#I wish to study him and shake him around in a jar

[violenteconomics]

(decided to split the reactions up into parts.)

for riddle rosehearts, it starts like this:

it’s a little strange how studious deuce has been lately. not that deuce doesn’t normally put his all into his studies, but now, whenever deuce isn’t at school or completing his dorm chores, he’s locked up in his room, nose deep in a textbook with pages upon pages of class notes scattered all around him. it’s gotten to the point where riddle regularly has to send deuce’s roommates to fetch food for him so he doesn’t starve himself.

and instead of the usual focus and determination riddle is so used to seeing on him, deuce looks more… stressed than anything else. like studying is some kind of obligation rather than something he actually wants to do. and from someone who has always been so earnest in his attempts, riddle won’t deny that it’s a little… sad. jarring. scary, even.

cater blames it on late-semester burnout. trey points out that the freshmen have been getting heavier workloads from the teachers lately. they both tell him that it’s best to just wait for deuce to get over this slump of his. he’d deuce spade after all, and no matter how hard life knocks him down, he always gets back up.

riddle’s not convinced.

(he, more than anybody, knows what a caged child looks like. and he, more than anybody, knows how impossible that cage is to break out of.)

but riddle doesn’t decide to take any direct action until he spots deuce sitting in the lounge, reading through an alchemy book.

deciding to finally bring some closure to this gnawing, familiar feeling in his chest, riddle walks up to deuce and asks what he wished he would’ve asked a lot more when he had the chance: “are you alright?”

deuce looks up at him, startled, like he hadn’t even noticed that riddle was in the room, despite the loud clicks of riddle’s housewarden heels against the tile floor.

“deuce, are you alright?” he asks again.

deuce stares at him like a deer caught in headlights, pupils dilated, eyebrows slanted, and hands clutching his book so hard the pages crinkle. he looks pained, like he desperately wants to say something, but is trying to keep it back with all of his might.

“housewarden rosehearts, i—”

he sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth.

closes his eyes.

opens them back up again after a moment.

and smiles.

“everything’s fine, housewarden.” he says, in a voice that’s so, so oversweet. “don’t worry about me.”

(somewhere, in the back of riddle’s mind, he hears cater’s voice saying: “that’s soooooo #filtered!”)

"are you... sure?" riddle asks, trying not to sound as terrified as he feels.

"yeah." deuce says without missing a beat. "i'm sure."

riddle purses his lips and sits next to him. hesitantly, he puts a hand on deuce's shoulder. "you know you can tell me anything... right?"

"yeah." he repeats. "i know."

"so why does it feel like you're not telling me the truth?"

"i am."

"okay, now that was just pathetic."

deuce goes silent, staring down at his book.

then, he says, "housewarden, do you think i'm a good heartslabyul student?"

riddle rears back in surprise. "um... what?"

"do you think i'm good at listening to orders and stuff?" he elaborates, fiddling with the corner of the page.

riddle blinks. "i... would say so. you're much better than ace, anyway."

"that's all i ever wanted to be." he replies. "a good student."

then, deuce cracks a bit, a coating of pain being slathered over his features.

"so why does it hurt so much?" he asks, voice cracking.

riddle leans forward, trying to look at deuce's expression, while a haunted one crosses his own as deuce's words poke a tender part of his chest. "deuce...?"

"i'm sorry." he mumbles. "i shouldn't have said that. just— forget i said anything."

riddle shakes his head in disbelief. "deuce, i can't just let that go—!"

"please." deuce pleads, raising his hand up to wipe away at tears that aren't there. "i don't want to cause any problems. i've done enough of that. things are going well, i don't want to rock the boat. i just— just forget about it, okay?"

and there's something in deuce's expression — something that reminds riddle of when he was younger, constantly staring at his reflection in his bedroom window because that was the only company he had — that makes riddle go silent.

I am in dire need of more of that AU that The First years get The upperclassmen toxic traits,i realy want more of It,like;

A way to include octavinelle and scarabia,maybe like,3 First years(Ace,deuce,Jack) get some of azul's toxic traits,other Three(epel,ortho and sebek) get Jamil toxic traits and yuu get both

Second thing

More reactings please,i NEED The staff,ALL The dorms and even the relatives seeing The First years developing those toxic traits,the overblots+Trey and cater for deuce getting their toxic traits right back at their face i beg you🙏🙏

anything 4 u, baby.

(but for real, though, this is an AMAZING idea, love you so much for tilling the ground for my brainwormies, mwah mwah 😘)

(also, this might get REALLY long, so hang tight!)

it was just a seed at first — a tiny idea that stuck around despite the first-years not even realizing it was there. but as the poison from their actual housewardens starts to develop into something truly deadly, so does that seed. it shows up later... but it makes itself known nevertheless.

ace, deuce, and jack have all worked for azul at the mostro lounge at one point, and though it was a very brief moment in time, it was just long enough to worm its way into their heads.

it starts with ace trappola, who's already pretty slippery with his words. but working at the mostro lounge, taking subconscious note of all the underhanded deals azul is making, he starts to pick up new... skills, let's say.

it starts small, with ace starting to give out certain favors to his fellow freshmen to earn some money. if you give him ten thaumarks, he'll do one of your everyday chores for you — dusting your room, cleaning your bathroom, making dinner, what have you. if you give him fifteen thaumarks, he'll do your homework if you don't feel like doing it, or take class notes for you if you don't feel like showing up. if you give him forty, he'll help you with something less-than-moral and definitely against the rules (he did it once back at the atlantica memorial museum — he can do it again).

there's an obvious power imbalance in all of these scenarios, but ace effortlessly words in a way that makes it seem like it's a win-win situation, when in reality, it's more like a zero-sum game.

it gets to the point where ace builds a black-market sort of reputation, and all of the freshmen know that if you need something done, ace is the person to go to.

...but then, something shifts.

at some point, ace starts a black-mailing campaign for the people who paid for the forty-thaumark favor. if you don't want your secret — one that might get you expelled, suspended, or worse — getting out, then you can pay for ace's silence with a favor or more money.

the worst part is: there's no way out. if you try attacking ace, it'll seem like you assaulted him for no reason, since if you try to explain he was blackmailing you, you'll have to tell them what he was blackmailing you with, which you obviously can't do — or else what was even the point? the same rule applies if you try tattling on him to one of the teachers or the housewardens or anybody else. and ace is a better liar than most people will ever be in their lifetime, so it's a losing battle even if you do manage to get someone to take your side.

so if you want to cross the bridge, my sweet, you've got to pay the toll.

(it's not even about the money anymore, really. riddle's thirst for control and azul's desire for recognition have clashed inside of ace in the most violent way, and now, it's all about the power it gives him over other people. and after how powerless he's felt this entire school year, being thrown left and right by overblot after overblot with no say at all, this is a power trip he never wants to come back down from.)

but ace realizes he's making quite a few enemies with his little money-making strategy, and he needs someone to help him just in case someone does come up with a plan to wipe him out. i mean, just look at azul — even with all of the loopholes and leverages in the world, even he was taken down eventually without outside help. if he wants this to last as long as possible, he needs... incentive for people to listen to him.

his own jade and floyd.

his own red-and-black collar.

using his riddle rosehearts-born dominance, and taking advantage of deuce's trey-and-cater-born passiveness, ace convinces deuce spade — one of the strongest people he knows — to help him in his economic ventures.

and deuce, seeing this as a way for ace to vent some frustration and unwilling to be on the other end of ace's ire, hesitantly agrees.

he doesn't piece together that ace is acting suspiciously like azul, but he still recognizes his own role in this whole scheme. ace is running a business, right? and deuce has only ever worked in one business before. he remembers what jade and floyd were like back when he worked under them, and so he uses that experience to inform his new position.

deuce becomes known as ace's right-hand man. he'll hunt you down if you don't pay, and he's not afraid to use force to "compel" you to. there have been stories about cat beastmen getting thrown up into trees and being left there for hours. about students getting forks "accidentally" thrown at them in the cafeteria with such precision, it doesn't really feel like an accident. about a student with a spade on his face who can throw back any attack sent his way with just as much force.

and there's nothing you can do about it, because he's in service to someone who has made himself pretty powerful. ace's silver-tongue gets deuce out of any and all trouble he inevitably finds himself in — and is ace is so brutally honest, why wouldn't people believe him? so even if you try to do something to deuce, ace has his back no matter what — and he'll win almost every time.

you mess with deuce, you mess with ace, which is already bad enough. but if you fuck around with ace, you better be prepared to find out with deuce.

they're a pair — that's always been true. but never before has that fact been so threatening.

jack howl comes next. we all know how much jack despises octavinelle's business model. but, begrudgingly, he will admit there are a lot of things he can learn from octavinelle. and more knowledge is never bad. as long as he doesn't actually use it, it should be fine.

(jack is more dangerous than ace and deuce, in a way — his toxicity is insidious in a way it just couldn't ever be with them.)

with excellent hearing, eyesight, and memory, he silently keeps note of every bribe he hears being taken. every lie he knows is being told. every mistake that gets swept under the rug. it's not long before he starts actively looking for it. it's not long before jack's uncovered dirt on almost every freshmen in school. it reminds him a bit of his time working at the mostro lounge. but instead of memorizing orders from customers, he's memorizing all their dirty secrets.

it's to protect himself, jack reasons. after all, it was only his input that put a stop to leona and ruggie's plans back during the spelldrive exhibition. he's just... preparing for another disastrous event, that's all. it's just precaution. insurance.

if it's not, then he'll have to accept that leona's overblot bothered him more than he thought. that he was weak enough to let it.

(and jack can't face that yet.)

and if, once in a while, ace comes to him looking for a little bit of information, then well, that's just lending a friend some advice. nothing wrong with that.

epel, ortho, and sebek don't have any direct ties to jamil, but they are certainly... impressionable, aren't they?

sebek zigvolt is a bit dense, certainly, but even he can see how well jamil takes care of his master. and with a master that's as ditzy and forgetful and all-over-the-place as kalim, that can't be easy. even if they are merely humans, and their experiences can't even begin to compare when it comes to serving a fae prince, sebek reckons that he can learn a thing or two by observing them. so that's exactly what he does.

one day, when kalim spills food on the floor in a hilariously ridiculous move, sebek notices something few others ever would. jamil gives the tiniest twitch of annoyance — the same way silver, in all his stoicism, often does when sebek gets too loud — but then he's back to being perfectly dutiful and polite and says "i'll go get a napkin."

it's... admirable, honestly. sebek doesn't put it into practice right away, but it stays in his mind long after he first sees it.

and then, after malleus's overblot, sebek's emotions feel like they're on fire. after being stuck in a world where it took just the tiniest crack to shatter a perfect illusion, he's wary of nearly everything that disrupts his day. now every single slight against him, no matter how unintentional it may be, feels like a personal attack on his very life. but sebek can't show these ugly emotions so outwardly — that would be dishonorable behavior that could damage malleus's reputation. instead, he resorts to subtle methods that can't be easily traced back to him like putting in frogs in schoolbags and setting brooms on fire or replacing shampoo bottles with tar.

but his repressed feelings of anger start to build to the point where he's now feeling unprecedented resentment towards... well, almost everybody.

when sebek has very first negative thought about malleus in history class — "reckless bastard" — he instantly hates himself for it and throws up then and there because how dare he.

he tries to shut them out, but the more he does, the more these intrusive thoughts start to bombard him with their uncharacteristic cynicism.

he looks at lilia from across the breakfast table, and his first thought is: heartless liar.

he spots leona lying in the botanical garden and he thinks: brainless cretin.

he even sees jamil, walking through the halls, and his mind screams: manipulative bitch.

but sebek shoves it all down because he's in no position to say that. it gets to the point where he's walking around as a silent, unfeeling husk, because to be anything else would be like inviting his inner demons to visit him on the outside. he pushes his emotions down as far as they'll go, and that's just going to have to be enough to get him through the day.

ortho shroud begins to follow a similar principle. his idia-inspired pessimism has led ortho to see others as less like people and more like characters. it's easier to think of every school day as a dungeon in an rpg. it's easier to convince himself that the other students are taunting him because they're programmed to be that way than face the reality that they just don't like him.

but the problem with seeing life as a video game is that you start seeing others as just ways to complete your objectives. like npcs or maps.

and when it comes to using people, jamil viper is king. or, for ortho's purposes, the ultimate survival guide.

ortho shapes himself into a model night raven college student — kind, charming, and sweet for the teachers, but just mischievous and rude enough to still fit in with the students.

he goes to housewarden meetings with idia to "gain leadership experience", taking notes and hearing out of every single little idea he can get his hands on (these are the people who have not just survived, but thrived. they must be doing something right). one time, riddle even pats his head and praises him for his proactiveness.

his classmates adore him for always been willing to help and being so calm about even the worst outcomes.

ortho makes himself as available as possible to the rest of ignihyde, brushing off homework or studying to help them with whatever they need — fixing game consoles, wiring in controllers, checking the internet connection, et cetera.

eventually, everyone believes in him almost as fiercely as scarabia believed in jamil, once upon a time.

ortho doesn't like telling all of these lies, but it's necessary to protect himself. it's like grinding to earn coins until you have enough money to buy that special armor in the shopkeeper's store.

...or maybe it's more like those cheesy dress-up flash games ortho used to play all the time — fleshing out the perfect outfit and hairstyle and makeup that'll earn you the most points.

if people feel like they need him, he'll be able to breeze through school without any more problems. he's put the whole system on easy mode! it feels a bit like cheating, almost.

it is like a game, isn't it? it's fun.

(at some point, ortho forgets how to stop.)

as for epel... well, he knows that his sudden snappish behavior towards the other pomefiore students won't go unnoticed for too long. but this is one of his only ways of venting, so he needs it to go under the radar long enough for him to... to squeeze out all of this sudden venom that's built up in him.

epel's not oblivious. he knows how sebek and ortho have changed over the weeks, and he knows why. but epel can't pull off "repressed" like sebek, and neither can he suddenly turn into the best person ever like ortho. but they do have the right idea about taking inspiration from jamil, so epel can fall back on what there is left: gaslighting.

every time kalim blacked out, jamil blamed it on him being sick. every time someone thought kalim was being awfully uncharacteristic, jamil called it a "mood swing". every time someone asked jamil about why kalim was acting so weird, jamil claimed ignorance.

at least, that's what yuu tells epel.

and it's perfect.

so now, every time someone confronts epel about his overly critical behavior, he lies and says he's doing it for their own good. you need pressure to make a diamond, after all. and besides — vil won't settle for anything less than absolutely perfect.

("i'm just trying to catch your mistakes before he does. and i think you and i can both agree that i'm a lot nicer than he is about it.")

every time vil confronts epel about all of the complaints he's been hearing from the other students about how epel's been tearing down their ideas for outfits and hairstyles with no mercy, and disregarding all of their achievements as "not good enough" to be proud over, epel dons a confused face.

("vil, between studying for tests and the crazy physical regiment you have me do, i barely have time for myself. you honestly think i have the energy to criticize other people?")

epel even starts turning people against each other so they won't focus on him. epel subtly threatens to take away the upperclassmen's position in the hierarchy, which sets up the other underclassmen as a threat, and epel grouses to the underclassmen that the upperclassmen look down on them for not living up to pomefiore standards, under the guise of regular teenage bitching.

but all of this, combined with their self-entitlement, leads to a mini-war in pomefiore. but since this is, well, pomefiore, where being perfect and poised is the standard, the others make sure never make it obvious in front of vil or rook.

epel plays everybody like a fiddle, and ensures that none of it can be traced back to him. it's a good way to get out his frustration. and hey — it seems like everybody's upped their game along the way. vil seems pretty happy that everybody's improving in their efforts so greatly, practically overnight!

epel wakes up with a feeling of accomplishment everyday. for once, it seems he did something right.

now if only rook could stop looking so somber...

then we come to yuu, whose inner darkness has been left to fester all year. if people think they can treat them like a ragdoll, it's only fair they do the same.

there's a lot yuu doesn't have, but one thing they're really lacking is a bit of respect. that's what it means to be magicless in an arcane academy. you're at the bottom of the food chain.

and look at what a bit of self-interest can do for you! yuu studies in the library until late into the night, burning the metaphorical candle at both ends, learning everything they can about magic until they're more well-versed in it than most students in the school. yuu starts making potions that aren't nearly as good as azul's, but they're cheap and work well enough. they start making study guides for others with their new-found knowledge, even if they do bristle with the fact that a damned study guide is what caught them in azul's tentacles in the first place. they start learning anything and everything, clinging to whatever scraps of knowledge they can write down.

with this, they successfully make their case for why they should join ace and deuce's business. eventually, they're just as feared as they are among the other first-years.

but that's not enough for yuu. the power of fear is nice, but the power of controlling other people would be much more cathartic.

so that's what they do. while ace is more focused on monetary gain, yuu uses their mountains of blackmail to convince others to do whatever they want.

if crowley throws another ridiculous task at them, yuu simply hoists it off to somebody else to do. if ramshackle dorm needs a few repairs, it's only a matter of contacting a few people before a whole construction crew paid off by somebody else comes knocking at their door. and they'll do it, if they don't want to get kicked out of the school or have their reputation ruined.

but somehow, even with all of this, yuu sets themself up as the nicest out of their little trio. they're willing to let payments slide from time to time. they listen to their clients' problems. they take constructive criticism and always seem to improve in their potions and study guides based on feedback. and if you do do yuu a favor, they'll give you certain favors right back.

so even when yuu is a covetous, greedy, all-consuming shark, the students still think they're so very, very nice. because compared to ace and deuce, what else is there to think?

but this can only go on for so long. and yuu knows that.

one day, they get called to the headmage's office. yuu is already going through their contact list — a list that's quadrupled ever since they joined forces with ace and deuce — to see who'd be willing to do them a teensy little favor for them, but when they step through the door, they pause.

inside the office are all the housewardens, their vices, the teachers, and everybody else yuu has grown to know over the past year.

yuu narrows their eyes as riddle steps forward.

"yuu," riddle starts sternly, "from one housewarden to another, i believe we need to talk."

^

(i will address everyone's reactions in a reblog, because this is honestly getting really, really long, lol. but don't worry, the reactions are coming! 🥺)

(but i should mention that there is already a good reblog of the original post by @thenumberhuntress which addresses the upperclassmen's reactions that you can find here. go read it. it's peak.)

(once again, thank you for the great ask! this was fun to make!)

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Illuminated.

Pairing: Yandere!Apollo x Reader (Greek Mythology).

Word Count: 1.0k.

TW: Stalking, Unbalanced Power Dynamics, No Specified Gender For The Reader But They Are A Hunter Of Artemis, and Implied Kidnapping.

[Commissioned Piece. Donate To Palestinians In Gaza Here.]

“You, my love, are the poet’s demise.”

You stiffened at the sound of his melodic voice, shrinking into yourself before thinking better of taking on such a mouse-like posture and straightening. Still, you failed to stop yourself from crossing your arms over your chest, pulling your knees up and hoping beyond hope that the silvery water would be enough to hide your form from his unfaltering stare. You thought it’d be safer to bathe at night, apart from your sisters, when the softened moonlight protected you from his burning gaze, but you’d been naïve to think that any hour could be late enough to spare you haven. During the day, you lived under the burning gaze of his blazing chariot, busied yourself with shooting down hawks and ravens carrying gifts in their beaks, and at night, he had no burdens to keep him from closing the distance between you using less... ancillary methods.

“I’m afraid you must be mistaken, my lord.” You forced yourself to laugh, glancing over your shoulder. Sure enough, Apollo stood on the river’s opposing bank, his tanned skin nearly radiant in the darkness. If the sight of him hadn’t brought you such dread, you might’ve thought him beautiful. “As of late, my aim’s been so poor that I can hardly call myself a stag’s demise, let alone a man’s.”

You were quick to look away from him, but you could still hear his gentle hum, picture the way his lips would lilt upward as he shook his head. “I’m afraid it’s deathly true,” he went on, taking a step forward. The water rushed to part as he stepped where it had once been, and in turn, you scrambled for the robes you’d left on the shore, barely managing to pull the ashen cloth around yourself before Apollo came to stand in front of you, his light quickly doing away with what little protection the shadows offered. It was only after you were haphazardly dressed that you considered it might be considered an affront to hide any part of yourself from divinity, but the worry was quickly forgotten. It was only natural to want to create yet another barrier between you and him. Even insects knew to run from their betters. “For even the most talented bard would struggle beyond words to describe your beauty. They could be chained to their desk for an eternity, study under the Muses’ own tutelage, and still be unable to write a single line.”

