#drawing on company hour again god bless

[comatosebunny09]

Devotion [ Pt. 5 ]

Summary: You have been his faithful bodyguard for years, and a dear friend of his for much longer. Can you blame him for wanting something beyond that of a loyal subject and king?

Genre: Romance, Fluff, Drama, Angst, Slow Burn, Modern AU

Warnings: Female Reader, Profanity

Recommended Listening: See You Tomorrow & Tomorrow - Evgeny Grinko

Taglist: @marsthegoblin @genuienlytired @auraee @ah-finally @jensynkujo @nanaoise08squad @mekkencspony @coldstonecrematorium @motzgurke @simpforerensattacktitan

Sorry if I missed anyone. 😭 I hope you guys enjoy. Thank you so much for reading!

Of the many ways for a young woman to find herself enthralled...

Well, you know the lot of them thanks to a certain fiery-haired monarch.

You figure that he is the most beautiful thing to ever grace this kingdom. Watch with childlike wonderment as he looms over his desk, coarse brows furrowed, lips pulled into a taut line. He’s been like this for an hour or so, mowing through the mountains of paperwork littering his study. His Majesty releases an occasional hum, tapping his fountain pen against the lacquered wood as he flips through a binder. 

Sanemi must’ve really gotten to him today.

The royal advisor cornered you both in the king’s quarters. Muttered something about ball preparations and what-have-you’s, demanding that Kyojuro “sit his ass down somewhere to do some fucking work.” You couldn’t help the snicker that tore itself from your frame, watching the two go at it from the doorway.

Not much has changed about their dynamic since middle school, you reflected, a fond cant to your lips.

“I will take care of it, my friend,” His Majesty promised, his hands up in mock surrender. A shamefaced grin adorned his face, tiny craters forming in his cheeks.

Sanemi marched up to you, pinning you with an amethyst glare. Thrust a finger in your face, his irritation emanating off him in waves. “Make sure his ass doesn’t leave this room until half that shit’s been signed, you hear me?”

You replied with a curt nod, stepping aside to allow the tactician to leave. The heavy door slammed behind you with finality, leaving you and your king in each other’s company. Kyojuro shrugged, flashing you a disarming smile that set your heart aflutter.

You wished that Sanemi would’ve stayed longer to maintain the peace. 

“A picture would last longer,” Kyojuro mumbles, drawing you back to present. He scrutinizes the documents laid out before him.

You straighten. Tilt your head whilst clearing your throat, ignoring the heat flooding your cheeks. You realize that you have been caught staring again. It’s a regular occurrence between you and your king. Can it really be helped, though?

The man is gorgeous in every sense of the word, glowing like the cinders he was forged from.

You swallow thickly. Try to tear your eyes from the pulsing veins in Kyojuro’s sinewy forearms—he’d discarded his jacket and rolled up his sleeves a little while ago. Loosened his necktie, his waistcoat wrapped snugly around his frame.

God bless his tailor, for they have cruel impeccable taste.

The sun swaths Kyojuro’s silhouette in its ethereal glow; its rays pouring through the ceiling-high windows of the study whilst it tucks itself behind the horizon. He is much too angelic this way, untouchable even. Someone like you doesn’t deserve his affections, what with the dirt caked under your nails and the scars littering your body. His Majesty deserves to court someone as beautiful as he is. Someone who will bring honor to his kingdom.

Not a lowly bodyguard charged only with keeping him safe.

Kyojuro sighs, fetching another set of documents. Pierces through your ruminations again, asking, “how long do you plan to stand there gawking at me?” He levels his luminous optics with yours. His lips curve into an inviting smirk, chin resting on his palm. 

You stiffen, cursing your wandering eyes. “I-I’m not. I mean, I wasn’t, Majesty—”

“Sit,” Kyojuro beckons, motioning to the gold-crusted, emerald couch adjacent to him.

“I shouldn’t—”

“Sit.” His tone leaves no room for argument.

With hesitancy and a dispirited sigh, you meander over to your king’s side. Drop yourself onto the pillowy cushions, clasping your hands together in your lap. This is also routine between the pair of you.

He’s always had something against you standing guard at the door, so you’re often held captive like this while he works. It most certainly has nothing to do with him being irrevocably taken by you.

You puff out your cheeks, eyes skittering every which way but on your wayward king. You feel his eyes drilling into the side of your head. See him shamelessly staring at you through your peripheral, and it takes all of you not to shrink into yourself.

If a staring contest is what His Majesty wants…

You throw caution to the wind, fixing him with your own pointed stare. His lashes flutter closed; eyes wrinkled at the corners. He beams at you, boasting his pearly whites. Wordlessly, he reaches out to squeeze your hands settled rigidly atop your thighs. You tense, your breath lodged in your throat, heart jackhammering in the forefront of your ears.

Hot, hot. Terribly so. He always is. The action alone is enough to make you lightheaded whilst his thumb makes swift expeditions over your blanched knuckles. 

“Now I can focus,” he murmurs. Couples it with a deep chuckle as you sputter, the sound vibrating your spine. Kyojuro retracts his hand to turn back to his desk, taking up his pen with renewed vigor.

What’s that supposed to mean, you silently simmer, a quieted pout descending onto your lips. You’re bereft of the loss of contact, but what for? This is nothing new, the fleeting touches and stolen glances. So, what’s got you so out of sorts today?

You are thankful for your proximity to your king, nonetheless. From this angle, you get to see all of him. Greedily ingest the sight before you, and he is a work of art.

His Adam’s apple bobs whilst he swallows. The faint scent of citrus permeates your nostrils. Biceps ripple beneath his snug, silken dress shirt; vein in his neck pulsates enticingly. You battle with a sudden inclination to kiss it, saliva puddling in your mouth. You wonder what pretty sounds you can emit from him; if you can turn him to mush the same way he does to you each day.

Silly woman, you chastise, shaking your head. What on earth are you thinking about?

You sit like this in silent contemplation for a beat, transfixed on every twitch of his muscles. The scribbling of his pen is the only sound exchanged between you. You pick your fingernails, obligated to fill the stillness.

“Are you—”

“Do you—”

Amber eyes flit to yours. Kyojuro chuckles, rubbing his nape. It’s hard to miss the color tinging the tips of his ears. Your lips quirk the slightest, butterflies skittering about in your stomach.

How unlike His Majesty to be so bashful in your company.

“Apologies,” Kyojuro mutters, tugging his necktie free from its collar. Turns to you with undivided attention. “What were you about to say?”

“Ah, n-nothing. Um, what were you going to say, Majesty?” Suddenly, the onyx buttons of your coat are so very interesting, a flush of your own creeping its way into your skin.

“Do you have plans for the long weekend?”  

You perk up. Find it hard to meet his gaze, but you admit, “not really.”

“Really,” he hums thoughtfully.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“You are off tomorrow, yes?”

You nod in confirmation. Honestly, you need it, what with you working tiring hours as a glorified babysitter. You care deeply for your king. However, keeping up with him and his indomitable spirit is taxing on its own. Couple this with your unchecked feelings for him, and you have quite the exhaustive cocktail.

Your only warning is the rustling of paper.

Suddenly, the couch dips beside you. He’s moved faster than you can process, a blur of yellows and reds. Curse his trainer for honing his cat-like movements.

He swaddles you in his overwhelming heat and commanding presence. A gasp rends itself from your throat. Your knees bump, thighs graze. He is uncomfortably close, and it’s become much too hot again. You feel restricted by your uniform. Has it always had this many layers?

Your king looks to you with delight. Drapes an arm across the back of the sofa, closing in until your noses almost touch. “Will you be accompanying me, then?”

You reel back, crashing into the chair’s arm. Swallow. “A-accompanying you? Where?” You weren’t informed of any movement going on during your weekly brief. So, what is he on about?

Uncertainty meddles with his voice. “I’d assumed Uzui had informed you of tomorrow’s excursion.”

The mere mention of your commander causes your brow to twitch. “He hasn’t told me a thing, Majesty.”

With a guilty sigh, Kyojuro scratches his temple. “Well,” he begins, leaning forward with his elbows pressed into his powerful thighs. “There is a bazaar in town. On the outskirts of the citadel, actually.” He glances at you to gauge your reaction. Searches your eyes for any opposition. You urge him forward with inquisitive brows.

“I wanted to attend so that I could find a nice gift for the prince.” Kyojuro wets his lips, suddenly averting his gaze. Of course. A gift for his dearest brother. He’d be back from the countryside soon. “Uzui was more than enthusiastic about joining me. I figured he would’ve invited you as well.”

A pang strikes your chest, searing like white lightning. And you thought you were all friends. Though you’re never too keen on the idea of His Majesty leaving the citadel alone, you also know that he prefers to travel discreetly. A ring of bodyguards and staff looming about would only draw more attention to him. Besides, it isn’t too often that he gets to leave the castle without some official business being tacked onto it. And, Tengen is more than capable of fending off any attempts on your king’s life.   

“I wouldn’t want to impede, Majesty,” you say haughtily. Since the offer had slipped Tengen’s mind, you felt it best to take it out on your king—

“I want you to come,” he declares, patting your hand, a hopeful lilt to his voice. “That is, if you would like to join us.” Irises glimmer like those of a puppy.

You sigh heavily, lips twitching into a small smile. Try as you might, you’ve never been able to resist him like this. “I would love to, Your Majesty.”

He beams at you, once again propelling himself into your personal bubble. “Might I make one final request?” ventures the king, mischief bubbling in those mirthful eyes of his.

You nod dumbly, hooked onto his every movement. “S-sure, sir.”

Suddenly, the silken strands of your hair waterfall onto your shoulders, spilling from the crude bun you had fashioned it into after your king had so graciously stolen your hairpin. You stammer, an astonished look taking up residence on your features.

He’d done it again.

Kyojuro’s expression melds into one of endearment. He beholds you with boyish fascination, engraining every spasm of your lips selfishly into his memory. “I prefer you like this,” he whispers, breath wafting across your flustered exterior. “Please wear your hair down from now on.”

You cannot help the warmth that wades over you at his request. Your heart overflows with glee. He always knows how to disorient you with his satiny, manipulative words.

You resist a faint whimper whilst Kyojuro twines one of your sleek coils about his finger. He wears that look again; the one he always dons before trying to kiss you. The sweet-talker. Maybe you will let him get away with it this time. Your tongue darts from betwixt your quivering lips to dampen them. Eyes half-slit. You glimpse down at his waiting mouth, watching with bated breath as it pans in.

To hell with it, you contemplate, feeling his fingers creep like spindly spider legs up the nape of your neck. He threads limber digits in your tresses, drawing you further into him. For a moment, you relinquish yourself to your desires. To hell with being his bodyguard. To hell with his monarchy, and with you feeling like the lowest on the totem pole. You’re hyperaware of his mouth so close, your breaths fusing together.

If not for the door being thrown open noisily behind you, you might’ve finally let your king have his way.

<< Previous | Masterlist | Masquerade >>

#kyojuro x reader #rengoku x reader #my works #devotion series #rengoku kyojuro #demon slayer fanfic #kny fanfic #self indulgent #king!kyojuro #king!rengoku

[strawberridrops]

tagged by @quimerical :> 1) named after anyone? i partially named myself after someone, but the name i mostly use in day-to-day life is not named after anyone.  

2) last time you cried? had a big cry last sunday

3) do you have any kids? nope

4) do you use sarcasm a lot? pretty frequently, yeah.  5) what’s the first thing you notice about people? idk 6) color of your eyes? very dark brown 

7) scary movies or happy endings? i dont watch scary movies so happy endings i guess, although i dont always write them in my short stories

8) any special talents? being silly on company time  9) where were you born? the US of A (derogatory)  10) hobbies? writing, reading, drawing, playing video games 

11) any pets? yes, i have an ouppy at home (* ^ ω ^) also chickens although i consider those more livestock than pets 

12) what sports do you/have you played? field hockey (elementary/middle school) and track (high school.) never again god bless 

13) how tall are you? 5′2″

14) favorite subject in school? social science/history/english

15) dream job?  thats currently what im trying to figure out lol. something socially impactful/meaningful that involves writing and doesnt force me to mask tagging: @whimperandabang @suckmygncnis @xialing-gf​

[ID: Picture of an angel lying on the ground with the caption “me after being awake for 1 hour”. End ID.]

#personal

[dinaive]

Story of Prophet Yunus/Jonah (pbuh)

Ibn Kathir

Prophet Jonah (Yunus) (pbuh) also known as Dhan-Nun. About his people Almighty Allah said:  Was there any town community that believed after seeing the punishment, and its Faith at that moment, saved it from the punishment? (the answer is none)--except the people of Jonah; when they believed, We removed from them the torment of disgrace in the life of the present world, and permitted them to enjoy for a while. (Ch 10:98 Quran)

The inhabitants of the town of Nineveh were idolaters who lived a shameless life. Prophet Jonah (pbuh) was sent to teach them the worship of Allah. The people disliked his interference in their way of worship, so they argued. "We and our forefathers have worshipped these gods for many years and no harm has come to us."

Try as he might to convince them of the foolishness of idolatry and of the goodness of Allah's laws, they ignored him. He warned them that if they kept on with their foolishness, Allah's punishment would soon follow. Instead of fearing Allah, they told Jonah that they were not afraid of his threats. "Let it happen," they told him. Jonah was disheartened. "in that case, I will leave you to your misery!" so saying, he left Nineveh, fearing that Allah's anger would soon follow.  Remember Dhan Nun (Jonah), when he went off in anger, and imagined that We shall not punish him (the calamities which had befallen him)! (ch 21:87)

Hardly had he left the city when the skies began to change color and looked as if they were on fire. The people were filled with fear by this sight. They recalled the destruction of the people of 'Ad, Thamud and Noah. Was theirs to be a similar fate? Slowly faith penetrated their hearts. They all gathered on the mountain and started to beseech Allah for His mercy and forgiveness. The mountains echoed with their cries. It was a momentous hour, filled with sincere repentance.

Allah removed His wrath and showered His blessings upon them once again. When the threatening storm was lifted, they prayed for the return of Jonah so that he could guide them.

Meanwhile, Jonah had boarded a small ship in the company of other passengers. It sailed all day in calm waters with a good wind blowing at the sails. When night came, the sea suddenly changed. A horrible storm blew as if it were going to split the ship into pieces. The waves looked wild. They rose up as high as mountains then plunged down like valleys, tossing the ship and sweeping over the deck.

Behind the ship, a large whale was splitting the water and opening its mouth. A command had been issued from Almighty Allah to one of the greatest whales of the sea to surface. It obeyed. The whale hurried to the surface of the sea and followed the ship as it had been commanded.

The tempest continued and the chief crewman asked the crew to lighten the ship's heavy load. They threw their baggage overboard, but this was not enough. Their safety lay in reducing the weight further, so they decided among themselves to lighten their load by removing at least one person. 

The captain directed: We will make lots with all of the travelers' names. The one whose name is drawn will be thrown into the sea." Jonah knew this was one of the seamen's traditions when facing a tempest. It was a strange polytheistic tradition, but it was practiced at that time. Jonah's affliction and crisis began.

Here was the prophet, subjected to polytheistic rules that considered the sea and the wind to have gods that riot. The captain had to please these gods. Jonah reluctantly participated in the lot, and his name was added to the other travelers' names. The lot was drawn and "Jonah" appeared.

Since they knew him to be the most honorable among them, they did not wish to throw him into the angry sea. Therefore, they decided to draw a second lot. Again Jonah's name was drawn. They gave him a final chance and drew a third lot. Unfortunately for Jonah, his name came up again.

Jonah realized that Allah's hand was in all this, for he had abandoned his mission without Allah's consent. The matter was over, and it was decided that Jonah should throw himself into the water. Jonah stood at the edge of the ship looking at the furious sea. It was night and there was no moon. The stars were hidden behind a black fog. But before he could be thrown overboard, Jonah kept mentioning Allah's name as he jumped into the raging sea and disappeared beneath the huge waves.

The whale found Jonah floating on the waves before it. It swallowed Jonah into its furious stomach and shut its ivory teeth on him as if they were white bolts locking the door of his prison. The whale dived to the bottom of the sea, the sea that runs in the abyss of darkness. 

Three layers of darkness enveloped him, one above the other; the darkness of the whale's stomach, the darkness of the bottom of the sea, the darkness of the night. Jonah imaged himself to be dead, but his senses became alert when he found he could move. He knew that he was alive and imprisoned in the midst of three layers of darkness. His heart was moved by remembering Allah. His tongue released soon after saying: La ilaha illa Anta (none has the right to be worshipped but You (O Allah), Glorified (and Exalted) be You (above all that evil they associate with You), Truly, I have been of the wrong doers." (Ch 21:87 Quran)

Jonah continued praying to Allah, repeating this invocation. Fishes, whales, seaweeds, and all the creatures that lived in the sea heard the voice of Jonah praying, heard the celebration of Allah's praises issuing from the whale's stomach. All these creatures gathered around the whale and began to celebrate the praises of Allah in their turn, each in its own way and in its own language.

The whale also participated in celebrating the praises of Allah and understood that it had swallowed a prophet. Therefore it felt afraid; however, it said to itself; "Why should I be afraid? Allah commanded me to swallow him."

Allah Almighty saw the sincere repentance of Jonah and heard his invocation in the whale's stomach. Allah commanded the whale to surface and eject Jonah onto an island. The whale obeyed and swam to the farthest side of the ocean. Allah commanded it to rise towards the warm, refreshing sun and the pleasant earth.

The whale ejected Jonah onto a remote island. His body was inflamed because of the acids inside the whale's stomach. He was ill, and when the sun rose, its ray burned his inflamed body so that he was on the verge of screaming for the pain. However, he endured the pain and continued to repeat his invocation to Allah.

Almighty Allah caused a vine to grow to considerable length over him for protection. Then Allah Exalted caused Jonah to recover and forgave him. Allah told Jonah that if it had not been for his praying to Him, he would have stayed in the whale's stomach till the Day of Judgment.

Almighty Allah recounted: And, verily, Jonah was one of the Messengers. When he ran to the laden ship, he agreed to cast lots and he was among the losers, Then a big fish swallowed him and he had done an act worthy of blame. Had he not been of them who glorify Allah, he would have indeed remained inside its belly (the fish) till the Day of Resurrection. But We cast him forth on the naked shore while he was sick and We caused a plant of gourd to grow over him. And We sent him to a hundred thousand people or even more, and they believed; so We gave them enjoyment for a while. (Ch 37:139-148 Quran).

Gradually he regained his strength and found his way to his hometown, Nineveh. He was pleasantly surprised to notice the change that had taken place there. The entire population turned out to welcome him. They informed him that they had turned to believe in Allah. Together they led a prayer of thanksgiving to their Merciful Lord.

Ibn Abbas narrated: "The Prophet Muhammad (pbuh) said: 'One should not say I am better than Jonah Ibn Matta.'" (Sahih Bukhari).

[angryschnauzer]

Bubbles

Summary: After a long hot day at work and a nightmare journey home, you find your husband has a very welcome and refreshing surprise for you in the form of a full size jacuzzi in your back garden.

Pairing: Captain Syverston x Female Reader Wife (no race or size mentioned)

Fandoms: Sand Castle (Movie), Henry Cavill.

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, Established Relationship, Semi Public Sex, Fingering, Oral (Female Receiving), Unprotected Vaginal Sex, Creampie, Alcohol consumption.

I do not run a tag list, but please follow @angryschnauzerwrites​ and put that blog onto notifications for future stories. All past works can be found on there or on my AO3.

Bubbles

It had been a long day. Work had been hot and sweaty, customers were grouchy and some even tried to pull the 'speak to the manager' bullshit, even though you were the manager. Traffic had been a nightmare, your car deciding that the middle of a heatwave would be the perfect time for the air conditioning to stop working, simultaneously with a truck of maple syrup hitting the central concrete barrier and spilling its sticky load. 

Snerk. You snorted a laugh through the sweat. Sticky load… your husband would have made a whole bunch of dirty comments and jokes about being covered in sticky loads. You couldn't wait to get home to see him, it was the fact that he had now retired from the Army and would be happily waiting for you at home every night that made each day worthwhile. 

When Sy had finally retired you'd wept tears of joy, every day was a blessing. You'd discussed what you were both going to do with jobs, your contract was up in 3 months time, Sy was drawing a military pension and had saved a considerable nest egg. He'd also taken to industrial upcycling; making lamps and coffee tables out of engines and car parts, which had been massively popular. You had to admit when you saw him in his workshop with his acetylene torch and welding mask on, cutting enormous chunks of metal in half and creating brutal beauty from the elements you were immediately turned on by the raw virility of the sight.

When you eventually pulled onto the driveway, a quick glance towards his workshop told you he'd finished for the day, and as you let yourself into your house you called out to him;

"Sy?"

"Out here" came his slightly muffled reply, and you realised he was probably sitting on the patio out back, nursing a beer.

"I'm gonna run upstairs and take a shower, the aircon in my car has stopped working"

"Darlin, come out here first… i got something that'll refresh you"

Rolling your eyes you started to unbutton your blouse;

"Really Sy, i'm all sweaty and stinky…"

"Woman…" he growled;  "I said get out here…"

If any other man had called you 'woman' you'd knocked them out, but you knew Sy and for him it was a term of endearment. Quietly walking through the kitchen you reached the back door and patio;

"Sy…" you started to speak, but was cut short when you saw what he'd been referring to.

Sat on the corner of your patio, shielded from view by the trellis covered in Clematis blooms was an inflatable hot tub, bubbling away with your mountain of a man sat in it, arms spread out on each side as he held a beer and grinned at you;

"Told ya' i had something that'd cool you down"

Pressing your hand to the side of it you tested the water, smiling when you found it the perfect temperature;

"You bought a hot tub?"

"Rented. Wanted to see if we liked it before we made the investment. Why don't you get in and give it a go?"

"Sure, i'll just go get changed into my bathing costume"

Sy's glinted with mischief;

"Why? I ain't wearing one…"

You weren't sure;

"Its rented? Is it clean?"

"Spent all afternoon flushing the system and giving it a full wipe down, even though the rental company says they do it after each use… i know how you are with hygiene" he moved in the massive tub, moving to the side where you stood;

 "Now are ya gonna get naked or am i gonna have to rip those clothes off of ya?"

A minute later you were climbing in, work clothes hastily discarded in a pile on the patio, Sy holding your hand as he guided you into the bubbly water and you immediately let out a long low moan as the jets of water soothed and massaged your weary body;

"Oh Sy… this feels amazing…"

"C'mere…"

His massive hands cradled your torso, pulling you through the water until you were able to straddle his lap, his mouth meeting yours for a fierce kiss. As your tongues danced together he smoothed his hands over your back, massaging the day's stresses away to the point where let your head tilt back. Resting in his strong arms you let your back touch the water, smiling as the warm summer breeze danced over your breasts, before that skilled mouth was on your breasts, sucking on one nipple then the other, before he shifted and you were floating on the water, his mouth on your pussy. 

You weren’t the tiniest of girls, but you had utter trust in Sy that he could hold you up whilst eating you out. The man would easily heave around 10 foot iron beam railroad tracks to make into coffee tables, he’d pushed his truck home when the engine had died and that is no mean feat when it comes to a Ford F350. So with that knowledge safe in your mind you could thoroughly relax and let his tongue work magic on your clit as his beard tickled your folds. You came with a cry and he swallowed down your essence, before lowering you into the water and onto his lap.

As he lowered you you felt his hardness seek you out, sliding through your folds before you reached down and positioned him at your entrance, wrapping your arms around his shoulders as you let yourself be slowly impaled on his shaft. With the worries and stresses of the day easing away with each blissful bubble that popped on your skin you sought out his lips for another kiss as you started to ride him, the friction palatable as the noise of the motor covered the sighs and moans the two of you were making. Sy’s hands firmly gripped your ass, pulling you up and down on his gnarled shaft;

“Fuck… You look so fucking good riding me Darlin’. Definitely gonna get a permanent one of these installed… might get you a coupla’ white bikini’s as i’d love to see these titties through the soaked fabric, would be such a treat…” he grinned at you; “A titty treat…”

Grinning at him you squeezed your pelvic muscles, finally shutting him up so you could concentrate as you chased your orgasm;

“Sure Sy, i’ll get a white bikini… you want me to do the gardening in it too? Watching me on my hands and knees as i plant the petunia’s?”

“Woman, i’ll fucking take you from behind right on the lawn if you do that” he growled, thrusting his hips up sharply and finding your g-spot. One of his hands crept around your hip and between your bodies, seeking out your clit as he ran his calloused thumb over the sensitive nub. From the way he was bouncing you on his lap you could tell he was getting close, his teeth gritted as he tried to hold off from cumming, but with no luck. His hands gripped your hips to stop you from moving in the hope it’d delay his orgasm. You watched as his eyes rolled back in his head and his head fell back against the side of the spa, thrusting his hips up as he swore out a litany of curses as his body reached its peak before he’d have wanted to;

“Fuck fuck fuck… ah god… i’m sorry… fuck…”

Cradling the back of his head in your fingers you stroked at the short hair as you dipped your head down and pressed open mouthed kisses to his neck and shoulders. With his eyes still shut he pulled a hand out of the water and raked it down his face before looking up at you, his blue eyes sparkling;

“Ah fuck i’m sorry Darlin’... lemme see about getting you sorted…don’t get off just yet…”

He slid his hand back between your bodies, his thumb back on your clit. His other hand moved to your breasts, using his mouth on one nipple as he pinched the other between his thumb and forefinger. Writhing on his lap you could feel your orgasm rapidly approaching, Sy knowing exactly how to play your body like a guitar as you sang out your siren song that was a blessing to his ears. 

As your orgasm washed over you Sy held you in his arms, letting you ride out your pleasure as he relished the feel of your body surrounding him. Slumped in his arms you nuzzled at his neck, happily riding the waves of pleasure that echoed around your body. 

“You ok there Darlin’?” Sy purred, smoothing his massive palm over your back like a giant bear paw.

“Hmmn” you hummed, stopping mid response when you felt him shift and realised he was hard again; “Sy?”

He looked at you, a smirk on his face as he cocked an eyebrow;

“Darlin… you know when i blow my load real fast i’m ready for another round… your sweet little pussy massaged me back to full health” he pressed a kiss to your nose; “Now turn around and bend over, hand on the side… i’m gonna rail that juicy pussy from behind, see how many times i can make you cum before i shoot load number two”

Manhandling you in the water you let out a shriek as he thrust into you from behind, your walls still tight from your previous orgasm and he did exactly as promised, splitting you open from behind as his powerful thighs railed you harder than the transcontinental express. With his heavy ballsack slapping against your clit you were soon cumming again, Sy fucking you straight through it before he brought you to another orgasm soon after as he filled you with another sticky load.

As you both tried to recover from the energetic synchronised aquatics he pulled you flush with his chest as he sank down into the water, letting you lay back against his chest as your bodies were still joined. His hands skimmed over your torso beneath your breasts, cupping them tenderly;

“We’re getting one of these, right Darlin’?”

“Hmmm, absolutely”

You sat there for a good half hour, cradled in Sy’s arms as you told each other about your day, before your skin wrinkled and it was time to get out.

-

Later that evening Sy had driven the pair of you to the main hardware store in town that he’d rented the Spa from, and you’d ordered the parts and equipment for your very own one. As Sy had started getting deep into conversation with the sales guy who turned out had also recently retired from the Army you tugged on Sy’s sleeve;

“Honey, i’m gonna pop to Walmart next door”

“Sure thing Darlin, i’ll catch up with you in fifteen minutes”

Just as promised Sy found you fifteen minutes later as you browsed through the clothing section, and you spotted that he was swinging a small clothes hangar from his finger;

“What you got there?” you asked

Sy held it up and your eyes practically bulged out of your head; He had found the tiniest white bikini, that although was your size, was little more than three small triangles of fabric connected with the thinnest of strings;

“Exactly what we discussed… now i see ya got a bottle of tequila and some snacks, how about we head home and we can test this out?”

Grinned you nodded;

“Just one thing…”

“Yeah Darlin?”

“We need to grab a few more of those… there’s no way that is gonna survive one wear with you around”

Nodding in agreement Sy grinned, taking the basket from your hand as he wrapped his free arm around your shoulders;

“See, that’s why i married ya’, thinking ahead…”

He pressed a kiss to your hair as he led you back to the display of swimwear, grinning as you pulled out numerous other cheap pieces of swimwear, knowing full well Sy would destroy them as thoroughly as he destroys your pussy.

#syverson x you #syverson smut #captain syverson #captain sy x reader #henry cavill

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

Needles & Ink, Pt 2 (NSFW)

Lena slips in the back door of the InkSpot. She pauses just inside, absorbing the utter silence that fills the place. Gone is the thumping music, and buzzing of machines. Gone is the bustle of clients coming and going. It's completely and utterly still.

At nearly 4am, it's well past normal operating hours, even for the night crowd. Lena knows she herself ought to be in bed, catching as many winks as she could before her next morning meeting, but-- even after a day of committees and endless reports, Lena is absolutely wired. She'd known tugging on James' door would be a long shot, but when it opened she'd hoped her fellow night owl might be down for a late tattoo session. 

Looking out across the darkened shop, though, it seems more likely that James has simply forgotten to lock the back door. She pulls out her phone, intent on teasing James into oblivion, but freezes when an odd sound drifts out of James' office.

It sounds almost like a moan, but when it's followed by another, longer moan of a different pitch, Lena realizes someone is humming. Someone in the office is humming a Bonnie Tyler song.

