#Glitter Roots AU

[ectobabble]

Glitter Roots Sun + Shiny

I haven't drawn and enjoyed it in months. I can see colors again. I used to do drag so I'm pouring that into Shiny+Sun. Apologies for the spam. <3 I'm having so much fun coloring, i have a tablet again, and I got time off work.

Glitter Roots AU, ao3

Shiny meets Sundrop, post

#fnaf daycare attendant #fnaf au #fnaf sun #sun x reader #sun x y/n #sun x oc #fnaf dca #dca au #sundrop #daycare attendant sun #Glitter Roots AU #dca fanfic #fnaf fanfic #kidcore #clowncore #sun fanart #imposter glitter roots

[dulcesiabits]

nice to meet you again.

summary: as a young child, you’re suddenly transported to twisted wonderland, and become fast friends with a boy around your age before you finally find a way home. Years later, you crash the opening ceremony at NRC, with no memories of your previous time in twisted wonderland as a child. (ft. ruggie, leona, jamil, kalim).

notes: 2k words, drabbles, childhood friends au, fluff + angst

Ruggie Bucchi

Ruggie could never tell you this, but the first time he saw you, he thought you were an angel.

It wasn’t weird for different kids from around the neighborhood to pop up in his nanna’s kitchen, but you were a little different from the others. You looked like a regular human, clinging to his nanna’s skirts. Ruggie kept chasing you around, trying to get a better look, and you kept running away until his nanna told you two to stop.

When his nanna told him that you were far from home, and would be staying with them for a little while, Ruggie wondered if you were a real angel after all. His nanna had asked him to look after you until you adjusted to life here, so he’d do his best to protect you! You didn’t look like you’d last a single day on the streets, after all.

The two of you would run around on the streets, and Ruggie introduced you to all his friends, playing games until the sun set and his nanna called the two of you to eat dinner. He would hunt for flowers and rip them up, dirt still clinging to the roots as he offered them to you. And Ruggie taught you how to bargain, how to run from risky situations, how to sweet-talk the more naive adults (he would have taught you to pickpocket, too, but... he didn’t want you to get in trouble. Besides, he liked it when you bandaged his scrapes and bruises after a particularly risky adventure).

That didn’t mean you were safe from his pranks, though. Sometimes he would swipe one of your favorite items, or steal a bite of your dinner when you weren’t looking. If anyone else tried to mess with you, though, he’d get ‘em back for trying to make you cry.

You and Ruggie were a team! You were, until the day he came home with your favorite snack hidden in his back pocket, and his nanna told him you had went home.

---

He knew who you were as soon as you stepped foot into the mirror room with a trouble-making cat, ruining the freshman orientation ceremony. Ruggie hadn’t believed it at first, but he would never forget you, even if you were years older... and didn’t remember him.

How could you forget him? Did he mean nothing to you? Did the time you spent together meaning nothing?

Fine. He had dealt with worse. The two of you would just be strangers again, even if Ruggie couldn’t stop himself from looking out for you every now and then.

(Maybe it was better that way. Ruggie wasn’t ashamed of who he was, but you knew him when he was nothing, had less than he did now. If you did remember him, what would you think of him...?)

Leona Kingscholar

His brother, Falena, was the sun.

There was nowhere Leona could go to escape his presence; Falena’s blinding light would make its way to every corner of the palace, touch upon every servant.

Everyone was always on Falena’s side. It was destined from the start that Leona would never be able to live up to him. No matter how fast he ran, how far he went, he could not escape it.

But you, the strange kid from another world that Falena had so graciously taken in? You were different.

You followed him around without fear, never heeding the whispers of the servants. You would marvel at every feat of magic he performed, your eyes glittering. You were his first friend, his sole companion, the only one who preferred him over his brother.

Who cared if the servants muttered about him, if his father’s attention was never fully given to him? Leona had you. He snuck into the kitchens with you to beg for extra desserts before dinner. He would sit on the balcony and the two of you would play chess, and he let you make up as many rules as you wanted. At night, he showed you magic that lit up his room, gentle rays of sunlight that danced across the walls, a private sun just for the two of you.

When you spent time with Falena instead, he felt a weird prickling in his chest. Why was his brother making you smile like that? Leona didn’t like it, one bit. he would tug you away, making up some excuse as he did so, his scowl melting as you gripped his hand, asking what he wanted to do today.

(He couldn’t let you be something else that Falena took from him, someone else that would never be his).

But one day, you went home. And Leona was alone again.

---

When he met you again years later as you crashed the opening ceremony at NRC, Leona could only marvel at your audacity.

You came into his life, gave him a taste of happiness, and then left? And now you had no memories of your past with him? When Leona had recognized you right away, because he would never have been able to forget you, even if he wanted to?

He had no plans to get close to you again. You’d already broken his heart once, and you would never get the chance to do so again.

(He watched you play chess once, and when asked where you learned how, you only shrugged. Someone important to me taught me how, a long time ago, you said. If he had been so important to you, why did you forget him?)

Jamil Viper

Jamil could only regard you with suspicion the day Kalim took you in.

A lost child, from a land no one had ever heard of? Likely story. His parents had trained him for such situations, and it was probable you were an assassin. But Kalim’s bleeding heart could never turn you away, and so you found yourself a place at the Asim mansion, against Jamil’s better judgement.

It took a while for him to warm up to you, to be honest. It wasn’t his job to be your friend, not when you were Kalim’s treasured guest. But... you and Kalim always insisted on playing with him, and the more he got to know you, the more Jamil realized he liked you.

With you, Jamil could be himself. You didn’t know about his history, his role, never reminding him that his only purpose was to give up everything for Kalim. The two of you could just be friends, ordinary friends.

Jamil would show you around the markets, using his allowance to buy the two of you food from street vendors. The two of you would run around the mansion, playing tag and hide and seek and so many other games as the exasperated servants chided you for bumping into them. And, sometimes, when no one was looking, Jamil would show you the spells he had diligently practiced in secret, fire dancing across his fingers. The look on your face made everything worth it, because you were the only one who he could show the full extent of his abilities.

Once, you got hurt. Jamil could only blame himself, for not being able to keep you safe, for forgetting, just a moment, the dangers of the Asim household. If he had just been more careful, more capable, more powerful... he wouldn’t have had to wait by your bedside, holding your left hand, waiting for you to wake up.

(The assassin who hurt you had been after Kalim, and Jamil heard whispers that the adults have purposefully put you in harm’s way so Kalim would stay safe. Jamil hated this place, and the scheming adults, and... and especially Kalim: they had all done this to you).

And then, one day, you left without a word, back to the strange place you said you hailed from. Jamil could do nothing but wonder what he could have done for you to stay.

---

It took him a while to piece together that the troublemaker from the NRC opening ceremony was you.

Jamil kept his distance, watching you run around and laugh with your friends the way you used to do with him. It shouldn’t have surprised him that you didn’t remember him. He should have known better than to expect much.

Maybe Jamil should let the memories of you go, tuck them away safely where it wouldn’t hurt to think about you.

(He was chasing after your ghost. What if you weren’t the same person he had cared about? What if you were, and he had to see everything he lost as you looked at him like a stranger?)

Kalim Al-Asim

As soon as Kalim saw you, wandering lost and alone, he took you by the hand and insisted you come home with him.

That’s how you ended up in the Asim mansion, Kalim guiding you by the hand as Jamil trailed behind. How could he have just leave you out on the streets when you looked so sad? Besides... this meant he had one more friend to play with!

Kalim adored you, from the bottom of his heart. Despite people’s grumblings, he didn’t doubt for a second you were innocent, and that you wouldn’t hurt him. You didn’t even know who he was, and the weight of his family name meant nothing for once... Kalim loved everyone, but things were a little different with you.

The moment he was awake, Kalim would run to your room, bouncing on your bed until you were ready to spend all day with him. He was reluctant to part with you during the night, and often he would sneak over to your room for a sleepover until you fell asleep while talking.

He wanted nothing more than to give you the best of everything: the tastiest foods, the prettiest jewels, the fluffiest pets. If you had asked for the stars in the sky, Kalim wouldn’t have rested until he had plucked them for you; he would have done anything for his dearest friend.

The two of you would run around the mansion with Jamil, doodling in the courtyard with chalk. Kalim would dance with you, taking you by the hands to lead you into clumsy step after clumsy step until you fell down, giggling. You would sneak into his lessons, making faces at him when the teacher’s back was turned.

It would have been wonderful if things could have continued like this forever. But you were poisoned one day, ingesting a meal that had been meant for him, and you laid sick in bed for days. Kalim had cried, holding your right hand, refusing to leave until he was certain you would wake up again.

(He could have given up all his treasures if you would be okay. He would give up the Asim name. Please, please, please... you couldn’t leave him like this).

He should have protected you! Kept you safe! Maybe that’s why you left one day without a word, back to the world you came from.

---

Kalim is overjoyed to see you in NRC again. He would have known who you were, even if his eyes were closed and his ears covered. It was you, after all. He could never forget you!

But... you forgot him. That was okay. Kalim didn’t mind, not if it meant you were happy, and alive. He didn’t mind that you forgot, even if it hurt a little to see you look at him in confusion, as if you could almost remember who he was.

But he was okay, now that he had you in his life again! Even if you never wanted to be friends, or you weren’t close with him anymore, he would be fine, as long as you were right there where he could see.

(What if he put you in danger again? What if you remembered your past together, and you got hurt? He couldn’t stand seeing you in pain anymore. So Kalim could only do his best to protect you by letting you go, burying every urge to pull you close to him).

#liya writes #twisted wonderland #ruggie bucchi #leona kingscholar #jamil viper #kalim al asim #twisted wonderland x reader #ruggie bucchi x reader #leona kingscholar x reader #jamil viper x reader #kalim al asim x reader #kalim al-asim x reader #kalim al-asim #I LOVE CHILDHOOD FRIEND AUS SM #also imagine being childhood friends with kalim and jamil..... they would be so cute... #how old are they as kids? uh... vaguely 8 or smth #(Im not good with ages)

[nwjws]

let’s share? - yjw

; pairing - jungwon x gn!reader

; synopsis - in the face of your upcoming midterms, you decide to visit the library to continue your revision. luckily, they had just one copy left of the textbook you needed - but you weren’t the only one who did.

; wc - 1k

; tags - fluff, college au, study date at the library

; warnings - this isn't an accurate depiction of college life bc im not a college student yet... not proofread so lmk if i missed anything!

your shoulder aches as it carries the weight of your bag, full to the brim with books and your laptop.

the cool breeze of october doesn't help you either, hitting your underdressed figure mercilessly. you hadn't anticipated it would feel this cold, so you had opted for just a simple flimsy long-sleeved top and jeans. it was a decision you certainly regretted now.

why does the library have to be a 15 minute walk away? maybe you really should've taken public transport - but that would've taken longer, and you want to make good use of time for your psychology midterm tomorrow.

warmth welcomed you as you finally reached the local library, one that was made specifically for all the college kids around the area; for students like you.

relief filled you as you finally set down your heavy belongings on a table, massaging your shoulder right after.

you look around the huge library as you take your seat, when your eyes land on a cute boy just 3 tables away from you.

you take in the way he's hunched over his own notes, a pair of headphones drowning out all other sound. a dimple appears on his cheek as he makes a concentrated face. you suddenly get the urge to poke it.

maybe i should go to the library more often.

somehow, you manage to pull yourself away from thoughts of your new library crush, and focus on your test tomorrow.

you regret procrastinating for the exam - although, if you hadn't then you wouldn't have gone to the library, and you wouldn't have seen mystery dimple boy. so are you really complaining?

soon, you realise your own resources don't have enough information on a study you needed to learn though, but that's why you came here in the first place.

getting up and stretching, you don't realise how long you had been sitting until you stood up. you immediately start scavenging the shelves for books that might have details of the study you were looking for.

you happen to find one that has a collection of studies and theories on the exact topic and time period, and to your luck, it has the exact study you need! it seems like other students had the same problem as you, seeing as the area where there should've been extra copies of it was empty; you had gotten to the last one.

you turn around to return to your table, but find yourself face-to-face with the very boy you had been eyeing earlier.

"oh, is that the last one?" he asked with wide eyes. they glittered and rooted you on the spot, your heart racing as you got a proper look at his face.

"oh! umm, yeah i think so," you reply after a pause, having to pull yourself out of your reverie.

"ugh, that sucks. i really needed details on schmolck et al," he says, bummed out as he looks down and scratches at his nape.

"no way, me too!" you say in surprise. "you take psychology class too?"

"yeah, i guess we all needed that book for the test tomorrow," he laughs awkwardly.

"well, we could just share the book," you propose. normally, you weren't so inviting, and would come up with a compromise such as taking photos of the pages he needed.

but something about his aura was inviting, and easy to get along with. not to mention, he looked like he was heaven-sent.

"yes please, if you don't mind," he smiled gratefully. you swear your heart just melted a thousand times.

you two get to studying together, whispering easy conversations and helping each other with particular concepts the other struggled a bit with.

after telling him that your weaker point was structuring your responses, he gladly helped you in that area, because he happened to know a cheat code to the best way of doing so.

you learned that his name was jungwon, and took a psychology class at a different time as you, which is why you two hadn't met until now.

he was an amazing study buddy, patiently explaining to you in a way you would understand. his voice was soft and sweet like honey, and helped calm your nerves for the upcoming test. he paid attention to you with those eyes that seemed to hold the world within them.

whenever he shifted closer to you to look at your notes, your skin tingled when it grazed against his hand, the heat rushing to your face.

when the sun had set, you decided you spent the last 6 hours pretty productively, especially with someone like jungwon by your side.

something about him made you feel giddy, like you were floating on air. with him, you think you can do anything.

you wanted to get to know him more, find out what he likes and what he didn't. to give him the same feeling he did to you.

"thank you for today, jungwon."

"no problem," he smiled at you softly.

you two stared at each other for what felt like hours, comfortable silence overtaking your little space. soaking in each other's presence.

"so, i really should go back home and get some sleep. mentally prepare myself for tomorrow, you know?" you tell him, and begrudgingly start packing up your things. he follows you after.

"of course. good luck, you'll do well. I know you will."

you look up at him, feeling like you were going to cry at his reassuring words.

"thank you, i have no doubt you will either."

"tell you what, let's both promise to ace tomorrow's exam okay? and then let's get some ice cream after," he suggests, patting your shoulder.

"in the middle of october?" you raise an eyebrow at him, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

"nothing like ice cream when it's cold, right?" he chuckled. "c'mon, i know a good place downtown."

"sounds good to me. is this going to be a first date then or something?" you ask with mock confidence, feeling a little unsure if he was thinking the same. jungown frowned confusedly at you.

"what? wasn't this our first date? a study date?"

you stare at him, and giggle at his cute expression.

"well, if you say so, then tomorrow will be our second."

jungwon smiled at you, satisfied as he waits for you.

"take this, it's cold out," he says, shrugging off his puffy jacket, and handing it to you, before taking your hand. "let's go, i'll walk you home."

; tags! - @wonuslust

#·˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳ mi's works #k labels #enhypen #enhypen imagines #jungwon #enhypen jungwon #yang jungwon #jungwon imagines #jungwon scenarios #jungwon drabbles #jungwon x reader #jungwon fluff #enhypen fluff #j1nniee

[tasteleeknow]

pairing: fairy!minho x fem!reader genre: smut, fluff, fantasy au. content: 18+ minors dni. warnings below cut. word count: 4.8k moodboard by @staysrain​

summary: you stumble upon a forest fairy, enraptured by his glittering wings.

This was a terrible idea. Hiking alone? You were an idiot. You had been sick of being trapped inside. School and work, that’s all your life had consisted of for months—years. A nice hike outdoors, it had seemed like a healthy, normal idea. 

You yelp as you trip over a tree root, catching yourself at the last second. “This is fine,” you mutter to yourself, holding your arm up to shield your eyes as you look up through the tree foliage. The sun is still high in the sky. “You’ll be back to the car in an hour. You can go home and shower and feel good about yourself for being an outdoors person. It’ll be fine,” you say, speaking to yourself like you usually did when you were totally alone. You trip again, your ankle landing an awkward angle. You drop to the ground, biting your lip to keep your cries back—used to your small apartment with its very thin walls. You hadn’t seen a single person on the track, no one would hear you if you shouted at the top of your lungs. Still, staying quiet was practically ingrained into you. 

warnings: afab!reader. profanity. minor injury. unprotected intercourse. size kink.

By the time the sharp pain has dulled enough for you to gather your thoughts, the wet ground has soaked into your pants. You sigh, attempting to pull yourself to your feet. You wince, keeping your weight on your good ankle. You were fucked. There was no way you could walk an hour like this. The sun is still filtering through the canopy, giving you enough comfort to prevent you spiralling into an instant panic. “Phone,” you mumble, turning your backpack around to your front so you can fish it from the front pocket. Three bars, thank fuck. 

By the time you’ve called your roommate and explained your situation, your leg is aching from putting all your weight on one side. She was coming with her boyfriend. It’d be at least an hour before they arrived. You look around you, spotting a large smooth rock through a break in the trees. The undergrowth isn’t too dense, if you had to be here an hour, it was probably worth making yourself comfortable. So you hobble towards the clearing, steadying yourself against the trees as you go. 

By the time you reach the rock you're exhausted, collapsing into it. It’s bigger than you thought, the centrepiece in a small clearing in the trees. The grass around it is littered with small blue flowers. You drop your backpack, climbing up onto the smooth surface and curling in on yourself, suddenly feeling very much like you could nap here. You had at least an hour, closing your eyes for a moment couldn’t hurt. 

You swipe at your face, a reflex in your waking state to the soft tickle that had trailed down the bridge of your nose. As you drowsily blink your eyes open, the face of a man directly in front of you startles you awake—yelping as you scramble backwards. He reaches out to you, grasping your arm tightly just before you tip back over the edge of the rock. You freeze. 

“It’s okay, little human,” he says, voice soft and dreamlike. “I won’t hurt you.” 

Something sparkles behind him, the sunlight still filtering through the trees. It draws your attention over his shoulders. He’s wearing … wings. Why was this man in the middle of the forest, wearing fairy wings? You lower one leg down over the rock, pulling your arm from his grasp the second you find your footing. 

“Don’t run, you’re hurt,” he says, stepping around the rock slowly. Your eyes drop to your backpack. You dive for it, snatching it off the ground and turning to run. You collapse, predictably—unable to hold back your cry this time. The pain is worse, your ankle swelling in your sleep from your earlier injury. You turn quickly, hyper aware of the stranger behind you. He’s approaching slowly, hands out in front of him in a placating gesture. You feel like a wounded animal, lured into a hunter's snare. 

“What are you doing out here?” you gasp out, hands wrapped around your ankle. 

He stills, crouching down into the grass—just out of reaching distance. His eyes drop to your ankle, his brows pulling together into a small frown. Then he looks up at you. “I live here.” 

“Please… leave me alone. My friend’s are coming, they know where I am… they’ll be here any second,” you plead, attempting to convince him you weren’t easy prey. He doesn’t break eye contact and you get a proper look at his eyes for the first time. At first sight, they look brown. But as you concentrate, really look: it’s clear they aren’t. They're deep purple, brown flecks scattered around his iris. His dark blue hair you had brushed off as a creative dye job. But his eyes? They… weren’t natural. You squint as the wings he’s wearing catches the sunlight again. 

“Would you like to see them properly? I’ve been told they’re beautiful. You can judge for yourself,” he says, turning his back to you. It puts you a little more at ease, giving you the upper hand. Or he doesn't think you’re a threat at all, even with his back turned, a little in your head voice offers. The wings. Your anxiety sinks deep down inside you, overtaken by awe. They’re iridescent, sparkling as the sunlight bounces off them—small rainbow specks of lights dancing across their surface. Where the hell did he get these? You fall forward on your hands and knees, arm reaching out towards them subconsciously. Just as your fingers ghost over the sparkling surface, he turns—catching you in the act. 

“They’re a little sensitive,” he says, a small smile on his face. “Pretty though, right?” 

“So pretty,” you mutter, attention still drawn to where they peak over his shoulders. 

“Can I see your ankle?” he asks, his hand reaching towards you snapping you out of your trance. You quickly sit back, resisting scurrying away from him further—knowing it would do you no good. 

“I can heal you,” he says, hands out in front of him again—palms towards you. “I’ll let you touch my wings,” he adds on, his lips curving into a lopsided smirk. He looks sincere. It confuses you. 

“I don’t… understand. What are you doing here? Why are you…?” you trail off, afraid to voice your thoughts. 

“Give me your ankle, I’ll show you, hm? Please.” 

You take a look around you. Offering him your ankle wasn’t going to make your situation any worse. If he wanted to attack you, he would. You stretch your leg out towards him. He looks into your eyes, nodding his head. “I’m just going to pull these down a little, okay?” he says, fingers brushing against the hem of your socks. You nod. He rolls them down gently and you wince, getting a good look at your swollen ankle for the first time. He wraps his large hand around you, so gently you don’t feel pain at all. You look up at his face, his eyes are closed lightly. “Look at your ankle,” he says, somehow sensing your eyes on him. 

A soft tingle pulls your attention to where his skin meets yours. Your lips part, taking in the sight of a soft glow leaking out between his fingers. It dies just before he pulls his hand away, your skin now it’s normal colour. Your eyes snap up to him, his eyes are open—fixed on your face. “Try standing,” he says, offering you a hand as he pulls himself to his feet. Your eyes drop to his palm, the same one that had glowed around your ankle. You reach to take it, out of curiosity more than anything. He pulls you up and you're so focused on where your hands are joined that you don’t notice the lack of pain. 

He rocks back on his heels, pulling you forward a step. You catch yourself, suddenly aware you were standing with ease. You drop his hand, taking two large steps away from him. “What was that?” you ask, anxiety leaking back into your chest. Maybe you’d hit your head when you’d tripped. You were still lying back there on the path, unconscious—dreaming up this sparkly man with glowing hands. 

“I told you, I can heal.” 

“Your hands glowed… and you have wings…”

“Oh, right. I said you could touch them,” he says, turning and making his way back to the large rock—perching himself atop it. You turn and look behind you, recognising the direction back to the path. “Come on,” he calls, “you have no idea how rare an opportunity this is.” You turn back to the man on the rock, his lips curved into an inviting smile. You take a step towards him. His hand stretches out towards you, offering you help. Fuck it. You close the distance, taking his hand and letting him pull you up to join him. 

You cross your legs, gently pulling your hand from his as he mirrors your position. “You have to promise to be gentle. I wasn’t lying when I said they’re sensitive.”

“Alright,” you agree. 