He held out a hand to you, but you pretended not to realize he meant for you to take it. “You’re far too kind. If you have a message for Lady Artemis, there’s no need to bribe me with such—”

“My love,” he cut in, his smile unwavering. “If I had any desire to speak to my sister, your help would not be necessary.”

“A prophecy concerning our next hunt, then? If there’s something we mustn’t do, I ought to get the Huntmaster, she’ll—”

“My love.” You felt your throat tighten, your mouth go dry. “Although your voice is sweeter than honey and lovelier than birdsong, I’ll admit – I do find myself rather irritated when it’s used to employ such thinly veiled excuses. Any more, and I might think it better to encase your tongue in gold. At least, then, I might have something charming to admire while you lie to me.” His fingers grazed over your jaw as he moved to cup your cheek. It was not a gesture you had the luxury of ignoring. “You know why I have come here.”

Oh, how you wished you’d gone with your sisters.

“I… I can’t, my lord.” Unlike his, your voice was perfectly capable of trembling, of shaking, of plummeting into the sort of jarring, unsteady downward inflections that would’ve been the death of any proper storyteller. “My vows are to Lady Artemis, and—” It was your turn to smile, now, to lilt your head to the side apologetically. “—she’d never forgive me if I broke them. Especially with you.”

For the first time, his good humor seemed to ebb, giving way to not anger, but a melancholy sort of disappointment. “I suppose you’re right,” he relented, his golden glow dimming ever so slightly. Suddenly, it did not hurt quite so unbearably to look at him. “It’s a terrible thing. Me and my sister never did learn to share.”

Relief nearly managed to overshadow your revulsion. “I really am sorry. My desire is not to insult you, but—”

This time, when he interrupted you, it was not with a teasing remark, a nectar-dipped pet name, the vague implication of an affection he expected you to return. Rather, there was a sudden brightness in his golden eyes, a sharpened point to his smile, and then, his lips were pressed into yours. The kiss was shallow, but lingering, and when you tried to draw back, the hand on your cheek kept you firmly in place – his hold not crushing, but steadfast, resolute. His unoccupied arm wrapped around your waist, his hand finding its place at the small of your back as he sapped the last of the breath from your lungs. It was only when your palms pressed into his chest, your blunt nails burrowing into his bare skin in a silent plea for air, that he pulled back. Panting and flushed, you made a desperate effort to pull away, to escape back to your encampment, back to your sisters, back to your goddess, but he only cooed, his bowstring calloused fingertips fanning over your cheek.

“Such a terrible thing,” he muttered, and you considered, briefly, that you might’ve been the first mortal to realize just how wretched his voice truly was.

“How fortunate it is, then, that you’ve caught the attention of such a selfish admirer.”

[halfway-happyyy]

into gold III {rooster bradshaw}

synopsis: rooster bradshaw’s emotional baggage could fill a cargo container ten times over. he is the single father of a precocious and bubbly six-year-old, and despite his best efforts, has fallen head over heels for someone arguably more damaged than him- his daughter’s first grade teacher.

characters- bradley ‘rooster’ bradshaw, frankie bradshaw, female ooc scout wallis (she/her pronouns)

word count- 3200+

or- the one where rooster can't cook, and lays everything out on the line for scout.

read part one and two

An aluminum wing catches a ray of flaming sunlight, rendering her momentarily blind. The moment passes and she catches sight of the plummeting aircraft expecting to see the words ‘LT Beau Wallis “Atlas”’ painted across the side, but what she sees instead is ‘LT Bradley Bradshaw “Rooster”’. A strangled scream tears at the tender flesh of her throat as she watches his FA/18 explode into the side of a mountain before he can safely eject from it. Another precious life snuffed out like a candle in the night. Another love lost forever. Her scream never materializes.

Scout Wallis jolts awake from her nightmare, her entire body covered in a slick sheen of perspiration. To steady her erratic breathing, she studies the movie posters that adorn the walls of Jake’s bedroom. Most of them are westerns; vintage, gun-toting shoot-em-ups that make her long for the simplicity of her grandfather’s cabin.

“Bad dream?”

Jake’s voice catches her off guard before she nods her head. He moves from his spot on the chair in the corner of the room to the bed, taking a seat beside her.

“Must have been out a little while,” She yawns. “Are you almost ready? What time did Rooster say to be over for dinner?”

Jake moves to brush a strand of hair away from her face. “Before we do anything, you and I have some unfinished business to attend to first, Wallis.” Scout suddenly feels the end of their time together looming close, like the ticking hands of an invisible clock. Silence settles a little too long between them before he finally sighs, “This isn’t going to work out between us, is it?”

And it breaks her heart a little bit because in every lifetime apart from this one, she can see herself with Jake Seresin.

She shakes her head, piteously. “I’m sorry, Jake.”

He lifts her hand from beneath his duvet and kisses the back of it gently. “No apologies, Wallis. Frankie’s crazy about you,” A sobering realization sets in behind those beautiful viridian eyes, a flash of something sorrowful passes through them and then it’s gone. Jake swallows hard and shrugs his shoulders. “Rooster is too.”

Scout watches him leave the room, wishing with a pang, that there were something she could do or say to make herself feel a different way, but if there was anything that losing Beau had taught her, it was the importance of letting go when the time came.

They meet on his front porch fifteen minutes later, both regarding each other with a thoughtful intensity. Jake’s the first to break the silence.

“I meant what I said the other night.”

Scout cocks her head in question. “What did you say?”

Jake sighs and squints into the waning daylight above. “That he’d take good care of you. He will take good care of you if you let him, Scout. And you deserve it.”

The inexplicable sting of looming tears pinches behind Scout’s eyes as she opens her arms for a hug which he reciprocates. They stand entwined for a couple of minutes, neither one of them wanting to part just yet.

Jake breaks away first and clears his throat. “Alright Wallis, get outta here.”

She steps down off the porch, walks the few steps toward her car, and then turns to face him. “I’ll see you around, Seresin.”

He grins. “Not if I see you first.”

~

Scout stands poised before Rooster’s front door. She considers setting the mason jar of shells down onto the frayed welcome mat and making a run for it, but no sooner has the thought crossed her mind that the door is opening, and Frankie is standing on the other side of it. She’s dressed head-to-toe like Jessie from Toy Story: cow print, a hat, boots, and all.

“Miss Wallis!” She grins and then excitedly follows that up with, “Papa they’re here!”

Scout hears a pot bang in the kitchen followed by a choice curse word and stifles the giggle that tickles the back of her throat.

“Well, let them in Frankie!”

She herds Scout into the living room and then peeks back out into the growing darkness of the late May evening.

“Where’s uncle Jake?”

Scout swallows hard; fumbles around for something appropriate to say when Rooster appears from out of the kitchen, his cheeks flushed.

“Hi.” He breathes out.

“Hi,” Scout's gaze drifts to the youngster. “You look spectacular Frankie. If I’d known, I’d have brought my Buzz Lightyear costume.”

Her eyes widen in delight. “You have a Buzz Lightyear costume?”

Scout nods.

Rooster rests a large hand atop Frankie’s head. “We’re going through a bit of a Toy Story phase at the moment.” He too, cranes around in search of Jake. “You by yourself?”

Scout nods slowly. “Yeah, Jake couldn’t make it.” Their eyes meet then, and somehow Rooster understands everything without a single word being uttered between them. “But I made sure to stop by to drop these off for you.” She hands Frankie the jar of shells and turns towards the door.

“You’re not staying?” Frankie asks.

Scout doesn’t miss the disappointment in the little girl’s tone. She turns back. “I don’t want to be a bother…”

Rooster shakes his head adamantly. “You could never be a bother. Besides, we’re having Frankie’s favorite.”

“Pancakes!” Frankie squeals and makes a beeline for the kitchen.

Scout sighs happily. "How on earth can I say no, then?"

“It wasn’t supposed to be pancakes,” Frankie licks a glob of maple syrup off her finger. It had been twenty minutes since they’d sat down, with Frankie being the first to break the silence. “But papa had an accident with the steak.”

Scout’s gaze travels to the charred piece of meat in a cast-iron pan at the back of the stove and giggles.

“Thanks Frank.” Rooster rolls his eyes and reaches over to pinch the apple of her cheek, playfully.

Scout swallows her bite and shrugs. “I tend to prefer breakfast for dinner over steak anyway.”

“Me too.” Frankie agrees.

While she’s in the washroom, Scout watches Rooster push the last of the bacon from his plate onto hers. “You full already?”

Rooster shakes his head no with a small smile. “But Frankie loves the stuff and that’s enough for me.”

Scout doesn’t allow herself much time to reflect on the things she looks for in a significant other, but watching Rooster sacrifice the last of his dinner to appease his girl, she can’t help but feel endeared to him more.

As soon as the eggs and bacon and pancakes have been devoured, Frankie turns to Rooster and asks if she can grab the ice cream.

“Why don’t we wait a little bit? Scout might be a bit full of dinner still.”

Frankie falters in confusion. “Your name is Scout?”

Rooster’s cheeks redden and he scrambles to explain himself, but Scout gives her head a soft shake.

“It’s simple Frankie. When you and I are at school together, you need to call me Miss Wallis because I am your teacher. But when we’re like this- or, if you see me at the beach,” She throws a wink Rooster’s way. “You can call me Scout. Does that make any sense?”

Doubt clouds her beautiful green eyes, but she nods her head regardless.

“And I would love you to grab the ice cream. My dessert tube is far from full.”

Rooster watches her head for the basement and then promptly apologizes.

Scout waves it off. “Not at all. It was bound to happen at some point. I’ve just found that it’s best to be as honest with them as you can- as is appropriate.”

Rooster watches her and she feels naked under his gaze but it’s a vulnerability that she doesn’t immediately shy away from. She reckons she could get used to it; likes how it feels akin to standing under a warm shower, or letting sunshine warm your frozen bones on a cold day.

“You do well with her.” He concedes after a while.

Scout allows herself thirty seconds to remember the seedling that had once grown in her belly and smiles. “She’s a wonder, Rooster. Truly.”

“Papa, can you help me please?”

“I’ll be right there sweetheart,” Rooster pushes himself back from the table with a happy sigh. “Frankie has helped prepare a very special dessert this evening. We’ll be right back.”

Scout takes this opportunity to fully drink in the beautiful space around her. The kitchen opens onto the living room which is all whitewash and navy-blue accents. A pair of sliding glass doors lead out onto a half wraparound porch, where a rope swing bench hangs from the second story awning. Open windows give way to the calming staccato of waves crashing against a shore nearby, and she decides then that her favorite part of the house (minus her two dinner companions) may just be its proximity to the ocean. It is entirely charming in its coziness. From her spot at the table, Scout can see that most of the wall space in the living room is hung with pictures Rooster collected during his time in the Navy, and of different stages of Frankie’s life. Her, as a fresh and endearingly wrinkly newborn, next to one that shows him and a toddler Frankie next to his beloved plane. Beside that picture is one of Frankie and Maverick at her kindergarten graduation. A warmth that had felt foreign to her for so long settles in next to her heart and refuses to budge.

“Are you ready Scout?” Frankie’s lilting voice, brimming with excitement, knocks her from her reverie and makes her smile.

“I’m ready, Frankie. Your dad said you worked extra hard to put this dessert together.”

Frankie, suddenly unusually shy, nods her head.

“Alright Frank, you grab the ice cream.” Rooster gestures to the rapidly melting tub behind him and carries a steaming dish of apple crumble to the kitchen table. He tops her plate with a heaping spoonful of the crumble and two healthy scoops of vanilla bean ice cream.

Scout takes a bite and lets her eyes fall shut, savoring the slightly tart taste of the warm apples on her tongue. “This is delicious, Frankie. You did a fantastic job.”

Frankie’s lips turn up into a toothy grin. “Thank you.”

They finish their dessert in silence, and when it’s over, Frankie tugs on the sleeve of Rooster’s t-shirt and leans up to whisper something in his ear.

Rooster frowns. “Why don’t you ask her yourself, Frank?”

Frankie turns to Scout, her expression bashful. “Scout, can I show you my seashell collection?”

Scout passes a napkin over her mouth and nods emphatically. “I would love that, Frankie. Lead the way.”

The rest of the house is just as charming as the main floor, and Frankie’s room is somehow exactly how Scout would have imagined it would be. A white, wrought-iron bed sits beneath a powder blue mosquito net, the top of it crowned with twinkling fairy lights. Behind the bed, a large whimsical rainbow takes up most of the far wall, and a sneaking suspicion tells her that Rooster had something to do with it. A lamp in the corner of her room emits a soft yellow glow, and an array of random wooden furniture takes up the rest of the quaint space. Frankie cradles her jar and points to a blue, paint-chipped shelf beside her bed.

“Mav made that shelf for me for my shells.”

Scout walks the short distance to the shelf in which she’s referring to and drops to her knees in awe. She’s sure Rooster had a hand in helping her organize everything, but even still, her collection is immaculate. There must be over a hundred shells on display- some ranging from the size of a quarter to some the size of a dessert plate.

“These are incredible, Frankie.”

The little girl carefully unscrews the lid on the jar and begins to add them to her collection, ranging in size and color.

“Thank you for helping me, Scout.”

Scout swallows back the sudden tide of emotion and smiles. “It was my pleasure, Frankie.”

“Do you have a favorite one?” she asks.

Scout sighs. They’re all so beautiful. After a while, she points to a small red starfish. “I think that one.”

Frankie grins. “That one’s my favorite too. It always reminds me of Patrick, from Spongebob.”

She’s not sure how long they spend huddled in front of the myriad of shells, but Scout reckons she could listen to Frankie talk about them for the rest of her days and never grow tired of it. A knock at her bedroom door pushes her from her daydream. She glances up to meet Rooster’s gaze, his head leans against the door frame.

“Hi.” Scout smiles.

“Hi you two.”

“Come look at the ones I added, Papa.” Frankie insists.

Rooster pushes himself from the frame and crosses the short distance to where they’re crouched down, planting his hands on her shoulders and leaning in to take stock of the priceless new additions. “You’ve outdone yourself this time, Frank.” He murmurs after a few moments. “But I regret to inform you that it’s time for bed.”

Scout doesn’t miss the exasperated groan that emanates from Frankie.

“Just a little longer, Papa?”

Rooster laughs. “It’s already past your bedtime, sweetheart.”  

Scout rises from her crouched position and places a hand atop Frankie’s head. “Goodnight my friend. Thank you for showing me your wondrous collection.” A thought crosses her mind. “When we do our last show-and-tell before year end, why don’t you bring some of your shells in? I’m sure the other kids would love to see some of them.”

Frankie’s eyes light up. “I would love to!”

Scout grins. “It’s a deal, then. Goodnight Frankie- and sweet dreams.”

She wanders back downstairs, not entirely sure if she should stay. She figures the least she can do is wait to say goodbye to Rooster. A picture on the mantle above the fireplace catches her attention. It depicts a very young Maverick, with his arm wrapped around someone who bears an uncanny resemblance to Rooster. Scout studies the photo; the smiles of the young men speak volumes of excitement and adventure, of youth, and the ability to believe that they would be safe in anything they set their hearts on. Rooster joins her then.

“Is this your father?” she asks, though she reckons she already knows the answer.

Rooster nods before clearing his throat. “Yeah, that’s him.”

Scout smiles. “He looks like you.”

Rooster shifts from foot to foot, as if crafting his next words with care. “I never really thought so, but my mother was adamant that he and I were cut from the same cloth.” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “Would you like to stay for a drink?”

Scout wants to say no. She wants to thank him for dinner, and for the companionship that he and Frankie had gifted her this evening, but she just can’t shake the feeling that she’s supposed to be here.

“Yeah, I would.”

“Is there anything you’d like? I’ve got wine, beer, whisky…”

Scout shrugs. “I’m easy. Surprise me.”

Rooster smiles and nods his head. “Alright. I’ll fix us something if you want to find a seat on the porch.”

She does as she’s told and settles onto the swing, reveling in the sound of the ocean nearby. Rooster joins her a little while later, offering her a tumbler of whisky which she gladly accepts. He takes a seat at the opposite end of the bench and raises his drink to her.

“I’m sorry to hear about you and Jake.”

She snorts around the rim of her glass, takes a sip, and shakes her head. “No, you’re not.”

Rooster’s expression is suddenly sheepish. “You’re right. I’m not.”

They’re silent for a moment, Scout already feeling the whisky warming in her belly, causing her cheeks to flame and a flush to start at the base of her throat.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Rooster gazes at her, his expression unreadable, and nods his head. “Anything.”

“Frankie’s mother, what’s the story there?”

A puff of air escapes his parted lips as if he’d been holding it all in. “Not much of a story at all, really. She, uh, left when Frankie was about a year old.”

Scout can barely fathom it.

“Her and I were young when we met. We figured that marriage and children were the next obvious steps, so we took them together and when life got real, she hit the road.” Rooster takes a deep sip and continues. “She tries to get a hold of Frankie every now and then. Always spews some bullshit about coming to visit her, but she never manages to materialize. Fortunately, Frankie and I do alright on our own.”

“You do better than alright, Rooster.” Scout murmurs.

“How about you?” He asks. “You ever been married?”

Scout hesitates before nodding her head. “Yeah, actually. I was married for five years before he passed away.”

It sometimes still feels surreal to her when she says it out loud. That someone could be so close to her for so long and mean so much to her, and then gone at the blink of an eye, keeps her up most nights.

Rooster’s face drops. “I’m so sorry, Scout.”

She swallows back the building emotion and offers a half-shrug. “It’s one of the costs of flying fighter planes for a living, isn’t it?”

Rooster’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “Your husband flew planes?”

“There’s a reason I told you I didn’t date men in the military.” she simpers.

They’re silent for a while, the only noise between them the calming sound of waves against sand.

“You’re lucky you live so close to the ocean.”

Rooster smiles, but there’s pain in the depths of his burnt-honey orbs. “My old man perished over the ocean in 1986, so I think I did it to feel closer to him.”

And Scout, maybe more than anyone, understands that completely.

“It’s fucked up, isn’t it?” He muses.

Scout shakes her head. “There’s no right or wrong way to grieve, Rooster. You do what you can.”

It is not lost on her how perfect this night has been, but she knows her time to go is fast approaching. She tips back the rest of her drink, favoring the way it scorches the delicate lining of her throat as it goes down and gets up from her spot on the swing.

“I shared more of myself with you tonight than I have with anyone in a long time.”

Rooster gazes at her. “I'm honored.”

“It’s time for me to go, though. I wanted to thank you for this evening, it was wonderful.”

“It was a pleasure to have you join us, truly.” Rooster follows her to the front door and leans on the frame for support. “I want to take you out, Scout.”

And there it is again. No bullshit. A man who tells her exactly what he wants, and it causes butterflies to take flight in her belly. She thinks of Beau and Jake, and the hell of it all is that she likes Rooster. God, she likes him so much. So she says the only thing that she can think of in that moment, and then regrets it immediately.

“I want to be friends, Rooster.”

And there’s so much more that she could say to him. I want to be friends to get to know you. I want to be friends before I scare you off. I want to be friends before we get in too deep. But the right words fizzle and fade before she can voice them.

Rooster walks her out to her car. He hasn’t said anything in the wake of her admission, and she wonders if she's already fucked everything up. But then he simply tells her, “I’ll take what I can get, Scout. Frankie and I aren’t going anywhere.”

And despite everything, she believes him.

[simplynotcapable]

I know it's probably never gonna happen but hpw do you think Aemond would react to seeing Baelon reunite with his twin?

There is a witch, and there is a fire, and there is a diamond in Visenya’s hand.

He does not want to be here, this little shack in the woods, with its thatch roof and its painted blue door and the chimney belching smoke with no scent. He does not want to stand here with the twisted tapestries on the walls (women entangled, women turning into beasts, women with bloody hands and bared teeth, women as women would be if men did not tell them they were soft and sweet and good and small so often that they started to believe it) and the herbs dangling from rafters and the jars of odd liquids filling up rickety shelves. He does not want to be under the gaze of this woman who is looking at them like they are meat. Like she wishes to suck their flesh from their bones.