Total Eclipse of the Heart, to be exact. 

Lena saunters silently to the office door and leans against it, taking a moment to observe Kara Danvers humming along to the music playing in her ears. She's bent over paperwork, and despite the hour and the solitude a soft smile graces her lips, pulling one to Lena's own face at the sight of it.

"You look good," she says in a low voice.

Kara jumps violently in her seat, jolting the entire desk with the force of her gasp.

"Oh my sweet baby Jesus!!" she exclaims, pressing a hand to her chest. When she looks up, Kara sags at the sight of Lena. "You scared me!"

Lena watches Kara remove her earbuds, and folds her arms over her chest, still leaning against the door frame. "Sorry," she purrs unapologetically. She smiles. "How are you? It's been a while."

"Good, good. I mean, I'm-- I'm in Metropolis! Wait-- you're in Metropolis! What are you doing here??"

Lena gives a tilt of her head. "Business. I may have moved my company to National City, but it still feels as though I do more business here than there these days."

"Right, um..." Kara suddenly looks nervous, casting a worried look past Lena into the hallway. "Sorry, but um.... we're kind of closed? Actually-- how did you get in here?"

Lena huffs a faint laugh. "Back door. James lets me slip in now and then. I was hoping he would have time for a quick session."

"Oh, um... I'm the only one here. Sorry."

"Don't be," Lena smiles. "It's good to see you. Is James treating you well? I don't need to yell at him, do I?"

"Oh, no! No, no, he's been great-- everyone has been really amazing, truly. I couldn't have asked for better hosts. I've been loving it here."

Lena nods, glad to hear it. Pushing off the door jamb, she lets her arms fall, clasping her hands in front of her. "Well, I won't keep you. It was good to see you--"

"W-wait!" Kara jerks to her feet, slamming into the desk yet again in her haste to keep Lena from leaving. Lena pauses, biting back a smile at her clumsiness. "James isn't here, but I am. Why don't we do some more work on your crane?"

"Oh, it's late--"

"No, I-- I mean, I'll text James to make sure it's okay, but... I'm down if you are."

Lena regards her for a long moment. 

"Okay."

--- 

There’s something ethereal in the moments that follow. James gives his blessing, which Kara barely notices past the distraction that is Lena Luthor unbuttoning her blouse. Backlit by a halo of neon light, she looks like a hazy dream, long and beautiful and full of mystery even as she lays herself bare. 

In deference to the late hour, Kara keeps the overheads off, and simply turns on her worklight. The spill of light pulls Lena’s attention to her, catching her watching. In the shadows, Lena smiles coyly. 

“Like what you see?” Lena asks, casting her shirt aside. She takes a wide stance, presenting herself to Kara’s gaze in all her tattooed glory. Maybe it’s the late hour, but Kara allows her gaze to linger, charting a path from the stylized storm brewing at Lena’s collarbones, to the dragon that disappears down one hip. 

“Always,” she murmurs.

Lena looks aside for a moment-- when she looks back, it’s with a heat that sends a bolt of desire straight to Kara’s core. She takes a breath that quakes in her lungs, and then suddenly Lena is there, tucking a wisp of hair behind Kara’s ear.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you since our first session,” Lena murmurs. 

A flush heats Kara’s neck and face. “Me either,” she confesses. “I mean. You too--”

Her blunder is swallowed by a kiss. Lena’s lips press against Kara’s, warm and soft and absolutely intoxicating. Kara lifts her hands, framing Lena’s face and pulling her closer to deepen the kiss. She’s rewarded with a muted moan, and Lena’s hands on her hips, thumbs brushing beneath the hem of Kara’s tank top.

“You are so beautiful,” Kara breathes when they part, panting for air. There’s an insistent throbbing between her legs, aching for more. Lena’s hand cups her gently, making her whimper. 

“May I?” Lena whispers against her ear. Biting her lip, Kara nods. Only then does Lena unbutton Kara’s jeans with her long fingers, peeling the denim away to reveal her panties. Kara’s completely forgotten hat she’s wearing until Lena laughs, low and throaty in Kara’s ear.

The pizza panties. Goddammit. 

“I love them,” Lena murmurs, reassuring her. “But I’d love them even better on my bedroom floor.”

Oh god. Kara envisions a clean penthouse apartment, spotless save for the mess of their discarded clothes. But here in the shop? Gross.

“Guess I’ll just have to make do,” Lena says, hitching up the legs of her trousers to kneel between Kara’s legs. In moments, Kara’s pants and panties are both below her hips and a warm tongue sweeps through her folds, collecting the moisture of her arousal in a single taste. Lena hums with pleasure before her thumb gets to work against Kara’s bare clit. 

Kara quivers, nearly staggering as her body reacts. Lena’s hands brace her hips, steadying her. 

“All right there?” she asks, playfully teasing. Kara whimpers with a nod. To her surprise, Lena guides Kara’s leg to rest over her shoulder, until Kara’s stretched and gaping at her very core. “Press against me if you need to.”

Kara nods again. She doesn’t last long. In mere moments she’s moaning and writhing against Lena’s mouth, shuddering as waves of ecstasy roll through her. Lena’s tongue continues to guide her through her orgasm, pressing firmly to calm her through the aftershocks. When she finally pulls away, Kara can’t bend down fast enough to kiss her own taste away from Lena’s lips.

“On the table,” Kara urges, pulling Lena from her knees. She hastily pulls her pants up, but leaves them unfastened as she quickly devotes her attention to the curves of Lena’s body. Lena doesn’t quite make it on top of the table. She settles for leaning against its edge as she kisses Kara soundly, her hands buried in Kara’s hair. 

Kara kisses her messily, wet and sloppy, but Lena can’t seem to get enough. She only pulls her hands away to fumble at the back zipper of her dress pants, until Kara nudges her. “Turn around,” she murmurs.

Lena turns, and Kara carefully unzips her trousers. They fall to her ankles, exposing the rest of Lena’s tattoos. Kara takes a moment to admire them, kneeling to run her hands from Lena’s hip to her ankle, tracing the shape of the tiger clawing up one leg and the dragon coiling down the other. Even in the low light Kara can see the artistry, the mastery of the craft that has been inked into Lena’s skin. And there, curving around Lena’s ribs, a crane peeks out-- Kara’s own offering to the altar that is Lena’s body.

Unlike Kara’s pizza panties, Lena is resplendent in black lace. The fabric hugs Lena’s hips and ass in a tantalizing display. Kara can barely breathe as she stands and runs her fingers across the floral threadwork. Her whimper is eclipsed by a wonton moan from Lena’s throat, her hips pressing out and back against Kara’s hands.

“Kara…”

Lena’s voice is heady, even breathless. It sends a shudder of delirium down Kara’s spine. How is this her life. But Lena’s need is real and evident in the heady utterance, prompting Kara to hook her fingers under the panties and delicately sliding them down Lena’s hips. Every inch of Lena’s inked buttocks steals Kara’s breath, leaving her gasping by the time Lena shifts plaintively in her heels. Finally, Kara cups Lena from behind, and when Kara finds arousal nearly dripping from Lena’s core, she swallows thickly.

“Relax for me, baby girl.”

Lena shudders, sending a gush of fresh warmth into Kara’s palm. Leaning forward, Kara slides one hand down to Lena’s wrist, pressing it against the table as she slips two fingers into Lena’s folds. Gently, she begins to thrust.

“Harder,” Lena gasps almost immediately. She shifts her stance until Kara’s fingers hit a new spot. Kara nods, catching Lena’s gaze when she turns her head to look over one bare shoulder. She increases her speed, adds just a touch more pressure, and is rewarded with a hitch in Lena’s breath. Soon Lena is moaning with every breath, her back glistening with building sweat as her body temperature rises. 

Suddenly, Lena’s body shudders with a piercing moan, her walls clenching tight around Kara’s fingers. Just as she begins to come down, Kara releases Lena’s wrist to slip between her hips and the table to press her thumb against Lena’s clit, rubbing swift, furious circles until Lena crests again with a sharp gasp.

When she recovers, Lena turns against the table to loop her arms around Kara’s neck. Kara wraps herself around Lena’s bare skin, nuzzling against her neck, nibbling at her pulse point. 

“You’re incredible,” Lena murmurs. 

Kara hums against Lena’s neck. 

“I’m not finished yet.”

---

Kara draws back to wipe her hair from her eyes. Lena lays before her on a freshly sterilized table in nothing but her bra and panties, looking sleepy and relaxed despite the blood stippling to the surface of her skin.

“You know,” Kara observes, “not everyone would follow sex with a tattoo chaser.”

Lena smiles. “Their loss,” she murmurs. “I highly recommend it.”

Forgoing the use of a stencil, Kara had freehanded the plumage of the crane directly onto Lena’s skin, and already she could see the bird coming to life.

Kara smirks. “Not everyone is a masochist.”

“Imagine tattooing while having sex,” Lena drawls. “Now that would be kinky.”

A laugh bursts out of Kara, earning a deep grin from Lena. With her hair loose and sweaty, Lena is a veritable dream-- to have her skin under Kara’s needle is an honor on a bed of honors. The atmosphere is slow and silky around them, like the world outside has slowed to a standstill without them. Kara savors every moment, lest it all slip away. 

“So how has Metropolis treated you so far?” Lena asks, watching Kara dip her needle in fresh ink. She relaxes back when Kara approaches, allowing her easy access to the tattoo site. She doesn’t flinch when Kara resumes. “Still taking walk-ins? Besides me, of course.”

Kara grins, even as she focuses on what she’s doing. “You’re the first one I’ve taken in weeks, actually. Most people are looking for big, personal pieces, so the walk ins don’t really happen you know?” She pauses. “I’ve already started booking back at Argo, since my time here is already booked up.”

“Really? Congratulations!”

“Thanks.” Kara can’t help but blush. “But you know… something tells me I probably have you to thank for all this.”

Lena regards her. “Oh? How so?”

“Well, I’m pretty sure you’re the only canvas I’ve worked on that James Olsen would have seen.”

Lena’s lips part in a silent ah. She regards Kara for a long moment, before reaching out a hand to halt Kara’s ministrations. With a single touch, she pulls Kara’s entire attention to her. 

“I didn’t suggest anything, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

Kara doesn’t respond, and thereby tips her hand: it’s exactly what she’s afraid of. That a top-paying client threatened to withdraw their business unless James agreed to take on an unknown artist from a strip mall in National City.

Lena cups her cheek gently.

“All I did was show James the work you’d done-- as I would for any piece I was proud of.” She holds Kara’s gaze, allowing her to see the truth in Lena’s eyes. “Anything he did after that is entirely on you and your body of work. Do you hear me?”

Kara releases a shaky breath, laughing slightly. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “I hear you.” She wipes her eyes with the back of her arm. “Now lay back so I can finish.”

Lena does so, but her eyes don’t leave Kara. Kara can feel her gaze linger, until she’s too immersed in her art to be aware of anything else. 

---

“This,” Lena says hours later, pressing cash into Kara’s hand, “is for the tattoo. Just to be clear.”

Without even looking at it, Kara tucks it away. “Good to know.”

“Wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea,” Lena winks, earning a chuckle in return.

“Right. Absolutely. But you know…”

“Hmmm?”

Kara tugs Lena closer by the hips, bringing their fronts flush together. Taing advantage of their proximity, Kara kisses her deeply. “You’re going to need some touch ups.”

Lena smiles against her, then kisses her again. 

“Well, then…. I guess I’ll just have to see you again.”

“You will.” Kara creeps her hands playfully up Lena’s shirt, only for Lena to pull away with a good natured laugh.

“I have to go, but, ah… I’ll see you later?”

Kara watches Lena back away towards the rear entrance, a smile ever present on her lips.

“Yeah. You will.”

It’s not until long after Lena leaves that Kara realizes. 

She didn’t get Lena’s phone number.

#supercorp #needles & ink #tattoo au #smut #ye be warned #as a treat #still dunno where this is going #but i had a vision and i ran with it #hope y'all like it #let me know what you think

[falcor-thee-luck-dragon]

Interviews - Henry Cavill x wife/actress reader

Summary: You and Henry have been married for a couple years now, and when you’re both part of the Witcher cast, fun interviews are to be had.

Warning: nothing but a good time, btw I’ve never written anything like this so I hope it’s good enough that I might feel motivated to write more

-Readers Witcher character is loosely based off my Geralt fic from here (just a little self promotion), but in this case you play a full vampire in this Witcher universe

The days have been long and grueling, filming hours upon hours of stunts and regular acting had taken its toll. Not to mention the countless times in hair and make up paired with costume changes and traveling to film on certain locations.

To say being apart of Netflix’s The Witcher was full of tiring days and some accidental bruises would be a huge understatement. But none of that mattered, nor did you bother to complain when through the thick and thin of it all did you have Henry with you along the way. And your favorite big slobbery bear, Kal whenever he was allowed on set.

Fortunately for you in the beginning of all the craziness, the casting and writers had wanted you specifically for the part of Y/C/N in the new series before Henry even auditioned for the role of Geralt, that was soon given to him after you accepted your fresh role of vampiric heroine.

It was ironically strange in a good way, you had watched your dork of a husband play the Witcher: Wild Hunt a few times before, eventually learning of what Geralt of Rivia was, who Y/C/N was in the story, who Yennefer and Ciri were, Tris and even Jaskier.

Who would have thought that you’d finally get to snag a role side by side with Henry in quite literally one of the most fantastic shows you’ve ever heard of. You didn’t even need to see the show yet to know how well it was most likely to be reviewed. Being a key character in the grand storyline was enough to convince you of how amazing it would most certainly turn out in the finished product.

And after all was said and done, you couldn’t believe how well loved and popular the show truly became in the following months after shooting and its eventual release onto Netflix. The after parties and cast celebrations truly made you blessedly grateful for pulling through to the vary end.

Then again you had your mans Henry by your side every step of the way. He was your rock and you were most definitely his. You know life on set would have been far less entertaining and dreadfully long if not for the lovely company of your dear Witcher, Henry. And so far after the fact, you and a good portion of the cast have been placed in random interviews for the majority of the day.

Reason being, The Witcher has at long last finally premiered and as per usual the people and media live for those cast interviews that always reveal some interesting events. So far this morning you’ve done some interviews with Anya that have gone perfectly fine since the two of you seem to click so well.

Also it helps ease the anxiety of your fellow newer cast mates to the world of continuous interviews with an experienced veteran actor like yourself, who’s gone round the ring more times then you can count. Though you can’t help but wonder how Henry’s doing, considering you’ve been separated since the sessions began at 10am, you’ve had lunch and now it’s about 1 in the afternoon with more hours to go.

Luckily for you, you’ve just been informed of another interview with the man of the hour himself. Saying your goodbyes and well wishes to your fellow cast mates, you stand and follow the guide into the advised place. Aka some really nice hotel room that’s been done up real nice for efficient interviewing, complete with the Witcher insignia on a large background poster and three chairs that happen to look rather comfy.

The camera and sound people nod in acknowledgment as you walk in, you nod back no doubt making their day with your friendliness and adorable smile that quite literally lights up a room. Soon you spot the bubbly yet nervous interviewee who instantly welcomes you into her space like you’re an old friend.

You sit, a bit confused as to where your partner happens to be at the moment, the interviewer, Lauren makes small talk before a door opens and her big bright doe eyes go wide in nervous excitement. A telling smile upon her face as she shifts in her chair before looking back to you again with a happy grin.

Henry says a quick hello to the behind the scenes crew before waving to Lauren, you smirk while watching him get comfortable next to you, “Well, well, well. Get lost on your way up, you know they have guides for a reason.” You tease as he chuckles at your humorous jab, relieved to see you again after a couple hours apart.

“Traffic.” He quips with a shrug.

“Uh huh.” You mutter with a shake of your head before drawing your attention back to Laura, “Can’t take him anywhere I swear, he does this all the time.”

She laughs as Henry pretends to gasp at your teasing, you chuckle along with them before she finally collects herself, “Well, welcome back to London. It’s fantastic to have you both in town once again, and your big beautiful faces all over Leicester Square.”

You both laugh, “Right.” Says Henry, “I guess we do look pretty cool.”

“Hell yeah, I mean where else can I see myself with a giant sword on a building? And anyways look at this beautiful mug,” You say gently squeezing Henry’s cheeks in your hand, “he’s literally killing it out there.” They laugh as you give Hen another playful squeeze before letting go and setting your arm against the chairs cushioned armrest. 

“Alight let’s start.” She says enthusiastically before glancing down at her cards then back up to you and Henry. Then into one of the two the cameras, “Hi I’m Lauren from Entertainment Weekly and today we’re here with the two stars of Netflix’s The Witcher.” She says enthusiastically while giving a nod to you two, indicating that the camera is now focused on you both, “Henry Cavill and Y/N Cavill.”

You both smile in acknowledgment as Henry gives a slight nod, “How you doing?”

“I’m great,” She beams, “So, I’ll get right into it, what do you like most about the story? What really drew you into the script that made you say, yes this is going to be awesome?”

Slapping a hand against Henry’s muscular leg, you hum, “I’ll let Hen take this one he’s a real expert on the linguistics of the whole show.”

“Thanks Y/N/N.” Replies Henry, bemused that you’re making him take the first question.

You nod to him knowingly with a smirk, “Of course.” Knowing how much he loves to talk about the show and also because you’d rather have him use his energy to talk about it then do that yourself. Priorities, right, though in your defense it’s been a long day.

“Well I absolutely love the games and the books themselves are phenomenal works of literature.” He explains, his face glowing with that usual glimmer of excitement in his eyes, “The story and the world of the Witcher is just so rich and full of potential that when I signed on for the show, I immediately knew it would be amazing, no doubt.”

You lean into the arm of you chair, “And of course I was there so that’s always a bonus.”

“That too.” He smiles adorably, “That too of course.”

Lauren smiles, “Great. So, what was it like working together, how was it having your characters interact with one another?”

You smile, setting a hand against Henry’s forearm, “This guy right here.” You deadpan before waving him off dramatically, “So annoying, my god he whined all the time and he was such a drama queen dear lord so ugh....” You start cackling before you can even finish the sentence causing Henry to loose it as well and with that the interviewer.

Shaking your head you rest your hand against his shoulder, “I joke, he was a gem to work with as usual...I mean I feel incredibly blessed to be able to act alongside my husband for months and months every single day. It’s a rarity in this line of work and I’m grateful to have shared this experience...and I guess more so this whole adventure with him as well.”

The interviewer aww’s as Henry tilts his head to lean into your hand that’s still resting atop his shoulder before pulling away just as quickly, the intimate sentiment not going unnoticed by you or Lauren who looks to be enjoying your loving yet calm energy with one another. “That’s so sweet, what about you Henry?”

“Oh yes absolutely,” Agrees Henry to your recent statement, “not only did I have her by my side through it all but the dynamic of our characters interacting together was so fun to shoot. I think the audience will really be able to see their relationship grow on screen into something strong and beautiful like in the books.”

Slow clapping you give him a curt nod of approval, “Well said.”

Lauren smirks, “Seems like it. Well, I was able to catch the premier yesterday and I gotta say...it was fantastic! I couldn’t believe how diffident the two of you looked from how you are now.” She gushes enthusiastically.

The corners of Henry’s lips curl into a proud smile for the fellow crew of the Witcher’s, “Oh that’s great then, honestly we gotta give all the props to the costume and makeup team, they’re so talented and know how to make us look like real badasses.” He adds.

You nod in agreement before grinning at a positive memory of your first interaction with Henry as Geralt, “Oh for sure, I remember during the early stages of production when our characters met each other for the first time, before this we came to set together but went separate ways to shoot our own stuff in the meantime so I never got a real look at him.” You recall with a bright smile as Henry watches your every move, beaming just the same.

“It was so funny, I was in the tent with Freya Allen, the wonderful girl who plays Ciri, and then suddenly her eyes got all big and nervous and I was like, that’s not me right? Something weird didn’t just happen with my costume? And then I turned around to find this man, wig on, face a mess, and his eyes looked so fearsome and different...it was a bit startling.” You say with a chuckle, “I clearly wasn’t expecting to see Geralt right then and there. He just looked so unlike Henry.”

“Yeah, I was almost hurt.” Laughs Henry, “She had to like squint and make sure it was me.”

Rolling your eyes, you shrug, “He had some real creepy looking colored contacts, yunno?”

Henry fake scoffs, “You’re one to talk, I mean when I first say her, Y/N’s eyes were red and she had fake blood spattered all over her face and shirt. Oh, and not to mention those fangs they put on your teeth...we probably traumatized poor Freya that day.”

“Oh shit you’re right!” You exclaim with a snort of concealed laughter, “God I completely forgot about how I looked...now since I think about it, I did that a lot too. I would just walk up to people and be completely oblivious as to what kind of nightmare I looked like, honestly I might have scared one of our producers a couple of times.” You add with a half nervous laugh, it’s true, you did scare some of the crew unintentionally. Most of the time.

Lauren lightly chuckles, “That sounds like you were quite the sight to see then.” She says before glancing back down at her notes, “Alright I have’ta ask, is there anything that you two took home with you from set?”

“Besides Henry every night,” He holds back a laugh while covering his mouth as you nonchalantly continue, “Uh, yes actually I got to take home Y/C/N’s wolf ring that I loved so much and just thought was the coolist thing ever and....uh, I might have stolen some socks too.”

“So that’s why after filming the amount of socks of yours I had to fold increased?” Wonders Henry with a surprised snort of realization.

Turning your head to give him a “no shit” kinda look, you look back at Lauren, pointing your thumb at Henry, “Master sleuth right here, but hey, he folds my laundry.”

“Aw that’s great.” Adds Lauren with a smile before turning her attention to Henry, “What about you Henry? Take anything from set?”

“More then Y/N did actually...”

“He just about took the whole makeup trailer most nights, I swear.”

Henry chuckles, “That. Is true.” He agrees with a nod, “Interesting enough, at home I’ve got Geralt’s armor hung up in our living room and a multitude of other nicknacks that I’ve collected during filming.” He adds, glancing over to you, “So uh, yeah, we were fairly lucky to be able to snag what we could.”

Lauren smiles, absentmindedly shuffling her cards, “That’s awesome to have such special memorabilia, you guys really are fortunate.” She adds before reading off from another card, “Alright you two, care to play a game called guess the image? Witcher style.”

Your face perks up at this, you’re a sucker for interview games and Henry knows it, “Are you reading my mind or something, I have been waiting all day for someone to ask about playing a game.” You gush rather enthusiastically. 

He smiles at your adorableness and how excited you’ve just become, Lauren grins, happy that her suggestion has been so well received, “Okay so how it works is, I’ll show you an image on my iPad and then you have to guess who or what I’m showing you.”

“Oh, cool I’ve heard of this,” You reply, turning to Henry with a smirk, “Loser has to clean Kal’s yard poop for a week.”

Rolling his gorgeous blue eyes he chuckles, “You’re on.”

“Alright, the stakes are high, you two ready?” Beams Lauren, holding her iPad to her chest as she awaits an answer.

“Yes, I’m ready to kick his ass.” You quip, leaning an arm against your chair while Henry does about the same, though he does his best to contain his laughter.

“Okay, first image.” She holds up the device to show some sort of weird golden thing, it’s shiny and hard, worst part is that you’re not entirely sure what the hell it could be.

Sensing your confusion Henry nudges your shoulder, though you ignore it before he smartly answers, “Oh, is that...Renfri’s brooch?” Little shit knows exactly what that is, of course he does.

Lauren claps, “Correct.” Zooming out of the image to show the full picture of the golden brooch, “Right on, that’s one point for Mr. Cavill.”

You scoff playfully, “Beginners luck.” While Henry side eyes you with a humorous grin upon his plush lips, he nudges your arm, “I���m going to really enjoy not cleaning up Kal’s grass turds for awhile.” He mutters lightheartedly, though you know deep down he’s being serious, no way is he going to win this, you think. You won’t have it, hopefully the next few pictures aren’t as difficult, Kal duty is not fun by any means.

“Shut up.” You grumble with a dismissive wave of your hand, though just teasing of course.

“Okay next image.” This time the blurred photo looks much more familiar, soon it clicks as to what the obscured blurriness actually is, yes!

“Got it! Anya’s er I guess Yennefer’s dress from the fight at Sodden.” Lauren giggles, zooming the image out to reveal Yennefer in her tasseled blue and purple dress from the battle at Sodden Hill. “I’m amazing I know.” You boast at Henry with a casual little bow in your seat.

“It’s the second question.” He deadpans, eyes crinkling in amusement as you shake your head at him.

“Pffff get outta here.” You mutter back, gently pushing his arm off of your chairs armrest and setting yours in its place while he gives you a fake shocked expression.

In turn you can’t help the smile that tugs at the corner of your lips, so instead of saying some sassy remark that would no doubt get a reaction out of him, you turn your attention back over to Lauren who’s looking over her notes again.

“Fantastic,” She says, glancing back up at you and Henry, “you’re both tied with one point each. Alright, anyone know what this is?” She asks showing something red and fuzzy, a bit of dirty skin showing from one corner but with The Witcher this bloody image could literally be anything.

The both of you squint, puzzled as to what this could be, “Y/N you got any ideas.” Wonders Henry, brows furrowed as his face contorts into deep concentrated thought.

Raising a brow, you hum, “If I knew I wouldn’t tell you.”

“Fair point.” He chuckles.

Lauren smiles, “Any guesses?”

 After a few concentrated moments, Henry shrugs in defeat,  “I’m stumped.” He admits as you study the image harder, mind racing to put the pieces together as to what the hell you’re looking at.

“No, I think I might know this....erm is it...me?” You wonder, voice raising in question, hoping to be correct about this or face the teasing of Henry.

Lauren quickly zooms out of the obscured image, “It is!” She says excitedly, revealing the picture of you from your characters debut in episode 2 where you save a girl from a werewolf, your mouth is covered in blood and so is most of your costumes chest area and left arm from the struggle. Not to mention the make-up teams fun 20 minutes of throwing fake sticky blood all over you to get the right look for the taxing scene.

You grimace a bit, “Oh god that was quite the day on set,” You recall with a half smile, “I was doing stunts all day covered in that red syrupy dye, I think it took a week to get out of my skin.”

Henry suddenly snorts with laughter, “Right! That reminds me, I thought Kal had gotten cut or something, it was just Y/N who had hugged him not realizing she still had some fake blood on her arm.”

“Jeez that’s right, I felt so bad, but I couldn’t stop laughing once we realized it was just me.”

Lauren grins, excited to hear some hidden information about little things that happens behind the scenes, “Oh wow that must have been a sight, alright Henry, Y/N’s taken the lead with a two to one score.” She says as you playfully nudge his strong shoulder. “Second to last image, what is this?”

Without missing a single beat Henry replies, “Jaskier.”

Squinting at the image you lean closer to the iPad, “How the hell do you see Jaskier?”

Smiling the interviewer zooms out to reveal the bards full outfit from the banquet scene, though he’s in the background of a fight between Geralt and some Cintran knights. “Right on!” She exclaims as you lean back into your seat dumbfounded, shoulder flush against Henry’s as he clutches your arm and squeezes it affectionately.

Ignoring his silent show of victory you shrug, “And they say he’s just another pretty face,” Earning a laugh from Lauren and some of the crew as you smirk at the camera, face them shifting to apologetic, “also I’m so sorry Joey you beautiful bastard apparently I’m blind. Uh, we don’t have to dwell on it, Lauren whatcha got?”

“You guys are both tied with two points each, last chance to win.” She replies before glancing down at her iPad, “Alright, what is this?” She asks, her iPad showing that of fuzzy bright colors, with a small corner smear of dull white that clearly wouldn’t make much sense to the untrained eye.

Smirking you glance at a puzzled Henry before sitting up in your seat, feeling rather good about yourself, “Would that happen to be, Hen in Stregobor’s illusion?” You answer with, though sounding a bit as a question considering you aren’t entirely confident as to what image this is.

Lauren’s brows raise in surprise, “Henry, looks like we have a winner. Y/N you are correct.” She beams, enlarging the image to reveal Geralt’s side profile as he talks to the old wizard while the background stays colorful and shrouded in various arrays of sunlight..

Shaking your fist victoriously in the air you give a couple enthusiastic whoop whoops while Henry simply takes it like a champ, “Have fun cleaning up Karl’s monster turds, cause this lucky lady doesn’t have to.” You boast as Henry and the crew laugh.

“Well that was something,” Beams Lauren, “I’m so glad to have chatted for a bit about your guys’ amazing new series, and maybe ended a relationship in the process.” She says jokingly as both you and Henry chuckle.

Patting his thigh affectionately, you smirk, “He’s a tough old bear, but yeah, it was awesome having you talk to us.”

“Yes, take care now.” Adds Henry while the interviewer Lauren stands, saying her goodbyes as she goes to exit the room.

The camera crew take a small break to adjust things and whatnot as you and Henry wait patiently for the next interviewer. He turns, an adorable smile pulling at his lips while you pretend to ignore his fiery gaze. “Well that went pretty well, minus the fact that I’m on Kal poop duty for a week...but uh...” He leans in close to you now, “I missed you all morning.”

Breaking out into a smile you raise a brow, “Boring without me huh?”

“Always.”

You casually shrug, “I figured as much. Don’t worry, we have a hotel all to ourselves tonight.” Your brows wiggle suggestively causing your blue eyed lover to shake his head with amusement.

“Say it louder next time.” He jokes.

