#IS SO PRECIOUS AND SOFT AND THE SHADING IS SO GOOD????? HAIR SO SHINY?????

[jackactuallywrites]

Hidden Paradise

Pairing: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x fem!reader

Rating: Explicit (detailed shagging)

Warnings: Unprotected sex and also shower sex which we all know is unsafe

Summary: You walk in on a man in the shower, it takes you seeing him in the skull mask a week later to realise it was Ghost, and he is very intrigued by your reaction

Notes: This absolutely wouldn’t be possible without @xxven my muse and pookie and beta reader who gave me the plot 🤍❤️ (also raven on TikTok for making a hot thirst trap that inspired a whole scene)

Word Count: 4,195 (I am very horny for ghost)

ao3 link

There was very little luxury to be found on a military base; your military fatigues were never soft, your boots were the cheapest given by the contractors, your bed squeaked every time you so much as moved an inch, and there wasn’t so much as a tealight allowed in the barracks.

However, you’d found a quiet sanctuary. Far from the rest of the buildings on the base, there was a small shower block, disused and forgotten about in favour of the newer, more convenient showers. The water pressure wasn’t all that great, and the tiles would probably never return to whatever shade of white they’d started out as, but all that mattered was that it was so wonderfully, blissfully quiet.

Silence was one of the hardest commodities to come across on a military base; there was always something going on, whether it be a training exercise with a hard-edged sergeant screaming at recruits or the grunts trying out whatever shiny new piece of equipment the government had seen fit to waste money on, but out there in the shower block, muffled by a copse of trees, there was nothing. Beautiful, precious, nothing.

Today had been yet another long lesson in tedium, worsened by the fact that your most beloved friends were out in the field, busy repairing the vehicles with whatever they could scavenge from the base. You already felt exhausted at the idea of how much paperwork you’d have to do after they’d torn through the place, and the day proved you right, with you having to go to every single place in the garages to check what stock had been taken as mechanics had an annoying habit of forgetting to write down what they’d used. It was long into the evening by the time you’d finally finished putting in the orders to replace every strange bit of junk the mechanics had used, and all you could think about was the long shower you were going to take.

The route through the forest was one of the only places you could get away with wearing your headphones and listening to music without getting scolded by the sergeant on patrol, and you took advantage of this privilege every time, blasting some classic disco music in your ears as you approached the shower block, blissfully unaware of the world outside. If not, you might have noticed the sound of the shower running.

As such, you walked into the block thinking of nothing but how your new eucalyptus shower steamer would smell, having got fairly good reviews online. You already had a favourite shower at this point, the one on the very end, with the best water pressure that the rusted old pipes could provide, though it had no door to speak of. You walked along the yellowed tile floor, passing by the empty showers until you finally reached your favourite one, only to find that it was very much not empty.

Standing under the sputtering stream of water was a tall, well-built man, his tan back glistening under the hundreds of droplets of water, highlighting the various white scars on his back, some of them small, some of them intimidatingly large. You couldn’t help but let your eyes wander down, admiring the muscles in his back and perfectly toned legs, as well as a surprisingly sculpted ass. Whoever he was, he was statuesque in his beauty, as though he had been carved out of marble, and as he turned around to face you, showcasing the golden hair that trailed down from his abs, you caught a glimpse of his shaft, thick and long, yet quickly covered by a large hand.

It was that movement that broke the lustful spell you were under, and your eyes finally stopped ogling his body and flicked up to his face. You didn’t recognise him, not his pale green eyes or his crooked nose, but you could absolutely recognise the outrage on his face, and you yanked down your headphones, keeping your eyes firmly above his waist, “I- I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise anyone was in here.” His voice was little more than a snarl, “Get out.” You had absolutely no desire to argue with a man built like that, so you gave a quick nod and hurried back out of the shower block, not willing to spend a single second more in his presence.

~

Since your encounter in the showers, not a single night had gone past where you hadn’t dreamed about the man, his body, his hands, the dark blond hair that led down his navel, and the thick veins on his forearms. It lurked in the back of your mind, eternally present as a lustful little memory to entertain you during the more boring moments of your day.

Yet again, you were in another meeting writing down what items had been used over the week and what needed to be ordered for the next month's exercise. It was made slightly more interesting by the fact that this time, you were working with the SAS, and not just that, but with some of the most feared soldiers there were, including the worst of the worst, Ghost .

You swore you could almost feel the insidious aura coming from the man in the skull mask, as though it was radiating off him in dark waves. When he spoke, his words were sharp and to the point, never expending more energy than was strictly necessary, and rarely directing his attention to you, sitting in silence and taking notes, not that you were complaining. Every time the man spoke, you felt the hairs on the back of your neck prickle as though your body was trying to warn you that he was dangerous. It was only toward the end of the meeting that you finally spoke up, standing and reciting everything that you’d written down in your notebook.

It was times like that where you’d have to put on a brave face as if you feared the room of men no more than a pack of kittens, making sure your voice was loud and firm, forcing them to listen to you. None of them seemed particularly interested; after all, you were a perfect, albeit boring professional, yet you remained undeterred, making eye contact with each of them. Even Ghost was looking at you; you could see those pale green eyes watching you from underneath his skull mask with a strange intensity. You remained undeterred, staring back at the man as you read out the various things that were in stock and what would have to be ordered, yet there was something niggling at the back of your head. Those eyes were strangely familiar.

It took you a second to remember, and then the barely buried memory came back: the beautiful man in the shower, his body glistening, his toned muscles, and the dark blond hair that covered his navel. The words in your mouth died on your tongue, and you saw Ghost’s eyebrow raise underneath his mask as if he was intrigued by your reaction to him. You cleared your throat, hoping that the heat you felt in your cheeks wouldn’t show up on your skin as you dropped your eyes back down to your notebook, pointedly ignoring him as you focused back on your task, ensuring that you hadn’t missed anything.

Inexplicably, Ghost spoke up, interrupting your admittedly dull recital of your list, “How soon can we get a restock of the M16 mags?” His question forced you to look over at him, and his pale green eyes seemed as though they were trying to drill right through your head. You refused to back down this time, meeting his gaze no matter how prevalent the image of his naked body was in your mind, even if you did stumble over your words as you flipped through the pages, “Those mags, uh, the ammo for the M16 that is, we ordered those last Tues-Wednesday , so they’ll be in by the end of this week.”

You couldn’t see his expression under his mask, but you could have sworn that it tugged in a way that suggested he was smirking underneath the black fabric, a touch of smugness in his eyes. Was he flirting with you? There was no possible way for you to find out in the middle of a full room, so you decided to put that tantalising idea to the side, wrapping up the last few items on your list and then glancing around the room, “If there’s anything else, please send me an itemised list by the end of the day.”

With that, the meeting was over, every soldier packing up their files, undoubtedly each one as bored as you, and you had little desire to spend any more time with them, especially with the suspiciously intense look Ghost was giving you, so you gave your farewells and left the room as quickly as you could, doing your best to rid your mind of the confusing thoughts whirling around in your mind. Ghost, the supposed ‘psycho’ killer, was flirting with you. Or perhaps threatening you. You weren’t entirely sure which. And yet, you had a strange desire to find out, that small part of you that longed to step into dangerous territory. But how could you? That meeting had been the only time you’d ever interacted with the man; other than your brief encounter in the shower, it didn’t seem like there would ever be another opportunity to be alone with him.

Unless.

Regardless of how outraged he’d been previously, he’d seemed entirely intrigued by you in the meeting, almost amused. You’d seen the direction he was headed; if your mind wasn’t already overtaken with delusional optimism, you could have sworn that he was striding in the direction of the old shower block with what seemed like great determination.

This was one of those deciding moments, a fork in the path where you got to choose what the outcome would be: adherence to your usual routine or something far more thrilling. You could almost feel the clock ticking in your head, your time running short, and for once, you decided to be brave and at least a little bit stupid, heading to your barracks to pick up your things before heading out toward the shower block, adrenaline pounding in your veins as you made your way through the small woods to the brick building.

Even from the outside, you could hear the shuddering of the pipes as they desperately pumped water, your heart beginning to pick up the pace as you pushed open the heavy wooden door, closing it softly behind you, now able to hear the pattering of water on the tile floor and see the black clothing draped over the bench that ran the length of the wall. You walked down the centre of the block, approaching the last stall on the end, and yet, you couldn’t take that final step. Everything below the waist was screaming at you to leap into the shower with the man, yet your brain conjured images of the humiliating HR meeting you’d be in if you had, in fact, entirely misinterpreted what were admittedly very subtle hints. You didn’t dare push over that line with a man so far above you in rank, but you weren’t prepared to entirely give up, so you merely slunk into the stall next to his, stripping off your uniform and hanging it on the backside of the door, pulling it to and surrendering yourself to an unsatisfying shower.

The shower head shuddered as you twisted the knob for water, a few spats of water dripping out, yet nothing more. There was a good reason you stuck to that end stall; almost every other shower there had been neglected to the point of failure. You took this as a sign to give up, turning around to get your things, only to find Ghost standing in the now open doorway.

There was nothing but a towel lazily wrapped around his hips to cover him up, his blond hair already soaked, water leaving little trails down his body, pulling your eyes down. You quickly snapped your attention back to his face, your hands already going to cover your chest and between your legs instinctually. Ghost’s eyes lingered on your body before finally flicking to the broken shower head, then back to your face. You could see that intrigued twinkle in his eyes as he gave you a slightly smug smirk, gesturing toward the other shower stall with his head, “Mine works. We should share.”

You almost couldn’t believe what he was suggesting. The exact situation had been playing out in your mind ever since you’d seen him naked, yet never once had you made the connection between your shower Adonis and Lieutenant Ghost. The two couldn’t be reconciled in your head, but you quickly decided that this was a problem to be solved later, if at all. You turned your non-functioning shower off, though slightly reluctant to use the hand covering your chest to do so, and then walked out of the stall, ducking under Ghost’s arm holding the door open for you, and rounding the corner into the warm stream of the only functional shower, allowing the water to wash away all the important questions that should have been asked, only focusing on the present moment.

Though you’d chosen to face away from him, you could still hear the noise of his towel hitting the wall as he tossed it aside, your entire body tensing up as you felt his presence behind you, the nerves nipping at the back of your mind. You didn’t dare turn to look at him, trying to find something else to focus on to quiet your frenzied brain, your eyes flicking to the one bottle of his on the floor in the shower, trying to figure out what scent ‘original’ was supposed to be, and whether one liquid really could be shampoo, conditioner, and body wash.

Your thoughts on his toiletries were brought to an instant halt at the first touch of his hand on your hip, a questioning touch as though he was gauging your interest before moving any further. He might have been feared special forces, yet here, you retained a level of control, of security. You relaxed into his touch, leaning back until you bumped up against his chest, and his arm snaked around your stomach, wrapping tightly around your waist as he stepped forward into the stream from the shower, his head dipping down to rest in the crook of your neck. You could feel his other hand trail a path up your thigh before it, too, wrapped around you, pulling you snug against him in a tight embrace, like a man starved for any sort of touch.

For a moment, the two of you remained in that simple intimacy, your arms resting on top of his, enjoying the sheer pleasure of his embrace. Your hands were the first to move, your fingertips gently trailing over the muscles in his forearms, admiring the strength in them, unable to hold back a smile as you saw the not-so-subtle way he flexed them for you. His hand moved then, and you followed them with your own, one trailing down over your hipbone to the top of your thigh, gently stroking the skin there, the other one shifting up until it was just underneath your breast, pausing right before he touched anywhere interesting.

Clearly, he wasn’t about to touch anywhere without your explicit permission, and you decided to test him, pulling his left hand up until it was settled over your breast. His fingers paused, and you felt the tenseness in his arms, yet after a beat, he stretched out his fingers, tracing a little pattern over the swell of your breast, circling your nipple before his hand covered your boob entirely, gently squeezing it in his hand. You could feel his breathing growing heavier, every exhale blowing air over the skin of your neck, but you had no intention of stopping, relaxing into his touch, letting your head fall back against his shoulder, your eyes closed. The hand on your thigh had grown tight, fingers digging into your flesh, and you began to move his hand further in to where you could feel a growing need for his touch.

The further you moved his hand, the tighter his grip on your chest got, pulling you closer against him until you could finally feel his hardness pressed against the small of your back. His clear excitement emboldened you further, and you pushed his hand firmly between your legs, letting his fingers slightly part your labia to rest on your clit. That action earned you a low growl from him, and he buried his face into your shoulder as he pushed his fingers further down, touching the slick wetness beginning to leak out of your needy pussy. The second he felt your wetness, he drew his fingers back from you, digging them into your hip and pulling you firmly against him, rubbing the bridge of his nose against your neck as though he was trying to ground himself in the moment.

You had no problem allowing him to take his time, focusing on the simple pleasure of the warm water on your skin and the heat emanating from his chest to your back. His hand moved back to your pussy, more determined than before, as he slid his fingers down your slit, gently probing your slick hole with his fingers. As he slowly slid one in, he let out a strangled groan, shifting his face so he could bite down on the flesh of your neck, his other hand massaging your breast as his finger began to easily slip inside you. He stretched his thumb up to rest on your clit as he gently began to pump his finger in and out of you, rubbing in little circles, and you couldn’t help but let out a little moan.

The slightest of noises from you seemed to spur him on, and he pushed another finger inside you, beginning to kiss and suck at your neck as he did so, your body easily accepting his two fingers, and so he followed it with a third, his dick twitching with excitement against your back as all three of his fingers sank inside you without resistance.

Whatever good sense you had left was beginning to dissipate in the haze of your lust, and you reached your hand behind you to wrap around his cock, slowly beginning to stroke him as he gently fucked you with his fingers. He rewarded you with a soft groan in your ear, and so you quickened your pace, beginning to pump his dick in earnest, wanting him to receive the same pleasure as you. Your body was eagerly opening up around him, and the last bit of your intelligence vanished as your desperation for him overpowered you, and you begged for stupidity in two words.

“Fuck me.”

There was no hesitance in Ghost’s touch now as he pulled his fingers out of you, turning you to face him and then bending down to grab your thighs and lift you up, pinning you to the cool, damp wall of the shower stall. You could see the lust in his eyes as he shifted to hold you with only one hand, the other quickly moving to his dick, positioning it at your slick entrance and then slowly beginning to lower you down onto him. There was no comparison to the pleasure you felt, not only from feeling him slide into you, but to watch his face as he did so, his open lips, the desperate look in his eyes, his gaze entirely focused on you as though you were Aphrodite herself. You sunk your teeth into your lip to stop yourself from moaning out loud as you felt him stretch out your insides, yet you let your hands dig into his shoulders, your nails raking his skin as you felt every inch of him.

When you finally sunk down to the base of his cock, he leant forwards to rest his head on the wall beside you, clearly struggling to contain his composure, his hand digging into the flesh of your thigh, the other splayed out on the cool tile wall. He took a second to breathe before he began to slowly thrust up into you, his hand shifting from your thigh to your hip to pin you in place. Even in your wetness, you could feel how big he was, filling you up so perfectly, and you arched your back against him, desperate to feel every inch of him inside you. His eyes were on you now, and he moved his hands from the wall to your lips, tugging your bottom lip out from between your teeth and issuing you a singular command, his gaze intense.

“I want to hear you.”

Even in your pleasure, you couldn’t stop yourself from obeying a command from your superior officer, and you let out the moans you’d been holding back, tightening your legs around his waist to pull him into you as much as possible, your fingers raking against his back as he fucked you, his hips beginning to move more forcefully against you. His fingers now moved to your hair, brushing the errant strands out of your face and then shifting down to cup your cheek, lifting your face, his voice soft, “Look at me.”

There was no mistaking the utter lust in his gaze when you looked up at him, yet you could also see quite a great deal of tenderness, of genuine care, which only served to heighten your pleasure, your hands moving from his shoulders to the back of his neck as you clung to him, desperately grinding your hips against him. He picked up his pace further yet still restrained himself from fully slamming into you, his grip like a vice on your thigh. His voice grew hoarser as he caressed your cheek with his thumb, clearly strained, “Touch yourself.”

In another situation, you might have felt insecure, yet you were entirely awash in lustful pleasure, and so you obeyed, reaching down with one hand to begin rubbing circles around your increasingly sensitive clit, feeling that same build of pleasure in your core as Ghost fucked you faster still, his expression growing more desperate by the second. He leant forward to whisper his final command against your lips.

“Come for me.”

Your body seemed honour-bound to obey him as your pussy clenched around his dick, your pleasure building until it finally crescendoed, with Ghost’s lips crashing onto yours as you finished, his hips moving frantically as he desperately fucked you, his thrusts stuttering as he finally shot his load deep inside you, his body crushing yours into the wall in a tight embrace. Your kisses became softer as the both of you came down from your frenzied high, his grip on your body loosening slightly, your death grip around his neck becoming less deadly.

With a satisfied groan, Ghost let himself sink to the floor, pulling you down along with him into his lap, letting his dick remain inside you as you settled more comfortably on top of him, resting against his chest as he lazily wrapped his arms around your lower back, cradling you against him. After such bodily heat, the comparatively cool water of the shower felt heavenly on your skin, washing away your intermingled sweat.

You probably could have slept there, with Ghost still buried inside you, yet he was not so spellbound. With a gentle movement, he pulled his softening length out of you, reaching over to grab the bottle of soapy liquid he’d left on the floor. Then, he repositioned you so you were now sitting in between his legs, his thick thighs boxing you in as he opened the bottle behind you. You weren’t entirely sure what he was doing, nor did you care, still awash in a pleasant afterglow. The touch of his fingers gently massaging the liquid into your hair was a heavenly surprise, and you practically melted into his hands, a human-sized pile of putty perfectly manipulated by him. He ran his fingers through the length of your hair, thoroughly soaping up every strand before he let the cool water wash away the suds.

Then, he got to work on your body. Never had you been so grateful for three-in-one soap as it meant you didn’t have to miss a second of his warm chest against your back as he began to soap up your body, his fingers incredibly gentle against your skin, paying attention to every single part of you, and then letting you lean back against his chest as the water washed everything away, his arms coming to rest around your waist. Every single care of yours seemed to follow the soap down the train as you relaxed into him, enjoying the way he rested his chin on your head as you closed your eyes, finally entirely at ease.

[cinhomi]

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Bang Chan x fem reader

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: smut

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: panty stuffing, spanking (1), oral (f receiving), fingering

"theeere you are sweetheart, see? not as bad as you thought right?"

thinking about Chan toying with the -according to him- adorable hood over your clit as his fingers are still twirled around your lacy panties, that he's currently pushing inside you. the material slowly absorbs your wetness, darkening the piece of fabric by a shade or two as you feel it rough against your delicate walls, but... the sensation makes you strangely aroused?

"feels good?" knotty, thick fingers move inside you like the ones of a mage casting a spell, his words being carried by the hot air that hovers aroud your bodies.

Chan is licking his lips as he watches your little hole pread and tighten, your panties being sucked in more and more; they'd disappear if he released his hold on them. he's having so much fun, you can't even comprehend to which astral realm his head is whenever he has you like this.

"what if you lose 'em inside?" you're surely welcoming the copious waves of arousal arriving from your center to your face, going to your squirming legs that Chan is quick to block with his now free hand up in the air, but that little tinge of anxiety doesn't really disappear. it's something new, he came home and without much greetings nor explanations he told you to "go make yourself all pretty for me with the red set and sit on the bed. you have three minutes."

so you didn't really predict... this. his digits aren't that deep inside you, but he's pushing your thong further and you can't feel full but the whole thought of something unconventional, dirty, almost gross is sending you haywire.

"I won't. but if that happens, I'll just have to search right? spread you until I see inside, inspect!" he's playful and fuck if he's menace when he's like this, each word of his accentuated by a thrust of his palm on your squelching core. Chan laughs with such softness with his adorable queaks that you almost forget what he's doing to you.

"shit... angel you'll chop my fingers off if you clench like that again y'know..."

"Christopher!"

thinking about Chan giggling at your frustration as he stops touching you to lower down, his plump lips near your warm, pulsating cunt. his fingers leave you, but he doesn't take your panties out along with him. he sees your brows furrowing but he soothes your worries caressing your thighs and your belly, your own arousal glistening your skin where he touched.

you're so, so cute. your pussy is cute. all leaky and shiny and fuck, the red strings of the thong coming out of you? Chan sighs. the man just sighs. he gets all pouty and whiny as he easily makes you slip further on the matress having you completely laying down, legs hooked around his head, your heels planting on his back. that's how he takes a mouthful of your lips with a whine, suckling on them tenderly.

you can't comprehend how a man that reacts like this to your pussy could ever give you orders and punish you if you don't follow them, but he actually does. and it's frustrating because Chan loves bratty girls to give lessons to, and you are one. so, when you dare to wander with your hands through his curly hair he just smacks your side, sound echoing in the bedroom along your welp.

"keep your fucking hands on your tits, you can't disturb people while they eat just like that, got it?" he's suddenly so serious, voice deep just like his eyes that aren't sparkling anymore... a shiver goes through your whole body. that's exacly one of the reasons why you fell for him, the duality. it's easy for him to slip his tongue along your folds, nose nuzzling over your bundle of nerves making your nails dig in the soft skin of your breasts.

"Channie..." you don't know why you call his name, but he likes it a lot.

thinking about Chan and how his tongue swirls around the little part of your panties that is spilling from your precious cunt. thinking about how he secures his hold on it with his teeth that graze your sensitive folds and pulls them out just enough for the wet fabric to hang and brush your asscheeks. the sensation is heavenly. every lace detail resembles the veins on his cock when he fucks you, material unfolding and coming out as a string leaving you longing for something inside again. he's salivating, his erection is hurting but he's soooo far from finished.

"like it? just nod or shake your head sweetheart." he leaves few pecks on your inner thighs while his gaze is still attentive to your movements; when you nod his groan is so loud you almost flinch.

Chan is quick to push the panties inside you again with his tongue this time, fucking you with it slowly, savoring this precious moment with his girl. he has to pinch your clit though, you're losing your focus on him and he wants you to concentrate!