But Visenya wants, and so Aemond does.

"What have you brought me?" asks the woman, gnarled hands appearing from her cloak. Her eyes are blue, though he can swear they were brown just a few moments ago. She smiles with teeth that he thinks are just on this side of too sharp, and he wraps nervous fingers around Visenya's wrist in a silent plea to leave.

"Payment," Visenya said, raising the jewel. She waggles it lightly, drops it into the woman's hand when she reaches out towards it.

"To speak to the dead is an expensive ask, girl," clucks the witch, though she brings the diamond close to her chest. He suspects, if they tried to take it back, she would bite. "More expensive still to speak to the dead as they should be instead of how they are."

"A babe cannot speak," Visenya says. He thinks her foot might be on the verge of stomping. "He must be as he would be if he'd lived, not--not as he was as he died."

"Then, it will cost you more than a jewel."

"Visenya," he murmurs. "Visenya, we brought nothing else, we cannot--"

But Visenya shakes him off, and Visenya takes something from her bag.

"No," Aemond snarls.

"Yes," hisses the witch, reaching greedy hands for the remains of Vyper's egg. Black eggshells tinged with green, jagged shards worn smooth from how often Visenya has stroked her fingers over them, something precious, something magic. "Oh, yes, yes, that will do."

"Are you mad?" he snarls, but the answer is yes, and he watches in horror when his sister spills the remnants of a dragon egg into a witch's crooked hands.

"If you do not do what you say you can do," Visenya warns, "I will burn this place and take the payment back from your corpse."

"Testy, you dragons," says the witch, eyes rolling. They are green when she blinks, and he is less and less sure that they were ever anything else. "I will do as I said I would do. I will give you back your pretty king."

Visenya tenses, makes a low sound, and he does not understand the way her face flickers.

The witch does. She smiles. "Oh, yes, he whispers. Your pretty king, your pretty fool, your beloved. He hovers, he watches. Sweet dragon, he says, little love, pretty wife, wicked little sister--"

"Stop," Visenya hisses, recoiling, and her hand comes up to clasp at the hand he still has around her wrist. She squeezes hard enough to ache, but her eyes are so wild that he does not try to pull away. "Stop--stop. Just...just let me see him."

The witch sighs, purses her mouth, and then looks at him. Too intensely, studying him coldly, and then she clucks her tongue. "The boy must wait outside."

"Like hell he will," Aemond says, though Visenya looks at him like she wants to kill him a little. He glares back. "I am not leaving you here alone with a crone you found in the woods. She could kill you."

"The old woman?" Visenya asks, flatly.

The old woman's eyes are violet when she laughs, and he knows damn well they weren't before.

"I am not going anywhere," he insists, planting his feet, and the witch hums.

"It is a kindness, prince," she says. "Should you stay, you will bear witness."

He goes rigid, feels Visenya's eyes on his face, and clenches his jaw hard enough to send a flush of pain up through his skull. Bear witness, she says. Bear witness to Baelon, if she tells the truth about what she can do; bear witness to Baelon and Visenya both, his sister seeing him awake as she has never seen him, some ghostly image of the brother she longed for, and he does not think this witch sells anything to mend the hurts of the heart.

Baelon is dead, he thinks, and Visenya is not, and I will stay.

"I will be fine," he says.

"Pretty fool," mocks the golden-eyed witch, and Visenya trembles.

He stands with Visenya, clinging to him still, as the witch begins. She plucks jars from the shelves and herbs from the rafters, mumbling nastily under her breath all the while in a language he does not know. The herbs are ground or torn or chewed, sprinkled or thrown or spit into the pot over her fire; the liquid in the jars is swirled or stirred or swilled in her mouth, poured or dripped or drooled into the pot atop the leaves. She comes to them, still muttering nastily, and a knife comes from nowhere in her robes.

He jerks forward, shoves Visenya behind him, but the witch and his sister both cluck at him in disapproval and move towards each other again. The witch cuts open Visenya's palm, watches with keen eyes as the blood pools, and then pricks her own finger and allows a single drop of her blood to fall into it.

It sizzles.

He does not think that is normal.

She takes a lock of Visenya's hair next, cuts it close to the root--stuffs it into her mouth and then drags it out, dips it into the blood until silver turns red, and then casts it into the pot with the rest.

She gestured, and Visenya moves--holds her hand above the pot, lets the blood fall into it.

The witch's eyes are black.

Aemond realizes, quite suddenly, that he is praying.

There is an energy building in the room that feels not unlike the moment before a dragon spits their fire, something deep and heavy. It lays over his skin, slick and unnatural, and he works his way through the Seven with all the care of someone pretending they are not terrified.

"Call his name," says the witch. "You've only a few minutes."

"Baelon," Visenya says, once and then twice and then as a spilling chant, begging the air, and the fire goes out.

The room smells of blood suddenly. Not the smell of Visenya's blood in her hand, not the smell of the witch's pricked finger, but blood. Too much blood, lifeblood spilled, and he cannot say for sure how he knows it is Aemma Arryn's blood except that it is.

Visenya staggers, so he knows she smells it, too. Her eyes squeeze shut when she cries out, and so she does not see when the witch lashes a foot out and sends the pot spilling over on its side. Does not see when the liquid and herbs and hair and blood come rushing out over her floor, and she does not see the smoke that becomes a man.

Aemond does.

The smoke sees him, too.

Baelon Targaryen looks at him with his brow furrowed for a moment, but then it clears. He grins, only halfway, a curl to his mouth and a twitch of his nose, and says, "Rytsas, valonqar."

He always...he thought all his life that she must be exaggerating. They are only half-brothers, he and Baelon, and they are not twins. It is wishful thinking on her part, latching onto small similarities and making them bigger than they are. Surely. Surely.

But no.

He is covered in blood, granted. Dried in his hair, dripping down his face. He is naked and so clearly unembarassed about it that it is a little horrifying, and he is almost translucent. Made of smoke, made of magic and herbs and Visenya's bloody desire.

But he has Aemond's face beneath it.

Oh, not--his brows are thicker, he thinks, and his eyes perhaps a little wider. His short hair curls a little, more wave than anything, the way Aemond's only does when soaked straight through. He is broader in the shoulders, more muscular in his legs, shorter if only by an inch. He has scars Aemond does not have, stubble Aemond never allows to grow, and his voice is a shade deeper than Aemond's is.

But it is his face. His voice. Him, a near perfect mirror image.

"Rytsas, lēkia," he manages past his too thick tongue, and the brother who died before he ever lived grins again.

"Baelon?"

In front of Aemond's eye, Baelon forgets he exists.

He snaps around as if yanked by a hook, gaze gone so blisteringly intense that Aemond blanches. He does not walk, he only...becomes. One moment there and the next moment gone, and Aemond turns his head to find him stood in front of Visenya with both hands raised to try to cup her face.

She is shaking so hard Aemond thinks her knees will go out. Her eyes are wide as saucers, her lips parted, and there are tears spilling so thick down her cheeks that he doesn't know how she can see. She reaches for Baelon, tries to touch his cheek, but the twins find at the same moment that their hands only pass straight through.

"I cannot touch you," Baelon says, agonized. "I cannot--I cannot touch you, dōna zaldrīzes, dōna mirre, byka jorrāelagon--"

"I see you, though," she says, laughing through her tears, "I see you, I see you, you have no idea how I've missed you--"

"I know," he says, this ghost of a ghost, "I know, I know--"

They are still trying to touch each other. Pressing their hands as close as they can get, hovering them over each other's skin, mimicking it as best they can, and the witch begins to chant again but neither of them even turn their heads.

He thinks he should have left when she told him to leave.

They are whispering now, too low to hear, Visenya's eyes soaking him in and her mouth moving too quickly for him to even attempt to read it. He has never seen her look at anything like this before, not even Vyper--like Baelon is something holy, something sacred, like he is all that matters now and then and always. Baelon is just the same, reverent and worshipful and crying; his tears are blood, which goes almost unnoticed on the mess of his cheeks.

He should not be watching this.

It is not...for him. This is not for him to see.

He does not want to see it.

He does not want to see Visenya looking like this, loving like this, because she has never looked at him this way. She will not ever look at him this way. And it is not fair, it isn't, having to play second to a man who died before he was born, who died before Visenya was any more than a babe, a man who had his life and his chance already. Baelon has had his turn. He's had his life. It is not fair that he gets this one, too.

Something bitter is in the back of his throat, a heat in his limbs that does not dissipate, and he looks to the witch.

She smiles.

"No," Baelon says, sudden, stricken, loud, "wait, wait, no--"

But then he's gone. The smoke of him, the ghost of him, and Visenya's hands are stretched out to grasp nothing, and Aemond only barely moves fast enough to catch her when she falls.

She's warm against him, all of her weight draped over him when his arm curls around her waist, and she's screaming so loud that he winces, that he thinks it must hurt. Her nails are scrabbling at his arms, and she's sobbing so hard she shakes, sputtering out "no, no, wait, a little longer, give him back--"

The witch blinks pale gray eyes, almost sympathetic. "I cannot give you any more than I have already given."

Visenya's eyes squeeze shut, and she keens like she's dying, like she's lost something she would have rathered die than give up. She said this would make it hurt less, but he does not think it worked. He does not think this took any pain away, only widened a wound that had already refused to close over.

Aemond croons nonsensically, holds her up, presses his mouth to the top of her head.

I am glad that he's dead, he thinks. It is not the first time he's thought it, not the first time the dark thought whipped through him, but it is the first time he doesn't shy away from it. The first time he doesn't feel guilty, the first time he doesn't chide himself for wishing her hurt like this. He has had his life already, he has done it all already, and she is alive, and I am here, and I am glad that he's dead.

(That night, when he dreams, it is of a prince with both eyes and a bloody face, a dragon who presses his thumbs to Aemond's cheeks and calls him little brother.)

[drpeppertummy]

❤️

ok this wound up not even being kinky bc i got distracted by sunnys abnormality

[brief, mild tummyache ending]

"Red? Easy," Sunny declared with a confident grin. "Wait, what foods are red?" Laurie rolled her eyes.

"You could eat twelve apples," Carrie helpfully chimed in as Sunny began puttering around the kitchen.

"Yeah, that's a great idea," Laurie said sarcastically.

"Well, I don't see you coming up with anything!"

It wasn't long before Sunny recalled one of his favorite foods: the tomato. While searching for some in the fridge, he also produced a jar of homemade pasta sauce, a cup of cherry jello, and a handful of strawberries that were just on the verge of going bad. Now on a roll, he moved to the cabinets and retrieved a bottle of ketchup, a can of kidney beans, and a jar of pickled beets.

"Hey, now you're talkin'," said Carrie.

"You're supposed to put together an actual meal, y'know," Laurie reminded him. "What the hell are you possibly gonna make with all that?"

"Trust the process," said Sunny, shoving everything into a heap on the counter.

"See, the thing is that only works if you know what you're doing."

"Shh, I wanna see where he's going with this," said Carrie.

Sunny began opening things up, then got out a knife. Laurie and Carrie watched with fascination and bewilderment as he got to work. First, he sliced the strawberries and tomatoes, then set them aside with the jar of beets. He paused for a moment, turning around in circles as he tried to figure out what he intended to do, then retrieved a large dish. He studied the dish for a moment, then, with a look of confidence, overturned the jello cup onto the center of it.

"Oh, Jesus," Laurie muttered. Carrie was utterly enthralled.

Ignoring Laurie's remark, Sunny began carefully arranging slices of tomato, strawberry, and beet around the outside of the dish like an atrocious red ratatouille. He left the dish briefly unattended to microwave a portion of the beans, which he stirred a few good squirts of ketchup into before using the mixture to fill in the moat between the jello and the produce. He drizzled a few spoonfuls of the pasta sauce over his fool's ratatouille, giving it almost an air of intentionality, and then, finally, he placed the finishing touch: a single ketchupy bean sitting atop the jello.

"Ta-da," he beamed, holding out his masterpiece with a broad, toothy grin. Laurie and Carrie stared at it, speechless.

"Sunny, you were supposed to make food," Laurie said finally. He glared at her.

"It is food and you're jealous," he retorted.

While Laurie and Carrie enjoyed their own lunches, Sunny was left with his fabulous red abomination. While he wasn't very discerning, he had to admit it wasn't his best work, although he certainly would have given himself five stars for presentation. It could have been worse--the beans were alright, if a little heavy on the ketchup, and the tomato-strawberry-beet combination had a certain tangy appeal--but by the time he was through with it, he found himself wishing he'd just tried to make something a little more reasonable. The odd mixture of foods wasn't settling well in his stomach, and it had been a bit much for his small capacity, leaving him feeling bloated and a little queasy. At least nobody could say he didn't finish.

"Well, how was it?" Carrie was almost as impressed that he'd cleaned his plate as she had been by the stunning visual of the final product.

"Best thing I ever made," Sunny declared, patting his belly. His stomach let out a wavering gurgle of disagreement.

"Yeah, right," Laurie chuckled, shaking her head.

[ID: a drawing of the meal described in the story. in the center is red jello still in the shape of the cup, with a bean on top. this is surrounded by a pool of red beans, and around the outside is a rim of sliced tomatoes, strawberries, and beets with a drizzle of red sauce over it.]

[blorbologist]

For the CR hurt/comfort prompts, how about Polymorph with Keyleth and Scanlan? :]

24. Polymorph

"This spell transforms a creature with at least 1 hit point that you can see within range into a new form. An unwilling creature must make a Wisdom saving throw to avoid the effect. A shapechanger automatically succeeds on this saving throw."

[Interesting, interesting - okay, I think I've got an angle!]

Spellcasters usually don’t spar - they practice. They meditate, or train, or study. Clear distinction there. It’s all very dainty and structured, and Scanlan prefers it that way. Means no one can see him stumble and laugh at him in ways he didn’t orchestrate, you know? 

He and Keyleth crash together, sand blooming in the air around them. Scanlan huffs, bracing his hind legs as best he can, and with a shake of his head throws Keyleth clear. 

There’s no one to scamper out of the way as the young bronze dragon crashes into the mansion’s thick basement walls. Well. Next time he’ll have some servants watch them, for atmosphere. Right now this feels like a cagematch, something for show. Two beasts thrown in an arena for the entertainment of creatures to whom their lives are toys. 

That’s why they’re here, after all. 

It takes a shake of his massive head to clear the thought from Scanlan’s mind. Triceratops is nice. Triceratops isn’t as stupid as he thought, when it was scared stupid by fire and tight spaces, but it still doesn’t think as much as he would.

Keyleth curls against the wall, talons fisting into mortar and brick. A long tongue flicks out as she hisses - they fucking agreed no fire, don’t you dare - and scales rattle. 

Scanlan doesn’t mind being goaded. Running full-throttle into a wall is clear, it’s adrenaline and instinct and a satisfaction as he nicks that flying lizard in the wing with a horn as Keyleth swoops by. 

He can see why Grog likes it so much. 

The earth buckles, the sand screams by his unfocused eyes as they collide. Something in his neck jars, the massive meaty heart bumbles its next beat.

(They’d tried. And tried, and hoped, and hoped, and - for what? For fucking what?)

(He’s selfish. He thinks it isn’t worth it. Saving the world, fine, argue all you fucking want that there’s no Vax if there’s no world for him. That this is what Vax wanted. That he made peace with it. Well, this sorry fucking bastard made peace with leaving, and never coming back. And Vox Machina didn’t fucking let him, and something about that saved the fucking world. Why couldn’t this work out, too? Why does he hate himself for putting the world, his daughter, over his friend?)

(She isn’t. So of course she feels so guilty about hating it, about wishing - and wishing Scanlan could have wish’d. And she has so much to keep her busy, real reminders that this is what Vax was willing to die for, did die for. But now it feels like everything in her life is for the world and not herself, because Vax is gone and Vex and Percy are having a baby and no one knows how to handle a thousand years made worse for a hundred you can’t have. He only would have been with her for a hundred, two hundred. How dare she resent the beautiful world for taking that long moment from her?)

Scanlan roars, and he can’t hear himself think, and he tries to make Keyleth bleed, or make himself bleed, or make it hurt in his bones instead of in his head. Polymorph is good for that, too - can’t think, but can bleed as much as you need to. Until you’re you, again, and have to live with how little things changed.

It’s sparing. It’s supposed to teach them something, between the brain damage and bleeding. 

Honestly? Today, they just want to clear their heads.

[mintytealfox]

I was in a writing mood today so I started this mess lol the opening from the 'da capo zentradi au' that needs a new name 😂 I didn't edit much so good luck LOL

Some background:

Two species of humanoid now inhabit the same planet. One from another dead planet and seeking refuge and a new place to live (the humans). This was met with hostility from the original habitants (the larger one). A war broke out for 10 years, for the humans to come on top in the end. The larger species are now used as a sort of work horse in most cases. Some manual labor, others protecting the area and hunting, etc. there are still Nobels and high ups in politics but the less well-off tend to be put to difficult work and conditions. Even though the humans have the tech to make it easier, just don’t want to waste resources.  It’s a political way to keep them down, busy and obedient basically. 🙃

Norton, of course, works in the mines.

——

He awoke in a jolt as lights flashed on with what seemed like the blinding power of the sun. In an attempt to shield his eyes, he found that his wrists are bound behind him in the chair he is…tied to? Norton’s senses aren’t returning fast enough to get a decent grasp on what is happening here. Then a muffled sound hits his ears and his left one flicks in intrigue, trying to make out what it is…a voice? Maybe this voice has answers…

“…what’s going on? Where am I?”

A muffled response, he assumes that is what it is. The timing checked out for it to have been someone responding to him. He groans, irritated that his ears can’t make out what’s being said. Bobbing his head down and lightly shaking it, maybe this useless motion will bring back his senses.

The sound of fingers snapping brings him to attention, this being the first thing of clarity. Blinking his eyes, he is finally able to see a blurred individual come into clear view. Norton squints, “who are you…where am I? Why am I bound?”

“It’s me who should be asking questions Mr. Campbell…”

Norton arches a brow; he is only ever referred to this way when he’s in trouble. He looks around the clearing room, finding it blindingly white, every corner of it, with blaring lights above. There’s a window where he can only see himself but feels peering eyes watching him from the other side, then the sound waves from the wretched machine that dampens his enhanced hearing. Norton grits his teeth, the situation becoming more unideal the clearer the picture gets.

The only other individual in the room is seated across the table, studying Norton, patiently waiting for his ‘guest’ to get his bearings. “Judging by your jaw clenching, you’ve realized where you are…”

“Your kind had no right to do this. Take me….forcing me here…”

The individual shakes his head, “don’t be angry with me, I am the one trying to help you.”

Norton scoffs, “help me? Why would a human possibly help me?”

The man in white smiles, “well, I’m not fully human you see.” -he points at the slight point his ears come to-

“Is that supposed to comfort me? Finding out you’re half of two worlds? You’re associated with the people who took me, forced my body into this weak size, and hold me captive!” Norton yanks at his bindings in frustration. In this situation he should be doing all he can to keep his emotions in check, but the constant bombardment of: blinding light, deafening sound waves, and tight painful bindings on his body that was forced to biologically mutate in those stupid machines created to help his kind integrate with humans (make them human sized, the same process can return them to normal), if wished….All of this clashing together to make self-control difficult…purposely so….

The man in white remains silent as he carefully unfolds a loaf of freshly made bread and uncapping a jar of milk. This action alone bringing silence and potential obedience back into the room.

“Mr, Campbell…you can have this and your freedom if you answer some questions for me.”

Norton’s ears flick in curiosity, the scent of the fresh bread calming him, “about what?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten? Maybe you hit your head harder than originally thought…” the words trail off as he adjusts his monocle.

Norton tilts his head, then looks down at the human clothes he is wearing, he grimaces, well now he can’t check to see the state his work clothes were in, could have been a clue, and tries to wrack his brain for any memory of what happened before this. He catches a glimpse of the man across from him and is confused by the expression. This expression of joy?

“This memory loss can work in our favor.”

“Our—?”

“Yes~ Here” he scoots the bread and milk over to Norton’s side and snaps his fingers. Two guards enter and undo the bindings and take their new posts on either side of the suspect.

Norton watches this situation play out with palpable confusion, then lightly flinches as a hand is suddenly extended towards him for a shake.

