasting a day on mundane stuff that you do with him back in the HQ so say goodbye to lazying around. when you go to the oceanic part of your country you are now almost ready to drown him in the ocean. or just leave him on the road, it is getting that heavy.

-thor, think it is time to stop.

-what do you mean?

-to be honest, I don't know anymore I am so tired.

-you are right... let us stop. for 2 minutes and then you can drive again.

-I will leave you here.

Bucky Barnes

bucky loves to travel. he loves to see you in the role of a guide you tell him about the park where you cut your leg open and when you got to the hospital as a nun stood above you praying for your recovery. bucky loves to feel the fresh air going into his nose thinking to himself how this was the same air that you breathe in. he loves to see all the different parts of the city where you went to. even so much that he went to your former hairstylist.

-bucky, you don't have to do this.

-nonsense, doll. I want to experience it. just like you did.

-that was eons ago. and I wore super short hair, like a hedgehog.

-hedgehog?

-yeah, it was so short that I only put on gel and made small spikes.

- I will give everything I have and say that you looked beautiful.

-alright, your call.

Steve Rogers

steve cannot wait for enough for him to arrive in the city where you walked, ran, and laughed. he cannot wait to enter your old apartment and see all of the hidden pieces that he wants to know. he loves to help you clean the apartment and see a big box of your old photos. he will look with your through on the hard wooden floor with one arm around your shoulders as you talk about each photo. even showing him the photo of your sister.

-when will I meet her?

-I don't know.

-didn't you say that she lived here, still?

-yeah...

-I want to meet her. I think am ready for it.

-okay...

Bruce Wayne

you just know that when you told him to pack his bags to go with you he did his research. he knows when, how the city was built. he will try to memorize the tongue twisters and say them horribly wrong just to make you laugh. when he looks at your old apartment he tries to envision the day you left it all behind to go to Gotham and it breaks his heart to imagine you in tears.

-bruce.

you take his calloused hand feeling his fingers tighten the grip.

-sorry, I immediately imagined you when you moved out. I got sad.

-why?

-because, you surely cried.

-I did, a little, but this city didn't have that something.

-and what is that?

-you dumbass. now stop sulking we need to clean.

Clark Kent

as Clark arrived at the farm where your aunt lived he couldn't help feel but prepared. he saw the cows eating grabs and was ready in a split second to milk it just to show off his soft and delicate side. Clark heard the stories of your aunt, well one of them, and from what he concluded, for now, this aunt was the beginner level, nice one, the one who won't tear him a new one if he doesn't treat you right. as the door opened you greeted your aunt in your mother tongue and introduced your man. Clark shakingly trying to reply in the mother tongue feeling the few letters that stood together could fall more apart than from his mouth. your aunt laughed hugging him and roughly patted him on his back. almost like a punch if you will. you look at your aunt and Clark cannot help but stand behind you as he whispered.

-what did she say?

-she said that you seem stiffer than a goat's turd.

-you said that this aunt was nice.

-she is. but that is the way we express ourselves.

-with curse words???!!

-what better way.

Arthur curry

Arthur was relaxed when he arrived, he was laid back when he slept in your apartment but that all suicide jumped off a cliff as he shook hands with your mother. Your mom wasn't that intimating but he heard the stories of her standing to your abusive father and running away with just some change in her pocket and a used car. he knows that the woman in front of him is strong can make or break your relationship. so he held the coffee cup in his hands as if was the key to everything he needed to know how to make your mother happy. he saw how your eyes sparkled when you talked to her how your smile ever left for a second you take what seemed to him in complete gibberish but cute gibberish. your mother turns to him asking in English.

-so Arthur, can I call you by your first name?

-yes, madam. of course, you can.

-thank you. well, then Arthur what do you do for a living?

with a small nod from you, he tells the honest truth.

-I am a superhero. but minus the stupid cape. I am here to keep you and your daughter, of course, safe from all danger. and I hope you will like me!!!!

you turn to your mother with a small chuckle as you tell her in your mother tongue.

-he is helpless.

-he seems like it, good luck, Y/n.

Orm Marius

nothing can save his pulse from rising as he walked with the crowd of people in the town square only your hand which he held more than tightly enough. you stopped pointing at a big statue of a colonel on a horse placed in the middle of the square.

-he is a big deal.

-yes, I can imagine the poor people that had to lift it up to place it here.

-yes, but thanks to those people, people now in the present can always remember what they went through at that time.

he didn't find any specialness in the statute for him it lacked in far more than that he can count but when he saw your face looking at the statue he knew that whatever that stirred in you he wanted to see it every day. he only squeezed your hand placing a kiss on your knuckles.

-does this mean you want in your likeness?

-sure, but only if you will make it.

-oh, darling, that is a recipe for chaos.

The Joker

j never put effort into himself. he did in destruction, in chaos, in mayhem, and even in covering his white skin with some basic foundation as he meets your off the edge aunt. when you told him that every second sentence from her is a curse he was more than ready to meet her. because sometimes crazy people click with the people who like to curse. everyone knows that. so when he sat in the house of your crazy aunt he firstly observed, he watched you talked together and exchanged laughs, even more, when you ever brought to tears as you laughed off the curses she threw at you so playfully making even j smile. so when she turned to him it was game time. and you were the translator.

-my aunt asked what is that you do for a job?

-tell her I am the man of your dreams.

-I told her that.

-damn, then tell her-WHAT?!

you giggle at his shock as you heard the playful quote she told you when you were little and j wanted to know what she said.

-what did she say?

-she said "if a girl gives a man a hand, she will give him her ass"

-your aunt is a wise woman.

- I knew you would like her.

Duncan Vizla

Duncan likes to take walks and taking a walk with you next to him as you showed him around your old neighborhood and told him stores of the always pissed on metal slide and the always filled cafes that were always the pinpoints for some scammers he found in question why you like it so much. as you showed his around you stopped at your old elementary school. you showed him the main entrance was where everyone hurled in the morning hours and where you sat with your friends and talked about the horribly proffers that still to this day haunt you. something he heard you mumble in your sleep.

-she was that awful?

-yes, and people like here never get old it's like the evilness she has in her keeps her eligible for work.

-am i not the same?

he couldn't ask a stupider question. and for that, you punched him in the shoulder.

-don't compare yourself to her. you aren't evil.

-you are forgetting my job, darling.

-you kill for money, she kills for fun and to keep herself alive. a difference now let's go home I need to remind you just how good and attentive you can be.

-lead the way, dove.

hope you liked it. Tell me what you think❤️

Support me with a kofi

631 notes · View notes

samuel-de-champagne-problems · 3 years

Text

And I Will Hold Onto You

Summary: They’ve never been apart for holidays since they started dating. That was until Spencer Reid found himself behind bars for a crime he’d never think of committing. Growing and healing, Spencer realizes that it’s not the holidays that matter, it’s the person. Because with that special person, who’s laugh he can recognize anywhere, even cleaning up the empty bottle the next morning is magical.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female Reader

Word Count: 2.1K

Author’s Note/Warnings: Body Image Issues (Male) nothing too descriptive, prison arc is mentioned/is central issue; loosely based of New Year’s Day by Taylor Swift

Also this is technically a part 2 to Drag Me Head First but it doesn’t have to be read that way.

And I Will Hold Onto You

There’s something special in the way that the first midnight of the new year feels. All that hopefulness and excitement packed into a 10 second countdown. The energy in the room slowly bubbles up, culminating as the ball drops. It fizzles out as loved ones share chaste kisses and friends hug. But all that remains are last year’s bottles and this year’s dreams. Maybe it’s something that Spencer always took for granted.

The cold midnight air is jarring, compared to his warm and cozy house. Spencer walks quickly, taking out the trash, filled with bottles of beer and wine. The snow crunches under his shoes and Spencer can see his breath in the air as he huffs to toss the bag in the black trash bin. Spencer, despite the way the cold air nips his nose, stops in his tracks and gazes up at the stars. It’s unfortunate living where he does, you can never really see all the stars. Maybe Y/N would like to take a trip in their cabin the next time he can get off? He could show her all the stars. But Spencer doesn’t need to go to the middle of the woods to see the stars; he can simply look into Y/N’s eyes and see all the magic the universe has to offer.

Spencer lets himself back into his house, just as Garcia and Derek are putting their shoes and coats on to leave. Y/N comes out of the kitchen carrying two trays of leftover food for their friends to take home.

“Penny, please kiss those sweet babies for me,” Y/N says, handing Luke the trays of food. She leans over to kiss Penelope on her cheek.

“They can only sweet when they are sleeping,” Penelope says, rolling her eyes and putting her coat on. It’s more of a cape in a spectacular plum purple color with cream colored faux fur trim.

“Don’t act so surprised, mi amor, look who their mother is,” Luke says, cheekily. He hugs Spencer and Y/N before grabbing Garcia’s hand with his empty one.

“Happy New Year!” Garcia and Luke call as they leave, shutting the door behind them. Spencer locks the door and heads back to the kitchen to help Y/N clean up. The plates sit in the sink piled high, with tall champagne glasses resting next to them on the counter. Glitter scatters on the floor, confetti in the shapes of “1s” and “6” lay littered on the tiles, remnants of the festivities just moments before.

Y/N stands over the sink, her hand rests on the ledge. She turns on the water and starts washing the dishes. Spencer walks up quietly behind her, nuzzling his hand into the corner of her ear and shoulder. He hums, the vibrations echoing into Y/N’s neck, causing her to giggle. He joins his hands together around Y/N’s waist, holding her tight.

“Happy New Year, my love,” Spencer whispers, his voice hardly audible above the stream of water. Even though Spencer can’t see Y/N, he can feel the way her cheeks grow against the side of his head. She’s smiling.

“It is a very happy, new year,” Y/N says, her voice strong, yet Spencer can tell it’s hard for her to keep it together. It’s not their first new year, far from it, it’s their 13th. But this time, it feels different to hold her in his arms and kiss her as the clock strikes 12.

They wash the dishes in silence, a comforting silence where certain things don’t need to be said. Like a well oiled machine, Y/N washes, Spencer dries. The sudsy dish soap smells like home and Y/N’s quiet hums sound like peace. Spencer really forgot how much he could love even the most mundane of tasks when Y/N stands next to him.

“Come on, Y/N we can do this tomorrow. Let’s just go to bed,” Spencer says, tugging on Y/N’s long sleeve of her thermal shirt.

“Hmm, I can’t argue against your cuddles, sweetheart,” Y/N murmurs tiredly, easily pushing the thoughts of clean up to the next morning. Her hand joins his, like a key finding it’s matching lock. They are cold from the water, but Spencer doesn’t really mind.

A tangle of limbs and hands, they make their way up the stairs to their shared bedroom. They pass the wall filled with pictures of their smiling faces or candid countenances in mismatching frames hung against the wall. It’s just a testament to how long they’ve been together, going back to their first date right before Y/N’s college graduation and Spencer’s fifth, leading up to their most recent Halloween. Each photo stuck in time, frozen with utter happiness and unadulterated joy. But there’s a gap in the collection, a gap that Spencer rather not talk about. A gap where, for the first time since they met, Spencer and Y/N were separated. Sitting in jail, all Spencer could think of was the personal mental prison that Y/N must have confined herself too.

They don’t like talking about the gap, but he knows they have too. Spencer knows that Y/N is proud of him, she tells him that everyday. Proud of him for keeping up with therapy, proud of him for letting go of the little things that he can’t control, proud of him for trusting her with his secrets and fears. It’s the strangest thing, to have someone be proud of you for just living.

“We’re going to need a bigger wall,” Spencer says, hoping that his attempt at referencing pop culture would land. Y/N stops to turn to Spencer, who in the moonlight that drips in from the window, looks much younger than he really is.

“Did you just make a pop culture reference that’s not from, like, 300 years ago?” Y/N says, her brow upturned in a quizzical stare.

“Come on, Y/N, you love when I recite all Sir Walter Raleigh to you,” Spencer says, reaching up to tickle Y/N sides, causing her to giggle and run up the rest of the stairs.

“Spencer! You know that I’m too ticklish,” Y/N says in between short laughs and gasps for air. She plops down on the bed, dragging Spencer down with her. He lays his head down on her chest and like a Rube Goldberg machine, her fingers come up and tangle themselves in his hair.

“Maybe our New Year’s Resolution should be to get some more exercise, Spence. Your heart is beating faster than mine and that run from the steps to our room is like a good 10 feet,” Y/N jokes as she continues scratching Spencer’s scalp lulling him into a peaceful, sleepy state.

“Two things, baby, one, we don’t exercise and two, that’s not why my heart is beating so fast, I think it has something to do with the beautiful girl laying so close to me,” Spencer murmurs quietly.

“Hmm, you certainly know how to charm a girl, even like 13 years later,”

“Actually it’s, 13 years, 7 months, 17 days, 17 hours, 58 minutes and 31 seconds,” Spencer says with a quick glance at his watch.

“And I’ve loved every single minute of it,” Y/N says, reaching up to sneak a pillow under Spencer’s head. She moves to get out of bed, much to Spencer’s displeasure.

“No, no, Y/N you’re so warm and I’m freezing,” Spencer whines, shifting so he can look at his wife, who has shrugged off her thermal shirt and jeans.

“And who’s fault is that?” Y/N chides. Spencer, almost bashful at her teasing, attempts to hide his blush with the pillow that rests under his head.

“I only turn the heat all the way down at night so we’re forced to cuddle for body heat,” Spencer says, his voice muffled by the pillow.

“So you say,” Y/N tells Spencer, sitting down back on the bed. She pulls on Spencer’s legs, dragging him down the bed.

“Come on lazy boy, get your PJs on,” Y/N orders. Spencer, who under Penelope’s less than pure supervision, had enough shots to make up for all the college parties that he missed. There’s happy drunks, forgetful drunks, and then there're sleepy drunks.

Spencer stands in front of the mirror, inspecting his body. The low, yellow lamp light casts shadows on his naked torso. He’s filled out a little bit since they’ve started dating, especially within the last few months of Spencer’s healing. Y/N knew that it’s a sore spot for him, but there’s something about the way that Spencer’s dress pants sit tightly against his thighs or the way his shirt clings to his stomach that just makes him look so much older. Both of them, including their bodies, have changed so much since 13 years ago. Or 13 years, 7 months, 17 days, 18 hours, 5 minutes and 12 seconds ago. They’ve grown up together, and now Y/N can’t wait to grow old together.

But the look in his eyes is not pride over his growth or confidence over his physique. It’s confusion. Spencer stares at himself like he’s an unsolvable puzzle. Y/N knows he must hate that; Spencer hates things that he can’t find an answer to. Y/N walks up behind him, lacing her finger together so her arms clasp against his waist. For a moment, Spencer flinches. Even her gentlest touches and softest kisses can’t wash away the fear of much harsher contact. Their eyes meet in the mirror, but Y/N can feel that Spencer’s not looking at her. After all these years, she can still see the terrified young man who brazenly kissed her in her car in the middle of a rainstorm. After all these years, Spencer is still the only man she ever loved.

“Spencer,” Y/N says quietly. His name off her lips is more tender than any pet name in existence.

“I’m sorry, Y/N. I’m being immature, it’s just,” Spencer closes his eyes, trying to focus himself in the present. It’s something that his therapist suggested. In moments of distress, find your anchor. Luckily for Spencer, his anchor has been his anchor for quite awhile.

“You can tell, I’m not going to judge you,” Y/N says, her lips leaving small kisses on his exposed shoulders.

“It’s just I thought this whole nightmare of prison was behind me. Therapy has been helping, I’m better on cases and I love teaching,” Spencer says, the pain in his voice leaking out.

Y/N doesn’t say anything, instead she guides Spencer to sit on the edge of their bed. She rubs her hand down his back, tracing his spine and around the freckles that collect on his right shoulder.

“I thought that the emotional healing would be the hardest part, I mean it is, but physically, I don’t recognize myself. I can imagine you don’t either,” Spencer says, he turns to lay on the bed, bringing his feet up to his chest in a textbook self-protective position.

“Spence, your body is gonna change, baby. God, mine has changed so much since we met,” Spencer gives Y/N a confused look, like he’s not thoroughly convinced by her explanation.

“It has Spencer. We’re not 22 years old anymore, we’re going to be like 35 in a couple of months. But you know, this is something we can work on together, I’ve gone my whole life not loving the skin I’m in. But being with you makes it easier, Spence.” Y/N says, running her fingers across the bridge of Spencer’s nose and down to his lips, that always a ridiculously gorgeous shade of pink. Spencer doesn’t say much, he’s still trapped deep inside his mind.

“I don’t know how you put up with me and all my antics, Y/N”

“You do my taxes every year,” Y/N jokes, making an effort to kiss every freckle and dipple on the expanse of Spencer’s back.

Spencer turns in the bed so he’s facing Y/N, he cups her face all the way from her ear to her jaw. It’s an intimate gesture that somehow is more loving and vulnerable than saying “I love you,”

“You know you make me fearless, Y/N,” Spencer tells her, not blinking because he doesn’t want to miss out on any more time looking into her eyes.

“You say that everyday Spencer Reid,” Y/N responds, letting herself melt into the touch. She grabs onto his wrist, physically telling him to not let go.

“I have a lot of days to make up for,” Spencer says, solemnly.

“It’s not making it up if it’s the rest of our life, Spencer. Besides, there’s no one I’d rather spend New Year’s Day cleaning up all those bottles with,”

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

**Taglist** (Comment to be Added or Send in An Ask)

@calm-and-doctor @shemarmooresfedora

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x reader fluff #dr spencer reid #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid smut #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid you #criminal minds #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds fics #spencer reid fanfiction

212 notes · View notes

vavuska · 3 years

Text

Who changed Lola Bunny?

Malcolm D. Lee explained, “This is 2021. It’s important to reflect the authenticity of strong, capable female characters. … So we reworked a lot of things, not only her look, like making sure she had an appropriate length on her shorts and was feminine without being objectified, but gave her a real voice. For us, it was, ‘Let’s ground her athletic prowess, her leadership skills, and make her as full a character as the others.'”

(See the complete interview here: X)

So, gone are her curves, thigh-high drawstring shorts and midriff-baring crop top. Instead, Lola Bunny now takes on a sportier look wearing a more standard basketball vest and leggings under her track shorts.

But, let's see more deeply what determinated this choice:

1. Being mad at a fan art is sad, people.

Before, a sad 50 yo guy starts complaing about how "cancel culture" or "politically correct" ruined his life - Really? Changing a cartoon bunny from a movie you didn't see for a decade ruined your life? Wow. Someone should really review the list of their priorities -, let's see how really Lola looked in the 1996 original Space Jam.

Here we have original Lola Bunny:

(Here you can see all Lola's scenes in Space Jam: X)

Yes, Lola walked in a sexy way that show off her curves, or at least she seemed to have curves (a little breast, tight waist, long legs, bootie), but those are not big as in the fan art you are seeing around, and Lola's curves are not evidenced during the match or when she played. Is more her attitude and posture that made her look sexy. However, althought her curves clearly changes every time she is doing something different, from action to action, there are some scenes in which she is purposely made sexy, with saxophone music as soundtrack and male-gaze sections that ends in the same way, Lola surrounded by a bunch of horny and howling cartoon guys.

That's appropriate with Jessica Rabbit: she is purposely made and designed as a parody of the femme fatale from old hard boiler movies, in which attractive, mysterious women were portrayed as evil and manipulative gals who hide criminal intentions. Jessica, with her intentionally exaggerated body, subverted the misogyny of 40s and 30s detective movies: she is kind-hearted, truly loves her naive and goofy husband Roger and uses her powers (beauty and cunning) to protect him. Her body too is used for comic sketches, while this not happens for Lola, that's just a serious and indipendent basketball player. So, the male obsession for her body is out of place, expecially because she reacted with anger at being misconsidered only for being an attractive female bunny. “Don't call me doll” is her catch phrase. So, it seems strange she didn't react at all at the very sexualized presentation at the final basketball match: Lola simply shows her basketball skills, ignoring or accepting passively the reaction of the honey crowd of wolves around her. (Please, notice the association: Lola “admirers” are wolves, predators, while Lola, their object of desire, is a rabbit, a prey)

This is the cartoon version of cat calling: they are like a group of men who sit on their porches and whistle at girls everyday when they walk in from of them. A normal girl or woman would pass over this thing, even if they are bothered, unconfortable or embarassed, because they are more scared by a possible violent reaction of this whistling horny guys at their legitimate anger objections. But here, we are talking of Lola, a strong Looney Tunes bunny, and she could smash that damn basket ball on wolves' face, breaking all their teeth. That would be very a Looney reaction. But Lola doesn't react at all at this situation. Here, on my opinion, screenplayers missed an opportunity, but probably they thought to have already did too much with Lola's personality and “girl power”.

Remember also that Lola is the only young cartoon female character we see in the whole movie. So we can't do a proper comparison with other female relevant characters' rapresentation. (See here for a deeper analysis of Lola's origin and development: X)

However, compared with Bugs, Lola looks more fit, more humanized than Bugs. Lola has clearly a definited breast and booty, but it looks like is more her posture that makes them relevant. Lola has clearly shoulders back to show the rack. Bugs is anthropomorphic but remains an animal, has no shoulders or pectorals more like a human and looks a bit over-weight (fat belly). And his posture don't keep that stomach in, chin up, and march forward.

Lola, on the other hand, has a more human structure. That's why I say she has curves. An example are Mickey and Minnie who are two beans in the same way it is not that Mickey is a bean and Minnie has small tits, they are structurally alike.

Lola's body remembers highly No-Ribs-Jasmine from Aladdin (see the gif for reference). That unrealistic Barbie-like waist that was so popular in the 90s and 80s. (See here for references: X and X)

Now, we are changed a lot from the past 24 years. Barbies didn't have that impossible, unrealistic waist-line anymore, Disney princess concept has changed (see Merida and Moana).

Lola concept is changed in 2012: her design for the new cartoons is totally different and her personality too. She wear a blue or violet dress, almost flat-chested and she was made annoying and silly, just to make a contrast with Bugs smarter. Just like Daffy Duck is dumb as hell and his new girlfriend, Tina Russo (no more dear old Melissa Duck), is way smarter than him. Tina is tough, street-smart, rebellious and feisty. But we will see this thing in the next point.

2. People on the upper floors hated Lola personality.

Lola Bunny had only few lines in Space Jam, but she definitely passed the first impression that she was draw only for make male characters fall in love. Lola was a good basketball player and show it off, in front of a skeptical and then astonish bunch of cartoon guys and also Michael Jordan. She also had a strong personality and said it clear to Bugs she didn't like being called "doll". Lola was beauty and curvy, but not a cheerleader. Lola was a basketball player. Remember this part, because we will talk about basketball in the next point.

If at the box office Space Jam was a success, at Warner Bros there were those who turn up their noses, and they are important people, from the upper floors, who accused the film with Michael Jordan of having completely distorted the philosophy of the Looney Tunes. They blamed Lola Bunny more than everything else. Producers of Warner Bros said she was too perfect for the moody group of Warner cartoons: she was too sensual, provocative and independent, totally alien to that core of crazy characters that act as an exaggeration of the vices of 'man.

And fans hated her too. Chuck Jones, creator of the Merrie Melodies said: "Lola Bunny is a character with no future, she’s a totally worthless character with no personality."

So, Lola Bunny was deleted. Lola would make only some brief apparitions in some comics edited by DC Comics, in Baby Looney Tunes, in which she was a toddler with a very similar personality and resemblance to Space Jam adult version, and also as playable character in some unsuccessful videogames.

Years passed and projects for a sequel of Space Jam never become reality, so in 2003 Warner Bros relased Looney Tunes Back in Action. But Lola wasn't here, because the movie purposely want to make a deep cut with what we saw in Space Jam, according to what said it's director Joe Dante. This movie was a totally failure, but it gave back to Looney Tunes their craziness.

Years passed again, but this time is 2011, 10th of May on Cartoon Network was relased the second episode of The Looney Tunes Show. The series aimed to strongly relaunch the Looney Tunes, long gone from the glories of the past, updating the stories of Bugs Bunny and associates in a sitcom key, with the rabbit sharing a house with Daffy Duck in a suburb of Los Angeles. All interspersed with sketches by Wile E. Coyote and Road Runner done in CGI and the updated return of the Merrie Melodies. But the big news of the second episode is that LOLA BUNNY RETURNED.

And Lola was a character with some relevance within the series, even if something didn't seem right with her. Lola looked different, she was no longer the rabbit version of the femme fatale seen in Space Jam: she was naive, talkative, with her head in the clouds, crazy to the point of becoming Bugs Bunny's stalker. Bugs after having fallen in love with her at first glance understands on the first date that he absolutely can't stand Lola. She is no longer the Lola we used to know, even if the appearance is similar and the name is the same. Lola is effectively a Looney Tunes now. And the fans like her, the public like her, Warner Bros like her.

(See Lola in The Looney Tunes Show here: X)

But this is a big walk in behind from the indipent character we used to know in Space Jam. Lola was turned into the stereotype of the crazy girlfriend for a while. And this is not a surprise, if we remember that in 2012 were popular the "overly attached girlfriend" meme template. (See here for references: X)

However, in The Looney Toons Show Lola has some very funny moments, while in Space Jam she was more serious and a little out of space among the other characters. (See here for references: X)

3. What women wear when they play basketball?

Women's National Basketball Association was only created in 1996. So, women's basketball were not considered - and still is not considered - as important as men's basketball at the time Space Jam was filmed.

In Space Jam 2 there will be WNBA players with a significant role, for example Diana Taurasi and Nneka Ogwumike.

Professional female athletes aren't that curvy because curves are determined by body fat and they have a little.

As a busty volleyball player, I can say, dear people, breats could be very annoying during sport activities: it could be a pain, when you run or jump. That's because a lot of women wear sport bra to compress and support their breast. Sports bra may also include layered cups or a high neck to keep everything in place and protect from painful hits, so women can be safe and comfortable during workouts.

Female basketball players didn't wear crop-tops and tight shorts to play. They wear exactly what Lola wears in the picture above: long sleeveless tees, large shorts and maybe protective gears such as knee pads, sleeves or braces to reduce chronic pain caused by the immense burden put on the knees in basketball, to prevent bruises caused by collisions and hard fall and to provide support after a significant knee injury like an ACL tear. They could wear also compressive arms sleeves to help muscles that are sore or overworked to recover faster. The sleeve enables your blood flow to circulate quicker to the heart, which helps you heal and recover quicker.

Wow. WNBA wears Exactly what wear NBA players. So surprising.

4. This is only a promotional character sketch, not what Lola would look in the movie.

Space Jam 2 would be developed in CGI and there are a little preview frames going around, included one showing Lola jumping and you can see her breast shape. But she totally looks like a comic cartoon character. It's not humanized. It's not designed to be the sexy love interest. She doesn't look out of space among the others anymore, expecially because seems that there would be also Tweety's Granny and Melissa Duck or Tina Russo as players too.

5. Reality.

Really? You want a human anthropomorphic rabbit? Well, Lola as a rabbit would have something like six nipples, but no human-like breast. And, also, real life girls have ribs. No one in real life is that thin. Oh, well, if you don't considered Pixee Fox, a model who had surgically removed six ribs and wears daily a compressive bust corset (yes, like the one that made Elizabeth Swan faint in the first movie of Pirate of the Caribbean) to look like a cartoon fairy (Tinkerbell, you are the one to blame for this).

(See here for references: X)

In conclusion, we can say that all this controversy is based only on a porny fan art and that Lola “new” graphic isn't change too much from the original Space Jam movie. It's just a little more cartoonish.

We can also firmly remeber that Space Jam 2 is going to be developed for children, to relunch Looney Tunes among new generations of children, who are the largest buyers of merchandising (including Happy Meals surprises) and consumers of new cartoons that surely would be developed, if Space Jam 2 would be a success.

However, we should admit that those kids probably know better the 2011 version of Lola than her original version and that 2011 version was more appreciated by fans and producers. Lola's voice actress, Kristen Wiin won BTVA People's Choice Voice Acting Award in 2012 and was nominated for that prize also about three times in the following years. Also Rachel Ramras, Lola's voice actor was nominated for BTVA People's Choice Voice Acting Award in 2016 for her role in Looney Tunes: Rabbit Run.

We don't know anything about Lola's personality in Space Jam 2, so we can't do a proper comparison or a prevision, but, according to what Malcolm D. Lee said, we can assume that original personality of Lola would be preserved.

The controversy is relevant only for Lola's body and not for her personality, and that's is highly rappresentative of what impressed more this bunch of grow-up kids. They grow up to be like the horny wolves and they are howling because their prey is not available anymore.

And, to be honest, being so obsessed with the breast and the body of a cartoon character (that is clearly made up for kids) it's not sane at all. Sorry to say that, but sometimes people need to drink from a bottle of truth.

208 notes · View notes

littlemisspascal · 3 years

Text

Death and an Angel part 13

Death!Din x Cupid F!Reader

Summary: Ahsoka takes Din on a journey through the past.

“You should know though, you might not like what you see.”

Din shakes his head, dismissing the warning. “What’s one more nightmare?”

Rating: T

Word Count: 5,958

Warnings: angst, swearing, character death (canonical, but with my own twist), made up planet name that is ridiculous, dialogue heavy, plot plot plot, backstory

Author Note: Good lord this is soooo late coming out. To anyone who sent me an encouraging message I am beyond grateful because I really needed the encouragement to finish this segment. I hope more than anything this segment gives more answers than it raises questions (although reading your theories is both awesome and entertaining so keep them coming too!)

Links to Part 1 and Part 12 and Part 14

Cross-posted on AO3.

Photo Inspiration:

“Who the fuck is Moff Gideon?”

Ahsoka looks at Din, her brow furrowed deeply. He’s seen the expression on her face enough times to recognize its meaning: this is the face she makes when she is about to reveal a message directly from the universe itself. As an Oracle, she is the only immortal who can glimpse details of the past, present, and future. She has a soft spot for mortals, sharing the few precious snippets the universe allows her to with them in the forms of riddles and vague prophecies that never fail to give Din a migraine with their crypticness when he hears them.

“Moff Gideon is a Seraph who grew discontent with his position amongst immortals,” she says at last.