"pay attention at how Channie makes you feel good, yeah? stay with me." his tone is different again, much calmer and smooth as he returns to his ministrations. he slips his hands under you and grabs your arse, pulling you closer as his face is planted between your legs. he plays with the damped lace to his liking, tongue changing direction every now and then to lick fat stripes of your sensitive skin. you're so close, lower belly feeling tight, you really can't stop whining and sobbing.

he loves it so much when you can't stay still, when you can't follow his instructions but you still try. you always try so hard for him, he can only reward you right?

thinking about how Chan moans while he's making out with your pussy, how the thong disappears as he stuffs it completely inside you, his tongue moving flat on your clit.

thinking about your orgasm being so intense you push everything out, screaming his name as your legs tremble, thinking about his stupid smile as he keeps on leaving short licks making your release longer, harder. he praises you for being so good to him, Chan kisses you, cum still coating his chin. you don't notice what he's doing, until suddenly, forcefully, he makes you open your mouth to put your drenched panties there.

"that was so fun!" he cheers, happy face opposed to your tired one.

"let me fuck 'em inside with my dick now?"

[kiigan]

—    basics.

▸       is your muse tall    /    short    /ㅤaverage ?ㅤAs an adult Itachi is 178cm (5'10''), which technically makes him tall-ish. Relatively speaking, though, it's easy to think of him as not-tall for a few reasons. One, on account of being a prodigy and flying through the shinobi ranks, Itachi was usually always partnered with taller people because he was so much younger than them. Two, during Akatsuki days, he's always standing by Kisame's side so it's easy to think of him as un-tall, by comparison. And three, and relatively speaking, Itachi is actually one of the shortest Uchihas.

▸       are they okay with their height ?ㅤHe is! He's never really bothered to be in the company of people who are taller or shorter than him. In fact, one thing in particular Itachi thinks is amusing is how Sasuke went from being the tiny grumpy bundle he carried around everywhere to actually growing up to be a few centimeters/inches taller than Itachi.

▸      what’s their hair like ?ㅤA shade of deep black, long, straight, usually kept on a loose ponytail. In peaceful verses, it's very soft and silky and shiny, because Itachi takes good care of it (the whole routine of shampoo + conditioner + serum). During Akatsuki days, this is harder because, one, it's hard to find a place to shower as it is and let alone to properly wash the hair, and, two, it's even harder to have a healthy hair in general when you're literally dying slowly.

▸     do they spend a  lot of time on their hair     /    grooming ?ㅤSee the previous answer! If possible, Itachi does like to properly care for his hair and hygiene in general. That said, it's not necessarily for the sake of appearance - more like, having a strong obsession with order and cleanliness because of subclinical OCD symptoms, Itachi always prefers to have everything looking pristine and perfect, including himself.

▸      does your muse care about their appearance   /   what others think ? Again see previous answer lmao. More than caring for appearance, Itachi cares for himself to be/look properly presentable and put together (to which being raised to be the next Uchiha clan leader also contributes). As for what others think, it depends. If it is a stranger or somebody he's not close with, he usually couldn't care less what their opinion is. On the other hand, if it is a loved one, Itachi values what they have to say. In general, and if it is possible, he does put some care into looking nice for his romantic partner(s).

—    preferences.

▸      indoors    orand    outdoors ?     rain    or    sunshine ?ㅤ     forest    or    beach ?      precious    metals    or    gems ?      flowers    or    perfumes ?     personality    or    appearance ?      being    alone    or    being    in    a    crowd ?     order    or    anarchy ?   painful    truths    or    white    lies ?     science    or    magic ?     peace    or    conflict ?    night    orand    day ?     dusk    or    dawn ?  warmth    or    cold ?     many   acquaintances    or    a    few    close    friends ?        reading    or    playing    a    game ?     

—    questionnaire.

▸      what are some of your muse’s bad habits ?ㅤExtreme perfectionism, which results in things such as overworking, overthinking, and being obsessive. Also he always wants to have the last word on literally everything. And do we count sass as a bad habit? Because sometimes it does go over the top lmao.

▸      has your muse lost anyone close to them ? how has it affected them ?ㅤYes, starting with his genin teammate Izumo Tenma. Then, Shisui. And then... kinda his entire family and friends and neighbors and whole clan - Sasuke included, even if he was still alive. All of this together has affected Itachi in ways he can't really express, after the Uchiha massacre, because he's supposed to be playing the role of detached psychopath killer. So the only option is to keep the grief and guilt to himself, never truly processing it - also because he still has a mission to fulfill (i.e., eventually die by Sasuke's hand), therefore he cannot be "distracted" with thinking too hard about past choices and what ifs. Said grief and guilt, instead, are expressed through physical/psychological symptoms such as severe dissociation from reality, severe insomnia and, while not causing it, it is definitely something that indirectly worsens Itachi's chronic illness.

▸      what are some fond memories your muse has ? ㅤHaving an eidetic memory, Itachi is able to remember with great detail pretty much every experience he's ever witnessed or lived through. Itachi is also someone who greatly values simple things, such as a nice afternoon spent reading while a friend or family member is doing other stuff nearby, so he keeps a lot of these memories that, in itself, are nothing out of the ordinary but, to him, they are soothing and comforting. For example, we can insert here basically everything Sasuke has ever done, from taking his first steps to pouting at Itachi for having no time to train with him. Also nice memories of calm afternoons spent with their parents, just having a tranquil dinner and sharing conversation. Memories of fun times with his genin teammates and with his ANBU squad companions. Memories of fun times with Shisui and Izumi. Itachi keeps and cherishes all of these, especially during Akatsuki days when, truly, they are the only good thing he has left.

▸     is it easy for your muse to kill ? ㅤPragramtically speaking? Yes, extremely easy. Itachi can kill with the literal blink of an eye. Emotionally speaking? No, and it will never be. Even when he's done it so often and to the people who are (...well, were) closest to him, killing is something that Itachi never enjoys doing and that he always avoids whenever possible.

▸      what’s it like when your muse breaks down ?ㅤ It's very rare that Itachi allows himself to truly break down. He's the embodiment of the I want to cry but I have things to do text post, in the sense that, from a very young age, he's been handling great responsibility towards clan and village alike - and therefore, was always expected to be at his best no matter what. Two other factors contribute to this: one, to Itachi, protecting others comes much easier than being the one who needs protection or is otherwise vulnerable, and, two, feeling and expressing emotions (especially intense negative emotions) is something that can be very confusing for Itachi because he has alexithymia and, therefore, his strategy is usually to just rationalize those emotions and be done with it. When he does break down, he tends to be very quiet and private about it. He may seek a loved one for comfort, like spending time with Sasuke or talking to Shisui or asking his parents for advice - but, more often than not, he will attempt to deal with it on his own and most people won't even notice anything is amiss, because he excels at keeping a stoic facade no matter the internal struggles. This is particularly evident during the Akatsuki days.

▸      is your muse capable of trusting someone with their life ? ㅤYes, and this can be seen from two angles. One, if you are somebody Itachi loves, be it romantic or platonic, then he trusts you with his life by default - because, to him, love and trust cannot exist without each other. He wouldn't give his love to somebody he cannot fully trust (the exception being Sasuke after the massacre, for the obvious reason). And, two, if you are someone Itachi chooses to work with - for example, the members he chooses to include in his squad when he becomes ANBU captain. Kind of the same logic, because, given this line of job, to Itachi it wouldn't make sense to work with somebody he cannot fully trust for everything and anything. A kind-of exception to this would be Kisame, because, even though it wasn't truly a choice, Kisame is definitely someone Itachi learned to trust with his life, as time passed and their bond developed.

▸      what’s your muse like when they’re in love ?ㅤNot that much different than "normal", really, because Itachi is naturally caring and nurturing. When he's in love with somebody, however, this gets cranked up to eleven. Itachi likes to spend time with his crush/lover whenever possible, even if it's just little things like doing the dishes together or cuddling lazily on the couch. He is a giver and he's very attentive to his crush/lover's needs and always provides. In fact, Itachi is the kind to show rather than tell, so, even if he's not really one for big love confessions, he always shows his love through actions such as preparing a nice cup of tea, bringing a blanket when it's cold, offering a shoulder massage after a long day. With that said, Itachi also loves to use affectionate names like "my love" or "my heart" or any other expression that applies to his crush/lover, and he's known to say some very romantic things out of the blue. Maybe the most obvious signal that he's in love with somebody shows in how he likes to just stare at his crush/lover, just sit there and chinhand and stare in awe at how amazing they are even when they are literally just existing.

tagged by: @3katanas ♡ tagging: if you’re reading this you’re tagged by default~

[loveaffaire]

She Doesn’t Even Know

Pairing: Peter Parker x reader

Summary: Peter and you have been best friends all your life. When one night, you and Peter make plans to study at your place for the upcoming exam, Peter finds a used condom in your bin and loses his shit because well. . .

Warnings: angst, mention of sex, profanities, Peter crying :( and just some cute fluff! - 18+ (MINORS DNI)

Word count: 2k+

“Can you believe Flash really finally asked Gwen out?” you said as you and Peter entered your cold room, putting your bags at the small couch near your bedroom window. You both had that dreadful chemistry exam next week that you couldn’t wait to get over with and Peter was godsend because he was here to help you with it.

“No way! Did she say yes?” Peter asked with wide eyes. He used to have a huge crush on Gwen Stacy back in junior year and you never stopped joking about it. Peter never said anything to Gwen and that stupid little crush died down as you both started getting closer.

“I think so, that’s what Flash told us anyway” you shrugged your shoulders, “Why? Are you jealous?” you narrowed your eyes at him in a jokingly manner, biting your lip.

“W-what? No! Why would I be jealous? I used to like her in junior year. That’s like 3 years ago or something” he quickly said. His cheeks turned a sweet shade of pink.

You loved how sensitive Peter’s body was. Whatever he was feelings would be reflected on his body and you thought it was the most adorable thing ever. It was almost like he was hyper sensitive to everything around him. His pale skin would turn shades of pink multiple times a day and you loved every shade of it that would settle on his face because of one thing or the other.

“Alright, I believe you” you whispered, not looking at Peter but rather busy taking out your chemistry books and setting them on the table. You were busy revising the syllabus in your head, making sure you wouldn’t miss anything. You really needed a good grade on this test and you were determined to get that grade.

While you were too distracted thinking about that exam, Peter was looking at you intensely. With his hands buried deep in his jeans pockets and a thin layer of sweat on his forehead, he was just thinking about how pretty you were.

He knew he liked you, he really did but he didn’t want to make any moves. He didn’t plan on it and he probably never will, he promised himself. Your friendship was too precious to him and he would die before he decides to mess that up. As much as he would love to kiss your lips and cuddle you to sleep, he promised himself to bottle up these feelings and take them to the grave. He can go as far as saying that he loved you and he was comfortable in that thought, after all this was you, his angel-

“Peter?” your voice startled him as he was pulled out of his thoughts.

“Yea- yes?” He says softly, clearing his throat. He was scared.

“You were looking at me like you’re planning to kill me. Are you okay?” you joked but concern was evident in your voice. Walking up to him, putting your hands on his shoulder, you shook him slightly.

“Uh. Yes, yes I’m fine. Sorry I was thinking about something” Peter said as he sucked in some air, his chest tightening. You were so close to him, he could see your eyes so clearly, your pale lips because it was too cold and your cherry earrings that you’ve just bought last week. You smelled like vanilla even after a long day, your hair looked so soft-

“Okay then I’m going to make some tea before we start, do you want a cup too?” you asked as you started reaching for your bedroom door, swinging it open.

“Yes, please” Peter said as he watched you slip out of the door. He started following you but then he felt that mint wrapper in his pocket. He pulled it out and walked to the bin that you had in your room, tossing it in. He briefly turned around as he stopped in his tracks and looked back inside the bin.

A shiny blue packet of some sort was in there and Peter knew exactly what it was. His mind told him to look away but he couldn’t. It was torn open, he could see a used something shoved inside it. His chest tightened again but not in a gushy, ‘I’m in love with my best friend’ kinda way but in a heartbreaking way.

Who is she sleeping with? Why didn’t she tell me? Why do I feel so angry? She’s not even with me? Are my feelings justified? Do I know this boy who is getting in her bed at night? Why did she hide this from me? Fuck-

“Peter!” your voice rang through the empty flat, cutting his thoughts short for the third time today.

Peter felt short of breath. His palms were sweaty and he doesn’t know if he’s ever felt this way. He was scared and wanted to go home and never come back. His heart was crushed and it was all because someone else was making you feel in a way he wished to.

Peter gained some strength in his knees and dragged his heavy feet to the kitchen. His mind was in a daze and he probably wasn’t thinking right as he just stood at the kitchen doorway.

When you were done pouring the tea into two mugs, you looked up at Peter and your face fell. Peter only realised how not okay he looked, with his face pale and his eyes red, when he saw you put the mugs down and rush to where he was standing.

You and Peter have always just been touchy friends. Holding hands or kissing each other’s cheek as a goodnight was normal to you both so when you kept your warm hands on his cheeks, it didn’t feel awkward.

“Honey, are you okay?” you were concerned, you heart was in your throat and you were feeling empty. Peter was sensitive, you knew that but here he was looking white as a ghost and you were scared of all the worst possibilities.

“Who are you sleeping with?” he whispered looking down at you. You flinched when you heard him ask that. He flinched when he saw you flinch because he realised what he has just asked you. But it was too late now, the words were out there and Peter really didn’t give a shit right now.

Peter was angry. He was angry with this situation. He was even more angry with his feelings and how he knew you didn’t feel the same. He knew he had to keep his feelings to himself but he hadn’t realised how bad his heart will be crushed when you’ll get with someone else. His feelings had only started to develop into something more the previous year and that whole time you weren’t dating anyone so it was easy but this? This was far from easy.

“Peter, just sit down” you said avoiding his eyes. You pulled his arm towards the kitchen chair. Your heart was thumping, your throat dry and the room was filled with so much tension that you could put a knife through it.

“Will you tell me then?” Peter’a voice was so low and soft, it made you shudder. His gaze was so strong, his eyes a dark shade of brown. He’s never been like this. You’ve been friends for years and yes, you’ve seen him upset or angry but it was never like this. He looked betrayed, hurt and disappointed and you were confused.

You’re so fucking naive. Did you really think she’ll stay single forever? You lost your chance, oh you never had any. You love her and she doesn’t even know, she doesn’t even know, she doesn’t even know-

Peter’s mind filled all these mean thoughts in his head which he so desperately wanted to get rid off, he desperately wanted you to help him ease that pain.

“It didn’t mean anything” you whispered, almost like you were ashamed to say those words.

That’s when you heard the first sob that cracked through Peter’s lips that he was so desperately trying to keep in. His shoulders coming down as his eyes spilled all the tears he was keeping in.

You were quick to react, your arms going around his whole body, engulfing him in a hug as you started to ramble.

“It didn’t mean anything to me, Peter. Him and I just met at a party and it just happened, doesn’t mean anything. I didn’t even saw him after that night, I don’t even have his number-“

You stopped talking as you felt him gripping your body close against his. You didn’t know what was happening and you were pretty sure this wasn’t how friends act.

Friends didn’t cry about their friend sleeping with someone else, friends didn’t explain why they slept with someone else with tears in their eyes. But with this situation, with Peter sobbing in the crook of your neck and you rambling about your one night stand with tears in your eyes, you both were far from friends.

With that thought, you pulled away. Your back hit the kitchen counter and Peter looked at you with teary eyes and it broke your heart.

“Why are you crying about it, Peter? Because I didn’t tell you? It didn’t mean anything to me, it wasn’t important so I thought-“

“I love you”

Oh now Peter really didn’t give a shit.

The words that he whispered felt so loud. They felt heavy, so heavy that you could fill rooms and buildings with it. They were sincere and you knew it because when he said it, you saw his eyes soften, the pretty brown colour coming back.

“I’ve loved you for so long but you. . . you don’t know and when I saw that used condom, I felt so sad because- because I don’t want anyone touching you. No one but- but me-“ Peter rambled on, his lips quivering.

That’s when you reached out and put both your hands on his cheeks, your forehead resting on his.

“Shh, calm down” you said softly as you continued to brush your fingers on his cheeks with a soft smile.

“Why- why are you smile- smiling?” Peter said in between hiccups, confused.

“Because I love you, you idiot”

Your lips slightly brushed on his lips, your nose bumping into his. That shade of pink you loved so much settling on his cheeks and the tip of his nose again and you were so thankful for that.

“But-“ Peter pulled away, still not believing the words he just heard.

“I slept with that guy because I was being reckless. It was Saturday night, I was alone and I don’t know why I did it but we’re nothing. I love you, I wanna be with you” you said as you ran your fingers through his curly brown hair, trying to ease the stress.

“What?” Peter sniffled, a smile breaking on his face. His hands travelling from your waist to your face, pulling you in.

He didn’t give you a chance to say anything back as he put his soft lips on yours. The kiss was soft and brief. Just lips innocently touching and you liked how romantic it felt.

“I love you, I love you, I love you” Peter repeated his words as to tattoo them in his head, a reminder that this has happened and you were here in his arms with your lips on his.

“You’re gonna be mine?” Peter whispered as he looked lovingly in your eyes, his hands in your hair. He still couldn’t believe you were so close to him, telling him you loved him.

“Only yours” you whispered back as you kissed his eyes, almost like a way of saying sorry for making him cry.

Peter nearly broke out in another fit of tears from the happiness. His heart was so full, he couldn’t contain it.

“Hey, baby. Shh, come on- see, do you want a muffin?” You said as you quickly reached out for the muffins that you’ve pulled out for Peter a while back when you were making tea.

Peter threw his hand back as he giggled at your attempt to make him stop crying.

You smiled as you looked at him, the guilt still in your chest about the way he found this out.

“I’m so sorry you had to find it out this way though. I feel awful” you said as you broke a piece of the muffin and fed it to Peter.

“I’m just happy about us” he simply said, happily munching on the muffin.

“I promise the next time something like this happens, I’ll remember to take the trash out” you said as you went to take a bite of the muffin but it was snatched out of your hand and you were pulled into a rough kiss.

“Don’t say that” Peter said. His voice was tough, like an order. You immediately felt guilty and took it back.

“I’m sorry. I was making a joke. . . I’m all yours, I promise” you said sincerely as you watched Peter’s eyes soften.

“You better remember that” he said softly as he gave you another kiss because he could finally do that and obviously because he couldn’t get enough of it.

A/N: if you liked this, please try to like/reblog/comment down your thoughts because it motivates me!!

Thank you!! ❦

© loveaffaire

[spideychelleforever]

MJ hated dressing up, even for a girl who was used to putting on a skintight spider suit every day.

And she hated how nervous she was, because she’d never really dressed up before like this anyway. She was always casual and soft, and would definitely fit in when she got to college and started employing the “just rolled out of bed and threw on some sweats dress code”. She never had much interest in it, and still didn’t even though she went through the effort of finding a semi nicer prom dress and heels and all.

The fact she was dressing up to go to prom with her boyfriend - the small, adorably precious sweetheart Peter Benjamin Parker - didn’t have anything to do with her anxiety.

:readmore:

Months into their relationship, MJ still couldn’t fathom how someone so perfect and good could be real, how someone so perfect and good could not only notice her, but actually be head over heels for her. Awkward, shy, nerdy and dark her. And not just because of her admittedly nicer than average looks, being given a slender, curvy, fit physique by the spider bite all those years ago and having a… well, her mom and dad said she had a pretty face, but she didn’t believe it.

No, Peter wasn’t interested in her because of just her looks. He saw her. He wanted her, the person, and he cared about her, the person. And she drove him crazy with how much he liked her, he had told her more than once.

And even just thinking about it now choked her up a bit. Because she didn’t think she deserved such a perfect boy to call her boyfriend. Yet, here she was, about to go to their prom with him.

She didn’t even know what her dress was, like the material, the cut, the… whatever went into a dress. She just went for a shade of pink that went with her skin tone, had some heels that made her tower even higher than usual being a tall ass woman, and had some white gloves that ran up her arms a bit that reminded her of Cinderella for some reason. And her hair was combed back because one time he said he really liked her hair when she had it back.

Not that it mattered, since Peter told her he liked her hair every day no matter how she did it (oh God), and then he told her that he never wanted her to do her hair or body any type of way for him just because of something he said, since she was her own person with her own body.

It took everything in her power to not scream “but I’m yours and I want to always be yours godDAMNIT”

As she walked up the steps to the Parkers’ apartment building, she was aided by her mom and dad, careful to make sure their daughter didn’t timber down from the extra height on her. And soon they were at the Parkers’ room, and May was squealing in delight at how beautiful MJ looked. May was the kind of person whose praise and kindness made MJ want to hug her and never let go, she just made her feel so welcome and loved. Peter’s Uncle Ben similarly made her feel at ease, happily welcoming her and putting an adorable arm around his wife.

And then Peter came down the stairs.

Peter was the cutest boy MJ had ever seen in her life, but this… this was something else.

Peter was still babyfaced, but wearing a sharp tux with a black tie, and his hair gelled, his face shiny and he was even wearing some sharp glasses… it did things to MJ.

He looked beautiful. And it should be illegal for anyone to look this beautiful, least of all someone named Peter Benjamin Parker.

MJ desperately tried to calm herself despite her smile being so huge that it was starting to melt her face. She was desperately trying to breathe, trying to fight down her already crumbling voice and the huge lump in her throat that was starting to generate tears in her eye. She could NOT break down crying in front of their parents.

Though she nearly broke when she thought to herself, “if this is just prom, how am I gonna behave on our wedding day?” And then she went into another mini panic due to already knowing she wanted to marry him but that’s another story for another time, Michelle-

She slowly but surely walked over to Peter as he reached the bottom of the stairs. She was a good head taller than him and more, and he looked up at her in pure awe, and oh great, now he looked like he was gonna cry. Peter crying made MJ cry so this just wasn’t fair!!

“I-,” Peter mumbled, “I hit the jackpo-“ and suddenly Peter grabbed for his inhaler and helped himself. MJ thought about asking for it too considering the fact that Peter Parker saw her dressed up for two seconds and had to use his inhaler. He liked her that much and found her that attractive and that was more than she ever thought possible.

Once Peter put away his inhaler he reached out for her hands, and she gave them to him. She was looking down at him, he was looking up at her. Nothing else mattered as they smiled at each other, unable to do anything else but grin.

“Ooohhhhkay kids,” MJ’s dad leaned in from their right, “we do need to take some pics!”

20 minutes passed of the four parents directing Peter and MJ. “Relax your face”, “look this way”, “turn a little bit”. And MJ couldn’t get over the feeling of Peter’s small hands around her, on her waist. She’d really like them in other places too, she thought.

After enough oohing and awing and pictures and teasing remarks, they were off to the prom. It was held in a relatively nice hotel. MJ decided to drive, and they ended up jamming out to some of their favorite songs along the way. Already, this was a good night; MJ still couldn’t believe she was singing her heart out openly in front of somebody else, and he was actively encouraging her to do so and embracing her for it.