“Call me, Orpheus. Shake my hand if you agree with this simple term, ‘I help you, you help me’ how does that sound?”

“What would you helping me entail?”

“? That memory loss is doing a number on you~” Orpheus smiles, “I’m getting you out of here and back home”

“Wh—“

“Just shake my hand so we can get on with it”

This has something suspicious written all over it, but honestly, he would do anything to never be in this situation again and this guy seems like someone who could ensure that. “Fine.” and takes his hand in a firm shake.

———

5 years later

Norton is in his small living quarters. Exhaustion dripping from him as he sits in silence after a long day. It’s frustrating how the humans call him and his colleagues in for every little thing. You’d think the species would be more capable since they are the ones who won the war all those years back. He takes a towel and wipes the coal from his face as best he can without water, not having much energy to care about fully cleaning up at the moment.

A chime plays, signifying someone is outside. Dumbfounded, Norton gets up and walks over to press the button to open the sliding metal door, but…no one is there. Looking from side to side he suddenly hears a voice clearing itself from below. His eyes shoot downward and spot the man from 5 years ago.

“You..?”

“My, my, forgotten my name have we. We really should have gotten that head of yours checked more thoroughly.” Orpheus just walks under Norton’s legs and enters the living quarters.

“Sure…just come in then…” slightly annoyed, Norton closes the door and turns to face him.

“Do you at least remember the deal we made?” His voice nonchalant as he cleans his monocle.

“Yes, I recall, Orpheus…”

He smiles, pleased and looks all the way up at his friend returned to his proper height. “Fantastic, how do you feel about getting rid of someone for me?”

Norton’s brows furrow, “‘get rid of’?”

“Yes, I need you to kill someone.”

[levi-venn]

My Favorite Meatbag

(Tech & TAY-0)

(w/ special appearance by Crosshair and Egg the Crow from the Cross and Crow series)

Also found on AO3 here

"We're baaaaack!" Omega's voice bounced with her steps as she bolted down the Marauder’s ramp. She was greeted by a crowd of Pabu villagers who responded to her cheer with equal excitement. 

Tech was hoping no one would notice their arrival, yet it sounded like the whole island was present.

"Yeah! Woo! We made it!" Wrecker shouted, shaking the whole ship as he ran down the ramp after Omega.

Tech was still seated on his bunk as he watched Hunter and Echo follow Wrecker. They graciously accepted pats on the back and warm hugs from the villagers as they descended, expressing a level of ease and good humor that eluded Tech on even his most social days.

He wished they had arrived in the dead of night, so that he may sneak off to his assigned quarters, decompress, and then acclimate to this new life on his own schedule. 

"Are you coming?" 

Crosshair stood at the top of the ramp, his newly befriended crow, Egg, sitting on his shoulder. 

Crosshair and Egg gave Tech an intense stare, and they both had a toothpick in their mouth and beak respectively. 

"Not yet," Tech said. “I will be along shortly.”

He wasn't making an excuse, but it was a convenient last errand before he unofficially retired with his siblings.

“Suit yourself,” Crosshair shrugged. “We’re going to the beach. Less people. C’mon, Egg, let’s stretch our wings.”

Tech waited until Crosshair exited the ramp before closing the hatch. Not being interrupted by loud, friendly locals was preferable, especially during this rather delicate procedure.

Tech sat at his work bench and produced a soft cloth bundle from his munitions cache where he had stored the racer droid’s head over a year ago. 

The sudden destruction of TAY-0 was jarring to say the least, and it had felt wrong to leave him behind on Safa Toma to be melted down and turned into who-knows-what.

Tech removed TAY-0’s faceplate, studying the tangled and frayed wires within and seeing a clearer path here than he did in his own future. Beyond the Marauder’s ramp there were too many variables to quantify, but here he still had some semblance of control and he wasn't going to leave the ship until TAY-0 was up and running.

It took twenty minutes longer than he anticipated, but by the time he was done the cacophonous joy outside the ship had dissipated, and was replaced with the crisp sounds of TAY-0’s circuits jolting to life. 

Tech replaced the faceplate just as the three eyes and series of rectangles that shaped the droid’s mouth began to flicker.

“I…regret…nothing!” TAY-0 said, repeating his final words expelled moments after being blown to bits by a fellow riot racer’s pod. 

"Hello," Tech greeted. "How are you feeling?"

“Woo! What a rush!” TAY-0’s triple eyes flashed and his face plate tried to spin, but was blocked by the workbench. He bobbled clumsily across the surface. “Safa Toma’s finest is back, baby! Can’t keep a good TAY-0 dow-…wait…what?! Why can’t I move?!”

Tech picked up the disembodied head. “I’m sorry to have brought you back in such a state, but I wanted to make sure I could restore you, before building you a body.”

TAY-0 flipped his face plate around once. Then twice. Then spun frantically. “Where is my everything, human?!”

Tech adjusted his goggles. “In a scrap pile, I imagine, to be melted down and reused for future Riot Racer repairs.”

"Well, aren't you just a meatbag full of sunshine and confetti? TAY-0's in pain here, human, how about a little sympathy?"

“You don’t have any pain receptors,” Tech said.

“Emotional pain!” TAY-0 said. “TAY-0’s heart is broken, literally and figuratively!”

“It…isn’t ideal, I admit,” Tech said. “Now that we've docked however, I can put together something more mobile for you. I again, apologize for your condition and how long it took me to revive you."

“What do you mean ‘how long’?” TAY-0 balked. “Give it to me straight, doc. How long was TAY-0 out for?”

Tech did a quick calculation, subtracting the two initial attempts to revive TAY-0. “Fourteen standard months, and thirteen days.”

“A whole year?!” TAY-0 cried. “An entire year of my life gone?! What about TAY-0's family, huh?! TAY-0's wife probably ran off with some smarmy R2 unit! Soooo typical."

Tech's eyes narrowed.

"I am not a stranger to sarcasm." Tech said, dryly. This was…partially true. He did miss sarcasm more often than not, but TAY-0’s sarcasm was as thick as Crosshair’s and easily identifiable. 

"Caught on, huh? Fourteen months is nothing," TAY-0 said, cheerfully. “I'm gonna live forever.” His face plate did a 360 turn. "So, when's the next race? You better not have trashed my pod while I was out of commission."

Tech frowned. "There is no race. I don't believe this planet has racing of any kind."

Surprisingly, TAY-0 didn’t have an immediate response. In fact, he looked at Tech with what could be described as a blank expression. “Hey, not to look a gift eopie in the snoot, but why would you bring TAY-0 back if not for racing?"

"I don’t understand the question.”

"My owners bring me out for two things: Racing and Prepping for a Race. If I’ve completed those tasks, boom, TAY-0 is shut down and shoved in a locker until the next race. So what’s the play here? Why bring me out if I’m not useful?”

“I…” Tech blinked. "I was unaware of this arrangement. Did you not have a choice in the matter?"

"Hah, a droid with a choice? Cute, human, real cute. Droids get powered up to make credits for the meatbags, that's just how it is."

"It isn't like this everywhere. Certainly not here."

Again TAY-0 was quiet, tilting his face plate down as though deep in thought. "Okay…so…you still haven't answered my question, human."

"It's not a complicated reason." Tech said. “It bothered me that you were destroyed. I wanted to restore you.”

After a moment, Tech added. “You also call me ‘human’, and I find it fascinating.”

“Okay, wow…well, if calling someone by their species is all the criteria I need for a friendship I’d be much more popular.”

Tech hadn’t mentioned friendship. This was simply a gesture of good will. Nothing more. Probably.

“I am a clone of a human," Tech clarified. "and what’s more, I am a variant clone, an experimental project. As such I grew up being called all manner of things, but never 'human'. My brothers and I have owned the moniker ‘bad batch’, but I do not believe I am ‘bad’. In fact, I feel far superior to regs…regular clones and humans.”

"Huh…"

Tech waited for a snarky reply, mocking him for just the simple pleasure of being considered human.

Surprisingly, all three of TAY-0's eyes dimmed briefly, with some sort of emotion Tech couldn't immediately decipher. 

“TAY-0 knows how lonely it is at the top. It's hard being this good-looking and talented, y’know? Well you probably don’t know, but trust me. Everyone is jealous of me on Safa Toma.”

Tech’s eye twitched. “I see…”

“Well anyway! So you freed TAY-0 and that’s great news and all, but I have a pretty big existential question here, human: TAY-0 is good at racing, right? And if there’s no racing then what am I good at exactly?”

The question struck Tech like clanker shrapnel to the heart. "As it happens, I have been asking that very same question of myself. I was a soldier, then a mercenary of sorts, now…I have a stable home, and no mission. The future is uncertain and it bothers me greatly."

"Same boat, huh? Well, human, you're in luck, because I have an exceptional mind and you're pretty smart, too. We're going to come up with new purposes. Between the two of us we can figure it out, yeah?"

Tech smiled faintly. "Perhaps we can."

“Sooo, where did you bring me, human? Where are TAY-0’s new stomping grounds, assuming you’re going to give me some stomping feet?"

“You may receive treads, but we’ll deal with that later,” Tech said. Holding TAY-0’s head-frame firmly, he went to the cockpit, bringing up a holomap to accompany the rather spectacular view. 

To the East was an uninterrupted landscape of calm ocean, the sapphire waters wearing the golden sunlight like a shimmering cape. 

To the West was home.

“This…is Pabu.”

The single mountainous island was a quiet sentinel in the dreamy sea, rich in natural history, peaceful at times, violent in others. The domestic structures built all over the island seemed to add to the beauty, not tame it, as if the island itself granted permission to let these villagers thrive.

TAY-0 gasped. “Wow…”

Tech’s smile widened, with an unexpected sense of pride.

“...this place is cuuuuuute.”

Tech’s lips thinned. 

“And by cute, I mean tiiiiiny. Did you find this place at the bottom of a mantell mix box? Where are we going to live? In conch shells? Like hermit crabs?! Ahahahaha.”

Tech turned TAY-0’s head frame sharply toward him, cupping the face plate so he couldn’t move, forcing TAY-0 to look directly at Tech in his goggled eyes. 

“When we leave this ship, you are going to behave yourself. You will be gracious. You will be respectful. This island is a safe haven and a carefully guarded secret. Kindness to these very generous people will go a long way if you are to make any friends here.”

“Friends?” TAY-0 asked. He looked…hurt. “But, TAY-0 thought we were friends.”

Another mention of friendship…

…Tech waited for the punchline. 

There wasn’t one. 

TAY-0 looked quietly at Tech as if waiting for a response.

Tech hesitated.“You…don't even know my name,” Tech reasoned.

“Sure I do, human.”

“...it isn’t-”

“It’s not human,” TAY-0 said, quickly. “I know that!”

Tech tilted his head.

“Ah ha, trick question,” TAY-0 ventured. “You don’t have a name.”

“This is not how a friendship starts,” Tech said, not knowing the first thing about cultivating an actual friendship. Though he imagined an exchange of names would be included. “My name is Tec-”

“Tech!" TAY-0 took over. "Your name is Tech. Uh yeah, of course it is, how could TAY-0 forget a name like that. It’s so…” 

Tech frowned.

“...short.”

“Brevity is the spice of life."

“Uh huh, yeah, That's not something TAY-0 will crosstitch on a pillow anytime soon. TAY-0 doesn't do brevity.”

“Obviously.”

“Well, Tech, you’re in luck because it just so happens there's a vacancy for TAY-0’s best friend. You’re it! Congratulations!”

Tech considered this, pressing the edge of his finger to his chin in thought. “I’ve…never had a friend that has elevated me to a ‘best’ status before.”

“Oh yeah? How many friends you got?”

“Apart from my siblings?”

“That…sounds like the number's zero.”

“Correct. It is zero. And how many friends do you-”

“Hey, hey, we’re not talking about TAY-0 here.”

Tech didn't push the issue. 

They were a pair of friendless entities, brilliant and unappreciated though Tech had far more humility regarding how superior he was to others. Naturally.

“Are you ready to go outside?” 

“Wait! One more thing,” TAY-0 said.

Tech held TAY-0 up to his face again. “What is it?”

TAY-0’s eyes flickered, and while the blinking facial expressions were unknowable to Tech, he had the impression that TAY-0 was growing emotional again.

“I’m glad it was you who brought me back, human. Tech. You're my favorite meatbag.”

"Full of sunshine and confetti?"

TAY-0's eyes flashed with apparent mirth.

"Exaaaaactly!" 

Tech snorted a laugh.

And with that, Tech punched the button for the ramp, relieved to find the crowd had indeed dispersed. 

Tech took TAY-0 to the beach where only Crosshair sat, boots beside him as he hid his feet in the sand, watching Egg soar around his new home. 

“This is an ideal stretch for Riot Racing,” TAY-0 said, eyes glowing, face plate spinning enthusiastically.

“As I said before, there is no racing here.”

‘Well, we’ll just have to change that. This island is in dire need of a little TAY-0 style.” 

"This is a peaceful island, TAY-0.”

"Ugh, fine. We’ll have Quiet Racing. Quiet Riot Racing! Hey that could be your name, Texx: The Quiet Riot Racer!"

“It's Tech, and we’ll see.” 

It wasn't a bad nickname. The announcer at the Safa Toma Riot Race seemed disappointed with announcing the winner as just "Tech".

"Or you can continue being the Spectacled Spectator! Your brother loved it.”

“Technically, you’re the one spectating, as that's all you can do currently.”

“Oh haha, you're hilaaaarious, y'know that, bestie?"

"Let's start with 'friend', first," Tech said, sitting on a bench just behind the beach line. He set TAY-0's head beside him so he could also enjoy the view. 

In the distance, Crosshair and Egg tossed a piece of shiny shell back and forth.

"We can revisit our status when you remember my name." Tech decided.

"I haven't forgotten it, human…it's…Ted."

"Tech."

"That's what I said!"

Tech's laugh came out loud and unexpected, a short burst of mirth that was unfamiliar to his own ears. These days mild amusement was most he could conjure as it had been a hard year. A harder several years actually since the Empire took over.

And even before then…when had he felt comfortable enough to laugh?

The sound carried to Crosshair and Egg who both whipped their heads back in equal startlement.

"What's that about?" TAY-0 challenged. "Ol' toothpick over there never heard a human laugh before?"

"Not this…human." Tech felt something loosen in his chest, like an overtightened gear cog finally shaking off the rust of fear and worry and instability. 

He took a deep breath of the salty, fresh air.

He felt very human. 

"Tech…" TAY-0 said, his gaze fixed to the ocean. "Thanks. I mean it. You didn't have to bring me back and you did. TAY-0 doesn't forget kindness like this."

Most likely because few have shown TAY-0 kindness at all, but Tech kept this observation to himself.

He put a hand on TAY-0's head frame as the sun meandered its way towards the horizon. 

"You're welcome, my friend."

***

If you enjoyed my writing, please consider checking out my queer sci-fi murder mystery novel “Error: Detective Not Found (A Cake Pop Noir)”. You can also find more info on it and my original works on my main tumblr account @blueberryhelper

***

My Taglist is currently one person, but thank you for being on it @motte-the-goblin :3

[cosmica-galaxy]

How would jebus,skinner,doc and hoffnar react to them spotting fem player take out her ovories?

TW: Surgery, organ mention, and minor blood. -- JEB: Seeing you taking out your reproductive parts is nothing short of startling for the man. He doesn't have a good grasp on human anatomy, but aren't those the organs that are required to make little players like yourself? He's curious at why you would commit to removing such a thing from your body, but it's your body and you can do whatever you want with it. Who would he be if he considered jurisdiction over your own body? A tyrant. Just like Phobos. So while he helps you get surgery to remove your unwanted parts, he finds himself curious about your anatomy while you go under the knife. With careful supervision over the AAHW units working on your body, Jeb finds your anatomy both eerily similar to grunts and surprisingly unique at the same time. He had to snap at the medical unit that stabbed into your flesh just a little too hard, showing that your body was indeed not as resistant as grunts are. With his guidance, the surgery was success and you were stitched back up and sent to recovery. Instead of discarding the unwanted organs, Jeb decides to keep your dispatched sex organs to study...if you allow him to, that is. He'll respect your wishes above all. SKINNER: Skinner is not overly surprised. In fact, he's the one that did the surgery to take them out! He's done plenty of surgeries on his patients, this is nothing new to him. Except it kinda is? When was the last time he ever took out a grunt's breeding bits? He can't recall. Still, with your permission, he preforms the surgery and it's successful! He doesn't understand why you wanted them out, but maybe there is a godly reason that he just simply can't understand as a mere mortal. The removed organs looked rather interesting if he did say so himself. It's amazing how little gods can come from these. With your permission, he would like to keep them in a jar to study and look at later. What? What do you mean he's so weird? Why? You don't want them! It's better than throwing them in the garbage!

DOC: Doc was trying to make sure that you were 100% certain that you wanted your breeding bits ripped out of you before he commits. He's not a true doctor, but he knows enough about anatomy of grunts to stitch one back together over and over again. Operating on a human, however, was a much more tricky process. With your permission, he's allowed to cut you open and remove the bits from your body. While he's both worried and disturbed, I mean this was his PLAYER he was cutting open, he couldn't help but be fascinated by the organs and hands on research he's getting about the human anatomy. He has to control himself, however. You only have so much blood to work with. So, he safely removes the ovaries and stitches you back up. Once you come back around, he makes sure you're okay and lets you know the procedure is done. He even asks if he could keep the ovaries for research purposes. HOFFNAR: Hoffnar is worried about you going under the knife, especially since most grunts don't know much about your anatomy! What if they cut something wrong or they split you open and can't get you back together? He's a fretful mess about the possibilities of something going wrong, but with the right reassurance, he slowly comes around to the idea. Upon watching you undergo the surgery with the Nexus medical staff, Hoffnar is stressed beyond belief as he watches them rip out organs and riffle through your body looking for parts. He didn't even realize that his hands were shaking until Jeb points them out to him. However, once the surgery is complete and you are safely put back together to recover, Hoffnar gets wind of some of the staff talking about Phobo's interest in the discarded organs. Hoffnar can only watch as the Nexus staff take the organs and head elsewhere with them. While he's concerned about what they were planning to do with those, he was more concerned with you. So he puts off the ovaries in favor of visiting you while you wake up from surgery.

[imaushiji]

Oikawa?👀

P.S. I luv u :3 💙

🥴 hehe

It’s the suspicious little squint of his eyes that makes you bite back your giggle. You glance around at the other faces on your screen, varying degrees of amusement or exasperation on your best friends’ faces while Oikawa turns the glass jar over and over again. 

Oikawa ponders, “How do I know it’s not just a bunch of insults?” as Hanamaki snorts in response. His screen momentarily lags, freezing on the perfect frame of his mouth half-opened and his eyes nearly closed like he’s about to sneeze. You take a screenshot of the unflattering look. 

“You don’t,” Mattsun jests. He shifts in his bed and leans back against his headboard, a lazy smirk overtaking his features. “We all wrote a couple of messages so I’m sure there’s at least a handful of nice ones.” His eyes dart over to you and you shoot him a quick glare before beaming at the skeptical look on the setter’s face. 

“Don’t listen to these idiots,” you say. “I’m sure they’re just kidding.” 

“Or are we?” Iwaizumi rifles through his textbook, not even bothering to look up as he scratches notes into his notebook. 

You roll your eyes. “Go ahead and open one Tooru! They’re meant for any time you’re feeling down, not just before games.” 

You wonder if it’s the trick of the light or the poor resolution of your laptop camera but Oikawa’s cheeks look flushed as he decides to open the jar. He pulls out one of the carefully folded papers and unravels it. 

“‘You’re hotter than my computer after ten hours of minecraft.’” 

You smack your hand on your desk as Maki bursts into laughter. 

“Who wrote that?!” 

There’s a shit-eating grin on Mattsun’s as he shrugs. “I think that’s pretty motivational,” he argues and you wish you could reach through the screen and strangle him. Maybe you’d stop his place and smother him with the pillow he’s leaning on. 

“Real motivating,” Oikawa says dryly as he drops the paper and reaches into the jar for another. “....you really hit those balls like no one else.’” 

The cackle that Maki lets out is ugly and even Iwa snorts into his fist. Oikawa’s face pinches as he flings the paper at the wall. “I’m not reading anymore!” He whines as Matsun waves his hand in the air.