“Is he the one responsible for keeping my soulmate from me?” he asks, voice as harsh and unforgiving as the environment surrounding them.

“He is responsible for many sins.”

“I don’t have time for your vague answers,” he growls, hands twisting into fists. “You tell me not to kill this Seraph, then in the next breath claim he’s a threat. I am not a mortal who will be entertained by riddles, Ahsoka. You summoned me here to talk, so start talking. Tell me what you know.”

The Oracle’s mouth purses into a thin line. Nearly a full minute passes before she speaks again. When she does, the calmness is no longer natural, but forced. “Telling you what I know would be impossible.”

“Ahsoka—”

“But,” she pitches her voice higher than his protest while narrowing her eyes disapprovingly, “I am capable of showing you. You should know though, you might not like what you see.”

Din shakes his head, dismissing the warning. “What’s one more nightmare?”

She reaches forward, pressing her index and middle fingers to the center of his visor. If not for his helmet, she’d be touching the space directly between his eyes and instinct tells him the positioning isn’t random.

“We’ll start at the beginning,” she says, but her voice has changed from its usual cadence. It is ancient and youthful, a harsh scream and a hushed whisper all at once.

Din has only the slightest of seconds to process this in addition to the way her facial markings start to glow and her eyes flash white before he finds himself standing in the midst of a crisis.

There is mass hysteria every direction he turns. People screaming in terror, pushing each other and tripping over those who have fallen in their haste to flee an unseen threat; whole buildings are crumbling, sending flaming debris and shards of glass raining down upon the streets as smoke billows into the sky. The edges of his field of view are blurred, like he’s looking at everything through someone’s glasses, and it creates an ache behind his eyeballs. Fuck, is this what it’s like for Ahsoka when she experiences visions?

‘You remember the Fall of Mandalore, don’t you, Death?’ Ahsoka’s voice resonates from deep inside his brain, as if she’s fused her consciousness with his.

His jaw tightens when he says, “Of course.”

‘Oh, look. There you are.’

Sure enough, when Din looks forward he sees himself moving swiftly through the crowd, unaffected by the chaos as he stoops to reap the soul of a woman who’s had her skull caved in by the stampede of frantic civilians. He wonders how many others can say they’ve had an out-of-body-experience such as what he’s dealing with right now: reliving a traumatic event all over again while observing himself the same way a stranger would from a distance.

“Why are you showing me this?”

‘Because it’s important,’ Ahsoka answers, and the image of her frowning face enters his mind unbiddenly. ‘The universe has a plethora of endings imagined for every civilization, but it is the individual choices of the community that act as stepping stones bringing them closer to a specific fate.’

“Mandalore was always meant to fall apart. It was just a matter of how, not when,” he surmises, voice devoid of emotion. His words are punctuated by another fiery blast from a nearby complex, followed by an ear-piercing wall of a terrified child.

‘Precisely. But the same cannot be said for an individual’s lifespan. There are consequences if someone perishes before their time has come. You should know that better than anyone.’ There is a hint of accusation thinly veiled in her tone that has his body tensing reflexively.

His location shifts, shapes and colors mixing together without warning before another scene gradually comes into focus. It’s a large chamber with sparse furnishings, but its beauty is tarnished by the copious amounts of glass littering the room as every single one of the ornately designed windows have been shattered from the force of the explosions outside. Din knows before he even lays eyes on the throne he’s inside the royal palace because he first sees the familiar face of his most trusted reaper standing next to a blond-haired woman. Both women have such strikingly similar facial features nobody who sees them side by side can have any doubt they are related.

Whereas Bo-Katan dons gray-and-blue armor with a jetpack strapped to her back and two blaster pistols holstered at her sides, her sister, Satine, wears a garnet colored dress with a gold belt wrapped around her slender waist. In this moment, the sisters differ from each other as much as night and day; one a military leader, the other a pacifistic duchess.

“You need someone here to protect you. We don’t know who or what we’re dealing with and it isn’t safe for you to be alone,” Bo-Katan argues, crossing her arms over her chest as if to intimidate her sister into submitting.

“Our people are scared and defenseless, Bo. They need your protection during this crisis more than I currently do,” Satine says, voice soft but firm in a way only those deeply involved in politics can master.

Bo-Katan glances out the broken windows at the burning city, stubborn loyalty to protect her sister warring with her duty to protect her people. “Then at least send a message to Obi-Wan to come here.”

Satine shakes her head. “Bo—”

“I know things are strained between you two right now—”

“That’s a glaring understatement.”

“—but he’s one of our best and most loyal guards. He’s proven more than a dozen times he’ll fight anyone who’s a threat to you.”

“I don’t need the reminder of what he’s done for me.”

Bo-Katan places a hand on the blonde’s shoulder and squeezes it when she says, “He’s the only one other than myself I trust to protect you if you were to encounter danger.”

“Just because I’m committed to peace does not mean I am incapable of looking after myself.” Satine reaches behind herself to detach a weapon that had been clipped to the back of her belt. She clicks a button on its hilt, emitting a white blade shining brightly like a beacon amongst the dark clouds of smoke tainting the air.

Din’s breath catches in his throat. “Is that…?”

‘The Lightsaber of Mandalore,’ Ahsoka confirms. ‘Made by the Armorer herself.’

The Armorer is deeply respected by both mortals and immortals alike. As the goddess of metalworking and blacksmiths, there is nothing she cannot forge and infuse with grand powers. However, she is exceedingly cautious about choosing who is a recipient of her creations.

Din is one such recipient, having been given his armor of pure beskar when the Armorer realized how dangerous his touch was to mortals. He remains eternally grateful for the gift not only because it prohibits unwanted physical contact, but also because it is invulnerable to damage or rust like other types of armor. Ahsoka’s dual sabers were also made in the Armorer’s forge, specifically designed for the Oracle’s grip alone and meant to protect her during her journeys throughout the galaxy, but in contrast to the white blade of the Lightsaber, the blades of Ahsoka’s weapons matched the same blue coloring as the stripes on her lekku and montrals.

According to the legends Din’s heard, the Armorer created the Lightsaber for the first ruler of Mandalore because she was impressed with their culture and strong military, and it was passed on to each new heir to the throne over the centuries. When wielded in battle, the Lightsaber made the user invincible against enemy attacks as it siphoned off energy from the souls of those it sliced through.

Throughout the long history of Mandalore, Satine was distinguished as the only ruler to avoid warfare as she sincerely believed negotiations and treaties could solve any problem quicker than bloodshed.

As such, Din isn’t surprised when Bo-Katan raises a judgmental eyebrow. “Did you forget who you’re talking to? I know you wouldn’t use the Lightsaber even to cut a piece of fruit.”

Satine sighs through her nose, sheathing the weapon once more. “Fine. I’ll contact Obi the second you’re gone.”

“You better.” Bo-Katan leans forward, pressing her forehead against her sister’s. A gesture of affection within their culture. “I’ll see you soon.”

And then she’s gone, flying out the nearby window and diving straight into the fray. As a mortal and as a reaper, the redhead is fearless in the face of danger. Some might consider the behavior reckless, but Din’s always been impressed by her dogged tenacity to achieve victory no matter the difficulty of her mission.

Din looks back at Satine. Now that she is alone in the room, she is able to freely express her distress at the unfolding situation, looking as if she’s aged ten years within the blink of an eye. She fiddles with the comlink around her wrist, seeming hesitant to call this Obi-Wan fellow like she agreed to.

‘They haven’t realized it, but they’re soulmates, ’ Ahsoka murmurs, low and melancholic. Hearing it makes Din’s chest constrict with unease. ‘They fought recently and parted ways upset with each other. Unfortunately, she dies before they can resolve their miscommunication.’

The next sequence of events play out startlingly quick, as if Ahsoka has chosen to suddenly jump forward in time. His eyes struggle to absorb the fleeting details—the doors to the throne room being blown open; a Seraph in black armor emerging from the smoke; his voice is unique, velvety and thorny at the same time, as he addresses the duchess by her full name Satine Kryze; Satine attempting to stall as she subtly taps at her comlink, only for the tactic to fail as the foe teleports closer, eliminating the space between them.

“You have something I want,” he tells her, seizing hold of her throat. “You may think you have some idea of what you have in your possession, but you do not.”

One of Satine’s hands claws at his face, attempting to gouge out his eyeballs with her nails, while the other reaches for the Lightsaber. Her fingertips brush against its metal hilt just as he throws her to the floor. The impact knocks the breath out of her lungs, eliciting a strangled gasp, and shards of glass dig into her exposed skin, dotting the pale flesh with beads of blood.

Gideon—Din doesn’t need Ahsoka’s input to know this, for who else could the Seraph be but him?—places the heel of his boot over Satine’s neck. He doesn’t apply pressure yet, but the action in itself has the duchess squirming with panic, hitting at his leg futilely. There is a red light on the comlink flashing insistently, indicating someone on the other end is speaking but they’ve been muted.

“Give me the asset I seek.”

Through clenched teeth, Satine wheezes, “It belongs to Mandalore.”

“I thought you might say that,” Gideon replies, feigning disappointment. “However, in case you haven’t noticed Duchess,” he gestures towards the windows, “Mandalore is dead. My accomplices have made sure of that.”

“You’re a coward for hiding behind others. You don’t deserve the Lightsaber.”

There is a sudden change in the atmosphere, air turning impossibly frigid and crisp.

“I deserve it more than anyone,” Gideon says, angry enough he is trembling. The Seraph’s stance shifts, and although Din has witnessed every type of brutal death imaginable, he flinches at the sound of Satine’s neck snapping beneath his heel.

Gideon rolls her lifeless body over and rips the Lightsaber off her belt, a satisfied smirk on his face. He disappears as quickly as he arrived, reward in hand, and an eerie silence envelops the room. It’s almost as if the palace itself is stunned by the loss of its ruler, struggling to make sense of the merciless act of violence.

Time skips forward again, showing a young bearded-man dressed in military armor clutching at Satine’s body, pressing his forehead against hers as he weeps. Over and over he keeps murmuring apologies for not being quicker, for failing to be there when she needed him, for never saying he loved her.

“How do you know Satine and Obi-Wan are soulmates if they never matched?” Din asks, feeling like he’s intruding on a private moment despite not actually being there.

He thinks of a similarly phrased question he’d asked his angel on their way to Sorgan what feels like entire lifetimes ago: how will I know it’s my soulmate? Her eloquent response remains embedded deep in his memory, safely stored away along with every other moment they’ve spent together. Longing twists like a knife in his side as he allows himself a second of weakness to look at the soulmate marking on his palm.

‘I saw the life they were going to share,’ Ahsoka tells him. ‘Satine Kryze was not meant to die here. She and Obi-Wan should have both survived the Fall of Mandalore, settling down happily with each other elsewhere in the galaxy. Gideon’s greed altered their destinies.’

The palace fades away to reveal a much older Obi-Wan, gray-haired and wrinkled. He’s in Mos Eisley; Din recognizes the crowded spaceport instantly having taken his ship there for repairs numerous times over the years.

‘The universe puts a lot of effort into making sure soulmates match with each other at a very precise moment. Even if the match is rejected, the individuals still had an important impact on each other’s lives. Timing is the most important factor for a soulmate pairing, and if it’s off then the universe will attempt to fix it.’

Obi-Wan stops to help a woman who’s accidentally dropped her shopping bag, contents spilling out onto the sandy ground. She thanks him as he offers her a polite smile, both of their attentions on each other’s faces and not their hands. More specifically: their marked hands. There is the barest brush of their fingertips as they reach for the same item before an invisible blast of energy erupts from their touch, splitting them apart and sending every person and thing surrounding them flying in all directions.

The shock on Obi-Wan’s face matches Din’s own beneath his helmet. He remembers his angel telling him after the failed match with Omera what happened on Sorgan wasn’t the first time an event like that occurred, but she hadn’t been privy to the details. Her superior had told her she wasn’t high enough ranking which Din had thought sounded like a load of bantha shit at the time.

“Ahsoka, what is the meaning of this?” Din asks the questions quietly, but there’s an audible coating of frustration that he knows she won’t miss. “Satine’s dead.”

‘You didn’t reap her soul,’ Ahsoka says. It’s said as a gentle reminder, but it nevertheless has Din feeling like the ground has disappeared beneath his feet as realization dawns.

“I...didn’t.”

A quiet sigh echoes through his head. ‘I forgot how ignorant you can be. You can’t reap a mortal soul that transforms into a new entity.’

“She’s a Cupid,” Din murmurs. Either that or a reaper, but he knows each of his reapers like the back of his hand and Satine isn’t nor has she ever been one. He shakes his head, thinking of Obi-Wan finding Satine’s body in the throne room. “That doesn’t make any sense. Obi-Wan clearly loved her.”

‘Rejection can sometimes stem from a misunderstanding. Satine’s last living encounter with Obi-Wan was him saying so long as he was part of the royal guard they had no future together. She perceived this as him denying he cared about her, not knowing he had made plans to retire in order to ask for her hand.’

In front of Din, Obi-Wan rubs at his soulmate marking while staring at the mess around him, lines of unease and confusion creasing his forehead.

‘You asked, what is the meaning of this moment?’ Ahsoka continues. ‘It’s one of the universe’s attempts to reconnect Obi-Wan and Satine so they experience their matching as they were intended to.’

“But they’re of different statuses,” he points out needlessly. “She’ll outlive him.”

‘Yes, but the matching of soulmates not only influences the lives of the pair, but the lives of other people as well in ways both obvious and invisible. Think of it as a ripple effect.’

“Did the universe’s attempt work?” Din wonders. “Were they ever reunited?”

‘When Satine awoke as a Cupid, it was a surprise to both her and Gideon. Rather than kill her a second time, the Seraph chose to inflict a worse fate. She became the first of her kind to have her memories erased. However, he’d never previously used his ability on another immortal before, resulting in him nearly wiping her entire mind clean. The universe is capable of many miracles, big and small, but every attempt of reuniting the pair failed. It remains the universe’s most profound regret which is ultimately the reason why the universe brought you to Trinomliaxeros without your armor so that history wouldn’t repeat itself.’

There is a strange, heavy feeling that suddenly inflates within the confines of Din’s chest like a balloon. It’s different from the rampant anger he can still detect simmering beneath the skin of his human façade. He tries to shake it off, focusing on his breathing and the desert heat emanating from the twin suns overhead, only to slowly realize that what he’s feeling is fear.

Within his memory he can recall just one other distinct moment in his existence where he felt this spine-chilling emotion, and that moment was experienced on Trinomliaxeros.

“What did you just say?” His voice sounds shaky even to his own ears, but he can’t find any energy within himself to care.

A long stretch of silence fills his head; it’s the fragile kind, too, preventing him from snapping at Ahsoka to answer lest she become angry at him and yank him out the vision entirely.

‘Twice the timing of a soulmate match has been disturbed. The first pair affected was Obi-Wan and Satine. And the second pair was...’

“Ahsoka,” he says when she hesitates to continue, but any additional words he can think of saying catch in the back of his throat.

‘The second pair was you and your angel.’ Another pause of silence, shorter but no less meaningful. ‘Only fifty years ago, she wasn’t an angel.’

This is what Din remembers from Trinomliaxeros: feeling a pull so forceful, impatient and unanticipated it drags him across the galaxy in his civilian clothes, arriving to find the planet engulfed in smoke, unable to see his hand in front of his face, even without his gloves on. Finding skeletal remains burnt to blackened crisps with the souls inside shaking and traumatized, practically leaping into his outstretched hand, knowing either the afterlife or damnation would be better destinations than lingering there even a second longer. Explosions in the distance, bursts of flames as intense and hot as the sun, greedily consuming everything in their radius.

Out of the smoke and darkness, a survivor. A girl, covered in soot and sweat, colliding with his chest. The dead are calling out to him, pleading for him to reap them, to save them. Their voices swirl around his head, clawing at his brain and pounding against his skull. Shoving the girl aside, one foot in front of the other, letting his powers guide him to the next soul. Her voice cuts across the distance, a plasma bolt striking him in the back. We’re soulmates, she says.

His breath stills in his lungs. Fear spreads like a virus through his bloodstream, slipping beneath his defenses, turning him into a stranger within his own body. The declaration is a lie, an impossibility, a delusion. He has no match, hands unmarked, flesh poisonous and lethal. His words, too, are weapons themselves. Sharp, ruthless, desiring to wound her as she’s wounded him. You could never be my soulmate.

And then he’d left her.

This is what Din remembers. But, he thinks, squeezing his eyes shut so tightly it hurts, I’ve remembered everything all wrong.

Phantom hands gently press against the sides of his helmet, offering comfort without caring about the dried blood. He keeps his eyes shut, knowing it’s just a manifestation crafted by Ahsoka in his head. ‘Don’t blame yourself. This was the only viable outcome the universe could produce to ensure the bad timing would be remedied in the future,’ she says, but it does little to lessen the weight on his chest. ‘Your rejection saved her life. It granted you both a second chance of a first meeting.’

“How did—” Din struggles to string words together, to fucking breathe. “She—She knew. What we were. How…?”

The Oracle puts him out of his misery. ‘She found out the way all soulmates do: through touch.’

Din’s eyes fly open at that, and he has to blink a few times to bring everything into focus because there’s him and his angel right in front of him, frozen mid-collision. She’s grasping the sleeves of his coat to keep her balance, the palm of her marked hand touching his wrist. He stares at the point of contact for a moment, then barks out a laugh, hysterical and strangled sounding.

“That’s not possible.”

‘Soulmates can’t kill each other. She’s always been meant to withstand your touch.’

Din swallows thickly, staring at his angel’s face. He hates the question forming on his tongue, but it will haunt him the rest of his life if he doesn’t ask it. “In your visions, when I meet her at the right time, what happens?”

'You’re different by then, less broody and more accepting of the notion you could be loved. You have a soulmate marking,’ Ahsoka tells him. ‘You fall for her hard, even before your hands brush. You love her throughout the entirety of her lifetime.’

“And...when she dies?” The words taste like blood in his mouth.

‘Don’t torture yourself, Death. That timeline doesn’t exist anymore.’

For one brief, fleeting second Din is actually grateful Gideon altered their destinies. However, in the next, he’s trying not to let the fear gnawing at the back of his mind increase as it belatedly occurs to him that the universe is not as infallible as he’s always believed it was.

He wishes he could see Ahsoka, if only so he could glare at her directly. “Everything you’ve shown me has only further convinced me Gideon deserves death. Why have you asked me to promise not to kill him?”

'Do you remember what happens after this moment on Trinomliaxeros?’

Din frowns at the change of subject. “I continued to reap souls.”

'Yes. And then?’

He huffs a frustrated breath through his nose. This is Ahsoka, he thinks, at her most annoying. But, as much he loathes admitting it, this is also the most helpfully transparent she’s ever been. Today may be the only time she trusts him enough to share her visions. He owes it to her to be as open as she’s being with him.

That being said, he’s still wary of the memories he’s kept in the distant, shadowy corners of his mind being pulled into the spotlight. “Tell me we’re not gonna talk about the kid.”

‘We talked about the universe’s biggest regret. It’s only fair we talk about yours too.’ Ahsoka has found the crack in his armor he’s tried so long to conceal, peeling it open without remorse.

She doesn’t spare him time to argue. All he does is blink and he’s looking at his past self locked in a staring contest with a little green-skinned child who is propped up inside a floating, orb-shaped pram.

Of all the buildings and homes on the planet, only its temple had remained untouched by the destruction. Din didn’t know if it had been the structure’s own holy foundation keeping it standing or if it was the personal choice of the mastermind behind the attack, but he’d been drawn to it regardless, finding souls there to reap whose hosts had differed from other victims in that their throats had been slit. The walls of the temple were adorned with intricate murals depicting immortal figures and religious events of ancient history, but before he could observe the artwork closer, a quiet coo had stopped him in his tracks.

When he opened the pram, he hadn’t anticipated finding a baby of all creatures. When their eyes connected, every background noise abruptly ceased. Even the voices of the dead fell silent. Rather than rouse his suspicions, Din had felt only a sense of peace he usually only experienced in the midst of hyperspace travel where the stars were his voiceless companions.

An unspoken conversation transpired between the two of them, one Din still can’t translate into words all these years later, but it concluded with him knowing he would take the child with him.

Din had reached for him unthinkingly, the child lifting his arms up in eagerness to be held, but self-awareness kicked in right before contact and Din retracted his hands away so fast it startled the child into crying, brown eyes filling with tears. Panicked, he surveyed the room, looking for something to put an end to the wailing, before looking down at his own coat, experiencing a lightbulb moment.

“Alright, kid, it’s okay. You’re okay.” Watching his past self shrug off the coat, Din remembers it had been his favorite of his civilian clothes, well worth the cost for its soft fabric and length. He managed to successfully swaddle the child, ensuring his arms were safely tucked away to prevent him endangering his life, and Din exhaled a quiet breath of relief when the tears dried up almost immediately.

However, the ensuing silence wasn’t as peaceful as the previous one. Both past and present Din turn at the sound of distant shuffling echoing off the temple walls from another room.

“Ignore it,” Din tells his past self. “Just take the kid and leave.”

But his plea goes unheard and the past remains unchanged. Ahsoka is silent inside his head, either because she knows he won’t accept any more comforting words or because she thinks he’s undeserving of them for choosing to leave the child behind in his pram, closing it when he starts to whine again, so Din can go investigate the noise.

Din exhales a quiet breath, fingers twitching restlessly at his sides as he watches himself stalk through the temple halls, checking each room he comes across. It’s strange, seeing himself from this perspective. The distanced viewpoint allows Din to glimpse new details he hadn’t been capable of noticing back then.

Such as the reappearance of a familiar Seraph emerging from the shadows to stab him in the back.

Here’s one of the perks about being Death: he can’t be killed. That fact doesn’t mean there haven’t been attempts though. As Death, people sometimes look at his armor as a challenge. Like if they can fire a shot or throw a knife at just the right angle, it’ll wound him and allow them to live longer. Simply put, all those people are idiots.

When he looks like a regular, unintimidating civilian, he’s also been involved in violent predicaments where someone’s attempted to mug him or where he’s tried to save someone else from a similarly sticky situation.

Armor or no armor though, he’s always walked away from these encounters completely unscathed.

Well. With the sole exception of Trinomliaxeros where he was mostly unscathed.

It wasn’t the first time Din had been stabbed before. Usually knife wounds felt like a mild pinch. More irritating than painful, similar to a splinter stuck in one’s thumb. Once the weapon was removed, the damage healed within seconds, leaving behind no scar or proof he was ever attacked.

Usually, is the keyword to note here.

Ahsoka freezes time right when the blade of the Lightsaber is driven straight through the center of Din’s body, bone and flesh as easy to slice through as melted butter. His agonized expression—eyes screwed shut and lips open in a silent scream—would be comical if Din didn’t remember the exact emotions he was feeling in that moment.

Instead of a pinch, it’d felt as if thousands of invisible hands were pulling and scratching at him, attempting to strip apart his human exterior layer by layer—peeling off skin, scraping away muscle and bone marrow, seeking to reach the core of himself where his powers resided.

‘Looks like it hurts,’ Ahsoka says. The return of her naturally calm and neutral tone of voice seems almost cruel given the frozen, graphic display.

Din again wishes he could glare at her. “Is this funny to you?”

‘The transformation of the Lightsaber into the Darksaber is anything but funny.’

Lost in recollection, he failed to notice until now how the blade of the Lightsaber has changed in color from white to black. It’s the same inky hue that absorbs the brown in his eyes, that had dyed his veins during the execution of Hess.

‘The Armorer specifically instructed the Lightsaber only be used against enemies. As a neutral entity, you are, by definition, no one’s ally or adversary. By stabbing you, the saber became corrupted. It is a consequence Gideon still has yet to fully realize the monumental repercussions of.’

Time resumes, Din’s past self collapsing onto the floor, pressing a hand to the throbbing hole in his chest, attention too consumed by the franticness of his powers struggling to repair the trauma to notice Gideon lingering behind him. The Seraph’s stunned look of shock lasts barely ten seconds, morphing into one of deep contemplation as his gaze flicked between the weapon and Din, before he vanished.

When Din recovered enough to stand, he teleported back to the child’s location at once. He needs to get the little guy as far away from here as possible, somewhere peaceful and safe. His planning came to an abrupt halt upon finding the pram open and empty, his coat shredded and scattered about the floor in pieces.

“Gideon took him.” It isn’t a question.

‘Yes,’ she confirms. ‘The child was the intended target of this siege.’

“Why?”

‘He’s...very special.’ There is something about how her voice hitches when she says ‘special’ that has Din’s instincts prickling with alertness, but he holds his tongue. ‘Gideon considers him a tool he can take advantage of.’

The ugly, tight mass of anger swells inside of him and presses against his lungs, resulting in a low growl slipping out of his mouth. He curses his own ineptitude. If he’d paid more attention, hadn’t allowed himself to be wounded, he could have subdued Gideon and spared both his angel and the child from being captured.

“I warned you once upon a time, there would be consequences if you released your darkness,” Ahsoka says, her voice no longer emitting from inside his head. The vision fades back into reality the same sudden, jarring way one wakes up from dreaming. It takes all of Din’s self-restraint not to perform a full-body shake. “Your control is slipping as your rage increases. It’s making you not think clearly which is exactly what Gideon wants. That is the reason I am asking you to promise you will not kill him.”

Put like that, Din no longer thinks her request sounds quite so outlandish, even though he does still remain in the dark as to what consequences exactly will unfold. Ahsoka has remained stubbornly tight-lipped about the topic from their very first encounter, claiming the universe is adamant she can only share the details with one other person and it isn’t him.

“He deserves to die for all he’s done,” Din says quietly, but he’s self-aware to know his resistance is beginning to crumble.

“Between you and me, I think so, too,” she admits in the same low tone. Her ocean eyes are dark and stormy, reflecting her internal turmoil. “But rules are made for a reason and we would be fools to carelessly overlook the consequences of breaking them.”

The accusatory note from earlier has returned with a vengeance. He’s not surprised—of course the universe would utilize the Oracle to express its disapproval—but aggravation still thrums through his veins.

“Hess played a hand in my soulmate’s fate. He called her a whore.” Din’s upper lip twitches with the urge to snarl. “I don’t regret what I did to him.”

Ahsoka sighs. “I was afraid you’d say that. When you swore your creed, you promised the universe you’d only reap a soul when their host’s time has reached its destined end. By killing Hess, you not only broke a sacred rule, you also broke your creed.”

Din recoils, feeling like he’s been stabbed with the Lightsaber all over again.

“...What?” The anger is gone, extinguished by the weight of the revelation. Confusion and wariness are quick to fill the void. “What does that mean?”

She looks away then, but not quick enough to hide her troubled expression. “I...don’t know.”

He blinks, mind scrambling to understand the implications. “Isn’t that your purpose? To know everything?”

“For the very first time, the future’s unclear to me,” she murmurs, eyes briefly turning cloudy as if she’s trying to take a peek at the potential timelines right then and there. She shakes her head a beat later, frowning. “There are many choices left to be made, each one capable of influencing the fate of the galaxy. It is not possible at this time for me to predict our upcoming reality, let alone your consequences. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Din says, because it’s the truth and he doesn’t like seeing her crestfallen expression. Fuck, he might actually consider her a friend after all.

Whatever happens, he thinks to himself, it can’t be any worse to deal with than being separated from his soulmate. If he can survive this, he can survive anything.

“The last promise I made was broken.” He bites back a wince at the memory of his angel’s pinky promise. “But if making another one is the only way you’ll take me to my soulmate, then you have my word. I won’t kill him.”

A ghost of a smile pulls at her lips before she grabs hold of one of his vambraces. “Take me to your ship. I will guide you to her location.”

“You don’t trust me to go alone?” he asks, unsure whether to be amused or indignant.

“No,” Ahsoka replies bluntly.

Din huffs. “Fine.”

“I may not be able to see much at the moment, but I know it’s never wise to turn down support. You’re going to need us.”

“Us?”

“It’s Bo-Katan’s choice to make, but you and I both know she’s never been one to back down from a fight. Especially once she learns Gideon is her sister’s murderer.”

Series Tag List: @stardust-and-starlight, @adrieunor, @remmyswritings, @rhiannon-russo, @maytheglitter, @eleinemk, @becauseican2, @kay2304, @odelia-d32, @nicotinebirds, @computeringturtle, @absurdthirst, @linkpk88, @bethany2002, @spideysimpossiblegirl, @imthedoctorlove, @fishsficrecs

Permanent Tag List: @promiscuoussatan, @vintagesaph, @sylphene, @over300books, @aerynwrites, @softly-sad, @chibi-yuki, @theocatkov, @oh-no-a-whovian, @freeshavocadoooo, @you-and-i-deserve-the-world, @lin-djarin, @happiestsparkleofall, @randomness501, @gallowsjoker, @rogertaylorsfalsettogivesmehives, @captain-jebi, @leilei-draws, @coaaster, @stilllivindue2spite, @pointy-sharp, @melobee, @artsymaddie

#din djarin x you #din x you #my fic #death and an angel #mandalorian x reader #Din Djarin #Pedro Pascal #pedro pascal character fanfiction #din djarin x reader #din x reader

290 notes · View notes

wordynerdygurl · 3 years

Text

Hello Everyone! I've been conspiring with @sammy-jo1977 to create a new series of sorts. We want to explore all those characters that started us on our journey into Fandoms, large and small.

This series will be a place for those ladies and gents who haven't had a lot of attention recently, are old favorites or the ones you can't seem to shake. If you would like to contribute a chapter to this guide, please send me a message! We want to have a full and accurate guide, so we are hoping you'll hop in with your character of expertise!

As an example, I'm posting our first story... I'd love to get your thoughts! With Love - Your WordyNerdyGurl

In The Stacks - A Rupert Giles Story

Author’s Note: This story is due, in large part, to my beta-bestie @sammy-jo1977 and it is part of the afore mentioned series. This character might be off television, but his fiery spirit lives on!! As always, reblogs/ shares are encouraged as are comments and love!

Pairing: Female Reader x Giles (Buffy The Vampire Slayer Series) Summary: You get up to mischief with the librarian, in the stacks. Warnings: SMUT ahead. General Buffy knowledge might help, but is not required. There’s a moment with a bit of blood, but hopefully nothing too triggering for anyone! I hope you enjoy!

