#But it was a four-hour meticulous clean

[daycourtofficial]

Come back, be here

Azriel x reader

Summary: It’s the anniversary of your mating bond ceremony and despite his reassurances, Azriel is nowhere to be seen.

Author’s note: this is the end of my 1k celebration and ironically the first fic I finished for this week. I hope you guys enjoyed reading these fics as much as I enjoyed writing them

Word count: 2k

(1k celebration masterlist 🍾)

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Every second you sat in your kitchen felt like an eternity, the fabric of the dress you’re wearing growing heavier with each tick of the clock.

You had bought the clock for your mate for your mating anniversary years ago. A rare antique that you knew he would love - thousands of years old, and you got it for an absurdly low price due to the condition it was in.

You spent months with a restoration expert, cleaning the clock, repairing pieces as you dismantled it. It was a labor of love, one you thought Azriel was deserving of.

The months spent restoring it were nothing compared to the time you’ve been sitting here.

Now you sit, practically taunted by its song. Tonight was supposed to be about the two of you. Objectively five years in a mateship isn’t a long time, a blip in the lives of fae, and yet the both of you were looking forward to the evening.

Despite his intimidating demeanor, Azriel was meticulous about celebrating your anniversaries, oftentimes mentioning an event you didn’t realize he knew the date of. You imagined he had an internal index of the days you two spent together.

“I waited five hundred years to meet you,” he had told you when he wanted to take you out to celebrate the anniversary of your first date, “I want to remember everything we do together. I want to celebrate us every day that I can.”

His words were incredibly sweet, but sitting in the cold kitchen, the tempting aromas of the meal you made long gone, you wonder just how much of it was words.

He waited 500 years for you, and you waited several hours before packing up the dinner you had made for him, tears running down your face as you packaged it all up.

Perhaps his overeager celebration of anniversaries led to the intensity of the sting you feel deep in your chest.

The clock chimes twelve times - he’s four hours late and your anniversary is officially over. You have no indication from the bond what he’s doing, it’s golden hum having gone silent hours ago.

You blow out the candles littering the house, taking off the ridiculous party hat you were wearing and throwing it on the ground.

It feels silly, the brightly colored hat with a pompon on top. It’s bright demeanor heavily contrasting the loneliness you feel inside. You sigh, looking around the downstairs of your home, deciding to leave the rose petals you had scattered so perhaps he’ll feel at least a little guilty when he came home.

Whenever that would be.

Trudging up the stairs, each step growing heavier, you wonder what could have kept him away. Rhys certainly wouldn’t have asked him to go away - Azriel had mentioned earlier in the week he’d be unavailable for a few days to celebrate.

Besides, Rhys knew how anal Azriel was about your anniversaries, and Feyre would chew him out if he forced Azriel to do anything on a day as important as your mating ceremony anniversary.

He had left this morning, promising you he’d be home at 8 because he had some tasks to do. You knew he was going to help one of your neighbors with a fallen tree, something that had to be done as soon as possible.

You move silently, going through your nightly ritual, an early end to the night you didn’t see coming. You pull back the covers on your bed, slipping into its cold grasp, ready to cry yourself to sleep, when you hear the door open downstairs.

You can hear Azriel moving through the house, a swiftness to his step as you hear him climbing the stairs quickly, taking them two at a time.

You make your way to your shared bedroom door, that you had locked upon entering, and lean against it, unsure if you’re ready for his excuses.

He tries the handle, then begins knocking.

“Baby, baby please be awake.” He pauses for a moment, listening. “I’m so sorry, baby please I know you’re awake I can hear you breathing.”

One of his shadows snakes underneath your door, checking you over to see how you are. It lingers on your cheeks, tear tracks still fresh. The shadow doesn’t return to it’s master, instead opting to stay with you, providing you company.

“Please, baby, I lost track of time. I was working on a surprise for you and I fell asleep. Baby I’m-“

You push off the door and turn to crack open the door, taking in the sight of your mate. Despite your annoyance, the bond made it practically impossible to want to avoid him. Every piece of you begged to be near him, to open the door further letting him in.

“You were working on a surprise?” Your voice cracks from all the crying, and he doesn’t mention how his heart cracks in response.

He nods gently, his hair sticking up everywhere from his hands having ran through it, and likely also from the flight home.

You’re still upset, but the frost you feel starts thawing. You can make him grovel a bit, and you’re about to open the door more, when the smell hits you.

Elain.

He showed up late to your date for your mating anniversary with some lame excuse about falling asleep because he had spent the day with Elain.

Elain, who was mated to Lucien, but made her affections for your mate abundantly clear before your mateship. As far as you had known, Azriel had shut down her affections when the bond snapped for you both, but now you’re reconsidering everything that you know.

Had they been sneaking around? Is this the first time? Does Lucien know?

The questions swirl in your mind, and Azriel puts his foot in the door begore you can slam it on him, your emotions swirling inside of his chest.

“Baby-“

“You spent the day with Elain?” You spat, “you were late because of Elain? You reek of her, Az!”

You push against the door, trying to shut him out, but he doesn’t budge, he won’t pull his foot out of the way, no matter how much it hurts.

“Baby, no let me explain-“

You laugh, “what’s there to explain? You are covered in her scent.”

The tears start pouring again, and the shadow starts wiping them up, more of them coming through the door to console you.

He starts panicking. Things with Elain have been great the past few years - her distance from Azriel allowing any lingering feelings of lust or awkwardness to dissipate, allowing the two of them to have a cordial friendship. Despite this, he was aware of how insecure you were around her.

You could never grasp why he’d want to be with you when he could have been with her.

Panic laces his tone as he tells you, “baby, no, I went to Elain’s to bake you a cake! We’ve been working all week on a recipe for you!”

You stop pushing so hard against the door, your movements stilling. An invitation for him to continue talking, but to stay where he was and not try to come in further.

“We spent the day baking you a cake. I laid down on her couch, and you know how damning that thing is. Lucien was there all day. I fell asleep waiting for the cake to cool so I could frost it. They must have left because-“

He pauses, his words rushing from his mouth, afraid you’d shut him out before they made their way to you. “I-they had me promise not to tell anyone, but Elain’s pregnant and they left for an appointment with Madja. They got back not too long ago, waking me up. I came straight here, forgetting the cake and your gifts.”

You lift your eyes to look at him for the first time and you know he’s telling you the truth.

“Gifts? Plural?”

A laugh breaks out from him, your obvious attempt to diffuse the situation. He pushes his hair back with a hand, and you finally take in how messy it was. He clearly had rushed over here, if it’s wind-blown look was anything to go off of. “I got you these incredible books that I spent ages tracking down. I was in Day earlier this week to pick them up.”

You perk up at that, “but you hate going to Day alone because Helion begs you to-“

“Then I had to stop by the jeweler’s.”

You perk up at that, your love of jewelry rivaling Amren’s.

“The jeweler’s?”

He smiles faintly, hoping he’s slowly convincing you to let him in.

“I had Winston take part of one of my siphons to make you a necklace.”

You still at that.

“Your- your siphon?”

He smiles softly, “yeah, I’ve been talking with him for years on how to best remove a piece to make you a matching necklace.”

You narrow your eyes, “years?”

“Yes, my love. We’ve gone through probably dozens of unused syphons to figure out the best method, he finally figured it out a few months ago.”

His hand taps his chest, where one of his siphons usually sits.

“I had a bit chiseled off of the one that stays on my chest.”

Your resolve crumbles, seinging open the door and launching yourself into his arms. He holds you tightly, and the two of you just stand there, enjoying the embrace.

The clock chines downstairs, but this time it’s tune is one of love, not dread.

You smelled him again, and as prominent as Elain’s scent was, you also picked up strong hints of Lucien and a soft, delicate scent.

“So nothing happened?”

“Nothing happened. And nothing ever will happen.”

Your eyes are lined with tears, pulling back from him, you place your hands on his face, bringing his face level with yours.

“If anything did happen, or ever happens, I’ll skin you alive.”

“My love, I think if I were to ever do anything to break your heart, Nesta would put my heart on a platter.”

You giggle, and he hums out, “actually I’m not sure who’d get to me first - Cassian or Nesta.”

Your soft giggles soothe the erratic beating of Azriel’s heart, “Gwyn and Emerie might take a chunk out too.”

He pushes the strands of hair away from your face, guiding the two of you further into the toom so he can shut the door.

“Let’s assume that if I did anything to hurt you, there would be a long line of fae coming to hunt me down.”

He kisses you, quickly pecking your lips several times as he guided you backwards until your knees hit your bed.

“However I did leave my mate all alone on our anniversary.”

He crawls on top of you, kissing your neck as you close your eyes at the contact, “and I am very good at groveling.”

#acotar fanfiction #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel fanfic #acotar writing #azriel x y/n #azriel angst

[ifancyharry]

what it is: YN is Harry’s personal assistant and she gets sick, but he’s playing Wembley

word count: 4k

The air is crisp and clean as YN steps out of her hotel into the streets of London, hurrying down the sidewalk as she scurries to the first pharmacy she can find. 

It’s 7.54 in the morning and she’s been awake for almost twenty-four hours. Not on purpose, obviously. And not on her boss’s orders either, despite having there been nights the team deemed important and she was required to pull an all nighter, but those were usually times of celebrations, either spent at an afterparty or waiting until midnight for Spotify to release the album everyone had been working hard on.

The air hurts her lungs as she stops to catch her breathing, the pounding behind her temples not dimming the slightest as she trespasses the sliding doors of the pharmacy, only intensifying with the bright artificial lights shining down on her from the ceiling.

She pulls her sunglasses out of the pocket of her sweatshirt and slides them over her eyes, relishing in the temporary relief washing over her sensitive eyes.

Her phone vibrates in her pocket and she pulls it out, grimacing at the name on the screen; it’s her boss, Harry, asking her what time she’s ready to leave for the venue. 

Once her turn comes, she quickly explains her symptoms to the pharmacist and just as quickly she pays for the medicine the pharmacist has taken out for her.

She walks out of the pharmacy and types back a short response to Harry, telling him she’s on her way to his room.

She hopes the medicine she has stuffed in her pocket will make her feel better, and she thinks as she’s making her way back to the hotel that she’ll ask Harry to stop along the way to grab a coffee, hoping it will soothe the tension behind her temples. There’s no way she can be sick when her boss is playing at Wembley for the first time.

…

Harry isn’t one to comment on other people’s appearances, his mum taught him that and it has stuck with him since he was a little kid, a sort of an unspoken rule out of kindness, and therefore he’s never asked if someone was sick because they weren’t wearing makeup or if someone had eaten a little more over the holidays.  He never considered other people’s looks something that concerned his range of business, but once he sees YN, he can’t help but wonder if she’s okay.

Her hair is tied in a messy braid, and there’s some strands falling out of it and in front of her eyes. She’s wearing a big love on tour sweatshirt and a pair of yoga pants, but that isn’t particularly concerning, because he’s used to her comfy articles of clothing. 

What’s concerning is her face… and Harry already feels bad for thinking that, but she doesn’t look like herself. And Harry would know. Of course he would know, because he spends a lot of time looking at her face, especially when she’s not looking, most of the times when she’s reading a book next to him in a moment of rest or when she’s answering emails on Monday mornings. So… he knows her. He knows her skin looks paler than normal, and the circles under her eyes aren’t the same as that one time they partied all night after Harry won album of the year at the Grammys.

He wants to ask if she’s okay, because after a year of working together they have that kind of confidence, but he doesn’t want that to be the first thing he says to her, so he just smiles at her and welcomes her with a side hug and a good morning.

“Hi” she’s quick to greet back, and Harry notices even her voice sounds scruffier than usual.

“Are you ready to go?” She asks a second later.

“Yeah, yeah, the car’s down already?” He asks surprised. Sometimes it takes a while before the drivers find the hotel, and YN and Harry spend that time watching videos on youtube or talking about the day’s schedule.

YN shrugs but doesn’t say anything in response, which is weird to Harry because she’s usually really bright and energetic in the morning, and she’s really meticulous on top of everything: she never lets him wait without finding something to pass the time first.

“Let’s just stay until we don’t know for certain” he suggests.

She agrees with a nod of her head and she heads to his bed, sitting down on the end of it. It’s not uncommon for her, because she’s always in his space, and there have been times where they were forced to basically sleep in the same bed (one time YN fell asleep on his bed, and Harry was so in his song-writing-bubble he didn’t even realize until he was so tired he couldn’t keep his eyes open, so he slipped in next to her and literally passed out).

He still needs to tie his shoes, so he sits next to her and ties the laces of his ratted vans.

“How’d yeh sleep, pet?” He asks, because she’s freakishly quiet and it’s making him anxious. She’s never quiet, and with this being a stressful day already for Harry, every little thing that’s different from normal alerts him.

“Fine” she whispers, knuckling at her eyes, his question bringing back the awful memory of the night she spent tossing and turning in the scratchy hotel sheets, praying for a moment of solace every time she tried to breathe through her nose and failing.

“Me too…” he nods.

YN feels bad because she should be more engaging, but she really doesn’t have it in her to make small talk. 

Some time passes before the driver calls YN’s phone to tell her the van is here, shaking her awake. She remembers closing her eyes to rest them, and next thing she knows she’s sound asleep on her boss’s bed. She’d be a bit embarrassed if it wasn’t for how awful she feels already. 

“Crap! I fell asleep!” She exclaims once she hangs up the call. 

“Yeah” Harry says from next to her, still laying on his bed, “just fo’ like… fifteen minutes though” He’s playing on his phone, and YN pushes at his bicep, “we need to go, driver’s here”

She gets up from the bed and slips on her shoes, grabbing her work bag (it’s really a tote bag but she finds calling it work bag makes her waaaay more professional) from the floor next to the door.

“YN” she hears Harry clear his voice, and she turns around to look at him.

He’s still sitting on the bed, and he passes a hand through his hair before saying, “are yeh all right?” 

She closes her eyes in a furrow and tries not to wince when a sharp pain shoots behind her eyes with the movement, “yes, yes” she stresses, although not convinced.

“Are you sure? C’mon yeh can tell me!” 

“I’m fine, Harry” and despite her words, she sniffles, “maybe I have a cold or something…”

“You can take the day off if you need to, yeh know that” 

“No, there’s no way” she shakes her head swiftly, “no”. 

“YN…” he trails off.

“Harry, I told you I’m fine. I can work! Let’s just go, okay?” 

He sighs but does as she says, following her out of his room.

Harry isn’t a worrier. If someone from his team, or band whatsoever, says they can work, he at least presumes they’re mature enough to know the expanse of their limits. 

With YN, it’s different. He worries.

Not because he considers her immature, but she’s just… different. Ever since she started working for him as his assistant, he’s always looked out for her, despite being the one that didn’t want to hire her in the first place.

She’s young, she works a lot to prove herself to him, despite him telling her lots of times she doesn’t need to prove anything and she’s doing a great job as she is. 

She does unthinkable working hours, sometimes pulling all nighters, other times hurrying to his house in the middle of the night because he’s a little bit of a hypochondriac and she needs to check immediately what’s that new mole he has on his back (turns out it was a speck of dark chocolate that stuck onto his skin).

She’s soft and she always puts her job (him, actually) first, so he doesn’t really trust her to know her limits. If she’s sick she should rest. She should lay in bed and maybe eat a little soup and watch comfort movies tucked under the sheets, but he knows she won’t. And he knows he’s the reason behind that, because he’s playing at Wembley tonight, and she doesn’t want to cause trouble. Harry thinks she in no way could ever be described as trouble. 

And maybe, and he feels a little bit scared to admit this, he could postpone the show just by a couple hours, at least until he knows she’s resting at the hotel. but, she hurries into the van and pretends like she’s just got “a cold or something”, so Harry doesn’t question her further. 

He could just order her to take the day off, but he knows that would hurt her feelings, and he can imagine the look on her face, like a puppy being scolded, so he bites his tongue: there’s no way he could ever hurt her feelings.

…

YN has to stop a couple of times when she starts feeling dizzy on her feet. She shouldn’t run this much when she’s probably feverish, but there’s so much to do! She doesn’t trust to delegate, and not because she’s pretentious, but because she’s a control freak that needs to know how things are being handled, so she would only get much more frustrated and it would eventually just end up in her doing all the work anyway, increasing her fever undoubtedly. 

So, she chugs downs a lot of water and a lot of ibuprofen, taking deep breaths every time she starts feeling nauseous. She should probably inform Harry at least that she doesn’t feel good, so if anything were to happen he wouldn’t be too surprised, but she knows how he is; he would demand she stop immediately and go back to the hotel to rest, and she can’t allow that to happen. 

Wembley is the dream of a lifetime, and Harry sound checks every song two times before passing on to the next one. YN sits quietly in one of the seats, preparing Harry’s next instagram post on her phone. She handles all of his socials, because that’s what she was originally hired for. “A young set of eyes”, Jeff had defined her, and from then, her life had changed completely. 

Of course, she wasn’t aware she’d develop a crush on her boss at the time she was hired. She figured she’d be immune to his charm; she’s younger than him, much less experienced (in every aspect of her life), and hasn’t really seen anything yet, so she thought they’d just be too different to get along. Spending each second of the day together didn’t help, though, because it was then she got to know Harry for who he truly was, and with that, came the awareness of how many things he’d lived through and how many things he could teach her. How soft he was with her, how he would always drape a blanket over her when she accidentally fell asleep on his bed, and how he would tell her she looked pretty even after pulling an all nighter and probably looking like a raccoon. That’s just how he was.

And that’s why she values his dreams more than her health. She would never do anything that could harm him, so she shrugs off the dreadful feeling off her back and keeps working. 

…

“Hey” Harry plops down on the couch next to her, draping his arm on the backrest of the couch. If he’d stretched his fingers he could touch her shoulder, but he doesn’t just yet. He knows she still doesn’t feel good, he can see it in the way she’s hugging herself in the Love on tour hoodie she has on (probably one of his because their laundry always gets mixed up).

“Hi” she says softly, her voice much lower than it’d been the last time he saw her.

It’s closer to show time now, but he’s still not in his outfit. YN wonders if that’s the reason why he came in the dressing room in the first place.

“What are yeh doin’ hidin’ in here all alone?” 

“‘m not hiding!” She pouts, “jus’… resting” 

“Mh, yeah?” He hums, turning his head to look at her, “restin’ your ears? Are you tired of my music yet?” He jokes.

“Never!” She beams, swatting at his chest playfully.

He lets his arm fall down on her shoulder, and he tugs at her, squeezing her against his chest.

She breaths him in, and despite her stuffy nose, she can smell the faint scent of his fabric softener. Musk and lavender. It’s the same as hers.

 “I’m sorry I’ve been a bit of a pain lately…” he trails off, his mouth buried in her hair, “nothing to do with you… was jus’ nervous is all”

She squeezes his hoodie between her fingers to tug him closer, “I’m really proud of you. You’ll do great.”

“Thanks, pet” he grins, breaking away from the hug.

She sniffles and he looks between her eyes warily, “’s there anything you want to tell me before I go on stage?”

“Jus’ to kick ass” she giggles, aware that wasn’t what he was alluding at.

“Mmmh” he muses, getting up from the couch. He knew she’d be stubborn about this so he doesn’t pressure her.

“Hav’to start gettin’ ready” he clears his throat, heading towards the portable hanger YN set up in his dressing room.

He then proceeds to take off his hoodie and his tank top, leaving him shirtless before her.

She’s seen him in his underwear many times, but maybe it’s the fever, maybe it’s the crush on him that’s growing stronger everyday, but she feels her insides get warm at the sight. 