“Okay, okay,” He chuckles. “Try one more, I’m sure there’s a nice one in there somewhere.” 

“Deep down,” Iwaizumi chimes in. He’s abandoned his textbook and smirks at the camera while resting his chin on his fist. 

The setter rolls his eyes before glaring at the laptop while digging through the jar. “If I find anything about my ass being flat, I swear–” 

He unravels another paper, mouth opening to repeat the words when they seemingly die on his lips. His brown eyes widen and you notice his hands are slightly shaking. You’re immediately alarmed by his reaction as you lean forward with concern coloring your features.

“Tooru? You okay?” 

He flinches at the sound of your voice, eyes darting from the paper to the side. “I- um,” he stammers and your concern only increases as he continues to flounder. You’re so focused on him that you don’t see the looks exchanged by the other three. 

“Well, look at the time,” Iwa says. “I have to get back to studying.” 

“Yep,” Matsukawa chimes in. “I should get ready for work.” 

“And I…” Maki rubs his chin. “Well, I ain’t got shit to do but I’m jumping off anyway. Okay bye!” 

They’re gone before you can protest, the look of alarm and then betrayal clear on Oikawa’s face. 

“COME BACK YOU COWARDS!” he shouts, his cheeks the color of a firetruck but it’s too late– they left the call and it’s only the two of you. 

You blink at him, suddenly very self-conscious of your appearance as Oikawa continues to avoid looking at you. 

“Something the matter?” you ask after a couple of very awkward silence. Oikawa fidgets with the paper in his hands. 

“This um, isn’t exactly a motivational quote,” he murmurs and you squint at the screen. 

“Did they write something mean again? I swear, I told them to be nice and they can’t even do that–” 

“No,” the brunette jerks his head from side to side. “It’s more like… a confession.” He silently holds the paper up, cheeks bright enough to light up his dimly lit room. 

You have to read and then reread the message because one, the messy scrawl is nearly impossible to decipher, and two, the message. 

The fucking message. 

So now you had three idiots to murder. Great.

Though your heart was ready to rip out of your chest and jump out a window, you decide to tread very carefully. Even to your own ears, your laughter sounded fake, strangled. “Those guys… they’re such jokesters,” you say with a strained smile. “Might have to pay them all a visit… Hajime included.” 

But Oikawa doesn’t laugh, doesn’t say much as he fiddles with the paper. 

“Does…” He gulps. “I mean… is, is it true?” 

A loaded question if you’ve ever heard one. You know your answer could change the course of your relationship, ruin the delicate balance of harmful flirting, and the uncertainty of how to really define just what you are. 

You flex your fingers next to your laptop, unable to look up. “If it hypothetically were true,” you murmur, “what would you do?”

His lack of a response scares you. Your stomach twists as you tap your fingers on your desk, still unable to brave a glance at him. But when you finally peek up at his pixelated face, your breath hitches. 

His eyes are so bright they look like they were stolen from the night sky. His cheeks are still flushed, the tips of his ears the same shade, and the smile that overtakes his features have you slightly dazed. 

“I would get on the next plane to Japan,” Oikawa says determinedly, “Just so I could spin you around and kiss you.” 

Your heart leaps into your throat for a second time, but this time a bubble of laughter follows. “Don’t you have a game tomorrow?” you point out and Oikawa pouts. 

“Don’t rain on my parade,” he whines. “Isn’t it too early in our relationship for you to be bullying me?” 

“Oho, ‘our relationship?’” you couldn’t stop the Cheshire grin from spreading across your lips as elation blooms in your chest. “You didn’t even ask me out yet.” 

That makes Oikawa falter, the realization he skipped a very important step, causing him to give you a sheepish grin. He clears his throat, face somber as he looks straight at the camera. 

He says your name– you say his back. 

“Will you be my girlfriend?” 

You tap your finger along your chin as though in thought, enjoying the way he squirms as he impatiently waits for you to answer. You smirk and lean forward. 

“If you win the game tomorrow,” you say with half-lidded eyes. “I’ll tell you.” 

[vaguely-concerned]

*pointing a stern finger at marika and all the demigods as I take on the mantle of elden lord* I want you all to know I'm doing this for boc the seamster and not for any of you backstabbing bastards

[batsarebetterthanpeople]

This is sort of a follow up to my previous post. I felt like it probably deserved it’s own post though. I am very disappointed with the way Izzy has been received in this fandom. I came in to this fandom, perhaps naively, not expecting a lot of bigotry. I thought all of it would be sort of fringe and that people would shut it down quickly just because the source material condemns it. But there’s a lot and for some reason it all seems to center around the nexus of Izzy Hands, which is frustrating because Izzy is a very useful character, and, while I am personally super uninterested in the neurotic repressed type, I can see how he’s very interesting for a lot of people. Put him in a jar and shake him to your heart’s content. He was designed in a lab to be a skrungly.

But for some reason I see a lot of people’s internal biases coming out around this character. It can be little things that are the result of internal biases that need to be unpacked, like taking Izzy’s word for granted on him working very hard to keep the crew in line and such despite it being contradicted by the show, but I also see more overt stuff, like, people acting like Izzy was an innocent victim of Ed’s big bad brown violence, or what I talked about in my last post with people acting like fans of color are stupid for interpreting certain scenes in certain ways. Like I get that he’s a poor little meow meow ripe for woobification but nearly all of that woobification comes at the expense of painting Ed into a monster. It makes it hard for me to like him and it makes me suspicious of everyone who does. I think that’s awful, because again, he was designed in a lab to be a neurotic little villain fans could study like a bug. I wish he was received with more grace is all. I wish that every time I talked about something that Izzy objectively did I didn’t get people in my dms telling me to cool it on the Izzy hate. I wish that non white fans could engage with this character without having to navigate a minefield of racism. And most of all I wish that fans could figure out a way to do what fans do did without it coming at the expense of the vilification of one of the few brown queer love interests in romance.

[viktwhore]

What Do The Lonely Do At Christmas?

Viktor x fem!Reader

Synopsis: It was your first Christmas without your family and you were spending it alone, holed up in the lab, distracting yourself with excessive decorating of the lab and your newest creation. That is until your fellow Hextech scientist shows up. Word Count: 2k A/N: This request hit a little too close to home this year so I felt like I needed to write it to get the feels out, hope everyone had a good holiday <3 Tip Jar

The lab was quieter than it had ever been before. Your two partners had gone home for the weekend, likely to spend the holidays with their families. As much as you had wished to join them in celebrating with your own family, it wasn’t in the cards for you this year.

Ever since your move from Zaun to Piltover to pursue your studies, it had gotten harder and harder to stay in contact with your family. This year, you hadn’t even received a letter back when you wrote to your parents, asking whether you should come home or have them visit you for the holidays. It hurt you a little more than you were willing to admit to yourself.

No matter how many decorations you’d strung up in the lab and how hard you had thrown yourself into your most recent project, you couldn’t shake the ache of loneliness from your heart. Two neatly wrapped gifts sat under the small Christmas tree you’d decorated earlier once Jayce and Viktor had left, one for each of them to open once they’d returned from their holiday celebrations.

You tinker quietly at your workstation, notes scattered across the desk and a pen tucked behind your ear as you make adjustments to the gadget in front of you. You flick it on, a hopeful grin on your face that soon disappears when nothing happens.

You let out a frustrated sigh, slumping back in your chair as you pout dejectedly at your currently failing invention. Your gaze drifts to the large windows, watching the snow swirl through the air. The falling snow draws your attention and you stand up, making your way over to the window. Below you, families wander the streets laughing happily with one another and kids play in the snow, building snowmen and having snowball fights. Your eyebrows draw together and a few tears slip down your cheeks, longing for the days where you were those people.

The sound of the lab doors opening snaps you out of your thoughts, wiping your tears away as you turn around. Viktor? Your fellow scientist makes his way into the lab, surprise evident on his face when he sees you standing in the lab. He had been anticipating it to be empty, the rest of the Academy building empty because of the holiday.

“Y/N? What are you doing here? I would’ve expected you to be out celebrating?” He steps a little further into the lab, setting his bag down on the nearest table. You give him a tight smile, hoping it’s dark enough that he can’t see the remnants of tears on your face.

“Couldn’t make it home this year, so I decided to celebrate… by myself,” you trail off, wincing at how lame you probably sounded.

He frowns a little bit, “I will be right back, my dear,” and with that, he’s gone again. You make your way back to your desk, taking a seat to wait for the man to return.

It takes him around 20 minutes to get back to the lab, this time with a delicately wrapped parcel tucked under his arm and a small tray with two drink cups balanced in his unoccupied hand. You can’t help the grin that takes over your face as he sets down the cups on the surface in front of you, the present following soon after.

“For you, Y/N, a cup of sweet milk and your present.” A fluttery feeling arises in your stomach and your eyes water for the second time today, this time for an entirely different reason than before.

You blink away your tears and spin around, “I got you a present too, let me grab it.”

He watches you as you practically bounce to the Christmas tree, bending down to pick it, turning around with it held gently in your outstretched hands, a huge grin on your face.

His eyes scan the room full of decorations you had put up earlier. “I love what you’ve done with the place, very festive.” He chuckles, taking the present from you once you’re back at his side, setting it down on the table he's currently leaned against, his own cup of sweetmilk in his hands.

You pick up your cup, taking a small sip and letting out a hum of happiness. “You sure know how to charm a girl, presents and sweetmilk, Vik? That's a one way ticket to my heart.” His blush is hidden by the darkness of the room and he pushes the gift towards you, hoping to draw your attention away from him before you take notice of his flustered state.

“Open it.” You pick the present, instinctively giving it a little shake and giggling at your silly antics. Your fingers untie the perfectly tied bow of twine holding the parcel together and once it's undone, the paper concealing it falls away.

You can’t keep the grin overtaking your features at bay and you look up at Viktor, barely able to contain your excitement.

“You remembered?”

It was a book you had offhandedly expressed interest in months ago on a trip to the bookstore you made with the man currently in front of you. You had only mentioned wanting it that one time and you definitely hadn’t expected him to remember it.

“I, uh, I actually went back later that night to buy it for you. Christmas was just the nearest reason I had to give it to you. I know it’s not much but-” You cut him off with a tight hug, wrapping your arms tightly around him and burying your face into his neck. He freezes for a moment before his arms settle around your form, pulling you tighter against him.

“I love it, Vik, thank you.” The thoughtfulness of the gift was almost overwhelming. You were genuinely surprised Viktor had remembered something like that, he’d always been the type to remember little details about people, but you were honored that he remembered something so miniscule and unimportant about you. You reluctantly pull away from him, wanting him to open the present you got him.

“Your turn.” You nearly shove the present into his chest, looking up at him expectantly with a sweet smile on your lips. He takes it from you gently, following suit in unwrapping it to reveal what's inside.

He lifts up the deep red scarf you had made for him, knitted with soft yarn you’d found at the market a while ago, the deep red reminding you of the color Viktor typically adorned the minute you saw it.

“I made it myself,” You state proudly, “D’ya like it?” You question hopefully, his silent demeanor making you nervous.

“I love it, it’s perfect.” His voice is quiet and his eyes are locked on the scarf, fingers brushing against the soft material.

“Would you like to do the honors?”

He holds the scarf up to you and you gladly take it. By this time, Viktor had moved into a more comfortable position and was seated on the table you had been working on earlier, any attempt of work long discarded. You step between his legs, heart rate picking up at the close proximity of you and your fellow scientist. His hands reach out, settling on your waist to steady himself. Your cheeks flush at the touch but you try not to let it show, taking the scarf from him.

You gently wrap the scarf around his neck, making minor adjustments to make it fit more comfortably. You smile at your handiwork, eyes darting up from his neck to his eyes. His gaze had been locked on you since you stepped closer to him, your body heat radiating from you and warming the skin of his thighs where your hips rested. He never wants you to move. His golden eyes meet yours when you look up, gaze darting down to your lips for a brief, but noticeable, moment.

“You look amazing.” Your voice is barely above a whisper now and you can’t seem to tear your eyes away from him. His presence is intoxicating and you can’t help but lean in, his eyes drawing you in like a moth to a flame. His hand grip at your waist a little tighter the closer you get. Your noses brush, your lips mere centimeters apart, so close yet so far away and-

A loud crash from the hallway has you jumping back a step, the noise snapping you out of the trance you had found yourself in a moment ago.

You clear your throat, now avoiding eye contact with the man you were just about to kiss and potentially ruin the professional relationship you had formed over the past few years, one that you had thought had become a close friendship at this point. A chime from the clock in the corner draws your attention and you take another step back.

“We should probably get some sleep, Viktor. We’ll have a long day ahead of us once the weekend is over.” He nods in response, saying nothing back. You reach out a hand, helping him keep his balance as he makes his way down from the table. Once his two feet are safely planted on the ground you drop his hand, missing the warmth instantly. You move to gather your things, hearing Viktor do the same behind your turned back.

The two of you head for the doors of the lab, side by side, attempting to ignore any potential awkwardness the situation just a few minutes ago might have caused.

Viktor reaches for the door, opening it and gesturing for you to walk through first. You give him a tight smile and step out, stopping to wait for him to lock up before seeing him off for the night.

He slips his keys back into his pocket, finally meeting your eyes again.

“Goodnight Viktor, I’ll see you tomorrow, Merry Christmas.”

You turn to walk yourself to your dorm, likely to throw yourself into the book Viktor had bought you, but you're stopped by a hand wrapping around your elbow and spinning you back around. You look up at Viktor with concern, raising an eyebrow in silent questioning. He has a smirk on his face and his only response is pointing his finger in the air.

You look up, cheeks flushing at what hangs above your head. Mistletoe. Your blush deepens and your eyes dart back to his face.

Viktor lets go of your elbow, reaching up and tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. You find yourself trapped under his gaze again and when his hand settles on your cheek, you can't help but lean into it.

“It is tradition after all.” And his lips are on yours.

It doesn’t take more than a second for you to respond to the kiss, all earlier caution thrown to the wind. It’s everything you’ve ever imagined, his lips are soft against yours and you nearly get lost in the addictive feeling of the kiss. His hand stays put on your cheek holding you to him but your hands reach out, tangling in his hair and pulling him deeper into the kiss. He lets out a soft groan and it lights a fire in your belly you’ve never felt before. If you had the chance you would stay like this forever.

Like all good things, it must come to an end eventually, unfortunately ending way sooner than you’d hoped and leaving you craving more. Viktor’s the one who pulls away first, cheeks flushed and practically panting when he steps back.

A smile adorns his face and his hand drops from your face, “Merry Christmas Y/N.” And with that, he turns and walks away, leaving you love struck and frozen where you stand. Once he turns the corner at the end of the hall, you manage to shake yourself out of his trance.

Your fingers lightly brush against your tingling lips, reveling in the kiss Viktor had just left you with. You smile and turn away, walking in the opposite direction Viktor had left to turn in for the night.

Maybe Christmas without your family this year wasn’t that bad after all.

[teawan]

Heyoo! Saw your post for fic ideas but I was wondering if you would mind doing a Byler forehead touch in the rain that evolves into a kiss? Something that mirrors the "It's not my fault you don't like girls" scene but less angsty and more romantically tense?

Then afterwards they hug and laugh or something, like, you can feel the relief when they realise all the tension (from the mutual romantic feelings) has been burst.

this one was a little tricky!!! i'm not really confident about the characterization (as always) but i do think it's pretty fluffy and hopefully satisfies someone's cravings for a sweet byler moment <3 enjoy!

-

Mike is staring at Will when the shrill ringing of the downstairs phone sounds, and he just barely manages to look away before Will’s head shoots up from where it had previously been bent over, studying one of Mike’s X-Men comics. Willing his heart to stop pounding like he’s a toddler who’s been caught with a hand in the cookie jar, he glances back over at Will in what he hopes is a nonchalant manner.

“That’s probably my mom,” says Will, seeing Mike’s questioning look at his peculiarly severe reaction. He grimaces slightly, as if tasting something bitter. “I think I forgot to tell her I was coming home with you today.”

Mike’s brain short-circuits at Will’s choice of words—coming home with you. He knows it’s nothing, because yes, Will had, in fact, come to the Wheeler house after school today instead of to his own home, so there’s nothing to read into. At all. But he can’t help but think back to the soap operas his mom watches at night after dinner, when the protagonist meets a tall, dark, and handsome mystery man in the bar after a breakup, and he asks her, word for word: what do you think about coming home with me tonight, darling? It doesn’t take much of an imagination to guess at what that kind of “coming home” implies.

But this is Will. William Byers, Mike’s best friend since kindergarten, and he should not be thinking this way about the boy sitting on his bed across from him; he shouldn’t be thinking this way about any boy. 

He knows there’s something wrong with him, that he shouldn’t be thinking like this—he’s grown up with a father that scoffs and curses under his breath at the rare sight of two men doing something as simple as holding hands in public, with a mother that can’t even speak the word homosexuals or queers without glancing around and lowering her voice like it’s a dirty thing to say. Yes, he likes girls and their uniquely feminine beauty, the way their hips curve out gently, that indescribable pleasant girl-smell that seems to radiate from every female person he’s encountered, but that’s not all he likes. He’s stared at the men in the dirty magazines under Lucas’s bed just as much as, if not more than, the women. He shouldn’t be thinking like this, but yet, his thoughts race a million miles a second at that phrase leaving Will’s lips, those words shaped by Will’s beautiful, musical voice, directed at him.

He realizes Will has been watching him patiently, waiting for a response. His head is cocked to the side just slightly, like a curious puppy. Mike is certain that he is about to explode. “...Ah. Should we—”

Before he can finish his trainwreck of a sentence, his mother’s voice travels up from the first floor. “Will, honey? Your mother’s on the phone!”

“Yep,” Will says, as an answer to Mike or a confirmation to his own previous statement, Mike isn’t sure, and then slips off the bed, walking almost silently in sock-clad feet over to the door. He turns the knob, pulling it open, and glances back at Mike, looking expectant. “Aren’t you gonna come?”

“Uh, yeah! Of course,” Mike splutters, cursing himself silently. He is so far in over his head right now. If he keeps this up, the entire population of Hawkins and their mother will know about his big, fat, crush on Will Byers. He wishes he could shake out his head to clear it, like how dogs do after getting baths, but he figures that would only make things worse. Instead, he schools his face into the most normal, absolutely-not-attracted-to-his-best-friend expression he can, and stands as well, following Will through the hallway and down the stairs.

His mother is waiting for the two of them by the phone, and when she sees them appear, she says so into the speaker and then hands it to Will. He can only hear one side of the conversation, but it’s not hard to follow, since he’s been around for enough of Will’s interactions with Joyce that he has a feel of how a typical conversation might go.

“Yeah, sorry,” Will is saying quietly, looking down at his feet as he listens to his mother’s reply. “I forgot to tell you, but yeah. I’m okay. I’m with Mike.”

The first thing his mind jumps to when he hears those last two sentences from Will is that to the Byers boy, being okay and being with Mike is synonymous. His heart swells for a moment—I’m safe to him, he knows I’ll protect him—before he checks back into reality and realizes that, once again, he’s reading way too deeply into things. He doesn’t know what the hell’s gotten into him today—maybe the sight of Will sprawled out on Mike’s bed like he belonged there, fitting perfectly in like the last piece in the puzzle of Mike’s life, was too much to handle.

“Okay, okay, I got it,” Will says, voice tinted with a touch of exasperation. Clearly Joyce’s overprotectiveness is showing itself again, but, if he’s honest, he can’t blame her. Sometimes he catches himself worrying about Will a little more than maybe he should when the shorter boy is a couple of minutes late to school, or when there’s a hint of that glossy-eyed dissociation that takes Mike back to that night in the shed, with Will tied up like some kind of criminal, his best friend’s body taken by a sick, evil creature, when Mike had thought for one horrible moment that perhaps he would never again get to play Dungeons and Dragons with the only person he felt had ever really understood him.

“Calm down, Mom, I’m sorry. Look, I’ll head home now, alright?” With one last drawn out goodbye, Will finally hangs up, turning to Mike with a wry smile. “I have to go. My mom’s pissed off that I came over without telling anyone.”

