#And this is kind of off the cuff and unedited

[kojoty]

I don't like to deal in absolutes, because genuinely every single person's experience and relationship is going to be different, but generally speaking, 99% of the time-- Yes.

Psychologically, utilizing a substance in a way to ease pain and ease suffering in such a way is going to leave lasting imprints on the mind. No matter if you are strong enough to be an 'ex' alcoholic, and have the willpower and structures in place to avoid a relapse or avoid alcoholic tendencies, there is going to be a psychological instinct imbedded in your brain stem when things get rough that says 'I know how to fix this, and easily.' 'I know how to numb this, and now, easily.' That is alcoholism.

I think you can simultaneously be a former user and still be an alcoholic. I am not currently in the throes of alcoholic tendencies, but I will more than likely always get twinges of want that other people just don't have. There are neurological synapses that fire differently, both genetically, from habit, pavlonian, etc that just are abnormal (I use this word very deliberately, considering I do not like to utilize a 'normal' vs 'abnormal' dichotomy on political and philosophical basis, but my definition of abnormal here is very specifically used to differentiate between a brain that has not been activated by alcoholic tendencies/disorders).

Chemically, your brain literally alters itself to accept the want and need for this. No matter how many years, months, decades, your brain is going to have a physical learned response to what alcohol does; how it calms you, how it responds to your body, how you numb with it. Not just this, but there are receptors that will change due to the ingestion of alcohol that *seek* it. Again, willpower and support structures will stop the relapse, but the desire will still be there, and it will be stronger than in non-alcoholic brains

Not to mention social triggers and the dopamine cycles of socialization.

Is it possible to completely weed out the desires/wants of alcohol? Yes. And I think where everyone's personal line lies is different. But I also personally think that part of recovery and a bigger part of the unexpected beauty of recovery and sober life is gaining the strength to acknowledge, accept and be truthful to your desires, natural avoidancies, strengths and weaknesses, and this addiction in particular preys on the learned cowardice of accepting parts of ourselves that are undesirable or abnormally 'weak'-- and there is a reclaimed strength and courage in allowing the term 'alcoholic' to not be the bogeyman but just another adjective and fact about how you live in the world. Acknowledging it let's it become 'This is true about me, and I must carry it' and the load gets lighter FROM that acceptance, in my opinion.

(not to mention denying the term is often an addict's fail safe self-permission to keep using. 'I'm not an alcoholic, alcoholics need rehab and lose blah blah blah and I'm functional and can keep using because *it's not that bad* [yet], and so the bogeyman 'Alcoholism' becomes not just a continuously moving and continously distanced line, but it becomes an allowance to keep going)

I guess, tldr my stance is: alcoholism isn't just about alcohol and in the pursuit to nip at the bud the reasons it became a problem in the first place, you've got to accept the term to move forward and recontextualize not just your past behaviors but your future ones too. Not everyone is going to find it a useful term, but at least in the early stages of recovery, the courage to admit to yourself that this disease affects you sure makes it a hell of a lot harder to deny it's lasting impact on you in the future

It's possible to reclaim a healthy relationship with alcohol, but I think in order to do that and practice self control, you have to acknowledge and weigh the cost benefit of the fact that it will always be harder for you to retain that control than those that are not alcoholics. We don't deserve the burden. But we still have to carry it, and denial makes mountains out of what can eventually errode into gentler foothills.

I know, by the way, that I often delete these posts because it is a largely personal journey that I'm still working through the complex web of emotions on, but if anyone ever needs or wants to talk about sobriety with me, you are more than welcome to. It is one of the hardest human experiences to deal with, and a large part of that is how isolating admitting to addiction can be

[sutorus]

HEART SHAKER

PAIRING: gojo satoru x reader

WC: ~1k

WARNINGS: established relationship, suggestive language, flirting, attempts at humor. fluff, somehow.

A/N: super freaking unedited i just had to get this out bc i can’t believe it’s not smut LOL

“god, you’re squeezing me so hard, sweetheart.”

you look up through your eyelashes at your boyfriend, brows set low in a warning. he only smirks. 

you pump harder. 

“oh fuck, it’s so tight right now.”

you huff in annoyance, slapping both hands down on your legs. 

“can you stop? i lost count!”

satoru laughs at you, throwing his head back. 

you cringe at how loud his movements sound in your ears, the stethoscope you were using still pressed to his skin. 

you release the pressure on the cuff around his arm, sighing deeply. 

“once again, i’m going to ask you,” you enunciate the words slowly, your eyes aiming at his, right behind that blindfold. “why don’t you have shoko do this?”

you’re sure if it were her measuring his blood pressure she could get actual accurate results. 

satoru tilts his head, smiling sweetly. 

“and why would i do that?” he singsongs. “you’re the prettiest little doctor around.”

“resident,” you correct him. 

you wish so badly that he was due for a vaccine or something, just so you would have an excuse to stab him. 

of course, you weren't complaining. you’re incredibly lucky that shoko took you under her wing once you got a job at the school. you weren’t able to master reverse cursed technique at her level quite yet, but you were just as good of a regular doctor as she was. 

it didn’t matter how good you were though, because you weren’t a pediatrician or a saint, and it takes one of either to deal with gojo satoru as a patient. 

“why do we even bother with check ups?” he asks, leaning back on the exam table. “i am literally healing my body twenty-four-seven.”

you roll your eyes, grabbing the light test hammer. 

“what kind of question is that? sit up straight,” you shuffle on your chair, getting in between his too-spread legs. whore. 

satoru shrugs, kicking his dangling feet. “a valid one.”

you bring the hammer down hard on his knee to check his reflexes. naturally, it stops just shy of his leg. 

you don’t even have to look. you know he’s smirking again. 

“turn infinity off.”

“‘turn infinity off’? you’re so cute,” he replies. you try to hit him with the hammer again to no avail. “i need to teach you some combat skills, girl.”

“and i need to examine you,” you get up off your seat, facing him. satoru leans in with a grin. “behave.”

he won’t. 

“wanna play doctor?” 

you ignore his voice and the obvious glee in it, a retort dying on your tongue because you do actually have to carry out a check up, to the best of your abilities. 

grabbing your clipboard, you skim through his most recent health assessment records.

he complained about a migraine to shoko. 

it makes your heart seize for just a moment, to think of all the stress satoru puts himself through to have his technique active at all times. 

“how’s your head?” you ask him. 

“you tell me,” his foot grazes the back of your knee, coaxing you closer. “any complaints?”

a dissatisfied sound comes out of your mouth as you press your hands to his chest instinctively, forcing distance between you two. 

“satoru, please.”

“do you worry, baby?” he reaches out to tentatively hold the side of your face. “don’t worry about me.”

“it’s literally my job,” you trail off, head dropping. 

satoru lifts your chin up and presses his lips to yours for a second or two. 

“sorry, sorry,” he says before you can chastise him. “couldn’t help it. you look so cute all worked up.”

at this point you just twist your lips disapprovingly, putting the stethoscope earpieces back on. 

you press it to his chest and listen as he breathes in and out. 

“satoru,” you frown. “are you okay?”

“hmm?”

you look at him knowingly, a smirk of your own blooming on your face. 

“why is your heart beating so fast?”

at that, your awful, awful boyfriend finally has the decency to blush. 

“and you’re breathing so hard, too—“

“it’s hard, alright—“

“—we might have to schedule some follow up exams,” you click your pen to fill out the form, neglecting the way he leans into you. 

“anytime,” he huffs out, breath skirting on your face where you stand between his knees. “do i get a lollipop for being such a good boy?”

“no,” you reply, taking a step forward. “but you can have this.”

you plant a kiss on his lips, letting it linger for longer than it should as he holds your hips tightly.

he hums contentedly when you pull away.

“mm, smart and generous,” satoru noses your jawline. “how did i get so lucky?”

you fight the sudden shyness rising up at his words.

“the same way i got so unlucky,” you smile at his pout. “life’s just not fair.”

he coos.

“you sweettalk all your patients or am i special?”

despite your best efforts not to, you grin at that.

“the most special,” you say, interlocking your fingers. “now get back to work.”

satoru grumbles a complaint but hops off the table nonetheless.

“thanks a bunch for seeing me, doc,” he leans down to hover his face right above yours. you push him away with a fingertip to his forehead.

“no problem. now shoo.”

you walk up to your desk to hopefully do some actual work now that your most special patient is leaving.

“ah, but i was wondering—“

“yes?” you don’t bother looking up from your paperwork.

“if you could give me some anatomy lessons sometime—“

“out!”

he slips out the door before you can turn around to see it.

you take a deep breath.

you love satoru to death, but you’re beginning to understand why shoko picked up smoking as a stress reliever.

[saintsugu]

COLLARED. KINKTOBER DAY 3

rating: mature; mdni

pairing: denji x fem!reader

word count: 2.4k

content warnings: explicit sexual content, femdom, sub!denji, collaring, very minimal / lowkey foot shit (?, if you squint ?), oral!f, pussydrunk denji, handcuffs, handjob, implied corruption kink, mention of virginity loss, overstimulation, sexual manipulation from reader, praise, owner / pet dynamics (never calls you ‘owner’ but he feels as though you own him), abandonment issues (denji), emotional at the end

author’s note: this is kind of unedited so bear with me lol.

Seated in your chair with a man kneeling below you, as if you were a king and he was nothing but a lowly servant. Sometimes you worry the power goes to your head too much, but any worry you feel dissipates the moment you hear his sweet, sweet moans. 

You tug on the leash— a sleek and black nylon handle attached to a long chain. It’s hooked onto the pretty black collar you bought when you realized just how submissive your baby was. 

“Come on, focus,” you demand. 

“I’m trying,” he defends, his voice out of breath slightly with a whining pitch. “But you’re not exactly going easy on me—“

Pulling the leash, you force him to jerk forward, eyes wide as he stares at you. All you have to do is raise an eyebrow, before he’s tripping over his words in order to apologize. 

“I thought so,” you hum, lifting your heel-covered foot once again. “Continue.”

He turns his head, pressing a kiss against your ankle before licking a stripe against the skin. With his hands bound behind his back, and his body completely stripped naked, he’s desperate to please you. 

You stare intently at him, watching his cock twitch when you praise him. He does the same with your other leg, movements starting to become more hurried as his self control lessens and the ache between his legs grows. Normally, you’d call it out, make him start over and the like, but tonight…tonight he’s not the only one whose patience is wearing thin. 

Eventually, you deem that he’s been good enough to earn a small treat. You pull his leash enough so he’s more upright in his position and watch in delight as his knees dig into the floor and his chin tilts up. 

“Please,” he can’t help but whine. 

“What are you begging for, baby?” You tease as your foot moves. You set it underneath him before dragging it up slowly across his balls. It doesn’t take much to get a reaction from him. His hips jerk immediately and little moans escape his lips, causing you to smirk in turn. 

“Wanna t-taste you,” he stutters out as the tip of your shoe presses against the length of his cock. “Want it so bad.”

“Hmm,” you taunt, removing your foot and setting it on his thigh instead, letting the sole of it dig into the skin. Like planned, it provokes a series of whines from him. “I guess so,” you click your tongue and start to tug the leash towards you. 

Once he’s close enough, you take your free hand and thread it through his hair, before gripping the strands tight and pushing him into your cunt. This little display has gotten you more than wet already and you know Denji can tell due to the way he laps and slurps your juices. 

You hum lowly as he shoves his face against you, desperate to taste you—all of you. His nose bumps against your clit as he greedily eats away at you like a man starved. 

Denji gets drunk off your taste; he always has. When you met him, he was a sex obsessed virgin who had never even received so much as a handjob. You changed all of that, and Denji greeted that change with open arms. 

“So good,” he drunkenly groans. “Taste s’good. Thank you so much.”

You can’t help but chuckle, a light and airy laughter as you stare down at your sweet boy. “Doing such a good job. Making me feel so good.” 

Your encouragement sends him into a frenzy. It makes him buck his hips, as if he’s humping the air. His hands strain against the leather cuffs that keep them in place. 

“You feeling okay, baby?” You tease, moving your foot against his cock once more and soaking in the moan he lets out in response. “You look a little flushed.”

He groans into your pussy, messily licking up the juices before letting his tongue dive in. Your lips part and your foot accidentally presses a little harder at the intrusion, moans leaving both of your mouths in tandem. 

Denji isn’t precise when it comes to this. He’s not the type to suck on your clit or finger you till you’re heaving, but what he does do is feast on you.

He views you as a meal and he’s a messy fucking eater. 

His tongue is sloppy, trailing down to lick whatever has dripped onto your thighs. He doesn’t even realize how good he is. Because how could he be anything when compared to you?

“Shit,” you start to pant. “Good boy, keep goin’. Baby’s gonna make me cum.”

It’s like those words awaken something in him, because the thought of you cumming on his face? He’s feral now. 

He can’t help but moan at the thought, each move messier than before and his hips continue to rut against your shoe. 

He keeps his pace up and in a few more minutes, you feel that familiar coil starting to tighten. Your nails dig into his scalp, instinctively pushing him further against you as your thighs begin to quiver. 

Praises mixed with moans slip out of your lips, eyes squeezing shut as the telltale signs of an orgasm near. You don���t bother to warn him as you do cum, gushing on his tongue and grinding against his face. 

It’s not like he’s complaining, either. Why would he? His movements are frantic as he tonguefucks you through your orgasm, desperate to sip every single drop of your juice. 

As you come down from your high, you pull his head away and stare down at him. The lower half of his face is drenched and he looks like a bitch in heat. 

“Did so good,” you coo. “Thank you, Baby.”

He nods but is quick to ask for more. “I’ve been good, haven’t I? So please, touch me,” he begs. “It hurts.”

“Oh, I have no doubt that it does, poor baby,” you feign sympathy. “Why don’t you lay back for me, okay?” You make the request while you unhook his leash from his collar. 

He always looks so pretty like this. Leaned back against the wall, his flushed cock standing tall. 

“Can you take off the cuffs?” He asks, watching intently as you dismount your chair. 

His request earns an incredulous look from you. “You’re getting awfully presumptuous with these requests of yours. You know that, right?” 

Immediately, he’s stumbling over himself in order to apologize to you. The last thing he wants is to upset you. 

“First you want to taste me,” you’re on the floor now, crawling towards him like a predator stalking its prey. “Then you want your cock handled, and now this? What’s next, Denji?”  

Now, you’re all the way against him, straddling his leg and pressing your mouth up to his ear as you accentuate your words with a condescending, “hm?”

You can’t help but grin when he shivers, tongue tied as he figures out what he can say in hopes of salvaging this. Yes, he wants to please you, but you both know that deep down, he just wants to get fucked. And if that’s what he wants, who are you to get in the way of that?

Without another word, as he’s rambling out apologies, you reach down and give his cock a nice tug. The action receives a loud moan as his back arches against the wall. 

“You liked that, didn’t you?” His reply is a quick nod, mind too focused to formulate a proper response. 

Slowly, you start to jack him off. You know every little thing about Denji. You know his body inside and out, and you pride yourself on being the only one to know such details. 

You were his first everything. His first time, his first girlfriend, hell, he denies it, but you’re almost positive you were his first real kiss. You couldn’t be happier about it. 

Some people could grow frustrated having to teach their partner in that way, but you? Oh no. You absolutely loved it. You got to shape and mold him however you’d like. You got the pleasure of corrupting him however you saw fit.

The first time things started to get heated, he acted confident. Acted like a dominant man and tried to overpower you, but you saw through it. The moment your hand pressed against the tent in his pants, he was a goner. He melted like putty in your hands. 

That dynamic has yet to change. 

“Thank you,” he whines and cries out, hips jerking up in effort to fuck your fist. “Thank you so much.”

“Dirty little boy. You’re gonna cum just from this aren’t you?” He shakes his head no, but like with everything, you see through the lies. Your hand drops down, abandoning his cock in favor of squeezing his balls. “Don’t you dare lie to me, Denji.”

He’s back to apologizing before admitting, “‘m gonna cum, shit, i’m gonna cum. You’re right, I’m s-sorry!”

The corners of your lips curl up and you’re very pleased with your work. Your hand moves back to his cock, and your pace is much faster as you resume getting him off. 

“Go ahead then,” you lean in and press a kiss against his neck, whispering the next command against the shell behind his ear. “Cum.”

As if he was nothing more than a puppet you controlled, he twitches uncontrollably as he shoots thick ropes of cum onto your hand and his abdomen. It’s thick and creamy and there’s a considerable amount. Honestly, you wish your mouth was on him rather than your hand, but for tonight, you have other plans. 

“What a good boy,” you praise, letting his dick fall limp. “Did so good cumming for me like that.”

When you lift your hand and move it towards his mouth,he knows what to do by the way you tap his lips. He starts to clean your hand by licking up his cum, cringing a bit at its bitter taste. 

Once he’s done, you move to straddle his lap. His brows furrowed in worry and as he starts to sputter out words about how he can’t take it, you’re pressing a soft kiss to his nose in order to shush him. 

“Sweet boy, you know I love you, right?” A nod of affirmation. “And you trust me, right?” A nod again, this time albeit slower. “I’d never do anything to hurt you.”

As you whisper these sweet words, you’re pressing down on his shoulder and raising yourself to sink down onto his cock. Your fingers are wrapped around the base, his dick red and weeping. 

“It’s t-too much,” his eyes shut and he starts to squirm as soon as he’s inside of you. “Please…”

“But I’ve only cum once…” you pout, still sinking down. “Don’t you think I deserve another?”

“Yes, of course, but what if you sit on my face? O-or,” he stammers. 

Still, you shake your head, cock halfway inside at this point. “That won’t feel as good. You know that. Don’t I deserve the best?”

Sometimes you feel guilty for manipulating him like this, but the payoff is always good enough that said guilt is swept away by the current of your orgasm. 

Now, he’s whimpering out a pathetic, “You deserve the world. I’m sorry…I wanna give it to you, I-I do!”

“I know, baby boy,” you coo and he bottoms out with a whining moan. You cup his cheeks gently and smile at his pussydrunk, flushed face. “Now, are you gonna let me fuck you, or not, hm?”

He nods quickly, desperate to please you as you laugh above him. That’s a good boy. 

He gets drunk off your words and high off your touch. No pleasure could compare to that of the euphoria he experiences when you praise him. 

Your good boy. Your baby. Yours Yours Yours. 

Everything he owns, everything he is, it all belongs to you. Every single hair on his head, his blemished skin, and fractured bones—they’re all yours. He’s yours to play with, to do as you please. 

He doesn’t realize it, but he starts to hump up into you. His hands greedily grab your waist, rolling the skin and fat in between his deft fingers. He wants to be close to you in any way possible. He wants you to be connected, and soon, he finds his carnal desires taking over—the overwhelming need to love and be loved fueling his entire being as he pulls you against his chest, plants his feet, and starts to fuck you. 

“Love you so much.” He’s babbling now. Completely immersed in his own mind as his body takes over. “Wanna be yours forever. Don’t leave me, please. Don’t wanna be alone again.”

“D-Denji,” you gasp against him, unable to break free of his grip. His arms are crossed at your lower back, holding you close as he fucks you at an inhuman pace. “Denji, fuck—“ your words break into a moan. 

“Denji, I’m go-gonna cum,” You admit breathily and his body responds, now going into overdrive. 

He fucks you even harder, but he doesn’t even realize when he cums too. His warm cum fills your cunt, there’s so much despite having already cum just a few into ago. 

“O-oh,” you whimper, eyes rolling as that warm sensation fills your body. You can’t help it when that coil snaps. Soon, you’re grateful that you can’t get out of his grip even if you try. 

Your body spasms, this new change of pace affecting you in ways you didn’t think it could. You’re not sure how long you’re practically out of it for, but when you come down from your high, your boyfriend is still babbling. 

But now there are tears streaming. 

“B-baby,” you stutter, out of breath as your hands snake up to his jaw. “Baby, c’mon, snap out of it.”

He’s still rambling whispers of how he loves you and is scared you’ll leave. You’re not sure how you triggered something like this, but now you’re upset and worried. 

“Denji,” you whisper one last time before kissing him gently. “I’m not going anywhere, Denji.”

His eyes open and movements seem to slow when you speak, but his grip only tightens. When he looks at you, a few sobs erupt from his chest.

He’s still practically incoherent as he says, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing, baby?” You slide a hand down and rest it against his upper thigh, thankfully it slows his movements down to a halt. 

“You’re so good to me, and I…you’re gonna leave aren’t you..?”

Your heart breaks at his words. “Denji, I will never leave you. C’mon,” you squeeze his hand. 

“Let’s go clean up, Baby Boy.”

@enchantedforest-network

[chaotic-orphan]

Intoxicating Fear (XXIV)

Wolf In Sheep’s Clothing (part I)

Read part one // masterpost // continued from here

{Unedited and very rough, but this one’s a kind of two parter, so maybe an update before Saturday and then another Saturday? It depends, but anyways~}

~*~*~*~*~*~

Tides untied Sawyer wordlessly, gathering his shallow breathing body in her arms and bringing him over to where Kit was still restrained, propping him up against the wall. Kit didn’t even know if Sawyer was conscious, but the heat from his body was nice, comforting and Kit hoped his could comfort Sawyer too.

His face was shredded with cuts. In multiple directions, some from cheek to cheek crossing his nose, others arcing down from his forehead over the bridge of his nose to the opposite side of his jaw. A bad one went straight over his left eye and down his cheek. The blood had coagulated into sticky gelatinous goo, patching the wounds with crimson glue. Barely any space on his face was free from caked blood, dried and crusting, the wounds sometimes leaked a clear pus when he moved slightly or moaned.

Tides whispered her apologies, tears still streaming down her cheeks, her breath hitching every now and then. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve been stronger. I should have fought him harder. Sawyer, I’m s-so— I’m so sorry…”

Sawyer lifted a weak hand with a grunt and pressed it against Tides’s cheek, thumbing away the tears. “It’s okay. It’s not your fault.”

Tides dissolved into sobs that wracked her body, hiccuping her shoulders up and down violently. He extended his arm and she lunged forward into a hug, wrapping her arms around his waist. Sawyer grunted lightly, but tightened his arms around her and held her while she cried, running his hand through the strands of her hair. “It’s okay.”

Kit stared forward at the opposite wall. Supervillain would be coming down again. Supervillain and Jude. And who knows how many others? If they were going to make Jude use his powers on them to hurt each other, it would break them down quicker than anything else they could do to make them change their minds.

“I think we should give up,” Kit said, hollowly. Sawyer stiffened beside him. Tides sniffed.

“Kit…” she said.

“We can’t—” he began but cut himself off. “We can’t do this to each other. They’re going to come back down and they’re going to force one of us to torture another. There’s no…”

“Kit,” Sawyer said then hissed as one of his cuts opened in his face again. Tides shot up, lightly dabbing at the bleeding with the sleeve of her shirt. Sawyer grabbed her wrist. “Don’t, you’ll ruin your shirt.”

“I don’t care about a stupid shirt.”

Kit swallowed the lump in his throat. He shouldn’t have said anything, but he couldn’t just sit here and watch his friends get hurt and not be able to fight back. If only he had his powers he’d be able to—

Kit blinked, straightening suddenly. His head snapped to the side. “Why didn’t Supervillain lock you up again?”

