#feels presumptuous to tag that but whatever

[blocksruinedme]

22. describe your writing process from scratch to finish.

28. handwritten notes or typed notes?

44. any writing advice you want to share?

22) my writing process!

be living my life, possibly babysitting or driving (maybe talking about blorbos)

think "hey what if...."

become possessed

from there it splits Version A - the fastest, and rarest, one

A1. get to my couch (or a different laptop place, or a notebook if desperate)

A2. Frantically let words spill out of me, often wishing my fingers could keep up with my brain. It's sometimes almost painful, needing to get the words out

A3. edit for a variable amount of time an post

My first published mcyt was like this - watched ranchers in the crossover at 11am, ideas marinated all day, came up with "what if tango's the key to fix fwhimmy" walking to my car at 5pm, started writing like 5:15 and published at maybe 1am. almost 5k long. Insane. that was MY EX STOLE MY SOULMATE.. | Empires SMP S2 1.19 (rated T) and I'm told also With Their Knife to His Throat (rated M) but I legit have next to no memories of writing that one, I think it was 48 hours from idea to published (4k).

B - normal version. Note: all of this is interspersed with working on a lot of other stories

B1: Have an idea, probably frantically but maybe it builds

B2: Think about it a lot, maybe ideas in a little notebook if they are coming at the wrong times. 

B3: write down bits of prose as they come, do a lot of outline in gdocs. 

B4: start writing from the beginning based on outline but also what feels right - in any given moment, i know more about the story than i did when i wrote the outline

B5: if i’m lucky write chronologically and work through the outline and add things. Often a section isn’t coming and i skip ahead. If it’s not happening, it’s not time for it to happen. To write the way I really want to, I need to know how it ends, so I can have the story build. 

B6: probably fuss a lot

B7: beg people for help and to tell me it’s okay to publish

B8: stress a lot about if it’s good enough and about minor changes i could make

Optional: B9: put it down for 1-7 months (i just published a fic from january, and two of my bang fics are from september and november)

B10: publish it pretty much the same as it was in B8

(I deleted C by adding B9 but already wrote D)

D: Probably just the once

D1: See a prompt for driving after dark and get unexpectedly interested

D2: write 2k of notes while trying to get another story done

D3: Give myself 6 days to write those 2k of notes and then it’s 20k and my longest fic ever and oops needs a lot of typo fixes: The Key to His Problem (rated E)

The editing etc process:

 During every version of this I have a gdoc shared with people and am begging for advice. If i can’t decide on a word when i’m writing and have some flow going, i say “they were all [very] surprised” and leave a comment (or just the brackets) to come back later and fix it. THIS IS MUCH OF HOW I WRITE FAST. The first draft is to get out it out of my head, the second draft is to get it into the reader’s head. SOMETIMES the flow is perfect and i don’t need to do this, but like, idk, 10% of the time? 

A lot of the words in [brackets] will wind up staying as is, but it gives me permission to move on without feeling like i’ve settled. 

Editing sometimes involves a lot of of editing passes, sometimes just because i want to work on it and don’t want to write. This can mean the early parts get soooo much more love. 

Sometimes I print out a fic that has gone through a set of editing and do more on paper. It can be great. I just see the story differently, and it mostly keeps me from adding huge amounts, and i catch errors i didn’t otherwise. 

Usually i put up the ao3 draft a few days earlier and start adding tags and putting in my text (which i do in html) to look at it. The title often comes the day i publish, cause i wait till the end.

28. handwritten notes or typed notes?

typed unless i don't have my laptop. I started carrying around a pocket sized notebook in march and i'm onto my second one. I got it in a Japanese stationery store and got hooked, i have this line in many sizes, here's my pocket notebook -https://www.jetpens.com/Maruman-Mnemosyne-N184A-Twin-Ring-Memo-Pad-A7-Graph/pd/7379 I've written in this baby in the corner of a club cause i had ideas waiting at the bar for a drink.

44. any writing advice you want to share?

You have to get the words out. You have to get the words out. You have to get the words out.

Good words can be, often are, born of less good words.

Don't be afraid of editing! Great fiction generally comes from editing! Put down some fucking words even if you hate them and get to the next part. I do this, I am not preaching advice I don't take. I'll leave a comment sometimes to tell my future self I didn't think they were good words, I just needed them out. It's fine, I survive every single time.

If you don't need to edit, swell! But if you're stuck, just keep writing something -- or if that won't work, or you feel shitty, take a break. Work on another story, do something else, but if you're miserable and slamming your head against the wall, STOP! Don't hurt yourself! Because you shouldn't hurt, and because you'll associate writing more and more with hurt.

Get other people involved. Share snippets with your friends (if you've got an appropriate discord, make a channel for it!) Trade off reading with your writer friends. If you like my writing, know that not a single word I've ever published hasn't been read by multiple other people. My pre-fic writing was generally group works, so that's what feels normal. The idea of publishing with not even anyone to say "Hey Vee, this makes sense in your brain but not mine" is terrifying. You don't need to Have Serious Beta, it can just be cheerleading or really general "point out if anything is a big problem". I found out this week i am a "phenomenal cheerleader" -- your friends, or some kind soul on a discord, don't need to give you literary analysis to say "this part is cool, your fic is good, i hope you publish!"

Fandom is shared joy. Share your joy in every way - cheerleading others, getting other to share joy with you on your works, leave comments, leave kudos, reblog, make happy posts, keep the negativity to smaller spaces, SHARE THE JOY. I've been in fandom legit longer than some of you have been alive and it's always the joy, that's what it always comes back to. Hold onto the joy, that's what will last in your hearts. <3 <3 <3

#answering asks #me #my writing #writing advice #feels presumptuous to tag that but whatever #yes this is a months old ask but as i say i have to wait for the right time #and today's “woke up crying and need a certain kind of distraction”

[thefreakandthehair]

A Steddie fanfiction written for the @steddiebang with art by @sungods-healingg and @oriarts. 55k. Rated E.

Chapter One coming soon to ao3 on November 25, 2023! Sneak peek included below!

“Give it, hey! Give me the check,” Eddie argues, trying to pry it from Steve’s hands. “I’m not letting you pay, c’mon.” 

“I—” Steve starts grappling and tries to maintain some degree of subtly in the still bustling diner. “I’m paying, give it.” 

“Not a chance, I don’t want stories going around that I’m some kept boyfriend who uses Steve Harrington for his money.” Eddie’s lips purse and his eyes narrow. “Hand it over.”

With a final tug, Eddie celebrates internally as he yanks the envelope from Steve. He realizes belatedly that he only won that battle because Steve freezes. It takes a few seconds, maybe a moment as he slips his credit card into the little pocket and flags down their waitress again, to figure out why. 

Boyfriend. 

Presumptuous at best and enough to scare Steve off at worst. The silence is hard to read so Eddie simply hands over the check and stares with wide eyes, his heart pounding in his chest. 

“Or-- you know, just, someone who uses Steve Harrington for his money. Big baseball contract and all that?” He tries to brush it off and deflect with humor, something that usually works well enough but apparently, not on Steve. 

“You said boyfriend.” He says simply, ignoring Eddie’s attempts entirely. 

Suddenly, Eddie regrets that sweet dessert for dinner because his stomach is tumbling in a dangerous way. He rubs the back of his neck and pulls at a strand of loose hair.

“I uh, yeah, I guess I did. Do you… have thoughts? On that?” 

Steve blinks at him, three times in quick succession, before the right corner of his mouth quirks up. “I do, actually. But I think I’d rather show you and I’d probably lose that big baseball contract if I did that here.” 

“Oh?” Eddie teases, pausing to grab the check back from the waitress to sign and slide his credit card back into it wallet. When she’s far enough away that Eddie’s sure she won’t hear, he reminds Steve of their location. “My apartment’s just like, two blocks over. If uh, if you’d like to show me in a more private spot?” 

The first time Eddie massaged Steve, he felt called back to the dangerous adrenaline rushes of his youth, all impulsivity and carelessness, and he feels it again as he invites Steve back to his apartment. Or maybe, it never even left. Maybe it’s just been slowly eroding his resolve for the past two months.

Whatever the case, his body trembles when Steve says Yes. 

tagging people who've asked, expressed interest to me or in tags, etc. and some pals: @hbyrde36 @steddieasitgoes @sidekick-hero @dryptid @sharpbutsoft @cuoredimuschio @kkpwnall @starryeyedjanai @scarcrossdlvrs @marvel-ous-m @pearynice @judasofsuburbia @corrodedbisexual @shares-a-vest @hellion-child @pumpkinspicestevie @delta-piscium @perseus-notjackson @thisapplepielife @withacapitalp @nostalgicbones @hereforanepilogue @stevethehairington @nostalgicbones @t-boyeddie @theheadlessphilosopher @stobinesque @imfinereallyy @hexiewrites @maxineholtzmann @starrystevie @steddieas-shegoes @daysarestranger @goodolefashionedloverboi

#steddie #steddie fic #steddie fanfic #steddie fanfiction #eddie munson #steve harrington #stranger things #steddie big bang #rounding third sliding home #myfic #omg this starts posting in EXACTLY A WEEK i'm so fine #i'm so normal #(i'm lying i'm already sweating)

[wing-ed-thing]

Best Friend Headcanons with Izuku Midoriya

Tags: No Reader Pronouns, Classmate!Reader, Interpersonal Conflict

𓆃 Overall a solid friend who's gentle, considerate, and supportive of anything you could ever set your mind to, but your friendship will require a lot of work if it's reaching anything past surface level.

𓆃 Because, make no mistake, Izuku is a very good friend, but your relationship will either always be surface level or he'll become one of your very best friends for your lifetime.

𓆃 It's very easy to befriend Izuku in the first place. It takes less than one meaningful interaction to put you on his radar, and especially in group settings, time spent together doing activities is enough to naturally draw you close.

𓆃 Even if you weren't necessarily Izuku's friend in the first place, if Iida invites you both to his place for studying one week and Ochako invites everyone out to BBQ the next week, you're basically friends by proxy.

𓆃 Because Izuku doesn't care too much about the barrier between classmate/acquaintance and being friends. He'll most definitely care if you care, but that certainly doesn't stop him from awkwardly raving about your quirk or costume or other notable trait that's unique to you.

𓆃 Social anxiety be damned; he's curious!

𓆃 It also doesn't hurt that he's extremely easy to match energies with.

𓆃 And that's one of the most endearing parts of having Izuku as a friend, especially if you also have niche hobbies or special interests. Izuku is always eager to learn and spend meaningful social time.

𓆃 The hour doesn't matter; Izuku is always down to sit for any length of time in the common area at odd hours to chat or just share space.

𓆃 He's also surprisingly down for most anything short of criminal activity or rule breaking. Although, it does take some convincing.

𓆃 You and the rest of your friend group will want to grab fast food at an odd hour and it takes at least a half hour of warming Izuku up to the idea and talk him out of sticking too strictly to his sleep routine.

𓆃 The key is that you have to drop hints about it throughout the day to warm him up. You have the best record by far when it comes to convincing Izuku to take spontaneous trips or do spontaneous projects.

𓆃 (You convinced him to do a snack run in 5 minutes flat.)

𓆃 One fantastic thing about Izuku is that he never makes you feel like you're bothering him and always makes it abundantly clear that he wants to spend time with you no matter how mundane the activity is.

𓆃 He loves running errands to the point that somethings he'll run errands for you... and this is where you might run into some issues.

𓆃 For all of his overthinking, Izuku sure likes to assume. He likes to assume your needs; he likes to assume when conversations are over (even if you're bringing something serious up to him and you really need to talk it all the way through); and most egregiously, he often assumes your feelings.

𓆃 Izuku reads into everything, and there are times when the amount of reassurance he needs is excessive. And the worst of it is that he won't even ask if you're mad or annoyed or whatever negative emotion he's afraid of you having.

𓆃 He'll just be avoiding you for a few days and it's up to you to ask if anything is wrong with him.

𓆃 Or the times he comes to you, his way of asking can be presumptuous and sometimes even insulting.

𓆃 "I know you were outperformed by Komori in the last match-ups, and you're super angry— I mean, it's no wonder because, with her new support items, the matchup was super one-sided from the beginning, so I understand why you're feeling really useless and weak right now..." and he'll say all that without you having even said a word.

𓆃 This can inadvertently turn things that are occupying your brain space into issues with him. He'll express regret that he didn't help you more with your strategy— even if you didn't even ask him for help in the first place— and suddenly the conversation about feeling bummed about your loss has turned into comforting Izuku.

𓆃 And any kind of direct conversation leads to him trying to overcompensate. No matter how calm or peaceful you are in bringing up issues between the two of you, you can almost certainly count on him saying, "I'll never do it ever again," "I can't believe I've been such a bad friend," and "You don't deserve to have to deal with someone like me."

𓆃 While he's not trying to be manipulative, his words most definitely come off as such. And it comes from an inability to take things he's done wrong in stride.

𓆃 And this isn't to mention if you do something that bothers him. He'll ignore that and plan on taking it to his grave, not realizing that there's been an awkward resentment or tension building up that will inevitably burst.

𓆃 Although, make no mistake, Izuku isn't some passive guy who will take the hits as they come without a word. If he's not passive-aggressive in his anger toward you, he's not afraid to let everything he's been stewing in explode on you all at once, and those unfiltered thoughts can be nasty.

𓆃 For someone so well-spoken in most other parts of his life, Izuku doesn't know how to split the different between passive-aggressive avoidance and direct, emotional sputtering when it comes to his interpersonal conflict communication.

𓆃 The moment emotions get tied up in everything is the moment Izuku implodes.

𓆃 He'll never tell you that he felt left out of something or that something you've been saying has been rubbing him the wrong way, but he expects you to pick up on that without ever mentioning it to you.

𓆃 Depending on the level of issues you have with each other, you're going to have one serious conversation that makes or breaks your entire friendship. Because for how skittish and people-pleasing Midoriya is, he's surprisingly high maintenance.

𓆃 He expects, on some level, that everyone thinks like he does and is as thorough as he is. Izuku doesn't like having direct conversations about issues, so he doesn't until it's too late.

𓆃 And truly, isn't that how it goes when direct communication isn't within your wheelhouse?

𓆃 That's your main obstacle because it's truly bound to happen. But if you care about each other enough and choose to listen with open hearts and minds, you'll have made a friend for life.

Thank you to all who liked, reblogged, followed, and supported. Your support means so much and is greatly appreciated.

#izuku midoria x reader #izuku x reader #deku x reader #mha x reader #my hero x reader #my hero academia x reader #boku no hero academia #mha reader insert #deku headcanons #izuku headcanons #reader insert #x reader #my hero academia fanfiction

[astarions-darling]

An Indecent Proposal Raphael x FemTav/Reader

NSFW mdni tags: inappropriate touching, edging, panty sniffin', raphael is a dirty little pervert, clothed male, naked female summary: you barge into Sharess' Caress ready to give Raphael a piece of your mind. however when you get there, things do not go as planned. read on ao3 via source (this is pretty dialogue heavy because Raphael likes the sound of his own voice. and I don't blame him. this is also silly.)

You don’t bother to knock when you reach the door with the little shiny plaque that says “Devil’s Den” in an ornate script. The door isn’t locked, so it swings open effortlessly when you barge in. The tirade ready to fall from your lips falters as the door closes with a soft click behind you and the hand you had raised in righteous anger pauses before limply falling to your side.

Raphael is lounging in one of the overly gilded armchairs that furnish the den, a glass of something that looks both incredibly alcoholic and expensive dangling from one hand as he regards you with that infuriatingly knowing smile. None of that is why the cat suddenly has your tongue; it's that he has shrugged off the outer layer of his clothing and sits there with his white shirt unbuttoned. The view of his bare chest isn't a particularly novel sight—after all, you share a camp with several people, and some—like a certain large elf—enjoy being one with nature on any occasion they can get. It's more of a shock to see Raphael in such a state of undress; it would be a lie to say you had never considered what lay beneath his neatly tailored clothes. But you would have bet all the gold in Faerûn that Korilla stitched him into them every morning to ensure they stayed perfectly in place. Right now he looked so...deliciously dishevelled.

“My, my," comes his amused voice, "does the squirming tadpole hinder your manners as well, little mouse?” The gentle timbre of his voice washes over you and it's enough to snap your attention to his face. “Or have you always been an uncouth little beast that flounces in without knocking?”

You frown at him, your irritation flaring up again. Your fingers flex—though not in a fit of pique but because your mind has been lost to the thought of running your fingers through the hairs on his tanned chest. That bloody distracting devil. Why did you come here again?

"Did you come all this way to gawk like a gutted fish or did you have something you wished to say?" He raises a brow, tipping his drink towards you. "If you wish to stare, I am, of course, happy to oblige—though that will cost you. This establishment operates on a quid pro quo basis, you know."

Quickly you shake your head, trying to wrangle your thoughts. The devil stands, unfolding himself gracefully from his chair and languidly striding over to a nearby credenza on which an array of bottles and glasses sit. He moves with care, never rushing, and with a deliberate air you can’t help but admire. He makes you feel clumsy.