“Alright,” he repeats, sounding like he’s trying to convince himself this isn’t a terrible idea. “Go on then,” he says, keeping his body facing you this time. It feels invasive, leaning over to touch them like this—but you can’t resist—hand reaching over his shoulder. You see the shiver that runs through his body the moment your fingertip brushes against them. They’re soft. You expect them to be hard and smooth like glass, but they feel like velvet as you trace your finger over the surface in random patterns. His hand snaps up to grasp your wrist, startling you. His head is lowered, hiding his expression from you. “Think… that’s enough,” he breathes out, lowering your arm slowly. 

“Does it hurt?” you ask, suddenly concerned. 

He sucks in a deep breath and then lifts his head, looking completely composed. “No,” he answers. “It doesn’t hurt.” You’re a bit taken aback by your concern over potentially hurting him. A few moments ago you’d been scared he would hurt you. It’s unsettling. You’re still not convinced you aren’t passed out on the path, dreaming this whole thing up. 

“Are you real?” you blurt out. 

He laughs, small lines appearing around his eyes. “Yes, little human. I’m real.” 

You’re too afraid to ask what he is, the fact he is something… other is blatantly obvious. Referring to you as ‘little human’ was merely the icing on the cake. It’s odd though, how you aren’t afraid anymore. You’d been more afraid when you’d thought he was just a man, out in the forest alone wearing a fairy costume. Was he a fairy? It felt silly to ask. A man was sitting in front of you, wings growing out of his back, hands healing you with a soft glow, and still you felt silly asking if he might be a fairy. 

“You live here?” you ask instead, a much more normal question—even if ‘here’ was the middle of a remote forest. 

“Not here exactly. Near here.” 

You look around again, not sure what you’re looking for. Maybe a small cottage poking out between the trees? 

“I can show you,” he offers. “If you like.” 

You’re aware alarms should be firing in your brain. Don’t wander off into the forest with a strange man. Even if he has sparkly wings and glowing hands. Even if all he’d done so far was take away your pain and offer gentle words of comfort. You could be lying unconscious on that path, you may as well enjoy the dream. 

“You.. won’t hurt me?” you ask, fully aware someone who was going to hurt you wouldn’t just announce it before leading you into their trap. 

He smiles. “I’ve let you touch my wings, little human. Very few have had the privilege. I won’t hurt you.” 

You let yourself believe him. He had healed you after all. He stands beside the rock, holding his arms up for you. You crawl to the edge and he lifts you down to the grass, your weight apparently causing him no trouble at all. Maybe he wasn’t a fairy? Fairy brought to mind Tinkerbell. Tiny creatures who could barely lift a thimble. This fairy was bigger than you, apparently stronger than you too. He takes your hand, leading you out of the clearing and into the forest. Your backpack sits abandoned amongst the small, blue flowers. 

You aren’t walking long before he stops in front of a large tree. Maybe the biggest tree you’ve seen in your life, wider than your car is long. In fact, you estimate around three of your cars could fit end to end. There’s a large hollow in the trunk, too far off the ground for you to be able to climb up to it. He turns to face you. “My name is Minho,,” he says. “I’m going to need you to trust me.” 

“I think… wandering off into the forest with you demonstrated enough trust,” you say. He smiles, pulling you gently towards him. His arms wrap around you and you hold your breath. 

“Alright, don’t forget you trust me then,” he says cryptically. Then, your feet lift off the ground and you yelp—burying your face in his chest. You wrap your arms around his neck, his breath brushing against your arm as he laughs. Your eyes are squeezed shut, his arms wrapped tightly around you. When he drops his arms from your waist, reaching up to attempt to untangle you from his neck—you panic. 

“You’re safe, little human,” he says, amusement evident in his voice. You peak an eye open, soft glowing light illuminating the cave you find yourself in. Cave… tree? You spin on the spot, taking in the cozy living space nestled in the hollow of the gigantic tree. There’s a large bed, a wooden table covered in trinkets, and a bookshelf. You take small steps towards it, mouth dropping open in awe at the curved shelves—shaped around the curve of the tree. Your fingers ghost over the spines, recognising many of the titles. 

“I steal them,” Minho’s voice breaks you from your daze, spinning to find him watching you—a small smile on his face. “That’s how I learn about you: reading.” 

“About me?” 

“Humans,” he corrects. You feel your cheeks warm at your stupid question. Of course he didn’t mean you specifically. 

“I’d like to learn about you, though,” he says, stepping towards you. “What’s your name?” 

“Why?” 

He frowns, confused. “I told you mine.” 

“No, why do you want to know anything about me? Am I the first human you’ve come across?” 

He laughs, as you’ve asked him something truly ridiculous. “No, little human. I’ve come across many of your kind.” 

“And did you want to learn about each of them?” 

“No.” 

“Why?” 

He’s directly in front of you now. You take a small step backwards, a little startled by his proximity. Your back hits the shelves. His eyes trace over your face, like he’s searching for something. 

“I sensed you there, on the rock. Humans pass through this forest every day, but you felt… different.”

You frown. “Different how?” 

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” he mutters, one finger reaching to stroke down your nose bridge—halting at the tip for a second before pulling away. It’s the feeling you’d had on the rock, when you’d first woken. “Did you think my wings were pretty?” he asks. 

“What? Your wings?” 

“Mm, the things sticking out of my back,” he teases. 

You look over his shoulders. They’re no less beautiful without the sunlight bouncing off them, the iridescent quality taking on a slightly purple sheen—to match his eyes. “Yes,” you breathe. “They’re—They’re the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.” 

He’s quiet for a moment, lips parted. He takes a large step back and then walks quickly over to the wooden table, sweeping trinkets aside as he searches for something. When he turns he holds something small in his palm, gazing down at it like he’d never seen it before. “Come here,” he practically whispers, keeping his eyes on the thing in his palm. You hesitate for a moment and then do what he says, approaching him slowly. 

It’s a small glass ball, bigger than a marble, maybe the size of a golf ball. A small ball of light flickers inside, bouncing off the walls. “Do you see it?” he breathes. 

“The light?” you ask, looking up at his face. His eyes are wide, swirling purple irises missing their golden flecks now that you’re both out of the sunlight. He lifts your arm from your side, tucking the small glass ball into your palm. 

“I know what you are,” he says, his lips pulling up into a gentle smile. “You’re mine.” 

He’d dragged you across the room, back to his wall of books. You’d watched in awe as he’d lifted off the ground, fluttering up to the shelves that went up higher than you could see. When he returned he had a large book under his arm, quickly dropping to the ground as he opened its worn pages. You lowered yourself to your knees, letting him read out passages in a script you didn’t recognise—small illustrations seeming to match up with most of his recitation. He explained what it meant, when that small ball of light appeared in the glass ball he’d given you. How it represented a light inside him igniting the moment he found his other half. He’d tried to explain in terms you might understand: soulmate, paramour, life partner. He seemed to grow frustrated at himself the more words he offered you, none of them quite satisfying the meaning he was trying to convey. When someone finds this person, he’d explained, one of the signs was how they felt about each other’s wings. They’d appear more beautiful than any other’s, he’d said. When you’d pointed out you didn’t have any wings, he’d agreed it was unusual; he’d only ever heard of anyone’s person being a human in old books that were written more like myths and legends. 

“Stay with me,” he asks now, closing the large book with its strange script. You groan, pressing your palm to your forehead, a sudden dizzy spell overwhelming you. “What is it?” he asks, hand hovering over your arm. 

You blink open your eyes, taking in the worried man across from you. “I think maybe I hit my head when I fell,” you mumble, leaving out the part where you’re not quite sure you ever woke up. He frowns, giving you no warning when he scoops you into his arms—carrying you over to the large bed across the hollow. He lowers you onto the covers gently. 

“Tell me where it hurts,” he says, pushing the sleeves of his turquoise sweater up his arms. 

“Just my head,” you answer, closing your eyes as his palm presses to your forehead. It tingles again as you imagine the soft glow, a peace falling over you as your head feels clearer than you can remember it feeling in months. It reminds you of why you’d come into the forest this morning in the first place, attempting to distract yourself from the grind of your life—the dull monotony. Your eyes flutter open, taking in the man hovering over you, his brows pulled together as he takes in your expression. 

“Better?” he asks. 

You smile. “Do your glowing hands also clean? I would really like a magic shower.” 

“You don’t hurt?” he asks, clearly expecting a straight answer. 

“I don’t hurt. You fixed me,” you reassure him. “Shower?” 

He trails his eyes down your body, taking in your muddy hiking attire. “I can offer you a bath,” he says, finally—pointing over his shoulder at a large wooden tub across the hollow. You’d missed it until now, the dark wood camouflaging with the tree. You leap off the bed, stumbling into him in your excitement. 

“Yes, please.” 

He chuckles, guiding you over to the tub by the hand. You watch as he holds his palm out over it, water pooling up from the bottom like a spring. You drop his hand and lean over the edge, reaching down to feel the bottom as it continues filling with water. Solid. The water fills quickly, the warmth soaking into your dirty skin. It’s too lovely to question how he does it, why would you question this after everything you’d witnessed today anyway? You’re tempted to pull your clothes off and dive in, company be damned. 

“The water will clean you, you don’t need soaps,” he says. “I’ll bring you a towel.” Your eyes stay fixed on the clear, swirling water—only faintly aware Minho has left your side. The call of the warm water wins as you drop to the ground, pulling your hiking boots off along with your socks. By the time you’re stepping into the tub, every piece of fabric removed from your body—Minho is totally forgotten. This tub may as well be your soulmate. You let out a breathy sigh as you rest your head against the edge, the water level lapping at your clavicles. 

A thud pulls your attention to the man, standing frozen with a towel, hairbrush, and pile of clothes at his feet. You look down at your bare skin, feeling no shame at all. You wonder if perhaps you’re simply overloaded by the day's events, or if when he’d placed his glowing hand over your head he’d healed you of all those things: the anxiety, the negative thoughts. It didn’t really matter, you were so comfortable you felt like nothing mattered at all. 

You turn back to Minho, still standing with everything dropped at his feet. “Thank you,” you say, snapping him from his trance. He grabs everything from the floor, keeping his eyes fixed on his feet as he brings them over to you—placing them gently on the ground beside the tub and turning his back. 

“I’ll leave,” he says. 

“You don’t have to, I don’t mind.” 

He’s quiet, body still. “I think…” he starts after a moment. “I think if you don’t have wings… it’s all of you.” 

“All of me.” 

“More beautiful than any others,” he says, like how he’d described a soulmate’s wings should appear to their partner. Your heart races in your chest, apparently your positive feelings were unaffected by his magic. 

“Minho? Would you please help me?” you ask, sitting up. 

He begins turning before stopping himself, keeping his back to you. “Help you?” 

“Wash my hair. It’s a mess.” 

He turns slowly, eyes raking over you. Then, he drops to his knees. You turn to lean your back against the side of the tub, lifting your hair over the edge. “It’ll need brushing before I can wash it,” you say, pulling your knees to your chest and pressing your heels to the other side of the bath—attempting to get comfortable. 

He’s quiet and you’re about to turn and check on him when he lifts your hair gently. You expect a little pain and tugging, your hair knotted and full of debris: sticks and leaves mainly. But it doesn’t hurt at all, his hand smooths over your hair before each brush stroke—whether he’s untangling with magic or taking away the pain before you feel it, you don’t know. Nor do you care. You sigh, giving into the soothing feeling of him gently brushing through your hair—bristles gently massaging your scalp. You feel yourself nodding off twice before you turn abruptly and stop him, taking the brush from his fingers gently. 

He’s silent, mouth parted as you lean over the edge and press your lips to his softly. When you pull away he’s gripping the edge of the tub, wings fluttering a little behind him. “You’ll be mine?” he whispers, apparently taking your kiss as an acceptance of this entire situation you found yourself in. 

“Only if you’ll be mine,” you whisper back, watching as his lips curve into a wide smile—eyes forming those little crinkles again. He leans forward wrapping his arms around your wet torso, lifting you easily from the water. Your feet dangle from the ground, as he walks you across the hollow—and you can’t help laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. Who cares, you think. You wanted him. The man with the blue hair and the sparking wings and glowing hands. You wanted him. 

He lowers you onto the bed again, following you down this time. You press your hand to his chest as he hovers above you, stopping him. “Do you… do this the same way?” you ask. 

“Yes, I believe so,” he smiles. “No surprises, little human.” You’d told him your name as he was reading the book to you and he’d looked up at you like you’d told him a huge secret, his eyes flickering with excitement. He was yet to use it once. 

His body lowers down over yours as your eyes fix on the wings fluttering over his shoulder. He presses his lips to your neck, tongue flicking out to taste you. Your fingers tangle in his hair, holding him to you. “Been waiting for you,” he mumbles. “So long…” 

“Can I touch them again?” you breathe, eyes still fixed over his shoulder. You’re not sure why you want to touch them again so badly. It feels right. 

He hums, pressing more soft kisses against your throat. “Whenever you want,” he replies, “they’re yours.” You don’t hesitate, lifting your hand from his head to stroke gently across them like you had earlier. You feel him shiver against you, a low groan vibrating from his mouth against your skin. 

“Does it feel nice?” you whisper. 

“Mm.” 

You imagine it feels something like when he’d played with your hair. That is, until his hips start grinding against you slowly. Nice in another way, perhaps. You reach down, pulling at the hem of his sweater—fingers brushing against his warm skin. He lifts his head from your neck, attaching his lips to yours in a slow, deep kiss before he sits back—pulling his sweater over his head. His wings remain unaffected, apparently morphing through the fabric. You shouldn’t be surprised by something so minor after everything, but it’s just another indicator that he isn’t like you. He’s something else. By the time he’s tugged his pants down his legs and resumed his position over you, you’re ravenous—gripping the back of his neck and tugging him down so you can kiss him again. 

He indulges you, soft lips moving against yours as you get your fill of him. You only release him when the heavy length of him settles against your thigh, reminding you there was more of him to explore. You press your hands to his chest, prompting him to sit up. Your eyes drop to his cock, standing up against his stomach—the tip reaching his belly button. Your lips part as you fall forward, breath brushing over him as you reach to touch him—as gently as you’d stroked his wings. “Don’t tease me, little human. I’ve waited long enough for you.”

You look up at him, keeping your eyes on his as you press a gentle kiss to his tip. He squeezes his eyes shut, hips jumping off the bed a little. You raise yourself on your knees, moving over him and wrapping your arms around his neck. “You can have me now,” you breathe against his lips. He leans forward, closing the distance between your mouths as you lower down onto him—gasping as you struggle to take him. It doesn’t hurt at all, you get the feeling as long as you’re with him you’ll never feel pain again. 

“You’re so small,” he breathes, arms wrapped around you. “So—” you press your lips to his hard, cutting him off as you sink down fully. He’s the one to gasp this time, his brows pulled together as he adjusts to the feeling of your walls squeezing tightly around him. Once you’re both ready, he takes a hold of you and lifts, dropping you back down on his cock. He lifts and drops you like this over and over, messy kisses on and around your mouth as he loses himself in the feeling of you. It isn’t until you reach over his shoulder, brushing your fingers over his wings again that he cums, pumping you so full you feel him leaking out around where his cock is buried deep inside you.  

please reblog and share your thoughts. caption, tags, replies, or ask box, i read it all. feedback is what motivates me to write more!

↳ masterlist

#lee know smut #lee know x reader #lee know fanfic #kpop smut #stray kids smut #kpop imagines #skz smut #stray kids imagines #stray kids imagine #kpop scenarios #stray kids scenarios #stray kids x reader #skz x reader #minho smut #minho x reader #skz imagines #stray kids fanfic #skz scenarios #x reader #my writing #*

[darlingofvalyria]

An abandoned church made most of broken wood and whimpering winds becomes a momentary resting sanctuary for Uhtred and his men— Osferth finds himself with a crooked root in the shape of a hand, a gold ring, and a full, blue moon.

╰┈➤ PROMPTS ❝ COCK WORSHIP, ORGASM DENIAL ❞

[ +18 MDNI ] [ 2,830 ] [ masterlist ] | Osferth x Ghost Bride!Reader

contains— smut, fluff, angsty-ish - corpse bride!au - this is not the N word okay, you're a ghostly being that becomes corporeal. it's monsterfucking, not that kind of filth - no use of y/n - mentions of christianity lol - dillusioned!reader (if you know the movie, you know) - mention of character death - nsfw: sort of dubcon, smidge coercion, cock worship, orgasm denial(?) - no betas.

a/n— ok, but i am actually very proud of this one!! i enjoyed writing this way too much, adding a bit of comedy aspect to it shdhs. i hope you enjoy it!! oh, also this is the vibe you want if you wanna listen. comment, reblog & like at will, mi luvs, mwa!

His pack rests behind him, the couple of bundled furs he uses for bedding has hardened into the cold ground, not at all aiding his sleep. Around him, his lord and the rest of the men had managed to fall into their dreams, almost as soon as they closed their eyes.

Even Finan, with a furrow in his brow and his arms crossed, has his head tilted awkwardly to one side that Osferth knows is going to be painful in the morning.

But sleep evades him, and though he scarcely believes in ghosts, resting in a church, no matter how abandoned, no matter that there's gaping, charred hole that has blown over the side of it, trickling the cold, winter winds and soft, wet snow— it feels odd.

It brings a restlessness and a comfort all the same, and with a few minutes more of staring at rotting wood and broken awning, Osferth sighs. Their small fire is dying, might as well get more dry sticks.

The church, though broken and ruined, offers warmth. Once he's out into the wintry night, the pale moonlight bright and full, glittering the wisps of fluffy snow as if you don't come out wet if you sink on it. It's cold. Much too cold to walk, to linger, but he continues. He winds to the other side, leisure in his pace, breathing in the cold whilst warming his hands with his mouth.

It's nice to find a rhythmic motion that empties his thoughts. It is nice to be out of Wessex, out of familiarity. Uhtred brought with him adventure and battle, honour and excitement. It quieted the wrought in his head... until night comes, and Osferth is left with the weight of all those he tries to bury.

He walks quite a bit, observing and carries a faint sadness for a few graves that are left. Some opened, unearthed by grave robbers, uncaring of the Christian faith. Wooden plaque holding no names, just crosses. He moves past, finding himself entering the forest before he could think through it until he comes across a clearing. It's surprisingly, perfectly circled, trees at the side adjusted like soldiers with a curled root at the centre.

Curious and kind of awed at nature, at the wonder of the existence this little tree root, curled and cold, he dips one knee as flutters his fingers over it. The thin spindles look like curled fingers, a hand reaching in a hooked angle.

When he pushes his hand forward, curling his fingers against the root, Osferth makes a surprised hum at how fitted, how perfectly it holds like a hand against his.

Osferth doesn't notice you, dancing between the shadows and moonlight. Hit by light and you fade with it, more air and light yourself than life and physical flesh. You had seen him and his men find the scarred church and setup camp. The four men had not been the first to find the abandoned place, nor had taken refuge.

And time is everlasting when you're dead. Meaningless when there is no end to days and nights.

But he is different, you muse, watching him unable to sleep and walk and walk until he reached the clearing and your cold, dead heart feels a tug.

Does he know you? Is that why he is so different?

You slink between trees, hiding behind a trunk as you watch him kneel where your body lies, curious and awed, watching as he holds your hand, curling his fingers around your own.

Your left hand flexes, a surprised giggle falling from your lips and disappearing with the wind as you feel his warmth. His hand as if he is holding your own. Human touch fades from memory in a span of time and it is a pleasant hold.

Look down, you try to say, excitement you've never felt before, thrums through your body. Look down and see the ring!

If he does, you know do not need to know who he is. You know who he will be.

Look down, look down, look down! Please! you are practically screaming, jumping in the shadows as his eyes, beautiful blue like your favourite butterfly, is entranced by the glint underneath the snow. You hold your hands to your chest. Oh, please! Please, Please look down!

You exhale, feeling life sweep back into your mouth. There. There you are, you say soundlessly as he picks it up. A gold band worn with age but gold it still is. He twists it around, and though others have tried to steal it, pocket it and sell it, you know he is different. His warmth is different. There is kindness in his eye that you like.

And God, is he pretty. You would not mind at all being his bride.

You're on one knee, now propose, you say, willing the vows of old and binding to reach his ears. He twists it and as if playfully entranced, he mutters the words that you echo back in the shadows.

"With this hand, I will lift your sorrows," Osferth murmurs, the words he's listened once as a young boy, hearing the priest anoint two lovers who had escaped to bond their love. "Your cup shall never be empty, for I will be your wine. With this candle, I will light your way in darkness."

He raises the ring and places it on your crooked, dried fourth finger— and you inhale air, wintry and cold and so, so alive for the first time in a very long time.

"And with this ring," he says.

"I ask you to be mine," you finish, startling Osferth as you glide toward him. Triumphant. He stumbles, falling on his bum as your arms widen around you in all your ghostly bride attire and glory. "My love! I have waited for you for such a long time. Good thing the ice and winters have been kind to my body and you still manage to find it!"

Though in truth, you had plowed against hard ground to at least unearth your left hand while most of your body had been abandoned. Your skull had cracked in three places, and there's a worm who made a permanent home in your dried liver. But your new husband does not need to know that.

He gapes at you, wide eyed and unblinking, and just as he starts you yell? Shriek— You stumble to him, falling on his lap as you press your hands against his mouth. When you don't pass through him, you let out an excited shriek.

"Oh, my apologies, I don't mean to scare you!" You pout, aged old sadness wisps beneath your eyes. "Please don't scream, my love. I have waited for you for so long. And you're so warm... and so real."

As shock permeates his face, frozen under the feel of you pressing against him— there is weight, he can feel you. You're not as warm as him, cold in fact, and he is able to see through you if his eyes adjust well enough. But you are there. He can see you and he can feel you. Your wide, unblinking eyes drinking him in, exuberant smile composed of pretty lips and a mesmerising happiness. Your hair cascades around a ruined, fluttering veil with dead flowers atop your head.

But by God, you are beautiful.

Your wedding dress— because you are a bride, are you not? Were a bride, Osferth's head is starting to ache from trying to look through and at you — are in tatters and holes, showing more of your skin than what your dress initially thought to show and he swallows. He can see a creamy thigh exposed through a slash. It doesn't help that you're bent over, resting between his legs, and he can see the top of your breasts.

On your end, your hands are just there, on his face, and you start exploring his pretty visage. His warmth is addicting, gliding your fingers through his nose and pretty cheekbones, tickling yourself on his lashes with the pads of your fingers and you giggle. The sound makes Osferth exhale shakily before you are cupping his sharp jaw and your fingers touch his lips, your own mouth turning into an 'O'.

Oh, they're soft and a little chapped, a little cold, but his exhale entrances you. His show of pure, breathing life is tantalising.