Tides shrugged. “I don’t think he cares.”

“But… the cuffs,” Kit said, rattling his for emphasis. “They’re power dampeners so why would he leave you loose? Isn’t he worried you can break down the door, or?”

Sawyer shook his head with a groan. “No,” he said. “Supervillain told me that he— he compelled us to not use our powers so now I can’t access them. I guess he just assumes we’re not a threat without them.”

Kit’s eyes widened. “Oh my god,” he said with a breath. No, not a breath. A sudden, startled laughter. Borderline hysterical but it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. “Oh my God!” He screamed, his laughter turning into whoops and hollering as he drummed his feet on the floor as if his team was just winning in a football match.

“Kit?” Tides asked, concern lacing her voice.

“I think he’s lost it,” Sawyer said.

Maybe he was losing it. Maybe. But it didn’t matter. He felt tears climb his face, bubbling over in disbelief down his cheeks. “I need to get out of these cuffs,” he chuckled, trying to fight the fucking giggles trying to spring free from his chest.

“Kit—”

“No, no. You don’t under—” he cut himself off with another bout of sharp laughter that caused his chest to tighten and his abs to tense. It was starting to hurt but he couldn’t stop it, and he didn’t want to stop it really. Even though it didn’t feel appropriate with Tides’s guilt pouring over Sawyer and Sawyer’s face all bloody and bleeding, it felt light. He didn’t remember the last time he laughed as hard. Was it before Ambrose? Was it ever?

God, there was a time before he knew Ambrose. It didn’t seem like it. Though, he supposed Ambrose was always there, in the background. Mentor’s unknown and forgotten son that should’ve got the love that Kit did from him.

Kit’s laughter died down to a few stray laughs before settling into a smile, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. God, if he never knew Ambrose he wouldn’t be able to pull this trump card on Supervillain and Jude and fucking save the day; get Tides and Sawyer out of here to safety, and then come back to finish the villains off.

Kit’s smile fell off his face. No. That wasn’t right. Kit didn’t kill people. It’s why he suffered Ambrose so long, because he couldn’t imagine a world where he was that cold and ruthless. The world was dark enough without him adding to the misery.

Yeah… but those two deserve it, look at what they did to Sawyer? Look at what they made Tides do to her boyfriend, the voice hissed, sounding like static in his mind. Kit curled his hands into fists, uncomfortable at the intrusive thoughts leaking through his mind, but that’s all they were. The voice agreed with him merrily: Intrusive? Turned into external action, what’s the difference?

“Kit?” Sawyer asked, a sharp breath of pain huffed out.

Kit swallowed the lump in his throat and forced his thoughts into the back of his mind. He turned to face Sawyer and Tides. “I need to get out of these cuffs,” he said. “And I need you two to help me.”

Tides blinked, a frown pulled across her face. “Kit, we don’t have our powers.”

“I know,” he said. “I know. Just trust me. If they come back and they let us choose who gets tortured, tell them to do me, make it convincing, both of you. Say that you’re madly in love and that Sawyer couldn’t endure another round.”

Sawyer pushed off the wall, his brows drawn incredulously over his face. “And if they uncuff you and get you to torture Tides? You expect me to just watch that?!”

“It won’t come to that.”

“Bullshit, Mallory. How the fuck would you overpower them? Huh?”

“Sawyer…”

“No,” he said, cutting his hand through the air as if trying to chop the rest of conversation off. “No. We are not doing that, Kit. I am—” Sawyer’s eyes raised to Kit’s blue ones. “We will find another way.”

Kit jolted his hands forward in the cuffs, slamming them against the metal and throwing his head forward. He could feel the strain in his shoulders, tensing every muscle so he could feel them be so fucking powerless, then mumbled out a fine.

Another way?

They didn’t have time for another way, but sure. Another way.

They chatted mindlessly for who knows how long about who they thought Supervillain was how they knew him. Tides suggested one of the heroes that were beaten out by Superhero to get Mentor’s position.

“Yeah, but then again,” Sawyer said, “no one really wanted Mentor’s position after Omen.”

Kit swallowed at the mention of Omen, and Mentor. He shouldn’t have split up with Ambrose. He should have stayed with him and they could have found Supervillain together and none of this would have happened.

The conversation drifted to where they thought they were.

“Probably still downtown,” Kit said, but it was Tides that rebutted him, and said: “but with Omen’s power, we could be anywhere and he told us to forget.”

They drifted then, half awake, half catatonic. None of them really wanted to fall asleep in the arms of the enemy, and Kit had only just slept. Tides dozed off on Sawyer’s lap, curled like a child against his chest, Sawyer’s arms wrapped tight around her, resting his chin on her head.

Kit thought he must’ve been asleep too, so it was a shock when he said: “is it bad?”

“Huh?” Kit asked, glancing at Sawyer.

Sawyer’s face was neutral, but his eyes burned with something Kit had never seen in them before. A mix between fury and humiliation, and disgust.

“My face,” he repeated in the same tender voice. “Is it— do I look… am I horrifically deformed now?”

Kit blinked. “No more than usual,” he said reflexively, and cringed at the scathing glare Sawyer shot his way. “Sorry. Sorry, it was by accident, I swear.”

“You’re such a dick, Mallory.” Sawyer said without any real bite to it. A silence blanketed them after, Kit looking for the words to reassure Sawyer that he was still as annoyingly good-looking as he always was, when Sawyer continued. “I just… do you think she’ll still—” his voice cracked.

“Yes,” Kit said immediately. “Of course she’ll still love you, Sawyer. She’ll probably love you more now that you have badass scars. You could be the next Bond.”

Sawyer chuckled, tears glistening the bottom of his eyelids. “Maybe Bond villain.”

“Nah, you’re too good-looking for that,” Kit said with a sigh. “It looked bad earlier, but now that the blood has dried on your face it looks okay. Maybe if we get out of here in time a healer can fix it, or at least reduce the scars. But you still look good to me.”

“Yeah,” Sawyer said wistfully. “Maybe.”

A beat.

Then, “so you think I’m good looking?”

Kit groaned, staring straight ahead at the wall again. “If you tell anyone I said that they won’t believe you.”

“Yeah, but you’ll know it, and I’ll know it, and it will be torture enough.” Kit laughed quietly. “Thanks, Kit.”

Kit let it hang in the air, seeing Sawyer lean his head on Tides’ again and cuddle her closer. Kit was awake even as Sawyer dozed off too, his breathing light and even beside him. He sighed, wishing he could sleep too, or break out of his cuffs, but his mind couldn’t rest.

Where was Superhero? The explosion, was he dead? How many heroes were injured from Supervillain’s attack? Where was Ambrose?! He always seemed to show up at the worst times that Kit half-expected him to rush in, kill Supervillain and save the day. But he was still cuffed in a basement god knows where. He thought of Ambrose then, remembered that one time he stayed in Mentor’s house, how he could reach Kit’s mind from across the city. He was about to say his name when he stopped, paused. If Supervillain had Omen’s ability he could probably read Kit’s mind so Kit scrubbed all thought of Ambrose from it and replaced it with Omen.

Think of Omen only from now on.

Omen, wherever you are, find me, please. Supervillain took me, please.

It was a prayer of sorts, Kit realised after, but he was desperate. He couldn’t do anything else, so he just stared at the wall across from him and waited, annoyingly conscious.

*~*~*~*~*

Omen, wherever you are, find me. Please. Supervillain—

“Kit?” Ambrose murmured, groaning as he opened his eyes, assaulted by the light and shutting them tightly again. Took me please. I’m with Tides and Crow in a basement somewhere. Supervillain has your ability.

Ambrose groaned agin, forcing himself up by his hands until he was on his hands and knees. His head pounded and Kit’s fucking thunder-like thoughts were rattling his skull. He turned with an effort and sat on his arse, dipping his head and placing a palm against his temple.

He’s not alone, there’s a guy called Jude too, who owes you one apparently. They’re trying to stop us being heroes but the city was attacked and I don’t know if Supervillain is alive or—

OKAY! Alright, Ambrose boomed back and let out a grunt of pain at the force of his power.

Kit’s eyes widened at the concrete. He could hear him? He could… he could hear him!! He could hear him!!!

Kit, Jude’s a monster, he has the same power as me.

Kit shot back a sad: I know.

Ambrose pulled his hand away glancing at it to see a sheen of oil like blood in clumps of coagulated balls on his palm. Fuck, that bastard hits hard.

Ambrose pushed himself to his feet, the world tilting as he did and he stumbled sideways into a tower of boxes. Fuck. The world spun up and down and back and forwards and Ambrose wanted to throw up. He didn’t usually get like that, but then he remembered how much Jude made him drink last night and he paused.

Kit?

Yeah?

When did they take you?

Last night I think, why? Is it day time yet? Ambrose cursed, looking out the windows of the old storeroom, the light stinging his eyes. Yeah. It was daytime which meant Ambrose was out cold all night.

Shit. Ambrose struggled a little to get to his feet again, slower this time half climbing to them and when he did he grabbed the wall and righted himself until the world stabilised itself so he could risk a step forward. Then another, and another.

Omen? The voice threw him and he nearly lost his footing again, but he caught himself in time.

I need you to shut up, Kit, I’ll talk to you when I get myself together.

Why did something happen?! Kit asked, his voice raising in pitch with worry. Ambrose stopped walking. He was beside the door now, hand on the cool, metal handle, the taste of iron in his mouth. He probably had a concussion, maybe that’s why Kit sounded so concerned. Ambrose opened the door and stepped out into the street. He was still in Old Town, on Fagan’s lot. He would go back to Max’s and apologise if he was still there. Maybe try and recruit him into teaming up with him to save Kit and the other heroes.

Ambrose scoffed at the ridiculousness of it. He was spending too much time with Kit, he was starting to think of saving people instead of himself. That fucking kid.

I’m fine. I had a nasty run in with Jude, watch out for the girl with shadows. She strikes from them and can shadow walk— like phase through them into solid objects. I’ll talk when I have more information.

Omen… Please, when you find out if Superhero’s alive, a pause, hesitant, will you tell me?

Ambrose walked towards Dead Man’s Fingers, his body finally obeying his commands again. He needed a hangover cure immediately. Sure. Kit, sure. He pressed his hand against the door and stopped himself, considering if he should try and reassure the hero or not. He really shouldn’t. He was a villain. Kit was a hero, this was a liability of his job. Just hang on, okay?

Kit breathed out a sigh of relief. Okay.

Ambrose nodded stiffly, even though he knew Kit couldn’t see him and pushed on the front door to the Dead Man’s Fingers pub. It was locked, so Ambrose walked to the windows and peered inside. There was a light on in the back so he went to the side entrance where the delivery guys came through and found it open.

The bar was quiet, static and eerie. Then there was shouting and Ambrose quickened his pace, not running because his head wasn’t compliant enough to do that yet. One of the voices he recognised as Max’s but he didn’t know the other. He walked through the hall to up the little staircase to the main bar and pushed the saloon door open.

Max was behind the bar, a spreadsheet of inventory in front of him and standing on the other side of the bar was— “Oskar,” Nathan grinned, exposing his pointed canines. “So good to see you again, mate.”

Ambrose didn’t care about the hangover in that moment, his brain and body united in one goal to knock the bastard out. “Oskar!” Max said in warning, hopping the bar and standing in front of his friend. Ambrose didn’t even look at him. “Stop, he’s not worth it.”

Ambrose pushed forward, ignoring him when Max put a hand on his chest and shoved him back. This time when Ambrose looked at him, Max was pointing his index finger at him like a scolding mother.

“You are not starting a fight twice in my pub in the span of 24 hours, you dick! Just calm down,” Max yelled, running a frustrated hand through his black hair.

Nathan leaned his elbows on the bar, reaching over it to grab a bottle of whatever he could reach while Max was turned around. “Put that back,” Ambrose spat. Nathan waved him away.

“Oh, don’t get your knickers in a twist, Oskar, what’s a drink between friends?” He asked with a shit eating grin. It had been years since he saw Nathan, years since he buried that chapter of his life, and now here he was, in Max’s bar. The fucking nerve of him. Max walked back around the bar, smacking Nathan’s hand away.

Nathan retracted it, his mouth forming an o shape as he hissed and shook the pain away theatrically. Everything a show. “Why’re you even here?” Ambrose asked.

Max answered, though not out loud. Ambrose felt the guilt rise in him, consuming him, and Ambrose turned to face Max who was grabbing the edges of the counter with a white knuckled grip.

“You still talk to him?”

Max glared. “Get out of my head, Oskar.”

“It’s kinda hard to ignore when your whole body lights up with guilt!” Ambrose yelled, groaning as the pounding in his head throbbed and ignited, setting it on fire. He shot his hand out to lean on the wall beside him, and glanced at Max. “Can I steal a few eggs?”

Max rolled his eyes but didn’t say yes or no. So Ambrose disappeared into the kitchen while the other two continued to speak. He could hear them through the hole in the wall where the trays of pub food could be passed through, but he didn’t have to look at Nathan to know he was still grinning.

Dick.

“Still on the raw eggs and orange juice cure, Oskar?” Ambrose ignored him as he walked to the fridge and grabbed the eggs and orange juice.

“Stop trying to rile him up,” Max said.

“I’m not trying to do anything,” Nathan said, feigning innocence without dropping his grin. “Besides, he already knows we’re still in contact, no point hiding it anymore, Henders.”

Ambrose rolled his eyes, grabbing a class and cracking the shell of the egg against it. He lifted it over his mouth, tilted his head back and cracked it properly into his mouth. He swallowed it in a gulp and exhaled a long: “ahh,” as the slimy liquid slid down his throat like a slug. He screwed his eyes shut and shook his head, then opened the orange juice and downed another two gulps. Then he rinsed and repeated, another crack, another egg, he screwed his face up, grimacing as he dunked the shells into the glass and drank more of the orange juice.

Better.

When he opened his mouth he felt better.

He put everything back and then walked back out to the bar. “You better not have drank straight from the carton,” Max said.

Nathan grinned and said: “you know he did,” at the same time that Ambrose nodded and said: “I did, yeah.”

“Fucking animal.” Max fumed, enunciating the words. Ambrose took a seat at the side of the bar, while Nathan stood in front and Max behind closed his inventory book as he sensed the conversation turning more disturbing than the argument they were having before.

“So, Oskar, starting fights, drinking to a hangover, aren’t you getting a little old for that kind of thing.”

“You would know, you’re ancient.” Ambrose replied deadpan, schooling his features until they were impassive. “Why are you here, idiot? I’m giving you one more chance.”

“So scary,” Nathan cooed, raising his hands as if he were defending himself and walking around to where Ambrose was sitting. He slung a lazy arm over his shoulder, pinching his cheek. “Come on, Oskar, there was a time where you worshipped me.”

“Yeah,” Ambrose said, elbowing Nathan in the chest. Nathan fell back with an oomph dropping his arm from Ambrose’s shoulder. “That was before I got some common sense.”

Max ran a hand down his face and sighed. “One of you piss off. It’s too early to deal with you.”

“I’ll go,” Nathan said, rubbing his chest. “Because I’m a nice friend who actually cares about you, Max.”

Max and Ambrose shared a look, but then Max dragged his eyes to Nathan. He nodded heavy, turned to grab the open tabs book and put it back on the counter under the light. “Sure. What’s your friend’s name again?”

Nathan walked around to the front pulling out his wallet, though his eyes never left Ambrose’s face. His grin turned to a smirk. “Jude,” he said handing the card over the bar. Both Max and Ambrose stiffened.

Max raised his head, steam rising from his shoulders. “Come again?”

“Jude,” Nathan repeated. It wasn’t Ambrose that went for him this time, it was Max who grabbed Nathan’s forearm in his hands and yanked him over the bar, throwing him to the ground. Before he could recover, Max had his forearm on Nathan’s throat, practically snarling at him.

“Why the— how the fuck do you know Jude?!” Max demanded, nostrils flaring but Nathan’s smirk didn’t leave his stupid face. Even as it went red from Max leaning on his windpipe.

“You know he started the fight last night and brought Superhero sniffing around here you dick, and then you call me your friend?!” Max hissed, his body temperature rising as his skin turned radioactively red, as if he was being looked at through a heat monitor. Which was not a good idea if he wanted to keep his bar.

“Max, calm down,” Ambrose said, lifting the hatch to go behind the bar. “You’re right beside very flammable substances, and your fire won’t even affect him!”

Ambrose’s head swam as he stepped forward, the wood and floor all blending into a swirl of black and brown before he righted himself again. Nathan wasn’t powered, but he did have the ability to negate other people’s abilities. Not through touch or anything, he just couldn’t be affected by magic, but a bullet? A knife? A punch?

“Talk!” Max demanded.

“Max, come on. It’s me we’re talking about.”

Max punched him in the face. “Why the fuck do you think I’m pinning you down?”

Nathan tilted his head down to meet Ambrose’s wide black eyes. “Oskar, darling, tell Max to get off of me.”

Ambrose’s eyes narrowed, folding his arms across his chest. “I’m quite enjoying the show,” Ambrose told him, letting his anger show. Max punched him in the face again, and Osk

Nathan let his head rest against the floor again. His shoulders twitched in a half shrug. “Alright. I guess I’ll just tell Jude to hurt Kit next.”

Ambrose’s blood ran cold. “What?”

Max went to punch him again, but Ambrose’s hand shot out: “Max, don’t move!” Max froze above Nathan, his fist still drawn back.

“Oskar! What the fuck!” Max seethed, his arm vibrating with the effort of trying to disobey his command, but Ambrose wasn’t really listening. His heart was pounding in his chest and his headache was exacerbated again by using his powers in such a short amount of time. While hungover, and Max was strong.

Nathan’s smirk didn’t leave his face, looking at Ambrose through his half lidded eyes. “Get him off me and I’ll take you to Kit.”

“Who the fuck is Kit?” Max demanded, his arm trembling where he held it aloft. “What’s going on here?”

“Aw, Oskar…” Nathan said, shaking his head and tsking. “Naughty, naughty. Don’t tell me you’ve never told him? I thought you and Max were best friends.”

Ambrose’s eyes burned like black coals, glaring at the monster hidden behind a human face and body. He clenched his jaw. “Max, get off of Nathan.”

Max stood, then turned and punched Ambrose in the face. Ambrose stumbled back his arms flailing and would’ve fallen if it wasn’t for his elbows catching on the counter and keeping him up.

A hand fisted his shirt and yanked him forward, the world rushing in his peripheral vision. “Don’t you ever fucking do that again,” Max hissed, plumes of smoke rushing out his mouth and nose. Nathan got to his feet behind Max, wiping invisible dirt off of him, smirk still on his face.

Max turned to face Nathan again. “What are you talking about? Not telling me what?”

“Nathan,” Ambrose said, his voice wobbling. Nathan’s smiling eyes met Ambrose’s lost black gaze across the bar, slowly shaking his head at him. Max pivoted again, pointing a finger at Ambrose.

“I swear to God, Ambrose, if you open your mouth one more time I will explode the whole fucking bar and you with it,” Max said enraged, turning to Nathan. “Tell me!”

“Kit is Oskar’s pet hero.” Ambrose swallowed the lump in his throat, tightening his hands into fists as he straightened. He watched Max’s back knot tight at the words. “Who was Mentor’s prodigy back when he was the Superhero in the city.”

“You’re friends with a hero?” Max asked his voice unnaturally low and quiet. Ambrose’s heart stuttered in his chest. His black eyes went to Nathan’s, pleading for him to shut up. If Ambrose tried to wipe Max’s memory he wouldn’t be able to do the same to Nathan, and then Nathan would tell Max all over again. Just to torture him.

“How long?”

Ambrose almost didn’t hear the question. “Max, it’s not like that.”

“How fucking long have you been friends with a hero?!” Max demanded, whirling. “Was it before or after you came to me for help about Supervillain? Huh? When you know— you fucking know—”

“Supervillain?” Nathan asked, his brows raising.

“Shut the fuck up, Nathan,” Max growled. Nathan winked at Ambrose, bending to scoop up his wallet from the ground and his card, and walked back around the bar. Safe from Max’s rage and kept walking until he was in Max’s sight line, behind Ambrose. Ensuring that Ambrose was sandwiched between the two of them with nowhere to flee if things got hairy.

How had Ambrose even let it get this far? Nathan was always a wild fucking card, it enamoured him with Nathan at first. The only person, it seemed like, in the city that Ambrose couldn’t boss around or read the thoughts of. With Nathan he felt like a real person, how real people feel when they’re born without telepathy, and it was dizzying.

Now, all Ambrose wanted to do was kick the fucker’s teeth it and leave him dead in a ditch somewhere. He knew too much, he always, somehow, knew too much. Did Jude tell him about Kit? Or did Nathan tell Jude, and always keep tabs on Ambrose after they fell out? It didn’t make sense.

“Heroes took everything from me, Oskar, so why?” Max asked. All the pain and grief of losing his family to heroes, all the long nights that Ambrose had to stay up to ensure that Max’s nightmares didn’t set his bed on fire from panic attacks. Max told Ambrose he found out his Father died on television when he was eleven, and it was Mentor who broke the news.

A good hero, Mentor said, and an even better friend.

Max told Ambrose how much he hated heroes after that. How he hated Mentor for filling super-people’s minds with all these ideas that they needed to risk their lives to protect others innocent people from bad ones. That it was their moral duty, because they were chosen to be born with gifts, they had to use them.

“Fucking answer me!” Max howled, tears springing to his eyes. “You owe me that much!”

“Max, I— Max, look, it’s not like that. It wasn’t, we aren’t friends, it’s more like business acquaintances.”

“What are you even talking about? Did your little hero pal get into any legal trouble, Oskar?”

Nathan leaned on the bar, putting his elbows on it and propping his chin up with his hand. His smirking eyes drinking in the chaos he caused.

“Max, please, can we talk about this in the kitchen, please? Where there are fire extinguishers?”

“Are you seriously trying to school me on how to use my powers? I own this fucking bar! I can blow it to kingdom come if I want to.”

Nathan chuckled behind Ambrose. “If he’s angry about this, Osk, wait til he hears about Mentor.”

Max shot his hand out, a tongue of flame shooting from his wrist and catching Nathan’s jacket. Nathan fell back a step, eyes wide as he slapped the small ember to extinguish it. He shook it out and the flame died, but the flames burning like hell’s fury in Max’s eyes didn’t.

“I told you to shut the fuck up, Nathan. Get out. Now. Before I fucking incinerate everything you’re wearing.”

Nathan scoffed. “Fine. I’ll be outside when you’re done here, Ambrose.”

Ambrose stiffened at the words, the two of them following Nathan out the door until he disappeared. Black eyes turned back to Max who was pulling at the strands of his hair at the base of his neck, turned away from Ambrose. His back muscles prominent from how hard he was tensing. Ambrose watched his ribs rise and fall and hated the fact that he caused that.

Well, not him, Nathan, but this never would have happened if Ambrose had just told him about his life. About his family. About his dad.

“Max,” he began, straightening. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before, but I haven’t seen you since I met Kit, but Mentor—” Max straightened, his hands forming fists at his sides. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, I wanted to but—”

“Tell me, what?” Max demanded, his voice a mixture of rage inflected with impatient tiredness.