Side eyeing the oblivious crew you begin to speak a couple octaves louder, “Henry I can’t wait to fu..” Suddenly his hand presses against your mouth before you’re able to call any attention to yourself. He gives you a warning look before slowly pulling his hand from your mouth.

You grin mischievously, “I wasn’t gonna say that...”

“Sure Y/N,” He mutters in your ear as a new interviewer walks into the room and finds their chair, “and I’m wasn’t going to make you scream tonight.”

Your brows raise in surprise and admittedly slight arousal at his choice of wording in this room of all places. Eyeing him up, face still showing surprise, you finally break out into a satisfied smirk. “You know what? I think you should consider changing your offer.”

He thinks deeply for a moment, though you know he’s only pretending to get you riled up, “Hrmm...maybe, possibly, should I? Should we? You are my co-star after all, that wouldn’t be very professional now would it Y/N?” He states with a shit eating grin, all done while the crew and interviewer get ready, minding their business and completely unaware to yourself and Henry’s teasing.

Scoffing playfully you lightly swat his arm, “We are way past being professional.”

He chuckles, looking from you to the rest of the room, “Oh, they have no idea.”

#the witcher x reader #henry cavill x y/n #henry cavill x female reader #henry cavill x you #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill

[seasonofthewicth]

nobody does it like you do - act 6

The final part!! I hope this is a satisfying conclusion! Thank you so much to everyone who has reblogged/commented/shared - it has meant so much. Special thank you again to @morganofthewildfire I'd still be working away at this fic if it wasn't for you, I don't know I ever would have finished it off. Your comments and analysis helped me so much and made this fic better than I could have alone, I'm so grateful.

13k - masterlist - ao3

--

There are five weeks between the eventful wrap party and her first day shooting the Netflix miniseries in Antica. Five weeks for Aelin to sort her shit.

It’s ambitious, and probably unattainable, but she needs a goal.

She needs something to draw her mind away from Rifthold and the director she knows is no longer there.

She gives herself a week of self pity. A week of lying around her sparsely decorated and impersonal Orynth apartment dwelling and pointedly ignoring the headlines she knows have been released. Elide let her know only one picture was captured of her with tears in her eyes leaving the party. Only one and gods bless Elide she shut it down.

Aelin lies on her uncomfortable couch in well-worn pyjamas with unwashed hair and runs through the photos on her phone of her and Fenrys, her and Manon, and the group of them together on set doing whatever shit they used to do.

She spends more time than she should like that. She sits there until her coffee table is overflowing with takeaway wrappers and Aedion and Elide have stopped texting more than once a day. She’s awful for ignoring them but she’s still mortified.

She hasn’t been able to look Aedion in the eyes since he dropped her back at her apartment after their long flight home from Rifthold. He didn’t say much. After he managed to again get her out of the party with minimal press she had cried, curled up between Aedion and Lysandra in their bed, and he didn’t offer judgement or instruction.

He just held her, whispering words she can’t remember but appreciates anyway. Now she hasn’t replied to any of his texts.

She hasn’t texted Fenrys or Manon either. She doesn’t know what to say.

She knows Fenrys jumped immediately into another movie, an action movie she knows he’s been chomping at the bit to get training for, and Manon into the second series of her show that she’s probably too famous for now.

They’re busy. They’ll understand. At least that’s what she tells herself.

The worst thing she does in that week is pour over the photos she has of Rowan. She didn’t realise she had so many but her camera roll is full of silver and green.

There are photos of just him, looking like Rowan, tall and handsome and understatedly happy, smiling covert little smiles at Aelin behind the camera. He was used to her instructing him to pose by the end of filming, she loved snapping away as he did anything. Eating, sleeping, smiling, everything - if it was Rowan she wanted it captured.

Now every photo is a knife to the chest.

The ones of the two of them together are worse, they twist the knife, pain splicing through her until she can hardly breathe. There are pictures of their cheeks pressed together, eyes shining, some serious, some silly. In all of them Aelin can clearly see her own happiness.

She can’t stop looking at them even as tears swell in her eyes and her throat gets tight.

For one week.

Until it’s been seven days since her flight landed back in Orynth and she gets up off her couch and deletes them. She almost doesn’t, her thumb hovers over the button for a good minute before she presses down but then it’s done and they’re gone. She showers and changes her clothes, she throws away all the rubbish on her coffee table and makes a plan.

Filming the movie with all of them it was easy to feel better than she did before, surrounded by new and exciting things, new people who didn’t know her before or treat her differently because of it. It was easy to lose herself in who she was there and with them.

Now though, she’s back to real life and real life lasts for an uneventful three weeks.

She tries what she can, she reads, she runs, she bakes, she teaches herself how to knit. None of it is satisfying and it's hard to make it stick. It’s all boring and never quite captures her attention the way she hopes. Never captures her attention enough to tear it away from Rowan and Rifthold.

A week before she flies out to Antica it changes.

She stumbles upon the change, completely accidentally, and she doesn’t realise what she’s needed until it's right in front of her.

Her usual run route is obstructed by construction and so she takes a left where she usually takes a right, heading down into the west side of the city, the side she doesn’t often frequent.

She used to. She used to spend hours strolling the streets letting the warmth of the sun and Sam’s hand in hers settle into her skin as they observed the numerous bakeries and small boutiques. Thankfully the scenery appears to have changed since.

The chill breeze of the September Orynth air teases the loose strands of hair tickling her face as she comes to a stop outside the sleek shop front. The wooden panels are painted a dark, glossy black and the windows are polished so brightly they reflect what’s left of the sunlight.

Music of Mistward the sign reads in curved, white lettering.

She can see her reflection in the shop window, her cheeks flushed, hair unruly, her running gear nowhere near to what would be appropriate attire for the shop dripping in class but she can’t turn away.

A bell tinkles as she pushes through the door, her headphones gripped tight in her fist as the gentle jazz playing over the sound system greets her. She doesn’t like jazz, it’s not her thing, but along with the musk of wood in the air it’s soothing in welcoming her in.

She passes walls of guitars and violins until she reaches the instrument that caught her eye. It’s sleek, black lid propped open revealing the elegant strings, pulled tight in neat lines. The sharp contrast of the keys against each other, bright against the deep black of the case. Her fingers ghost over them, dying to press down.

She hasn’t played since those days in Rowan’s Doranelle home. She’s wanted to, longed to feel the cool keys under her fingertips and the flood of the music pouring out of her, but the cheap keyboard in her Orynth apartment wouldn’t do Rowan’s beautiful instrument justice.

Aelin would rather not play at all than attempt a cheap imitation of what she felt there.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” A voice sounds behind her, low and raspy but cheerful all the same.

She turns, taking in the older man, his grey hair cut short and his classic shirt and slacks pressed crisp. She glances back to the piano before facing him fully.

“Stunning,” she breathes.

The man steps forwards and offers her his hand. She slips her hand into his and he pumps firmly as he introduces himself.

“Emrys,” he says. “Welcome to Music of Mistward.”

“Aelin,” she says, surprised to hear her voice thick.

“Great to meet you, Aelin,” Emrys says with an ancient smile. He nods towards the piano. “Do you play?”

“No,” she says and Emrys’ smile flickers. “Yes, I mean I used to. I want to,” is what she settles on.

He nods, satisfied, before taking a step closer to the piano. He runs a hand over the top, almost reverently and smiles to himself.

“Antique,” he starts, “almost one hundred years old but well loved. I acquired it recently - here we deal mostly in antique instruments, it’s a passion for both myself and my husband. The previous owner only sold it to me when she inherited it and didn’t know how to play, she wanted it to find a good home.”

He shares a smile with her as if she’s in on the joke but her breathing still hasn’t settled.

“Satin Ebony finish,” Emrys continues, “eighty-eight keys, all original but preserved to the highest quality. Accompanying bench, cut with refreshed velvet. I don’t know in all my years I’ve seen such a fine instrument as old as this.”

Aelin glances back to the piano, it’s big, it won’t fit in her apartment in Orynth but she doesn’t care. She can… adjust. She hasn’t felt a pull like this in a while, she doesn’t want to deny it when she does.

“How much?” she almost demands from the man in front of her.

He appraises her and she knows what he sees. Her bedraggled state and the tension through her shoulders doesn’t give the impression of someone with this much cash to throw around. She abruptly ignores that the way she probably can afford this is because of Rowan’s movie.

When he doesn’t speak she repeats herself, more firmly. “How much?”

“Our price includes delivery and tuning on arrival.” He seems apprehensive of telling her the truth. Aelin waits.

When he finally reveals the figure Aelin blinks. And then she extends her hand. “I’ll take it.”

To his credit Emrys just nods, shaking her hand. “You don’t want to at least play it first?”

Aelin feels the smirk she hasn’t worn in a while creep onto her face. “Is there a risk you’re pulling a fast one on me?”

Emrys returns her smile, a playful glint in his eye. “Not a chance, Aelin. Please follow me to the register where I can take your details.”

Aelin almost stumbles. Almost, but then recovers.

“Any chance I can pay a deposit and then let you know where you’ll be delivering sometime soon?”

Emrys winks knowingly. “Absolutely.”

She follows him to the counter, signs away part of a disgustingly large total of money but leaves with a sense of satisfaction. It’s an accomplishment, a step for purely selfish reasons.

The first thing she does when she leaves the shop is call Elide.

Aelin meets her new therapist two days before she flies out to Antica.

She hasn’t called her old one in months and thinks that’s probably a sign. And she’s all about changes at the moment.

She isn’t shooting in Antica for too long, only a couple of months until she’s back in Orynth and then back to Rifthhold for press. Her stomach drops everytime the thought wanders into her head.

She’s excited to be back in Rifthold, but the company is daunting.

Fenrys and Manon will easily be pissed at her disappearance. She knows Manon will play aloof but she also knows she’ll be upset, Fenrys too. Aelin didn’t mean to hurt them, didn’t mean to drop off the face of the Earth, and she knows she’s let them down but Fenrys and Manon remind her of Rowan. She couldn’t trust the conversation not to eventually steer towards him and Aelin isn’t ready for that.

Their break-up feels weirdly anticlimactic. After everything they built to, Aelin just dipped.

She knows it seems that way to Rowan at least. She hasn’t texted him, or rang him or anything since the party. She’s wanted to, wanted more than anything to hear his voice as she cried, but it’s not fair to him to drag it out and she knows that. She knew when she drew the line she had to stay on her side of it, no matter how much it hurt.

She had cried until her head pounded and her throat was raw. She cried until her eyes itched with no tears left to fall, until all that came out of her was hoarse screeches as she ached to hear him call her Fireheart one last time.

But no one needs to know that, she had kept it as hidden as she could.

She definitely didn’t need any more paparazzi pictures of her with red-rimmed eyes looking downtrodden. She couldn’t bear the thought of Rowan, or worse her mother, seeing them.

She knows Fenrys and Manon; Aedion, Lysandra and Elide would see through her flimsy excuses and so it was easier to stay quiet.

She’s not thinking about facing them yet. She supposes that will be something that likely comes up with this new therapist, but so far on her own, she’s choosing avoidance.

She gets Maeve’s number from Dorian, and she comes highly recommended by a number of Dorian’s other high profile clients. She’s well-versed in non-disclosure agreements, secret sessions and back street exits; she feels like the perfect fit for Aelin.

Unofficially, Dorian lets her know Maeve takes no shit, and that’s also just what Aelin needs.

They agree to online sessions while she’s in Antica, but Maeve recommended an initial meeting and Aelin is open to all of her suggestions.

Their first hour is not directly her most life changing but it’s a start.

“Welcome, Aelin,” Maeve says, sweeping an arm out towards the firm-looking, orange couch in the centre of the room.

Aelin takes a seat, mutters her thanks and glances around the room.

The room should feel cold with the exposed brick and minimalistic decor, the only furniture being the couch Aelin perches on, the almost regal armchair Maeve reclines in and a lamp, but it doesn’t and she gets comfortable tucking her feet beneath her thighs and leaning against the arm.

“So,” Maeve begins, surveying her in the way only a true professional can. “Let’s get started.”

Aelin feels bare beneath her gaze, and like everything about Maeve and her practise it should be unnerving but she just blinks against the scrutiny.

“Why are you here today? You could start with sharing why you have made this appointment.”

And isn’t that the million gold-mark question?

Aelin takes a deep breath through her nose and raises her chin.

“I don’t want to move backwards,” she admits. “Or maybe I just want to know I’ve actually moved forwards.”

Maeve’s expression stays calm, but Aelin knows she’d be smirking if she could. She’s well aware of how therapy works but even so, speaking her thoughts aloud can help to verify them in her own mind.

Aelin hopes so at least.

Their hour is over quickly and Aelin is resolved that Maeve is a good fit, reassured in Dorian’s claim that the woman takes no shit. Her all-knowing assessment of Aelin should have been unsettling but the frank dissection is what she needs.

Online therapy, especially fitting it around shooting might be a challenge but it’s for the best. As much as she values her independence and standing on her own two feet, Aelin is big enough to admit that facing her mother again may require some professional guidance. Seeing Rowan too, but again, she’s not thinking about that yet.

Antica is hot and Aelin is sweaty within seconds of stepping out of the air-conditioned luxury of the airport. That feeling lasts the entire time she’s there, disrupting the otherwise enjoyable time she has shooting the series.

Her new co-stars are fine, they invite her out with them and make her smile but she can’t help as though a part of her is always comparing them to who and what she left in Rifthold. Aelin tries her best to enjoy her time there with them, she hosts dinner parties and invites them to a game of Aedion’s but nothing quite hits the same as her time spent on The Crescent City.

She rationalises it to Maeve, that The Crescent City was a big turning point in her life and that it has nothing to do with Rowan, Fenrys or Manon, but she’s not sure she even believes it herself.

She spends the rest of her time in Antica trying to convince herself, and Maeve, that she’s moving past it. That she’s moving forwards or else she’ll move backwards. She’s not sure how much of it is futile.

The Crescent City is done, whether she likes it or not, and she can’t deny it changed her in ways she didn’t expect. It’s a hard pill to swallow that maybe it changed her beyond return to how she was before. She also can’t quite figure out whether she thinks that’s a bad thing or not.

They have a dinner for the core cast and crew, including Rowan, once they’re all back in Rifthold for the beginning of the press cycle. They have one night to reacquaint before they’re shoved into the whirlwind that is interviews, photoshoots and promotion.

She’s seen the trailer already and it’s just as she expected but more. It’s dark and dreary with flashes of brightness from herself and Fenrys and she’d want to watch it if she chanced a viewing as a member of the public.

What is surreal, is to see herself in a polished version of the film they were creating. Or at least a part of it.

She said each of the lines, rehearsed them over and over until they fell off her tongue without thought, but she still doesn’t recognise the girl in the trailer. A droplet of pride slips down her chest at the realisation that it’s not Aelin in the trailer but Feyre. She knows she’s good, has known it all along, but the realisation and reaffirmation is ecstasy better than any drug.

She hovers outside the restaurant, watching through the window, needing a couple more seconds before she submits herself to the assault of them all again. She still hasn’t replied to either Fenrys or Manon and the thought presses on her like lead but it’s too late to change that now.

If she’s honest she’s concerning herself with Fenrys and Manon in the hopes of distracting herself from the fact that she’s seconds away from Rowan. Seconds away from him in the flesh, his solid body in front of her that she had learned almost as well as her own.

Her palms are clammy and she wipes them against the fabric of her trousers. The upcoming interviews and photoshoots will all be styled for her and so she’s relishing in her last moments for a while of truly dressing like Aelin.

She takes a step towards the restaurant door, the tip of her trainer bumping the wood when a voice sounds behind her.

“Well, hello there, Stranger.”

Aelin braces herself, hand paused outstretched where it had been reaching for the door.

She turns, biting her lip as she faces Fenrys. He looks the same as he did, skin still golden, eyes still dancing with mischief, but his golden curls are trimmed shorter than the last time she saw him. His expression is carefully blank.

“I- Hi… um,” she stumbles over the words. “I’ve missed you.”

Fenrys breaks almost immediately. “Oh thank the fucking gods.”

He surges forwards and wraps her into a tight hug. Aelin clings to him, fighting the tears in her eyes as she buries her face in his chest. She’s gone far too long without this, without him, and it’s all her own fault.

“Do you have any idea how much I missed you?” Fenrys asks. “Oh wait, no you don’t. I’m assuming your phone broke, or was stolen or something since you never replied to any of my texts letting you know.”

Aelin knows her cheeks are stained pink. “I’m sorry,” she admits.

“I know.” His voice softens, losing the teasing edge as he presses a gentle kiss to her cheek.

He pauses before he speaks again, his eyes running over her face. “You could have texted me anytime, you know. Manon too. I know you might forget or try to convince yourself otherwise, but we are your friends. You could have called us about literally anything.”

Aelin feels like she could cry. She’s not sure that she isn’t.

“It doesn’t have to be about anything serious, especially not related to the movie,” or Rowan he doesn’t say but Aelin hears it. “We just wanted to hear your stupid voice.”

Aelin pouts. “My voice isn’t stupid.”

She pokes her tongue out as he rolls his eyes, easily falling back into the dynamic they had shaped a few months ago.

“Not what I meant,” he says before pausing, taking her in as she stands in front of him. “You can’t lose us that easily, you know. We’re like rats or fleas or something. Hard to get rid of.”

“Nice,” she comments, but her chest is tight at his words.

He smiles at her before adding, “and you had fucking better text me back.”

Aelin laughs through the sniffles he’s kindly ignoring. She pulls her phone out of her pocket and finds his contact. Hi she sends and feels his phone buzz against her.

“Much better,” he says and releases her from his arms. “Now, are you ready for a night of the finest dining all on the studio credit card?”

Aelin laughs again. “Lead the way.”

He shoots her a wink and waltzes ahead to hold the door open for her.

Fenrys’ presence shouldn’t reassure her the way it does, especially after the way she has treated him but she clings to him anyway. He’s her buffer for now, a crutch for tonight and tonight only. Once tonight is over and tomorrow begins she and Rowan can be professional, they managed it for months during filming and this should be no different.

Rowan still looks the way he did the night she broke his heart.

His silver hair falls elegantly over his forehead as he bends his head to talk to Manon, the pair of them are engrossed in a conversation as she and Fenrys walk over, not spotting them yet. She loves his hair, loves the thick silver waves and the way they feel between her fingers. She loves the way any attempt he makes to arrange the thick strands is never quite able to tame the beast. She loves the shirt he has on, with the sleeves rolled up exposing inches of tanned skin and dark ink, the same worn green cotton she wore numerous times around his living room all those months ago. She can still remember the feel of it against her bare skin.

His smile is the same, his green eyes crinkling as his lips barely part as he does his best to hold it back.

His smile is the same until he spots her.

He catches sight of her when she reaches the table and his smile drops, the shutters closing over his expression so fast she wouldn’t know he knew how to smile had she not just seen it.

It tears her chest in two and any attempt at a smile on her part is futile. It’s all she can do to make it to her seat without stumbling and she’s sure she misses any other greetings she gets as she slumps onto the chair opposite Manon. She absently notes Fenrys dropping in at her side.

She can’t look away from Rowan, her eyes scanning to try and find anything that distinguishes him from the man she loved all those months ago. She finds nothing. He’s still Rowan and Aelin still… fuck.

He recovers before she does, ever the collected courtier, clearing his throat and nodding.

“Aelin,” he says and she adores the sound of her name on his tongue.

“Hi Rowan,” she manages and hears how weak she sounds. Rowan hears it too. She can tell from the purse of his lips and the tension in the hand he rests along the back of Manon’s chair.

Aelin allows her eyes to drift to Manon and she finally catches the thunderous expression the younger girl wears.

“Hi,” she whispers and Manon blinks.

“Hi?” Manon repeats incredulously.

Aelin is fucked.

“Five months and I get a hi?”

It’s loud and a few heads turn their way. It’s simultaneously mortifying and everything Aelin deserves.

“I’m sorry,” she says plainly.

She could lie, make up some useless excuses but in the end there’s nothing else but the truth and if Manon wants her to grovel she will, she’s just not sure this is the time or place.

Fenrys shares her thoughts. “Later, Manon,” he says, gently.

Rowan’s eyes stay firmly glued to the tablecloth as Manon frowns, seemingly unwilling to let it go.

After a few seconds, seconds Aelin spends waiting for the ground to open up and swallow her, Manon nods. She nods and turns to Fenrys, demanding to know what he’s ordering. And just like that Aelin has a moment to catch her breath.

She knew this dinner wouldn’t be easy, knew she’d be walking into the lion's den of her own making, but she hadn’t expected it to be as hard. Hadn’t expected seeing Rowan to feel like a slap, hadn’t expected Manon’s hurt to scrape across her skin leaving her raw.

She tries not to think she deserves it, Maeve would only raise a brow as if to say we’ve been over this. The thought is sobering, and she manages to lift her head.

It is what it is, what’s done is done and she can only apologise and move forwards.

As much as she tries to resist, Aelin finds herself watching Rowan throughout the night. It’s scary how familiar he feels, he should feel like a stranger, but he feels like she knows him too well. He laughs when she expects, rolls his eyes when she predicts. He orders what she thought he would and he sips away at an orange juice the way he did the first dinner they all had together.

Aelin already feels so different than she did the last time she was in Rifthold and he seems unchanged.

She observes for most of the night, feeling drained despite her minimal contributions to the conversations. She speaks when spoken to and actively avoids speaking when Rowan does, she definitely doesn’t respond to anything he says even though she wants to at least twice and wants to laugh a couple more.

She makes it through and clings to Fenrys again as they all leave, linking her arm through his as they leave the restaurant. He knows what she’s doing but graciously guides her out of the building. Once on the pavement outside the restaurant he pauses and turns to her.

“What hotel are you staying in while you’re here?”

The rest of the group are milling about, calling taxis and bidding their farewells. Aelin doesn’t know how she’s getting back yet, she’s assuming she’ll split a ride with someone.

“Um, the Glass Castle, I think,” she says, desperately trying to recall the name of the hotel she dumped her bags in a few hours earlier.

“Boo,” Fenrys laughs, pointing his thumb down. “They’ve got me in the Torre Cesme. Think I’m ages away from you.”

Aelin laughs, disappointed but ready to order her own taxi back when a voice she didn’t expect sounds.

“I’ve just ordered a cab to the Glass Castle, I’m staying there too. You can jump in if you want.”

Rowan.

She shoots Fenrys a panicked look but his expression is pure glee.

“That would be great thanks, Boss,” Fenrys says, shrugging his arm out of hers and nudging her towards Rowan.

“No problem, Boyo.” Rowan offers Fenrys a dark grin at the nickname and the sight of it stills her. It’s new, he used to roll his eyes whenever Fenrys would drop it into conversation, but now Rowan’s playing along. And the grin, the curl of the lips and the narrowing of the eyes, it’s sexy as fuck.

It’s only taken one night and she’s back in the danger zone. She doesn’t want to be, hell, she wants him to take her back to his hotel room and peel off her clothes but this is Rowan. She’s spent the last few months trying to get over him, falling into bed with him the first night she sees him again would not likely be defined as progress.

He’s also not likely to want that after what she did.

“You don’t have to,” she says. The first direct thing she’s said to him since their greeting.

“I know.” A slight shrug of his broad shoulders. “But we’re going to the same place, it wouldn’t seem logical to take different cars.”

Logic. That’s all it is.

“Right.” She doesn’t think she’s ever felt so awkward with him, not even at the start. “Thank you,” she says, following him to the car.

Fenrys shoots her a grin as he slips into his own taxi. Traitor.

Rowan holds the door open for her and slips in behind her. She tries not to think anything of the fact he could have easily taken the front seat.

The ride is silent apart from the easy chit chat he makes with the driver, another thing she’s not sure she noticed him do before, and she stares out the window as the city passes by. The streets of Rifthold are not her home but she feels a brightness as she glances down the curving roads, spotting groups of people milling about enjoying the night.

She knows the first call she made to Elide in weeks was the right call. Elide is the only person she’d trust with her bank account and access to real estate listings. The link to the flat her friend had sent over has stayed open in her browser since she got it.

It’s modern with classic twists, situated in a recently renovated old warehouse with miles of exposed brick and rustic wooden panelling. She loves the master bedroom the most, with its adjoining en suite with a huge bathtub she can picture herself soaking in. She has a viewing booked in two days but doubts she’ll even need it.

It’s not long before the taxi pulls up outside the hotel and she follows Rowan through the glass doors. He presses the button for the lifts and Aelin shifts in the awkward silence.

Awkward is not something she’s used to with Rowan. Or it wasn’t before.

The doors slide open and again she follows him inside.

He pauses with a hand hovering over the buttons for the floors. “Which floor?”

“Nine.”

Aelin hates these one word exchanges compared to the hours they used to share talking about everything and nothing. She can’t believe this is the man she was so vulnerable with.

His short huff of laughter drags her gaze to his face.

“What?”

“Makes sense,” is what he says, shaking his head and pressing only the button for the ninth floor.

The ride takes seconds, a minute at most, filled with the silence between them.

When the doors open to the ninth floor she steps out, determined not to follow him again, and she feels him follow her. Even now she’s so aware of his powerful body and the way he moves it. She shouldn’t be so attracted to the power emanating from him, from the breadth of his shoulders to the sureness of his steps. She wants him, doesn’t think she ever stopped, except now he’s the forbidden fruit. Forbidden only by her own actions.

She reaches her door, room 905, but pauses with her key tucked in her hand.

“Thanks for letting me share your cab,” she says, finding herself desperate not to say goodbye yet. “I can transfer you for half.”

That finally, finally, cracks a whisper of a smile but she’s not sure she enjoys his laughter if it’s at her. “Don’t worry about it.”

That should be the end of it, she should open her door and shut it behind her, they have a few weeks ahead of them that will be hard enough without any complications.

She left him and he seems gracious enough to have mostly moved past it.

“It was good to see you, Aelin,” he says, seemingly unwilling to let the night end as well. She doesn’t let the seed of hope sprout because what would be the point?

Nevertheless, Aelin smiles, leaning back against her door.

Rowan continues, “even if I wasn’t sure how the night was going to go.”

Her attention is spiked. “What do you mean?”

She can’t lie, a part of her expects him to back down at the edge to her voice. He doesn’t.

“I wasn’t sure if you were going to pretend nothing ever happened between us.”

She blinks, giving herself a second to process.

Maybe this isn’t the same Rowan from all those months ago. That night he let her walk away from him, gods know she needed it, but a dark little part of her had wanted him to fight her harder. Fight harder for her. When he hadn’t she’d taken it as her sign.

She knows the expectation was toxic, if he had fought her it would have only pissed her off, but she wishes she’d had someone to tell her it was the wrong choice. It would have helped to hear in the moment, rather than be faced with Rowan months down the line that she wants and can’t have.

The Rowan in front of her, the third Rowan she’s known, stares her down. His eyes peel away each of the layers she’s worked with Maeve for months to don in a second.

“I wouldn’t do that to you.”

It’s honest and maybe she’s not the same Aelin as a few months ago either.

That’s what she had asked for that night in the cool air, to move past them with as little commotion as possible, stirring up as little attention as they could. She hadn’t wanted to let them eclipse the movie and yet that ended up being exactly what she had accomplished.

Now though, Aelin knows better.

Rowan nods as his eyes dart across her face. He seems to step closer without realising. Aelin notes the motion, still so aware of him and his proximity to her.

His tongue darts out to wet his lower lip. “I was so angry at you for leaving.”

Aelin loses her breath at his confession.

Eventually she manages, “was?”

He looks away from her, glancing down the dark hallway, his jaw tight. When she’s with him she forgets about the world around them, there’s probably-definitely-CCTV in this hallway but he’s here and she can’t let him go yet.

His fists curl and uncurl as he takes a deep breath.

“Was,” he says shortly. “I was so angry at you, the way you did what you did was shit.”

Aelin swallows. He’s not wrong.

“I know.”

“But now I don’t know.” She lifts her eyes to his, swimming in the openness she doesn’t deserve. And fuck that. That is such bullshit. She meets his stare, returning all that he isn’t saying. “I spent a long time thinking about it, thinking about you, and it took me a while but now I get it.”

That hurts more than she expects. She didn’t expect him to be all over her the minute they reunited but his understanding was always a kicker.

“I know why you did it,” he continues. “And that took most of the wind out of my sails.”

Aelin frowns. He can’t possibly know why.

“I don’t think you do.” He tilts his head, an invitation for her to expand. “Or you’d know that nothing has changed.”

“Hasn’t it?”

His question throws her. Completely.

She tilts her head up to look at him, closer to her than he’s been all night, pushing her to keep being honest with him.

She’s dazed being this close to him again after so long, the green of his eyes stronger than she remembers. Or maybe her brain had assured her the memory of him couldn’t have been real.

“I don’t know,” she admits, unable to fight the way her body leans into him.

His teeth graze his lower lip and she follows the motion.

He’s silent for a beat too long and her skin is thrumming under his attention. She doesn’t know how she’s gone this long without him, she doesn’t know how she thought she’d survive never having him again.

“Let me know when you figure it out,” he says finally, drawing back and a rush of cool air fills the space he had taken. “Goodnight Aelin.”

He turns and she watches his back down the hallway. He slips easily into a room a few doors down and she’s left watching the path he’d taken, feeling the weight of his eyes on her lips.

Her head thuds against the door as she screws her eyes shut. She wants to scream, wants to chase him down the hall, wants to fly back to Orynth where she was safe.

She doesn’t do any of those things.