“Mr. Giles?” “Just a moment!” You heard the clipped British voice answer before being drowned out by the heavy thumping of falling books and the rustling sound of shifting papers hitting the floor. As you stepped further into the Sunnydale High library, you weren’t surprised to see the familiar faces of Buffy, Willow, Xander and Cordelia huddled around a small table. The friends were practically inseparable and clearly close. You found their kinship adorable and couldn’t help smiling at the group as you drew closer. “Hello to some of my best students! And of course, to you Mr. Harris. How is everyone today?”

Willow, stalwart student and overachiever, smiled broadly, “Pretty good. I did ace my math quiz and got an A on my English paper… but, well, I only pulled a B on my Bio test and I just know that I could have done better.” Offering her friend a consoling pat to the shoulder, Buffy sighed, “It’s ok, Will. You’ll get those cells next time!” “Tune in next week as Willow passes her AP Biology test with flying colors, on ‘As Sunnydale Turns’!” Before anyone could counter, Giles came around the corner carrying a sturdy stack of texts which he dropped onto the table as gently as the large load allowed, “As always, you four are the best assistants a librarian could ask for.” “Come on Giles! You know I only hang out here for the beautiful ladies!” Pinching the bridge of his strong nose, Rupert Giles sighed, “I am well aware of where your interests lie, Xander.” “Please, he can hardly handle being with one beautiful girl.” That was from Cordelia who pouted prettily, her hand mirror open as she fixed her hair. “My girlfriend, ladies and gentlemen! Thanks for that, Cordy.” Snapping the case shut, staring down her beau, she smiled, “You’re welcome.” “Uh, Mr. Giles, if I may?” You hated to interrupt but you had come in with a purpose and you meant to see it through. “Yes, of course, how can I help?” Shuffling your feet, a bit nervous now with the asking, you smiled shyly, “I asked at the local library but they were absolutely no help. You see, I’m looking for a specific point of reference and I was led to believe that you could help me.” “Oh! Is it something for our Inner Vision collage boards? I love working on mine, only… It’s not my fault that I only see dark clouds and blood when I close my eyes.” “Well, Miss Summers, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. And the best art challenges us to see that beauty.” “I hate to tell you what I see when I close my eyes.” Xander retorted. “Ah, Mr. Harris, your collage certainly showcases your, ahem, cultured world view.” “Hey! The Simpsons are fine art, ok? Just because they don’t live in a museum doesn’t mean they aren’t culture.” Giles, unable to stand by any longer griped, “Xander, I am almost positive that cartoons do not count as culture.” You started to answer but Buffy cut you short, adding, “Don’t mind Giles. If it doesn’t come out of some dirty, dusty old book it can’t be culture.” “It’s pop culture! The entertainment of my generation!” It was your turn to cut in, turning to the tweed clad gentleman, “Actually, Mr. Giles, Xander has a point. Cartoons and animation in general are all increasingly seen as valid forms of art. No matter what your tomes might tell you.” Smirking a little, he appraised your answer before replying, “Be that as it may, Mr. Harris, the amount of television you consume is corrosive.” Raising his hands in defense, Xander’s head swiveled between the two of you as Willow chimed in, “Give it up, Xander. You know you’ll never win and besides, I’m pretty sure that animation and art are different. Wait. They are, aren’t they?” “When I was in Rome last summer, the very attractive, very Italian tour guide told us that they’ve found painted graffiti on the Coliseum. It only goes to prove that times change but people don’t.” “Cordy’s right! About the art, not the dishy Italian. And they didn’t paint it, they carved it.” Bouncing her blonde hair decisively, Buffy made her declaration. “Wouldn’t paint be easier? I mean, who wants to carry a chisel in order to deface a wall?” “Oh! Oh! I know this! The kind of paint needed to last for centuries hadn’t been invented yet!” Willow, lifting out of her seat in the excitement of academic excellence, was giddy. “Yes, Willow, that is correct. In fact, a lot of the graffiti is simple and very crude. Mostly of the phallus, if memory serves. I’m sure I can find a documented case in Agrippa if you’ll all just-” And you watched as everyone rolled their eyes as Giles trailed off, lost now in the hunt for a specific volume which could be sited, should further proof be needed. “Ew. Pass.” “I’m with Buffy here, Giles. Keep your Grecian graffiti out of my brain.” “I’ll stick with the Simpsons, thank you very much.” “Yes, well. It’s not Grecian at all, is it? It’s Roman-” Smiling broadly, Buffy hopped off the table, “Giles is right. The Greeks were more into orgies!” “Buffy!” Willow’s shocked response made you cover a laugh with a fake cough. “-Of course, cites are rare. Very difficult to find documentation.” Giles, typically, hadn’t given up the search. Cutting through the chatter, louder than it ever needed to be, the period bell sounded. "Ugh. Gym class for me. Why is this even a thing?" "I don't know Buffy, I thought you liked showing off in your little shorts and beating the boys at basketball." "Cordy, that's enough. And while us boys do love looking at you, Buff... we don't love the beatings you regularly deliver." "Well, I have a free period Giles! Do you want me to stay and -" Snapping shut the leather book he was gripping, Giles caught your eye and turned to the peppy student, "Uh, no Willow, I don't think so. I believe I need to see what our Art Department is in need of at the moment." With a shrug, Willow began packing up her belongings as Xander slung his back back over his shoulder, "Will, you can come with me. I'm going to find a nice little corner, under a tree, and sleep away my study hall." “But, I… I could help find the Agrippa? Or… some other old Roman book?” Xander wrapped an arm around Willow and took Cordelia’s open hand, “But why do that when nothing calls?” "Another fine example of your scholastic aptitude, Mr. Harris", was your parting shot at the foursome as they walked out the door. "Well. Mr. Giles, now that we’re alone… Could I talk you into helping me out?" “Of course, of course.” Pushing his glasses further up his nose, fixing his light eyes on yours, “What are we looking for?” Sighing deeply, knowing the chances were slim, “I was hoping we would find some examples of Pre-Columbian deity carvings.” Pausing, his look serious, Giles peered at you, “Interesting. Anything in particular?” “Yes, actually.” Again you flushed, more than a little flustered at what you were really looking for, “I’m researching fertility icons.” Raising his eyebrows, Giles started, more than a little outside of his comfort zone, but you had to give him credit. He recovered from the shock rather quickly, “Oh… I… I see. Well yes, I’m sure we can find… something. If you’ll follow me, please.” “I’m right behind you.” Biting into your bottom lip, you smiled to yourself. Right behind Mr. Giles? What a place to be. Giles led the young art teacher through the deepest stacks of the library, pausing once or twice to confirm that she was keeping up with him. He was ashamed to admit that he had lost travelers a time or two as he stalked through his overstuffed shelves, knowing instinctively where to find the book he needed most. For her, watching the tweed covered bottom of Mr. Giles was no hardship. True, he was older and tad bit reserved in the best British way, yet she had the sneaking suspicion that underneath all the wool and starched cotton was the heart of a wild man poet. "Uh... just a bit further, I'm afraid. Books like this, well, I keep them at a greater remove." "It makes sense. Don't want the kiddos getting a hold of anything too tantalizing." "Of course not. As you well know, they don't need much help in the libidinous response department." You chuckled softly, nodding as the air around you grew stuffier, "Too true! You should see what some of them turn in and call art. It would make a blind man blush." And at the mention of blushing, you were shocked to see a rosy hue grow on Mr. Giles' cheeks. You liked it. It reminded you of the high color in a Vermeer painting. You couldn’t help the flutter in your belly at the thought, "Mr. Giles, have you ever seen a South American fertility statue?" "I can't say that I have... have... have you?" Something about the idea of you examining an ancient artifact directly connected to sexual congress made his body stir. "Hmm... Oh, yes. I was able to study in Mexico for a semester. Some of the art work is just incredible and the carvings, they're truly magnificent. Carefully made. Usually stone or..." swallowing hard, your throat suddenly dry, "hard wood." Breaking fast at the implication in your words, Giles froze in place which caused you to press directly against his broad, vest covered back. You had a second to register the soft scent of his aftershave; something spicy and masculine, which made your mouth water. Moaning quietly, you offered a weak apology, “Oh, I am so sorry, Mr. Giles.” Offering you his profile, the bookcases too cramped for him to turn around fully, you saw his sweet smile, “That’s… that’s quite alright. In fact, we’re here.” Stepping out of the way, you pushed back against the opposite wall, the shelves digging into your spine in the confined space. Giles bent over, giving you a great view of his backside, as he extracted a slim book from the bottommost ledge. When he stood up, directly in front of you, the narrow, book covered alcove caused him to stumble. Giles’ chest collided with your own, forcing the air out of your lungs. Instinctively, you lifted a leg, curling it over the swell of one trousered hip and lifting the hem of your knee length plaid kilt. Nose to nose in a compromising position, you exhaled a shaky breath as Mr. Giles inhaled, “Close quarters around here.” Shifting under his deceptively hard figure, it was difficult to ignore all the places that were firm to the touch, especially when you could feel so much through the thin barrier of your cotton panties. Bracing one arm on the obliging shelf biting into your shoulder, Giles pushed back a bit, lifting his weight off of you without making any other attempts to move away. He was so close now. Close enough to feel your fuzzy sweater and all the soft skin that trembled beneath it. Close enough to see the pound of your pulse in your throat. Close enough that when you licked over your bottom lip Giles could almost taste it too. And why shouldn’t he? “Giles?” Your voice was whisper soft, fanning hotly over the face of your colleague. “Uh… yes?” “I’m stuck.” Blinking behind his thick lenses, it took the normally quick witted Brit a second to process your words, “You’re stuck?” Nodding slowly, your hair curling over your cheek, “My… My skirt. It’s… uh, caught. Caught on something behind me.” “Good heavens! I’m so sorry, let me help you.” Slowly, Giles lowered your bare leg to the floor, his hand lingering for a second longer than absolutely necessary. He was still in your space. Still incredibly close to you. You arched away from the bookcase in an attempt to free yourself with a groan that sounded heady in the stuffy stacks. All you managed to do was force your sweater covered décolletage into Giles’ chest. Stammering, a wave of sweat breaking over his brow, “Allow me?” The way your skirt was caught pulled the bright plaid lower on your waist than you would normally consider decent. It meant that you had a fleshy strip of skin exposed along your tummy and Giles raised his eyebrows by means of asking permission to touch you. “Yea, yes. Please!” Tentatively, gently, you felt the strong fingers of Rupert Giles circle your waist and shivered at the unfamiliar familiarity of his touch. Your chin rested on his shoulder as he worked and you couldn’t help sighing when he opened his hands and pulled you closer. Under other circumstances you might have misunderstood the embrace but you were both professionals. Not that you hadn’t considered the handsome book guardian a time or two before. “I… I think we’re almost there. If you’ll just, maybe to the right?” “Um, sure.” Following his directions you twisted in his arms, trying hard not to tear your outfit or rub against Giles. All the close contact and talk of fertility gods had you feeling a little aroused and it wouldn’t do for your colleague to learn that fact. With a triumphant grunt, Giles set you free, only for gravity to kick back in. The momentum created by your falling took the gentleman and the entire Grollier’s Gothic Almanac collection with you. A cascade of papers, scrolls and dust rained down on you both. Coughing, aware that you were laying on something softer than the floor, you struggled into a sitting position, swatting away clouds of disintegrated pages, “Rupert? Are you alright?” From beneath you a rumbling grumble that sounded like, “Yes quite… you?” was heard. It was then that you realized exactly where you were. Straddling your friendly neighborhood librarian, surrounded by debris, but safe, all the same. “Oh my! I’m so-” “No, No. Please, don’t apologize. I’ve been meaning to reorganize this section and well, now it seems I’ve got no choice.” “You’ve got a bump. Right here…” Just over his right eye a small bruised egg, the color of lilacs, was starting to rise and you gingerly touched the swelling spot. “Then it will match the one on the back of my head perfectly.” “Poor Giles! All of this injury in the name of research!” “No one ever tells you the dangers one might encounter in the library.” His dry British wit sent you both into giggles and suddenly nothing could be funnier than the moment you were in with Mr. Giles. Looking up at you, his fingertip traced over your cheek, suddenly serious, “I’m not the only one with a war wound, it appears.” “Oh?” Your hand covered his as you realized that you had a small cut, bleeding just a little, over the apple of your jaw. Smoothing his thumb over your injury, Giles soothed you, saying, “Hush now, I think you’ll live.” And you watched as Giles sucked the drop of scarlet from the pad there, his green eyes on yours, daring you. Something about it was so… sinful. So dark. So alluring. Then his lips were on yours, suddenly and savagely. Hands, firm and capable, slid under the fluff of your sweater along your spine as you tangled your own in his dark hair. Giles, drawing you near, was satisfied only when you were splayed over him, writhing between the piles of text and stacks of piled paperbacks, as his tongue plundered your mouth. Trapped by his bent knees at your bottom, Giles helped center you over the firmness of his excitement, teasing you as you moaned, “Oh, oh Rupert!” “Call me Ripper.” Before the word had left your throat, Giles was sloppily kissing over your neck, sucking lightly on the skin revealed by the v-neck of your top. Sitting up quickly, you lifted the soft sweater over your head, tossing it away from you without concern. Like one of the teenagers you might chastise, you then hugged your lover tight, gasping when you felt the nip of teeth over your bra. “Giles… Uh, Ripper! Please, go easy?” With a hard grip on your upper thigh and one hand on the back of your neck, Giles held you still, smirking, “If you wanted easy you shouldn’t have come looking for fertility icons, my dear little art teacher. And if this particular article of clothing-” He paused long enough to pinch at your hardening nipple before continuing, “-is dear to you, take it off.” Clenching your abdominals at his crass language, more turned on that you could remember, you reached behind you. Unhooking the pretty scrap of lace and satin, you shyly covered yourself, biting into your bottom lip, “Fine… Ripper. Should I be worried for my virtue?” “Absolutely.” Without waiting for permission, Giles pulled your arms away, exposing your bare body to his blazing gaze, “You have nothing to hide, you know? You are-” “Just shut up and kiss me, Ripper.” And he did. Grinding your hips into his, it was impossible to ignore his hardening manhood, even through the fabric of his pressed trousers. Giles cupped your bottom, under your skirt but over your panties, bouncing you in place as if he was already inside of you. For your part, you tried to unbutton his pin striped shirt, but the force of his kisses was proving too distracting. “Oh, dear! Poor thing been kissed senseless?” He was teasing and cruel, but in the sexiest possible way. Red cheeked and huffing, you nodded, “Yes… let me touch you!” “Tsk… you didn’t say ‘please’.” “Please! Please, Ripper! Oh god, please let me!” Unseating you slightly, Giles leaned up on his elbows, cocking his head to one side as he took in the mess he had made of you, “Go ahead then. Unzip my pants.” “What?” Removing his glasses, eyeing you darkly, “You heard me, I think.” Swallowing hard, your hands shaking with excitement, you reached for Giles’ belt. Watching him, and only him, you slowly slide the leather from it’s buckle. When you popped the button of his pants and let your hand drag over his hardened length, Rupert groaned and tossed his head back, “Yes. Keep going.” Slowly, agonizingly so, you lowered the zipper as you were ordered to do, “What now, Ripper?” “Take me out. I want you to feel what you do to me.” “I can do that.” You played it cool, but the saucy words being said in that clipped British baritone did things to you. They made your thighs tighten, your belly flutter and your breath catch. Trailing a hand over Giles' barely exposed hip, you moved closer to the prize, your prize, as it pulsed with need. Wrapping your hand around the meaty girth of Rupert's member, you couldn't help stroking the silky hot skin, so vital in your palm. That it caused the man beneath you to moan your name only added fuel to the fire of your desire. Slick and sorely wanting, you licked your lips, ready to savor the flavor of your book stacking beau but he stopped you, saying, "Last chance to run back to the studio." "No way… Ripper." And you felt a rough jerk as your panties were removed by force, the air cool on your overheated core. Another kiss, full of needful things, distracted you as Giles parted your lower lips with his nimble fingers. Pumping into you, once, twice, just to ensure that you were ready, Rupert swiftly stretched your center. With your small hand guiding his shaft, you lowered yourself onto the engorged tower of his power, crying out a ragged, "Oh God!" You thought you were capable of handling any man, but the delicious spread Giles' fine form forced you to endure was more than you expected. Clutching at his bunched up sweater vest, your back arched tautly as Rupert dragged your hips down onto his unrelenting hardness over and over. In your head, a rhythmic, tribal tattoo that made you think of ancient fires and curved statues took hold and you rose and fell against Giles on the beats vibrating through your brain. He sensed it too, alternating his stroke, slowing down and speeding up in time with the thrumming pulse only the pair of you could hear. "I want you to cum for me. Do you understand? Tell me you understand." "Yes! Yes! I'm so close, Ripper! So close!" "Good. That's very good." Tingling now, your muscles tensed, ready for the release Rupert would provide. You flung yourself onto his swollen sex without thought or reason, merely searching for the pleasure he had promised. His thumb, so thick, so clever, pressed against your sensitive clit and your world imploded. Rupert felt it. The moment your body and his melded together was forceful. It tore his pleasure from his loins in grunting gasps as he experienced your ecstacy at his hands. Limp and listless, you draped your half nude body over his, dazed and drained. Who knew screwing the librarian would feel this good? In your post coital haze you started to laugh. Giles, his hands roaming over the sweat soaked skin of your back, heard your chuckles and joined in. It was another release, of sorts, and you found it almost as intimate as the act you had just committed. Folding your hands under your chin, flashing Rupert a wide smile, "Ripper, huh?" Sliding his glasses back into place and carding a hand through his hair, Giles grinned, "Oh, uh… yes. Ripper. My nickname in London." Toying with the collar of his shirt, "I'd love to hear about London sometime… Ripper." At the sound of that name in your voice, Rupert flexed inside of you, "Call me that again and you'll miss last period." Gasping against him, nodding weakly, "Hmm… promise?" That made him smile broadly as he handed you back your sweater, "We can't have a repeat of last week, can we?" "It wasn’t my fault you didn't hear the bell ring, Mr. Giles!" Sitting up, you fastened your bra and shrugged into your sweater before asking, "Did you have to destroy my undies?" "I'm afraid I did. Although I told you to remove anything dear, didn't I?" "What am I gonna do for the next hour, Giles?" Pushing his glasses up, "I would advise you not to bend over." Swatting at him playfully, you used one of the sturdier shelves to stand, adjusting your skirt and fluffing your hair. Looking around at the absolute mess created by falling books, embarrassed, you asked, "Can I help clean this up?" "No, I don't think that'll be necessary. After all, Willow will be in-" "Along with Buffy and Xander and Cordelia. Got it." Standing himself, Giles chuckled as he fastened his trousers and set himself to rights, "Precisely. Now-" he bent over to retrieve a slim volume, "- The book you asked about. Fertility iconography in Meso-American subcultures." "Thanks. Ya know, I always enjoy coming to the library. I'm surprised more people don't." Walking with you, his hand on your lower back, nuzzling into your neck, "I enjoy you cumming in the library." It was on the tip of your tongue to say something fresh when the overly loud bell clanged. Lifting up on tiptoes you pressed a kiss to the goose egg over Giles' eye, saying, "I hope that makes it feel better!" Snagging you into a tight hug, Giles stared into your eyes before kissing you deeply, "That. That makes it feel better." And then the library door swung wide on the four students who called the library a second home, "Um… are my eyes deceiving me or is Giles sporting a black eye? I was only gone for an hour, big guy, what happened?" "If you must know, Xander, a shelf collapsed in the back. We were fortunate enough not to be badly hurt but, there were some bumps and bruises." "A shelf! Oh no… which one?!" Giles turned to Willow solemnly, "I'm afraid all the Grollier’s… and most of Crentist." "On it. Come on Xander. You can help me sort!" "Aw, gee. That sounds like fun." As the pair trotted off, you turned to Giles, whispering low, "Dinner? My place? You can tell me about London, your childhood and why you love tweed." Eyeing Buffy, who was distracted and a distraught, Giles answered, "Tonight? Um…" "He'd love to! Say 9 o'clock? And, he'll bring the wine."

Spinning on your heel, surprised that Buffy was your champion, you grinned, "Great! Awesome! I will see you then."

As you left you heard the bubbly blonde doling out instructions, "No Giles. You can't wear that outfit to dinner! You need to look nice. Nicer than you do now. Also, why is there so much dust in your hair?" If Giles answered you didn’t hear it over your big yawn. You had a lot to do between now and 9 o’clock. Rupert Giles was coming over for dinner and you could hardly wait.

------ Fin ------- I’m tagging my minxes, even though this is specifically NOT a Loki story. I do want you guys to send me stories that might fall under the “Hot Characters” banner though! Minxes: @scrumptious-finicky-illusion @iamverity @mizfit2 @sammy-jo1977 @wolfsmom1 @jessiejunebug @iluvsumbucky @unadulteratedwizardlove @procrastinatinglikeabitch @shxdowofdarkness @nonsensicalobsessions @ahintofkiwistrawberry @alexakeyloveloki @rorybutnotgilmore @crystalizedcaramel @lokislittlecorner @capcapcapsicle @jamielea81 @caffiend-queen @otakumultimuse-hiddlewhore @jenjen8675309 @that-one-person @roguewraith @toomanystoriessolittletime @vodka-and-some-sass @just-random-obsessions @brokenthelovely @lots-of-loki @thefallenbibliophilequote

#giles #rupert giles #rupert giles x you #giles x you #hot characters you forgot about #rupert giles smut #giles smut #buffy fanfiction

148 notes · View notes

pascalpanic · 3 years

Text

Tiny Dancer (Frankie “Catfish” Morales x f!Reader)

Summary: Reader and Frankie are best friends, and both think that their feelings are unrequited… with the help of a little throwback music, that might change. Reader uses she/her pronouns.

Warnings: alcohol use

Word Count: 1.79k

A/N: This is my first published fic! I hope you like it, whoever’s reading this!! Thanks to my beta readers and people who helped me format, @lovetoreader @mandoalorian and @no-droids-on-sunday, as well as a couple friends not on tumblr!

gif credit to @amahlfarouk!

The fire crackles and casts a warm glow across Frankie’s face, highlighting the valleys and ridges of the lines in his skin, the shadow accentuating his pronounced nose. He really is beautiful, you sigh and think to yourself as you look at him. You’ve been friends with Frankie for a long time now, since high school, and the feelings you first had for him upon your introduction never quite faded. He looks completely relaxed, the bonfire, the music, and your presence putting him at ease.

You tear your eyes from his face as you see him shifting, not wanting him to notice that you were most definitely staring. He picks up his phone and presses a button, shuffling the oldies playlist he chose and allowing John Denver’s Take Me Home, Country Roads to play through his Bluetooth speaker sitting on the table between the two of you. You give a laugh. “Good memories with this one,” you say with an easy smile on your face and look over at him, nudging his leg with your boot-covered foot.

Frankie definitely agrees as he smiles back at you, his nose scrunching and his dimple showing. “Oh god. You almost got us kicked out of that bar for how loud you screamed this,” he chuckles and nudges your leg back, his strength moving your leg significantly farther than you nudged his.

The two of you stop your brief chatter and start singing along. Frankie is loud and off-key, his baritone perfectly complimenting your equally out-of-tune voice. Both of you mumble through the first verse, not entirely sure of the words to this part. As it comes to the chorus, however, it’s a completely different story. The two of you start bellowing the words, laughing and grinning at each other.

That night at your local bar was the closest Frankie ever got to kissing you.

You had both had only enough alcohol to be lightly tipsy, meaning one-and-a-half drinks for you and three for Frankie. The bar had a machine that allowed you to pick the music, and Frankie eagerly used his quarters on song after song that you requested. Your face, flushed from alcohol, was closer to his than normal. He bit down on his lip and looked down as your faces got closer through the laughter, and as he looked up he swore he saw it in your eyes, exactly what he was feeling.

The song ended and another came on, and an entirely different spark entered your eyes. “Oh my God!” You giggled. “I love this song! This is, like, the best,” you raved as the guitar kicked in.

“The only song of the night you didn’t request is the best?” He teases you, the moment gone as you lean back to start singing along. “Really, you like John Denver?” He asks over the loud music and chatter.

Nodding enthusiastically, your grin made him grin back. “Of course, Francisco. I’m a woman of culture,” you tease right back happily and push his shoulder. You knock back the rest of your second drink and slide off your barstool. “Come on, we’re dancing,” you practically shout and drag him off of his and to the small clearing for dancing

Frankie begrudgingly follows. He’s not much of a dancer, but he’d do anything for you. That much was obvious, he thought. As you reach the floor, you start belting the lyrics at the top of your lungs, audible even over the hum of the bar.

As the chorus ends, you two both try to mumble the verse again, neither of you knowing the words. “Good memories,” he says again, a wistful smile on his face as he sits back in his chair a little further.

“The best. You’re a good dance partner,” you smile along with him. “Even if that song wasn’t really us dancing. It was more standing close to each other while I burst your eardrums with my opera-worthy voice,” you sarcastically grin and elbow him lightly in the forearm. He makes a fake whimper of pain and pouts. “Catfish,” you laugh and shake your head at him softly, “the military veteran, special ops pilot extraordinaire, wounded by my elbow.”

“Just because I was in the military doesn’t mean I don’t feel pain anymore, hermosa,” he frowns at you and elbows you back. You make a similar noise and he grins. “See? Doesn’t feel great, does it?”

The two of you continue on with your playful banter, the way it’s always been for the two of you. You bicker and shove lightly, both of you separately thinking the same thing: that the main reason you love to push and shove isn’t because you see them like a sibling, but because you want any excuse you can to touch them.

Your bickering continues as the song changes, and a break in the action causes a lull that allows you to notice the new song that came on. Grinning, you grab his phone and turn up the volume before setting it back on the small table between the two of you. “Oh my god, I love Elton John,” you coo as you hear his familiar voice singing Tiny Dancer.

“I’m well aware,” he shoots back and shakes his head. “Add that song to the list of reasons my eardrums are broken. You know, people would think it’s because of the helicopters that I have hearing damage. What would they think if I told them it was because your tiny ass body has the strongest vocal chords to exist?” He groans, raising an eyebrow at you that rests just below the brim of his classic baseball cap.

“Tiny?” You say, jokingly aggressive. You don’t consider yourself short; in fact, you’re above average. But with Frankie Morales, you practically look like an elf. He towers over you, and it drives you insane.

“Just like the song,” he nods then gasps. “You are tiny dancer,” he says with a pleased smile spreading across his cheeks and showing that goddamn dimple.

Smacking his arm, you shake his head. “Don’t even go there. First of all, we both know I only dance when I’m drunk or you make me,” you laugh. “The only-”

Frankie cuts you off by standing and taking your hand, pulling you to your feet as well. “You’re tiny and now you’re dancing,” he says, smiling down at you as he wraps his free arm around his waist, the other hand still clutching yours.

“You’re cheesy as hell, Morales, you know that?” You ask and look up at him, the baseball cap shading his chocolate brown eyes.

Frankie shrugs, starting to sway the two of you along, carefully avoiding the fire but staying close enough that the two of you are warm. “I may have been told that before,” he says and gives you a warm smile.

Your heart thumps increasingly harder in your chest, which is now pressed to Frankie’s as he pulls you closer and gently sets his chin on your shoulder. You’re sure he can feel it, which makes you panic slightly, which makes your heart race even faster. You rest your head against his shoulder, the position coming naturally. You’ve slow danced before, of course, as the two of you always find yourself on the dance floor, but it’s only been a few times. Rare. Dancing usually consists of you and Frankie, not touching, flailing like complete idiots. Neither of you were known for your coordination when it comes to dancing, and it has always shown. But this is nice. Completely different.

Humming the lyrics, his throat buzzes and you can feel it where your head rests against the side of his neck. He stops humming and starts singing softly, the smile in his voice evident.

“Hold me closer tiny dancer… count the headlights on the highway…”

Giggling softly, you break away as Frankie pulls back, making you do a spin. You squeal as you lose your balance and stumble for a moment. Once again, coordination is not your strong suit. Both of you laugh as Frankie protectively pulls you back to his chest, stopping you before you can fall. “Careful,” he chides lovingly.

“It’s a little late to be careful now, Frankie,” you shoot back sarcastically. “I already tripped.”

You look up at him, taken aback by the tenderness in his eyes. He always looks happy to be around you, but his eyes are painfully soft as he smiles down at you.

The look makes you inhale sharply. He can’t feel that way about you, can he? You would’ve known sooner, surely, and you’ve been friends for a long time. You’ve always been able to read him like a book, what is this new expression? Or… is it new? You ask yourself all of these questions, biting your lip softly and looking down.

He tears his gaze away and increases the distance between you, not nearly as close, terrified that he just gave too much away. He clears his throat and takes his hat off, running a hand through his hair before replacing it. He turns away and heads for his chair. “Sorry,” he says bashfully, looking at you. “I-,”

Something emboldens you. You’re not sure what, but it’s probably the fact that you suddenly put the last piece of the jigsaw puzzle together: he likes you too. You grab his wrist and stop him. “Please don’t be sorry,” you tell him and move closer to him, your heaving chests close once again. You reach up and take off his hat, running a hair through his curls, a peace offering. An offering, maybe, for something more.

“Can I kiss you, hermosa?” Frankie asks, voice barely a rasp of a whisper as he pulls you closer with an arm around your waist.

You nod slightly and Frankie slowly moves in, his other hand moving to your cheek as he allows your lips to meet, soft and perfect. You sigh lightly and bring your free hand to his cheek as well, the other holding his ballcap and dangling at your side. You kiss him back contently, allowing the slow and gentle moment to rest.

He eventually is the first to break away, his heart in his eyes and your faces close together. “I…” he wants to say something but can’t find the right words.

“Me too,” you whisper back with a chuckle, brushing his curls from his face. “Me too, Frankie,” you say and blissfully kiss him again, the swell of the music perfectly matching the rhythm of your kiss.

He breaks away after a few moments, smiling softly at you again. ��I told you, you’re her, you’re tiny dancer,” he teases softly. “My tiny dancer?” He asks shyly, taking the hand from the side of his face and lacing your fingers together.