You lean in closer, nearly touching his lips with your own as you try to inhale his air. He smells of smoked meat and dried ale. Winter woods and burnt campfire. Your hands drift from his mouth to his neck, to his chest. His heart. There in your palms, you press tight. A quickened heartbeat nestles beneath and you exhale, smiling ruefully.

"My husband." Osferth's eyes widen at the pure adoration and lust in your gaze. "You are wonderful. My wait is worth it."

"Hold on, l-lady." He captures your hands in his, eyebrows furrowed. He swallows as he can feel you both corporeal and wispy. If shadows can be held, he thinks it would feel like this. "H-How am I your husband? Sorry, I've— I don't even know your name!"

What's more is that you're a ghost! But something in his head tells him not to speak aloud such a thing, for another, he isn't sure he hasn't fallen back in the encampment with the others. A bizarre dream of a very pretty, ghostly bride is for one an embarrassing topic to broach.

"Oh. That's right!" You giggle happily, offering your name and Osferth tests in his tongue. A pretty name for a pretty bride. "What's yours? Though, I'm afraid I prefer to call you husband, and would prefer to be called your wife. Or 'your love'."

At another helpless, tinkling laughter, Osferth blushes. Your eyes are distracted by the colour in his cheeks, so long ago contained your own but no more, that you take your hands from his and start petting the rosy tint again. He's so warm that you start nuzzling into him, your head burrowing into his neck.

"O-Osferth." He clears his throat to get your attention. "Osferth, lady."

"My wife."

"Sorry?"

You start to pout. "Call me 'my wife'."

Osferth starts to shake his head. "Lady, I really don't—"

"I am your wife now. See." You sit up, pointing back to your dead hand, gold ring glinting under the pale moon. "You've made your vows and given me the ring. We're married now." Your gaze darkens, your form shimmering and Osferth yelps as you had gotten ice cold. "You have made your vow, Osferth. Are you telling me you do not honour your vows? Are you a man without honour? Is there another... woman?"

Your hands on his face sharpened, like ice, digging through his skin as iff trying to embedded yourself into his skull. He cries out, taking your wrists.

"No, no! I— yes, I am your husband now. I am. There is also no other woman!"

You cock your head, still frowning. "Are you sure?"

"I'm wearing monk's robes, lad— wife," he says helplessly.

"But..." You cock your head to the side. "You don't seem too shock of a woman's body. You're very responsive to me, my love, I enjoy it quite so."

This time, he blushes deeply. "I— Goodness, okay. I've had practice... s'all."

"With... whores?"

He cringes, waiting for you to turn mad, pure ice cold and tear through his skin like you almost did, but you only hum when he nods.

"That is alright. That presents more of a challenge than an obstruction of our love."

"Challenge?" he asks as you gently push him on his back, straddling his hips. You slide your palms up and down his torso almost as if he is a campfire and you are warming your hands.

He swallows at your confident grin before you blow him a kiss and he exhales a laugh, his mind truly unconnected from his body because there is a ghostly woman on top of him, adoring him with flirtations, and he is stirring in his pants.

Truly, he must be deep asleep, in a more awkward position than Finan.

If I am, he thinks watching you with a blossoming attachment. Please, by God, don't wake me.

With a seductive intent, you slide down from his body, making sure you pay a special wiggle in his tenting manhood that he feels a lightning bolt from his cock to the ends of his nerves. He doesn't truly understand what you intend until you've unlaced him and paying special attention to his now, semi-erect appendage.

Osferth is red and sputtering, unable to find the strength to stop you.

You get your face impossibly close to his manhood, your unbridled attention makes his cock inflate until you test a teasing finger from beneath, circling his balls, up and up until you tease the slit and his hips jolt.

"G-God, Oh goodness," he spits, white knuckling his woolen coat. "Please do something. D-Don't just—shit." You test a tongue, laving the underside of his cock until pearly white essence beads from his slit and you lick it experimentally. It tastes salty, inexcusably human and alive, and you decide you like it, especially when you watch Osferth writhe, unable to decide what to do from such teasing little touches.

"Good thing for you husband, your wife made sure to serve a keen listen to gossiping wives behind the church after mass. Well before the raid burnt it all down." You got yourself comfortable between his thighs, loving how snugged you fit against his warmth here, as well as having a beautiful of view of your Osferth. "They spoke salaciously of what keeps their husbands to their beds."

You give him a wink as you enclose your hand on his cock, giving it a firm tug and he chokes. "To keep the whores away." You start slow and teasing, wanting to see what movements pleased him the most, what made him sigh and groan, jolt, hips chasing the feeling of your hand that started to warm and get wet, both from his excitement and the teasing licks you give.

When he started panting, you took your hand away. His head bobs back adorably at you, frowning. "W-Wife? Wha—" But you don't let him finish, sitting up on your hunches as you replace your hand with your mouth, feeling the stretch as he throws his head back again, neck arched. It doesn't hurt, momentarily uncomfortable as you test the feeling of it, the weight now so full in your mouth before you start moving up and down, eased by the slick and guided by his pretty sounds.

And Osferth has been on the brink of peak multiple times, but you kept stopping or slowing midway. At first, he surmised it must be your first time, unused to a man in your mouth but eager to give him pleasure, which he can't help but feel deep fondness for.

By the third peek he's been deprived off, and the little smirk playing on your lips, he realised the truth. But your mouth is a different story. It's hot and heady, just like a real mouth and his stomach is clenching, his pleasure tightening that he's got tears in his eyes, apologising as his hips chase his high in your throat but by the rumble that rocked his cock, it seems as if you were trying to tell him it was okay.

When you started massaging his stones, he was gone. White hot pleasure broke behind his eyelids that he grabbed your head, your veil and hair, dead flowers falling into light as he came, hips stuttering, before holding you down until the last drop of his spend is in your mouth.

He releases you with apologies, chest heaving with tears in his eyes. "I-I'm so sorry, lady, I— inexcusable." He stared gently cleaning your face, unable to realise how much more solid you had become, how much more colour bled in your ghostly blue.

But as you sit back up, you're grinning, unmistakable pride in your gaze as he wipes the corner of your mouth tenderly. You take his fingers before he wipes it on his trousers, coated in him, and licks them clean, sucking hard with a little giggle.

"Good boy," you say. Osferth shudders, his cock already painfully stirring once more.

The Lord have mercy on him. Were there ghostly vixens? Did he marry the only ghostly vixen?

He can't say he's too mad about it.

"Hmm. So that's what it tastes like. I think I like it." You smile, rubbing his thigh. "I also think we are going to have a fruitful marriage, sweet Osferth. What we only need now is one thing..."

He blinks at you. "Hm?"

"Death, my love." You blink back at him owlishly, snapping the dagger strapped to his side. "How can we stay together when one of us breathes?"

Christ, I already have an idea for part two...

#osferth #osferth x reader #osferth x you #osferth fanfic #kinktober 2023 #osferth smut #osferth fluff #tlk fanfic #tlk fanfiction #tlk smut #tlk fluff #︶꒦꒷♡ elle tries kinks ♡꒷꒦︶ #elle writes !! ꒱ ↷˗ˏˋ🍒 #the last kingdom #tlk #osferth scenario #ewan mitchell characters

[itsonlydana]

"passenger princess" | chapter three

the hobbit | a modern!AU by itsonlydana

❱ pairing: Thranduil x fem!reader

❱ wordcount: 3,2k

❱ summary: distractions over distractions..

❱ warnings: none

❱ an: i may or may not have giggled a lot while writing and imagining this. This scene was the reason i started this fic in the first place :)

general m.list + series m.list

🌿 reposts and comments are appreciated, they motivate me a lot - especially with longer projects <3

CHAPTER THREE: PAINTING

As the night progressed, the alcoholic drinks slowly but surely turned into water or coffee for your own good. None of you wanted to sit in Professor Sauron's class in the early morning with a hangover.

The man was obnoxious on his own, adding headaches and fatigue and you had practically dug your own grave and you could be sure the professor would take it upon himself to kick you in it, face towards the dirt– no questions asked.

You continued to play for a while until, as the others had predicted and taunted you with, you were the first to hand over your last bill. That and your last street went to Aragorn, and taking it like a true champion you gave up with a "No more monopoly! Never again!"

After all these hours you weren't even disappointed with this loss, it gave you a reason to finally get up from the chair and stretch your back.

On slightly asleep feet, you wandered through the lowest floor, craning your head and neck, popping the aching bones for some sweet relief.

The Oropherion family home had become a familiar place to you over the past few months, a retreat of peace and quiet that your dorm couldn't provide.

While you had initially counted how many evenings you had spent in this house, with your friends in the kitchen cooking or on the couch watching a movie and the constant hope to meet Thranduil to even have the smallest chance to strike up a conversation, these experiences, as well as conversations had accumulated to a frequency that wasn't worth counting.

The floor under your sock-clad feet was pleasantly cool, your body had grown far too warm at the table where the boys' testosterone had skyrocketed when you left.

The whole house radiated a pleasant coolness, something you appreciated after spending a few nights in Legolas' far too warm room. Legolas was a running radiator and although you were very grateful for the fact and his warm hands in the winter, you often preferred to walk around the rest of the house whenever you woke up with him pressed to your side.

Perhaps because that comfortable cold reminded you of Thranduil, of the light and sporadic touches of his cool hands sometimes in your back, sometimes on your shoulder, and very rarely the brush of his fingertips over your hands.

You collected the memories, those feelings of his skin against yours, locked them deep in your heart. They were yours, no matter how public or private they had been in the first place, now they belonged to you.

Your gaze wandered along the bright wall as it lingered on a particular spot of the hung paintings, your feet automatically following.

It was inevitable that you stopped in front of this painting during your visits for it was by far your favorite.

It was framed behind a thin glass pane, most likely because Thranduil knew about the sock races you held in the long hallway with fantastically smooth floors, and although there was a real Monet hanging among the others, it was this unassuming-looking painting that captivated you.

A forest had been painted in rather dark tones, with massive tree trunks and broad branches stretching skyward, interwoven into a dense green blanket through which little light seemed to fall. And in places where the fine rays of a warm sun were nevertheless drawn, the leaves glowed a glittering gold. On the ground, thin wisps of mist drifted over the moss-covered ground glistening with morning dew, entwining themselves around the roots that had broken out of the ground.

Unlike all the other paintings, it had no signature, no artist. Just a name; 'Mirkwood'.

You had looked at this picture so many times that you saw the individual brush strokes in your brain drawing this magical forest, and often you wondered if such a place actually existed.

How you would love to immerse yourself in this image, to bury your toes in the earth and moss, to listen to the rustle of the many leaves in the wind. Breathing deeply, you tried to conjure yourself to the trees and froze when you noticed the smell of pine needles and a slight puff of air on the back of your neck.

"You're pretty bad at sneaking up on people," you spoke forward, without turning away from the painting, to which you were almost glued with your forehead.

You knew who was behind you even so; only one person evoked this state of absolute chaos in you.

"Oh, I'm not?" Thranduil's voice wore an amused smirk. "Those shivers on you seem to be clear evidence of the contrary."

"Whatever you think you're talking about, you're wrong."

"Are you absolutely certain? Someone who flashes a grin at a good hand of cards in poker shouldn't be so quick to boast."

You were about to protest – granted, your poker face wasn't the best, but who could resist grinning when winning against Legolas?

However, before you could say anything, Thranduil beat you to it, "Speaking of games, it seems your strategy of passing 'Go' and collecting money didn't quite pan out, did it?"

Now you turned around and looked up at Thranduil.

The shirt was gone, in its place a green sweatshirt hugged a torso that shouldn't look that fit for a middle aged man, and he looked directly much more... homely. You liked that sweatshirt on him, it accentuated his eyes, the crinkles around them and his ice-blond hair stood out against the rich green like the shining moonlight. His lips were pulled into a teasing smile and you couldn't help but roll your eyes.

"It wasn't my strategy's fault. It would've secured my victory if it weren't for the incessant whining from the boys. 'Spose they couldn't handle watching me systematically take over. Soo I did the only sensible thing and gracefully bowed out of that power struggle," you explained with a playful glint in your eye.

"What a noble deed," Thranduil smirked, looking at you through long lashes. Then he took a step toward you. "However, I must disagree with your words again. I believe you had no choice but to lose."

Your eyebrows rose challengingly and you pushed your shoulders through to appear more confident. Yet you were the complete opposite under Thranduil's gaze, behind which a thought seemed to be forming that would surely cost you some nerves.

"Is that so?" you asked, itching to find out what was going on inside him, and at the same time, a little afraid.

Thranduil could say the most boring thing in the world and still make it sound like flirting.

Well okay, flirting was a little wide of the mark and a little inappropriate for a man in his 40s, it made it seem a little juvenile and what he was saying was anything but a stupid pickup line you'd hear in the bars.

It was mostly just as teasing and at the same time charming as the grin that spread across his face.

"I think," Thranduil started and you suddenly regretted investigating "No, I'm sure you weren't completely focused on the game"

Of course, you hadn't been focused on the game, at least not ever since he'd come home and messed with your mind, strolling around the goddamn kitchen with his effortless good looks as if he didn't know how much he could dominate and take over a room.

But you would never tell him that, as much as it burned on your tongue. You swallowed the words, tried to swallow the lump that formed in your throat, but it had become too big.

"I'm.. I'm not sure what you're referring to," you attempted to deflect the conversation and focused on the painting again, hoping to divert your attention from him.

A moment of silence passed between you, charged with unspoken feelings. You heard him approach and felt the cool touch of his slender fingers slowly wrap around your wrist. His fingers easily met his thumb, essentially cuffing you to himself and your knees nearly buckled.

"Am I distracting you?" Thranduil asked nonchalantly, although the question was loaded with meaning.

"No, it's just–"

"I am," His thumb traced gentle circles on your skin, causing you to clench your fist, and paused just above your pulse. "I can feel that I'm distracting you… or else your pulse is extraordinarily fast because of some painting," he whispered, his breath tickling your ear.

"I already said you're–"

"Distracting you. I know," he interrupted.

With a gentle pull, Thranduil turned you around until your back was pressed against the glass of the long-forgotten painting. He was so close that his long hair draped over your shoulders.

That one movement sent your brain into overdrive, eradicating doubt, smushing reality and fantasy until all that was left was the pure enthusiasm of being this close to the sole reason your heart felt like it was bursting out of your chest any moment now.

You looked up at him, probably spending way too much time staring at his face, from his cheekbones to his lips, rosy and pulling up in a smirk as he followed your eyes.

"Something the matter?" he asked, slightly putting some pressure on your pulse point, "Cat got your tongue? C'mon, bite back. Don't get shy suddenly."

You pressed your body back against the glass as far as it would allow it, and let the heat of his touch rush over you, savoring the contrast of hot and cold.

"Ugh. You can be soo annoying," you uttered, and although a year ago it had been unthinkable for you to call Legolas' father annoying, it was one of Thranduil's qualities that you had to remind him of again and again.

He laughed, a short chuckle deep from his chest, which you felt first before you heard it, and dimples and laugh lines of age bored into his otherwise smooth cheeks. The playful smile didn't disappear when he leaned closer to you.

You had slightly tipped your head back, for he towered above you, one large hand of his still around yours while the other spread across your lower back, nudging you against him.

Thranduil's lips moved and you had to pull yourself together to listen to him and not just stare at him and wonder if this was really happening.

Which you did.

Because, what the fuck was happening?

"I get that quite often. Comes with the job as well as raising a thick-headed son, but," –he paused and his baritone voice dropped even lower, the rumble curling around the words that twisted around your heart like roots– "dare I say that when it rolls off your tongue, it sounds dangerously close to a compliment."

This newfound closeness with him was both exhilarating and unnerving. Up until now, you had danced around each other, exchanging subtle remarks that defined the boundaries.

Yet, in this moment, those boundaries seemed to dissolve, swallowed by the intensity of the lingering eye contact you were hesitant to break.

His gaze felt like it was burrowing under your skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps and pulsing blood.

You were sure of what was about to happen, you felt it in his hand on your back, leading you toward him, his shallower breathing and suddenly..

All the pressure fell off you, all the worries tumbled away and only the anticipation of finally being able to be as close to him as you've been wishing for months now remained in your chest next to your strongly pounding heart.

He was close, so very close.

"Little one-"

That's when you heard Legolas yell your name.

At first, you hoped you were imagining it.

Thranduil lingered for a breath, leaning against you. His pausing left the decision of how to proceed to you and though everything in you wanted nothing more than to bury your hands in his hair and kiss the smirk off his face, you drew your eyebrows together apologetically.

"I'm so sorry," you said softly. "I.. I can't. Not now, even if I wished–"

Immediately, Thranduil took a step back, putting a distance between you that tore a sigh out of your chest.

Even though you could see the disappointment of being interrupted in his expression, a gentle smile quickly settled on his lips. "No need to apologize."

You waited for a second though the moment had passed and even if it left you on the edge and unraveled like a ball of yarn rolling into an abyss, the end never to be found again now that you'd thrown yourself over the cliffs.

Thranduil nodded and took another step back.

And as you set off down the hallway back to the dining room, Thranduil remained back at the painting, his gaze still on you, as you couldn't help but look back at him again.

You didn't want to leave, not from him, not from his touches, his teasing words, which without this interruption would have led to the highlight of your sneaking around each other, even if until today you had believed it was nothing more than a fantasy of yours.

Yet the way Thranduil had looked at you, blue eyes full of curiosity and desire and longing, the way he had held you as if he would never want to let go of you again, if you would allow him to, no longer made you doubt the one-sidedness of your feelings.

There had to be something and while you couldn't explain why a man his age and status would go for you of all people, that wasn't what you wanted to concentrate on.

In the kitchen, the Monopoly game still seemed to be in full frenzy, just like your friends.

Aragorn had even tied his hair into a braid and was counting his money intently. You had to give most of your cards to Gimli, he had already built his first houses in the fifth round and now owned streets, with so many red hotels that even Vegas would turn green with envy.

Legolas, well, Legolas was Legolas in the sense that Gimli and he went all out for another bet because when you entered he was leaning against the wall.

Upside down.

And counting backward.

"Please. Someone tell me what I missed?" you asked, and the disappointment of being interrupted by Legolas went up in smoke at the sight, or rather in a laughing gasp. Your body automatically relaxed, no matter how electrically charged you felt by Thranduil, your little group could always bring you back.

Aragorn looked up at you, eyeing you for just a single second before one of his eyebrows lifted. "What did we miss?" he turned the question around and you knew full well you'd been seen through. "Red cheeks, tousled hair.." his eyes widened before he opened his mouth in disbelief.

Quickly you shook your head, lifting a finger to end that assumption that was forming in his mind.

At the same moment, Legolas shouted "Zero!" and landed elegantly (how he managed that with the amount of alcohol in his blood was a mystery to you) on his feet again.

Grinning triumphantly, he came back to the table, smacking his hands on his leggings and pointing to your cell phone, which you had left on the table

"Rang several times, your roommate seems to have locked herself out somehow," and turning to Gimli he said, "You said if I do a handstand for two minutes I don't have to pay my rent, so hand over the dice."

Even as you unlocked your screen, the last text message lit up at you, a 'where r u??? its cold' paired with 8 missed calls.

You rolled your eyes. Receiving such messages was nothing novel for you; your roommate had a recurring tendency to leave her keys in your shared room despite your daily reminders. The prospect of her learning from this habit seemed increasingly unlikely.

Yet, she consistently chose the most inconvenient moments to pester you about it.

Swiftly, you texted her, falsely claiming that you were en route, a dramatic exaggeration considering you weren't even certain if the bus was coming or not.

"Just leave the lass out in the cold," grumbled Gimli "Pretend you lost your phone and then we can watch that one movie later."

"The offer sounds tempting, but I think I should start getting some sleep anyway. Instead of sleeping in like you idiots, I'm going to talk to Professor Baggins again." You were sure these were two valid arguments, but at the determined look on Legolas' face, you prepared yourself for a discussion.

"C'mon, just sleep here. Tough luck for your roommate, she can sleep somewhere else," he began.

Tempting, especially when you thought back to that moment with Thranduil.

As nice as the idea of sneaking around at night sounded, and maybe more, depending on how serious Thranduil was about his flirting, you groaned. "My materials are in the dorm. I don't feel like getting up in the morning to pick everything up first and then drive to the university"

"We'll go with you," Legolas shot off another argument, though the other two didn't seem thrilled with it.

"Sure, because that's sooo realistic," you drew out "I can see it coming; I'm the only one who gets up because you'd rather sleep in. No thanks, as much as I appreciate your breakfast cereal, I don't want to put myself through that stress. Two more days and we're free for the weekend. Let's watch the movie then."

The latter was like an olive branch of peace. Although it was your turn to clean the dorm tomorrow, Legolas' pout indicated a never-ending fuss if you left early and without completing his "pep up plan".

You decided that you'd just ask your roommate to cover your shift as a way of saying thanks for letting her in tonight.

"Alright," Legolas relented "We will watch that new horror movie though."

You stuck your tongue out at him. "Bribery. I hate horror"

"And I hate it when you leave," he said, and you conceded defeat.

The smile was back on his face in an instant.

Opening the bus app, however, dramatically lowered your spirits. "Shit. The bus in 10 minutes is canceled, due to a shortage of staff at short notice, and the one after that won't arrive for another two hours. Fuck."

"And the night bus? It's a ten-minute walk to the station, we can bring you," Aragorn's face wore a frown as he stepped beside you, scrutinizing the app as well.

"No," you sighed and leaned against his side, "No.. they canceled the line as well because, wait.. Here; they say it's some roadwork."

His arm wrapped around your shoulder, rubbing it comforting. "Stay the night, please," he asked in a lowered voice, "I won't be able to sleep when you're out there this late. If it's our comments from earlier that hold you back I deeply apologize."

You shook your head, falling into the embrace even more. "Don't worry about that, that's not the problem. I kinda need to sleep in my own bed tonight, y'know? I love you guys but my energy reserves won't fill up if I have Legolas snoring next to me all night."

Aragorn waited, holding your gaze until your nod convinced him that you weren't lying to him about the teasing. "Alright, we'll get you home," he whispered and softly kissed your forehead.

"Can't you call a cab? Way faster and safer."

As sweetly as Legolas' suggestion was meant, a bitter taste spread in your mouth.

As a student, you didn't always have it easy, not with the costs of the university, which only allowed you a room in the dormitory even if you didn't have to live on instant noodles every day and somehow made ends meet with a small part-time job.

Legolas had grown up without money problems because of Thranduil and his father, which he was well aware of, but sometimes you had to remind him that not everyone could take a cab through half the city in the middle of the night.