She tucks herself into her hotel room and readies herself for the whirlwind that’s about to hit. These next few weeks are going to be hard, not just dealing with the Rowan situation, but she can’t fight the excitement she feels.

Fuck. She’s back in Rifthold, back where she loves, doing what she was born to do.

This is big. She can feel it.

The Crescent City is not her first project, and so she’s been a part of press cycles before, she knows how they go. What she doesn’t know is how a press cycle for something like this works.

The only word she can find is insanity.

There are somehow earlier mornings than they had while shooting and often longer days. She gets poked and prodded in hair and make-up for hours before they spend all day sat in a hotel room filming repetitive interviews for various magazines.

She and Fenrys are genuinely friends and yet they still have to put on a show in front of the cameras. She plays up her laughter when he cracks a joke and he makes sure to never look away from her for longer than two seconds when she speaks or a producer behind the camera makes a comment.

She loves Fenrys but it’s exhausting. Her only blessing is that for most of her engagements she’s with Fenrys and Manon with Rowan conducting his own interviews separately as she had hoped.

Sometimes though, given their relatively similar ages and general level of chemistry, they get grouped together.

The four of them are filming a video for Buzzfeed, filling in a quiz to find out which character from The Crescent City they’re most like. She’s unsurprised to discover her result is Rhysand and it’s fun even if her heart does pound every time she has to act like she’s unfazed and friendly with Rowan.

There’s a moment, just a moment, where she almost breaks from her friendly and unbothered interview persona. It’s her turn to read the question, what item could you not survive without on a desert island?

It’s Rowan that speaks. “Her shampoo,” he says, “it’s jasmine.”

There’s a split second where she doesn’t speak, where all she can do is stare at Rowan, stunned that he remembered and thought to mention it now.

In that split second she’s transported back to memories of them together in the shower at her rented apartment, kissing lazily under the spray after spending hours between her sheets. She remembers dumping the shampoo into her hand and then onto his head, massaging his thick locks and surrounding them in the scent of jasmine.

She remembers how he kissed her neck as she did, trailing his hands over her silky curves, slick with the soap, with his kisses building in heat until her hands dropped to his shoulders. He’d lavished kisses down her chest until he’d jerked back, shampoo in his eyes and she’d laughed until he was safe and pressed his lips again to hers, continuing where he’d left off.

She’s shocked he’d bring this up when there’s a camera on the two of them and she can only imagine the comments it will spark. She’s not sure she cares if it keeps Rowan’s eyes on her.

“It’s luxurious for a reason,” she says when she recovers, tossing her thick locks over her shoulder. “Well worth it.”

She doesn’t miss the flicker in his own mask at her comment.

That kind of interaction will no doubt ignite the sparks she’d only ever wanted to avoid.

As the press cycle goes on and on, and they get closer and closer to the premiere it only becomes harder for her conviction to hold.

She tests her own argument, the clear line she drew in the sand, when she manages to keep it professional with Rowan and she’s not sure where that leaves her. She had thought they would overshadow everything about the project and now she’s not sure.

She said nothing had changed and he had challenged her.

She’s still not sure who’s in the right.

Everything is simultaneously completely new and exactly the same. Rowan is still gorgeous, still charming in his own reserved way, still almost reverent when he talks about his craft throughout interviews. He still talks with his hands and Aelin still can’t draw her eyes away from their motions, she still craves the touch of them on her skin. He’s still seven years older than her and the director of her big break.

Yet there are differences.

They’re still often on the same page, offering similar answers and backing each other up but now he never backs down from a challenge. Now he doesn’t hold back those comments she knows he was always dying to let slip. She should be annoyed, everytime he drops a line that pushes her to expand a little part of her wants to roll her eyes.

She doesn’t though. Her blood heats and her skin prickles. She loves this with him. Loves the dance they play, the teasing, verbal games that shouldn’t start her off but do. She loves the smirk he wears when they end up down that path, and she knows she wears it’s mirror image.

She always ends up squirming in her seat and it should be wrong but it isn’t. The cameras can’t see below their chests and the flush in her cheeks could easily be from the warmth of the day.

She’s beginning to wonder if she’s powerless against Rowan Whitethorn. If she’s powerless against the green of his eyes or the curl of his accent. The slant of his brows or the points of his teeth when he smiles.

She doesn’t know that it’s just one thing. It’s all of the things, it’s all of him, and more so than ever she’s completely fucked.

But they aren’t talking outside of the interviews and photoshoots, and the knowledge of which hotel room is his itches her toes every night. It would be so easy to sneak down the hall, to knock on the door and slot her lips to his when he opened.

It’s only a couple of nights before the premiere when the temptation becomes too much. She’s been around Rowan all day, surrounded by the smell of his aftershave, the notes of pine and freshness and Rowan and it’s too much. She strides down the hallway, resolved in her decision and closes her fingers over the button for the lift.

She needs to be elsewhere or she’ll make some bad decisions.

She’s come so far, survived months without him, she can’t cave due to proximity.

The hotel bar is deserted when she walks in and makes a beeline to the bartender. Yeah, maybe after her wobble at the wrap party a bar isn’t the best decision she could make but her options are limited. Trying to sleep with Rowan is, after all, probably the worst of both options.

“Just a sparkling water please,” she says to the barman who nods and returns a moment later.

“Put it on my tab.” A voice from the end of the bar.

A laugh bubbles out of her chest as she closes her fingers around her glass. Of course he’s here. She should have spotted Rowan the minute she walked in and it’s cruel that the reason she didn’t was that her thoughts were too wrapped up in him.

“Be careful what you sign up for,” she says as she walks over, her steps measured as she comes to a stop before him. Her hips swing of their own accord and his eyes dart up and down the length of her. “I can put a number of these away.”

The smile he gives her is surprisingly unguarded. It seems he’s done holding himself back too. Aelin loves it.

“I don’t doubt it,” he says, nodding at the stool next to him. She obliges as he speaks again. “It’s hard to switch off sometimes.”

He’s always on the same page as she is. Aelin shrugs, taking a sip of the drink he bought her.

They’re quiet for a moment, both unsure of how to break the silence between them when one of the last things they knew was the taste of each other’s lips.

“I keep thinking I’ll get used to it, that one day this will just be my job, but I never do,” Aelin says eventually, tracing a fingertip through the condensation gathered on her glass.

Rowan nods, smiling softly down at the bar and taking a sip of his own drink. An orange juice as usual.

“It’s hard to sleep at the end of days like today,” he says. “It’s why I’m in here.”

The bar is dark at the late hour, and quiet with no one else in there but them and the bartender. There’s something about the late hour, the darkness and the stillness surrounding them a break from the recent rush, that feels a little bit too close. She feels a little too exposed under the weight of his gaze but she rolls her shoulders back and leans an elbow on the bar as she turns towards him.

“I thought you’d be used to all of this by now,” she says and he cocks his head.

“Why?” His question is coy, begging her to expand.

“This is not your first rodeo and all of that,” she says with a smile.

Rowan laughs softly, the sound curving around her like an embrace.

“It can still be overwhelming after your first big movie,” he says gently, but with an edge to his voice that she needs to immediately get rid of.

“I don’t doubt that,” is what she whispers and his brow seems to soften, sensing her lack of malice.

She hates the way they’re in the position where he assumes the worst of her. She has to make that change.

“I don’t think if I get to do this for the rest of my life that it would ever feel normal.”

“No,” Rowan agrees, “I don’t think it could.”

“So then we need this film to do well.” Aelin shifts on the stool, finding herself leaning closer to him without conscious thought. He doesn’t retreat. He stands his ground until they’re only inches apart. “Lest we find ourselves fading into obscurity.”

“I doubt you ever could,” he says with a laugh and it’s the best thing she’s ever heard.

As he looks at her, his expression soft in the dim light, his smile holds something special for her and her chest lifts that she managed it. That he was willing to give that to her.

“My agent sent over the initial critic reviews earlier,” he says and her stomach plummets.

“And?” she demands, her voice wobbling slightly. Her confidence from a minute ago vanished.

This is the moment where she could sink, the moment this could all be over.

“And they’re good,” he almost whispers.

“Good,” she repeats and it’s not a question but he nods.

She wants to throw herself at him at the news, a couple of months ago she wouldn’t have even hesitated, but now she sits clenching her fists and trying not to smile too wide. It feels like a waste. She’ll never get this feeling again.

She turns to him and he’s smiling so she does what she’s wanted to for months. Aelin leans forwards and wraps an arm over his shoulders, pressing her chest to his.

His arms slip up slowly over her shoulders at first, unsure but gaining confidence as he tightens his grip around her, drawing her further into his chest. Aelin laughs a little, throwing her other arm around him and resting her face against his shoulder.

It’s not enough, it never could be with him, but it will do. She’s just happy he didn’t push her away.

Eventually, after a length of time that feels far too short, she pulls back to see him gazing down at her with an expression she can’t name. His brows are drawn in with his lips gently parted. He’s happy but apprehensive, open but distant. Aelin will take what she can and the distance between them has always been too far.

She wants nothing more than to close it, to draw herself into him and he into her, but she can’t. They’re here for one thing and one thing only and she refuses after what they’ve been through to mess it up again.

She knows he can read her own expression but she doesn’t care. She’ll hide from everyone and anyone but she’s realising she could never hide from him.

She wants Rowan, will probably want him for the rest of her life, but she made the call and he’s wrong, things haven’t changed.

Apart from all of the things that have.

The day of the premiere Aelin feels sick.

Her stomach twists and she tosses and turns all night and the dark circles under her eyes are brutal as a result. Her make-up artist tuts but diligently packs concealer on until Aelin looks well rested. Or as close as she can.

She’s trying not to think of the stretch of carpet she’ll have to walk tonight, a smile plastered across her face as she poses for the hundreds of cameras. Their premiere is one of the biggest of the season and, along with Fenrys, she’s the star.

She’ll have nowhere to hide.

Aelin sits in front of her mirror, her hair and make-up are done but she’s yet to get dressed. She takes herself in, making sure to note every strand of hair to every line of her lips, feeling as though she needs to remember this moment. The moment before it all explodes.

They’ve been building to this for almost a year now and this is as close to a culmination as she’ll get.

Her dress is something fierce. Endless, flowing velvet in the darkest shade of black. Long sleeves and a fitted bodice with an almost indecent dip in the back. The dress would be modest without that cut out, she can’t wear any underwear it dips so low.

It would be a simple dress, some might even dare to say boring, if it weren’t for the back. The majority of the fabric that remains is covered in gold embroidery taking the form of a dragon, coiled to strike. Aelin adored the dress the moment her stylist revealed it to her. She didn’t consider any of the other dresses, didn’t even acknowledge them as options.

The dress is what she needs, something strong, something to help her hold her head up high. She can walk the red carpet and stare down every single person who doubted her and know that they were wrong.

Aelin doesn’t need their approval. She doesn’t need the reassurance of faceless commenters, she doesn’t need the support of the magazines and the newspapers. She doesn’t need her mother’s approval. On anything.

Aelin is confident and self-assured and she can walk the red carpet knowing that.

Her sessions with Maeve have helped to reassure her stance, but she’s realising day by day she’s known it all along. It’s just taken a little bit of digging to uncover it.

She slips into her dress and it slides on like a second skin. She takes in her appearance, the arch of her brow and the red smirk of her lips makes her look intriguing, like a confident young woman.

Aelin was born to be an actress but she’s proud to say the sight in the mirror is real.

She poses for a few photos before she’s led out of her room and into the car, waiting to take her to the theatre.

She spends the ride in silence, barely listening to the jabbering of the aide in the car with her, and she focuses her thoughts on the calm before the storm. She takes deep breaths and centres herself the way Maeve has taught, she knows this could so easily be overwhelming but she’s determined to enjoy it.

The car stills and she can hear the noise of the crowd outside. She takes a final deep breath and allows her lips to spread into a smile. This one is genuine, nothing forced about it, and she pauses for one last beat.

This is big and Aelin is ready.

The car door opens and the sound hits her like a wave, slamming down onto her and it's so loud she can hardly think.

This is it. This is the moment she has dreamed of.

The nights where this image was all she could cling to to make it through could never have compared to how it feels standing here now, screams of her own name wrapping around her and urging her on.

Her steps are slow and purposeful as she glides down the path forged for her, the red carpet beneath her stilettos is plush and bright. She pauses where she’s instructed, rolling her shoulders back and smirking at the cameras with a hand on her hip.

She knows she looks incredible and the shouts of the photographers do nothing to change her mind. They are here for her, they’re all here for what she has accomplished, along with Fenrys, Manon, Chaol and Rowan and everyone else involved.

There are so many forces upon her, the flashing of the lights, the screams and shouts calling her name or Fenrys’, the magnitude of what this is could knock down a lesser individual but all it does is raise Aelin up.

She’s been through worse than this and survived, she’ll stare down the lense of all of these cameras, of everyone who has ever spoken her name and she won’t cower, she won’t just survive. She’ll thrive.

A warm hand lands on her waist and somehow the flashes of the cameras explode.

“Hey, golden girl.” Fenrys’ words are almost hard to hear even though his lips brush her ear. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Aelin wraps her arm around his back and grins, “I thought I’d at least show my face.”

He returns her smile and together they pose for the cameras, their shoulders back and smiles confident. She’s not sure this could be better.

Until she turns slightly to her left and gets flashes of silver where she and Fenrys are gold.

Rowan and Manon, posing for their own pictures mere metres away. He looks spectacular, the deep black of his tuxedo doing nothing but bringing out the depth of his tan and the shine of his silver hair.

He’s smiling his public smile and it’s gorgeous even though it’s not her favourite of his smiles, she loves the private ones he used to save just for her, and her own smile falters at the sight.

She’s here with Fenrys and it’s not wrong but it doesn’t feel right. The arm around her waist shouldn’t belong to Fenrys.

She should be where Manon is, smiling up at Rowan while they marvel at what they’ve accomplished. She knows her smile has dropped and she fumbles for anything to plaster onto her expression other than the longing she feels for Rowan.

As if she’d called his name he turns to her, green colliding with blue, and she knows he feels the same.

And that hurts far more than all of the months they spent apart.

All the months she spent hurting, trying to deny what she always knew, trying to pretend that they were anything other than a force of nature. They had been an eclipse, threatening to over take all of this but she was wrong. Rowan was wrong too.

It doesn’t matter whether everything or nothing has changed because she wasn’t right in the first place.

She should have known better than to think that whatever flimsy decision she made could halt what they were, what they should be.

She can only hope he forgives her. She can only hope he feels the same.

But the thing about this new Rowan is that she can’t read him the way she used to read her Rowan, she can’t tell if the way he steels himself and turns away from her is a dismissal or if the look they shared had been just as painful for him as it had been for her.

“A masterpiece.” - Rifthold Reporter

“Fenrys Moonbeam shines alongside Aelin Ashryver in The Crescent City. See our full review here.” - Wyrd Stone

“Latest Rowan Whitethorn flick smashes Box Office records.” - Valg Weekly

“Unapologetic, daring and thought provoking. Award nominations expected to follow for The Crescent City.” - Terrasen Tribune

Her phone has not stopped buzzing for the past four days.

Dorian texts every waking hour with the updates he gets, the numbers coming in and all her latest offers. It’s surreal. She knew they were good but she’s not sure she ever really expected this. Aedion texts her a picture every time he sees or hears her name, it should be terrifying the frequency with which he texts her but she has to fight back her smile each time he does.

She managed to find an hour the night before to call Lysandra and the majority of their call had consisted of Aelin repeatedly asking what the fuck was happening while Lysandra cackled down the phone.

She’d even got a text from Lorcan. It was alright, he’d written. Followed by, I hope I die before ever having to watch you make out with someone like that again.

She’d sent three middle finger emojis and a kissy face in response.

Now is probably not the best time to move to a different country but she’d signed her name on the papers two days before the premiere and Rifthold is calling, irrespective of the fact she’s only been back in Orynth for two days.

Most of her stuff headed out yesterday with the moving company leaving Aelin with two suitcases to fly back to Rifthold with tomorrow.

There’s one last place she needs to go before she heads back to finally get a good night's sleep before her flight tomorrow. She’s never set foot in this graveyard before, she’s never had the courage to dare before, but she’s emboldened. By the success of the movie, by her progress in the past year, by her sessions with Maeve. This has felt like a natural step.

The shining, black headstone is understated and classy and completely to his taste.

Sam Cortland. Beloved son and brother, taken far too soon.

Aelin waits with her head bowed, allowing all of her emotions to rush through her veins. She doesn’t fight them, it would be pointless to try, and she embraces the tears that gather. Eventually she steps forwards, placing the smooth, small stone on the crest of the headstone.

She rests her hand on the cool stone for a moment before sinking down and crossing her legs beneath her as she leans against it.

“I’ve missed you,” she says aloud, “I can almost hear you telling me to stop being such a sappy shit. I can’t help it, it’s been too long since I’ve seen you.”

She pauses, letting the wind drift through the field sweeping her words away.

There’s no one else here but her and Sam, no one else she’d want to hear her confession.

“I wonder what you would have made of all this. I think you’d tell me to enjoy it all, to not miss a moment, and I’m not. I’m just choosing the ones I want to savour. And this is one of them, Sam. I wish you’d been there with me, you would have loved it, the cameras, the lights, everything.

“I have to keep pinching myself to know it’s real, I did it, and I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to come and see you.”

She sighs, letting her head tip back to rest against the stone. She didn’t prepare anything to say, didn’t realise she’d even want to speak to the open air but here she is.

“I’m not the same Aelin as the girl you knew anymore,” she says after a few moments of silence. “I didn’t think I would have the capacity to love again after you but I did, and I feel terribly guilty that I do. I have to remind myself that this is what you would have wanted, you would have wanted me to be happy.”

The silence in the field is more than an answer enough. So typically Sam to give her an answer without so much as speaking a word.

“I was happy,” she says, trailing a fingertip along the words etched into the stone. “I will be again.”

A faint haze of sunlight drifts through the Orynth autumn clouds, a whisper compared to the chorus of brightness she misses in Rifthold, and she stands, brushing off the dirt from her jeans. She touches the stone one last time before turning and heading out of the graveyard.

Her visit was years overdue but her chest didn’t crack open the way she had expected, the tears hadn’t been relentless the way she had expected. She’ll visit him again the next time she’s back in Orynth, probably visiting Elide and Lorcan for Yulemass, and she’ll visit again and again for as long as she lives.

But for now, she has a plane to catch.

Months later and two days before the Oscars, when they’re all back in town for the ceremony held in her new home city of Rifthold, Fenrys throws another party.

She’s managed, this time, to stay in touch with Fenrys and Manon, having made up with the younger girl before the press cycle had finished. Aelin knows her upset was real but partly suspects the animosity was a front. She even finds herself participating in the group chat with the three of them and Rowan. She’s only texted him one to one once to wish him a happy birthday and they had caught up briefly but not texted since.

She’s missed him in a different way to the last time she missed him. This time missing him doesn’t feel necessary, it feels wrong not to text him, wrong to be away from him and she’s itching to see him again.

It’s no one's birthday this time but they’re all together again to celebrate, no matter the results they’ll see in two days. Aelin is very carefully measuring her excitement about her own nomination for best actress. Fenrys is up for best actor, Rowan best director and the movie best picture.

She’d almost dropped her phone in the toilet when she found out from Dorian a few weeks ago.

The party is small but still in full swing by the time she arrives. Big names from the industry, all in town for the ceremony, are scattered all around Fenrys’ Rifthold apartment. He’d bought a place here not long after Aelin and she’s secretly relieved she’s not the only one so moved by their experience.

She waves to a few people she knows and tries to stay calm when she spots Sartaq Khagan in the corner chatting away to a small group of people. Holy shit Fenrys has some famous friends.

Aelin finds herself a glass, tops her orange juice off with a splash of lemonade and begins her rounds. So many more people want to talk to her after the movie dropped.

Her mother had been one of them, and Aelin’s thumb had hovered over the accept button for a moment before decidedly pressing decline. She had blocked her mother’s number a moment later, and then she had made some calls closing the bank account her mother kept topped up and arranging for every penny she’d ever received from Evalin Ashryver to be paid back.

It had hurt, emotionally and financially, especially in the month she’d moved to Rifthold, but it had been worth it. To never let Evalin pass any judgement over her life again was a relief worth any cost. Aelin’s hoping there’s a possibility she could end up with a reward.

She doesn’t know how long she spends talking to big name after big name and it’s a realisation that drops onto her that she fits in here. Aelin Ashryver is a big name. No matter the outcome of the ceremony she has prospects, already a number of projects lined up and she’s loving every minute of it.

She drains her cup for the third time tonight and heads back into the kitchen. She’s barely seen Fenrys all night, and she doesn’t even know if Manon is here.

She frowns into the fridge, there was definitely a full bottle of orange juice in here the last time she topped herself up. She shuts the fridge and spins around.

“Looking for this?”

She should have known.

Rowan looks predictably gorgeous in the dim kitchen lighting. All tanned skin and silver smiles. He’s dressed in her favourite look of his too, worn denim jeans and a soft cotton shirt.

It’s the softness in his gaze that really takes her though, it seems the animosity from the last time they saw each other has faded if not disappeared. Her chest squeezes at the thought. She has no idea what could have triggered it but she will take it.

“Nope,” she says, stepping over to where he stands with an arm braced against the counter at his side, the other holding out a bottle of orange juice. “I was hoping Fenrys would have some chocolate in there but I guess this will have to do.”

She takes the bottle from him, her fingertips brushing his and she feels her cheeks heat at the innocent brush.

His smile is genuine and she knows what he’s remembering because she’s thinking of it too. The first time she visited his house during filming and their moment in the kitchen. They’ve been through cycles, she supposes, but hopefully now for the better.

“I’m sure we can find you some somewhere in here,” he says as she fills her cup, pulling open the cupboard next to his head.

Aelin smirks. “I’m going to leave the rummaging through Fenrys’ cupboards to you. You could find anything in there.”

Rowan winces, closing the door before returning her smile. This is friendly and the hope that’s been planted in her chest begins to sprout.

“Yeah, maybe not,” he says with a conspiratorial smile. “We wouldn’t want to risk it.”

Aelin pauses for a moment, taking in the glory of him in front of her. He’s still Rowan, he’s still tall and deliciously broad. His silver hair is slightly more grown out and there are a couple more lines around his eyes but she doesn’t care, in fact it’s charming. He’s still and always will be stunning. She takes a sip of her drink before she takes one of her biggest risks so far.

“I’ve missed you,” she says, not daring to look away from his face.

He bites his lip, his tongue darting out to soothe the skin before he speaks. “I’ve missed you too.”

The smile that spreads across her face is all too telling but he’s smiling too so she doesn’t think it matters. He definitely feels the same and she’d be annoyed at the months she spent worrying but the relief is too sweet.

“Good,” is what she says, far too happy they’re here to bother with pretending she’s anything other than ecstatic. “Congrats on your nomination.”

His eyes dart to the floor and then back up at her, he’s too modest about his own skill and Aelin adores it. “Thank you,” he says softly, “you too.”

“Thanks,” she says. “I couldn’t have done it without you. All of you.”

“Me neither,” Rowan says.

He’s close to her now, closer than he has been to her for months and her skin cries out for contact. She almost can’t believe she’s here now, talking to Rowan without any animosity, days before the Oscars that she’s nominated in.

The smile that takes over her face is completely of its own accord. She’s floating and it seems Rowan is too if the beat they share, exchanging incredulous smiles, is anything to go by.

“It’s crazy, right?”

She’s been asking herself the question for so long it seems only natural it slips out to him.

He laughs softly, and the rough sound curls straight to her core.

“Definitely,” he agrees, his voice low. “I don’t think last time felt like this.”

Aelin slaps a gentle hand to his chest and ignores the thrill that shoots through her at the eventual contact. “I get it, this is not your first nomination.”

Rowan rolls his eyes and she didn’t know how much she missed this, playing with him. She adores his reaction every time, the begrudging amusement he only lets shine through to make her smile.

“Some of us have never been nominated before, this is all completely new.” Aelin takes a sip of her drink. “I had to give up my social media accounts to Elide, it got so crazy.”

Something flickers over Rowan’s face at her comment. “Really?”

“Yeah,” she says, her eyes darting across his face trying to decipher the expression. “She’s always had access and I still do so I can post if I want to but it just became a lot. It stopped being fun when I would see what people were saying, whether it was good or bad I don’t want to see it anymore.”

Rowan nods before his eyes lock onto hers, the intensity in his expression shreds her control.

“And you said nothing had changed?”

Aelin gets it now.

She shifts her weight, leaning as close to him as she can without sliding herself completely into the circle of his arms. “I was wrong. Lots of things have changed,” she says, her voice quiet but strong. “And lots of things are now right that weren’t before.”

She doesn’t mean to skirt around the truth, hiding in veiled words and double meanings, but as always, Rowan sees her. He sees her meaning and he smiles. It’s the most beautiful smile Aelin has ever seen him wear.

“I’ve been looking for you two.”

Fenrys bursts into the kitchen, startling Aelin back from Rowan. She hides her guilty smile in her drink and notices Rowan doing the same. Fenrys just grins, clearly enjoying whatever he thinks he’s seeing.

“You’re missing out, we’re playing kings in the living room if you want to join?”

Rowan glances at her before he turns back to Fenrys. “I think we’re good, thanks.”

Fenrys’ smile turns smug and Aelin resists the temptation to flip him off. She’s in too good of a mood to be annoyed at him.

“Okay, see you later, lovebirds,” Fenrys says, already on his way back out of the door.

Aelin pretends she isn’t blushing as she turns back to Rowan, his green eyes shining.

“This might sound crazy,” he says with an alluring tilt to his lips, “but do you want to get out of here?”

She’s reached a point she truly never thought she would.

She’s an Oscar-nominated lead actress in a box-office-record-breaking movie.

She’s happy, healthy and out from underneath the thumb of Evalin Ashryver.

The part that’s most uplifting, the part that has her unable to wipe the smile off her face as she strolls down the streets of Rifthold, is the arm she has tucked through Rowan’s.

They’ve been walking for a little while, enjoying the cool night air and the ease with which they managed to sneak out of Fenrys’ party. Her heels are killing her and Rowan very graciously offers her an arm to lean on and each time she takes a step in time with him she smiles.

“I never thought I’d like doing television,” he says.

She didn’t know he’d taken on a miniseries, similar to the one she’d done after filming, but she’s loving the recap she’s getting of the months they’ve been apart. The chill of the air is more than fought off by the warmth of Rowan by her side. The streets are mercifully empty and she can bask in the knowledge that it’s just the two of them out here, that they’re insignificant, that anyone who sees them will immediately dismiss them.

“I always thought I’d stick to movies, singular stories but I enjoyed it. I guess change can be good.”

Aelin laughs softly and squeezes his arm. He looks down to her, a question written in the slant of his brow.

“Change can definitely be good,” she says as she takes in the sights of the skyscrapers surrounding them. “I would know that I suppose.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I bought a flat recently.”

“You did?”

He’s so graciously giving her the floor to say what she needs to say and she holds his arm even tighter.

“It’s right here in Rifthold.” Aelin avoids his gaze, lest he think it’s a speedy invitation and that that’s all this is. “I bought it just after we were back here for press, I realised that I adore Rifthold and being here. I missed it when I wasn’t here and I don’t feel there’s anything holding me in Orynth anymore.”

Rowan laughs softly, his feet scuffing the floor.

“What?” she demands.

“I swear I’m not following you,” he says and she feels a smile creep onto her face. “I bought a loft here too.”

Aelin gasps. “But your house was gorgeous!”

Rowan’s smile twists as he looks away from her. “I didn’t say I sold the house.”

Aelin cackles as she squeezes his arm, the sound joyous and bright as it echoes around them. “I knew being Mr Big-Name-Director has its perks.”

“It does,” he agrees with a smirk.

Aelin wants to kiss that smirk. Wants to pull him down and twist her fingers through his hair as his own tangle along her skin.

Instead she says, “I copied you somewhat too.”

He only raises a brow.

“I bought a piano like the one in your house. It was too big for my old flat in Orynth and so I knew what I had to do.”

“That’s good,” he says as his arm drops out of hers. She almost pouts until he instead tangles their fingers together. Her smile says it all, reflected back in his own. “You play beautifully.”

“Thank you.” Her cheeks are glowing. “You’ll have to come over and I’ll play for you sometime, neighbour.”

“I’d love to.”

Aelin slows, using the hand tangled with his to pull him to a stop too. Her free hand trails a gentle path up his chest before coming to rest at his collar, her fingertips tracing the golden skin peeking out from his shirt. His free hand finds her waist.

They’re close, closer than they have been in such a long time when he speaks.

“I don’t know what you think has or hasn’t changed.” His hand leaves hers to cup her cheek. “But I still feel the way I used to about you.”

Her heart takes off, pounding within her chest.

“I do too, Rowan.” Some of the easiest words she’s ever said to him. There’s something about the way the streetlights shine through the silver tips of his hair and the way his calloused fingers feel between hers that she’s feeling brave. “I loved you then and I love you now.”

His eyes flicker across her face as his smile dawns, taking over his face as he smiles so brightly. This is all she’s ever wanted, to have a Rowan like this, with pure, unfiltered happiness in his eyes as he looks at her.

“You love me?”

“I do. To whatever end.”

His lips are barely a whisper from hers and she only acknowledges the thought that they’re in public for long enough to realise she doesn’t care.

“And I love you.”