He tugs his sweats down his legs too, kicking them off his feet, and YN pretends to pick up her phone to respond to a message that definitely could have waited. 

He picks up the heart printed overalls he’d be wearing and tugs them over his legs, jumping a little in his place so they could fit over his bum.

Once he’s fully dressed, he looks over at YN and finds her looking at him already, her eyes a little droopy. He feels his heart tug in his chest at the sight. He wishes she’d let him help her. If he could he’d send her back to the hotel straight away, but he has to admit he’s selfishly relishing in the idea of having her here, looking at him perform. It makes him want to do even better than he always does. 

“All ready then” he smiles, dimples denting both his cheeks.

“Mmhh” she hums, getting up on her feet. She walks towards him and adjusts the neck of his shirt, petting it down.

“Good luck Harry” she smiles. He has to refrain himself from lowering his head down to kiss her, and he’s aware these thoughts are way too unprofessional of him, but he can’t help himself. Not when she’s looking at him like that.

“See ya after the show, pet”

…

“Harry!” Jeff pats down on his shoulders as soon as Harry runs backstage, “you just smashed it! Fuckin’ smashed it mate!”

Harry laughs with him out of politeness, but his mind is really on something else.

“Fuckin’ Wembley, Harry! Wembley’s Harry’s house!” Someone else shouts, and he thinks it’s Lloyd but he doesn’t really pay much attention to him. There’s someone missing from the crowd. YN. She’s nowhere to be found, and he’d really like to celebrate with her. She’s the one that should join in on the fun and get a little bit of praise too, because without her, harry doesn’t think he could’ve played Wembley.

Everything was going fine, and he saw her next to his mother standing in the private part of the pit, but then, when he came back after chatting with a couple of fans, she was gone. He wonders if she’s okay.

“Hey, Jeff” he clears his throat, hoping to be discreet with his tone of voice, “where’s YN?” 

“Oh…” he nods, “she wasn’t feeling proper good, so I sent her to your dressing room. I told her to get back to the hotel, but she refused to leave”

Harry nods and after a ‘thanks’ he hurries towards his dressing room, hoping to find her there.

Once he opens the door, the sight of YN sleeping on the couch crouched on herself makes his heart somersault in his chest.

“Hey, pet” he coos softly once he crouches down next to her.

He repeats the endearing greeting, and this time she stirs awake. YN brings one hand to knuckle at her eyes tiredly, and Harry frowns at the sight of her bloodshot eyes. He brings one hand to caress her cheek, but when he realizes how warm she is, he brings it up to her forehead. She’s burning hot. 

He immediately feels guilty. He should’ve sent her back to the hotel as soon as he realized she was sick, hell, he shouldn’t have let her leave his room that morning!

“Harry?” She asks timidly, her voice coming out scruffy. She gulps but flinches as the hurt in her throat doesn’t subside. 

“Yeah, ’s me” he whispers, moving the hair away from her face, “let’s go back to the hotel, okay?” 

“No Harry! The show! You can’t leave… the show! It’s wembley” she stresses, gripping his bicep tightly to refrain him from leaving her.

“Shh, shh” he shushes her, “calm down. ’s okay. The show was great. Everything was great” he coos, pressing his lips down her forehead and flinching from how hot it feels, “you did so great”.

She sniffles and: “great?” 

“Yeah” he nods, reassuring her, “let’s go now, okay?”

He helps her get up on her feet, and she stumbles a bit in her place. She grips the fabric of his overalls tightly between her fingers, and he lets her, hoping to be at least a little bit of comfort.

…

“How are you feelin’? What hurts?” He asks her once they reach his hotel room (he wanted to go back to hers, but couldn’t find her key and didn’t want to startle her too much).

“Everything” she pouts.

“I’m so sorry, darling” he sighs, ushering her inside his room.

She’s stable on her feet now, the little nap at the venue kind of helped a bit in soothing her, but still, everything hurts, and the thought of being in a hotel room and not at her own house bothers her.

She also doesn’t want Harry to look at her like this, all sweaty and red in the cheeks. She must look so embarrassing! 

“I’ll draw you a bath, how about that?” He proposes, not waiting for her response and heading directly towards the bathroom.

Now that he thinks about it, harry’s glad she’s in his room, because (being the Harry Styles) his room has a bathtub, whereas hers doesn’t. He also has lots of salt baths and bubbles to add to the water, courtesy of the hotel, and he adds everything he can to soothe her stuffed nose and make the bath as pleasing as possible.

She knocks on the door delicately, and he turns his head to look at her.

“Bath’s ready” he smiles gently, and he dips his index finger to test the temperature of the water, careful not to make it too hot to not aggravate her fever any more. 

Harry excuses himself from the bathroom, and tells her to give him a shout if she needs anything.

It’s a couple of minutes later when he hears her calling for him, her voice still lower than normal.

He knocks on the door and after he gets her consent he opens it, peeking his head inside. She’s laying in the bathtub, the water submerging her almost to her neck, and he’s aware she’s naked under, but the bubbles cover her body entirely.

“Are yeh all right?” He asks worriedly.

“Mhmh,” she hums, “jus… keep me company?” 

He’s happy she’s more responsive now, and he happily sits at her side, plopping down on the toilet seat next to the tub.

They sit in silence for a while, Harry’s aware he’s still in his fancy (and uncomfortable) show clothes, but he doesn’t care. He’s just happy to dote on her now as she’s been doing with him since she’s been hired.

“I can’t believe you played at wembley and I missed half of it” she says after a while, the water sloshing around her as she turns to look at him.

“There’s always next time” he grins at her playfully.

She throws a smile at him, “bet”.

His mouth opens in a sideway smile, his dimple indenting only one of his cheeks, and more seriously than he did before, he says “I wish you’d told me you weren’t feelin’ good”

“Didn’t want to spoil your day” she shrugs.

He wants to tell her she wouldn’t have spoiled it, that if she’d asked he would’ve postponed his show and crawled in bed with her, cuddling her until she felt better, even with the risk of getting himself sick too, he didn’t care. He would have done anything to make her feel good; but how can he tell her? How can he be honest about something like that without revealing another part of himself to her? He’s her boss. He’s older than her. And he doesn’t know if she feels the same way.

So, instead of making a complete fool out of himself, he ushers her out of the tub, passing her a towel without looking at her. He engulfs her in the bathrobe and ties it tight on her stomach, careful to have her bits covered completely by the fabric of the towel.

When he reaches his room, he takes out a t-shirt and a pair of boxers for her to sleep in, and he leave her to change in the bathroom.

While he waits for her to come out, he texts his mum if she could make that delicious soup she always prepared when he was sick, promising he wasn’t sick himself and that he’d explain in the morning. His mum answers a couple of minutes later with a thumbs up and a kissy face. 

He locks his phone and plugs it in the charger next to the bed, leaving it on the bedside table.

When YN comes out of the bathroom, she looks better already. Her cheeks aren’t as red and her eyes appear to be more rested, but, she still looks tired, and he smiles at her as he tugs the comforter down for her to slip in.

She curls up under the covers and waits for Harry to tuck her in, “comfortable?” He asks.

She nods with her cheek against the pillow, “just wish I was home” she whispers and the affirmation pains him.

“I’ve been overworking yah, haven’t I?” He sighs deeply, feeling extremely guilty. 

She’s quick to shake her head no, flinching when a sting of pain hits her temples with the movement. 

“Yes I have… you’ve been s’good” he smiles down at her.

“You’re a Wembley player now” she whispers, her eyes closing on her as she speaks, and Harry chuckles endeared at her. 

“Get some rest” he coos, but she’s already fallen in a deep sleep that will probably be tainted with a curly headed guy with green eyes and a pretty smile.

He fishes from inside her bag a tab of ibuprofen and, with a glass of water, he places them on the bedside table closer to her side, so, if she’d ever were to wake up in pain, she could take the medicine immediately. 

He takes the shortest shower he’s ever taken, quickly putting on his pajamas and brushing his teeth. Once he’s ready for bed, he slips in next to her, leaning down to press his lips on her forehead to check her temperature. She’s still warm, but the bath seemed to be of help, and probably the much needed sleep, too.

He thinks he’ll give her the rest of the month off. He owes it to her, so she can get back up on her feet and spend some time at home if she’d like. He takes a minute to wonder why hasn’t he ever given her more than a day of rest, and he doesn’t have to wonder too much, because he knows the answer already, one that is overbearing and too deep to even analyze after the day he’s had: he doesn’t want to be away from her that much time. It’s as simple as that. He’s fucked.

Read part 1 to their story here

hi! let me know if you liked this!!! this is my ko-fi if you'd like to support me and my writing, even a small donation is appreciated <3 love you all!

#assistant!yn #harry styles blurb #harry styles fluff #harry styles one shot #harry styles angst #harry styles x reader #harrystyles #harry styles #harry styles imagine #harry styles x y/n #harry styles fanfiction #harry concept #harry styles one direction #one direction #hslot #harrys house #harry styles love on tour #harry styles x you #harry styles fic rec #harry styles fic #harry styles writing

[svnarin]

⊹˚₊‧ first date disasters

featuring! isagi, bachira, nagi, rin, barou

a/n! this has been rotting on my docs for a year now 👍

ISAGI YOICHI meticulously planned everything—from eating breakfast at a local cafe to painting matching ceramic mugs at a ceramics studio. although his plans didn’t go well even from the very beginning when the cafe you were guys supposed to eat at didn’t open for the day due to an emergency. not only that but when you guys were painting your matching ceramic mugs, some kid accidentally bumped into him—making him drop the ceramic mug he was painting on the floor and breaking it. 

BACHIRA MEGURU was so excited to go on a date with you—a movie date at the cinemas. but he was so excited that he used up all his energy which led him to fall asleep in his room unexpectedly—leading the two of you to arrive 30 minutes late to the cinema. and when both of you finally got there, the tickets to the movie you really wanted to watch were already sold out so you ended up watching the only movie with tickets left—the most boring one in both of your opinions. 

NAGI SEISHIRO tried his best to wake up early for your date but his alarm failed him (he slept through all the alarms). for being late for the date, he thought of getting something for you from a claw machine as compensation. after immediately getting his first plush on the claw machine, he thought of getting you another one, so he did. one plush turned into two, and two turned into four. he became so busy trying to get you everything from that claw machine that he forgot about the time—making him arrive much later on your date. 

ITOSHI RIN just wanted to have a very simple first date, so you guys decided just to watch some movies over at his family home. both of you planned to just watch some horror movies at night before bringing you home, but while watching a horror movie that you guys chose, it started raining heavily before turning into a thunderstorm. both of you thought that it would soon subside when all of a sudden the power went out. not only that but even after hours, the thunderstorm still hadn’t subsided, so you decided to spend your night at his family home—in his room, while he stayed in his brother’s to give you some personal space. 

BAROU SHOUEI wanted to pick you up for your first date that he planned—an art gallery date. but when he finally reached your home and met up with you, he realized that he had forgotten to bring his gift to you. he insisted that he needed to give you the gift first before going to the art gallery, but when he reached his home to get it, he saw that the trash bags that the garbage men were supposed to pick up that day was trashed by some stray dogs—making him clean everything first before coming back to you. but when the two of you finally came to the art gallery, it closed much earlier than you guys had expected. 

𝐒𝐕𝐍𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐍 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒 | repost, modification, and translation of my works on any platforms are strictly prohibited.

#⋆.˚ 𝐒𝐕𝐍𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐍 : 𝐁𝐋𝐋𝐊 #isagi x reader #isagi yoichi x reader #bachira x reader #bachira meguru x reader #nagi x reader #nagi seishiro x reader #itoshi rin x reader #rin x reader #rin itoshi x reader #barou x reader #barou shoei x reader #blue lock x reader #bllk x reader

[ohworm-writes]

「✰」 ━━ PISTOL WHIPPED

RATING R - Restricted [Content warnings: 18+ mdni, f!sub!reader, dom!Makarov, he’s a mean man, mistranslated Russian, mention and depiction of firearms, gunplay, smut, cockwarming, degradation, light praise, riding ]

SYNOPSIS Makarov is a busy man in every sense of the word, and while most tasks are highly important and meticulous, there are some that are more mundane than others - such as taking care of his weapons. Which... is exactly what he's occupied himself with doing now. But even though he's busy, you deserve some attention, don't you? (Based on the image above, credits to @loneghostwolf for the render).

WORD COUNT 2.1k

"Vladimir..."

You whine out softly, nose pressed into the crook of his neck as your fingers desperately hold onto his bare shoulders. Your legs hang loosely, dangling beside the legs of the metal chair, though, you’d much rather they be wrapped around his hips right now.

He lets out a dismissive hum, his head right next to your ear as he peers over your shoulder, chin barely an inch above it as he focuses on dragging the cloth along the disassembled component in his hands - the slide - seeming to be far more focused on it than you.

Another pathetic whine passes through your lips, and you can feel his cock throb inside of your warm, wet walls, your slick drooling down your inner thighs and, no doubt, standing the fabric of his dark slacks with the mess you’ve made of yourself.

“Please, Vlad…”

You practically hiccup out, whimpering out pitifully, your pussy squeeze around him as tight at you can, just barely shifting your hips in hopes of getting so much as an ounce of friction, to urge him to leave what he’s doing and fuck you-

“If you do not stop acting like a desperate, impatient mutt, you will have to wait for much longer for me to fuck you than it takes to clean a few guns.”

Another whimper passes through your lips - which, funnily enough, does sound very similar to that of a dog, only further proving his words. Your grip on his shoulders tighten as your hips still, bottom lip trembling as you squeeze your eyes shut.

Truthfully, you had no one but yourself to blame but yourself for the predicament you find yourself in now, sat in Vladimir’s lap, cockwarming him for what has felt like hours now.

If only you had been patient, if only you had been good and waited until he was done with his task like he had ask of you, if only you hadn’t been so needy and desperate for his attention and his cock that you willingly agreed to cockwarming him until he was done.

But no, you hadn’t done any of that, so now you can only curse yourself for the torture he’s putting you through - that you put yourself through. Though, you suppose there is an upside to having him shirtless as he works to complete the task at hand.

He’s cleaned four or five guns through completely at this point, disassembling and reassembling them in their entirety, all clean and laid neatly across cloth to the left of his work station.

The one he’s currently focused on - a Five Seven - lays completely disassembled before him as he cleans it, a multitude of different cleaning items strewn around meticulously, with two more handguns to go on his right.

It’s a process he prides himself in, it would seem, and with the expertise he displays, it’s clear that this is an often occurrence.

“Убогий жопа.” (Needy brat)

He mumbles out to himself, almost as if to chastise you, resting his chin gently against your shoulder as he listens to all of the pathetic little sounds you make - irritating, maybe, but at least you’re listening.

His bare chest presses flush against your own clothed one, the planes of it hard as it presses against you. He’s lean, but not lacking in body heat, his concentrated breaths, his skin, and his cock all practically searing you.

“So desperate when I have already given you so much.”

You let out another whimper, the sound bleeding into a moan as he ever-so subtly rocks his hips before stilling. It’s cruel, giving you the friction you so desperately desire, only for him to not continue on any further.

“I’m sorry…”

You hiccup, sniffling out, cunt squeezing him and drooling messy slick around him, just as needy as you are.

He hums, this time not dismissive, but rather acknowledging, one of his dirty, oiled, greasy hands moving to rest atop one of your hips, smearing the dark substance all over your skin.

“Are you going to behave?”

He asks, tone still cold and harsh as it typically is, leaving the impression that he’s sick and tired of your antics, but the softness in his actions combats it - though, he does lightly slap your hip, urging you to answer.

“Mhmm! I promise. I won’t move, I swear. Not an inch. I won’t move at all. I’ll stay still. Won’t even make sounds if you want me to. I can be quiet. Patient, too. I promise. I can wait. I can be good.”

Your words come out in a desperate ramble and flurry of vowels and consonants, eager to please and prove to him that you can listen. It’s pathetic and desperate, yes, but to you it’s required.

He clicks his tongue softly, slowly, breathing out through his nostrils as he brings his hand back away from your hip and continues to meticulously clean through each of the different areas of the firearm.

He seems pleased by your answer, you think, but it’s impossible to tell. To you and nearly everyone that knows him, Vladimir is a man who doesn’t slip up. He’s cold, calculating, and ensures every move he makes is in his favor.

The sounds of cloth gliding across metal and the brush gliding through as it works to clean the interior parts fill the air. The sounds are barely audible, but they blend well with the sound of your heavy breathing - his is silent.

It’s only when he’s wiping off his hands and reassembling the Five Seven that he speaks again, voice low and rough as it rumbles right next to your ear, the metal clicking and moving where it should as per his movements.

“I expected you to be much less patient, you know, but you have surprised me. You have been as patient as you can, considering how… full you are right now.”

He emphasizes his words with a sharp buck of his hips, a moan effortlessly slipping out past your lips, a soft plap sounding out, muffled only by the fabric of his slacks as they pull back and meet your slick-soaked thighs.

The minimal contact already works to steal the breath from your lungs, his cock molding itself into your poor, sopping pussy. Your eyes unfocus for a brief moment, dazed and dizzy, but it feels so good.

“Perhaps I should reward you, да?”

He muses, detaching his chest from your own as he leans backwards as he lets his back rest against the back of the metal chair. He spreads his legs out, thighs straining against his slacks as he shifts, getting comfortable.

He rolls his shoulders backwards, one of his hands coming to rest atop your thigh, pressing into the flesh as he moves his palm up and down - towards your hip, then back down to your thigh.

His other hand, however, holds the reassembled Five Seven, the cool metal tapping against the side of your ass.

Unloaded, of course, given how he had just cleaned it, but that doesn’t stop the sharp spark of anticipation that settles in your stomach. The danger that surrounds the weapon soaks your cunt impossibly further.

“Move.”

The command barely has a moment to pass through the air and through your ears before you can comprehend what he means by his words. He’s spread himself all out for you, offering you what you’ve been craving this entire time.

And you’d be stupid to not take him up on his generosity.

Your hold tightens on his shoulders as you ground yourself against him, rolling your hips forwards with a keen, letting out a hiccup, mumbling out soft “thank you”s over and over to him as you grind into him.

A shaky, uneven breath escapes his lungs, his expression hardening as he works to not make a single noise - the task, though, is much more difficult than it appears - his body remaining still as he lets you do all of the work.

He drags the barrel of the gun across your skin, the coolness of the metal juxtaposing the heat that radiates from your skin. His other hand grips harshly onto your hip, following your motions with a strangled groan.

He splits you open and overwhelms you in the best way possible, his cock filling you up so well as you rock back and forth along the length of it, raising and dropping your hips as you force his tip to kiss your cervix.

Vladimir lets out a strangled Russian curse, fighting against his own body to keep still as you continue to bounce on his cock, his slacks no doubt ruined by now from how much of your slick and his pre-cum has soaked into it.

But he can’t complain - he has more than enough pairs as is, and you just look too pretty riding him, so desperate and needy for what only he can give you. How could he ever be upset?

Wet tears streams down your cheeks and onto the skin of his bare shoulder, rolling down across his inked chest as you whine, bullying and bruising his cock to completely ruin your poor pussy.

It’s too much, but you can’t stop.

“V- … oh, fuck. Vlad, please. M’so close. Please let me cum. Please.”

You whine, sweat soaking through your clothes as you pick your head up from his shoulder, hiccuping, whining, whimpering, and moaning out like a whore as you lose yourself, completely and utterly cockdrunk.

His fingers tense, both against your skin and the handgun, your flesh spilling out between the gaps between his fingers. He brings the pistol down across your thigh, slotting it between them so that the barrel can press right against your clit.