You watch him carefully pour some rich amber liquid into his glass. It looks like steam rises and hisses above it for a moment before disappearing. The man turns to you, the corner of his lips quirked.

“I’d offer you a drink but I’m certain you’d decline.”

That presumptuous bastard. You’re too irritated to wonder if this is a trick on his part, which is foolish. But he too easily gets under your skin and so you open your mouth to retort.

“I would love a drink,” you say petulantly. You watch him take a sip, hating how you can’t stop yourself from watching his tongue flick out to catch the remnants of it on his lips. He fills up another glass before passing it to you. You watch the amber liquid swirl a moment before throwing it back quickly.

An incredibly stupid thing to do. Whatever it is, the liquor burns your throat and has you spluttering as you bend over coughing. You hear Raphael’s low chuckle of amusement before a glass of water is conjured out of thin air and hovers before you. You snatch it, guzzling it down just like the beast he claims you to be.

“What the bloody hell was that?” you ask, wiping at your mouth with the back of his hand. You catch his nose wrinkling at your lack of decorum. “I think my insides are melting!”

“Cease your melodramatic caterwauling,” he says, casually taking another sip of his own drink. Smug bastard. “It will pass.”

You cough again, feeling the liquor heat up your veins. You blink a few times before the alcohol simmers down, leaving just a pleasant warmth in your belly. Liquor and spirits had been few and far between while on your little adventure—well, anything half decent that is. The swill you’d managed to get was no better than vinegar. You’d stupidly agreed to let Astarion steal some expensive-looking vintage from the wine festival in the Lower City…which had ended up with you spending the night in a cell. Sometimes that elf was the clumsiest person you’d ever met. With that thought, you suddenly remember why you’ve come here.

“I would like for you to stop sending Korilla to spy on me,” you demand as the devil places his drink down so he can re-button the cuffs of his sleeves. 

Did he go deliberately tan on some beach, you wonder? That thought spirals and you’re suddenly picturing lying in the sun on some perfect beach while his skin glitters with salt and sea.

“You should be thanking me.” His lilting words are annoyingly pleasant and they drag you out of your daydream. “After all, if dear Korilla hadn’t been with you a few nights ago you’d probably still be a trapped little mouse in a cell.” He smirks, picking up his drink again and tilting the glass toward you. “Stealing wine, really?”

You decide to keep your mouth shut, something that you mentally congratulate yourself for. It was true that Korilla had been the one to free you from your dank cell. Which was a lucky thing; you didn’t want to hurt people while trying to break free, but it would have come to that if the warlock hadn’t intervened. Raphael watches you carefully, an easy smile on his handsome face, his confident casual air annoying you more than anything else.

“I will withdraw Korilla’s eye from your camp,” he says after a few minutes, his voice thoughtful, “if you give me something in return.”

Of course. You sigh. What did you expect?

“I’m not giving you my soul just for that, Raphael,” you scoff. “If I wouldn’t take one of your deals for the hammer then I certainly won’t trade it just to stop your little dog from following me around.”

“I wouldn’t dream of asking such a thing,” he says smoothly, ignoring your little jab about Korilla. “I desire a mere trifle. Inexpensive!” The devil laughs, a warm pleasing sound that has your lips twitching and skin flushing despite yourself. “I promise you won’t even miss it.”

You frown. What did you have that he would want? Soul coins, perhaps? But surely Raphael couldn’t know you had some in your possession, could he? But also they weren’t inexpensive…not in the least. What in Balduran’s name could he possibly want from you?

“What?” you ask, eyes narrowing.

He tuts. “You really do need to acquire some manners, little mouse. Too much scurrying around with scoundrels and vagabonds.” He sighs, taking a sip of his drink before grabbing a different bottle. You watch him uncork it with ease and pour the dark red liquid into a silver chalice. When he proffers it to you, your hands take it carefully. “Perhaps this may be more pleasing to your sensitive mortal palate.” You watch the candlelight flicker over the wine before you bring it up to smell. Inhaling, you let the notes of cherry and plum assault your senses, the sweet richness of it utterly inviting. When you take a sip, you let it sit on your tongue for a moment to savour it before you close your eyes and swallow. You hadn’t had anything that good in…well, you don’t think you’ve ever had such a decadent wine before.

When you meet Raphael’s gaze again, you shift on your feet. Your fingers grip tighter on the stem, remembering where you are and who you’re talking to.

“It’s nice,” you say, idly swirling the glass. “Well, what do you want then?”

“Your knickers.”

There is no hesitation in his words, he shoots them out quickly and effortlessly—like Astarion would shoot an arrow. You nearly spill the wine in your shock. You’re certain you’ve hallucinated his words or perhaps this is a weird dream. Maybe you are still tucked in your bed at the Elfsong Tavern, dreaming about devils and their insanity.

“You want my what?”

“Your knickers,” Raphael repeats, his easy stare watching you as a multitude of emotions flicker over your face.

So you had heard him correctly. The man doesn’t even act like he’s asked for anything unreasonable. Disbelief has you standing there with your mouth agape. Is he trying to humiliate you? He must be. Was this some sort of strange ploy to get you to agree to his insane deal of the hammer for the crown?

“Why?” The word falls out of your mouth gracelessly, but you aren’t here to cater to Raphael’s want for proper etiquette.

“Why anything?” His voice is low and tinged with amusement as he finishes his drink. He leaves the glass on the credenza to walk closer to you, his hands gesturing as he continues to talk. “Why does the fox chase the hare? Why do little thieves steal wine? For the thrill?” He pauses, head tilting to the side as he regards you. He grins at you. “For pleasure?”

You despise the way he inflects the last word. It sends a rolling shiver down your spine.

“If you’re trying to humiliate me, consider it done.”

He feigns hurt, or you think he does, as he sighs dramatically. You wish he would he would dress himself back in his tunic again, or at least do up his shirt buttons as your eyes can’t help but flick to his exposed throat and chest as his shirt shifts with his movements.

“I would never dare dream of humiliating you, my dear.” Raphael's words sound sincere, but you do not trust him. He’s a devil. It’s like a constant mantra you have to repeat yourself. You are aware that devils can’t lie, but they can certainly bend the truth—just enough—so that it won’t break. “How it claws at my heart to hear you even utter such a thing.”

“I didn’t know you had a heart,” you retort.

“You wound me again, sweetling.” Hand over supposed heart, Raphael smiles. “Indulge me. I do not ask for much.”

It was true, it really wasn’t much. A heavy sigh and then you hear yourself utter a resigned, “Fine.”  It was ludicrous but you couldn’t see any harm in it. And he hadn’t produced a contract to sign—just a gentleman’s agreement, as it were. You were not going to tell any of your companions that you had traded your panties for some freedom. Nine Hells, you hoped you could sneak back into the tavern without them noticing. Perhaps the alcohol has loosened your resolve and has you acting so stupidly but you can’t see anything wrong with the arrangement. With another sigh, you ditch the wine on a nearby table before you turn to leave, but Raphael calls after you.

“And where are you rushing off to?”

“To the tavern,” you say, turning back to face him, “to fetch you your perverse prize.”

“No.” He takes a few steps closer and you catch that hint of spice and musk that wafts from him. “The ones you are wearing, little mouse.”

You suppress a shudder. He’s never been so close to you before, he’s manoeuvred himself into your personal space. The heat and power that radiates from him is intoxicating, more so than any drink upon your tongue, and you’re suddenly reminded of what he is underneath his welcome facade. Yet that doesn’t stop your mouth from opening.

“There are plenty of boutiques around here if you’re that desperate for some new lingerie, Raphael. No need to take mine.” You stick your chin out, matching his stare as you can’t help but add, “As lovely as I think you’d look in pink lace.”

The man’s face doesn’t change, the easy smile remains but you can see the brightness of his eyes—as if you can sense their true infernal nature behind his human disguise. He seems pleased with your reluctance to submit to him easily. Something that you hate to admit makes you pleased in return.

“Pink’s not really my colour,” he muses, fingers tapping his chin thoughtfully, “though I am sure the flush of it against your skin suits.”

Those words do not help you’re suddenly racing heart but you try to ignore his silver tongue. Shifting on your feet, you try to get your mind back in order. Your eyes dart around the room, searching for somewhere to change though there doesn’t appear to be anywhere.

“How I do enjoy watching the little wheels turn in that pretty head of yours.”

You glare at him. “Where can I change then, devil?”

He laughs and then spreads his arms wide. “Right here.” At the look on your face he continues, “You mortals are so easily flustered.” He waves his hand dismissively. “Please, as if I have not seen bare flesh before.”

Later, when you are tucked in your rented bed, you will blame the alcohol. But for now, you simply begin to undo your clothing, starting with removing your boots. He takes a mere step back, those eyes watching you the entire time until you are standing there in nothing but your underclothes. Feeling self-conscious, you feel the flush begin in your chest and work its way up your neck but you refrain from trying to cover yourself up and stand there with your hands by your side as your body tenses. The look on his face hasn’t really changed, but again there is something behind the eyes. A reaching hunger. You wonder what he sees when he looks at you, can devil’s see a soul? Does it call out to him and do his hands itch to pluck it free?

Raphael walks behind you and instinctively you go to turn but his warm hands reach out to hold your shoulders, keeping you where you stand and your toes scrunch at the soft rug beneath to curb some of the tension now beginning to coil in your gut. The lingering touch as he holds you burns into your skin, not due to his infernal nature—though you do sense that he feels rather warm than a regular man—but due to the way your traitorous body reacts to his touch.

“What are you doing?” you ask.

“I just want to remember you as you are now, before your flesh is torn asunder by writhing tentacles.” His hands slide down your sides, leaving a trail of gooseflesh and a horrible twinge of arousal. “Before your lovely skin is slippery with mucus and…” he leans in and you feel the tip of his nose behind your ear making you shiver, “you lose that delectable scent.”

You can feel the deep rolling timbre of his voice against your skin. You are too aware of him behind you, your muscles tense as you try to resist the entirely too tempting urge to step back into him. “I am not giving you the crown.” You manage to utter the words though they come out in a whisper. But you are still somewhat proud that you can utter them at all.

“You will.” His fingers touch your neck and you can’t suppress the shudder. “I see your little vampling has taken a bite.”

You twitch as the soft pad of his finger grazes against the puncture wounds on your neck. 

“It helps him fight better.”

His hum in response tickles your neck but you refrain from responding. What would you say? That you like letting the vampire feed on you occasionally? That the searing flash of pain mixing so deliciously with the heady feeling of Astarion drinking from you is unlike any sort of pleasure you’ve experienced before? No. The devil did not need any details.

“I’m sure it does.” Raphael's words float against the shell of your ear and you are momentarily aware that you have a literal devil hovering by your shoulder.

The pad of his finger once more traces the puncture wounds from Astarion’s bite. It feels like a bolt of magic whenever he touches you, though the shock of it is far too pleasant and it goes straight between your legs. Your tongue is stuck to the roof of your mouth but you manage to unstick it just as he pulls away.

Raphael moves around you until he is once more facing you. You feel flushed, far too aware of how your pulse is thudding in your neck, yet he looks perfectly calm and collected, breathing even and standing there as if you were merely discussing the weather. When he drops to his knees before you, you want to scream but you are too transfixed at the sight of him before you. You can barely think when his hands reach up towards your underwear. You stare dumbfounded, some part of you still blaming it on the alcohol, as you watch his long, elegant fingers trace the pattern of lace by your hip.

“They do look lovely on you, little mouse, a pity.”

You find your tongue again and manage to mutter, “I can undress myself.”

“I’m sure you can,” he purrs. You wish you could cast Silence on him. “But what sort of man would I be if I didn’t lend a helping hand?”

Quickly you look away, face burning in embarrassment as your mind easily imagines how helpful said hand could be. He really shouldn’t be allowed to speak in such a way. Did he cast some kind of spell on you? Did he put something in that drink? Or were you just simply this spellbound by him—perhaps not something to dwell on, you decide. You feel his warm breath against the top of your thigh as his fingers slide up under the band of your knickers at your lack of response. You realise you’re holding your breath as he slides the lace down your legs. You risk a glance down but quickly flick your eyes away—his face is far too close to your bare sex. If he moves his head even slightly you know you will feel his breath on your cunt.

Standing there, you wrestle with the idea of stepping back or just blasting him in the face with a spell. Not that you are very good with spells. But damn does his touch feel nice, his hands are so damn warm and soft as he oh so fucking slowly slides your underwear down. Raphael hasn’t said a word and it’s been at least a minute—that must be a record. The lace finally reaches the ground and he taps your ankle.

Wordlessly you lift a foot and his low response of, “Good girl,” has you desperately fighting to control your stupid dumb animal body’s response. Your fingers itch to steady yourself on his shoulder but you refrain…just. Luckily all your adventuring has improved your athletics and you’re determined not to give the devil the satisfaction of stumbling before him into a wanton heap.

His thumb slips under the fabric still hanging around your other ankle and tugs at it. You’d been staring at the wall straight ahead, eyes fixed on a portrait hanging in some ornate frame. But at the tug, you glance down and see Raphael staring up at you, that smug smirk plastered on his face. Could you get away with kneeing him in the face? Lords above, could you get away with yanking him by the hair (and it was such lovely hair) and between your legs? Both are tempting.

“Little mouse?” His voice is a long lilting drawl and he tugs again at your knickers.

You lift your foot quickly, again saving yourself from tripping over, as he slips it off your foot and stands. You stand there a moment, dazed. Your skin still feels like it is on fire, he must be able to smell your arousal…you can. And you can see the way his nostrils flare as he stands and you watch the devil bring the pink lace up to his face and inhale. Now would be a great time for the Elder Brain to try and shake free of its bonds, you think.

“Did you just—”

With a snap of his fingers, you're suddenly dressed. “Was that so difficult?” “Why didn’t you just do that to take them?” you ask incredulously. “Where would be the fun in that?” He straightens the lapel on your clothing and adds, “Remember, I will still be here when you are ready to admit you need me.”

You grit your teeth. “I don’t need the hammer.”

Those deceptively warm eyes regard you and he smiles again, making your hands itch. You can feel how wet you are between your thighs, and in that moment you realise that is not what he means. But you do not get a chance to speak as with a wave of his hand you find yourself disappearing in a flash of crimson-tinged ash before you are teetering on the steps of Sharess’ Caress in the warm evening air. That smarmy, panty sniffing, bastard. As you begin the walk back to the tavern, you tell yourself your frustration has nothing to do with the way he had touched you. Nothing at all.

When you return to the Elfsong, you attempt to sneak past the group as they eat around a large wooden table. Of course, you can’t get past Shadowheart, the cleric spotting you and instantly dragging you to the table. You slide in, squished between her and Gale as she begins to question where you’ve been.

“Nowhere,” you say with a dismissive shrug, proud of how natural it sounds as you grab a bread roll and try to ignore the lingering throb between your legs. ”I just went for a walk.”

You feel eyes on you and look up into the knowing gaze of Astarion. “A walk, darling?” He leans in across the table and you see his nostrils flare. “An exhilarating one, I take it?” He sniffs again. “Climb any cherry trees on your…walk?”

#.writing #sneef sneef #lmao this is so dumb #bg3 fanfic #bg3 raphael #raphael bg3 #raphael x reader #raphael x tav #but it was fun #baldurs gate fanfiction #baldur's gate 3 fanfiction

[sarahowritesostucky]

📖"Temporary Custody"

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Steve x ofc x Bucky; Steve x Bucky

Word Count: 3399

Tags: Dom/sub, bdsm au, dom Bucky, sub reader, hurt/comfort, enemies to lovers, gay sex'n'stuff, straight sex'n'stuff, Steve being a literal Golden Retriever, mental health issues, dub-con, forced submission, bakery au, m/f/m, gentle domination, total power exchange

Summary: The stigma and shame of being a submissive has kept Mary unfulfilled and in the closet her whole life, until an inciting incident leads to Bucky and Steve taking her in and giving her everything she was always too afraid to ask for.

Trigger warnings: This story contains background/minor themes of eating disordered behavior, body image issues, self-harm, and alcohol abuse.

Series Masterpost for all chapters

2. Hazelnut Ganache Tart

Mary does sober up during her shift.

She feels kind of miserable, so she’s thankful that it’s a slow Monday. She’s also vaguely ashamed of how she’d shown up to work. It’s a new low, even for her. And then someone had seen her and called her out on it. It’s mortifying.

The encounter with Bucky preoccupies her thoughts all day, and she winds up burning a batch of croissants as she daydreams. She’s more careful after that, taking extra care with the assembly of her hazelnut ganache tarts.

Focusing on the intricate details of the pastries, on executing them perfectly, helps her to calm down and forget about the embarrassing encounter. For a little while at least. Alcohol would be better, and by the time she’s clocking out she’s already thinking about getting home so she can have the relief of a drink.

Or ten.

If anything, she throws back the first few even faster than usual, eager to wipe the memory of what’d happened that morning out of her mind.

Bucky, she thinks acerbically. What a stupid name.

And the nerve of him! To just assume those things about her. Has that loser never seen somebody hungover at work before? It's quite the presumptuous leap from that to … submissive.