His words are simple, but sweet. They wash over her and settle into her skin as his lips land on hers. He kisses her with what she can only describe as love. His lips pour devotion onto her and his hands light a fire inside her as he tastes her tongue.

They kiss for longer than she can keep a track of, wrapped up together illuminated only by the street lighting. She’s missed this, missed him, and she can’t help but feel right when his hands are on her. She can’t help but feel right as she stretches onto her toes to throw herself into his kiss.

This was never wrong, this was one of the first things she knew was right.

She loves him and he loves her and nothing and nobody else matters.

She doesn’t win the Oscar, and neither does Rowan. Fenrys does and she screams herself hoarse cheering him on as he makes his way to the stage.

The moment that takes the cake is when The Crescent City takes best picture. She takes to the stage with some of her best friends to recognise what they achieved together and maybe she is a soppy shit but she definitely cries. Fenrys laughs at her and Manon grins but Rowan just throws his arm around her shoulders and it's worth it.

Afterwards, she logs into her Instagram account for the first time in a long time. She posts a picture of Rowan looking absolutely delicious with his tux unbuttoned and his bow tie hanging untied around his neck with a greasy burger in one hand and hers in his other.

Posting him is a statement but she doesn’t care. In fact, she wants the world to know. She wants the world to know that nobody does it like he does. Nobody does it like they do.

#rowaelin #nobody does it like you do #aelin galathynius #rowan whitethorn #throne of glass #rowaelin au #ndilyd #i cant believe it's the last part of this fic #crazy #hope you all enjoyed

[ncitygirls]

pink - mark x gn reader

fluff, smut, cw: submissive!mark, 2k

The concept of colour is an intriguing one. Much like seeing, seeing itself is intriguing. Intriguing as well is the notion that seeing is believing when the blind trust so fiercely. They must trust the yellow of the sun resembles the middle of daisies, and runny yolk. They must trust the red of a ruby resembles that of flowing blood. They must trust that at any given time, the blue painting the skies can resemble that of bluebells, blueberries, and all blue things.

The concept of colour is not an admissible one. It is convoluted and complex. The pink of a rose, of a poked eye, of a healing wound, of a stained linen. They all contain a bounty of hues; some dimmer, paler, or truer than others. They all carry their own meaning, things we assign and ascribe to an item; be it clothing, furniture, text. The point to all this is, you do not think you will ever be able to truly explain how perfect the pink that colours Mark’s lips is. You try every morning you are fortunate to wake beside him - when you are first to wake that is. You peel open your eyes one by one, blinking away sleep and tears from the strobes scorching your corneas, falling victim to the allure of sunlight that lures you from your dreams, only to wake to another.

Pink. It is too simple a word to describe the creases in his lips that sit a couple shades darker, not enough to call magenta nor red. Every morning, you ache to run your fingers along the ridges, to rouse him from sleep, punish him like the rising sun did you. You never do. You lay there, watching as silent breaths cause the rise and fall of your lover’s chest, perturbed by the riddle that curses you every other morning.

How does one describe the indescribable?

It is your job no? To spread word of such wonder. A man who proves the existence of a higher power. A man whose face cannot be a product of the algorithms of colliding comets, nor of destiny. Hands of an omniscient being carved this face, moulded him into the wonder that you wake to every morning. That pink is not just pink. It is a perfect combination of the richest red and a waxen white. God needn’t have spent long, given his almightiness, but he did spend more time than on others. For that reason you think it selfish to waste this time, to roll out of bed and busy yourself with the trivial, menial tasks of readying for work. No, you must solve this riddle. You must find a way to proclaim what you have thought since the very first moment you laid eyes on Mark Lee.

“How are you real?”

One glance and he knew you hadn’t meant to ask it aloud. It is a regular action you do in regards to him; thanking God for the blessing that was Mark Lee’s creation. It occurs at all hours of the day, both verbal and non verbal, physical and non-physical alike. Whether it be the sudden airiness in your laughter, or twirling strands of his hair betwixt your fingers. Every time your eyes settle on his face, your senses heighten while your sense diminishes.

“Morning, angel,” he mumbles, tugging you from your angelic pose on his chest and pulling your lips to his. He offers you just a press, but should it be your last, it would still be enough. Mornings spent in his company always make for an easier start, one full of wistful goodbyes but wishful hellos. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes,” your lips fall to his toned pec, offering scattered pecks. “Did you?”

Mark hums groggily, head falling to his pillow, failing to follow your sudden flurry of kisses. He finds the energy to speak just as your lips closed around his hardened nipple, as you begin to suck ever so slightly. His hands find your hips, clinging onto your frame as you kiss a path down his chest, marking his skin on your descent. “It’s almost eight,” he regrets to inform you, wishing nothing more than to enjoy this extended dream. “Won’t you be late?”

You show no signs of stopping, journeying south at a most leisurely speed. He relinquishes his hold on you, instead finding purchase in the bed linens, his fingers clasping around the duck down feathers. When your lips suddenly leave him, Mark fears the worst, that his reminder had a delayed effect. That is reluctant warning, seemingly good deed is now working against him. He soon finds his concerns were in vain as your lips close around the clothed head of his cock, sucking long and hard on the darkened material. His hips rise toward your mouth, chasing the stimulation you offer up to the deity beneath you, the one you call Mark. The one you call yours.

Your fingers grip his waistband, slowly lowering the material to the tops of his calves. His hot length meets the cool air with a hiss, his jaw tightening as you offer a languid tug from his base to his tip. A strangled moan fills the air, coating either end of your name. As you slowly pump him within your closed fist, you admire how the morning light always caught the beautiful tone of his arms, the shadows casting over his chest. He is more firm beneath your palm, more concrete, more real. When he casts his gaze toward you finally, finding some room for restraint within your steady pace, he allows himself to admire the gentle knit of your brows, the smirk upturning your lips as his breathing changes when you tighten your fist. He gasps when your eyes fly back up to his, your fist stilled at the base of his abdomen, a silent question in your eyes, a small lick at your lips.

He nods, watching you lower your weight, resting on his tensed thighs. He is breathless, eyes stuck on the plumpness of your lips, your pink tongue sweeping over your bottom one, teeth catching the skin as you run your closed fist over his cock once more, gripping tighter as he mewls.

Words escape him as he offers up devout concentration to his breathing, praying he does not crumble under the warmth of your touch and sweetness in your eyes. His eyes squeeze shut when you thumb his slit, a hard shudder passing through his bones, his hips bucking in time with your closed fist. Mark whines beneath you, the patience he forces is admirable, his whitened knuckles gleam as they blend in with the cloud of sheets. And still you wait, feeling his skin burn as his precum gathers in your palm, squelching in the air.

“Minhyung,” you breathe suddenly, fearful you might shatter the moment. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah,’ he chokes out in response. ‘I want you, please.’

You chortle at his sweet plea, capturing the skin of his thigh in a slow kiss as you pump him harder, puckering your lips along the skin at his base as his thrusts start to increase. “Slow down for me,” you whisper. Mark loves what you are doing, reducing him to the shell of himself as you lure his first orgasm of the day from him. He grips your hand then, ready to chase a release he knows you will not give him.

“Please,” he begs softly, skin a flaming pink, lined by the morning light and in a light dew.

Pressing a final, fleeting kiss to his tip he wishes to chase, you release him, drawing his brows together as you slow down before climbing off of his lap. He frowns as you kneel beside the bed before patting his shin, “come ‘ere.”

He bites his tongue, stuffing it in his cheek, “I know you’re teasing me.”

“No,” you laugh, “you’re just impatient,” you coo, watching as he follows your instruction anyway, shuffling to the edge of the bed. You tug his pants down to his ankles before you are hovering over his cock, admiring the gleam as the light reflects off his slick head. He sighs as you do, your breath cooling his angry tip, a twitch running through his cock as you just hover. He almost whines again when you pucker around his slit, the tip of your tongue passing over it ever so slightly.

His sweet moans fill the air, his breaths laboured as you tease him, lapping at his shaft as he toys with your hair, moving it aside so he can see you. He watches you take him, burying his lithe cock between the hot confines of your mouth before sucking around him, humming as he mewls beneath you. He assigns no time to keeping himself together, instead admiring how quickly you render him powerless. How you swirl your tongue around him, pump him as you suckle on his head, swallowing around him. He is completely at your mercy, his cum threatening to pour down your throat as you push on his abdomen, sending his back into the mattress. He huffs as he falls, sighing as his stolen release is remedied by your cool, slick coated finger prodding at his puckered hole.

His moans are unintelligible, garbled mumbles filling the air as you glide your finger into his ass, curling ever so slightly as you pump the digit. “I think I-,” he starts, unsure how, or just unable to finish.

“It’s okay, Mark,” you breathe on his cock, curling your finger harder with every suck you offer his leaking tip. “It’s okay, you can come.”

“Fuck- I’m-” his voice escapes him before he can help it, the mere thought of it forcing you to suck harder. His release tears through him like molten iron, encrusting his every nerve, setting him alight. His cum coats your throat as he bucks into your mouth, your name barely comprehensible as it pours from his lips. It is pleading, prayer like, something you repel. It was Mark who was God like. Mark who was heavenly.

He humps up into your mouth while grinding down on your finger, milking himself, using you, silently forbidding himself to succumb to the oversensitivity of his orgasm. He clings onto the nape of your neck, lodging his tip in the back of your throat while chasing the finger pressed beautifully to his prostate as his mind and body struggle to process the endless limits of his pleasure, though the two can agree it rests in your hands.

When he is somewhat present, Mark quickly recognises your figure lying by his side, your unsoiled hand massaging the expanse of his chest. He gazes up at you with fatigue in his eyes, and a sickly adoration. And something else he thinks he is ready to name.

“Y/N?” Mark calls, still a little breathless, failing to notice the way your eyes catch the time. “I think I-”

“Shit, it’s past nine! Mark, I have to go.”

You disappear down the hall, your presence made known only by a flurry of rushed sounds before you return in the peachy pink shirt you left behind last time. He can’t figure out how it looks better on you every time he sees it. Much like the pink of your lips when circling his cock or the more innocent pink lining your tired eyes. Even the pink hearts that fly around your head as he watches you rush around the room, glancing at him every so often, laughing to find him still watching you. Each time you do, he sees that nothing beats the colour of the red raw love he feels for you. Mark hopes to tell you this some other beautiful morning. For now, he smiles against your lips as you bids him farewell before letting him return to his slumber.

He dreams only of you.

#eeeeeeeeek nervous #took this off my old blog rip #mark lee smut #mark lee x reader #nct mark lee #nct mark #mark lee fluff #mark smut #mark fluff #nct smut #nct fluff #nct dream smut #nct 127 smut #ncitygirls

[shenanigans-and-imagines]

Hold Me Close

John Constantine x Original Female Character, Angst/Hurt Comfort

A/N: So this little bit of self-indulgence turned into a thing, because it's me and of course it did. I'm still in the early stages of developing Evie and her relationships, so please let me know what you think.

Warning: Mentions of child neglect, lots of crying

Summary: After an emotionally draining day, Evie finds herself with some unexpected company.

Word Count: 2.6K

The Waverider was completely silent, a rarity on the best of days, and a blessed relief to Evie.

She sat in the kitchen, holding a warm cup of tea in her hands. She hadn't taken a single sip in the fifteen minutes since she made it.

All the emotions of the day were simmering to the surface. A tightness clung to her throat making it hard for her to breath. She needed to cry. She needed to sleep. She needed to scream. She needed so many things, all she could do was sit and stare into nothing.

"Are you ever going to drink that?"

Evie blinked. Looking up, she finally noticed John leaning against the doorway, fully dressed in his usual white shirt and tie.

"John? What time is it? Shouldn't you be asleep?"

"I could ask you the same thing."

She wanted to say something smart. On any other day she might have, but she was just too tired to be clever. Instead, she raised her mug to her lips and finally took a sip.

It was warm and did its job, loosening the lump in her throat, but it did little to help with the one in her chest.

"Need something stronger?" John suggested.

She shook her head. "This is about as strong as I can handle right now."

"Fair enough."

She expected that to be the end of it. But he surprised her, walking into the kitchen and pouring himself a drink.

"What are you doing?"

He shrugged. "Well, you know what they say, misery loves company."

"And what have you got to be miserable about?"

He gave her a cynical smile. "Oh don't you worry love, I’ll think of something."

He took a seat beside her and raised his glass in a toast.

Evie obliged, clicking her mug against the tumbler before drinking.

They sat in silence for a moment. It was comfortable, but there were questions hanging in the air that needed to be addressed.

"What are you doing here, John?"

"I told you."

She shot him a skeptical look.

He let out a sigh. "I don't sleep most nights. I saw you in here and..." He met her eyes, his expression softening. "I saw the look on your face when you saw your mum."

The tightness came back in her throat. Quickly, she turned back to her tea and took a long swig. All it did was stall the inevitable.

"How much did Michael tell you?" she asked, with a twist in her stomach.

"Not much," he admitted. "Just that his dad died before he knew him, didn't talk to his mum and that his sister was about the only parent he ever really had."

Evie huffed out a short laugh. It certainly sounded like the description Michael would give, and a more accurate one than she was willing to admit before.

"I take it there's a bit more to it than that," he continued.

She nodded. "Just a bit."

She took a drink, once again assuming a natural end to the conversation.

"You're just going to leave me with that?" he asked.

Her brow furrowed. "Why do you want to know?"

"You seem to know most everything about me, whether I like it or not,” he answered, casually. “I like to work on an even playing field."

Evie considered him for a moment. It seemed like a reasonable answer. Still she couldn't help but feel her problems were childish compared to his. There was a reason she kept them to herself. Nobody actually wanted to know.

She turned her head away, her fingers rubbing absentmindedly against the mug. If she kept her mouth shut for just a few moments, he'd forget the whole thing.

She could feel the pressure building behind her eyes. Her grip tightened. She willed herself to breathe.

"Evelyn..."

She stopped.

Looking down, she finally noticed rough fingers pressed gently around her wrist. She followed the line connecting the fingers to a hand, then to an arm, moving her gaze ever up until she dared a glance at the man they were attached to.

John’s expression was not soft, but his eyes held something she had not seen in a long time; a need to understand. How could she say no to that?

“My dad died when I was eight,” she began, swallowing the roughness of her voice. “My mum took it really hard. She might as well have been dead that first year. I’m not sure she even left her bed. Gran watched after her and didn’t want me or Michael causing trouble.

“Eventually though Mum was able to leave the house and Gran even got her a job at a pub not far from where we lived. But, it didn’t last long. Mum just...wasn’t there anymore. She’d forget to go into work or mess up orders or any number of other things until eventually they had to let her go. She didn’t work after that. Dad’s life insurance kept us afloat and Gran helped so, it wasn’t like we were starving. Even so, she would still...forget. By the time I was ten I was cooking most of the meals and made sure to stop by the shop on my way home from school, that sort of thing. And Mum would just...drift. It was like living with a ghost.”

Evie paused, giving herself a moment to collect her thoughts.

“I can remember my dad, before he died. I can see his face. I remember bedtime stories and how he called me his little Evie Rose. But, for whatever reason, any time I try to remember what my mum was like, I draw a blank. Every memory I have of her is as this...corpse. It was easy for me to believe she was always like that. I convinced myself she couldn’t help it. She didn’t choose not to be there. She was trying and I just needed to pick up where she couldn’t. That was my job.”

Her throat tightened. She sucked in a breath and let it out with a slow quaver.

“But seeing her today, before...everything. She was real. She was real and alive and...there.”

Warm tears spilled down her face. She wiped them away, trying and failing to keep them in check.

“I know grief affects people differently. I know it does. I can’t imagine losing the love of my life like that. But I was her child. Michael was just three years old. We were alive and scared and confused, and we needed her. I needed my Mom and she wouldn’t…”

There was no stopping the tears now. Anger and resentment and grief twenty six years in the making poured out of her. It burned her skin, even if she tried to hide it, ever aware of the man watching her in careful silence.

“I spent so long telling myself it wasn’t her fault. I blamed myself for not doing better by her. But she never cared. I know she was grieving, but at some point she decided her grief was more important than her own children.”

She stopped, forcing herself to fill her lungs with much needed air.

“And I would get so angry. I used to think Michael was just being selfish, that he only cared about himself. But he knew. He knew what she was doing was wrong. He just wanted me to see it too. God, I said so many awful things.”

Guilt weighed in her stomach as she pushed away her straggling tears. She could still feel the prickling behind her eyes, but she didn��t want to spill any more than she had. She had no right to them.

“I’m just a horrible mess of a person.”

A scoff came at her side.

She turned, to see John shaking his head.

“Something funny?”

“Aye, everything,” he said, sardonically. “Trust a Catholic to come to that conclusion.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh c’mon Evie, you’re not a horrible anything. You looked after your brother and your mum when no one else would. When you should have given up on her is a matter for yourself to deal with, but you’re not a bad person for holding out hope. As for Michael, I have a feeling he’s not as resentful as you think he is. Besides, he definitely had some of it coming.”

Evie couldn’t think of what to say, but the corner of her lip did quirk up, just a little. Still, guilt lingered and exhaustion was now taking the place of her anger. The prickling was back, reminding her of the tears still left to shed.

“Now, how about that drink,” John said.

Evie let out a long sigh, rubbing her hand across her face. "Not a bad idea. Honestly, what I could really go for is someone to just hold me for two or three...hours." She tried to make it sound like a joke, but the strain on her voice made her attempt at laughter come off as forced and awkward.

The look on John's face only made her feel worse. He had been uncharacteristically kind to her already. Now, she just made an embarrassing situation down right uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry I laid this all on you,” she said. “I should just go to bed.”

She stood quickly, not even bothering to grab her mug as she headed towards the exit.

She barely made it two steps when a hand grasped at her own.

“Wait.”

She turned.

He was still sitting. His eyes focused on their intertwined fingers. The expression on his face was unreadable. For a moment, she thought he’d let go and forget the whole thing. But then, he came to a decision.

Standing, he took a step toward her, never dropping his grip for a moment. He watched her, carefully checking she had no objections to how close he was.

Her stillness was his answer.

Reaching out his free hand, he cradled her head and guided her to him.

For a moment, neither of them knew what to do.

His hand slipped from hers, but found no place to land, as if he wasn't sure where exactly to touch her. All the same, the intent was felt.

Taking initiative, she leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder as she wrapped her arms around him.

His clothes still held the scent of detergent with just a bit the tobacco smoke she secretly loved. She let herself breathe it in, enjoying the warmth against her cheek and the firmness of his body.

Slowly his hands found purpose. One wrapped tight around her waist while the other curled gently in her hair.

For a while, they just stood there, neither of them daring to break the quiet calm that had settled in the air.

"It's alright Eves," John whispered into her ear. "I've got you, love. It's alright."

It was only then Evie realized she was crying again. The tears and emotions leaked out of her, spilling over the side like an over filled sink. She was starting to shake, trying and failing to keep her breath in check all the while John held on, pressing her even closer into him.

"You're alright," he promised. "I've got you, Eves. You're alright."

The tears weren’t as violent as before. This was catharsis. The last breath of emotional release she needed. So, she let herself feel.

She cried for her brother. She cried for her father. She cried for what might have been and what was. All of it came out in gentle sobs made bearable by the man who wouldn’t let go.

She wasn’t sure how long she stood there, but after a while she had nothing more to give. Her breath returned to something manageable. Her heart, no longer quiet as heavy. Still, she couldn’t pull away from John just yet. She was too tired and he felt too good. She could see herself closing her eyes and staying right there until her legs gave out.

“Not that I’ve got anywhere to be,” he said, gently. “But were you serious about the two to three hours thing?”

She laughed, a real one this time; short, but bright and welcome.

“No,” she assured. “I wouldn’t do that to your reputation.”

He didn’t say anything back, but she took the hint.

With a great effort, she pulled herself from him, leaving her skin colder for it. Now that she had a proper view, a sudden spike of embarrassment shot through her.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, immediately reaching to brush away the obvious stain on his shirt.

John looked down as if just noticing himself.

“Oh believe me, I’ve been covered in worse. Besides, holy woman’s oughta be good for something.”

“I’m not that holy,” she said, with not as much annoyance as that sentence usually carried.

“But you are good,” he countered. “You can’t be anything else.”

Again, something was missing from this usual exchange. The irony had somehow disappeared. The way he was looking at her now, she could believe he meant them.

Then, something happened. His expression became pensive. His eyes shifted away as he took a small step back, putting some visible distance between them.

“You should get some sleep,” he said, his tone now back to its usual guarded self.

Her brow creased in confusion. “You sure you don’t want company?”

“I think if this whole exercise has taught us anything it’s that you need to stop worrying about other people all the time.”

His tone was curt, but there was something performative in it, making it land awkwardly on its intended audience.

All the same, Evie knew rejection when she heard it and felt the intended hurt in her chest.

Apparently it showed on her face as John gave a long sigh. “Look just, get some rest and you can worry about me tomorrow, yeah?”

She nodded, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave just yet. She didn’t know what she had done to make John’s mood shift so abruptly, but she needed to fix it. He had helped her, after all. It didn’t feel right to end the night like this.

With cautious determination, she took a step forward, effectively closing the gap he had created.

John appeared frozen in place, his brow creased in confusion.

Taking the opportunity, she stood on her toes and pressed her lips to his cheek. She was met with rough stubble and the smell of whiskey, a combination she was surprised to find she liked. But couldn’t appreciate it as John turned his head, meeting her eyes.

“Now, why would you do something like that?”

Evie swallowed, a sudden dryness coming to her throat. His lips were much closer to hers than she anticipated.

“I just wanted to say, thank you,” she said, softly. “You’re a good man, John Constantine.”

He looked down at her, his throat and lip tightening as he shook his head. “No, I’m not.”

She smiled knowingly. “Yes you are.”

She kissed his cheek again, this time lingering just a moment as if touch would convey the truth of her statement more than her words could.

“Goodnight, John,” she whispered.

To her surprise, he didn’t push her away. His eyes lingered, floating between her eyes and lips and back again.

She held her breath, wondering if he would lean down and feel her lips for himself. She wondered if she would let him.

But he hesitated. A breath was drawn in and his gaze settled on her eyes.

“Sweet dreams, Evie.”

She nodded, feeling the moment slip away as quickly as it had come.

She settled back down on two solid feet, turned and walked back to her room without looking back. Only when the door closed did she allow herself to linger on the burning of her lips and the hard thumping in her chest.

She didn’t know what truly happened between her and John, but there was no use denying it. Something was different and time would only tell what that meant.

#legends of tomorrow #legends of tomorrow oc #arrowverse #arrowverse oc #john constantine #john constantine x oc #john constantine x reader #evelyn doyle

[starpollen1998]

Uber Allergic: A Romance - part 1 / ?

I don’t know what it is with me and cars lately.  Maybe because I haven’t driven one in nearly 4 years, or maybe because I had a plot bunny about a hired driver and then couldn’t decide which direction to take it.  So, naturally, I wrote 2 stories. A warning: I have never taken an Uber.  I have used a similar company in the country where I live, so I imagined it would be the same.  Apologies for any mistakes.  Hope you enjoy!

The Ride - Part 1

When I saw him standing on the curb waiting, I couldn’t help but blink. And then swallow hard.  The man was stunning: tall, broad-shouldered, long-limbed, with a perfect jawline and dazzling smile.  His hair was that rare coiff that crested like waves from his head, barely brushing his ears, thick and tawny like a lion. When he dropped into the back seat, I saw his eyes were a stunning shade of blue.

I’ve had attractive men in my car before, sure.  But none quite as mind-blowing as this one.

“Heya, darlin’,” he quipped, firing off a devastating wink at me through the rear view mirror.

“Hi,” I replied, barely able to get that single syllable past the lump in my throat.  I prayed I could focus on the road in front of me and not the Greek-god-incarnate in the back seat.  He was headed across town, a trip that would take us roughly 40 minutes.

We rode in silence for almost a full minute, him tapping away on his cell phone while I gritted my teeth and forced my gaze at the horizon. Occasionally I glanced at the GPS, checking that we were on track.

Then…

“heHH?...”

I couldn’t help it.  My eyes darted up to the rear view mirror.

I watched as Greek-god pinched his nostrils shut, rubbing in hard, tight circles, finishing with a small shake of his head, blue eyes blinking furiously.  Was it my imagination, or did those eyes seem to be getting red?

I kept driving.

Not even a minute later…

“heh-heHH?...”

Once more, my eyes snapped like magnets to the rear view mirror.  My passenger was frozen in classic pre-sneeze expression: eyes squeezed shut, mouth open, lower lip trembling… nostrils flared, the tip of his prominent nose visibly twitching.  His elegant head turned left, then right, and then…

“heght--SHHzzztT!!”

He sneezed - snapping into his elbow at the last second.

“B-... Bless you,” I stammered, sure I was blushing red as a tomato.

But Greek god wasn’t done.

He raised his head, eyes still shut, shoulders bouncing with stuttering hitches.  My eyes were darting between the road ahead and the rear view mirror, terrified that I was either going to rear-end someone … or miss one second of the spectacle in the back seat.  

Then - a red light.

Thank you! I screamed in my mind to whatever higher power was listening.

When I came back to the rear view mirror, his right hand was raised, hovering loosely cupped, nostrils stretching into little round O’s, his upper lip curled back from gleaming white teeth…

“hegt--SCHgtT!!” he snapped down, visibly misting the hand. This time he stayed down, and I could almost see his abs rippling beneath his button-up shirt.  “eegh--SCHHtT… aAH-SCHTch-u!!”

“Bless you,” I barely breathed, glad that this particular red light seemed to be taking a lot longer than usual.

His voice - husky and a little congested - floated up from behind the hand still cupped to his nose.

“... snfll… thanks, darlin’.  … sdrfl…. Don’t suppose you h-have… sdrffl…  any tissues?”

Fumbling, I opened the glove box and pulled out the stack of drive-through napkins I kept stashed away for emergencies.  Usually spilled coffee.  Twisting in my seat, I set the stack on his left knee, fingertips brushing the hard muscles of his thigh.

Peering through the tawny strands of hair that had been knocked loose by the fit, his eyes crinkled with a smile.  “Thanks.”  

An impatient honk made me jump.  Heart pounding, I whipped back around to face the road and eased us forward through the intersection.  His soft chuckle made my ears burn, sure that I was blushing fire-engine red by now.

I heard soft blowing, more wet sniffles, and managed to catch in the mirror when he stretched two KFC napkins between both hands and muffled a wet double: “t’SCHmp--g’SCHHm!”

“Bless you,” I managed, happy when my voice sounded even and calm, even though my hands were gripping the steering wheel hard.

“Darlin’ you don’t… hH!--... have to say that every time… snffl---hHehH!--... l-looks like I m- muhH!-HGK’tSCHHt!... excuse me.  I might be at this a while...”  Taking another napkin from the dwindling stack, he pinched it around his nose and rubbed again in small, fast circles, brows drawing together in concentration.

Grateful for another red light, I stared into the mirror.  My passenger had a fist full of crumpled napkins in one hand, the other pinching and rubbing desperately at increasingly pinkening nostrils.

“Does… this happen often?”

Another husky chuckle, which deteriorated into more hitching breaths and another itchy-sounding sneeze. “hgz’CHHT! … Depends,” he breathed, bringing the knot of used tissues up to dab at his watering eyes.  “Do you have a c-... hHihh!... a cat?”

The Ride - Part 2

 My mouth dropped open, eyes wide.  He saw my expression in the mirror and gave another chuckle.  Swiping a knuckle under his nose, he flashed me a wry grin.  “Well, that explains it.”

 “I’m sorry,” I looked back at him, stricken.

 “Nah, don’t worry about it,” he gave a dismissive shake of his lion’s head.  “You couldn’t know.  heh-GSCHhtu!... And it’s not like there’s a box to tick in the app, or anything. ...snfl…  ‘Driver has pets.’ ...sdrfl … A lot of people do.  Have pets.”

 “I know,” I replied softly, turning the wheel smoothly as we rounded a corner.  “But I can still be sorry that you’re… you know…”  I couldn’t bring myself to say it.  I couldn’t even glance in the mirror.

 But I heard the smile in his voice when he said, “It’s fine.  Really.  It h--hH!  hg’zCHHt!-heh’GZShht!... excuse me.  It happens a lot, actually. snfl.”  

 That did make me glance at the mirror, brows raised in surprise… and interest.  “Really?”

 Greek god had placed the growing pile of used napkins in the seat beside him, frowning down at both his watch and the small stack of napkins still on his leg. The tip of his nose was flushing a tell-tale pink, blue eyes definitely red-rimmed.  He blinked rapidly and sniffled constantly, dabbing at his eyes or wiping at his nose, overall looking the very picture of ‘itchy’ and ‘allergic.’

 “Yeah,” he replied, breath spiraling in preparation for another sneeze… but it left him last-minute, causing him to give a frustrated cough. “I’m allergic to most animals, but you might say I’m… uber allergic to cats.”  Those stunning blue eyes twinkled at me in the mirror, followed by a mischievous wink.

 “Why risk taking an Uber, then?”

 “Well, as cliché as it sounds... my car is in the shop.”

 “Oh?”

 “Yeah, snffll, I got a… hH!--... a recall letter.  Better safe tha-… heh-GSCHt--ahh-GSCHu!... ugh. Apologies.”