Just as you were about to tell him this, another voice joined in the conversation:

"Come on, I'll give you a ride."

taglist [still open]: @mushroomemeralds, @mssuguru, @solartoge, @12134z03, @fruitymoonbeams-blog, @lady-of-imladris, @finallyforgotten, @123forgottherest,

#📁files: passenger princess #thranduil x reader #lotr x reader #the hobbit fanfiction #the hobbit x reader #thranduil fanfiction #thranduil x you #lord of the rings fanfiction #lord of the rings x reader #lotr fanfiction

[frenchkisstheabyss]

✧*̥˚ Under the Sky *̥˚✧

✧ Mature Content. Minors DNI. Warnings below the break ✧

✧ Pairing: fairy king!yeosang x chubby!fairy queen!reader

✧ Summary: The night of your wedding you disappeared under mysterious circumstances. Regaining your senses, you set out to return to your true love.

✧ Genre: ateez fairy au, romance, adventure {smutty at the end}

✧ Word Count: 1.9k-ish

✧ Warnings: Mentions of death. Reader has some injuries. Unprotected fairy sex. I'd say "wrap it up" but darling, you're a fairy. Have a ball.

✧ A/N: This is for @anyamaris and her absolute love for fairy Yeosang. Thank you for trusting me to write this. Love you forever, sis!

The fae believe that each soul, upon its entry into the realm of the living, is split in two. It’s said that to find your other half is to find a love so deeply rooted in the land of the fae that, should you ever part, the Fates themselves would shift to reunite you…

Hours have passed since you awakened in a graveyard of sorts. Found in the darkest reaches of the forest, it's desolate. No singing blue birds or fields of which to frolic. Only shallow graves dug in packed dirt and a thick smog that carries the nauseating stench of death. Nothing survives there. You aren’t sure how you did or how you even got there. What you do know is that your wedding dress, spun from the silk of a dozen spiders, clings to you now in tattered strips. A dozen scrapes and bruises adorn your body. None of which you notice in the presence of the sharp pain shooting through your back. Your wings, once grand and glittering, have been stripped from your back. An evil, depraved act that not even the fearsome creatures who you crept past to escape death's valley could bring themselves to do.

Night descends swiftly as you push on, at last reaching a point where the air is crisp and the forest is lush. You stop along the way to drink from sparkling ponds, nibbling on foraged berries for strength. Purple means poisonous but the blue ones are safe. Or was it the other way around? You shake it off. Your thoughts drifting to your husband Yeosang. Please don't think I abandoned you. I'd never. I couldn't. A girl like you from such a humble background marrying the king of the fae had been the talk of the town. People spoke of the riches you’d inherit. The luxury you’d live in. For you, none of that mattered. You'd call home a dry rotted tree stump if it meant having him by your side. You were only wed a few hours before your disappearance. Why? How? You shake yourself for answers only to come up empty-handed.

A firefly zips past your face, snapping your attention back to the world around you. The energy here, it’s different, familiar. In the distance, you hear music blended with the laughter of mothers and their children. The baritone voices of men sing a song that brings you back to your childhood. Back to…“Home!” you cry, adrenaline coursing through your veins. You race towards the sounds, dodging weeping willows and woodland creatures busy carrying on their own business. Bursting out into a clearing you find yourself at the center of your village. It’s the annual May fair and the streets are so packed that you’re swallowed by the crowd. Your lip quivers, tears flowing, as your attention shifts beyond the extravagant celebration to the castle sitting at the summit of the trees. Through a stained glass window, a single light shines.

“Yeosang!” you shout, shoving your way through the crowd to find a way to him. The villagers begin to notice you. The music gradually dies down to reveal exchanges of “The queen. The queen? Can’t be. It is!” “Yeosang! I’m here!” you’re shouting in every direction, intent on continuing until your throat’s raw. “I’m here, my love! I'm...aah!” What little breath you have left is knocked out of you when you’re swept up into the air. You look down to find the villagers growing smaller and smaller. You’re flying but how? “My queen. My treasure. You’ve returned” Yeosang beams, holding you close. The mere sight of him makes your head spin. The face of your love, heavy with hope and sadness, is the last thing you see before everything around you goes black.

“If anyone steps foot through these doors without my approval kill them!” Yeosang commands the soldiers lined up before him in the throne room. “If I have to do it myself I’ll send you into the afterlife with them!” In all his years as king Yeosang had never so much as raised his voice at his people. Admired for his gentle strength, the loss of you had filled him with a rage that burned wildly enough to destroy everything in his reach. And he'd done so, regrettably. In search of his love. In search of you. Word spread quickly that, in your absence, Yeosang had embarked on a rampage soaked with the blood of his enemies. “The Mad King” they came to call him, not to his face of course but he heard their whispers. “Gone, she is. He needs to accept it. Probably nothing but bone by now.” Yeosang never listened, he refused to. You would be together again. He'd accept nothing else.

The pitter-patter of a maid’s feet against the pearlescent castle floors provides some relief to the soldiers. “My king! My king!” she squeaks, nearly out of breath. Yeosang motions for his men to disperse, “What is it, Fern? The spiders again? I’ve told you, they work here. You must stop being so frightened of them.” “No, it’s the queen. I took her to the bath and she…” She carries on explaining but he’s already whipping through the halls in search of you. Bursting through the doors of the washroom he finds everything as it should be. The only peculiar thing is you, dripping wet before a mirror carved in cherrywood. Bubbles from your bath still gliding down your generous curves. Your back’s turned to the mirror, your attention fixed on the bruised, raised skin where your beautiful wings once were.

“They’ll never come back? Will they?” you say with enough despair to break him. Yeosang plucks a towel from a nearby hook, proceeding to dry you off. “In time” he sighs, working his way up from your feet to your calves, “Until then I’ll carry you wherever your heart desires.” Wrapping his arms around you, he releases the towel to lay his hands upon your wounds. His wings pulse, radiating a soft blue, as he massages the tension from the damaged muscle. “But you are as fierce, as exquisite a woman, as you were with them” he whispers, “And I swear that whoever has done this will feel your pain tenfold.” “When did you become so vengeful? Such a beast you've become” you coo, placing your hands on either side of his cheeks. Yeosang draws you in closer, resting his head on your shoulder.

He breathes you in as you pet wings and you can’t help but giggle at the way they shiver when you touch them. “What’s so funny?” he asks, his head popping up. You do your best to stifle your amusement, “Uhm, nothing. Nothing at all” A seriousness creeps across his handsome face, his lips suddenly meeting yours. “Do it again...” Never one to back down from a dare, you drape both arms over his shoulder, fingers lightly stroking his wings. “Do you have any idea how much I’ve missed you?” he asks between passionate kisses. You shake your head, heat rushing down between your legs as he presses his hardening arousal against you. “Show me…” Too entranced by his kiss to watch what you’re doing, you blindly tear at his clothes until not a single shred of garment separates you.

Cradling the back of your neck, he pulls away from your lips, kissing along your collarbone. “As you wish, my love” he hums against your chest, nibbling at your pillowy breasts. Bringing your legs around his waist, he brushes the tip of his cock against your tender bud and it’s your turn to shiver now. To rock back and forth along his length, the slick from your aching pussy soaking him from base to tip. “Yeo…Yeosang…so good” you moan, the friction setting off sparks in your system. Yeosang feverishly laps at your heaving breasts, tasting them as your chest rises and falls, your breaths growing shorter the more you grind down against him. “That’s it, darling. Use me to make yourself…mmm…feel good” he urges, tilting his hips so that his swollen head teases your entrance.

You catch yourself biting down on your own tongue, dragging your clit along his shaft, your walls already pulsing, desperate to be filled. “Inside of me. Please” you whine, hips stuttering, “Need you, Yeo…” He peaks up at you, your eyes glazed over, so needy. How could he refuse you? He raises his hips, fingers reaching between your legs to spread you wide for him, feeding you his cock painfully slow. He has to take his time with you. Feel the way your thighs tremble. The way your core contracts each time he goes the slightest bit deeper. Your low, soft moans in his ear are sweeter to him than his own pleasure. With every stroke your sounds grow fractured, those sparks having grown into full blown fireworks, setting off within your very essence. Yeosang grabs you by the hair, thrusting into you with such force that all thoughts of anything else leave your mind.

Any words you say are incoherent, your limbs moving as they wish. You are in heaven. The pressure builds. Unbearably strong. Dominating your senses. “Fall apart with me” he whispers, lovingly palming your scars, “I will carry you always. I promise.” “Aah…I…I…” Whatever you meant to say escapes you, your high crashing against you like the roaring tides of some vast ocean. The waves are unforgiving, taking more and more of you each time. Steadying your weakened body against his, he buries himself into your depths, your walls clenching around him, hitting just the right spot to trigger his own release. His seed gushes into your womb, warm and sticky, marking you as his own for the first time since your wedding night.

Struggling to catch your breath, you collapse onto his chest, suddenly aware that you’re no longer vertical. You tilt your head to the side to find that the floor might as well be worlds away. You’re…on the ceiling. “You…have to…warn…me…” You attempt to scold him but can’t focus with him still grinding into you the slightest bit, filling you to the point of overflow. “But it’s so much fun not to” he teases, kissing you all over your face. “Cut it out” you giggle, not meaning a single word. “My king! Did you…” Fern starts, fluttering into the bathroom. She scans the washroom for a moment before looking up. “Oh my gods and goddesses!” she screams, startling Yeosang enough that you both fall from the air, his wings stopping you a mere inch from the ground. 

Throwing her hands over her eyes, she flees into the hallway shouting “I’ve seen nothing! Carry on!” You move to climb off of him but he won’t let you go, his arms still locked around your waist. “Do you mean to chase her in this state?” “I don’t know! I just…we’ve traumatized the poor thing.” you sigh, burying your face in his chest out of embarrassment. It’s been so long…too long…since he felt you curled up against him this way. “I love you so dearly, Y/N” he sighs, kissing the top of your head. You return the kiss to his shoulder, “And I, you, my king.” You curl up there, floating in the arms of your love. A nightmare behind you and a dream before you. After a long, perilous journey you are, at last, home.

#yeosang x reader #yeosang x y/n #ateez au #ateez x reader #chubby reader #plus size reader #ateez x y/n #yeosang au

[bignostalgias]

Hello!! Listen i have GOT TO KNOW what the White Winter Hymnal AU is about???

like??

It looks amazing?? The art is GORGEOUS and i am foaming at the mouth for more information about the story behind it!! And i LOVE the song by the Fleet Foxes!

But yeah pretty much im obsessed and i'd like to know more about what im obsessed about. Hope you're having a wonderful timezone and take care! <3<3<3

Thank you so much for the ask and interest in Hymnal!! ☺️❤️ it’s a slow burn of an au that’s mostly based on vibes and drawing/writing them has been so cozy for me. Have a wonderful day/night as well!!

Gonna take the lazy route and post of screenshot of me summarizing it from a little earlier this week:

Aaaaand here’s a little snippet of how the forest Hymnal is set in feels:

The forest bordering the sturdy little hamlet of Berk was rich with wonder. This was known. The dark, twisting vines and roots of the wild ended shy of the ring of protective runestones, and if a vein was cut open, it seeped glittering green sap. When venturing past Berk’s protections — which should never be done alone — the sun-dappled ground of the forest was laden with moss and lichen, ethereally soft to the touch. On fortunate endeavors, gatherers returned with newborn lambs bundled in their arms, harvested like fruit from the branches of trees. However, as beautiful as it was, the wild threat the forest posed was ever present in the minds of Berk’s people. At night, lights twinkled from the depths, will o’ the wisps casting their lures. Bobcat yowls startled children from their slumber, mistaken for a human scream. The blinking eyes of wolves, reflecting torchlight, lurking between tree trunks. The forest was hungry and wanting and demanded to be satiated.

Every so often, it was.

Hiccup knew he worried his father, his friends, the farther he strayed from home, the longer he dared to be absent past sunset. How was he to tell them the once unnerving black eyes of birch trees were keeping careful vigil over him, that the bracken and tangled foliage gently parted for him instead of barred his path?

It was well known that to avoid losing ones way, a warrior must wear his tunic inside out, watch where he stepped for stray sods, and never trust trails of weathered cairns.

Hiccup had trouble recalling the last time he’d been lost.

Eventually when Hiccup is out exploring with Toothless he meets Jack, and the plot gets ✨homosexual✨

Something something something, Jack gets his head popped off and this short comic is the result

But wahoo everything turns out fine in the end!

And here’s Kai’s extremely lovely post-canon drawing of them recovered and happy 🥹

❄️ the entire hymnal tag ❄️

#mine #white winter hymnal au #q

[romione-trope-fest]

Magic Matches

Fic title: Magic Matches

Author: KateNotEight

Selected trope: Muggle AU, soulmates

Brief summary: An innocent lunch turns into a night to remember - follow how Harry and Ginny take Ron’s love life into their own hands and turn it upside-down. It’s some speedy business hosted by the most charming douche in existence. Ladies and gents, are you ready to find your Magic Match?

Word count: 3979

Rating: M (language)

PART 1 - Humbugs, glitter, tosser… what?!

The cobblestone street was bathed in a kaleidoscope of warm hues as the setting sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden glow upon the facades of quaint shops and inviting cafes. The sound of muffled laughter and clinking glasses mingled in the air, creating a lively atmosphere as patrons celebrated the end of the workweek. Two redheads engaged in enthusiastic banter descended the stairs of one such charming cafe. They were momentarily interrupted by the abrupt closing of the door behind them, prompting a sheepish wave from the black-haired man who held the doorknob. He sighed in frustration, but as soon as the taller redhead tousled his hair, his smile resurfaced and they stepped onto the pavement together.

Harry threw one arm around Ginny’s shoulders, his glasses perched on the edge of his nose, catching the fading sunlight with a glint. He then extended his other arm around Ron, his other favorite redhead.

“Need some love, Potter?” Ron chuckled, stumbling slightly at the odd angle his much shorter mate forced upon him, playfully jabbing him in the ribs.

“Always,” Harry winced, then bobbed his head against Ron’s before releasing him to envelop Ginny in a tight hug.

“Oi!” Ginny intervened, her eyes darting between the two.

“You know I love him better,” Ron jabbed, wiggling his eyebrows at his irked sister.

“Idiot,” Ginny laughed, shaking her head, and pulling her sleeve up to check the time.

“So, where to next?” Ron clapped his hands with enthusiasm, surveying the buzzing street in search of a suitable pub. “Lunch was fantastic. Drinks on me?”

Ginny and Harry exchanged glances. Harry opened his mouth to respond but let out a sigh instead, scratching his head. The trio stopped at the red lights of the pedestrian crossing, cars rushing past them, mirroring the vibrant pace of the weekend. 

“Since you brought up the topic of love -” Harry’s eyes sought Ginny’s for help, but she only pursed her lips in reply, urging him to continue. 

“The topic of what now?” Momentarily confused, Ron narrowed his eyes at Harry just as the lights turned green and Harry attempted to divert attention by nodding towards the other side, but Ron crossed his arms defiantly. People brushed past them, but Ron was rooted into the sidewalk like a lamp post, glaring at his best mate and sister.

“Not this again,” He hissed knowingly, unfazed by the crowd elbowing him in passing, “You two… I swear, if this another lame attempt to set me up on a blind date - ”

“It’s not a blind date!” Harry defended, nearly spilling an old lady’s shopping bag when he raised his hands in defense.

“A-ha!” Ron exclaimed, pointing an accusing finger at him, while Harry mumbled his apologies.

“You two are impossible,” Ginny interrupted, throwing her head back in exasperation. She then pulled both of them by the sleeves towards a nearby bus stop, away from the chaotic street crossing.

“Here is the thing, dear brother,” Ginny began, pushing her long hair back, a clear sign that she meant business, “The wedding is in a month - just one bloody month and -”

“Ginny, come on - ” Ron drawled, rolling his eyes, but Ginny lifted a hushing finger at him and Ron let out an exasperated sigh.

“Don’t interrupt me, because behind this carefree facade,” she gestured at her face, “is a raging bride-to-be who almost murdered the florist yesterday,” Ginny chirped, tapping her foot nervously. 

“Very true,” Harry mumbled, staring at the most interesting patch of chewing gum on the sidewalk. 

“Guys, I don’t know why this is such a big deal?! Why can’t I just bring some rando or even better - come as I am - single?” Ron shoved his hands deep into his jacket pockets, his long fringe falling into his eyes, and Ginny readily pushed it aside, cupping her brother’s face.

“Because you are the best man and you need a decent date, but most importantly - I refuse to endure Mum’s rant during my fucking wedding - don’t think she didn’t see you disappear with Fleur’s bridesmaid during the speeches, you randy git,” She pinched his cheek and Ron swatted her hand away.

“She did, huh?” Ron chuckled, exchanging a cheeky look with Harry.

Snapping her fingers in front of his face, Ginny redirected Ron’s attention back to her, “Listen here you big prat - be a good brother and do this for me. Do this for us,” Ginny elbowed Harry who cleared his throat and put on a serious face, “It’s not such a big ask, mate.”

“Fine,” Ron grunted with a shrug.

“Promise?” Ginny extended her hand and Ron took it, “Yeah, yeah, promise.”

“So, where are we going?”

“Oh, Ron… I don’t want to spoil all the fun,” Ginny grinned, turning on her heel, and walking back to the street crossing. Harry quickly pulled Ron to follow.

“Just so you know,” Harry whispered with an apologetic smile, “This was all her. I had nothing to do with it.”

“And yet, I have a peculiar feeling you didn’t put up a fight for me, mate.”

“I just want to survive this wedding.”

“Harry Potter - did I or did I not try to warn you that fateful night at college?” Ron poked.

“You did,” Harry elbowed him, recalling the party when he first met the baby sister. 

Ron glanced at his best mate’s infatuated expression and chuckled. Despite the copious amounts of liquor they had consumed, with Ron’s most basic judgment totally clouded - he couldn’t shake the certainty that Harry was smitten right away.

“Well, let me return the favor - just do as she asks. Just… Play along and we’ll both get out in one piece,” Harry pleaded.

“Bloody hell, what did I just sign up for?” Ron laughed as they scanned for Ginny. She was waiting for them on the other side of the street, tapping her golden wristwatch impatiently, eyebrows raised at Harry. 

“Oh, you’ll see,” Harry replied and they hurried across to join Ginny.

“I’m not sure if you’re being cryptic for dramatic purposes or think I might still bail,” Ron lowered his head so only Harry could hear as they approached his sister.

“Nearly there!” Ginny said in a sing-song voice, looping her arms around both men, particularly tight around her brother’s waist. They strolled down the street, passing closed shops and several pubs, and Ron glanced at them almost longingly. 

“What if the love of my life is waiting for me in one of these pubs?”

“She can wait a tad longer - right now you just need a respectable wedding date.”  

“And the women I usually date aren’t respectable?”

Harry and Ginny raised their brows at him simultaneously and Ron feigned shock, clutching his chest.

“Adding insult to my injured heart,” Ron sighed dramatically. 

Ginny snort-laughed, “No, no, no, the insult is to our intelligence when we need to engage with your shady bar bimbos.” 

“Oi! They’re not - “ Ron stopped mid-thought, looking up at the gray night sky, trying to recall the name and image of his last bar hookup.

“Honestly, mate, which one did you see more than once? Or in broad daylight for that matter?”

“Hold on, Harry, I’m thinking.”

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Ginny interjected, eyeing the building numbers on her right, then stopping abruptly, pulling the men with her.

“We’re here.”

“The Horace Slughorn Gathering Hall?” Ron read aloud, a surprised frown creasing his freckled forehead. Nestled between a second-hand furniture store and a shabby magic shop, the gathering hall commanded attention with its imposing exterior. Adorned with classic Victorian and Gothic elements, it exuded a timeless elegance that stood in stark contrast with its neighbors. It felt completely out of place, as did Ron.  

“You’ve been here before,” Ginny rolled her eyes at Ron’s befuddled expression.

“No, I haven’t.”

“Yes, you have! That Christmas party thing…Ugh, Harry, help me out here! We just started dating.”

“Ron, surely you must remember? The college event? When we started our apprenticeship at Whisp’s?!”

“Oh, yeah, right - that party. The Christmas shindig for the scholarship holders, the crème de la crème, the pick of the litter… No, Harry. I wasn’t invited to that exclusive soiree,” Ron scoffed, a wry smile playing on his lips.

“Let’s go inside, shall we?” Ginny’s voice went up a notch as she gestured toward the grand entrance of the building, silently signaling to Harry that it was time to coax Ron through the doors. 

“I was sure you - “ Harry started, ascending the flight of marble stairs alongside a hesitant Ron, but Ginny shot him a cautionary glare, causing Harry to awkwardly clear his throat instead of completing the sentence.

“Yeah, let’s get this over with,” Ron sighed.

Passing the heavy oak doors, the trio entered the lobby of the gathering hall where a vibrant poster, prominently displayed near the hall’s entrance, announced just what Ron had signed up for. Harry and Ginny stood beside him, barely suppressing amused giggles.

“Magic Matches -  Find Your Twin Flame Tonight…?!” Ron read aloud as he stopped in front of the poster, his expression a mixture of skepticism and mild disgust. He eyed the flashy design, complete with lit matches, burning hearts, chubby cherubs, and the promise of “a tasty love potion to set that spark into motion”. 

“You two have got to be kidding me,” Ron turned his head to the tickled pair who were clearly having way too much fun on his account. 

“All paid for. Your name tag is on the drinks table,” Ginny chirped, biting back a grin.

“I hate you both so much,” Ron laughed, scanning the rest of the event’s details, “Wait, what?! Gilderoy Lockhart? Gilderoy Lockhart?! That over-inflated, self-proclaimed “Romance Wizard” mum yaps about with Audrey and Fleur?”

“The one and only,” Ginny nodded.

“This is by far the worst you’ve come up with,” Ron shook his head with raised eyebrows, then combed his long locks back with his fingers. The idea of attending a speed dating event orchestrated by the sleaziest of sleazebags in the self-help section, with its promises of sparks flying and love potions, seemed utterly preposterous to Ron.

“Desperate times, dear brother, desperate times,” Ginny tittered, eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. 

“I could’ve used at least one shot of tequila, you bastards.”

“In you go,” Harry pushed Ron’s back as Ginny opened the hall’s door, “You’re going to miss the introduction.”

“Oh no, we wouldn’t want that, now would we?” Ron quipped, rolling his eyes as he practically glided into the hall. His sneakers squeaked across the polished stone, his steps betraying a determined effort to resist the surroundings.

Stepping across the threshold felt like entering an alternate reality - a scene straight out of a cheesy romance film where the set designers just said “fuck it” and threw in every leftover item from the discount store’s Valentine’s Day clearance. The entire hall was an assault to the senses - from the gaudy heart-shaped streamers dangling from the ceiling in garish shades of pink and red to the twinkling fairy lights, strung haphazardly along the walls, flickering erratically, casting an uneven glow across the room. 