At prom they grabbed a table with Ned, Betty, Flash, and his date. And Peter and MJ did a bunch of the usual stuff; they took picture in a photo booth, sneaking kisses to each other with each shot; they tried some of the crappy food catered (MJ’s metabolism meant she HAD to eat no matter what, so Peter used his meal tickets to give her seconds); they played some sort of gambling game MJ really didn’t know how to play, but apparently Peter did.

And they danced.

MJ was reluctant to only because she knew Peter could get easily winded, but surprisingly, he stayed with it even when it was a bouncy song like Usher’s “Yeah”.

It was still a little weird because both of them were so awkward that they didn’t know how to dance sometimes, mostly just jumping or bouncing on their feet, waving their arms around a bit; as they were a couple, was there a specific way to dance? Neither of them knew, but they were still together and happy to spend time together. So who cared.

Then came the first slow song of the night.

Some deep, lovely violins started playing as MJ looked at Peter sitting next to her, who nodded back, getting to his feet, and offering his hand to her. She could only smile back (had she EVER smiled this much before in a single night? Even when she’d been dating Peter for months?!), and took his hand as she got to her feet. She wrapped her arm around his despite their height difference and let him lead her to the dance floor, where other couples were gathering.

They got to a spot on the dance floor, where there was silence for a moment. Then the singers crooned “babybabybabybabybabybabybabybaby” and were followed by one of MJ’s absolute favorite uses of piano in music.

They broke their smiles at each other to quickly glance at the couples around them and how they were holding each other, to try to figure it out. Did one hand go there? Did another go on her waist? On his chest? Err…

Finally, MJ spotted somebody doing something she liked, so she nodded at Peter, and wrapped her arms around his neck, and he put his hands around her back. This - now this, felt right.

“I will never find another lover sweeter than you, sweeter than you.”

And they danced. If it was any more possible, they fell even more in love as they listened to the song and kept smiling warmly at each other. MJ’s face must have been melted cheese by this point in particular.

The bridge of the song eventually came.

“You're all that I've ever know

When you smile all my face always seems to glow

You turned my life around

You picked me up when I was down”

And oh man, this was just - this was just getting them. Both of them. MJ saw Peter’s lip quivering a bit, and she felt something prickling at her eyes, so she just did what she could and pulled him in. Now he was up against her, and they were holding each other even more snugly. And thanks to their height difference, it was like he was curling up into her. She curled her arms until her hands were holding his head, because she wanted to always be like this, she never wanted to have to let go of him, the boy she felt happy with, who she felt safe with, who she always wanted to share things with, who always kept her sane, who always wanted to make sure she was okay before himself-

“I love you.” Peter whispered to her.

MJ’s mind may have broken.

So she just hugged him tighter, even as the song started winding down and couples started leaving the dance floor.

MJ didn’t say anything, she just stared at him, looking a little shocked, but still soft enough to where Peter would be able to tell he didn’t say anything wrong.

Peter took the time to gently lead her outside the main dance hall, to a hallway where they could sit together alone. MJ sat down on autopilot, and Peter sat next to her, taking one of her hands in his. But MJ looked down at the floor, not having said a word.

“MJ?” Peter asked gently. “Are you okay?”

MJ didn’t say anything for a moment, but soon she got herself up to speak. “You told me you love me.”

Peter nodded. “I did.”

“Is it… I just… no boy has ever told me that before. At least, no boy I wanted to hear tell me that.”

“I’m just kinda… in shock to be honest because… I can’t believe it.”

“That I love you?” Peter asked.

MJ nodded sharply, a bit winded that he said it again. “I just… I wanted you for so long and… I still can’t believe that you.. you know, want… me too.”

Peter gently raised one of his hands to her face. And she turned to him finally, closing her eyes, relishing the feel of his touch.

“I wouldn’t be so surprised. How could I not fall in love with you?” Peter asked.

MJ finally broke and sniffled a bit. “See I just-I just don’t know how you could-and I-“

Peter took her face with both of his hands now.

“Michelle. I can’t tell you how to feel about yourself. But I want you to know that I think you’re pretty great. And that I love you. I’m in love with you. And you do deserve some happiness, and if I can give you some, I’m gonna do my hardest to give it to you.”

A tear slid down MJ’s cheek, and she couldn’t stop herself from slowly, gently kissing him for that. When they pulled apart, she smiled again and nuzzled herself up to him in a tight embrace, nuzzling herself in so that he could be the big spoon, so to speak. Because of how safe he made her feel, and how happy and how comforting he made her feel. Being in Peter’s arms was everything.

Some girls in school had expressed disbelief that tall, fit, badass looking MJ was in a committed relationship with tiny, cozy little Peter. Some shallower people had frowned on MJ for choosing a tiny, unassuming nerd with some lingering baby fat as her person; that surely someone as curvy and muscular and beautiful as MJ would be with someone else.

But this right here, this comforting embrace, was exactly why MJ never doubted that she had chosen the right person for her.

“You know, I’m a little annoyed though,” MJ laughed through her sniffling. “Because I wanted to say it first.”

Peter’s face lit up like the Fourth of July. “You mean-“

MJ pulled herself up to be level with him again. “Yes. I love you too, Peter.”

And soon they were kissing again, which to be frank, was barely enough to even try to convey the amount of love these two dorks had for each other.

***

Pretty much a spin-off of @i-lovethatforme ‘s beautiful reverse Spideychelle AU ❤️ and a gift for them and @machiavelien

[kirammama]

Growing Up Kiramman: Final Chapter

Chapter One: Caitlyn

Chapter Two: Tobias

Chapter Three: Cassandra

Chapter Four: Homecoming

(home is wherever i’m with you)

Caitlyn was born with dark eyes and soft tufts of indigo hair, just as her parents had predicted. It is common knowledge throughout Runeterra that physical features and traits often found in those of Ionian descent tend to be dominant in the gene pool, so it hadn’t surprised anyone that Cassandra and Tobias’ firstborn child looked exactly like her father. Relatives and family friends, as well as the guests who attended baby Caitlyn’s naming ceremony, had all assumed that the newest Kiramman heiress would grow up to take after Tobias in terms of appearance. 

Nobody had been more surprised than her parents when, at around three months of age, Caitlyn’s eyes started to change color. At first, Cassandra and Tobias thought it might be a trick of the lighting in the nursery or another manifestation of new parent paranoia, but then their daughter’s eyes developed an almost slate-colored sheen practically overnight. Fearing that there might be something seriously wrong with their baby, the Kirammans brought Caitlyn to several of Piltover’s finest pediatric ophthalmologists, but everywhere they went they received the same answer⁠—their daughter’s vision was perfectly fine, and her eyes were showing normal, healthy development for an infant her age.

As the days turned to weeks, Caitlyn’s eyes only became lighter and brighter, and before long they were no longer the shiny black orbs her parents once knew. Out of the darkness came a pair of sapphires of the most beautiful, brilliant, familiar shade of blue, and as soon as her parents recognized them, everything made perfect sense.

Cassandra sees them reflected back at her every time she looks in the mirror. Tobias fell in love with them many years ago, when he was still a young artificer apprentice in the Kiramman workshop. 

By the time baby Caitlyn was six months old, she had a head full of hair that was just as shiny, just as straight, and just as deep blue as her father’s. But her eyes… She had her mother’s eyes. And neither Cassandra nor Tobias could have felt more blessed that their tiny treasure was a perfect, precious blend of both of them. 

The courtyard glows a soft orange in the light of the setting sun as the carriage pulls through the gates and up to the Kiramman Mansion. Unable to hold out for the few extra seconds it would take their driver to reach them, Caitlyn opens the doors herself and hops out first, bounding straight up the stone steps to the front doors and bouncing impatiently on her toes while she waits for her parents to catch up. She calls loudly for her father, waving him over. “Papa! Could we have a word in private, please? It’s very important!” Pausing for a beat, Caitlyn lowers her voice a few notches. “It’s about the you-know-what!”

Tobias helps Cassandra out of the carriage, but then he excuses himself with an apologetic smile and hurries over to their daughter. Cassandra, sharp as ever, immediately picks up on her family’s peculiar behavior. If the pair of them are trying to be subtle, they are sadly not doing a very good job. With narrowed eyes, she watches Caitlyn cup her hands around her mouth and lean in to whisper into Tobias’ ear. After a moment, Tobias nods and Caitlyn takes off once more, disappearing into the house. Reaching the top of the steps, Cassandra shoots a questioning look at her husband. “What was all that about, then?” 

“Oh, never mind,” says Tobias, tone as jovial as ever as he guides her into the house with a hand on the small of her back. “Darling, won’t you please have a seat? Our daughter should only be a moment. I believe she has something she wishes to show you.”

“Is that so?” Cassandra asks. There is audible suspicion in her voice, but she allows herself to be led into the parlor and over to the sofa. “Honestly, Tobias. You know how I feel about surprises. What have you two got up your sleeves?” 

Tobias chuckles heartily, taking a seat beside her. “Relax, my love. It isn’t a trick or anything, if that’s what’s worrying you. I swear on my life.” 

“I am not worried, dear. I am simply—”

“Is she ready, Papa?” 

A voice from above interrupts Cassandra mid-sentence, and she and Tobias lift their heads to find Caitlyn standing at the top of the staircase. The girl appears to be fighting a smile, lips in a twitchy twist as she tries to keep a straight face. Both of her arms are hidden behind her back, and it is quite obvious that she’s holding something out of sight. 

“Yes, Caity-bird. We’re ready.”

Caitlyn starts her descent, side-stepping all the way downstairs with her back towards the wall. “Mama, stay right there, all right? And close your eyes, please!”

Although Cassandra’s first instinct is to inquire further before even considering shutting her eyes, she decides to humor her daughter. She sits rigidly with her hands folded in her lap and back straight as a pin as she waits for Caitlyn to reach her. Tobias reaches out and rests a hand on Cassandra’s knee, the tender gesture bringing her enough reassurance that her tightly knit brows loosen up ever so slightly. The sound of energetic footsteps fades to silence as Caitlyn comes to a stop right in front of her mother. 

“You can open them now!”

Cassandra slowly opens her eyes to find Caitlyn standing before her, a small blue box tied with a pretty ribbon in one hand, an envelope in the other, and the sweetest smile on her rosy-cheeked face. For several moments, Cassandra merely sits there, speechless, and Caitlyn and Tobias watch in delightful amusement as her bewildered expression turns to one of surprise and mild disbelief. Her eyes widen but her brow softens, and she covers her mouth with her hands. “Oh, Caitlyn… Are those for me?”

“Yes! It’s a present from me and Papa,” informs Caitlyn, passing them to her and moving to sit on her father’s knee.

Tobias gives Cassandra his usual warm smile. “A welcome home gift, if you may. Just a little something to celebrate the woman we love most as she begins a new chapter of her life.” 

“Nonsense. You didn’t have to go through all this trouble just for that,” Cassandra says, but her tone is soft. At Caitlyn’s request, she opens the box first, carefully removing the turquoise satin ribbon and then lifting the lid.

Inside the gift box, lying elegantly atop a plush lavender cushion is a pair of diamond shaped earrings with golden backing and crystal-like gemstones of the most breathtakingly vibrant shade of blue Cassandra has ever seen. They are elegant and exquisite, and they captivate her instantly. The mother fumbles for words, and once she finds them, her voice is gentle and full of emotion. “I… I don’t know what to say. They’re absolutely beautiful. Thank you, both of you.”

“Our Caity picked them out,” Tobias tells her, running a hand down the back of their daughter’s hair. “She spent hours searching for the perfect gift for you.”

Cassandra looks at Caitlyn fondly. “Darling, you chose these yourself?”

Nodding bashfully, Caitlyn reaches for the envelope and hands it to Cassandra again. “And I wrote you a letter. Papa helped a little with some of the words, but I was very careful and used my best penmanship.” 

After thanking Caitlyn once more, Cassandra turns the envelope over in her hands, lips curling into a smile at the dark blue wax seal on the flap. Their brass stamp, engraved with the Kiramman sigil, is used to seal envelopes containing official business documents or letters to only their most important correspondences. Using it on a casual letter within the family must have been Caitlyn’s idea, Cassandra is sure of it. Tobias lends Cassandra his pocket knife so she can break the seal, and Caitlyn watches in anticipation as her mother takes out her letter, unfolds it, and begins to read it.

( Dearest Mama,

Congratulations on your new position on the Piltover Council. Papa and I are very proud of you. These earrings are our gift to you. Please wear them every day so that you always remember how much we love you.

Your loving daughter,

Caitlyn )

When Cassandra is through, she sets the letter on the couch beside her and turns to her daughter with glassy eyes that are tinged pink around the edges, in that subtle way that they do when she is trying not to cry. Waving her hand, she beckons Caitlyn over with her arms outstretched. Always happy to be on the receiving end of a hug, especially one from her mother, Caitlyn revels in the pleasant fuzzies that float through her insides as Cassandra holds her tight and presses a kiss to the top of her head. Before they separate, Cassandra pauses near Caitlyn’s ear and speaks softly to her. It’s not loud enough for Tobias to hear, but what happens next is a clear enough hint as to what those words between mother and daughter may have been. 

Caitlyn is positively beaming, her joy practically radiating off her tiny frame when she pulls away from Cassandra and gazes up at her with complete adoration in her eyes. “I love you too, Mama.”

Now that the family has reunited, the Kiramman home feels complete once more. Wanting to see Cassandra model her new earrings, Caitlyn and Tobias insist that she try them on right away and accompany her to the floor-length mirror nearby. While Caitlyn holds the box for her, Cassandra switches out her favorite—now second favorite—pair of gold earrings for the diamond-shaped pair and spends a few moments turning her head left and right to admire them from different angles. The timeless elegance of the gold combined with the brilliant blue stones that bring out the color of her eyes make them a destined match. Behind Cassandra, Tobias winks at Caitlyn and rewards her with a pat on the back for a job well done. These earrings really were the perfect choice. 

For the rest of the evening, Tobias and Caitlyn work together to make sure that Cassandra is comfortable and able to unwind from her travels. After a hearty, home-cooked meal prepared by Tobias himself, the family moves into their cozy, less-formal sitting room to spend some time together before bed. Once everyone has settled into their seat of choice, Cassandra surprises Tobias and Caitlyn with some gifts of her own: a few souvenirs that she purchased in Demacia. For Tobias, an illustrated handbook on Demacian weaponry and forging techniques; for Caitlyn, a wooden toy figure in the shape of a Silverwing hatchling, complete with a pair of shiny glass eyes and articulated joints; and last, for all three of them to enjoy, a high-quality set of King’s Gambit stones fit for even the most elite members of the Dauntless Vanguard. After the presents have been passed around, appreciated, and set aside for the night, Cassandra shares a few highlights from her time overseas while Caitlyn snuggles close and hangs on her every word, listening with as much enthusiasm and interest as if Cassandra were reading her her favorite bedtime story. In return, Tobias and Caitlyn recount some of their own adventures at home. 

Tobias tells Cassandra about the other day’s “bubble incident” from when he and Caitlyn tried to give the dogs a bath, and afterwards, Caitlyn proudly shows off the ceramic vase that they made together. She retells the whole story about how Tobias let her mix the clay and pedal the pottery wheel, erupting into giggles when she reaches the part where she accidentally spun the wheel too quickly and sent blobs of clay splattering all over the room. By the end, as she tries to tell her mother about the piece of dried clay that fell out of Tobias’ beard and into his bowl of soup during dinner, Caitlyn is laughing so hard that she can barely speak. Her laughter is infectious, and before long, the youngest Kiramman has both of her parents in stitches, too. 

The evening comes to an end earlier than usual, the whole family starting to feel the after-effects of their long, exciting day. Cassandra and Tobias send Caitlyn upstairs to wash up and get ready for bed. In a moment, Tobias retreats to the master bedroom to do the same, but not before checking on his wife one last time. Cassandra, having decided to stay behind so she can read a page or two of her favorite book before heading up for the night, reassures him that she’s fine and promises to join him in a bit. 

The Kiramman Mansion settles into tranquil silence. Leaning back in her armchair, Cassandra opens her book to the bookmarked page, but she only manages to get through a few lines before having to stop, realizing that she isn’t taking in any of the words. The ticking of the clock, normally a metronome that keeps her calm and steady, seems louder than ever tonight, reminding her of the constant, uncontrollable passing of time. There is something that’s been troubling Cassandra ever since her mother announced her retirement from the council, passing the flaming torch of power and responsibility down to her. It’s not the nature of the job itself—Cassandra has spent most of her adult years preparing for the day she would take her mother’s place and knows she can handle it—but, rather, the repercussions that her absence from home may have on her family, particularly on the relationship between her and her daughter. 

From the very beginning, Cassandra and Caitlyn have always had a special bond. In her earliest days of motherhood, Cassandra felt out of place. Admittedly, her interactions with her baby had been somewhat awkward and unsure at times, and that uncertainty continued well into her daughter’s toddler years. And still, despite all the ways Cassandra felt that her parenting abilities fell short, Caitlyn was always content just being with her. Cassandra did not become a mother when she gave birth to Caitlyn. Caitlyn made her a mother by giving her the confidence and guidance she needed to step into the role. Everything after that just fell into place. 

One of Cassandra’s hands unconsciously reaches up to touch one of the blue diamonds hanging above her shoulder. Someday, Caitlyn will reach the age where she won’t want to be around her mother all the time. Someday, perhaps sooner than Cassandra would like, Caitlyn will no longer cry when she leaves for work. The future and all the gradual changes that come with it are inevitable. When Cassandra puts these earrings on every morning, however, she hopes to remember these precious yet fleeting days. For as long as she wears them, Caitlyn will be with her, even when they’re apart. 

The soft padding of bare feet entering the room liberates Cassandra from the bittersweet silence. Caitlyn, now wearing a nightgown, comes to stand beside her mother’s chair. “I’ve finished in the bathroom, Mama.” 

“Go on up to bed, darling,” comes Cassandra’s automatic response. The mother shuts her eyes and massages her temples in an attempt to clear the dark clouds looming above her head. “Your father and I will be there in a moment.”

“Well, actually…” 

When Caitlyn doesn’t finish her sentence, Cassandra opens her eyes and notices her daughter’s expression straight away—there is something that she’s after, and she has already set her mind on getting it. Inside her eyes is a burning sort of energy, like glowing embers, and whatever it is that Caitlyn has planned, Cassandra has a feeling that she’s going to hear about it very soon. 

As expected, Caitlyn takes a deep breath while looking Cassandra right in the eyes, keeping her chin raised at an angle and her upper lip stiff. When she speaks, she puts on the extra-posh tone that she uses whenever she’s trying to sound more mature. Tobias claims that Caitlyn gets that from her mother, but Cassandra begs to differ. “Mama, I’ve been thinking… and I think I should sleep with you and Papa tonight.”

Cass hums lightly, feigning nonchalance to hide her amusement. “So I see.”

“You only just got back this evening, so I think I should”—Caitlyn cuts herself off, clears her throat, and changes her wording—“I think it would be in everyone’s best interest if I stayed in your room to make sure you’re all right.” Pausing briefly, Caitlyn waits for a reaction or response from Cassandra, only resuming when she doesn’t receive any. “What if you caught some germs in Demacia? You might feel ill in the middle of the night and, well, you know how Papa can sleep through anything,” she points out, one hand on her hip.

Caitlyn is her mother’s daughter.

Even before Cassandra made her debut into the world of politics, she has always been able to give a flawless argument. The relentless, unwavering drive to be understood and make her viewpoint known is something she’s had from the start. When Cassandra needs to prove a point, she comes prepared for any counter-argument that might get thrown her way. Persuasion is an art, and one must be thorough in order to be convincing.

The thing about children that adults tend to forget is that they are always watching, always learning. Although Cassandra doesn’t always realize it, Caitlyn has learned a lot from her in her seven years of life. She is her mother’s daughter, after all. 

“I could bring you medicine, and I could rub your belly if you have a tummy ache,” Caitlyn continues, listing reason after reason as to why Cassandra should go along with her plan. “Or if you get really sick, I will wake Papa for you so he can phone the doctor, or I could even do it myself. I know how to dial the numbers,” she adds proudly.

There are some days, much like tonight, when Cassandra is reminded of how fortunate she is that out of all the children the universe could have given her, the stars aligned in just the right way and blessed her with exactly the child she never knew she needed. Her daughter, a bright, special soul who showed her the meaning of motherhood and taught her what it means to love somebody completely and unconditionally. Someday, Caitlyn will stop crawling into her parents’ bed in the middle of the night. Until then, Cassandra wants to treasure every precious moment she shares with her little girl—who will always be her little girl, no matter how many years go by. Even if she grows up to be six feet tall and towers over her parents. Even after she becomes the brilliant adult that they both know she will be. The moment Caitlyn came into this world, Cassandra and Tobias vowed to love and protect her for all of their days, come what may, until the universe ceases to exist and even after that. 

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” Cassandra says softly, smiling at Caitlyn. “That would be lovely, thank you.”

Eyes widening in surprise, Caitlyn appears to be in disbelief at how easily she was able to get her way. “Does that mean yes?”

“Yes, for tonight.” Cassandra gets to her feet and reaches out, placing her palm against Caitlyn’s cheek. It’s warm and loving, and Caitlyn instinctively moves closer, seeking more of the touch. “How am I so lucky to have such a caring daughter to look after me?” 

Stifling an excited giggle, Caitlyn slips her hand into Cassandra’s and gently tugs her mother’s arm in the direction of the door. “Come along, Mama. You ought to get some proper rest.”

Cassandra gives a quiet laugh, but allows Caitlyn to lead the way. Hand in hand, they make their way back to the central staircase and up to the second floor. They tiptoe silently through the corridors, careful not to disturb Tobias in case he has already fallen asleep. Just before they reach the bedroom, Caitlyn comes to a stop and peers up at Cassandra. “Are you happy to be home, Mama?” 

“I am, darling,” Cassandra answers earnestly, squeezing her little girl’s hand as that one word makes her heart swell. Home. “I couldn’t be happier.”

[keilemlucent]

pretty eyes & starshine: iii

(Mostly SFW)

hawks | takami keigo x reader

ao3

part i   ||   part ii   ||   part iii​​ (epilogue)

word count: ~2.2k

Nothing ever really ends. It just grows in different ways with different parts. 

warnings: description of post-injury, reader and hawks being traumatized but coping, a soft epilogue

the ending folks :’^) thank you for reading this far. here is something gentle for all of us, with some future, past, and the present for sweet starshine and keigo :’^)

enjoy loves 💞!!