“It’s cool,” Mike reassures him, “she’s just worried. I can understand why.” As soon as the words leave his mouth, he wants to slap himself. He can understand why? That’s exactly the kind of thing that’s going to get him in trouble, the kind of thing that’s going to clue people in on his weird, twisted desires and make him lose Will forever.

Luckily, though, Will doesn’t seem to really process what Mike has said as thoroughly as Mike himself has, and just sniffs a laugh as he heads toward the door to the garage, where his bike is resting against the wall right next to Mike’s. Slightly disoriented, Mike trails behind him.

He slams into a wall. 

Will spins around, startled at the sudden noise, and rushes to Mike’s side when he realizes what’s happened. “Oh my god, are you okay? What happened?”

Mike blinks once, twice, three times, head spinning a little from the impact, and waits until Will’s face comes into focus to reply. “Oof. Yeah. I’m okay, I, uh, lost my balance.” It’s a crappy excuse, and he just lays there on the ground, waiting for Will to call him out on it, but he never does. Instead, they stare at each other for a little a lot longer than what would be considered normal.

Will’s face is close enough for Mike to see every little detail: his eyes are this deep, beautifully smooth brown hue, a color that makes Mike imagine the taste of chocolate melting on his tongue—warm, silky, and decadent. He wants to tell that to the boy leaning over him, but the words are stuck in his throat because he can’t really tell what’s happening right now. Are these same thoughts circulating through Will’s head? Is he waxing poetic about Mike’s irises in his mind? Is he admiring the way Mike’s features are sculpted like they were carved by Aphrodite herself? Is he imagining what Mike’s lips would feel like pressed up against his own mouth?

Then the moment shatters. Will stumbles back, away from Mike’s face like he’s snapping out of a trance, face burning red and mumbling something that Mike can’t understand. He thinks it might be an apology. He wants to scream.

He doesn’t scream. In reality, he picks himself up off the floor casually, pretending not to see the deep red blush climbing up Will’s neck, and prays that Will has the decency to ignore the heat he can feel crawling up his own cheeks. Then, he walks on, taking the lead like the last two minutes didn’t happen, and listens closely to make sure he can hear Will’s footsteps behind him.

They exit the house silently, both avoiding each other’s gazes—Mike knows this because he’s taking every chance he has to steal a look at Will to see if maybe he’ll suddenly develop telepathic abilities and be able to read exactly what the Byers boy is thinking, and once or twice he catches Will turning his eyes away from Mike just a beat too late—as they make their way over to the corner where Will’s bike leans.

Will clears his throat awkwardly, making Mike jump a little. “Um, bye.” He doesn’t sound angry; more uncertain, as if he’s just as confused as Mike is. The thought that he might feel that way relaxes Mike a little. If they’re both stumbling blindly in the dark, then maybe it won’t be so embarrassing if he trips up and makes a mistake.

“Bye,” he offers back weakly, forcing a smile. It’s not that he’s mad or upset; he’s just far too bewildered to muster up a genuine one at the moment. Will smiles back, swings his leg over the seat of the bike, and, with one final glance back at Mike, who tries to look as reassuring as possible, he rides off.

He’s only just turned the corner and disappeared from Mike’s field of vision when the sky opens up and rain comes crashing down in gray sheets, hitting the ground so powerfully that drops of icy cold water travel what has to be at least two feet and splatter onto the front of Mike’s shirt. 

His first thought is of Will—Will, who’s on his own in the streets in the middle of this downpour, trying to make his way home. Without any hesitation, he sprints out into the storm and in the direction of the Byers house, and only then does he remember that he’s dressed in just a thin t-shirt and jeans, both of which are not even remotely waterproof. Within a second, he’s soaking wet and dripping like a soggy Goldfish cracker in tomato soup. 

Fuck it, he thinks to himself. It’s not like running back into the shelter of the garage is going to magically dry his clothes, so he forges ahead, sneakers squelching as he runs, rain running down his face and into his eyes like cold tears. He can’t really see anything at all, but that’s okay, because he’s been down this sidewalk enough times that his feet can recognize the texture of the familiar pavement beneath them.

“Will!” he yells uselessly into the watery world. It would be a miracle if anyone heard him over the incessant shh-shh-shh of the rain, but he keeps on calling his best friend’s name nonetheless, using his hand to block as much water as possible from his face. He’s not even actually quite sure of what he plans to do if he does manage to catch up to Will, but he isn’t really thinking all that clearly right now.

Mike slows when his lungs begin to burn from breathing in air that is more water than oxygen, and by now he thinks he might be screwed. He’s cold, really, very cold and wet, at least half a mile away from his home, and Will is nowhere in sight—he’s uncomfortable enough now to admit that maybe this was a bad idea. His fingers are turning numb. Turning blindly around in circles, he tries to decipher his exact location. He knows the general area that he’s in, but with the rain obscuring his vision, he can’t quite pin down where exactly he’s standing. Sighing to himself when he realizes that there’s nothing to do but wait for the rain to mellow out, he blinks hard a couple of times to dispel the excess water from his eyelashes and wraps his arms around himself in an attempt to conserve body heat—

“Mike!”

He’s so fucking freezing that he’s hallucinating. Wonderful. 

Then the voice, Will’s voice, calls out again: “Mike? Is that you?” and Mike takes a moment to try and figure out if this is real or just a figment of his imagination. Before he can decide, though, a dark figure appears somewhere from his left. It grows closer and closer until Mike can make out the shape of a boy, a boy wheeling a bike towards him. “Will?” he asks, although he’s certain that this is his friend, his best friend who’s stopped on his way home to backtrack through a rainstorm just because he heard Mike call his name.

“Mike! What are you doing out here?” It is indeed Will Byers, usually-fluffy hair plastered to his skull and plaid button-up soaked through. Water is dripping from his chin, his hair, his dark, clumped-together eyelashes, and all Mike can think about is how warm, how alive he looks.

“H-hi,” he stutters back, and realizes that his teeth are chattering.

“Jesus, you’re freezing,” says Will worriedly, casting his beloved bike to the side carelessly so that he can get closer to Mike. He pulls Mike into a hug, attempting to rub some warmth into his shoulders, and Mike presses his forehead down to Will’s. The shorter boy’s skin is warm, a little chilled by the icy downpour but still at a considerably higher temperature than Mike’s. Will doesn’t react much, still putting all his effort into transferring as much body heat as possible to Mike through various methods. Finally, he settles for the full-body hug, locking his arms around Mike and moving in to create as much contact as he can between the two. 

Mike just watches, so starstruck at this beautiful boy in front of him, fussing over him—maybe it’s the numbness in his extremities or maybe it’s the years of pent up feelings and urges but he’s so distracted that he can’t really even feel the cold anymore—that he doesn’t protest, or blush, or freeze up like he might if this were to happen anywhere or anytime else. Then, Will tilts his head up a little so he can meet Mike’s eyes and opens his mouth to ask what Mike assumes will be another query as to why he’s not home, and Mike moves before he thinks.

Will’s mouth is just as warm as the rest of his body, and it feels like heaven against Mike’s cold lips, reminding him of sitting in front of the fireplace with a mug of hot chocolate after coming in from a day of playing in freshly-fallen snow. Will tastes like cinnamon and peaches and boy, so different from anything Mike’s ever tasted before, and he’s mesmerized by the complex flavor that tastes like sunshine and cologne and a newly-mowed lawn—in a pleasant way—all at once. It’s at least three times better than the way girls taste.

And then Will’s kissing back, and Mike is completely sure that this is the best kiss of his life. There is no possibility of anything, or anyone, topping this feeling of pure exhilaration and giddiness that’s sweeping away any remnants of the wet chill from his bones. It’s gentle but insistent, the kiss, and, as if the universe is somehow synced to Mike’s feelings, the rain abruptly lightens to a much more reasonable drizzle.

Will pulls away, and Mike panics for a moment, but then he sees the wonder on the smaller boy’s face and any fear is erased from the pit of his stomach. He sees Will stare, at him, at the rain, at the water dripping off of the both of them, and suddenly he’s laughing, laughing so hard that he doubles over because he feels so light. As he clutches his stomach, peals of laughter escaping him uncontrollably, he hears Will start to giggle as well, a sweet, light, beautiful sound that makes Mike want to kiss him again and never stop.

He hadn’t realized how heavily these feelings had been weighing on him, on his friendship with Will—hadn’t realized that suppressing those thoughts and emotions had actually taken a toll on him, like someone had been gradually dropping rocks into his pockets as he struggled to tread water. Now that that weight is lifted, though, he can’t do much more than relish the floaty feeling in his body, the bubbly happiness that he doesn’t think he’s ever experienced before. A glance at Will confirms that the other boy seems just as elated, brown doe-eyes sparkling, and Mike recovers enough to pull Will into another kiss. This one is shorter, more of a drawn-out peck, but it’s just as awe-inducing as the one before it. “Guess what,” he asks Will when they part again.

Eyes wide and smiling, Will asks what.

“I’m in love with William Byers,” Mike tells him, and it’s like the clouds part in his heart, allowing sunshine to reach into every nook and cranny of his insides. “I’m in love with you.”

[seijorhi]

Choke.

another soulmate au nobody asked for :)

Akaashi Keiji x female reader x Bokuto Koutarou

TW dub-con, implied future non-con

It wasn’t a good day to begin with.

You’re late, rushing through the busy campus hallways to make it to an exam that quite frankly you’re at least 70% sure you’re going to fail, mostly because instead of cramming last night you’d been… otherwise occupied with your boyfriend.

And you really, really just want this whole thing to just be over with already.

With your nose stuck in your textbook, frantically pouring over your notes right up until the very last second, it’s hardly a surprise that you don’t see the two of them rushing down the hallway in the opposite direction until you’re quite literally colliding with the taller of the pair – the broad shouldered one.

Your notes go flying, the last of your coffee too and for one split second, you’re pretty positive that you’re gonna end up flat on your ass with a little more than some bruised pride. But just as you’re about to hit the ground, not one but two hands reach for you, catch you, and the very second they do, you feel it:

A flash of guilt and momentary alarm, embarrassment, you think, and chagrin, each emotion hitting you like a sledgehammer, overwhelming you, one after the other in a dizzying blur that’s distinctly other, and then–

Shock.

Dawning surprise. 

A rush of something warm, adoring, a happiness so bright and blinding that it makes you physically jerk backwards, almost slamming your head against the wall in the process. And two pairs of eyes – one a deep, luminous gold, the other a cool, gunmetal blue – stare at you in wide eyed wonder a split millisecond before you wrench yourself free, gasping. 

The moment their grip falters, the torrent stops. You can breathe.

Blessed silence, save for the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears. Everything fades out around you – the students and lecturers alike bustling through the busy hallway, the humming drone of chatter that’s nearly deafening. Nothing exists but the three of you; caught in your little bubble.

And it’s dread, you think, that seeps through your blood as you stare at them. 

They’re both handsome, albeit in their own ways. The taller of the two – the one who’d almost barrelled you over – looks like he could probably bench press you without breaking a sweat. His shirt isn’t exactly clinging to him, but you can see the hints of well defined muscles beneath, and the size of his biceps alone are enough to make your heart skip a beat and your mouth dry up a little. With rippling muscles, spiky black and silver hair, a strong jawline and those round, golden eyes, he looks like a modern day adonis. 

His friend might’ve been shorter, his build leaner, but with his softer features, pretty eyes and dark hair, you think he’s perhaps the prettiest man you’ve ever laid eyes on. From the fineness of his nose to the gentle curve of his lips and his long, dark sweeping eyelashes, he reminds you of those white marble statues you’ve seen before in museums and art galleries– a beauty so divine, so perfect – so devastating – that it steals your breath a little.

And they’re both watching you, frozen entirely. Smiling in breathless delight, as if they can’t quite believe it either.

Soulmates. 

You’ve spent your whole life wondering what it would be like, experiencing somebody else’s emotions. Studies have been done and countless books and articles written about the bond between soulmates; the intimacy of sharing emotions through touch, but nobody really knows why or how it happens.  

And for some, it’s a subtle thing. A suggestion, a whisper against their own consciousness, easily brushed aside. Others feel it stronger. 

For you, it was like drowning. Choking under the sudden, intense barrage of feelings that weren’t yours. Maybe it’s because there’s two of them – and that much at least you’re sure of. You don’t have the words to explain it, but they’d felt separate somehow, distinctive from one another – kind of like fingerprints, you suppose.

There’s no denying the bond, no denying that they’re both your soulmates, and all you can think of is that you don’t want it. Not here, not now. Not them.

The dark haired one seems to realise quicker than his friend that you’re not reacting how you’re supposed to, you’re just standing there, rigid and tense, gaping at them. And the slight smile that graced his perfect lips starts to waver, his brows drawing together when finally his friend cottons on.

He reaches for you, the beginnings of a pout taking shape on his face, and you move without even thinking, jerking out of reach with a sharp breath. His hand hangs outstretched for a beat too long, a noise like a kicked puppy leaving his lips as he realises that you’re flinching away from him; away from your soulmate. He looks heartbroken, and he’s yet to utter a single word. 

You don’t give him a chance. You’re not some cold, unfeeling beast; there’s a twinge in your heart, a heaviness that’s far too close to guilt settling in your stomach, but you just can’t. And with shaking hands you bend over and hastily grab up your things, forcing yourself not to meet their confused, hurt stares when you right yourself. 

“I– I’m sorry,” you murmur, and before either one of them can try to stop you, you disappear into the crowd, racing for your exam. 

—

The lights are on when you make it back home, the familiar, comforting scent of home cooked food filling your apartment.

“Hey, babe,” your boyfriend calls out as you wearily drop your purse by the door and kick out of your shoes. His back’s to you, attention fixed on the simmering saucepan on the stovetop, but he glances over his shoulder as he continues, “How’d your exam go?”

And you can’t help it, you burst into tears.

Painful, heaving sobs that might’ve had you collapsing onto the floor if he hadn’t swept across the room to snatch you up into his arms. “That bad, huh?” Kuguri jokes, but the words sound hollow.

“I found them,” you mutter into his chest, and the way he stiffens, his grip tightening for just a moment has your heart breaking all over again. 

Kuguri doesn’t say much as he leads you to the couch, he just lets you talk. It’s almost worse, you think, the way he doesn’t react. 

Because you both knew this was coming at some point. For months you’ve tried to convince yourself that you could feel him when you were together.

You felt his love when he held you, right?

Happy when he was happy?

But you’d known, both of you, that as much as you wished it otherwise, he wasn’t your soulmate, and you weren’t his. And whether it was today or six months down the line, this was always going to happen.

“You don’t have to…” you trail off, searching his eyes desperately for anything other than the gentle resignation lingering there. “I love you.”

He smiles at that, cups your cheek in his hand and brushes away the stray tear that spills. “I know you do, but–” it’s not enough. “They’re your soulmates. Don’t you think they deserve a chance to make you happy?”

He’s gone when you wake the next morning.

—

In a university of thousands, a sprawling city campus, you honestly believe that in spite of everything, you probably won’t see them again. They don’t know your name, or what you study, you don’t live in the dorms like some of the other students; the chances of just randomly bumping into them again are slim, soulmates or no.

Of course, there are facebook groups and pages set up to reconnect lost soulmates, but you’d have to actually want to find them to try something like that.

(Part of you wonders whether they’ve tried)

The universe has a sense of humour, it seems, because when your paths cross next, it’s not at uni, it’s at the little corner store a few blocks down from your apartment. 

At 2am in the morning. 

And you’re staring intently at the freezer, mentally weighing up exactly what kind of ice cream you need to sate your craving when you hear the sharp intake of breath behind you.

“Holy crap, you’re here.”

It’s stupid, you think, the way your stomach flutters when you turn to find him staring in wide eyed wonder; the taller one, with the spiky hair and those impossibly wide, honey eyes.

He’s smiling, his entire face lit up like a christmas tree at the sight of you. As if you hadn’t run off without so much as an acknowledgement the last time you’d met. As if seeing you here, looking like shit – makeup free and dressed in your old favourite sweats – is the absolute best thing that could have happened.

And when your cheeks grow hot, you’re not entirely sure if it’s embarrassment over the way you look, the fact that he’s caught you buying ice cream that you fully intend to let melt just a little bit before polishing off at two in the morning, or if it’s shame over how badly you’d reacted the last time you’d seen him.

But if he notices your inner turmoil, he doesn’t show it, grinning widely as he calls back over his shoulder, “Akaashi!”

You still haven’t uttered a peep, haven’t moved. Just like last time you’re caught feeling like a kid with their hand stuck in the cookie jar as your other soulmate rounds the corner, his attention fixed on the ingredients list of the rice cracker snacks in his hands, a basket full of groceries tucked into the crook of his elbow.

“Bokuto, I was just around the corner, there’s no need to shout.”

Pretty steel blue eyes flicker up for a split second, then quickly do a double take as he realises that it’s you – his errant soulmate, standing struck dumb, here of all places. “Oh.”

Oh. 

Akaashi eyes you for a moment, and you watch as his throat bobs unsteadily, but just as with Bokuto, he can’t seem to help the smile that creeps across his face. It’s softer than his friend’s, not so blinding but warm nonetheless. Genuine. There’s no animosity there, and it should put you at ease – they don’t seem to blame you, at least. 

It should, but it doesn’t. 

Even now, there’s a little voice in your head urging you to forget your late night cravings, turn tail and run. Nevermind that they’d likely just follow you, much less that you’d look like an absolute fucking idiot, fleeing from your soulmates who so far have done nothing wrong.

It’s not supposed to be this awkward, right? It’s not supposed to be difficult, but even when they’re smiling at you, there’s a tension that digs its claws into you and refuses to relent. Your heart thumps unevenly, like a scared little bunny caught in a trap and the wolves are circling.

If it’s normal, then your parents and every other soulmated pair you’ve ever met certainly kept it to themselves. Maybe it’s the guilt, you think. Maybe you’re just being overdramatic. They’re your soulmates, right? They probably just want to talk, to get to know you, and right now you’re the one being standoffish and rude. 

It occurs to you then that you still haven’t spoken, and they’re both staring at you somewhat expectantly. You really are fucking this up, aren’t you?

“H-hi,” you manage to muster, forcing yourself to smile back. Tiny and timidly, perhaps, but it’s a smile. 

It seems to work, because Bokuto positively beams at you and Akaashi sets down his basket to slide in closer, a pleased little hum escaping his throat. 

Aside from the faint sound of the radio playing in the background and the cashier casually flicking through a magazine up at the register, the store is quiet. It’s just the three of you, except this time there really is no running off and disappearing into the crowd. Which is fine, you need to face them sooner or later, right?

Give them a chance?

Otherwise everything else, all that heartbreak and the lonely nights since will have been all for nothing. So you swallow tightly, take a soft, steadying breath, and press on.

“I, um… I’m sorry about last time. You know with… everything,” you finish lamely, mentally cringing at the sheer awkwardness of it. “I had an exam.”

But again, your soulmates don’t seem to take it personally, the darker haired one (Akaashi, your brain helpfully supplies) nodding slightly. 

“It’s okay. You’re here now.” He has a nice voice, calming and smooth, and though the words seem to carry a different weight you find yourself nodding along with him. You can do this, you can make an effort.

This is fine.

You swallow again, tongue darting out to wet your lips, “I’m Y/N,” you introduce, clutching just a little bit tighter at the handles of your own shopping basket.

You don’t extend a hand, nor try to go in for a hug, but standing there rigidly feels wrong too. They’re strangers, yes, but they’re also not, and you don’t quite know how to act around somebody like that, somebody you’re supposedly fated for but know nothing about. All you know is that the last time they touched you, it was too much. It hurt. And even as you catch sight of the slightly disheartened expression on Bokuto’s face, you’re hesitant to put yourself through it again.

“It’s pretty,” Akaashi compliments, and there’s a faint dusting of pink on his cheeks as he says it. “Suits you.”

Your own probably aren’t much better, with the blood that rushes to your face. You drop your gaze a little, nibbling on your bottom lip, “O-oh, uh… thank you.”

When you glance back up to Bokuto, you find him staring at you again, not with the same hurt expression as before, but something akin to wonder. He seems speechless, in awe of your flustered state, and you wonder how he can bounce that quickly from emotion to emotion without giving himself whiplash. But it seems like your attention is just the thing he needs to pull himself out of it, because he closes his gaping mouth and grins again.