Tables, arranged in neat rows at the center of the hall, were adorned with an eclectic mix of centerpieces, ranging from glitter-drenched roses to plastic cupids poised for action. And just when one thought it couldn’t get any tackier, there it was - a life-size cutout of the “Romance Wizard” himself, standing proudly in front of a small podium where a microphone, adorned with heart-shaped balloons, awaited the evening’s host.

“This is surreal,” Harry sniggered, his eyes roaming the room while Ginny’s hands flew up to stifle her laughter. 

“Yes,” Ron nodded solemnly, hands on his hips, “This is the place where I shall meet my future wife.”

As if on cue, all three burst into a fit of giggles, only calming down when they began attracting the attention of the crowd.

“It’s not that bad,” Harry attempted, but Ron’s head tilt and offended expression made him retract his statement immediately.

“It’ll be the most confusing story for the kids,” Ginny laughed, interlacing her fingers with Harry’s.

“It will all be indefinitely better once I find the… Aha - drinks table!” Ron sighed with relief as his gaze finally fell upon the refuge spot of the numerous participants already sipping on plastic champagne glasses amidst the chaos of the tacky event. Clutching their flutes, they huddled together in small groups, engaging in awkward small talk and covertly scanning the room for potential matches.

“Well, I can take it from here, guys. Thanks for dropping me off at this pink inferno of pure desperation. I will text you when I’m done,” Ron said, turning and shoving Ginny and Harry towards the exit. 

“Decent, Ron! Find a decent lady! We beg of you!” Ginny tittered, pressed against Harry who tripped over his own feet from the force of Ron’s push.

“The worst I can find Gin, I promise,” Ron taunted, closing the heavy door into their faces.

“Fuck me,” Ron grunted, turning on his heel, making a beeline towards the drinks table, avoiding the other attendees effortlessly. 

He managed to gulp down one drink before the spotlight illuminated the center of the podium, announcing Lockhart’s arrival. The crowd erupted in enthusiastic applause, and Ron swiftly polished off another glass of strawberry-infused champagne, blinking away the tickling surge of bubbles in his nose. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” The announcer’s squeaky voice brought silence upon the room along with a dash of nervous anticipation, “Prepare to be dazzled by the one, the only, the Wizard of Romance himself -  Gilderoy Lockhart!”

Decked out in a tailored suit that glimmered under the bright lights, Lockhart sauntered onto the stage with the confidence of a peacock strutting into a henhouse. His jacket, a shimmering spectacle of sequin and satin, practically screamed the title of his autobiography. A bright pink tie adorned with sparkling jewels completed the ensemble and Ron reached for another glass, cursing under his breath.

“Welcome to the most spectacular speed dating event you’ve ever witnessed! Welcome to Magic Matches! Prepare to embark on a journey of romance and enchantment, guided by none other than yours truly,” Lockhart spread out his arms, his voice dripping with saccharine charm. His golden tan, resembling an uneven coat of orange paint, seemed to gleam even brighter under the spotlights. As he bowed deeply, flashing his trademark smile, which could have lit up a room even in a power outage, he dazzled the front row with its brilliance. “So gather ‘round, my lovelies, and let the potent magic of love light up the hall!”

Stopping briefly for dramatic effect, Lockhart paraded across the podium, eyeing his adoring fans before he continued, “All of you who’ve read my book certainly know this is a patented method with a staggering success rate, and tonight you shall all be a part of it! As for the rules… Gents, this will be your night in the seats, but ladies, do not fret,” Lockhart drawled, winking at the women in front of him, “Because you will be holding the reins.”

“So, gents, Candy and Misty here,” Lockhart continued, gesturing at two nearly identical blondes in vibrant red bodycon dresses, “will provide you a list with the names of five ladies you’ll meet in the first round. Your mission is to circle two ladies you’d like to reconnect with in round three. Ladies, you’ll receive a list of corresponding gents and cue cards, each with a question tailored for every gentleman. Your task is to assign one question per gentleman. Their responses will decide which two gentlemen you’ll have the pleasure of getting to know better in round three. During the break, we shall determine the Magic Matches for every one of you love-seeking voyagers, navigating the treacherous seas of romance with our trusty compasses of compatibility.”

“Magic and pirates. Now, that’s a porn plot if I’ve ever seen one,” Ron mumbled into the rim of his glass, eliciting a snort of laughter from a nearby brunette with wild, curly hair. Before he could steal a proper glance, a scented slip was thrust into Ron’s hand, guiding him to a designated table. Amidst a whirlwind of instructions and a shower of pink confetti signaling the start of the event, Ron found himself face to face with a poised blond, her vacant gaze framed by arched brows. 

“Lavender. But friends call me Lav,” She snapped, “And my eyes are up here.”

“I - I was looking at your name tag - uhm - sorry, when the hell did we start?” Ron stammered, turning around in his chair, the brunette’s image still lingering in his mind.

The bodacious blond ignored him, eyes fixed on her card, “Can you improvise a little love poem to ent - entra - ”

“Enthrall?” Ron sighed, turning back to the blond, already annoyed. 

“Yeah that, to enthrall your beloved?”

“Sure,” Ron said with a forced smile, brushing confetti off his sleeves, “Roses are red, violets are blue, … blond is blond, and there’s nothing you can do…”

Lavender gasped and narrowed her eyes at Ron, her glossy lips pursed with contempt.

“..in terms of color or hue,” Ron finished, a wicked grin spreading across his face.

“Tosser!” Lavender exclaimed, striking an emphatic “x” across Ron’s name before storming off, her cheap black purse swinging indignantly.

Before Ron could properly revel in his wit, another blond took Lav’s place, prompting him to groan as he looked up at the excited woman in front of him. She was about to open her mouth when Ron noticed her Celine Dion-themed T-shirt and wrinkled his nose in disdain.

“Nope. My heart will not go on, sorry. Hard pass.”

The woman - Penelope according to her tag - echoed Lav’s sentiment, branding him a tosser as well, and Ron briefly considered adding the moniker to his name tag. 

“Decent women, my ass,” He mumbled, casting a critical eye over the other tables where hopeless men and women were engaged in animated conversation with potential matches. However, as far as he could tell, the same women that he usually picked up in bars were now trying their hand at speed dating.

“Hello,” A nasal voice interrupted Ron���s thoughts and he shifted his attention to the raven-haired woman dressed in a very revealing zebra-striped blouse taking a seat across from him. 

“Hi there,” He smiled, eyes roaming past the name tag, lingering there for a moment. 

“Pansy,” She said simply and Ron pointed at his tag, “Ron.”

Pansy cleared her throat and turned the card in hand, “Finish the sentence - the ultimate first date must-watch is … ?”

“Magic pirate porn?” Ron gibed, biting his lips, barely suppressing laughter.

“Men,” Pansy rolled her eyes and began to push her chair back, evidently ready to leave.

“Oh, come on Pansy, don’t give up on me yet! I can change!” Ron called after her but his plea fell on deaf ears.

“Seems like I’m pants at this… Oh, hello,” Ron mumbled, sitting up straight as the fourth lady walked up to him.

“You seem to be driving them away on purpose,” she remarked, a coy smile playing on her lips.

“Just testing their sense of humor, I assure you,” Ron chuckled, “Parvati, is it?”

“Yes, indeed,” Parvati confirmed, adjusting her long silky hair over her exposed shoulder, “And? Any luck… Ron?”

“Not really, no. But, hope remains,” Ron winked and Parvati chuckled before she leaned over the table, beckoning him to come closer.

“Listen, you seem like a decent enough guy, so I’ll tell you the truth - I’m very much gay and only here to appease my mother,” Parvati whispered, gesturing discreetly toward an older lady lingering at the back of the room.

“Shame. We could’ve had the cutest kids,” Ron joked, then glanced at her mother again, ”It’s none of my business, but I strongly suggest you ditch the mother after this and go snog a beautiful girl.”

“Same goes for you, I guess,” Parvati giggled, squeezing his hand as she took her leave, “Good luck.”

With a resigned sigh, Ron slumped back in his chair, rubbing his temples. “One more to go,” Ron muttered, running a hand through his hair, and inhaling deeply. The chair scraped over the marble and Ron slowly lifted his head.

“Time to shine,” He mumbled to himself.

And there she was. The curly brunette.

“Magic and pirates porn!” She exclaimed and Ron detected a hint of sarcasm. 

“Hey there again,” Ron waved, giving her a quick once-over as she settled into her seat. 

“Nice to meet you”, The woman glanced at his name tag, then quickly sought his eyes again, “… Ron.”

Ron stared at her tag, frowning, eyes darting between the tag and her hazel eyes. His fingers tapped nervously against the table as he tried to process her name, “Nice to meet you too, Her - uhm - …”

“Hermione. It’s from Shakespeare,” She replied in a slightly annoyed tone. 

“Ah, right, that would’ve been my second guess.”

“Really? And your first?”

“A fierce feminist made-up name conjured to ward off pompous twats and ax murderers.”

“Huh,” She sighed, crossing her arms and leaning on the table, conveying a sense of mild exasperation.

“You’ve definitely got the flannel vibe going,” She observed. 

Ron looked down at his blue and green plaid shirt, “That’s a bit stereotypical, don’t you think, Hermione?” Ron tutted, mirroring her stance, “Who’s to say I’m not a flannel-loving pompous twat?”

“I’d prefer the ax murderer. Anything to end my suffering here,” Hermione huffed, her fingers deftly undoing the top button of her prim and proper blouse.  

“Well then, let’s make it quick. You’re the last on my list for this round. If you get on with the question, we can both get hammered before round two?”

“Solid plan. Here goes: Ron,” She looked up at him with a mischievous glint in her eyes and Ron shifted in his seat, giving her his full attention. 

“Oh, this is like a super important one… Maybe the most important question in one’s love life,” Hermione began in a mock-serious tone.

“I hope you got my ring size right,” Ron fanned his face, feigning excitement, “Won’t you get down on one knee?”

“Hey, do you want to get those drinks or not?” Hermione asked, barely suppressing laughter, tapping the table with the question card.

“Ok, ok, I’m - “ Ron pulled his fingers across his lips, pretending to zip them shut, allowing her to continue. 

“Alright… Ron…Do you… believe … in… soul mates?”

Ron arched a brow at her and they held each other’s gaze for a moment before bursting into boisterous laughter.

“I’ve got to say,” Hermione began when their laughter subsided, “You’re actually the only one who managed to make me laugh tonight,” Hermione admitted, a genuine smile softening her features. “And pique my interest ever so slightly.”

“Were the other guys pompous twats?” Ron nodded knowingly.

“Pompous twats barely covers it,” Hermione quipped, scanning the other tables.

“Say… Hermione,” Ron tilted his head, his voice betraying a hint of nervousness. He hesitated for a moment, eyes set on hers - appreciating not only her sharp wit but also the subtle curve of her lips as they formed each clever remark. His pulse racing, Ron found himself marveling at her slightly frizzy curls, framing features that were as captivating as they were inexplicably familiar. 

“Do you want to get out of here?”

Hermione’s eyes widened, a flicker of surprise dancing across her face, but she met his gaze with a small, knowing smile. For a moment, neither of them spoke - the question hanging in the air between them.

Hermione’s finger traced the chipped line along the plastic cherub’s wing as she pondered her response. The air seemed to crackle with tension, each passing second loaded with possibility and uncertainty.

Then, with a confident smirk that elicited goosebumps on Ron’s arms, Hermione finally replied.

“Your place or mine?”

#submission #muggle AU #romione

[floatysparrowthing]

Sooooo I spent all day reading Nakahara’s poetry and then I got home and spent several more hours taking his poems apart stanza by stanza to, essentially, collage them into five poems that suit the Chuuya in my fic

Truly, hyperfixation at work right there.

I tweaked words here and there to suit my AU better, but most of it is from Nakahara’s poetry

This one, which I haven’t named yet, is Chuuya writing from the perspective of himself if Dazai successfully took his own life

(To be clear, Dazai isn’t going to die in my fic, it’s Chuuya going through the what if of it.)

I.

I’m quietly drinking;

remorse on remorse, and I feel unsettled.

Dark remorse, always lingering remorse.

Filled with stupid laughter, my past

soon became tearful darkness,

soon became deep-rooted fatigue.

My heart always sinking in mourning thoughts.

— Once lost, things never return.

II.

Well then, goodbye, you said,

unusually full of smiles, with something of a brassy glitter,

and then out you went by that door.

Gone at last, that boy,

I wonder what you’re doing now.

Gone at last, that boy,

I wonder if you’ll come back soon.

That smile somehow wasn’t the smile of a living person, you see.

III.

You knew you were going to die?

When you looked at the stars, you said laughing

that the stars would become you, only recently

Only recently, you said of your shoes, ‘these certainly aren’t mine.’

You trusted me completely, confided in me completely,

your heart was the color of an orange;

that tenderness did not overflow,

nor did it cringe away.

I forgot everything I was doing;

that time was the only time I savored.

You remembered trivial things down to the last detail.

Humanity, too,

was in the end just the color of an orange…?

IV.

A summer night’s star, even now

visible far off in the sky, even now.

Despite that, my truly desolate heart,

night after night, alone in an empty room,

thinking thoughtless thoughts, monotonous,

my humble heart’s duet…

Because I am used to this, I can endure;

since this loneliness is distressing, without

knowing, in a way accidentally,

come flowing tears, not the tears of love…

Then, in short, it’s a question of passion.

If I’m angry from the bottom of my heart, let me be angry!

Then my anger,

even before my ultimate aim,

I will never, never neglect it!

Society, as you indulge of gloomy filth;

do not wake me up again!

I now will try to endure solitude,

my arms already seem like useless things.

There’s something about the night sky,

something that makes me feel wretched.

#soukoku #skk #chuuya nakahara #nakahara chuuya #bsd #osamu dazai #dazai osamu #and tumblr formatting doesn’t make it any easier; at least on mobile anyway #ahhh I’m still figuring out the formatting since it is several poems collaged together

[cheerycherrycandy-resurrected]

A Very Midwest Emo Yuletide

I didn't intend on posting this on Christmas, but here we are! Oh and hi @alwaysjustmina I believe I promised you this...

Found-family Yuletide meal, set in the Midwest Emo Ghouls AU. Mountain and Swiss are hosting the annual Yuletide meal and everyone's invited, even a special guest from New York...

Some Ghroup Yuletide meal found family fluff, not at all inspired by my uni-reunion-christmas-meal last weekend.

Rating: General wc: ~ 1600

Read below the cut or on AO3!

For the Midwest Emo AU, when there's multiple career hcs on the tag I chose my favorite, likewise sorry for any Britishisms. I’m saying this has the same “US-UK-hodgepodge" vibes as Sex Education did on Netflix...

“Give me a hand, Mount!” called Swiss, as he dragged a freshly-felled fir tree through the door. As always he’d left it to the last minute and, as always, he’d overestimated the size of tree they could realistically fit inside their low-ceilinged farmhouse on the edge of town.

Mountain chuffed in amusement, drying his hands on his apron, before helping Swiss bully the tree into a somewhat-upright position in the corner, into the holder he had made many years previously.

“Fewer squirrels still living in it this year then, Snapdragon?” Mountain laughed over his shoulder, bustling back to the kitchen end of the large room.

“I can’t promise!” Swiss paused to re-tie his boots, before grabbing a bucket and heading back out the door to dig up the root vegetables he had held back specially for their Yuletide feast. Almost everyone was coming this year, and they were sure to be hungry.

“Where are we on the schedule then Mounty?” asked Aurora, her rolled-up sleeves the only part of her not dusted in flour or icing of some kind. She bent down to glare at the cake she had in the oven, daring it not to rise.

“We’re making good time Ror, the Turkey’s ready to go in as soon as your cake is finished, I’ll make pigs-in-blankets later, then it’s just potatoes, parsnips, carrots, and sprouts as soon as Swiss is done. Have you heard how the girls are getting on this morning?”

“Lulu says Cirrus filled the car with bottles last night so we’re good for drinks, and she already made a Yule log and a plum pudding yesterday, and a trifle this morning!”

“Everything’s going to plan then. I hope Dew’s given Rain time to prepare everything they’re bringing…”

Across town, Rain was indeed pushed for time, thanks to his rather stressed husbands buzzing around his head all morning. He was incredibly grateful he’d made the stuffing and cranberry sauce the night before; he was running behind finishing his nut roast, and hadn’t even started on the cauliflower cheese yet. Dewdrop was panicking about his upcoming Yuletide sermon, a yearly occurrence (both the panicking and the sermon), and Phantom had somehow managed to lose all of the craft materials he needed for the youth club event he was running at the church with Sunshine.

When their doorbell rang, immediately followed by several loud knocks signalling Sunny’s characteristic impatience, Rain had breathed a sign of relief. She had whisked Phant away for the day, reminding him that she had all the construction paper and glitter, and promising to be at Swiss and Mountain’s on time for the meal later. Rain was glad she was driving, last year he’d still been vacuuming glitter out of his car in April. Sunny taught pre-K at the local school, and since the school term had already ended, she and Phantom were running an extended youth group session for the children and kits who’s parents had to work today. She had been over at the youth pastor’s house several nights this week already, trying to teach him how to make pipe-cleaner Yule goats.

Now just Dew remained, and Rain was splitting his time between packing his nut roast into a pan, and reassuring Dew that yes, his sermon’s message was clear, no it wasn’t boring, yes he would still love him if it went badly, and no he’s not fed up with him talking about it, and nor is Phantom. Eventually, he stuffed a wooden spoon into his hand, and told him to get stirring the cheese sauce while the cauliflower steamed.

Back at the farmhouse, Aurora’s cake was cooling on the side and the turkey was in the oven. Swiss had returned with enough vegetables to feed a small army which he was busy washing and chopping to roast with honey from his bees later. Mountain and Aurora were hurriedly decorating the tree, hanging almost a decade’s worth of decorations made and gifted to them by Mountain and Swiss’ scout troop. Cirrus and Cumulus were due to arrive any minute, and the hosts wanted their home to feel suitably festive before they put them to work helping to finish dinner.

“Ding dong!” trilled a voice entering through the open kitchen door. Cumulus bustled in, arms laden with goodies. “Cir’s just backing the car up.”

“Hey Lus, good to see you!” Swiss moved to pull her into a hug, remembering at the last minute to put down the large knife he was holding first.

“Lulu! My dessert queen!” squealed Aurora as she ran back into the kitchen, her socked feet sliding on the flagstone floor. She narrowly avoided toppling into Cirrus, bags clinking with bottles that no doubt promised a good time once they returned from church that evening. “Oh, hi Riri, did you bring the lavender syrup from the bar?”

“Let her breathe first, Petal.” Mountain also re-entered the kitchen, and laid one of his large and gentle hands on Aurora’s shoulder.

“Hello Rory, everyone, happy Yule!” setting the bags gently on the floor, Cirrus deftly extracted a small purple bottle from one of them. “Lavender syrup, m’lady”.

“Amazing, thanks Cir! Lu, will you help me taste the frosting for my cake? I don’t want to add too much lavender, I can’t feed Mist soap cake!”

Biting back a smile, Cumulus let herself be dragged over to the still cooling cake, and the bowl of frosting waiting next to it. Aurora and Her Yule Cake had been a much discussed topic all week: Aurora’s not-at-all-subtle crush on Mist, the ghoulette who owned the town’s small record shop, was not as secret as she may have hoped. After their last run-in at the coffee shop Rory worked in, during which Mist had briefly mentioned that her favourite cake was an Earl-Grey and lavender concoction she’d had in her art student days, Aurora had been obsessed with the idea of making it for their Yule celebration. Mist wasn’t due to arrive until later in the day, as she lodged in Zephyr’s spare room and had promised them and Omega a lift out to the farm straight after they finished work at the local GP surgery.

Mountain pottered back over to check on the turkey, and hummed in satisfaction at what he saw. He began loading Cumulus’ desserts into the fridge, before pulling out sausages and bacon to assemble Phantom’s favourite Yuletide trimming.

The next to arrive were Rain and Dew, both looking somewhat frazzled, arms loaded with foil-covered trays. Separately and silently, the pair dumped their offerings on the counter before beelining for the fridge for a drink to de-stress. Mountain snickered and shook his head at them fondly, before putting Rain’s nut roast into the oven and removing the turkey to rest. There was a reason Rain, Dew and Phantom never hosted Yule, after all.

Phantom and Sunny showed up a while later, both with hair full of glitter and even some in Phantom’s eyebrow. The children and kits from the youth church group had made them their annual Yuletide decorations, which they hung on the tree with Cirrus. Phantom proudly showed off his best attempt yet at a Yule goat to Dew, the horns almost even this time.

Last to arrive, as expected, were Omega, Zephyr and Mist, Omega still loosening his festive tie as he walked in the door and trading it with Swiss for a beer. Aurora was very glad she had changed her flour-dusted outfit after her baking escapades: Mist had clearly put in effort, her short shock of icy platinum hair meticulously styled to look effortless. As she laid a cool hand on Aurora’s arm, wishing her a happy Yuletide in her low, soft voice, Aurora had blushed almost as red as the sequins on her dress.

Eventually, Swiss managed to wrangle everybody into a mis-match of seats around the table, and Mountain led the charge of serving up the food. In a flurry of plates, side-dishes and serving spoons, everybody soon had a plate piled high with their annual Yuletide feast.

Just as Mountain was taking the final seat, there was a knock at the door. While the others shared confused glances, Mountain and Swiss exchanged a knowing look.

“Get the door would you Dew? You’re closest.” asked Swiss.

Dew huffed and rolled his eyes, but there was no heat behind it. He moved to the door, throwing it open to meet a pair of warm, violet eyes above a soft and almost sheepish grin.

“Aether!” he had all-but shrieked, throwing himself into the larger ghoul’s chest with such force he almost pushed him straight back out the door.

“Hey there Firefly, Happy Yule.” Aether brought large arms up to encircle Dew in a hug, slowly walking them far enough into the house to close the door.

“Glad you made it Aeth!” Swiss smiled, clapping him on the shoulder as he pulled another chair up to the table, squeezing it in between his and Dew’s.

“Just in time too!” Mountain placed a hastily filled extra plate of food in front of the new chair, and leaned over a still-attached Dewdrop to gently knock horns with Aether. Aether deposited Dew back into his seat before taking his own, exchanging greetings with the other ghouls, both old friends and newer.

After a very merry Yule feast, but before stuffing themselves further with dessert and cake – or getting lost to Cirrus’ lethal cocktails – they piled into a selection of cars to head to church, all of Dew’s nerves forgotten in the excitement of Aether’s return.