“Yours,” you breathe in agreement and close the gap between you to kiss him once again.

#frankie morales x reader #frankie morales #frankie catfish morales #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #triple frontier #triple frontier fanfiction #jose pedro balmaceda pascal

295 notes · View notes

elisabeth515 · 3 years

Text

(Some) Greek Gods as Historical Figures

So some days ago I secretly logged back into Mythology and Cultures amino and I stumbled across post of casting historical figures as the gods from Greek mythology. Of course, I hated it, so I made my version of this.

Note: Of course, this is going to have quite a lot of Napoleonic figures, since I am more familiar of this period, but please do reblog this post (or tag me on another post) with the hashtag “#mythical figures as historical people” and add some more of your historical figure Greek God fancasts!

Note 2: this post is for entertaining purpose, and just me introducing some guys to y’all and I am not a historian myself and hopefully you all would still like my takes😅

1. Zeus - Louis XIV of France

First and foremost, I shall introduce the king of gods featured in Greco-Roman myths. You may ask, why don’t I cast Henry VIII of England? Well, my reason is very simple: Henry is far from accurate to Zeus in actual myths.

To be honest, Zeus has a more “absolute power” energy in it, and Louis XIV totally has rocked it (like that iconic line “l’état, c’est moi (I am the state)”). Well, Henry also has that kind of energy but everyone only remembers his six wives and the uncountable number of bloodshed (not to mention Catherine of Aragon is a much better fighter than him—got this from Horrible Histories OwO)... Anyways, Louis XVI is basically a Zeus.

2. Hera - Catherine of Aragon

This brings to Catherine of Aragon herself. She’s a total Q U E E N and if you have watched “Six” the musical you already got what I mean (like, being the wife who married to Henry the longest). There’s also the early warlike aspect in Hera (featured in Homer’s works) that Catherine has it as well (at least you know that she’s getting more victories than Henry if you have watched Horrible Histories season 6, in the episode with Rowan Atkinson playing Henry VIII (which is sad because I want Ben Willbond to play him—he iconic to the HH fandom)), making her a great casting of Hera.

Hera, in my opinion, is a very strong woman who has to take Zeus’s shit and I could totally understand why she took revenge on the girls that Zeus has slept with—but anyways, hopefully you guys would like it :3

3. Aphrodite - Pauline Bonaparte

This is half-self-explanatory, really—just look at that statue she posed as Venus, the Roman equivalent of Aphrodite.

Pauline was famed for her beauty in her time, also a big chunk of scandals from her affairs (which bugs her big brother Napoleon, a lot). Nevertheless, despite her big spending habits and a great sexual appetite, she always helped Napoleon in some surprising ways (like she sold her house in Paris to the Duke of Wellington to get the funds for Napoleon).

Just like Aphrodite herself, Pauline harnessed her beauty very well. Thus, I rest my case.

4. Apollo - Joachim Murat or Emperor Franz Joseph I of Austria

(Warning: long content ahead)

Firstly, let me briefly introduce them because you guys might not know them much.

Joachim Murat was a marshal of France, also one of Napoleon’s brother-in-law, grand duke of Berg and Cleves from 1806 to 1808 and the King of Naples from 1808 to 1815. After the wars, he attempted to escape yet was caught and executed in 1815 in Pizzo, Italy (if you have read of Alexandre Dumas’s “Famous Crimes” you might know him—by the way no one has cut his head off and sent it to that big nose King Ferdinand).

For those who have watched “Elisabeth” or the “Sissi” movies, you might know Franz Joseph I of Austria already but you might not know much about himself besides being the husband of the (in)famous Empress Sisi (ie. Empress Elisabeth of Austria). He was the Emperor of the Austria from 1848 to his death in 1916—one of the longest reigning European monarchs in history. During his reign, the empire had been through a lot of change, most notably, the creation of Austria-Hungary. Nevertheless, he was also the Emperor who started World War I and he died of old age in the midst of the Great War.

For Apollo, I’m not casting musicians because this is quite overdone. I rather want to shed a light to the other arts that he represented in Greco-Roman mythology. This makes me want to draw a parallel to Joachim Murat as he was also a great sucker of classical literature. Plus, he also was known to be a flamboyant dresser (his nickname was “the Dandy King” by the way), also the designer of the uniforms of the Neapolitan army (with an excessive amount of amaranth, perhaps his favourite colour). Really, everyone just sees him as a great flamboyant himbo but in reality, he’s iconically badass in the battlefield as the First Horseman of Europe. Well, also he’s known for being extremely good with women even though his wife Caroline was fierce as hell. So, in my opinion, he fits the image of Apollo that we know.

However, you guys might feel surprised why I picked Franz Joseph for Apollo. Well, he really... was a rather mediocre ruler in my opinion, and perhaps our most memorable image of him was the senile emperor who signed the declaration of war to Serbia. Nevertheless, he was a well-liked man among his subjects, at least to some old citizens of Austria-Hungary telling future generations. Besides, culture flourished in Vienna under his reign—with notable figures like Sigmund Freud, Ludwig Wittgenstein and Erwin Schrödinger. Despite the series of unfortunate events which made the empire started to crumble, Austria-Hungary arguably has its cultural importance in Europe. Sounds like what Apollo would do if he’s a ruler, somehow.

Well, enough of his political achievements, let’s talk about his private life... which was probably the actual reason why I picked him.

Enter Duchess Elisabeth in Bavaria, the Empress of Austria and Queen of Hungary, also known as Sisi.

On a side note, Marshal Louis-Alexandre Berthier of France, Prince of Neufchâtel and of Wargram, was Empress Sisi’s grand-uncle in-law via his marriage to Duchess Maria Elisabeth in Bavaria

Absolutely love Pia as Elisabeth in the musical so please don’t mind me using a gif from this :3 ((also, “Elisabeth” spoiler alert

Franz originally was to marry her sister Helene (nicknamed Néné), nevertheless, on the first meeting in Bad Ishl, he has fallen for the young Elisabeth, head over heels—making him defying his domineering mother, Archduchess Sophie, for the very first time. Elisabeth also liked him and did not expressed her refusal either, so they got married in St. Augustine’s Church in 29th April, 1854.

However, the marriage was not well. Sisi was not accustomed to the strict Austrian court especially Archduchess Sophie (also she was not really a fan of intimacy). Poor Franz was rather helpless in situations between his mother and his wife, and eventually, Sisi chose her freedom over her duty as Empress, traveling around the world. They two briefly went back together during the Austro-Hungarian compromise, yet she was constantly not there. Eventually, Sisi was assassinated by an anarchist named Luigi Lucheni during her stay in Geneva, Switzerland, and Franz was devastated over her death (“she will never know how much I love her”).

To Franz, he loved her so, but he really didn’t understand her needs. Even though he had countless mistresses and female companions in Vienna, he still missed his wife. I say, he was really unlucky when it comes to love. Like Apollo himself, he dated countless nymphs and humans, but a lot of his notable relationships did not have a good end. (Probably Cyrene was the most lucky one, yet she also has chosen to be left alone after mothering several children with Apollo.) For this, I picked Franz Joseph as Apollo.

5. Ares - Jean Lannes or Michel Ney

As usual, for those who don’t know much history, I shall briefly introduce my babeys these two great soldiers.

Jean Lannes was one of the marshals of Napoleon, known for being one of Napoleon’s closest friends and his fiery personality, and is considered one of the best marshals of the 1st French Empire. His finest moments including the Battle of Ratisbon in which he led his men to storm the well-guarded city with ladders (hence his nickname “ladder lord” in our very humble Napoleonic marshalate fandom :3). Sadly, he died of the wound he received in the battle of Aspern-Essling in 1809.

Michel Ney was also one of the marshals of Napoleon, known for his extreme valour (yep, he is known as the “Bravest of the Brave”). As you might know, he was one of the marshals who was in Waterloo, yet, his finest hour was during the retreat from Russia in the disasterous 1812. Sadly, he was arguably the most prominent victim of the White Terror under the second Bourbon restoration, executed in 1815 (**I am not accepting any kind of conspiracy theories of my babey survived and died in America😤).

Speaking of Ares, I have a lot of things to say (that’s my dad ;-; no jkjk). He is really not that bloodthirsty idiot who casually hates humans. Well, he’s more like a fiery dork and a man who was very faithful to his lovers, and fights very well (by the way also one of the best dads). So, the bois that come into my mind are automatically two of the most courageous marshals of France.

Lannes, if I have to get him a godly parent, it would definitely Ares. He resembled the god a lot (also I sometimes imagined Ares as a smol bean with dark hair), probably looks the most like Ares himself. He got that fiery temper, that faithfulness to his wife Louise, also being a very courageous fighter in the field—well he literally was like, “NO LEMME STORM DAT CITY *grabs ladder*”.

There you have it, my big bro our ladder lord Jean Lannes who can pull off a perfect Ares.

Ney is like a slightly introverted (and mature) version of an Ares person. You can guess his temper already through his famed auburn hair, and indeed despite his shy exterior his temper sometimes was a bit explosive, and a bit impatient (which was somehow one of his fatal flaws). He was a great fighter, known as a skilled swordsman in his youth. And you all know how brave he is in his famed epithet. Michel Ney is purely badass (and C U T E) you know (and he needs a lot of hugs because he has really been though a lot in the wars, and was a possible case of PTSD which was shown in his arguably suicidal behaviour during the battle of Waterloo). That’s why I casted him as the Greek god Ares OwO

And there you have it, my interpretations on the Greek gods via people in history. I originally would like to include more but somehow I realised that I have written too much about my picks. So, if you want to add more, reblog this post or tag me on the post you made on this topic (and please use the hashtag “mythical figures as historical people” so that I could look into your choices via the search bubble on this app🥺).

Last but not the least, I hope you all lovelies like this, also have learnt something new via my brief introductions on some historical people. Have a great day!

92 notes · View notes

butterflies-dragons · 4 years

Note

Hey! I want to ask your opinion on Jon ygritte relationship and it's contrast with jonsa. I've seen jongritte wrt to jonerys but I want to know your opinions on jongritte wrt to jonsa as a foil n parallel.

Hello Anon,

Let’s talk about Ygritte then...

Ygritte:

Ygritte was a mixture of the Stark Sisters.

According to Jon: “she can kiss a man (Sansa’s romantic nature) or slit his throat (Arya’s killer abilities)”

“And maybe her eyes [...] but they were a pretty blue-grey color”. Blue (Sansa) & Grey (Arya).

Ygritte has skinny legs, was short for her age, and never brushed her hair, similar to Arya. But Ygritte was a redhead, described like ‘kissed by fire’, similar to the Tully auburn of Sansa’s hair that is also described by Arya like ‘fire’: “Robb and Sansa and Bran and even little Rickon all took after the Tullys, with easy smiles and fire in their hair.”

According to Jon, Ygritte is fierce, stubborn, and wild, similar to Arya with her touch of the wolf blood. But Ygritte also can sing like Sansa.

Ygritte is a spearwife, a fierce killer, a warrior woman, which reminds us of Arya’s Needle, her training to be a faceless man, and the list of people she wants to kill. But Ygritte also likes songs and stories and cries with sad and beautiful songs, like Sansa.

Who else was a mixture of the Stark Sisters? Lyanna Stark, Jon’s mother. But this is another subject.

Jon was not instantly attracted to Ygritte, but with time he started to have feeling for her, feelings that are linked with Ygritte’s similarities with Sansa:

The wildlings seemed to think Ygritte a great beauty because of her hair; red hair was rare among the free folk, and those who had it were said to be kissed by fire, which was supposed to be lucky. Lucky it might be, and red it certainly was, but Ygritte's hair was such a tangle that Jon was tempted to ask her if she only brushed it at the changing of the seasons.

At a lord's court the girl would never have been considered anything but common, he knew. She had a round peasant face, a pug nose, and slightly crooked teeth, and her eyes were too far apart. Jon had noticed all that the first time he'd seen her, when his dirk had been at her throat. Lately, though, he was noticing some other things. When she grinned, the crooked teeth didn't seem to matter. And maybe her eyes were too far apart, but they were a pretty blue-grey color, and lively as any eyes he knew. Sometimes she sang in a low husky voice that stirred him. And sometimes by the cookfire when she sat hugging her knees with the flames waking echoes in her red hair, and looked at him, just smiling . . . well, that stirred some things as well.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon II

Ygritte’s singing and the shades of her red hair near the flames. Jon is such a romantic.

Ygritte’s hair “by the cookfire [...] with the flames waking echoes in her red hair”, reminds me of this passage about Sansa’s hair:

“She had auburn hair, […] the red in it would catch the light of the torches and shine like copper.”

—A Clash of Kings - Catelyn VII

And guess what turns Jon off about Ygritte? That she is a cold blood killer:

"I see no free folk. I see a crow and a crow wife."

"I'm no crow wife!" Ygritte snatched her knife from its sheath. Three quick strides, and she yanked the old man's head back by the hair and opened his throat from ear to ear. Even in death, the man did not cry out. "You know nothing, Jon Snow!" she shouted at him, and flung the bloody blade at his feet.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon V

"Who is Ygritte?" Donal Noye asked pointedly.

"A woman of the free folk." How could he explain Ygritte to them? [. . .] she's young, only a girl, in truth, wild, but she . . ." She killed an old man for building a fire.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon VI

Ygritte was much in his thoughts as well. He remembered the smell of her hair, the warmth of her body . . . and the look on her face as she slit the old man's throat.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon VI

Very telling....

I usually call Ygritte, “Jon’s Joffrey”. Both Jon and Sansa accommodated Ygritte and Joffrey in their minds as a coping mechanism, because they both knew that their love interests liked killing too much, something that turn them off:

“Who is Ygritte?” Donal Noye asked pointedly.

“A woman of the free folk.” How could he explain Ygritte to them? She’s warm and smart and funny and she can kiss a man or slit his throat. “She’s with Styr, but she’s not … she’s young, only a girl, in truth, wild, but she …” She killed an old man for building a fire. His tongue felt thick and clumsy. The milk of the poppy was clouding his wits. “I broke my vows with her. I never meant to, but …” It was wrong. Wrong to love her, wrong to leave her … “I wasn’t strong enough. The Halfhand commanded me, ride with them, watch, I must not balk, I …” His head felt as if it were packed with wet wool.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon VI

Look how Jon is having a discussion with himself in his mind: Jon 1: Ygritte was warm, smart, funny, young, only a girl.... Jon 2: But she was a cold blood killer, man! She shot several arrows at us, she tried to kill us! And remember when she blackmailed us to have sex with her? WTF dude?

This is exactly what Sansa was doing here:

“I had a dream that Joffrey would be the one to take the white hart,” she said. It had been more of a wish, actually, but it sounded better to call it a dream. Everyone knew that dreams were prophetic. White harts were supposed to be very rare and magical, and in her heart she knew her gallant prince was worthier than his drunken father.

“A dream? Truly? Did Prince Joffrey just go up to it and touch it with his bare hand and do it no harm?”

“No,” Sansa said. “He shot it with a golden arrow and brought it back for me.” In the songs, the knights never killed magical beasts, they just went up to them and touched them and did them no harm, but she knew Joffrey liked hunting, especially the killing part. Only animals, though. Sansa was certain her prince had no part in murdering Jory and those other poor men; that had been his wicked uncle, the Kingslayer. She knew her father was still angry about that, but it wasn’t fair to blame Joff. That would be like blaming her for something that Arya had done.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa III

After a time living in Kings Landing and knowing her betrothed a bit better, Sansa knew that Joffrey was not true knight material; deep down she knew about his killing/harming tendencies, yet she tried to accommodate Joff as someone that, at least, would never harm/kill innocent people.

As I said before, Jon started having feelings for Ygritte, but she couldn’t wait to have him. She blackmailed him to have sex, and Jon being the horny teenager that he was, at the prospect to be killed by the wildling versus having sex with a girl that he started to like, he chose the sex, of course. Such a strong basis for romance...

Women & Jon Snow:

How many times have we all heard that Jon loves warrior women and dislikes or even hates ladies? This is not true tho...

These wrong assumptions are based in Jon’s interactions with the following women:

Ygritte, a spearwife, a warrior woman, his first and only lover.

Arya, his favorite and beloved sister, Jon himself gave her a sword, Needle. Needle was named because of Sansa tho... Ygritte reminded Jon of Arya.

Val, “the wildling princess”. Jon considers Val very physically attractive, he decided that she was a “warrior princess”. But sorry, let me tell you that GRRM himself has said that Val is not a warrior woman.

Lady Alys Karstark, because she reminds Jon of Arya and she flirted with him. She remembered them dancing in the past and invited him to dance again during her wedding. Dancing is something very ladylike tho, just saying...

Arya

Back in 2016, a person asked GRRM about the possibility of a romance between Jon and Arya, pointing out the similarities between Ygritte and Arya, this is what he said:

“My con friend asked about the Jon/Arya relationship again and brought her (impressive) Game book that had all of her references marked out with little flags. She brought up the Ygritte connections to Arya that Jon saw in her. George did not directly answer yes or no if there would be anything romantic between the two.”

“George did say, despite what readers see as clues to a romantic relationship between Jon/Arya in the books themselves, he did not confirm this so easily but inferred that what Jon saw in Ygritte was a comfort level of femininity. <<< She and I obviously discussed these comments after the meeting and this was the general feeling.”

“My con friend was referring to George explaining Jon’s perception: GRRM replied, “You know, I don’t think it’s a reference for that [for romance]. It’s a reference to a certain physical type, and a certain indication of what Jon finds admirable. It’s like someone who reminds you of, you know… Other people might be put off by this, you know, hair that looks like small rodents have been living in there. It doesn’t put him off because he is used to that.”

[Source 1] [Source 2] [Source 3]

So, as you can see, these links between Jon’s favorite sister and Jon’s first lover, according to the author himself, mean:

“Comfort level of femininity”,

“Jon is used to messy hair”

“Not reference for romance”.

Not reference for romance indeed...

Here you can read more about my opinion regarding the possibility of a romantic relationship between Jon and Arya: [x] [x] [x]

Val

Repeat after me: Val is not a warrior woman. Again: Val is not a warrior woman. One more time: Val is not a warrior woman. If you don’t believe me, then read this:

However, in my own defense, I should note that Dalla was not a “warrior woman” per se. She was from a warrior culture, yes; one that gave women the right, but not the obligation, to be fighters. Ygritte was a warrior woman, as was (most conspicuously) the fearsome Harma Dogshead. Dalla and Val were not.

[Source]

But you may say, ¿What about the “the warrior princess and the willowy creature that only brushes her hair” quote?

Well, as GRRM has stated many times, all his POVS are “Unreliable Narrators”. Being from a “warrior culture” doesn’t make you automatically a “warrior woman”. But here is Jon Snow “deciding” that Val was a “warrior princess”. Once again, the contrast, the dichotomy in one single person: ¿A warrior like Arya, a princess like Sansa? Not that Arya has ever fought in a war, but you get my point. And Sansa was created following the princess archetype.

I will show you one of my favorite Jon’s passages that will serve us to read “the warrior princess and the willowy creature that only brushes her hair” line with a better and more revealing light:

I call this passage the “Jon -It’s nothing special- Snow”. Or as we say in Spanish when we can’t get what we really want: “Al cabo que ni quería”, that can be translated as “I didn't even want it anyway”. Let’s see:

"Oh, I learn things everywhere I go." The little man gestured up at the Wall with a gnarled black walking stick. "As I was saying … why is it that when one man builds a wall, the next man immediately needs to know what's on the other side?" He cocked his head and looked at Jon with his curious mismatched eyes. "You do want to know what's on the other side, don't you?"

"It's nothing special," Jon said. He wanted to ride with Benjen Stark on his rangings, deep into the mysteries of the haunted forest, wanted to fight Mance Rayder's wildlings and ward the realm against the Others, but it was better not to speak of the things you wanted. "The rangers say it's just woods and mountains and frozen lakes, with lots of snow and ice."

—A Game of Thrones - Jon III

I mean... COME ON! This is one of the most telling passages to know, to really know Jon’s true nature, and it’s very, very similar to the quote about “the warrior princess and the willowy creature that only brushes her hair”:

They are all convinced she is a princess. Val looked the part and rode as if she had been born on horseback. A warrior princess, he decided, not some willowy creature who sits up in a tower, brushing her hair and waiting for some knight to rescue her.

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon XI

“Some willowy creature who sits up in a tower, brushing her hair and waiting for some knight to rescue her.” Nah, it’s nothing special, I didn’t even want it anyway, not for me, no.

Do I have to say more???

Actually, yes, I have.

Jon Snow does really want a lady. Jon Snow does really want to be a knight and rescue a maiden. Jon Snow does really want a lady to love and be loved back by her. Here some evidence:

Jon Snow wished that his mother were a highborn lady: “Not my mother, Jon thought stubbornly. He knew nothing of his mother; Eddard Stark would not talk of her. Yet he dreamed of her at times, so often that he could almost see her face. In his dreams, she was beautiful, and highborn, and her eyes were kind.”

Jon Snow wanted to be a hero like the Prince Aemon Dragonknight. The same Prince Aemon that jousted in a tourney, won it, and crowned his sister and lady love “Queen of Love and Beauty”, something that is straight out from the courtly love book: “The Dragonknight once won a tourney as the Knight of Tears, so he could name his sister the queen of love and beauty in place of the king's mistress”.

Jon Snow tried to comfort Gilly with courtesy: "Gilly, he called me. For the gillyflower." "That's pretty." He remembered Sansa telling him once that he should say that whenever a lady told him her name. He could not help the girl, but perhaps the courtesy would please her”.

Jon Snow put Ghost between Ygritte and him and remembers that knights put their swords between their ladies and themselves, something that is straight out from the courtly love book: “After that he had taken to using Ghost to keep her away. Old Nan used to tell stories about knights and their ladies who would sleep in a single bed with a blade between them for honor's sake, but he thought this must be the first time where a direwolf took the place of the sword”.

Jon Snow imagined romancing Ygritte as if she were a lady: “If I could show her Winterfell . . . give her a flower from the glass gardens, feast her in the Great Hall, and show her the stone kings on their thrones. We could bathe in the hot pools, and love beneath the heart tree while the old gods watched over us”.

Jon Snow wished for a domestic life in Winterfell, with his wife and children: I would need to steal her if I wanted her love, but she might give me children. I might someday hold a son of my own blood in my arms. [...] I could name him Robb. Val would want to keep her sister's son, but we could foster him at Winterfell, and Gilly's boy as well. [...] Mance's son and Craster's would grow up brothers, as I once did with Robb. He wanted it, Jon knew then. He wanted it as much as he had ever wanted anything. I have always wanted it, he thought, guiltily”.

Jon is a romantic that called his mare “sweet lady”.

Jon Snow closer friends in the Night’s Watch are Samwell Tarly and satin, they are literally male!Sansas.

Jon remembers fondly Sansa’s more feminine and ladylike traits: her romantic nature, her courtesies, her singing.

It’s also worth to mention that, despite Val’s beauty and physical attractiveness, Jon Snow, once again, appreciates her being maternal and singing to Gilly’s son, but was turned off by Val saying she would kill Princess Shireen:

"I have heard you singing to him."

"I was singing to myself. Am I to blame if he listens?" A faint smile brushed her lips. "It makes him laugh. Oh, very well. He is a sweet little monster."

"Monster?"

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon VIII

Once outside and well away from the queen's men, Val gave vent to her wroth. "You lied about her beard. That one has more hair on her chin than I have between my legs. And the daughter … her face …"

"Greyscale."

"The grey death is what we call it."

"It is not always mortal in children."

"North of the Wall it is. Hemlock is a sure cure, but a pillow or a blade will work as well. If I had given birth to that poor child, I would have given her the gift of mercy long ago."

This was a Val that Jon had never seen before. "Princess Shireen is the queen's only child."

"I pity both of them. The child is not clean."

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon XI

Wait a minute! Val was “singing to herself” like Jon’s memory of Sansa “singing to herself” while brushing out Lady’s coat???

Where did Jon get this idea of “some willowy creature that only brushes her hair” from??? It could be from his half sister Sansa, a literal princess, now trapped in a tower, that always brushed her hair and even brushed out her direwolf’s fur???

“She had brushed out her long auburn hair until it shone” —Sansa

“Her thick auburn hair had been brushed until it shone.” —Eddard

I often sent away her maid so I could brush her hair myself. —Catelyn

He thought [...] Of Sansa, brushing out Lady's coat and singing to herself. —Jon

And I also suspect that when Jon said this about Val:

Then Ghost emerged from between two trees, with Val beside him.

They look as though they belong together. Val was clad all in white; white woolen breeches tucked into high boots of bleached white leather, white bearskin cloak pinned at the shoulder with a carved weirwood face, white tunic with bone fastenings. Her breath was white as well … but her eyes were blue, her long braid the color of dark honey, her cheeks flushed red from the cold. It had been a long while since Jon Snow had seen a sight so lovely.

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon XI

He was remembering another pretty girl, princess like, next to a direwolf, looking as though they belong together.

A young beautiful girl, that everyone considers a princess, next to a direwolf???

Val is a beautiful young woman, Sansa is a beautiful young maiden.

Val has long blonde hair the color of dark honey which she wears in a braid. Val actually take care of her hair, enough to braid it, like Sansa that always brushes it. And if you google “dark honey” hair color you will find a variety of reddish brown (auburn) and reddish blonde hair colors.

Val has high sharp cheekbones, like Sansa.

Val’s eyes are pale grey or blue. Again the grey/blue eyes pattern...

Val is slender with a full bosom, like Sansa.

So?

Then Ghost emerged from between two trees, with Val beside him. [...] It had been a long while since Jon Snow had seen a sight so lovely.

Of Sansa, brushing out Lady's coat and singing to herself.

Think about it!

Alys

You may have heard about how Alys Karstark reminds Jon of Arya. She was the girl of Melissandre’s vision, right? No? Melissandre was wrong? Really?Anyway, this is another subject, for another time. The thing is that Jon was really hoping that the “Grey Girl” was Arya. He was desperate to have Arya safe and away from the Boltons. And once again, look at Alys Karstark’s description:

Alys is a tall, like Sansa, but skinny, like Arya.

Alys has brown hair, like Arya, but wears it into a braid, so she cares about her hair, like Sansa.

Alys has a long face, but blue-grey eyes. Blue like Sansa, and Grey like Arya. This pattern again? George, I need some explanations. What are you doing?

And also all these connections with Sansa:

Alys is a lady, a maiden, and she asked Jon his protection: “You are my only hope, Lord Snow. In your father's name, I beg you. Protect me”. She sounds like a willowy creature in need to be rescue by some knight, right?

Alys remembered dancing with a sullen Jon Snow when she visited Winterfell in the past. Alys invited Jon Snow to dance again during her wedding.

Alys’ wedding happened in a very similar way to Sansa’s dream wedding: ”It was not supposed to be this way. She had dreamed of her wedding a thousand times, and always she had pictured how her betrothed would stand behind her tall and strong, sweep the cloak of his protection over her shoulders, and tenderly kiss her cheek as he leaned forward to fasten the clasp”. —A Storm of Swords - Sansa III & “The Magnar all but ripped the maiden’s cloak from Alys’s shoulders, but when he fastened her bride’s cloak about her he was almost tender. As he leaned down to kiss her cheek, their breath mingled”. —A Dance with Dragons - Jon X.

A northern maid and a wildling warrior, bound together by the Lord of Light. A northern maid like Sansa: “The northern girl. Winterfell's daughter”. A wildling warrior like Jon: “I see what you are, Snow. Half a wolf and half a wildling.”

There is much more to say about Women & Jon Snow, but I will stop here. There are more topics to explore for this answer.

This is too long already, so I need to make a cut.

Parallels & Contrasts:

As I said this post is already too long, so I will summarize with the help of my friends. Let’s see:

Some great findings by my friend @shieldofrohan in this post: JON X SANSA BOOK HINTS- IN ORDER:

Sansa is the blue flower that bloomed from the North

Ygritte tells about the song of Bael the Bard and the Winterfell’s Rose in ACOK; Jon VI

In the story the blue roses of Winterfell just bloom and they represent a love between King Beyond the Wall and Winterfell’s maiden heir

Next chapter is Sansa (ACOK; Sansa IV) and she flowers for the first time, next chapter is Jon again. (Jon-Sansa-Jon)

Bael the Bard and Winterfell’s Blue Rose

He meets with Ygritte

So after the introduction of his future love interest comes a Sansa chapter.

She tells him the story of a song about the love between King Beyond the Wall and Winterfell’s maiden lady heir.

Jon-Ygritte meeting // Sandor-Sansa last scene

Jon meets with Ygritte in ACOK; Jon VI

Sansa sees Sandor for the last time in ACOK; Sansa VII

Jon has grey eyes // Sandor has grey eyes

Ygritte has red hair // Sansa has red hair

Jon // Sandor puts a knife to her throat

Ygritte tells him a song // Sansa sings for him

Jon-Ygritte last scene // Sandor-Sansa last scene

Sansa-Sandor last scene ACOK; Sansa VII // Jon-Ygritte last scene ASOS; Jon VII

Ygritte cups Jon’s cheek // Sansa cups Sandor’s cheek

Ygritte // Sandor says her/his catchphrase:

You know nothing, Jon Snow // Littlebird one last time and dies // leaves.

The men didn’t touch redhead girls but girls say they did

Jon didn’t touch Ygritte but Ygritte lies that he did and Sansa believes that Sandor kissed her in ACOK; Sansa VII. But he didn’t

Sansa remembers UNKISS after a Jon chapter.

Jon-Ygritte // Tyrion-Sansa

Jon beds Ygritte and it kind of means they are married in Wildlings’ sense. Because they believe in stealing + bedding = marriage philosphy.

Meanwhile Sansa really marries Tyrion.

Two hearts that beat as one. Mance Rayder’s mocking words rang bitter in his head. [ASOS; Jon III] The septon raised his crystal high, so the rainbow light fell down upon them. “Here in the sight of gods and men,” he said, “I do solemnly proclaim Tyrion of House Lannister and Sansa of House Stark to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one who comes between them.” [ASOS; Sansa III]

Jon has sex with Ygritte because he needs to prove that he is loyal. But he feels guilty because he takes pleasure. So he stole her and bed her. They are basically married. He didn’t want to but he was forced to.