Ambrose breathed out a sigh, running his hand through his hair. He needed a shower. “You know all that bullshit with my dad, right?”

Max walked forward, leaning his hands against the counter behind the bar. “Yeah.”

“Mentor is my father.”

Max’s eyes found Ambrose’s black ones, studying his shame flushed face that he never saw on his friend before. He looked conflicted and upset at the revelation, like he wished he was born to anyone else.

“I just know how much you hated him, and how could I tell you when I found out what happened to your parents, and I—”

Max surprised him by turning his body while Ambrose babbled and placing a hand on his shoulder. His lips twitched up at one side into a mockery of a smile, but the effort floored Ambrose and he cut himself off.

“Why wouldn’t you give me another reason to hate the bastard, you dick?” Max asked, tilting his head to the side.

“I didn’t—” Ambrose began but cut himself off. Well, if he was being honest, why not go all the way? “I didn’t want you to hate me too.”

Max didn’t answer. His smile turned up a little as he scoffed and then he pulled Ambrose into a hug. Ambrose froze, not knowing what to do but feeling an urge to cry.

“What’re ya, a dead fish? Hug me!”

Ambrose obeyed, wrapping his arms around Max’s shoulders and letting a breath out through his nose. A breath of relief and shame and all the guilt he carried around keeping this from Max. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, you can’t control who your dad is, besides,” Max said leaning back with a grin. “I don’t think I could ever hate you, Oskar. Don’t let Nathan get in your head again. And, I’m sorry for not telling you about him too.”

Ambrose nodded. “It’s fine,” he echoed, running a hand down his face. He wanted nothing more than to go home and sleep, he felt like he had been up for hours and being knocked unconscious didn’t exactly constitute proper rest. But he had the funny feeling Nathan had other plans for him when he stepped outside. No doubt delighted at the fact that he could lord Kit’s life over him.

Fuck, he should have played it cooler when he mentioned Kit. He could have if he wasn’t hungover and tired and possibly concussed.

Ambrose took a breath and glanced at the door. He looked back at Max, “are we good?”

“Yeah,” Max said with a smile. “We’re good. Go save your hero, or whatever you do these days.”

Ambrose shook his head lightly with a smile and walked through the door, down the steps out towards the side entrance. Through the open door he could see Nathan leaning against the opposite wall, one foot against it, a cigarette dangling from his long fingers and a smirk on his lips when he saw Ambrose follow him out.

“You came.”

“Don’t get a big head,” Ambrose told him, sliding his hand into his jacket pockets. “Max wouldn’t open the front door.”

“Mmm, don’t want to piss him off,” Nathan said, cocking a brow and tilting his head to the side, his eyes flashing with cruel interest. “But because you’re not ashes right now, I assume you didn’t tell him about Mentor. Did you wipe his mind?”

Ambrose stared into Nathan’s silver eyes, wishing he could get inside his brain and crush it in the palm of his hand. His silver eyes swirled like liquid mercury, entrancing and unsettling, and it’s why people always assumed he was powered somehow. He was, but not in the way everyone else was. His ability was defence not offence.

He should lie, and he did. “Yeah, no thanks to you,” Ambrose spat. “Why the fuck would you tell him that? After everything that happened to him? I thought he was your friend!”

Nathan grinned, bringing the cigarette to his lips and taking a long drag of it, locking his gaze onto Ambrose’s black eyes as the butt burned red and excess ashes floated lightly to the ground.

“He is. I just did it to fuck with you.”

“What the fuck is your problem?! How do you know, Jude?” Do you know Supervillain?! Ambrose didn’t say because he knew he wouldn’t like the answer. Why are you back? Where the fuck did you crawl out of?

A million questions ran through his head, his heart throbbing in his chest as the memories of Nathan flooded back to him. He fought the flush of anger and shame that rose in him as he stared into his rolling silver eyes.

“Let’s chat while we walk, Oskar, have a nice little catch up.” Nathan said, plumes of smoke exhaling down his nostrils and over his lips. He pushed off the wall and started walking down the little alley. Ambrose didn’t move.

“Are we going to Kit?”

Nathan didn’t stop walking. “Eventually,” he said, not bothering to even turn around, and why would he have to? He knew Ambrose would follow. Ambrose sighed, mentally kicking himself and followed Nathan down the alley and back into the winding streets of Fagan’s lot.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Continued here

Author's Note - Can I just take this moment to say that the Oskit discussion all week has had me laughing my heart out, and I have loved every second of it. As someone said, our brains rotted while considering Ambrose's sex life which, I'll be honest, I didn't consider before XD So to everyone who ships and everyone who doesn't, thank you for the giggles this week, I was thoroughly entertained <3 I hope you all have a great week!

Orphanage roll-call (lmk if you wanna be added or removed): @beatenbruisedandbloody @404lunar1216 @whumpyworld @nameless-beanie e @andithewhumper @annablogsposts @whumpasaurus101 @0eggdealer @rejectedbytheempty @sleepy-pearl @n3rv0usn0v4 @whumpatize-me-captain @sunshiline-writes @burningkittypoet @honeyed-euphrates @sacredwrath @theonewithallthefixations @xxgalgurlxx @princess-bubble-blossom @blood-enthusiast @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @andtheysaidspeaknoww @dutifullykrispyland @tippytappytyping g @shinokoro @bedtimescenarios s @whatwhump @memepsychowhowantsuperpower-blog @ehobep @acer-whumpstuff @fa1rie @jesterrinobutter

[dragimalsdaydreams]

[image ID: four front-view, full-body screenshots of two characters from the game Genshin Impact. the first two images feature Lyney, while the next two feature Lynette. the first image of each set is an unedited screenshot of their in-game models, while the second is a heavily edited version of the first image.

original Lyney is a pale-skinned boy with purple eyes, pale grey, shaggy hair, and a black teardrop tattoo on his left cheek. a tall, black top hat with red/magenta accents sits upright on his head. he's wearing some kind of leotard that looks like the top half of a white, ruffle-y shirt with detached sleeves, underneath a black corset. the corset part is bisected by a diagonal strip of ruffle, which then attaches to short-shorts below. black, garter-like straps extend from the bottom of the diagonal ruffle, over the shorts, and down onto the thighs. coat tails with a red argyle inner pattern attach directly to his hips, underneath a large black bow on his back. a black, mantle-like drape with magenta/purple accents and bows sits on his left shoulder. he's wearing tall, black, lace-up boots that end mid-calf, and sheer black stockings that end just below the edge of the shorts, underneath the garter straps. his gloves are black with thicker white accents.

edited Lyney now has large cat ears, a tail, and sharp black claws, much like his edited sister. his hat now has just magenta accents and sits at a jaunty angle on his head, pushing his left ear down a bit. he's wearing a grey, ruffle-y shirt, underneath a black corset with pink/magenta accents. his shorts are no longer attached to the top half, and the now-magenta garter belts are secured at the top edge of his shorts by a connecting belt. he's wearing a sleeveless coat over top of this ensemble-- a long, black garment with a magenta inside, a tall, popped magician's collar, long coat tails much like the original, and with the securing button at the front popped open. many of the accents on the jacket and hat are sparkly. the leg strap and shoelaces are now magenta. his gloves are now fully black, but they're half-gloves that don't cover his distal fingers.

original Lynette is a pale-skinned girl with purple eyes, long, pale grey hair, and a black star tattoo on her right cheek. a large, blue bow with argyle patterns sits at the base of her skull, tying her hair back into a neat ponytail that's not visible at this angle. she has small cat ears on top of her head, and a long grey cat tail. she's wearing some kind of leotard that attaches to the top half of a white shirt with puff-shoulder sleeves. a gap between these sections leaves a boob window, and two lines of ruffles run down her front, down to her crotch. black, ruffle-y, skirt-like pieces with blue accents extend off of the hips of her leotard, framing the top of each thigh. a black, mantle-like drape with blue accents and bows sits on her right shoulder. she's wearing tall, black, lace-up boots that end midway up her lower leg, and sheer black pantyhose that extend up under her leotard. her gloves are black with thicker white accents.

edited Lynette now has much larger cat ears, and sharp black claws. she's now wearing a hat matching her brother's, but with blue accents and it's sitting upright on her head. a small diagram to the side shows that her hair is pulled up into a wrapped braid behind her head. she's wearing a grey, ruffle-y shirt underneath a black corset with blue accents. though most of this is covered by a short, black jacket with a flat blue collar + cuffs. this jacket does have sleeves, unlike her bother's, but lacks long coat tails, and is buttoned securely at the front. a ruffle-y, blue tutu skirt sits just below the jacket and corset, fanning out from her waist to end just above her crotch, showing a black leotard underneath. much of the skirt and the accents on the jacket and hat are sparkly. blue garters are secured on her waist below the skirt, extending halfway down her thighs. the leg strap and shoelaces are now blue. her gloves are now fully black, but they're half-gloves that don't cover her proximal fingers.

end ID]

what's up everybody, I'm back with a new redesign, but this time it's a *drum roll* ... double feature!! I can't just redesign one of the dynamic duo, right?

this was a rly fun exercise, designing a "matched pair" and maintaining the tension of matching vs opposite... and also recognizing the similar but inexplicable decisions the Hoyo designers made, lmao.

also, fun fact: I originally planned these redesigns (particularly Lyney) along the lines of Burlesque fashion, but then a Lolita-fashion friend pointed out that these two have more Ouji-inspired design elements, so I completely switched gears. I'm a lot more satisfied with the results, though I do mourn the loss of Lyney's boob window...

anyways, full design notes + more detailed image descriptions under the cut!

first off, I hate that Lyney isn't a catboy-- they're literally twins, why wouldn't Lyney be a catperson too?? give us catboys, Hoyo!!!! something had to be done, of course.

I've removed the hats in the following pics so you can better see ~about~ where the top edges of the ears connect to the head (and also so you can see how lovingly I reconstructed Lyney's hair under his hat, despite most of it still being covered in the final product...)

[image ID: the edited designs, cropped to the heads and with the hats removed. the full shape of the cat ears is now visible-- a triangle shape with more rounded corners, and more defined skin edges than Lynette's original ears. where OG Lynette's ears were small and directly on top of the head, these ears are large, with the inner edge secured on top of the skull, and the outer edge secured far down the side of the skull, below the eyes and behind the jaw. the cream ear fluff is also a lot longer than Lynette's OG ears-- less puffball and more like elegant hairs. also, notably, Lyney's right-side, pushed back bangs are now held in place by a small black clip, while Lynette's left-side, pushed-back bangs are twined into a longer chunk of hair framing her face. end ID]

my style of animal ears is radically different from Genshin's (realistically-shaped, big enough to reach the human ear canals), so I just redesigned Lynette's ears while giving Lyney a pair of his own.

I decided to keep Lyney's pushed-back bangs with a clip rather than just giving him different bangs, cus' I don't want his ears to be an obstacle to fashion~ I figure something similar with Lynette's bangs, though I don't think hers needs a clip.

honestly, Genshin's "anime" style really fucks with my style of animal ears, cus' the craniums are so damn tall!! it's difficult to plan anything around a cranium that bulbous, but I think I managed alright.

that's also why I downsized the hat a bit from the original

[image ID: headshots of OG and edited Lyney. the hat in the OG is comically large, practically wide enough to engulf his whole head, while the edited hat is slightly smaller. both hats have a pink/magenta strip of ribbon encircling the base of the hat where it connects to the brim, and a metallic cat-shaped charm with a cheshire smile is clipped to it. there's a small, triangular section near the top of the OG hat that implies opening fabric, revealing red argyle underneath the base black fabric. the edited hat changes the color to magenta sparkles instead, and adds dark magenta lacing, as if this section is a laced corset. the OG hat also has a lot of engraved filigree and star patterns on the sides and brim. the edited hat removes most of these side patterns, but keeps the star at the center of the hat and gives it some magenta sparkles too. end ID]

once you notice it, it's hard to unsee the comically large hats for the bulbous skulls, lmao.

also note that I've removed most of what I like to call "Genshin greebling" from the hats. it's always been a problem, but I feel the unnecessary, distracting filigree has only gotten worse over the years...

I considered different options for the hats to fit around the ears (like decorative tiny hats instead), but ultimately decided that big ears shouldn't be an obstacle to hat fashion. I'm a furry after all, I love furgonomics!

[image ID: the edited designs, cropped to the hats. the sides of the hats-- including the sides of the brims-- have been cut out to accommodate the ears, allowing the hat to sit comfortably over the head without pushing the ears out. end ID]

cut-outs are an easy, simple solution, though they might eliminate the possibility for hat tricks (less room for false bottoms..). but I have faith that the twins have more than hat tricks up their sleeves, so they'll manage~

with current focus on the heads, now is a good time to start in on the "matched set" elements in these designs!

[image ID: edited design headshots. Lyney's hat sits at a jaunty angle on his head, pushing his left ear down a bit, while Lynette's hat sits upright on her head. the lacing on Lyney's hat is undone at the top, leaving danging lace ends, while Lynette's lacing is fully secure. Lyney has a dangling, cat-shaped earring and a small metal loop in his right ear, while Lynette has similar earrings in her left ear. end ID]

I think the jaunty tilt vs upright hat is more interesting than upright hat vs no hat, bc the hats add so much to both of their silhouettes! Lyney's tilt differentiates their designs + personalities, while still maintaining their matching outfits. let Lynette wear her hat!

now this one is subtle, so I don't blame you if you didn't notice, but take a closer look at their eyes:

[image ID: all four images, cropped to the eyes. OG lyney has purple-to-lavender gradient eyes, and his lashes are smoothed into a single point at the far corners. edited Lyney has an extra point in his lashes, near the far corners. OG Lynette has flat purple eyes and 4 points in her lashes. edited Lynette has the same purple-to-lavender gradient as her brother, and only two points to her lashes, near the far corners. end ID]

that's right, I made their eyes match more!

look, I know we already have to hand-wave a lot to believe that these siblings are "identical" enough to pull off the switcharoo act in their show (Genshin's sexual dimorphism is... A Lot.). I'm honestly not too concerned abt that... but I still think some of their differences are silly if we're really supposed to believe they're essentially identical, y'know? sure, maybe the designers can't do much abt the base models they work with, but they chose to give these two very different eyes colors-- why??

anyways, moving on to tops!

[image ID: the OG designs, cropped to the torsos and arms.

Lyney's leotard looks like black corset over top a white shirt. two sections of black lacing down either side of the corset section, cut off by the diagonal ruffle that stretches from high on the left side of his waist, down to his right hip. the shirt section has diamond-shaped, metal buttons down the center, framed by ruffles on either side, leading up to a ruffle collar. brown leather straps secure this top section of the leotard around the shoulders and across the chest. the detached sleeves puff out near the wrists, then tuck into cuffs at the wrists. these sleeves are secured just below the shoulder by brown leather straps.

Lynette's leotard looks like a standard, black swimsuit-like leotard attached to a half-shirt up top. the swimsuit section splits at the bust, forming a boob window with the shirt section. two rows of ruffles run down either side of the torso, curving inwards where they meet at the crotch. the shirt section attaches to the boob cups of the swimsuit, secured by brown leather straps. the sleeves are attached, and the shirt puffs out at the shoulders, tucked into a brown leather strap secured underneath each puffy shoulder. the shirt collar has a triangular, swallow-tail shape.

end ID]

I see what Hoyo was trying to do here-- opposites! Lyney's got bare shoulders with bottom-heavy, detached sleeves, while Lynette's got attached, top-heavy sleeves with a boob window-- alright, I get the schtick here.

but like... what's with the collars? is Lyney's ruffle collar truly an "opposite" to Lynette's swallow-tail collar? what even constitutes "opposites" for collar shapes??

not to even mention the fact that... I have no idea what this clothing even is. are these separate pieces of a shirt-like garments, or are they all attached to the black pieces covering most of the torsos? are these just bizarre leotards??

it's completely nonsensical, so I just simplified it all into a shirt + corset combo

[image ID: the edited designs, cropped to the torsos and arms. both siblings are now wearing a full, grey shirt (though Lynette's jacket covers most of it), underneath a black corset with colorful accents. the shirts have diamond-shaped, metal buttons down their centers, framed by ruffles on either side of a colorful stripe (pink for Lyney, cyan for Lynette). black bow-ties sit at the throat of their ruffle collars. the sleeves puff out near the wrists, then tuck into cuffs at the wrists, secured by single buttons. the corsets have two sections of color (pink for Lyney, cyan for Lynette) framing the very center of the corset, with lacing (dark magenta for Lyney, dark blue for Lynette) criss-crossing over these sections, lacing the two sides together. end ID]

some things still have to match, y'know? and I really don't think the base shirt is a good choice for the "opposites" side of the design philosophy. and since I like the ruffles on Lyney's shirt, I gave that style to both siblings.

as for the grey, I just personally don't like the way white is used in these designs? Hoyo's pretty bad at balancing their whites/blacks correctly, and while these designs certainly aren't the worst I've seen, I still don't particularly like the white here. the grey balances the color palettes across the bodies better, imo, and lends a unique edge to their styles~

now for the jackets... well...

[image ID: the OG designs, cropped to the torsos and upper legs. a black drape sits on Lyney's left shoulder, shaped like a mantle with a dark purple hood. it has a magenta/brown double-bow, magenta/metal medallion, and a magenta/metal strip of thick fabric hanging down the front. a similar drape sits on Lynette's right shoulder, with cyan/blue accents and a dark blue hood instead. Lyney has long coat tails attached to the hips of his leotard, pointed and ending just past his knees. the inside of the coat tails is red argyle. end ID]

it may not be super clear just from the front, but those shoulder drapes are just that-- disconnected, decorative drapes, not full jackets. "then why does Lyney have coat tails?" well you see, those are attached directly to his hips!.. I truly cannot comprehend Hoyo's design decisions sometimes...

anyways, as you can see, I gave the siblings full, functional coats instead of drapes

[image ID: the edited designs, cropped to the torsos and upper legs.

Lyney now has a sleeveless black jacket over top his outfit. the collar is tall and popped up to frame his neck. the single, magenta button clasp would secure just above the corset, framing the bust above and the waist below with the way the coat is cut to curve wide around these areas. if it was buttoned, that is, but it's not buttoned here. long, pointed coat tails drape down behind the legs, ending just below the knee. the inside of the jacket is magenta with sequin sparkles, visible on the inner collar and inner coat tails. a large bow with pink/magenta/dark magenta stripes sits low on the waist on the back of the coat.

Lynette now has a full black jacket over top her outfit. the sleeves are slightly puffed near the wrists, then tuck into blue cuffs at the wrists. her collar is rounded and sits flat against her shoulders. a large blue button secures the coat over her bust, visually splitting the shirt and corset underneath and framing them with wide curves. her jacket does not have long coat tails, but rather ends at the waist just above her skirt. the inside of the jacket is blue with sequin sparkles, visible on the collar. a large bow with cyan/blue/dark blue stripes sits low on the waist on the back of the coat.

end ID]

here is where I implemented "opposite" design elements, rather than the shirts earlier: Lyney's tall, popped collar vs Lynette's flat collar. Lyney's lack of jacket sleeves vs Lynette's full jacket sleeves. Lyney's coat tails vs. Lynette's short jacket. Lyneys' open coat vs Lynette's buttoned coat. all functional design elements, all understandable fashion decisions, lmao.

also worth noting that I moved Lynette's massive bow down to her waist. this is partly so the bows match on both siblings, but also because Lynette's bow looks absolutely awful in her hair. it may not be as obvious from the front, but just look at this shot from the back:

[image ID: a screenshot of the back view of Lynette's OG model. a comically large, dark blue, argyle bow secures her ponytail at the base of her skull. the dangling ribbons of the bow are large enough to completely cover the full length of her arms from view. the grey ponytail hangs mostly-straight down, long enough to reach past her waist, and visually leading into her dark grey tail. end ID]

not only is the bow itself comically large, creating a strange silhouette for the neck area, but just look at the the draping ribbons! they completely cover and follow the line of the arms, to the point that most of my friends thought those were Lynette's sleeves from the back, when I first showed them this. it completely muddles her shape from the back, making for a nonsense blob of a design.

and notice her long, thin, grey ponytail? looks pretty damn weird when it visually flows straight into her long, thin, grey cat tail from the back. that's why I gave Lynette a wrapped braid instead

[image ID: a small diagram of edited Lynette's head from the back, labeled "wrapped braid". it shows a braid starting on one side of her head behind her ear, curves around the base of her skull to the other side of her head, and ends behind her other ear. end ID]

it creates a pleasant, sleek silhouette in combination with her new jacket and hat, and also removes the dumb line of action between her head and her tail. win-win!

anyways, moving on to the bottom half

[image ID: the OG designs, cropped to the hips and upper legs.

Lyney's leotard ends in short shorts, below the diagonal ruffle. black leather straps extend down from the ruffle, over top of the shorts and extending past the bottom edge to give the impression of longer shorts formed by the straps. some of the round, metal buckles are cat-shaped.

Lynette's leotard ends in some ruffle-y, double-layered, skirt-like pieces that frame either thigh. these pieces are not connected into a full skirt, but are individual skirts for each thigh hole in the leotard. the top layer is black, while the bottom layer is blue with sequin sparkles. black straps with triangular buckles sit on the top layer of the skirt, perfectly following the flow of the ruffles.

end ID]

I hate a lot of things abt these designs, but I think the corset ruffles are one of the worst. like, why does Lyney's waist ruffle cut diagonally across his torso as if it was sewn on wrong? did Chiori fall asleep at her machine?? and Lynette's goddamn double-ruffle runway pointing straight to her coochie, like. I'm speechless, frankly. and I KNOW that sexualization is the only reason why she's got those stupid, nonsensical thigh-skirts, like. what the hell am I even looking at.

anyways, let's give them proper clothes, shall we?

[image ID: the edited designs, cropped to the hips and upper legs.

Lyney's now wearing actual short-shorts, not attached to any leotard. the shorts are skin-tight now, with the now-magenta straps are tightened against his legs like garters. he's still wearing thigh-high, sheer black stockings underneath.

Lynette's now wearing a double-layered, tutu-style skirt, flaring out from her waist. the back edge ends mid-thigh while the front edge is tilted higher, ending at around her crotch. the top layer is light blue while the bottom layer is darker blue, and the tops of both layers are covered in sequin sparkles. the crotch of a simple black leotard is visible underneath the tutu, and she's still wearing sheer black pantyhose underneath. she has a set of skin-tight, blue leather garters similar to her brother's underneath her skirt, secured at the waist and ending mid-thigh.

end ID]

Lyney now has a pair of shorts, over which his decorative leather straps fit snugly. note that word-- snugly. you may not have noticed this, but those belts aren't actually skin-tight in the original design. rather, they extend past the edge of the shorts to form longer "pseudo-shorts" that hang loosely around the legs. I believe they're supposed to evoke the vibe of a harness skirt, but fail to do so because the shorts are so small and thin that the straps just look like skin-tight garters if you don't look close enough. it was an easy choice to simply make these belts into actual, skin-tight garters instead, bc I want to snap the stupid little straps against Lyney's stupid little thighs so so badly... ahem.

and Lynette now has a tutu skirt bc I saw a lot of tutus when referencing magician's assistants, haha. it also matches the ruffle-y shape of the original thigh skirts, so it's appropriate.