 We chatted a little more during the ride, about his job as an IT consultant and my 3 jobs: kindergarten teacher, waitress at Olive Garden, and Uber driver.  By the time we reached his destination I had counted no less than 56 sneezes, nearly always he followed up with ‘excuse me,’ or some other polite apologetic. He had used my entire stash of emergency napkins, and his handsome face was a bleary, blotchy wreck: nose red, eyes puffy, voice croaky and thick with congestion.

 “I’m sorry, again,” I said when we stopped at the curb in front of his building. 

 “Add - agaid - you dod’t have adythig to be sorry for,” he rasped, palming the pile of used tissues and reaching for a few that had fallen to the floor.

 “Oh, I can do that,” I got out in a rush.  “You don’t have to--”

 “Oh, doh,” he chuckled, voice breaking on the second word like a prepubescent.  “I cad take by owd dirty tissues, darlid’.”  Glancing up, he gave me a soft smile.  “You’ve beed padiedt edough about all this.”  Maybe I imagined it, but it looked like he blushed just a little.

 “Well it’s my fault,” I insisted.  

 He opened his mouth to reply, but instead turned and gave a tired-sounding sneeze into his elbow. “H’eISCHt!... gkm, pardod.”

 “Bless you,” I murmured. 

 “You dow, sdrfl, I usually dod’t like it whed people say that…”

 “I’m sor--”

 “But sobehow whed you do,” he glanced back, swiping a knuckle under his nose and giving that same, soft smile.   “I dod’t mide.”

 He exited, leaving me staring after him with a mixture of warmth and confusion.  Definitely one of the most… unusual... rides I’d ever had. 

 Throwing the lever into park, I got out to do my usual check of the interior in case the passenger had left something behind. A flash of white tucked by the seatbelt latch caught my eye.  Thinking Greek god must have missed one of the used napkin wads, I reached for it. 

 And pulled out a business card.

 “C. B. Decker - Sunfire Technology”

 I turned it over.

 “Thanks for the ride...  Have dinner with me sometime?”   

I pulled my head out of the car, staring over my shoulder at his building.  I wasn’t sure, but it looked like someone was standing just inside the glazed doors, watching.  Turning back to the card in my hand, I bit my lip.  It was a violation of my Uber contract if I said yes.  

 But.

 That guy...

 Aw, hell.  I could get by without the income.  Probably.  

Maybe.

 I looked back at the building, and was now sure I could make out his tall silhouette, tawny mane just a bit disheveled.  The figure suddenly bent forward, and I knew. 

 I kept my eyes on the building as I made a show of putting the card into my pocket.  It wasn’t a no.  But it wasn’t a yes.  

 Not yet. 

 As I drove home for the night, my imagination spun out as I deliberated whether or not to accept.  One, he knew I had a cat, was apparently ‘uber’ allergic... and wanted to see me again, anyway.  Two, I had been getting tired of driving 30 hours a week, and maybe I could arrange to suspend my contract.  Or I could quit, and then get rehired if things didn’t work out… or, if they did... 

 I crawled into bed, reaching up to stroke Sheba where she always slept on the second pillow. She made a little mew, flipping her head upside down and curling tighter into a furry ball. 

 As I drifted off to sleep, his delicious sneezes echoed in my dreams…

[wallgirl]

The Little Nereid Part 4

4400 words, part four of a nine part fanfiction (it just keeps changing tbh)

Poseidon x OC

Dynamene, youngest of the 50 Nereids, has lived most of her adolescence as a servant alongside her sisters at Poseidon’s palace. But with her coming-of-age birthday and other developments, what she initially thought was just admiration of her master blossoms into something stronger and more passionate… and painful.

Categories: Romance, angst, unrequited love, coming-of-age, earn-your-happy-ending; no NSFW content

---

It was nearly noon the next day when a gentle rap sounded on Dynamene's bedroom door.

"Dynamene, are you awake?" Actaea's hesitant voice came through the door. "You haven't been out all day. Are you feeling okay?"

Dynamene turned over from where she had wrapped herself up in her blankets. Her eyes felt like sandpaper after all the crying she had done the night before. "Everything's okay, Actaea. I just don't feel so well. I think I'm going to stay in bed today." She didn't have the energy to force herself to sound happier than she felt.

"Okay. The rest of us are going to go seaing this afternoon. If you're feeling better, you should come with. I'll let you rest now."

Dynamene's gloomy expression didn't change. "Okay. Thank you, Actaea."

Actaea's footsteps disappeared away from the other side of the door, and Dynamene buried her face back into her pillow.

After everything that she had heard last night, she couldn't bring herself to leave her room. She couldn't bear the thought of being out in the palace, pretending that everything was fine to her sisters, and chancing the possibility of having to face him. Here in her room, she could indulge in her misery without anyone else having to know. She sighed and sat up reluctantly, untangling herself from her bedding. With slow steps she crossed over to the window and drew the curtain back.

It was another day of fine weather; Hera's prediction had been right. The sun was shining as clearly as ever, and the birds and the ocean were following the normal routine; birds circling the beach for a meal, and the waves ebbing and flowing to the beat of the ocean's heart.

Dynamene pulled the curtain back over and wandered aimlessly to her boudoir, staring at her shadowed reflection. She looked every inch as miserable as she felt, and that just made her more upset.

What right did she have, honestly, to be so upset, especially after eavesdropping on a conversation not meant for her ears? She had done this to herself. She had taken the risk, knowing that whatever words that Poseidon and Hera exchanged could hurt her feelings, and now she was dealing with the repercussions.

As far as Poseidon's views on his connection with the Nereids... It wasn't like they were unexpected either. Dynamene had lived in his palace for a thousand years. Never once had they had a true conversation, or anything more than him giving orders and her acknowledging his demands. He was cold. He was unfeeling. He was a god so far removed from the feelings of other beings, even those of other deities and supernatural beings, that no one else dared to approach him. She was starting to realize that maybe they had the right idea in staying away.

Why had someone as despicable as him been on her mind so much in the first place?

"What are you doing to yourself?" She asked her reflection in disappointment. "You're not a child anymore. You can't just keep sulking in your room, especially when you've brought your misery on yourself. You're going to worry your family." She sighed and returned to her bed, burying herself back under the covers. She would get some more sleep, then she would take a warm bath and face the world again. Everything would be fine. It would just take a little time.

Meanwhile, Actaea had returned to the room where the other sisters were setting up for lunch, and where Ianeira was waiting with a troubled expression.

"Is she alright?" Ianeira asked as Actaea approached.

"To be quite honest, I'm not sure," Actaea sighed. "She sounded completely lifeless when I spoke to her. She said she wasn't feeling well, but we all know that's a lie. She's been acting strange since her birthday."

"More specifically, once we received word that Hera was visiting." Ianeira took a moment to ponder. "Do you think Lady Hera might've said something privately to her last night?"

"What cause would she have had to speak to her? They're barely acquainted. She gave Dynamene her blessing in front of all the rest of us with no problem. And as far as I know, Dyna has done nothing to provoke Lady Hera's ire."

"Maybe it's far-fetched, but... What about Lord Poseidon? You remember how she ran from his rooms; that look in her eyes. Do you think..." Ianeira's words halted, and she gave a sharp inhale of realization. Her eyes snapped up to meet her sister's. "Actaea..."

Actaea gave her a knowing look and leaned closer. "I'll tell you this in confidence," she said lowly. "She was worried about the subjects that Hera might broach with Poseidon when she came. I'll give you one guess as to why."

Ianeira exhaled deeply. "I've been blind."

"Oh, come now. It's only become more noticeable this past decade or so, dearest older sister," Actaea sighed impatiently. "Dynamene isn't a child anymore, after all."

"I know. It's just..." Ianeira pursed her lips. "Perhaps I didn't want to believe it. I guess I wanted to believe that it was just a healthy sense of fear making her act the way she's been."

"That may have been the case in the past, but it seems things are changing rapidly."

"He wouldn't. We know he wouldn't."

"I'm sure Dynamene knows that as well. That doesn't often sway the heart, unfortunately. We'll have to keep an eye on things; all of us."

"I agree," Ianeira nodded somberly. "For Dynamene's sake."

"For Dynamene's sake."

They exchanged a meaningful look once more before joining the rest of their sisters at the table.

It was many hours later that Dynamene finally woke up. Stretching slowly, she looked over at the curtain-covered window. No more sunlight was filtering through; the room was nearly completely dark. It seemed she had managed to sleep the rest of the day away.

She stood on the cold marble floor, giving one last stretch and a rousing shake of her head before crossing to her dresser for clean clothes. Her sisters had almost certainly left and returned from their seaing excursion by now. Dynamene squinted at the clock on her boudoir. It was well past the afternoon now; the last of the sunset was probably fading over the horizon.

Clad in fresh robes, she left her room and quietly made her way through the palace towards the kitchens. She could hear her sisters conversing and enjoying their free time in various rooms as she passed, but she crept by as best she could without notice. She was feeling more like herself now, but she still wasn't ready to be bombarded with the questions her sisters would undoubtedly have.

After fetching an apple from the pantry, she emerged from the palace and made her way down to the beach. A gentle ocean breeze brushed the stray hairs back from her face, and she smiled lightly at the scent of the seawater. No matter her troubles, she would always be able to count on the ocean to wash them away.

She chose a spot next to a group of tide pools to sit, tucking her peplos beneath her and gazing out at the vast, black ocean. She imagined her worries being washed away by each drag of the waves, pulling them from the sand and casting them out into the unknown.

"Dynamene, Dynamene," soft voices came, and she looked down at the tide pools. A few fish that had been trapped within were swimming about in tidy circles. "What troubles you?"

Dynamene smiled sadly. "Nothing, little friends. I hope I'm not disturbing you."

"Never. We're always glad for the company of a Nereid," they answered, their scales shimmering faintly in the moonlight.

Dynamene watched them warmly. All Nereids, as spirits of the sea, had the ability to communicate with sea life. In return, the sea life held them in high regards, considering them protectors and ambassadors of the ocean and all within. "You know," she ventured, drawing her knees up to her chest. "The gods of Olympus are mysterious, even to those who've known them for a millennia. Do you think that, maybe, they're just so far removed from other beings that it's impossible to form a connection with one?"

"The gods of Olympus are proud to a fault," a minnow responded. "They justify their actions with empty motives, chasing pleasure and recognition just as any mortal."

"You see, the gods have the same minds as mortals, but they trick themselves into thinking that their supernatural gifts have made them entirely different beings," a tiny crab added, crawling out of the pool to rest upon her foot. "They are just as infallible as humans, and in many ways much more destructive, especially to themselves."

"Mm," Dynamene hummed thoughtfully. "Thinking back now on all my experiences with the gods... Your words strike me as true, friends." She considered the waves for several moments. "You're right. I guess even with their power... They are just people with faults like anyone else." She lifted her hand, guiding a little stream of water from the ocean to the tide pool. "Thank you for your insights. Here you are; you can return to the ocean now."

The sea life that had been confined to the tide pool took advantage of the stream to return to the sea, their little voices thanking her many times over.

Dynamene sighed and leaned back on her arms, taking a few minutes to absorb the wise words the animals had shared with her. It all made sense; so much so that she began to wonder if, deep down, she hadn't had the same suspicions about the gods all along. Of course, in a position like hers, as a servant to one of the top three, such thoughts could be perilous to acknowledge. Keeping them tucked away to herself was the safe choice.

A strange shift in the air made her start. She quickly righted herself and turned around, feeling a presence approaching.

From the base of the stairs approached a familiar figure, a sight that she found her heart both leaping at and shirking from.

Poseidon was walking towards her, the moonlight casting a white glow on the side of his body not shadowed by the rocky bluffs. The points of his trident caught the moonlight on their sharp edges. His expression was somber.

No; as he came closer and Dynamene could make his face out more clearly, she saw it was one of anger. Him seeking her out at this hour with such an expression quickly made it clear as to why he was here; he must have found her out.

She scrambled to her feet and backed away towards the ocean, the cold water lapping at her feet. "Lord Poseidon," she ventured in a small voice hardly audible over the waves. "I didn't expect to see you out here so late..."

He halted ten feet from her. The breeze from the waves caught the white wrap that flowed from his waist, its waving fabric juxtaposed against the sharp silhouette of his body. His hair was lightly tousled from the wind as well, that stray lock of hair that had always captured her attention blown back from his face.

Now she was seeing him as he was. A beautiful, terrible, apathetic man with no warmth to spare nor kindness to show. His beauty was as empty as his soul, and in that moment, she hated him for it.

Her resentment lit an indignant fire in her veins that gave her a surge of courage. She hated him enough that she did not fear him, and she met his gaze full-on, her back straightening, hands loose at her sides.

"It seems you have overstepped the boundaries that servants under a god should observe," he said. In the shadows, his eyes were dark and cold, reminding Dynamene of an obsidian pendant Thoe had once fawned over.

"Eavesdropping is treason," he stated simply. "A betrayal of the faith a master should be able to have in his servant."

"I have, my lord. I give you no pretenses, nor excuses," Dynamene responded, her gaze falling slightly.

"It is," Dynamene whispered. She looked back up at Poseidon. No matter how she felt about him in the moment, she couldn't ignore the twinge of guilt that she still felt at having broken the trust he'd had in her.

Wait, trust? Faith?

What did he know of such things?

"I will heartily accept any punishment you dole to me, Lord Poseidon," she said softly, eyes still searching his face. "But I wonder if you could shed some light on a lowly sea-nymph like me."

His expression changed slightly at that. He remained silent, though, and Dynamene took it as permission to continue.

"You see, I have to wonder... Did you really have faith in me, in the truest sense of the word?" She whispered, clasping her hands to her chest.

These words seemed to have rather blindsided Poseidon, because he blinked. Something told her that this was not something he'd ever considered. Before this moment, he'd never had to. Then his brow furrowed; not in anger, necessarily, but in concentration. No matter what answer he gave, it would be wrong. He could not say yes; if that were the case, he would not hold meetings with his siblings in privacy. He could not say no; he had let his guard down and allowed the possibility of someone eavesdropping to become a reality.

"Because I've always had faith in you, Lord Poseidon," Dynamene continued, her knuckles white from how hard she was clutching her hands together. She could hardly get the words out. "I have always trusted you, and believed in you. I would blindly follow you to the ends of the Earth and jump off if I thought you wanted it; If I thought you expected it. I am a fallible being, just a sea-nymph. I could never reach the standards that I know you hold your fellow gods to. But I'd like to think that, maybe, in some point over the millennia I have served you..." She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. "Maybe, though I've now broken your trust, you had some faith in me, even as your lowly sea-nymph servant."

She prepared to be smited. One blow of his trident was all it would take to end her life, and she was braced for it. An ineffective servant was one Poseidon had no need of. Her fate was inevitable, and she apologized silently to her sisters. I'm sorry I failed you.

But the moments went by, and still Dynamene's heart continued to beat.

Once a minute had nearly passed, she slowly opened her eyes.

Poseidon was no longer looking at her, but at the ocean. The trident had vanished from his grip. His expression had returned to one of indifference, but there was something turning in his eyes. She knew he was deep in thought, but about what, she had no idea.

"The ocean," he began rather slowly. "It is the driving force of all life. As a Nereid, you know this."

She blinked at him in amazement.

"I am the master of it. No one knows the water, or the life within it, as well as I do. This is the way it has been, and this is the way it will always be." His gaze slowly shifted back to her.  "Everything that happens concerning the ocean, from the ebb of the tide to the respiration of the fish... I feel it all." He turned to face her head-on once more. "Come here."

She cautiously stepped forward, captivated by his words despite herself. She had no idea what to expect next.

He continued to look down at her. "You Nereids are part of the ocean. The personification of the water's soul. As such, I can feel your presence as well."

Dynamene's heart skipped a beat. Was this how he knew that she had been listening in on his conversation with Hera?

"Even in this, your humanoid form, seawater flows through your body." He reached out and took her hand, and Dynamene immediately tensed up from the unexpected contact. She could feel that strange electricity coursing through her veins once more. "Every time your heart beats, I can sense it." His fingers lingered on her wrist, and she could feel her pulse pressing against his skin. His hand was large, much bigger than hers, but the fingers were rather long and graceful, and she could feel faint calluses from wielding his trident on his palm.

For the first time since she'd met him, he seemed like a real flesh-and-blood being.

Dynamene stared at him in shock. Then came a jarring and humiliating realization. Every time her heart had pounded in his presence, all the times her heart had skipped a beat from his gaze, and that moment when he had handed her the bracelet and she thought she might faint... He knew them all. Now it made sense, the way he'd stared at her after gifting her her present. He could hear her heart beating fast in excitement.

He could hear her feelings for him.

She was so embarrassed. How could she have been so foolish as to think she could ever hide the way he made her felt? It had to have been written all over her face as well. She felt her face prickling with humiliation, and she looked down at the pebbles washed ashore by the waves. Maybe she really was still a child after all.

Poseidon released her hand and said nothing. They remained standing there, unmoving, as Dynamene slowly forced herself to gather her wits and say something, anything. A sudden question came to mind.

"Then..." She said, swallowing the crack in her voice. "You're a being of the ocean to some extent too, right? If you're so deeply entwined with it... How come I can't... hear your presence? Is it because seawater doesn't run through your veins as well?"

"You can, if you have enough power and practice. As a Nereid, you should be able to." This time, he held out his own hand.

Dynamene stared at it hesitantly before reaching out and gently grasping it. The moonlight turned the backs of their hands, one big, one small, the same pale hue. Poseidon closed his eyes, and she followed suit.

For a moment, she felt nothing. She concentrated, searching for something in the darkness...

Then she found it. A steady beat, just like any other man's, strong and constant. And along with his heartbeat was something more. No... much more. The more she focused, the more she sensed. She could feel the rumbling of the ocean's currents and see all the sea life flickering by. She felt the heat from the thermal vents deep down on the ocean floor, and smelled the algae and seaweed that had washed up on shore. It was as if he was a conductor for all the energy in the ocean, and their physical connection was wiring it through to her.

The man she'd thought was completely empty was teeming with life force, not just that of his own, but of that of every being in the ocean.

Shocked, she opened her eyes. He slowly opened his as well, staring at her. "That is but a fraction of what I can sense. It's only this strong from a certain distance, but that's all that's necessary. Nothing around me escapes my notice."

The knowledge of all this was a lot for Dynamene to take in. Her eyes darted back and forth, as if searching for something to help her absorb and make sense of all this. Was this what he was really thinking about during all those moments that he seemed to be staring off into space? No wonder he was prone to leaving suddenly and without explanation. Since he could sense what was going on nearby in his watery realm, he knew when there was conflict before anyone else at the palace did.

"All this means you must've been able to tell I was there while you were speaking to Lady Hera," Dynamene whispered, staring down at their clasped hands. "But I... I don't understand. Why didn't you make it known then, that you knew I was listening?"

Poseidon didn't respond, instead scrutinizing her face. As much as she knew that she should release his hand, she couldn't bear to let go just yet.

"There was no need to cause a scene." His gaze had shifted back to the ocean. "My bull-headed sister is troublesome enough without dealing with her rage at an errant servant."

Dynamene's face turned pink with embarrassment, but she had to concede that much to him. It was true. "Then... I have to thank you," she whispered. He looked back into her eyes once more, and she found herself drinking in the sight of those beautiful eyes. It was true that they were dark and cold and distant, but now she had begun to see something else within them. Now, it was as if he was truly seeing her. No longer was he looking through her, like a meaningless ghost. His eyes were fixed on her own, acknowledging her and listening to what she had to say. And the more she stared, the deeper she found herself falling into them, as if they were an ocean in themselves.

Falling, sinking, further and further...

"If Hera had known that I was there, I'm sure she wouldn't have been nearly as forgiving," Dynamene murmured, trying to break free of the spell he'd unknowingly cast on her. "And I'm guessing you haven't told her at all, as I'm still standing here and not dead or turned into some hideous creature."

"Telling her would do no good. I don't desire anymore damage done to my palace. The balcony was enough," he said flatly. "And I know you and the rest of the Nereids are no fools. You know why my sister visits."

Dynamene's heart fell once more at the mention of Hera's motives. "Yes, I must say we have figured it out," she mumbled.

"Tell me this. If you know why Hera comes, and what we talk about, why did you feel the need to listen in?" He inquired. His eyes drilled into her.

Her gaze fell back to the ground, and her blush deepened. As if you don't know... Then again, perhaps you truly don't. But... Please don't make me say it.

"Dynamene!" A familiar voice called out, echoing from high above the rocky bluffs.

She jumped and quickly turned towards the source of the voice, letting go of Poseidon's hand. "Actaea? She must have gone to check on me and realized I was missing..."

"You've been out here long enough," Poseidon responded. "It's getting late; return to the palace now."

Dynamene looked back at him, with his moon-bleached hair drifting about his eyes, and was reluctant to follow his words. Of course this would happen just as she had finally seen through the impenetrable wall he always kept up. She wanted to stay, even if just a moment longer. She wanted to talk to him and continue to get to know him. She wanted to keep learning just what went on in that closed mind of his. She wanted to keep listening to the calm, stoic cadence of his voice. She wanted to take his strong hand once more and feel his heartbeat, just as he could feel hers. No, she wanted to step closer and bridge the gap between them, pressing herself to his chest and listening to his heartbeat as close as she could get.

She wanted to stay here forever, just the two of them on the beach in the calm, black night, her looking at him and he, at long last, finally looking back at her.

Her feelings had for him had returned, but now they felt different. No longer did the sensations that they caused scare her. Now she just wanted more, more than she could take in. She wanted to feel this connection to him always.

"Dynamene! Are you down there?" Actaea's voice had gotten closer now; she must be descending the steps to the beach.

Poseidon turned away to look out at the vast darkness of the ocean and sky. Without quite knowing why, or what she expected to come of it, Dynamene reached quickly for his hand one last time. She saw his gaze flicker towards the movement...

But she couldn't bring herself to complete the gesture, and she drew her hand back just as quickly as she had reached out. Before she could bring herself to regret her withdrawal, she turned back towards the stairs and began the careful ascent over rock and sand towards them.

"Dynamene! There you are." Actaea emerged from the valley with a lantern in one hand, relief all over her face. "I went to check on you before bed, and you weren't there. I was afraid you'd..."

"No, no, I'm just fine, Actaea," Dynamene answered quickly, putting her hands on her sister's shoulders. "I was just taking in the night air. I'm feeling a lot better now, so you don't need to worry. I think I just needed some time to decompress for a bit."

"Good, I'm glad to hear it," Actaea sighed, embracing her younger sister. "We've all been concerned for you. If a night stroll on the beach is what you needed to feel better, then you're free to stroll as late as you want."

"Actually, I was just about to turn in for the night anyways. It is getting late," Dynamene continued rather shyly, remembering Poseidon's order. "Should we go back together?"

"That sounds fabulous," Actaea smiled, smoothing back Dynamene's bangs. "After you."

Dynamene returned her smile with the same old brightness that she'd recently lost, before continuing back up the stairs.

Actaea stared after her for a second before setting down the lantern and turning back to dismount the last few stairs to the beach.

Poseidon's figure hadn't moved as he continued to watch the waves roll in and out. Actaea's face stiffened, but she remained still and silent. She continued to watch the god for a moment, thoughts churning, before taking back up the lantern and following her youngest sister's lead back to the palace.

---

Author’s notes: This chapter definitely took me the longest of any thus far. I ended up rewriting some paragraphs because I found myself going off track from my original vision. I had a “wait, wtf are you writing here” moment, which I guess was ultimately necessary to get myself back on track.

So Poseidon isn’t such an empty person after all? maybe Man, all it takes is a hint of brooding vulnerability and the teenage girls come running lol I don’t mean to slander Dynamene, she’s just a girl having her first love and not knowing what to do about it. Things aren’t much easier when your first love is fuCKING POSEIDON

Anyways, how old is Dynamene? Good question. Nereids age at a rate of about 145 years being equivalent to 1 human year. Dynamene was the equivalent of about a nine year old when she came with her sisters to the palace. She’s close to 16 in human years now, so she was probably born around 2300 years prior to this fanfiction. Imagine living that long and still not being full-grown 😭😭😭

Dynamene’s oldest sister, Ianeira, is physiologically equivalent to a human 25 year old, so she would be about 3600 years old. Talk about an age gap between siblings!

#record of ragnarok #poseidon x oc #record of ragnarok poseidon #poseidon #shuumatsu no valkyrie #fanfiction

[whenisitenoughtrees]

Might I suggest “I don’t want to be alone.” with Royaliceit?

okay um. this one really got away from me, as i’m sure you can tell from the word count, so i really hope you like roman angst (w/ a happy ending, bc i’m not a monster)

Title: we are not alone (in the dark with our demons)

Word Count: 5,888

Content Warnings: roman-typical self-worth issues

(fic masterpost)

Roman has never really known what love is.

Oh, he pretends well enough. That’s his job, after all. He is Thomas’ hopes and dreams, his most romantic fantasies, and he performs that role well, spouting off suggestions about grand gestures and acts of true love and deeds of valor and honor and bravery. And it’s not as if he’s lying; based on every story he’s ever read, every Disney movie he’s ever watched, that is the epitome of what romance should be. And he thinks he would like that, would like to execute these grand gestures for someone, would like to sweep someone off their feet, be their savior, their hero.

Someone becomes Patton so gradually that he doesn’t notice for a very long time. Doesn’t notice how his heart beats faster whenever Patton is in the room, doesn’t notice how he hangs off Patton’s every word, doesn’t notice how he would do just about anything to get Patton to smile at him. Or rather, he does notice, sort of, in a vague, curious way. He’s just not sure what it means.

And then comes the wedding. And Roman thinks he understands what love is after all. Because the words of the others have always hurt him, their criticisms and mockery never as easily shaken off as he likes them to think, but this? This is something different. He watches as Patton sides with Deceit, with the side he was told not to believe, was told was in the wrong, was told was bad for Thomas, so you shouldn’t listen to him, Roman! He watches as Patton sides with Deceit, as Thomas sides with Deceit, upending everything he thought he believed, and the betrayal hits him like a knife to his chest. And he knows that it wouldn’t sting nearly so much if he didn’t trust Patton, if he wasn’t willing to follow him anywhere, if he didn’t love him, and the realization is far more bitter than sweet.

So, love is this: heartbreak, the stifling silences between breaths, and the words, we love you, said as if he is supposed to accept them.

He doesn’t. And why should he? He works so hard, tries his best every hour of every day, and this is what it gets him? A blow to the back of his head, faded and empty promises, a snake whispering in the dark, and Thomas turning away from him. You are! rings in his head, stuttered, placating, a lie.

And perhaps Thomas is right. Perhaps they are all right. And if Deceit is right, then he must be wrong. Isn’t that how it goes? Someone has to be the villain, after all. What else is he, if not a washed-up prince, a hero that has never managed to save anyone, a Creativity that is not nearly as good as he portrays himself to be?

God. No wonder they don’t love him.

So he throws himself into being better, into being more. He swallows his pride and apologizes to Deceit— to Janus, he supposes, though something about using the name still leaves an acrid taste in the back of his throat— and if the apology is a bit halfhearted, not entirely meant, Deceit doesn’t call him out on it, and he doesn’t call out Deceit’s apology in turn (and he has no idea, none at all, whether he means it sincerely or not. He can never tell, anymore, whether the words out of Deceit’s mouth are lies or truths, and sometimes, he thinks it doesn’t matter either way).

He asks Logan for input more often. He tries harder not to antagonize Virgil, or at least, not in the ways that truly bother him. He smiles at Patton when Patton approaches him, smiles and insists that he’s fine, even though he feels like his heart has been ripped out of his chest and dropped into oncoming traffic.

And Patton believes him. That is, perhaps, what hurts worst of all, that he doesn’t see the way he’s falling apart beneath the thin veneer of bravado.

But he can’t blame him for that. Roman is, if nothing else, a good actor. A good liar.

He spends more time working, coming up with ideas that are bigger and better than any of his previous ones. He presents them to Thomas, and acts like his entire being isn’t screaming for some form of validation, any scrap of affection, any crumb that might tell him that Thomas doesn’t think he’s too much of a failure after all. And sometimes, he gets that. Sometimes, the ideas are good. Sometimes, Thomas grins and thanks him and congratulates him on a job well done.

More often, the ideas aren’t good enough. More often, it’s back to the drawing board. He barely sleeps these days, can barely be bothered to try.

And he thinks about love a lot. Thinks in the privacy and secrecy of his own mind that maybe, love isn’t worth it, if it hurts this much. Thinks that he wishes that these feelings would go away, and then maybe, he could begin to claw his way back toward normalcy.

But he’s too aware of it, now. Too aware of the way that Patton smiles and moves, too aware of his kindness and his concern and the way he always tries to take such good care of everyone. The betrayal still sits heavy in his chest, but it’s like an old wound, now, one that still pains him but one that he can ignore most days, because in the end, he’s not sure that Patton was wrong at all in what he did, in choosing Deceit over him. He thinks that maybe he was wrong, that he still is, and he’s doing his best to change that, but he has never known how to be anything different from what he is. He has only known how to cover it all up, how to wrap himself in glittering paper and a shiny bow and hope that no one looks too closely at what lies underneath.

Perhaps he’s getting too lost in his own head. Perhaps that’s why he doesn’t see it coming.

It’s the only explanation he can think of. He should have noticed it, otherwise, should have seen the way that Patton and Deceit inch together, like two stars sliding into each other’s orbits. He should have seen the cautious glances, charged with so much more emotion than words could say, should have seen the tentative touches, should have seen the way they angle themselves toward each other whenever they’re in the same room. He should have seen it, should have guessed it, but he didn’t, so when Patton announces one night, over dinner, that he and Janus have decided to begin a relationship, he is taken completely by surprise.