‘Dominant’. Mary rolls her eyes. He could’ve just been making it up. Probably was. She’s certainly never met anybody who’s just come out and announced it the way he had. What a bizarre thing to do. It’s not like it’s something people go around broadcasting. It’s … well it’s a mental disorder, isn’t it?

They’d mentioned it in her Psych101 class back in college, but she’d dropped out before that semester was halfway through. Unable to help herself, she pulls out her phone and googles “Dominant,” then navigates to the Wikipedia page on “Dominant and Submissive Personality Disorder.” She winds up getting sucked into reading about it. But as soon as the article starts talking about the submissive subsection, she closes the browser in discomfort. 

She remembers back to the encounter with that guy—Bucky. He hadn’t seemed like there was anything wrong with him (other than being bossy and intrusive as fuck).  But where the heck did he get off throwing out psych diagnoses at total strangers? Mary's cheeks grow hot the more she thinks about his cocksure attitude and the pitying way he’d looked at her.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Doll.” 

She remembers how he’d spoken to her, how he’d called her out on her behavior and spoken so assuredly, like he could see right into her. Like he knew all her secrets. It’d been unnerving.

Her pulse quickens as she thinks about it. The way his big hand had felt, wrapped so securely around her wrist. And how he’d squeezed her wrist—slowly, gently.

“Oh, honey. I think you are.” 

Fuck, it’d made her knees go weak.

Sighing, she takes the bottle of vodka and her glass to the couch and plops down, using the remote to turn the tv onto YouTube. She starts up a playlist that she can lose herself in—music videos, stuff from all the tv shows she likes, edits, fail compilations, whatever. Maybe it’s pathetic that this is how she spends most nights, but there’s no one that she has to impress. And she can’t bear the feeling of being alone in her brain otherwise. At least this way everything is warm and entertaining. She pours herself a little more, throwing off the ratio of vodka to ginger ale, but the taste doesn't bother her nearly as much once she's on the third or fourth drink.

The bottle’s half empty, and she wonders if she’ll finish it. She’ll be drunk again at work tomorrow morning, if she does. Yikes. She’ll stop after two more. One more. Two more.

The bottle’s three-quarters empty and an Adam Lambert music video is blasting on the tv. He really is the most underappreciated vocalist of his generation! And he’s got such nice makeup, too …

Maybe she won’t even go to work tomorrow, Mary thinks manically. They don’t appreciate her there anyway. Maybe she’ll just stay here and drink the rest of this and enjoy herself until… until…

The bottle’s empty and the party’s in full swing. No worries though, she thinks, she’s got some of that nasty cheap rum in the back of the pantry. Blecgh. She orders DoorDash that she doesn’t really have the money to be wasting on, puts on makeup while lip syncing to the tv, and thinks about calling Chase to tell him what a loser he is and how glad she is that they broke up. Haven’t had to use this concealer to cover up anything but acne in over a year.

Rum isn’t so bad when you mix it with orange juice!

She gets on a depressing video kick. She bemoans the state of politics, then society, the world, her life. She goes through all the old pictures in her phone and gets pissed at the ones with Chase in them. She imagines running into her ex somewhere random, with a super hot new boyfriend on her arm. She imagines the dumbstruck expression he’d have on his face, and how she’d introduce her way-hotter new boyfriend to him. 

Ohmygosh, Chase! How’ve you been?! Oh me? I’m doing great. This is Bucky, he’s a surgeon-slash-green beret-slash-musician. Ha! Yeah well we just got back from two months in the Bahamas, so that’s why we’re so tan. 

It’s the rum, Mary decides. It makes her sad. She stops feeling fun and happy, and starts feeling lonely and morose. She finds the cardboard sleeve that Bucky had written that phone number on. Hell no, she’s not calling it. She’s got the internet. There’s tons of info online about this stuff that she can look up. Besides, it’s just curiosity. She’s not like him. She's not like that.

She googles BDSM disorder and clicks on the first search result, which winds up being porn. That’s a mistake, but then she decides to watch the porn anyway, because it’s sexy—plus, it's sort of educational, right?

The porn starts making her even more sad. She stares at the paper cup sleeve in her hand while some girl gets the tar beat out of her backside. The last video had been an over-the-lap spanking video—Mary had liked that one. But this doesn’t look nice at all. Especially when the guy switches to hitting her with a friggin’ stick. 

Is this the sort of stuff Bucky likes to do? Jeez.

She has the receipt that Bucky wrote his own number on, too. On impulse, she pulls out her phone and starts to enter a new contact. 

“Asshole Dom Bucky,” she mumbles as she types the words and saves the new contact number with a giggle. It takes more than one try, her fingers not hitting the right keys very often, but she gets it done. 

She comes very, very close to calling Bucky, but winds up calling the hotline phone number instead at the last minute. She’ll whine and cry to them instead, she thinks. At least they’re strangers. She can tell them anything. It’s confidential, anonymous. They can’t tell anyone what she says.

A woman picks up the phone and greets her in a calm, friendly voice.

“Hello, my name is Sharon. I’m a volunteer counselor at the National Submissive Crisis Intervention Hotline.”

“Whatever,” Mary slurs. She is so drunk. She gulps more of her rum and OJ, thinks about going and getting the little razor blade that she only thinks about picking up when she’s wasted. Sometimes it feels nice to do something outrageous when she’s this sad. Nobody can stop her from it, and that feels nice, too. “M’not having a crisis,” she mumbles.

“Okay,” Sharon says, voice still so pleasant and accommodating. “What’s your name?”

“Mary.”

“Okay Mary. I’m glad you called. Would you like to talk to me about what you’re going through? We can talk about anything you’d like.”

“I’m not a freak,” Mary blurts out. “You know? Submissive, or whatever. I’m not. M’normal.”

“Okay,” Sharon says calmly. “Well just so you know, I’m not here to judge. I’m on the spectrum myself.”

Mary blows air through her teeth disdainfully—though deep down, she guesses it’s nice to know that. "So what," she mutters. "You're like, a submissive?

“I’m actually dominant, but I’m not going to do anything to try and boss you around or control you. I’m just here to listen to and support you.” 

“Oh.” She looks down at her glass, feeling like she doesn’t even want to finish drinking it. She’s tired … And sad. “Kay,” she mumbles. “Well I’m not. Like that.”

“You don’t think you have a designation disorder."

Designation disorder, pfft. Mary scoffs again. “Yeah, no.”

“Then why did you call tonight? Do you need someone to talk to?”

She grumbles unintelligibly, then repeats herself when the woman on the phone prompts her. “Some guy just gave me this number. He said that I was.”

“He said that you were what, Honey?”

“… Submissive.” She says the word quietly, embarrassed of it. “But what does he know, right?” She huffs. “Fucking stranger. He doesn’t know me.”

“Okay. What are you going through tonight?” Sharon asks, still sounding kind but also mildly worried. “Do you want to talk about that? About what made you call the hotline?”

Mary sniffles, feeling stupid. She’s suddenly tearing up and she doesn’t even know why. She wipes her eyes hastily and takes another big sip of her drink. “I’m drinking,” she says tearfully, bluntly, expecting to be scolded for it. "M'drunk."

“Okay,” Sharon says. She doesn’t sound mad. “Okay Mary, are you by yourself right now?”

“Yeah. M’in my apartment.”

“Okay. Okay. … Do you drink alone there often?”

Oh. That hits hard for some reason, and suddenly Mary’s crying, squeezing her eyes shut and trying to hold back a sob.

“Mary? Are you there, Honey?”

Honey. Mary cries harder. That's what Bucky had called her. She likes hearing it, but also she feels desperately sad because it reminds her about how she’s all alone and doesn’t have someone to call her ‘Honey’ or ‘Doll’ or ‘good girl’. And nobody’s ever spanked her over their lap, either. 

“Mary?”

“Yeah,” she says, voice all choked up. “Yeah, m’here.”

“Okay. Good.” Mary can hear the sound of typing on the other end of the line. “How are you feeling Mary? Do you think we could make a plan together? Maybe drink some water and get you ready for bed? It’s late. You must be tired, huh?” 

Mary sniffles. “Um,”

“It’d make me so happy if we could make a plan, Mary. Would you do that for me?” 

“... Yeah.”

“Oh, that’s so great. Good girl.”

Mary’s face crumples. She’s not a good girl. She’s not good at all! 

Sharon hears her crying harder and asks worriedly what’s wrong. “Mary,” she says, voice sharper—stern-sounding. “Mary, you need to talk to me and tell me what’s happening.” 

“Sh-sharon?” Mary cries. “What I tell you is private, right? You won’t tell anyone or report me, will you?”

“... The goal is to keep you safe, Honey. I’m here to help you do that,” Sharon says. “You can tell me anything you want to. I’m here to listen, remember?”

She sounds so kind and caring, so steady, and it makes Mary want to tell her everything. It’s been so hard, not having anyone to talk to. And anyway she’s already crying at this point, and it feels good in that way that crying sometimes does, so she might as well. It’s confidential.

She takes a deep breath, takes another big gulp from her glass, and starts spilling her guts to this stranger named Sharon over the phone.

Bucky’s phone rings early in the morning. He groans as he wakes up, grumpily reaching for it. He peeks at the red numbers of the alarm clock over on Steve’s side of the bed: 4:30 AM. 

If this is a robocall this early in the morning, he’s going to be tempted to commit capital murder. “Hello?” he rasps.

“Hello. Is this, um … ‘Bucky’?”

It’s a man’s voice. Bucky squints blearily up at the bedroom’s popcorn ceiling. “Yeah? Who is this?”

“Sir, my name is Officer Santiago with the New York Police Department. I’m calling from Holy Cross Hospital.”

“Hospital?” Bucky says, more alert at hearing that. “You’re a cop?” Why is a cop calling him? Bucky can’t think of a good reason.

“Yes Sir.”

He sits up in the bed. Beside him, Steve starts waking up, too. “Mmph, who is it?” he asks sleepily.

“What’s happened?” Bucky asks, dread already curling in his gut, imagining who could be hurt or dead at the hospital that they’re calling him at this hour …

“We have a woman here,” the officer says. “She called a crisis hotline. The operator was worried about her safety, she contacted us.”

“Those hotlines are supposed to be confidential,” Bucky growls.

“She was making threats of self harm. We had to pick her up. We’ve got her down here at the E.R. at Holy Cross. Involuntary hold.”

“Wait a minute ... What was the hotline she called?” Bucky asks, as the thought occurs to him and he hopes he’s wrong. “It wasn’t a D/s hotline, was it?” 

Beside him in the bed, Steve is grimacing and rubbing his eyes. “Babe?”

“Some submissive crisis line, yeah,” the officer says. 

Bucky’s heart sinks. The woman from the coffee shop yesterday. “Mary,” he murmurs, remembering how neat and cute her handwriting was on her nametag and on the side of his to-go cup. “Shit,” he says.

“She’s stable. She has minor self-inflicted injuries but nothing life threatening. We found your number in her phone.” Here is where the officer starts to sound uneasy. “You’re listed here as her, um … her Dom.”

“I … am?” Bucky’s eyebrows climb his forehead. He hadn’t thought the girl would keep his cell number, let alone save him as a contact. He’d thought he’d pissed her off, that she was too proud, too mortified.

“Babe, who is it?” Steve asks, awake now and frowning at Bucky in concern. He can tell something’s wrong. Bucky shushes him with a gesture and Steve’s face flashes with annoyance. Bucky gives him an apologetic wince.

“Specifically, you’re listed under ‘Asshole Dom Bucky’.” The officer clears his throat uncomfortably. “She wouldn’t give us a number to call, and department policy is to contact designation partners, if possible.”

Bucky opens his mouth to tell the officer that he’s not Mary’s partner, that he doesn’t even really know her. But he stops himself, thinking about what happens to subs who get dragged into the E.R. and go unclaimed. “I … yeah,” he hedges. “Yeah, that’s me.” After an awkward pause and feeling guilty for the lie, he checks, “You said she’s okay?”

“Yes. She’s pretty upset, and intoxicated. But the doctor checked her out and said she’s okay. Well … physically-speaking,” he adds awkwardly. “They’re ready to admit her.”

“Psych unit?”

“Yeah.”

Bucky sighs. “No. That’s not good. It’d be better if I came and got her.”

“Okay.” The officer sounds relieved. “She uh, she’s pretty upset.”

“Yeah, you’ve said that,” Bucky says. “What does that mean? Is she frantic?”

“She’s angry,” the officer says, and it sounds like he’s trying to keep his voice low now. Bucky wonders if Mary is somewhere in the near vicinity of the officer. “Drunk and super pissed. Belligerent.”

“Is she restrained right now?” Bucky asks, worried.

“Yeah. Cuffed to the bed.”

Bucky grits his teeth. “She shouldn’t be restrained by a stranger. It’s not healthy for her. Can't you just watch her?”

“Sorry Sir, that’s our policy when we bring in the involuntary cases. We have to do it.”

Bucky is already up and heading to the closet to grab clothes. “Okay,” he says curtly. “I’m coming to get her. I’ll be there within the hour.”

The officer thanks him and Bucky hangs up. He looks back at Steve, who is propped up on his side and staring at him in something close to shock. 

“Buck, what the hell?”

Bucky winces and goes back to the bed. He climbs up and takes Steve’s hand. Steve isn’t on the spectrum, but his dynamic with Bucky has always been more on the subservient side. Bucky sees that he’s not mad, is just waiting for an explanation, so he takes a breath and tells him, “You remember the woman I told you about? The one at the coffee shop?”

Steve nods. “The lemon tarts.”

“Yeah, her. She’s in the hospital. A psych hold, that was the NYPD on the phone. Somehow they think I’m her Dom, and she’s being difficult. Won’t give ‘em a name of anybody they can release her to.”

“Oh, man.” Steve is well-educated on the intricacies of Designated people: He’s married to one, after all.

“Baby.” Bucky rubs the back of Steve’s hand. “I have to go get her.”

“You don’t ‘have’ to,” Steve corrects. He looks at Bucky knowingly. “But you want to, don’t you?”

Bucky doesn’t know whether to feel embarrassed or not. “I … yeah. I want to.” He and Steve have talked about the possibility of bringing another person into their marriage one day, a submissive to meet Bucky’s needs. Steve has always been open to the idea, especially since they’re both bisexual.

“We gonna try and make that work out?” 

Bucky scoffs. “That’s way down the road.”

“But it would be good for you too, wouldn’t it?” 

He shrugs, and then admits, “Yeah, probably.” Bucky’s what’s known as a ‘high needs’ dominant. The condition affects him more severely than it does others. He tries to figure out if Steve is at all upset by what they’re discussing. “It’s crazy, I know,” he says. “Not exactly what we always talked about. We don’t even know her.”

“But she’s in trouble,” Steve says. “And you were drawn to her.”

Bucky sighs. “Yeah. I don’t think she has anyone else to go to. And they’re talking about admitting her to the psych unit.”

“That’s not good, is it?”

“No. They won’t have the knowledge to help her. Places like that tend to use meds first and ask questions second.” He sees Steve’s wince and nods. “It could definitely make things worse.”

“What’s wrong with her? Subdrop?”

“I don’t know. Cop said she was self-harming and drinking. That’s all I know so far.”

Steve nods. “Can I go with you?” he looks hopeful and ready to jump into action, and Bucky is surprised—even though he knows he shouldn’t be.

“Babe, you want to do this? Bring her home? Take care of her?”

Steve nods, stalwart. “We should try. It’s the best option she has. If it works out, great. And if not … well we can get her the help she needs, at least.”

Bucky nods. Steve is on-board. He doesn’t think this is stupid, or crazy. Bucky’s chest swells with affection for him. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, that’s right.”

Steve leans over and kisses him on the mouth. “I trust you,” he says. “And I love you.”

Bucky smiles, stupidly in-love with his husband. “Love you too, Stevie.”

They kiss once more, and then Steve is pulling back and clapping his hands together. “Alright! Let’s get going if we’re really doing this.” He hefts himself out of the bed, moving with purpose. “She’s waiting for us.”

Us, Bucky thinks happily, realizing that it’s true: They’re husbands—soulmates, in his opinion. They’re partners, an inseparable unit ever since the day they got married, and they do everything together. So it’ll be the two of them taking care of this woman together. They’ll be a team, each giving her what she needs in their own ways. And maybe it’ll go somewhere, who knows? Thinking about it makes Bucky feel settled and satisfied inside, the barest ghost of the sort of feeling he gets from domming someone.

Impulsive as it is, he’s got a hunch that this is the right decision.

Series Masterlist

Masterlist

🍵Consider tipping your friendly neighborhood pervert smut author!