Lynette's original design also has decorative straps that go over the top of her thigh-skirts, but they're even less noticeable than Lyney's because they're the same black as the top of her skirts, and they don't even extend past the edge of the skirts. also, they have completely different buckle designs than Lyney's straps? bizarre. anyways, since the og straps are dumb and really shouldn't work over top a ruffle skirt, I just gave her the same skin-tight garters as her brother instead, secured underneath the skirt.

and before I forget, the gloves

[image ID: the edited designs, cropped to the hands and simple glove diagrams. both gloves are thin, solid black, but cut in different ways. Lyney's glove covers his thumb, pointer finger, and the base of his middle finger. Lynette's glove covers her pinkie, ring finger, and the base of her middle finger. end ID]

the original gloves are simultaneously unremarkable and overdesigned to me, so I thought a simple opposite cut would be fun, at a friend's suggestion~ also note that I gave Lyney the archer glove, out of the two.

finally, broadly speaking, I simplified a lot of the patterns and colors across the designs. I already mentioned the removal of greebling earlier, but I also removed all the argyle patterns present in the hat "corsets", bows, and inner coat tails. it's just another distracting pattern on top of already busy designs, they don't need it. I do like the sequin sparkles though, since they enhance rather than distract, so I extended the sparkles to more parts of the designs.

as for the colors, you'll see that I simplified the palettes a bit, particularly in Lyney's design. no more obnoxious, fire truck reds, inexplicable dull purples, AND bright magantas all stuck together in the same design. now it's all magentas and pinks, edging into purple. and the colors have been balanced a bit more too-- no more solid black/grey torsos and legs, now we've got some colors in the bottom halves with colored corsets, shoelaces, and straps. also no more brown leather or brown bows bc... why???

and I believe that's it? I spent quite a while on these designs compared to some of my past ones, so hopefully I remembered everything I changed lmao. until next time 👋

[mkstrigidae]

APWH preview snippet!

Since I'm actively trying to work on getting the next few chapters out, I thought I'd share a little future scene with some hints of Jonsa with all you lovely people! This bit is from like, a few chapters in the future bc it's the in-between that's giving me fits right now :) (Fair warning: this is unedited and subject to change! That being said, it's such a fun scene that I can't imagine ever nixing it :D)

“Does he even know that they have to avoid the press?”

“For the last time-“ Sam sighed, sounding completely exasperated, “Dickon knows what they can and can’t do- he’s got enough practice not being photographed from when our dad was the secretary. Not to mention spending time around you when that exposé on your crazy grandfather came out two years ago.”

“I just-“ Jon sighed, blowing a stray curl out of his face. “You didn’t see how freaked out she was when the press caught us at that performance in White Harbor. I thought she was going to have a full-blown panic attack.”

He was immediately derailed by Gilly plopping little Sam down in his lap and shoving a bottle into his hands.

“What’s this all about?” he raised a brow, adjusting the baby on his lap, allowing him to latch onto the cuff of his flannel shirt and start gnawing at the fabric. “You going somewhere?”

Gilly shot him a withering look, but he saw the amusement in her eyes.

“I-“ she gestured, imperiously, “Have not had time by myself to shower all week-“

“Sorry, love.” Sam winced, looking up from his pile of paperwork. “I can take a break from these-“

“Not your fault, Sam.” she waved him off. “You warned me about this conference at the beginning of the summer.” a grin played at the corners of her mouth. “Besides, it works out well- Jon needs a distraction right now from the fact that Sansa’s on a date with your extremely hot and conventionally attractive brother.”

“Hey!” Sam looked wounded, and Gilly rolled her eyes, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“You know you’re my favorite Tarly.” she wrinkled her nose. “How long have you been working on this presentation? You smell like the baby spit up on you.”

“Guess I’m next in line for showers.” Sam said, mournfully. “Unless-“

“Nope- I need my own time right now, Samwell. Did you even hear what I said about why Jon’s bent out of shape?”

Jon had known Gilly since Sam and she had met up north while the two of them were in college. Sometimes, it was hard to reconcile the timid, scared girl she had been with the woman who was currently devoting all of her remaining energy to busting his balls.

“Don’t tell me you’re worried about Sansa with my brother.” Sam snorted, shotgunning another cup of coffee next to him the way Jon was used to seeing undergrads do with jaeger shots. “I mean, this is Dickon we’re talking about. Used to bring wounded animals home to take care of them Dickon? The same guy who cried when we had movie night and Gilly and Rhae wanted to go see ‘Love, Simon’?” He shook his head. “Look, as far as guys she could be out on a date with right now go, Dickon’s kind of the best case scenario. She’ll have a nice time, and he’ll be a perfect gentleman.”

Jon blinked at him, silently turning to look up at Gilly, who rolled her eyes and sighed.

“You’re hopeless, sweetie.” she kissed him on the forehead again, wrinkling her nose. “He’s not worried that things will go wrong- he’s worried they’ll go a little too well.”

“You’ve been spending way too much time around my sister.” Jon muttered, narrowly avoiding little Sam’s grasping reach for his glasses, managing to get the baby to latch onto the bottle before he destroyed any more of Jon’s eyewear. “You even sounded like her just then.”

Sam blinked for a second, his head whipping between Jon and Gilly.“You’re jealous?” He asked, incredulously. “Of Dickon? Wait- you like Sansa?”

“Got there in the end.” Gilly sighed, affectionately patting him on the shoulder before going to shower, leaving Jon and Sam behind with four cups of coffee, one baby, and approximately five brain cells total between the two of them.

“You like her.” Sam repeated, like it was a giant revelation.

“What are we- in middle school?” Jon hissed, immediately turning his head down to smile and make faces at little Sam while he fed him, before glaring up at big Sam again. “I don’t- I mean-“

Sam was just shaking his head.“Of course you do.” he laughed. “Should have guessed- red hair and a damsel in distress? You were doomed from the outset.”

“Shut up.” Jon muttered, flushing. “It’s not like that.”

“Then why are you worrying about Dickon for fu-“ Sam glanced nervously at the baby, “-god’s sake? When Gill was meeting my family for the first time, I remember you told her not to worry- that my brother was ‘one of the best guys you know’ and ‘practically a golden retriever’.”

Jon could tell that Sam, who could not raise one eyebrow without the other, was desperately trying to do just that.

“I don’t know.” He muttered, moving little Sam to his shoulder to start burping him. “Look- I’m attracted to her, alright? It’s a fu- er, a giant disaster that I’m gonna ignore for the rest of my life.”

“Seriously?”

“Stop trying to do that with your eyebrows.” Jon complained. “It’s giving me motion sickness. And yes, seriously. I’m not even going to consider that- it’s just a stupid crush. Besides,” he sighed, rubbing little Sam’s back comfortingly, “Robb’s already dealing with enough right now with this whole Sansa situation- can’t imagine telling him I think his sister’s attractive while he’s being forced to suddenly confront all of his guilt and self loathing every time he looks at her.”

“That whole bro code thing of never dating your friend’s sisters never really made sense to me.” Sam shook his head, gulping down more coffee. “I mean, I’d be thrilled if you decided to date Talla, because I know you’d be good to her.”

“Yeah, don't think she'd quite go for that, mate.” Jon snorted, standing to bounce little Sam around gently. He was just grateful Sam hadn’t said anything else about Robb.

“Eh, wouldn’t count you out completely.” Sam shrugged, smirking. “With that hair, you’re pretty enough to be a girl- maybe that’d be enough for her.”

“You are so lucky i’m holding the baby.” Jon muttered, still bouncing little Sam, who picked that moment to spit up spectacularly down Jon’s back.

“Well, that’s three of us who’re gonna need showers now.” Sam grinned, looking thrilled as all get out that it hadn’t been him. “Wow- his aim is getting better.”

“I’m going to remind him of this when he’s a sulky teenager.” Jon grumbled, wiping spit-up off his shoulder as best he could. “Look- no gossiping with Rhae about this, please. She thinks she’s such a good clandestine agent that she doesn’t always realize that Robb is better at sniffing out her plots than she thinks.”

“Alright-“ Sam sighed, looking back down at the massive stack of paperwork in front of him. “I make no promises for Gill, though.”

“Gilly could give some of my Uncle’s colleagues at the WIA a run for their money when it comes to withstanding interrogation.” Jon snorted.

“Probably true.”

“Where did your brother take Sansa?” Still holding onto a now much happier baby with one hand, he reached down the other to take a gulp of his own coffee.

“He said something about going out towards the Tyrell Estate.” Sam shrugged. “They probably drove out there to see the gardens- he’s said it’s a good road to take his bike out on.”

Jon promptly spat out his entire sip of coffee, staining the front of his shirt as well as the back, and frightening little Sam enough that he started to cry.

“He took her on his motorcycle?”

Gilly picked that moment to reappear, completely clean and with wet hair, blinking at the scene in front of her.

Sam, who couldn’t seem to stop laughing, was desperately trying to calm down the baby, who had started wailing, while Jon’s entire front was covered in coffee and his entire back was covered in baby vomit. Not that he seemed to notice, as his face was white and he was making a series of angry looking hand gestures at her husband.

“I really can’t leave you three alone for five minutes, can I?” she sighed. “Do I even want to know?”

[plantdonutwrites]

happy new year! sooo some context: i started my own 365 days of writing challenge (i created myself for myself, so i can’t link to it) and i thought i would post at least some of them on here when they are directly relevant to one of my fandom ocs, since that is what this blog is for. most of them are just going to be (kind of unedited) streams of consciousness or little passages or small scenes without much context outside of them. so, without further ado, enjoy!

🌿 🍩 🌿 🍩 🌿

Laying the large and worn down coat on the back of her desk chair, Min-ji took a step back and properly inspected the old thing. It had been her uncle’s, and he had lent it to her a few years ago, and for whatever reason, he never asked for it back. She wasn’t quite sure if it was an oversight on his part, or if it was simply an article of clothing he wasn’t particularly attached to. Either way, by all pretenses in her mind, the coat was hers, and it almost never left her person. The old thing was a deep, cool toned brown with half a dozen deep pockets, possibly more than that. The collar of it was creased but in a way that flattered the rest of its shape; whenever Min-ji washed it, there was a very obvious line on the collar where it was folded, and she made no attempt to change it. It had a sturdy zipper and a few buttons that snapped into place, and the cuffs were thick and ribbed as well as the bottom of the coat. Obviously, being a men’s coat, it was rather large on her, swallowing up her form and reaching down to mid-thigh, the cuffs easily covering her hands when she wanted them to.

Min-ji was no seamstress, but she did her best to keep the coat in good condition, learning the bare minimum steps it took to sew up small holes that developed in the seams of the pockets or the sleeves. The coat felt like its own person, some days; someone who always embraced her and quite literally always had her back. The coat, to her, embodied safety and security. She thought back to when she first became closely acquainted to it… the day or at least the week of the subway bombing. Many parts of the timeline of her ‘accident’ was still blurry to her, but she remembered when her aunt and uncle visited along with her cousin Yunsol, her uncle had left his coat with her, grumbling about how hospitals were always so cold. And she was very, very cold back then. How much of it was due to her severe injury, her mental state, or the actual functionality and frequency of the hospital’s air conditioning system, she couldn’t exactly say.

She remembered being helped into the coat, how the interior fabric was so warm and how it had absorbed the smells of her uncle’s cologne and her aunt’s cooking… how one arm fitted into a sleeve as the other remained empty. The sensation, or lack thereof made her on edge, nauseous. But that hospital room was so… so cold. She remembered Yunsol used a couple of her hair clips to fold and tuck the empty sleeve of the jacket so that it remained out of the way, unobtrusive… out of Min-ji’s immediate line of sight. The coat also felt incredibly heavy, even as the pillows behind her back kept her upright despite her complete dead weight on them. The coat felt like an interlude and an epilogue all at once. Even now, thinking about its proper introduction into her life made her uneasy. She picked the coat off her chair and hugged it to her chest, tight enough to feel the zipper and buttons press uncomfortably into her ribs and chest. She inhaled deeply, burying her face into the coat. Nowadays, it smelt of old paper, something like vanilla, and either cooking spices or lemon-like varnish.

Min-ji went to sit on her bed, and dropped onto it heavily with the coat in her lap and in her hands. One of them felt the material of the coat while the other only presented that it could, in theory, if you didn’t look too closely. She looked at her left hand, splaying the cybernetic fingers there and rotating it to scan along her wrist. A conscientious inhale as she slowly lifted her arm, not made of flesh until it hit her mid upper arm. It was as close to her skin tone as the builders of her prosthetic could manage—however, no one could make up for the fact that alloy and metal and plating wouldn’t properly reflect the way flesh looked in person. More rigid, slightly more luster, less soft and curved. She smiled faintly as she recalled Yunsol’s suggestion to draw a few moles on the prosthetic limb, to more closely resemble her right arm. Part of her wished that she had thought to make that request before her surgery, if it was even doable to begin with. Though… even only a few mere years later, cybernetic prosthetics continued to advance and be honed in ways she still barely understood. Perhaps at her next appointment, she could broach the subject; a few small cosmetic changes would surely be on the table in some way. Plus she didn’t know if permanent markers would quite appease her occasional dysphoria.

A prominent buzzing resounded from under one of her bed pillows, and Min-ji leaned and reached back to rifle a hand through them until she found what she was looking for: a shell-cell. She sat up again and inspected the surface of it before opening it up and checking the group chat. She smiled as a wave of warm calm washed over her, the stream of emojis and all-cap messages bringing her comfort in the way watching loved ones from a distance always did. Another message separate from the group chat caught her attention, and she backed out and opened it up. It was Leo asking if she would be ready to be picked up in a half hour. Min-ji blinked and glanced out her window, brows rising as she realized it was already sunset. She smiled lopsidedly and hummed, nodding to herself and typing out a text to answer him in the affirmative. Placing the shell-cell on her bed, she stood up again and pulled the coat on, with both sleeves. She picked up her guitar and placed it in its case, setting it on the bed as well and beginning to get ready for whatever evening ahead of her and her friends would unfold.

[fowardfashionfindz]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Liz Claiborne Season-less Crepe Jacket.

[taleweaver-ramblings]

And we're on the second-to-last part! I thought about just posting the whole ending, but I think that would be too long (it would definitely be longer than any of the other sections I've posted) and I still want to rework the very last scene of this story. In the meantime, have climax part A.

Largely unedited, etc.

The Last Immortal of Evitra, Part 8

Anatole slept poorly that night, and when morning came, he almost felt more weary than he had the night before. Still, he dragged himself out from his bed, dressed, and was ready in time to tell Dieudonné and Aimée that he’d walk with them to the edge of his property, perhaps even see them to the village and onto the coach. It was, after all, proper for a host to see his guests off, even if Anatole hadn’t gone quite this far in doing so for many years even before the curse.

They were halfway down the main path to the manor gates when Anatole felt a ripple in his web of enchantments. Someone was on his property — had just used magic on his property. The person — no, people; he could tell now that there were four or so — the people were keeping quiet, so he hadn’t heard them. Now that he thought about it, he’d sensed them stepping onto his manor grounds, but he’d taken them for animals, nothing more. But animals could neither weave nor throw enchantments.

Dieudonné and Aimée stopped beside him, and Dieudonné tugged on Anatole’s cloak. “What’s wrong?”

“Someone else is here.” Should he send the children back to the house? Anatole didn’t know who this was, but Dieudonné had only ever made reference to one local magic-user . . .

The group rounded the bend in the path and came in sight before Anatole could make up his mind. The way Dieudonné stiffened, tensing for either a fight or a blow, and the way Aimée let out a squeak and ducked behind Anatole told him all he needed to know about who these people were.

The man at the front of the group wore the blue and gold coat and robes of a holy man, the cuffs and collar decorated with the triple arrowheads indicating his rank — starsteel arrowheads, Anatole noticed in an instant. Yet the man under those robes would not have looked out of place in armor upon a charging horse. He was young still, not yet thirty, and broad-shouldered, with golden hair swept back from a strong, hard face. He walked with a steady, soldierly stride, and every so often he reached for magic and then let it go, as if it were a weapon he wanted to keep ever near-to-hand.

That would be Sacre-Berger Gauvain, then. And the three others with him . . . all wore coats the same blue as Gauvain’s robes, but their clothes underneath were of ordinary style. Lay volunteers of some kind, then. None of them were magicians, so far as Anatole could tell — or, if they were, they weren’t trying to use any magic, nor were they even drawing on it to have it ready as Gauvain was.

Gauvain and his men stopped as they saw Anatole waiting for them. Anatole didn’t give them a chance to speak. “You are trespassing on my land, priest. If you are here with concern for my soul, I assure you its fate is already seen to.”

“I have no doubt that your soul is seen to, Seigneur Corentin.” Even with those few words from Gauvain’s mouth, Anatole found he could tell why people listened to the man so readily. His voice was rich and authoritative, surprisingly so for one so young. Gauvain went on, “I am here because reports say you have been harboring thieves, and this is the first day on which the path has been clear enough for me to come find them.”

“Thieves?” Anatole echoed, raising an eyebrow and filling his voice with disbelief. “The only people I have seen or sensed all winter are these two children, and they have stolen nothing from me.”

“The boy has stolen from others, though.” Gauvain’s lip curled. “I am here to take them back that they may face due punishment.”

“I see.” Anatole turned to look at Dieudonné. “Did you steal from others before coming to my home?”

Dieudonné didn’t speak, nor would he meet Anatole’s eyes. His gaze flickered from Aimée to the path behind them to the bushes, as if trying to figure out where and how to run and if he could get himself and his sister both away before they were caught.

Gauvain snorted. “Of course, the boy denies it. But he has stolen food from many in the village. Half the homes, he’s taken something from.”

Anatole faced Gauvain once more. In his most forbidding growl, he asked, “And how many have gone hungry as a result? How many have starved over the winter due to what this boy took?”

“That is not the point —” Gauvain began stiffly.

“Then I take it that the answer is none.” With a flick of Anatole’s wrist, he summoned from his safe a small bag of coins, which he tossed at Gauvain’s feet. “That contains the equivalent of three months’ wages for nearly any man in the village. Give to each person who had something stolen twice the worth of what he or she lost. Whatever is left, I recommend you spend on seeing that those under your care are properly fed, as you seem to have so little that children must resort to stealing in order to avoid starvation.”

Gauvain bent and lifted the bag, bouncing it a little to judge its weight. “This is not the first trouble the boy has gotten into. Gold will not save his soul, Seigneur Corentin.”

“Am I not still lord of Blackrose Manor?” Anatole shot back, drawing himself up to his full height. “Theft is a civil crime, not a religious one, and so judgement for it falls under my purview, not yours. I have judged, and I have seen the penalty paid. Your work of bringing the crime to my attention is done. Now, begone.”

The men behind Gauvain murmured among themselves. Gauvain’s gaze hardened, but he tucked the money in an inside pocket all the same. “Very well. I will go, and I will take these children back to the orphanage when I go.” He made a sharp gesture towards Dieudonné and Aimée. “Come. You have run wild long enough.”

Anatole felt the twist of enchantment in Gauvain’s voice at the same moment as he saw both Dieudonné and Aimée take an involuntary step forward. Putting out his hands to stop them, he growled, “You are leaving. I did not say you would take them with you.”

“They are orphans placed under my care,” Gauvain replied, meeting Anatole’s eyes undaunted. “I am their guardian; they return with me.”

Anatole didn’t reply, but looked down at Dieudonné. “Do you wish to go with him?”

Dieudonné shook his head, staring at Gauvain with the same look he’d given Anatole all those months ago, when he thought Anatole a demon rather than just a monster. On Anatole’s other side, Aimée clutched at his cloak.

“I thought not.” Anatole faced Gauvain once more. “It seems that they do not choose to go with you, and so, as Lord of Blackrose Manor, I declare your guardianship forfeit. And if I were you, priest, I would think hard on why these children would cling to a monster rather than a man of God.”

One of the other men muttered, “Like clings to like.” A look from Gauvain silenced him, but the expressions of the rest of Gauvain’s company suggested the speaker hadn’t been the only one thinking such thoughts.

Gauvain stepped towards Anatole. “And what will become of these children if they are not under my care, Seigneur? They need someone looking after them.”

“That is none of your concern,” Anatole growled. The threads of the manor’s enchantments pulsed and quivered in response to some subconscious impulse. It had been a long time since Anatole troubled himself with combat magic, but just now he had to resist the urge to dust off some old tricks.

“But should it be yours?” Gauvain asked, his voice now softer — a priest concerned for a member of his flock, not an official exercising his right and duty. “You are Lord of Blackrose Manor, Seigneur. You have many cares already. Surely the fate of two children is not something you should trouble yourself with.”

“It is not your place, priest, to tell me what I should and should not trouble myself with.” Anatole advanced now, closing the distance between himself and Gauvain so he could loom properly. “If I listened when people told me what I should and should not care about, I would not have spent the last four hundred years alone.”

“Of course, Seigneur,” Gauvain replied placatingly. He took a step back, pushing his followers with him, and held up his hands with a slight smile. “Of course, I would not tell you what to do. But if you value your peace and privacy so, then why should these children be any concern of yours? I am simply trying to take them off your hands so you need be disturbed no longer.”

“They are my concern. I have chosen so.” The threads of enchantment all around Anatole vibrated in response to those words, almost eager to be called upon. “There are, in fact, a great many things that are my concern that I have neglected, and which I plan to remedy soon. And if you do not wish charging you with trespassing to be first on that list, then remove yourself from my property immediately, or I will remove you myself.”

“There is no need to threaten, Seigneur.” Gauvain spoke mildly, his voice soft and a just a little apologetic. It was a voice that, if you didn’t know what to listen for, could make someone forget every offense the speaker had given to prompt such a threat. “My people and I will go. Again, I only sought to aid you and see that what must be done is so.”

Anatole made no reply, just crossed his arms and waited for Gauvain to leave. After a moment, Gauvain turned, gesturing for his men to go on ahead. He started to follow, but Anatole caught the backwards flick of his hand and wrist, the burst of enchantment, the release of three silver-grey projectiles flying almost too fast to see — and he saw in a moment where that enchantment’s path led.

There was no time for a counterattack. Anatole spun and launched himself ahead of the projectiles. He grabbed Dieudonné and Aimée, ignoring Aimée’s panicked scream. Then, dropping to his knees, he pulled them to himself and bent over them so the projectiles’ shortest path could only lead to one target.

The starsteel, bolstered by Gauvain’s well-practiced magic, cut through Anatole’s layered shields and protections as if they weren’t even there. They struck his back, forcing a growl of pain from his lungs — but where they stuck, they stayed.

And then the grounds came to raging life as layer upon layer of defensive enchantments responded to their maker’s pain.

Anatole sensed, rather than saw, the bushes double in size, lashing out with thorny branches that grabbed at Gauvain and his men. But he heard the screams and the snap of twigs as those branches caught two of the men and dragged them to the sides of the path. By the time Anatole stood and turned, both of those men were half-buried in the bushes, held fast by twining stems that cut deep any time either tried to move. The third man was running for his life down the path, but the stones rose to trip him, and the ground before him softened to receive him — then hardened again so he remained stuck fast.