Even as you try to pull away from the cool, hard metal, he doesn’t let you, keeping it presses tightly to your clit so that, with every motion, you grind down against it, dragging across the smooth surface.

Even if you wanted to protest, you can’t, the pressure in your lower tummy tightening so much, toes curling as your nails dig into his shoulders as pleasure streams through your veins.

Your pussy completely gushes around him, flooding his cock as you squeeze him like a vice, breaths coming out in shaky, desperate gasps and choked moans spilling past your lips.

You cum hard enough that it leaves you dizzy, boneless and breathless, hips jerking as your body trembles with spasms in aftershocks of pleasure, drool trailing past your lips as you babble out to him needily.

He taps the barrel of the gun against your clit, drawing out your orgasm until it’s too much, leaving you writhing. Still, he doesn’t let you pull away, eyes focused solely on the point of contact between you and the weapon.

He grits his teeth, looking down at you as sweat drips down the side of his head, bucking his hips upwards. He knows how overstimulated you must be as he now puts his efforts into fucking up into you, but he doesn’t care.

All he’s focused on is filling your sweet, needy cunt with his cum and nothing more.

It only takes a few thrusts on his part, the way you had been rising and sinking down on his cock earlier in the chase for your own release making his lose his mind - not that he would ever openly admit it.

With a sharp curse, arching his back and pressing his hips up into you as much as his current position will allow, the sounds of your desperation for mercy filling the air, he feels his balls tighten, letting out a strangled groan as his cock pumps rope after rope of his cum into your waiting cunt.

The air between you both, now as his hips drop and he stills, is filled with nothing but gasps and pants, the two of you completely and utterly breathless, soaked with sweat and bodily fluids.

“It turns out better when you listen, does it not?”

He mumbles out rhetorically, giving one last weak buck of his hips before he brings his hand up and behind you, unceremoniously dropping the handgun - now covered with a mixture of your cum and his - back onto the table.

He can clean it later, just as he can with the other waiting to be cleaned. For now, all he’s concerned with is catching his breath before he makes an even bigger mess of his work station and bends you over it. It’s all he’ll ever need.

#vladimir makarov x reader #makarov x reader #cod x reader #call of duty x reader #modern warfare x reader #mw x reader #mw3 x reader #modern warfare 3 x reader

[simpingforstardew]

lone star

pairing: sdv shane x reader

synopsis: stargazing w/ shane. this fic takes place ‘post-game’ (i.e., after the farmer receives the ‘key to the town’, and after shane begins therapy’). friends to lovers enjoyers rise up !!

warnings: angst, with comfort and fluff; descriptions of poor mental health, depression etc. stay safe. ♡

(this is crossposted from ao3).

word count: 1.9k

In the calm of the valley, the night sky stretches out in a breathtaking display: the stars shine proudly, their brilliance undimmed by city lights. Despite moving to Pelican Town four years ago, you're still awestruck by the vastness of the cosmos visible to the naked eye— a sight that would have been obscured by the city smog in Zuzu. Back there, spotting a single star was a rare blessing; seeing one that was not, in fact, just the mistaken dim glow of a passing helicopter was an even greater rarity.

Nestling your head into the sturdy hay bale beneath you, you inhale the earthy scent of dried grass mingling with the crisp night air. Above, the canopy of stars twinkles in a mesmerising dance, each constellation a story waiting to be told. Your gaze flits between the shimmering points of light, tracing the familiar patterns of the night sky.

Beside you, your loyal companion snores softly, a comforting rhythm that grounds you in the present moment. Absentmindedly, you stroke the sleeping dog's fur, feeling the warmth of their body against your fingertips. The bottles of pumpkin juice you had meticulously prepared lay forgotten on the ground, their contents untouched. Your large blanket, meant to shield you from the nocturnal chill, sits idle at your feet.

Despite the breathtaking beauty of the scene before you, a pang of guilt tugs at your heart. It feels almost selfish, you think, to bask in such a gorgeous view alone.

Without hesitation, you rise from your spot beside the barn, stretching your tight shoulders with a huff before swiftly leaping over the hardwood fence. Only one other person in town would be awake at this late hour, and you knew exactly where you would find him. You took a deep breath of the crisp air before making your way down the dirt road towards Cindersap Forest.

“Oh, sure– just let yourself in, I guess,” Shane’s gruff voice murmurs from the kitchen, “I can’t believe Lewis lets you keep that ‘Key to the Town’, fuckin’ bullshit.”

You lean against the door frame, a smirk tugging on your lips as Shane pulls out a steaming bowl of ‘JojaBrand™ Meal for One®: Pepper Poppers’ from the microwave. "Shh, you know you secretly enjoy my surprise visits, Shane," you tease, "Besides, I came over to ask you something."

“Well, are you gonna spit it out, toots, or do you plan on waking up the whole house for this announcement?” Shane grumbles, searching for a clean fork. Years ago, you found his standoffish demeanour frustrating– unfortunately for him, however, it only fuelled your desire to develop a relationship with him; to break down those walls he built up.

“I was gonna ask if you wanted to stargaze with me,” you smile, a genuine toothy grin. “It’s a nice night for it.”

Shane’s eyebrows shoot up momentarily as he hesitates, glancing towards you, “You seriously came over just to ask me that?”

“You don’t have to join me if you don’t want to,” you reply, chuckling softly as you push off the door frame and turn to leave, “Just figured we hadn’t caught up in a while.”

You hear a groan coming from behind you, followed by the clattering of a bowl being discarded on the kitchen counter. He had always had a soft spot for you.

“Yeah, yeah,” Shane sighs, “Lemme grab my jacket.”

The night air is crisp as you and Shane traverse the farm. The distant sound of crickets chirping provides a soothing backdrop to the quiet countryside, interrupted only by the occasional rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze. Shane walks behind you, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his well-worn jacket; his posture stiff and guarded as always.

As you reach your spot by the barn, you unfurl the blanket and settle against the hay, gazing up at the expanse of stars above.

"So, how've you been, buddy?" you offer Shane a bottle of pumpkin juice, noting the tension in his shoulders. "Feels like I haven't seen much of you lately."

Despite Shane's usual standoffish demeanour, there is a subtle shift in his presence as he lowers himself onto the blanket beside you and grabs the juice. His shoulders relax ever so slightly, and for the first time in a long while, there is a hint of vulnerability in his gaze as he turns his attention skyward.

“I’ve been… I don’t know. Good.” Shane's voice trails off as shifts his gaze to the bottle in his hand, his shoulders slouched while his words hang heavy in the air. He drops his head against the rough surface of the hay bale behind him.

Glancing towards him, you note the furrow in his brow and the tension in his shoulders; his strong features illuminated by the moonlight. You resist the urge to press him further, allowing a comfortable silence to settle between you.

Lost in contemplation, you find solace in the vastness above.

After what felt like an eternity, Shane spoke up once more: his voice barely above a whisper.

"Any time I go shopping, like at Pierre’s or when I used to restock the shit they sold at JojaMart, I’d always feel like I’m in the way, y’know?” Shane confesses, his gaze fixed on the black velvet of the night sky. “As if someone is gonna be blocked off by me. And I know it’s not just 'cause I'm a big guy, doll, because then I leave the shop and realise that I still feel like I’m in the way.”

“Do you feel like that now?” you probe, allowing your gaze to drift towards him.

“Kinda, yeah. I always feel like that, I guess,” Shane admits, his voice tinged with resignation. He takes a swig of his juice. “Like I’m some kind of… rock stuck in a stream, with everybody else on planet Earth barging ahead around me—or some other flowery metaphor Elliot’d come up with, I don’t fucking know.”

“Is therapy helping with that feeling? Seems to me like you’re really making progress, if that means anything.” you reply, too enamoured with the contours of his side profile to notice the way his pinky finger locks with yours on the plush blanket. A promise of vulnerability.

“Sorta, but there's a pressure there as well, y’know? Gotta be happy all the time now, otherwise what was it all for? I don't even have a job anymore, I just... I’m just worried that…” Shane pauses, his fingers absentmindedly plucking at the hay behind him, “…Ah, forget it.”

“Worried that what?” You turn to face him, the spectacle of the cosmos long-forgotten.

“It's just that… what if my addiction; shitty personality; tendency to lie about the most basic crap to see people’s reaction; awful sense of humour; impulse to fall in love with someone if they’re nice to me; horrid fashion sense; inability to take a photo of myself smiling: all that crap… are all irrefutable? What if I was doomed to—”

“Shane, don’t—”

“I’ve tried… I’ve tried so hard every day of my life, (Y/n).” Shane's voice cracks, “I just… don’t wanna be a screw-up anymore.”

"Shane, you are not a screw-up," you demur, reaching out a hand to stroke his soft bicep, "You're just… human. You've already taken huge steps by just acknowledging your screw-up-ness and reaching out for help. And yeah, you have been trying, every single day. That's bravery, Shane. That's strength! I'm tired of you being the only one who doesn't see that."

The following silence is only interrupted by the distant chirping of crickets. Shane's eyes wearily scan your face for some kind of tell, as if your response was an inauthentic prank meant to lull him into a false sense of security. The bags under his eyes are shadowed and heavy. Your heart swells. “Repeat after me—”

“(Y/n), please—” pleads Shane.

“Mister Shane Andrew Miller, repeat after me!”

“Yes, Ma'am,” He chuckles, wiping away a stray tear.

“I, Shane, am a strong, brave, and amazing person; and I am going to be okay.”

“I’m a strong, brave, amazing person… and I'm gonna be okay.”

“Louder!”

“I'm gonna be okay!” He shouts— hands cupped around his mouth to bellow into the sleeping farm. After a nervous chuckle, Shane resigns to a slouch as he looks towards you with a blush warming his cheeks.

“Feel a little better?”

“I feel like a jack-ass,” Shane mumbles,“But yeah, a little.”

“Good,” you reach your hand out to caress his cheek, your thumb tracing patterns in his stubble when he leans into the touch, “and you only looked a little like a jack-ass.”

“Fuck off,” Shane laughs, the banter bringing a familiar light to his eyes, as he shoves your hand away playfully.

You both stay like that for a moment after the laughter dies down, embraced by the warmth of each other's silent company— one of you occasionally turning to retell the latest town gossip, or reference an inside joke neither of you can remember the origins of.

“I should, uh, be heading back now,” Shane moves to stand up, groaning as he stretches his legs, “Penny's taking the kiddo to the community centre tomorrow for some arts and crafts, and I gotta be up early to pack her lunch.”

You look up at his looming form, only now realising how long you had both been out here for.

“Of course, no worries,” you clumsily rise to your feet as your lips quiver with a tentative grin, a delicate curve that hovers on the precipice of expression. “Um, tell Jas I say ‘Hi’, okay?”

“Sure thing,” Shane replies, the awkwardness palpable, “Night, (Y/n),”

“Goodnight,” you raise your hand in a half-hearted wave as you watch his slouching figure turn to leave.

He makes it a couple steps, barely out of reach, before a surge of courage propels you forward. Reaching out to grasp the sleeve of Shane’s frayed hoodie before doubt can inhibit your impulsion, you pull him towards you.

Your lips crash on his in a rush of fervent emotion. One of Shane’s calloused hands instinctively rises to the nape of your neck; the other wraps around your waist as he pulls you closer, desperately. Bodies flush against each other as his fingers tangle in your hair.

A tingling sensation runs through your body. You reach up to gently cup his face as he deepened the kiss, his trembling lips continue moving against yours with a gentle urgency. In this moment, nothing else matters - no worries or fears, no past or future, no moon or stars.

Your heart races as you both pull away.

“To be clear, if this is, like, a pity thing or whatever,” Shane mumbles, his lips tickling your own as he attempts to catch his breath. “That’s um– that’s fine by me, I don’t… I wasn’t expecting this.”

“No that wasn’t… um,” You rest your forehead on his, closing your eyes as you attempt to calm your frantically beating heart, “I just… wanted to kiss you.”

Shane laughs as he brings both hands to your face, cupping your cheeks as he kisses you once more. This was different, however: gentle, soft, yet just as vulnerable. You look up at him, eye’s shining with the light from the stars, as you admire the softness of his usually stern features.

“You were right, this was a nice night to stargaze.”

#sdv fanfic #sdv shane #sdv x reader #stardew valley fanfic #stardew valley #sdv shane x reader #sdv shane x farmer #stardew valley x reader #stardew valley shane #stardew valley shane x reader #sdv angst #sdv fluff #angst #hurt/comfort #friends to lovers #sdv fanfiction #fanfic #ao3 writer #shane stardew valley

[beskarandblasters]

can i make a request for dom!din keeping you on a leash at his feet pls i beg

You’ve Been a Bad Girl

Dom!Din Djarin x Sub/F!Reader

Main Masterlist | Din Djarin Masterlist

Summary: You’ve been a bad girl and Din decides to punish you by keeping you on a collar and leash.

Word count: 1.4k

Warnings: reader is able-bodied, canon divergent (long live the Razor Crest), dom/sub, degradation, pet names (good girl, cyar’ika), vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie, praising, no use of y/n

Fic notifs: @beskarandblastersfics Fic recs: @kelbellsficrecs

“Just relax,” Din coos, his modulated voice in your ear sending a shiver down your spine. 

You whimper as the cool leather collar encloses around your neck. Din hooks the leash to the clasp, the metal clinking as the two pieces come together. Not only are you donning a collar and a leash, but you’re also on your hands and knees on the cold metal floor. He rises from the floor and towers over you, the stone-cold stare of his visor burning into you. 

“Do you know why you’re getting punished?”

You whine before saying, “…Yes.”

“Say it,” he commands. 

“I’ve been a bad girl.”

“That’s right. You’ve been a bad girl,” he tuts. 

You should’ve never flirted with that rando at the cantina earlier tonight…

“So now what?” you ask, wondering what exactly he’ll make you do like this. 

“You wait,” he says simply, walking over to his armory. He pulls the leash tighter, coaxing you to follow him. On all fours you crawl to his side, peering up at him as he just goes about his regular tasks. He picks out an armful of blasters before shutting the door and tugging on your leash again. He just put the leash on but you don’t know how much longer you can take this. Heat reverberates off your skin, teeming with anticipation. But to know that you’re here like this on all fours, following him around while he pays you no mind is doing something for you. 

He tugs on the leash again, pulling you from your thoughts. Every time he does that the wetness between your thighs grows, pooling at your entrance and waiting to be played with. He sits on a crate with a wide stance, thick thighs spread apart. You crawl to him and rest on your knees, looking up at him with wide eyes. 

“Turn around,” he says simply, letting go of the leash for a split second. 

You do as you’re told, turning so your back is to him, waiting for more instructions. 

“Back up,” he continues, picking up the leash again and tugging it. 

You inch backward so you’re situated in between his thighs. And from that point on he acts like you’re not there, cleaning his blasters and paying you no mind. You rest your head on his knee, wondering what he looks like from this angle, his fingers so meticulously cleaning his blasters. His fingers should be inside you, curling against your walls and making you squirm, taking your nipples in between his fingertips. But not now. Instead, he makes you wait so patiently like a good girl, waiting until he’s ready to use you. 

You hear him set another blaster on the crate beside him. You lost count as to how many he’s cleaned at this point. It feels like it’s been hours but really who knows how long it’s been. You’ve been staring at the same thing; the storage area of the Razor Crest, the refresher door directly across from you. You wish he was taking you in there, bending you over the sink, and plowing into you. But instead, you’re waiting at his feet, waiting for his attention like a good, obedient girl. 

You feel him move behind you, standing up from the crate and stepping so that he’s in front of you. He towers over you with a hand on his hip, deciding where he’s going to drag you next. 

“To the refresher,” he commands as if he read your mind.

“What are you gonna make me do?” you ask with a shaky breath.

“Thought I might clean myself up,” he says, turning and pulling on your leash. 

Your wetness is fully running down your thighs now, your desire pent up and almost too much to bear. The door to the refresher opens and he steps inside, dragging you along with him. He starts by taking off his gloves and turning on the water to the refresher. But you’re just now realizing what he meant by “cleaning up”. He’s going to get in the refresher fully nude (but with the helmet on of course) and take a shower. You think about watching him in the steamy refresher, his muscular body lathered with soap all while you’re waiting on your hands and knees. He can drag you around the Razor Crest, going about his day-to-day tasks. But this? This is unacceptable. This is too much. 

“Din,” you whine. 

“Hm?”

“I can’t take it anymore.”

“Can’t take what?”

“I… I need you already.”

“You’re gonna have to be more specific, cyar’ika,” he sighs.

“I need your cock, Din. I can’t wait any longer,” you whimper.

He crouches down in front of you and grabs your chin, forcing you to look directly into his visor. 

“Are you gonna be bad a girl again?”

“No,” say sheepishly.

“I don’t know if I believe you.”

“Please, Din. I swear I’ll be a good girl,” you beg. It’s almost too much. You’re literally on your hands and knees begging for him to fuck you, promising him you’ll be a good girl.

“Fine,” he sighs, rising from the floor, “Get up.”

You get up and he lets go of the leash. He grabs you by your hips and puts you in front of the sink. And now you’re finally getting to look at the two of you in the reflection of the mirror; your nipples perked up, his gloveless hands, the look of desperation on your face. Maker, you need him already.

He bends you over the sink, hands coaxing your thighs apart. He runs two fingers along your entrance, gathering some of the wetness that’s built up there. His other hand pulls his cock out of his flight suit, stroking it a few times while he teases you. You expect his fingers to slip inside you, to keep teasing you further. But he takes his hand and spreads your wetness all over his cock, getting it nice and wet before hooking his hands on your hips. He pushes into you in one clean motion and you choke out a gasp at the sudden length and girth inside you.

“You can take it,” he commands. 

You nod, looking at him in the mirror as he begins to plow into you, drawing his hips back and thrusting his cock inside you. He stretches your walls with each pump of his cock, letting out deep and guttural grunts with each movement. Your warmth and wetness envelop his cock, making it grow harder and harder inside you. 

“Kriff, cyar’ika,” he says, “You’re doing so good, taking my cock like such a good girl,” he says, slamming into you on the last word.

You can’t respond with a coherent sentence, only letting out a jumbled string of whimpers and moans. Your mind is filled with nothing but thoughts of Din and his large cock reducing you down to a quivering mess. 

One hand moves from your hip to grab the leash, holding it in his hand but not pulling it, a subtle way of showing you you’re his. You look at the leather strap in his hand and back up at his visor, your jaw going slack.

“Do you know who you belong to?”

“You, Din,” you whimper.

“Say it.”

“I belong to you, Din!” you cry out, your breath hitching as he slams into you again. You’re on the precipice of orgasm, a large release that’ll have your knees shaking and threatening to give out.

“Can I cum?” you whimper, fearing you won’t be able to hold on any longer.

“Soak my cock, cyar’ika,” he commands, driving his cock into you as deep as it’ll go.

You cum around him, walls convulsing around his cock. The refresher is filled with your moans, his grunts, and the wet, squelching sounds of your pussy. Your knees buckle underneath you, threatening to give out if it weren’t for the sink holding you up. The sensation of you clenching his cock draws his orgasm from him, painting your insides with his cum. He fucks you through both of your highs until eventually, his hips slow to a stop. 

He pulls out of you and grabs you by the neck, pulling you upright against him. He wraps his arms around you and your eyes don’t leave the mirror, watching as his large hands roam your body in the steamy refresher. 

“Have you learned your lesson?” he purrs by your ear.

“Mhm,” you nod, voice still high pitched from your release.