✍🏻Commissions: reach out via Tumblr DM or contact here

#dom/sub #bucky barnes #mcu #marvel #stucky #steve rogers #steve rogers x bucky barnes #fanfiction #fanfic #dom bucky barnes #dom/sub au #d/s au #trigger warning ed #bucky x ofc #steve rogers x y/n #steve rogers x female reader #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x oc #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x oc #bucky x ofc x steve #m/f/m #steve rogers x ofc #bucky barnes x ofc #enemies to lovers #bakery au

[hey-august]

I'll Be Your Whatever - Chapter 3

Story Description: Life is full of all sorts of characters - some who come and go, and others that stay. After propelling yourself into a lie you can't (won't) take back, a certain pirate captain may have a reason to come by more often. (Chapter 1, Chapter 2) Word count: ~2.2k Warnings: SFW, some profanity. Buggy x afab!reader. No use of Y/N. Brief argument, mention of a deceased family member. A/N: Sorry this took a bit - I got in my head with writing it, but I think we're back on track! Tag list: @rorywritesjunk @ane5e @venulus

The title comes from "your whatever" by lovelytheband.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

With Buggy in town, you felt comfortable leaving home for the first time in days. Although you two had to work out this “relationship,” at least that was the next step. There were still unknowns and uncertainty, but also hope.

After agreeing to write up a contract over lunch, you excused yourself for a moment to run upstairs and put on clothes that hadn’t been slept in. Thankfully you kept an acceptable standard of hygiene during your isolation, so all you needed was to put on a fresh outfit, shake out your hair, and brush your teeth. You bounded back downstairs in record time and walked into the kitchen. The empty kitchen.

A wooden door leading out of the room was open. You tried to ignore the feelings bubbling in your chest as you peered through the open doorframe and found your visitor.

Buggy was inside, looking at a ship in a bottle. The desire to snatch the item from his presumptuous hold dissolved when you noticed how cautious the pirate was. He held the glass trinket with surprising delicacy, rotating the bottle to see the ship from all angles.

Even though he was a guest in your house, you gently knocked on the door to announce your presence. Buggy glanced over his shoulder and returned the decoration to the wood desk it previously sat on. Well, his hands did. Just his hands, while his body turned to face you. You watched silently, your thoughts retracing their steps as they tried to fall in line with the information your eyes sent over. The puzzled look on your face was met with a grin - the kind where only one person knows the punchline to a joke.

“The Oro Jackson,” Buggy commented, acting oblivious to your confusion. “Belongs to your dad?”

“Yeah…it did. He was a big fan of pirates.” 

Buggy held in a wince at the past-tense. He forgot that you said something similar about the map. Belonged.

You continued explaining. “He wanted to become one, to see the world. He even had plans to join a crew, but that changed when my mom got pregnant.”

“Tch, what a sap.” Buggy’s remark collapsed into a mumble under the look you threw at him.

“Instead, he began collecting.” You gestured around the room. Aside from your supplies and artwork on the mahogany desk, the rest of the room was filled by your father. Pirate artifacts, nautical knick-knacks, and faraway souvenirs were displayed on nearly every shelf, shoved between similar themed books, with more items hidden inside the cabinets. Anything that didn’t fit on a horizontal surface was attached to the wall. “He couldn’t see the world firsthand, so he did the best he could.” 

In your absence, Buggy had swept as much of the room as possible but didn’t find anything of high value. Nothing worth pocketing to sell later. Most of the Jolly Rogers and insignias on the artifacts weren’t from anyone special. There were framed maps on the walls, but they were generic land maps.

“What about you? Ever get tired of this place?” Buggy's question was spurred by the paintings littered across the desk. Most of them were of landscapes. Depictions of distant places filled with grand mountains, emerald forests, humid mangroves, murky swamps, and more.

“Mm-mmh, my dad watched from the sidelines so I could have the life I do. I can’t throw it away.” 

You walked over to the shelves near the desk and reached for the second highest shelf. Sandwiched between two tomes was a red book that was just a tad too far. Even on tiptoes, you could only graze the linen edging and weren’t able to hook the spine and drag the book closer. Huffing out a breath, you tried and failed to conjure a few extra centimeters. You settled back on your heels and thought about climbing the shelves like you did when you were younger. And smaller. They wouldn’t hold you now, but maybe you could get enough of a boost. 

While you were still considering that theory, a lone hand floated to the shelf to grab the red book. Underestimating the weight of the other books, the entire stack was pulled forwards and teetered on the edge. You threw up your hands, either to catch them or to keep them from falling on your head. Instead, you were yanked back so Buggy could step in and push the books back into place with a stubbed forearm.

Buggy let loose a dramatic sigh and recalled his hands to use them both to pull down the red book. He lazily dropped the book onto the desk, knocking loose a few paintbrushes. You bit your lip as the brushes clattered to the floor. It would have been nicer if he didn’t fuck around with your things, but he did just help you out. At least everything on the desk was dry.

“Thanks,” you said while flipping the book open. The paint brushes could wait.

“Of course, sweetheart. Good thing you had a big, strong man around.” 

“I could have gotten it myself.” The muttered words were nearly lost in the breeze from fluttering pages as you thumbed through the book. Nearly.

“Say again?” Buggy said through his teeth, leaning down to invade your space. 

You glanced at the pirate to assess the unsaid threat. He still maintained a forced smile, an expression you’ve seen often enough that you felt it signaled some level of safety. You started to turn away when Buggy slammed a fist on the desk hard enough to rattle the drawers and send more items to the wood floor. The only mask on his face now was the painted one. The ocean in his eyes was dark and stormy, the usual mischievous glint dimmed by a tempest.

“You think you could do this alone?” Buggy asked in a low voice. Rejection held him tight and whispered in his ear, saying he didn’t deserve to be treated like something useless.

A tremble stopped your response. The words fell apart as intimidation settled in your chest. He was still a stranger. A pirate. Maybe you would have been better off handling this yourself. Thoughts filled the darkness in your mind with momentary flashes like fireflies, but none stuck around. Blindly, you reached out and grabbed one.

“Yes, but no… I don’t-” You sighed. The thought you held was half-formed and unready to take flight.

“Whatever,” Buggy said dismissively. He played along with this ruse for too long and it wasn’t worth all the effort. Knocking on the desk with a gloved fist, he straightened up and tugged at the cuffs of his sleeves. “I think this show’s cancelled.”

Buggy turned to leave but a hand on his arm stopped him. You leaned over the desk to hold onto the only lifeline within reach. Fingers dug into the meat of his arm - you weren’t clinging to the fabric of his coat, but to him. 

“I need help.” Yes - you could have gotten the book yourself. You could pull yourself out of this mess alone. But that doesn’t mean it would be easy. Shelves could snap and books could fall. You could fall. “I can do things on my own, but I don’t want to do this alone. Please, don’t go.”

The plea stopped the pirate’s escape. Buggy studied your face, contemplating his next steps and whether he should continue with this improv workshop. He liked hearing you beg him to stay, but that wasn’t enough. Pulling out of your hold, Buggy clapped his hands and licked his lips.

“Show me the map. Maybe I could be convinced to stay.” 

Buggy chuckled as you gaped at him, desperation fading from your face. It wasn’t an unexpected request, but you still felt nervous. He was unpredictable.

As if he could read your thoughts, Buggy spoke up. “C’moooon, you can trust me. I could have done this all differently and had the map by now. I’m being nice, a team player.” His voice was anything but kind, but there was truth in his statement. In a twisted way, the truth felt like his way of being kind.

“Why? I’ll show you, but why are you doing this?” The question stung as you asked, but you would have succumbed to the poison if you held onto it.

Buggy shrugged. “I’m curious to see what happens. Plus, you could learn a thing or two from a real performer.” He flourished towards himself and winked. The compulsion Buggy felt must be curiosity. A passing interest.

You bit your lip and nodded, sure he wouldn’t elaborate further. It took some convincing, but you shooed Buggy out of the room and back into the kitchen. Showing him the map was one thing, but letting him see where it was kept was different. Once the door was closed, you traipsed around the room and opened a few drawers and cabinets at random. Shuffling papers and clunking books added to the distractions.

A few minutes later, you opened the door and invited Buggy back into the room. The parchment shook slightly as you held it aloft for him to observe. Both of you ignored the tremor. Buggy pinched the map between his pointer and thumb before dragging a finger along an unseen trail. You listened to the soft rasp of the glove against the old dry paper. The pirate was focused, intent on assessing the reward. 

The color of his eyes shifted between blue and green as they traveled the map. Long eyelashes danced with the movement. A glint in his face paint caught your attention - the blue diamonds that stretched from the crossbones on his forehead down to his cheeks shimmered.

The paint wasn’t crisp. The edges were smudged and feathered. Not on his bulbous nose though, the appendage was a different shade of red and looked real. Like really real and not part of his clowny attire. He had a unique nose and while it did stand out, it didn’t detract. If anything, it enhanced his features positively, drawing your attention across his face. From his stubbled cleft chin, to the smile lines that were almost always present, the blue hair peeking from his bandana, and back to his eyes. Which were looking back at you.

“What’re you staring at?” Buggy snipped, anticipating you’d give the answer everyone else gives. Some cheap shot about his fucking nose. What he didn’t expect was you would simply say you were looking at him. “What about me? My no-”

“Your eyes,” you rushed to say, seeing the anger bubble up again. “The colors were changing in the light. I like- They’re pre-...You have nice eyes.” A warmth crept up your neck and tickled your cheeks. You felt self-conscious talking about his eyes while they were looking into yours. Nervous. As if you were about to fall into the depths of the ocean.

“Anyways, that’s enough with the map. I should put it away.” 

Stepping back from the pirate, you rolled up the paper and hustled him back out of the room. When he moved too slowly, reluctant to part from the future treasure, you swatted him on the shoulder. Once you were alone in the room, you repeated the charade from earlier and put the map back in a different location. Then you took an extra moment to rub your cheeks, hoping to massage away the lingering heat. Finally exiting the room, you asked your companion if he was ready for lunch.

Buggy responded with a drawn-out groan and flapped his arms. “It’s about time, I thought I was going to die from starvation.” 

The theatrics brought out a smile and you shook your head amusedly. “Alright honey, let’s get you some food. My treat.”

“Lucky me! Maybe this isn’t such a bad deal, getting wine and dine’d. Rum and yum. Beer and…cheer.” Buggy chattered like an excited toddler as he followed you through the house and back to the front door. He couldn’t see you roll your eyes, but he could hear the huffs of laughter with each quip he spouted.

It wasn’t until the door closed with a thud that Buggy thought back to the book you had been intent on retrieving. It seemed so important to you at the moment, only to be forgotten after it kicked off the first fight you two had a as a “couple.” Interested in knowing whether the book actually held any importance, Buggy asked what you were looking for.

“Oh, devil fruit! Your hands, right?” You held up your own and rotated your wrists, pleased at the impressed look on Buggy’s face. “That book referenced old diaries and there was an entry about devil fruit. It didn’t have a lot of information, but mentioned that they have weird side effects, like turning people into animals and stuff, or giving unusual powers. So I thought…”

You trailed off, realizing how quickly you had been speaking. Buggy was still walking next to you, with a strange expression on his face. It looked like pride. Not directed towards you, but himself.

“Ooh, so my sweetie is a book nerd. You’re smart. I ate the chop-chop fruit,” Buggy boasted. He stretched out his body, disconnecting numerous joints and sections before reassembling.

A revealing trick that was often met with unpleasant surprise and shock was met with excitement and interest this time. You grabbed Buggy’s arm and pulled back the cuff of his sleeve to look at his wrist. There were no marks and you couldn’t even feel anything odd.

Your touch was light and delicate. Unexpected, but not entirely uncomfortable. Buggy’s jaw tensed as he resisted the urge to pull away, wanting to soak in your admiration a little longer.

#buggy x reader #buggy the clown x reader #buggy x you #buggy the clown #buggy fanfiction #x reader #one piece buggy #opla buggy #buggy op #buggy the clown x you #one piece x you #one piece x reader #one piece x y/n #buggy the clown fanfiction #hey-august i'll be your whatever

[next-autopsy]

A/N: Well, hi there! Please enjoy this offering, I love reading your comments, so feel free to drop one for me. Thanks for reading x

Based on the actors portrayal/hbo show and written with no disrespect to the real life veterans. Also all images found on Pinterest.

TW: hmmm....none really?

Tags: @malarkgirlypop, @panzershrike-pretz

Made of Glass

Chapter twenty four: Perfect Timing 

“Run that by me one more time?” If the whiskey Frankie was drinking hadn’t cost so much, she would've spat it out after hearing those words form Bernadette’s mouth. 

“Don’t be weird about it. Joe and I are just going for a walk or something. I’m only telling you so you don’t think I’ve been kidnapped, okay?” 

“Uh huh….’walk’… sure. Have fun.” Francesca smirked, she did not for one second believe Birdie and Joe were going to end the night with a simple walk.

Birdie waved off her friend, rolling her eyes at the insinuation. The woman made her way back to Liebgott, who was waiting for her right where she left him.  

“Everything good?” He spoke when he saw Birdie approaching. 

“Yeah…” The pair began heading for the door, “So, where are you taking me, Joseph.” They hit the cool outside air and Birdie wondered which direction they should start walking. Was is presumptuous of her to head back to the barracks? Joe turned to the right, so she followed.

“There’s this place down the road, real nice for dancing… I figured you'd enjoy a proper spin and not whatever that guy was doing…” He joked, chuckling before letting his mirth slip, becoming somewhat serious, “You can call me Joe, ya know?” 

“I know… but Joe is Joe.” She was referring to Toye, it was eerie calling them both the same name, especially after realizing she had feelings for one of the men, while the other was like family.

“Well, only my mother calls me Joseph.” Spoken matter of factly. Hearing the formal version of his name after not hearing it for so long was bizarre. 

“Then you can beee….” Birdie thought for a moment, finger on her chin, “Joey.”

“No. No way. No one calls me Joey, that’s stupid.” Lieb looked over at the girl, her bottom lip pushed out comically as she puppy dog eyed him. It took two seconds for him to cave, “Fine, you can call me Joey. But if any of the guys start up that nickname, I’ll get you.” His threat was a joke, he wouldn’t actually do anything. Maybe he just wanted something special between them.  

“Ooo I’m so scared, Joey.” Bernadette taunted, a wide smile plastered on her face.

“Yeah, you should be.” He watched her grinning at him and felt lightheaded, he mirrored her dopey look before abruptly stopping in his tracks. 

“Here, this is the place.” He looked up at the name marked above the door, just to be sure. He had been to this pub a few weeks before with Tipper, Floyd and Grant, who had instantly found women to fling around the dancefloor, while Joe sat at the bar wishing she was here. 

And tonight, she was.  

“Fancy.” Birdie deadpanned. The place didn't look like much, dim and dusty. The entryway was not well kept and while Birdie didn’t typically mind, she enjoyed banter with the man who brought her here and wanted to poke fun at him a little. He understood her jest and smiled at her, 

“Hey, don’t judge a book by its cover and all that.” Joe swung open the door and the muted chatter livened up. As Birdie stepped inside, she heard the swing music more clearly and grinned. She loved to dance, with the right partner, of course. 

“Come on, I’ll get you a drink.” Joe steered her towards the bar, they were both nervous, a drink would help ease them into the situation neither of them ever thought they would be in. 

“Whiskey?” Joe queried, even though he knew the answer. He noticed the southerner would accept most beverages, she wasn't really picky, but if she had a choice, the lady would always go for a whiskey. 

“Neat.” She confirmed, somewhat stunned, how did he know her ‘go to’ drink? “Here.” She offered him some folded up bills to cover her drink and some, but he shook his head.

“You're kidding, right?” Eyebrows raised, “Put it away. I’m not taking your money, doll.” The nickname made her breath hitch. She had not expected that from him, yet it sounded familiar, like it was an everyday occurrence. 

“Doll?” It was her turn to raise her eyebrows. 

“Well, if you're gonna call me Joey, I gotta have a nickname for you.” She didn't argue, the warmth in her cheeks and dizzy feeling in her stomach wouldn't allow it. She could accept the pet name; doll, but only from him.

After sipping away and finishing their liquid courage, Joe extended his hand to her, “Dance with me?” 

She paused for a moment, trying not to seem too eager, before accepting his invitation. 

The music that played was fast and upbeat, Birdie was sweating by the end of the first song, though she enjoyed it more than her previous dance. Joe knew what he was doing on the dancefloor, the steps came naturally to him, like he was born for this.  

Both soldiers were glowing, this place had really brought out a euphoric feeling and it showed. Smiles never left their faces as they spun around each other, stepping quickly and holding hands the entire time. 

Joey and Birdie had sat at the bar having danced through several songs and eventually growing tired. They didn't even order another drink, they just sat and chatted, sharing their pasts, presents and futures. 

Birdie learnt his five siblings' names: Mary, Elizabeth, Anna, Barbara and Stephen. She found out he had worked with his father (also Joseph) at a barber shop and then drove cabs after getting his license, he told her that's what he wanted to do when he got back to the states, driving wasn't just a job for him. Joe really enjoyed it, seeing the streets he grew up on and meeting all sorts of unique people. She knew he lived in San Francisco and was beginning to fall in love with his depiction of the city; she wanted to see it for herself. 

Joe had asked her about her family, which she gladly yapped on about. He understood the closeness she held with her relatives and he found himself wishing he could meet them all one day. Bernadette proudly spoke of her new goddaughter; Gracie and Joe’s heart warmed at the thought of Birdie cradling a newborn. She went on to tell him about her childhood on the ranch, being raised with real live animals in her care gave her a great sense of responsibility. 

It was well past midnight when the barkeep called for the last drink, the music was cut off and patrons started trickling out of the building, swaying their way home. 