Sansa had to do it because she is surrounded by the enemy. And Tyrion believes he has to consummate the marriage because his father commanded him. He desires Sansa even though she is a child and he feels a slight shame because of it. But unlike Jon, Tyrion doesn’t bed Sansa.

Bed your sister

Ygritte asks some interesting questions… while someone was about to bed Jon’s sister. She punched him. “That’s vile. Would you bed your sister?” [ASOS; Jon III]

I didn’t steal you… I’m no thief

Ygritte says that Jon stole her like Bael the Bar and talks about the star called Thief. But Jon says he didn’t steal her.

In TWOW; Alayne I, Ser Roland also calls Sansa a thief for stealing his heart. But she says she is no thief.

Ygritte is a girl with Tully look with her red hair and blue-grey eyes whereas Ser Roland has Stark look with his brown hair and long face. Sansa even says he is horse faced, and Arya is called Horsaface too and she looks like Jon.

Ygritte // Sansa

Ygritte is a northern girl with Tully hair and she says she is a “half fish”

Sansa is a half Tully aka fish, redhead and northern… Ygritte punched his arm. “You know nothing, Jon Snow. I’m half a fish, I’ll have you know.” [ASOS; Jon V]

More from this post by my friend on reddit: Jon and Sansa's parallel journey/imagery/settings in Jon and Sansa CHAPTERS PLACED NEXT TO EACH OTHER

ACOK Chapters 51, 52 and 53 - Steal the girl Chapter 51 - Jon, Chapter 52 - Sansa and Chapter 53 - Jon

Jon meets Ygritte who bares her throat for him and Jon puts his Longsword at it, intending to kill her but frees her:

She pushed her hair aside to bare her neck, and knelt before him. “Strike hard and true, crow, or I’ll come back and haunt you.”

“Now,” he said, “before my wits return. Go.”

She went.

The Hound puts his longsword against Sansa's neck but also frees her:

He laid the edge of his longsword against her neck, just under her ear. Sansa could feel the sharpness of the steel.

Now fly away, little bird, I’m sick of you peeping at me.”

Wordless, she fled

Before this, Ygritte tells Jon the tale of Bael the bard and how he stole the "Fairest flower in Winterfell"

‘All I ask is a flower,’ Bael answered, ‘the fairest flower that blooms in the gardens o’ Winterfell.’”

Next, we have Sansa recieve her first moonblood described as having "Flowered"

You’ve had your first flowering, no more.

Chapter ends with Cersei asking Sansa if she wants to be loved and have it followed by a Jon chapter.

Do you want to be loved, Sansa?”

“Everyone wants to be loved.”

“I see flowering hasn’t made you any brighter,” said Cersei. "Love is poison. A sweet poison, yes, but it will kill you all the same.”

Next chapter : Jon

ASOS Chapter 15, 16

These two chapters are a bit icky and deals with sexual maturity. Feels like a parallel journey.

The Jon chapter consists of Tormund talking about his sex life, Jon claiming he's too young for sex and Ygritte basically throwing herself at him.

The Sansa chapter consists of men staring at Sansa's body sexually, maids remarking about her matured bosom, Margaery playing kissing games with her cousins etc.

First love’s Resemblance:

And Sansa fell wildly in love with Ser Waymar, and Jon fell in love with a wildling girl kissed by fire:

Indeed, Sansa’s first crush was a brother of the Night’s Watch:

“Bronze Yohn knows me,” she reminded him. “He was a guest at Winterfell when his son rode north to take the black.” She had fallen wildly in love with Ser Waymar, she remembered dimly, but that was a lifetime ago, when she was a stupid little girl. “And that was not the only time. Lord Royce saw … he saw Sansa Stark again at King’s Landing, during the Hand’s tourney.”

—A Feast for Crows - Alayne I

And Waymar Royce looked like a Stark. Waymar Royce was Jon’s lookalike. More about it here.

And Jon’s first love was Ygritte, a redhead, with blue-grey eyes, and to make the Tully look even more evident, Ygritte called herself half a fish:

“Ygritte punched his arm. "You know nothing, Jon Snow. I'm half a fish, I'll have you know.”

—A Storm of Swords - Jon V

Sansa’s first crush having the Stark Look and Jon’s first lover having the Tully look, reminds me of Catelyn being first betrothed with Brandon Stark but marrying Eddard Stark instead. Brandon, died like Waymar. Ned said Jon’s is a younger version of himself. Ned never imagined marrying Catelyn, he had a young infatuation with Ashara Dayne, but he never acted on his feelings for her, and she died. Ned also killed Ashara’s brother Arthur.

Sansa fell wildly in love with Waymar, but she won’t marry him, he died. She will probably fall in love with Jon in a more mature and calmly way. Jon Snow, after a non-con beginning, ended loving Ygritte, not a lady, that offered him a “comfort level of femininity”, but he won’t marry her, she died. Jon will probably fell in love with Sansa, freely and willingly.

I think there is more to say and I could expand what was already said, but I think I covered the basics.

And to finish this post I will leave you with this picture. A friend helped me to colored the rose blue, the original was yellow. I call this picture: “Sansa with messy hair”. And I think this picture is the perfect way to end this long answer.

Good night.

#Sansa Stark #Jon Snow #Sansa x Jon #Jon x Sansa #jonsa #Ygritte #jon and ygritte #jon and arya #jon and val #jon and alys

163 notes · View notes

bookcoversalt · 4 years

Note

Have you noticed the latest edition of Charlie Bowater can only draw one (1) face? She did The Princess Will Save You and Cast In Firelight both YA Fantasy set to be released this year. And they are how you say... the same fucking cover

Ah yes so you saw the same tweet I did

I know I literally just posted that we cannot outlaw book covers from looking like each other, but ! Oof!

The only thing that softens the blow here is that Charlie has improved at representing nonwhite features such that characters look like POC rather than tan white people, although,, that bar was low. Anybody remember the ACOTAR coloring book.

(Would you have guessed that 2/3 of these people are nonwhite? Or even that they’re supposed to be three different men? I guess all the men in Prythian have the same haircut?)

But that minor victory is mostly lost in the quagmires of the fact that Charlie’s style is to give everyone instagram face:

I wouldn’t even call this “Sameface” necessarily: that implies limitation, that an artist is only capable of drawing a single facial structure competently. Bowater is incredibly technically talented, she just chooses to give everyone catlike fae eyes and the cheekbones of a starving nymph. (My previous post on this here.)

But I don’t really blame her for that, or for these hilariously identical, nearly devoid of personality covers. Artists are allowed to do whatever they want. Artists who make art for covers are being art directed by designers and marketing teams who bear responsibility for how the finished pieces turn out.

No, this is our fault, as a community and an industry and..... society, kind of, for valuing character portraits that are “pretty” (“pretty” being an extremely loaded, culturally subjective concept) over art that actually Says Something About The Story. Bowater’s style happens to dovetail perfectly with what we currently collectively find pretty, and so we’ve put her art on a pedestal at the cost of everything else art can or should do for our stories.

And this is understandable: in contemporary western culture, pretty is a value unto itself. Seeing our characters portrayed as pretty denotes them as special, as smart, as powerful. It’s almost impossible to de-program ourselves from that reaction. There are approximately five kajillion studies on how beautiful people are at personal and professional advantages; how they’re perceived to be happier, healthier, more successful, and how those perceptions can translate into realities. (Nevermind how thinness and whiteness enter that equation, see above note about “pretty”.) I would love to see more “average” or weird- looking characters abound (and be accurately visually represented) in the YA/ Genre lit sphere, but for now... everyone is pretty.

Which sometimes means everyone is pretty boring.

But that’s just the specific, "What’s the deal with Bowater’s success in book circles and her style and all the sameiness” part of this equation. What if we backed up and asked: why character art at all? Beyond a question of “pretty”-ness (and general obvious Artistic Quality), why do we gravitate towards it, what's the purpose of it, how does it fall flat in a general sense, and how can it be utilized more effectively?

This is something I think about all the time. I follow writers on social media (because..... I am a writer on social media, regrettably), and we have an enormous collective boner for character art. “Getting fanart [of the characters]” is one of the achievement pinnacles constantly cited when people get or want to get published. Commissioning character art is something we reward ourselves with, or save up for (WHICH IS GOOD AND CORRECT. FREE ART IS GREAT BUT DO NOT SOLICIT IT. PAY YOUR ARTISTS). And like???? Same????? We love our stories because we’re invested in our characters. Most humans, even prose writers, are visual creatures to some extent, and no matter how happy we are with our text-based art, it’s exciting to see our creations exist in that form. So we turn that art into promo material and we advocate for it on our covers-- because it’s so meaningful to us! It goes with the story perfectly!! Look at my dumb beautiful children!!!!!

But on an emotional level, it’s hard to grasp that it only means something to us. Particularly when you take into account the aforementioned vast landscape of beautiful visual blandness of many characters (in the YA/ genre lit sphere, that’s pretty much all I’m ever talking about), character art can be like baby photos. If you know the baby, if that baby is your new niece or your friend’s kid, if you’ve held them and their parent texts you updates when they do cute shit, you’re probably excited to see that baby photo. But unless it’s exceptionally cute, a random stranger’s baby photo isn’t likely to invoke an emotional reaction other than “this is why I don’t get on facebook.”

Seeing art of characters they don’t know might intrigue a reader, but especially if the characters or art are unremarkable-looking, it’s doing a hell of a lot more for the people who already have an emotional attachment to that character than anybody else. And that’s fine. Art for a small, invested audience is incredibly rewarding. But like the parent who cannot see why you don’t think their baby is THE MOST BEAUTIFUL BABY IN THE WORLD???? I think we have trouble divesting our emotional reaction to character art from its actual marketing value, which.... is often pretty minimal. This is my hill to die on #143:

Character portraits, even beautiful ones, are meaningless as a marketing tool without additional context or imagery.

I love character art! I’m not saying it should not exist or that it’s worthless! Even art that appeals to only the one single person who made it has value and the right to exist. And part of this conversation is how important for POC to see themselves on covers, whether illustrations or stock imagery, particularly in YA/kidlit. I’m not saying character portrait covers are “bad”.

I am saying that I have seen dozens and dozens of sets of character art for characters who look interchangeable, and it has never driven me to preorder a book. (Also one character portrait for a high-profile 2019 debut that was clearly just a painting of Amanda Seyfriend. You know the one. There’s nothing wrong with faceclaims but lmfao, girl,,,,)

I’m sure that’s not true for everyone! I am incredibly picky about art. It’s my job. There’s nothing wrong with your card deck of cell-shaded boys of ambiguous age and ethnicity who all have the same button nose and smirk if it Sparks Joy for you.

But if your goal is not only to delight yourself, but to sell books, it’s in your best interest to remember that art, like writing, is a form of communication. The publishing industry runs on pitches: querys, blurbs, proposals, self-promo tweets. What if we applied that logic to our visuals? How can we utilize our character design and art to communicate as much about our stories as possible, in the most enticing way?

Social media has already driven the embrace of this concept in a very general sense. Authors are now supposed to have ~ aesthetics. “Picspams” or graphics, modular collages that function as mini moodboards, are commonplace. But the labor intensity and relative scarcity of character art visible in bookish circles, even on covers, means that application of marketing sensibility to it is less intuitive than throwing together a pinterest board.

Since we were talking about it earlier, WICKED SAINTS, as a case study of a recent “successful” fantasy YA debut, arguably owed a lot of its early social media momentum to fanart.

(Early fanart by @warickaart)

The most frequently drawn character, Malachiasz, has long hair, claws, and distinctive face tattoos. WS has a strong aesthetic in general, but those features clearly marked his fanart as him in a way even someone unfamiliar with the book could clearly track across different styles. Different interpretations of his tattoos from different artists even became a point of interest.

(Art by Jaria Rambaran, also super early days of WS Being A Thing)

Aside from distinctiveness, it's a clear visual representation of his history as a cult member, his monstrous powers, and the story’s dark, medieval tone. The above image is also a great example of character interaction, something missing from straightforward portraits, that communicates a dynamic. Character dynamics draw people into stories: enemies-to-lovers, friends-to-lovers, childhood rivals, platonic life partners, love triangles, devoted siblings, exes who still carry the flame-- there’s a reason we codify these into tropes, and integrate that language and shared knowledge into our marketing. For another example in that vein, I really love this art by @MabyMin, commissioned by Gina Chen:

The wrist grip! The fancy outfits! These are two nobles who hate each other and want to bone and I am sold.

In terms of true portraits, the best recent example I can think of is the set @NicoleDeal did for Roshani Chokshi’s GILDED WOLVES (I believe as a preorder incentive of some kind?):

They showcase settings, props, and poses that all communicate the characters’ interests, skills, and personality, as well as the glamorous, elaborate aesthetic of the overall story. Even elements in the gold borders change, alluding to other plot points and symbology.

For painterly accuracy in character portraits on covers, I love SPIN THE DAWN. The heroine looks like a beautiful badass, yes, but the thoughtful, detailed rendering of every element, soft textures, and dynamic, fluid composition form a really cohesive, stunning illustration that presents an intriguing collection of story elements.

The devil isn’t always in the details, though: stark, moody, highly stylized or graphic art with an emphasis on textural contrast and bold color and shape rather than representational accuracy can communicate a lot (emotionally and tonally) while pretty much foregoing realism.

The new Lunar Chronicles covers are actually the best examples I found of this (Trying to stay within the realm of existing bookish art rather than branch into All Art Of Human Figures Forever):

Taking cues from styles more typical of the comics and video game industries. (Games and comics, as visual mediums, are sources of incredible character art and I highly recommend following artists in those industries if you want to See More Cool Art On Your Timeline.)

TL;DR: Character art and design, as a marketing tool (even an incidental one) should be as unique to your story and your characters as possible, and tell us about the story in ways that make us want to read it. I tried to give examples because there are so many ways to do this, and so many different kinds of art, and I could give many more! But I’m bored now. So to circle all the way back:

These are not just bad because they look like each other, although that is embarrassing and illuminating. These are bad covers (although,,,,, PRINCESS is the far worse offender, at least FIRELIGHT suggests a thoughtful cultural analogue) because a desire for Pretty Character Art overrode the basic cover function to tell us about the story. We get no sense of who these people are, what their relationships are, what these books are about beyond the most general genre, or why we might care. The expressions are vague, the characters generic-looking, the compositions uninteresting and the colors failing to be indicative of anything in particular.

They’re somebody else’s baby pictures.

(And yes, that’s the CRUEL PRINCE font on PRINCESS. I better not have to do a roundup post but it’s on thin fucking ice.)

325 notes · View notes

seasonsofeverlark · 3 years

Text

Family Prayer

Author: @mega-aulover

Prompt: Buttercup and Diwali are not things that go together. So even though Katniss dosen't like him much, she and Peeta try to make things easier for Buttercup on that day. [submitted by @everlurked]

Rating: Fluffy G

Author’s Note: This is a story about Diwali and wouldn’t have been possible without @cadsingh77 who spent weeks allowing me to ask all sorts of questions about Diwali and what it means to her. I patterned it on her descriptions. She read it, as well, to make sure there were no cultural faux pas. I apologize if there is anything amiss. Also, I’m remiss if I do not mention @norbertsmom who at the eleventh hour betaed this story. She’s my rock my bestie, and I would be nothing without her.

__________

Peeta glanced at his suit in the closet. His hands shook.

In a few hours he was going to meet the family of the love of his life.

He looked at the phone in his hands. He was lying in bed researching everything Diwali. His girlfriend Katniss had gone over the topic. She explained that just as sunset happens an elaborate puja, a prayer ceremony is done in a temple to begin the holiday. But to most Trinidadians or Trinis, as she called herself, like her family, they said little personal prayers in front of Laxmi, Saraswati and Ganesh and then they would light the diyas, little clay lamps, that they were going to placed in all of the rooms of the house.

Katniss made it all sound so simple. Diwali was a celebration of light. A victory over darkness. A day to wear new clothing, beautiful jewelry, sing, dance, pray, and light diyas. Katniss said any other guests would arrive after the prayers and they would have a ton of food and everyone would eat and hang out, kids would light sparklers, and there would be singing and dancing too.

Curious, Peeta watched every Bollywood movie on Netflix. Movies, however, never really explained everything. He put the phone down. He had to be honest with himself; Katniss’ assurances aside, he was a fish out of water no matter what he did. He was going to meet the most important people in Katniss’s life, her family.

In contrast, his parents were Dan and Cindy from Port Jefferson, Long Island. They owned a bakery near the ferry. They were dull people, they were like the parents of Ian Miller from My Big Fat Greek Wedding. But a lot colder and more dysfunctional, dressed in tans and beiges. Peeta constantly questioned why they would own a bakery that matched the color of bland. They never veered from the menu. Never introduced a new seasonal baked good. Peeta was stuck in that rut until he met Katniss and his entire world changed and color was introduced into his life.

Katniss was the electric jolt that kickstarted his dull heart to life.

The first time he tasted roti, the buttery tasting flat bread he literally cried.

From the pictures that Katniss shared of her family, he could tell they were a riot of awesomeness.

Katniss and her parents hailed from Trinidad and Tobago. Her family moved to Long Island from Germany. Her father was an engineer and physicist. He worked at the superconductor in Germany and then came to Long Island so that he could work on a project at Brookhaven National Laboratory. Her mother worked at Stony Brook University. She ran the nursing department.

Peeta and Katniss both attended Stony Brook University. He was on his way to a yoga class and she was in her Pink boxing class. From the glass covered room Peeta watched her hit the punching bag like Joe Fraser, and he was a goner. Peeta had a thing for strong women. His first middle school girlfriend bossed him and made him carry her books to and from class and he was a sucker for her, but she broke his heart. She told him she was only using him to get to his older brother Ryan. Peeta battled so much darkness in his life and what he needed was to chase the darkness away and to let the light into his heart. But he couldn’t deny he liked strong women.

There was something about a strong alpha woman who knew how to get things done, unlike his mother who was passive aggressive, and banged the pots in the kitchen and slammed refrigerator doors.

He sighed as he worried about tomorrow. He googled Diwali’s greetings and butchered the language as he tried to speak in Hindi.

Peeta sighed heavily.

Katniss’s mother invited him over the phone. She wanted him to come over before the prayers began. It was an honor because he was Katniss’ boyfriend, someone she chose despite her father trying to get her to date the son of a friend of his. Katniss put her figurative foot down and claimed she was dating Peeta. Her father didn’t want to meet him, but he knew of him.

So the pressure was on to be perfect. He didn’t want to say or do the wrong thing, especially in front of her family. His hands shook, this was important. He wanted to make a good impression on Katniss’ family, even if her father didn’t like him or the idea of him. Peeta wanted them to like him because, truth be told, his own family didn’t like him.

Peeta loved his family, but ever since he was little, he knew he didn’t fit into the landscape of his family. He was labeled as the emotional one. He was too irreverent for them. Peeta liked color. He loved to paint. He enjoyed the change in seasons where his family loved one season, summer, because they generated the most money then.

His family liked one or two flavors. Peeta loved all flavors, spicy ones, bold ones, subtle ones. They hated that he was always pushing to change the menu at the bakery. His childhood room was always the one his parents never showed off, because as a teen he painted the walls of his room every shade of orange. Peeta knew they sighed in relief when he decided to stay in the dorms at Stony Brook. His football scholarship allowed him to have that opportunity. He trained hard, studied hard, and loved hard.

“Katniss,” her name escaped his lips like fervent prayer and a wish. He loved her, was consumed by her, and he was so overly happy that she invited him to meet her family for Diwali. And now he had so much pent up energy he couldn’t sleep.

His teammates made fun of him, because he got a goofy lopsided I-got-my-hippopotamus-at-Christmas type grin, whenever Peeta thought of Katniss. He closed his eyes picturing her olive skin, thick straight dark hair braided into a rope, small pert nose, and silvery eyes that were breathtaking. Though it wasn’t her physical parts that made him fall in love. It was the woman who lay beneath the surface.

What made him sit up and take notice of Katniss after he saw her box, and he was out of the yoga room, was that there was a blonde girl at the gym working out. There were these idiots guys making fun of her, calling that poor girl fat, just because she was full figured. Katniss walked straight up to the guys and gave them a scowl full of fire and brimstone, called the girl hot and told her that if she were gay she’d do her in an instant. Then she told the guys that they could jackknife themselves off the roof of the building. Peeta had never seen anything sexier in his life. Katniss was full of fire and she was resplendent more so than the sun.

His phone buzzed drawing him away from his memories as the message came in.

KATNISS: Why are you still up?

Peeta grinned, his phone betrayed him. In some phones a little dot showed up next to the person when they were on their phone. Katniss must have noticed.

PEETA: Stalk much.

KATNISS: LOL

Peeta could see those three little dots moving as she wrote a reply.

For the most part Katniss wasn’t a talker. Unless she was passionate about the topic and then she was a chatterbox.

KATNISS: FUNNY. Seriously, tomorrow is going to be a long day. You need to sleep.

PEETA: Because tomorrow I am going to meet your family.

Peeta could see her rolling her eyes even through the phone.

KATNISS: You don’t have to be nervous.

PEETA: If you tell me all I have to do is be myself, I swear I am going to come dressed as Buddy the Elf.

KATNISS: Dork.

PEETA: Yes, but I’m your dork.

KATNISS: They’re going to love you.

Peeta sighed.

PEETA: This is important. I want to make a good impression. Your family is important to you and given that my family…

Peeta sighed. He’d brought Katniss to the bakery to meet his family because they didn’t have time for him. His father was pleasant. His mother, however, spoke loudly and slowly as if Katniss didn’t speak English. Katniss spoke various languages and was extremely intelligent. Her mother wanted her to be a doctor, but Katniss had a passion for the environment. Her major was environmental studies, with a minor in geology. She was brilliant and he felt like the dumb jock.

KATNISS: Your family is fine, well except for Ryan. Someone needs to examine him.

Peeta chuckled. His brother Rye stared at Katniss as if she was Christmas, Easter, and summer vacation all rolled up into one. He then proceeded to flirt with Katniss, by using every campy movie line known to mankind. In typical Rye fashion because he’d done it before to their other brother Lyle. Unfortunately in that instance the girl in question dumped Lyle to go out with Rye.

He sighed. That was his dysfunctional family. Family gatherings were uncomfortable events. They weren’t exactly nice to one another.

PEETA: I have no excuse for my brother.

Peeta decided to follow his text with a self deprecating joke. A truth, his family thought him the odd one in the family.

PEETA: But Ryan isn’t the bad apple. I’m not sure you know this, but I am the black sheep of the family.

KATNISS: You mean the sexy one.

A grin spread on his face at her compliment.

Katniss’ family was conservative, and by extent, so was Katniss. He respected her boundaries and her values. Family was everything to her and he loved her because of it, Katniss would lay her life on the line for her family.

PEETA: Have I told you today how much I love you.

KATNISS: No, but I do love to hear you say it.

Peeta pressed the little microphone and recorded his voice, which sounded rougher to his ears than normal.

PEETA: (a voice email) I love you Katniss. I love your mind. I love your kindness. I love how you always talk about your sister Prim. I love the way you adore your dad. I love the way you look up to your mother. I think you are the most beautiful soul. And I am nervous because if you are wonderful, then your family has to be just as great.

He meant every word.

They’d been dating for the last few months, but they’d been friends for two years. They weren’t easy years because of their schedules in school and the fact that her father had a mild heart attack right after they met. Peeta put himself in the friend zone because that’s what Katniss needed. He didn’t want her to feel pressure to feel romantic toward him when her dad, the most important man in her life, was ill.

In the end, the bonds of friendship grew to a love so sweet and pure, that it shined out of her silver eyes. The first time she realized the love she held for him was more than friendship left him breathless, like stepping into a world filled with brilliant colors, light and joy.

KATNISS: (a voice email) I love you too.

Her voice was breathy and filled with her heartfelt emotion.

Peeta couldn’t help but sigh contentedly.

KATNISS: Now as for tomorrow, don’t worry. When they see what a great guy you are, they will love you.

Peeta sighed.

KATNISS: NOW GO TO SLEEP, MELLARK!

PEETA: Yes ma’am.

He grinned and would have followed her directions, but instead he stood from his bed and went into his suite kitchen. He needed to bake. It was the only thing he knew that would calm him down. He decided to make chocolate using the vegetarian items he purchased in the store. Come the morning he would make the Laddoos he planned to bring with him. In Hindi they were called Laddu but in Trinidad they were known as Laddoo.

Making the chocolate eased his nerves, so he actually got some sleep. In the morning, he showered and set to work on making the Laddoos. By three o’clock he was done, and all he had to do was wrap up the presents. Taking a red ribbon, he tied each box the way he’d done so many times at the bakery.

His suitemates were gone. No doubt causing trouble somewhere on campus, which gave Peeta the time he needed to get ready. He took out his new suit. Even though Katniss told him he could wear a nice pair of slacks and shirt, Peeta bought a suit that was on sale for the special occasion.

Taking a deep breath he took the small presents he had for her family. They weren’t necessary, but he wanted to make a good impression. He gathered up the Laddoos, the chocolate, the flowers - marigolds he sourced at the local home depot, and the paintings he made of her family made from the memory of the pictures she’d shown him.

He drove, heading to the Everdeen home in Mount Sinai. The cottage-like house looked like something out of a movie or TV show: warm, inviting, like a real home, one filled with love, and not pretend.

As he walked up, he could hear laughter, genuine laughter, followed by singing and joy. Running a hand through his blond wavy locks he took a deep breath. “Okay Mellark, just be yourself,” he whispered, as he stood in front of the door.

He raised his hand to knock on the door and his breath caught at the man standing there looking more like a navy seal instead of a physicist. This was Katniss’ dad. His chrome eyes were hard and they took him apart, much the way a defensive end could read a play and pick it apart while holding their defense line.

“Happy Diwali.” Peeta tried to say confidently but his voice cracked. He could feel himself sweating.

Her father raised an eyebrow. “You are Peeta Mellark.”

Peeta nodded.

“Rahul!” A statuesque woman with blonde hair and pale blue eyes swatted Katniss’ father’s arm. He watched her sneak around him, dressed in a traditional red sari with gold thread. “Please behave.” Mrs. Everdeen quietly gave her husband a look. Her golden bangles clinked as she placed her hand dramatically on her hip. Peeta was glad Katniss had gone over the different fashions. He studied each one because he would do anything for Katniss.

Peeta watched as her father’s hard analytical eyes softened the moment he beheld Katniss’ mother. Peeta could see how Katniss’ parents were a unit of one. They were in love and either one would fight the shadows and all of the evil in the world for their other half. “Anjali.”

“I am Katniss’ mother, this is her father,” her pale eyes sparkled. “Please come in, we were waiting for your arrival. Come in,” she ushered him.

The home was two stories, to the left a halfway with rooms, to the right a living room, dining area, and a den to the far back. The house was decorated with warm rich colors, but everything was tied around the family, as pictures dotted the walls. There were lights everywhere hanging from the walls, the clay diya’s sat on the mantel. Peeta stood in front of a picture of Katniss on her father’s shoulders, her twin braids flowing, her eyes crinkled in pure happiness.

“Ohhhh you’re cute,” a younger, but deeper voice than Katniss’ said with impish mischief.

Primrose took after Katniss’ mother, with the flaxen hair and the pale blue eyes. Katniss explained that her mother was of British descent, while her father’s family, although sporting a European name, was from India. His great-grandparents came to Trinidad, fell in love with the island and stayed.

Her mother walked away from her very wealthy family back in Trinidad to marry Katniss’ father. It was a little like they were the original Romeo and Julliet.

His parents got together because his dad knocked up his mom.

“Primrose!” Mrs. Everdeen admonished.

“What,” Prim said. Her pale blue eyes were inquisitive as she walked around him. The way Katniss talked about her sister, Peeta had expected a little kid, but Prim was as tall as he was. Her loose pajama-like trousers that narrowed at her ankles, called shalwar, swooshed around as she made her round. Her red kameez, a flowing tunic with intricate gold patterns reminded Peeta of the pattern Mrs. Everdeen wore on her sari.

Prim was everything Katniss was not. She was a bold bright bubbly girl, who at this moment was making sure he was the real deal and not some mindless jerk. He stood, letting her because it was important that her family liked him. He wanted to be accepted. He felt his face flame up under the scrutiny.

“I understand why my boring sister is constantly sighing.”

Peeta grinned, then he said, “Oh these are for you.” He gave them the presents. The flowers, the chocolate, and the sweetened chickpea Laddoos he made by hand for them.

“Oh these are fragrant, where did you purchase them?”

“He made them.” The soft voice that came behind him made his heart rate triple.

Peeta turned around and there stood Katniss wearing an emerald green lenghas. She had explained what it looked like, but at this moment, his brain that was always filled with words was momentarily empty, vanquished by her beauty. He swallowed, mouth slightly ajar. His eyes darted from the perfection of her face with those silvery eyes that captivated him, and the peek of dark hair that was hidden by the sari.

Katniss held a shiny brass plate, she called a Tarrier, but in Hindi it was known as a Thali, containing coconut, almonds, and other sweets. Katniss told him the plate belonged to her great-grandmother Veronica. When her mother married her father, her great-grandmother gave it to her insisting it should go to her first born. He swore for a second he could see a miniature Katniss with his eyes staring up at him and holding the Tarrier.

“He made them?” Primrose asked, Peeta could hear the intense curiosity in her sister’s voice.

“His family are bakers, and Peeta is an amazing cook.”

“Really,” her father said, and his voice, the way he said that one word snapped Peeta out of his hazy fog.

“Ah,” he nervously said. “I made her cheese buns,” Peeta felt the heat rising from his neck and caused those red splotches that his brothers made fun of.

“Cheese buns,” her father repeated.

“When you were in the hospital, daddy,” her eyes did not hide the pain of recalling those days. “Peeta noticed I wasn’t eating and cajoled me into eating cheese buns,” Katniss words were so soft. “He was the friend I leaned on for support when…” her voice trailed.

Peeta watched her father’s face take a look of adoring tenderness at his eldest, and when his eyes turned to Peeta they weren’t as frosty as they had been.

“He even took me to temple to pray,” Katniss whispered.