Gauvain did not try to run, but he had drawn a short starsteel blade from somewhere within his robes, and he’d enchanted the sleeve of his offhand to be so stiff that it functioned as a shield. He held himself ready as he locked eyes with Anatole.

Anatole snarled and surged forward towards Gauvain. Once, twice, thrice, Gauvain swung his blade, forcing Anatole to dodge back. Thrice Anatole slashed at Gauvain with claws that had never been longer than they were now. One swipe tore the arrowheads from Gauvain’s other cuff; the others met a shield almost as sturdy as Anatole’s own.

The ground shifted beneath them with every step: ever soft and unsteady under Gauvain, but firm wherever Anatole placed his feet. That Gauvain could keep his balance under such conditions was a mark of his skill, and Anatole might have been impressed had it been any other man before him.

Gauvain backed away a step and raised his sword. Above, the sky darkened, and lighting shot down, hit the tip of Gauvain’s blade, and reflected towards Anatole. But Anatole knew that trick of old. He raised a hand wrapped in swift spellworks, caught the energy, and turned it back on Gauvain, forcing the priest to dance back along the path.

Gauvain let out a wordless howl of rage and swung his blade again. This time, Anatole caught it, though the edge cut through his enchantments and into his palm. He yanked, simultaneously creating a burst of flame before Gauvain’s face.

The sword jerked free as Gauvain lost his grip and batted at the flames to disperse them. With a swift motion, magic thrumming in his ears and his blood, Anatole snapped the blade over his knee. Then he lunged forward again, catching Gauvain by the throat and chest and forcing him back against the hedge. “Dieudonné and Aimée are mine. This manor is mine. The village is mine. This land is mine. And I have allowed you and your kind to abuse and twist them long enough.”

Gauvain choked out something that might have been words, though Anatole barely heard them. But he felt when Gauvain reached for magic once again, for a final desperate attack or defense.

Anatole didn’t give him a chance. He drew on a particular spellwork and wrapped it round Gauvain, blocking off his ability to touch any kind of magic. Panic flashed in Gauvain’s face; then his eyes rolled back, and he slumped into unconsciousness.

Anatole waited until the bush curled its branches round the senseless Gauvain, holding him in place, before he let go and took a staggering step back. Pain surged in his back and hand where he’d been cut, and his head spun. It had been a long time since he’d done real combat — but it had been necessary today.

He sank to his knees, uncertain if his legs would hold him up. From behind, he could hear running footsteps and two voices — Dieudonné, asking if he was hurt, if he’d be all right; Aimée, simply calling out “Monsieur Monster!” in a tone as fearful as if she thought he was dying.

He held up a hand, intending to warn her off — he didn’t know how much blood was on him. But she threw herself at him anyway, burying her face in his shirt and sobbing. With a sigh, Anatole wrapped his uninjured arm around her. His head swayed, and he bent over her, shutting his eyes. Adrenaline must be wearing off faster than he’d expected. But if he could just rest a minute or two here, then return to the house and his medical supplies . . .

He felt something shift in the enchantments around him. Then, as if from a long way off, he heard Dieudonné shout in alarm. More enemies? But Anatole’s limbs wouldn’t cooperate; they’d all gone to pins and needles all at once. He tried to open his eyes, but his vision had all gone to black — except a moment later, it blazed white.

The sensations all faded a moment later, and he straightened, feeling even more lightheaded than he had a moment ago. As he did, he heard Aimée’s shriek of alarm. She pulled back from him, staring with wide, fearful eyes. “Monsieur Monster?”

What was wrong? Anatole reached out to her, but the sight of his hand stopped him. Rather than shadows and shining claws, he saw flesh and olive-tanned skin, lighter than it had once been but distinctively his.

Could it be?

He had to cough a few times to clear his throat before he could speak. When he did, his voice came out familiar and unfamiliar at once — it was his own voice, but without the growl that had underlaid it for the last four centuries. “It’s me. It’s only me. I am a monster no more, it seems.” He looked from Aimée over to Dieudonné, who stood a few steps away, mouth gaping. “Are either of you hurt?”

Dieudonné shook his head. “We’re fine. Is it really you, Seigneur?”

“So it seems — more so than in a very long time.” Anatole turned back to Aimée. With slow movements, he reached out and took one of her hands as he often had in the night. “Do you know me now?”

She hesitated, then nodded and darted back in to cling to him again. Not what he’d expected, but he’d not stop her. This hadn’t been a good morning for any of them, and the last thing she needed was cause for more night terrors.

With a groan, Anatole tested first his back, then his legs and found that both still worked. Aimée still clung to him, so he adjusted his grip to carry her as he stood. Then he surveyed the four men held captive along the path. They were secure for now, but he disliked leaving them in the open like this.

He noticed Dieudonné’s gaze now lingering on Gauvain’s still form. Guessing the boy’s thoughts, he said, “He’s not dead. Just unconscious. I temporarily blocked his connection to magic. In the heat of battle, it’s as great a shock to the body as losing a limb, but he will recover.” It might be that recovery would come just in time for him to stand trial for his actions, but that would be no great loss to anyone.”

Yet it would be a loss if he escaped. That was the matter at hand. With half a thought, Anatole commanded the house-magics and cleared out one of the more secure cellars. Another thought sent all four captives off into the now-empty cellar and locked and barred the door.

Another day, Anatole might have lingered to revel in how readily the enchantments of the manor responded to his command. But there were other matters to attend to today. So, he turned and started slowly towards the house. “I think that you had best delay your departure for a day at least. We all need to recover, and there are things we must think on.”

Inklings Challenge 2023: The Last Immortal of Evitra

'Tis the deadline day for the Inklings Challenge (@inklings-challenge), and I have not finished my story, but today is also Ren Faire day, and I will therefore not be able to finish today . . . but it's a long story that I'll have to post in multiple parts anyway, so have part one now, and I'll post the rest over the next week.

Also, in classic Taleweaver fashion, this is a fairy tale retelling. Which fairy tale should be fairly obvious. It is not, however, a romance.

Unedited; please be nice about typos.

~~~~~

The Last Immortal of Evitra, Part 1

Anatole Bérenger Judicaël Télesphore Corentin, lord of Blackrose Manor, last immortal of Evitra, woke to the sound of a child crying.

He let out a quiet growl as he reoriented himself to his surroundings. He’d dozed off in his study, it seemed. The last he remembered, the sun had been just at the top edge of the tall windows. Now it was gone, and the whole room was drenched in black shadows — though, of course, shadows had hidden nothing from him for the last four hundred years.

Anatole stirred and stretched, tracing the sound down the threads of magic that carried it. The child wasn’t within the manor house itself, thankfully, but it was concerningly close. Behind the stables, if Anatole read the magic aright. What it was doing there, he could guess, and the thought made him growl again. It had been a long, long time since small boys dared their friends to creep up to his home and spend ten minutes within his gates. If the practice was starting up again . . . well. It might require him to go down to the town again for the first time in decades.

Unless, of course, he could put a stop to it now. Anatole took his cloak from its hook by the door and swept it around his shoulders. Then he stalked from his study, through the halls to a side door, and out into the night.

By the time he found the child, it had stopped crying and moved inside the stables. There were no horses there anymore, nor even any hay — Anatole had no need for such things these days. But in the back, in a corner of the very last stall, there was a small boy, curled up and shivering with his eyes shut and hands balled into the ragged sleeves of his much-mended shirt.

Anatole stepped into the stall, making sure to leave space in the doorway, and growled again, low and menacing. “Boy. Leave my home or face the consequences.”

The boy startled, and his eyes flew open. Anatole knew well what the boy saw. His cursed form was a work of art, he had to admit — curving horns and red eyes and sharp fangs and claws all sharp and distinct and gleaming even without light, and the rest of him a hulking beast of shadows with just enough substance to resolve into one’s worst nightmares. It was a form to make the bravest of men turn and run.

 But rather than fleeing, the boy pressed himself more firmly into his corner. “No. I’m not scared of you, demon.” His voice strongly suggested otherwise. “Oúte o thánatos, oúte i zoí, oúte ángeloi, oúte igemoníes, oúte oi dynámas —”

“Oúte oi dynámeis,” Anatole snapped. “If you’re going to threaten demons with the Holy Writ, boy, you’d better say it correctly. Fortunately for you, I am not a demon. But I am a monster.” He bared his teeth further and growled again. “Now, begone. Go home.”

“Don’t have a home.” The boy’s hands scrabbled on the floor as if searching for a crack or crevice to hold onto. “You’ve got the whole house and all the land. You can spare a corner for the night.”

“If you have no home, then get yourself to the orphanage. I understand that’s what it’s there for.” Anatole pointed out the door. “Go.”

“Won’t.” The boy, finding no handholds, crossed his arms and shut his eyes. “Go away, monster. You’re probably a bad dream anyway.”

How dare the boy defy him! How dare he!

Anatole felt the enchantments woven into every inch of the estate swell in response to his wrath. They didn’t anticipate his need the way they once would have — the curse ensured that — but they would answer swift enough if he called upon them. He could have this boy ejected and back on the road in moments, and in the morning he could add another layer of spellwork to more effectively discourage trespassers.

But it was full night, the town was well over a mile away, and there were wolves in these woods. Sending the boy out on his own would be a shade too close to outright murder for Anatole’s taste. So, with a sigh, he reached down, grabbed the boy, and slung him over his shoulder. Then he turned and trudged back towards the main house.

The boy thrashed and struggled to get free. “Let me go! Put me down, monster!”

“No.” Anatole shoved open the side door, stepped through, and then paused to lock it behind them. “If you’re spending the night on my estate, you’ll do it where I can keep an eye on you.”

The boy continued to wriggle and protest as Anatole made his way swiftly to one of the smaller guest chambers. There, with much relief, he dropped the boy onto the couch. No dust rose — cleaning spells were child’s play, and Anatole had spent his first week of isolation laying multiple in every room. But somehow, the cushions still managed to let off an air of long disuse.

Anatole took a step back. “You’ll sleep here and then leave in the morning.” Now that he’d brought the boy inside, the long-practiced rules of hospitality gripped him like an instinct. “Are you hungry?”

The boy eyed him with suspicion, but gave a tight little nod. Anatole shut his eyes, probing his awareness of the house to check what he had to offer. Apples, cold turkey left from his dinner, cheese — that would do. A few commands and a plate appeared on the low table beside the couch, along with a sturdy mug of water. Anatole opened his eyes again. “Eat.”

The boy poked at the apple suspiciously — rude of him, as Anatole had even gone to the trouble of having it sliced. “Is this fairy food?”

“I have no interest in trapping you in my home.” Anatole resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I summoned it by magic, but the food is real.”

The boy picked up an apple slice, tasted it, and seemed to approve. “Are you planning to eat me?”

“There’s not enough meat on your bones to be worth the effort.” Anatole turned. “Eat, sleep, and be gone in the morning. I will come to this room at ten o’clock, and if you are not gone, I will remove you myself — and should you return, I may rethink eating you.” He waited to hear no further protests, but rather stalked out of the room, shutting the door behind him. As an afterthought, he locked it, laying a small spell so it would unlock again only after the boy had slept, and sent a command through the estate to close and lock all other doors and to only let them open at his own touch, or if they were necessary to let the boy out in the morning. With that, he made his way to his own bed and fell into a light slumber.

At half-past seven the next morning, he roused as he sensed the boy scurrying out the same side door they’d entered through the night before. Anatole remained awake until he felt the boy vanish off the edge of the estate. Then, satisfied, he drifted back into deeper sleep. He had done his duty; no one could argue that. And now the boy was gone and, with any luck, the threat of being eaten would be enough to keep others away for another hundred years or so.

~~~

Three days passed peacefully, and the fourth dawned cold, grey, and threatening either rain or snow. Anatole had decided some centuries ago that, on such days, resisting the urge to hibernate like the bear he somewhat resembled was far more trouble than it was worth. So, he spent most of the day in the library, alternately napping and listening as a speaker-spell read a book to him, stirring only when hunger made it necessary to summon a meal.

He was just waking from one of these naps when he felt a clumsy tug on the estate’s magic. Immediately, he shook himself, reaching out to see who or what dared try to use his power.

Once again, there was a child at the other end of the disturbance. The same one as before, if Anatole wasn’t mistaken. And there was another with him, smaller than he. Anatole growled, extracting himself from his blankets. Apparently, he’d been too kind to the boy last time. He would not make the same mistake again.

Outside, the sky had resolved into a storm of wind and driving rain and occasional flashes of lightning. Anatole trudged onward all the same, following the periodic tugs in his web of enchantment. A curse and a pox on the boy for choosing this day of all days to come back! And he was further from the main house this time, all the way out in the gamekeeper’s cottage — even longer disused than the rest of the estate’s outbuildings.

The door was locked, but it opened at his touch. The floorboards creaked beneath his feet as he swept inside, drawing himself up to his full height so he nearly touched the ceiling. “I told you not to return.”

The boy — indeed the same one as last time — looked up with wide eyes. He scrambled to his feet, darting in front of the other child. “What d’you care? You’ve got all this space and no one to live in it. We’re not hurting anything. I didn’t come anywhere near your house this time.”

“I care very much when someone trespasses on my property and tries to use my power for his own.” Anatole peered past the boy at the second child: a little girl, perhaps half the boy’s age, yellow-haired and thin-cheeked. “And you should know better than to wander into a monster’s den.”

“There’s monsters everywhere. You aren’t special.” The boy glanced behind him, and his shoulders sagged a little. “One night, Seigneur, please. Then we’ll leave. I promise. We’ll leave and we won’t come back.”

Anatole considered — but the rain and wind outside left him no choice. “I will hold you to that promise.” He turned. “Come.”

The two followed, straggling along behind him, the boy carrying a small bundle on his shoulder and helping the girl along with his free hand. However, after ten minutes, in which Anatole had to stop and wait five separate times for the children to catch up, he turned and simply scooped up both, ignoring their panicked protests. They were light as feathers, both of them — lighter than they ought to be, but perhaps that was merely the greater strength of his current form. Or perhaps he was misremembering. It had been many, many centuries since he’d had reason to carry a child.

He didn’t set the two back down until he’d reached the small guest room where he’d let the boy stay last time. There, he deposited both children onto the couch and once again summoned a platter of food: two bowls of the thick rabbit stew he’d started earlier that day for his dinner, cold flatbread rounds left from lunch, soft cheese, and juicy pears. This time, he very deliberately chose to materialize it on the table by the fireplace. “The food will stay warm until you eat it, at which point you will take care not to make a mess. You will remain in this room, the adjoining one, or the connected bathing chamber until after dawn tomorrow, and you will leave no later than ten o’clock. At no point will you disturb me. Is this understood?”

The girl just stared, but the boy nodded. “I understand. We’ll do as you say.”

“Good.” Anatole stalked from the room — but, to his surprise, the boy followed him out. “What did I say to you a moment ago?”

“I need to ask you something, sir.” The boy held his head up, dropping his tone. “If you eat one of us, make it me. Not Aimée. I’m the one who brought her here. And can you make sure she goes somewhere aside from the orphanage when you send her away?”

Anatole cast a cold glance at the boy. “The two of you together wouldn’t make as much meat as the rabbit I put in tonight’s stew. You may attend to the girl’s fate yourself when you both leave in the morning.”

“Thank you, Seigneur.” There was a bitter note in the boy’s voice, no doubt at the fact that he had to express gratitude for not being eaten. “We’ll not disturb you.”

He disappeared back into the room, and Anatole strode hastily away, working a belated drying-spell to pull the water from his cloak, clothes, and form. One night more. Then these two would be out of his hair and, with any luck, far, far away.

[callsign-marlie]

good boy. (18+)

pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x gn!clinican (Callsign: Doc) rating: M warnings: 18+ content minors DNI!!!, SUB!HANGMAN!!!, boy's got his head in the gutter 25/8, praise kink hELL YEAH, innuendos galore, handjob mention, pegging/PinA depending on how you visualize Doc :3, thigh grinding, choking kink?, did i mention innuendos EVERYWHERE? summary: a stress test is not a good time for Hangman to imagine getting a handy from his doctor... a/n: HOOBOY THIS IS UNEDITTED. It came out like water and I wrote it in an hour and fifteen minutes LMFAO please enjoy and i'm sorry for the self indulgence. might have to do this from Doc's POV too if people are interested ;)

“Very good, Lieutenant.”

Hangman was doing his best to breathe in and out of the silicone mask covering his mouth and nose. The air collecting tube was connected to a piece swinging just above his head, creaking eerily at each foot strike. The electrodes measuring his heart rate and pulse tugged against his taut skin. The wires they were attached to were tickling each rib while he speed walked up the inclining treadmill. He was hyper aware of how much hardware he was connected to thanks to the quietness in the lab. 

Doc didn’t allow music to play during stress tests. All focus needed to be on them. A shame, really. 

Cardiopulmonary testing was commonplace among naval pilots to make sure their bodies were in the best possible shape to handle the strains of supersonic speeds. Anything less than above average and you’ll be doing PT every morning for the foreseeable future until you are exceptional. These tests didn’t happen often, maybe once every three years, but on a select detachment like this one, all pilots must be subject to one to ensure they would be able to handle the impending trauma for high-G flight.

“How are you doing?”

Doc’s eyes were trained on their computer screen, but he could hear the smirk in their voice as the treadmill ramped higher. “Just peachy, Doc. I could do this all day.”

Doc tore their vision from the squiggling lines to wrap a blood pressure cuff around his upper arm. This part? The worst. The constriction of that stupid wrap bothered him more than his face being covered.

“You know I’m perfect, you really gotta do that?”

“It’s just a part of protocol, Lieutenant Seresin. If I don’t track your blood pressures and you’re hypertensive under exertion here, you could blow a coronary in the sky and die before your plane incinerates you. Period, the end. Do you think I'd want that on my conscience?”, they teased. The cool metal of their stethoscope stung against his inner elbow as the cuff inflated tightly.

The treadmill ticked up again. The pace was getting awkward. He wanted to jog, but it was still too slow to keep pace. “At least I’d go out in a blaze of glory.”

Doc was silent as they released the pressure of their cuff. “Good boy, you’re doing great.” They ticked in the new number to their computer.

If he wasn’t as sturdy as he was, Hangman would have face planted. G-Good boy? Was that a fluke? Did they think they were talking to their dog? Or a kid, maybe? Doc sees all kinds of patients being such a well renowned physician to North Base and its inhabitants. He felt a flush grow across his cheeks and a warmth in his chest. Doc’s grin of satisfaction was enough to extend the fire to the pit of his stomach. “Ah, there’s the heart rate increase. Keep going.”

Jake couldn’t help his breathing getting heavier. He was doing well? As he damn well should! He was the best of the best and he was only going to prove it. The treadmill ramped further, the aviator finally taking off in a comfortable jog. 

“You look great up there,” Doc encouraged, eyes running over the cut muscles of his torso. “Give me more.”

Give me more. All Jake could imagine was Doc’s hands wrapped around his neck, his breathing tight, their core straddled against his thigh as they ground down onto him, hot and hard. He could hear his own moans, loud and raunchy. Spittle would be running down the side of his lips begging to be kissed. He would be a good boy and let them work their magic, wishing they'd move slightly north to slide over his cock. He would be doing his best to look them in the eyes while they-

“You alright, Lieutenant? Your ventilation rate just increased exponentially. Get it under control. Can you do three more minutes for me?”

“A-anything for you,” he sputtered, doing his best to reign his brain in. The sweat that was pooling along his upper lip was becoming a nuisance. He felt like he was only breathing in heat. Three minutes. Just had to hold out for three more minutes…

No, he needed to push further.

The burning in his stomach was causing more of a problem than he anticipated. Jake never experienced a runner’s high before, but this had to be damn near close. He always thought runners were masochists putting their body through such turmoil all to chase the pavement. The way he was feeling, it had to be similar.

“Don’t stop. Push yourself.”

Push yourself. Jake’s imagination went wild at the thought of Doc’s fist twisting around his cock, their fingertips dusting over the tip before pulling away. Push yourself. He imagined himself squirming and writhing against the bed, the loss of friction agonizing when they teasingly pull away. They always came back though, fingers twisting around the head of his dick until he was purple and so hard. He was always so close… it just wasn’t enough.

“Open your eyes Lieutenant. That’s it, good job. Can you keep going?”

His legs were automatic at this point. He didn’t feel anything else. Just the pulse in his head and his constricted breathing were the only things keeping him grounded. Jake was near a sprint up the hill, running up a ladder. “I can go! I can go!”

“Give me one more minute, you’re doing so well for me!”

Did this idiot even know what they were saying?! Jake’s head was a lost cause. He could feel himself bent over and oh so full, his asshole pulling and stretching at every thrust behind them. You’re doing so well for me. He imagined himself trying to hold back his whimpers at each pound into his little hole, but their skillful fingers would knot in his hair and pull. He’d be yanked up harshly against their chest. Doc’s fingers would be flicking, pinching and pulling at his nipples as he came apart in pieces–

Jake bailed. Holy shit. His body was a complete limp noodle minus the al dente one hanging between his legs.

“Great job, well done! Excellent work!”

His chest was heaving and his mouth was completely dry. The hardness in his shorts was extremely uncomfortable as he doubled over, watching the track slow and the machine lowering itself back flat. He was trying the best he could to conceal the tent in his shorts as Doc moved behind him, their hips so close to his. He could feel their heat. He could feel just how close they were as they reached on their tip tops to undo the velcro strap of his mask with nimble fingers. He wondered what they would have felt like spreading him wide…

“All done, Lieutenant. That was one of the most emphatic passes I’ve seen yet! I’ll have the results to Admiral Simpson by tomorrow. Head to the showers, you deserve it.”

He was spun to face them, his head dizzy, as their nitrile-covered fingers worked to dig under the electrodes. They snapped them off with 10 delicious rips from his skin, the hair on his chest pulling at the sensation. He needed to grab the side rails in order to stop the moans from escaping his throat.

Doc tossed the aviator a towel to dry off and reached into the top cabinet next to their work station to grab a water bottle for him. The hem of their shirt rode up just enough to tease a view of small of their back and a full view of their ample ass in those tight as fuck scrubs.

Hangman, his face creased in concentration, trudged off the treadmill with knocking knees to reach for his t-shirt on the chair by the lab door. The standard issued naval PT shirt was on at light speed, sweat leaking through the heather gray, as he turned to wave goodbye to Doc. “Th-thanks for your time. And, uh, thanks for the water. Uh, I-I'll see you again.” A hand moved to brush the sweat off his face… and maybe extinguish part of the embarrassed burn in his cheeks while he exited the lab. No way they didn't know. No way.

“I look forward to it,” Doc cooed, their eyes drinking in his body.

He needed to get the fuck out before he creamed his shorts right there.

Their gaze lingered steadily on the soft curve of his ass for a moment too long before they sent him wink, turning back to their paperwork. “The heart never lies, Lieutenant. The heart never lies. I can see it all.”

—-

“Yo Bagman, how’d the stress test go?” Phoenix was all smiles as Jake exited the lab, peering up from her too-old lobby copy of People magazine. “Doc didn’t torture you too badly, did they? I heard they had a mean streak.”