Their talk was cut short when the barkeep all but shoved them out, shaking his head at the pair before shutting the door in their faces, muttering about young couples.

Birdie checked her watch, it couldn't have been that late, they had only been there…. Five hours?! How had that happened? It was just past 4AM and neither of them had slept yet. Plus she and Joey had up and left all their friends and disappeared, there were bound to be some invasive questions. Birdie did not look forward to Toye and Guarnere’s reactions nor any of the ladies, especially Frankie. 

“Joey…” She sounded out softly, gaining his attention. He turned to look at her and froze, the only light came from a nearby street lamp and the moon. The silvery glow did wonders for her. Joe wished he had a camera so he could document the events of this night, the dancing, the chatting and now her standing in the middle of a barely lit street with the moonlight reflecting in her eyes; he never wanted to forget it. 

“It’s really late.” She spoke quietly, the world around them was asleep and she didn't want to risk waking it. 

He could kiss her. It was the perfect moment, they had just shared an amazing evening, growing closer. And now, he was looking at her and she was looking at him and all he wanted to do was lean down and kiss her. Feel how soft her lips were, taste her and allow her to do the same. 

He glanced down at her lips and back to her eyes, watching for recognition, did she feel it too? 

Birdie saw his silent inquiry and her eyes widened, pupils dilated. She, too, flicked her gaze to his lips and back up, telling him to proceed.

It was the perfect moment and as Joe moved to lower himself to her, she let her heels raise, ever so slightly, onto her tiptoes to meet him halfway.

“Heeyyyyy. I know y-you guys- two. Both of you two. I know yoooou.” They broke apart, the trance worn out at the interruption, fading into embarrassment. 

Nixon stumbled toward them, missing entirely and toppling over into a heap in the middle of the road. 

Immediately, Bernadette was by his side, picking him up off the floor and attempting to balance the inebriated man. Nixon babbled incoherent nonsense, only one or two words could be understood. Joe would have laughed at the lieutenant but he was still processing the almost kiss. 

She had leaned in, hadn’t she? Did he imagine that, surely not. No, she definitely would’ve kissed him back if only they had a few more seconds. 

“Little help here, Joey?” Her voice called to him. Shaking his thoughts away, he joined her on the other side of Nixon, ducking under his arm and hoisting him up. 

“Where are we taking you, lieutenant?” The question wasn’t answered as Nixon flopped over, unable to give the directions to the house he was billeted to. 

“I know where we can take him. It’s not far.” Birdie told her Joey, and they set off down the road with the drunk held between them, pretending nothing had changed. 

Except everything had. It was all either of them could think about, the almost kiss. 

Birdie was lost in her own world. Should she have allowed it to get that far? They had both been drinking, surely the ability to think clearly had been blurred somewhat. Had he really wanted to kiss her or was he just tipsy and lonely? Did she really want to kiss him or was she just convinced she had a crush on the man? Was everything going to be weird with them now? Had this night messed up their friendship?

The house she was looking for came into view, she pointed it out to Joe and they brought the semi unconscious man to the doorstep, before she stepped forward, leaving Lewis to be held up by Joe and raised a hand to knock. 

“Wait.” Joe whispered, “what if we wake someone?" Birdie gave him a pointed look and knocked at the door thrice. 

“That’s kinda the point, Joey.” He just smiled at her use of the new nickname, that was a good sign. He hadn’t told her to stop using it or started to pushed her away, so maybe whatever was happening between them was still salvageable.

The front door swung open and revealed Richard Winters, he was bleary eyed and in his pajamas. 

“Birdie? What are you doing here? It’s…” He checked his watch, “0440!” He then seemed to notice the two men behind her, one slumped over the other and sighed. 

“Bring him in.” 

A/N: ooo okay things are getting interesting! What do y'all think? Do you like the nicknames? I'm still not sure how I feel about them...

I guess Nixon has some perfect timing... Joe and Birdie- not so much

~ Nex ~

Chapter twenty five

Update: I haven’t been writing for a few days, I will be starting up again soon though so don’t think I’ve abandoned this story! Just having a little break, love y’all!

#band of brothers #easy company #hbo war #made of glass #band of brothers fanfic #fem oc #ocs #joe liebgott #made of glass chapter twenty four #next autopsy #richard winters #lewis nixon

[magicshopaholic]

Aphrodite (Namjoon x OC)

Summary: You and Namjoon consider all the reasons you shouldn’t be together.

Pairing: Namjoon x OC

Genre: Fluff, some angst, some smut

Word count: 7.1 K

Rating: 18+

Warnings: language, alcohol, making out, fingering, allusions to sex

A/N: Wrote this in a word coma. Set over a period of three months, beginning a week after Voice of an Angel. Can be read standalone.

Special thanks to this anon who casually dropped this idea in my inbox and bounced, leaving me to be plagued with heart-stoppingly beautiful scenarios that I wrote on my phone in a full-day seminar because I was incapable of thinking about anything else. Well played, anon.

(The song rec is also one I've been waiting to use and one of Daniel Ricciardo's biggest contributions to my life; apropos in these turbulent times)

Tagging: @bbl32, @quarter-life-crisis2, @margopinkerton, @faearchives, @whoisbts, @purpleseoul7, @kflixnet (if you want to be added to the taglist, lmk)

Listen to: “wake up with you” by emerson leif

namjoon masterlist | main masterlist

The first reason is brought up on the last night.

Seoul shouldn’t be this empty this time of night, thinks Namjoon. But they’re near the suburbs now, the apartment building mostly with families, so maybe it’s always like this? Either way, he should count himself lucky, for if Kaya’s last night here was punctuated with camera phones being secretly pointed at him and his manager hissing at him to be careful, he might have thrown something.

As it is, it’s peaceful. Their fingers linger next to each other as they walk back to her aunt’s house; Namjoon doesn’t know if she expects him to take her hand. He doesn’t want to be presumptuous, but after what they’ve just done at his penthouse, is this really where the line needs to be drawn?

“Good call to walk.” Kaya turns to him slightly and raises her eyebrows. “Instead of taking a car.”

“The weather’s too nice for it,” he lies, noting how his shirt is already sticking to his shoulders slightly and how she’s swept her long hair off her neck and tied it up, despite the light sundress she’s wearing.

It’s embarrassing to think that the reason he’d proposed to walk was so he’d have a little more time with her before she left forever. He feels ridiculous for even thinking this way - when did he become so dramatic?

“It is,” she agrees. “It's nicer than Amsterdam.”

Namjoon’s stomach settles slightly. At least he’s not the only one lying through his teeth.

“Do you need to pack tonight?” he asks hopefully, wondering if they can take another detour before he drops her back.

“A little,” she admits, “but mostly I just need to close out some stuff for work that’s due the day after tomorrow.” 

Namjoon frowns. “Because… you’re preparing for jet lag?”

“Yeah, exactly. It’s a really long flight,” she adds, groaning softly in anticipation. 

The sound makes his stomach flip and he tries not to think about the same sounds an hour ago, in his bed, against his skin.

“Tell me about it.” It occurs to Namjoon that unlike him, she won’t be flying business class. “Can’t blame you for not visiting more often. Jieun, I mean,” he adds quickly.

“Uh-huh.” Kaya gives him a small, knowing smile as they reach the building. “It’s also really expensive,” she says, turning around to face him.

“It is.” He swallows and puts his hands in his pockets, looking at the ground. He hadn’t realised how much he’d been dreading this moment; nothing he wants to say would be appropriate for saying goodbye to a week-long summer fling.

She touches his elbow, holding the newspaper-wrapped package in the same hand. Whatever it is, it’s definitely not a book, she’d joked when he’d given it to her and asked her not to open it until he left.

“Namjoon.” Her voice is soft, the foreign accent making his name sound so special. “It’s probably a good thing I can’t visit that often.”

He presses his tongue into his chin and nods, hating that she’s right. It’s too far and it’s too expensive, so maybe a week-long summer fling was already the bonus that fate had given them. It takes him a moment but he takes a deep breath and looks up at her, thinking once again that she has such Disney princess eyes. 

He silently steps forward to hug her for the last time.

—

The second reason is brought up nearly a month later, in the middle of the night in Amsterdam. 

Kaya groans at the sound of her alarm, feeling distinctly as though she just fell asleep. She reaches for her phone and frowns when she sees the time: she did just fall asleep. It’s also not her alarm, but her phone ringing.

The call is from Namjoon, though; it makes her slightly less annoyed at being woken up. She clears her throat and answers.

“Hello?”

“Hey!” He sounds hurried, as though he’s on his way somewhere. “I’m so glad you answered.”

“Okay?” Kaya can hear her voice sound thick with sleep. “Uh… why?”

“Because of last night. Because - wait, were you asleep?”

“Was,” she can’t resist saying, squeezing her eyes shut and trying to hold onto some remaining sleep. Tomorrow’s schedule is chock-full of classes. “It’s two am, Namjoon.”

“It’s -” There’s a shuffle. “Did I calculate the time difference wrong? Why did I think I was ten hours ahead?”

“I dunno,” she mumbles into her pillow. “What’s wrong?”

“I just wanted to apologise,” he says, sounding incredibly guilty. “For last night. I… I kind of fell asleep.”

Nothing he’s said makes any sense to Kaya. Sighing, she turns over slightly and frowns. “What are you talking about?”

“Earlier,” he clarifies. “In the evening for you, I guess. We were talking and I…”

“You fell asleep.” She remembers now. 

Despite parting in Seoul on a bittersweet note, with the mutual but unsaid knowledge of their dalliance ending, they hadn’t been able to cut ties fully. Namjoon had messaged her late the next day asking if she’d landed safely, she’d sent him a picture from her cab in response, and the conversation never ended.

It was still restrained, for the most part. Kaya, at least, was aware that an emotional connect had been built in Seoul - but they’d said goodbye and gone back to their lives. Anything further should be nothing more than friendly, like pen pals who kept each other updated on their lives.

Earlier this evening, they’d been talking on the phone about something extremely mundane. Kaya was in a pub with her friends, but knowing that Namjoon probably didn’t have a lot of time, she excused herself for a few minutes and went to a spot away from the music, near the washrooms. She was leaning back against the wooden wall and talking about her thesis but every time she tried to change the topic to something less boring, he asked her to continue, sounding genuinely interested in a very operational aspect of her work.

He was tired - that much she could hear. He still kept the conversation going, at first with questions and eventually progressing to occasional exclamations, until suddenly, he went completely silent. Kaya guessed he may have fallen asleep; a quick calculation reminded her it was three am in Seoul, so on some level she was actually glad he was finally resting.

“Yeah,” he says, sounding apologetic. “I’m sorry. That was rude.”

“No, don’t worry about it,” she murmurs, brushing her hair off her face. “It was really late for you.”

“Yeah, but I could’ve said good night,” he points out. “Sorry about that. And… I’m sorry about waking you up right now,” he adds, audibly wincing. “For some reason I thought I was ten hours ahead.”

She chuckles sleepily. “Happens to the best of us. Timezones are always a pain.”

“Not something we need to worry about, right?” Namjoon says after a moment, and she thinks his half-chuckle sounds a little forced.

“Nope. Good thing we quit while we were ahead.”

There’s silence on the line for a few seconds while Kaya, in her half-asleep state, imagines what it might be like to fall asleep with him in person. She’d almost considered it on her last night in Seoul; they’d been under the covers, naked and talking about nothing in particular when he’d softly offered for her to stay the night. 

Had she been a more impulsive person, she may have said yes, but it seemed too intimate to do with a person she’d technically known for a little more than a week. Now, she wonders idly if she’d been too hasty with her decision.

“You should sleep,” he says after a moment, still sounding a bit guilty.

“You woke me up, you put me back to sleep,” she retorts softly.

“Yeah? You want a bedtime story?”

“Sure, why not?”

Namjoon laughs, and the sound makes her toes curl inside her blanket. “Wait, are you serious?”

“As a heart attack.” She pulls her covers up to her chin and curls up into a comfortable position. “Hit it, music producer.”

He chuckles a little disbelievingly. “Um, okay? Here goes nothing.” He takes a deep breath and starts, barely getting four words out before she interrupts him.

“Wait. Joon… you know I don’t understand Korean, right?”

The nickname is a first for her, and it sounds as though he’s picked up on it, too. “Yeah, I know. But you want to be put to sleep and I thought it might actually help.”

It’s genius. Kaya grins to herself, knowing somewhere deep down that she’s just setting herself up for heartbreak someday. She should stop this, quit while they’re ahead.

Instead, she hears herself tell him to continue.

—

The next reason comes up the day Namjoon learns about Damien Herjavec.

He’d made the executive decision to give Kaya his private Instagram handle a few days after she’d left Seoul. She’d never brought up following each other on social media until he did because despite how much he liked her, giving her access to something this personal required thought. It wasn’t until he went back to the bookstore where they’d bumped into each other for the first time, and he realised he wanted her to know that without him having to actually tell her, that he decided to do it. 

He searched her name on Instagram and followed her, trying to restrain himself from checking if she’d followed him back. She did eventually, a couple of hours later, and to a genuinely embarrassing amount of delight, she commented on his picture: Careful in the English section.

Kaya didn’t seem to use Instagram very often other than to put up very random pictures on her story of ordinary city shots: a street outside her campus, her own legs in faded jeans, a unicycle in the park in the distance. It was whimsical and cute, but also highlighted the few times she did post something else - such as a picture of her and three other people, sitting at a table with name cards in front of them and smiling into the camera.

Namjoon doesn’t immediately register the male in the picture. His focus is on Kaya, in a blazer and slinky black trousers and beige heels, her long hair straight and framing her face as she smiles. His heart skips a beat at the thought of her like this earlier today, in real-time, and he suddenly feels closer to her than he has in weeks. It stays all day, the lingering feeling, as though she’s finally in reach and he hasn’t been imagining her all this time, that he realises it's longing. He’s missing her, and the discovery immediately terrifies him.

He decides it’s officially time to end this transatlantic pseudo-fling and resolves not to call her or text her anymore, knowing they need to phase this out of their lives for both their good. It lasts a whole five hours until she texts him, with nothing more than a Hey.

Namjoon swallows and closes his eyes, knowing he’s in so much trouble. Hey, his fingers type out, as though of their own accord.

I think God sent me an angel today.

Yeah? Wings and everything?

Chinos and Vans, but I’ll take it. As long as he gives me an extra set of hands on this research project, I’ll worship whoever sent him to me.

Oh, your professor finally brought in someone else? That’s great!

Yess, it is. Maybe now I’ll remember to eat a meal and get more than a couple hours of sleep. Oh, and focus on my actual job.

I get that. I’m happy for you. You should be getting more sleep.

I know, right? Damien might just be the answer to my problems. Even staying up late in the conference room and checking survey results is better now because at least I’m not alone. I shouldn’t be complaining to you though - I know you have a worse workload.

Not true. I was in the studio till dawn but at least it has a comfortable couch.

You’re right. I have it worse.

Not now that you have Damien. The reply is out and sent before Namjoon can stop himself and he immediately cringes.

Yeah, well. I don’t know how long he’s going to be around for. Once this project is over, maybe I’ll refer him to Professor Llyod so he doesn’t keep tapping me to grade his papers.

Sounds like a plan. I’m sure Professor Lloyd will be happy.

His happiness isn’t really my concern, if I’m being honest. I wouldn’t mind if Damien stays. He actually has more than a few braincells and - get this - showers. 

Namjoon stares at his phone for a second. He sounds like the complete package.

You joke, but it’s a serious epidemic on a college campus. Having a colleague who smells good is a bigger bonus than you think.

How long do you think this project will be?

A couple of months? Hopefully? I don’t know - the professor heading it keeps adding problem statements constantly so it feels endless. I’m just really really tired.

Namjoon wants to offer words of comfort but he can’t think of any. In fact, all he can think about is how he, too, has a ridiculously long day ahead of photoshoots ahead of him tomorrow, where he won’t be allowed to eat much or drink any water, followed by filming.

He remembers about how he’s been thinking about her all day and knows he needs to at least try to nip this in the bud.

You know the worst thing about being a workaholic?

What?

Dating somebody who’s also a workaholic.

Kaya’s reply takes a few moments. Haha, point taken. Good thing that’s not a problem for us.

—

The next few reasons come up around the same time, and some of them are just downright silly.

Despite his best intentions to keep a distance, the moment he finds out he’s needed in Amsterdam for a collaboration, Namjoon not only says yes instantly but he also works his schedule to plan leaves and invent meetings around the same time, eventually extending his total trip to ten days.

He knows he’ll be working for some of that time; it’s the only reason he doesn’t feel desperate and clingy when he informs Kaya of the trip, asking as calmly as possible if she’d like to meet.

Kaya, for her part, feels like her heart might explode. It takes every bit of her willpower to suppress the smile on her face during the mid-term she’s invigilating; the undergrads, barely younger than her, don’t need to know anything about her personal life.

Oh, that’s great. Sure, we should catch up.

He’s coming for work and she already has a lot of it on her plate, but somehow it still feels as though every moment that can be squeezed out from their schedules is spent with each other. A lot of the deliberate distance that they tried to maintain while apart seems to have also gradually evaporated. 