✧   ✧   ✧   ✧   ✧   ✧

Keigo doesn’t break promises. 

He loves white lies, the silly kind where he can rib you for a minute or two before soothing any ruffled feathers with quick kisses. He never leaves big wounds, nothing gaping or jagged, just loving pokes in your sides to get you to laugh and quip back at him.

He never goes back on his words that count.

His journeys out of the house remain short and rarely surprising. He never leaves without a goodbye, whether that’s a sleepy fuck or two, or a hand-written, tooth-rotting note on a scrap of paper next to a steaming cup of coffee on the kitchen island.

Keigo’s used to the open skies, rolling forever. The curve of the horizon is his primordial friend that he never got to say goodbye to, but he still chases it a few times a week. Little drives he takes by himself, hikes, and things that he let him feel a bit of that free wind in his shaggy hair. 

It takes you a while, but you don’t look forlornly at the door anymore.

The awareness that of his absence from your little bastion lingers as you move throughout your day, but you know he’s good for his word. He always returns, bearing a toothy grin, and usually an armload of snacks or takeout. 

It’s better, and you’re both a bit more alive. 

...

Spring in the mountains reminds you of something you can’t place. 

The memory of it is foggy, far-off and untouched. Probably a bit dampened from, you know, a year of trauma, but the feeling of it makes your quirk burst to light without fail.

It comes when you notice the little patches of wildflowers that spring up in new grass that rings around the porch. Heat flares in your eyes when you see the little seedlings you and Keigo planted into the window boxes begin to bud and flower. 

The days get longer, sweeter, and the summer comes easily.

...

The bad days never cease, but you both learn to cope to some degree.

Your scar... cracks one day. You’re doing some half-assed stretches in the living room (mostly arching your back so Keigo gets a good peek of your ass) when it happens. Your right leg bends at the knee, and a resounding ‘crack’ and shatter echo off the walls of the cabin. 

You both panic. 

Keigo instantly urges you on the couch, trying to soothe your own panic with little coos from the back of his throat. You feel numb as Keigo shoves up your pant leg, looking for any damage.

The scar looks relatively unchanged. It hasn’t writhed since your days at the hospital, and its edges have only faded a shade or two with time. It’s long, obtrusive, and something you still avoid looking at.

All the same, Keigo traces the gnarly flesh, nimble fingers searching for the source of the sound. Any bit of pain he can identify and soothe, ideally, remove. The pads of his fingers drift to the crook of your knee, pressing against the shiny, black seam of the scar.

His eyes go wide before awe shines through, without a lick of fear. 

He warns you to take a deep breath, ‘breath with him’, before pinching at the glassy center and pulling. There’s a bit of resistance as he pulls, you’re not sure what he’s doing, and you see ‘it’ before you really put it together.

Keigo holds ‘it’ up for you to see.

The inky glass of the scar.

Literal rock. Inky obsidian pulled from your flesh, about the size of your pinky and painfully jagged. 

“W-what is that?” You asked, grabbing his wrist to examine the bit. “That’s... the scar?”

Keigo nods his head, scrutinizing it with you, pinching at it, “Weirdest scab I’ve ever seen.”

Scab.

You have never thought about calling the ugly root of the scar a ‘scab’ but looking at the way it so easily was pulled away, it makes sense. After a bit of examination and tender prodding, the tissue around it looks healthy, albeit thick and burned. The scar goes deep into your flesh, feels raw to the touch, but the skin that’s beneath it is somewhat alive. Maybe too alive, given how sensitive it is.

Nonetheless, you marvel at the little piece of volcanic glass that Keigo had pulled from you like it’s the most precious stone in the world. 

...

It takes a long time to convince both of you.

Keigo never receives another call from Suits, ‘president’, what the fuck her name is. Thank fucking god. His snap seemed to have scared her and her crumbling organization away. You can only hope that it was for good.

The potential return comes from kindness rather than demands. 

Calls from both Endeavor and Miruko, ‘Enji’ and ‘Rumi’ as they insist you call them. Rumi chatters on the phone for hours with Keigo every few weeks, puts the phone on speaker, and has you give your piece as well. You like her, she’s funny and loud and Keigo smiles when he talks to her.

Enji actually visits. 

Once or twice, maybe more. You stop counting when the extra bodies in the cabin don’t have you breaking into a cold sweat anymore. It had taken a great bit of coaxing, but you opened your cabin up for the former pro and his entourage. 

He brings along his daughter and the ‘Three Musketeers,’ as the media calls them. The boys train in the mountains nearby, never lingering too far based on the shouting from the blond one that echoes against the hills. 

The rest of you settle into the walls of the cabin whenever they come to visit. It feels warmer than normal; it makes sweat gather under your arms and in droplets on your forehead. Even if you wanted to attribute the heat to the old flame hero’s presence, it wouldn’t account entirely for your thumping heart. 

You work through it, slowly. 

You like watching Keigo and Enji. They both look worn. Keigo’s a bit too young for grey hair, but Enji has more than his fair share around his temples. The beard around his jaw glints silver in the lowlight of the cabin whenever he tilts his head to sip at his tea.

They smile like old friends, talk like it too. 

You end up in the kitchen a lot during their talks, distantly cooking and observing. You’re always listening to their stories, the banter. It’s hard to keep up with, a lingering vestige of Keigo’s old persona that clings to him and his mannerisms.

You don’t mind it, even if it feels foreign.

...

“Can you pass me that honey, dear?” Fuyumi asks, voice sweet and close.

You nod, sliding her the jar across the corner top. She carefully spoons a glob of the thick liquid into the four waiting mugs, humming just under her breath. 

The cabin feels warm, and it’s not just the ambient heat Enji gives off. 

The ‘three musketeers’ plan to camp in the mountainside and ‘rough it’. You couldn’t imagine the freshly-greened hills giving them too much trouble. They bicker, you have found, constantly. Blunt jabs from Enji’s son, met by explosive remarks from the blond one (why is his hero name so long? You can never remember it well.) Consider your growing aversion to loud noise, you like Deku the best. He seems like the peacekeeper (and peacemaker) of the trio and compliments your cooking. What a gem.

The guest room has been polished into an actual guest room. Fuyumi takes it, and Enji, bless his heart, takes the creaky fold-out couch. He doesn’t mind, he tells you, something about enjoying tending to the hearth at night.

Keigo calls the nights where they fill the house ‘sleepovers’, and he adores them.

They’re a bit overwhelming for you if you’re being honest. But Enji is far less intimidating now that you’ve seen him nodding off and slack-faced on your couch. Fuyumi has patience you’ll never fully understand, and babies you a bit, which you don’t welcome but don’t refuse either. 

She does just that, scooping up three mugs after pushing your own toward you. You regather and sit next to Keigo at the kotatsu, slipping your legs under the thick blanket and sagging with the heat. You rest your head on his shoulder, and he presses you into his side, pressing a few kisses to the top of your head. It’s an idle action, habitual and welcomed as the conversation flows.

(Something about one of Keigo’s old sidekicks. Another about Endeavor’s agency, still chugging along with him at the helm, albeit not as an active hero. The new hero charts, the new rules established, legislation. Things are getting... safer, a semblance of order being re-established now that much of the League has been apprehended.)

(Things are settling, as horrifying as the change is.) 

The thought of so much makes you sleepy, long-standing exhaustion heavy in your bones. You nod off at some point to the kind, safe voices. 

Keigo coaxes you awake once the conversation dies down.

“Love,” he purrs, rubbing your side, “let’s get up now and get you to bed.”

You follow him, the way he rises and guides you to the bathroom to help you ready for bed. Enji is settling on the couch, tugging a few throws over himself on the futon. You give him a shallow wave with half-lidded eyes, meeting his own.

Eye contact feels hard, but you manage to hold it for a few seconds.

In the bathroom, you pop onto the counter and slowly brush your teeth. Sleep clings to you, and you know it’ll return quickly, but the process of moving and interacting wears you down so easily. Your toothbrush almost slips from your grip.

“Just a little more, and then you can rest, dove,” Keigo urges, reverent as he finishes his own routine in tandem. You watch as he splashes water on his face, wetting the tufts of hair that fall around his face.

The cabin feels warmer. 

You notice it as you enter the bedroom, Keigo already hopping into bed to assemble the ‘nest’ as both affectionately refer to it. The old throw, a few extra soft blankets, and a buttery soft duvet must be arranged just right before he is satisfied. 

 Keigo knows it’s a remnant.

He carries plenty of them, little chunks of him that are old and worn, old and unused. He can shake them, can’t bury them, they just simply are.

The birdish ones are nice, he thinks. He likes that he can preen you. He loves that you can preen him. That you’ll indulge him in that way, running your hands through his overgrown hair. You detangle any knots, soothe the snarls and rub at his neck until he’s liquid in your lap. 

He likes nesting. The cold of the cabin can be almost forgotten in the little nests he makes. The mountains of bedding and pillows that you both can settle in. It’s peaceful, and it's shared, and things are okay. 

It’s all slow, and a bit tedious, things that the remnants of ‘Hawks’ scream and thrash at. But, really? Keigo has no reason to listen to a ghost. He tries not to let himself be haunted. 

He indulges himself for the first time in his life, probably.

As Keigo nestles you into the sheets beside him, he gives you a bit of room to get comfortable. Adjusts your pillows how you like, tangle your legs together in the comfiest way. Your own version of nesting that makes his palms sweat and his words turn to mush.

You settle together, chest to chest, Keigo’s chin hooked over the top of your head. 

“Did you have a good day?” You ask, soft and sleepy.

Keigo nods easily, “I did. Enji doesn’t seem to quite as much of a square as he was a few years ago.”

You snort, muffling a giggle into his chest, “He’s definitely a little bit of a square. But I like him.”

“He offered to host us at the estate if we ever want to go back.”

You swallow, thick and slow, and try to bury yourself deeper in him, “... Do you want to go back?”

“No.” He pauses. “Maybe. Not yet, and not anytime soon. But the offer is on the table. It’s nice to have, even if we don’t take it.”

It’s insurance, somewhere else to tuck yourselves away if the mountains stop favoring you. 

The thought of the future makes your head spin, as it tends to. The scar aches, but maybe it’s a tad duller than it was a few months ago. The pains only last a few moments, only stab so deeply. The place where the little chunk of obsidian fell out doesn’t feel quite as tender. 

You lay your cheek on Keigo’s chest, your breath coming in time with his. 

“‘M tired,” You murmur into his chest. “Can I sleep?”

“Of course, starshine.” He pushes back your hair, clears your forehead to press his lips to the skin, lightly. Little kisses piling up on top of each other. “Get some rest.”

“You too, pretty eyes.”

You both need it. For more than just a day with the folks who stuck around. You and Keigo need more rest than a being can responsibly accumulate during a human life. There are things to be stitched, worn parts of you that need tending to, and burns that’ll need salve until the day you die. It’s not any less than it was in the month’s past.

But it’s easier to manage. 

You snuggle into Keigo’s chest, drifting off to the thought of fresh coffee and crackling heat.

✧   ✧   ✧   ✧   ✧   ✧

thank you for reading!!💞

ko-fi

[bitsandbobsandstuff]

Ink on his heart

Summary: Here’s how Bucky Barnes got a haircut and then decided it was about damn time he controlled his own destiny - starting with a bit of ink. 

Star Spangled Bingo Square: “A thoughtful gift”

Characters: Bucky Barnes x TattooArtist!Reader

Words: 7,400 Warnings: Tattoo experiences, a couple stories about war. Some swearing. Mostly lots of feels and fluff.

A/N: This one has been in my head a long time, I love tattoos and I love the idea of Bucky getting them! While I desperately wish I could draw the designs in my head, hopefully you get enough of a word picture to imagine. And yes, it is kinda long (I know, I know), but I couldn’t stop myself! 

Want to find all my stories? Search #bitsmasterlist or try the link in my bio!

*****

Not that Bucky’s counting, but it’s been three days, 18 hours and 26 minutes and he can’t get over it.

In the damp, chilly hours before dawn, he sits on the floor of the tower living room, watching the marshmallows in his hot chocolate melt in white swirls. Now and then, he lifts his eyes to the windows, finds the faint edges of his reflection in the dark glass, and tilts his head. Tentative fingers scratch through close cropped hair and a slow smile appears. Even now, he expects long strands trailing through his fingers. Believes he can feel the phantom tug of a snarl.

It was just a haircut. What a simple, ordinary thing.  

But Bucky Barnes has never been ordinary.

That small act triggered a startling transformation. Decades of heartbreak fell away with that dark hair, revealing the shape of a man he begins to remember, and it makes him think. About small things, about change. About simple acts making an extraordinary difference.

The last haircut Bucky remembers before the beginning of his first ending, was January 1945. The memory came back one evening, of a tent in Austria, the heavy silence of snow drifting down. He remembers Steve with a dull scissors, snipping carefully along his ear, remembers the catch of a knife gently shaving his neck. It was a ritual they shared for years. When pennies were tight and life was tough, they took care of each other.

And then? Then there was after.

After the fall, after capture, after the world went pear-shaped. Hydra wasn’t concerned with the formalities of self-care, a haircut was functional. Sharp scissors biting into his scalp, rough hands tearing his hair, a harsh slap if he considered resisting. Get it done and get it done fast. The Asset has work to do.

He despised those haircuts.

But now, here he is. No more handlers and horrors. No more running. No more hiding. No more ropes dragging him somewhere he doesn’t want to be.

Wresting back his independence was exhilarating.

When Steve had finished this haircut - because Bucky still preferred a Steve Rogers special to anything - he’d dusted off Bucky’s shoulders and waited. Sam stood behind him, and Bucky rolled his eyes, expecting a barrage of sassy comments.

But Sam just ruffled the freshly cut hair and laughed.

“Not bad old man. Still not as handsome as yours truly, but hey - maybe someday.”

Such a simple thing, a haircut.

It makes him wonder what else he might do, just for himself.      

Fuzzy and disconnected, an old memory flickers to life. It buzzes in his brain, images and connections filtering through the cracks and Bucky lets out a breathless laugh.

“Yeah,” he murmurs to himself. “Okay.”

He closes his eyes and sips his hot chocolate.

*****

Steve yawns when he answers the door. Blond hair spikes in every direction and he rubs his eyes, looking for all the world like a sleepy, overgrown toddler.

“Hey, man. Everything okay?”

Bucky leans against the doorframe and chews his thumbnail while he gathers his thoughts.

“Sure, just - can I get a favor?”

Bemused, Steve ushers him inside and Bucky plops in the red bean bag chair Steve keeps tucked beside his dresser. Stretching out his legs, he waits for Steve to flop back into bed and snuggle his pillow, before he speaks.

“Remember back in ’37 when we were coming home from that shitty bar in Midtown, and we saw that sailor getting a tattoo?”

Whatever Steve expected, it wasn’t this. It takes him a moment to conjure the image, but when it comes he belts out a laugh.

“That terrified kid gettin’ a big heart on his arm? Looked ready to shit his pants?”

Bucky grins at the memory, a milk-faced kid with hair dark and shiny as an oil-slick.  

“Thought he was gonna puke on the guy.”

“Yeah, and didn’t we stand outside that window arguing while you tried to convince me we both needed one? Something about good girls liking bad boys?”  

“Hey, I stand by that statement!”

“Oh fuck off, you know exactly what your Ma would’ve said if we’d come home with tattoos.”

“Yeah,” Bucky chuckles. “God, she’d a skinned me alive.”

“Damn straight,” Steve agrees and they fall quiet, momentarily lost in shared memories of a woman with a voice of steel and a heart of gold.

Bucky leans forward and rests his chin on his knee.

“You know, all these years and I’ve never really - done anything like that,” he admits wistfully. “Gotten something done to me, I mean. Something I decided on my own. If that makes sense?”

Controlling his own destiny, choosing to do something by himself, instead of always accepting things done to him - the idea is intoxicating. He remembers the pained grimace on that sailor’s face and he relishes the prospect.

Pain you choose to feel holds a different meaning, than the torture he knows.

“S’never too late, Buck,” Steve says drowsily. “You can do anything you want.”

Bucky contemplates Steve’s words. He can do anything he wants. Heart beating fast, he takes a deep breath.

“So listen, I was thinking -”

*****

For two straight weeks, Steve works on ideas.

The floor of his bedroom is littered with sketches and concepts, crumpled sheets of paper dappled with flowing lines. Finally, after midnight on a dreary Thursday, he knocks on Bucky’s door. The moment it opens, he shoves his tattered leather portfolio in Bucky’s hands.

“So, I guess, uh - here.”

Steve crosses his arms, his toe tapping nervously, and Bucky chokes down a laugh. Some things about Steve Rogers remain comfortingly unchanged. No matter how incredible his work, all confidence seems to evaporate the moment Bucky lays eyes on anything.

—

“Give it back asshole!”

“God dammit Steve, YOU’RE the one who asked me to look!”

“Yeah well, I changed my mind, now give it back!”

—

Bucky remembers laughing while Steve chased him around their apartment. He remembers the neighbors banging on the wall, shouting at them to shut up, and he remembers the smell of their forgotten scrambled eggs burning. But most of all, he remembers that drawing - he tucked that portrait of his mother in his rucksack the day he shipped out and it stayed there, a good luck charm all through the war.

Steve had cried when Bucky told him.

Because Bucky’s opinion was always the one that mattered. Seventy years changes nothing.

Tonight, he opens the leather case, revealing three separate drawings. Outlines of black ink and a rainbow of colors paint over the curves and breaks of a human form and he pores over each page. Each drawing is utterly unique, telling the story of Bucky Barnes in metaphors and moments.    

There are no words.

His throat feels suddenly thick, cotton lodged in his windpipe.

“I can redo them,” Steve blurts out. He snatches at the paper, but Bucky spins sideways, blocking the reach.

“The fuck you will. You ain’t touching these,” his voice cracks. Blinking back the flood of emotion, he looks up. “This is - they’re perfect, Steve. Thank you.”

Steve blushes petal pink and coughs to hide his delight. He fails miserably, of course, but that’s one more reason Bucky loves the little punk.

*****

One week later, Bucky stands before a demure brick storefront on a slow Brooklyn side street, the portfolio housing Steve’s three precious drawings clutched tight in a sweaty hand. Glancing at the address in his hand, he looks up to find stenciled letters curving across a glass window.

BROOKLYN INK ESTABLISHED 1973

“Here we go,” he mutters. Before he can lose his nerve, he shoves forward.

Three steps inside the tattoo parlor, he pulls up short.

Wow.

Black iron chandeliers hang from the ceiling, splashing sparkles across plush velvet chairs, rich violet and bright turquoise. The floor is an eclectic mix of reclaimed barn board, full of knots and whorls in every shade of brown. Artwork in black and white frames line the brick wall, tattoo designs, letters and fonts, photos of finished work. The entire space overflows with warmth, and Bucky feels instantly at ease.  

The front desk is empty, but he hears someone rattling around back, so he takes a seat. Piled high on an end table are bundles of photo albums, full of work; he sinks into the cushions and starts flipping through.  

Immersed in the images, he misses the sound of quiet footsteps.

“Are you James?”

The voice startles him and in one swift move, he manages to throw the album on the floor and tumble from the chair. Pages of photographs spill everywhere and he crawls over, hastily scooping them up and babbling one inappropriate apology after another.

“Shit! Sorry, I’m sorry! Shit, I mean I’m sorry for saying shit. Fuck, I didn’t - oh my god, I’m sorry, I’m not usually so - ”

Soft laughter greets him and he looks up in panic, a more refined apology on his lips, but the words evaporate.

Crouching beside him, graceful hands gather up the mess of photos, slipping them back into the album. Dropping it carelessly on the end table, she bounces back to her feet and offers him a hand.

“No worries,” she says with a breathtaking smile. “I shouldn’t have startled you.”

Although he has no need for the support, Bucky reaches mutely for her outstretched fingers because he can’t help but take them. When she tugs, he allows her to pull him up.  

“I’m, um - Bucky. Please, call me Bucky.”

“Hello Bucky,” she says. She shares her name and he repeats it slowly. Clearing his throat, he takes a deep breath.

“Thanks for meeting me so late, I know it’s after hours.”

“Sure,” she says lightly. “So, what can I do for you?”

This is the tricky part.

“On the website, it mentioned you had experience with - with tattooing around scars,” he begins carefully. “Scar tissue I mean. Is that right?”

With his question, her expressions turns serious. She observes him for a long moment.

“Yes, I do. Can I ask how long you served?” she asks delicately and Bucky acknowledges her perception with a short nod. He toys with the zipper on Steve’s portfolio, debating his response.

“Seemed like forever,” he finally says, and it’s the most honest answer he has.

Nodding silently, she motions him behind the counter.

“Come on back, let’s see what you had in mind.”

Hugging the pictures to his chest, Bucky follows, eyes saucer wide as they weave through the work area to her space. The shop smells like the woodsy smoke from the candles sitting along her table, mixed with ink and latex and an odd sterile tang. He inhales and discovers he likes it, the strange scent lighting him up.  

Dropping to her stool, she gestures for him to have a seat. Bucky sits gingerly, wide eyes still staring. When she catches his eye, he flushes.

“Sorry. First time I’ve been in a shop.”

“That’s okay, there’s lots to see,” she says easily. Looking at the portfolio still clutched against his chest, she grins. “Did you have some ideas already?”

He thrusts the portfolio at her. Propping it on her knees, she flips it open and he beams when he hears her astonished gasp.

“I like the colors there, if you think they’re possible?”

“Sure, might take some extra time, but I can do it,” she murmurs, pinching her lip. Turning the page sideways, she examines every minute detail, shaking her head in disbelief. “This is exquisite.”  

“I’ll tell my artist. He’s a real diva sometimes.”

“I’d say he’s earned that right,” she laughs, tracing the paper with a light finger. She flips to the second picture and tilts her head. “The grays and silvers might look nice with midnight blue for contrast?”

Bucky nods eagerly. “Yeah, I love that idea.”

She looks again, examining the intricate design.

“Can you tell me about your pain tolerance? The designs are beautiful, but they’re complex. Each will take multiple sessions to finish.”

Bucky drops his eyes. He heaves a sigh at the obligatory question.

“It’s high,” he mutters. “Very - high.”

Silence follows his admission. When he dares to look up again, he feels a twinge in his chest at the compassion he finds. He offers a rueful smile and she slowly returns it.

“Would you like to come after hours? It can get noisy during the day, if you prefer things quieter. Most soldiers like that better.”