“In Selden?”

“Yes, daddy,” Katniss quietly said.

“Rahul,” Katniss’ mother chided. She cupped his cheeks, “Such a nice young man. Did you make the chocolate as well?”

Peeta nodded, his eyes went back to her father. He couldn’t mess this up.

Her mother smiled serenely, then her eyes lit with happiness as if she made a startling connection. “Oh! Pundit Sharma was right; they were destined in the stars.”

“Star crossed lovers just like you and mom,” Prim said.

Her father cut his eyes away.

“Oh my, these chocolates….” Prim moaned.

“Primrose!” Her mother admonished.

“What, he said they were for us,” Prim shrugged, plopping a chocolate in her mouth. “I’d say he’s golden. So what does a cheese bun taste like?”

“Primrose, really, must you think only of your stomach?” Katniss shook her head.

“Girls,” their father said in a stern tone of voice. “It’s near sunset. Upstairs with the lot of you. I swear corralling a dozen baby ducks would be easier.”

The women headed upstairs. Peeta wasn’t sure, but her father swept a hand for him to follow him upstairs.

Peeta wasn’t sure what he was expecting, hopefully like something out of Khabi Kushi Khabi Gham. They had a small altar where he watched all of the women present the offerings and began to bow their heads. He stood behind quietly observing, but when Katniss began to pray it was like a song and her words that he didn’t understand wrapped around his heart and his lashes fluttered closed and a single tear fell down his face. Song after song her voice combined with that of her father, her mother and sister caused him to realize just how much he wanted to be part of this family, to be loved and accepted.

He too prayed for a family to want him, to be needed.

Peeta was so wrapped up in the moment when it was over he opened his eyes to find her mother standing before him with trembling lips, and watery blue eyes.

“Bend down son,” her father said with warmth in his voice. “She’s going to honor you by putting the sindoor on your forehead.” He pointed to his forehead, though his eyes had completely lost the frost. They were filled with admiration and the same warmth he had in his voice. Her father looked at Katniss and nodded as if giving her his blessings.

Unsure if what he had just seen was real, his eyes went to Katniss, but Prim said, “Go ahead Peeta, my father has just fallen for you too.” Her voice squeaked with that enthusiasm only a teenager could have. She wiped the tears from her face as well.

Peeta bent down slightly. Mrs. Everdeen’s hand slipped to the Tarrier and with her ring finger she pressed it into the red dust Katniss’ father called sindoor.

The press of her finger was light. “When my daughter marries you. You will sprinkle this sindor over the part in her hair to symbolize her marriage to you.”

Peeta’s eyes flew to her father who nodded. “Welcome to the family son.” He clasped his back and said. “Now let’s go eat. I’m starving.”

Peeta couldn’t help but grin. He gazed at Katniss who came to him, her smile shy. He was going to follow them, but katniss put her hand on his, then stepped up and placed a small peck on his cheek. Then winked sassily. “I told you they would love you.”

And like that, his prayers were answered; he now had a family.

Years later, when he stood in the same position watching his little girl singing the puja, holding the brass tarrier, alongside Katniss. Just as in that memory from years ago he listened to Katniss voice blend with their daughter. Their voices blended in with his father-in-law Rahul, Primrose and her soon to be fiancé. Peeta was grateful that his prayers were answered, the darkness was swept away and light filled his soul. And he was granted the family he always wanted.

#everlark #everlark fanfiction #autumn #autumn 2020 #mega-aulover #submission #prompt

64 notes · View notes

here4theheartbreak · 3 years

Text

Silent Night, Scales & Fights

✩ AO3 Link Here!

✩ Relationships: jinmin (Jimin x Jin)

✩ Genre/Universe: smut, angst

✩ Rating: Explicit

✩ Tags: smut, angst, child abuse, physical abuse, assault, homophobia, violence, blood, implied minor character death, family drama, spousal abuse, Naga!Jin, tentacle monster!Jin, soulmate au, double penetration, belly bulge, come inflation, toys, subdrop, subspace, blood, tentacles,bottom!Jimin, top!Jin, bottom Jimin

✩ Summary: Jimin decides that Christmas is the perfect time for his family to meet his soulmate. The only problem? His abusive father.

✩ Word Count: ~10.2k

✩ A/N: IThis fic fills the square Pumpkin Pie for @btsholidaybingo. This fic is a sequel to Shared Souls & Snake Scales, published earlier in 2020. You may want to read that one first; there are some small things that are important to know in that one.

“We really don’t need to do this,” Jimin said for the fifth time as they drove along the snow dusted street.

“You’re my soulmate, Minie,” Jin said patiently. He reached over and set his hand on Jimin’s thigh. “I want to do this. I want to know your family.”

Jimin shifted in the seat, sighing. He and Jin had been together for nearly a year, and Jimin had done his best to keep Jin away from his family. Not that he was ashamed of Jin – on the contrary, they were soulmates, and Jin’s magical nature was easily hidden.

“I haven’t been entirely honest with you about them, Jin.”

“Do they not know you’re gay?”

“They know, unfortunately,” Jimin said. “My mom’s not too bad. She tries to be supportive. But my dad…”

“He doesn’t approve. Will me being there cause problems? I can stay back.”

“No, I think you not showing up would cause more problems,” Jimin admitted. “I already prepared them, told them I found my soulmate, that you were a boy.”

“Will they ask to see your tattoo?”

“Maybe. We’ll just go with the same story we tell everyone else, you’re weird and love sea creatures of a tentacled variety.”

“They are cute,” Jin defended. Jimin laughed, glancing over at him.

“They are.”

“You still seem tense. Tell me about your father.”

“It’s not a pleasant history,” Jimin said. From the corner of his eye he saw Jin shift, the smile drooping off his handsome face.

“Did he hurt you, Jimin?”

Jimin bit the inside of his lip. “He didn’t like that I like boys. Doesn’t – But he doesn’t try to change me anymore.”

“Change you?”

Jimin looked over at a stoplight. “Physically.”

“Jimin, he didn’t—Touch you—”

“No, no—Not like that,” Jimin corrected. “He was pretty good friends with a belt back then. And the Bible. Those things hurt when they’re hurled at your head,” Jimin chuckled. “A lot of verbal damage. It wasn’t a pleasant time at home for a while after I came out.”

“How long did it last?” Jin’s voice was soft.

“I realized I liked boys when I was about fourteen… I came out right away because I was scared and confused and didn’t know if I was broken. My dad pretty much confirmed I was.”

“You’re not broken, Minie.” Jin reached over and set his hand on Jimin’s on the wheel. “You aren’t.”

“I know that now. I’ve had years to reason with myself and get used to it. My dad… He doesn’t do that anymore.”

“So he’s accepted it?” “I wouldn’t go that far. But I don’t get books thrown at my head, so…” Jimin shrugged. “I’m telling you this because I know things might be tense at the table, especially if Dad starts asking you things or coming at you. I want you to know where he’s coming from, so you don’t feel badly. He’s just not a friend of… Our kind of people.”

“I won’t let him hurt you again, Jimin. I swear on my life that I won’t,” Jin said with enough sharpness that Jimin looked over, surprised to see a shimmer of his scales across his nose.

“Breathe,” Jimin said quickly.

They’d learned over the months together that – while Jin could usually easily hide his true form, strong emotions – especially those related to the monster in him like anger and fear – tended to bring it out, like a slipping mask. Jimin could usually calm him, thankfully, but it was a concern.

Jin took a deep breath, his face returning to normal. He nodded and closed his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Jimin parked and leaned over, pulling Jin into a deep kiss. “I’m so happy to have someone that loves me enough to get angry for me. I love you.”

“I love you, Jimin,” Jin whispered against his lips. He got out of the car and Jimin followed, stopping at the trunk to grab the gifts they’d brought for Jimin’s family.

They stood at the doorstep for a moment.

“You ready?” Jimin asked.

“I should be asking you that.”

“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Then I am too. Just…” Jin closed the gap between them and pressed a deep kiss to Jimin’s mouth, cupping his cheek as he did.

The door creaked open suddenly, and Jimin jumped back gasping. He smiled sheepishly at his father, who stood in the doorway, large and imposing.

“Get inside before the neighbors see that,” he hissed, grabbing Jimin’s shoulder and yanking him in.

Jin followed close after, his mouth set in a fine line.

“Sorry, Dad,” Jimin whispered. He bowed to his father politely. “Uh… This is my soulmate, Kim Seokjin. Jin, this is my father, Park Sungmin.”

Jin bowed politely, offering a broad smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

Sungmin’s eyes narrowed. He looked Jin up and down. He grunted softly and turned, walking into the sitting room. Jimin looked down, embarrassment coloring his cheeks a bright pink. Jin touched his neck, thumb soothing over the soulmate tattoo hidden by his turtleneck.

“Are you okay?” He whispered.

“Yeah,” Jimin looked up, offering a smile he hoped was convincing. “Come on, my mother is probably in the kitchen.” He grabbed Jin’s hand and led him through the sitting room, not missing the glare his father gave at their connected hands.

“Mom?” Jimin said when he was in the doorway of the kitchen. The food smelled delightful, and his mother was hard at work in the kitchen with his grandmother. She turned when he said her name, grinning. “Jiminie,” she cooed, rushing up and giving him a hug. Jimin’s smile faded as she approached. He hugged back tightly, then pushed her back gently, touching her cheek lightly. Even in the soft lighting, he could see a dark bruise over her cheekbone, covered as well as she could with makeup. She winced.

“Mom… How did this happen?”

“You know how clumsy I am. Is it not covered well, I can fix it in a moment. How have you been?”

Jimin pouted a little. She was lying, and he knew it, but causing a fuss would do no good. “I’ve been good. Getting good grades, being social, just like you want. Mom, this is my soulmate. This is Kim Seokjin.” He stepped aside, allowing Jin to step forward. “This is my mother, Park Jiwoong.”

He tilted his head a little at her before offering a huge smile and bowing low.

“I’m honored to meet you, ma’am. I see now where Minie got his beautiful features.”

Jimin smiled shyly. Jiwoong laughed a little.

“Flattery will get you nowhere in this house, Kim Seokjin… Except maybe here.” She reached over and grabbed a small piece of dessert bread, passing it to Jin. He grinned broadly, taking it with both hands.

“Thank you, I’m honored to be accepted into your home this holiday season.”

“Well, any friend of Jimin’s is welcome here… Especially a soulmate. I hope you’ll forgive me, I’ve had a long time to accept Jimin’s… Nature. But it is a bit startling, seeing the person he’ll be with forever.”

“That I’m a man?” Jin asked softly. She nodded. Jin nodded as well. “In our culture, our world, I can understand the difficulty. But Jimin and I share a soul, he’s a part of me. Regardless of our sex or gender – I would never let anyone hurt him. I support him and honor him in the same way that a girlfriend or wife would, and I am wholly devoted to him and his happiness. I hope that someday you’ll grow to see me easily as his partner.”

Jiwoong smiled gently, reaching out and touching Jin’s wrist. “Your honesty is refreshing. You seem like a very good man, especially for my Jiminie. If you’ll excuse me, I have to go touch up my makeup.” She slid past the two and disappeared down the hallway.

“This the boyfriend?” Jimin’s grandmother croaked. He grinned and rushed up to hug her.

“It is. How have you been, gramma? How’s your arthritis?”

“I’m fit as a fiddle and don’t you forget it.” She poked Jimin’s nose gently with her forefinger before looking at Jin. “That was a fine speech you gave my daughter, boy. I hope it’s true. Minie is my only grandchild and I don’t care that you’re strapping and young, I’ll still bend you over my knee and whoop you if I hear you made my boy cry.”

Jin’s smile was blinding. He laughed and nodded. “I expect nothing less, ma’am.”

Jimin smiled softly. He reached around his grandmother, grabbing a slice of fruit. She smacked his knuckles lightly with her spoon.

“You wait until dinner.”

Jimin pouted. “I’ve been waiting all day, Gramma. Your cooking is the best part of the holidays.”

She smiled and shook her head. “You’re insufferable, boy.”

“I know.” Jimin popped the slice of melon in his mouth. His smile faded as he chewed. “Gramma… Mom—Is Dad…”

She frowned and nodded. “You know he is.”

“Did it pick up again? Has he been drinking?”

She shook her head. “No more than usual. I think the news…” She glanced over at Jin. “Well… He’s not been too happy. Your Mom loves you. She supports you.”

Jimin nodded, his heart sinking. “Thank you, Gramma. Can we help in the kitchen? Jin’s a great cook.”

“Thank you, but no. You boys go relax. Show him the house. No frisky business before dinner.” She shook her finger playfully and Jimin laughed.

“Never.” He turned to Jin. “Come on, I’ll show you where I grew up. Make sure there’s no monsters in my closet,” he joked. Jin grinned at that.

“Oh, just one second,” Jimin held up a finger and headed down the hall into the sitting room. He put the gifts they’d brought under the small tree with a pile of others, glancing at his father.

“Yes?” He asked when he saw him staring.

“Nothing.”

“Yes, there is, I know that look.” Jimin rose and looked directly at him. “Say what you need to say.”

“Don’t be snappy with me, Jimin.”

“I’m not. I’m being direct. You’ve been glaring since we arrived. Am I not welcome here?”

“You are.” Sungmin turned and looked back to the television.

“Is Jin welcome here?”

“He’s not my family.”

“He’s my soulmate. My partner. The man I’m going to spend the rest of my life with.”

Sungmin snorted. He sipped his beer. “Unnatural.”

“We have a mark,” Jimin pressed. “It’s not unnatural. It’s our souls.”

“That’s all bullshit anyway.”

“Not for me, Dad. Seokjin treats me right. He loves me. Isn’t that what should matter to you?”

“No, what matters to me is the shame you bring the family being a faggot.”

Jimin closed his eyes, sighing. “Well you don’t need to take it out on Mom. It’s not her fault.”

“Well it’s not mine!”

“It’s nobody’s fault, Dad. It’s just how I am. So if you have to take it out on someone it should be me, not her.”

“She’s my wife,” Sungmin growled.

“That doesn’t mean she deserves your abuse.”

Sungmin rose, stepping up to Jimin. He was tall enough that Jimin had to look up a little at him, something he’d always hated.

“Don’t you dare.”

Jimin set his jaw. “Get out of my face, please.”

“Or what? You’ll sic your dirty soulmate on me?” He snarled.

“Jin isn’t a part of this. Dad, please. It’s Christmas. Don’t do this.”

“You’re the one that brought this on. We’d be fine if you weren’t a freak.”

Jimin lowered his gaze, nodding. “I know. That’s why I’m asking you to please… If you have to hurt someone, do it to me, not Mom.”

The strike wasn’t entirely unexpected, but still stung. It was open handed, leaving a burn on Jimin’s cheek as his head snapped to the side. Involuntary tears welled in his eyes. “I’m going to walk away now,” Jimin whispered.

“I wish you’d walk off a cliff. You brought so much horror to this family,” Sungmin snarled.

“I know, Dad.” Jimin bowed and slipped past his father, hurrying back toward the kitchen.

Jin was leaning on the counter, laughing with Jimin’s grandmother when he entered. Jimin’s mood immediately lifted, seeing the two get along so well. Jin glanced over, and his smile dropped immediately. He rushed up to Jimin and tilted his chin up, examining where Jimin was struck, likely a vibrant red if the warmth in that spot was any indicator. Jin’s eyes glinted a dangerous purple, his lips peeling back.

“No,” Jimin whispered.

“He hit you didn’t he?” Jin hissed. Jimin nodded.

“It was my fault. I got in his face. Told him to stop hitting Mom. I’m okay.”

“You aren’t,” came a soft voice behind him. Jiwoong entered and hugged Jimin gently. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“He hit you.”

“He has for a while, baby. It just increased a little after…” She glanced at Jin and shrugged, looking back at Jimin. “I have a secret, okay? I was going to wait until after the holidays to tell you… I’m getting a divorce and moving back to Busan. I know it’ll be farther from you, and I’m sorry for that, but I need to leave. I need to leave so you and I can both be safe.”

“Are you sure, Mom?”

She nodded. “I haven’t loved him for a long time. The only good he ever did was giving me you.” She stroked Jimin’s cheek. “Promise not to say anything?”

“Never. If you need anything – a place to stay or anything, please tell me. Jin and I will do whatever we can.”

Jin nodded. “Of course. You and your mother,” he motioned to Jimin’s grandmother. “You both have our full support.”

Jiwoong smiled and squeezed Jin’s shoulder. “You seem like a good boy for Jimin. Make sure he doesn’t do silly things like this anymore.” She brushed the red mark on Jimin’s cheek.

“I’ll do my best.”

She pressed a kiss to Jimin’s forehead. “Now, go relax before dinner, okay? It’ll be done soon. Are you two staying over?”

“We’d planned to, as long as we’re welcome.”

“We have a spare room set up for you, Jin. I know you likely sleep together but with his father…”

“No, I entirely understand,” Jin said, nodding. “One night apart won’t be total agony.” He brushed Jimin’s hair back, and Jimin grinned, that all too familiar tingling flutter starting from his soulmate mark and rippling down his spine.

“Come on, let me show you around,” Jimin said, taking Jin’s hand tightly. He pulled him out of the room and down the hall, moving fast past the sitting room and up the stairs.

Once at the top, he slowed down. “Here’s my room,” he said, pushing at a half closed door. It was the same way it had been when he still lived there, decorated with musical stars and dancers, painted a soft blue and purple. The bed was large and comfy, and Jimin knew his mother likely had just washed and fluffed the pillows. He pulled Jin in and shut the door, kissing him hard.

Jin gasped, pulling back. “What’s gotten into you?”

“I don’t know,” Jimin admitted. “I just… Need you.”

“You heard your gramma, no funny stuff before dinner,” Jin teased, thumbing Jimin’s nose playfully. Jimin laughed.

“Of course not. Just… Kiss me until I—” Jimin smiled. “Just hold me.”

Jin shut the door and wrapped his arms tightly around Jimin. Jimin’s eyes slipped shut. By now, he could almost sense the change as if it were his own body, the quiet shift and creak of Jin’s bones, the raspy, whispering rustle as his scales shifted into place, the feeling of both cool and warm as Jin’s torso wrapped completely around Jimin, encasing him in the smooth oil slick of his snake form. Jimin let himself relax into the coil, listening to Jin’s strong heartbeat. Jin coiled as tight as he dared to, a safety blanket for Jimin when he was having a rough day.

He looked up at Jin, smiling softly. “Thank you.”

“Baby,” Jin cooed. One of his tentacles darted out, sliding over Jimin’s cheekbone like the caress of a lover. Jimin giggled a little, reaching up and grabbing it. He squeezed gently, letting the suckers move up his arm and around him, a third appendage to hold him in a hug.

“Why did you confront him, Minie?” Jin asked softly.

“He’s hitting Mom. I can’t let that slide.”

“And him hitting you is better?”

“Than my Mom? Yeah.”

“No. Both are wrong. Neither of you deserve it.”

“I know. But she’s getting away from him and I—I have you now.”

“I’ll always keep you safe, Jimin. No matter what needs to be done.”

“I know.” Jimin kissed Jin’s mouth gently. He let himself relax further, resting his head on the uppermost coil of Jin’s tail. His legs sagged, knowing Jin would easily hold him up.

The two stayed like that for quite some time, until the turmoil of emotions in Jimin’s mind soothed. Jin remained there completely, kissing over his cheek and neck and shoulder, hands and tentacles touching everywhere they could reach in an effort to soothe Jimin in every way possible.

“I’m okay,” Jimin finally whispered.

“I know you are.”

“You can change back.”

Jin nodded. He shifted once more, scooping Jimin back into his arms when his feet were under him. He kissed him again. “I love you, Minie.”

“I love you too, Jin. Come on, I’ll show you the rest of the house.”

Jin nodded. Jimin opened the door, gasping when he saw his father almost directly next to it. Jin immediately stepped up, ready to move between them if he needed to.

“Why was this door shut?”

“No reason,” Jimin said simply. “I was showing him the posters on the back of it. Mom hasn’t taken them down after all these years.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Well, it’s the truth. That and we hugged. Nothing funny. Gramma said not to, so I won’t.”

“Oh, she did, huh? You’ll respect her but not the one that owns this house? The one that raised you? I—” Jimin saw his hand forming a fist.

“We’re going now. I want to show Jin the rest of the house.”

“I’m not finished talking to you.”

“Nothing happened, Dad. And nothing will. Please.”

His father glared daggers at him, saying nothing. After a pregnant pause, he stepped out of the way, allowing Jimin and Jin to pass.

Jimin took Jin through the rest of the house, showing him different areas and telling stories of being a child. Every chance they got, Jimin touched, hugged, or kissed Jin as a silent, simple protest against his father. He was so tired of it - of the abuse, of the fear. It was only tolerable this day because he knew his mom was leaving the monster; and because he had Jin to keep him grounded.

They were going through some of Jimin’s old yearbooks up in the attic when his mother called them for dinner. They hurried down, taking their seats side by side at the table. Jimin could feel his father glaring at the both of them.

Jimin rose, helping his mother finish bringing out the food before sitting back down. He heard his father scoff, but ignored it, instead opting to direct his dinner conversation toward his mother; what she’d been doing over the past month, how some of her friends were, etcetera.

It was about halfway through dinner when Sungmin set his utensils down with a clank. “I can’t. Who are you? What makes you think you’re welcome at this table?” His tone was sharp; gaze on Jin.

Jin swallowed the bite he’d been chewing and politely wiped his mouth before setting his own utensils down. He laced his fingers together over his plate and offered a smile that – on the front of it – looked quite polite. Jimin could easily see through it though; Jin was seething.

“You seem to have questions about me. Or perhaps about my relationship with your son. I understand this is new and uncomfortable. But I welcome you with nothing but openness to ask what you need to ask so that you can be more comfortable with my presence.”

Sungmin glared. “Don’t you take that condescending tone with me, faggot.”

Jin blinked, clearly surprised by the slur.

“Sungmin—” Jiwoong whispered.

“No! I don’t understand how you can sit there like this is normal. Like we don’t have freaks at our table.”

“You have your son and his soulmate at the table, Sungmin,” Jimin’s grandmother said. “You recognize the importance of sharing a soul, don’t you?”

“Yeah, right, sure. How do we even know they’re really soulmates?” His tone was mocking, sending a pang of pain through Jimin’s heart. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it was a lie. Isn’t there some bullshit about tattoos appearing? I see no tattoos.”

“It’s on our backs,” Jimin whispered.

“Likely story.”

Jin cleared his throat. He looked to Jiwoong. “I apologize for asking, but would it be alright if I showed….”

“Yes, of course,” she said.

Jin rose and turned to face the wall, his back to Sungmin. He unbuttoned his shirt halfway, letting it fall from his shoulders just enough to expose his upper back, and the beautiful tattoo imprinted along it. He remained still for a few moments before pulling his shirt back up and rebuttoning it.

“It’s so pretty,” Jiwoong said. “Yours matches, Minie?”

“Yep, it’s the opposite but the same.” Jimin rose and repeated Jin’s actions, turning away from the table and lifting his sweater up until his tattoo was visible.

“Are those tentacles?” Jiwoong asked.

“Mhm, Jin loves sea creatures.” Jimin smiled proudly as he dropped his sweater and turned back around. He sat down and looked at his father. “We have our marks. It’s not a lie. It’s meant to be, simple as that.”

“It’s disturbing. Mark or not. It’s unnatural.”

“Now is not the time, Sungmin,” Jiwoong said firmly.

“You don’t tell me if it is the time or not. This is my house and my table.”

Jimin’s heart sank. He shook his head and rose. “This was a mistake.”

“Jimin,” Jiwoong whispered.

“We shouldn’t have come. We can go.”

“No, you shouldn’t go,” Jiwoong said, glaring when Sungmin huffed. “You’re my son, and you found your soulmate. I’m honored to have you both at my table.” She rose and scooped Jimin into a hug. “Don’t go.”

“Mom… I don’t want to cause trouble for you.”

“Oh, quit bellyaching like this is some horrible house,” Sungmin growled. “Sit your ungrateful ass down and eat the dinner your mother and grandmother have been slaving away to prepare.”

Jimin looked at his mom, who smiled softly and nodded. He took a seat again. Jin reached over under the table, catching his hand and squeezing it firmly, a warm comfort to Jimin. He relaxed a little at Jin’s touch and picked his drink up, sipping it.

The tension at the table was thick and heavy. Despite his insistence on Jimin and Jin remaining, Sungmin continued to glower at them silently throughout dinner. Jiwoong and Jimin’s grandmother did their best to lighten things, asking about Jin’s life and how the two met.

Dinner shifted into dessert, and Sungmin rose from the table without any, citing being sick to his stomach. Jimin knew the reality behind that phrase; the sickness was likely nothing to do with the food and everything to do with him, but tried not to let it bother him. Instead he focused on the people that truly cared about him.

“Well, one less plate to wash after dessert then,” Jimin’s grandmother said. She clapped her hands together. “Jin, you help me get desserts.”

Jin nodded eagerly. He rose and leaned over, pressing a kiss to Jimin’s cheek before heading into the kitchen.

Jiwoong reached over the table and grabbed Jimin’s hand. “I really like him, Jimin.”

Tears welled in Jimin’s eyes. “Really?” He whispered.

She frowned a little. “Why are you crying, baby?”

Jimin laughed a little, coughing back his tears. “This past year with Jin’s been the happiest of my life so far. I wanted nothing more than to share it with you guys. But I was so afraid. I knew Dad and… I knew it was weird for you. I don’t know that you can realize how much that means to me. You just liking him.”

Jiwoong smiled softly. “Come here.” Jimin rose and sank to his knees next to her chair, wrapping his arms around her middle. He buried his face in her stomach, letting himself cry softly as she embraced him, soothing his hair back.

“He’s a part of you, Minie. And it shows. I wondered if soulmates were real, not finding mine – It seems like such a fairy tale. Seeing my son not only find his… But seeing just how beautiful the connection is, how perfect you two fit together… It gives me hope for so much. He’s a good man, Jimin. He loves you and he’s kind and he’s so well spoken. He’s your perfect match. Don’t think I didn’t see the way he was able to soothe your temper. The way just a touch relaxed you or made you smile. I love him too, Jimin. Just one day – and I can say with confidence that I love him and he will always be a part of this family.”

“Thank you,” Jimin whispered, hugging her a little tighter. He pulled back and looked up, laughing a little when she dabbed away his tears with a napkin like she did when he was a child. “Thank you,” he said again.

“Go sit back down now, Jin’s going to panic if you’re weeping when he returns.”

Jimin laughed a little and nodded, rising and heading back to his seat.

Jin and his grandmother returned carrying the desserts, and Jimin hurried to clear off the dinner foods so they could set them down. Jin didn’t miss the moment to steal a kiss from Jimin as he set the pie near to his plate, offering a gentle smile.

“Your eyes are red.”

“Nothing bad,” Jimin promised. Jin nodded and settled back into his seat.

“Do you think we should open gifts tonight or tomorrow?” Jiwoong asked as she dished up desserts for Jimin and Jin.

“Let the kids open one tonight,” Jimin’s grandmother said. She tsked when Jin shook his head no to a slice of pumpkin pie, and Jin only smiled. “I’m quite full from your dinner, I’m okay, I’ll have some of the pudding though,” he conceded.

“We’re okay waiting until tomorrow too,” Jimin offered, taking his plate. “Dad might be in a better mood…”

“Oh, screw him,” Jiwoong said simply. Jimin’s eyes widened of their own volition. His mother – though not entirely timid – was rarely so blunt. “We’ll have dessert then go sit by the tree. You kids can open a gift or two and then we’ll do our gifts in the morning.”

Jimin laughed a little. “We’re in our twenties, Mom. We aren’t exactly excited kids.”

“Speak for yourself,” Jin said, swallowing a spoonful of the sweet chocolate dessert on his plate. “I’m ecstatic about Christmas. It’s such an interesting holiday.”

“Did your family not celebrate?” Jimin’s grandmother asked. Jin shook his head no.

“They were quite conservative and traditional. We didn’t do any sort of Christian celebrations.”

“Buddhist?” Jiwoong assumed. Jin confirmed. “I don’t have a specific religion now, but it was the way I was raised.”

“We’re not too strict here. No religious services. But the giving is nice and we love excuses to see family,” Jiwoong said. “Are you sure you won’t have pie? Surely you’re still hungry.”

Jin shook his head. “I’m okay, I promise. This dinner was delightful.”

“Glad you enjoyed it. I’m sorry for my husband…”

“Don’t be. You can’t control him, and you’re not at fault for his bad behavior. Jimin warned me that he likely wouldn’t be very welcoming. It’s okay.”

“You’re an understanding young man, Jin. What is it you’re doing? Are you going to school with Minie?”

“No. Right now I’m studying to become a chef. I love cooking. So I toil away at home with piles of food while poor Jimin studies his brain to mush.” Jin teased, and Jimin beamed.

“I get to eat all that good food after I get home from school. He’s making me gain weight,” he pouted.

“Good, about time you put on a few pounds,” Jimin’s grandmother scolded without much venom. “Finish your pie.”

“Yes, Gramma.”

“Are you and Jimin living together then?” Jiwoong asked.

“Yes. We moved in together pretty quickly after we met and the soulmate marks appeared. It felt like the right thing to do.”

“And you said you were living next to him?”

Jin nodded. “Yes, very close neighbors. We brushed hands one evening in the hallway and later that week discovered we’d both ended up with marks. Everything after that was a whirlwind.” Jin smiled fondly at Jimin and reached out, swiping a bit of whip cream from the corner of his mouth.

“It’s a fairytale,” Jiwoong said. “And your friends, Minie?”

“Hobi and Tae love him. Tae was concerned for a bit, especially since he’s a bit older than me, but he grew on them.”

“Tae is a good boy. He needs to come with you to visit more often.”

“I’ll tell him you said so. I think Hoseok is going to propose to him soon honestly.”

“Oh that’s lovely. What about you, Jin? You going to propose to Jimin soon?” Jiwoong teased. Jimin groaned, his cheeks pinking up, but Jin grinned.

“Someday.” He said simply.