It starts on his first night with dinner at a riverside cafe, where they greet each other with a casual hug like they’re classmates from high school. They walk back to her apartment with a respectful distance between them where she invites him for a cup of horrid instant coffee, like it’s the end of a blind date. 

It’s only when they’re actually indoors and alone and it’s dark because Kaya hasn’t even switched on the light yet that some of the pretence is dropped. She sees his tall silhouette come closer and smells his cologne; her hands go up automatically to rest on his shoulders as he kisses her, his hands large around her waist as he gently backs her up against the door.

They hang out in her apartment when they’re not outside; Namjoon says he’s sick of hotels and she can imagine (and she secretly doesn’t want him to leave), so she doesn’t mind much. Her apartment is small but the location is convenient and the sight of him in it, casual and comfortable, is something she feels she can’t get enough of.

“It’s an amazing view,” he says one morning, sitting sideways on the bench in her balcony. He’s got his glasses on and is sitting with a book, having woken up almost an hour before her. “I can even see the river from here.”

“It’s pretty great,” she admits, coming over and sitting next to him, leaning back against his legs. “The rent also takes a decent chunk out of my paycheck,” she adds dryly, shrugging, “but it’s worth it.”

“Don’t you get a place on campus? I thought all students do.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“So why didn’t you take it? Wouldn’t you save a lot?” he asks curiously.

Kaya bites her lip, still looking at the view. “I don’t like living on campus.”

“Really? You’d live right there - you’d probably save a ton of time on commute and everything, no? Plus, it would be safer than returning in the middle of the -”

“It’s not really my thing,” she interrupts him. “Do you want to go to Stedelijk today? If you do, we should leave soon.”

Namjoon nods and she smiles, patting his leg and going back inside. They leave in an hour; it’s a Sunday and it’s beautiful outside. The museum is just as incredible as she remembers from the first time she visited it, except now Namjoon is here, too, his fingers lingering right next to hers and brushing them every few seconds. 

They’ve had sex several times, they’ve fallen asleep together, they’ve even showered together once, but this - holding hands - still feels too soon. It feels like admitting something, something she knows by now that they’re both trying to deny because it just makes more sense that way. They can’t hold hands, for that’s the beginning of a very slippery slope.

“Hey, your view is so much better than mine,” says Kaya after a while, when they’re having lunch at a cafe near the museum. She’s looking at a picture on his phone of his gigantic window, the Han river flowing majestically outside it. “The river from my balcony is a speck in the distance.”

“I do have a good view,” he says fairly, taking back the phone. “But I mostly use my balcony for company. It feels too depressing otherwise. But yours honestly just feels like a bedroom with no roof,” he points out, something she’d never considered. “It has the mattress, the lights, the coasters. It’s like a haven in the middle of the city.”

“Really?” She’s both proud and slightly confused. “My mum’s been pestering me to get some plants in there but I just know I’m going to make a mess and forget about them and then they’ll eventually die. But, hey, who needs plants when I’ve got a whole haven?” 

Namjoon grins. “You want me to help you pick out some plants? I have a ton.”

She pauses mid-bite, a little disbelieving at how he continues to surprise her. “Seriously? You - you plant stuff?”

“Yeah. Why is that surprising?”

“Oh, it’s not -” She doesn’t know how to say that she can’t quite reconcile the posters of him that Jae-lin has shown her and the music videos she’s watched here and there of him rapping in oversized clothes, with someone who could tend to a garden. “It’s just… unexpected.”

“I plant a lot of things,” he informs her, cutting his steak and dipping it in the sauce. “For example, right now, I’ve just planted an idea in your head.” He smiles, his dimple popping. “So? Want to go plant shopping with me?”

Kaya watches him wince as the piece of steak breaks and falls in the bowl of sauce and he fishes it out, swearing under his breath. This is about the plants, she decides, trying to subtly place her hand over her mouth and cover her smile. He’s perfect but he’s not hers, and that’s the way it should be.

“Sure. I’ll go plant shopping with you.”

They look up the closest nursery and head there after lunch, pulling their caps over their heads in the afternoon sun. The desire to slip her hand into his is getting stronger; she imagines how big it would be around her own, the pressure both comforting and playful. To save herself from the temptation, she hooks her fingers around the strap of her sling bag and settles for just feeling his bicep brush against her shoulder.

The nursery is quaint and unbelievably colourful, looking like a kaleidoscope on the side of the road. They step into the shade and begin examining the small pots, reading the description underneath each.

“Definitely the tabebuia, if I may suggest it,” says Namjoon, pointing to a pretty pink plant. “It blossoms in the summer and it’s just gorgeous. It’ll be the highlight of your balcony.”

“Duly noted. What about its support acts?”

“Well -” He walks slowly towards her and points at another sapling. “The poppy is always nice. And - oh, dude, they have orchids here,” he adds in wonder, peering at the card underneath it. “I have one just like it - hang on -” He pulls out his phone and begins tapping on it.

Kaya surveys a few more saplings and turns to him slightly. “What about this one? It says it’s conducive to warm weather and grows even in harsh conditions such as -” She sees a movement out of the corner of her eye and looks to see Namjoon turning around and walking away. For a moment she thinks he’s going towards another plant but he just keeps walking until he’s passed the nursery, head still bent low over his phone.

Something stings in her heart, insulted at being cut off mid-sentence and ignored. She’s about to call his name when she hears the gasps.

“It’s RM!” 

There are two or three voices, accents foreign. Kaya freezes and turns away slightly, her mind working out why he abruptly walked away the way he did.

“I think it was him!”

“RM? Are you sure?”

“We can check…”

There’s some scuffling and words in a language Kaya can’t place in the moment, taken too off guard by the sudden interruption. She tries to breathe, willing the annoyance in her chest to go away. From a little way away, she spots what looks like a family with two teenage girls and a third one slightly older, gravitating towards the direction in which Namjoon left. 

She tries to look casually; he’s much further away by now, ducking into a coffee shop. The girls, in their minor confusion, seem to have lost sight of him. As they trudge away, disappointment evident in their voices, Kaya begins walking in the same direction, passing by the coffee shop as well. She texts him and continues down the path, stopping after a few minutes and waiting for him in a less crowded area.

She spots him sooner than expected. Even from a distance, she can see his lips pursed and his forehead creased, looking apologetic.

“Oh, my God,” she gasps softly when he’s within earshot. “It’s RM.”

Namjoon shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he says, coming over and wrapping his arms around her waist before kissing her softly. 

“M-hm.”

“I didn’t want them to see you. That’s all.” He takes a small step back and tilts his head. “All it takes is one picture on the internet and then…”

“I know,” she says finally, patting his arm comfortingly. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Yeah?”

Kaya nods. “It’s not your fault. Besides, I’m sure it would be way worse for your girlfriend. You know, if… whenever…”

It’s his turn to nod knowingly, raising his eyebrows. “Yeah. So you don’t need to worry.”

“I’m not worrying. Not about you, not about your fans,” she lists as they resume walking. “Not about your girlfriend… none of it.”

“Good.” Namjoon bumps her shoulder gently.

She doesn’t say anything. After a moment, she slips her hand into his.

Later that night, Kaya’s forgotten all about it, the only coherent thoughts in her mind being the feel of her sheets underneath her, Namjoon’s lips at her neck and his fingers inside her, moving right at her g-spot.

“F-fuck,” she stutters, knowing she’s close. Namjoon is a wizard with his fingers, she’s discovered. They are long, slender and move with a grace she hadn’t expected, and his hands find ways to elicit pleasure that even she hasn’t been able to unearth yet.

“Your pussy is so pretty,” he murmurs in her ear, his deep voice making her moan softly. He nips gently at her earlobe. ��Open your legs wider for me, baby?”

Kaya obeys; she can’t imagine not doing so. Her head is starting to spin. “I - I can’t,” she breathes, panting. “Oh, my God…”

“You want me to stop?” he asks, slowing down slightly.

“No!” she exclaims, eyes snapping open. “I just - oh, God - I can’t take this on a regular basis,” she explains tightly, fists clenching around the sheets. “I think I might die…” She flashes a dreamy smile, eyes fluttering shut. “Good thing you’re not my boyfriend, huh?”

Namjoon nods, coming up slightly and moving his fingers slightly faster. “Uh-huh. Lucky you,” he says, brushing his lips lightly over her nipple.

Kaya moans loudly at that; she’s got seconds before she probably passes out from the intensity of what he’s doing. At this very inopportune moment where it’s just her, him and their clammy, naked bodies against each other, her phone pings.

Namjoon swears softly in Korean but thankfully doesn’t stop. “Ignore it,” she mutters, squeezing her eyes shut. “I don’t care what it is.”

“What if it’s something important?” he murmurs calmly, pressing kisses down her jaw. “You sure you don’t want to answer it?”

“Yeah,” she breathes, biting down on her lip now. “It’s probably just - just Damien texting to confirm if - oh, God!” Her mind goes blank the moment he flattens his hand and rubs his palm over her clit. “Oh, God, baby - don’t stop, don’t - oh, my -” 

Unable to form words any longer, Kaya drops her head back on the pillow and moans loudly as her orgasm hits her, her back arching on the bed as Namjoon whispers low words of praise, voice so deep she can feel it in her stomach.

His fingers slide out slowly, her ears still ringing slightly. Her heart is going  a mile a minute and she drops her head to the side into his neck as she tries to breathe normally before she opens her eyes and looks up at him.

Namjoon brushes her bangs off her face affectionately, his dimple appearing faintly. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “You were saying?”

But she shakes her head. “I don’t remember,” she mutters, heart skipping a beat at his satisfied grin.

—

The next day, three days before Namjoon is to leave, they decide to plant her saplings.

“Somehow, I expected this to be more technical.” Kaya steps back and tilts her head, observing her handiwork. She’s still potting the tabebuia, while Namjoon seems to have already finished two and is working on his third.

“What do you mean?” he asks, gently picking up the poppy plant and lowering it into the pot. He steadies it on the low ledge where five newly purchased pots sit, soil littered around them. 

“Just.” She tosses a loose lock of hair out of her face, her hands muddy with dark soil. “You always see people with a ton of gardening tools and gloves and… you know. Outfits,” she adds. 

“We’re just potting plants,” he points out. “Your outfit is cute.”

“It’s pajamas.”

“What’s your point?”

Kaya smiles but then groans. “I suck at this, though. All your plants look perfect and mine looks like something that got trampled by a herd of cows.”

Namjoon snickers, neatly finishing with his plant. “It’s always messy at first, but it’s worth it at the end.” He gathers the spilt soil into a small mound and moves it to the corner before coming up to her. “Alright, what’s wrong?”

“I think I’m holding the plant wrong or something because it keeps falling over,” she mutters, bending slightly to examine it. “Look, I think it’s - oh.” She breaks off when she suddenly feels his torso against her back and sees his arms come up in front of her, reaching for the tabebuia plant.

“Okay, so you need to hold it here,” he says calmly, as though the casual intimacy of their position isn’t causing explosions in his stomach like it is for her. “And then -” He pours a handful of soil into the pot. “- it stays still. Here, try it.”

If he notices her hands shaking, he doesn’t say anything. He takes them in his and places them in the correct position and they quietly pot the plant, the pale pink buds peeking through the leaves. Once they’re done, they stay there, and Kaya feels her chest start to contract, like she might suddenly cry.

She’s falling for him.

From behind her, Namjoon rests his hands on the ledge, encasing her. He gently bumps her head with his chin. “Should we name them?”

She nods like this was obvious, exhaling. “That one’s Fitzwilliam,” she declares, pointing to the one at the end.

“I’m sorry - what?”

“Fitzwilliam,” she repeats. “Like Fitzwilliam Darcy. Look at him - he’s right in the corner, not even on the same ledge as the others.”

“Yeah… because there’s no more space on this one.”

“It’s also the only plant that’s not a flower.” She folds her arms across her chest. “Fitzwilliam.”

“Fine. You freak,” he mutters, bumping her head again. “What about that one?”

They name the next three together, teasing each other with each one. Finally, they get to the tabebuia.

Kaya strokes one of the leaves. “This one’s easy. She’s Aphrodite.”

Namjoon nods. “I get that. A heavy name to live up to, though.”

“It makes complete sense. She’s the prettiest one here.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “It’s probably a good thing we’re not together,” he says finally. “I don’t think I could handle not seeing her every day.”

Kaya swallows. Despite her heart feeling heavy again, she leans back against him, memorising his strong chest behind her. She wonders if she’s imagining his heartbeat. “You’re talking about…”

“Aphrodite,” he murmurs, partly against her hair. “Who else?”

She can feel his nose press against the side of her head. Don’t do it, she thinks desperately. Don’t do it, don’t do it. It would open up a pit of emotions she doesn’t want to face. 

“Maybe we can share custody,” she suggests half-heartedly. 

She can feel him smile slightly, but he doesn’t say anything. Don’t do it. But it doesn’t work; he takes a deep breath and presses a kiss to her hair, and the dread settles deep in her stomach.

—

Kaya knew this day would come. After all, the only reason they even got this week was because Namjoon had work in Amsterdam. If it weren’t for that, this would’ve ended in Seoul. 

The last two days were spent largely apart; Namjoon had to fulfil his actual professional obligations and despite wanting to make the best of his time here, Kaya was glad to have some space for she wasn’t sure she was doing a good job hiding how she felt about his impending departure.

But the morning of his flight, she’s finally forced to face it.

It’s early, and Kaya has a class in two hours. She can’t think about that, though - which is worrying, because she always thinks about work. She sits on one of the dining chairs, the same one she sat on the first night he’d spent here, feet up and hugging her knees as she watches him speak to someone on the phone. In his hand is a shopping bag, half-filled with stuff he’s left here over the week.

“Yeah, okay,” he says vaguely, nodding. The phone is tucked between his shoulder and his ear as he ties his shoelaces. He replies in Korean before hanging up and slipping the phone into the pocket of his jeans.

“My cab will be at the hotel in an hour,” he tells her.

“Okay.” Now that his attention is on her, she finds she can’t look at him. It occurs to her that she might be sulking; it’s just another embarrassment on top of the stupidity at feeling this horrible about Namjoon leaving. “Sure you have everything?”

“Yeah.” When she still doesn’t look at him, focusing intently on a pattern on her tablecloth, he sighs. “Kaya? Are you okay?”

No. But she’d rather die than admit that.

“Yeah.” She swallows and forces herself to look at him. “This just… really sucks. That’s all.”

Namjoon nods, and she wonders if he really knows how much. It would be too good to be true if they actually ever see each other again. The reasons not to are plenty and they’ve been laid out, several times, but all that’s needed is a single distraction in one of their lives, and they will be strangers again. Her heart shouldn’t hurt this much over someone who’s going to be a stranger.

He clears his throat. “Imagine if we were -”

“Yeah. I know.” She holds his gaze this time until he looks away. “Good thing we’re not.”

His phone pings then and they’re snapped out of the moment. “I need to go,” says Namjoon in a low voice. “Can I…”

Kaya nods, because of course he can, and gets up from the chair to walk over to him. He looks a little relieved that she came at all and gives her a small smile.

One kiss. That’s all. She steels herself, determined not to go beyond a quick, nice kiss that would be appropriate for a one-week fling that turned into two weeks. Namjoon tilts her chin up slightly and presses his lips to hers, their mouths opening together for a simple last kiss.

But then her hand goes up to his face and his arm comes around her waist and before they know it, they’re locked together in her living room, desperate to keep the moment going a little longer.

—

Namjoon loves London. It reminds him of his favourite weather in Seoul; the rain, the grey tint, the cloudy sky. It’s thoughtful, inspiring and romantic, and he honestly doesn’t understand why everyone complains about it so much.

Today, however, the weather has been worrying him. Throughout their interview, the radio show, the live performance and the retakes, he’s had one eye on the window, hoping the rain will ease up so Kaya’s flight can finally land. 

It feels like a miracle that she even said yes to coming. Ever since he’d left Amsterdam, he thought he could feel her becoming a bit distant. He wasn’t sure what it was; they still spoke, but topics stayed neutral and casual. She texted more than she called and one of their few common timeslots - her night and his morning - no longer worked because she said she was working late more often now. He tried not to think about it as Damien Herjavec stealing his time with Kaya away from him.

Maybe Namjoon was imagining it, or maybe it was everything he’d been dreading and they were finally, finally drifting apart. It hurt more than he expected it to and he was surprised at his reluctance to accept the fact, persevering in his efforts to stay in touch. 

She didn’t even confirm this trip immediately, citing her calendar and other conflicts, the entire time leaving Namjoon to imagine every possible reason on earth that she wouldn’t want to meet him. Finally, after nearly a week, she agreed out of the blue.

Let’s do it, had been her message, curt and to the point.

“For God’s sake,” says Yoongi dryly, his eyes not leaving the television in their shared hotel room, “just call her and ask her where she is.”

It’s a thought and an obvious one at that, but Namjoon has his reasons for not doing so. Her shortened replies and guarded conversations continued even after she accepted his invite; it’s confusing and worrying all at once, for now he has no idea what to expect when she finally arrives.