Logan extends congratulations. Virgil’s blessing is far more cautious, still very wary of Deceit’s increased presence in their lives, but he appears glad for Patton, at least. And Roman offers the loudest, most boisterous well-wishes he can think of, professing his joy for Patton’s newfound happiness, putting forth anything and everything he can think of to direct attention away from the fact that on the inside, he just feels—

Numb.

Numb. Cold. Empty.

He knew he couldn’t have him. He knew that Patton could never return his affections. But apparently, there is a great deal of difference between knowing and knowing, and that difference is sobbed into his pillow in the early hours of the morning.

He falls into an uneasy sleep, and his dreams are of Patton, Patton smiling, Patton laughing, Patton telling him that he did good, Patton kissing him and tasting of citrus and cotton candy. And then, the dreams change, and Janus is there, too, sliding around the edges, smooth and confident and beautiful, his every motion poetry, his every glance a caress, and Roman takes his face in his hands and kisses him just as soundly as he did Patton, and then, he wakes up, shaking.

This cannot be right. This cannot be right, because these are all the emotions he pushed deep, deep down inside of him, never to see the light of day again. These are the emotions that he rejected after the theater, after the courtroom, after everyone told him time and time again that Deceit was wrong, that Deceit was bad, and if he wanted to be right, wanted to be good, he needed to treat Deceit like the villain he was. And so he did, and pretended that he has never wondered what Deceit’s lips would feel like on his, what it would be like to trace his fingers down those glimmering scales.

It seems that the time for pretending is over.

Once ended, an illusion cannot be reformed. The audience knows the trick now, would see right through any further conjuration. And Roman, too, can no longer fool himself into believing that what he feels does not exist, or that it will go away if he ignores it. He watches Patton, and he watches Janus, and he watches them together, cooking in the kitchen or cuddling on the sofa or simply sitting near each other and enjoying the company, and he burns for them, bright and hot and never-ending, fueled by the sheer force of his want. Roman is passion and Roman is desire, and he desires them, desires their attention and their affection and their love, and it’s like an arrow to his heart to know that he cannot have them, cannot have this.

Because they already have each other. And even if he were worthy of them in the first place, there is no space for him between them.

So, he does the hardest thing he has ever done in his life, and he pulls away.

He tries not to be obvious about it, tries not to do anything that might arouse suspicion or concern. He works longer, harder, makes excuses to miss meals and family gatherings. Loneliness settles into him like a physical weight, one that presses against his chest and makes it hard to breathe. Sometimes, he feels as though he stands on the edge of a precipice, a yawning chasm below, and all he has to do to fall is take one step forward. Sometimes, he feels as though he’s already falling, the wind whistling in his ears, gravity dragging him ever downward.

They give him looks, sometimes. Patton more often than Janus, though that might just be because Janus is more subtle. He can never interpret these looks. They’re always contemplative, perhaps a bit confused, perhaps a bit sad, and he doesn’t know what that means. Part of him fears that they’ve figured it out, figured him out, him and his hopeless, stupid love. Part of him wants them to, wants them to see right past him to all his dirty secrets, wants them to rip the bandage off, to let him down gently, to tell him what he already knows.

Part of him wants to fall.

The loneliness becomes tangible, surrounding him like a fog. He’s surprised no one else can see it. But then, that is the point, isn’t it?

He’s chosen this.

And it all hits him one evening, as the sun has just begun to set and he’s skipped yet another dinner, claiming to be off on a quest in the Imagination. He hasn’t been on a quest for a while, hasn’t been able to muster up the energy, or the persona. Quests are for princes, for heroes, and these days, he’s not so sure that he’s either of those. He certainly doesn’t feel like one. He plans to work instead, to churn out a few more video ideas for Thomas in the hopes that one is usable.

He finds himself curling up in a ball in the corner of his room, tears stinging in his eyes.

There’s no particular reason for it. Nothing about today has been any worse than any other recent days. This feels like something that has building for a while, like a rubber band stretched until it snaps. And he feels like he’s snapped, like something essential in him has broken, and he knows that he should be able to move past this, should get back up and get back to work, but he can’t, and that fact just sends him spiraling more, because if he can’t create anything and he can’t love properly, then what good is he?

He shudders, choking on a sob and sucking in a desperate breath. He stuffs his fist in his mouth, trying to muffle the cries that seek to escape him, as if from a wounded animal, and perhaps that’s exactly what he is. A wounded animal, begging for comfort, for solace, and finding nothing at all.

He wants someone here. Just, someone. Anyone. Someone to hold him and tell him that everything will be alright, even if it’s a lie. Someone to dry his tears, to grasp his hands, to touch him. He wants it and he can’t have it, and he feels so, so alone.

Even if he deserved reassurance, he wouldn’t seek it. He’s supposed to be strong, supposed to be a prince, for heaven’s sake, and even if he knows just how weak he truly is, the others don’t.

He can’t let anyone see him like this.

And that is when the knock sounds on his door, as if summoned by his thoughts. Four times, a light, quick beat. He freezes, alarm coursing through him.

“Hey, Roman?” It’s Patton. It’s Patton, and he sounds worried, and Roman hates himself for becoming a source of stress. “I, uh, I brought you dinner. I know you said you’d grab something later, but you haven’t been down for a meal with everyone in a while, so, uh. I’m getting a little bit worried about you. Could I come in?”

He takes a steadying breath. He needs to respond, because if he doesn’t, Patton will likely enter anyway, just to check on him. So he needs to reply, and hope for the life of him that whatever he says is good enough to persuade him to leave, to persuade him that all is well.

“Just leave it outside the door,” he calls out. His voice sounds thick and clumsy even to his own ears. It’s because of the tears, but perhaps he can claim he just woke up from a nap, if Patton asks. “I’ll grab it in a bit.” And then, he winces, because that sounds rude, sounds callous, sounds like he doesn’t care that Patton has made the effort to come up here and bring him food. It’s quite the opposite; he cares far too much. So he tacks on, “Thanks, Pat,” hoping that at least some of his gratitude will come across.

Instead, his voice breaks, and his breath hitches as he forcibly suppresses another sob.

For a long moment, Patton is silent.

“Are you… okay?” he asks. “I’m coming in, Roman.”

No.

“Please don’t,” he says, and realizes even as he does that his voice is too frantic, too desperate, and it won’t fool Patton for even a second. “I’m fine.”

The doorknob turns, and the door slowly swings open. Not all the way, just enough for Patton to poke his head through, his brows furrowed in concern. There is a plate in his hands, and the room fills with the scent of cooked pasta. Spaghetti, he thinks. One of his favorites.

“You don’t sound fine,” Patton says, and then his gaze finally lands on Roman, and Roman would like to melt into the floor in shame. He knows what he must look like, knows he must seem an utter disaster, with his rumpled clothes and tear-stained face, curled up in the corner like the pathetic mess of a side he is.

“Oh,” Patton says, eyes widening. He seems shocked for a moment, but then, he is moving, entering the room all the way and rushing to Roman’s side, setting the plate down on his desk before kneeling next to him, hands outstretched but not touching, not quite, as if he’s unsure of his welcome. “Oh, sweetie, what’s wrong? What can I do?”

He shakes his head, staring at him, because how is he supposed to tell Patton the truth? How is he supposed to tell him that he aches for him, him and Janus both, longs to disrupt the happiness they’ve found in each other? How is he supposed to tell him that he’s pulled away to try to get over himself, to prevent himself from doing something rash, to attempt to make the problem disappear, and instead has only succeeded in making himself feel worse? How is he supposed to admit any of this?

How is he supposed to admit that he’s a failure?

“It’s just…” he starts. “It’s too much, right now. I’ll, I’ll be okay, I just need…” He cuts himself off, burying his face in his hands, because he knows exactly what he needs, and he can’t let himself say it out loud, but if he voices anything else, it would be a lie, and he’s already lying to Patton so much, and he’s so tired.

“What do you need, honey?” Patton asks, but he just curls in on himself more.

New strategy: maybe if he doesn’t answer at all, Patton will get fed up and leave. It’s unlikely, because that’s just not the kind of person that Patton is. But it’s the only viable plan he has left.

Patton doesn’t leave.

“That’s okay, Roman. You don’t have to say anything if you don’t wanna.” Patton hesitates, and Roman is tempted to look at him, to take the measure of whatever expression is on his face. “Would it be alright if I touched you?”

And he does look then, looks and finds that the only emotion on Patton’s face is concern, a desire to help, so he nods, and Patton reaches out to him, gathering him into his arms, and Roman can’t remember the last time he was touched like this. He feels so safe, so warm, and so terribly, horribly guilty, because he can’t feel like he’s taking advantage of him, because Patton has no idea about the feelings that flutter in his chest, traitorous and excited by something so simple as mere contact, and his mind is so eager to twist this situation around, to make more out of it than it is.

Patton cares about him. He feels more secure about that than he used to. But it is the same kind of care that Patton offers to everyone, and he feels so selfish and awful for desiring more than that, and for not having the courage to even own up to doing so.

But he still relaxes into the embrace, lets Patton rub soothing circles into his back, even though it makes him sob harder, this moment that is so close to what he wants and yet so far.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Patton murmurs, “I promise. Everything’s gonna be okay.”

He shakes his head mutely. It’s all he can do.

Nothing is going to be okay. But he doesn’t have the words to explain that.

But maybe, if he can live in this moment for just a little while longer, he will regain the strength to pretend.

“Patton?” The voice floats in from outside his room, and he stiffens. “You’ve been gone for a while. Is everything— oh.”

Roman shifts his head, and his vision is blurry, but he can just make out the figure standing in his doorway, awkward and discomfited, his hands twitching as if he doesn’t know where to place them. It’s Janus, because of course it is Janus, come looking for his boyfriend, and here Roman is, taking up both of their time, now, and there is a part of him that selfishly delights in it, that insists that if this is all he will ever get from them, he might as well make the most of it.

“I can—” Janus shuffles his feet, oddly hesitant. “Here, I’ll just—”

He moves as to leave, and close the door behind him, and suddenly, that is the last thing Roman wants. It is too late to pretend that this never happened, too late to prevent him from seeing his humiliation in the first place. At this point, what is a little more selfishness?

“You can stay,” he murmurs, and he’s sure he doesn’t sound at all convincing, but Janus pauses anyway, a crease forming between his brows. When he enters the room, he does so cautiously, as if expecting Roman to change his mind at any moment, but he does enter, and that is what is most important. He kneels beside Patton, and Roman is certain that they exchange a glance over his head, some silent communication, before Janus tentatively reaches out and places a hand on Roman’s arm. It is clear that he is not practiced in offering comfort, but the fact that he is willing to try at all is enough to add to the tears still streaming down his face.

“Would you like to tell us what’s wrong?” Janus asks, and even when Roman doesn’t answer with anything more than hitching breaths and shallow sobs, turning his face back into Patton’s shirt because he can’t face this kindness, Janus doesn’t push him for more. Just sits there and offers silent support and a single source of contact.

It’s too much, really, having the both of them here, having Patton hugging him and Janus touching him, both of them offering care but not the kind of care that Roman wants most. And it’s so wrong of him to fool them into giving this to him, because this means so much more to him than it does to them and they have no idea. He’s essentially tricking them, tricking them in the worst kind of way, and the longer he sits there, crying against Patton’s chest, the worse he feels about it.

And eventually, his tears run dry. And he knows he has to end this.

“I’m okay now,” he mumbles, turning his head so that he’s no longer speaking into Patton’s shirt. “You guys can go.”

Janus arches a brow, and belatedly, Roman remembers that lying to the Lord of the Lies is an inadvisable move at best.

“Is that right?” Janus asks, doubt dripping from every syllable. He’s not aiming to wound, but Roman flinches anyway. “You’ve spent the past twenty minutes sobbing your heart out, and there’s absolutely no underlying reason that needs to be dealt with? Everything’s all hunky-dory?”

He wriggles out of Patton’s hold with no small amount of regret, shifting backward until there is a few feet of space between him and both of them. He tries to fix his expression into some semblance of a glare, though he’s certain it’s not very effective. He must look like a train wreck.

“All hunky-dory,” he confirms, and has to pause, because literally who says that anymore? He shouldn’t find that endearing. He shouldn’t. “I was just… overwhelmed. That’s all.”

It’s not technically a lie, so Janus shouldn’t be able to sense anything off. But he narrows his eyes in suspicion, reminding Roman that he’s still perfectly capable of detecting half-truths the normal way, though plain observation.

“You have been putting an awful lot of pressure on yourself lately,” Patton says, and Roman turns to him in surprise. Patton winces, wringing his hands. “I mean… I don’t wanna overstep any boundaries here, but it seems to me that we barely see you anymore, ‘cause you’re always holed up in here working. And I’m not saying that you need to stop or anything like that, especially not if you’re feeling a lot of inspiration these days, but, um. We miss you.” He pauses. “I miss you.” He says the last in an undertone, glancing at his lap, and Roman blinks.

“I didn’t…” He stops, trying to get his thoughts in order, but it’s a hopeless task. His thoughts are flying every which way, no rhyme or reason to them. “That is, I didn’t mean to—”

“If you’re going to finish that sentence with something along the lines of, I didn’t mean to avoid you, you needn’t bother,” Janus interrupts. His voice is smooth and unreadable, and something about it makes Roman want to crawl under a rock and hide there. “It’s fairly obvious to me that that’s exactly what you’ve been doing.” Patton frowns then, looking at Janus and opening his mouth to say something, but Janus holds up a hand, forestalling him. “What I don’t understand is why? Or at least, why Patton? Me, I get.”

It takes a moment for him to realize what Janus is saying, his mind taking far too long to wrangle his words into something approaching sense. “Wait, what?” he blurts out. “Why would you… why would you ‘get it’ if I was avoiding you?”

This is, perhaps, not the most urgent question he needs to ask. But he’s confused, now, confused and beginning to realize that once again, his actions may have had unintended consequences.

Janus looks at him like he’s crazy. “Roman, I am not unaware that you dislike me. And that’s… perfectly fine. After everything I’ve put you through, I… well, as I said, I understand.” He pauses, inhaling deeply, seeming to steady himself. “Again, I’m not asking for me. And I would appreciate an answer.”

Roman can only stare, his horror mounting as he realizes that Janus means every word of what he’s saying, that Janus truly believes that Roman doesn’t like him, and oh god, he’s gone and fucked all of this up, hasn’t he? He didn’t think they would notice him stepping back, much less draw the wrong conclusions, but apparently they have, and he’s stuck between a rock and a hard place. He can lean into this, pretend to be angry with them, pretend not to want them around, no matter how much that would break him. Or he can tell them the truth, and be broken in an entirely different way when they reject him, kindly at best and in disgust at worst. There’s no good option, and it’s all he can do to keep his breathing even, to keep his lungs functioning.

But he looks at Janus, his face set into hard lines. And he looks at Patton, who doesn’t meet his eyes, whose dejection is shining through every inch of his slumped posture and in the way he fiddles with his fingers, anxious and discontent.

He didn’t think this would hurt them. Frankly, he thought they were too wrapped up in each other to notice much of what he was doing at all. But evidently, he has miscalculated, badly, and there is no good option, but he knows which one will hurt them less.

He’s been selfish enough.

He releases a shuddering breath, shaking his head and staring at the floor. He doesn’t have it in him to look at them, to watch their reactions to what he’s about to say. “I’m really sorry,” he says, and his voice emerges as a miserable whisper. “I didn’t, I didn’t mean to make you think that—” He cuts off. Gathers his thoughts into a coherent sentence. By the nine muses, this is difficult. “I don’t… I don’t dislike you. Either of you. Um, it’s the opposite. I, uh, like you a lot. Both of you. Too much.” He curls in on himself, wrapping his arms around his stomach, as if to hide, though he knows that there is no hiding from this, no going back. “I just, you two were so happy, and I didn’t want to, to get in the way, or ruin something, but I guess I failed at that too, huh? I… god, I’m so sorry.”

He stops talking. There’s nothing more he can say. It’s out in the open, now. No take-backs.

He’s not sure what he’s expecting. But it’s not for Patton to lunge forward, to grab him by the shoulders and jerk him upright, to force eye contact, sudden and startled.

“You could never,” Patton insists, and to Roman’s dismay, his voice is choked with tears. “Do you hear me? You could never, ever ruin anything.” He sniffles, then, losing some of his intensity, and leans forward, pressing his forehead against Roman’s. “I thought that I’d messed up,” he says. “I thought that it was still too much, after the wedding and everything that happened, and that you still wanted space, or time, and I felt so guilty because I didn’t want to let you have that, but I thought that if it was what you wanted, then I shouldn’t—” He sighs, cutting himself off and closing his eyes. A tear slips out from between his eyelids.

Roman, for his part, barely dares to breathe. Patton is so close.

“You,” he says, a stuttering start, because he doesn’t know what he’s saying, doesn’t know what Patton is saying, “you, what do you—”

“I like you a lot, too,” Patton says, and Roman can see the way his eyes shine and swirl, his irises a smeared mixture of Thomas’ brown and his own signature blue. “I have for… gosh, a really long time now. I guess I never thought there was a good time for me to do something about it, and then with the… everything, I thought for sure that you didn’t… I’m so sorry, Roman. You’ve been hurting all this time and I didn’t… I couldn’t…” He trails off into a sniffle, and as much as Roman would like to comfort him, he is frozen, working through the words that echo in his ears and in his brain.

Because he can’t have said what he thinks he’s just said, right? Because that would mean—

Unable to help himself, he looks over to Janus, expecting to see anger or dismay or something of the like, because if Roman is hearing this correctly, if Roman is interpreting this correctly, then Patton… Patton has just confessed to having feelings for him. And that in itself is difficult to process, impossible to accept, but surely Janus can’t approve of this, can’t allow this to happen, can’t let Roman get between him and his boyfriend—

Janus is staring, his eyes flitting back and forth between the two of them, and his expression is open and unguarded but there is no anger there, no fear, and when he catches Roman looking, it softens, suddenly, inexorably, and Roman can’t hope to understand it because he must be seeing wrong, because it looks an awful lot like—

Well. It looks an awful lot like the way he looks at Patton.

“You’ve always captivated me,” Janus says, simply, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “I… I know that I’ve flattered you in the past, but I, ah. I might have meant more of it than I wanted to let on.” He glances away, as if embarrassed, and Roman feels as though he’s floating. “I’ll be the first to admit that I haven’t acquitted myself well, and for that, I am truly sorry.”

“We’ve talked about this, a little bit,” Patton says softly, and Roman drags his attention back to him, little though he wants to look away from Janus, from this confession that he can scarcely bring himself to believe. “You, that is. We both love you a whole lot, Roman. We didn’t think you’d be interested, so we didn’t bring it up before. But we’d be really, really happy if you’d join us, honey.”

He shudders, tearing himself away from Patton and immediately feeling the loss, the cold air against his forehead. He doesn’t know what to do, or what do say, and most of him can’t absorb the fact that this is happening, that this is real, that after so long being on his own, they’re both here, they know that he loves them, and they want him in return.

He should be ecstatic. Over the moon. Jumping for joy. But he has never once allowed himself to believe that he might have this, has never so much as entertained the possibility, so now, presented with everything he has longed for, he feels so terribly overwhelmed.

“It’s up to you,” Patton says softly. He reaches out, and when Roman doesn’t move to stop him, he takes his hand, and Roman could cry, he really could. “Whatever you’re comfortable with, whatever you want, we can do.”

He shakes his head desperately, a multitude of words springing to his lips but all of them falling short of being spoken, because he doesn’t know how to explain this, how to explain that it’s too much, being asked this, being asked what he wants, because he wants anything and everything, but he has spent so long telling himself that he can’t that he doesn’t know what to do now that he’s being told that he can.

And some of that must show on his face, because Patton scoots closer, concern driving a furrow in his brow, but then, suddenly, Janus is there, a steady presence at his side, one hand gently resting on his shoulder.

“It’s alright if you’re not ready for that,” he says, and Roman has never heard Janus speak so tenderly. Not like this, not to him. “It’s alright if you’re not ready for anything at all. But if you’d like, you could try starting with what you don’t want.”

At first, he’s not sure what Janus means, not sure how that will help. But then, his perspective flips, and he finds it easier, somehow, to focus on that, rather than the alternative. He wants so much, and he is too used to denying himself, but at this point, he knows very well what he doesn’t want.

“I don’t want to be alone,” he gasps out, and it’s practically a sob, weak and shattered. “Please, don’t leave me alone.”

Patton shifts closer once again, wrapping his arms around him for a second time. And Janus is here, too, pressing up against his side.

“Never,” Patton swears. “You never have to be alone, not ever again.”

“And that’s the whole truth and nothing but,” Janus adds, a bit wry but somehow still infinitely soft.

And they stay. With him. Just because he asked. And slowly, their proclamations sink in, the idea that perhaps they really do love him return, and goodness, he’s been so foolish, hasn’t he? Pushing them away because he thought it best, because he was so sure they wouldn’t want him, when really, it was the opposite. He hovers somewhere between laughing and breaking down into tears once again, but ends up doing neither, relaxing into the warmth of Patton’s arms holding him, of Janus right by his side.

Perhaps he was wrong, before. Perhaps even now, he has never truly understood what love is. He has spent the last weeks and months defining it by heartbreak, but perhaps it was never about that at all.

So, perhaps love is this: acceptance, the rhythm of three hearts beating as one, and the words, we’re not leaving, said aloud and finally, finally, Roman thinks he can accept them.

General Taglist:@just-perhaps @the-real-comically-insane @jerrysicle-tree @glitchybina @psodtqueer @mrbubbajones @snek-boii @severelylackinginquality @aceawkwardunicorn @gayerplease @elizabutgayer @dwbh888 @thatoneloudowl @sanderssides-angst @gayboopnoodle @wildfire5157

#royaliceit #roman sanders #ts roman #patton sanders #ts patton #janus sanders #ts janus #my fic #long post #cat does prompts #these prompts are supposed to be like... 2k words #idk what happened here #my pathological inability to be succinct strikes again

[preciouslittletoonette]

“Your Daddy”

A self-indulgent Mickey Mouse fic that I just wrote on a whim. Based on a headcanon I made several months ago

//

1928

“ LES CLARK! GET IN HERE, NOW”

It has been a.... bizarre three years working for Walt Disney.

Back in 1925, when Les first joined Walt, he was truly expecting a temporary job, possibly washing cels and doing a couple drawings here and there. But what once was thought to be a temporary job turned into three years honing his craft under the careful mentorship and friendship of the great Ub Iwerks, someone Les heavily admired.

But that was not the bizarre part.

The bizarre part came in the form... of Julius the Cat.

When Les entered the studio on his very first day, the toon barreled straight into his gut in excitement at the prospect of meeting someone new. Les, not expecting the greeting, barely caught the doorframe in time to stop himself from falling from the sheer force that was Julius.

Rather than amusement from his new coworkers, he was met with sympathy. Making him realise that this was, indeed, a normal occurrence.

The only one who had looked mildly amused was Walt, who sent Les a sheepish smile as he (rather gently) pried Julius off of him and settled the toon against his hip.

“ Heh, sorry about that Les. Julius here gets rather excited at the prospect of newcomers”, he said motioning to the cat, who was cuddling up to Walt’s side.

Les had accepted the apology and was soon introduced to Ub, who after the introduction immediately moved to scold Julius, who looked sheepish and nervous under Ub’s gaze. The entire interaction between Julius and the two men confused Les until two words came out of the cat toon’s mouth.

“ Sorry Papa”

While he looked nonchalant on the outside, the words had hit Les like a freight train on the inside. 

And thus began Les’ journey into the bizarre absurdity that was the Animation Industry.

Working under Disney led to Les learning a plethora of things, and some of them had less to do with actual animation and more to do with the toons. Sometimes while Ub was teaching him, the man would throw in advice on caring for toons. Any question Les had, Ub would answer and the man was incredibly blunt with his explanations.

“ So you’re Julius’ father?”

“ Yes”

“....But he calls Walt ‘Dad’”

“ It’s co-parenting”

And some answers were... weirder than others.

“ What do toons eat?”

“ Everything we eat and a little more”

“ What?”

“ Julius once ate an entire an entire paint can, filled with paint. Nearly sent me and Walt to an early grave, the little bugger. He didn’t get sick or anything, oddly enough he looked a lil’ healthier after that...”

“... So you let him eat paint now or-”

“ God lord no! We’re not taking chances in case he actually gets poisoned someday”

“ Oh”

“ Another tip, don’t ever let your toon eat erasers. That stuff will make them sick”

“....Noted”

Though it suffices to say, the years leading up to 1928 was an experience Les would never forget.

It was currently well past 11PM when Les entered Walt’s home, Lillian letting him in and calling for Walt, who was in his office, who then called Les to get to his office.

Les peeked inside to see Walt pacing from one side of the room to another. Sitting on a chair in the corner was Ub, holding something close to his chest as he tried to not doze off.

Both Ub and Walt looked like they haven’t slept in days.

Les lightly knocked on the door, announcing his presence.

Walt ceased his pacing,” Ah there you are, Les. Thanks for coming over”.

“ Well it sounded urgent. Couldn’t leave you two hangin’. What happened?”, Les asked concerned

“ We did it”, Walt sighed as he ran a hand down his tired face before looking to what Ub was holding.

Les’ eyes widened when the realisation of what had happened, finally noticing that what Ub was holding was definitely moving and shifting in the sleep-deprived man’s arms. Ub, noticing the attention from the standing men, shifted the being in his arms until Les could properly see him. In his mentor’s arms...

... was a sleepy small toon mouse.

“ When did you-?”

“ An hour ago”, Walt answered,” We made him an hour ago- but that’s not the point of you being here. Wait right here, I’ll be back”, with that said, Walt left the room to go further into the darkness of the house.

Les made his way over to his mentor’s side, dragging another chair closer to him and sat close by.

“ You okay, Ub?”, Les asked concerned.

“ I’m good”, Ub replied looking down on the toon in his arms,” Walt called me out of work to do this”, he moaned tiredly.

“ You were working?”, Les questioned.

“ I had extra work to do for Mintz because of planning with Walt”, Ub explained.

Les was well aware his mentor was working on things for Walt even while he continued to work for Universal. Ub was providing the money they needed to get the studio running while Walt and Roy went out, looking for new distributers after Winkler Pictures and Universal betrayed them.... and took Oswald away from them.

It was tragic watching everything unfold after Walt and Roy returned from their meeting with Mintz. After everyone just upped and left, leaving the four of them behind. Ub was in a fit of rage when he found out and what happened after that was the loudest, most rage-filled argument Les had ever heard between Walt and Ub. It had gone on for nearly a hour before things quieted down. But they didn’t leave the room they were in immediately, they were in there for a few minutes before finally coming out, eyes bloodshot and puffy despite vehement denies that they were crying. But it was clear as day that they were deeply hurt.

Les hoped to never ever have to go through what they went through.

“ What’s his name?”, Les inquired.

“ Michael Theodore Mouse. Mickey Mouse”, Ub stated with a nod,” It was Lillian’s suggestion after hearing Walt’s original name for him”.

“ And that was...?”

“ Mortimer”, Ub gagged.

Les snorted when he heard the name,” Bless Miss Lillian for stepping up where Walt failed in the naming department”, he joked humorously.

“ Amen to that”, Ub said with a short laugh as he looked down on the toon,” Hear that, Mickey. Your dad was going to name you Mortimer. What an unusual unneeded punishment, eh buddy”, he continued as Mickey smiled at Ub with sleepy eyes.

“ He’s very cute”, Les commented with a smile.

“ Of course he’s cute. I designed him after all”, Ub quipped with a smirk.

Les chuckled,” Of course”.

Ub smiled before looking down to Mickey again, this time his eyes filled with sadness. Les noticed this.

“ Thinking about Oswald again?”, Les asked.

“ Yeah. It’s just..... it’s been weeks since Mintz took him away and I haven’t seen him around the studio even while I was working. I’m worried about him and Julius”, Ub admitted,”.... I initially really didn’t want to do this”.

Les raised a brow,” What changed your mind?”.

“ Walt”, Ub said plainly,” We’ve been runnin’ around this for weeks now- well I was. You probably overheard me and Walt talking about this one night at the studio”.

Les nodded. He had overheard the conversation between Walt and Ub one evening when they were doing checks on the Hyperion studio. A mere two weeks before the current moment, Les recalled. It was far from an argument but there was definitely a disagreement. Ub wanted to wait a bit longer before creating another toon but Walt wanted it done sooner rather than later. The man even had a rough idea sketched out after seeing a mouse on the train  heading back to Burbank, Ub just had to create a proper design and then bring it to life. But to Ub it was moe complicated than that.

The man was exhausted, not just from overworking but from the very fact he had not JUST lost Oswald, but also Julius as well. And the guilt and sadness was eating him up from the inside. He was still wounded by the loss and Walt was not letting it heal like it was supposed to.

Not to say Walt wasn’t also facing his own major problems. He was also NOT coping well with losing Julius and Oswald (the latter especially) and his temper was much more explosive than usual from Les’ perspective. He threw himself into his work, dragging Roy everywhere to every film distribution company in the Los Angeles county. Heck, Les wagered Walt’s desperation might even have him go look for distributors in New York. And the man was constantly stressed out and judging by what Walt looked like earlier, even sleep deprived from working this much to avoid his own thoughts to grieve. You could say his desperation and grief was blinding him to his friend’s own grief.