#midwest emo ghouls au #midwest emo ghouls #midwest emo ghouls <3 #I might edit this some later #dew/rain/phantom #mountain/swiss #aurora and mist circling each other and sniffing #ghost fanfiction #the band ghost fanfiction #the band ghost #em writes #nameless ghouls #ghost bc #ghost

[ectobabble]

Imposter made Moon a sweater and they're reading old-school fairy tales. Probably 'The Willful Child'.

The Imposter <- Please give a read if you can. ;n; I was gonna write a little blurb here but I'll spare you folks lol It's a slow burn mystery.

#fanfic #fnaf au #fnaf fanart #fnaf security breach #moondrop #fnaf moon #fnaf daycare attendant #daycare attendant moon #moon x reader #sun x reader #sun x y/n #moon x y/n #moon x oc #dca fanfic #imposter glitter roots

[etherati]

Taproot - (1/25)

To celebrate finally finishing this monster of a fic after 4 goddamned years, I'm going to be posting the full chapters here on Tumblr, serialized like in the olden days, to make it easier to digest a bit at a time. Expect an installment once a week. This is a sequel to Wellspring, and is a post-S2 AU with, at this point, established Trephacard--plus some historical flashbacks, family drama, bloody showdowns, and a lot of secrets waiting in the wings. And feels. All the feels. If you like those things--or, for reasons I cannot disclose at this time, dear old Leon Belmont--consider giving this one a spin.

Summary from Ao3:

Taproot (n): The oldest, most central root; that from which all else arises.

Every family has its roots, diving down into the shadowy, secretive earth--and there's no such thing as a bloodless inheritance.

🎵 Music pairing: The Old Ways - Loreena McKennitt

Next -- >

Go to part: one | two | three | four | five | six

Sunrise over the Black Sea—golden light spilling into the water like its own sort of glowing, glittering liquid, diffusing through the brine and illuminating it in hues of orange and amber and violet-pink—is one of the most beautiful sights the natural world has to offer. There are other striking sunrises to be had, and other bodies of water prone to making a person feel overwhelmingly small, but nowhere else do the two combine into such a spectacle, delighting the eyes even as it harrows the soul.

At least, nowhere else that Sypha has been, and she has been a lot of places.

She twists the end of her walking stick into the damp sand and gravel. This means that she’s close; she can tell by the particular mineral-laden smell of the salt and the angle of the light that she’s still a bit north of Enisala, but not by very far. There’s no shame in having arrived at the sea slightly off from her target. The only truly accurate navigation is by the stars—and the lingering presence of the night creatures and the winter’s bitter chill have had her travelling mostly with the sun.

Overhead, the keening cries of shorebirds as they dip and weave, coming in low to gather at the waterline, to pick over the tide pools and sandbars. The breakers beat the rocky shore, relentless. There’s a stark beauty to the place, to the way life struggles forward despite its days being filled only with further struggle. Tenacity. Tenacity, she understands, and all the spoils it brings.

This would be a lovely place to bring Adrian and Trevor to, she thinks; let them see this dawn, let the three of them roughhouse in the waves and drink sweet fruit wine in the sun and make love in the cool, damp sand once twilight settles in, all softness and blue-black shadows and the murmur of the tide. When the weather is warmer. When the sea is greener than it is grey, and the wind coming off of it doesn’t threaten to peel the skin from her face and hands. When they feel safe, leaving the castle unguarded for a while.

That time is, with certainty, not yet now. But she’s working on it. She’s still not gotten used to travelling alone, honestly hopes she won’t ever have to, but sometimes needs must. And that’s the entire point of this, of having to be away from them for so long.

She misses them—misses her family, too, but that’s an old ache that she’s grown accustomed to. Missing Adrian and Trevor is a different kind of hurt, sharp and fresh, made worse by knowing how badly they’re missing her in return. When she was growing up, travelling constantly on journeys measured in seasons, a month had felt like nothing. Now, it feels like an eternity.

There’s no snow and ice out here, this close to the water; there never is, in her experience, until you get to the deep, deep north. The sand is wet and the coarse stone crushed into it grinds under her staff. It’s blunt and thick, as writing implements go, and there’s no way to get any detail—and anyway, she’s no artist.

She still leaves a chunky, lopsided heart in the sand, as if marking the spot to return to later—as if the waves won’t wash it away mere hours after she’s left this place.

The sun is high overhead by the time the crumbling stone fortress of Enisala comes into view on the horizon. It feels wonderful, even if winter sun never warms one through the same way summer sun does; she drops her hood to bask in it, shifting her pack on her shoulders.

The ruins themselves are all beige-grey rock, the sky even more devoid of color, stormy and brooding. As she gets closer, though, she can see little pops of color all around the perimeter of the old fortress—blanket-draped caravans, colorful paper lanterns, artifacts of every culture the trains have come into contact with over the past year. Anything to make the space lively.

This place has always felt oddly significant to her—with its ruins that no one will claim ownership over, that seem to belong only to themselves, like slumbering giants from the birth of the world. Really, anywhere on the eastern edge of a landmass would do, for the Speakers’ winter solstice celebrations. But this is where her family group has always come, and so she knows she will find them here. For a week on either side of the solstice, many trains gather here in the sprawl of the mysterious ruins, and they eat and dance and share stories, all the stories of the year before, and Sypha knows she has a few that will make even the elders jealous.

She smiles to herself, framing the narrative in her head as she sets off down the narrow, meandering path to the gathering below.

“Sypha!” a familiar voice calls out, along with the clatter of scattered and dropped firewood; she’s barely made the edge of camp, is still lost in thought, but that voice would snap her out of just about anything.

“Kiri,” she oofs out, as the woman barrels into her, catching her up in a crushing embrace that’s more robes than anything else—layers and layers of them, to keep out the damp chill. Sypha hugs back just as hard; she’d been expecting her family and the others, the ones she’d watched leave Greşit all those months ago and then had to say farewell to again late in the spring. She hadn’t been expecting Kiri, Kiri who knows all her secrets and remembers what she looked like when she was young enough to go about with her hair unshorn, who she spent more time with growing up than she did her own family—throwing rocks into rivers and climbing trees and playing rough games with the boys. Testing every limit, challenging every rule, pushing for every wild dream.

Kiri, who’d been away from their clan for at least three years now, off studying the healing arts with the Ottoman scholars in the east when their own collective knowledge had proved insufficient for her. Three years that now feel like nothing—and isn’t it odd, how the friends of childhood are so often forgotten when the demands of adult life catch up, but the body never forgets what it’s like to hold them?

“I’m so glad you made it,” Kiri says, her face buried in Sypha’s hair. “My first Solstice back with our people and you weren’t here! I was getting worried.”

“What, did you think I would miss it?” Sypha asks, faux indignation through her own laughter. “Never.”

“Well, I’ve been told that you have your hunter, now,” Kiri says, pulling away, a sudden swell of distance blooming between them. No wonder—too often, Speakers who marry outside the tribe never quite find their way back. She and Trevor hadn’t been that to each other the last time she’d seen her family, had just been circling ever closer without quite making contact, but fair assumptions could be, and often were, made. “And your sleeping soldier?”

“Mm, yes,” Sypha says; it’s been a long time since she’s thought of Adrian that way, though he’s never stopped fighting for them. “But this is important, being here. And seeing everyone again! How have your studies been?”

Kiri’s eyes flash with excitement, bright against the wind-bitten redness of her cheeks; her skittishness evaporates in an instant. “It is incredible, Sypha! The things they know, in the south—the things they’ve kept track of, that others have forgotten. There is a book one man there has written on how to repair a person as if they were a torn garment or a broken wagon. It’s remarkable.” Adrian probably has a copy of that, somewhere in his mother’s medical library—if not, she’ll have to remember to track one down. “I understand why we do not record our stories, but after three years there, I wonder if we are foolish to not record knowledge itself? Raw knowledge I mean, the kind that is hard to frame in the context of a story.”

My people are idiots, she remembers saying, during that

interminable stay in the Belmont hold; she’s usually more inclined to be generous, but there’d been an infectious kind of frustration and cynicism they’d all been fighting, after a certain point. 

“I’ve wondered that, too,” she says now, far more diplomatic; the journey has done her outlook a lot of good. “About an entirely different body of knowledge! Not something that would be as useful as the medicine you’re learning, but yes—if having something written down can save a life, how can that be wrong?” 

“Don’t let the elders hear you say that!” Kiri admonishes, laughing.

Sypha blows a dismissive breath through her nose. “I am sure they already think I’m a terrible member of our tribe, just for raising a hand against the enemies of humanity. I cannot imagine their opinion of me can get much worse.”

Kiri throws an arm over her shoulder, pulls her in. “It’s not that bad,” she says, trying to be encouraging, but there's a tension there. “Our Sypha, the warrior of Wallachia. But I always knew you were destined for something special.”

Sypha frowns in thought, takes a few steps in silence. Did you? She wants to ask, and she wants to ask, Why?

Destined. Destiny is too large an idea, is the sort of thing that hovers around other people, people with remarkable families, with mysterious pasts. Sypha is a magician like any other Speaker magician; her father was the same, and his mother before him, and there is nothing unusual about any of it. These things run in families, and magic users are common, and sure, she'd gotten herself sucked up into an epic story because of it, but it could as easily have been another.

Couldn't it have?

Would another scholar of magic have done just as good a job? Would another magician have melded into the team as well as she did, have communicated in battle so effortlessly, have picked up the slack the other two dropped and protected them when they needed it? Could just any magician have snatched Dracula’s castle out of the aether like it was a feather on the breeze?

Would another Speaker have tossed aside the principles of a lifetime to stand up and fight, or is there really something dark and burning in her that sets her aside?

If there is, is that a good thing or a bad thing? Is that even the question to be asking?

“...how does it feel, to fulfill a prophecy?” Kiri asks, as they start to make their way toward the rest of the camp. It’s clear from the suddenly uncomfortable undercurrent in her voice that she’s not talking about the whole killing Dracula part; that story, her family has already heard, and it’s surely made the rounds. No—she’s talking about the rest of the prophecy. The part that’d had Sypha so uneasy clambering down into the catacombs and so defensive when she awoke there in the face of a hunter; the part that she’d like to believe any random magician would not have been able to fulfill.

“Strangely?” Sypha says, pitching her voice low. “Like I did have a choice in the matter.”

“Truly? You did not feel fate’s hand pushing the issue?” A pause, a few scuffing steps in the snow. Then, carefully: “Or another hand entirely?”

And oh, Sypha understands why her old friend is concerned, understands all too well given the way the world has sometimes treated their people. How non-Speaker men have often regarded them—worldly and experienced and incapable of ever saying no, as if rejection of the church’s self-loathing, oppressive morality somehow made them into succubi. But the implication is so absurd in context that she still laughs, conspiratorial. “No. My God. I had to push them. I thought I was going to go crazy.”

A smile then, more genuine. The tension drains out of the arm across Sypha’s shoulders. “What kind of heroic warriors are they, if they’re not fighting for the hand of maiden fair?”

“In what world, I wonder, would I be considered a fair maiden?” Sypha asks, smiling despite herself. Her robes are ragged with wear, her hair recently chopped short again, her feet swathed in cloth bandages beneath her sandals to keep out the cold. Fair indeed. But she knows that society outside of their caravans frames the world in certain ways. “And they were fighting with me, not for me.” 

“Still. Most would expect some sort of reward for saving the world—even if only from fate.”

Sypha shakes her head, remembering that sunrise through the castle doors, the way they’d all started drifting apart before she’d pulled them back together. Those first few hours of having no idea what to even do with themselves, in this tomorrow that they hadn’t expected to see. “We were all shocked to still be alive, in the end. I imagine that would be reward enough for anyone.”

Kiri looks to her feet, swallows. They walk in silence for a moment. It had, perhaps, been unfair to go into such dark territory—to invoke how close they’d all come to dying that night. But these are the stakes Sypha has gotten used to, the way she’s become accustomed to thinking of the world. Speakers don’t fight; they are always in danger from those who don’t understand them, but that is a danger that brings itself to one’s door. The memory of choosing to walk across an enemy’s threshold, certain she would not ever cross it again, is uniquely hers.

“If you met them,” she says, gently bringing the topic back around, “you would understand. They honestly are good men. They understand what trust and respect are.” And they have enough baggage to fill an entire wagon, between them both, but that’s not for her to say. She’s not so dense as to think that they’d been dragging their feet just to frustrate her. “They do respect me, and I had to do nothing extraordinary to earn it—only what I’m truly capable of. We are equals.”

“Enough so that they trusted you to make this journey alone,” says a voice from her other side, mild and gentle, and Sypha turns without thinking, throwing herself into her grandfather’s arms.

“My angel,” he says, stroking her hair, and as it always does, the endearment makes her heart clench up a little around something—something hard and painful, like a rock in her chest, that she has never understood.

She huffs a laugh against his robes, pushes through it. “It was more a matter of whether I trusted them to survive a month without me.” Kiri laughs then, and her grandfather does too, and it warms her to know, with this kind of certainty, just how lucky she really is.

“…and it was in this way that the houses were joined, the scorched land of one family and the usurped fortress of their oldest enemy, and from the ashes of tragedy and loss and centuries of discord arose the hope of an unexpected and brilliant future.”

A long silence, broken up by the crackle of logs in the fire, by the quiet rustle of voices from elsewhere in the camp. There’s no need to pronounce the end of a story here, not if one is half decent at telling it; Sypha knows that they are just letting it sink in.

“A remarkable story, more so even than the first telling, which we have all heard,” one of the elders says, one she isn’t familiar with. In front of the old woman’s feet, a pair of young children are still staring raptly at Sypha. The elder’s voice is warm, pleased. “It will be quite a thing to add to our memory stores. And quite a thing to know that one of our own played a role, in such a difficult time for our country.”

“One of ours, one of Dracula’s, and one of their own that they threw out,” says a young man a few places to Sypha’s left; his voice carries the twist of a smile. “I wonder how the church must feel, in the face of such irony.”

And oh, that’s a thought that has given Sypha much satisfaction over the last year—to be a fly on the wall when the heads of the church met to discuss what had happened!—but the old woman frowns. “I imagine they feel as though they nearly caused the extinction of all human life in Wallachia,” she says, a touch sharp. “Perhaps that is enough?”

One of the children at her feet giggles, a Look who’s in trouble kind of sound, and the man ducks his head. But he’s not in trouble. That isn’t how they do things. “Pardon me, Elder,” he says, “but I disagree. That they made a horrible mistake is knowledge that can fade or be downplayed over time. That they were saved by the very people they ostracized and cast out—that carries weight that cannot so easily be shrugged off. Even if we cannot share this with the rest of the people of Wallachia, that lesson should at least be preserved.”

Because it is about hubris as much as it is about blame, she can remember saying, after that first meeting they’d had with Acasă’s strange new church. Blame can be washed away with a convincing enough apology, and hubris will make the same mistakes over and over again. Both must be undermined if any progress is to be made.

It had been a hard sell. Adrian tends to want to place blame if only to have something to aim all of his anger and sadness at, now that he’s allowed himself to start navigating them; Trevor only wants the world to feel more just than it is. But in the end she’d brought them around: more needs to be done than to just rub the church’s nose in the mess it’d made.

Which is why they’d agreed, in the end, for her to finally tell the story in its entirety—nothing masked or obfuscated, no details left aside. Only for her people’s ears; a closed telling, a rarely invoked practice used when the full story needs preserving but would put the participants in danger, should it get out into the general populace. The people of Acasă are just now starting to truly accept Trevor for who he is; tolerating a witch and a vampire is a bit much to expect of them, just yet.

“For whatever it’s worth,” she says now, “as a participant in the story? I agree. How this was ended, and by who, is just as important as who started it in the first place. There are lessons in both of those things."

The elder regards her for a long moment, thoughtful. Then nods, just a tiny dip of her face into the firelight. “Very well. This story will sit alongside the previous version. The nature of Wallachia’s saviors is to be preserved, as a means of emphasizing the church’s shortsightedness and the need for it to not repeat that mistake.”

Sypha nods deeply, a long and slow dip of her head nearly to her knees. “My thanks, Elder. May your tribe live happily and well, in the coming year.”

“And yours.”

The crowd disperses, some going to hear or tell other stories, some retiring to their caravans for the evening meal. One figure stays nearby, hunched over a nearby fire, close enough to have heard her telling but not actually part of the group receiving it. In the fading light, the shape is just that: a shape, a silhouette, blue-black against the blue-white of the snow, limned in the cold violet light of sunset. They have a branch in their hands, are stripping it of its side-shoots methodically, tossing them one by one into the fire.

It’s a silhouette Sypha would know anywhere. 

“What stories have you to tell,” Sypha asks, settling down alongside her, the ritualistic question feeling strange in her mouth, “since this time last year?”

Kiri huffs a laugh. “None as exciting as yours. You’re a hard act to follow, Sypha.”

“You seemed excited about all the knowledge you’d gained, earlier.”

Twist, pull, snap. “That’s nothing, compared to having a grand destiny.”

“I still say that destiny is too strong a word. We basically fell down a hole.” 

“Directly into the vault of Greşit’s sleeping soldier. At precisely the time the three of you were most needed. That sounds like kismet to me.”

Sypha can’t help but laugh, remembering. “It felt more like incredible clumsiness, from where I was standing.”

“Falling.”

“From where I was falling, yes.”

A stretch of quiet, then, broken only by the crackling of the fire.

“So,” Kiri says after a while, tossing an entire handful of twigs into the flames. There’s a smile on her face but the firelight has turned it bitter, all shadows and edges. “Your soldier is a vampire.”

“Dhampir, really,” Sypha corrects, kneejerk. For so long, it’d been Trevor she was correcting, then after a while, Adrian himself; she’s used to being quick on the draw with it, because either of them saying vampire had generally been a sign of badness brewing.

Kiri breaks another few twigs free from the branch, twists them in her fingers. “I don’t know what that means.”

Right. Of course she doesn’t. “It means his mother was human.”

“Oh,” Kiri says, seemingly still not sure what to do with this information. “I knew that, I guess. From the story itself. I didn’t realize the distinction mattered.”

“Yes, it… it matters. A great deal. I do not think a true vampire would have ever sided with humanity.”

"Still. I wonder if I would have been able to guess, had we met in the summer instead of the winter."

Sypha plucks at the scarf around her neck, the wool scratchy but warm, dyed in a hundred vibrant colors. It’d come from the market in Acasă, knitted by an old blind woman, and had been a gift—gratitude for the work they’d done securing the town against the demon attacks. They had saved her son’s entire family, and gone home that night and celebrated it, a battle with no casualties save the demons themselves. She’s wearing it because of the cold, but she knows what Kiri is asking. "Perhaps."

A huff of breath. “So much for your gentle warriors.”

“You would probably be surprised,” Sypha says with a shrug, not even bothering to take offense on Adrian’s behalf, because she can tell this isn’t what Kiri’s actually upset about. Some people compare words to weapons, and it’s truer than they know; you can dodge and feint and mislead with them as well as you can with steel. “But that isn’t—Kiri. What’s going on?”

For a long moment, no reply. The fire cracks and pops, splitting the wood apart in a spattering of sparks. Kiri throws the whole branch into it like a spear, a hard burst of frustration.

“Taerna married, this summer,” she finally says, the words quiet. 

That stops Sypha cold, her fingers poised in mid-reach for a branch of her own. She curls them back up around the empty air, feels the nails bite into her palm. “She always said she would wait for you.”

“Why should she have bothered? We were only friends.”

“You were more than that.”

“She married,” Kiri repeats, short, face tightening as if to hold something inside. “Like all of my friends and sisters did. Marriage and children and… it’s all anyone does. We had plans. We were going to, to travel, and she was going to hunt our food and I was going to heal people and we were going to see the world together. But this is the only life anyone seems to care about.”

And even you’re going down that path, Sypha can hear, unsaid. You and your prophecy, your exiled hunter and your inhuman soldier. 

Sypha closes her eyes, takes a breath. “She cares about you.”

“She also cares about her hound.”

“She loves you,” Sypha says, insistent.

Kiri laughs, bitter, tears threatening. It’s like watching an old dam crumble, flawless limestone threading through with cracks and stress fractures, and then: an outrushing of things held back for far too long. “Not enough,” she says, curling forward over herself, arms tight around her belly. “Not more than she loved the idea of having a child. Not enough to be with me.”

“Oh, Kiri. I’m sorry,” Sypha says, threading an arm over her shoulders, pulling her in. “I’m sorry.”

“Do yours love you?” Kiri asks after a moment, muffled by the layers of robes. “Enough to change the world, to defy everything for you?”

Sypha thinks about Trevor punching Dracula in a ridiculous, suicidal attempt to keep him away from her, thinks about Adrian in her garden, enduring the sun to make her happy—about a castle and a watchtower and the ending of the story she’d told, and her grasp on her friend tightens. “They do. And each other.”

A laugh into her shoulder, rough and wet. “I’ve always thought it would be terrible, to be involved in a prophecy,” she says, barely audible. “I never thought I’d be so jealous.”

There’s a stream that runs past the ruins, a narrow but swift-moving current that cuts through the ground here like a knife. It leads into the tough, gnarled pines and firs that grow this close to the sea, into these dark and uninviting woods that are nevertheless filled with a thousand secret places.

Sypha follows it, as she always has, year after year. 

Things are different, this year.

She finds them by the water, bundled up and talking quietly. There’s a fire burning, but it’s been banked and allowed to subside down to embers, giving off heat but very little light. In the heavily filtered winter moonlight, they look like faery folk—Arn with his delicate, dignified features, Lily with the luminescent white bone beads threaded into hair the color of pitch, both of them beautiful and earnest.

They look up when she steps closer, their faces dark, shadowed. Painfully anxious.

She sits down on the ground, near to them, facing them. She is just as filled with anxiety. She has never done this, has no idea how to approach it—she knows they are not being blindsided like Kiri was, knows they have had time to adjust to the idea of this, but all she can see is her old friend’s face, broken up in grief over a friend-love she—and everyone else—had thought was something more. For once in her life, Sypha cannot find the words.

Then Lily smiles, the brilliant, passionate smile Sypha remembers, and holds out her hands, and Sypha lets herself fall into the woman’s arms, nearabout crushing her in the embrace.

“It’s all right,” she whispers, against Sypha’s ear. “You’ve found your loves. It was always bound to happen to one of us.”

Sypha nods against her, feeling the tears welling up. Turns to embrace Arn, the familiarity of his touch painful in this context, in knowing what she has to do.

“Are you set to marry?” Arn asks, quiet, solemn.

Sypha shakes her head. “I haven’t brought up the subject yet. There are a lot of complications—no human establishment would ever welcome us. But...”

“But you would like to.”