There is a sweep of relief at her casual acknowledgement. He huffs out a shaky breath.

“That would be great. If you don’t mind, I mean.”

“Not at all. I’m a night owl anyway.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says quietly. “Me too.”

She looks back to the portfolio, carefully shuffling the pages.

The third picture appears.

And Bucky sees it, that precise moment when realization sinks in. When she realizes exactly who is sitting in her chair tonight. There is no doubt the drawing gives that fact away. Heart pounding, he flinches, steeling himself for the inevitable.

But nothing happens.

She meets his nervous gaze head on and yet - that gentle smile remains.

“Bucky,” she repeats and this time she understands. “Oh. It’s nice to meet you, Bucky Barnes. Come back tomorrow night, 9pm. Don’t be late.”

He leaves the tattoo shop feeling lighter than he has in years.

*****

TATTOO 1: FOREARM

“Show me a man with a tattoo and I’ll show you a man with an interesting past.” - Jack London

*****

Perpetually early for everything, Bucky arrives at 8:45pm the next night.

The bell over the door tinkles when he enters, and she looks up from the front desk and waves. His stomach unexpectedly leaps and he thinks it must be nerves.

“Hey, Bucky,” her voice is soft.

“Evening,” he says shyly.  

“You ready to do this?”

“Could hardly sleep last night,” he confesses with a grin.

Sliding timidly into her black leather chair, he watches her arrange tools on a shiny silver tray. An arm rest is attached to his right side, and he dries his sweaty palm on his jeans before easing his arm onto the cushion, palm up. When she drops onto her stool at his side, he offers a weak smile.  

“You got the email I sent with all the information, right? Did you have any questions?”

He scrunches his nose, recalling the long, detailed summary she shared. For each of the three tattoos he requested, she gave him a detailed analysis of the process for creating each design; broke down how long each session would take; gave explicit instructions on the healing and care process; confirmed each individual color and how it would be applied; clarified the tools that would be used, including their brand names and how each one worked; she even provided floor plans of her shop - outlining entries and exits and bathrooms and locations of fire extinguishers.

It was a novel of information that must’ve taken her hours, and he was inexplicably grateful for the time she spent just to make him comfortable.

“No questions, I just, uh - thanks. For putting all that together. It was helpful to have all the information. Helps me keep my head on straight.”

“Of course,” she says. “So this first design should take probably 5-6 hours. Since you’re new, we’ll start with short blocks and see how it goes.”

Bucky gives a jerky nod and she pauses, pressing her fingertips against the smooth skin of his forearm.

“Here are the rules. You’re in charge, okay? We can go as fast or as slow as you need. This is not a race, and I have nowhere to be but here. Any time you want to stop, you say the word and I stop. We can take a breather, grab a cup of coffee and start again - or we can call it a night. This is your experience, Bucky. You’re in control. Understand?”

There is a fierce surge of gratitude at her words. Gratitude for her kindness, for her acceptance. Gratitude for her.

“Got it,” he whispers.

And with that, they begin.

Bucky follows each step, while she measures his arm, while she considers the contours and angles of his muscle, while she cleans and preps his skin. When she finally applies a stencil, his heart is hammering so hard his teeth are chattering.

The low buzz of the tattoo machine fills his ears with a click.

When the needles touch his skin, sweat instantly beads his neck. Adrenaline drenches his tongue and for one wild moment, Bucky panics. Wonders if this was a terrible idea, because what idiot asks for pain, seriously Barnes, what the hell is wrong with you, why’re you so stupid all the -

And then - oh.

Huh.

Interesting.

Wide-eyed, Bucky follows her careful strokes, black lines appearing on his skin.

It does hurt - sort of. Obviously nothing he can’t handle; in the grand scheme of his life, this would register as a minor inconvenience, but there is a pinch.

But that spark of pain vanishes, when the raw symbolism behind Steve’s design hits him full force.

Holy shit.

How many times through the decades did Bucky Barnes die? And how many times did he rise, born again from the frozen ash of oblivion? It was simply what the Soldier did. But it was a shadow-life, nothing more. Bucky never knew how close he was to giving up, until that day above the Potomac, Steve’s bloody face beneath his furious fists. He was so far gone, so lost and forgotten, until those memories cracked the Soldier’s fierce veneer.

And suddenly he was Bucky again. Awake and alive. For the first time in 70 years he felt fire in his soul. For the first time in 70 years he could breathe.

Tears inexplicably fill his eyes.    

“All okay?”

Through a tunnel, Bucky hears her voice. Hypnotized by the metaphor inking itself into his skin, his head feels waterlogged when blinks up at her.

“Sorry?”

She scans his face, her thumb rubbing the pulse thrumming at his wrist.

“Everything okay?” She asks again and Bucky feels a potent rush of euphoria.

“Yes,” he says slowly. The excitement bubbles over and he lets out an ecstatic laugh. “Yes! This is incredible. This is - fucking hell, this is amazing.”

Chuckling to herself, she bends back to her task.

“So I guess we’ll keep going?”

“Yeah,” he laughs. “Yeah, let’s keep going.”

Two hours later, the outline of the Phoenix is inked into his skin, crisp black lines like fresh paint. Long tail feathers are curled around his wrist, the lush feathered body splashed over his forearm, her wings spread open and curving around his arm, her head reaching toward the sky.

Born from ash. Alive again.

Bucky hates to cover it up, but she insists.

“Follow the cleaning instructions and it should be fine. We need to wait between the sessions, give you time to heal.”

At that comment, he fidgets.

“Actually, I heal pretty - fast.”

“I assumed you might. Usually I say 2-3 weeks between sessions, so how about you come back in 1 week and we can see. Let’s just make sure. Does that work?”

Bucky glances at the crisp white bandage on his arm.

“Okay, that works,” he says.

She squeezes his hand and he meets her eyes.

“You did great,” she tells him.

Bucky smiles in return. And he doesn’t stop for the next six days.

*****

When he walks into the shop for his next session, he carries a large coffee for himself and an extra large iced peach green tea for her. When he gets to the front desk, he thrusts the cup at her.  

“Evening. Um, here. Saw you had one last time, so - anyway.”

“Bucky, thank you. I’ve been craving one all day.” She gives the straw an experimental bite, before taking a long drink and for some reason, the silly quirk makes his heart bounce.

After a quick check on how he’s healed, she declares him perfect and they get started, settling into a comfortable silence. After an hour of buzzing, Bucky clears his throat.

“Is it okay to talk while you work?”

“It is,” she affirms, dabbing at the ink. Glancing up, she sees hesitant blue eyes. “I’m good at listening too. Sometimes it’s nice just to listen.”  

Bucky figures that’s a fair statement. He fiddles with a stray thread on his shirt.

“Do you read much?” He asks hopefully, picturing the teetering stack of books beside his bed. She perks at the question.

“I love to read. Have a pile of books on my nightstand waiting for me to find time. What about you? Are you reading anything good now? Any favorites I should know?”

Bucky swallows the happy surprise. If he could, he’d be content to spend the rest of his years with a comfortable chair, a cup of coffee, and an unending supply of stories. He could talk about books for days, he just normally keeps quiet, because most people aren’t interested in that facet of Bucky Barnes.

So he begins to talk.

He tells her how Natasha lent him all her Russian copies of Pushkin and Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, insisting that reading in the original language was infinitely better. He describes how he found a copy of Rumi’s poetry at a yard sale, and what an incredible treasure it was. He flusters recounting how much he cried reading ‘A Fault in our Stars’ and says he was scared shitless to even see a clown for a full year after reading Stephen King.    

He talks and talks and talks, and when he finally stops to breathe, she glances up.

“It’s nice to hear a man who’s so well read,” she says and Bucky preens at the compliment. “Do you have an all time favorite? Something you never get tired of?”

A favorite? No question.

“Yeah, I do. Something I read during the war and kinda fell in love. It’s about here, I guess. About Brooklyn.”

At the description, her mouth quirks, but she keeps working.

“Did you ever think about a book quote for a tattoo?”

Now there’s an idea. He makes a mental note to think of a quote he could add as another tattoo. Or maybe another couple tattoos. Hell, one session in and he’s already addicted.  

The comment tumbles free before he realizes he’s spoken out loud. He blushes at her laughter.

“It can be addicting,” she agrees. Bucky understands completely, seeing the vibrant crimson ink soak into his skin, painting the bird’s feathers. And then she pauses, meeting his eyes with a peculiar expression. “The right words can make you feel invincible.”

Setting the tattoo machine down, she rolls her chair back a bit and sits up straight. Lifting the hem of her shirt, Bucky sees a line of gold text inked below her ribs, his eyes following the flowing cursive.

“She was all of these things and of something more,” he reads aloud.

“‘A Tree Grows in Brooklyn’ is my favorite book too,” she says quietly. There is a long, unbroken moment where they stare into each others eyes. He should say something, he thinks. Something intelligent or witty or anything, but instead he just thinks about the fact that he found a woman in Brooklyn to permanently carve pictures into his skin and she has the same favorite book as him.

Bucky always was a sucker for fate.

“That’s - that’s really - I love that,” he finally says instead.

*****

A week later, Bucky arrives with a bundle of folders and an exasperated expression.

“This is really annoying, but do you mind if I finish some reports while you work? Got behind, someone’s gonna have my ass.” Bucky raises the papers apologetically.

“No problem,” she says easily. “Let’s keep your ass safe.”

Bending back to her task, Bucky snorts a laugh. They’re just a handful of mission reports, normally he types them soon as he returns, but lately he’s been slacking, because lately he has other things he finds more interesting.

Like the scene in front of him.

Together they work, each with their own pen. Bucky writes, she colors, and the clock on the wall ticks along. After awhile, she takes a break to stretch. Rolling her shoulders, she observes him.

“Are you left-handed?” she asks curiously and it takes Bucky a moment to think.

“Oh. Uh, not really,” he says. “But I can switch. Never been a problem.”

At the confession, she raises her eyebrows.

“That’s impressive. I wish I had a talent like that.”

He ducks his head at the praise. And he keeps writing, of course. Maybe adds a bit more flair. After all, the old Bucky Barnes did like to swagger.    

*****

“Well, I think that’s it.”

It takes a beat before Bucky understands what she means. Confused, he peers up at her with a dopey expression and she gestures at his arm.

He feels his heart lurch.

It flames to life along his arm, painted in vibrant ruby red and rich crimson and deep plum, highlights edged in shining gold. Mesmerized, Bucky stares down at the lines of ink and he flexes, the tendons of his arm shifting, and the bird moves. For one wild moment, he believes if he stays still, it could leap from his skin and take flight.  

It leaves him breathless.

“God, this is better - fuck, it’s so much better - than I ever imagined. How did you - wow. I don’t know how you did it, but - thank you. Thank you so much.”

Unanticipated emotion makes his voice tremble. Because this is the first time Bucky Barnes chose something permanent for himself. Serums and metal arms and bullets and blades, those were always forced upon him, his pleading refusals met with violence and sneering indifference.

But this?

This.

This.

This is all his.

*****

TATTOO 2: BACK

“Wear your heart on your sleeve in this life.” - Sylvia Plath

*****

“So, uh, how exactly does this work?”

Standing beside the leather chair while she organizes her inks, Bucky wrinkles his nose. She looks up and motions for him to turn, straddling the chair with his chest pressed against the back.

“Are you comfortable completely removing your shirt? Or would you prefer to leave it part way on? I’ll just need it out of the way for the right side of your back.”

Bucky grimaces. Eventually she’s going to see his shoulder - he knows that - but he’s not in the mood to rip that band-aid off yet.  

“Uh - let’s do part of the way if that’s okay?”

“That’s okay,” she confirms and he awkwardly tugs his right arm free, baring the broad expanse of his back. Tucking his arms in front of him, he slings a leg over the chair and rests his chin carefully on the headrest.

He says nothing, simply stays still while she absorbs the sight. Littered up and down his back are a litany of scars, puckers from the occasional bullet, thin lines from errant blades, and a few other marks he prefers not to define. His voice is muffled when he warily asks.

“Are you able to - work with it?“    

“Absolutely,” she answers firmly and Bucky warms at the decisiveness in her tone. Her confidence makes him feel infinitely more positive.

This is the largest of his three tattoos, stretching from the tip of his shoulder blade and flowing down to his waist. It will also take the longest, but Bucky assures her he has no issue sitting perfectly still for hours.

It’ll be worth it. He can’t wait to show Sam - he’ll get a kick out of this one.

Once she applies the stencil over his skin, she goes to work, dropping into that headspace of deep focus. She works so quietly for so long, he falls into a trance, lulled by the melodic buzz.

When she speaks, it startles him.

“What made you decide you wanted a tattoo?”

He lays his cheek along the edge of the chair so he can see her from the corner of his eye when he answers.

“S’random, but back in ’37, me and Steve were out and I remember walking by this old tattoo shop over in Midtown. They had one of those big glass windows with the chair in front, so people could stand and watch. Anyway, we walk by and there was this kid sitting in the chair, and no fuckin’ joke, he was getting a big heart on his arm with ‘MOM’ written in the middle.”

“Ah yes, the ever popular ‘mom’ tribute. I’ve done a few of those,” she says and Bucky grins.

“Well anyway, I always kinda wanted something, you know? Thought about getting one before I shipped out, but I didn’t, and then it was - “ he pauses for a moment, but she encourages him with a questioning hmmm? and Bucky bravely pushes forward. “I had lots of years where I didn’t get to make my own decisions. And there was so much - bad shit that happened to me. Anyway, I guess I thought if someone’s gonna do something to me, I wanted it to be on my own terms. You know?”

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “I think that makes perfect sense.”

Bucky sits quietly, contemplating. The question has been rattling around his brain for awhile and it spills free before he can stop himself. 

“The whole process, it feels sort of  - intimate, doesn’t it?”

He flushes at the insinuation, but intimate is the best way to describe it, he thinks, this practice of someone permanently carving their art into your skin.

“It is intimate,” she says softly, leaning closer. “It’s almost like you’re - leaving a piece of your soul under someone’s skin? I don’t know if that makes sense, but that’s what it’s always felt like.”

Bucky nods, watching her capable, artistic, beautiful hands as they move, slowly transferring bits and pieces of herself to him.

What a gift. He holds on tight.

*****

It was bound to happen at one of the sessions.

It’s been dark and rainy for days, buckets dumped from the heavens, the perpetual grumble of thunder always near. When Bucky comes through the front door, he feels like a wet dog. He shakes out his jacket, stomps his boots. He feels off base tonight, the result of bad sleep, bad dreams, and one particularly bad mission. He’s frustrated with himself for bringing it with him, thinks maybe he should’ve cancelled, but the thought of skipping his session - both the ink and her - was too depressing.

So instead of holing up in his room and moping under the covers, he braved the storm.

The one inside and out.

Searching for calm, he licks chapped lips.

“Hey,” he says, cringing when his voice cracks.

“Hey, Buck,” she turns cheerfully, but when she sees him squinting at her through the droplets cascading down his face, his shoulders hunched and tense, she stops. Looks him up and down and her expression softens. Beckoning him back, she digs up a towel and a dry t-shirt with ‘BROOKLYN INK’ stamped across the front, ushering him to the bathroom.

“Take all the time you need. No rush.”

Bucky mumbles his thanks and shuts the door. Gripping the sink, he glares at the mirror, at the smudge of dark beneath his eyes, at the clench of his jaw. Closing his eyes, he breathes slow and deep.

“You’re okay. You’re okay.”

He repeats the mantra, determined to settle. He’s been eager for this session all week, he’s sure as hell not ruining it because he can’t get his idiot brain to stop spinning.

When he finally emerges, he finds her arranging her work space. Halting in front of her, he keeps trembling hands stuffed in his pockets, eyes downcast.

“I’m afraid I’m poor company tonight,” he admits quietly.

“That’s okay. We can reschedule, Bucky,” she says softly and Bucky feels the disconcerting sting of tears. He rubs the heel of his hand against watery eyes.  

“If it’s okay, I’d - I’d rather go ahead. Been looking forward to seeing you - uh, seeing you work, all week. It was just - “ he pauses and fights the temptation to spill his guts. No, he snarls internally, she doesn’t need to hear all your shit.

He clamps his mouth shut and shrugs instead.

She says nothing, but when she gives his hand a comforting squeeze, Bucky feels that familiar surge of gratitude. She guides him carefully toward the chair and he slumps into the seat, automatically tugging up his new shirt.  

“Just close your eyes and breath. You’re okay.”

Bucky rests his chin on the edge of the chair. Troubled eyes flutter shut, and the comforting buzz of the tattoo machine fills his ears, muting the sound of the storm raging outside. When he feels the prick of the needles, he lets out a weary breath. And when he feels the easy pressure of her fingers, he begins to relax.

For hours, she works. Firm strokes, painting the story across his skin.

The dark night begins to fade before she finally sets her tools aside. When he climbs to his feet, she pulls him into a gentle hug.    

Bucky sinks into her arms.

That morning, the sun begins to shine.

*****

Bucky’s been sitting for a couple hours now, eyeing the brick wall behind the chair. A question pops into his head and he feels like a jerk for not asking sooner.

“Hey - all these hours together, and I never asked you - what made you want to draw on people for a living?”

She hums at the question, and he can hear the happiness in her reply.

“Well, I always wanted to be an artist. For my eleventh birthday, my best friend Mike gave me this set of gel pens, there were a million colors. When I told him I wanted to be a tattoo artist, he let me draw pictures all over him for practice. He insisted on being the first person I inked, once I got my license. Would always tell people he was the ‘original canvas’ for my brilliance.”

When she laughs, Bucky chuckles with her; it reminds him of Steve.

“Sounds like a good man,” he says.

“Yeah, he is - he was,” she quietly corrects herself. “He was an EOD specialist in Afghanistan. Right before he left for his last tour, I drew up plans for the arm sleeve he always wanted; he planned to get it when he finished. A month later, he was in a convoy that was moving through the Gereshk Valley in the Helmand Province, when an IED hit his vehicle. He didn’t make it home.”

The story hits home like a kick in the face.

Too many soldiers, too many lives. Bucky reaches back to still her hand. He slowly turns to face her, gently tugging the tattoo machine free and setting it aside. Wordlessly, he offers his hand and she accepts it gratefully, weaving her fingers through his. It takes a few attempts before she speaks again.  

“It took me a long time to get through that. One day I met a friend working down at the VA, and I heard a vet talking about the scars on his legs. He sounded so - sad about them, you know? Kept saying he didn’t recognize himself anymore. And I just stood there thinking, maybe I couldn’t help Mike, but I could still do something.” Staring resolutely down, she considers her fingers still entangled with Bucky’s. “I did some research and took some classes and - learned how to tattoo on scar tissue.”

Bucky gazes at her. He feels a sweep of pride at the way she turned her tragedy into something beautiful.

“I’m so sorry that happened,” he says and she finally looks up, meeting blue eyes bright with compassion. “But you should know, what you’re doing for people, it’s incredible. And if you don’t mind me saying, I think he’d be real god damn proud of you.”

A tear slips down her cheek and she ducks her head, her whisper so low he nearly misses it.

“Thank you Bucky.”

*****

Hours later, Bucky hears a clatter of tools and her huff of relief.

“All done.”

Wiping her hands, she pops excitedly up from the stool and Bucky pushes back from the chair to follow. Without a thought, she grabs his metal hand, tugging him impatiently over to a set of floor length mirrors along the wall. Bucky grips tight and obediently follows, his pulse racing. When she positions him at the mirror, she adjusts the panels so he can see himself from all angles.

“There, have a look.”

Along his spine, the single metal wing bursts free, so intensely realistic, Bucky’s jaw drops. It arches gracefully up, curving over his shoulder blade and sweeping down his back, razor sharp feathers tickling his rib cage before billowing out above his waist. Made from silvers and grays and shaded hints of midnight blue, it glows in the light. When Bucky reaches toward the sky, the muscles shift beneath the ink and it creates the strangest sensation of feathers unfolding.  

All the scars littering his back, a flesh and bone patchwork of memories left by vicious handlers and fights too close for comfort, have disappeared. Blending into the steel of his new wing, their only purpose is to strengthen the image.

After all this time, he’s come to terms with the metal arm so unwillingly gifted all those years ago. But it’s remained a relic of a past life, something heavy, to drag him down.

But now, he rolls his shoulder back and his new metal wing lifts him higher than he’s felt in a long, long time.

*****

TATTOO 3: SHOULDER

“I can bear any pain as long as it has meaning.” - Haruki Murakami

*****

“So our last session.”

“Our last session,” he murmurs.

Bucky thinks for a moment that she seems glum, but maybe that’s wishful thinking.

“This is a tough one,” she warns, “but I think we can do it in one session. I won’t try and cover them up, it won’t work. The best solution is to incorporate your scars into the design. Make sense?”

Bucky pictures the pattern Steve drew, bright green leaves and vines tracing the seam of his arm, melding with the thick ribbons of raised tissue. It doesn’t matter, but he timidly asks anyway.

“Will it hurt?”

“No,” she says gently. Pressing her hand to his galloping heart, she shakes her head. “It won’t hurt much there, but you need to tell me if it hurts here. You need to tell me if I should stop. Remember, you’re in charge, okay?”

“Okay,” he whispers.

Steeling himself, he whips off his shirt, balling it up in nervous hands. The cool air blowing through the shop is a relief for his overheated body.

“Do you mind if I feel the skin here? So I can make sure I approach it right?”

“Yeah, ‘course,” Bucky mumbles. Staring at his hands, he waits.

Leaning close, her fingers brush over him, feeling the lines and ridges, assessing the canvas. For ten minutes, she tests his skin, lightly pushing and pressing, observing the scars and bumps where metal meets man.  

“Does it still hurt?”

She doesn’t want to ask, but needs to know what she’s working with. With a grim smile, he shrugs.

“Not really. Aches sometimes, but doesn’t hurt. Can’t feel much there besides some pressure.”

Nodding, she pinches her lip. “I was thinking last night, um - would you want to add anything else into the design? Nothing big, but a few flowers? Some daisies maybe?”

“Sure, I’d like that. Any reason for daisies?” Bucky asks curiously.

Pulling out a few additional bottles of ink, she absently touches the necklace at her throat, and Bucky sees a silver daisy spinning.

“Daisies represent new beginnings. Thought it might be a nice way to end, if you like?”

Does he like it? The idea of having this small thing in common?

Hell yes he likes it.

Maybe - maybe he even more than likes it?

“Yeah. That sounds perfect,” he says softly. He swallows hard and she nods encouragingly.