Jake sneered at the woman. “It’s Hangman. And they said it was an emphatic pass, thank you very much. I’d like to see you weaklings try to beat my time. You won’t come close.”

Rooster, who sat beside her to wait for his own turn, looked up from his phone with a quirked brow. “Ya know, I’d be a little offended if I didn’t know you suck at running. Don’t tattle, Hangman. It’s not a good look on you when your credibility is already shakier than an earthquake.”

Bob, who was sandwiched between the two, squirmed unsteadily in his seat while attempting eye contact with Hangman. “You know, what Phoenix said is true, though. I heard they had nearly sent Coyote through the roof when he went in for his hip therapy after that basics accident he had. He said they kept saying “how well” he was doing as they started to bend him like a pretzel. He said the relief he felt when their fingers dug into just the right spot was something that…”

Jake wasn’t listening anymore. He didn’t even acknowledge them as he hustled through the door, slamming it shut behind them. Fuck those idiots.

He needed a cold shower.

---

tagging: @fangirlofallthings22

[honeymoonjin]

pairing: namjoon x jimin genre: smut, 18+ readers only word count: 5.1k

summary: namjoon has worked as a bodyguard for an upscale BDSM dungeon for long enough to know that jimin is the most sought-after dom there. it only takes one miscommunication for namjoon to discover firsthand why that is.

warnings: unedited, sexually explicit content, power bottom!jimin, sub top!namjoon, unprotected sex, degradation, light pain play, BDSM dynamics, kinda temperature play, i think that's it but i'm so out of practice so i apologise if i missed something

a/n: this piece came to fruition thanks firstly to the @armyadvocates AAPI Justice and Advocacy initiative, and secondly to the kind commissioner @goldenwallsvol6 on twitter who requested this (i'm so sorry for not including everything you asked for, i got a little carried away kdsjfdssk). please check out the AAPI initiative here, consider donating, and check out the resources that come with it.

-----

Clocking in to work has become such a routine for Namjoon that he often finds himself switching his brain off, preoccupied with half-thoughts as his body runs on autopilot.

He signs in, uses the staff changing room to replace his sweats with the company standard uniform - a tight t-shirt and slim fit jeans, the belt of which he hooks his keys on. He doesn’t actually start his shift for another couple minutes, and so he ducks to the bathroom, chews a breath mint, and stretches before heading out of the office and down the narrow hallway that leads to the den.

In fact, it takes him a few steps into the dungeon before his automatic schedule is disrupted.

It appears Namjoon is entirely alone in the facility.

His steps, taken with heavy-duty boots, echo around the hollow space with nothing but the walls to absorb them. It’s a Thursday night (he consults his phone just to be sure) and he was on the closing shift. On any usual day, he’d be starting work right at the bustling high of the BDSM dungeon, yet he finds himself wandering alone.

Shaped in a rough X, the center of the dungeon is open-plan, with more private spaces forking off. The wing he’s in is generally full of swingers and kinksters making use of costume changing stations and a room full of cleaning supplies and disposables like condoms or wet wipes. It was always the calmest section, but never dead like this.

In a daze, Namjoon glances inside the rooms anyway, half-expecting the place to burst into life at any given moment. But it stays undisturbed, and in no time he’s in the central atrium, weaving through bolted-down couches, benches and racks until he can sink onto a stool at the bar.

Coherent thought escapes him. His brain flails for a reason, but the absurdity of an entirely vacant sex dungeon has him lost for words. After a moment, in restless futility, he stands back up and goes behind the bar, back further into the mini storage/kitchen that he knows features a window.

Outside the narrow, slightly dusty frame is an empty parking lot. His heart sinks, feeling sorely left behind and out of the loop, but a glint catches his eye. Pressing his nose to the glass, he squints and peeks a somewhat familiar vehicle, pulled into the closest park to the entrance of the dungeon.

Namjoon stares pointedly at the Hyundai, racking his brain. God, who was it that had a-

A wooden scrape from behind has Namjoon jumping in violent fright, catching his forehead on the protruding frame of the window. Cursing, he whirls around and glimpses movement further inside. Another drawn-out scrape is followed by a very human-sounding huff.

Heart still racing, Namjoon makes his way out of the storage area and stands behind the bar, seeking out the presence.

“Oh, shit, you gave me a heart attack!” Park Jimin stands off to the left of the room, hands on his hips and head tilted back in relief. “I thought you were a burglar.”

“No,” Namjoon states redundantly, mouth not quite working beyond that. He knew he recognised that silver SUV - every Thursday he watched Jimin hop into it and pull away after a long night of scening. The two had exchanged words often, more than Namjoon could say for most patrons. Being the bouncer for a sex dungeon didn’t lead to that much genuine conversation, but he always appreciated the effort Jimin would put in, hair wet with sweat and lips curved with happy exhaustion but still asking Namjoon if he’d managed to work out whether it was birds or the neighbour’s cat eating his strawberry plants.

He forces himself to check back into the present when current-Jimin cocks his head with a slightly sheepish grin, awaiting an actual explanation. “I, um,” Namjoon stutters, having to avert his eyes to construct anything coherent, “I didn’t realise the club was shut, I’m honestly a little confused.”

Jimin’s smile drops, plush lips rounding in surprise. “Oh, really? Hoseok-hyung said he sent out emails to all the staff. There was a pipe leak so we called off our whole calender until Monday. Did you not get it? We’ve had troubles with work emails getting stuck in spam; something about a sex dungeon really seems to set off the detectors,” the man quips with a jovial lift of his brow.

Namjoon bites down on his tongue, offering up a silent nod of acknowledgement. He’d seen Jimin more times than he could count in black, red, royal purple. In the club he favoured leather, not buckled and studded but sleek and tight, often decorating his lithe body with harnesses, gauntlets and heavy rings instead. More often than not, he’d boast unsmudgable smokey eyes with sharp liner, cheekbones as harsh as they were dewy. It had taken a while, but Namjoon had eventually grown used to the sight, able to prevent chubbing up at the mere sight of his ass as he bent to open his car door.

For some reason, seeing him outside of that whole persona is far more intimidating. Still covered in a light sheen of sweat, that’s the only linker to the Jimin Namjoon is faced with today. He’s got chunky white sneakers weighing down his feet, long overalls rolled up at the cuffs to let some air reach his ankles. The overalls prove particularly problematic to Namjoon, as they don’t seem to have anything underneath. Namjoon can see collarbones, glorious collarbones, and the lean bare sides of Jimin’s torso. If he bent over, Namjoon would probably get a glimpse of his nipples. The thought dampens his mouth with need.

Jimin himself seems unaware of, or at least unbothered by, the way Namjoon stares  him down. Instead, he reaches down to push a cardboard box as tall as his waist across the hardwood floor closer to the bar one shove at a time. “Anyway, you’re welcome to head home. I’ll get Hoseok to add half an hour to your payslip for your troubles.”

“What are you doing here then?” Namjoon asks reflexively, cringing at how loud he’s accidentally pitched his voice.

Jimin’s face is surprisingly round without the stroke of makeup to emphasise dimensions, and when he beams at Namjoon, it softens his whole face even more. “I’m taking advantage of us being closed to install some new furniture. D’you wanna see?” He seems to reconsider, shooting Namjoon a worried look. “It is sex stuff, though.”

“I wasn’t expecting a bookshelf,” he answers honestly, and is rewarded with the bubbling sound of Jimin’s laughter, drowned out prematurely by another shove of the box. “Here,” Namjoon says suddenly, darting out from behind the bar, “let me help.”

At first, Jimin pushes while Namjoon pulls, but after a few grunts of exertion, steps back and lets Namjoon take over, not disguising the way his eyes linger on the way Namjoon’s biceps and pecs flex under his t-shirt sleeve. Obediently, Namjoon lets the bleach-blonde guide him to an open space near the centre of the room, depositing the weighty box there.

With a satisfied hum and a lingering glance at Namjoon’s body, Jimin bends over with a pen from his pocket, using the nib to pop and rip the tape on the box lid, yanking back the flaps with ferocious enthusiasm. He lets out a delighted cry upon lifting a frame of styrofoam out of the box, revealing the goods inside.

One at a time, he takes out oddly-shaped plates of metal, plastic baggies of bolts and screws, and some rubber caps. Kicking the empty box away, Jimin slots his hands back on his hips and grins at Namjoon. “Can you guess what it is?”

Namjoon takes a moment to consider the different sections of stainless steel. The largest isn’t flat, but a rectangle with a slight curve to it, the gentlest arc. The rest come in mirrored pairs, most just for structure, but four of them featuring heavy-duty O-rings. Though he works outside the play area, Namjoon can guess what those are for. “Something for bondage?” he ventures, stomach flipping when Jimin eyes glint with thinly veiled interest.

“A breeding bench,” Jimin explains, squatting to let his fingers trail down the side of one bar, “the metal feels sterile and cold for those that like it. Have you used one before?”

Namjoon feels unsteady on his feet. “No,” he answers, but the softness in his voice betrays his lack of aversion to the thought. But Jimin might think he was a dominant, too, Namjoon worries. Everyone else tended to. “Not yet,” he adds after a moment.

Jimin sucks in a silent but sharp breath, chin lifting. “I could use a hand setting it up. Would you mind…?”

“Oh! Uh, yeah, no problem.” Namjoon tries to clear his throat, but the lump of anticipation remains. “Happy to help.”

“Excellent,” the dom beams, fishing around the pieces of styrofoam to locate the printed instructions, handing them to Namjoon. As Namjoon begins to make sense of them, looking over the basic diagrams, Jimin sits down on a nearby ottoman, intended for viewing the other stations, but continuing to face his new help instead. “I’ve been wanting to get to know you more anyway,” he divulges in a honeyed tone.

“Really?” Namjoon glances up from the instructions, feeling the heat of Jimin’s gaze. Even in worn overalls and unstyled hair, the man strikes a gorgeous image, and his posture screams distinguished dominant down to the curl of his fingers. His mere presence has Namjoon feeling off-balance in the most electric way. “There’s not much to know.”

“I don’t believe that for a second,” Jimin replies immediately, deadpan. “Why are you standing outside every night when you’re just as kinky as those of us indoors?”

“Excuse me?”

Jimin leans forward, legs splayed wide and elbows on his knees. His eyes are intently focused, blazing. “For a while it drove me crazy,” he starts, “you looked so familiar. I saw you every evening and couldn’t put my finger on it. But you used to scene here, didn’t you? Years ago.”

Namjoon’s heart stops beating, sitting heavy behind his ribs instead. “You- You’re not meant to approach people you know from the dungeon outside. It’s against the rules.”

“We aren’t outside,” Jimin counters. “I want to know why you stopped. You don’t look happy, Namjoon, seeing others come and go while you’re stuck to your post. Help me understand.”

Taking a few deep breaths, Namjoon stays silent, opening his mouth seeming too daunting a task. After a moment, Jimin swallows hard and sits back again, giving up the inquisition. Namjoon chooses to continue the task at hand, consulting the instructions.

The bench itself is a relatively simple setup. There’s two long cuts of steel in an X below the main panel for stability, four legs with the O-ring bars at either end, and the rubber caps on the bottom to avoid scratching the floor. As he putters around with the nuts and bolts, using a tiny spanner provided in the baggies to tighten them, he feels Jimin’s curious gaze on him. Silent.

Eventually, the silence has its desired effect, and Namjoon lets his internal thoughts vocalise. “I played here for a while. My partner and I ended up going our separate ways, and I wanted to give him space.” He doesn’t make eye contact, pulse thudding and heating the pieces of metal he fiddles with.

Jimin takes a short moment to reply, but it feels cavernous. “It’s been years, then. Hasn’t he had enough space yet?”

Namjoon’s eye twitches. How many nights had he stayed up with that exact question in mind? “It doesn’t feel right anymore. People would know me for who I was then. And I’m- I’m not that person.” His partner, an eager sub with a need for a firm hand, had asked Namjoon one day if he was sure he was really happy being a dom, and it had entirely dismantled the place in BDSM that he’d cultivated for himself. That sub was right, and he didn’t know how to adjust his course to fit his true desire.

So he’d pulled away entirely, unable to fully leave this world, but unsure of whether it still had a spot for him inside it. He just wants to feel what it’s like to let go in the way his subs did.  And as his hands focus on constructing the heavyset bench, his mind wanders deeper in this vein, loose-lipped enough to confess it all to Jimin.

Jimin listens without judgement, not even seeming surprised when Namjoon admits to feeling more submissive, and the lack of reaction is liberating in a way he couldn’t have expected.

It’s not until the final bolt is fastened in place and Namjoon leans back, slightly breathless, that Jimin stands up and approaches him again. He crouches in front of Namjoon, eyes tender and hesitant, reaching out a hand.

Confused, Namjoon holds his out, palm-up, and Jimin takes it carefully, circling his fingers around the narrowest part of his wrist. Still, it’s too meaty for Jimin’s fingertips to connect. He squeezes lightly, carefully, before locking his gaze with Namjoon again, who swears he’s no longer breathing.

“Do you want to try?” Jimin asks. His voice is low, soft but full-bodied. “Do you want to try to let go? Club rules would apply.”

And Namjoon is nodding, and the grip on his wrist is tightening, restraining, and Jimin’s surging forward, lips on his.

His free hand comes up to hook around the nape of Namjoon’s neck. He’s held there, unforgiving, as the dom deepens the kiss. There’s no space between them, just skin on skin, tongue on tongue. It’s uncoordinated on Namjoon’s part, but so calculated and thorough on Jimin’s, like he knows the exact way to unwind him.

Jimin’s fingers scratch up into Namjoon’s hairline. He’d been growing out the length a little for winter, just enough to cover his ears, and it provides leverage for Jimin to grip on and tug, tug, tug in sharp bursts, timed unevenly enough that Namjoon is never ready. Every pull sends an electric shock down his spine, right between his legs.

He’s hard already, achingly so, and it just worsens when Jimin shifts his weight, bringing a foot forward and over Namjoon’s thigh, half-caging his body flush against his.

Jimin’s body is hot, even through the denim overalls and searing when it’s skin-on-skin. Namjoon can hear himself panting when their mouths split apart briefly, but he can’t stop his head from spinning long enough to care.

Before long, a rumbling growl escapes Jimin’s throat, and his teeth find Namjoon’s lower lip, scraping and nipping at the flesh. It’s not until Namjoon’s hand is shaking in Jimin’s grip that he pulls away, eyes wild and alight.

Namjoon must look utterly debauched, with swollen lips, hazy eyes and rucked-up hair, but his cock is screaming to be touched, and his breaths become infused with pleas for more, begging Jimin to touch him.

“God, you greedy little thing,” Jimin remarks in wonder, and a shudder takes over Namjoon’s body. Jimin quirks a brow. “Good? Bad? I don’t know what you like.”

“Good,” Namjoon insists without shame, “oh my god, good. Say m-more like that.”

Jimin hums with a grin, hand on Namjoon’s neck slipping around front to fist his shirt, yanking it suddenly. “Up, then,” he barks, standing himself, “I want you on the bench you built for me. Thank God that body is good for something; it’s not much fucking use now, is it?”

Namjoon’s breath leaves him in a rush, and he gets up shakily, almost tripping over his own feet as he lowers himself back down on the end of the bench. It’s chillingly cold even through his jeans, and he trembles at the thought of touching it with bare skin. Jimin has no such qualms, however, planting his palm on Namjoon’s chest and pushing him backwards, insistently guiding him down without knocking his head on the metal.

His teeth chatter briefly, but it’s nothing compared to when Jimin clicks his tongue and reaches down to strip the thin fabric of his t-shirt off with one fell swoop, the stitches breaking as they’re forced over the broadest part of his shoulders.

Ice erupts across his back and he gasp, shooting up. Jimin’s hand prevents him from getting far, and his breathing grows loud and sharp, shivering violently as his body fights to warm up the steel. The slight arch of it slots perfectly into the divot of his spine, meaning every inch is flush against him.

“You stay where I put you,” Jimin scolds, flicking at a nipple in punishment. “It’s pathetic, isn’t it? You, lying here, asking to be degraded by somebody half your size? Pathetic. You’re lucky I’m a giving man.”

“Th-thank you,” Namjoon offers up with wide eyes. He doesn’t know the protocol, doesn’t even know how he should be acting as a sub, let alone as a sub for Jimin. He can barely believe the situation he’s ended up in, but he’s never felt so alive. The cold steel is a wakeup call to sluggish veins, his blood rushing faster than ever, most of it going straight to his dick.

Jimin huffs like he’s not quite pleased with the response - even as his eyes crinkle and glint with satisfaction - and simply hooks a finger into the waistband of Namjoon’s jeans, frowning. “Can’t even get undressed yourself. For goodness’ sake.”

Namjoon’s cheeks burn, and he squeezes his eyes shut, feeling so overwhelmed. Though it was years ago, the habit of being in control hasn’t left him, and part of him feels anxious being so vulnerable. Closing his eyes eases that, and Jimin lets him, briefly reaching up to give his upper arm a squeeze, a lilting hum asking the unworded question.

“I’m okay,” he breathes to the darkness behind his eyelids, and the squeeze returns before Jimin straightens up again, fingers yanking impatiently at Namjoon’s jeans, undoing them and yanking them off, taking his briefs with them.

The new level of nudity sends another shock of cold to his system, but this time Namjoon welcomes it with a groan, tilting his hips up so that his cock rests on his lower stomach. His fingers twitch, aching to wrap around himself.

His desire is answered, not with the delicious grip of fingers, but with the hard press of the heel of Jimin’s palm, pinning his hardness down without mercy. A moan dies in Namjoon’s throat as his body tries to curl inwards. A second hand holds him down still, leaving him unable to escape the heavy pressure.

He pants, writhing and toes curling, but Jimin just sighs softly, like he’s more relaxed than ever. “Such a waste,” he drawls, his voice blooming with all the flourishes of a Disney villain, “wanting to be treated like a slut, but what am I getting out of this? Hm?”

“U-uh-” Namjoon has no idea what to say, cracking his eyes open to seek out the comfort of acknowledgement above the level of the scene. His breath is taken away at the sight. Jimin, above him like an avenging angel, golden-haired and glittering with sweat, still fully clothed (as fully as you could call a single piece of denim). He finds Namjoon’s searching gaze and sends him a calm, dreamy smile of encouragement, before twisting his palm against the base of Namjoon’s dick, wringing a strangled groan out of the man. “You can take me,” he pants, filled with the urge to provide, to serve, “take what you want.”

Jimin tilts his head to the side, like this proposition is worth considering. As he makes a show of pondering, he taps his fingers lazily against his cock’s dripping head. Namjoon swallows the whimpers that threaten to bubble up, and forces his hips not to budge. “I’ll be honest with you,” Jimin says finally, “because you don’t deserve sugar-coating. If I was here with a fleshlight or a dildo, I would’ve come already. You’re wasting my precious time, sweet boy. I don’t want you to lay here and simper, I want you to be a good toy for me. So what’s it gonna be?”

Namjoon’s muscles are trembling; from his lips to his toes, he feels like he’s vibrating slightly, restless down to the very atoms that make him up. Jimin is patient, lazily drawing sticky patterns of precum on Namjoon’s abdomen with his pinky finger. Namjoon fights against the primal part of his brain for something coherent, replaying his words. Fleshlight or dildo. Be a good toy. Jimin was offering him the choice to top or bottom, Namjoon realises, and his cock twitches, feeling liberated and thoroughly taken apart with that heady mix of submission and power. He was giving control to Jimin, but never losing his choices.

For a moment, he does consider what it might feel like to let Jimin take him. He’d never bottomed before - at least not for anyone but his own fingers in his experimental years - but if anyone could make him feel safe, he suspected it would be the dom leaning over him. It’s once he really thinks about it that he knows he’s not ready, a thin strand of dread winding around his lungs that won’t go away until he’s stammering to Jimin that he can have Namjoon’s cock if he wants it.

Jimin sucks in a slow, pleased breath, a smile curling at his lips as he lays the weight of Namjoon’s length across the palm of his hand, looking it over. The chill of the steel beneath him is nothing compared to the iced shiver that runs through him upon being inspected in his most private area. Second most private, he corrects. Baby steps.

“I suppose,” Jimin declares finally with a sigh, “this should do. Not winning any awards, though, is it?” Namjoon’s cheeks burn with shame at the comment even as his face scrunches up in disagreement. If there was one thing to be proud of physically, it was that he could always bring his partners pleasure with the equipment he grew into.

Jimin sees the unfiltered reaction on Namjoon’s face and suddenly claps his free hand over his mouth, turning away. The giggle, impish and delicate, doesn’t get as muffled as he probably intended. “Dammit,” he mumbles, “stop being funny, that’s not fair.”

Namjoon blinks, still stark naked and hard as rock beneath the clothed and chuckling dom. “...Apologies,” he says after a pause, “but do you want to- um- are we-”

“Sorry, sorry,” Jimin says, clearing his throat and wiggling the muscles in his cheek to force the smile down. His fingers reach nimbly for the straps that hold his set of overalls on, and undresses down to skin as he takes some deep breaths as if to hype himself back into character. Once he’s done, he swings a leg over the metal bench and straddles Namjoon’s thighs with a swiftness that takes his breath away.

While it may take Jimin a second to slip back into his dom headspace after the break in mood, all Namjoon needs is the feeling of Jimin’s plump ass cheeks settling onto hs lap and he’s being smacked in the face with submission, ready to beg to feel it more intimately.

Jimin doesn’t wait for him to beg, however, rolling his body forward and down, all the way until their cocks are pinned together between their stomachs, and their noses bump. Close enough to kiss, Jimin stays right there, a breath away, and Namjoon freezes, unsure if he’s allowed to close the gap.

Pleased with the restraint shown, Jimin smirks, eyes wandering over Namjoon’s face in pure bemusement, slightly cross-eyed with their proximity. “Most toys can’t kiss back,” he mentions, a hand sliding up Namjoon’s forearm and shoulder to thumb at his jaw, tilting his head back and holding it in place, “so I figure I might as well treat myself.”

“Most?” is the final worried exclamation Namjoon manages to get out before lips are descending on his, and heat erupts.

There’s no way Namjoon could keep up. Not when his face is pressed tightly to Jimin’s, lips nipped at, tongue sucked at, and mouth thoroughly explored. Not when every inch of his front is pressed to Jimin’s, the latter’s nipples hard against the soft, relaxed flesh of Namjoon’s chest. Not when he becomes aware of slow rocking, Jimin grinding their cocks together.

It takes him an unknowable eternity of this to realise that the slow, indulgent groans passed between them aren’t all his, and that Jimin’s shifting motions are brought on by the way he’s reached behind himself with a finger slick with their shared spit, working himself open.

It’s that realisation that becomes the last straw for any of Namjoon’s reserves. He feels so - so passive, not even prepping the man who’s about to take his cock. He’s lying on unforgiving steel, body used as a grinding post and mouth deeply plundered, just a mindless toy, dumbed down to pleasure and need. He isn’t even really aware of his own body where Jimin isn’t touching it; he isn’t too sure where in space his hands are, or what his feet are doing. His lips are for Jimin and his cock is for Jimin and that’s enough to make him light-headed.