“Yes.”

“Will you come back to us then, for the ceremony?” Lily asks, and her voice sounds like the fear of paths diverging, not knowing if they will ever converge again. “Or even just to visit? You know there are none here who wouldn’t welcome all of you—or if there are…”

“Lily will convince them to change their minds,” Arn finishes for her, a small smile at the corner of his mouth.

Sypha closes her eyes, takes Lily’s hand. “Of course. I could not stay away for long. And you can always visit us—we’ll have a lot of space, once we rebuild.”

Visiting, seeing old friends: it’s not the same, won’t ever be the same. And sometimes things change, and people change and what they are to each other changes. But these two were always dear friends first and foremost, and that will never—can never—be any different. She gathers them both into her arms, and it’s a sweet, comfortable place to be.

“Please tell me,” Arn whispers into her hair after another long moment, “that Belmont at least bathes regularly, now?”

And like that, the seriousness of the night vanishes, goes up like a twist of smoke into the black. Sypha laughs, and keeps laughing, until it turns to tears again and she can’t sort out which she’s feeling more of. 

“Yes,” she says, with a little hiccup of sob-laughter. “He does. He fights the darkness and protects the innocent—like he was born for. And washes the monster blood off, after.”

“Good,” Arn says, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “We could tell from the beginning, that he was capable of being more than he was pretending to be.”

A long measure of silence, only the water rushing past, too swift to freeze even in the heart of winter.

“Will you let us give you a proper farewell?” Lily asks, hesitant. “Do they know—”

“They know,” Sypha says, biting her lip. “I talked with them about it before I left. They don’t mind.” As long as it’s a farewell, she hears Trevor saying, laughter in his voice even as he’d tried to be serious about this. And not a ‘till next time’.

Adrian had just been quiet, and had smiled softly in that way that is always disarming to her, and had simply said that traditions, and closure, are important. For everyone involved.

“Do you want this from us?” Lily asks. “Whether they mind is not the only question.”

It’s secluded in the little copse of trees, even the starlight blocked by the arching branches thick with green needles, and warm from the banked fire. Sypha nods, and reaches out with both hands, palms up in invitation. They each press a kiss to her open hands, and they hold her and she holds them, all of them swathed in the shadows of this secret place. She lets them say goodbye to this part of their collective lives, lets them put their hands and their mouths on her and push her to giddy exhaustion—one last gift from her youth, and one that will have to hold her over through the winter chill until these two weeks are out and she can begin to make her way home.

When they wander back to camp late that night, appetites sated and tension shaken away, things are different between them, always will be different, now—but that’s all right, in the end. Change, like liquor in a wound, can sting, but it is sometimes the only thing that makes the blood run truly clean.

The next day passes quickly and well. She gives her grandfather the gifts that Adrian and Trevor had sent along with her; scouring the castle library, Adrian had found a rare volume of supposedly true stories from the far east that he thought the tribe would appreciate having to add to their memory stores, and    Trevor, feeling some cabin fever in all of the early season snow they’ve gotten, has taken up carving—which is to say, he isn’t very good at it yet, may never really be. But the two simplistic figures he’s sent are easily recognizable as rough caricatures of priests, one missing a finger and one missing an eye. In memory of the day we all met! he’d said, performative, trying to disguise the sentimentality as tactless humor.

Her grandfather laughs to himself as he holds the figures up, and she can tell he’s trying hard to mask how entertained he is; violence is so anathema to their people and yet, somehow, this particular act of violence never seems to have unsettled him. Context, she supposes; Trevor had been acting specifically to save his life, and he could have done far worse.

She wanders the camp, looks at all of the lovely exotic decorations, and plays with the children, an odd pang in her heart as she watches their innocent games. She helps prepare lunch, lighting the fires for the ones doing the cooking, chopping vegetables and kneading dough for flatbread, and she goes into the woods with Kiri to gather more firewood—they will need a lot of it, tonight. 

They don’t talk, while they gather. It’s not awkward, just an understanding that the space between them needs some quiet, needs time to breathe.

She visits with the others in her family, with the surrogate aunts and uncles that are not actually related to her by blood, with the childhood playmates and the mentors, and with Taerna and her husband, a man from another tribe who’d chosen to join hers

instead of the other way around, had chosen to take her name. He seems sweet enough, and Taerna seems happy, if a little haunted around the edges of her eyes. Everyone she asks says that yes, of course they will be there, tonight.

Last night had been for stories, and tomorrow will be as well. But tonight is for celebration. All things in equal measure.

Hours in, Sypha drops onto one of the logs around the edges of the clearing; she slumps forward with a happy groan, reaching to rub the knots and strings out of her calves. Her walking muscles are conditioned like no others, but dancing muscles are a different story. It’s a good ache, though, like that burn in the cheeks that comes from too much smiling, too much laughter. She feels overheated from the exertion and the fire, no matter the chill in the air, and she unwinds the scarf, loosens the top layer of her robes to let the air move through.

Between where she sits and where the fire burns, silhouettes move, a chaotic display of human joy and beauty. They have no structured dances, really, though longtime partners often grow into each other’s steps. She can smell warm food nearby, bread and stew and hot mead, sees all of her family and friends and the strangers that come here as well, all her people, all dressed as she is, and wonders again: could any of them, the ones with magic at least, have done what she did?

She stares into the fire, remembers the feel of the castle’s engine between her fingers, the way she’d felt reality bending and brittle fracturing around her, so much more power at her disposal in that moment than she’d ever brought to bear conjuring fire or ice—and she thinks that no, maybe not. She’s met other magicians; she’s not sure any of them have ever trapped an eldritch monstrosity or blown apart an Enochian ward or—or done the things she’s come here to learn how to do. The things her father and her grandmother could do.

Later. Later, when the Nasaii tribe arrives. They should be here by morning. She will learn what she needs to, and she will go home, and she will be able to protect that home more thoroughly than she ever has before.

In the meantime, she watches the dancers, contemplates getting some stew, contemplates whether her legs will fall off if she tries—watches Arn and Lily together on the far side of the clearing, twisting in a tight curl that makes Lily’s hair lift, the fire lighting up her bone beads and glinting in Arn’s eyes. Watches the children imitating the adults, the youngest pairing off with their siblings, stumbling all over each other. Watches strong, tough Taerna with her husband, insisting on leading him, as much as anyone can lead in this sort of dance. 

Watches the elder she’d told her story to last night, sitting across the fire from her, watching Sypha right back with a gentle smile that says Don’t worry,  that says You will be with them soon.

And there’s nothing inherently romantic about these dances on the solstice—friends dance with friends, parents with children, and many dance alone—but she remembers being young and everything being about those early, tentative relationships, remembers that there was a thrill in getting the chance to dance with those people she called heart-mates, or to be asked to dance by someone she wished to be that close to.

So she can’t help but smile when she sees Taerna whisper something to her husband and break away from him, sidling hesitantly up to where Kiri sits. She’s poking at the dirt with a crooked, bare stick, and her sandals haven’t touched the dance ring—are clean of the dust and soot that coats the ground here, the

remains of a hundred years of bonfires.

Taerna holds out a hand, uncertain.

It won’t solve all of the problems, won’t make Kiri’s love hurt less or magically mend things between them. But there’s something of healing in Kiri’s eyes as she reaches up to take that hand, leaves the stick behind in the dirt, lets herself be pulled up and into the ring of dancers, the two of them falling into each other’s space with an ease that says We belong here, that says Even if we must change, there is still us, that says You will never be a stranger in these arms.

Next -- >

Go to part: one | two | three | four | five | six

#castlevania #fanfic #netflix castlevania #trevor belmont #sypha belnades #adrian tepes #alucard #fanfiction #taproot #wellspring #trephacard #post s2

[nashusglasses]

2. i'll work it physical (m)

+ based off nsfw prompts: 28.  “I’ll make it worth your time.” & 15.  “Wanna bet?”

read: part one

note: I am a glutton for horny idiot stories. Even better when they feed off each other’s energy so bad it’s just like…. Constant enabling. GOADING. That’s the word!!!! I listened to loveeeeeee song by rihanna the whole time writing this if ur into that :3

note 2: This fic is just pure indulgence of oc and gojo's party sexcapades before all those *feelings* get involved heheheheh

PAIRING. gojo/reader SETTING. college au WARNINGS. stupid ex girlfriends, good ol' fashioned fingerbang in a bathroom SUMMARY. He’ll make you forget about her.

You didn’t cry when Emi broke up with you. She was always taciturn, and it’s not as if you were completely blindsided, either. You’ve always had a nose for disinterest. She’d stopped responding to your good night texts those last few weeks you were together, kept canceling Wednesday cafe dates where you’d play footsies to distract her from doing homework. Maybe you’d reached a threshold. Footsied her to annoyed oblivion, but she always laughed whenever you did it. 

Throwing away an almost-one year relationship, though. You couldn’t lie through the sting in your eyes when you got back to your dorm that night. Not when Natsume’s a nosy bitch who has to know every minute detail of your life. You collapsed into a fit of half-sobs because you refused to be too distraught over someone who couldn’t find the time for you anymore. That’s lazy, Natsume said into your hair. You always liked when she petted your head for comfort. She let you sleep next to her while you wallowed in post-break up misery. I’ll punch her the next time I see her.

That was two months ago. Two months since you’ve seen Emi’s dyed-blonde head, the pretty dimples that came with her smile. It changes tonight.

Sigma Phi is never cheap with their ragers. Neither you or Natsume are in a sorority but you’d be dumb to miss out on sponsored alcohol and free cool ranch Doritos. The house is the tallest on Greek row, all high ceilings and shiny wooden banisters. The kitchen is where you keep comfortable. Away from the strawberry smoke, sticky floors everywhere you take a step. You’re waiting for Satoru to get you your soju when you see Emi walk through the front door.

Her roots are growing out. She’s got glitter on her eyelids, a shiny neck with the scented oil she uses because she’s always hated using perfume. If you step close enough you know she’ll smell like rose petals. Like the sailor’s bewitched limbs twitching with every sweet note of that siren’s song, you’re almost taking a step forward to follow her further into this stupid loud party.

As if he’s cued, Satoru gets in the way with two red cups in hand. “No yogurt soju so I got orange instead. Mixed it with orange soda so it’s ultra mega orange shit. Why the hell are you tiptoeing? You’re like two feet tall.”

“Shut up.” You make a grab for the cup he offers you, tipping back a generous gulp for a show of thanks. “It’s—I saw someone. I think.”

He swivels around. “Who?”

“My ex.” You almost flinch at the term. Moreso at the thought of Satoru calling you bitchless than having lost someone you genuinely cared for.

“Didn’t know you had one.” His eyebrows are furrowed with confusion, leaning back against the counter. He flicks an annoyed hand at the stale chips scattered everywhere. 

“It’s. Yeah. She wasn’t really around to show face towards the end, so.”

“What’s her name?” 

You could think of a million but you don’t feel like spitting venom. You’ve got your distraction for the night. You hope Satoru notices you’re wearing your shortest skirt. “Emi.”

“Emi? Utada Emi or Hirano Emi?”

“The first one.” How he knows more than one is beyond you. Satoru hums at your confirmation.

“She’s in my aerodynamics class,” he says. “What happened?”

“I don’t—I don’t really wanna talk about her.” Because if you do, you’ll probably start thinking about how she made your pillows smell good with that fresh linen scent. Or how she left you little origami cranes on your desk. Or the way she sounded in the morning with drool stuck to her chin—

“Oi.” Satoru snaps his fingers in front of your face. “You good? Sorry I asked.”

“It’s fine. Or. Not really. Whatever.” You finish your drink with record speed. Anxiety crawls through your chest, makes you wonder what the hell Emi could be doing here. Or who she could be doing here. Suddenly you think about an empty room, her clumsy feet traipsing up those carpeted stairs. Looking at someone else with doe eyes like she did when she wanted you on top of her. You crush the red plastic in your hand.

“Satoru,” you say blankly. 

He’s not even halfway done his drink. “Uh huh.”

“Do you know how to make a girl come in five minutes?”

“Depends.” He levels you with a curious stare. Like he’s bracing himself for whatever you’ve got for a challenge. “Can I use my hands?”

“Whatever body part you want.”

“Then yes. Who’s asking?”

“Wha–who the hell else?” You hiss. “You finishing that?”

Satoru looks down at his cup, then back up at you. And when he doesn’t immediately respond you just swipe at his hand to guzzle down the ultra mega orange shit. It’s not half-bad. A sweetness easy to swallow, not like the Casamigos he took with Suguru earlier. 

You let the dizziness settle. Satoru stares you down. “I’ll do it in two,” he says. “Wanna bet?”

It’s cryptic. And then you remember what you asked him. You squirm with the heavy suggestion. 

“Bathroom,” you order, and Satoru leads the way first.

Natsume’s sitting pretty at the bottom step of the stairs. She’s got a blunt pinched gently in her mouth, lights up with her inhale when she sees you. She dims into gossip when you come up to her. “Oh my god. Did you see–”

You nod, not that keen on hearing her name when you’re off to forget it. Satoru skips past and up two steps at a time with nothing more than a hey roomie. Natsume’s mouth quirks up in acknowledgment.

“Don’t scream too loud. Or do anyway. I can’t feel my fucking fingers from the music.” 

She slaps your ass when you pass her. “Take a shot with me after,” you call. Natsume winks. Satoru’s got the bathroom door wide open for you to walk through when you catch up.

For a frat, the space is clean. No nasty caulk jobs and the toilet paper holder’s actually full. You’ve got no time for more analysis when Satoru slams you against the door. “Jesus,” you groan.

He swallows what little else you have for complaint. His mouth is sweet on yours, coaxing your tongue for taste. “Nice skirt by the way.”

Satoru’s hands are greedy where they pull. Cupped under your jaw, teasing a touch on either side of your tits, then right down to your ass where he squeezes. Hard. 

“Keep going,” you mumble. Biting down on his lip when he grips you tighter, and you feel the coarse rut of his boner when he presses you harder against the door. “God. Get me wet.”

“I’ll make it worth your time.” He breathes wet kisses on your neck. Sucking deep till you twitch in simmering pleasure. 

“You fuckin’ better.”

He sneers in response. But he kisses you like he’s just as electrified. Needy for whatever high he’s promising to deliver on, and you want it fast. He juts into you, lifts your leg around his hip just to get the angle right. 

“Okay. Fuck–just.” You take his hand, fit it snug where your panties ride up on your pussy. He laughs against your teeth.

“Get me wet,” he mocks, playing with the arousal you just denied. You blush. Desperate measures. You’re glad your body responds to his this quick. Only to your detriment, because he knows you’re terrible at bluffing, and now he’s laughing at you. “You’re funny. Two minutes?”

He circles your clit with a rough finger. Too much, not enough. In the haze of your muddled head, the visual is enough to spark that heat. You’ve always liked his hands. There’s something about seeing it disappear under your skirt, like you’ve got something to hide. You offer a moan when he teases a finger inside.

Satoru leans a hot mouth into your ear. “Your girl ever get you like this?”

Your eyes are wide open. From his provocation, and now he’s got one finger snug up your pussy. “Oh my god.”

“You don’t need to answer,” he teases. “I know she didn’t.”

“You–” He sets a slow rhythm. Deep where it counts, grinding the palm of his hand till you moan from your chest. “You’re evil.”

Again. He knows you’re bluffing. That wet sound every time he moves is proof enough. You’re just talking because you’re not embarrassed anymore. You’ll let him have his way with it if it means you don’t have to think about anything else.

“Don’t be shy,” he prods.

Another finger, this time with less drive. You buzz from the intrusion. Knocking your head back on the door when he bottoms out, absolutely not shy with the sounds you’re making. Satoru kisses you into muted excitement. 

You don’t think he’s timing it. You sure as hell aren’t. As if you were ever scared he wouldn’t deliver. “Go faster,” you urge. This is probably one of the only two bathrooms available for use. You could at least taint it quicker than anyone else can.

“Cute. I like when you’re bossy.” You initiate a kiss this time. Slipping tongue and an indulgent moan down his throat, and that’s what spurs him on. 

His drive is back. Drawing out more wetness with earnest fingering, the guttural noises straight from your gut. Your eyes roll back with the feeling, heat unfurling faster than the blood trying to reach your fucked out brain. 

“Fuck, oh my god.” Your fingers curl into his biceps. “That's–yeah, oh my god I’m. Close–!”

He crowds you in again, forehead on your sweaty one. Nothing to say, letting your panting do all the talking for the both of you. His fingers hook into every wet spot, ramming the edge of his hand on your clit till it’s battered into ultra-sensitivity. You twitch with his every move. 

“You better fuckin’ come over tonight,” Satoru groans. You’ll look down at that hard dick later. You know he’s fostering the pain with quiet lips. How considerate. 

“W-Whatever. Yes I’ll–just–oooh fuck.” He’s jacked the speed to eleven. No more pretense of easing you into it. The sound is enough to get you off, wet thrust for wet thrust. “Satoru,” you whine.

He kisses your nose. “Hmm?”

“If I squirt it’s on you,” you warn.

“You say that like a threat.” He shows no sign of stopping, too. He’s impatient with anticipation, and you’re fading fast. “You’ll give it to me?”

You were kidding. Sort of. It’s not off the table. All you know is the heat is building and you’re about to explode. “Ye-es!”

“So do it,” he presses. 

He curls his fingers with every sharp jut against your core. You hang your head low, letting that high come to you, and you unfurl with the release. Shaking through a tiring orgasm, clawing tight on Satoru while you squeal. “Oh fuck.”

He’s relentless with the come down. Drawing out those waves with taut fingers, focusing deep. You don’t squirt but his wrist is disgustingly wet. 

“You’re hot,” he says when you drop your leg. You slump against him with a groan. “Look. Prune fingers.”

You don’t look but you know he’s wiggling them. Always in awe with what he can do to you when you’re down for it. You’ll let him bask in your orgasmic glory, because you’re just as good as getting him undone.

“Yeah yeah. Let’s get back, I wanna see Natsume before we leave.”

You shift your skirt till it's decently covering your ass again. Satoru washes his hands. You both ignore the bulge in his sweatpants.

Then someone knocks on the door.

You think you’ve always believed in fate. Some cosmic divinity keeping a watchful eye on whatever energy waves you’re spreading out into the universe. Because when Satoru opens the door for you, it’s Emi, and she’s looking disheveled, but not in a good way.

A pang of sympathy echoes in your chest. Your fingers twitch forward, already thinking of how to move her hair behind her ear.

Satoru beats you to a greeting.

“You look like shit,” he jests.

Emi ignores him. Stares right at you, and your breath stutters. You’re not as taken by her beauty, this time. Not when she shot you down, dug her heel into your heart, got it all muddy. You grab Satoru's hand. He doesn’t say anything when you curl your fingers into his.

“Take care of yourself,” is all you croak out. This time, it’s you leaving her behind.

Natsume’s gone from her bottom perch. You don’t feel like finding her anymore. Satoru keeps you close to him when you walk back downstairs.

He stops you when you don’t stop walking towards the front door. For the second time tonight, he asks: “You good?”

You shake your head. “No. But we’re going back to your place. Distract me some more.”

Satoru’s smile is wicked in its suggestion. “I can do that,” he confirms.

He doesn’t let go of your hand the whole way back to his dorm.

#gojo scenario #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo smut #jjk smut #jjk scenarios #jjk x reader #gojo scenarios

[shibaraki]

THIS SIDE OF PARADISE ┊ HIMURA REI

tags: GN reader, post canon au, neighbours to lovers, rei is divorced, mention of domestic abuse, falling in love, gardening, todoroki siblings, mutual pining, healthy communication, first kiss, so much fluff, no real mention of age difference

wc: 1.9k

The first time you see Himura Rei she is sitting on her veranda, pale legs bare under the pitter patter of rain and hands held out to house the droplets.

You are wrapped up in a long coat under an umbrella. The collar whips against your cheek with the wind, petrichor thick on your tongue. In the month since she moved here you hadn’t seen her once. You met her children, briefly. Fuyumi is a frequent visitor and less… skittish than the sons. Rather, you find her more approachable.

The memory of her face as she had accepted your house warming gift on her mother’s behalf is drawn to the forefront of your mind. An expression so profoundly sincere, lips quivering with the effort to allay her tears, that you felt your own throat swell. The monstera cradled in her arms was tall enough to drape its larger leaves over her shoulder like an infant.

“Thank you,” she grinned. “My mother loves plants”.

Thinking back, Fuyumi looks a lot like her mother. You aren’t sure how long you have been standing in the middle of the pavement, lingering at the garden gate as you watch your elusive neighbour embrace the passing storm.

The sun is tucked behind a dense blanket of dark clouds and yet Rei’s complexion glows. White and waning like the surface of the moon. She’s wearing a thin nightgown, sheer sleeves fluttering around her shoulders, hem pulled above her knees. Her naked legs hesitantly kick back and forth, toes wiggling above the grass. The breeze seems to glitter as though it were crystallised upon touching her.

The rain is loud in your ears. With every draft your jeans get wetter. Your knuckles feel like they could split yet she is unperturbed and you can’t look away. Her gaze drags from the curtain of droplets along the roof to you. Moonlight on the water's surface; her reaction ripples at the sudden disturbance until it settles into calm. You smile and lift your hand in an awkward wave.

Rei blinks. When she slowly returns the wave you hear a sharp inhale— your own, fist reflexively tightening around the umbrella handle like it might be torn away from your grip. A chill stirs the evening air. She’s beautiful.

You stumble towards home, the cold sharper on your hot cheeks.

The second time you see Rei is not all that dissimilar from the first. Your houses are side by side and built on an incline. Her front garden is gated and well kept, brimming with flora held by retaining walls. She sits out on her front veranda in a powder blue knitted cardigan with a white daisy pattern and a skirt that hangs above her ankles.

The early afternoon sun soaks into the timbre and you can see clearly the various small potted plants that bordered her doorway. Her sleeves have been rolled up her arms, loose dirt clinging to her skin as she cups both hands to form a spout, meticulously pouring soil into a decorative pot in her lap.

You observe with fatal stillness just how careful she is with the seedlings, how she plucks the clumps from their roots piece by piece and tucks it into the freshly made earth. A smile pulls at your mouth at the pleased little noise she makes. Satisfied and heavy, a job well done. Her shoulders sag and she nudges the new pot beside the others.

It’s then that her face lifts up to feel the sun on her cheeks, and she sees you.

If Rei was elusive then surely you were erring into ‘creep’ territory. You bite your inner cheek, mentally scorning yourself for getting distracted, and motion to wave at her once again.

Rather than return it, Rei pushes up onto her feet. She brushes the dirt from her skirt and the front of her cardigan falls open— it isn’t a skirt, but a dress. You stand frozen at the foot of her garden as she walks down the path; marked by stepping stones, each a different size and shape.