“Okay. Remember - stop me if you need a break.”

This one, Bucky knows will be hard. It was the reason he left it to the end - the mental fortitude required here is much different.

As she begins, he contemplates the pink furrows gouged into his skin. The memory of how they got there flashes before him, a sick image of shredded skin raked bloody beneath his blunt fingernails. Faint screams of a past life echo in his ears, the smokey cry of his own voice desperate for relief from the pain.

Cold sweat slides down his face and he slams his eyes shut, but that seems to make it worse. The images glow technicolor bright, and he grunts a frustrated breath.

And then, through the thin latex of her glove, he feels her cool hand press against his pounding heart. Cracking an eye open, he finds her calm face and he focuses on her, until his breathing begins to ease. Blinking rapidly, he drinks in the curve of her nose, the shape of her mouth, the beauty of her eyes.

His heart stutters, stunning him into a different kind of breathless.

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, wide eyes locked on hers. “Yeah, I’m okay. You can keep going.”

When she bends back to her task, Bucky melts. It occurs to him, that perhaps if she might let him, he could be content watching her forever.

But for tonight, this forever lasts only a few hours before she’s done.

And there it is.

Shades of green line his shoulder, the vines curling and winding around his scars, blending them seamlessly into the foliage covering his skin. Spidering vines trail across his chest, and it seems incompatible in a way, something alive bursting from the stark metal, but the leaves look so real, he swears they flutter with each breath he takes. Strewn throughout the greenery, small splotches of yellow and white reveal her daisies and he sucks in a breath.

For the first time in his life, Bucky stares at his scars and a foreign word comes to mind, one he never, ever thought to use.

“Beautiful,” he breathes. “They’re beautiful.”

*****

And so, after 3 months and 30 hours together, they were done.

Hands in his pockets, Bucky gazes at her. Ink on her hands, ink on his heart. It hits him then, this is it. They shuffle, making small talk, neither ready to say goodbye.

“Promise you’ll come back if you decide on anything else. Tattoos, piercings, anything,” she teases and Bucky laughs.

“Told you, I might be a little addicted,” he admits, knowing full well he means to tattoos and to her. “Soon as I can think of a reason, I’ll be back.”

“I hope so,” she says. There is a brief moment where she seems to gather her courage and then she leans in to press a soft kiss to his cheek. “You’re a work of art, Bucky, but - you were before any of this. Remember that.”

Dazed, Bucky touches his cheek.

Indelible and perfect, the tattoo of her lips inks itself straight onto his heart.

*****

When she arrives at the shop the next day, there is a new sight sitting on the front desk.

Daisies, their white petals and yellow faces as fresh as the afternoon sunshine filtering through the window. Bemused, she looks around the bustling shop and spies the card propped beside the overflowing vase, her name scrawled across the front.

-

“When I got home, I stood in front of the mirror for hours, staring at your artwork. Every time I told myself to go to sleep, I found something new I loved. The tail feathers on my Phoenix or the petals of your daisies. What you’ve given me is more than I ever hoped - I can never thank you enough.

But anyway, I remembered what you said - how this kind of art is like leaving a piece of your soul under someone’s skin.

Well, I won’t lie - you must have done, because I miss you already.

So at the risk of being forward (although I did break into your shop and leave this, so maybe this won’t seem that forward), would you have dinner with me?  

I think there’s another new beginning waiting out there, if you’d like to find it with me.  

Yours,

Bucky”

-

At the bottom of the note, a phone number is printed.

Brushing her fingers over the delicate white petals, she pictures him, that dark haired man with eyes like blue ink, so heartbreakingly beautiful inside and out. She feels the unconscious pull of her heart, telling her all she needs to know.

A new beginning.

She says yes.

*****

[peanut-butter-parkerxx]

plane pillow

where peter planned to play video games with ned through the whole flight but fate decided to take another turn....

*A/N: this isnt related to far from home nor the ending of endgame, just pretend infinity and all the movies after didnt exist since i imagine pete 16 in here. i dont know why 16 i just like that age on him lmao, enjoy reading!*

pairing: peter x reader

status: strangerz (well sort of since they haven't talked to eachother but they're in the same school)

NOT PROOF READ BTW SO SORRY IF THERE ARE ANY MISTAKES

peter's POV

"the flight will be amazing! i heard they'd installed the new game we were talking about" i gushed to ned, excited for the whole flight to be filled with video games.

"im excited" ned stated practically jumping from excitement and i shook my head laughing

"OK CLASS!" Mr Harrington clapped his hands getting our attention "we're boarding the plane in a few minutes so pack your stuff and lets goooo" he pointed at our gate dramatically.

we walked to the gate, scanned our ticket and sat on our assigned seats, ned and i sat on the three seater, he took the window seat by winning a 3 round match of rock, paper, scissors *sighs angrily* and i obvious got the middle, kinda scared of who'll sit beside me though.

we had to wait for a few minutes, since we boarded the flight early. ned and i obviously started playing video games, too entranced by the small glowing screen infront of me i haven't realized a girl.

she hadn't really acknowledged me either because she looked tired, i cursed at the screen for losing the game too quickly and my dumb ass still didnt realize a GIRL, MY AGE, looking PRETTY FUCKING ADORABLE was sitting next to me. oh dear god.

after a couple more games and me being the most idiotic teenager known today for not looking at my right to see her  the flight attendant alerted us that the plane will take off so we the screen will freeze any moment. ned and i decided to sleep, it was very early in the morning and we need to rest if we plan on gaming most of the flight.

i closed my eyes and shifted a bit in my seat, and slept. the plain was moving at the time trying to find the best place to take off. i guess i was really tired that i havent felt someone sleeping on my shoulder.

i was peacefully sleeping still agitated from the uncomfortable seat but i heard a loud noise that frightened the life out of me and due to my spidey senses i sensed a hand on my right, so what did i do? i fucking held the hand. hard, may i add, from the fright.

i opened my eyes quickly and jumped a bit, turning around to see who's the stranger that i held hands with, startled as well. i sighed in relief knowing our plane was safe and it was just about to take off. but then i took a good look on the perso- her, took a good look on her, on her? OH MY GOD ITS A GIRL calm down peter and please dont scare her off. i couldnt stop looking at her and to my luck she was looking at me as well, but none of us spoke

i couldnt help but notice the small part of her y/h/c hair that was shown from her hood looked so shiny and smooth, her eyes were the most perfect shade of y/e/c. the extremely large hoodie looked so comfortable on her which made me think of her wearing one of mine, how big and long it'll look on her body sent butterflies to my stomach. she looked small, and precious so fragile yet she held her body confidently.

the voice of the flight attendant echoed through the speakers which made us both stop our trance of one another. even though the lady's voice wasnt scary it still frightened us. i mean no hate towards miss attendant she called me a cutie and gave me extra blankets

but coz we got startled again we held hands....again looking for the sources of the noise. we visibly relaxed once we realized what it was, looked at eachother and laughed, her laugh was angelic and soft, hands down the best sound ive ever head. she looked rather embarrassed from the encounter but i bet you a thousand dollars i look worse, i could practically feel the blood rush through my cheeks once she realized how long ive stared at her

"i- uhm i-im so sorry for sleeping on your shoulder, and- and holding your hand and stuff" she apologized, it only made me even more baffled by her. how could a voice match with a face so perfectly.

"no no its fine uhh i dont mind *nervous laugh* and for the hand thing i was the one who grabbed yours so i-i should be the one apologizing...im sorry" i rubbed the back of my neck. this is why i dont talk to girls, ever. well mj is an exception since shes like the closest thing i have to a friend other than my best friend obviously.

"i-im y/n, by the way" she lifted her hand properly introducing herself

"peter, peter parker" i shook her hand, it was nice feeling the warmth of her hand again. we probably held hands (for the third time today by the way) longer the we should have but who am i to say i was bothered. i definitely wasnt.

"nice to meet you peter" she smiled shaking our hands one last time then sitting it on her lap. scratch what i said about her gorgeous laugh, hearing her say my name was the best thing ive heard in my 16 year of existence. (her laugh is obviously the second best)

before i could ask anything else, the plane decided to finally take off. i adjusted myself to the seat, not turning to my right side anymore and closed my eyes trying to think of smiling puppies. ive been on a plane before, in fact a private one last year but that was it. this is my second time flying away from new york and i was a bit nervous.

y/n somehow noticed my sudden tense form, who am i kidding i looked like i was about to die coz of my nerves. and held my hand. and i immediately opened my eyes again, the feeling of her skin coming in contact with mine brought chills down my spine, good ones obviously

"you looked rather tense, is this ok?" she leaned into my ear so i could hear her. i looked at her confused on why she would want to help me but nodded as a reply. a smile crept on my face and i couldnt seem to take it off.  the take off went smoothly thank god. and ive occasionally squeezed her hand, usually when the plane made very loud sounds. but i made it! woohoo

i didnt know if i should stop holding her hand or not, even though i didnt want to. will she think im a creep? and if i did, will she think im rude? but i guess it didnt seem to bother her if she went back to sleeping. so i figured i should do the same

i shifted in my seat a couple of times trying to get the perfect comfy spot....nothing. this seat will be the death of m-

"you can sleep on my shoulder if you want" she whispered. "i figured since you let me sleep on yours which im very sorry about, you could sleep on mine" she smiled

"thanks, but i dont wanna bother you or make you uncomfortable"

"oh nonsense! my body is screaming right now cheering for me, well partially scolding at me for saying something risky like that to a good looking guy, its ok" she laughed, her eyes widened in shock from what she confessed. i smiled at her and rested my head on her shoulder

"you think im good looking?" i whispered playing with our fingers, i dont know when i got the sudden confidence but hearing someone like her think a loser like me is cute did something to me.

"shut up" she playfully shoved me and i laughed.

"are you from midtown?" i asked her

"no im from queens" she joked

"oh you're definitely from midtown" i chuckled, next thing i know i was having a normal conversation with me laying my head on a girl i just met like we knew eachother for years, it was nice to talk to a girl i potentially thought was cute instead of talking gibberish

she was very understanding and looked like interested into what i was saying, i was gonna skip my geeky side when she asked about what i like but to my surprise, she mentioned it when i asked her the same, she said she loves comics and likes watching sci fi movies. i asked her if she watched star wars and she said she didnt...yet.

"wanna uhm watch it together?" i played with her fingers absentmindedly nervous if she'd reject me.

"yeah sure" her eyes lit up like she was waiting for me to ask her that. we watched the movie in bliss, thankfully she liked it! and immediately said to put the second one. and surprise surprise, we finished it.

when the credits rolled in, i saw her yawning, shifting in her seat again, i decided to be bold so i lifted her head off my shoulder pulled the arm rest away from us, took a pillow and patted my lap. immediately after doing it i regretted it, she barely knows me, what the fuck peter.

"you sure?" she asked smiling a bit, she looked like she felt something giddy inside which made me feel at peace again and i nodded.

"good night" she whispered snuggling her head on my lap, i hesitantly put my arm over

"good night, y/n" and we fell asleep like how ned slept the whooole time i was talking to her, wow we have a lot to catch up on

bonus:

peters pov

i didnt know the whole plane (our class) practically gushed over my interaction with y/n, i know its been a while since i liked a girl but betty and the rest (including Mr Harrington) practically begged mj to take photos of us since she was the closest, not that she wouldnt have done it without them asking her....

*A/N: idk what this bonus was lmao but i had to add the school feeling happy for our boy pete*

have a wonderful morning/afternoon/evening/night!

-quacksonlover

[mxcrayon]

Stardust

“Geralt, still wrapped around the hand near his face, brought it to his lips. He kissed the inside of Jaskier's wrist, feeling absolutely drunk on the rush of his scent, something floral with hints of spice. ‘I love you.’” Love changes a man. (Geraskier, 1.1k, rated teen) AO3

Geralt has never understood how Jaskier manages to see the world the way he does.

When Geralt himself travels through well-used dirt roads, easily meeting dozens of new people each week and being bared to every aspect of humanity- he sees misery. War, hatred, death, pain.

He sees them in the faces of the mourners he and Roach trot past on their way to yet another troubled town, weeping openly on the side of the road with gasping breaths and racing hearts for those who were cut down long, long before their time.

Hell, he even sees it in the faces of those directly causing the whole shit show, lamenting how much of a dystopia they've single-handedly formed and yet greedily unwilling to change.

He sees it in every mirror he walks past, too.

Shiny, red scars cross his chest, his face, his arms, his stomach- his face is set in a permanent grimace, and he can hardly look himself in the eyes without hearing the slurs and abuse people spit at him- sometimes literally- every day: heartless, monster, cruel, violent, unloveable, unwanted. His eyes (ugly and frightening, slitted and piss-colored as they are) only worsen the situation.

When he was younger- much, much younger than he is now- he did try to see the beauty in the world.

He had his brothers, and they loved him as much as he did them. His hair was a pretty shade of red, and his curls were soft. He picked up quickly on all the fighting they were learning, and that made him feel good about himself.

One of the younger ones whose name he'd regretfully forgotten long ago had an affinity for poetry. He'd cling to whatever books he could find and read them aloud when the weight of their collective training would drop his brothers into a low mood. His voice, soft as warm butter, never failed to get the whole pack surrounding him, taking comfort in piling on each other like pups.

He hadn't managed to find the tears when he realized he'd never hear it again. Nor when his hair bleached itself and fell flat, or when he came to discover one day that his fighting was all he was good for anymore. He only glanced at his reflection and saw the beginnings of exhaustion and loss that he'd never seen there before.

It didn't take long for him to start avoiding the sight altogether.

Now, he didn't have the energy nor the will to stay optimistic. It would be a fool's errand. What would be the point of hoping that things would turn out alright other than to purposefully set himself up for disappointment, and thereon heartbreak?

This is why he'd found Jaskier stupid and naive when he met him.

The bard, barely older than a child at the time, had followed him around cluelessly, prattling on about nothing of importance.

Look, Geralt, there are some lovely flowers over there! They were weeds.

Oh, I think there's a bird's nest in that tree, isn't there? How precious. They weren't likely to last long. Too many predators in the area.

I'm so glad it's warm today. It's been dreadfully cold as of late. Warm weather meant they'd be miserable as they traveled, and Geralt in particular (in his several pounds of armor and weapons) would be sweating like a pig.

Plus, they needed to stop on the road more often to let Roach and Jaskier rehydrate and rest. Their Witcher would stand, tense and vigilant as ever, ears and eyes perked for any sign of danger as his companions restored their strength.

Yet none of this seemed to deter the young boy. Geralt had thought for a while that maybe he didn't realize, but he only got exasperated glances and admonishments when he tried to tell him.

Rose-colored glasses aren't as bad as you seem to think, love. Geralt didn't know what that was supposed to mean. He'd never seen Jaskier wear any glasses at all, much less colored ones.

After a few years, he'd come to accept that this is just who Jaskier is. Stupid still very much being on the table, he's resolutely determined to see everything in as bright a light as it can be seen. Why he did this, the Witcher still wasn't sure. Not even his sleepless nights could provide that answer for him.

But, it warmed Geralt in a near-foreign way when his bard pointed out the small beauties that he wouldn't have minded on his own, so he stayed quiet about it.

Truthfully, the most confusing part was the way the man viewed Geralt himself. The reverent way he gets stitched into his stories, the absolute adoration in Jaskier's eyes as he gazes upon his Witcher, the gentleness of his hands when he takes it upon himself to wipe the grime and dirt of a Witcher's work off of him in the bath.

Witchers remained overstimulated after a hunt for several hours, caused by the need to be alert and strain their senses, adrenaline leaving their skin crawling. Jaskier had been surprisingly understanding when Geralt had tried to explain this to him using minimal words. It was difficult for him to express his thoughts, and he found it easier to force out if he kept it short and vague. Jaskier never minded.

He had barely even reacted when Geralt undressed in front of him the first time. If he'd been human, he wouldn't have noticed any response. But he wasn't. So he took note of his quickened heart rate, and the way he allowed himself a moment to take in all of Geralt's physical trauma, his breath pausing as he did so.

All of this was confusing to the Witcher. Jaskier somehow always, always managed to look into the ruined, gruff mess that was the White Wolf and find something to love, some shard of beauty that he never hesitated to hold out to the world and present as evidence that Geralt is something precious.

Even when it got him in trouble. Stupid bard could hardly go one day without getting into a fight, verbal or otherwise, over Geralt's treatment.

But it wasn't just him who got that attention. The same world Geralt thought so lowly of, Jaskier would smile at and tell it that it's okay to be flawed sometimes, that change is possible even in great amounts and that even at its lowest points, there is beauty. That it's okay to admire the flowers and the birds and the music and the food and the love, because even though it is temporary, it's something to be celebrated. It's incredible that it has managed to come into being even for a short while. Just that could be so difficult and that alone was enough to make anything special.

And he truly believed it, too. He'd spent so many years writing songs trying to get people to see the world as he did- trying to get people to see Geralt as he did.

On Geralt's part, he found it hard to look directly at Jaskier sometimes. He felt it was rude to do so without acknowledging how fucking breath-taking he is, in body and soul, and that had proved countless times to be an exhausting task.

A decade had passed since they met when things shifted for the Witcher. They were in a field of wildflowers near Crow's Perch, Jaskier with a poetry book in one hand, and his other scratching at Geralt's scalp comfortingly. The wolf had his eyes closed, toeing the line between awake and asleep with his head resting on Jaskier's thigh. Not even the memory of what had transpired nearby in years past with Anna Strenger could ruin right now for him.

Jaskier's voice was ringing out from above him.

"If you came to me with a face I have not seen, with a voice I have never heard, I would still know you.

Even if centuries separated us, I would still feel you.

Somewhere between the sand and the stardust, through every collapse and creation, there is a pulse that echoes of you and I."

This was something they'd been doing more and more frequently. It had started out with Jaskier speaking prose to himself, entertaining himself and filling the air with noise as he preferred, and as Geralt was learning he also preferred. He'd paused when he realized Geralt was watching him, who'd quickly grit his teeth and turned away.

"Don't give me that false indifference, dear Witcher," he'd laughed, "I know you better than that by now." He'd figured out in no time that his words were a source of comfort for the stone-faced wolf, and had taken to reciting his favorites.

Geralt, lost in his dreams of memories, was delayed in noticing that Jaskier wasn't speaking anymore. He regretfully forced his eyes open to the sight above him.

The wolf's next breath caught in his throat, nearly suffocating him.

His bard was watching his face carefully, letting his eyes run over each detail of his appearance as if trying to capture them to keep. As if he hopes for this Geralt to become familiar enough he'll be able to conjure it in his mind in an instant, even when they're parted, in memories deeply worn.

And his eyes.

Melitele above, Geralt felt the urge to close his own again just to be able to escape from the intensity of his gaze, absolutely brimming with pure emotion, like just the sight of his Witcher comfortable and happy may bring him to tears. He knew, instinctively, that Jaskier was mentally finding time to write yet another sonnet for him.

"I'm terribly sorry, dear heart," Jaskier mumbled. What could he be sorry for, Geralt wondered? He couldn't think of a thing. His lover's hand, calloused from years of playing strings, was on his cheek. He didn't know when Jask had put the book down.

His flower's loving lips turned upwards at the corners, and Geralt's eyes darted to them for a second, suddenly desperately wanting to know what he was thinking of.

He couldn't ask. He didn't even try, knew the words wouldn't form the way they were needed. Instead, he lifted his arm, clasping his fingers around Jaskier's wrist and facing his stare dead on, feeling brave for managing it. A muscle twitched in his jaw.

Geralt was rewarded with a soft, quiet chuckle which made his heart leap into his throat. "I know of your peace, brought about by my voice. I meant to keep reading, truly. I just.."

The bard lowered his face enough so that the Witcher could see the speck of emerald near his pupil, hear his heart beating in his chest. The closeness was about two seconds from ending Geralt's own beating.

A gentle thumb brushed under his eye. "My darling, you're so beautiful. So unbelievably stunning. Did you know that?" No. Tell me more.

"Even I, with all my words and lines and poems, don't think I could find the right ones for your eyes." He hated his eyes, and he didn't see how Jaskier could disagree. His suspicion must've shown on his face, for Jaskier's tightened just slightly in displeasure and the Witcher immediately scolded himself.

Speak. He should speak, shouldn't he? Geralt wet his lips, parting them just enough to mumble, "Think you're the only person who likes them, Jask. Hard not to hate them, is all."

It was certainly true. There was probably a list of dozens and dozens of Witcher quirks that people- humans and nonhumans alike- couldn't fucking stand to be near. Their putrid yellow eyes were near the top. A constant reminder that they were so painfully different, no matter what they may have been or done in the past.

His poor attempt at comforting his love hadn't gone very well. He sighed still, lifting his head to stare out at the grass surrounding them. Geralt mourned his undivided attention.

"I know, dear. I do. I know how.." He seemed to struggle for a moment. "..isolated, you've been made before. How alone you sometimes are with only yourself and others' hurtful words." Jaskier's gaze darkened for just a moment, and Geralt could swear he heard a faintly muttered, "Cunts, all of them".

Comfort. Geralt squeezed his wrist gently, bringing the bard's attention back down to him. Panic took him briefly, then he forced a tiny smile, entirely unnoticeable if not for their close proximity. He got a bigger smile in return. (That attempt went much better, and he mentally patted his own back).

Yet he could see hints of wistfulness in Jaskier's face. He was thinking about something, the Witcher noted. "What's wrong?"

"I'm just angry for you, sweetheart." Now that he said it, Geralt realized he could pick up undertones of fury on the man holding him. "You're so incredibly.. everything to me, really. You're my whole heart. And you're treated so goddamn poorly." The hand that had been in his hair slid up to his face now, so Jaskier was cupping his face with both hands.

His bard tightened his lips, going quiet. He never did that, so Geralt thought he should stay quiet as well.

After several seconds which seemed to stretch out for many more hours, he spoke.

"Your eyes turn this brilliant amber when you face the sunshine. It reminds me pleasantly of warm honey. They shine when you're excited about something, which happens unfortunately rarely.

And they're incredibly expressive, my love. Much more so than your words. I can usually tell how you're feeling by looking into them, which is something I like to do regardless. When they shine, they dilate too. They slit up when you're particularly angry, about to fight something. Or when you yearn for my touch."

Something amused Jaskier, and he bent down, pressing a kiss to Geralt's lips before pulling back. "Just like now."

Oh. So Jaskier could definitely tell how much he liked his hands. That might've been good to know before now.

Still. He didn't know how to handle his bard's opinion of him. He didn't know what he wanted to say. Jaskier waited for him to find a solution, as he always did. Thoughtful man.