As the dessert moved forward, tensions lifted more and more. Jimin found himself laughing freely, and the conversation between the four moved along with no awkward pauses. He and Jin helped his mother and grandmother clean up, packaging up the food and portioning some into leftovers that they insisted the boys bring home. The four settled into the living room and Jimin got a fire started in the fireplace.

Jin settled as close as he could to the warmth of the fire; even in human form the cold-blooded nature of his snake side made him seek warmth in any way. Jimin snuggled next to him, relieved that his Mother and grandmother barely blinked at the two’s intimate position. It felt natural and safe. It was just nice.

Jiwoong poured them all a small glass of bourbon, insisting on it as she put on some soft music. They chatted once more, laughing as the alcohol warmed their insides just as much as the fire warmed their outsides.

Jimin’s grandmother insisted they open a few of the gifts under the tree, pressing some boxes into their hands. They each received lovely scarves and nice sweaters, and Jimin was gifted a beautiful set of silver rings. Jin received a set of handmade soaps and other high-end self-care items, which he was almost comically excited about.

As things wound down, and Jimin stifled more than a few yawns behind his hand, the four exchanged hugs and went their separate ways to sleep. Jin held Jimin for a few minutes outside of his door, and Jimin was grateful. Though things calmed down quickly after Sungmin had stormed off, there was still a weight on Jimin’s chest. Anxieties about the impending divorce, about even the next morning when his father would surely be back to his impossible ways, about spending a night without Jin – something he’d not done since they found each other. Jin departed only after kissing him long and hard, firmly enough that Jimin’s mouth ached after he left. He entered his childhood bedroom, changing into a pair of pajama pants and no shirt before curling up in the bed to try and seek some sleep.

And it almost worked, until his door creaked open just an hour or two after he laid down. Jimin rolled over, smiling a little, expecting Jin. “Couldn’t sleep without me?” He asked, opening his eyes.

The door shut and the light flicked on. Jimin’s father stood in front of the door. His eyes were bloodshot and Jimin could smell the alcohol seeping from his pores.

“Dad—” Jimin sat up, his heart skipping a few beats. This was bad. “What are you doing?”

“You ruined my life,” Sungmin growled. Jimin rose from the bed, circling around it with his hands up.

“Dad, please – You’re drunk. Can we talk about this in the morning?”

“You ruined everything!” Sungmin repeated. He stepped forward, a staggered movement.

Panic bubbled up in Jimin’s throat. He wanted to scream, or run. But screaming would do no good – and running wasn’t an option; his father was blocking his only safe exit.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” Jimin tried. Perhaps submission was the way to go.

“You aren’t. You will be.”

“Please, Dad, I didn’t mean to make things hard. I’m sorry.”

Sungmin staggered toward Jimin once more. His hands went to his belt, the click of metal as he unhooked the belt as loud as a gunshot to Jimin’s panicked mind. His breath caught against the lump of bile rising in his throat.

“Don’t do this. Please, I’m too old for you to beat on like this. I’m only here one night, then I’m gone, you don’t need to do this,” Jimin tried once more. It was a desperate final attempt.

“You never learned your lesson, Jimin. I tried to teach you,” Sungmin said. He stepped forward again, forcing Jimin to take a step back. Jimin swallowed hard. He tried to dart around Sungmin, but Sungmin was too fast. His arm shot out and he grabbed Jimin’s throat, slamming him back. His feet tangled and he cried out as he went down, the hard wood stinging his tailbone. He scrambled to his feet, only to be met with a hard, open palmed strike against his cheek.

“Please,” he whispered.

“I’m going to teach you again,” Sungmin growled. He yanked his belt out of the loops, the snap of leather bringing unpleasant goosebumps to Jimin’s skin.

“Stop, please, Dad!” Jimin cried out. Sungmin slapped him again, snapping his head to the side. He tasted blood from his tongue, accidentally biting it on the strike. The next hit came without warning, a closed, meaty fist impacting Jimin’s jaw. He shouted, stumbling back as his vision greyed dangerously.

“Dad—”

The belt struck him like a whip. It hit his arm first, the end whipping around to strike his bare back. It began to sting instantly and Jimin whimpered.

“Stop—” His plea fell on deaf ears as another blow landed, this one lower on his back. Sungmin lumbered forward and grabbed his arm, twisting and shoving him hard.

Jimin stumbled and went down on his knees, crying out when Sungmin struck him once more with the belt three times in rapid succession. He heard the clink of the buckle and took the chance to flip over onto his ass, scrambling back as quickly as he could. His father had flipped the belt, the heavy, sharp edged buckle glinting as he wrapped the other end around his fist. His eyes were large and wild.

“I’m going to make sure you never wreck things again,” he snarled. He raised it up and Jimin covered his face, bracing for the pain and inevitable blood.

It never came.

Instead, Sungmin shouted and Jimin heard a deadly hiss. His eyes snapped open.

Jin was in the doorway, his snake form fully on display. Sungmin’s arm was raised, held up by one of Jin’s thick tentacles, the belt dangling limply from his fist as the tentacle squeezed his wrist.

Another tentacle shot out, wrapping around Sungmin’s throat and slamming him against the wall hard enough to shake it.

“How dare you strike him.” Jin said, his voice cold and dry, a rasp that he took on only in his snake form.

Sungmin struggled to breathe, his free hand clawing at Jin’s tentacles.

“What—What are you?” He choked out.

“Your worst fucking nightmare.” Jin squeezed tighter. He yanked Sungmin forward and coiled around him, teeth bared as Sungmin struggled helplessly. Jimin heard the sickening crack of some of his less thick bones – likely ribs.

“Let me go you freak,” Sungmin rasped.

“I’m going to rip your fucking throat out,” Jin snarled. “What gives you the right to hurt him?”

“He’s my son—” His defense was cut off when Jin’s grip tightened both on his throat and his body.

“He is not. You’re less than human,” Jin spat. Sungmin struck out with his free arm, clawing Jin’s face.

He hissed, the rest of his tentacles shooting out and grabbing the struggling man. Jin’s torso shot forward and Sungmin screamed, only to be muffled as a tentacle wrapped around his head like a gag.

Jimin struggled to wipe his tears and focus on the fight in front of him, but all he could see were tentacles and scales.

A wet rip echoed though the room, like a strip of raw steak shredding. His father seemed to gag and gargle. A tentacle shot out, throwing the door to Jimin’s closet opened. The familiar portal opened, and this time Jimin could see through it. Whatever place was on the other side looked like a nightmare. He could see creatures with large, leathery wings, a deserted, reddish landscape, smoke and dust obscuring the portal every few seconds. Jin released Sungmin from his tail, holding him up with his tentacles. Jimin could see bright red blood dripping down his shirt, staining it a sickening crimson. The tentacles arched back, holding Sungmin’s struggling form as if it were nothing, and threw.

Jimin watched his father get swallowed up by the portal seconds before it closed.

Jin turned to him, and panic bubbled up in Jimin’s throat. He sobbed brokenly, scrambling backwards. Jin’s eyes were nearly entirely black, blood staining his face and chest.

“Jimin— Fuck—” Jin shifted back into his human form quickly and sank to his knees, bowing low until his forehead touched the ground. “I’m so sorry, Jimin – Please don’t cry.”

“Don’t hurt me—” Jimin whispered.

“No!” Jin cried, looking up at him. “Never, Jimin, please – I’m sorry.” Jin looked close to tears himself, desperation coloring his voice. “He was hurting you—”

Jimin nodded, still shaking visibly. “He was going to kill me.”

“I heard you scream, I—I lost control.”

“Jin—The blood—”

“You— You bit him…”

“I—” Jin hesitated. “It just happened. It’s the monster – Side of me, I’m sorry, I—”

Jimin crawled forward slowly, sniffling. He reached out for Jin, touching a spot on his cheek not covered in blood.

“Shift,” he whispered. “Hold me.”

“Are you sure? You’re scared, I can smell it…”

“I’m terrified,” Jimin admitted.

“So—”

“Remind me,” Jimin said. “Remind me that you won’t hurt me.”

Jin nodded then, seeming to understand. He obeyed, the cool coils of his tail surrounding Jimin quickly. His tentacles cocooned Jimin as well, forming a loose, fleshy cage from the outside world.

Jimin was tense, but leaned into Jin’s touch. He pressed his head to his chest, listening to the rapid glug of his heart. His own heart began to slow down as the adrenaline wore down, and he was able to process through what he had just seen. He wrapped his arms around Jin, moving closer.

“How can you stand here,” Jin whispered. “After seeing me lose control like that—”

“You saved me, Jin,” Jimin whispered. “You saved me and Mom.”

Jimin looked up, smiling softly. “You didn’t need to bite him though… Still hungry? You should’ve had that piece of pumpkin pie.”

Jin hesitated for a second before laughing in a sort of desperate surprise.

“You don’t hate me?”

“No. Thank you for coming in when you did,” Jimin whispered, hugging Jin once more.

“I was coming in to lay with you, I couldn’t sleep. I heard you scream and I—I saw red. I couldn’t stop the change. I knew you were in danger, I—”

“He was going to kill me tonight, Jin. I know it. That look, I’ve – I’ve never seen it before.”

“He can’t hurt you now. He can’t escape there.”

The reality of what had just happened hit Jimin suddenly, and he sagged in the center of Jin’s coil. Tears blurred his vision and he began to sob, holding tight to Jin’s torso as he did.

Jin said nothing more, only holding him and petting his hair down. He tightened his coil a bit more, keeping Jimin firmly against his body. Jimin felt an additional warmth spread over him, and he realized it was a blanket from his bed. Jin leaned forward, resting on his own coil as they embraced.

Jimin’s sobs faded into soft whimpers, exhaustion flooding in and overruling the anxiety and stress of the previous few minutes. He shifted, resting on one of the thicker parts of Jin’s coil, almost like a seat. He didn’t want Jin to let go. And – if Jin’s closed eyes were any indicator – Jin didn’t want to either. But this wasn’t safe.

“We could get caught,” Jimin whispered.

“I’ll lock the door.”

“You’re covered in blood. And so am I,” Jimin explained. Jin opened his eyes and sighed.

“I suppose you’re right. I’m not leaving you alone tonight, Jimin.”

“What are we going to tell my mother?”

“I can handle that.” Jin shifted back, reluctantly letting go of Jimin. “But you’re right; we should get cleaned up.”

“Give me your shirt,” Jimin said. Jin obeyed, stripping out of his bloodied white sleeping shirt. Jimin balled it up, wiping his chest and neck free of as much blood as he could manage. “I’ll be right back.”

He slipped out of the room and went to the bathroom, wetting the shirt with some soap and water. He tried his best to wash the blood out, scowling at it when it wouldn’t come clean. He washed himself in the mirror, making sure there was no more blood on his face or chest. He could see bruises appearing where his father had struck him, and a quick peek revealed the same on his back – long strips of bruising and welting where the belt had struck. He sighed softly.

He returned to the room, using the wet shirt to clean Jin’s face and neck. Once clean, the claw marks that his father had left on Jin’s cheek were more obvious. He touched them, wincing.

“It doesn’t hurt too bad.” Jin said, grabbing his hand and kissing it.

“I can’t get the blood out of the shirt.” Jimin lamented.

“No concern.” Jin waved his hand, opening another portal and tossing the shirt in. “Problem solved.”

“One at least.” Jimin tried to remain calm, but his anxiety was getting the best of him. Seeming to sense this, Jin scooped Jimin close, kissing him hard. Jimin could taste a bitter, iron-y tang on his lips, driving home exactly what happened. “Jin—” Jimin whispered.

“Are you scared of me?” Jin asked.

“No, I…” Jimin drifted off. “Why did you bite him? Are you… I mean do you crave… That?”

“No. It’s instinct in fights unfortunately. But I’m not interested in eating people. I’m sorry I frightened you.”

“You didn’t,” Jimin assured him. “I just… Wanted to know.”

“I promise the only bite I’ll take of you is the fun kind,” Jin said softly. Jimin chuckled. He slid his hands over Jin’s arms. “Shift again. Lock the door.”

“Are you sure?”

“You’ve never hesitated before…”

“You’ve never seen that side of me before.”

“Fair enough,” Jimin said. “I am sure. I think I need it tonight.”

Jin locked the door and shifted, coiling around Jimin. Jimin began to stroke his tail, closing his eyes as he ran his fingers lightly up and down the smooth, cool scales. As he did, he could feel a gentle bulge building where he knew Jin’s cocks were in this form. He smiled a little and reached down, brushing his finger over the slit they slid from.

Jin shuddered. “Jimin—”

Jimin dipped his finger into the slit, feeling Jin’s half hard topmost cock. He met his gaze. “It’s okay. I want to.” He withdrew his finger and began to grind against Jin’s crotch, kissing him gently as he did. Soon, Jin’s cocks slipped from the slit, bumping Jimin’s own hardening cock through the thin fabric of his pajamas. Jin nudged him to get him around, his hands shaking ever so slightly.

Jimin turned as well as he could in the center of Jin’s coil. He leaned on the topmost ring, absentmindedly stroking the smooth scales as Jin’s hands and tentacles made quick work of his pajamas. The all good familiar slick, dribbling from his tentacle, ran down Jimin’s ass. They never used lube anymore; this was all they needed. The two midsized tentacles worked his ass open with ease. He opened his mouth, and Jin slid his thicker tentacle in, the suckers tickling Jimin’s tongue as he sucked on it.

Almost too soon, he was ready. Jin’s tentacles slipped free.

“One or both?” Jin asked.

The tentacle slipped from Jimin’s mouth so he could speak.

“If I were a Naga mate... Would this be how we’d breed?” Jimin asked instead.

“Yes. You’d face me — But we’d be wrapped in our coils like this.”

“Would you use one cock or both?”

“Both. Maximum chances to mate.”

“Then use both,” Jimin said simply.

Jin groaned. The tentacles did the work, lifting Jimin just enough and spreading his cheeks to drop him onto Jin’s thick, throbbing cocks. Jimin squealed, shuddering hard.

“And if I were a monster—“ Jimin asked, beginning to lazily wiggle and flex around Jin’s cocks.

“My tentacles, as you know.”

“Better get them in me then,” Jimin smirked when Jin’s throat clicked.

“I am your mate. I want to make all sides of you feel good.”

“Fuck...”

Jimin groaned when one thin and one mid-sized tentacle slid into his already stretched hole. The thin one immediately coiled around Jin’s human shaped cock, while the other snaked deep inside him until his body cramped. Only then did it stop and begin swelling, already pumping fluid slowly into his guts.

Jimin moaned. The tentacle curled around Jin’s cock had begun to shift.

“Are you jerking off inside of me?”

“Mhm... Do you like it?”

“It feels so good,” Jimin panted, slumping down further. “Keep going...”

The tentacle twisted, wrapping around both cocks. It stroked them in sync. The other midsized tentacle slid down Jimin’s throat as soon as he opened his mouth to moan, and his eyes rolled back in pleasure. He began to suck on it, grumbling happily when Jin’s second thin tentacle opened up, swallowing down Jimin’s cock like a hot, wet mouth.

“That’s it, Minie,” Jin cooed, wrapping his arms around Jimin. “Just let go, let yourself float. I’ll take care of everything.”

Jimin obeyed. His eyes slipped shut, focusing on the overflow of physical sensations all over his body. The tentacle deep in his body had swollen to its maximum, essentially acting as a plug while it pumped fluid in lazy drizzles. The one down his throat was also dribbling fluid, and Jimin swallowed with no thought.

And of course Jin’s body. The coils flexed and tightened, making Jimin’s heart skip a beat. In all the times they’d made love - they had never done so in this form. Jin was always too scared of hurting him. But here - this was perfect.

Jimin barely felt himself come, despite his instinctive cry and shudder. His mind felt miles away, floating along as Jin used his body. It was unbelievable.

Jimin lost track of the number of orgasms be had; and the amount of come and fluid Jin had released inside him. He was distinctly aware of his boated stomach, a sure sign that Jin was nearly done.

“I got you a present,” Jin whispered in his ear. Jimin could feel his cocks throbbing, spilling a load deep into him. The tentacle down his throat slithered out and Jimin dragged in a breath.

“What is it?”

“I was going to wait until we got home... I hid it in your bag...” Jin shifted, making Jimin groan as his overextended stomach moved. Jin snagged his bag and dug around in a front compartment, pulling out a semi-bulky black box. He opened it to reveal a thick silver anal plug.

Jimin moaned. “Please—“ He begged. His biggest regret after their lovemaking was always losing everything inside him, feeling so empty after.

“Just relax,” Jin whispered he began to push the plug in alongside his cocks. The tentacle slipped out, a little further. He began to pull his cocks free at the same time he worked the plug in. The plug popped in at the same time his tips slid out and Jimin cried out sharply.

“Good or too much?” Jin worried.

“Good,” Jimin panted. “I can’t— I’m gonna pass out,” he admitted, the floaty feeling still present.

“I’ll take care of you, baby.” Jimin’s body went limp in Jin’s arms. He was vaguely aware of Jin shifting back and catching him before he could fall. He scooped him into his arms and laid him in the bed, carefully lying next to him.

“Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

Jimin wanted to answer, but couldn’t find the strength. He closed his eyes, his face twisting of its own volition. Tears welled behind closed lids and he whimpered.

“Oh, Jimin,” Jin whispered. He pulled him close and held him tight, tugging the blankets over them. “Breathe.”

Jimin grabbed at Jin’s back, crying against his chest. He wasn’t fully aware of why he was crying. His father, maybe; the reality of losing him settling in. Jin’s love – even to the point of doing something otherwise entirely out of character for him… It was all so much.

Jimin cried until his belly ached and he was so tired he couldn’t open his eyes. And Jin remained with him, stroking his hair, hugging him, no matter how he shifted or sobbed. When he could do no more, he reached for a tissue, laughing brokenly when Jin presented one to him. He sat up and blew his nose, his mind and body finally feeling like they were in one piece again.

“Do you want to talk?” Jin asked softly when Jimin met his gaze.

“Not really.”

“That’s okay. Are you alright? Can I help with anything?”

“I just… I – I don’t know.”

“I’m going to walk away for just a few seconds, okay? I need to get you something to drink and eat.”

“Don’t go!” Jimin said a little desperately, grabbing onto Jin’s arm.

Jin sighed, chewing his lip. “Well, alright, let’s get pants on you; you come with me.” He rose, letting Jimin hang off him, as he dug in his bag.

“Do you need the plug taken out?” He worried.

Jimin looked down, seeing the small bulge of his stomach, still present. “Probably… I should… Bathroom.”

“We’ll stop there on the way. Where do your mother and grandmother sleep? Could they have heard the noise?”

“Ground floor – I doubt it… Walls are thick.”

Jin nodded again. He grabbed Jimin’s boxers and handed them to him, heading toward the door. “They wouldn’t come up here right? You can make it to the bathroom without putting those on?”

Jimin nodded. He let Jin guide him out of the bedroom to the bathroom. Jin stood back by the door, letting Jimin head to the shower.

“Do you want me to help?” Jin asked. Jimin shook his head no, a sinking feeling in his stomach. He desperately did – he didn’t want to be away from Jin for a second, but maybe a few minutes away could let his mind un-fog itself.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case. In the few minutes that it took him to clean himself – and the tub – from the aftermath of their lovemaking – he was ready to start sobbing again.

“Jin,” he called, hating the desperation in his voice. Jin was there in a second, leaning into the shower.

“Are you okay?”

“Not really.”

“How much did you wash? Where can I help?”

“Dry off,” Jimin mumbled. His arms felt too heavy to move, and all he wanted to do was curl into a ball and cry. Jin reached in and shut off the water, leaning over to grab a towel and help Jimin out of the shower. He dried him off without a word and got him back into his boxers. Gently, he pressed a kiss to Jimin’s mouth.

“I’m right here.” Jin guided him down the stairs and into the kitchen, grabbing a small bowl and spoon. He doled out some of the pudding and other sweets before settling Jimin into a chair. He stroked Jimin’s cheek and scooped some up. Jimin grimaced.

“I feel like a baby.”

“Never. You’re just… You went through a lot today. I’m here for you.”

“You always are,” Jimin whispered. He let Jin feed him a bite of pudding.

“We can talk tomorrow,” Jin said. “I know you might need to process things.”

Jimin nodded. He ate quietly, moving a little closer so his knee touched Jin’s as he did. He felt ridiculous, but knew Jin was right. He didn’t know how he was going to face his mother and grandmother tomorrow.

After eating, Jin washed the dishes and put them away, and guided Jimin back up to his room, lying with him.

“Get some sleep, if you can.”

Jimin snuggled tight to his chest, sighing softly. Jin remained with him, holding him as he drifted off into a fitful sleep.

The next morning, Jin pressed a kiss to Jimin’s mouth as he woke. “I have to go back to my room now.”

“I still don’t want you to go,” Jimin admitted.

“Are you still feeling how you were last night?”

“Yes and no. I think things have set in, but I don’t feel so … Weird and floaty.”

“Do you want to talk?”

“About?”

Jin blinked, seemingly waiting for Jimin to figure it out. The memories of Jin, covered in his father’s blood, slipped back into his mind. “Right.”

“I understand if you dislike me for what I did.”

“He was my dad.”

Jin nodded, guilt coloring his expression.

“But he was trying to kill me. He was beating mom. If you hadn’t…. I don’t know what he would have done. He was my dad, but he wasn’t a good man. What you did was justified. But what do we tell Mom? Gramma?”

“Let me handle it.”

“What will you say?”

“He was beating on you. I came in and broke it up, he clawed me, I hit him… He ran off. Simple as that. No proof to say otherwise. We were the only ones in the room and he’s not getting back from that world. Likely… He’s not breathing at this moment.”

Jimin hesitated for a moment, letting the words sit and sink in. He nodded. “Okay. I’ll follow your lead.”

Jin rose. He kissed Jimin once more and slipped out of the room and down the hall to his own room. Jimin rose and dressed, heading to the bathroom to comb his hair. He grimaced at the bruise on his jaw, dark and angry, and wished he’d brought along makeup to cover it. He sighed a little and fixed his hair, trying all he could to draw less attention to it. He went down the stairs, met with the scent of breakfast. Quietly, he peeked into the kitchen, his heart swelling a little. His mother was laughing brightly, stirring something in a bowl. His grandmother was flattening patties of rice, nodding along to something that was said earlier.

Jiwoong caught sight of Jimin peeking in and grinned. “Get in here, you. Come try this.” Jimin entered fully, and Jiwoong’s smile drooped, seeing his jaw.

“So that was the noise I heard last night.”

Jimin’s own smile faded. He hung his head. “I—”

“Did he leave after?” She asked.

“Jin—He came in hearing me shout. He was beating me with a belt,” Jimin whispered. He pushed him off and they fought and he hurt Jin but Jin… Punched him, hard. He ran off when Jin threatened the cops.”

Jiwoong sighed and then nodded. “Good. He won’t be welcome back in this house if he returns.”

“Isn’t it his? He always said…”

She chuckled. “This was never his house. Your Gramma and Grandpa purchased it for us when we decided to move.”

Jimin’s grandmother smirked behind her. “She’s lucky I didn’t kick his abusive ass to the curb before then. Come on, let me see if I can find something for that bruise. Are you hurt anywhere else?” She asked, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Some cuts on my back from the belt and Jin’s got a scratch on his face.”

“Alright, we’ll get those cleaned up too. Where’s your knight in shining armor.”

“Getting ready in his room, I think.”

She guided Jimin into the bathroom and settled him onto the toilet, setting about digging in some of the cupboards.

“Is it difficult?” His grandmother asked.

“What?”

“Him not being human.”

Jimin’s stomach dropped into his bladder. “Wh—What? Who isn’t human?” He stuttered.

Jimin’s grandmother smiled knowingly. “You don’t need to pretend. I know he’s Naga.”

“How?”

“Nagas are different. They move different, sound different. I saw his scales too – across his nose. And he smells like a snake, even with his cologne. What made me confident was the tattoo… Your tentacles have scales on them, very faintly. I’m not sure why there’s tentacles, or if he really is just fond of sea life… But I know he’s not human. I also know your father didn’t leave last night.”

She tugged his shirt up. Jimin pulled it off. He swallowed hard. Tears welled in his eyes. “Gramma—”

“I won’t tell. Good riddance, in my opinion. How did he do it though? Generally after Nagas feast they are unable to change back for a while…”

“He didn’t eat him, he… Threw him. Into another dimension.”

“I didn’t know Nagas had that ability.”

“They don’t. He’s half… Monster. He was… I met him because he was haunting my room. In my new apartment. The monster in my closet… God that sounds insane.”

“I believe you. Is he okay?”

“He’s fine – He fits in perfectly. I just… How did you know?”

“When I was young… I met one of his kind. He was far less friendly, but I learned a lot. His secret is safe with me.” She began to apply ointment to the cuts on his back.

“Thank you, Gramma.”

“Jimin?” Jin called.

“Bathroom,” Jimin returned.

Jin slipped in, smiling softly. “You okay?”

“I’m good. I let them know about Dad… But Gramma…”

Jin met her gaze. “You know.”

“I do. I have for a while.”

“I thought you might… You looked at me strange the first time we met. Do you know then…”

“About what you did to that bastard my daughter married? Yes. And I thank you for it. They will both be better off. Come sit, let met fix your face.”

“Nah, I heal fast; probably by tomorrow. Thank you though. Is your daughter okay?” He asked.

“She was so happy this morning,” Jimin commented. “Was it because Dad…”

“Yes, honestly. When that creature isn’t around, she is entirely different. You boys did good. He never would have left us alone, even in Busan. Come on, let’s get back out there to eat.”

Jimin and Jin followed her back out. Jimin walked up to his mom and hugged her tight. “We’ll be happy,” he whispered. “I know, baby. I’m sorry he hurt you.”

“It was worth it. Seeing Jin defend me…”

Jiwoong smiled softly, looking at Jin. “He’s a good boy. Sit down, eat some breakfast and then we’ll open gifts.”

Jimin nodded and sat down next to Jin. He leaned over and kissed him gently.

Breakfast went smoothly and without argument, but with plenty of laughter. Gifts were the same, lots of laughter and sharing. Jimin and Jin were passed a few of the gifts belonging to Sungmin, and if Jimin was being honest with himself… His presence was not missed even a little. He’d never seen his mother smile or laugh so much, and he felt free and able to be himself for the first time in many years in his childhood home. Instead of being eager to go home, as he usually was after family meals – Jimin found himself wishing he could stay longer. He understood what had happened; the reality of what Jin did had sunken in at this point. But he was alright with it. His mother was so much happier now, he felt happier. Though he’d lost a parent, he – and his family – had gained freedom. And it was all thanks to his soulmate.

#jinmin #btsguild #boymeetsmxm #thebtswritersclub #bangtanxm #jimin x jin #jin x jimin #seokjin x jimin #jimin x seokjin #smut #mywriting

35 notes · View notes

pinepickled-om · 3 years

Text

Why Is Your Room Like This

Pairing: Arbor (My oc) / Ayano (lunakurenai’s oc)

Tags: Dubious consent, tree fucking, penis-in-vagina sex, multiple orgasms, aphrodisiacs, restraings.