The gravel crunches underfoot as she stops. Crisp air follows shortly behind her and you draw it into your lungs. Closer, you can trace the soft wrinkles at the corner of her eyes. They deepen; it’s how you intuit that she’s smiling, despite the absence of one.

Hot embarrassment floods through you at the realisation that you’re staring again. You bow hastily and glare hard at your shoes as you give your name, “I’m glad I could finally meet you, Ms. Himura. I hope you’re settling in well”.

Her feet shuffle forward. You can see her open toed sandals in your periphery. Hands clasping tight to her stomach, Rei returns the bow. Her posture is perfect, a picture of formality. A drape of white hair falls over her shoulder and you swallow the emotions cloying in your throat when she tucks it behind her ear.

“It’s lovely to meet you,” she says quietly. Her voice is light, almost feathery as it carries in the breeze. Then she dips her head again, “I apologise for not greeting you sooner”.

“Oh, not at all!” you make an aborted motion to reach out and comfort her, taking note of the tension that snaps back into her small frame and pausing. Offering what you hope is a reassuring smile, you add, “I barely see the neighbour on my right. This isn’t a particularly chatty street. So please don’t worry”.

You’ve proffered your hand and she stares at it with vague hope. Rei first swipes a palm down her hip, conscious of the dirt, and gently returns the handshake. “Sorry. I’m cold, aren’t I?” she says, noticing the fleeting shiver that runs up your arm.

“It’s not too bad,” you intone curiously, solidifying your grip. Her fingers are lissome and soft. You can smell a faint waft of eucalyptus intermingled with fresh earth. “Is it to do with your quirk?”

“It is,” the tendons in her wrist flex as you part and she appraises her hand. It clenches into a fist, as if she were holding onto something. “I can create ice with the moisture in the air”.

Shadows shift with the sun as it partially sheaths overhead. Light simmers in her irises as she squints to shield her face. “You must be popular in summer. I might just pay you in mocktails, Ms. Himura,” you reply lightheartedly. The impression of her hand remains cool on your skin and you resist the urge to rub at it, lest she think her temperature bothered you.

Your eyes meet and Rei smiles. It is tentative but undoubtedly warm. A slow pull at the corner of her mouth, her bottom lip a little thicker than the top. She has a pronounced cupid’s bow that strikes right through you. The less you try to think about it the more it resurfaces.

“Please. Just call me Rei,” she demurred. There is strength in her voice now. “And I’d be glad to see more of you, mocktail or not”.

Thus marked the beginnings of a growing friendship. You knew who she was. Of course you did. Her son’s face — the youngest, not the oldest — is plastered around almost every billboard in the city and difficult to miss. Seeing him walking down your narrow street in ratty sweatpants is even more surreal.

But that knowledge created an imbalance of sorts. You’re a bit ashamed of how it coloured your early interactions with Rei. She isn’t a baby bird for you to nurse. Rei is an adult woman that happens to have weathered a traumatic marriage and seen the other side of it, like many others her age.

You would know— you read the statistics. They were grotesque. Supposedly the emergence of quirks had seen an unprecedented rise in domestic violence cases. You’re not sure why it surprises you.

Rei doesn’t talk about it and you never ask. You’re not entirely sure you want to know more than you already do. Only that there’s a plot across Tokyo with the beginnings of a traditional house carved into the land. She declined the offer and expressed her wish to pick somewhere to call entirely her own. Entirely untouched by him.

And it was— her own, that is. Your row of houses were built to be narrow and deep. It was difficult to make use of the space; even so, Rei’s home is cosy. Maximalist in a breathable way.

The conservatory had been refitted with tatami mats, centred by a large kotatsu. Old family photos and childrens paintings are dotted across the walls. Plants are hung from the ceilings, blankets draped across the couch cushions, shelves lined with garden care and self help books. Passing through the genkan was like stepping into her soul.

When you later asked what drew her to live here she replied, “There’s spare room for my children and a garden big enough for my plants,” and then she pinned you with a gentle smile, “The sweet neighbour is an unexpected plus”.

Your heart just about fought its way through your rib cage. Beating desperately against bone bars. It fills you with restless affection, and anger. You want to hold her tight to your chest. You want to tear into every person that has ever harmed her.

This was not something you could pursue with the hope of asking for more. You were content to be a friend to Rei. She’s wonderful and considerate and you count yourself lucky.

Now, there is always tea waiting for you; boiled in a small electric kettle that rattles as it heats. She likes it because it doesn’t whistle. You spend most of your evenings with her amongst the perennial beds, the sun a shawl around her neck. “Rindou flowers are my favourite,” she confessed wistfully. The petals were frail between your fingers, arching bursts of vivid blue. “They like dappled shelter and rich soil”.

Some days you are coaxed into helping with her garden. The soil is warm and wet. It’s messy work, and your compliance has everything to do with the phantom brush of her fingers on your cheek as she swipes away the dirt.

One rare instance saw Rei handing you a hair tie with stained hands and the timid request that you pull her hair back. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, wilting as you quivered. You physically felt the chill leave the air. “Is that better?”

You could hardly confess the true reason. Skin that frissoned where you touched. Fine white hair curled at the nape of her neck. You had never felt so oddly exhilarated by the curve of someone’s throat.

Your house is gradually filled with colour. Rei makes sure to send you back with a small bouquet or two. “It’s good to have something to take care of other than yourself,” she told you. Fuyumi stops by twice a week, sometimes more. Natsuo and Shouto have a less structured schedule. One being a paramedic and the other a pro hero, days off are hard to come by. Still they call every day, and the youngest sends her written letters, which you found particularly endearing.

Rei’s company had added an unexpected glimmer to life. You feel like a newborn again. When she pauses mid sentence to listen to a bird song. When her frosted eyes brighten at the watercolor sky as it douses the entire street pink. When a new leaf on her gifted monstera began to unravel, and that delicate sound of awe echoed traitorously around your brain well into the night.

Right. The world was full of wonder. When did you forget that?

The real paradigm shift comes in late August with a firm knock. Natsuo stops by your house one Sunday as he’s leaving and asks what your intentions with his mother are. You have never felt so despairingly transparent.

His gaze sharpens as you draw in breath through your nose and blow it out through your mouth. “I just want her to be happy and healthy,” you tell him.

He’s unintentionally intimidating like this. Broad and looming, taking up much of your doorway. It betrays how aware he is; the Natsuo you were familiar with always telegraphed his movements around Rei. He’s a good boy, a gentle, bleeding heart, but he’s also quite big.

“You don’t plan to ask her out?”

“I—” you stammer at the unexpected question. “I… wasn’t?”

Natsuo’s glare dims into a look of confusion. “Well. Why the hell not?”

You blink. He glances over your shoulder into the hallway, staring at the flowers arranged beside your bowl of keys. There are pieces of Rei dotted around your house and she has never even stepped foot in it.

“She cares about you, you know. Neither of you are subtle,” he mumbles, awkwardly scratching at his neck. The bridge of his nose wrinkles and for a short moment, he looks just like her. “She’s— I’ve never seen her like this. So… full of life. You’re good for her”.

Then he shrinks, and it’s as though a little boy is shuffling on your doorstep. Sonorous and thick with emotion, Natsuo falls into a bow and blurts, “Please take care of our mother”.

You take him by the shoulder. As he stands straight your arm stretches high where your hand remains in place. His eyes are boyishly wide and hopeful. Cold seeps through his clothing, intensifying as you smile.

“I promise. Thank you, Natsuo”.

Despite receiving her children’s blessing you resolve to take your time. The month reaches an end and another begins. In the weeks between you touch Rei with purpose, each more confident than the last as she visibly flusters and eventually reciprocates. It feels like spring anew.

The day soon comes that she needs to divide the perennials and sow new seeds for September. You fawn over the dark green dungarees she has pulled up over her sweater. “You look so cute!”

“Do I?” Rei pats down her stomach self consciously. You’re used to her wearing loose fitted clothing, but this fabric strains a little around her wide hips and thighs.

You wet your lips reflexively, “Yeah. You do”.

She herds you toward the garden by the waist and you let her lead you, laughter following close behind. You are distracted by her firm instruction. Gently lift from centre to root, shake off the clumps of soil and replant. Some require teasing by hand, and you observe as she deftly pries the knotted roots apart.

Though the sky is clear there are brief, infrequent showers passing through and your job has mostly been to keep the umbrella stable over her head. Ripe seed heads are plucked singly from their stalks and laid on the planter wall.

“Look. You can tell they’re ripe because they’re no longer green,” she exalted, holding a pod up for you to see. You lean in close and rest your cheek on her shoulder. She inhales deeply but says nothing; you feel the weight of her head rest atop your crown.

“Do we crush them?”

“Some. I’ll bring them inside,” she hums. “Let’s take a break for now. You need to eat”.

“So do you,” you murmur, nuzzling into her sleeve. The perpetual chill has grown on you and you can tell she’s relieved by it. Funny, how both you and the plants seem to turn toward her as though she were the sun. “Can we sit in the tatami room?”

“Where else?”

Your body is leaden with contentment. Warm like the soil. Rei kneels adjacent, draping the kotatsu across her lap, a clementine cradled in the shallow of her palm. An arc of light passes through the shutters as she passes it off to you.

You press a nail into the soft rind and peel it back. The room is filled with fruit; it spills over your hands. Viscous strings of pith stretch and snap as you push your thumb in the centre, pulling apart the segments.

The silence is comfortable. You like to feed her first. Watching her eat the tart slices one by one satiates your own hunger. Her mouth is coated in a sheen of sticky juice, puckered and shaped around her finger as she sucks them clean.

“They taste wonderful,” she says, pleased. Short lived as she realises you’ve not eaten anything yet. “Do you not like them?”

You push a slice into your mouth in lieu of a reply. A sweet flavour bursts on your tongue as your teeth sink into the flesh. It is good, and she softens at your satisfied noise. Unbidden, you wonder how it would taste from her lips.

“I like them,” you reassure her. She exhales a short laugh.

“It certainly sounded that way”.

Another bout of rainfall curtains the street. A quiet symphony of pitter patters rapt at her windows. It draws neither yours nor Rei's attention from the other. Your knee bounces restlessly beneath the table as the magnetism between your bodies grows taut.

“Rei,” you begin, voice overlapping her own with your name on her tongue. Together you dissolve into shy laughter. “Rei,” you try again. “I want to kiss you. Is that okay?”

She nods. You shuffle closer as she turns naturally into your embrace. She feels like winter and smells like summer. Sweet clementine glossing her mouth, her shaky exhale is visible in the warm air as you dip. Lips part and you right the angle, slotting them together in a long, meaningful kiss.

Cold hands grasp at the front of your shirt. Rei takes your face into her hands like she’s looking for solid ground. Your noses bump as you lick the seam of her mouth and she meets you there— coaxes you in, wet and smooth. She shudders under your touch, half lain in your lap.

Then she freezes. Eyes wide like a doe in an open field, she pulls back from the kiss. “Rei?” you call gently, smothering the instinct to panic. “I’m sorry. Was that too fast?”

You wait as she presses her fingertips to her lips and wonder if your warmth has lingered. What you are not expecting to hear is, “I’m old”.

“You’re— old?”

Rei nods slowly. “I have three adult children and I don’t want to remarry”.

“O…kay”.

“Okay?”

“As in, I’m okay with all of those things,” you affirm with a slight frown. She doesn’t flinch as you take her hand and the tension dissipates when her wrist overturns to reciprocate.

Cautiously, Rei intertwines your fingers. “Despite the fact that I’m nearing fifty?”

“You’re only forty five, Rei. We could probably have another forty five together, if we try,” you squeeze your palms together with a fond laugh. “But we don’t need to label anything yet if you don’t want to”.

Rei seems to weigh your words. Rather than reply, she reaches across and peels the small oval sticker from the rind of another unpeeled clementine. You stare at her in wonderment as she sticks it to the apple of your cheek.

“I’d like a label,” she breathes. “If that’s okay with you”.

Pink blooms across her nose and deepens in your prolonged silence. Frosted fingertips skim your jawline and when she moves to retreat you grasp her wrist, bringing it closer to cradle your head in her hand.

You turn into her palm and kiss her inner wrist. “So would I”.

#bnha x reader #mha x reader #todoroki rei x reader #himura rei x reader #m.rei

[dat-town]

hypnotized (in your eyes)

never seen circus masterpost

Characters: hypnotist!Hyunjae & female reader

Setting & genre: magical realism au

Summary: You find a hypnotist to forget your recurring dreams. Little do you know you once forgot him too.

Warnings: general creepiness of an eerie circus, ambiguous ending, mentioned insomnia

Words: 2.3k

For @restlessmaknae, happy D-4 <3 Not to copy you but I realized that the best way not to have to cut another story in half because I couldn't finish it in time is to make sure I can stop pretty much any point and these short stories came pretty easy. You know I already told you about this idea like last year, so here it is finally. Keep your eyes out for the next stories <3

The wind chime outside of the ragged tent played a slow symphony to the rhythm of the night breeze.

The tall boy inside was humming an old folk song as he flipped through the pages of a book. It was a slow day but it was always hit or miss with the circus. They were constantly on the move and there was no way to tell how many people would stumble upon the red lights and fake golden glitter when they stopped.

Hyunjae had already assisted a married couple by helping an old memory to resurface and a teenage girl to face her trauma. People came to him with all kinds of requests, people who were brave or desperate enough to open their minds to him, to let him reach in there and pull. Like marionettes on strings. Thoughts were like dolls for him to play with. Lucky for many, he was a nice player, especially when he was paid handsomely.

It was the wind that he noticed first. The moment of cold when the entrance of the tent opened and closed. Then he looked up from his book, over his propped up legs on his desk and saw you. Words froze on the tip of his tongue as he watched you looking around in wonder, rooted to one spot by the edge of the tent. The flower pattern of your dress reminded him of the blooming spring. Last spring when he had last seen you. You had stood right there where you did then. You were awed at the decorations of his tent as if you had never seen anything more interesting than enchantments hanging from the top and books on alchemy. You turned slowly, gaze sticking to the fairy lights hanging all over the insides of the tent and when your eyes met his, you suddenly turned bashful, a dusty pink colour high on your cheeks.

"Hello," you bowed politely like a stranger and Hyunjae had to remind himself to get his shit together. Of course, you greeted him as if you had never met before. Because for you, you never did.

"Good evening. How can I help you?" The boy asked as he cleared his throat. He wasn't proud of the way he stumbled as he put his feet down on the ground and stood up. His hands gripped on the edge of his desk when you walked closer, clueless and innocent. Just like last time.

For someone who lived longer than most people, it was quite embarrassing how fast his heart beat just because of your closeness. His chest felt tight too when he saw the apples of your cheeks grow with the shy smile blooming on your lips as you stopped on the other side of his desk.

For a foolish moment, Hyunjae hoped naively that you would tell him that you were joking, that you would call him by his name and tell him to keep his part of the promise. But of course, the rational side of him knew it didn't work like it. You weren't supposed to know who he was or recognize him even if it wasn't the first time you met. But he remembered your smiles and soft touches way too vividly to not hope you were an exception to the circus' rules: everybody was bound to forget about their visit.

"I... I was told that hypnosis can help me forget something," you answered, visibly sceptical, which made Hyunjae crack a smile. You had been just like this the last time too: you had thought he was just a con man cheating money out of naïve people. You were one of those rational people who only believed things they saw and you didn't even believe what you saw, not until you were sure it was real which was a smart thing to do at a place where you could run into people swallowing down knives.

The you from last spring would have never asked something like that of him though. You had been caught up in the rain and looked for a hideout. His tent had just been there, warm and inviting. Hyunjae had done his best to entertain you, amused himself by your stubbornness when you hadn't believed what he could do. So he wondered what could have happened that led you right back here, this time on purpose. The psychic girl from the tent next door would have told him it was destiny even though Hyunjae had never asked her to draw cards for him.

He hadn't wanted to hope in vain because he knew the inevitable: you would eventually leave and he had no choice but to stay at the circus. So in a way it felt nothing but a cruel play of the fate that it led you back to him. Yet, he couldn't send you away just to spare the heartache.

"Sure, it can. Please, take a seat," he pointed at the chair beside you before stepping to the kettle next to his bookshelf to prepare a cup of warm lotus tea. Selfishly, he stole glances at you while he was busy with the preparations. The ribbon in your hair was skewed and your lips were pink like peonies. Your curious doe eyes were warm and he remembered all too well how they used to be directed at him.

"Two cubes of sugar, a bit of lemon," he said as he slid the steaming cup in front of you and smiled knowingly at the surprise clear on your face.

"How?" You mumbled, eyes widening suspiciously which made him want to tease you. He couldn't have told you that he had learned your preference last time you had been there and he couldn’t forget it ever since.

"Lucky guess," he lied and watched as you sniffed at the sweet blue tea doubtfully before giving it a try. Hyunjae was relieved to see the corners of your mouth turn upwards even though he knew you would like it.

The boy unconsciously fixed his collar as he sat down across from you and licked his lower lip before he asked the question that had been on his mind ever since you had told him why you had come to him.

"What would you like to forget?"

You took a small, careful sip from your tea before setting the cup down again and looked up at Hyunjae. Your gaze was open and trusting and he felt his heart skip a beat. Oh, if only you knew how conflicted you made him feel.

"I keep dreaming of a place," you spoke up quietly, waiting to be interrupted but the boy waited patiently for you to keep going on. You brushed your hair out of your face, fingers tangling in your locks. "It's not even a real place. I have tried to look it up but it doesn't exist. In my dreams, I want to go there. I want to go there so bad that when I wake up I miss this place where I had never been and where I cannot go. It's like I feel trapped where I am. Sometimes I can't even sleep because I keep daydreaming about this place. I've tried everything to get my mind off it but I just can't. I know it sounds crazy but–"

"It's not," Hyunjae stopped you before you could have felt embarrassed. "Can you tell me more about this place? What's it like?"

You looked him in the eyes, gulped and then nodded, your eyes determined.

"It's a place by the sea. You can see the stars from the beach clearly and there are no villages as far as one can see. There are stairs though, in the air, that lead to a palace."

Hyunjae couldn't do anything but stare. He looked at your face closely, watching your expression, trying to figure out if you were playing a prank on him. That couldn't be. You weren't supposed to remember that. His home.

You had been daring. Calling him a fraud. Telling him to prove it if he could really hypnotise you and Hyunjae shouldn't have. He didn't use his power just for the sake of it after all, he used it for work, for actual clients, not overly curious girls. But it was raining outside and it was unlikely that he would get a new customer anytime soon, so he might as well just kill time, couldn't he?

He had sat you down, given you tea, lit candles and told you to close your eyes. Your lips were curled up in a smile, playfully mocking, as if challenging him to prove you wrong. Then Hyunjae took out his pocket watch and told you to imagine a pastel blue, endless sea.

He could have taken you anywhere. He still wasn't sure why he had chosen a place so personal to him but watching you explore the celestial palace had warmed his heart. He had told you childhood stories and anecdotes that you believed to be made up stories. You had told him so when you had opened your eyes and smiled at him so brightly. You had asked dozens of questions about his books, about how he had learned this and he had told you. He had always known you would forget it when leaving the circus, so there had been no reason to fear being exposed. You couldn't have known that though, not then.

"Will you be here tomorrow, too?" You had asked when the rain had stopped yet you had seemed reluctant to leave. Hyunjae had been too selfish to tell you to go as well. He was a lot of things but he wasn't a liar. Usually.

"Probably not. The circus never stays long anywhere," he had told you and watched the disappointment sweep into your expression slowly like a cloth drinks up liquid.

"Oh. And will you be back?" You had kept going and Hyunjae had pretended that the hope in your voice hadn't messed with his heart.

"Probably. But I have no idea when. I go where the circus goes. You will forget me by then anyway," he had said as cold and firm as he could and you hadn't asked why. You hadn't asked why people forgot, why rarely anybody had visited twice, why he was acting like it was a final goodbye. You had just leaned against the entrance, under the fairy lights, your hair still half-wet from the rain, your smile suddenly saddened.

"Can you promise me something?" You had looked at him with those pretty eyes, your voice like melting honey to his ears and it had taken everything in him not to make stupid promises. He hadn't said anything but you continued anyway. "If we meet again, remind me?"

It was a sweet memory, locked in a small jar next to Hyunjae's heart but he felt the glass cracking as his fingers around his pocket watch trembled.

"Are you okay?" The gentle voice and the warmth of a hand on his shoulder helped him snap out of it. He cleared his throat and pulled farther away from you who had circled the desk and stood right there, beside him with worry clear in your eyes.

"Yes, sorry. If you're ready, we can start. I will help you forget and stop these dreams," he told you because he hadn't promised you anything back then. It wouldn't have done anything good if he reminded you of him and your shared past. You would leave and forget either way.

You nodded but hesitated for a moment before walking back to the chair. Hyunjae felt like he could breathe again when he lit the candle in the middle of the table. He felt in control during hypnosis after all.

"Close your eyes," he instructed you in a mellow voice, never taking his eyes off your face, the way your eyelashes trembled as you complied. "Now imagine the place you told me about. Do you see the sea? The stars? The stairs?"

With each question, Hyunjae took a step closer to you, the ticks of his pocket watch louder by the moment.

"Okay, now turn your back to the sea," the boy continued after you confirmed that you were where you were supposed to be. "Good. Now turn around slowly. Once. Twice. Three times. With each turn you feel your surroundings disappear into nothing. First the palace and the stairs. Then the sea and the beach. Lastly, the stars."

"One. Two. Three," you mumbled quietly under your nose with your eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

Hyunjae leaned down with one of his hands holding onto the backrest of the chair before he snapped his fingers right beside your ears to wake you up from the hypnosis. Your eyes widened suddenly with clarity and your gazes locked. Hyunjae's breath caught in his throat. Gosh, you were magnetic, how could he have forgotten?

He couldn't make himself move, not even when you leaned forward, lifted your hand and touched his cheek, caressing almost lovingly. Your eyes were dark and dreamy, cloudy with the after-effect of the hypnosis and your lips were bitten red like cherries and your voice was like an enchantment itself.

"Hyunjae."

His name fell from your lips like a plea or a summon and it was his turn to widen his eyes in surprise. Before he could have said anything though, you fainted right into his arms.

The wind chime outside of the ragged tent played a slow symphony to the rhythm of the morning breeze.

Hyunjae was humming an old folk song about the celestial palace and a runaway immortal as he peeked outside. There was nobody there, just the clear sea and white sand with shells you collected from the day before.

The circus had left long ago.

#series: never seen circus #the boyz x reader #hyunjae x reader #hyunjae angst #the boyz angst #stories