Geralt, still wrapped around the hand near his face, brought it to his lips. He kissed the inside of Jaskier's wrist, feeling absolutely drunk on the rush of his scent, something floral with hints of spice. "I love you." Short and vague. Those words had become surprisingly easy for Geralt to speak as of late. Only eight letters, after all.

Jaskier's responding smile blinded him more than the beaming sun peaking out from behind his head, turning his brown hair golden. "I am my most beautiful self when I am with you, dear heart." Jaskier's own way of saying it. Longer and more complex. Harder to understand at times, but he expressed himself in poetry and Geralt was more than willing to accept that.

Geralt barely had time to celebrate a successful interaction with his beloved when he was gifted another kiss, this one longer-lasting and sweet all the same. When they pulled apart for Jaskier's unfortunate lung incapacity, he rested their foreheads together.

This must be hurting his back, Geralt thought. He didn't ask him to move away further.

Still, he sat up after a short while. His eyes tightened just a bit as he did so, and Geralt made a note to see if there was a mutation or potion for Witchers that let them take on another's pain. His love's discomfort had been worsening as he aged and Geralt hated it strongly.

It didn't throw him off for long though, as he reached for his book again within a moment. "I'll keep going, dear."

Geralt hummed in gratitude, his rough voice making it resemble an indifferent grunt but Jaskier knew him better than that. He was grateful for that, too.

As Jaskier's reading picked back up, Geralt let his eyes close again. The sun warmed his face, and he understood. The mystery of Jaskier's optimism had become less mysterious.

If the world is relentlessly cruel, then how could he be here? Why was he allowed to be loved for by such a wonderful man? The only answer was that not every last thing was terrible.

And Geralt was so much happier focusing on the things that weren't.

Even though it was Geralt's job to defeat the monsters that had once been human, he could easily see that they had been. No mindless beast would ever be so stubborn as to refuse to stay dead, so indignant by not getting what they feel they deserve that they start trouble as corpses. It was impressive how humans refused to let go of their humanity, known for being one of the most prideful species.

The many, many deaths were tragic and should have never happened, but they did. The commoners, on the verge of death themselves, could barely help that. Yet they ensured they were remembered, if only for having been alive at some point. They were built memorials, had the word spread as far as possible that these people barely had a chance at life before it was taken from them, never fucking forget that. The living banded together, willing to put themselves in danger in a desperate hope to bring about change, to protect those that were still around.

He can't find it in himself to search for the bright side of those causing all of this, but Jaskier doesn't either, so it must be alright. He knows they will end up with what they deserve, and he knows they'll never feel even a fraction of the pure joy that his bard brings him, nor the undying loyalty he's been given.

Geralt's not sure if he can manage to find it in himself, either. But he's been doing better. He doesn't think himself unloveable anymore. And Jaskier adores him enough for himself and the rest of the Continent.

Maybe someday he'll be able to look at his reflection without being put in a poor mood.

They'll work on it together. For now, he lets himself relax in the lap of the man he's so deeply, tremendously in love with and listen to his voice, soft as warm butter.

"When I am dead, even then,

I will still love you, I will wait in these poems,

When I am dead, even then

I am still listening to you.

I will still be making poems for you

out of silence."

[nsheetee]

Jewel

Pairing: Rich Kid!Chenle x Reader Genre: Suggestive, Fluff, some Angst Length: 2.4k Warnings: female reader, mentions of fwb, mature content (general mature content, thigh riding, beginning of oral [female receiving]) Summary: “I was in Macau for almost three weeks, and I don’t think a day went by that I didn’t think about you. From every dinner to every resort to every morning I woke up in a huge bed by myself, I wondered what it would be like to do it all with you. Then I realized, I would’ve enjoyed it all so much more if you were there.” — In which Chenle realizes he needs you in his future, and secures your heart with a ring. a/n: minors, please beware, there is mature content in this writing.

optional part 2 

♦︎━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♦︎

You hear Chenle before you see him. His black, shiny motorcycle ripping eardrums apart as he drives through your neighborhood, stopping one street away and shutting off the engine. There’s a chance that it could be any motorcycle, it could be someone else going home, but you know it’s Chenle. The numerous nights that he called you and came over with that same motorcycle exist as proof. You also know that it only takes a few minutes for him to walk over to your house. The fact makes you sit up in bed, looking around your room.

It’s a complete and utter mess.

You shoot off of your covers, trying to quickly think of how you can make your room look more presentable. You throw some random articles of clothing that were on the floor into your closet, push some random papers off of your desk and into whatever drawer they could fit in, and shove any other objects that clutter your room under your bed. You barely get to catch your breath before you hear knocking on your window.

Taking one last moment to run your fingers through your hair in a last attempt to look decent, you open your curtains and unlock the window. On the other side is Chenle, hanging off of the side of your house, wasting no time climbing through your window the second it opens.

“Took you long enough.” He grumbles, straightening up as you close the window behind him, glancing up and down your street to see if anyone saw him hanging off of the side of your house. After confirming that Chenle has been stashed into your room inconspicuously, you close your curtains and turn around to face him, but he’s already standing only a breath away from you.

“Why didn’t you call before coming?” It’s hard to focus with him so close, but curiosity burns through you more than the excitement of having Chenle just a step away after he has been gone for so many weeks.

“I wanted to surprise you. I told you I came back into town today, right?” He whispers, still breathing heavily from climbing up the wall of your house. You nod, your eyes sliding down his slim body and you can’t help but bite your lip to stop the noise of excitement that was about to leave your lips. Chenle smirks, his hands securely grasping your waist and pulling you towards him. No more waiting.

“Oh-” You gasp at Chenle’s intense look and he wastes no time in leaning in and pressing his lips to yours. His hands are so rough on your waist, pulling you closer to his hips while at the same time pushing you against the wall, yet his lips are so soft, kissing you like you’re a precious jewel. You let out a noise of surprise, but don’t do anything to pull him off of you, instead gripping the ends of his expensive YSL leather jacket to pull him even closer.

“How was Macau?” You manage to ask breathlessly when his lips travel to your jaw.

“Glamorous. Beautiful. Lonely.” He seals every word with a kiss lower and lower to your chest. “Cute,” He thinks, moving your fuzzy robe off your shoulder and leaving some kisses there also. His hands slide lower to your hips, giving the curves a squeeze, and then moving down to tap your thighs. You get the idea, and jump up for him to catch you, legs around his waist and forearms on his shoulders.

“Lonely?” You ask, tilting your head. Chenle’s lips leave your skin for long enough to look up at you, black hair falling over his pretty hazel eyes and showing off his usually pink lips that have been stained with a dark shade of red from his longing kisses.

“Yeah, I missed you, sweetie.” He chuckles, his eyes beginning to sparkle. Your heart doesn’t feel well at the sight of his smile. You think it might beat out of your chest and land into his hands, but you’re not even sure his hands will be there to catch it for you. You don’t think Chenle has ever told you he missed you before. His warmer nature towards you right now has you a bit confused, as he’s not normally like this right before he fucks your brains out. You force your thoughts to dissipate at the touch of his lips to your collarbones.

“I missed having you in my arms.” He whispers his secret into the soft skin there, turning around and walking the short distance to your bed. He lays you down gently, his precious jewel shining under the dim lighting of your bedroom. Chenle takes off his jacket and kicks off his shoes, not caring about scuffing the luxurious leather, before he climbs over your frame. You, spread out on your bed for him like this, makes him think you’re some sort of aphrodisiac, tempting him and making him come back to you for more.

Maybe this is why he couldn’t stop thinking about you the entire time he was in Macau.

His lips mesh with yours once again, the sound of open mouths and wet smacks fill the room as your tongues meet. The obscene sounds make you wiggle your hips against his, and a whimper leaves your lips at the small form of friction. The tension between your hips grows with every action Chenle makes, and it doesn’t help that you catch his erection poking through his jeans, making it known to you that he’s just as aroused as you are.

“I missed the sounds you make.” Chenle whispers in your ear, unable to stop himself from grinding his hips to meet yours, the fabric of his jeans so much rougher than the soft pajama pants you have on that it makes your thighs shake from the stimulation to your clit. He repositions his thigh between your legs, sliding a hand between you and the mattress before leaning back into your ear, his lips brushing the sensitive skin there as he speaks. “Ride my thigh like this. Let me hear you moan, sweetie.”

Just from his low voice directly in your ear, you feel a lightning bolt of arousal strike down your spine and hit your center, wetness pooling and allowing the movement of your hips against Chenle’s jeans to feel so good. Chenle can’t help but let out hum at how well you’re doing, placing random kisses and bites along your neck. He helps you along with his hand, letting you keep the pace of your grinding but controlling the amount of force that your hips grind down with. Every time his thigh meets your center, you feel friction throughout your whole core, a fucked out look painting on your face embarrassingly fast.

Chenle doesn’t care. He lives for how needily your pussy grinds down onto his thigh and how you desperately clutch onto the back of his shirt. The sounds you release are sinful, and it spurs Chenle on, along with the wet sounds coming from below both of you. He can imagine your glistening folds, how you taste, the particular whimper you never fail to release whenever he slides his fingers into you.

Chenle doesn’t think he can take it anymore. He needs to taste you, now.

Before the knot in your stomach can unfold, Chenle stops his actions and moves away, making you whine at the cold air that hits your clothed, wet core. Chenle chuckles a bit from your reaction and kisses your forehead, slowly and lovingly as if he’ll never have the chance to do it again.

“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you right now.” The end of his sentence dies away as he sinks down the bed, his fingers already tugging at the waistband of your pants as he lowers to face your hips. Placing a soft kiss on the bow of your panties, Chenle slides your pajama pants all the way off of you and gets comfortable between your legs.

“What’s gotten into you?” Your hazy mind can still process how unusual Chenle is being, from his soft words to the pampering you’re about to get from him. You can’t help but think this is the calm before the storm. A way to butter you up before the sting of the heat.

You open your mouth in a silent groan and drop your head back into the covers when Chenle’s tongue glides over your soaked panties, up your silt and collecting your wetness. He grinds his hips against your covers at the taste he missed so much and at the way you look from his position, arching your back at just one touch from him. Your mind goes blank as your fingers immediately tangle in Chenle’s black waves, not letting him move too far away from you.

“Everything’ll be okay.” Chenle moves your panties to the side, licking his lips, “I’m going to make you feel so good, sweetie.”

♦︎♦︎♦︎

Hours later, you and Chenle lay next to each other in your bed, sweaty and out of breath, with the smell of sex in the air. Despite the heat created over the past couple hours, you lay with a blanket over you, arms thrown over your head as you stare up at the ceiling. Chenle lays under the same blanket, drawing stars on your covered stomach as you both completely calm down from your highs. You don’t talk, only the sounds of passing cars outside and the ticking of your watch on your nightstand filling the room.

Eventually, Chenle sits up, looking around your bedroom, and you know your time with him tonight is up. It’s not a surprise that he leaves right after fucking you; you expect it by now. You sit up too, watching as he looks around the floor.

“Your underwear is over there.” You point to the edge of your bed where you threw the piece of clothing earlier, and Chenle reaches over to snatch it and put it on. Maybe it was something about Chenle’s caring nature tonight that makes his leaving particularly hard this time around. You curse him in your mind; why did he have to be nicer on you tonight? Your complicated feelings make you turn away from him, aimlessly looking at the opposite wall to stop yourself from asking him to stay.

You can’t ask him to stay. Not unless you never want to see him again; he made that quite clear when you both made this arrangement.

You see him collect his jacket and walk around a bit more out of the corner of your eye. You feel the bed dip down again and you can’t help but look over at Chenle, who is surprisingly shimmying back under the covers.

“Aren’t you leaving?” You ask before you can even think about your words, shocked from his actions.

“No,” He closes his eyes and rests his arms behind his head, “I told you I missed you.”

“I… missed you, too.” You whisper out, testing the waters with your new words. Chenle had been in Macao for almost three weeks, leaving no one to fulfill your sexual needs during that time. It felt wrong to ask anyone else to help you out, considering your growing admiration not just for Chenle’s body, but him as a person, too. It scared you to get so caught up in your feelings, but you couldn’t help it when your heart flips at just the thought of him.

“C’mere.” You glance over at him; he holds out an arm to you while peering at you. Your eyes widen at the invitation, not moving from your spot. “C’mon, I don’t bite. Unless you want me to...” He laughs, gently grabbing your wrist as he pulls you to him, his touch gentle so that if you didn’t want to come closer, you could break from his hold. But you do want to come closer, and you eventually end up falling into his side, your head resting on his bare chest. You hear his fast heartbeat under your head, wondering how he’s still so pumped up when you had just been laying in bed for the past twenty minutes.

“Do you hear my heartbeat?” He asks. You wish you could see his face, wondering what he looks like asking you such a soft question.

You hum, “It’s beating so fast. Are you okay?”

As a reply, Chenle takes a deep breath and releases it as he produces of black velvet box, laying it on his stomach so that both of you can see it.

“What’s this?” You mumble, your own heartbeat increasing at all the signs Chenle is giving you. He’s definitely ending this friends with benefits thing tonight; he’s giving you the only cuddles after sex you’ll ever get from him, some jewelry as a lame apology, and then wordlessly sliding back out of your window and riding away on his motorcycle for the very last time. You know it. You can sense it. How could you be so stup-

“A ring. I saw it in Macao and thought of you.”

Wait, what.

“Huh?” Chenle laughs at your response, pulling you to sit up with him, the small box now in his palm. He plays with it, feeling the velvet between his fingers and tapping on the small hinges.

“I was in Macau for almost three weeks, and I don’t think a day went by that I didn’t think about you.” He starts, “From every dinner to every resort to every morning I woke up in a huge bed by myself, I wondered what it would be like to do it all with you. Then I realized, I would’ve enjoyed it all so much more if you were there.”

You’re holding the sheet up to your chest, your fingers over your heart as it beats wildly. You feel safe and secure knowing Chenle’s heart is beating just as fast for you. He looks up from the box to make eye contact with you.

“What’s the point of going to such places and spending so much money if I can’t do it with the person my heart wants?” He holds out the velvet box, and you take it, opening it after a moment. You weren’t sure what you were expecting, maybe something colorful or shiny or big, but instead there sits a gold band with one lone diamond that shines even in the dark atmosphere of your room.

“This is for…” You look back at Chenle, disbelief and confusion covering your face.

“It’s…” He hums and takes the ring off of it’s cushion in the box, “A question. Can I stay with you tonight? And every night after tonight? I know I’m going back on the promise I made myself, but I’m making a new promise instead.”

He slides the ring on, holding your hand afterwards in a tight grip, as if he’s still afraid you’ll run away. “I’ll take you to Macau with me, and to many, many more places after that. Just stay with me.”

Maybe some will say you dove into your relationship with Chenle head first, or maybe some will say you took a childish leap of faith while wearing a blindfold stitched by love, but you know that the cool feeling of Chenle sliding a ring onto your finger and pressing a kiss to your hand with the promise of a future together will never compare to any other feeling in the whole wide world.

[threeletterslife]

The Exam

→ [1/7] of the Society Series

→ summary: Three societies. Two dead lovers. One test. In a world that prioritizes intelligence and the ability to regurgitate textbook information, will you choose love and poverty or splendor and solitude? 

→ pairing/rating: taehyung x reader | PG-15

→ genre: 99.9% angst, 0.1% fluff (if you squint) | dystopian!au & utopian!au

→ warnings: profanity, death, mentions of tuberculosis and leptospirosis, blood, extreme poverty, extremely brief mention of cannibalism and overdosing, undiagnosed depression and mild anxiety, brief mentions of the afterlife and physical violence, this shit ain’t happy pple

→ wordcount: 21.4k

There's a strange stench that permeates the air in the city of Dystopia.

It is the odor of death. The dark, muddy soil reeks of decaying bodies, of rotting rats and excretions. Deteriorating child flesh even has its own distinct smell, but you've become so used to it, you don't really mind it as much anymore.

Every day is a festival for the unusually large rats that inhabit the city. With their matted-fur and worm-tails, the rodents feast on decomposing human bodies, ripping apart the dark, putrid meat and leaving dried blood splattered on the barely-paved streets.

Bodies are everywhere.

Sometimes it's hard to tell if a fallen child is dead or asleep in the towering masses of waste. There are too many orphans wandering lost on the streets with no bed or home to conceal them in warmth. There are too many people who never know when their next meal will be, or if there will be clean water to drink for the day. Hell, most of the huts in the dystopian city are on the very verge of crumbling down.

You're lucky.

Your home has semi-working electricity and plumbing. But every now and then, the lights will refuse to turn on and the pipes will leak—or even burst if it was a bad day.

Most citizens of Dystopia, however, roam the streets, homeless, until death finally whisks them away. Nobody knows what happens after death. But everybody knows it is better than Dystopia.

This place, this Dystopia, was home for your childhood memories. Shamefully enough, it was also your birthplace. But you don't live there anymore, thank goodness. You live in Purgatory now, a smaller city with slightly more opportunities and fewer rats.

But Purgatory isn't that much different from Dystopia either. Death still hangs over the heads of the weak, ready to take their hands and lead them away when the time comes. Purgatory is a wild place full of children and teenagers from ages ten to eighteen. They're there for one sole purpose: education. Rigorous education that may come with the price of death.

It's how the whole damn system works.

Every Dystopian-born must suffer ten years of life in that hellhole; if they are still alive by then, they are relocated to Purgatory where "equal opportunities" are given to all with mercy. At least, that's what the authority claims. Really, you see it more as a ruthless competition. It's not "equal opportunities" or whatever bullcrap the government was trying to sell to the people. You see it as a game of sharks and minnows—a game of exceptionally robust predators and abnormally frail prey.

Annually, every student who is eighteen in Purgatory is required to take an exam. An exam that determines their entire future.

Every year, the highest-scoring students—or student—are whisked away by the government with silk draped around their hunched shoulders, layers of soft mink coats keeping their frayed bodies warm and their dirty tresses bathed with the richest, fragrance oils. Then they are granted access to Utopia.

Utopia, the city of the rich. They breathe expensive air there, bathe in priceless tea and wear extortionate silks and furs. They deserve it. Because they're the most intelligent people in all three cities of Atna. At least, that's what the government says.

It is merciless when they throw every other eighteen-year-old who 'failed' the Exam in the city of Dystopia. You'd think they'd spare their precious Utopian-borns—the children of the men and women who proved their intelligence by reigning over every other student in Purgatory. But they don't. The Utopian-borns are dumped into Dystopia as well. Into a foreign place where the air is dead, baths are infrequent and clothing is for the greatly fortunate.

Yet that's rare. Most often, Utopian students always tie for the highest-score and are taken back to their luxurious birthplace. It's too advantageous for them. It's unfair. Unreasonable. They train from their birth until the last second before they leave the warmth of their Utopian homes for the Exam. Of course, they would score the highest.

One year, out of the hundreds of eighteen-year-olds who took the Exam, twenty-three of them made it back to Utopia. All Utopian-borns.

Still, a handful of Utopians are tossed into the slums—they are a disgrace to all of Atna for they had the advantage and didn't take it.

You've seen those sad individuals your whole childhood. They were the ones who weren't used to horrifying conditions. Consequently, they were always the last to eat and first to die.

When you were the adventurous age of nine, you and your best friend Jimin would sit outside the shabby, repulsive place that you called home and would watch the Utopian-borns straggling across the streets.

They wailed and begged as their eyes reflected one sole emotion: fear.

"I bet she's Utopian-born," Jimin huffs as he points at a girl frantically cramming her mouth full of scraggly weeds that had somehow sprouted from the fetid grounds. Both of you silently watch as her bloody fingernails pierce madly through the mud, uprooting the plants with surprising success. "Doesn't she know those are poisonous?"

You shrug, staring blankly at the girl. "No, she's not Utopian-born. Doesn't look over eighteen. Maybe she doesn't want to take the Exam." Taking Jimin's hand into yours, you sigh, "I bet he's Utopian-born, though." Your small finger points at a young man huddled up against a pile of rubbish, completely naked and rocking back and forth, as if that action would save him from the wraths of Dystopia. He had stripped off his tattered clothes and had unskillfully attempted to wrap them around himself to combat the harsh weather. A simple but deadly mistake.

A Dystopian-born would know better.

"He's going to die," Jimin says, cocking his head. "Let's go help him." He starts to tug you towards the unclothed man but you forcefully pull your friend back, eyebrows twisting downwards into a deep frown.

"Leave him." Your cold eyes stare right past the Utopian-born, gazing at the bright neon poster behind him. It reads Utopia, a wondrous place for deserving people.

And below is an image of a gorgeous, healthily plump woman in a spotless, white bikini, skin sparkling and well-tanned and her hands immaculately manicured. Her hair is loose, glossy and looks like it smells of flowering spring roses. She's holding a gleaming bottle of fizzing golden liquid in one hand and a handsome man's hand in the other. The man smiles brightly, revealing a row of pearlescent teeth as he boasts shiny, black sunglasses and wears a watch made of dazzling rubies and diamonds.

Behind the couple is a house—actually, a mansion made of polished glass with luscious trees decorating the purlieu and the pool filled with glimmering water tinted a light shade of azure. The sky is cerulean blue, and the clouds resemble cotton candy.

Everything speaks perfection.

These identical posters are littered everywhere across Dystopia. It is a painful reminder for the Atnatians who have failed the Exam—even more so agonizing for the Utopians who had been banished from their previous home.

The propaganda posters are the only clean, resplendent objects in the slums. But personally, you think they're revolting.

Your unsympathetic eyes trail back to the naked man. You take another glance at the stupid government propaganda poster behind him before you squeeze Jimin's hand. "Yeah, let's leave him," you repeat.

The pick-the-Utopian-born-from-the-crowd game abruptly halts soon after when Jimin comes over to your small hut one day, crying profusely, his tears leaving clean streaks on his dirt-covered face.

"He's dead!" he cries, fat droplets of tears dribbling down to his chin.

You frown in confusion, eyebrows knitting into a small frown. With the mortality rate of Dystopia, your best friend could either be talking about your neighbor from the next hut over or the other fifty bodies left dead and abandoned on the streets. "Who's dead, Jiminie?"

"T-That Utopian-born," Jimin whimpers, dirty hand reaching up to wipe away the tears obscuring his vision. Although there were many Utopian-borns roaming around Dystopia, you had a clear idea of who he was talking about. "The rats... they—"

You grab his filthy hand before it reaches his eyes. "Don't rub your eyes, remember?"