Can be read on ao3 under the same name.

~~~~~~~~~~

It was the middle of the school day, and there was no demon, human, or otherwise living being in sight. The perfect time for Ayano to carry out her plan, regardless of how much Lucifer would scold her later. This task was of the utmost importance, after all, and this was the only time a certain sorcerer would not be in the immediate area.

Now, Ayano didn't want to make a habit of poking Arbor. The man was hard to read, and she never quite knew if her pokes only tickled him or pushed his buttons- but this was important. There were already two magically-educated humans in the Devildom, herself being the one with the least experience, and it was starting to get to her. Between Arbor's frequent rituals to 'strengthen our bond' whatever that meant and Solomon's own obsessive research, she was starting to feel like she wasn't doing enough for her boys. Plus, Arbor seemed the least protective of his material possessions out of the two- what's the harm in taking one measly little spell book?

She carefully twisted the knob on Arbor's door, which was located right next to hers, relieved that there were no protective spells or anything of the like on it. It was... strange, living so close to Arbor.

For one, the man was far older than her, and it showed. He approached life with a certain experience and confidence she herself couldn't manage, and looked unbothered through it all. Not to mention that he viewed things like sex, demons, religion, and magic in a far different light than she herself did. Plus, he was just so patient! You'd think that living for a millenia or two would make him uninterested in wasting his time, but instead it seemed that he could wait for days, or even months on end for something to come to fruition. Especially when it came to Ayano.

Mammon had said that Arbor was sweet on her, and... she could kind of see it. For one, he'd said she was always welcome in his room- something no one except Mammon had offered her at the time. He'd also offered his own abundant power and knowledge for her use to help with Diavolo's tasks and any pesky demons who wished her arm- and he was an incorrigible flirt.

Hello, little dove. How was your day?

You look stunning today, Ayano. I love your hair

I got this dress from Asmo for you, I'd noticed you like this style

Do come over to my room later tonight, we can chat without any demons down our shoulders

A subtle kind of flirting, with a simple twist to the mouth and sincere expression that always made Ayano's heart melt.

Then there was the physical contact whenever they were near... it was kind of hard not to stare at Arbor's well-built body for hours on end when it was right there. His chosen outfit was wearing nothing but the RAD over coat, tanned muscles lined with intricate tattoos on full display for anyone to see. When Ayano had asked him about it, he'd said it was the culture- the naked chest look was reserved for only the most powerful, and old Devildom belief that it takes an unbelievably strong being to bear their heart for all to see.

Now, Arbor wasn't automatically attractive- at least, not by Ayano's previous standards, but over time in the Devildom, he had become more and more handsome... He had deep set hooded eyes, where only dark green with a pool of gold could be seen through. His hair was curly and cut in such a way that he looked like one of the Greek statues of old. He had a hawk nose and sharp jaw line, full lips always twisted in a calm yet playful smile. Then there was his body... not built for aesthetics like you would see on Devilgram or on those dating TV shows, but rather for practicality- he may not have a rack of abbs, but when you felt his stomach, it was all muscle. Then the happy trail that went from his belly button, paused to make way for Mammon's pact mark, and then lead the eyes further down…

Ayano tried to shake herself out of those thoughts as she walked in, but the man was hard to not think about. Especially since the other night, she'd accidentally stayed out to late at RAD, and it had become night time. The Devildom was already a dark and gloomy place, but during "night time" it became pitch black- even some demons couldn't see. She'd dug out her DDD in a panic and phoned Arbor, the only one who was still awake at this hour, and he'd come over no problem.

He'd settled a warm hand on her back and slowly slid it around her waist, gently caressing her side with his thumb whenever she got to antsy in the darkness as he guided her through the night. She would never admit it, but thinking back to that night made her blush and turn non-functioning for a minute or two. Especially when she thought back to how he'd put her ice cold hands on his bare chest to warm her up from the Devildom frost... UGH she needed to stop thinking about it before she ended up staying in his room for hours thinking about those hands.

Ayano carefully made her way through the room, and couldn't help admiring the scenery. Arbor's room was something straight out of a fairy tale, his ground was entirely grass and flower petals with a stunning stream flowing through it coming from who-knows-where, and his bed was carved straight out of a weeping willow. Yellow flower buds seemed to be the theme today- the colors of the petals changed at Arbor's whims. His closet was cleverly hidden between pine trees, and as far as Ayano had seen, Arbor simply stuck his hand in and whatever came out he wore. His personal possessions were all the way in the back of the room, sitting on a mahogany desk lined with desert plants. She'd briefly wondered, once upon a time, how so many plants from different climates could survive in the same place. After seeing Arbor at work, she wondered no longer.

She couldn't help but take a peek through the curtain of flowers to check Arbor's bed, some sort of Paranoia to make sure he wasn't lurking in the room somewhere she couldn't see

She gasped. Whereas the rest of Arbor's room was in beautiful shade, somehow he'd managed to put together an illusion just after the wisteria curtain that showed the sky. The sun shone down and illuminated soft, pink flower petals that lined the ground in a beautiful glow, putting the full wisteria tree on display. It was ginormous, going on for as far as the eye could see in beautiful pink petals, sun filtering through it. If Ayano wasn't convinced that Arbor was a fairytale prince before, she sure was now.

It almost felt like a shame to walk on this beautiful earth with shows, so she slowly toed off her flats, gasping as her bare foot came in contact with petals so soft they felt like clouds. She heard birds chitter somewhere off above, and looked up in wonder. Shoe's in hand, she walked further into the tree's realm, feeling pleasant and relaxed at the room's ambiance. No wonder Arbor loved it here, he was living a dream.

Ayano slowly sat on Arbor's bed, cushioned by some sort of cotton(?) Possibly a plant she'd simply never heard of, and relaxed. She still had time before Arbor came home, after all, so she could afford to wait.

That is, until a branch grabbed her leg out of nowhere. Ayano yelped in fear, cursing her lack of awareness. It was a sorcerer's room, for fucks sake. Of course he'd have defenses up the ass. She tried to kick the branch off, but with each kick it only rapidly climbed up her calf, wrapping around her thigh, and then another branch shot out and wrapped around her arm, and another and another until Ayano was held spread-eagle in the air by dark, thick branches. They were holding her so securely she doubted any amount of strength she could muster would set her free, and with each move to free herself they only wrapped more firmly around her.

It dawned on her, that now she was caught in a trap and likely wouldn't be let out until Arbor came home- if the sorcerer felt so inclined to let her go at all.

She tried struggling a few more times, if only to test the strength of the branches- but then they started to tear at her clothes, and with purpose. Her shirt was the first to go, torn to shreds and leaving her in just a bra. Then her pants were roughly torn off, and she spared a moment to be glad that shed dropped her shoes when the branch had grabbed at her. She squealed, terrified as the branches on her legs wriggled their way up to her crotch, and that's when she realized they were being very deliberate in the way they were going about things. She wasn't going to immediately assume Arbor was controlling them- Arbor had a habit of giving something an order and letting his magic figure out the rest- but it was none the less disturbing as she watched the very tips of the branches fuss with her panties, not taking them off, simply touching the fabric- and then touching her through it.

She watched in horrified fascination as the branches wormed their way under the band of the panties at her hips, as though to hold her in place without taking them off- and then a seperate, third branch came into view. It was thicker and blunter than the ones cradling her hips, smooth in a way the other's weren't- but if she looked closely, wherever the branches were coming into contact with her skin were smooth, not a splinter or otherwise rough patch in sight. Like the tree didn't want to hurt, only hold. It made shivers go up her spine at the thought, Because if they were only holding, not hurting, one question must be asked:

Holding her for what?

Ayano found out seconds later, as the third branch slowly caressed her thigh. She tried jerking away, get her cunt away from that impossibly large branch to spare herself the pain and humiliation, but the more she struggled the faster it made its way up until Ayano froze completely as it slowly rubbed her clit, only the thin fabric of her underwear between her cunt and the branch. She flushed, letting out a startled moan, and the branch pulled away. She tried struggling against the branches hold again, to close her legs or maybe move closer, she didn't know-and as though hearing her plea, the branch moved closer again, this time rubbing in between her folds with renewed fervor.

She let out a needy whine as it moved faster and faster, only focusing on her small nub, the friction of her panties and the hard, unrelenting head of the branch rubbing her clit had hear nearing the edge soon, and she came with a loud cry, straining her thighs against the branches and wailing as the thick head at her clit only moved faster, and then moved further down to rub in-between her now wet folds. She was twitching from the oversensitivity, and with every pleasured shudder that racked through her body the branch moved faster and with more purpose, rubbing her just right. Tears pricked her eyes as she realized she'd just cum in mere seconds from a branch rubbing her clit- not even something human.

The thick, somehow warm branch moved from her twitching clit to her folds, now wet from just cumming. The branch gently wormed its way between them, rubbing at the sensitive area with no rush. Ayano whined and tried jerking away, but the branches only moved faster, and she let out a yelp as the branch tried pushing it's way further into her sopping cunt.

The branch immediately pulled away, and Ayano breathed a sigh of relief. She definitely couldn't take a branch of that size, not now anyway. Just as she began looking for a way out now that she wasn't distracted with a branch torturing her clit, another limb if the tree approached- this time from her head

This branch was different from the others in nearly every way. For one thing, this branch was entirely pink from tip to as far as Ayano could see, whereas the others were dark brown. It's tip also had some sort of flower bud, and it was leaking. Ayano had only a few seconds to jerk away as it approached her face-

But then a branch came up from behind her to hold her by the neck. She immediately stilled, not wanting to cut off her own airflow, and clamped her mouth shut. The bulbous, hot pink/reddish bud came to rest at her lips, the peach-colored liquid dripping down her chin as it waited patiently. Ayano felt her heart rabitting along in her ears, and then yelped.

The branch at her crotch had returned, rubbing her clit and the folds of her cunt with renewed fervor, and it happened. She opened her mouth, and the bud plunged inside.

Ayano whined, knowing that while a branch fucked into her mouth and another caressed her cunt, she was wet. The liquid the bud had been carrying was sweet, and it was slowly rubbing up and down her tongue. Ayano whined, bucking her hips and biting down to try and get away from the branch's assault to no avail.

If anything, they only sped up their ministrations, the thick branch at her cunt abusing her clit just so, and the one in her mouth fucking deeper and deeper, both drawing obscene sounds from her. She came a second time, shuddering violently and squirming as the branches didn't slow down for a moment, practically wailing around the thrusting bud in her mouth as the branch down below sped up it's attack on her cunt.

Her eyes widened and she forced herself not to choke as the bulbous head of the branch shoved deeper into her mouth and settled in her throat. It was so large, stretching open her mouth like it was just another hole for it to mess with- and a hole it was enjoying quite a lot. She shivered as warm liquid began slowly flowing down her throat, her entire body going hot at the sensation. Ayano had no clue what it was that was being injected into her, she could only stay still and close her eyes tightly.

It was hard to stay still, though, as the branch at her cunt continued at it's relentless pace, rubbing her soaking wet cunt like there was no tomorrow, and it had now taken to flicking her clit instead of directly rubbing it. Each flick made her flinch and moan, and she could almost sense how much joy the tree took from that. The thick branch prodded at her wet entrance again, as though pondering whether it should try again- it decided yes, and due to Ayano cumming so many times it was able to fit it's fat head into her cunt.

Wait.

When did this thing have a head?

Ayano hadn't been able to to look down at the branch caressing her cunt ever since one had come up to hold her neck in place, so she hadn't noticed when it morphed. It now had a fat head reminiscent of a cock, and ridges along it's side that were perfect for rubbing against the sloppy inner walls of a cunt. Ayano whined as the head wiggled in her cunt, seeming to know she couldn't take any more but not quite willing to stay still.

Another branch came up to continue the assault on her clit, much thinner this time and somehow much less merciful than the blunt tip of what was now lodged in her cunt. Her panties were a wet, ruined mess by now, no doubtedly tearing or unsalvageable after she came twice in them and then had it stuffed up her cunt when the branch didn't bother to move it.

The branches then began fucking her in earnest, rocking her between them as other branches came to support her back. Ayano shivered as she felt the branches slowly crawl up her spine, creaming around the wooden cock head lovingly rocking into her. It almost made her laugh at how gentle the tree was being- almost like it was making love to her.

She snorted at the thought and nearly choked on the bud in her mouth.

Ayano was just starting to get used to it- enjoy it, even- when she heard a door open. At first she froze, looking to the curtain of wisteria with fear. Who knows, maybe it wasn't Arbor. Maybe he wouldn't even come in here, it was his bed after all and no where near night time.

Of course, she had no such luck.

A familiar, tanned hand brushed the yellow petals aside, and a head of green, curly hair ducked into the tree's domain. At first, Arbor didn't see her- or at least she thought, but Arbor had a distinctly amused smile on his face as he got closer.

"Well, I was wondering why my magic was acting strangely. It seems I've caught a little bird."

Ayano struggled against the branches harder than before, but they only renewed their thrusting with a new, pointed energy. She suspected it was because the source of their power was nearby, or maybe Arbor himself was making it so, but the branch at her cunt shoved a good way in, rubbing against her sweet spot, pulling out, and then abused it. The bud thrust deeper into her throat and then pulled out completely, leaving her throat empty, and lonely came an absurd thought. She coughed a few times, and then let out a long, keening moan as the branch at her clit slapped the sensitive bud.

Arbor only watched on with a sympathetic and amused smile, making Ayano flush from ear tips to chest. He was standing there watching her being split open on a creature of his own making, moaning obscenely as it fucked her silly. She couldn't help but stare at him as the branches shifted her to their whims, the new angle making her pant out lewdly and her eyes rolled back into her head. She thought she heard Arbor give a soft coo, though between the loud, wet slaps of the branches at her cunt and the needy moans falling from her lips, she could hardly hear.

Another orgasm wracked through her body, and she spasmed around the thick branch obscenely. From where Arbor was standing, he had a complete view of her cunt being pounded with the branch, of her clit being played with by another, and the one holding her neck and thighs to keep her in place. His eyes raked over her, taking in her still-untouched bra, her mangled panties still somehow hanging onto her hips, and finally her wrecked face. She tried to close her mouth to keep the moans from slipping out, feeling humiliation crawl up her spine at the lewd noises she was making in front of her friend- but before she could, the bud came back and the sticky liquid it carried gushed out of it's bud and filled Ayano's mouth to the brim, forcing her to swallow it down else it would all drip down her face and chest, though it did that anyway from the sheer volume she tried to swallow down.

"They're telling me you've been a good human for them, though a bit naughty before they got their hands on you. Care to explain?" Arbor said lightly, still wearing that sympathetic-amused face. Ayano felt tears prick her eyes, embarrassment flushing her chest. How did he expect her to answer him when being fucked by a branch as thick and long as her forearm, having her sweet spot abused, and swallowing down a tree's sap? She closed her eyes and whimpered as the small branch played with her clit, flicking it, rubbing it, and now slapping it.

Arbor sighed, and then seemed to decide to take pity on her. He approached with that same confidence he always wore, and gently put a hand on her chest, right over her heart.

"Stay still."

Ayano immediately obeyed his command, stilling completely even as she moaned around the sap still pouring into her mouth and the branch fucking her cunt. He cooed some mindless praise, and then took her jaw in his fingers. His dark green eyes, with pools of pure gold looked deep into her own dark ones, a gentle look all over his face, and she managed to relax even a little bit. That is, until he spoke.

"Moan."

Ayano froze, looking at Arbor like he was insane- he probably was, now that she thought about it. Arbor simply batted the branch at her face away, causing the peach-colored liquid to spill all over her, covering her face, breasts, stomach, and even a little bit of her cunt with the sticky liquid. The branch caught some of the liquid, pulling out of her to do so, before fucking it into her. It set her on fire, and she moaned obscenely.

The branch at her face finally pulled away for good, the peach-colored liquid finally stopping it's down pour, and she breathed a sigh of relief- then flushed. She shook her head at Arbor, trying to squirm away from his firm grip, and he only chuckled.

"Well, it's up to you. If you moan, it'll go away." He said, sounding resigned. Then his eyes sharpened, and he smirked down at Ayano.

"Though, if you keep struggling and don't make a sound, I'll take matters into my own hands."

She immediately stilled, giving him her best puppy eyes, and he chuckled fondly down at her. The branch continued it's relentless fucking of her cunt, her slick dripping down it's broad length. It tore one more orgasm from her that she couldn't help but scream through, wailing from the overstimulation of her poor cunt. Luckily, Arbor didn't seem to mind, and gently rubbed her stomach.

"Alright. Since you've been so good, I'll help you out." He promised, smooth voice calming her beating heart just a little bit. Arbor kneeled down, and Ayano squealed as the branches maneuvered her until completely upright, still held firmly open by the branches as the thick cock-shaped limb fucked her with the same fervor it had previously, not slowing at all. The dark haired girl whined down at Arbor, and he only cooed. The thin branch that had been torturing her clit finally, finally moved away, and she breathed a small sigh of relief.

That was, until Arbor took the sensitive bud into his warm mouth and sucked.

Ayano keened, drying to jerk away from his demanding tongue as he laved it over her clit, sucking and licking at it while all the while her cunt was being filled again and again by the branch behind her.

"Arbor...." She whined, voice stuttering with each harsh thrust of the branch into her hole. He hummed around her clit, and she desperately tried to jerk away before she came one more painful time, only causing the thick cock-branch to thrust deeper and faster, wrecking her insides and stretching her open perfectly. Something was coiling deep in her gut, different than the other times she'd cum from the tree's ministrations, and panicked as she begged Arbor for relief.

"P-please, I ah! I can't, I- I'm gonna- ARBOR PLEASE!"

She gave one, long, high-pitched moan as she came, squirting into Arbor's waiting mouth- which was still working her clit- and all over his face. She whined in humiliation and her poor, overstimulated cunt had no success in forcing the wooden cock out of her cunt, the tree simply fucking her through her orgasm and held her hips and legs in place. Ayano felt shameful tears streaming down her face, and looked down at Arbor between her thighs- despite the fact that the branches had a firm hold on her ankles, she'd still managed to slam her thighs together, trapping the man's face right on her twitching clit.

She slowly moved her thighs away from his face, looking away shamefully. Ayano noted, with no short amount of relief, that the branch had finally stopped pounding her cunt, instead having taken to staying completely still inside of her. Her hips and pussy were sore, filled to the brim with the branch as she still gave the occasional clench. She finally brought herself to look at Arbor, who seemed to be examining the mess she'd just made of herself.

"Arbor!" She said, flushing deeply. The man only glanced at her face before going back to his careful examination of her cunt. Suddenly feeling a flare of panic in her chest, Ayano opened her mouth again.

"Did- did it do something to me?" She asked, voice coming out as scared and weak- no doubt because of the abuse her throat had just gone through. Arbor chuckled lowly, amused and lighthearted despite the fact that she'd just squirted all over his face.

"Yeah, it did something to you alright."

A warm hand came to gently rub at her thigh, and Arbor gave a soft kiss to her belly button before rising completely. Ayano gaped at him, and would have struggled in the branches grip if she hadn't feared it would begin torturing her sensitive walls if she moved.

"Well?! What did it do?" She asked, glaring at the nonchalant man. Arbor grinned down at her, the tips of too-sharp-to-be-human k9's peaking out from his lips.

"It fucked you pretty good." He said appreciatively. "Though I'm still a bit lost on why exactly you're in here- maybe Satan told you about this?" He pondered, and before Ayano had a chance to vehemently deny, Arbor forged on.

"Well, if you came here on purpose for this, I should probably fix it up so it doesn't take your clothes- thought watching you go streaking in the hallway would be kind of funny."

As Arbor turned his back on her, Ayano felt dread build up in her stomach.

"Uh, Arbor? Are you gonna let me go?" She asked, sounding pathetic and drained. Arbor only laughed quietly, continuing to walk away from her. Just as Ayano was convinced he'd leave her there, he stopped right at his tree, and...opened it? An alcove opened in the side of a tree, and Arbor pulled something out.

"Ayano, I must admit- you look adorable like that. So maybe until you figure out the trick to it, I'll leave you there. Now, as for me..."

And then Arbor opened the book and sat down on his bed. Ayano could only gape at him, shocked to her core.

"You're not even going to clean yourself up?" She said, focusing on the one thing that wouldn't make her scream hysterically.

"Nope." Arbor replied, popping the p. "Actually, now that you mention it..." He said, before he brought a hand to his face and gathered Ayano's cum on his fingers, before slathering it on the cover of the book as the dark haired girl watched in horror.

"ARBOR! What are you-"

Ayano's horrified cry was immediately cut off as she felt a tugging in her gut- different from what it felt when she was cumming, though not completely dissimilar. She carefully looked down at her stomach, and saw Mammon's pact mark right under her belly button- where Arbor had his pact mark as well.

"There we go. Lucifer was telling me you were taking interest in magic, so I figured I'd give this to you. It's pretty simple stuff, just follow the instructions exactly and only use Mammon's power." Arbor said, as though he hadn't done the weirdest fucking thing Ayano had seen in a while.

"Why....?" She asked, unable to finish her question.

"Well, Mammon is by far the most lenient and easiest demon to work with if you're a beginner- if you need a frame of reference, Solomon learned how to do this with Asmodeus and got booted across an ocean."

Ayano felt sobered learning that. She of course knew that working with demons and magic was dangerous, but... Asmodeus did that? She must have been making a strange face, because Arbor snorted.

"Don't worry, he is very different now- though I wouldn't test him. Just stick with Mammon. Now, I'm gonna leave it right here, okay? And you're gonna help me with something." He said, putting the book down on the nightstand. Arbor then walked over and put his arms around Ayano's back, uncaring for the mess all over her, and the branch immediately pulled out of her cunt and dropped her in Arbor's waiting arms. He set her down on her side, flush with the soft petals that made his mattress.

"This is a favorite of Lucifer's and Asmodeus you see, now be warned it's got a bit of alcohol in it but only the Devildom kind." He said, bringing out an elegant, peach colored bottle with a strange dispenser(?) at the very top. THe bottle had a thin neck that flared out into a round bottom, with a flat base to set down- and the entire thing had some sort of swirling, peach colored liquid in it- with a lot of yellow.

"It won't be exactly like what Lucifer and Asmodeus like, since it's my own blend and all, but you should be grateful for that. Drinking the stuff they like could put you out of commission for weeks."

Ayano rolled her eyes.

"Can I at least have some clothes first, Arbor?" She huffed, crossing her arms over her chest- the only thing keeping her breasts from being on full display for the man was her bra, and that was it. He'd already gotten a full view of her cunt as well, though Ayano couldn't help closing her sore legs as tight as possible to protect what little modesty she had.

Arbor tilted his head thoughtfully at the question and Ayano was sure he was just teasing her now- but then...

"No." He said decidedly.

"No!?" Ayano parrotted.

"No." Arbor said again, this time with a smile. He pointed a finger at Ayano's covered chest, and the dark haired girl tried to sit up.

"Ah ah~ I wouldn't do that if I were you. The tree did a number on your ass, and I wouldn't want you actually hurting yourself." He said, his calm matter-of-fact words stilling Ayano for just a moment- but just a moment was enough.

Green magic shot from Arbor's finger and hit Ayano's bra before she could so much as blink- and then it disappeared, reappearing in Arbor's hand. He held the bra loosely in his hand, and Ayano flushed.

"H-HEY!" She said, watching as Arbor turned it this way and that as he examined the clothing. It was soaked from when she'd been splashed with the tree's peach liquid, but surprisingly intact. Before she could get over the fact that her bra was in Arbor's hands, he pointed a finger at her panties and they too appeared in his hands.

"Oof, I should probably buy you new ones. How do you feel about green?" he said, holding the wet, mangled fabric in his palm.

"P-please let go of that!" She said, unable to decide if she should move her arms to cover her embarrassed, flushed face or keep them in place to cover her now free breasts.

"No, I will not." He said smugly, bringing the panties up to his face as though to slowly examine it.

Ayano could only watch on, mortified, as Arbor brought the thin fabric to his face and sniffed it. Ayano may have screamed, she didn't quite know, but she knew she did one thing.

"PERVERT!" She wailed, picking up some of the stray flower petals and throwing them at him. They obviously did nothing, but it did succeed in getting him to stop smelling her fucking cummed on, fucked out, used panties.

But then he put it in his mouth. Ayano was sure she'd pass out.

"WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM?!?!?" She yelled, throwing more petals at him- though for every one she threw, more simply took their place. Arbor only chuckled, lapping up the stray slick that practically dripped off of the wrecked fabric.

"Mah, why do you keep throwing those at me? I can't help that I got a taste earlier and now crave more." He said, pouting. Ayano sputtered at him, rubbing her legs together. Though it was extremely odd for Arbor to do, her clit still remembered what if felt like to be taken lovingly into Arbor's mouth and be sucked so perfectly.

"Hmph! Just give me the damn drink- and let go of those!" She yelled, risking reaching one hand out to accept the bottle from his hand. Arbor handed if over, and then promptly took to holding the ruined panties between his teeth as he admired her bra. She considered just throwing the damned spell book at him and walking away, but all things considered, he could be doing a lot worse than just teasing her, however strangely he's going about it.

She petulantly brought the tip of the bottle to her lips and tipped her head back, and felt mild surprise when the liquid didn't drip down.

"Here, let me help you."

Arbor dropped the panties from his mouth, thankfully, and the bra, approaching Ayano with a confident stride. She tried shying away from him, but he just picked her up and sat on the bed, settling her down back to his chest. He almost cradled her, a full 9 inches taller, and Ayano fit perfectly under his chin and between his shoulders. Arbor snatched the bottle from her hands and held it up to her lips, but Ayano shooed him away.

"You're the worst! Just tell me how to do it." She grumbled, trying to take the bottle back.

"I'm the worst, am I?" Arbor replied teasingly, before wrapping her up in his arms and peppering kisses all over her face and down her neck. Ayano squealed in his arms, jerking around as the sloppy kisses tickled her badly.

"Okay, OKAY!! I'll be good, just giggles stop!!!" She said, laughing the whole while. Arbor did indeed stop kissing her, but his teasing simply never ceased.

"I see, I see. Well, I didn't ask you to be good, but if you're offering..." He whispered in her ear with a sultry tone, before licking her face. She squealed, squirming in his arms to no avail.

"Now, be good and put this in your mouth. It works like a straw, so just suck it out." He instructed, arms still wrapped around her in a bear hug. She let him place the tip of the bottle in her mouth, and she gave a tentative suck to the protruding tip at the top, sucking the thick, sweet liquid into her mouth. She was surprised, since it tasted a lot better than most of the alcohol she'd tasted in the Devildom- not to mention that it warmed her up from the inside.

Ayano closed her eyes, relishing in the feeling of the warm liquid going down her throat and through her body, lapping happily at the tip of the bottle. She giggled as more of the peach-flavored liquid filled her mouth, enthusiastically licking it again as she was rewarded with more of the delicious nectar. Arbor chuckled warmly behind her, placing a fond kiss to her temple, and Ayano leaned into it, never once removing the bottle tip from her mouth. She never knew it was so fun to lick and suck something like this!

Before Ayano knew it, the bottle was empty. She pouted at the empty glass, looking up at Arbor with puppy dog eyes. The man was looking down at her with nothing but affection, and then playfully bit her shoulder.

"I'm sorry, dearest, but that's all I have for you. Though, it seems you liked it a whole lot..." He said, one large hand trailing down her sap-stained stomach to cup her cunt. She tensed, expecting to feel the tell tale overstimulation, but there was only the feeling of Arbor's hand over her hole. She tilted her head in confusion, and Arbor slowly dragged one finger through her folds, coming up covered in her slick. Ayano made a noise of confusion, and looked back at Arbor.

"Don't worry- after a few rounds, you'll be right as rain. Now open up~"

Ayano was indeed confused, but she didn't quite know why. She could only spread her legs as Arbor had asked, hoping he would explain. She gave a needy moan as he slipped two fingers inside her easily, gently scissoring her already stretched hole and rubbing a thumb over her clit.

"I'll admit, it did make me a bit upset to see you'd broke into my room- but once I'd seen what you'd gotten up to, I felt a lot better. Feel free to sneak in here any time you're feeling stressed.... or pent up...." He cooed into Ayano's ear, adding a third finger and listening happily as she rocked her hips into Arbor's palm. She looked up at him, confused doe eyes looking into his own, and he took pity on her.

"You see, what you just drank was an aphrodisiac. It makes you feel good and replenishes your stamina. That's why you're wet right now." He explained calmly, using the hand that wasn't fitting a fourth finger into her needy cunt to cup her breast, gently rolling her pert nipple in his callouses. She moaned, puffing out her chest into his hands, and Arbor playfully bit her ear.

Arbor, now satisfied she was properly stretched, gently hooked his arms around her knees and pulled them to her stomach.

"I'm gonna put my cock in your hole now, okay? Just let go and let me take care of you." He whispered into her ear, kissing her cheek as he rubbed his cock head through her wet folds. She keened, low and animalistic, and tried to rock down onto Arbor's waiting cock. The man held her firmly in place by the knees, and slowly pushed his cock inside at his own pace.

"Tell me how you feel, lovely." He cooed, pushing one inch after another into her tight cunt. She was so small, being held against his chest and spit open on his cock. He wanted to bundle her up in a blanket and just lovingly mouth her breasts until she was a pliant, writhing and moaning so sweetly for his attention. He suspected he would get what he wanted soon enough, though, as he finally bottomed out in her wet heat.

With no pause, Arbor braced his feet on the bed and slowly pulled out, making sure to rub her sweet spot as he went. She squealed as she was lifted off of the bed, only able to lean on Arbor as he thrust his cock in all the way. Lewd sounds fell from her mouth, tongue peeking out as she reached up to pinch her own nipples between thin fingers, thighs quivering. She looked delicious like this, and her cunt was clenching wildly around the girth of his cock. Ayano whined needily, and Arbor took that as all the motivation he needed to begin fucking into her in earnest.

He slapped her sensitive little clit without mercy, smiling with a sick kind of joy as she cried out in pleasure, cunt spasming around his cock helplessly from the sudden abuse. Her whining moans egged him on, and he steadily pounded his thick cock into her. It amused him how every time he pounded his tip into her cunt and his balls slapped against her cute ass, her moans would stutter accordingly. Even without the aphrodisiac, his cute little cock slut was so sensitive. Overwhelmed with affection, he placed a loving kiss to her temple.

Arbor cooed as he felt her walls frantically clench around him as she came once more, mouth open and pink tongue lolling out as she moaned. Her thighs quivered, cute little cunt clenching around his cock. He paused to let her finish, thumbing her little clit with affection and groping her breast. Once he felt her needy cunt stop trying to suck his cock deeper, he began ramming into her again. Every time he slammed his cock into her wet heat, he slapped her clit, using her squeals and pleasured cries to egg himself on. He laughed as he felt her cum once more, this time not stopping and simply fucking into her spasming cunt, lovingly flicking her sensitive nub.

Finally, once he felt Ayano cum around his cock for a third time, he came into her wet heat. She cried out, babbling obscene nothings. She begged for more, wiggled on his cock and praised that too, brought Arbor's hand to her breasts and demanded he give them attention- Arbor was all too happy to oblige. He pulled out once and for all, and hurriedly flipped Ayano onto her back and amused himself with pushing his cum back into her needy cunt.

Ayano was, of course, unsatisfied. She tried pushing her sloppy, cum filled cunt onto Arbor's fingers each time he pushed his cum back into her hole, and each time he cooed at her to calm down. After the fourth time of pushing his cum into her wet hole, he pulled his fingers away from her completely and latched his tongue onto her clit.

He sucked, licked, and even nipped at her pussy. She held his head down as he sucked at her little nub, and each time he gave her clit the attention she craved. It was only right, after all, as he had made her such a needy mess in the first place. She was going practically cross eyed with how much she wanted to cum into his mouth, and to be honest, the thought of lapping up Ayano's cum for yet another time that day made him groan throaty and deep in his chest, and he ground his cock into the mattress. He nipped gently at her folds, lapping into her sloppy cunt as an apology.

After one final suck to her sensitive bud, she squirted again. Arbor happily lapped it up, uncaring as his face was cum on for the second time that day. He happily held Ayano's hips down as he continued to relentlessly lave his tongue over her weeping cunt, playfully biting her thigh when she finally finished. It seemed Ayano had a habit of slamming her thighs shut when she came, and although the sides of Arbor's face were smarting with pain, he found it incredibly endearing.

Finally satisfied, Ayano slowly blinked the peach haze from her eyes. Arbor grinned up at her, crawling up her small face to try and steal a kiss, He managed one small smooch, before Ayano's senses came completely back to her.

"Huh- ARBOR THAT'S GROSS!" She squealed, futilely trying to push his face away as he went in for more smoochies, making sure to rub his cum-stained face on hers.

Once Arbor was sure that Ayano's face was properly covered in her own cum and his, Arbor hoisted her over his shoulder and walked to the pool bath on the other side of the tree. Slowly, he lowered the both of them into the water, settling Ayano down and grabbing a nearby bath kit to begin his after care. He gently ran the soft towel over her skin, taking mint-scented soap and generously pouring it over her body. Then he promptly summoned a duck and threw it on her, laughing as she screamed.

Life was good.

#obey me #obey me oc's #obey me mc #obey me smut #Arbor #Ayano #written in thalfoxs obey me theories discord #arbor disney prince? confirmed

18 notes · View notes