“Y/N,” he repeats, like he’s testing it out, rolling your name over his tongue. “You probably heard, but I’m Bokuto– you can call me Koutarou, though.” 

There’s a beat of silence, and he’s quick to add, “And that’s Akaashi.”

“Keiji,” Akaashi corrects, shooting you another gentle smile. 

First names. It makes sense, you suppose, but the familiarity of it all still doesn’t sit quite right with you. But now that introductions are out of the way, you don't have a clue what you’re supposed to say now - ‘so, soulmates; crazy, huh?’ doesn’t exactly feel appropriate, given the circumstances.

You’re distinctly aware that it’s the middle of the night and you’re at a convenience store and while this might not be the worst time to run into your soulmates again, it’s not far off. 

Maybe that’s not a bad thing, though, because at least it kind of gives you an out. Shifting your weight from one foot to another, you clear your throat, “I hope you guys don’t think I’m being rude or anything, but it is kinda late…” you trail off, hoping they’ll pick up what you’re putting down.

And while Bokuto’s brow furrows, Akaashi at least has the decency to look a little abashed. “Yeah, no, of course. We’re just so… we’re glad we ran into you again.”

 Your cheeks heat again, and to save yourself from having to meet their gazes head on, you quickly spin around, open the freezer door and grab the first pint ice cream that you see. “I just came for this,” you laugh, fighting back a wince at how hollow and fake it all sounds. 

“Here,” Bokuto says, and before you can react he’s snatching it from your grip (thankfully keeping his hand from brushing against yours) and places it atop the basket in Akaashi’s arms. “Our treat.”

He beams at you, and you’re honestly too stunned to reply. You don’t really want him paying for it, but if it gets you out of this awkward encounter any quicker, you’ll swallow down your protests and let it go. 

And so you trail meekly after the two of them as they head to the cashier, and when Akaashi passes you the bag you’re so careful to avoid his touch, a fact he notes with the slightest of frowns, but he doesn’t comment on it. 

“It’s late,” he says instead as the three of you exit into the brisk night air. And then those gunmetal eyes are on you, studying you for a moment. You realise what he’s about to say the moment he opens his mouth again, “Can we walk you home? Or to the bus stop at least?”

Your stomach lurches at the thought of it, of two veritable strangers knowing where you live, but–

He’s not wrong, exactly. It is late, and in hindsight it was probably stupid for you to have come out at this time of the night alone in the first place, whether it was a safe neighbourhood or not. And they’re not strangers, they’re your soulmates.

You have to try. 

So you nod. ‘It’s just down the road,” you murmur, but as the two of them fall into step either side of you, sharing a distinctly satisfied look between themselves, you think that it wouldn’t have mattered how far it was. They would have walked with you anywhere.

Yet their expressions of mild surprise (disappointment, maybe?) when you stop them less than five minutes later in front of your apartment block almost makes you laugh. “This is me.”

Bokuto eyes the building for just a moment before his attention returns to you. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

Lie, that little voice inside your head urges, but you force yourself to ignore it. You have to try. “Uh, not much, I guess…”

Even as you say the words, your hands tighten on your bag, twisting nervously – a sign they either don’t read or wilfully ignore as Bokuto brightens up once again.

“Awesome! Wanna swing by ours to chill for a little bit?”

Like a date, you think as your gaze flickers between the two. Yet Akaashi’s watching you just as intently, those dark eyes far more inscrutable than Bokuto’s, which doesn’t help ease the uncomfortable feeling sitting in the pit of your stomach. There’s really no reason for you to say no, no polite way for you to turn them down. They’re your soulmates, you’re supposed to want this. “Um…”

“Or we can come here, if you want? Or head into the city and do something there, maybe go see a movie or something? Whatever you’d prefer.”

“No!” the words slip from your tongue before you can stop them, the idea of the two of them in your apartment, your home just feels like… too much. “No,” you repeat again, quieter, forcing your features to soften into a hesitant smile. “Your place is good.”

That way you can leave if it all gets to be too much. It’s just a casual hang out. It’ll be fine. 

Both of them seem to relax at your agreement, and you quickly take out your phone to grab Akaashi’s number – sending him a message so he has your number too.

“Perfect,” he says, his voice a purr that sends a ripple of something running down your spine. “I’ll text you the address in the morning.”

You smile at both of them, thanking them again for the ice cream and for walking back with you, even if it was only a few hundred metres. And you think you’re in the clear as you start walking up the steps, trying to balance your keys, your phone and your bags when the sound of your name being called makes you turn around.

Bokuto’s there, a step behind you, and before you can even so much as blink he’s grabbing at your hand, tugging you forward and kissing you.

Just like last time, it’s instantaneous and overwhelming. You feel it all – his giddy excitement, the stirrings of something deeper, less innocent as he cradles your body to his.

And the love. 

Oh god. It’s not mere affection, not some fleeting, superficial thing. It pours over you in unrelenting waves, crushing you under the force of it – you can’t even feel his tongue moving against yours, or the way he sucks on your bottom lip, groaning quietly.

You can’t breathe, can’t think. It’s too much, too much, too strong, too sudden, you can’t BREATHE.

Your trembling hands finds his shoulders, and as your head spins, nausea churning in your gut you don’t waste a second, shoving him away from you with enough force that he actually stumbles back a little.

Though you’ll admit it’s probably more from shock than any strength you actually possess. 

And you don’t dare look to Akaashi as tears fill your eyes, a heaving gasp leaving your lips. Bokuto’s eyes are wide, his mouth agape; he looks confused more than horrified as you stumble back, almost tripping over the last step.

“D-don’t touch me,” you gasp, “please.”

There’s pain in his eyes as your tears well up and spill over and you choke back another sob, but you don’t give him a chance to say anything else. Limbs trembling, you force yourself upright, clutching at the keys in your fist as you skitter towards the door.

You hear one of them, Akaashi you think, calling out your name, but you don’t pause, don’t look back – throwing open the lobby door and slamming it shut behind you. 

And your heart pounds as you climb the steps two at a time, and it’s only once you're in the safety of your own apartment, with the door shut and firmly locked that you allow yourself to breathe. You realise distantly that at some point – probably on the steps outside – you dropped the ice cream they’d bought for you, but you can’t find it within yourself to care. The first time you realise was an accident, they had no way of knowing you were their soulmate, much less how you’d react when they’d touched you. But that–

That wasn’t right.

It wasn’t normal.

Those feelings, that love, you’ve never experienced anything like it, and yet it’s left you feeling filthy; tainted. Scared. It was too much; boundless and abundant, the kind of love that devours and chokes, selfishly strangling everything in its environment to thrive. Overpowering and solely directed at you. How was it supposed to do anything but terrify you. And how can he possibly believe that he loves you like that already?

Soulmates or not, you don’t know him!

This– this whole thing is wrong.

You can’t stop yourself from checking the locks on your apartment another three times before you slip under the covers of your bed, trying to will sleep to find you.

On the nightstand beside you, your phone vibrates, but you refuse to check it, knowing full well that it’s them.

It doesn’t stop.

And with every new notification your blood pressure climbs, and there’s a part of you that’s telling you you have no reason to be reacting like this – whatever happened on those steps, it’s not like they’re going to hurt you.

It was an accident, a misunderstanding.

But they’re still blowing your phone up with notifications and they know where you live and no matter what you tell yourself, you can’t seem to quell the disquiet that eats away at you.

And it’s a cruel thing to do, you know it is, but you don’t know what else to do as you finally give in, swiping your phone up and searching for his contact. The phone rings once, twice, three times and there’s a sinking feeling in your chest when you realise he’s not going to pick up–

“Hello?” Kuguri’s voice is groggy, heavy with sleep and you can almost picture him, sitting up in bed, wiping the sleep from his eyes, running a hand through his messy bed hair. “Fuck, do you know what time it is, Y/N? Why’re you calling me so late?”

There’s a pause, pregnant and heavy, and the only sound that leaves you is the soft hitch in your breath.

“Is everything okay?” he asks, quieter this time, an edge of worry in his tone.

You haven’t spoken to him in weeks, since he’d left without a word and broke your heart, but he’s the only one you want to talk to right now.  

“I-I’m sorry for calling,” you begin, sniffling back your tears. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

—

When you drag yourself out of bed only a few short hours later, your body’s still crying out for a little more sleep, but you can’t afford to indulge.

Like you’d planned, you send the message first thing, ignoring the flood of unread texts above – both from Akaashi and an unknown number you can only assume is Bokuto’s.

I’m sorry about last night, just need some space. 

You have nothing to be sorry for – even if it wasn’t for the frankly unsettling emotions you’d felt, Bokuto’d still kissed you without your permission. But Kuguri said it was better that way – they were less likely to freak out and panic or whatever. You hadn’t questioned it too much, it didn’t really matter what you said so long as they knew you didn’t want them anywhere near you… at least until you figured this whole thing out. And you trusted Kuguri on this.

God knows why he’d even answered your call in the first place, but you’re impossibly glad that he did. Gladder still that he hadn’t hung up on you the moment he’d realised why you were calling.

You scoff down a quick breakfast, before hopping into the shower. The scalding water’s a welcome relief, waking you up more than your coffee had and allowing you the space to think.

Kuguri’s got errands to run this morning, but he’d said you were welcome to stop by his place anytime. He’d insisted on it actually, telling you in no uncertain terms to pack an overnight bag.

‘Look, I’m probably being an overprotective asshole, alright, but I don’t want you there by yourself, so either you come here or I’m coming over there.’

And the thought that you’d need somebody there to protect you, that either one of your soulmates would do anything–

But it’s not so much about them, you think, but you. You’d been a mess when you’d called him, and despite how everything had gone down, Kuguri still cared about you – you can’t just turn those feelings off overnight – is it any wonder that you’d worried him?

Distantly, you register your phone going off a few more times as you busy yourself in washing your hair. You assume it’s Kuguri checking up on you, making sure that you’re alright – you pay it no mind, humming quietly as you reach for your conditioner.

And by the time you slip from your bathroom, wrapped in a big, fluffy towel it’s probably closer to mid-morning than you’d like. You don’t bother blow drying your hair or putting on makeup, instead heading to your room to get dressed and grab some clothes to take to Kuguri’s.

Except there’s a knocking at the door that stops you in your tracks.

You hadn’t heard the buzzer for the building’s main door go off, which meant that it was probably just your landlord stopping by, or one of your neighbours. You know the little girl who lives in the apartment next to yours likes to bake with her dad and sometimes drops off freshly made cookies and treats, so you hastily throw on enough clothes to pass as decent. 

“Coming,” you sing out, racing across the room to reach the door. 

Except when you throw it open, it’s not one of your neighbours standing out in your hallway, nor is it your elderly landlord. 

Akaashi and Bokuto crowd the empty space; Bokuto grinning widely, Akaashi’s dark eyes fixed on yours. 

“You weren’t answering your phone,” he murmurs, a faint frown tugging at his features as studies your face. “We were worried about you.”

And there’s so many things wrong with the fact that they’re here; least of all being how the hell they got into the building to begin with, but you can’t afford to think of any of that. You simply need to get them out of here without causing a fuss. Now.

They’re still your soulmates, you remind yourself as your heart rate picks up. They won’t do anything to hurt you. 

“I-I told you I needed space, please go,” you mutter, clutching so tightly at the edge of the door that your knuckles turn white. “Please,” you beg again when neither of them make a move to leave.

“I told you, ‘Kaashi,” Bokuto says, his smile slipping in favour of a wounded pout, “She’s afraid of us. Her soulmates.”

And you don’t know what compels you to shake your head instead of just slamming the door in their faces, “N-no, I just–”

“She’s just skittish,” Akaashi interrupts, cutting you off mid-sentence. “Overwhelmed – this is all new to her. It’s okay, princess,” he says, addressing you this time with a teasing little smirk, “We’ll be gentle, okay? We’re going to take good care of you.”

It’s the final blow to your tentative politeness. As panic sinks its teeth into you, you skitter backwards, scrambling to shut the front door before they can get in–

Bokuto’s faster. They both are.

Stronger, too. 

[jkstompers]

noise complaints | myg

pairing: min yoongi x female reader

summary: yoongi is tired of his loud, video game addicted roommate, so he decides to move out and get his own apartment for some peace and quiet. but with his luck, gets you as his neighbor: a girl who plays bass in a band and hates the feeling of earbuds in her ears.

word count: 5.8k

genre: neighbor!au, producer yoongi, bassist oc, pwp ( ；∀；) i tried but rlly it’s just... smut

warnings: mature!! (18+!), explicit language, smut, making out, fingering, dom!yoongi, he’s a little mean

author’s note: hi!!!!!! in honor of yoongi’s birthday, i wanted to post this fic that i had sitting in my drafts! i hope u enjoy!! (´⌣`ʃƪ) pls let me know what u think!

banner pic creds here <3

yoongi doesn’t know how to tell his roomate, mark, that his gaming obsession has driven him to take extreme measures that consist of: moving out. he never stops playing video games. all day, all night, his eyes are fixed on the computer or tv screen, always screaming to his team mates about where to go or who’s fucking up. yoongi’s not sure if he can take it anymore.

he’s finally saved up enough to move into an apartment of his own, he’s been planning this for almost 6 months; already visited the apartment complex, discussed prices, background checks, etc. all yoongi really needs to do is finish signing the papers and start moving in.

he decides to just let mark know, no sugarcoat. as yoongi expected, mark practically begs on his knees for him to stay. his parents are paying for his share of the apartment but only if he splits the cost with a roommate, but yoongi’s gone through two years of it already, he’s over it. over the next few days, mark watches yoongi dejectedly as he packs his things.

by the end of the week, yoongi has finished packing and already signed the lease. he tells mark ‘good luck’ and leaves him in the dust, hopefully he’ll find another roommate, but that’s beyond yoongi’s concern now. all he has to worry about now is unpacking his boxes in his brand new apartment.

he looks around at the empty space, with the boxes cornered in one section. he smiles to himself, no noisy roomates, no unwashed dishes, no dirty laundry, ah, finally. peace and qui—

and that’s when he hears the blare of your speakers, it’s not loud enough for the entire complex to hear, but the music obviously bleeds through the shared wall. yoongi groans, knowing that this could be a complete repeat of mark. he’s not sure if he should knock on your door and ask you to lower the music down, it’s only his first day here. don’t you treat your neighbors with respect? why are you so loud?

yoongi decides to ignore it for now. he unpacks his things and starts furnishing the room so he can have a place to sleep for the night. when everything is put together, he feels the weight of the day; how much he’s been lifting and how he’s now renting an apartment hits him all at once. the dull pain resonates in his arms, his head starting to ache, and you’re still playing your fucking music. he can’t take it anymore, especially not with this ache getting worse.

yoongi feels his fist knock angrily against your door three times, he waits for you to open the door. except, he was not expecting a pretty girl to answer, he was expecting maybe an obnoxious frat guy; he’s absolutely flustered. you stand there and look up at him confused, “hi? did you need something?” your voice snaps him out of his thoughts.

“i’m— uh, i’m your neighbor, i’m sorry to disrupt, but if you could just lower your music down a bit, i’m really tired, and—” he starts but a gasp of excitement leaves you, cutting him off.

“my neighbor?! that apartment has been empty for so long! i’m so sorry, i was just so used to no one being able to hear! welcome! i’m ___!” you greet him cheerfully, taking his hands into yours and shaking them. yoongi feels his cheeks turn pink, your hands are soft and you’re so pretty.

“my name is yoongi,” he replies, he stands there not really knowing how to respond to the way you’re so excited. he wishes he could reciprocate but his head is pounding, all he wants to do is sleep.

you pick up on his energy, letting go of his hands to wave him off, “i’ll turn the music off for today, get some rest, yoongi, if you need help, some sugar or something, you can always just knock on my door,” you smile.

yoongi nods, “thank you, ___, goodnight.”

“goodnight, yoongi! nice meeting you,” you reply, closing your door. you blush behind the door, a neighbor? a cute one at that? there’s a sudden rush of adrenaline pulsing through your veins, testing you, telling you to blast your music just so he could come back and you could look at him one more time. but you decide it’s better not to, he said he was tired, maybe tomorrow.

yoongi returns to his apartment, thankful that you kept to your word and kept the music off. his body drifts his pounding head to sleep.

two weeks had gone by before yoongi’s eyes, he spent most of it buying furniture since the apartment looked so bare. one upside to a loft apartment was that he didn’t have to buy too much furniture, a bed, a couch, a tv, and maybe a rug was enough for him, for now of course.

in the time that’s passed, he’s learned that you like playing music when you’re studying, cleaning, when you’re doing anything really. whenever he thinks it’s too loud, he knocks through the wall, you get the hint most of the time. he’s also learned that you can play the bass and that you’re in a band. speaking of that, you’re having a meeting with them right now, and yoongi can hear every word of it.

your band mates decided to barge into your apartment today, waking you from your study nap and telling you that you all need to practice. the volume of their voices is jarring, you never realized how loud you and your surroundings were until yoongi moved in. you’re suddenly conscious about your volume at all times, his knocks whenever you were loud always made you feel terrible, but you couldn’t help but blush whenever you thought of him. you were torn, be loud and get his attention or be quiet and get on his good side.

“___! grab your shit and let’s go!” jungkook shouts. he’s the guitarist and lead singer of the band; he gets impatient sometimes.

“oh just let her daydream for a little bit, she’s probably thinking about her hot neighbor,” seulgi teases. she’s the drummer and your best friend. you don’t let her comment pass so easily, but you try to ignore the way your face heats up.

“you think he’s hot?” you quip back. a smirk on your face as you zip your bass into it’s case. yoongi is surprised at the way he can hear your voices so clearly, he wonders if you guys always talk this loud or if the walls are really that thin. “you haven’t even seen him yet,” you lug your bag over your shoulder.

“he sounds hot.” she shrugs, taking a bite of the apple she stole from your fruit basket. jungkook grows more and more antsy the longer you both talk.

“where’s taehyung anyway?” you ask. the realization comes to you when you feel a missing presence, knowing your 4th member would say something about yoongi.

“how nice of you to finally ask, he’s been waiting in the car for you slow pokes, let’s get going.” jungkook rushes, pushing you and seulgi out of the door. you turn to lock the door when you hear the door to your left slide open.

“oh my god, jungkook look, he’s hot.” seulgi smacks jungkook’s shoulder to make him look. your eyes are glued on the figure standing outside of apartment 77.

“hi— hey, yoongi,” you greet him while locking your door. it’s embarrassing the way the three of you are all almost drooling at the sight of him.

“hi, ___,” he sends a small smile to you, looking over to your bandmates hesitantly. yoongi notices jungkook, an assumption is made in his head almost immediately, boyfriend?

you scramble next to them and introduce them, “yoongi, these are my bandmates, seulgi, she plays the drums, and jungkook, he plays guitar and sings, there’s taehyung too, he plays guitar too but he— he’s um, in the car.”

“ah, nice to meet you.” he nods, greeting them as well. “i actually have to get to work, but it was cool meeting you all,” he excuses himself. you all wave to him.

“way to be fucking awkward guys,” you scold them when you’re all walking to the car. taehyung looks up from his phone to see the three of you walking his way, he starts the car once you open the door.

“hey, not our fault he’s good looking,” jungkook shrugs and seulgi holds her hand up for a high five, which he gladly gives her.

“not fair! you guys got to see ___’s hot neighbor while i was stuck in the car? i knew i should have just came in,” taehyung grumbles, pulling out of the apartment complex’s parking lot.

“it just so happened that he was leaving his apartment the same time we were, maybe you’ll meet him too tae,” you rub his arm. a somewhat sarcastic tone in your voice. taehyung rolls his eyes, starting the drive to the studio.

the music in the car was overshadowed by taehyung and seulgi arguing about when you and yoongi would finally hook up. you had to remind them that he hasn’t even been here a month yet, and that you guys barely talk besides the small hellos and awkward run ins when you’re doing laundry. it seems to keep them quiet, taehyung parks in the lot and you all move into the studio, making your way to the practice room the owners thankfully let you use to rehearse.

a couple songs are played and you all vote for a break. taehyung and jungkook having a guitar battle, seulgi leaning back against the wall on her phone, and you, need to pee! you leave the room and use the bathroom as usual, but a familiar bleach blonde head turns the corner and starts to walk down the hallway towards you, the breath you’re holding turns into a gasp when you realize it’s him. “yoongi?! why are you here?”

he looks up from the ground, looking as surprised as you when he realizes you were talking to him, “i work here, why are you here? are you following me?” he grills, you scoff at the question.