Kaya’s been texting him en route, though, so he knows her plane landed a couple of hours late, after which it took her a long time to get a cab, followed by a ridiculous amount of traffic throughout London. Namjoon taps his foot impatiently on the floor until Hoseok stares at him from across the room, and he relents.

Not bothering to change or tell his manager where he’s going, Namjoon takes the elevator downstairs and jogs out of the lobby and outside the hotel. It’s almost ten pm and this particular street seems to be largely empty. He’s glad; he’s still in the suit he was wearing all day and the last thing he needs right now is to worry about being recognised.

Kaya hasn’t responded to his last message; he tries not to worry, for she’d told him that her phone would probably die soon. It’s cold - freezing, actually - but the anxiety is superseding it to the point where his hands are actually feeling clammy.

Namjoon doesn’t want to think about the other reason she could be pulling away. Ever since Amsterdam, their conversations have started including more and more mentions of Damien, Kaya’s research partner. They’re random and harmless on the surface, but the name jumps out at Namjoon each time.

He doesn’t know if it’s just that she’s working more with Damien now or if she’s doing it on purpose, trying to hint at a development and giving him a kind way out of this. Or maybe he’s overthinking it; from all accounts, Damien seems to have made her life easier and is a good colleague, so it wouldn’t be out of the ordinary for her to bring him up.

Then again, the possibility of it being something more is enormous. Kaya is beautiful and intelligent and thoughtful; Namjoon can’t imagine that if she were to send even the smallest signal, that she would remain single for long.

One night, with his self-respect somewhere around his ankles, Namjoon resorted to looking up Damien on Facebook (he wasn’t on Instagram), huddled in the dark under his blanket. Damien seemed to be in his late twenties at best, with reddish blond hair and a tall, lanky frame. The stalking exercise didn’t result in anything conclusive, except that Namjoon now had a face to put to the name of this individual who seemed likely to steal his girl.

His stomach twists. He hates how much he cares, hates how much mind space it’s taking up for him. But mostly, he hates that it might be true. 

When Kaya had agreed to come to London, his nerves had eased slightly. But the curtness of her response still stayed in his mind, as though she had suddenly decided to do something. It’s occurred to him more than once that she might be coming just to end this in person. It doesn’t seem like something she would do, but he’s also been forced to admit that he doesn’t know her well enough to be sure of that.

The traffic is crazy.

Namjoon exhales shakily at her text and is about to reply when another message pops up.

Should be about twenty minutes now.

Damn there’s a road closure.

Might be quicker to walk.

Okay, I’m walking.

See you in a few.

The messages appear in rapid succession and Namjoon scans them quickly, realising that she’d probably lost signal somewhere along the way. Based on the time stamps, she should be arriving any minute now.

His head snaps up to look in both directions in front of the hotel. It’s started to drizzle now; Namjoon runs a hand through his hair and feels the hairspray having faded away, leaving damp strands of hair to fall on his forehead. He exhales; if she’s coming to end this, he’s not ready. If she isn’t, then he knows, finally, what he’s going to do.

It’s only about two minutes later, but it feels like a lifetime that he’s been waiting to see Kaya again. He spots her at the end of the street, dressed in jeans and a slim, grey blazer. Her boots splash softly in the tiny puddles as she walks and her head is tilted up at the buildings across the street, as though looking for a landmark. Behind her is a compact suitcase being pulled on wheels, rolling smoothly on the concrete.

Namjoon’s heart leaps at the sight of her. She’s frowning, though; he hopes it’s out of concentration and tiredness. As she gets closer, he notices her long hair slightly wavy, as though wet in the drizzle. She must be cold; he makes a mental note to offer a hot shower as soon as they go inside.

Kaya looks straight ahead then - and her face breaks into a smile. It lights up and Namjoon knows he isn’t imagining it. He tries to ignore the hope igniting inside of him and tugs at his tie to loosen it. It’s now or never; he can’t risk feeling like this for a moment longer or he’s afraid it might kill him.

Four feet away from him, she pauses momentarily to straighten her suitcase and let go of it, continuing her stride towards him. The smile has faded and her expression is blazing, Disney princess eyes locking onto his. She looks more determined than ever and all other thoughts leave Namjoon’s mind.

“Please tell me you’re not dating this Damien person,” he blurts out desperately, noting how she flashes him a breathless smile.

“No,” she answers, a moment before she throws her arms around his neck and kisses him. Namjoon’s arms go around her automatically, memorising her exact shape and feel against him. It takes him a moment to remember to be relieved; it’s just her lips and her hair and her beautiful, familiar, incredible form back in his arms and in his life.

Kaya pulls away first, panting a bit and tossing her long hair out of her eyes, her arms still around him. “Why? You want to date me instead?”

“Yes,” he says instantly. His heart skips a beat at that smile again, almost blinding him, and he takes it. “Yes,” he repeats, bringing one hand to her face and kissing her again, murmuring the same word against her lips. “Yes, yes, yes…”

—

Thanks for reading. Don't forget to leave a review :)

#namjoon x oc #namjoon fanfic #rm fanfic #thebtswritersclub #bangtanwhq #bangtantheatrenet #bangtanbathhouse #micdropnet #k-vanity #houseofddaeng #wkcnet #hyunglinenetwork

[devildom-moss]

Human Dating Advice (pt.3, NSFW)

(Simeon x gn!MC)

(NSFW) (sub!Simeon) (dom!MC) (NSFW tags: lingerie on Simeon, “angel” pet name for Simeon, handjob, super mild bondage, consent and check-ins, cum eating by Simeon)

Word count: +1700

(pt.1)

(pt.2)

“Let’s take this to bed.”

Simeon bit his lip and tightened his grip around your hands to try to contain his joy, but he smiled, nonetheless. His heart seemed to pause in his chest, like it wanted to savor your consent between beats. He let go of your hands and offered you his arm instead, “may I?”

You slipped your arm into his, and he guided you back to Purgatory Hall. Initially, he wanted to reserve a nice hotel room, but that felt presumptuous, and he selfishly craved your scent getting caught in his bed sheets. Once at the door, he held a finger up to his lips.

“They should be out,” he whispered, “but let’s be quiet for now.”

The walk to his bedroom was clear. Simeon opened the door for you, and once you were both safely out of sight, he breathed a sigh of relief. He laughed, “thank goodness. I’ve never been so afraid in my life.”

“What about when they come back?” you asked.

“Don’t worry.” Simeon grabbed a crystal pendulum from his desk and wrapped it around his doorknob a few times. You looked at him, confused. Was that supposed to be Purgatory Hall’s version of a sock on the door? And wasn’t that supposed to go outside? Simeon giggled at you, “it’s a gift from Solomon. He gave it to me a while ago to help aid my focus while writing. It’s got a charm on it: no sound in, no sound out – except for the door itself. If someone knocks on it, we’ll hear, but other than that, we can make as much noise as we want.”

“You really thought about this, didn’t you?”

“Of course. I wanted us to be in a comfortable, familiar space, but I didn’t want to have to hold back or create an uncomfortable situation for anyone else.” He mostly meant Luke.

“You’re always so thoughtful, angel.”

“It’s only so you can make me thoughtless later.” Simeon moved closer to you, softly pressing your back against the door. His hands slid down your shoulders and squeezed your arms slightly. “Can I kiss you?”

You didn’t speak, answering him by pulling him against you by the waist and kissing him. Simeon’s grip on you loosened so he could wrap his arms around your neck. He was flush against you, but he was desperate to feel closer. His neediness was evident in the way he kissed back. You bit his lip and he moaned into it. You took advantage of the moment and turned him in your arms so that his back was against the door now.

Even though no one had been around just moments ago, he suddenly worried whether the quiet thud of his body against the door had resounded in an empty hallway or if someone had heard. To his surprise, it turned him on. It was as close to risky behavior as he could get without exposing himself. You brought this out of him, and he needed you to take responsibility. You did so, perfectly. Letting go of his waist, you grabbed his hands, intertwining your fingers with his and pinning him against the door. He whimpered.

“Is this okay, angel?” You pulled away and stared at Simeon’s face. His eyes were more lustful than you had ever seen, and he panted sweetly.

“You make me feel like deep magenta lilacs being crushed in your lovely hands – like you ravage me and ravish me with affection, and I’m content to just stain your hands with my scent. Display me, consume me, destroy me – whatever you want.”

“Angel, if it’s too intense –”

“It’s perfect; you’re perfect. Please don’t stop.” Simeon pouted, his desire overwhelming his composure.

“Fuck, you’re adorable,” you chuckled into his ear. He shivered. Mischievously, you started to kiss his neck, nipping at him on occasion to hear his honey-voice moan into the echo chamber of his room. Lust clouded him to how erotic he was acting. His turtleneck collar prevented you from kissing any lower. “Angel, can we lose the sweater? I’ll warm you up if you get cold.”

That ushered some sense back into him. He smiled at you so sweetly, it was hard to believe that he was gasping and moaning seconds ago. “Actually, I have a surprise for you.”

“Oh?” You released him from your grasp only for him to take your hands back and pull you towards the bed. He sat down and looked up at you.

“Unwrap me,” he urged you.

“What?”

“I want you to strip me,” Simeon admitted, the shyness back in his voice, “if you don’t mind.”

“Gladly. Is this my surprise?”

“Not quite,” he smiled, rather pleased with himself.

You parted his legs gently with your knee and leaned closer to him. With two fingers, you pulled the hem of his sweater up, intentionally grazing his stomach along the way. Your fingers came in contact with what felt like warm metal at his waist. You hummed curiously, and Simeon looked up at you sexily. Tracing up his side with your other hand, feeling a soft strap at his side, you managed to pull his sweater up to his chest. Underneath, he was wearing some kind of white harness. You were eager to see the whole thing, but that want was overshadowed by a sadistic desire to draw out the moment. Slowly, you lifted the sweater over his head, stopping just before releasing his hands. Simeon sat there so patiently, almost begging you to push him further. Maybe you had spent too much time with Lucifer (and his causal bondage hobby), but you quickly moved the back of Simeon’s sweater over his hands so that his wrists had slipped through the neck hole, creating a loose restraint.

“H-hey,” Simeon interrupted before you could pull back and really stare at him.

“Problem, angel?” you whispered into his ear.

“Pants too,” he looked down, motioning to the half you’d forgotten. All the shame had left him when you kissed him like you had.

“So impatient,” you teased. It was only fair since the straps of his harness did seem to lead further down. It would be rude to ruin the surprise. You pushed him on his back gently, leaving a tender kiss just above his right hip before kneeling before him to leisurely remove his pants.

Actually, you were lying. Simeon was being obediently – saintly – patient. He hadn’t squirmed or struggled once, even though he had trouble seeing you from this angle, and he wanted to see your face immensely – but even more so, he wanted to see how you were looking at him. With his pants discarded to the side, you stood up to admire your present.

Simeon was so pretty. A lacy white collar around his neck was attached to a silver ring with a silky strap that fell down his chest and to his waist. There, it connected to a silver heart ring, where a lacy strap that resembled the collar wrapped around his waist. Another heart ring on each of Simeon’s sides connected the fabric around his waist to two straps that clipped onto his white lace underwear. He even wore matching lace garters with heart rings that dug into his thighs just slightly. Diavolo knows where he got something like this – or rather, Diavolo, Barbatos, and Asmo probably all knew (and Thirteen, and Leviathan). Your breath caught momentarily.

“You’re so sexy, angel,” you crawled on top of him.

It was pure bliss for Simeon as he looked up into your hungry eyes. He started to wonder if he was allowed to feel more heavenly under you than he had ever felt in the Celestial Realm – and you had barely started. You kissed his neck and caressed his thighs. The loose restraint you placed on him, which was now more mental than physical, began to feel tortuous. His moans became more desperate.

“MC, I want to touch you,” he whined. You chuckled and gently slid your hand over his crotch.

“We are touching.”

“You’re touching.” He bucked into your hand without much thought. “That’s not fair.”

“Angel, I’m being plenty fair. I’m rewarding you for such a thoughtful gift, but I suppose I could sweeten the deal.”

You kissed him roughly, but with a conversely tender touch, you slipped your hand into his underwear. Simeon writhed for you. When you pulled back from the kiss he was panting. He was so hard, and for the sake of his lingerie, you unclipped his underwear from the harness and threw them in the general direction of his pants. With his erection fully exposed, you stroked him slowly, stopping occasionally to thumb the tip, lubricating your hand with pre-cum.

Simeon’s eyes were glossy, and his lips were parted, as if he wanted to speak, but his mind was filled with so much sensual pleasure that words escaped the author. In the blur of the bedroom, you were the only clear thing to him, and he couldn’t even reach out and touch his anchor. Drowning was supposed to be terrifying, but you made it feel so good. You caressed his cheek with your free hand, the other preoccupied with giving him pleasure.

“Is it okay, my angel?”

Your voice and gentle touch reached him through the haze; with watery eyes and a weak voice he whispered, “so good.”

You could feel him throbbing and his face had started to flush. Given how compliant he had been today, you wanted to give him explicit permission to let go. “Are you close, angel?”

“Mhm,” he managed with a nod.

“Cum for me, Simeon, my angel. Whenever you’re ready, don’t hold back.”

Simeon bucked into your hand. It was good, but he wanted more. He needed just a bit more of you to push him over the edge.

“Kiss me, please,” he begged between shaky breaths.

You obliged him, kissing him with the sweetness you had shown him early that day: like warm sheets on a winter morning. Your hand didn’t stop, and you felt him gasp.

“MC, I’m-”

“Go ahead, angel.”

He ground his hips up into you before arching his back slightly and cumming in your hand. The release did nothing to clear his mind of the sultry fog that encompassed him. Half out-of-it, he sat up and took your cum-stained hand in his still-restricted hands. Simeon held your wrist and licked your fingers clean, sucking on your ring finger longer than necessary.

“You’re such a good angel for me,” you chuckled. With your other hand, you smoothed back his hair and kissed his forehead. “How are you feeling? Can I get you anything?”

“I feel so float-y. Thank you, MC, but I just want more of you.”

“We have all night, my angel. The date isn’t over yet.”

(pt.3, SFW)

A/N: I got a little too into this, honestly. I’m going to work on the SFW version next, but after that, if you like my writing and have a character or request, feel free to drop by my ask box, and I’ll see what happens.

#simeon #gn!mc #spice tier #obey me #obey me simeon #simeon x mc #simeon x reader #simeon smut #obey me smut

[chanstopher]

so I’ve hit the big one. Thank you for 10k followers, that’s literally so insane I really don't deserve this. I made this blog a little over two years ago, and it’s been so much fun to make so many new friends on here! So I have a few things lined up as a thank you, so this is gonna get long. 

I’m opening my requests and making a game out of it, so send me an emoji and get a set/gfx:

🖤 + make me choose between two members, music videos, ships, eras, etc. for a gifset 🐺 + a color palette along with a member, music video, or era for a gfx 🫧 + a member for a comp set. you can give me a vibe, era, hair color etc. too 🌙 + a member and era or award show for stage gifs

I’m being a bit presumptuous and assume I’ll be getting a few so please be patient with me getting them all out, I don’t want to rush anything I want to make sure  I give you my best effort hehe. I’ll try to post 2-3 a day. This will be open for one week from tomorrow, January 27th (since its already late) so feel free to take your time and pick something you want. I’ll keep making them until they’re all done though! All posts here

Thanks and a gift under the cut 🖤🤍✨

Second I just want to thank all of the people who have interacted with me over the past two years, whether we're best friends or you just sent me an anon, I truly appreciate you. I don't wanna start listing out mutuals or followers because that would inevitably leave someone out, and there are so many people I've never even spoken to; but recognize urls from my notifications, that are dear to me. Thank you for giving me a reason to keep making content, especially art. This blog is the reason I truly got back into drawing and have tried really hard to improve over the past two years. Without you guys, I'd still be drawing flat faces and not blending anything 😭 You have no idea what your small encouragements have meant to me when I've been stressed or struggling with a drawing. And I'm just thankful to feel like I'm accepted tbh. Having ppl call me by my name in tags, even if we've never talked - especially if we've never talked - it makes me feel like really comfortable and loved? That's corny, but I can't think of a better word. I also just want to say thank you for letting me love Chris so loudly, he is really my greatest comfort; and being able to just express that in whatever way my unhinged brain thinks has been so fun and just so nice. There are a billion blogs on this site and you choosing to come here and stay here is truly a gift that idk how to pay back. I know this is just tumblr and it's not that serious, but it's the place I find comfort, so I'm thankful I've got you to share it with.

 okay okay, no more sap LASTLY i'm going to share a few psds of mine as a thank you. so feel free to download them and use them to your heart's content <3

#drm.pst #god I literally am so overwhlemed wtf tho dude????? #gonna go cry or explode or something

[ccrites]

about me

Hi, i'm CC (she/they), i'm in my 20s, and i've decided to create this side-blog to post my writing, bc my Google docs is getting cluttered, and I want to make a step in feeling less self-conscious about my work. We'll see how long I last

I've been writing since i was like 6, and have gotten into a bad habit of never finishing stuff unless I forced myself to post it somewhere, so I'm hoping this blog will help me go through with it. some stuff will be edited, some not, some ideas, some plots, some horny pwp, some dark stuff, whatever, I just want to get my stuff out there.

currently writing about: call of duty (i know, shocker)

MDNI. 18+ only, if you don't have your age in bio you will be blocked

You can find my old fics on AO3 here and any new stuff from this blog cross-posted on AO3 here or on my Tumblr writing tag here (if the link does not work, it's tagged under "cc writes").