“Good girl,” he says, letting go of you, “I guess you’ve earned a reward.”

“And what’s that?”

“Get in the refresher with me, cyar’ika.”

@pedrostories

#din djarin x reader #din djarin smut #din djarin x f!reader #dom!din djarin #sub!reader #star wars fanfiction #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin x you #din djarin

[todorokies]

CARVING PUMPKINS WITH JJK CHARACTERS

including: satoru gojo, suguru geto, yuuji itadori, megumi fushiguro

contents: nothing but fluff with some crack (?) & two horror movie namedrops

a/n: this is a bit rough cus i just wanted to put something out for the 31st but happy halloween everyone!

☆ . . . satoru loves going above and beyond for any project he subjects himself to, always finding efficient ways to add on little fun or niche details for him to be fully satisfied with the results which is why he opts to choosing a pumpkin that would be considered comically larger than the rest in the patch.

you scold him, going on about how inconvenient it is for not only you two but for the workers as well. he simply scoffs, shutting down your concerns by saying,“the bigger the better, baby!”

embarrassment fuels your body as you watch three of the field patch workers hassle with effort to strap the enormous round pumpkin onto a truck for it to be taken home. you glance over at satoru, seeing nothing but specks of light in his eyes with a beaming smile that shines so bright. you could seriously choke him right now.

miraculously, after getting the pumpkin through the door of his home, the carving starts. he changes his mind about the design at least three times even asking you to pitch in for some expertise. after an hour later, you’d come to the conclusion that there’s no way a creative design could be easily done with such huge material; opting to just do a simple smiling face (much to satoru’s dismay.)

☆ . . . suguru had cleared his schedule beforehand for this day, dressing nanako and mimiko warmly for a cool autumn afternoon with you. the day consists of corn mazes, trying candy apples, buying the girls their halloween costumes, and of course, picking pumpkins to carve later in the evening.

the faint dialogue from the movie coraline plays in the background as laughter fills the joyous air. you and suguru provide assistance to nanako and mimiko with their creation while simultaneously giving them the chance to takeover their craft at anytime.

nanako chooses to do a hello kitty design, whereas mimiko did a standard jack-o-lantern face replacing the triangular eyes with hearts. suguru’s pumpkin on the other hand is etched with beautiful meticulous swirls and stars covered from bottom to top.

after the tiresome evening you both put the girls to bed, kissing them goodnight and tucking them in gently. suguru proceeds to then use four flameless candles to light up the pumpkins and put them on the pouch while you set up a new movie; the conjuring.

☆ . . . yuuji is filled with absolute glee when you agree to carve pumpkins with him. he can’t help but fondly smile to himself watching your bottom lip find solace between your teeth whilst your brows furrowed in concentration as you attempt to push your tool through the thick layers.

somwhere along the line, the slimy guts that once reside in a separate bowl, is playful getting tossed around in a war that not one of you can remember who initiated it.

fits of giggles and attempted hushed footsteps behind pieces of furniture can be heard, with not a single care in the world of the eventual mess that you’ll have to clean up. yuuji doesn’t mind though so long as he can be by your side during it.

the fight calms down, the pumpkins get finished, the mess is cleaned up and the two of you are snuggled up in his bed watching a nightmare on elm street. with him providing you comfort whenever the jumpscares get a bit too frightening.

☆ . . . megumi actually prefers to paint pumpkins rather than carve them. his reasoning being that painting provides him an artistic range that pumpkins ironically don’t, however, that doesn’t stop him from indulging in the activity to spend quality time with you.

sitting opposite from each other with old newspapers spread out on the wooden floors of his dorm room, megumi softly dips his thin paintbrush in the white acrylic paint forming tiny ghosts on the surface.

he steals a couple of glances from you and when your eyes finally met his own, his heart skips a few beats with a small pout on his lips once he feels blush creeping up his face. you turn over the pumpkin you were working on and megumi’s mouth slightly agapes.

it’s a person? or something resembling of a person with spiky hair. megumi groans once he figures out you carved —or at least attempted— a portrait of him. he snickers then reassures you that you tried your best, soon setting aside his painted pumpkin he picks up a new one getting ready to carve you a portrait of yourself.

reblogs & feedback is extremely appreciated !! <3

#gojo x reader #geto x reader #satoru gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen #gojo x yn #gojo x you #gojo fluff #geto x you #getou suguru #geto suguru x reader #geto x y/n #suguru geto x reader #geto x yn #getou x reader #getou fluff #gojo smut #megumi x reader #megumi fushiguro x reader #jjk megumi #megumi x you #megumi x y/n #megumi fushiguro fluff #yuuji itadori x reader #jjk drabbles #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk headcanons #yuji x reader #jjk scenarios #megumi fluff

[jungkookschin]

demigod trials: lust of ichor | five

synopsis: you and jungkook are invited to an extravagant party on mount olympus, ofc you're gonna go all out !

word count: 10k

pairings: son of ares!taehyung x daugher of heaphaestus!reader

genre: cute, SMUT (non explicit), fluff, action

warnings: mentions of apollo being creepy :( (watches jk and yn during seggs), mentions of killing, lots of action

author's note: sooo im back!! this is gonna be very fluffy, but.... the next few chapters are going to be action packed!!

demigod trials masterlist

chapter one | chapter two | chapter three | 3.5 | four | five

Your eyes sleepily gloss over the invitation. 

You are invited to our 2000th year anniversary party on Mount Olympus!

A+H

The invitation is made from gold leaf parchment paper, with intricate swirls decorating its edges,  fit only for a Mount Olympus event. 

All you can do is sigh. Of course the gods, in their pretentious nature, would take the time to throw an opulent and extravagant party for a couple who aren’t even together- Aphrodite has been cheating on your father Hephaestus with Jungkook’s father Ares for thousands of years. 

You glance at Jungkook, who can’t help but laugh when you roll your eyes into your skull.  You daintily fall back onto the pillow like the true inferno princess you are before pulling the sheets to your chin. Jungkook puts a knee on the bed, using his palm to sweep back your hair- revealing your pretty forehead. 

“Big ass forehead,” he mumbles, booping your nose with his pointer finger when you start pouting. 

After fourteen hours of sleep in the Hypnos cabin, you’re as revitalized as if you’ve been kissed by Morpheus himself. The sun seeps through the curtains and casts an otherworldly glow on your man, who looks as handsome as ever as he peers down on you with love (even with the toothpaste dripping from his mouth).

Jungkook saunters back into the restroom to spit into the sink, cleaning his mouth before setting his toothbrush on the edge of the sink. He clumsily grabs toner from his bag, splashing it onto his palms before he pats the serum into his face. 

You turn on your side, your eyes glazing over him as he looks into the mirror, thoroughly completing his (probably unnecessary) meticulous skin care regiment. And you don’t mean to succumb to misogyny by shaming him for doing something that would otherwise be considered feminine- you’re suggesting that it’s unnecessary because he’s already perfect. 

Jungkook is quite literally half-god. He’s handsome- unbelievably so and you really really think that he’ll continue to be his perfect self for the rest of eternity. He certainly doesn’t need to pat chemicals into his skin to look better. 

His gaze trails towards you, “What? I can’t try to look good for my girl?”

You know he’s half-joking, but you don’t have the heart to even entertain it. “You’re already handsome,” you respond, “You’re perfect. Most handsome guy I’ve ever seen,” you say sitting up on the bed as you rake your fingers through your hair. 

He looks at you from where he’s standing in the bathroom. “Gods, stop being so cute.”

With that, he crawls onto the bed, his face dangerously close to yours as he kisses you. His big strong hands find solace on your upper back as he gently lays you on the bed, lips never leaving yours.

He smothers you with his lips, not even letting you breathe. He laughs, removing his tongue from your mouth before he puckers against your lips and just sloppily shakes his head from side to side.

You giggle against his lips, unable to catch a breath when he sucks your tongue into his mouth. You can’t breathe, but that’s okay. When Jungkook kisses you, you feel so complete, so full that you don’t even need oxygen to survive. He gets you all discomposed, and warm and you love it. Maybe you have an asphyxiation kink or something. 

And apparently he does something to you because it induces a physical reaction from you and  you end up blowing out the tiniest of flames from your nose. The slightest gasp leaves your lips. 

Jungkook pulls back, brows furrowing slightly while he stares down at you. 

You theatrically pout, “I don’t know what happened.”

“Someone’s hot and bothered,” he teases, “Lemme fix that for you baby,” he coos, using his pointer finger and thumb to plug your nose.

Leave it to Jungkook to stick his fingers into your nose. Any normal person would complain about germs blah blah blah or say it’s disgusting blah blah blah but Jungkook isn’t a normal person- he is crazily in love. Compared to slaying monsters in Tartarus? Sticking his fingers in your nose was nothing. He’d wipe your ass with his bare hands if warranted.

“That’s disgusting,” you say, holding onto his wrist.

He mocks you in a nasally voice. “That’s disgusting. Shut up. Let’s go take a shower.”

At that, you instantly perk up. It’s only a well known, common fact that all men look better when they’re wet. And it’s not like you check out other men besides Jungkook, but it’s just a fact. 

Maybe it’s something in the water, but whenever a man re-emerges from water, he somehow transforms into a better version of his normal, ugly, man-like self. Consider it the baptism of allure, where droplets of water enhance masculine features and draw out irresistible magnetism. 

He always emerges from Taehyung’s pool with water dripping from his hair, down his ripping abs, lower, and lower, and you have to resist the urge to lick each and every droplet up. But now, your eyes are only on Jungkook so you instantly perk up, nodding like a puppy when he makes the suggestion. 

He raises his brows at you, beckoning you towards him, and you instantly follow him, throwing your (his) shirt off to join him in the shower. 

Sometimes, you lose yourself in Jungkook. In a world where you’re consistently exposed to monsters who want to eat you, Olympians who want to take advantage of you, and primordial gods who want to kill you for entering their domain (😃),  Jungkook is your solace. 

He holds you like you’re the wings of Icarus, lifting you with a tender strength that dares to defy earthly constraints as he lifts you towards the sun, towards celestial heights. To Jungkook, you are more precious than every ancient relic the gods send demigods on quests after, and he will treat you with such care. 

Another thing is, Jungkook is obsessed with your body- and not because your physical features fall in line with societal standards- but because it’s yours. Every curve, line, and proportion is there because of the things your everyday mannerisms- slashing your sword against his during play fights, slamming your hammer against your anvil,  or running around the training grounds at Camp Half-Blood. 

And with all the training you do, one would think that you would at least come close to his strength, but for some reason you don’t even hold a candle, which is how he easily holds you up, your back pressed against the shower walls with your legs hooked around his waist.

The way Jungkook loves is fiery, hot, intense, just like the way he drinks you up, not allowing you to catch a breath; he doesn’t care if you end up breathing fire into his mouth because he knows he can take it.

When he’s satisfied with your lips, he easily hoists you up, legs resting on your shoulders so he can devour your essence. His eyes remain on you, melting at the way your eyes roll back when he sucks on you just right. 

It’s been years since he’s done this, and he vividly remembers how you just can’t remain composure when Jungkook plays with your body just right. Your eyes are lidded, and you’re losing yourself in pleasure, the sweetest moans leaving your lips.

Jungkook is so good at this, knows how to manipulate your body just right to elicit the sweetest pleasure from your body. “Play with yourself,” he instructs, to which you instantly gush, your hands weakly coming up to tweak at your chest. 

Jungkook’s chest tightens at that. He wants to draw out every inch of pleasure possible, and that’s exactly what he does. When he finally takes you, his eyes remain on yours, and he tells you to keep your eyes open every time they squeeze from pleasure. 

You grab his face, eyes sultrily following his lips, nose, and eyes. “I want to be with you here, forever.” You draw his face to yours, kissing him languidly, and Jungkook thinks he’ll finish right then and there. 

The water cascades down your bodies, falling into your mouths and into every crevice of your body, and right then you’re content. 

-

Jungkook knows that you get tired after sex, so when he sees all the indicators: your eyes becoming lidded, your posture becoming disoriented- he catches you when you fall into his arms. He smiles to himself, can’t believe that you fell asleep right there in the middle of the shower with the warm water falling on your skin. 

Sleeping with wet hair is a no-no, so he carries you bridal style from the shower and to the bed, letting your rest between your legs and against his chest while he uses a hair dryer to dry your hair. You’re out like a light, and he’s okay with that because all he really wants for you is to get as much rest and peace as possible.  

He uses Hypnos’ Sleepy Milk to sedate you further- to the point where you’re snoring with your eyes and mouth open, another indicator that you aren’t going to wake up in a while.  

Who knows what’s yet to come? Sooner or later, you’ll make a trip to the  Underworld to look for the missing children of Hades- or worse- you’ll return to Tartarus to finally face your final foe. 

While you’re with him, the very least he can do is give you pleasure and peace. His girl has saved the world multiple times, she doesn’t need to be a superhero when she’s with him. 

The truth is, during your 14 hours of blissful sleep the previous, Jungkook didn’t get a wink. He refused to take a sip of Hypnos’s sleeping potion. Jungkook always tells you to rest- demigods aren’t invincible, but he’s a hypocrite in the sense that he actually believes that he doesn’t need to sleep.

Being the child of  the war god, he inherits not only the genetic makeup of a warrior capable of staying awake for days, but also the discipline to function without the need for sleep. 

He loves you to death, but you’re incredibly stubborn. He knows that you’ll put yourself in danger if it means saving your friends’ lives, and he simply isn’t going to let that happen. 

During the war with Gaia, he wasn’t smart enough to defeat the primordial goddess- but this time he’ll be prepared. 

Jungkook thinks he’ll stay up a little longer, tweaking his battle plans to perfection, but a simple glance your way disorients him completely. Even with the sleeping potion coursing through your body, you reach towards him, mumbling the drowsiest and cutest “Sleep with me, Kook.”

Okay… maybe he does need sleep. 

He has no choice but to oblige, joining you under the covers while he holds you to his chest, limbs intertwined and hearts beating in unison. 

-

Abruptly your eyes snap open, and you find yourself in Tartarus. The jagged terrain and blood red sky are instantly recognizable, but the air feels heavier, infused with a sense of dread that grips your chest. The pointed cliffs loom overhead, casting desolate shadows across the horizon. 

During yours and Jungkook’s trip to Tartarus, you encountered the Arai. 

According to Greek mythology, the Arai are vengeful spirits that lay in Tartarus, embodying curses and grievances. With every strike Jungkook delivered to an Arai, he willingly absorbed the curse they carried.

When the spirits encircled you during your first trip to Tartarus, it took you a minute to figure out what exactly the spirits were. Jungkook slashed at the first Arai, which turned out to embody the curse of unending agony.

 The curse manifested as excruciating pain that caused Jungkook’s muscles to spasm uncontrollably. He instantly fell to the ground, writhing in pain- you had never seen him like that. 

The excruciation twisted his features into agony, his breaths ragged and shallow as he struggled against the torment. Nearly driven to the brink of unconsciousness, he somehow overcame the sensation, summoning every ounce of his inner strength to rise to his feet. 

With the greatest determination, he unleashed a flurry of strikes, dispatching each Arai with swift precision. 

In other words, it was traumatizing. He took on every curse each Arai embodied, and it almost killed him. 

You felt so useless; you hadn’t a clue how to contribute because you were paralyzed with fear. You genuinely thought he was going to die in your arms until he didn’t. He rose to his feet like nothing happened and you both continued on your mission to the Doors of Death. 

Shift back to present day. 

As you turn your gaze 90 degrees, you behold yourself (Mark) and Jungkook (Jungwon) ensnared within the encircling grasp of the Arai yet again. You were so lost in Jungkook you forgot that you just condemned your own brother to the depths of Tartarus in your stead. 

You scream at Mark and Jungwon who are disguised as you and Jungkook to run. After years of studying Tartarus, you still aren’t sure how Jungkook overcame the Arai and you’d rather not take your chances with Mark and Jungwon.

Nonetheless, Mark and Jungwon should be aware of what the Arai are, and you think everything’s going to be okay until Jungwon unsheathes his sword Cataclysm and slashes at an Arai, falling to his feet and writhing in agony just as Jungkook did years before. 

You scream, but you’re paralyzed with fear, rendering you unable to move.

Mark looks around in confusion, his expression shifting as he witnesses Jungwon's sudden collapse. 

Desperation tugs at your senses as you try to muster the strength to move, to intervene somehow, but again, fear renders you immobile. 

“Y/N wake up!” Suddenly, Jungkook’s urgent voice cuts through Tartarus’s sky, amplifying in volume before it penetrates the atmosphere. 

With a jolt, your eyes snap open, and in an instant Tartarus dissipates like a fleeting dream and is replaced with the cozy blankets of Hypnos’s cabin. 

Blinking rapidly, you find yourself lying in bed, the soft glow of the setting sun filtering through the window. The echoes of Jungkook's voice still reverberate in your mind, your head fuzzy and unclear as you process what you just witnessed.

As awareness floods back into your senses, you take in the surroundings—the cozy warmth of the blankets cocooning you, the faint scent of lavender wafting through the air from nearby candles, and the reassuring presence of Jungkook by your side.

With a steadying breath, you turn towards him, finding solace in the way he cradles your face and looks down on you with concern. His eyes search for yours for any sign of distress, and relief washes over you as you realize you’re with him.

"Are you alright?" Jungkook's voice is soft, laced with genuine worry as he reaches out to gently brush a strand of hair from your face.

You nod, offering him a reassuring smile despite the lingering unease that clings to your thoughts. 

You pause. 

“Fuck, Jungkook!”

The urgency in your voice is palpable as you discard the blanket with a swift motion of your forearm.

“We need to get to Bunker 9,” you insist, your voice laced with desperation as you pluck your discarded clothes from the ground. You hastily begin to dress yourself, pulling your panties through your legs as images of Jungwon and Mark with the Arai flood your mind. 

“I had a dream,” you explain, tripping as you shove your legs through your pant holes. Luckily, Jungkook catches you, like he always does.

“Jungwon and Mark met the Arai, Jungkook. They’re not going to survive- I mean I thought that you killed them all when we were there, but clearly they’re still in Tartarus and they’re about to curse our brothers and they could die. We need to get there immediately- we shouldn’t have ever sent them in our place in the first place-”

Lost in your urgency, you're unaware of your own rambling until Jungkook's puzzled expression catches your attention. He retrieves his phone, presenting you with a screen displaying the data transmitted by Mark and Jungwon's rings. “It says that they’re still falling,” he explains, “falling into Tartarus, I mean,” he elaborates when your eyebrows furrow. 

You hastily throw a shirt over your head, before letting out a breathless “What?” 

Jungkook sighs, sitting on the bed before pulling you onto his lap. “Baby, I think you’re anxious.”

“Of course I am!” you groan, “We spent the whole day fucking instead of doing anything!” you mumble in distress, closing your eyes when Jungkook gives you a comforting squeeze. 

“You needed to rest,” Jungkook reasons, “Nothing’s going to get done if you’re not in the proper state of mind. When we get to Olympus for the anniversary party, we can get extra intel about the children of Hades,” he states matter of factly, the confidence in his voice assuaging you and bringing you down from your anxious high. 

You gulp. “Is that tonight?” 

“Mm-hmm,” you feel Jungkook hum into your neck. 

“Fuck, they don’t give us any time,” you grumble.

“That’s a good thing, baby. You have more time to get ready. We’ll leave in an hour.” With that, his large hand cradles your chin and he turns your head towards him, capturing your lips in a deep kiss, taking your breath away. 