 Les winced at the thought, silently pitying his seniors.

Ub continued on speaking,” Distributors want to see the stars nowadays and not just concept art. They want to see and meet the toon and as charismatic as Walt is, he can’t convince them to wait any longer. So I bit the bullet tonight”, he explained, shifting Mickey as the toon squirmed a little in his arms,” But I’m don’t regret this. I feel a lil’ better after making lil Michael here. He’s just too darn active for me to ignore, isn’t that right buddy”, he said addressing Mickey, who was about ready to fall asleep again.

Les smiled at the sight of the toon,” Well I’m sure this one right here’s gonna be the one to boost us to success”, he said.

“ You think so?”, Ub inquired with a grin.

“ O ‘Course! After all, who could resist this cute little face?”, Les cooed at Mickey before turning to Ub,” AND you and Walt have already raised some pretty big stars. No doubt this little one will follow suit with his brothers”, he proclaimed confidently,” You two are gonna great dads.... again”, he joked lightly.

Ub chuckled,” And I’m sure you’ll be a fantastic dad too, Les”, he stated light-heartedly.

Les frowned, about to ask Ub what he meant before Walt peeked in, having returned from where he went off to.

“ Hey, sorry for the delay, she crawled out of the basket and I had to find her”, Walt explained nervously with a chuckle.

Les raised a brow at the mention of a her but Ub spoke up before he could ask

“ It’s fine. We were distracted with talking anyway. Bring her in already so Les can meet her”

Les was highly confused for a second before registering another toon mouse in Walt’s arms that was quickly transferred to his lap in seconds.

“ Les, meet Minnie, Minnie, this is Les Clark-”, and the next words will forever imprint itself in Les’ mind-

“ -Your Daddy”

“ Wait what?!”

#disney #disney fanfiction #les clark #minnie mouse #walt disney #mickey mouse #ub iwerks #walter elias disney #ubbe eert iwwerks #to be continued...maybe

[ampleappleamble]

—

Chomp. Slurp. Smack.

He glanced up at the group of foreigners. Nothing.

Slorp. Crunch.

Still nothing.

Hiravias was beginning to wonder if he was wasting his time.

He knelt over the still-warm deer carcass, watching the strange little party as they stood just beyond the treeline, talking and stretching and tending to one another's wounds while he licked the blood from his fingers, pulling each digit from his mouth with a loud sucking, popping noise. Ordinarily he'd never eat so ostentatiously– it was never a good idea to draw attention to oneself while eating in the wild, unless one liked having one's hard-earned kill stolen away by something bigger, stronger, and hungrier than oneself. But they still wouldn't look his way, and by now he was starting to feel full. Wael's bowels, how much more loudly am I gonna have to chew before they hear me and decide it's worth investigating? Maybe I should just throw a handful of offal at them instead.

It was unlike him to be so indirect with his intentions, but one never could tell how some estramorwn would to react to a tiny, hairy man openly approaching them with a toothy smile and copious amounts of blood smeared all over his hands and face and clothes. So he had decided to play it safe and try to lure them to him, although he had apparently underestimated either the foreigners' capacity for curiosity or the limits of their sensory perception. These foreigners were the strangest he'd seen out here in a long time, and he was dying to talk to them– for instance, there was only one Dyrwoodan among them, if their accents were anything to go by, and he actually seemed to be taking orders from the orlan in the group. That alone was reason enough to try to insinuate himself into their company, just to find out what was going on there.

He had a few other reasons for seeking their attention, of course. And they were curiosity-based, too. Mostly. Hiravias let his gaze drift slowly over the orlan woman as she allowed the feathered Ocean folk to lay her hand on the curve of her furry hip, a soft, golden glow emanating from the Godlike's fingertips. The orlan woman sighed in relief as the bruise marring her tawny skin faded in the golden light, and she smiled up at the other woman with gratitude, her thick, full lips parting just so, her long eyelashes fluttering.

He pulled his thumb from his mouth with a loud, wet pop.

The Ocean folk woman whipped her head around suddenly to face in his direction. "We are being watched," she hissed, her hawk's eyes narrowing as she searched the underbrush.

Finally! He feigned surprise at being "discovered" as best as he cared to, freezing and holding up his gore-streaked hands when the adventurers charged over, cautious but not aggressive. Yet.

"Woah, there, sorry if I startled you," he grinned, relishing the looks of confusion and disgust he was inspiring on the shiny new faces before him. "I was just enjoying the bounty of nature a little too enthusiastically, I guess. By the way, this isn't your forest, is it? Because if it is, you need a better game warden." He turned his head and spit out a wayward wad of gristle before wiping his mouth on his sleeve, and the wood elf in their party actually gagged and turned away. Hiravias couldn't help but feel an odd sense of satisfaction at that.

The orlan woman, on the other hand, seemed to relax a bit at his words. "I don't think Stormwall Gorge is in my jurisdiction, no. You took this deer down by yourself?"

"A stelgaer killed it, actually," Hiravias replied, smiling pleasantly. Not quite a lie. "A rather large and ornery one. Although the deer had a badly malformed heart and would have been dead within the year even if the stelgaer had never crossed its path. I'd show you, but, well, it was also a very delicious heart." He gestured to the carcass, spreading his arms wide before him. "Here, be my guest. There's no way I can eat all of this myself!"

The dwarf actually stepped forward, her eyes lighting up like stars in the night sky. "I call the shank," she said, drawing a knife while the fox at her knee slavered, panting eagerly. Everyone else remained where they were, their grimaces slowly intensifying.

"And here I thought Sagani was the only raw-meat-eater I was liable to encounter in the Dyrwood," the orlan woman chuckled, indicating the dwarf woman with a tilt of her chin. "You don't cook either, huh?"

"What, and burn out all the flavor? Wreck that incredible texture?" Hiravias scoffed, shaking his head. "Galawain would strike me down where I stood for disrespecting one of His beasts in such a manner, and for damned good reason, too! I mean, look at this–" He dug into the creature's guts and pulled out a fat, juicy loop of intestines. "How is this not appetizing?"

He held the viscera out to her, trying valiantly to fight the mischievous grin twitching into place on his face, but he couldn't quite help himself. "Here, go on. It's the best part! You won't regret it!"

She fixed her eyes on his, a smirk of her own slowly crawling across her lips as she crossed her arms beneath her ample bosom. "You first," she murmured, her voice low and smooth and sultry.

Well, shit, woman, say it like that and how can I refuse?

Feeling a bit sophomoric, but determined not to give up, Hiravias defiantly returned her stare as he stuffed the pink, glistening tube into his mouth and began chewing– and of course, instantly regretting it. "Mmmmm," he managed, performatively rubbing his belly even as he winced and drooled. "S-so... good..." The taste of shit and lingering digestive acids mingled in his mouth. So much for my full stomach.

The aumaua towering above them all choked out a half-laugh, half-groan. "My friend," he declared, "I somehow seriously doubt that."

"Desgant," the bird woman spat, baring her teeth in a disgusted scowl. She didn't look away, though, so Hiravias counted that as at least a partial victory. The dwarf and her fox watched, too, silently filling up on strips of raw venison with only mild bemusement on their faces. He was definitely in there.

Finally he swallowed, although it took him a couple of tries. "Well! Now I know it had elderberries for its last meal. Praise be to Wael for the revelation!" He wiped his mouth again, shuddering, and held out his filthy hand for a shake. "Name's Hiravias, by the way. It's been a good long while since I've shared a meal with such pleasant company, so... thank you for tolerating me." The little woman nodded, smiling, but she kept her hand out of his.

The Dyrwoodan snapped his fingers suddenly, pointing at Hiravias and grinning as though he'd finally solved some great and vexing mystery. "Oh! I got it. You're Glanfathan, ain't ya?"

He barked a short, sharp laugh in response. "This is the brains of the operation, then?"

"What Edér lacks in intellectual prowess, he more than makes up for in other fields, trust me." The orlan woman's smile turned kind as she gently patted the folk man's wrist. "I'm Axa Mala, the... the Watcher of Caed Nua." She almost seemed to have to force the words, as though she wasn't quite used to associating herself with that title just yet. It made him think of the Autumn Stelgaer, a pang of sympathy striking his heart. "What's a nice Waelite like you doing in a place like this, then?"

"Me? Oh, seeing what there is to see, eating what there is to eat, experiencing the wonders of this strange and beautiful and world the gods have blessed us with." He dipped his head low in reverence for a moment before peeking back up at her. "I'm a Druid of the Circle of Hawk and Ivy of the Fisher Crane tribe, you see, and I've been all over Eir Glanfath a few times over now, even pushed into the Dyrwood where I thought I could get away with it without having to face down a bunch of drunken meatheads calling me a hairy little face-painting catfucker. But I have to say, throughout all my travels over the years, I've never had the good fortune to meet a Watcher before."

Her smile broadened even as her eyes narrowed. "And you'd like to see more of this Watcher, is that it?" She may have taken a while to get rolling, but she sure caught up fast. "Well, a Druid's talents could certainly be a boon to us, as well as a native Glanfathan's knowledge of the land and the locations of Engwithan ru– uh." She stopped abruptly, her face blanching as she reflexively readjusted her satchel, pushing it a bit further behind her back. "Not that– we don't– I mean, uh..."

Right. There was that. He'd been so caught up in actually talking to other kith again– another orlan, at that, and not a Dyrwoodan orlan with that depressing, beaten-down, high-strung, constant-victim-of-horrendous-bigotry baggage they tended to suffer from– that he'd almost forgotten that they were a bunch of grave-robbing ruin defilers. He'd watched them descend into Lle a Rhemen hours before, and then he'd watched them emerge with their rucksacks bulging, and although his old protective instincts had flared up inside of him, the familiar rage and indignation wrapping around him like a fiery blanket, instead of shifting and pouncing on them or bidding the earth to open up beneath them, he'd just... watched. Waited. Thought. And now, in place of any lingering urge to gut them, he found himself wanting nothing more than to walk with them, talk with them. It had been so long since he'd run with a pack, and even though they were estramorwn with no respect for the land or for the Builders, they were at least kind to him and easy to talk to. And he knew he'd be lying to himself if he said he wasn't itching to find out what secrets lay buried inside the ruins of the Builders, just a little bit...

"You don't what?" Hiravias huffed, hands flexing at his sides, clenching them into fists over and over. "I didn't see you do anything. ...Maybe the gods did, and if so they'll rend your soul asunder when it passes the Veil, as would be your richly deserved fate, but..." He shrugged, forcing a smile. "This eyepatch isn't just for show, y'know; I really am half-blind. So maybe chance had it that my blind side was facing you when you did... whatever it is you did or didn't do."

Axa scratched at the back of her neck, blushing, not quite able to look at the Glanfathan. "Yeah, I, uh... noticed your Eye of Wael, there." The conversation lulled awkwardly for a moment, until suddenly she smiled at him again, her whole face lighting up. "Hey! Wanna help us track down some assholes who stole scripture from a temple of Wael? Maybe it'll redeem me a little in Their eyes, if indeed I've offended Them."

The aumaua brightened up as well. "Ondra's teeth, I'd very nearly forgotten about that! Will we go to Searing Falls as well?" He leaned toward Hiravias, his smile as bright as the sun and twice as big. "We were asked to go there by a priestess of Magran, you see, on a quest to realize a mysterious vision from her fiery Mistress..."

Edér frowned. "Hey, you said you'd take us to that battlefield where my brother died, look for clues there. ...I guess he ain't gettin' any deader, though, so it's no real rush. Just... you know. Be nice to get some answers, if we can."

Axa gave Hiravias a pointed look. "Well, you heard. Scrolls of Waelite wisdom, mysterious visions, and answers from beyond the grave. We'll have you if you'll have us. You in?"

He ran his tongue over his pointed teeth, smile broadening as he shouldered his pack. "With a pitch like that, how could I resist?"

—

#pillars of eternity #poe anthem infinitum #fic wip #first foray into writing hiravias! #party management soon to follow #thanks for reading ♡

[rataltouille]

BONFIRE, BONFIRE!: A COLLECTION OF FLASH FICTION + POETRY

so i’ve decided to compile all twenty [these will be split into two so that the post isn’t super long] of the writing pieces i’ve done for my random celebration into one post so that it’s easier to read / access share!! you can also find it here, all put into one work, on wattpad, because i feel nostalgic about that website and decided to just post it!!

NOTE: i know that this shouldn't need to be said, but these 20 pieces belong to me so please don’t copy/repurpose it for your writing!! i plan on using these somewhere in my own writing and either way they’re stuff i’ve written so don’t use them!!

1. cooking + destructive + purple from @andiwriteunderthemoon [also i kind of cheated with this prompt and asked my sis @dreamscanbenightmarestoo for ideas and so the base idea’s from her!!]

I didn’t mean to set my house on fire, alright?

Let me set the scene: I’m sitting in my room, watching the infomercials that blur together, and suddenly there’s a bright purple flash on the glitching screen: /grapes/. They’re shiny, plump, and oh? A recipe for fine wine? Don’t mind if I do. So I pop into my kitchen and cut the grapes, dice them up, finally using the knife after years of not cooking— /mother, are you proud of me now?/— and stick the soft, luminescent fluid into a glass bottle. Following each step of the recipe.

The recipe didn’t mention an explosion.

Destruction rained around my house like a meteor shower. The bubbles from the fluid, frisking up at contact with metal, swam across my shoes and into the living room. It touched the TV, which still flashed the recipe, which I was still cursing at. And then, you know, it burnt up. The couch scorched first, I think. So that was fun. I later realised that I’d used my reserve of petroleum, which I’d put in my kitchen cabinet, instead of vinegar. I think I’ve got to move back in with my mother again.

2. running + quiet + sky blue from @kryskakikomi [i have no idea what this is i drafted this in a fever dream state]

Summer crawled up his skin like a worm. He was seated at his dining table, crosswording his way through the sticky morning, when it struck him that the humidity was new. He’d been caught in summer before, of course, but this year was different. His parents had whisked away to their hometown, and he still didn’t understand why he wasn’t allowed to go. He loved their home— he could have been running on beach sand and waves could have cruised over his feet, and his face would reflect sky blue under palm trees. Instead he sat doodling and scratching at cement walls in a quiet that nagged at his ears, grappling his flesh like a fishing hook, reeling him in. Boredom, him sister told him, before she also left for someone’s home. What would you know? he whispered once the door latched from the outside. Maybe /she’d/ like to sit on the same wooden chair, all the pink paint worn out, and scratch out squares of empty text until the pen poked through the other hand. He scoffed. At least he knew the number of scars on the wood; he could hold that over her when his parents returned.

3. hallucinate + hazy + violet from @chloeswords [i wanted to write something dreamy and ethereal but everytime i look at your url i’m reminded of church mud and indirectly my religious trauma so here we are 🤡]

We hold the book in our arms and chant for God. We don’t know what he looks like. They say that he’s sharp, never pixelating or blurring or showing through, like a hazy image would. No, children, our family says, he will come clothed in gold and velvet— the colour a deep and rich crimson, or chartreuse. And of course, he weaves a violet into his hair. Because he is just that humble. Just that gentle. Loving.

We’ve almost understood now. Pray, clasp our palms together into a transient equinox, and pray. Maybe he will shine down on us. Maybe we will speak so loud and chant so long that our lips will chap. Maybe we’ll simply hallucinate him to salve our bones. Our family says, he will bless you. And so he will.

4. halcyon + pluviophile + beige from anon [i was yearning for cats i am a cat person i love cats]

I remember my life before I moved to London,

Those halcyon days that I spent scooping up cat litter and brushing warm fur,

Being a mother to beige and white and black little felines.

They keep better company than humans.

Now I’m a self-proclaimed businesswoman, artist, influencer, pluviophile,

Even when I’ve barely stepped foot outside during the rain,

[But it needs to be said that when it rains in London, it pours].

I think I’d like to open a cat cafe;

I’m rich enough to pull it off.

5. sing + vulnerable + olive green from @occiidens [this was actually super fun to write because it’s a break from the typically unhinged stories i gravitate towards]

You watch from the highest hill of your town, hand wrapped around the serrated wood of a red oak tree. The bark pokes into your flesh, drawing blood that shouldn’t have been taken from you. You scowl. Just another thing that lives to cause you pain.

Three storeys down is a young man, short and smiling and lovely. He has dark skin and darker hair, walking with the stride of a deer, and he’s smiling; the joy reflects onto your face, even though you can’t hear him. He wears a cotton shirt, the olive green stark against the fire-blue sky. You call out, sing his name, three times in a row.

When he finally looks up, squinting as you silhouette under the sun, the smile widens. A wave. You’re suddenly overcome with embarrassment. Your palm digs into the bark until the wound is freshly dug again, the skin supple and vulnerable. You want to wave, but your hands would look so awkward, and the blood wouldn't help. So you turn on your heel and run— why are you so awkward?— and the grass around you is brighter. This is now a tomorrow issue, you conclude. You’re still smiling.

6. dislocate + ostentatious + blood red from @oasis-of-you [this got really unhinged really fast. TW: body horror]

If you take a turn at Finn Avenue,

Rogue your way down a blood red river,

[It’s not actual blood, do not worry. The colour’s a pigment and it’s saturated enough to give you the texture, the touch, the taste of blood, but I repeat, it isn’t true blood. You might think that it’s ostentatious of us to make you cross a river like that, but you’ll understand why.]

And if can stick your fingers inside the fluid,

You’ll find a bone.

Don’t pull it out fully! Only observe.

[This is a real bone, most likely animal. We may be ominous, but we don’t hurt humans. Not yet.]

So what do you do now? You want passage into a better world.

You came here because you saw the brochure, the flyer,

Radiant Idyll, home for love, but you also saw the jutting anatomy that leads to the city. The pictures were rather clear.

Why do you look so surprised? We’ve put this on the brochure— don’t you ever read the fine print?— to avoid this exact situation. That you would cross a body, a skeleton, pooled over in a fluid that we don’t name, but it’s probably alive.

It’s watching you right now.

So what do you do now?

Hurry up, unhinge your arm, dislocate the elbow, drop it into the blood, forgive me, false blood, and pay for your passage.

Oh! Excellent; that’s record time. We do hope you enjoy your stay!

1. @noteaboy [i’ve interpreted your url as ”note, a boy”]

There’s an orange tree. It’s spring, and there’s an orange tree, and it brims with fruit and citrus perfume. Point your lens flare downwards, and note, a boy. A young man, perhaps, because he combs his hair, uptight and firm, and he wears a tie. A long suit. He doesn’t look up, because his hand holds a book. /He/ holds the book, not the hands— tenderness doesn’t translate through anatomy, I’ve taught you this before. He’s waiting for someone. There’s only the rustle of leaves. He drops the book onto the lap of the tree, crushing the apple that had fallen down. Orange, not apple. Take note better. You only have one chance to get this right.

2. @eatingjupiter [your url is so beautiful omg]

The goddess had said this before she died: you need to watch over him. He needs your sentry to survive. The goddess’ words weren’t heeded. Little baby Jupiter tottered on lava as him parents small-talked with their kingdom. Well, it must have been small talk, because nothing seemed to happen afterwards other than his mother’s face collapsing in agony, anger, annoyance. He knew not to touch them then. He’d fly off into the sun one day, but if his hands were but and charred, he wouldn’t survive even a third of the journey.

The prophecy was simple: the firstborn to the kingdom will metamorph into a celestial, purify themselves so that only stardust remains. Live in the sky forever. The astrologers were baffled; you don’t just become a star. They should have heeded the goddess.

Jupiter was sixteen when he expanded and collapsed all at once. He still lives, they say, and the astrologers /were/ right, in a way: people just don’t become stars. They become almost empty space. Nobody knows if his hands were burnt when they left earth’s orbit forever.

3. @laughtracksonata [your name gave me slight horror vibes idk why!!]

Hahaha. The Horror Movie (don’t ask me for a name, I’m not good with those), with its cymbal crashing and plastic sounds, it’s so loud and scary that it hurts, father. Please turn it off.

Father doesn't listen. I shiver on the couch. The screen flickers like radio static and reflects off our wide eyes. What kind of a home is this anyway? I don’t want to fucking listen to a laugh track or a horror VHS tape or watch the bass crescendo as the serial killer jumpscares the watcher. I don’t think that having hour pupils glued to the same blood-splattered movie, with the same recording looping in his eardrums will help him. He laughs along, sometimes. It’s scary. Father needs a new hobby.

PART TWO COMING SOON!!

anyway this got REALLY long so i’m posting the third prompt group, the one based on songs, as a second part in some time. i hope you enjoy this, and PLEASE do boost!! i spent a lot of time writing these pieces and am pretty proud of them :’)

general taglist: @lovingyou-is @guulabjamuns @andiwriteunderthemoon @coffeeandcalligraphy @melonmilk @silentlylostwriter @charles-joseph-writes @eklavvya @eowynandfaramir @bitterwitchwrites @laughtracksonata @whatwordsdidnttouch @indeliblewrites @thenataliawrites @summersguilt @illimani-gibberish @sarahkelsiwrites @writing-in-delirium @shaelinwrites @sienna-writes @chewingthescenery @jennawritesstories @chloeswords @aelenko @keira-is-writing @cherylinanika @infinitely-empty-pages @jmtwrites @august-iswriting @freedelusionbanana @beetleblue88 @mistercaleb @iwannawritepls @hanwatchingmovies @mortallynuttyqueen @idratherliveinnarnia @maisulli @thegreyboywrites @ahowlinwolf @ravens-and-rivers @oasis-of-you @yanittawrites @chazza-writes-sometimes @skyfirewrites @lovebenders @treybriggsthewriter @themidnxghtwriter @ash-karter @queen-devasena @a-procrastination-addict @gaymityblight @beyondthebracken @madmaxst26 @adielwrites @moonpixxel @hollow-knight-dnd @keep-looking-here @overlap @ashleygarciawrites @ryns-ramblings​ @wordsbynathan @novaemlynlewis​ @sophiewritingstuff​ @howdy-writes​ @occiidens​ @nsanelyawkward​ @viawrites-andacts​

#writeblr #am writing #flash fiction #poetry #wtwcommunity #ofcolourtracking #crabappletracking #anyway part two probably in a couple days #i still have to start writing them 🤡✌️ #bonfire bonfire

[buckthegrump]

I’ve Been Trying Hard Not To Talk To You - 3

Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Y/n hates Bucky Barnes. Absolutely loathes him what makes it worse is that she has to share her office with him. Now with a promotion on the horizon she has to find a way to work with him and not against him.

Warnings: Angst (kind of), it’s an enemies to loves, there’s not fluff in this part

Word Count: 1480

A/n: i love a good car ride scene

Y/n didn’t know how to make it any more clear that she did not want to go on this company team building beach trip. Jill smiled at her earning herself a glare. They were all gathered int the parking lot at 8:30 in the morning because this was a weekend-long thing. Y/n loved both Maria and Phil, but part of her wondered how hard it would be to find another job at a different company that didn’t do weekend-long team-building things.

Everyone was trying to figure out who was driving and who was going in which car. Typically, Y/n would offer to drive, but Carol’s stupid car was taking much longer than it should. Why did she have to be such a good aunt? This would be so much easier if Carol didn’t have Monica to hold over Y/n’s head.

“Hey, boss,” Peter beamed. “You excited for the trip?”

She was forcing herself to be at least civil to him, but goddamn did he have so much fucking energy for this early in the morning.

“You could say that,” she answered. He held out a Starbucks cup. “I can’t drink coffee.”

“It’s a chai latte,” he says. “You don’t drink coffee because of anxiety, right?”

She held back tears (she had the tendency to be a bit dramatic in the mornings). “Peter, someday you are going to make someone very happy.”

He blushed and looked at the ground but didn’t walk away.

“Bucky, can you take Y/n and Peter?” Maria’s voice cut through the fog in Y/n’s brain. “They’re the only ones that still need a ride.”

“Oh, no, no, no, no, no,” Y/n whispered to herself.

“Sure,” Bucky shrugged as if he didn’t hate her. As if they didn’t spend up to eight hours a day getting on each other’s nerves.

Y/n opened her mouth to protest, but then everyone started putting their bags in trunks. She barely registered when Peter offered to take her bag to Bucky’s car. She told him that she could take her own luggage, but Bucky swooped in and grabbed the handles before she could.

“Come on, we don’t want to be late.” Y/n couldn’t tell if he was kidding or not as Bucky led them to the car.

Ten minutes later, they were on the road.

Peter had oh so graciously, let Y/n have shot-gun while he was seated in the back. Bucky, who drove a stick (because of course, he did) set up the music.

Bucky Barnes, who was already devastatingly handsome (in an unfortunate sort of way that made her want to fling herself off a cliff), didn’t need to be any hotter. And that’s where Y/n’s problem was. She had always thought that a man driving was unreasonably hot, especially if they were mostly calm as they drove. 

With any luck, Bucky would have major road rage, and she could switch with someone for the drive home.

The beach was about an hour’s drive. Y/n wondered how hard it would be to fall asleep, but she didn’t know if she could trust Bucky not to find a way to draw on her face or something. Maybe she should have let Peter sit in the front.

Ten minutes into the drive, Bucky dug out his phone from his pocket and handed it to Y/n.

“Can you -” he started.

Without thinking about it, she took it. “Sure. Why is Stark Industries calling you?”

“Ignore it,” Bucky said, rolling his eyes.

“Ya know, if you roll your eyes too much, they’ll get stuck in the back of your head. And that would end up being very boring for you because there’s nothing back there.” Y/n rejected the call. A few seconds later, it started buzzing again. Only this time, the contact read Tony Stark. “Barnes, wh-wh-wh-”

“Is your brain not connected to your mouth right now? What’s going on?” Bucky chuckled.

“Why is the Tony Stark calling you? Why do you have Tony Stark’s number saved in your phone?”

“You know Tony Stark?” Peter spoke in awe.

Bucky ignored all their questions. “Will you answer it and tell him that I’m driving and can’t really talk right now?”

Y/n barked out a laugh. “I’m not answering the phone for the biggest tech genius in America. Do it yourself if you’re such good friends with him.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, again, not heeding Y/n’s warning. He grabbed the phone and answered. “Tony, I can’t really talk right now. . . Because I’m driving. . . I did. Monday morning. . . Bruce said it was fine -”

“Bruce Banner?” Peter asked in a hushed whisper.

“Tony. . . I told you I was busy this weekend. . . Yes, I can come to dinner on Thursday. . . I don’t know why you ask the answer is always no.”

Y/n strained her ears, trying to hear the second half of the conversation. Now she wished she had answered the phone.

Bucky lowered his voice a little. “No, I’m not going to do that. That’s one of the dumbest ideas you’ve ever had. I will see you Thursday.”

Bucky hung up the phone and put it in the cupholder between him and Y/n. The silence lasted all of three seconds before Peter started up again.

“So how well do you know Mr. Stark?” He asked.

“Considering that he just agreed to go to dinner with him on Thursday,” Y/n piped up, “I’d say they were in love.”

“That’s not what -” Bucky sighed. “I know him pretty well, kid. Why?”

“I applied for his internship, but I never got a call back.”

Y/n turned around in her seat and looked at him. “Peter, do you not like working here?” She shot Bucky a quick glare.

“No, it’s not that. I just - I’m more of a science person, and I just took whatever job I could get. This one paid the best, but I was really hoping that I would be able to work in the field that I actually want to go in.”

Y/n turned back around. “Told ya, you should be nicer,” she grumbled.

Bucky didn’t justify that with a response. The rest of the ride happened in silence, but Y/n really wanted to know what had happened Monday morning. Clearly, Bucky had some kind of appointment, which explained why he was so calm when he’d walked in late. She should leave it alone. He was allowed to have his secrets just as she was allowed to have hers.

* * *

Y/n had scolded herself about thirty times in the past twenty minutes. She couldn’t stop watching Bucky drive, because yes, he was very calm as he drove. It was really attractive, and his right hand would rest on the gear shift, and -

Get it together, Y/n. She scolded herself again. If she wouldn’t get car sick, she’d pull out one of the books she’d brought along for the weekend. She was trying to fall into one of her extensive daydreams when an all too familiar tune came out from the car speakers.

Saw your body language, and I know how you feeling. You look like the kind of girl who’s tired of speaking.

She bit back the laugh that was begging to be released. Glancing at the radio, she doubled checked that this was, in fact, his playlist and not the actual radio. She was struggling with whether she should say something or let it slide. Letting it slide was winning because she didn’t want to get kicked out of the car, but god bless Peter Parker.

“You like One Direction?” He asked a little too gleefully.

Y/n waited for Bucky to quickly change the song and grumble about it being on there because of his sister or an ex-girlfriend. But he didn’t.

“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy some of their songs,” he said simply.

Bucky said it so casually as if that wasn’t a surefire way to set her off. He needed to do something dickish so she could go right back to hating him. Hating him was as easy as breathing. It came naturally. This entire car ride was confusing the fuck out of her, and she didn’t particularly like it.

“Really?” Peter, who was sounding more and more like an excited puppy, asked.

“Yeah, my sister made me listen to them once, and I guess I just didn’t stop.”

Y/n bit the inside of her cheek.

“What?” Bucky asked. It took her a second for her to realize he was talking to her. “Are you gonna sit there and pretend that you don’t like them?”

“No, I just didn’t think that you would admit to liking one direction is all.”

“Well, sunflower, I guess there are still a few things you don’t know about me.”

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x f!reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes AU