“i’m with my band, we’re rehearsing,” you explain. he raises his eyebrows, you’re not sure what it means. “you don’t believe me?” you pose.

“it’s just a little suspicious,” he shrugs, yoongi knows exactly what he’s doing. he hopes his hint makes sense to you, he’s never really been good at flirting. a familiar feeling erupts in his stomach, one that people could call butterflies whenever he saw you. he really just wants to see you play, and to hear you sing, that’s what he wants the most.

“uh, i can bring you to them? i promise i’m here with my band,” you laugh, warmth spreading to your cheeks. there is no way in hell that you’re going to play in front of yoongi. you were confident sure, but your embarrassing crush on him will make your fingers shake when you try to press the strings down. it’ll be a shitshow!

“can i pee first?” his small laugh brings a smile to your face. boys pee fast, you’ve learned that over time, so yoongi doesn’t take long. you’re both walking back down the hallway, “your boyfriend isn’t angry that you’re with me?” the random question makes your steps stutter.

“i’m sorry, what? boyfriend?” your eyebrows are furrowed as you stare up at him, his face isn’t showing any sign of humor, he’s serious.

“you’re not dating one of your band mates? isn’t that how it usually goes?” his lips purse as you continue to walk to the room that your band is occupying, he’s so serious that it makes you laugh.

“oh my god, yoongi, i’m single as a pringle, they’re my best friends, our number one rule is to never date within the band, that’s how things get messy,” you explain. a weight is taken off of yoongi’s shoulders, it wasn’t his fault he thought of it; you’re beautiful and surrounded by people that probably want you as much as he does.

“oh,” he answers, you both turn the corner and approach the door, “good to know.” the door opens to your three members looking at the two of you with raised eyebrows.

“oh my god, it’s him,” seulgi points to yoongi with her drumstick. you wave your hand to signal her to put it down, ‘it’s rude!’ you mouth.

“are you yoongi?” taehyung asks, taking his guitar and putting it down on it’s stand. yoongi nods, holding his hand out to shake taehyung’s, which he doesn’t take. instead taehyung pulls him into a hug, yoongi doesn’t expect the sudden action of affection, his arms not knowing what to do. “it’s so nice to finally meet you! ___ talks about you a lot,” taehyung’s confession makes your face flush.

“taehyung! what the fuck!? i’ve talked about you like twice, yoongi, i swear,” you defend yourself, pushing taehyung off of him. you laugh awkwardly, yoongi shoots you both a gummy smile.

“nice to meet you, taehyung,” he completely ignores your defense. he finds it cute, your flustered face as you try to tell taehyung to shut up.

“anyways,” you huff. “yoongi thinks i followed him here, so i am showing proof that i’m actually here with you guys and not stalking him.”

your friends snort at the same time, “actually, yoongi, we have no idea who this girl is! i think she’s following you,” taehyung whisper-shouts, you smack his shoulder.

“no but really, ___ we were just gonna call it a day, seulgi said she has to go to a family dinner soon and taehyung said he was hungry,” jungkook speaks up. it’s then that you realize that their instruments were almost all packed. yoongi looks down at you, a small smile on his face once he realizes what they’re trying to do.

“i leave to pee for five minutes and you guys hatch a plan to ditch me?!” you cross your arms over your chest.

“well… we just told you, so, technically we didn’t ditch you, also i can’t drop you off, yoongi, you can drop her off, right?” taehyung smiles to him.

“i—“ yoongi starts but you cut him off with plans to scold your members. they knew exactly what they were doing and you weren’t having it.

“taehyung, you’re dropping me off, let’s not bother yoongi,” you move to pack your bass but yoongi shakes his head.

“i can drop you off,” he smiles.

“oh, see! perfect! thank you, yoongi.” taehyung grabs his hand and gives him a good shake, before you know it your members are out the door.

you sigh as you lift your case and sling it over your shoulder, “it’s okay, yoongi, i can walk.”

he rolls his eyes, “don’t be ridiculous, are you hungry? we can eat first.”

his hand is outstretched and you’re not sure what it means, does he want to hold your hand? but no, he’s asking for your bass, so he can hold it instead of you. you reject his offer, “i can hold it.”

“you’re really stubborn,” he notes. it makes you snort.

“you’re not into stubborn girls?” the joke slips from your mouth before you can think.

this is the perfect time, yoongi thinks. “if it’s you, maybe i’ll make an exception.”

you try your best not to show any type of reaction, but you can’t really ignore the way your heartbeat quickened. yoongi leads you to his car, putting your bass in the trunk as you get comfortable in the front seat. he follows you soon enough and is driving out of the studio parking lot.

“you don’t have to work?” you question. getting into the car of someone you barely know is quite risky of you, but he was your neighbor, and he was hot. that doesn’t give you a reason to trust him, though for some reason, you think you can rely on yoongi, it’s a gut feeling.

“technically i work all day, i’m on my own schedule, i basically spend the entire day in the studio,” he explains. his focus is on the road but from his peripheral he can see your body turned to him, and your eyes glued on him.

“workaholic?” you guessed, he smiles.

“you could say that.”

“that’s good then, i’m giving you a reason for a break!” you clap, your nervousness fading as you start to get comfy with yoongi.

a friendship blooms from that lucky, odd encounter that day.

you forgot how long it’s been since you officially met yoongi and spent the day with him, maybe two months? three months ago? you never kept track. but you do remember that things changed after that. the two of you so obviously flirting with each other whenever you had the chance. yoongi would offer you a ride to the studio, which you greedily took whenever he asked; because he was a cool guy to be with, and in all honesty you were trying to put the moves on him. you’re not sure if he’s taking the hints though, you’ve never been good at the shy type of flirting, most of the time you’re upfront.

speaking of being upfront: yoongi hasn’t really been complaining about your noise lately, and it’s been eerily quiet on his end. no knocks on the wall when your volume was a tad bit higher than usual, no texts telling you to ‘be quiet’ when you were practicing late at night, nothing. you figure it’s because the two of you have grown a lot closer. hanging out together and even making some inside jokes together type of close.

it’s soon that you figure out why yoongi hasn’t been upfront, complaining to you about your noise, because he talked to your apartment manager about it. you knew namjoon well, he was one of your classmates in college. his father originally owned the place, so he’s been taking over for him. you’ve grown close to namjoon due to situations that left you outside of your apartment multiple times without your keys. his master key saved your ass one too many times. so, when you received a letter from him in the mail this morning with a big red ‘important’ stamp on it. you knew you were in trouble.

the words noise complaints, your neighbor, and eviction were the only ones you needed to read for you to be stomping towards yoongi’s apartment. you didn’t care that it was ten in the morning and you’re banging on yoongi’s door. you knocked nonstop until he opened up. his sleepy face scrunched in confusion as he stood before you.

“___? what’s wrong?” his morning voice could have made you melt, if you weren’t so fucking angry. you step past him, moving inside his apartment. “okay, come in, i guess,” yoongi says as he shuts the door behind you.

“you complained about me?! i got a fucking letter from namjoon! he never sends letters!” you raise your voice. it’s too early in the morning to be yelling, your voice is a bit rough, it sounds like you’re croaking.

it’s also way too early for yoongi to be dealing with this, so his voice is soft when he says, “be quiet, we’re gonna get complaints from the other neighbors now too.” he walks up to you and your very angry expression. he just looks so kissable right now, it’s making you angrier. how could he look so perfect when you’re mad at him? that’s so rude!

you lower your voice when you ask, complying to his demand. you cross your arms over your chest, “why would you do that?”

yoongi laughs.

it makes your eyebrows furrow. was he not taking you seriously? you loved this apartment, you needed to live here. it makes the anger boil a little hotter. “you think this is funny, yoongi? i’ve—” your voice is raising once more.

this time yoongi rolls his eyes. “shut up.” his voice grew deeper than it already was, the bass traveling straight to your lower belly.

you try to act as if it had no effect on you, but your small silence before you spoke made things a little obvious. “excuse me? shut up?” you scoff. your feet carrying you closer to yoongi, breaking the distance in effort to intimidate. yoongi wasn’t one to be scared, if anything, he found it funnier.

but the way that your pretty face looks when you’re angry makes yoongi want to do more, wants to push and push because he can feel the tension between you both. you can too. “yeah, you’re so goddamn loud all the time, shut the fuck up.” he moves a little closer, the distance between you both is almost none.

it makes your eyes flicker to his lips. here you were, thinking that you were gonna teach yoongi a lesson, yet you want to kiss him. “want me to shut up?” your eyes move back to his, making eye contact. he licks his lips in anticipation. “make me,” you press.

you feel his soft hand against your cheek first, leading you to his lips. then it was the plush of his lips against yours. this feeling could definitely make you shut up. before you knew it, you were pushing yoongi over to his couch. he breaks the kiss to plop down onto the couch, you follow suit, straddling his lap.

“if you wanted to make out with me, you could have just asked.” you spoke before reattaching your lips.

he smiles into the kiss, “where’s the fun in that?”

the kiss deepens, tongues exploring each other’s mouths and small whimpers escaping your throat. they go straight to yoongi’s groin, you can feel his hard cock against your core through your sweatpants. instinctively, you grind down, the feeling makes him groan out.

his large hands move to your ass, running over them and trailing up to your waist. his hands sliding under your shirt, you know you aren’t wearing a bra, and yoongi finds out soon after. his thumbs running right over your hard nipples, “eager?” he smirks.

you roll your eyes, “i’m just cold.” the lie makes yoongi scoff, tweaking your nipples between his thumb and index fingers. now, goosebumps raise over your skin, and it wasn’t because of the cold.

“take your shirt off,” he speaks against your lips. usually, you weren’t one to follow orders, your rebellious spirit screaming in your head, telling you to take control. but you’ve never wanted anything more than to let yoongi have you, let him do whatever he wants to you. because outside of this, he just seems so nice, never mean, never demanding. you can’t help but indulge in this new side of yoongi you’ve discovered.

so you’re taking your shirt off, the breeze created by his air conditioner makes you shiver, but yoongi's warm hands are there to comfort you. running them over your breasts, squeezing them just right as he kisses down your throat. “y-yoongi—” you whimper. his lips find a certain spot that has you grinding harder onto his dick.

“you aren’t very patient,” he speaks against your skin. “i’ll let it slide this time.” a tender kiss to your neck is placed before he lingers on the spot a little longer, sucking and licking, making sure to leave a pretty red mark. he makes his way to your nipple, wrapping his mouth around the bud and sucking. the feeling makes you throw your head back, his hand tweaks your other nipple, refusing to neglect it.

it was true, you were not patient. you hated waiting too long for something, just like how you hate the feeling of your warm core go uncared for. the grinding wasn’t enough at this point, you wanted more, needed it really. “are you gonna fuck me or not?” you push him gently off of your nipple.

an almost annoyed gaze is painted on his face, “are you going to beg?” he quirks an eyebrow.

you weren’t one to plead, “no.”

“then no,” he asserts. you purse your lips, complete dissatisfaction displayed on your face. “don’t worry, kitten, i’ll make you feel good.” yoongi gives in. he didn’t know how long he could hold back, your attitude makes him want to check you, make you cum as many times he wants you to until you’re obeying.

the nickname makes you drip. he’s pushing up from below, his leg kneeling onto the couch as he lays you down. your head lays against the pillow he has on the couch, yoongi gives you a swift kiss before he moves down, trailing kisses on the valley of your breasts and your stomach, stopping just before the waistband of your sweatpants. “yoongi,” you mewl.

“hm? wanna beg now?” he challenges. his fingers teasingly slipping under the band. your body reacts so easily to his touch, your hips slightly jerking up at the graze of his hands.

but you’re stubborn, not wanting to let yoongi win even though the only thing you want right now is for him to make you feel good. “no, never.” you shake your head.

yoongi doesn't verbally reply, instead, nodding and smirking to himself. “can i eat you out then?” he asks. you don’t trust your words, so you nod, knowing you’ll fall into the trap yoongi has set. “i need to hear you say it, kitten.”

“yes,” you quickly say.

yoongi quirks a brow. “yes, what?”

you roll your eyes, just once, you tell yourself. “yes, please.”

“good girl,” he praises. you hate to admit that you liked the way he called you a good girl. your sweatpants and panties are pulled down at the same time, revealing your wet pussy. “so pretty, baby.” he positions himself between your spread legs. you bite your bottom lip in anticipation.

kisses against your thighs and pubic bone are what he starts off with, then a brief kiss to your clit that makes you gasp. “oh, god—” you lean your head back against the couch.

“also, just to let you know, the letter was a joke,” yoongi breathes. mouth ghosting your lips, where you need him the most.

at first you didn’t pay attention to what he said, a hum leaving your lips until then you realized, “what?!”

“i thought it’d be funny to scare you a little bit, namjoon and i are friends, i asked him if he could do it for me.” he explains with a smile on his face.

you rolled your eyes. you knew it was too serious to be namjoon, his style was more so speaking, not letters. you couldn’t be mad at him, at least you weren’t in trouble. but you play it up for the fun, “will you make it up to me?” a sly look on your face.

“what do you want?” he leans his head against your thigh, waiting patiently for your answer. his fingers ever so gently running up and down your thighs.

“your cock,” you demand with a mischievous smile. your hands run through his hair, eyes pleading because you won’t allow your mouth to let the words out.

yoongi acts like he thinks about it, but all he truly wants, is to devour your and make you feel so good. “you don’t deserve it.” he denies you of the pleasure you want, but he surprises you, running his tongue along your slit.

“oh— oh, yoongi,” you mewl. your hands moving to play with your boobs, but yoongi knocks your hands away. he directs them to his hair, telling you to pull. his hands replace yours, playing and tweaking with your nipples as his tongue does the work.

“taste so good, baby.” yoongi loves the sight of you so vulnerable in front of him. you’re bare, naked while yoongi still has all his clothes on. he loves it. your eager body twitching from the ministrations of his tongue. he pulls away for a second, “don’t cum until i say so.”

“that’s not— umph!” you start but yoongi retracts his hands from your breasts, bringing them back to your thighs to spread them further apart. your lips reveal your sweet spot for yoongi to take, and he’s relentless. the taste of you on his tongue drives him crazy. “that’s not fair,” you moan out.

yoongi doesn’t care. he loves being in control. so when your phone starts to ring, yoongi thinks this is the best time to assert dominance. “answer it,” he commands. he pulls away from your pussy, the loss of the feeling of his tongue makes you groan out in displeasure. in turn, yoongi rubs his middle and ring fingers against your clit. it makes you gasp. he slips the fingers in, your walls pulsating against his fingers. another moan leaves your lips. you were completely ignoring the rings coming from your phone. he repeats himself, “answer the phone, baby.”

“but,” you spoke. your worry being that you were so wound up and yoongi’s fingers were still residing inside of you. you knew it would be way too obvious.

“they won’t know,” he assures. a gentle touch against your thigh comforting you, making you believe this was a good idea.

your fucked out brain obliges, your hand moving to reach for your phone. jungkook’s contact name displayed on the screen, you press the green button and place the phone next to your ear. “jungkook? what’s up?” you answer. yoongi’s eyes locked onto yours as you speak.

“speaker,” he mouths. you nod, mindlessly obliging. taking the phone away from your ear and pressing the speaker button. his fingers dangerously still in your pussy, ready to cause chaos whenever he felt like it.

“dude! guess fucking what!” jungkook shouts over the phone. yoongi pushes deeper, bottoming out his fingers. it makes your eyes roll back, a quiet gasp escaping your lips.

you’re moving the phone away so he doesn’t hear it, but yoongi is pushing your hand back into position. “what?” you cough, trying to cover the noise.

“you okay? you sound… weird.” jungkook snorts over the phone, you can hear seulgi and taehyung in the back, their bickering all too familiar.

“i— i’m good.” you nod even though he can’t see you.

“okay, well, this guy from a record label called earlier, he said he wants to take us all out to eat and talk about our future!” jungkook informs. your eyes widen. a record deal?! even yoongi reacts, a cute, surprised look on his face. how funny was it that you were receiving this news with yoongi’s fingers fucking you.

“you’re lying.” you sit up a little bit, leaning onto your forearm. yoongi decides to be nice, letting his fingers stay stagnant in your hole so you can enjoy the news.

“i’m serious! we’re on the way to yours right now to pick you up, be ready in five minutes,” he tells you.

“right now?!” you exclaim. yoongi smirks, starting to pumping his fingers in and out of you, making your breaths a little more labored. “oh— fuck,” you groaned, you tried to cover it up by making it sound like you were annoyed. but anyone could be able to tell what you were doing, the squelch of your pussy loud enough for the entire apartment complex to hear probably.

“what the hell are you—” jungkook starts but you cut him off, yoongi’s fingers moving faster and the string in your belly about to snap from the tension.

“okay, jungkook! bye! love you! see you in a bit!” you rush the words out and press the big red button to hang up, throwing your phone onto the floor as yoongi leans over you with a smile on his face.

“congratulations, baby.” he punctuates his sentence with a quick circle around your clit. you’re so wound up, you could feel tears starting to build up in your eyes.

“yoongi, please, please let me cum.” you beg, giving in to his desires. the sound of your begging is music to his ears. he smirks, quickening the tight circles around your clit. your legs spreading wider if that was even possible.

yoongi’s plans were cut short due to your new plans, but he didn’t mind. he was happy for you, and he’s never wanted to make someone cum as much as he does now. “alright, kitten, cum whenever you want,” he whispers in your ear. his fingers coated in your wetness gliding against your clit, it feels way too good. the string in your belly snapping as soon as he gave you permission.

you found yourself letting out some of the loudest moans because yoongi was just that good. “holy fuck, yoongi,” you gasp. your chest rises and falls quickly, taking in as many breaths as possible.

“good job, baby.” he kisses your neck, letting you recover before slipping his fingers out and bringing them up to your lips. at first you furrow your eyebrows, this isn’t something you usually do; but when he says, “open,” you find yourself obliging easily. “good girl,” he smiles as you suck your cum off of his fingers.

you pull his fingers from your mouth when you’re sure you’ve sucked them clean, “i got a record deal dinner, min!” you rush to put your clothes on. yoongi tries his best to help, but all he wants to do is give you a big hug. he lets you put your clothes on before he’s holding you in his grasp, while you’re trying to make your way to his door. the two of you wobbling to his door.

“let me kiss you first, rockstar.” he smiles, his hand gently taking ahold of your face and giving you a kiss. it tastes just like you, the sultry memory that will live in yoongi’s brain for as long as it’s able.

he tries to kiss you once more, but you’re pushing him away. “i gotta go, yoongi,” you giggle. his hands holding you close to him, your back pressed against his front door as you kiss each other sloppily. “yoongi!” you smile, more laughs erupting as he helps you open the door. as soon as the door slides open, yoongi’s eyes move behind you, a sly smile on his face.

you turn to see your three band mates, all of their mouths agape. “i fucking told you! pay up, idiots!” seulgi smacks the both taehyung and jungkook’s shoulders.

your face blushes tomato red. you try to hide your face as you open your apartment door. before you turn the key, you hear yoongi congratulate the four of you. “good luck at your label meeting! make sure they don’t scam you,” he advises. your bandmates laugh, thanking yoongi and moving into your apartment. they don’t let you live down the embarrassment for the entire night.

when you come back home, you sit on your couch. a smile taking over your face when you think about how great the day was. you think the dinner went perfect, and when you hear a knock on your door, it has you rushing to open it.

yoongi stands outside your door with a cupcake and a single lit candle stuck in it. “congratulations!— it went well right?”

you stand in front of him, a sweet smile on your face as you nod. “i think they loved us,” you pull him into your apartment.

“of course they did! you guys are amazing!” yoongi hugs you, holding the cupcake above your head so it doesn’t get in your hair.

the rest of the night you and yoongi enjoy each other’s presence and the two of you talk about everything and nothing.

yoongi says the cupcake is just for you, but you take a knife and split it, “for us.” you give him a quick peck before eating your half, and then kissing him once more.

for us. it repeats in yoongi’s mind.

us.

yeah, he’d like that.