He pulls back, closing his eyes as he rests his forehead against yours. “You need to breathe,” he urges, “You’re not in this alone. You have all of us looking out for you. You have me. I’d never let anything happen to you-”

“What about Mark and Jungwon?”

“I’d never let anything happen to them either,” he declares, “Now get ready baby. You need to be in the right state of mind if we’re going to investigate Olympus.” 

He gives you one last comforting smile and you can’t help but grab his face to kiss him again. Gods, you love this man. 

-

Everybody knows that if you want a makeover, you can head to the Aphrodite cabin for a full glam makeover for the reasonable price of 5 drachmas.

When Aphrodite kids graduate from Camp Half-Blood and choose to live in the mortal world, they typically become celebrity stylists, word-class MUA’s, or nail techs for the hugest pop stars.

Luckily, the Aphrodite cabin is a few strides away from the Hypnos cabin, so after tiptoeing out of the Hypnos cabin (to not wake anybody up), you join hands with Jungkook to knock on the door 18+ Aphrodite Cabin. 

The 18+ Aphrodite Cabin is akin to a real life Barbie Dreamhouse. 

As visitors come near the cabin's entrance, they see a lovely doorway with flowers all around it. Wisteria vines wrap around the frame, with clusters of lavender flowers hanging down. Pots filled with ivy and petunias sit by the door, making the scene even more charming and magical.

The sun is setting, and the Aphrodite garden looks beautiful- the kids say one hasn’t truly experienced Camp Half-Blood without taking a peek at the Aphrodite garden. 

You’ve also heard that deep within the garden lies a popular makeout spot for the kids- but honestly you’re too old for that and you don’t wanna know about it. 

The door to the Aphrodite cabin swings open, and you’re met with none other than Vivian. Vivian, daughter of Aphrodite, is around the same age as you and Jungkook, making her one of the oldest girls in the Aphrodite cabin. 

She is the epitome of a daughter of Aphrodite- her skin practically glows with radiance and her features appear like they were delicately sculpted by Aphrodite herself. While some of the Aphrodite kids are certainly stuck up,  Vivian was not among them. Sure, she was snarky at times, but nothing she ever says is with malicious intent. 

The thing is, Jungkook used to fuck around with so many Aphrodite girls, and you just can’t remember if she was one of those girls. 

You whip your head towards Jungkook, frowning with suspicion when he seems overly fascinated with the wisteria vines hanging from the walls. 

You sigh. 

“Hey Viv,” you greet, giving her a friendly hug, “We’re going to a party on Olympus in like- an hour. Can you help us get ready? I know it’s super last minute but-”

She drops her jaw, giving you the Are you serious? look. “Can I help you get ready? Don’t you know we pay people to wear AphroditeWear at fancy events? The Grammy’s, the Oscars.. So a party on Mount Olympus would be…. amazing.”

You smile. “Thanks Viv. Can you squeeze my fiance in too?” you ask, gesturing towards Jungkook. 

Vivan freezes, and she meets eyes with Jungkook. You feel a tangible shift in the atmosphere and it fills you with the faintest sense of unease. 

Nonetheless, Vivian’s features soften and she pulls you in for another hug. “Congratulations Y/N. I’m glad you guys finally made it official. I can take care of you and I’ll have Michael do a fitting with Jungkook.”

You thank her and she smiles with the utmost hospitality, opening the door wider for you and Jungkook to enter. Jungkook holds the door open for you, giving Vivian a tight-lipped smile, “Thanks, Vivian.”

Not the government name. 

Jungkook is immediately whisked away by Michael, a son of Aphrodite who is seemingly in charge of men’s styling while you are sat down at the salon. 

You brush the nonexistent dust from your pants and take a deep breath before you look around. 

The salon is amazing, with plush seating, ornate areas, and soft candlelight. There’s a skincare section, spa chairs for manis and pedis, and of course, the hair styling chair, where you’re currently sitting. 

Vivian doesn’t waste time, curling your hair into voluminous curls that cascade down your shoulders. She applies makeup to  accentuate your features with a subtle smokey eye and a hint of rosy blush that adds a touch of warmth to your complexion. 

“I heard some shit is going down at Camp Jupiter,” Viv starts, “You’ve gone through so much, I imagine that you’d be desensitized to- like- emotion,” she shrugs. 

Your lips curl up slightly. You get what she means. After literally experiencing death, seeing your friends die in battle, and saving the world three times, you’ve seen a lot. Sometimes, you do feel like you’re heartless- or you don’t have the capacity to feel. 

You used to think that you wouldn’t feel as devastated if your friends died in war because of the dozens of close calls. Perhaps Jungkook changed the tide. You don’t think the intensity of your feelings of him ever changed- you just got good at not letting them affect you. 

“But you seem pretty in love, so I guess not,” Vivian shrugs, shaking a bottle of hairspray.

You tilt your head, “How can you tell?”

“Oh please, I’m a daughter of Aphrodite. I can tell you’re head over heels,” she smiles, spraying your hair with the hairspray. “It makes me happy seeing you happy,” she continues, “You locked yourself up in the forge for like a year and nobody ever saw you. We all thought you were depressed.”

You laugh at that. 

“Oh by the way,” Vivian continues, “I heard a rumor that one of my sisters is dating one of your brothers,” she points out. 

“What? No way. Who?”

“Mark,” she promptly responds, “I think I can sense that she and Mark have something going on, I just know it.”

You shake your head. “Mark is single. I’m 1000% sure. There’s no way he would date someone without telling me.”

Vivian tilts her head, “Are you sure you’re not being naive? Mark might be a freak-”

“Gods, never say that in front of me again.”

Vivian giggles, and the conversation continues with ease. 

You itch to ask Vivian about whether or not- in simple terms- she fucked your man. 

As his fiancée, you feel like you have a legitimate interest in knowing all the raunchy details of  his past relationships. Still, the last person you want to be is the overbearing partner who interrogates everyone (and everything) about his past relationships. 

Jungkook  is with you, and he loves you. You have absolutely nothing to worry about. 

It’s just that Viv is so pretty, lovely, and graceful. She’s quite literally the daughter of the goddess of beauty while your father is known for being so hideously ugly that his mother threw him off Mount Olympus. 

Vivian’s words pull you from your trance. “So what color dress are you thinking?” she calls from Aphrodite’s closet, which is stocked with luxurious dresses and gowns. 

You bite your lip nervously, staring at your reflection in the mirror. Honestly, you haven’t inherited any of your father’s ugly genes, but Viv objectively did look better than you. 

“I think gold would look nice on you,” she adds, “You can never go wrong with a sexy gold evening gown.”

She unveils a stunning gown made from shimmering gold mesh, featuring an elegant sweetheart neckline. Adorned with glittering embellishments, this dress leaves a magical trail of fairy dust with every  step. The bodice and lower regions of the dress are discreetly covered, while the remainder delicately reveals sheer fabric, adding a touch of allure to its design. 

“She’s not wearing that,” Jungkook strides into the room, fitted with a charcoal-gray suit. The jacket is slim and modern cut, accentuating his broad shoulders while his crisp white button up adds a hint of elegance. 

He looks incredibly handsome, and it nearly takes your breath away. 

Vivian gives Jungkook a distasteful look. “And why wouldn’t she wear it? You’re going to a party on Mount Olympus. She needs something extravagant.”

Jungkook marches over to you, placing a protective hand on your shoulder. “It's too revealing.”

You lock eyes with Viv for a mere second before she rolls her eyes to the back of her skull. “Never thought you were the conservative type, Jeon- but whatever, do as you please. I think Y/N would look nice in it.”

Jungkook looks at you and bends down to give you the softest of kisses. “You look so pretty, baby.”

“You too,” you whisper back, “But Jungkook, can’t I try it on?” You pout at him slightly, looking up at him with puppy eyes.

Normally, Jungkook doesn’t care about your choice of attire, but there are a few aspects that leave him with unease. 

For one, this particular party is being held on Mount Olympus with various gods- gods with lustful gazes that have free reign to do whatever they want whenever they want. 

After Rose, daughter of Apollo, tackled you at Camp Jupiter and accused you of trying to sleep with her father, he knew that even the gods had their eyes on you, which bothered him immensely. 

It’s like he’s pulled from a trance. 

“No.”

You frown at him. “What?”

“You’re not wearing the dress, Y/N. Find something else.”

“But I like the dress, Jungkook,” you counter. 

“You can wear it. With me. In the Ares cabin. But you’re not wearing it to Olympus.”

Your jaw drops. “I don’t need your permission to do anything! I can wear what I want whenever I want. I’m my own person!”

Jungkook sighs, running his palm over his facial features, “Okay, then wear the dress. But as your fiance, I would appreciate it if you didn’t wear it. It’s up to you.”

“Oh c’mon asshole,” Vivian cuts in, “Just let her try it on.”

You nod in concurrence. “C’mon Kook, please?”

His gaze softens as he sweetly gazes down at you, torn between his protective instincts and his desire to see you happy. With a sigh, he relents, knowing that you'll try it on regardless of his opinion. "It’s up to you," he murmurs, his hand tenderly brushing against your cheek.

You smile gratefully and nod, appreciating his concern. "It’ll look good," you assure him, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his lips.

Of course he knows it’ll look good. That isn’t the concern. 

After all, Jungkook is getting stronger each day, and he would gladly kill a god for checking you out with lustful eyes. 

He locks eyes with Vivian, who raises her brows, frowning, “Aren’t you going to leave?”

Jungkook scowls. “What? I can be in here while she’s changing. She’s the future mother of my kids.”

Vivian’s features curl in distaste. “Okay, well it’s against policy for men to be in girls’ changing rooms so you need to leave.”

Jungkook nonchalantly shrugs. “Who cares? We saved the world twice- just let us be.”

Vivian's frustration boils over and she shoots him a pointed glare. “You always start shit then act like you didn’t just start shit!"

Jungkook scoffs, “Who’s starting shit? What I care about is my fiance and whether or not she feels comfortable in this dress,” he enunciates, redirecting his attention towards you, his words becoming softer and sweeter, “Go on and change babygirl, I’ll be waiting here.”

You blink your lashes, entirely confused for the situation at hand, but you still follow Viv towards the changing rooms, holding your tongue before you say anything you regret. 

Vivian looks peeved as ever, smoothing out the dress gently, a direct juxtaposition to the way she curses between gritted teeth.  “Gods, I hate that guy,” she seethes. 

She takes a moment to collect herself before sighing deeply. “Sorry Y/N. He’s good to you and that’s all that matters,” she expresses with sincerity, instructing you to swivel around to wrap the fabric around your frame. 

You shake your head. “No…” you murmur, “It’s fine. I just wanna know what the beef is… I guess,” you finally bring yourself to ask. 

Viv releases a soft gasp, “That’s right,” she exclaims, like she’s reached a damning realization, “You don’t know what happened.”

You purse your lips and prepare yourself for what’s coming. 

“While you were on Olympus for your internship, that  motherfucker lit our garden on fire! He damn near almost burned down the entire garden! Girl, it was a whole thing. The Ares and Aphrodite cabins were at war. Shit only cleared up when Ares and Aphrodite themselves visited Camp Half-Blood and Aphrodite restored our garden.”

You blink, processing everything before you burst into the hugest smile. 

“Hey!” Viv exclaims, swatting at your bicep, “It’s not funny!”

You force your lips into a straight line, traces of your smile still bursting through the cracks. You wrap your hand around the circumference of her wrist. “No, it’s not that,” you explain, “I just thought that- that you and Jungkook may have, you know…”

Viv takes a moment to process your words before she gasps the loudest gasp you’ve ever heard. “Absolutely not!” she exclaims. 

“Back in high school, Jungkook sister-hopped Seraphina and Lillian,” Vivian continues, “We all made a binding vow to never let him date any of us again.”

You playfully shake your head at the thought. It’s almost unfathomable to picture the entire Aphrodite cabin gathering to scheme against Jungkook. 

“He didn’t want any of us anyways. He’s only ever wanted you. I think the entire camp knows that.” The way she smiles at you is almost motherly, and a wave of fondness washes over you. 

“He had a girlfriend for like a year after I died,” you point out. 

She scoffs, “Oh please. We all know that Sof was a rebound. Love her, but she was a rebound.”

As Vivian finishes adjusting the straps of your gown, her expression softens, and she meets your gaze with a  smile. "But enough about him. Let's focus on you and make sure you feel amazing in this dress."

You nod, grateful for her understanding and support. Vivian would always be Vivian "Thank you, Viv.”

Moments later, you emerge from the dressing room, the golden gown hugging your curves and shimmering under the lights. Jungkook's breath catches in his throat as he takes in your breathtaking appearance, his chest tightening from how beautiful you are .

"You look stunning," he breathes, stepping forward to take your hand in his. "Absolutely breathtaking."

A blush tinges your cheeks as you twirl in front of him, the sheer fabric dancing around you like a cascade of golden sunlight. "Do you really think so?" you ask, a hint of uncertainty in your voice.

Jungkook's eyes soften as he cups your face in his hands, his gaze unwavering. "Of course, stupid," he murmurs, voice filled with love despite him calling you stupid. His thumb brushes gently against your cheek. "But more importantly, you feel comfortable, right?"

You nod, motioning towards Vivian. "I feel great, all thanks to Viv," you say, prompting Jungkook.

Jungkook smiles at Vivian, expressing his gratitude. "Thank you for helping her," he says sincerely, before turning his gaze back to you, admiration evident in his eyes.

In that moment, you realize the depth of Jungkook's love for you – you’re always his first priority. 

Vivian gives you one last hug and sends you on your way towards Olympus. 

-

You and Jungkook have done this thousands of times. The quickest way to get to Mount Olympus is through the Empire State Building, of course.

Camp Half-Blood, situated along the shores of Long Island, is approximately a twenty-minute drive from the Empire State Building—though with Jungkook's motorcycle, the journey can be completed in just ten minutes

On Jungkook's 18th birthday, his father Ares bestowed upon him a celestial bronze Rolex watch that could transform into a motorcycle with a simple press of a button.

You’re cruising through the streets of New York City, your head resting against his back, and suddenly you’re home. You experience the same rush of nostalgia that filled you when you were 19, gliding through the slopes of Athens.

The wind blows through your hair as you take in the stars and the sparkling lights of New York City, making the city look even more beautiful.

With your fingers intertwined, Jungkook and you step into the doors of the Empire State Building. You slide the bellman a drachma and instruct him to send you to the 600th floor, which he does so after ensuring that no mortals catch heed to your conversation. 

Jungkook can’t help but admire you because gods you in that dress is the biggest temptation he’s ever witnessed.

The elevator doors slide open, revealing the most extravagant party you’ve ever witnessed. The entirety of Mount Olympus has been transformed into a breathtaking spectacle of opulence and grandeur. 

Nymphs dance gracefully alongside the procession, their laughter ringing through the air like tinkling bells. Centaurs trot majestically, adorned with garlands of flowers and draped in vibrant fabrics. Satyrs play lively tunes on their panpipes, their merry melodies adding to the festive atmosphere.

Above, pegasi soar through the sky, their majestic wings carrying them gracefully as they hold flags adorned with the emblem of love. 

Someone clears their throat, and you turn your head to witness Eurus, god of the East wind descending on a cloud towards you and Jungkook. When you squint your eyes, you see that he has a clipboard in his hand, and you tilt your head in curiosity. 

“Name?” he asks hastily. 

You exchange a bewildered glance with Jungkook before finally finding your voice. "Uh, Y/N," you manage to stammer out, still trying to process the surreal situation.

"Eurus, pleased to meet you," the god replies with a polite nod, though his tone remains impatient. He quickly scans his clipboard before finding your name and checking it off with a flourish.

"And you?" Eurus turns his attention to Jungkook, who stands beside you, equally astonished by the encounter.

"Jungkook," he answers, his voice firm as he meets the god's gaze.

With a brisk nod, Eurus completes his task and gestures for you both to follow him. "Right this way," he says, leading you through the bustling crowds towards the heart of the festivities.

As you walk, you can't help but marvel at the absurdity of the situation. A god checking guests into a party on Mount Olympus? It's unlike anything you could have ever imagined. 

“Hmmm, daughter of Hephaestus,” Eurus thinks aloud, “You and your,” he looks at Jungkook before sneering, “boyfriend are the only demigods invited to this event. Is there a reason for that?”

Jungkook contorts his face, and you respond before he can say anything too rash. “Because we’re in love, and this is a celebration of love,” you say with a sweet smile. 

Eurus smirks at that. “Oh really? This is a celebration of love? Young daughter of Hephaestus, I know that you are no fool. Aphrodite and Hephaestus are hardly in love,” he expresses matter-a-factly, banging his head against his nifty clipboard. 

"I can't fathom why the gods deemed it necessary to assign me the mundane task of checking in a couple who aren't even together!," Eurus grumbles, gesticulating animatedly. "I've been looking forward to my day off all year long!" 

With a resigned sigh, he holds up his clipboard, which morphs into a miniature screen displaying a woman delivering a weather report. "Breaking news: Not a breeze in sight today! Zero wind, absolutely none!"

"See?" Eurus concedes with a frustrated wave of his hand, prompting you will yourself from laughing at how absurd this all is. 

"And that's not all," Eurus continues with exasperation evident in his voice, "I've been tasked with keeping Ares away from the gala all day, which, let me tell you, is no small feat. I mean, he's the god of war! How am I supposed to keep him from sneaking around?" He turns his head theatrically towards Jungkook. 

“Which is why I don’t understand why they would let you in!” he sneers. 

Jungkook shrugs, seemingly amused by Eurus’s anger. “Hephaestus loves me. He practically begged me to marry his daughter,” making you playfully roll your eyes as you nudge him with your elbow. 

Eurus gasps scandalously, “He would do no such thing!”

Eurus guides you towards the gala hall, and you can’t help but do a double-take when you see something out of the ordinary (?)

Towards the left of the entrance sits Ares, the god of the war, trapped in a net, thrashing around to break free. He roars in frustration before his pupils explode into flames, and it tells you everything you need to know. The whole pupils exploding into fire was a mannerism Jungkook adopted from his father- and it only happened when he became extremely angry. 

You glance at Jungkook, who is really trying to hide his satisfaction under a mask of concern. He stays stoic, staring at the wall behind Ares and you can’t help but think he looks cute trying to be all serious. 

Jungkook clears his throat,  "Need a hand, Dad?"

“Absolutely not!” Eurus cuts in, “I had to look for this net in Hephaesteus’s junkyard for hours! It’s the only thing that will contain him. He stays in the net-”

“I’ll kill you right now, asshole!” Ares seethes, eliciting a yelp from Eurus. 

At that moment, you connect the dots, realizing that Ares is currently trapped in the same net your father used to catch Aphrodite and Ares in “the act.” You step forward, running your fingers over the net. 

Hephaestus catching Aphrodite and Ares is a classic Greek tale, but you always wondered how your father created such a net to contain the god of war.

The rope is intricately designed, something you assume was woven from enchanted threads. The rope is also infused with celestial bronze, but you still don’t see how it could trap not one but two gods. Your father is truly a genius. 

Ares bares his teeth at Eurus, who squeals and runs away, probably back to his post at the entrance of Mount Olympus. 

Ares pauses, looking you up and down before he licks his lips. “Damn kid, this your bitch? She’s fine as fuck.” 

At that, Jungkook’s amused smile drops, and he instinctively intertwines his fingers through yours. 

Jungkook's unresolved issues with his father stem from how he mistreated his mother, who was deeply traumatized by the aftermath of Ares's “love”. Only when his mother found love with another man did Jungkook find it in himself to leave her.