(more info under the cut!)

this is a sideblog, so follows and asks from me don’t come from here. If you find my main, I don't care.

i am not a native English speaker. If you ever think something sounds wrong please tell me

i am both a full time student and have an adulting job at 80% for my master's. if i ever disappear for a few days do not worry, if I post a lot out of a sudden, i might have a deadline coming up and that's me procrastinating (pls yell at me to go back to work)

might be presumptuous of me to assume my stuff would ever get plugged into AI but if it does I will haunt you and move all the stuff in your house one inch so you always stub your toes

if you leave a nice comment I might just combust

I will always try to answer asks, but like, I have to get them first lol

things i don’t write: I am pretty vanilla but depending on the mood I might venture into dark-er stuff. but if anyone asks for piss stuff I will not judge and gently redirect them away from my ask box

greatly inspired by @391780, @soapskneebrace, @ceilidho, @charliemwrites, @ohbo-ohno, @peachesofteal, and so many others talented writers around here i am forgetting right now. I am a big fan and read almost all their stuff, and it has gotten some of my own brain worms wiggling around in here. let's just hope I don't embarrass myself

#general #cc writes

[shivunin]

WIP Wednesday Thursday

Thank you for the tag, @layalu! 💗Tagging back @greypetrel @ndostairlyrium @daggerbean @jtownnn and anyone else who feels up to sharing this week!! Technically, the scarf I was working on is done...I just think it needs some finishing touches haha. Also, most of what I'm working on right now is presents and I want to wait to share those c: So here is a bit of my Act 2 fic with Leandra and Maria (600ish words):

Varric told her it was a bad idea before cards. Hawke laughed off his concern, then Aveline’s when they said goodnight later (“Be careful, Hawke,” she’d said in her stern voice, and it’d been plain what she was talking about). Maria knew what she was doing—or she knew what she wanted to do, at least. Well—what she wanted if Fenris wanted the same thing, and she thought he might.

That night, they reached her front door together as they so often had. For once, he was the one to prolong their goodbye, hands lingering on her hips when she might have otherwise let go. 

It was enough to set her friends’ worries aside entirely. This was worth it. She knew that. Whatever concerns they might have were well-meant, but unnecessary. Even so, how could she begrudge their worries? In fact, Hawke decided, she loved her friends all the more for caring. 

The next week was a chain of job after job, several days spent scouring the coast for a crate that might’ve washed ashore from a shipwreck, then a day helping Mother prepare for one of her teas. Hawke thought of Fenris constantly, but she wasn’t sure what to do about it. “Some other night,” he’d said the last time she’d been inside his manor; would it be presumptuous to show up at his door now? She’d done it hundreds of times before, but—had this new thing between them changed that, too? 

“I happened to glance out the window last Saturday,” her mother told her as they arranged empty teacups and and tiny plates on a tray. Her voice was casual, but there was an unfamiliar undercurrent to it.

“Oh?” Maria asked, trying very hard to keep her absurdly lacy sleeves from trailing through the jam or honey. 

“I hadn’t realized that you had a suitor, darling,” Mother went on, plucking a blossom from the vase beside them and placing it carefully on the top tier of the pastry tower. 

“I…don’t know that I do,” Hawke said hesitantly, looking at her mother between the flowers. “I mean to say—I don’t know that he wants to be a…suitor.”

“Of course he does, dear,” Leandra said firmly, setting the teapot on the trap with a decisive click. “Your father looked at me just like that in the early days. I remember it like it was yesterday.”

“Really?” Maria asked, a strange fluttering in her chest. “I didn’t think…well. I want to take things at his pace. I wouldn’t want to move too fast—but it’s hard when we’ve known each other so long. Does that make sense? What will happen if it all goes wrong?”

“Then you shall still have your generous spirit,” her mother said, stepping around the table with one last adjustment to the flowers. Her eyes were on the arrangements even as she spoke. “You value your mind, my dear, but your heart has always been your greatest treasure. Surely your young man will see that.”

Her eyes prickled. Hawke stepped closer and leaned against her mother, who unexpectedly wrapped an arm around her waist. Leandra had never been especially given to physical affection—that had always been Malcolm’s domain. It was kind of her to offer it now. No—not just kind. Reassuring.

“There, there,” she said, and kissed Maria’s cheek. “None of that. Everything will go wonderfully, you’ll see. How could anyone help but adore you? Now, come: it is time to take these trays into the other room. Our guests will be arriving any moment. It wouldn’t do to be late.” 

“Of course,” Hawke said, blinking the tears from her eyes before they could fall, and followed her mother from the room.

#maria hawke #wip wednesday #shivunin scrivening #i think their relationship is complicated but like. it's not that they don't love each other #it's just that they're speaking such drastically different languages #and by the time she realizes it it's too late to try to build a dictionary

[o0-themilkybarkid-0o]

Guest, Consort, Prisoner - 1, Foolish Young Man

Wyll’s easy smile swam into view as he shook his goblet in offering, tipping it towards himself in a gesture that asked, Drink?  Halsin shook his head, “Not for me, thanks,” and returned his gaze down to the piece of Sussur bark in his hands, feeling that familiar tingle in his back teeth as the wooden block ate at whatever magic was in its proximity.  The young man’s drawl faded for a moment as he bent into his tent, and then returned, “We’ve barely gotten to speak at length since you joined us, and what better way than to regale us with a tale? I hope I don’t speak out of turn when I say that you must have some stories of interest.”  Gale snorted from across the camp, snapping his book closed, “Must he now? A bit presumptuous, don’t you think?”  Having found the bottle of wine he was searching for, Wyll gestured to Gale, who pondered for a moment before nodding and reaching for his own goblet. While pouring a generous measure for the Wizard, Wyll said in an aside towards Halsin’s direction, “Are you sure I can’t tempt you?” 

Chapter 1 is UP!!

PLEASE take a look at the tags before reading, I cannot stress this enough.

(if you do not have an Ao3 account, but would like to read it, please DM me you email address and I will send a PDF. I lock all of my Ao3 works to prevent them from being combed by AI tools)

#guest consort prisoner #fanfiction #halsin #baldur's gate 3 #my writing #smut

[legionofpotatoes]

For real, your take on Mando season 3 is completely on point. But I get not feeling able to say it out loud without a disclaimer before, after, and in the tags to keep from getting shouted at in the reblogs. It's just the messed up nature of being in the SW fandom on Tumblr. Speaking your mind on your own blog is an invitation for buffoonery.

If I were completely honestly, I'm not in the least shocked that's what we got. I've long held the opinion that the worst part about the fandom is the fan opinions and expectations out of a new series, and the expectation that a formula for a show won't change, or that a character will maintain one set mentality/trope while simultaneously offering new, completely different story arcs. It isn't necessarily impossible to pull off, but it takes very careful planning and execution. And, unfortunately, that has never been a strength in this franchise, even before Disney ownership.

For most shows, it's the season 5 slump. After 5 seasons, all the flavor is gone and any additional seasons are painfully rehashed at best. For all the corporate financial squeezing that's been done to Mando since the beginning of the show to wring out revenue like its a wet washcloth, it really tracks that were in this place after only 3 seasons.

IMO the only thing that's going to save Andor is the fact that the end of the story has already been told in Rogue One and its confirmed that season 2 will end at that point of the timeline. If it was going to be a 3+ season show, I suspect we'd see the same treatment.

Anyway, I'll stop flapping my gums in your ask box. Your hot take encapsulated what felt off about this season to me. I couldn't put words to it, but it just felt....meh.

I just disable reblogs and try not to tag it in an inflammatory way, my gripes are genuinely like. basic semiotics and story sense, I'm not going after anyone's childhood or feel-goodness. This is all me-problems and me-expectations with a massive machine of commerce that will never give a shit lmao

I too wrote a couple of posts back in s2 days expecting something of this sort going forward after the weirdly presumptuous cameo-baiting of s2 and whatever in the goddamn hell boba fett did with its mando tie-ins, but an entire season of tirespinning sure was a surprising choice. I think writing for TV is fundamentally different than writing for film, so I didn't really see a clear parallel of incompetence within the franchise; and especially with season 1 being so solid in balancing both the overarching and the episodic stuff I felt like they had a neat ramp to milk a decently long character piece out of.

But I can't help but feel like my main problem with the disney/abrams/filoni/favreau era of star wars is its irrationally strong love for the aesthetic. it blinds them to good choices that will then make for interesting stories. gently deradicalizing, humanizing, and then literally AND figuratively getting din out of his shell so he could open up to a child's love could be such an effective, simple to parse, and wholesome core to structure the series around, but that would upend the aesthetic of their cowboy-ass romp a bit too fast and have an end and an identity and all that non-marketing friendly stuff. so they keep withholding his psyche, they keep giving then taking clear communication tools away from grogu, they keep teasing their bond but never outright stating it (I cannot believe after 3 seasons he still hasn't just looked at the baby and directly confessed he loved him), so they can keep bumping those goalposts back and forth while pretending it's progress. because they are in love with the aesthetic.

again, this is my main problem, I don't see this as a problem writ large or even something that represents a wrong way to do star wars. who the hell even knows how you treat a franchise that large at this point, what importance you assign to aesthetic vs. story, all that jazz. I don't know. they're the ones with the analytics data, so they definitely know better. and maybe that's the saddest part

#no need to apologize nonnie this is a heated subject for all of us lmao #anon #asks #negativity

[icarianarts]

More about me under the cut! ;P

Icarian • he/they/she (no preference) • transsexual • 21 y/o

I'm a Graphic Design Major ^_^

A running joke about me is a lot of my points of interest reflect that of a cishet boy but I promise I am normal about everything I get into. I may talk about some things more than others because I get embarrassed with what I like easily, but here's a general list!

General Movies + TV Shows

• Seinfeld

• The Birdcage

• The Yellow Submarine

• The Muppets

• The Shrek series (Unironically, whenever I talk about Shrek it is never for the meme, but for my love of the movies and characters.)

Various Adam Sandler movies + things that are so bad they're good, if that makes any sense. I love regularly watching tacky things that were poorly produced and/or written. Pretty much anything I can commentate on easily with my friends and complain about lightly LOL

Anime + Manga

• Jojo's Bizarre Adventure (Parts 1 + 3 + 6 are usually my areas of focus, but I have read all of it up to 9, which I've yet to really dive into.)

• Dragon Ball (Childhood interest of mine, I haven't watched the series regularly or have drawn fanart regularly since I was 14 or so. Hilariously, I still find myself to this day getting into conversations surrounding it so I might as well include it!)

• Berserk (I LOVE PUCK ^_^)

• Devilman (Obligatory post-Berserk catch up read so I could see the elements Miura was inspired by.)

Video Games

• Pretty much most Nintendo games, I have a baseline knowledge of everything under that company's label. (Focus on Pokémon + Mario + Kid Icarus + etc. it'll be glaringly obvious what my favorites are just by checking my old smash bros ultimate tags...)

• Mega Man Classic

• Second Life + VR Chat (If you ever consider wanting to play any of these games, feel free to shoot me an ask or DM if you'd like an insider's explanation on what the scene is like on them! I can go into great detail the amount of stories I have accumulated from my excursions, all the good and the bad LMAO)

• Genshin Impact (I do not engage with the fanbase, and find a lot of the fans genuinely exhausting to be around. While it is no worse than The Legend of Zelda with its issues, the fans remarkably make it so much more agonizing to talk about.)

• Ball Gay 3

Miscellaneous

• I love the Abrahamic Faiths and sometimes post about my experiences struggling in queer spaces predominantly ran by culturally christian white atheists who choose to say all organized faith is inherently bad and perpetuate the "queer vs. religion" issue.

• I went to a Japanese immersion school from the ages 5 through 11 and have been casually keeping up with the language since!

• I love classic country and folk rock. When I say I like country, I specifically mean the genre and general scene behind country that predates the 9/11 shift in music. I also (embarrassingly) know a shit ton of Beatles trivia. John Denver is my favorite music artist.

...and much more I am probably forgetting to list out! I am critical of all my interests, so please do not be presumptuous. Ultimately, I consider a lot of "Fandom DNI" things to be hypocritical and performative in the sense that it eliminates any nuance.

Simply put, I will just block you if you are someone who refuses to have any critical thinking skills...that being said, given how tumblrinas seem to be incapable of figuring out what that means, here is a brief rundown of what I that tends to encapsulate. LMAOOOOOO

No stupid discourse No creeps No "it's just fictional!" No whatever I deem to be genuinely sickening I know "DNI" pages are performative and areas for people to flaunt their basic morality but lately I have had to block so many people I feel as though I need to put a typical warning up so. You Know. Gestures Vaguely. For Genshin Fans specifically coming to my blog know I do not put up with any ship remotely creepy. I see a good portion of the "short" character model characters as children, and genuinely cannot "unsee" it. This is not something to argue in my asks about. Just leave me alone, I do not participate in the fandom for a reason.

[whumpering-heights]

Ada has a last name too and it's Douglas, in this essay I will-

MASTERLIST tagging: @pumpkin-spice-whump-latte @octopus-reactivated @fanastyfinder @whumpy-arts-and-crafts @arsonfrogger @burtlederp @harri-007 @akito-fuckn-fear @potatoo-whump @sunflower1000 @whumpycries

The two criminals entered the hotel room, akward silence hung between them. "Ada-" "I'm sorry, I panicked!" The younger woman, barely past teenhood, took her sunglasses of and removed her cap. "I know that name is secret, you told me not to use it ever, but I didn't want to use my dad's so I picked the first that came to mind!"

Villain took his own sunglasses off, looking caught off guard. They always made sure to protect their idenity, but extra precautions couldn't hurt. For that reason too, he'd checked in as Timothy Johnson.

"No, uh, it's good that you didn't use your own name, I get it. But, uhm. I thought- nevermind."

"What is it?"

Ada was a little confused to see her mentor flustered. She'd expected him upset, even though by now she realised he wouldn't mistreat her. He'd been nothing but patient with her. But she had been bracing herself for a telling off, at least. She shouldn't have breached the trust he'd given her. Instead, her boss looked... dissapointed? If she didn't know better, she'd say almost embarassed. He put his suitcase down on the furthest bed, not meeting her eyes.

"It's alright, let's just get ready for tonight. We have some rooms to break into."

"R-right."

Villain, for his part, felt foolish. He knew names were a big deal, especially to someone like Ada, who'd picked her own. So, when she'd used his, he's read into it. The glasses had hid his face, but had also concealed the brimming tears the entire elevator ride there. But she'd just picked his because it was the first to come to mind. Of course. It had been presumptuous to think otherwise: just because he gave her a place to stay and employed her, didn't mean she owed him anything! Nothing beyond her work, until she'd finally get some sense and walked away from him. She still called him "Boss": he shouldn't cross any boundaries, nor assume.

And yet, he found the words falling from his mouth before he could think better of it.

"You know.. If-if you want to borrow it again. For missions, or, uh. Whenever, really. You can have it."

Ada freezed in unpacking her gear. "What?"

"My last name. You can have it, if you'd like." Villain smiled, trying to sound casual, but failing quite spectacularly. "Isn't like I'm using it much anyway. And.. I liked the way it sounded with you."

Ada opened and closed her mouth a couple times. "Boss..." "No pressure, of course!"

Villain turned her back to her, feeling his cheeks grow hot. "You can just pick whatever name you like. Just- forget it, maybe-"

From behind, a thin hand touched his own, and he turned around.

Ada was a bit taller than him, even hunched as she usually was, so he had to look up. The light lit up the edges of her curls, and made the tears in her eyes shine.

She didn't make eye contact, nor initiated a hug. Neither was her style. But from her tight grip on his hand, and the small smile on her lips, he could tell how she felt perfectly fine.

"I liked how it sounded, too," she said softly.

Villain felt the tension leave him, and his own tears return. "Oh, Ada..." he whispered. He wiped a tear from her cheek. She sniffled. "I mean, I've wanted a clean break for a while, and you've been so nice to me-" Bare minimum, really, Villain thought to himself, but didn't interrupt. "So-so if you think I deserve to borrow that name... I'd be really happy to." "Not just borrow, you can have it," Villain said softly. "If you want it. And if you change your mind-" She shook her head, and he chuckled through his tears. "Well, alright. It's not official, but I'd love to share my name with you. Now, would you like a hug, miss Douglas?" She nodded, and then leaned down herself to do so.

Villain never thought he'd pass down his last name. But it seemed, there he was. It wasn't written on any papers or kept in any records, but it was real to them. And that's all that mattered.

#behind the masks #villain #aide #henchwoman #ill change her title... someday #itll be such a pain to do #my stuff #my writing #huh this really is straight up fluff! turns out im capable of writing that too! #im going to tag people in asks like these because theyre like eeny meeny chapters #lmk if thats not whats desired and ill make two taglists or something