When Jimin sits up, Namjoon grunts a bit and fights for some clarity to help line himself up against Jimin’s awaiting body, but the dom just tuts and rebuffs the advances, suiting himself. Part of his weight is on Namjoon’s right shoulder as he props himself up, slowly bearing the rest down so that the head of Namjoon’s cock pushes inside.

The moan that leaves Jimin’s mouth is enough to make Namjoon’s bones shake, wishing he could hear it on repeat, and the dom certainly seems to be doing his best to make it a reality with the enthusiastic way he works his hips down in tight circles, clenching around the intrusion.

Namjoon feels like he’s floating, the hard edges of steel no longer grounding him. He doesn’t lift his hands up to hold onto Jimin, he doesn’t fuck up into him, he’s barely even looking at him with how low his eyes are lidded, but there’s liberation in that inaction.

The pressure to perform is entirely lifted, and he feels the pleasure twofold, once from his own sensation and then again like an echo with every sigh and groan that leaves Jimin’s lips.

The dom has the stamina of an athlete, lifting a leg up onto the metal base beside Namjoon’s hips to gain better leverage, and Namjoon has a front row seat to the way the muscles in Jimin’s thighs flex. They’re corded and thick, such an erotic contrast to the softness of his ass, and Namjoon feels drunk off of it.

He lets Jimin take what he wants, and he feels, and that’s all.

He doesn’t even think, not really, nothing deeper than mindless observation.

Jimin is beautiful, like nobody he’d seen before, and the lack of makeup and unstyled hair certainly doesn’t change that. It’s a reminder that he’s real, and that he’s sharing this experience with Namjoon. He sits up, leaning backwards with a hand on Namjoon’s knee instead of his shoulder, and the first time he plunges down, his whole body is wracked with a violent tremor.

“I’m close,” he pants outs, eyes flicking down to Namjoon, a lazy grin appearing momentarily, onto to be knocked off by an expression of pure euphoria as he swaps the bouncing out for grinding. He rocks his hips back and forth, Namjoon buried deeply inside, and seeks out his own end irrelevant of the body that cock belongs to.

Namjoon doesn’t care, loves the near out-of-body experience he’s having, and wills the pleasure to simmer long enough for Jimin to come first.

When Jimin gets really close, he loses some of the fluidity in his movements and becomes jagged, seizing up more and more until he’s stock still, breaths staccato and mouth wide open. The physical release follows soon after, and Namjoon shudders as hot white paints the underside of his chin and his chest.

Jimin has a hand around himself, tugging out every last drop as he sucks in desperate lungfuls of air, slowly curling in on himself until his burning forehead is on Namjoon’s shoulder. “Fuck,” he curses under his breath, chest heaving.

Namjoon reaches his end without even noticing. The pleasure throughout his whole body is so electric that an orgasm is barely a notch higher, more so a spreading warmth throughout his body. Wet where Jimin’s still joined to him, and damp everywhere else with perspiration, but it’s blissful nonetheless.

Jimin heaves himself back upright after a brief interlude, brows furrowed as he glances down at Namjoon. “Did you- oh,” he remarks, shifting a little and seeing the cum that’s split around the base of Namjoon’s cock. He lets out a deep sigh, eyes slipping closed for a moment as he tips his head back. “Okay, bye-bye dom.”

Namjoon’s mind slips back into awareness at a snail’s pace, feeling first the way his throat has dried up a little and his jaw hurts from clenching his teeth. Then his voice comes back to him, and he coughs a little, blinking up at the dom above him. “Does dom have a return date by chance? That was… fucking incredible,” he admits.

Jimin laughs, the action causing him to clench around Namjoon. With playful fingers, he reaches down and lightly pinches the fat of Namjoon’s cheeks. “You’re too cute,” he declares, before lifting himself up and off, clicking his tongue at the rush of wetness that drips down his legs. “Far out, it’s like you haven’t nutted in a year.”

Namjoon feels his cheeks heat against his best intentions. “That’s just normal.”

Jimin sends him a sharp look, searching his face. “Holy fuck,” he muses, stalking over to the nearest station to raid a small drawer of wet wipes, “and you’ve been letting that beast sit out in the cold every night instead of coming in here? Masochist.”

It takes all the energy left in his body to sit up, but Namjoon gratefully accepts a fresh wad of wipes and begins to clean himself off. “The beast doesn’t pay the bills,” he quips, already feeling more casual with Jimin after their intense shared experience.

“Then I suppose I’ll have to enjoy its company on your free time,” Jimin offers up, avoiding Namjoon’s gaze with what appears to be a shy streak as he dresses himself.

Namjoon smiles, appreciating the gorgeous sight of Jimin’s body before he covers up. Appreciating even more the way he feels so comfortable in his presence, enough to let go the way he did. “I’d like that.”

[dancingazaleas]

𖨆. 08 / all for us

summary: levi decides to walk you through his garden on a rainy day. you didn’t think that you’d end up having another antagonist though.

note: oh my god, i am deeply sorry that this took such a long time. i’ve been way too busy to actually sit down and get into the mindset of this book. i’m so sorry.

word count: +2.4k

taglist: @voltairelesecond @baelo80 @the-sun-baby @uniquepickle @ascybous @messyhairday-me @stupid-stinky @saturnalya @megumitodoroki @kouyume @quacksonlover81 @gipumaur @morgana-olson @yourodangoatama

warnings/notes: cursing, creepy gestures, fluff, slight confusion, unedited, let me know if i missed anything

RAINDROPS pelted against the glass of the window gently, the sound echoing throughout the quiet room that is your bedroom.

today, levi had decided he would just spend his time with you in the comfort of your own room, holding you in his arms while he lazed the day away.

you, on the other hand, were having none of it. and by none of it, i mean cuddling. it wasn't that you didn't want to cuddle with levi, in fact, you enjoyed a lot! but, the rain outside your window was far more important in your eyes.

there was nothing exactly specific about the rain that entrapped your attention, just that it had been so long since you'd been in it. so long since you've been outside even.

but you'd never ask to go outside, the answer was already plastered onto an invisible wall inside of your head. so instead, you'd just look whenever you would get the chance.

and it didn't go unnoticed, it was actually quite obvious. you didn't care however, it's not as if erwin or levi were going to change their mind, so why worry at all?

but seeing the way your eyes sparkle at the sight of the rain gather in puddles outside, levi felt himself being convinced.

he huffs annoyedly, he just wanted to spend the day in your arms until erwin was home. he wishes it didn't rain. but even so, he begrudgingly gets to his feet and trudges to you. you look at him with a smile, hand reaching up to point at something that only you could probably see.

"we're gonna go outside for a bit, sick of watching your desperate face," he puts his hands in his pockets while staring at your widened eyes.

you stare at him for a minute, slightly creeping him out, before you even really react. you swing your arms around his neck and thank him profusely, a wide smile spread from ear to ear whenever you pull away from him.

"you're not going out in your nightgown though," he points to the silk white nightgown that ends at your bruised knees.

you follow behind him happily whenever he walks into your closet, shuffling through the different clothes he's bought you.

"you're not wearing light colors, it's too muddy outside, and if you were to get stains on you, they'd ruined beyond repair," he mutters, grabbing a black button up with bishop sleeves.

he hands it to you, gently taking your hand to lead you out of the closet and towards your dresser than held your clothes. he settles on a forest green skirt that ends just a few inches above your ankles, and then he grabs a bra for you.

"strip," you don't complain, only heat up and oblige.

his back is turned whenever he flings a black bra at you, obviously avoiding the sight of your body to help you maintain your decency. even if he did bathe you sometimes.

you hurriedly slip the bra on and levi finally decides to look at you again. he helps you button up your shirt along with the cuffs, nagging at you quietly as a husband would do for their wife. he lets you step inside the skirt on your own, which has you coming to the realization that there are built in pants that separate the air from your panties.

levi scoffs at your untucked shirt, tucking it into your skirt with fondness dripping from him. he sits you onto the stool of your vanity, which no longer has a mirror, and sighs. he picked up a brush, running it carefully through your hair to avoid any tangles that would tug at your head.

when he feels you're decent enough, he holds a cold hand out for you to take into his own. you accept it with glee, skipping behind him when he guides you through his estate and to the back door that leads to his garden.

"i need you all to clean up that table in the center. put those big umbrellas under it and dry it off with towels. then leave towels by the umbrella so i can wipe it down if it gets wet again. make us a light lunch, nothing too big but definitely not small. (name) and i are going to walk around the garden together until you all are finished or until we're ready to eat," levi's so quick with his words that it has you reeling with confusion, but his workers seem just fine with his speed and are already starting to complete the task given to them.

he holds a smaller umbrella in one hand and your hand in the other, opening it above the two of you as you step outside the door. your shoes click against the stone walkway just as thunder booms in the sky. you flinch and chuckle, pulling your hand away from levi to link arms with him.

he guides you along the garden, only explaining certain things if you had questions. the silence mixed with the light pitter patter of the rain soothes him, heavy eyes fluttering sleepily.

he's immediately awake whenever you squeal excitedly.

there was a marble statue of the goddess, themis. her scales were elegantly balanced between her fingers while her blindfold hung loosely around her eyes, other hand on the hilt of her sword that pointed to the ground.

"that was a reward for erwin at his office. i make sure to clean it myself every once and a while," you look to him, admiration mixed with confusion displayed on your face as you contemplated the meanings behind not only the goddess, but her statue as well.

you decide to keep quiet, slightly tugging levi to come closer to the statue so you can examine it more closely.

your eyes are shining whenever levi looks at you, and he feels like you're the sunshine in the midst of this pouring rain.

he looks down at his shoes silently, brushing away his cheesy and sappy thoughts. he feels stupid. not once had he felt this way towards anyone besides tall blonde men with blue eyes, but now he was feeling this way towards a woman. to say he was confused was only scratching at the surface.

he knew he'd liked you when he met you. you were quick witted, outgoing, and kind-hearted, not to mention gorgeous. but it's not like he wasn't sexually attracted to women at the time, he definitely was. he had never just felt romantically for women, not once in the entirety of his pitiful life.

but you're so docile and levi likes that. he not only likes it, he cherishes it.

for now, he'll entertain the thought that he might be bisexual, pansexual, whatever title makes him feel comfortable. if he can fall for you, then there's a chance he can fall for other girls.

levi hasn't even realized he's zoned out until you whine at him. you're lightly tugging on his hand to venture further into the garden, and levi's heart swells. you had an opportunity to leave, whether you even knew it or not, yet you chose to stay and wait for him. you had even snapped him out of it.

he lets out a huff before he stares to guide you around the garden again. he can't wait to take a nap after this.

"are you ready to eat yet," he grumbles, tugging on your hand to get you to stop walking.

"is there anything else left to see?"

"nothing that will look good in this weather," he scoffs.

"then, yes, i'm ready," and with that, he's leading you to the table his workers had been ordered to set up.

when you two arrive, you realize that the table was sat under a white hexagonal kiosko that had vines and flowers wrapping around the support beams. the table was covered from the rain, confusion clacking your brain at why levi asked for a big umbrella.

he seems pleased at seeing the table though.

"how long did it take for petra to realize," levi asks whenever he helps you sit down.

"not very long," the man said, and you recognize him from that day in bath with erwin.

you stiffen at the eye contact, looking down at the table and the empty plates that sit upon them. you feel his stare linger on you and your body, specifically your curves that were hidden underneath the button up shirt levi put on you. this kid gave you the creeps.

"i'll be back with the food," he says and walks behind your chair, fingers brushing against the back of your neck.

you swallow down your disgust, looking to levi to start a conversation.

"levi, wh... what's that boy's name?"

eyebrow raised, he responds, "his name's archie. why do you ask?"

"no reason. i think i've seen him around the house before," you shrug and idly play with the silverware on the table.

levi doesn't believe you, but the day has been too good for him to ruin now. you both talk sparingly while waiting for archie to come back, mostly talking about the new tv show you got levi to start watching and what he thinks about it.

the two of you turn your heads when you hear the sound of footsteps. you see erwin with archie following behind him with a tray of three plates, erwin holding an umbrella over the two of them. a soft smile sets on levi's face when he sees him.

"what are you doing home," you smile whenever he steps under the roof of the kiosko closes the umbrella.

"i was thinking of you two all day. it got so bad that i called a client by your guys' names," he chuckles, leaning down to give you a kiss on your head.

he does the same to levi while you giggle at his sentence. he sits down in an unoccupied chair, hand laying itself on your thigh.

"you can't just keep taking off, erwin," despite the slightly bitter sentence, levi's face is content.

archie places the plates in front of erwin and levi in silence, then to you. his arm brushes your own, and you can't help but get that weird feeling in your tummy again.

"thank you," you say to him quietly, flipping the fork between your fingers.

he just hums in response and walk away from the three of you again, sly smirk on his face. you ignore him, starting to eat the grilled chicken salad with slight confusion.

it had been over three months since you'd even had a fork in your hands. the feeling felt foreign and it felt as if all memory of how to eat with a fork washed away. the realization made your stomach ache, a dreadful look in your eyes spreading across your body. you swallowed down the huge ball that brews in your throat, hands trembling.

erwin and levi stare with pride swelling in their chests while tears swell in your eyes.

since when had you become so dependent? were you not just taking care of pieck and her cat when she was sick months ago?

you take a deep breath, adjusting the fork to make it comfortable in your hand. you try your best to eat with loose muscles, but the stiffness in your bones have practically turned you into wood.

erwin turns to you, sickeningly sweet smile on his face, taking the fork out of your hand and gathering food for you. he feeds you, just as he has done before, fingers gently touching your jaw as if he guided your chewing.

a warmth fills the ball in your chest, and deep down inside it makes you sick. you chew slowly and listen to levi and erwin's conversation, which consists of erwin's workday and how you've refused to cuddle with levi this morning.

————

you lay on the living room couch with your head in erwin's lap and feet in levi's. a crime documentary plays on the television, something erwin seemed excited about. he looked too cute to deny.

erwin's fingers run through the locks of your hair lovingly, only ever pulling them out if they start to tangle. levi's watching the documentary with a bored look on his face, thumb rubbing random patterns into your ankle. you're not exactly paying attention to the documentary, only zoning in whenever erwin points something out or whenever levi lets out a scoff.

you start to sit up and stretch, the urge of going to the bathroom taking over you.

you feel embarrassed whenever you ask, "can i go to the bathroom?"

"yeah, just go to the one in your quarters," levi's answer is immediate. he really must not like the documentary.

you pad over to the bathroom, listening to the pitter pattering of your bare feet against the dark hardwood floor. you walk into the opened door of your quarter, yawning obnoxiously and throwing your arms into the air. maybe you should've cuddled with levi this morning.

you go to the bathroom quickly, the thundering of the sky making you nervous. it would've been different if levi or erwin were with you.

you start to walk back to the living room, eyes focused on the flickering light that illuminates the large hallway. a particular loud clash of lightning and clap of thunder has you jumping into the air, house barely rumbling.

your body crashes into a chest, which you immediately grab onto, instinctively. you start to apologize to the person, obviously thinking that it was erwin judging by the height and broadness of the chest.

but when you look up, you're looking at the emerald green eyes that belong to archie. your words get caught in your throat and you feel yourself pale.

"i-i'm sorry," you stutter, immediately backing away only to come to the realization that you're already a few feet from the door to go back into the living room.

if you crashed into him, that means he was walking towards you. but the only thing ahead of the two of you would be—

would be your room.

dread drenches you, head to toe, sweat forming on your forehead as the room starts to feel a little bit fuzzy.

"wh-why were you in my room," you struggle to even get the first syllable out.

"levi wanted me to check for something in there," he shrugs nonchalantly, but you're not convinced.

you smile shakily and nod, rushing to the living room to get away from him. you try to think positive even after all the staring and subtle touches.

but it still leaves a pit in your stomach.

[kiegosbby]

I wanted to give you a request ❤️ how would the bnha boys be with a s/o who is famous or like a model. This could be in a fic or just head cannons whatever you want!

Special thanks to @twisted-crumpets

I didn’t know who you wanted so I did who I thought you meant 🥲

(Unedited)

enjoy!!

bakugo

I think like he would be ok with it

he just makes sure you won’t leave him, I mean he’s perfect why would you not?

When he sees you on a ad while he’s working he def has a “that’s my girl” kinda moment

bakugo was walking along kirishima for patrol, it was late at night and not much happening.

they had just gotten food and were walking downtown, talking to some fans when something caught his eye

he looked up to see what it was and he saw you posing next to some other models for a perfume ad, and his mood instantly brightens

he slightly nudges kirishima while he pulls out his phone

“kiri look, that’s my girl up there”

kiri looks up and chuckles softly

“I’m happy for you bakugo”

“damn right you better be”

bakugo laugh a little and took a quick picture of the ad to you

from: hubby

look what I saw today baby, I wish it was actually you but I can wait

p.s im really proud of you, can’t wait to see you when you get home

deku

bb is so excited for you!

he gets a little insecure at times but like he’s the number one hero, he can’t complain

he just needs some reassurance

bb is still proud of you

it was dekus day off and he relaxing at your shared apartment, watching tv waiting for you to come home

you had a short ad to shoot and you said you’d be home soon

as he was watching tv one of your ads started playing

he was on his phone scrolling, but this caught his attention

he put his phone down and payed attention to the ad

you looked so beautiful in it, and they did your makeup so perfectly

on the inside his insecurities started eating at him, why were you with him? You were way out of his league. you should be with another model, that would make more sense

in the middle of those thoughts the door started to get unlocked, and he went to greet you

as soon as you walked through the door, his arms were around you

“izuku baby?”

“yes?” his voice was muffled because he had his face buried in your neck

“you ok?” he always greeted you but it was never liek this, so something might have happened

“why are you with me?” he pulled away from you

you stared at him with wide eyes, you quickly put your bags down and went to comfort him

“I’m with you because I love you izuku, why are you asking this?”

“your so beautiful and you could be with anyone, why did you choose me” he looked down at the ground in shame and you brought your hands up to softly cuff his face,

“izuku, I know I could be with anyone, but I choose you. I love you so much and I couldn’t imagine my life without you” you leaned up and kissed him softly

(idk how to end that wkkdsnnw)

kirishima

HYPE MAN

this man would go to your shoots and hype you up in the background

personal body guard

he loves watching you model

you and kirishima were on your way to a quick photo shoot, some kind of perfume ad, and he insisted to go with you. you really didn’t mind

as you were both walking in you ran into a group of fans, which you normally wouldn’t mind but these fans were a little overwhelming

kirishima had gone off to get something to drink.

of course.

when you needed him he was gone

so you just had to try and deal with them, but being crowded and yelled at wasn’t something easy to deal with. you silently prayed for him to come and rescue you

after 5 more minutes of being harassed, you heard someone pushing through all of the people

“y/n! Are you ok?” He sounded worried and he quickly moved you through the crowd, taking you to your dressing room

“yeah I think I’m ok- there was a lot of people and they were all yelling at me” you reached up and hugged him tightly

“thank you for saving me, my knight in red armor” you looked up and him and smiled softly and he leaned down and gave you a soft kiss

(after this he hyped you up in your photo shoot :)

denki

aw denki

he’s definitely a hype man like kiri, just not as much

more low key flirting type

hell def show you off to your coworkers like they don’t know you lol

you were currently on set for a perfume ad, and denki was of course on the sidelines hyping you up

“your doing great baby, you look so beautiful”

denki was always happy to go along with you, and to give you all the love you need.

he turned to one of your coworkers that’s as standing next to him

“that’s my s/o, can you believe I scored them? hard to believe right” denki had a smirk on his face as the coworker laughed softly at him “Yes your very lucky sir”

after the photo shoot denki was all over you, giving you praises and love

(sorry this ones short :p)

Todoroki

he is very proud of you

he tried to show it, but bb has a hard time with his emotions

hell usually mention that he saw you on tv, saying you looked good

you knew he was trying

you were both sat down at dinner, eating soba, cold of course

you were both talking about how your days went when he brought up your ad on tv

“I saw you on tv today, you looked really good. I’m proud of you” he had a soft smile on his face as your eyes meant his

your heart melted. he never really said stuff like that so when he did, it always made you happy.

“thank you shoto. I love you”

“I love you to y/n”

[dragimalsdaydreams]

[image ID: three images of the same front-view, full-body screenshot of Xinyan from the game Genshin Impact.

the first image is an unedited screenshot of how Xinyan appears in-game. she has slightly tanned skin compared to the standard in Genshin, with red eyeshadow and black-painted nails. her dark black hair has red/yellow highlights, and spiky hair ties pull her hair into two puffy ponytails. she's wearing what looks like a very short, black, modified cheongsam/qipao with a red standing collar. partly-detached, black/red sleeves cover her upper arms, attached to the cheongsam by spiked, white pauldrons(?). these sleeves drape down at the elbows, and the bottom corners each have a thick, woven red/black rope hanging off the end. Xinyan's wearing slim, open-toed boots with a knee-high fishnet stocking on one leg. she's wearing white, skin-tight short-shorts and matching long, skin-tight sleeves under her main outfit. she also has some kind of hand drum or talking drum strapped to her back with white shoulder straps, but it's not very visible from the front.

the second image is a heavily edited version of the first image. Xinyan now has much darker skin, her hair darkened to match. she's also wearing messy black eyeliner and black lipstick, with several new piercings. she's wearing a short jacket with a similar cheongsam latching style as the original, but cropped to her midriff and with the sleeves ripped off. this jacket has a flat, red, biker-style collar with silver studs. detached, black/red sleeves are tied at her elbows, draping down at the wrists with the same ropes at the bottom corners as the original. Xinyan's thick, baggy, black/red tripp pants have several bright yellow straps and hang low on her hips, tied off with a thick red/black rope as a belt. the lower section of one leg of the pants has been ripped off, leaving the lower leg visible. she's wearing thick black/red boots with spiked toes. Xinyan's wearing ragged, hole-filled fishnet underneath her main outfit. she's wearing a spiked collar, a spiked cuff on one upper arm, and several thick, silver chains scattered across the entire outfit. various red/yellow/orange patches are scattered across the outfit, and there's one visible, ragged hole on the longer pant leg.

the third image is the same as the second, but Xinyan has her iconic, diamond-shaped ruan strapped to her back with an orange strap. her Vision is now hanging off the neck of the instrument with a gold chain. text on this image reads, "not using weapon: ruan reappears", whereas the previous image had text reading, "using weapon: ruan disappears". this image also has a small doodle of the ruan with silver blades unsheathing from either side of the main body, with accompanying text reading, "(blades can sheathe for safety)". end ID]

/chanting/ TRIPP PANTS! TRIPP PANTS! TRIPP PANTS!!

this one was really fun but exhausting, lmao. but my girl Xinyan deserves the effort <3

extra design notes + breakdown under the cut:

I suppose there's not much to say about this one, beyond my main motivator being, "that is not fucking punk". though I'm also not punk, so I'm hoping my version is still punk-accurate, lmao

had a lot of fun with the piercings/makeup too, lemme zoom in on that for ya

[image ID: the redesign, cropped to Xinyan's face. her red eyeshadow has been extended a bit, and she's got thick, black eyeliner around the bottom lid of her eyes, spiked and messily smudged. a dusting of red has been added to her eyelashes as well. her top lip is painted in black lipstick. new piercings include: an eyebrow ring, spike snakebites, and a spiked nosering. Xinyan's earlobes have also been stretched to fit circular yellow gauges with red centers, and a yellow guitar pick with red spots hangs off of one gauge. end ID]

I considered giving Xinyan more textured hair, but I couldn't figure out a good way to reconcile it with the flaming flower shape of her puffy ponytails, which I rly wanted to keep b/c it's super cute <3. I would like to do more textured hair in future projects, but I just couldn't make it work with this one unforch. but if anyone has suggestions for reconciling textured hair with the flaming flower shape, I'm all ears

as for the drum vs. ruan, I just think the ruan is so much more iconic. I know Xinyan's lore says she can play basically any instrument (or any object as an instrument), but we NEVER see her play that drum, or anything else besides the ruan. hell, the ruan is the one instrument/weapon that she's specifically modified to work with her Vision-- it has depth! I'd be more willing to keep the drum if Xinyan ever used it or if it had any special lore, but as it stands, it's a shallow part of her character design imo

on top of that, I really want more characters to use parts of their outfit. I was rly delighted when Heizou dropped, and he actually flipped his baton around! how fun! so let's give Xinyan a wearable weapon

as for the blades, I just think the original design is... kinda stupid

[image ID: an in-game screenshot of Xinyan holding her ruan. it has a white, diamond-shaped body, long black neck, and four thick, spike-tipped tuning keys at the red head. a silver, curved blade sticks straight out the bottom corner of the body. end ID]

I just don't really understand how that position works-- how do you hit enemies with the bottom of a ruan? unless Xinyan's using it like a spear instead of an axe, which defeats the whole purpose of a claymore-user

and in either case, it's just not safe to have the blades out at all times, especially on an instrument that Xinyan has to hold close to her body to even play. so I thought sheathing blades would work

[image ID: the doodle of the ruan on the edit that includes the ruan. each blade is attached to a bar that's visible on the back of the ruan's body, which can be pulled from the center to the side of the body in order to unsheathe the blade. end ID]

I'm aware that the bars would prolly make ruan uncomfortable to strap against Xinyan's back, so I might have to workshop it a bit more. but for now, I'm happy with this little battle-axe redesign

[maybemanyskeletonhats]

KISS

Hello, this is for the people who leave the nice comments and tags (yes I look at the reblogs, they really help my morale.) UNEDITED.