His negative behaviors from youth, such as literally playing the entire Aphrodite cabin and his predisposition towards violence can be traced back to Ares's poor parenting and the trauma of his childhood. 

In fact, he’s  only considered Ares’s favorite because of his talent as a warrior, not because Ares actually cares.

He only really grew up because he wanted to be a man for you. You were the epitome of “I can change him”. 

Nonetheless, he felt an inexplicable amount of anger when anyone said anything about you. You’re practically famous around Camp Half-Blood, so he expects people to talk, but hearing this from his own father- he can’t fathom the audacity. 

“You’re literally trapped in a net.”

Ares clenches his jaw. “And? I’ll beat your ass the second I’m outta here.”

Junngkook says nothing, and if anything, his expression conveys a sheen of sadness. Who wants to be spoken to this way by their own father?

After a moment,  Ares finally gives in.  “Alright, I’m sorry kid,” he pleads, “Just let me outta here. Do it for your old man, eh?”

Jungkook remains stoic, staring blankly at Ares. 

“Y/N,” Ares snaps, “I remember you, Hephaestus’s prized daughter. You  got to know a way to get me out of here, right? Do it for your father-in-law!”

You say nothing, tilting your head towards Jungkook. 

“Oh c’mon!” Ares continues, “My girl’s in there! Aphrodite’s my girl! I can’t just keep her in there with Hephaestus!”

In that moment, you realize how much of a gift mortality is. Immortals with godly powers often lack a reason to be kind, as the gods themselves are quite messy.

They didn’t value each other, didn’t value human life- because they didn’t have to. 

You look at your fiance, eyebrows furrowing as you recall when Jungkook was offered the opportunity to turn into a god. 

In history, demigods who fulfilled god-level quests were elevated to “god status”. This is the path Dionysus took to become an Olympian, and how Hercules ascended to godhood.

After saving the world from the titan Kronos at the age of 17, Zeus offered Jungkook the status of a god. You remember how nervous you were when you caught heed of Zeus’s proposal. At that time, you and Jungkook were caught at the beginning of your enemies to lovers transition, and as much as Jungkook annoyed you, you didn’t want him to leave you for Olympus. 

Jungkook became the first demigod to turn the proposition down. You always considered him to be an airhead, but perhaps this was the first moment you realized that there was something more inside his thick skull.

Jungkook treasures mortality, and you find that kinda hot. He finds pleasure in the sensation of a punch to his face, smirking with blood running down his nose.  He relishes in the risk of death during quests, understanding that nothing was assured and that he had to push himself for success. 

He isn’t a pussy who needs the safety net of immortality. He adores the sense of purpose imbued in his mortal existence.

Your man is insane and you love it. 

There’s just something so sexy about a man who has control over his own life. You’d much rather lounge on the shores of Elysium- and you will with Jungkook, your forever boy and two-time (soon to be three) savior of the world. 

-

Stepping into the gala hall, you’re met with the largest room you’ve ever been in. The grand ballroom is filled with minor gods, goddesses, and other mythical creatures dancing on the spacious dance floor. 

With your eyes glimmering at the grand decor and the live-cyclopes band, you need to remind yourself that the reason you’re even at this party is to collect intel on the missing children of Hades. 

You walk around, looking for clues on Hades’ whereabouts.  In situations like this, the symbol of Hades, a helm of darkness would randomly appear, but you aren’t seeing anything. 

Jungkook looks around, at the Greek pillars holding the infrastructure up, the waiters walking around with cups of ambrosia- hold on, is that satyr staring at your ass? 

Sometimes, you don’t realize how beautiful you are, and it bothers him. He thinks he should tell you that you should be more careful or to be more cognizant of your surroundings, but that’s what he’s here for. 

He casually wraps his arm around your waist and looks at anyone who looks at you. He doesn’t glare at the Cyclopes and their wandering eye(s) or the minor gods he was surely stronger than, a simple look their way is enough for someone to back off. 

Curse the fates for having him fall in love with someone so pretty. 

The two of you walk for what seems like miles before entering the next room in the gala hall: the artisan’s workshop. 

Probably at Hephaestus’s request, his henchmen stand in the middle room, intricately metalworking while guests gather around to marvel at the artisan mastery. Sparks fly as metal is shaped and molded into exquisite sculptures and jewelry, 

All of Hephasetus’s mastery forge work is on display, like a museum filled with the best forgery to ever exist in the history of the world. You marvel at the display.

There’s a prototype for amphibious armor- armor capable of moving seamlessly between land and water. You’d have to get on this for Taehyung, your friend and son of Poseidon. He could do wonders with it. 

There’s also the literal Trojan Horse: the same large wooden horse the Greeks hid soldiers in during the Trojan War. 

Each and every item is masterfully crafted by your father, and one in particular catches your eye: a prototype for time manipulation. Even in the realm of Greek mythology, time travel has been untouched, and the gods themselves might not even know the implications of time travel. 

You take a second to marvel at it even more. Its intricate gears and celestial alignments fuse together in a shape of sphere, and it stays locked in its glass case. Two words decorate the cake: Time Travel. 

You just have to know more, but suddenly Jungkook tugs on your forearm when something- or someone catches his eye. 

You follow his line of sight until you see Demeter. 

Demeter is the goddess of agriculture, fertility, and the harvest in Greek mythology. Her daughter Persephone is the current bride of none other than Hades himself. Instantly you connect the dots. If anyone knew anything about the missing children of Hades, it would be Demeter. 

Lounging on a loveseat in Aphrodite’s boudoir, she sultrily sips at a glass of wine, eyeing down the nymph waiter who is obviously uncomfortable as he scurries away from her. At this party, the purpose of Aphrodite’s boudoir is for guests to meet and hook up, essentially. 

The energy she exerts is an older woman entering her cougar era and you protectively tighten your grip around Jungkook’s bicep. 

Guests recline on plush velvet sofas and lounge chairs, sipping on cocktails and indulging in sweet treats. The room is adorned with lavish decor and the soft, romantic lighting creates an atmosphere of sensuality. 

Funnily enough, the moment Jungkook opens his mouth to say something to Demeter, someone cuts him off. 

“Y/N!” 

You almost shudder at the very familiar voice. 

It’s Apollo. 

-

It is definitely true that Apollo made multiple attempts to make you his bride during your stay at Mount Olympus. Last year, you spent the entire year on Mount Olympus, working under your father Hephaestus as he taught you the latest forging techniques and strategies. 

Such attempts included:

Organizing a symphony to serenade you with love songs

Gifting you with three tons of gold

Appearing in your chambers and serenading you in the middle of the night

Luckily, your father, in his protective nature, banished Apollo from his residence and used magical reinforcements to ensure that he would stay far, far away. 

Unluckily, your father isn’t present. 

Jungkook presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek, eyes dubiously tracing over Apollo’s frame. 

Gods can take on any look or appearance they please, so Apollo can make himself look like the (objectively) sexiest man in the world- which he does. He takes on the appearance of a 6’3 man with brown eyes and tan skin, his jet black hair falling into his eyes as he saunters towards you with his pearly white teeth. 

Nonetheless, you aren’t impressed and neither is Jungkook. He pauses, features curling in distaste, and at that moment he grabs you by the neck, pulling your lips to his like magnetic attraction. He kisses you, and it’s the sloppiest, most disgusting kiss he’s ever bestowed on you- nearly pornographic. 

Jungkook likes to keep it clean. He’s a gentleman and treats you like the lady you are, but you are well aware of his sadistic tendencies, just like he’s aware of your masochistic ones. His saliva drips into your mouth and he pulls away with a line of spit between your lips. 

You take a moment to compose yourself.

“Hey Apollo,” you greet, still somewhat dizzy and breathless from the intensity of Jungkook’s kiss. 

A sly smirk spreads across Apollo’s lips, and he looks right at Jungkook. “Claim her all you want, it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

At that moment, it’s like time warps. Everything seems to pause, and the atmosphere turns gray. 

In the next second, everything returns to normal. 

It’s like the air is sucked out of his lungs, but he remains composed. “What do you mean by that?”

Apollo cocks his head, his black hair following into his eyes as throws an arm around your shoulder. 

Again, it’s like time stops and you try to remove his arm from you but you can’t. It’s like his touch is anchored to your skin. Your eyes frantically search Jungkook’s who clenches his jaw as the realization of Apollo’s words sinks in. 

Did… did Apollo watch you and him this morning? 

“Oh don’t look at me like that Jeon,” Apollo pouts, “It almost hurts my feelings,” he muses with a teasing smile before he drops his smile and turns rigidly serious. “Almost,” Apollo enunciates. 

Apollo, being a god, can pretty much do whatever he pleases. He can touch whoever he wants and he can see whatever he wants. 

You squirm against his touch, eyes pleading at Jungkook to do something. When Jungkook catches a glimpse of your doe eyes and the uncomfortability plastered over your body language, something different washes over him, a type of lividity he’s never felt before. 

He immediately unsheathes his sword.

Jungkook carries three weapons with him at all times. 

First, there’s the celestial bronze knife you forged for him when you were ten years old. That particular knife has been to Tartarus and back; in other words, he’s retired it. He only really keeps it for sentimental purposes; he can’t bring himself to let it go. Most importantly, you made it for him so he must keep it with him at all times so he can always have a piece of you with him. 

The second weapon he carries is the celestial bronze Rolex watch on his wrist, which was a gift from Ares on his 18th birthday. With a press of a button, it transforms into a sleek Harley Davidson Motorcycle- he isn’t so sure if it qualifies as a weapon but he has used it to run over some monsters. 

The third weapon is an enchanted blade made from imperial gold. This sword is also something you forged. 

A few years ago, you bestowed Kataklysmós, the first magically enchanted sword to Jungwon, Jungkook’s little brother. Kataklysmós, or Cataclysm has the ability to grant the user with the magical abilities of monsters defeated by the sword.  

In order for its abilities to be activated, the user needs to form a soul binding link with the sword. 

Jungwon was the first demigod to do so, and he documented the entire process in a little Hello Kitty notebook. 

Creating a soul binding link with a magical sword means building a strong emotional connection with it. The wielder focuses their intent and channels divine energy to make the bond stronger. Both the wielder and the sword must accept and acknowledge each other to finalize the connection. 

Anyways, after Jungwon figured it out, Jungkook did it the next day with his magically enchanted sword. 

You called the sword its Greek name: Ichorothilikitimos, which translated to “Lust of Ichor” in English. 

Have you ever wondered if gods bleed? They certainly do- except they don’t bleed blood, they bleed Ichor. Ichor is the golden fluid that flows through the veins of gods, kind of like their special blood.

When Ichorothilikitimos comes into contact with the divine blood of gods and immortals, known as ichor, it sparks intense bloodlust in its wielder. This means that whoever holds the sword feels an overwhelming desire for battle and conquest- sending the user into a bloodlust frenzy. When it happens with Jungkook, it’s like his powers are amplified, and he can take down an entire army single handedly. 

But yes- this weapon is quite literally a god-killing weapon. It’s never been done before, but with Ichorothilikitimos, Jungkook could kill a god with ease. 

While it grants great strength, it also presents a danger of being consumed by aggression. It's a powerful weapon, capable of changing the course of a fight, but it comes with a significant risk.

Obviously, this is a sword only Jungkook could wield. Primarily because he is the only demigod that can even draw ichor from a god, and also because he’s the only other demigod that successfully formed a soul binding link with their weapon. 

When you see Jungkook reach for Ichorothilikitimos, your breath hitches in your throat, but Apollo keeps talking. 

“I’m a god,” Apollo brags, “I can see whatever I want in the mortal world, especially on Camp Half-Blood.”

“I saw you in the bed,” Apollo taunts, “in the shower,” Apollo continues, “and even under the sheets. You looked good. I could do better though,” he declares with a sleazy wink. 

At his statement, you feel disgustingly violated. You feel your stomach churn with revulsion at Apollo's invasive words, each syllable like a dagger aimed at your sense of autonomy.

Jungkook’s nostrils flare, and you wince, looking down when you hear the sound of Ichorothilikitimos being unsheathed. You squeeze your eyes shut, and Jungkook moves with the greatest agility. He nearly slashes Apollo’s arm off- until he doesn’t. 

In a flash, you and Jungkook are transported to another room. 

The fancy room is filled with tall pillars and a sweet smell of roses. In the middle are two big chairs: one pretty and gold, the other strong and iron. Aphrodite, looking beautiful, sits in one, while Hephaestus, looking serious, sits in the other. 

Both are in their more godly form- Hephaestus sits at 36 feet tall while Aphrodite sits at a measly 25 feet. 

“Dad!” you exclaim in relief, hyperventilating from the absolutely horrid encounter with Apollo.

Hephaestus sighs, stepping from the throne until he appears in human form, embracing you sweetly. “Daughter,” he murmurs, “That Apollo… I’ll damn him to Tartarus,” he seethes. 

Apparently, Jungkook feels the same way, seething with anger as his fists clenched tightly at his sides, his eyes shut as he feebly attempts to calm himself. 

Jungkook almost instantly interrupts the moment. “You need to protect your daughter!” Jungkook growls. “How can- how can you let that pervert witness intimacy between your daughter and I?!”

Hephaestus turns his head towards Jungkook. Usually, when a god looks you in the eye, you back down, but Jungkook stares right back at him. 

“You,” Hephaestus starts, “did I give you permission to allow you to marry my daughter? I don’t even remember saying you could marry her.”

“Like I need your permission?” Jungkook scoffs, “I’m the only man Y/N needs in her life- to you she’s just another one of your thousands of kids, Y/N is everything to me.”

You say nothing. Jungkook has a point, and as far as you know, an engaged woman has allegiance to her fiance and not her father. 

Hephaestus appears livid, and you think he’s going to send Jungkook into flames but he sighs and a moment later, you and Jungkook are seated on mini-thrones in front of the thrones of Aphrodite and Hephaestus. 

“This is the problem,” Hephaestus enunciates, “I told you this was going to happen!” he growls, directing his attention towards Aphrodite, the goddess of love and beauty. 

Aphrodite looks beautiful today, with her hair cascading in golden waves and her eyes sparkling like the sea under the sunlight. She’s wearing a red gown and an elegant updo, but her aura exudes one of apprehension.

As far as Aphrodite goes, Jungkook hates her. Aphrodite (again, the goddess of love) has messed with his love life for years; he’s been heartbroken (most likely because of her manipulation)- and Aphrodite was the same goddess who pleaded with Jungkook to return to Camp Half-Blood. 

That means she knew you were alive and didn’t tell him. 

“Jungkook,” Aphrodite begins, “Do you remember what I told you? At the club in Korea, about the balance between gods and demigods?”

Jungkook says nothing. 

“Well, in other words, you fucked that entire balance up!” Hephaestus cuts in frustratedly. 

 “That sword,” Hephaestus starts, inhaling deeply, “Daughter, that sword- what made you think that  forging that sword was a good idea? If demigods possess the capability to kill gods, then the existence of gods becomes meaningless."

“Jungkook, honey, you could have killed Apollo,” Aphrodite says with sweetness laced in her voice in attempts to assuage Jungkook. Clearly, it doesn’t work.

“Well, he deserved to die,” Jungkook bites back, “And Hephaestus, gods aren’t the only beings that bleed Ichor. Titans, monsters, and of course Gaia and Tartarus bleed Ichor. I intend to use this sword to kill the primordial god Tartarus.”

At that moment, you realize that you and Jungkook are a deadly duo, akin to a Mr. and Mrs. Smith. You have the capacity to create god-killing weapons and Jungkook has the capacity to implement the god-killing. 

“Dad, Jungkook would never kill a god,” you declare, “I forged that weapon for Jungkook to kill titans, and he used it to save the world. He’s my fiance, and you can’t address him like he’s a delinquent. Jungkook is the sweetest guy in the entire world.”

Hephaestus has to prevent himself from scoffing, shifting his gaze towards Jungkook who quite literally has fire for pupils- definitely the “sweetest guy in the entire world”. 

Aphrodite holds her tongue. 

“Look,” Jungkook starts, “Here’s the deal. So long as she’s okay, then I’m okay,” he states, motioning towards you. “If Y/N is protected, especially from Apollo,” he seethes, “then I won’t do anything rash. I’ll be an obedient demigod, and do whatever you want- kill any titan or  monster you want. But if anything happens to her, ever, I will burn Olympus down with my own hands.”

It’s quite preposterous for a demigod to threaten a god, but the threat is taken seriously.  Hephaestus and Aphrodite appear physically distraught. 

“Okay,” Hephaestus acquiesces. “Y/N stays safe. To help you on your quest, I’m opening a direct portal to the underworld. The demigod children of Hades are imprisoned in the Underworld with their father. Your eyes will be tricked by the mist but dip yourself in the River of Styx and you will see through it. As for Y/N, she stays here with me-”

“What? No! I’m going with him!”

“She stays here with me and we will forge weapons for you to use. The best weapons of the best caliber- I will ensure my daughter gives you what you need to defeat Tartarus.”

Jungkook inhales deeply and curtly nods at your father. 

You turn to him, “What the fuck Jungkook! You can’t exclude me from this quest! I have to go with you-”

When he faces you, you stop talking. Jungkook is as rigidly serious as ever, and he’s doing the whole flaming pupils thing without even looking angry. 

“Y/N, please,” he urges, “I lost you once and I’m not going to lose you again. Just stay here. You’ve served enough-”

“No,” you respond, “You know I’m not that type of person. I can’t just let you take on Tartarus by yourself!”

Jungkook locks eyes with Hephaestus who just nods, and with a snap of Hephaestus’s fingers, you’re trapped in a celestial bronze cage. You pull against the jail cell screaming, “What the fuck!”

“Dad! Jungkook! Let me out! What the fuck!”

Jungkook stands outside of the cage and looks at you with concerned eyes. “Baby, baby calm down,” he pleads, using his hand to hold your cheek. 

“No,” you cry, “Jungkook, if you do this then it’s over between you and me. I can’t be with a man who doesn’t even trust me.” You begin weeping and crying, and you mean it. You wouldn't forgive Jungkook if he went and saved the world without you. He needs you, and you need him.

At that, Jungkook’s face falls, his eyebrows furrow and he bites his lip in apprehension. The thought of losing you leaves him crestfallen, and he'd rather believe that you're saying all of this in the heat of the moment.

He doesn't have time to contemplate whether you're serious because he's been granted a golden opportunity: a guarantee of your protection by the gods themselves. He can't pass this up.

He bitterly nods. “I’d rather have you safe,” he says before standing up and unsheathing  Ichorothilikitimos. 

And with that, Hephaestus opens a portal straight to the Underworld and Jungkook walks through, leaving you stuck in a cage on Mount Olympus.

#jungkook fanfic #demigod!jungkook #demigod!bts

[ejzah]

A/N: Once again, a tiny idea morphed into a much longer than intended fic. Enjoy the angst!

***

Relapse

Kensi had learned after Deeks was tortured by Sidorov that in addition to withdrawing from everyone around him when he was in a state of distress, he forgot to take care of himself as well. It had taken her a while to pick up on the pattern, but now, especially after living together for three years, she knew all the signs. He tended not to eat often enough, his meticulous cleaning schedule became disrupted, and he either barely moved at all, or spent hours exhausting his body in an attempt to quiet his mind.

So one week in the middle of summer when Kensi noticed the counters hadn’t been wiped down in a few days, and the laundry hamper was nearing capacity—something that never occurred since they moved in together—she took note. It wasn’t a cause for massive alarm, but enough that she decided to keep a close eye on Deeks. They’d just come off a horrific case that lasted over three weeks and had them all running on fumes.