Genre: Fluff galore. Seriously.

Edit. There was more to Teldryns scenario. But tumblr ate it or character limit maybe?

Edit 2. It's fixed. Apparently it ate the tags I put on too.

Sotha Sil bares the burden of cruel certainty. And he can say it's something he's used too but it does weigh heavily on him. This is different when it comes to the tantalizing affections of his lover. That being said this mortal turned god knows what he wants. He wants them. It's the rampant thoughts that plague him about how to ask them for it that make him pause. He usually saved the affections for when the doors were closed and he knew no one would intrude yet here of all places his chest thumped and his lips tingled with anticipation. Why wouldn't they want it? A crimson gaze fell on the vestige who sat idle, quiet. Their fingers loose and relaxed around the spear he had given them. He wouldn't tell them where it came from, or rather who it belonged too. But as far as he was concerned. They wielded it as if it was apart of themselves. He hears them say his name, soft, worried. He must have be staring at them. Gods, he doesn't regret any time he spends looking at them. He doesn't respond even as he gently taps the side of their jaw, guiding their face to look at his. After a moment of them staring at one another, the vestige silently nodded. Seht connected their mouths together sweetly. So maybe he can't voice his wants the way other people can, but he did ask for it...in his own way, right?

Almalexia tried to give herself the idea that she never got to the point of desperation. That there was never any time when she felt that she needed to kiss the life out of her vestige. That nothing in Tamriel could make her so happy or so worried that carnal need became her priority. It was when the vestige returned to her, their face filled with exhaustion even as they sat still in the wagon. They are finally home, she thought breathlessly. Gone for three whole months that stretched on like a thousand years to her. They were a hero, a mortal, they saved Tamriel whether she liked it or not. If there was anyone in this whole world that deserved her affections, was it not them? Her feet touched the warm stone beneath her. Her golden eyed gaze widening as they slowly looked up. Eyes making contact with hers. The exhaustion that was filled to the brim in their eyes disappeared, and their slumped position turned into one of high alert. They jumped out, ignoring the distressed cries of the others with them. Ayem began to feel her feet move, unconsciously picking up speed till she was breaking into a small jog. All other thought was gone at the thought of them. It was them. She missed them. She missed them so much. As soon as they collided together, hands fervently gathering each other up. "Can I kiss you?" She asked simply, fingers tracing their lips. The vestige doesn't even wait, slamming their lips onto hers. Rule like a queen, kiss like a queen.

Vivec knows he wants to kiss them. The days after they've come to call themselves lovers drift in and out of his mind frequently. He knows he'll soon not have the luxury of claiming godhood for much longer, not that he's complaining. At least, with whatever time he has left, he wouldn't see them go before him. But for now, let's love like mortals do. He mused quietly to himself. In his lap the Nerevarine gave him an odd look but shook it off. He often said strange things that they would never quite understand. "It's humorous that as you arrive, your immortality comes, and mine drifts away like stars in the morning light." He begins, eyelashes tickling his cheeks. "I suppose that it matters not anymore. Should the Sharmat have succeed, none of us would be here. It was the right decision." He confessed. He didn't feel as conflicted about it, he surmises that that's what bothers him so. Time changes all, something Sil would have jumped to remind him of. He meets their gaze, their nose brushing against his jaw. 'I still love you, god or not. If it means anything.' They murmured, pressing a small kiss to his jaw. It was then he felt completely mortal, not a god, not a beloved figure. But someone normal, someone who grew old like others and got married, had children. "It does." His right hand came down to rub patterns onto their arm. "Am I allowed to kiss you..?" He questioned lazily, arm tightening around their middle. The Nerevarine's smokey gaze locked with his, their face growing warm. 'Like I'd say no, right?' Vehk merely hums, the arm wrapped around their middle sliding up to cuff the back of their neck. The god turned mortal pressed his lips to theirs in a rare moment of unyielding affection.

Voryn Dagoth's heart slams against his ribcage every time they enter a room. He was sure if it got any more louder they'd be able to hear it. Never had he ever so desperately wanted someone to himself. Voryn finds himself wringing his hands as he looks at them, anxiously chewing the inside of his cheek. 'Is something wrong?' They asked, head tilting. Voryn gives a hesitant smile, eyes shining with nervousness. "Yes, yes of course. I'm fine. Just thinking about something so hard it's abit...troubling." They gave him a look of sympathy, comfortingly grabbing his arm. This only made the Chimer man fidget. "I want to kiss you. Very much so." He blurts, instantly regretting it. They arch a brow at him, and nod slowly. 'Then kiss me?' Is all he needs to hear as he presses his lips to theirs in heated desperation.

Neloth leans back against his desk, arms crossed. His lips pulled into a careful line. It's not as though they were doing anything to bother him, they were just sitting there. Yet...he scowled. He was courting them, so it wasn't as if the want for some romance was alien. Neloth knew he could be hotheaded. But he loved them. The elf cursed underneath his breath. Why was it so hard to kiss someone? The Nerevarine's stops their idle humming and rolls their neck to look at him. Amusement shining in their eyes. "Oh you are insufferable aren't you?" Neloth breathes. They knew. Of course they knew. He forgets that they tease just as much as he does. He lets out a noise of exasperation, standing straight. Neloth walks over to them, leaning over their chair, his hands braced on the arm rests. The nerevarine sits still as a statue, grin still visible with the red ting across their face growing. His hand comes up to knot itself in their nape, pressing a surprsingly slow but deliberate kiss upon them. When he pulls back his face feels a lot warmer from where he started. "N'chow, there. It's of my system now at least."

Divayth Fyr usually has his hands occupied with some experiments or research. But feeling up the Nerevarine wasn't that bad right? Hands running up and down their sides he almost felt a need to keep them caged against his desk. If they didn't like it, they would have done something or said something much earlier right? Divayth's slightly stubbly chin runs across their cheek till he can press a kiss to their forehead. "Could always have you...if I wanted too right?" He breathes, nose brushing across theirs in a rare display of affection. His much larger hands come up to separate the small hands that had latched into his shirt twenty or so minutes before. "Want you...want to kiss you. You make me feel things." He whispered helplessly against their skin. Divayth barely hears the quiet consent before he's giving them a slow, passionate kiss.

Mannimarco has rare moments where he feels... possessive. But in a soft, non threatening way. His nose tenderly brushes the crown of their hair, his fingers kneading into their waist. Grip firm and assuring. Maybe he was in a good mood, he mused to himself. Didn't particularly feel that strong, bordering on vicious need to separate them from every man they interacted with. "Don't want you talking to peasants." He huffs, tightening his hold. He hears them laugh and his face burns as he rolls his eyes. Perhaps he should just marry that at that point, make them the King/Queen they ought to be at this point. What was the chances he could make them see his way about things then?

Cold fingers run on their side, feeling the warm body pressed to his cower away from the sensation. He grins mockingly. "Will I have to beg you for affection? Or am I going to have to do it myself?" The Vestige merely grins, the twinkle in the eyes he grew to knew so well the last few months. He scoffs, though his lips threaten to rise upward into a smile. His fingers dance up to nest into their nape, his other coming to tilt their chin up. "Mine.." He says with an uncharacteristic softness in his voice. "Or at least, I'm hoping you are..." His eyes betray him showing the vulnerability inside, in a rare show of open love, Mannimarco presses a firm but gentle kiss onto his Vestige.

Teldryn Sero doesn't cuddle often. Not when they're awake of course. He doesn't like to appear clingy, he's already glued to their side as is. The only spellsword from around Solstheim behind the legendary Dragonborn of Tamriel. The only one of their kind. It's not as though he wasn't getting glory though..he thought, his fingers drifting down the flat of their back. The hammock they've been lying in swaying gently with the breeze. "Your thoughts are too loud." They murmur against his collarbone. Teldryn feels a laugh bubble in his chest. Sometimes, just sometimes they could be more observant. "I'm a spellsword, subtly is not in my arsenal." His lips quirk upward as he fondly rubs his chin across their hair. "Too bad..." They start, fingers tracing patterns on his ribs. "About time you've learned another skil other then making wise remarks." They finish as he feels them smile playfully against him. Teldryn snorts in amusement, eyes fluttering closed. "All apart of the package you bought..." He hears a small 'tch' in response. "Better have a receipt." They fireback, slapping his arm. "No refunds, Sera." This time he grins, angling his face down so he can bring them into a heated kiss.

~°~°~°~°~

Translations:

N'chow is essentially the dunmer way of saying 'Damn'

[jjk-biased]

jungkook x reader

requested by @atulipandarose (oooh soulmate/jungkook/one shot!! it's been big missing jk hours over here)

genre: fluff, soulmate au

words: 2.5k of dumb jungkook pining

warnings: none >< cussing here and there, also my first time writing just fluff so please be kind. unedited!!!

synopsis: jungkook never loved the idea of soulmates because he liked you and he wanted only you.

masterlist | events masterlist

There it was, the panging he felt in his heart even if he wasn’t the person in pain. As his chest throbbed, it was emotional pain he supposed, the song began to play in his head. He gritted his teeth, upset to have been reminded once again of the world he lived in. 

The world had to be so stupid to believe in such nonsense. It was idiotic. They had to be so naive to rely on  this whole scam - to the point where they even revolve their lives around it. 

It isn’t true. It’s far-fetched. This whole soulmate system wasn’t reliable.

He lived in a world where the universe decided who each person’s other was. Soulmates existed. It was everywhere. And he didn’t like it one bit.

Whoever made the world like this had to be an utter idiot. Why would anyone allow something like this to take over people’s lives? This bullshit soulmate system gave people a false sense of hope that someone out of the millions and millions of people would be the only right person for you. That somehow, out of 7.5 billion people, someone would be the perfect yin to your yang. 

It shouldn’t exist. Soulmates shouldn’t exist. 

Come to think of it, how can the universe even be so sure that the person they have “destined” for him is the right one? And, honestly, who even gave the universe the right to choose for him?

Fuck the universe, Jeon Jungkook wanted to pick for himself.

He thought this whole sham was an inconvenience. Unlike almost every love-crazed and soulmate-addict person, he thought otherwise. Jungkook felt suffocated at the thought of being tied down to someone who he probably didn’t even like. He didn’t need whoever they had for him. He didn’t have to meet this so-called pre-destined love of his life to live happily.

Actually, he did. Or else he would forever be haunted by it. He’d go crazy.

People had different “soulmate indicators” -- basically something in their body that gave them a hint on whoever they were destined for. Namjoon, his writer friend, had a tattoo of his soulmate’s name on his collarbone. Jimin, the short friend, had a ring on his finger with the initials of his soulmate and would even change colors depending on the mood of his other. One part of Taehyung's hair is the same color as his soulmate’s, regardless if he tried to dye it along with his locks. 

To say the least, theirs were easy to find, to discover - much more convenient than what the universe had in store for dear Jeon Jungkook. His had to be the most vague indicator of this whole scam. 

A song.

The universe gave Jungkook one specific song that only he and his soulmate knew. Not a name, not a ring, not even a hair color. Just one fucking song. 

Jeon Jungkook didn’t want to believe in this obviously fraudulent scheme that the universe set up. Despite his woes and resentment towards the system, Jungkook couldn’t exactly ignore it. The song, somehow sung by both him and the soulmate, always played in his head whenever he or the other would feel down. Somehow, it only played when any of them were sad. Not when they’re happy. Not when they’re angry. Not when they’re bored. Only when one or the other wasn’t feeling well.

But hey, at least he knew when it would start. 

There would always be a pang in his chest before it began. It was akin to when the dog dies in the movie, or when someone relayed bad news, or when the character in a book had to leave. The weird feeling would be eased immediately as soon as the song played in their head. It would lull him to sleep, he guessed it held the same effect for whoever was on the other side, and would make him feel at home. 

But he did not like this soulmate bullshit. 

Not one bit.

Even if the song brought him great comfort. Even if it was the only thing he looked forward to when he had a bad day. Even if his soulmate’s honey-like voice blended well with his. 

Wait shit, he should be hating this nonsense. Why did he just think that his soulmate sang nicely?

Fuck it. Forget what he thought. It didn’t matter anyway. 

He had other things to think about anyway, especially how to gain the courage to ask his friend out. 

Jungkook is currently and sadly a college student, who, aside from drowning in student debt, studies fine arts. He hopes to become a renowned artist someday, and in pursuing so, had to disobey his typical Asian parents’ wish for him to be called Dr. or Atty. someday. 

Soulmate hatred aside, art had always been his passion. Despite growing into a family full of doctors, lawyers, and judges, he knew his heart belonged in fine arts. When his brother would play with the toy syringes and stethoscopes, he would be seen getting himself dirty with the washable markers. That love for coloring grew into something more, and so Jungkook decided he would become an artist in the future. 

It was always so freeing for him to dabble in the blues and greens and create whatever he visualized in his mind. The pencil in his hand could easily convey the emotions he had trouble vocalizing. All of his troubles would go away faster than you can say worldwide handsome Jin-hyung with the aid of his drawing tablet. Everything about art just intrigued him. Art was easy. Art was comforting. 

Art is where he felt free.

It wasn’t suffocating. Unlike his family that wanted him to be someone he couldn’t become and this soulmate shit that wanted to cuff him down to one specific person he doubts would even go well with him. 

He wanted the soulmate system gone. For reasons that seemed justified to him and only him. 

He could live without the incessant nagging of his very traditional family who wanted to sped things up. Jungkook would finally stop seeing some of his soulmate-less acquaintances miserable. He could finally go on with his sad day without the song that would automatically play in his head. 

Wait… that last thought made him feel sad. Perhaps he would miss the song after all. 

Anyway, and above all, he could finally court his cute friend without having to worry of the soulmate shabang. 

Jungkook didn’t want whoever the universe paired him with. He wanted his cute seatmate and friend, Y/N Y/L/N.

Y/N Y/L/N. Your name was perfect. 

The way your name rolled off his tongue felt just right. The way your nose would scrunch as you focused on sketching the naked dude who had to pose in front of everyone. The way you would tilt your head when the professor never made sense with his discussions. 

Everything about you was just so… perfect. 

You were kind-hearted, considerate, and intelligent. Your humor was unmatched and you were very enthusiastic when you conversed with Jungkook. From a small crush, his liking towards you grew into something he couldn’t exactly ignore. He liked you more than he liked to listen to the duet in his head.  

Okay… scratch that. Maybe he did like his significant other’s singing voice. It eased his worries after a troublesome day. Admittedly, he had found comfort in it.

If only the universe allowed him to converse with whoever was on the other side, then maybe he didn’t have to loathe this system so much. He could’ve gotten a friend out of it, not a soulmate… but a friend. 

Somehow, his thoughts wandered back to you. God, imagine if you were his soulmate. Jungkook would be more than happy if that happened. But he didn’t need the universe to act on his feelings for you. Jungkook will do something… He knew he had to do something about it. He just didn’t know when. 

All of his thinking made Jungkook revert to airplane mode, so it was only then that he noticed you concernedly waving your hand in front of his face for a sign of consciousness. He found your scrunched up face painstakingly cute but holy shit… why are you so close? Please don’t be so close. Jungkook would malfunction if you decreased the space between you two even more. 

“Are you okay, kook?” You luckily stepped back once he locked eyes with you. 

 Ah… that sweet voice of yours that could rival the comforting honey-like singing in his head.

“Y-yeah! Sorry, was spacing out,” Jungkook’s words were jumbled as he noticed he was staring at you like a gaping goldfish instead of answering like a normal person. 

Your giggles rang throughout the room at his predicament. He crookedly grinned then laughed along. This must be heaven. Your happiness was always contagious and he’d often mirror the smile on your face whenever you were happy. 

You made him feel giddy as much as he did on the days he finished his artworks. You made him complete. 

But that damn soulmate thing had to ruin it. 

How he wished you were his soulmate. 

“I thought something happened to you, kook! Mr. Kang dismissed us some time ago but you were still frozen in your seat when everyone left. I was so… worried,” You chuckled, though quite red and hesitant at the end. 

Well did that instigate the butterflies in Jungkook’s tummy. 

“Concerned for me?” Jungkook teased, it was his go-to response because he couldn’t exactly flirt in straight sentences. 

Your eyebrows furrowed but the pink hue became much more evident. Jungkook didn’t even mind the kick you gave him because he made you feel a bit flustered. Success :D

“Taehyungie’s been busy, hasn’t he?” You said, trying to change the subject so everyone could forget the embarrassment.

Taehyung, the theater kid and drama major, was friends with the both of you. He had been busy for the past month because their project was to create a series of plays to showcase to the school. Their show will be on Tuesday, days away from now. 

Right! He could invite you to the play.

“He is… Hey,” You tilted your head and hummed when Jungkook’s voice sounded a bit unsure. 

“Do you wanna go with me to the play?”

The red on your face and the shy nod you did made him swell in accomplishment. He can’t wait for Tuesday to come. 

Fuck.  He should’ve waited for Tuesday to come. Now it is Tuesday and he was too nervous to even stand in a five-meter radius near you. Slapping himself to forget the momentary faltering of his confidence, he shakily waited at the foot of your doorstep with an album in his hand. 

You two bonded on music and he knew you well enough to know you’d rather have the CD of your favorite artist than some flower that would wilt after awhile. He was right. The beam on your face when he handed over the gift made him so happy that all his nerves were washed away. You always had a way to ease him, even if you weren’t aware. 

“M’lady,” He jokingly tried to replicate a british accent as he offered his arm, waiting for you. And as you always would, you took his arm along with an accent-laced, “M’lord,”

Jungkook forgot his worries for a moment and it was always because of you. 

You two sat near the stage to support Taehyung with his play. You two remembered him sharing that their play was about a soulmate-driven world with much more darker consequences. It was about the fictional hanahaki disease, he said. 

And boy did it feel so sad. Taehyung acted so well, as if he was really losing his character’s best friend onstage. Jungkook peered at you for a moment and saw your eyes glisten as Taehyung’s cries grew louder and louder. 

The story was really heartbreaking.

To the point where Jungkook felt the familiar pang on his chest and the song began to play in his head. 

How peculiar. His soulmate was sad just as Taehyung’s scene played out. Perhaps they were in the same auditorium as well. But that was impossible. His soulmate was probably watching some soap opera. 

Not that he minded. Jungkook had other things to think about, especially how to comfort you as your tears flowed down from the actors’ amazing performance. As slick as he could, he draped an arm around you and let you rest your head on his shoulder. His heart was beating faster than he could comprehend. Even more so, when you scooted closer to him.

Fuck. You were cuddling. Oh my god. Jungkook is gonna die out of happiness. 

He had to play it cool though. Jungkook ignored the warmth in his chest and face as he rubbed your arm in consolation. He was surprised you reacted well. Nothing prepared him for what happened next. 

You were humming. 

You were humming his song. 

hOLY SHIT. HOLY SHIT YOU WERE HUMMING HIS SONG. 

You… were his soulmate.

Okay universe… Unfuck you, Jungkook guessed. Apparently the universe was on his side after all… All he had to do was somehow tell you…

Jungkook, his face now an uncontrollable red, nervously turned towards you and successfully got  your undivided attention. God, he could die then and there. Gathering courage from glob knows where, he smiled and sang the first line of the song. 

Universe might have been laughing at him for suddenly changing his views. Jungkook would’ve laughed at himself if he found out the double-back on his opinion. But this was you. 

You and your cute nose scrunch, you and your adorable head tilt, you and your witty comebacks.

This was you.

Everything about you was perfect, and he couldn’t believe that the universe liked him enough to grace him with you as his soulmate. 

何故 こんなにも 涙が溢れるの

[Naze, konna ni mo namida ga afureru no]

Your eyes widened as he sang the song that felt like home to the both of you. 

ねぇ 側にいて そして笑ってよ

[Nee, soba ni ite soshite waratte yo]

You joined in on the singing and everything just made sense. None of the leaving people in the auditorium mattered at the moment. 

君のいない未来は 色のない世界

[Kimi no inai mirai wa iro no nai sekai]

Jungkook was so happy. It seemed like the world was brighter than before.

モノクロで冷たい

[Monokuro de tsumetai]

He shouldn’t have doubted the universe’s plan. Everything was better with you. 

見つめてる 暗闇さえも so beautiful

[Mitsumeteru kurayami sae mo so beautiful]

You smiled shyly as your soft honey-like voice harmonized with him. 

僕を信じてほしい

[Boku wo shinjite hoshii]

Jungkook’s smile grew wider, encasing your delicate hand in his.

まっすぐに君だけを見て

[Massugu ni kimi dake wo mite]

For once in his life, he was happy and it was better because he was happy with you.

どこにも行かないように

[Doko ni mo ikanai you ni]

You two shared a kiss that afternoon, on a Tuesday, at the university’s auditorium.

permanent taglist: @luvinseokjinnie @97faerie @amoreguk @bbyjoonies @borednia @tanumiki @taescake

[Extra]

Jungkook: Hey Taehyung! Congrats, that play was amazing

Taehyung: ...yeah… but why did you two make out when I died onstage?

You: ahahaha bye.