Maybe he just needed the time to recuperate, she reasoned. She’d certainly been on edge and snapped at everyone more than usual, including Deeks, who had the misfortune of spending their few hours away from work with her.

On Tuesday, they had a fairly slow day, the latter part of which they spent cleaning out in-boxes and catching up on the procedures that got overlooked during intense cases. It gave them a much needed opportunity to bond and unwind.

Inevitably, Sam and Callen ended up in argument over who had actually taken down their most recent criminal.

“Nope, I definitely reached him before you did,” Callen insisted in that tone that meant he was just arguing for the joy of watching Sam grow more irritated. Kensi dipped her head to conceal a smile.

“Are you kidding me? You weren’t even close. He’d still be on the run if we left it to you,” Sam objected, shaking his head in exasperation.

“I don’t know, Sam, Deeks is the one who distracted him,” Kensi pointed out. She waited expectantly for Deeks to jump in with his own comment, but none came.

Kensi realized he’d been quiet through most of the teasing and banter, when normally he’d be egging Sam right alongside Callen. His body was turned slightly away, gaze focused in the direction of the back wall. She wondered if he saw anything at all.

The silence grew long enough for it grow slightly awkward, and Kensi hastily added, “I’m just saying it’s a group effort.”

“Yeah, you can keep your “group effort”, Sam made air quotes around the last two words. “I’m the one who tackled him, and that’s all that matters.” He jabbed a button on his laptop keyboard. “And I’m outta here. Don’t even think of calling me before 6 tomorrow morning.”

Callen left shortly after Sam, followed by Eric and Nell, who seemed in a hurry.

“You want to grab tacos on the way home?” she asked once she finished her own paperwork, leaning across the front of Deeks’ desk. “I’ll buy.” She let her tone drop flirtatiously, shimmying her shoulders.

“Uh, I’m really behind on my LAPD paperwork,” Deeks answered without looking up. “I think I’m going to stay a little bit later.”

“This is the first night we’ve gotten out before 7 in weeks.”

Finally looking up, Deeks sighed heavily, swiping his hair out of his eyes with a careless hand. Even in the dim light, she could tell his eyes were bloodshot.

“I know. LAPD will get on my case if I wait any longer though. I’ll just be a couple hours, ok?” He gave her a pleading, regretful look, that Kensi was powerless to ignore.

“Ok.” She leaned closer, tipping his chin a little higher to kiss him. “Don’t be too long,” she said.

“I won’t,” Deeks promised, returning her kiss with a brush of his lips. “Love you.”

***

It was a full four hours later when Kensi heard the front quietly open and shut. She’d tried not to wait up, even going to bed, but too many thoughts and worries circled through her brain to get anywhere close to sleep. She tracked Deeks’ movement through the house; he stopped in the kitchen, got a glass of water, checked on Monty in the living room, then finally headed to their room.

Kensi rolled over onto her side when he walked in, knowing there wasn’t any point in pretending to sleep. Deeks stood by the closet, taking off his shoes.

“Hey,” she murmured. He stilled at the sound of her voice, shoulders caving for a second before he turned around.

“Hey. Sorry.”

She didn’t know if he was apologizing for possibly waking her. Or coming home late.

“It’s ok.” Holding out her hand, she waited until he was within reaching distance, and pushed herself up enough to slide her hand around his neck. He let her pull him down, releasing a slightly pained noise. Kensi slid her fingers up into his hair, finding the strands damp.

She didn’t call him on it, just holding him tighter when their lips parted. She felt the tension in his shoulders and back, so tight it seemed he might snap at any moment.

“Come to bed,” she told him, pulling back the covers. When Deeks slid in beside her, she curled around him, hoping took some comfort in her touch.

***

Kensi’s worry skyrocketed as she watched Deeks withdraw more every day. This time around, he tended towards movement, which meant he either woke up early (assuming he’d slept at all) or stayed after work to work out. At the same time, his appetite seemed to have disappeared.

She tried to combat it all by bringing him a donut in the morning or cajoling him into bed and doing her best to soothe him to sleep. It wasn’t enough, but she was hesitant to push too hard.

“Hey, I brought you some soup,” she said one evening as she came back from a food run. Deeks had very noticeably not requested anything.

“I’m not hungry,” he said, not even pausing considering the bucket she plunked down in front of him.

“Baby, you didn’t eat breakfast this morning. It’s after six. You need to have something.”

“Kens—”

“No,” Kensi interrupted sharply, forgetting her decision to remain quietly supportive, to say nothing. “You are tired, you’re not eating, you’re not talking, and I am done letting you fade right in front of me.”

His head sank forward for a moment, and he rubbed his hands over his face, emitting the deepest of sighs. When he looked up again, the shadows in his eyes were even darker, and Kensi’s heart clenched painfully for him.

“I’m just struggling a little right now. I’ll get over it,” he insisted dully. “I always do.”

“You don’t have to do it alone though. You have me,” Kensi reminded him, moving around his desk to crouch in front of him. She grabbed his hands, clasping them between hers. “Let me help you.”

“I want to…” he shook his head, tilting his head back with a sorrowful expression. “It just feels like everything terrible feeling is amplified by a hundred and anything good is dampened.” He smiled sadly. “Only thing that helps sometimes is when you’re holding me at night.”

“I’ll do anything you need, anything. But please don’t push me away. I can’t bear that.”

“I’ll try.” He nodded, eyes damp. Kensi drew his forehead to her shoulder, weaving her fingers into his hair.

“And eat your soup.”

That got a weak out laugh out of him. Drawing back, he grabbed the tub across his desk, popping the lid off.

Kensi knew that one meal wouldn’t magically fix everything, but as he slowly worked his way through the soup, it was a step the right direction.

Under the table, Deeks reached for her hand, squeezing it tightly.

#ncis la fanfiction #densi #marty deeks #kensi blye #emotional whump #Deeks whump #supportive Kensi #angst #ejzah fanfiction

[queercontrarian]

Eris calls in his bargain with Rhysand: he wants Nesta to join him in the Autumn Court to help him in his scheme to bring down his father.

an @acotargiftexchange fic dedicated to @secret-third-thing. my goal is to post one chapter a week until the end. big thanks to @iftheshoef1tz for letting me scream in your dms about this fic and to @acourtofladydeath for being the best spy i could've asked for. i love you, please enjoy ♡

read on AO3

Prologue

Eris had been born in the middle of the night on an unusually cold day, less than a week before the Summer Solstice. He’d been told the story of how he came into the world many times by his mother, and even more often by her midwives who liked retelling it every time his mother went into labor again. Six times they had repeated it to him while he was waiting outside of his mother’s quarters along with the rest of the family and later his younger brothers. He knew it by heart, every last detail of it etched into his mind. 

How his mother had gone into labor a few days earlier than the healers had anticipated. Just couldn’t wait to be born , they would say. The first Vanserra child born in centuries, with all the hope of saving a failing bloodline resting on his tiny shoulders. 

How loud he’d screamed. Strong lungs - a good sign . He needed to be strong, and loud, to make people pay attention to him. Attention was currency in his grandfather’s court. 

How his father had burst into the room the very first time he heard him scream to welcome his firstborn into the world. How he’d held him, how happy he’d been, how proud of mother and child. Fires shining brighter all over Autumn, flames so high some even believed the phoenix had finally returned.

Eris couldn’t remember a time when Beron had ever been so open to his family. He couldn’t remember his father showing love for anything at all, least of all for him or his brothers. 

Maybe that Beron had died when he finally became High Lord, maybe the females had simply embellished the story to paint a picture of a strong, healthy family leading the Court. One in which fathers didn’t go up in flames at every minor provocation, one in which children weren’t tortured and mothers did not turn a blind eye to their suffering, drowning their fear in old tales of long lost honor and glory, in religion and romance and too much wine, where brothers didn’t try to murder each other for a throne that would poison any that sat upon it. 

Unfortunately, that was not Eris’s family. 

He’d learned to live with it. It wasn’t as if he’d ever known anything else. He grew up never expecting more. He knew his place in the world, and it was standing at his father’s side, standing behind his father, standing in his father’s shadow. The War had come and gone, he had been promoted, demoted, praised and humiliated, revered and replaced. Six brothers, six rivals; four brothers, three rivals. He’d loved and he’d lost and he’d left himself behind when he went Under The Mountain, had lied and cheated and bargained and had come out on top. He had grown too big for his father’s shadow. He knew it was time. He could feel it.

All that to say that Eris was used to waiting. He had waited for over 500 years, so really, what was one more hour to that? Just one lousy hour until the plans he had set up so meticulously over decades were set into motion. 

One hour, maybe two. You could never be quite sure with Rhysand. He liked to keep Eris waiting. A power play, obviously. A cheap one, but as a High Lord he could afford it. 

Eris dragged his finger over the table. It was dusty. He tried to wipe his finger on the upholstery of the chair in front of him, which was only slightly less dusty. The whole damn room was dusty. Sometimes he wondered if the Court of Dreams, as they liked to call themselves, ever even used these halls outside of when they had to meet with him or Keir. They certainly didn’t use them often enough to have them cleaned regularly. Eris supposed it was part insult, part evidence of incapacity. Why clean these rooms when you did most of your governing in some hidden city far away anyway? 

Either way, Eris was being just as petty by insisting on meeting now, just after the solstice. Festivities in the Solar Courts often lasted nearly the whole week and Eris knew for a fact that Rhysand always dedicated more time to his family around the Winter Solstice in particular. Eris didn’t feel in the least bit guilty for interrupting it. Consider it payback for the insults, for mistreating his soldiers and for making him wait in this cold, dusty, ugly room. He didn't expect much from the High Lord and his inner circle, but that didn't mean he had to be happy with what he got. His thumb found the hilt of the Made dagger on his hip. He had no use for empty words or disloyal armies, and he certainly didn’t need Rhysand to hold his hand while he stabbed his father in the back. He had bigger plans.

By the time Rhysand finally slinked into the room it was past five. He reeked of sex, of his mate and very faintly of the godawful tea they liked to serve in the Night Court. Eris was tempted to check his pocket watch to know exactly how long the male had kept him waiting for these vain pursuits but he chose not to. Rhysand disrespected his time on purpose, so he would not let him see that it got under his skin. 

The little things were how he took back his power. Acting unaffected, refusing food or drink, to be treated as a guest, standing instead of sitting no matter how long he was made to wait so he wouldn’t have to get up to show respect when his so-called allies deigned to appear at their meetings - he had a long list of grievances to pay back in small petty gestures.

Eris took his time to greet the High Lord, slowly angling his head and then his entire body to face the High Lord and sketching a bow that was lazy yet precise. After all, he was a cauldron-damned Autumn-taught and trained courtier, and he would never be caught dead disregarding the manners that had been beaten into him since he was a little boy. There was a certain amount of respect demanded that he would give - no more than necessary though.

“Rhys,” he said smoothly, trying hard not to breathe through his nose. The smell was really quite overwhelming and he did not need to know all the details of the High Lord's night so intimately. Another grievance on his list. He forced a neutral expression onto his face. 

Rhysand inclined his head in Eris’s direction, baring his teeth in what only barely resembled a smile. Eris knew it was meant to look wrong and unsettling, but he could tell that Rhysand's heart wasn’t in it. He looked tired. Something was weighing on him, something that would either help him in this or complicate his plans. Unfortunately he didn’t have the time to spend on finding out what exactly it was.

“Eris. I have to admit I was surprised you requested another meeting so soon, seeing as you just joined us at the Solstice ball earlier tonight." Eris watched Rhysand settle into the high-backed throne at the end of the dusty table, shaking his head when his host motioned for him to sit also.

"I figured this was something you would rather discuss in private. Don’t worry, it won't take too much of your time." 

Rhysand chuckled darkly. “No, you only insist on meeting in the middle of the night for what, a chat? To what do I owe the pleasure of your disturbance?” Eris mirrored his smirk, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. A disturbance . How charming.

In this at least Rhysand had the right hunch. After Eris told him his demands he wasn’t so sure Rhysand would sleep any more at all tonight, nor enjoy the week of festivities planned in the Night Court to celebrate the Solstice and their High Lady’s birthday. There was a sort of sick satisfaction he found in that, in rendering the powerful powerless, in reminding the comfortable of how vulnerable they really were. Sometimes they needed a little push off of their high pedestals. It served to build character. In Eris’s humble opinion, he was doing them a favor.

Fifty years Under the Mountain, fifty years under the bitch queen’s thumb and still, Rhysand did not understand that he wasn’t the only one planning ahead, not the only one with tricks up his sleeve. It had taken him only two years to forget how easily one could lose everything on a bargain. Too comfortable . 

As if to prove his point, Eris felt a talon of darkness swipe lazily at his mind’s wards. They stayed firmly in place as they always did, but Eris still bristled at the half-hearted attempt. Disrespectful . Breaking into another’s mind unbidden was a grave breach of trust and generally considered an act of aggression against foreign dignitaries, especially against allies. 

Of course, such rules did not exist for the High Lord of the Night Court. Rhysand, pretending like he hadn’t just blatantly and audaciously broken protocol, stayed silent, only vaguely gesturing with his hand for Eris to go on. Performing superiority, impatience, boredom. Again, incredibly rude. Oh, Beron would have a field day with a son like Rhysand. 

Still, Eris kept his mouth shut, clasped his hands behind his back and swallowed the insult like he’d been taught to. 

"I am here to call in our bargain," he said calmly. And oh, that certainly woke the High Lord up. His eyes cleared and he sat up in his chair almost like he was pulled by invisible threads. Now he had his attention. Now they were playing the game by Eris’s rules. He had to fight back a smile as he said his next words:

“I demand the support I was promised. I want Nesta Archeron."

#acotar gift exchange 2023 #neris #keeping up with the vanserras #acotar: to dust or to gold

[zemothethirteenth]

To Rewrite History || @ironifiicd

The rubble that surrounded him had turned the world a grey-brown colour that made even the sky seem cloudy. Maybe it was, even four days later. His family had been found, withdrawn from the rubble by those who had pulled him away from it all, his fingers bloodied and raw.

Being made to sit in a tent as his hands were meticulously cleaned and wrapped didn't make him feel any better. He was numb. He'd lost his whole world - even his family crypt was gone. Sokovia had been at war with Latveria for over a decade and yet more history and people had been lost in this one event than the last decade of war.

And so, it wasn't as though he could sit around and do nothing. Whatever his losses, Zemo was a soldier and the people of his country needed him. He couldn't do anything for his own family anymore, he could only press onward.

With his hands now gloved and better equipped for the task, he set about helping others clear the rubble and find what survivors he could. And so it was as he was digging that he hit something metal - again, it was hardly the first time - and saw the first colour in days as his fingers grazed across the metal and revealed a familiar shock of red and gold.

For a moment he didn't move, staring for a long time before beginning to move the rubble away with more energy than he'd felt in the sixteen hours since he'd found his family. The metal suit was pinned under enough debris that he knew pulling the whole thing out wouldn't be possible without cranes, but as he felt along the joins for a means to determine whether the occupant was still inside - and alive - he found an emergency release that left the armour to crack open, and reveal and unconscious and bloodied but very much alive Tony Stark.

Pulling the man from the rubble, with the suit giving just enough clearance for him to manage it, Zemo sat silently and stared before his fingers fell to his radio. "Ković, Lovitz, sejdeme se ve staré průmyslové čtvrti East Side."

At least someone could answer for what happened to their home.

Whatever else Zemo wanted to do, killing Tony Stark would accomplish nothing. He knew that. If he wanted answers - closure, or peace, or whatever people got when they lost so much all at once - he needed the man alive. Sergeant Lovitz had done what should could with his immediate wounds, but they were now set up in an abandoned outpost far enough outside of the city that no one should come looking.

It was well stocked, as a hub that he and his squad had laid low in on more than one occasion. Stark was positioned in a cot in a rather comfortable room, though there was a lock on the door itself as there was no saying what would happen when the man woke. He hadn't woken up in hours - the last time he had, he was groggy and incoherent, but it was an opportunity Zemo took to get at least a little bit of broth into him before he lost consciousness again.

Supervising the man, Zemo sat on a chair in the corner of the room, not far from the door. He was armed with several weapons, though only one remained unconcealed. In the meantime, he was flipping through a book with a cup of tea in hand, attempting to keep himself entertained.

#{ Colonel } #{ ironifiicd }

[secret-subject]

How much of your time in file creation is split between writing, recording and editing? When do you know when you've slipped into over-producing territory?

Wow great question!

So this depends on the project. My current process is I write a script, then I order the art and get the assets ready for production, record and edit and post.

Sometimes, a script will take a day or two to come together. Sometimes it takes weeks where I write a little bit of a script per day. I like to have three or four things on the go at once because my brain do be like that but once a script is "ready" I will often do a read aloud to get the mouth feel and flow down before I record. This also warms my brain up to how I'm going to deliver it on the mic and it helps me to hear if a thing sounds clumsy or if it works.

I like to batch my recording sessions because setting up my vocal booth from singing to hypnosis or asmr is a challenge so I may as well use that set up for multiple recordings. I will then spend a few hours recording all the scripts that are done that day. If I mess up a take I clap or snap to save my place and ensure I can make some clean cuts later. Pro tip, give yourself space either side of the mistake and start on a line you know had a bit of a break on it otherwise your cuts will be more obvious plus this will save MASSES of time later.

Editing is very quick for me. I use audacity, clean up background noise and use a very quick eq and compression preset. Cut the mistakes etc. If this audio has background sounds this can take me a few hours but most generic single layer hypnosis tracks only take 20 minutes to edit fully. I post immediately on patreon after the edit is done when I can because it's fresh in my head and I can make the CW writing easier (love having a bad memory for things haha).

So to answer the first question, it depends on the project. Sometimes the scripting is hard and fast and recorded in a single day. Sometimes its weeks of thinking, chopping and changing and then recording. I've spent six months on my longest projects because of procrastination but I've also made a lot of audios in hours because the inspiration strikes so there is no rule with how long it takes.

The second quesion. Over production is both easy and hard to do. A lot of the time I notice it in the sound of the recording. Over processing vocals can kill the vibe so I like to take a less is more approach. I'd rather have some road noise and a more raw and real vocal than an overdone one and as a friend of mine recently told me, perfection can be a creative killer.

In terms of overproduction in terms of scripting and timeline, do what feels right for you. There are many times I feel a script could use more pages, and sometimes I add them because it works but if you are struggling to word things or it feels like a chore, that's your instinct telling you it's done or you need to move on and try again later. Again, I'd rather have something shorter and more raw than something that feels like a slog to write and record. Like play with a partner it should feel natural and unrehearsed even Iof you've proofed it again and again.

I will say when you are starting out you will overthink the recordings. You will probably second guess it and judge it harshly and thats okay, but just post it. Sometimes all it takes is one person telling you thats their fave audio to help you gain confidence and make it all worthwhile.

But these are just how I do things and how I feel about creating audio hypnosis recordings. I encourage you and other creators to find what works for you. Maybe scripting isn't your thing, make its meticulously worked and edited, either way its your own.

I can't wait to see what you decide to make!

#hypnosis #content creator #hypnosis creator

[scifrey]

Cling Fast

By Losyark

Read below, or read the updated/edited version over on AO3.

The Sandman (Netflix with some sprinkling of comics canon, and Gaiman Cinematic-Literary Universe canon) Dreamling (Hob Gadling x Dream of the Endless | Morpheus) Complete Mature Unbeta’d

Hob Gadling is a clingy bastard, and he’s not ashamed to admit it. He clings to life. He clings to hope. He clings to his love of humanity. He clings to his Stranger. He also, unfortunately, has a habit of clinging to his name.

Which means, when the BBC is looking for a new pet history expert to appear in their educational docudrama series “Elizabethan Manor,” they’re overjoyed to find a professor of domestic history who, according to their meticulous research, is actually descended from the Master of the National Trust building they’re filming in - Gadlen House.

Only Hob knows how right they are.

Picks up a few hours after the end of Episode 6.

*

Author’s Note: I don’t know what I’m doing. New to this fandom, new to this ship, and this is the first fanfic I’ve written in over a year. I am just coming back from a creative burnout so bad that I ended up leaving my literary agent.

I haven’t written anything that isn’t loosely connected drabbles in literally years. So, I don’t know what’s going to happen with this fic. It may get written, it may fizzle. I have the idea plotted out, but I’m trying to approach it cautiously, with my eyes averted, in case it spooks and bolts.

That’s why I’m posting this here instead of AO3, I guess. I want to see if it’s something that resonates with people, and me, before I commit to posting it there.

*

Prologue

"One hundred years, then?" Hob's Stranger asks, hours later, when Hob's talked himself hoarse and his business partner is flipping chairs onto tables to mop. Hob's marking has been jammed unceremoniously into his briefcase and completely forgotten, and there are three empty pint glasses at his elbow. The wine glass in front of his Stranger is still full.

"2089 or 2122?" Hob asks, through disappointment like broken glass on his tongue.

Chapter One

The problem with Hob Gadling is that–and he will admit to this–he really is a bit clingy. Always has been. And sometimes it bites him straight in the arse.

Chapter Two

“Remarkable,” Doctor Harriet Butler says, freezing mid-handshake when she meets Hob’s eyes. “Just remarkable, the resemblance–”

“I’ve heard that a lot today,” Hob tries to interrupt, embarrassed by how much two separate BBC Historics production assistants have already gushed over him in the short walk from the Broadcast House lobby to this back office. 

Chapter Three

It's a diary. It's Eleanor's diary. Hob hadn't even known El had kept a diary.

“It’s her handwriting,” is the first shaky thing he says, flipping open the cover. “I… I never thought I’d see it again, I never…” the rest of the sentence is lost in an ugly, phlegmy hiccough.

Chapter Four

Hob spends the next month finalizing deal memos outlining compensation and percentages, which Lucienne helps him parse, and then quibbling with the legal department of the BBC on the actual phrasing of the longform contract to ensure he’s not accidentally signing away his soul. He’s already done one deal with an all-powerful, unknowable entity without being aware of what he was agreeing to. He’s not keen on doing it again.

Chapter Five

Either out of pity for his exhaustion or because he had duties of his own to prioritize, Morpheus doesn’t appear to Hob during his sleeping hours in this week. Hob only manages to concentrate enough to relocate himself to the castle only the one night. He finds himself alone in the throne room, and enjoys the opportunity to spend some time with his own company, after so many hours being crowded by the rest of the Historics team.

Chapter Six

Hob's house used to smell of—of flowers from the garden, and good clean horse sweat from his rides, and El's sweet perfumes, and the waft of fresh bread or sugar-and-rosewater from the kitchens, and the fatty funk of tallow candles burning, and whatever Robyn was into lately, mudpies or oil paints, and the polishing oils the servants used on the wood and boots, and the gentle fragrance of whiskey and porto after dinner, and… And now it just smells like aggressively, astringently nothing. Like a museum.

Chapter Seven

Hob wakes up with a splitting headache, but otherwise no other effects from his hangover. Except for the sinking feeling that comes with remembering that he screwed up his 1589 feast again. Would it be pathetic to try a third time? Especially knowing now that Morpheus rarely eats, and when he can be persuaded to, it's never British fare. Yeah, it would be pathetic.

Chapter Eight

For the first time in six hundred and seventy-two years, Hob is genuinely angry at Morpheus.

Chapter Nine

Hob throws the door of the flower shop open hard enough that it rattles in its frame. “Sorry!” he shouts. “And sorry, I know you’re about to close, I was stuck at work for hours and I just–” He looks around the shop, realizing that he is utterly, utterly out of his depth. “I need help.”

Chapter Ten

Today is the day that Hob drowns, and on the whole he's feeling pretty sanguine about it.

Chapter Eleven

Somehow, the summer and Hob's brush with the glitz and glam (more like the sleep deprivation and hurry-up-and-wait) of The Biz comes to an end. The first week of classes start up, and as he promised Morpheus, Hob eschews sleep in order to review the texts, and write the syllabuses and prepare the lectures that he didn't have time to over the summer. Morpheus only throws sand in his face and drags him down into the Dreaming twice, when Hob hadn't caught so much as a cat-nap on his junky office sofa in over forty-eight hours.

#Cling Fast #Losyark #dreamling #hob x dream #dream x hob #dreamling fic #dream #Hob gadling #dream of the endless #fanfiction #fanfic #sandman #the sandman #the sandman fic #the sandman fanfiction #hob x morpheus #morpheus x hob #morpheus #matthew the raven #centennial husbands #centennial boyfriends #lord morpheus #gaimanverse #hob gadling is his own ancestor #crackfic treated seriously #Aziraphale #crowley #good omens #death of the endless #Complete

[archaiclumina]

FFXIV Write 17: Make Up Day

Will this be the only entry I manage for FFXIV Write? Highly Likely c': Some author's ramblings at the end under the cut at the end for those interested c:

╒═══════✰° FFXIV Write 14: Clear Adjective 2. (of a substance) transparent; unclouded. free of cloud, mist, or rain. °✰═══════╛

It was late, just past the hour of midnight according to the chronometer tick-tocking quietly on the wall above the door. A clear night; outside the cloudless Thanalan sky sparkled brightly, it shone through the arched windows, splashing shafts of silver moonbeams across the plush Hannish rug.

Callineaux had already left, hours before. She could have gone home too, but she’d wanted to finish organizing the aetherozoology section, and time had gotten away from her. Still, the solitude wasn’t unpleasant. She could use it to think about things. Her own things. The things that weren’t her own. Whatever she wanted. No part to play, no rehearsed propriety. Just her and the quiet. It was always best though, to start with her own things. Her own thoughts and memories.

Her fingertips bent the edges of the cards gently.

They were old cards; hand-painted with enchanted inks, archaic inks of red and blue, silver and gold. Each made from six neat rectangles of linen-paper, pasted atop another, sealed with varnish made from flaxseeds and caelumtree sap. Handed down through the male descendants of the Mirandis family for the past hundred-and-seventy-five years.  She canted her head toward the sound as they fell atop one another; an asynchronous rapid-fire tempo of muted, susurrus snaps. It was a pleasant sound, filling the emptiness of her ears, drowning out the buzzing chorus of her brain.

She’d just taken them, the cards, as they packed up his things.

Her father’s things.

While they’d been bustling around in their clean, satin robes. Packing up his library and his study; his books, his treasures, his journals, all his little curios. One after the other, into crates. Lids nailed on. Shipped off somewhere to gather dust for the rest of her life.

Well, she’d decided, at the tender age of sixteen, they can’t have the cards.

So, when they were all far too busy shutting the wonder of a person’s life into little wooden boxes, she slipped the polished case of silvergrace into her pocket, quietly. They didn’t belong to them. They belonged to the Mirandis family. For a hundred-and-seventy-five-years. And she’d see them back where they belonged.

He was the one who should have had them. Not the Forum. Not her mother. Not some dusty old box in a room no one ever walked in. A hundred-and-seventy-five-years in their family. From father to son. And he was her father’s younger brother, his closest confidant, the one who’d climbed trees with him and crafted ciphers to trade in secrets as a child.

For months, she’d kept them hidden away. Behind the books on her shelves, or under the scarf in her bag. Meticulous in her determination to keep her mother from discovering them. Until months stretched into years. Spun into four turns of the star, until finally, she offered them to him on the docks upon the Isle of Val. Just before she’d been about to enter the Studium. She’d gone to visit him as soon as she knew he was there, in the Northern Empty. She had already pulled them out while she waited on the boat, gripping them tightly as she disembarked.

I saved these for you, Uncle Zan. She told him, balancing the worn case upon the flat of her palm.

But he’d known how badly she wanted them just by looking at her. Just by the faintest trace of nostalgia and melancholy, the barest lingering of it at the corners of her eyes as she’d looked up at him with one of those perfectly practiced smiles. Because of course, there are some emotions that simply can’t be hidden.

You keep them. He’d replied softly, closing her fingers back around the cool rectangle of silvergrace. He would want you to have them, Frenne; drawing out the second vowel, which usually escapes audible pronunciation, until it almost sounded like a y.

Frenne. It had been her childhood nickname, hardly used since she was ten. Never once used again by anyone, since that moment upon the pier.

Aforementioned authors ramblings

As it's make up day I thought I'd post just a little bit of OC writing I started on day 14, which was actually the 15th of September for me because I live in upside down land.

Most nights through August and September I have been working on my submission for the XIV Fantastic Fauxlore project. Mostly this has involved reading English translations of old Thai poems and listening to Thai poems learning about the syntax and meter of traditional forms of poetry from Thailand and Siam to help with the poem I want to include in my story. I'm using the Thai fantasy Epic Phra Abhai Mani as a narrative basis and writing an original Nagxian folk story, incorporating lore tidbits from in-game items and quests alongside common narrative elements present in Thai folk lore. Anyway, I can't talk too much about it or share much more about it until the project is ready for it's release. But, I can say even though It's been a lot of fun, and I am progressing well on my first draft, I did miss writing about my little blorbettes, so I took a little break to take them out and play with them.

I used this prompt to start off a piece I've been working on in the evenings this week and mostly finished up late last night ("finished up" aside from the finicky perfectionism which will of course have me picking at it for months to come still. What can I say, I'm a shithead glutton for punishing myself? c': )

I guess it's not really an official entry? Because the piece was planned out in my brain well in advance of this prompt popping up. I just took it on the day as the word that would help me finally start writing it and actually started writing it, instead of rotating it in my brain for another thirty-three weeks or something c':

Also, because my writing is ridiculously verbose for probably no good reason, (we won't talk about word counts...) this is just an excerpt from the opening featuring the prompt. Which means it sort of starts abruptly and kind of feels like the piece goes absolutely nowhere! Hooray! Sorry about that c': Maybe one day I will be brave and share something in its entirety but it is not today friends haha OTL

#ffxiv write 2023 #my drabbles #ren #my writing #idk what else to tag

[eoieopda]

I’m back again actually with one more request 😔😔

Jungkook:

^^^ this is actually the artist whose name I snatched for most of my online personas lolol

The entire album is banger, but this song is what introduced me to him. ^^

🤍🤍🤍

um, i made myself sad? anyways, here’s this! it doesn’t exaaaaactly follow the lyrics, but it’s what my brain conjured when i listened to this. i hope it’s okay 😵‍💫

listen here.

hey, old friend / hope to see you again / someday when the seasons change / i don’t mind a little wait / as long as i can pretend that i’m okay

It’s been exactly a year since you left home.

With 365 days between you and Busan, you’re still waiting for that bittersweet taste to leave your tongue. There’s a small, sad part of you that wants to dive headfirst into that pit of nostalgia in your chest; to swim down, all the way home to that city by the sea. The rest of you accepts reality: when your life calls you elsewhere, you have to pick up the phone.

Unlike a year ago, when you walk into your apartment this time, you’re not struggling to balance more boxes than you should’ve reasonably expected to carry at once. It’s not dark, it’s not empty, and there’s no longer a bare floor creaking under your unanticipated weight. Now, it’s home, filled with all your best-loved belongings.

Well, most of them. Somehow, there’s still an odd box or two tucked away, yet-unpacked.

On the walls hang framed prints of your very first designs: the awkward silhouettes you dreamed up as a kid, and the disproportionate people you’d drawn wearing them. The sketches flow across the wall in chronological order, reminding you how much your skills have improved over the years. At the end of the line, there’s proof in the form of a poster.

Your past self would never believe it, but your persistent inability to draw hands did not preclude you from showcasing your work at Seoul Fashion Week.

With your heels now off your feet and in your hands, you pad down the hall to your bedroom. The second you cross through the doorway, you make a beeline for your closet, flicking on the light switch next to the door before addressing that, too. Shoes returned to their meticulously organized, color-coded rack, you move on to a more daunting task: unzipping yourself from the dress you struggled immensely to zip in the first place.

It takes multiple minutes of twisting, turning, and contorting, but you finally manage to reach the zipper hiding between your shoulder blades. When you finally wiggle free of it, the dress falls into a puddle at your feet. Quickly, you bend to grab it. You promptly hang it in the “to be dry-cleaned” section of your closet, to be swiftly replaced with pajamas.

As you turn to walk back into your bedroom, a cardboard box catches your eye. It sits on the top shelf next to out-of-season outfits in vacuum-sealed bags. Visibly out of place among your artfully curated clothes, it’s a bit worse-for-wear — especially after the four-hour drive from its first home.

It takes less time to stack two hard-top suitcases on top of one another, climb on top of your haphazard pile, and pull the box down than it did to win the fight against your zipper. You waste no time in shooting a glare over your shoulder at the antagonist hanging remorselessly behind you.

Impatient as always, you drop to the floor and sit cross-legged with the box in front of you. Unlike every other box you’d moved with to Seoul, this one isn’t labeled in your chicken-scratch hangul. A little mystery, you open it cautiously as if its contents might bite.

Inside are the little trinkets you’d forgotten you’d kept: theatre ticket stubs, loose bits of confetti you’d saved from various concerts, photo booth picture strips with people you hadn’t seen or spoken much to since you left. Your heart twinges as you take in their faces. All of you had grown up and apart since you sat there, squished together and smiling.

There’s one artifact in particular that makes your heart flip. Sitting at the very bottom of the pile is the cell phone you thought you’d lost — one you apparently packed, but assumed was gone forever. As soon as you got to Seoul, you’d replaced it, but none of your data survived the switch over.

In a flash, you scramble to your feet and scurry out of your closet into your bedroom. It’s entirely unnecessary, but you vault yourself onto your bed and you don’t stop crawling until you get to the nightstand on the other side. Within seconds, you slot your new charger into your old phone. You wait with bated breath for signs of life.

It takes an eternity to finally turn back on, but once it does, your old phone screams at you for the multiple software updates you’d missed over the last year. You ignore those notifications, but there’s one you can’t.

A missed call and a voicemail received at some point during your drive north.

There’s no way to describe the feeling in your chest. Halfway between a thunderclap and an electric shock, it forces out a gasp, nonetheless.

Jeon Jungkook.

You’d gotten into a fight the month before you left, and just like that, years of friendship went up in smoke. He was angry at you for leaving him when he needed you; you’d cried because he didn’t seem to care what you wanted. It was messy and it broke your heart in two.

You never told him precisely why his lack of support stung so fucking bad.

By the time you piled your life into the trunk of your car, neither one of you had apologized for the cruel shit you’d said. His contact information was gone in a few hours’ time, and you never heard from him again.

Or so you thought.

Hey, it’s me. I — uhhh — I know you’re on your way out of town, and that I’m way too fucking late with this, but I can’t let you go like this. I can’t let you go, period. Not — not the way that sounds. I’m not trying to prohibit you from going anywhere. I mean that I — Fuck, I should’ve written out a script or something…. This isn’t going well, is it? Anyways, I miss you. I’ve been missing you this whole fucking month. And I really am happy for you — proud of you. Most of all, I’m sorry for being so fucking selfish. I just — call me when you get there, okay? Call me, and then I’ll know we’re okay. That we can be okay. I, uh… I love you. Drive safe.

#jade’s requests #jade’s drabbles #1k drabblepalooza #bts #jjk #jeon jungkook #jungkook #bts jungkook #bts drabble #bts imagine #bts scenarios #bts angst #jungkook drabble #jungkook imagine #jungkook scenarios #jungkook angst #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook x y/n #jeon jungkook x reader #bts jeon jungkook #jeon jungkook x you #jeon jungkook x y/n #jeon jungkook drabble #jeon jungkook angst #jeon jungkook imagine #jeon jungkook scenarios

[legendofzoodles]

The Chain and Time Management

From this ask

Time has been a productive functioning adult for a while now, he knows the rules of life, and you just need to get it done. Luckily he has an amazing wife who can divide the tasks with him: cleaning the stables, changing Epona's horse shoes, changing the sugar water etc. However, Time has a habit of taking more than his fair share of tasks and will often blitz through them without taking breaks.

Warriors is the multitasker. He's a busy guy with a lot of stuff to get done in any given day: put together next month's training schedule, finish his armour, finish that report on monster sightings east of Hyrule field etc. And he time manages by condensing as many compatable tasks as he can in the smallest possible time frame. Leading to ingenious plans like polishing his armour in the bath with one hand and writing a draft report with the other.  

Twilight is sensible, he takes it a step at a time. No need to plan when you've got the next task already cemented in your mind. No fuss, since he's happy to drop whatever he's doing to help someone. No stress, he paces himself, takes breaks when he needs to and just gets on with it.

Sky is pretty lazy. He doesn't manage his time at all. And most of the time he never has to; the only way anyone's gonna get him to do anything that isn't tending to his dear loftwing or spending time with Sun, it's by physically dragging him out of bed and dictating his schedule like a helicopter parent.

Legend prioritises. He'll always choose the most important ones first and work from there. Having gone on so many adventures alone he’s used to being kept busy, preferably juggling a few small little responsibilities while chipping away at a much larger endeavour. Through experience he knows how to keep a good pace, and enjoys completing tasks. 

Wild, sets time limits and when he doesn't get everything done he'll throw in the towel and get it done tomorrow. Maybe. He has a habit of procrastinating when he knows he’ll get away with it. 

Flora: Why is there a pile of weaponry in your room?

Wild: Oh, I was polishing them, but I ran out of time after the first sword.

Flora: How long did you give yourself?

Wild: About an hour.

Flora: It took you an hour to polish one sword??

Four is the planner, and a very meticulous one- even having scheduled times for organizing schedules. It helps him feel in control. He doesn’t have to worry about doing too much or doing too little when he’s laid it all out before. Plus, as a blacksmith who has many a meticulous order to work through, with new drop-ins on the daily, he needs that structure to stop him from feeling overwhelmed. 

Hyrule’s never really been one for time management. If something needs doing he’ll do it, from menial chores at home to a royal errand list, but he’s never been in a situation where he’s had too much to worry about. So, during the infrequent periods things do get stressful, he’ll allocate some time for himself. Break up an assigned mission for a quiet day in the woods or in his cozy cave-house experimenting with new potion recipes. 

Wind collaborates, if stuff needs to get done, he’s getting it done with the crew. Not only is it easier that way, but it makes it more enjoyable. He used to make games out of house chores with Aryll, like pretending he was a water painter when mopping or pretending the dishes could sing, all while keeping them productive. Tetra calls the shots on her ship, but often Wind’s the one to delegate tasks and will usually take part because it’s fun. 

~~~

Thanks for reading!

And I love the prompt anon!

Masterlist

9th place in the LU character design ranking

Character analysis posts:

Hero of the Sky, Hero of Time, Hero of Twilight, Hero of the Wild, Hero of Warriors

Parkour team - LU drabble

How each member of the chain laughs - LU headcanon

#zoodles ask #lu #linked universe #linkeduniverse #lu chain #lu time #lu twilight #lu warriors #lu wild #lu wind #lu hyrule #lu four #lu legend #lu sky #lu incorrect quotes #linked universe incorrect quotes #lu flora #lu drabble #lu fic ideas #lu fic idea #lu headcanons #lu headcanon #linked universe headcanons