Jimin nods dejectedly, his head dropping low as his tears dripped to the floor, leaving wet puddles of brown dirt. "Sorry, Y/N, I forgot..." He sniffles, which didn't help the snot that was leaking out of his soot-covered nose. "But the rats..." he trails off, hand reaching up again to wipe away his tears. But he pauses, thinks better of it and tries to blink them away instead.

You nod, knowingly. "And it's not the first time you've seen that happen, Jiminie. Don't cry..."

Your friend whimpers, kicking the wet dirt beneath his feet. "But if we had helped him... The rats wouldn't have eaten right through his guts! They wouldn't have bitten him to pieces or drunk his blood!" he wails. You are silent, never great at solacing. "If we had helped him..."

Time is running out for both of you. You'd soon be relocated to Purgatory and you know Jimin is starting to get anxious for the both of you. He would cry in fear and grief for every dead corpse on the street, bite his nails hard enough to draw blood even though you would tell him not to, and try to help all the suffering Utopian-borns, despite your avid protests.

Jimin had always been too soft-minded, too kind. Death frightened him.

But you weren't afraid of death. Never have been. Never will be.

You are fucking terrified of death. It is the only occurrence that will keep you from scoring the highest, and as a seventeen-year-old, the Exam was looming closer than ever. You couldn't die now. Not after all the years of rigorous studying. You'd skipped nights of sleep, countless meals to get to this position.

To you, Purgatory would always be a second Utopia; for one, the conditions are immensely better than that of Dystopia, maggots no longer crawling in your food and clothes not as battered and ravaged by irritable rats or insects. This city is your one chance where you can prove yourself deserving to live in Utopia—to confirm that you can outlast, out-study and outsmart everyone in your year.

You eat, sleep and breathe your studies, something only a few students can manage to do. One of the only things that keep you motivated to wake up at the crack of dawn and open up a dusty book is the fact that no one's ever secured a perfect score on the Exam.

But you know you'll be the first.

You'll be the first and only person to obtain a perfect score. And thus you will be the only eighteen-year-old going to Utopia in your year.

It is a fantasy. A dream. A goal. But you thirst to achieve it.

In fact, you haven't left the library in weeks. You've practically been glued onto the same hard, wooden chair for what seemed like days now. You have also never ceased to flip the pages of your colossal textbooks. You're quite happy to say that the other students aren't studying as hard as you—most of them have given up by now.

Logically, it makes sense to surrender to the Exam.

Although you're given eight whole years to study in Purgatory, most students use that time to stuff themselves full of savory victuals, sleep in cots instead of in fetid mud and live without the shadow of death appended to their feet. Obviously, the conditions aren't as astounding as Utopia, but anything's better than the slums of Atna. It isn't worth it, they say. It isn't worth the eight years of miserable studying, only to be beaten by someone better (there's always someone better) and thrown into Dystopia without ever being able to live. But 'surrender' isn't in your vast vocabulary.

As much as you hate cheesy platitudes, you're in it (ahem, forcibly) to win it. Besides, your competition is dropping like flies on a scorching hot day. You suspect it's from that nasty tuberculosis that's been going around for a while.

There's only a year left before the Exam now. It's such little time for you to finish reading everything in that library, and such little time alike for the other students to live their last year to the very fullest in Purgatory, the downgrade of Utopia but the upgrade of Dystopia.

But especially for you, a year definitely isn't enough. You're just a tad bit off schedule—you were supposed to finish reading and memorizing everything in the library last year so you'd have two good years to review. Now you only have one.

It adds on to the multitudes of problems that no one truly knows what's on the Exam. They say anything in the grand library is fair game, but besides that, you don't know much. And because of that, you and what's left of your competitors have been reading everything in the library from novels to textbooks to published theses.

As a matter of fact, you're just one book and a page shy from reading everything in the damned library. Your eyes bore into the paper overlaid with equations and one too many graphs, forcing your brain to memorize every detail, every print and word. You know you shouldn't frown when you study. Someone you'd once loved had told you an unpretty, permanent crease would be etched on your forehead—but now you can't help it—frowning helps you concentrate.

Especially now. The library is usually dead silent except for the soft crinkles of paper as students flip the pages of their reading materials, yet you swear at least half of the students in the room have tuberculosis. There's heavy coughing every ten seconds, the infected splattering crimson blood on the thin, worn-out pages of the textbooks. And that's how the disease has been spreading.

They're going to die before the Exam. You swear they are—how pathetic of them to spend the last days of their lives cramming study material in their heads.

You don't care much for the infected, as long as they keep their distance from you. You don't know what you'll do if you catch the disease as well. But in your mind, nothing is worse than the mortality rates of Dystopia. At least no one in Purgatory dies from famine.

Still, there are never adequate treatments or vaccines and you can recall at least ten people who you haven't seen since tuberculosis first broke out. Not that you care, though. In the end, you're just glad you're not one of the diseased. You've always had a strong immune system, anyway.

You let out a soft sigh, feeling the urge to rub your dry, tiresome eyes but thinking better of it. Shutting the heavy textbook with a gentle thud, you place both hands on the wooden table, steadying yourself. You slowly close your eyes, relishing in the comfort of the darkness—you haven't slept in nearly three days, haven't left your seat to eat either. Your empty water canteen stares back at you, begging for it to be refilled. You swallow, your throat feeling unbearably scratchy, but you don't succumb to its desperate demand.

Now you only have one more book to read. Just one more and you'll be done. You'll treat yourself to an actual meal and a few hours of sleep (not too much because you still need time for review). With the Exam inching closer every minute, every second, you really don't have time to waste.

Water will have to wait for later.

Besides, you know for a fact that the last book you have to read isn't too long—just a hundred pages or so. You slowly open your eyes, vision slightly blurry as you force yourself to stand. Immediately, your legs threaten to give out and you have to stagger forward to use the dated bookshelves to steady yourself.

Step by step, you carry your barely responsive body to the special corner in the library that you haven't touched in the seven years you've lived in Purgatory. The unfamiliar, gray, tattered book catches your eye and you continue to wobble closer and closer to it. Family Studies, it should say.

Quite the ironic book to read about in a world where families are ripped apart by the government and their indecent tactics. But it's not like you have a choice. You need to get to Utopia—you've made promises...

You may be broken on the inside and out, but you won't let yourself break a promise.

Wearily, you force yourself to lift up your shaking arm to touch the book's spine. But you gasp, nearly jumping back with the little energy you have as your cold hand comes in contact with something warm.

Flesh, you finally register in your head. I've touched flesh.

Your head jerks up rather painfully, leaving your eyes struggling to adjust to the sight in front of you. A boy. A tall boy. His figure towers over you, and he frowns deeply, eyes bloodshot as he looks you up and down. In one hand he clutches a frayed brown blanket draped comfortably over his shoulders and the other stubbornly grasps the book—your book.

But you don't acquiesce, glaring at him as you tug the book closer to you. The boy glances your way tiredly, no emotion displayed on his malnourished, sculpted face. "Excuse me," he croaks, tugging the book closer to himself.

"Excuse you." Your voice comes out much raspier than you had expected, making you instantly regret opening your mouth to speak. But the desire to have the last book in your hands is far greater: "I need that." You pull the book back.

The boy scoffs—even that comes out as a dry cough that makes you flinch back just a bit. "I need it too."

You hate the parched feeling tickling the back of your throat, and you let out a little scream of frustration before instinct gets the better of you. You quickly slap the boy's hand, taking advantage of his surprise as an opportunity to snatch the book from the shelf. Once the book is safely cradled in your arms, you turn to the boy and give him the side-eye. "Well, I need it more."

With that, you attempt to hobble away with the best of your ability, but you fail when the boy grabs the back of your threadbare shirt, stopping you from moving any further. "Please."

He sounds so desperate, voice dripping with misery—something you were once so familiar with. His hands shake, grasping the fabric... You hate yourself for turning around to see his forlorn face. His eyes are full of suffering, of so much pain—that too is so familiar to you."Please..." he whispers again as his grip loosens on your shirt.

You're silent. It hurts. It physically pains you that the only human interaction you've had in months, maybe years, reminds you so much of him.

"Pleaseeee!!" Jimin drags out, a burst of giggles leaving his throat as he tugs excitedly at your arm. "Please! Let's go, let's go!"

You grumble, begrudgingly dragging your feet as Jimin pulls you towards unfamiliar territory. "I'm not hungry," you whine. "Can we just stay in the dorms?"

"We've got eight years to stay in the dorms, Y/N. Eight! Please? Just a few minutes in the cafeteria? I heard they serve actual food! Maybe if we're lucky, we'll get to snag some snacks!" Jimin exclaims, his cheeks tinged pink with elation.

"Where did you hear that from?" you mumble in protest before giving in to Jimin's persistence.

"The ones who failed," he answers lightheartedly. "I've been asking around."

"Oh."

You can't really say much more. There's nothing more to say.

The cafeteria is larger than at least ten Dystopian huts combined; there are rows and rows of rusty lunch tables and a long, metal countertop with a few baskets of bread on top. You and Jimin manage to salvage some before the rats get to it. You force yourself to ignore the angry squeaking and chattering around your bare feet.

The slices of white bread are only slightly moldy, which already makes it better than anything one can forage from your birthplace. You take each bite slowly, chewing steadily to keep the flavor on your tongue just a little while longer. But all too soon, it's gone. Though you'd denied it earlier, you are definitely hungry. Maybe even starving.

You look up to see Jimin swinging his feet back and forth, his hands grasping the side of the old bench, keeping his body balanced. He notices your eyes on him and looks at you, giving you a small smile. You smile back.

"This is already better than Dystopia, isn't it?" he says, small hand tentatively moving towards yours to encompass it. You nod your head in agreement. "We have eight years..." You nod again. "Then we'll be able to go back home."

You don't hesitate, a faint smile appearing on your lips. "Of course."

"Not dead, yet, huh?" you sigh, facing the boy next to you, scrutinizing his every movement. When he doesn't answer right away, you slam the textbook down in the middle of the table to get his attention—and to spite him, of course.

The boy scoffs as he glares at you through the tired slits of his eyes. Any sense of the weakness he had shown from practically begging you to share the book with him yesterday is gone. The feebleness might've been just an act—a sly trick to get you to help him. "Sorry but I plan on going to Utopia as well. That, we have in common," the boy bites right back. "Our only difference is that I'll actually make it there."

You blow air through your nose, prying open the previous book titled Family Studies and muttering death threats under your breath. You clear your throat before you speak again. "Yeah, right. Please shut up before I regret sharing my textbook with you."

"For your information, that's not exactly yours," the boy snorts. "It's the government's. And you've seen the shit that happens when you mess with them."

There's a sadder undertone to his voice that you pick up immediately. He sounds cocky but ruined at the same time—you would know because that's the façade that you had put up for yourself for years now. You can't stop yourself from asking the question that falls from your lips quite easily: "Why? Someone you know messed with them?"

The boy averts his eyes from you, looking down at his feet covered up in tattered shoes. "More like someone I knew." He shrugs, turning his head up so that his dark eyes pierce through yours. "But it doesn't really matter anymore."

Something stings inside. You wish you could say the same.

"It's only been a week," you giggle, watching Jimin stuff his face full of soup made of mystery miscellaneous ingredients. "Shouldn't you have gotten used to having enough food by now?"

Jimin pauses his vehement eating to give you a 'duh' look. "Silly, I'm going to store all the food now when I can. You know, before we have to go back. When's the last time Dystopia had meal times, anyway?"

"Never, of course," you laugh. The rats or some other pesky rodents chatter right along with you. But they only sound as if they are wryly laughing with you and Jimin. A bit embittered, you kick your feet in an attempt to shoo the rats away—or at least shut them up. "Too bad this place still has rats."

Jimin nods. "I've seen some of them around our food too." He makes a disgusted face. "Think about it. What if this mystery soup is made of rat droppings and piss?"

"Oh shut up. Don't be like that," you sniffle, turning up your nose in complete distaste. "That's disgusting."

"I'm only joking," Jimin chuckles, taking another spoonful of his soup, exaggerating the action and making you mock-gag in repugnance.

As annoying as he sometimes is, having Jimin around is something you always have been thankful for. It was everything to have a friend be by your side. You've seen what happens when people are left alone for too long. They go bat-shit crazy. Completely bonkers.

Being tossed back to Dystopia is inevitable; neither of you was going to stop it. Yet even just your best friend's presence is your very own incentive to wake up the next day with a hopeful smile on your lips. He matters so much to you.

"Let's have the time of our lives in Purgatory," he'd told you over and over again. So much so that you can still hear his voice today, tainted with hope and faith. "Then we can go back to Dystopia together."

You grit your teeth, catching your lip between them and biting so hard you taste blood. The strong taste of iron drives you to focus. You furrow your brows, staring at the pages of the textbook and reading thoroughly, mulling over every word in your head with careful precision. When your eyes reach the end of the page, you're just about to look up and ask the boy if he's done reading, but he's one step ahead of you.

The boy flips the page over and smiles at you smugly. You frown at him disdainfully, but without another word, you concentrate on the content once more. Until—

"Taehyung."

You sigh, reluctantly looking up at the boy. "What?"

"Taehyung. My name's Taehyung," he says. "Just thought you ought to know. There are 98 pages left in this book, so I just thought it'd be better to introduce ourselves. We'll be sitting together for a while."

You squint your eyes at him, pondering over his words. But he does make quite a good point. You suppose you and the boy—Taehyung—had gotten off on the wrong foot. Although he was kind of a cocky asshole, you guess it wouldn't hurt to at least tell him your name.

"Fine," you say, upturning your nose. "I'm Y/N."

"Cool." Taehyung grins. For a guy who's been living in unkempt conditions for several years, his teeth look pretty near to goddamn perfection. It's a little irritating if you do say so for yourself.

You're about to pick up where you last left off in the textbook when Taehyung scoots closer to you. You lean away, frowning at him as you shoot him a 'what the fuck are you doing' look.

He seems oblivious to your stone-cold glare. "Sooo, Y/N," he says. "What's making you study this hard?" he asks. "I thought I was the only crazy one here." He laughs wryly. When he sees that you're ignoring him and still reading from the damned book, he huffs and slams it shut.

"What the fuck, Taehyung," you spit out, jerking your head towards him. "Can't I study in peace?"

"Didn't anyone tell you it's rude to ignore?" he counters.

"Give me the book back."

"No." He grins, pushing the book away from you as he crosses his legs confidently, leaning back in his chair. "Answer the question. Please," he adds hastily. "C'mon. If we stay cooped up reading all day, we'll die before even getting to live in Utopia."

You let out a frustrated groan, but he's right in a way. You should take study breaks now and then—possibly to keep your sanity. "What's making me study so hard? Fine," you huff. "We all have our mad-person reasons. Happy?" But upon Taehyung's disappointed look at your vague answer, you let out a deep sigh. "And I made promises I don't want to break," you elaborate reluctantly.

"Promises?" Taehyung says. "Interesting... You look like you've been through some rough shit."

You scoff. "Me? Says you. You're Dystopian-born too, right?"

"I'm that obvious, am I?" He grins. "It's true though. I've seen bad shit in Dystopia."

"Yeah, well, I've seen the worst shit right here in Purgatory," you mutter. "So I think I win."

"Oh?"

You ignore him. "Give me back my book," you demand.

"First of all, it's not your book," Taehyung laughs. "And secondly, worst shit in Purgatory? Must be an interesting story behind that. Do tell."

"No."

Taehyung huffs as he leans back even further in his chair. "So you've lost someone you love, then."

You freeze. How did he—

Biting your lip again, you contemplate whether to answer. Finally, you let out a small, "Yeah. Two, actually."

"Damn, two?" Taehyung gawks. "Wow. Um, I'm sorry. You weren't kidding about the bad shit you've seen here."

"I really wasn't." Now you're definitely not in the mood to study. Not when Taehyung, single-handedly, in just a few minutes, reminded you of them. "It's dumb, but I use them and the promises we made together as an incentive to study. That's my mad-person reason," you confess.

Why does it feel better to tell someone else about yourself?

"That's not dumb," Taehyung offers, his eyes mirroring your own sadness in them. "It's good to have someone you love to be your incentive." He pushes the textbook back towards you. "Sorry for pestering you. You can study now if you want."

You nod curtly as you quickly open the book to the page you had left off. It seems that Taehyung does have the smallest bit of sympathy in him. You suppose he's not a completely horrible person (as you had thought before).

Sighing, you try to read through the sentences on the page, but you find yourself reading the same phrase over and over again. Damn. Your stomach flips and you begin to feel a little queasy as melancholy washes over your head. Shit. Now you really can't concentrate.

"You're, okay, right, Jiminie?" you beg, frown lines appearing on your forehead as you take both of the sick boy's hands in yours, watching his tense face relax ever-so-slightly from your soft touch.

"It's probably just something I ate. I'll be fine!" he manages to answer enthusiastically. "I'll throw it all up by tomorrow and you'll see me stronger than ever!"

He was wrong.

As the long days rolled by, he got sicker and sicker. Most of your week was spent in Jimin's room. It became a daily routine to watch him throw up whatever you suggested he eat. It became a reoccurring attempt for you to try to calm his sweltering fever. Every day you were more exhausted than the last. And so was he.

You were losing hope, but you tried not to show it. You knew he was dying, but neither of you mentioned it. You were losing your best friend and you couldn't do anything about it.

No one cared either. Everybody turned a blind eye to the ten-year-old boy suffering in overwhelming pain. They either had been preoccupied with studying or didn't want to catch whatever Jimin had. To them, Jimin, your light and life source was nothing but another body to be tossed in the graveyard at the end of the day.

And just like that, he passed away.

You can still recall the misery reflecting in his eyes, his quiet whimpers, his delusional words. You can still remember him. Quite clearly, too. He didn't know who you were the last few minutes before he blinked half-way and never woke up again. The moment you knew he was dead, you'd cried, clinging to his body and letting out the sorrow, the weakness, that you had hidden from him when he was alive.

To the ten-year-old you, his death was a mystery.

But it was leptospirosis. You know that now, after years of flipping the pages of those medical textbooks. It was a rare disease from animals, but mostly rats. Those damn rats. You wish you can kill them all.

"Those fucking rats!" Taehyung slams his fist hard on the wooden table, immediately stopping the persistent chattering of the damned rodents. "I swear to god, they're one of the worst things about Purgatory, other than the goddamn Exam itself!"

You nod in silent agreement, sighing as you play with the leftover crumbs of your breakfast. "I'd even argue that they're the worst things to ever exist. Besides the Exam."

No matter how annoyingly vocal Taehyung is about his pure hatred for rats, it feels good to have someone to talk to while eating your breakfast. You haven't had company in years.

Taehyung lets a smile loose, a boxy grin that has some sort of weird way of making you feel calm. It's impossible to believe that he's supposed to be your competition when both of you have developed a friendship over the past several days. It wasn't easy for Taehyung to befriend you—especially since you've shut out every other person in your life since... since Yoongi. But he was persistent, and you admired that about him. So slowly, very slowly, you began to open up to the boy.

You told him about Jimin, and you have to admit, it felt fucking fantastic to have someone else mourn for Jimin—to have someone else besides you who didn't ignore his death. And now you're just beginning to tell him about Yoongi upon his stubborn urging.

"You should continue," Taehyung says. "You were telling me about your preteen boyfriend?" he asks with his mouth full of bread—his words are just barely discernible and you crinkle your nose in disgust.

"Gross. Haven't you read those etiquette books? Thought they would've taught you a thing or two about not talking with your mouth full," you huff. "And don't call him my preteen boyfriend. That sounds wrong. Not to mention... it takes away so much of the meaning of my relationship with him."

"Okay, okay, sorry," Taehyung says, but chewed up bread crumbs escape his mouth and land on the metal lunch table. You make a face. "But," Taehyung continues, paying no mind to your disgust, "at the end of the day, I just wanna know if all Utopian-borns are bastards or not."

You roll your eyes. "Oh, c'mon. Do you really think I'd love a bastard?"

"Well, you're quite unpredictable, dear," Taehyung swallows his food (thankfully) before he laughs. "You thought you were going to study alone for the rest of your time here. But look at you, with me, sharing a textbook."

"You better not tell me shit like 'you didn't know love when you were ten,' Taehyung," you say as menacingly as you can. "I'm not gonna tolerate shit talk. And besides, Yoongi was definitely not a bastard. He—" you pause abruptly. "Ah, shit," you say, trying to blink away the tears that had suddenly sprung upon your eyes. Your fingers grip the hem of your shirt and you clear your throat before you continue. "He died so he didn't have to deal with bastards."

"Oh, shit," Taehyung breathes when he realizes you're close to crying. "I'm sorry... You don't have to tell me about him if it's gonna make you feel bad. I was joking about the whole Utopian-born-bastard thing anyway."

"No, I want to tell you," you say. "I need to tell someone. I can't just pent these things up inside of me, Taehyung. Don't you know? I'm using you as my personal rant-listener." You grin at him, though your tears roll down your cheeks.

Taehyung looks confused at your juxtaposition of tears and happy grin. "Okay then," he says. "If you're really sure." He frowns, tilting his head. "I just don't get the part when you said he died so he didn't have to deal with bastards. He can't choose when he dies or not—"

"Oh, yes he can," you cut him off. "Think about it," you say as more tears trip down your face. Taehyung gives you a perplexed look, his confused eyes meeting your sad ones. You sigh. "You can choose when you want to die sometimes," you whisper in a shaky voice. "Intentional death."

You've lost your appetite ever since Jimin passed away. But you come to the cafeteria every day to pay tribute to your best friend, who had announced one too many times when he was alive that the cafeteria was his favorite place in the whole world. So you sit down by yourself on the lunch tables, staring at the bread but never reaching out to take it.

Without Jimin, your world is drained of color. Life loses its meaning. There is no point. You were supposed to go back to Dystopia as adults—together. That had been your one wish. Your only wish. And now it couldn't happen. Not when Jimin's not with you anymore.

Large men in spotless white suits had dragged his limp body off of the small cot as you were begging, wailing on the side. You asked them to bury him, to give him a proper memorial. But they ignored you, pushed you away to the side. They didn't even have the decency to respect him, to cover him up with a blanket or sheet. You had to watch his clothes collect dirt and his face drag in the mud as they pulled him by the legs.

Even after they'd yelled at you, you'd watched, followed them as they flung his body into a deep pit reeking of death.

They burn the bodies in the pit every Sunday; then the week starts fresh with an empty abyss for the dead.

You want to jump in the pit after Jimin. Maybe you can conveniently dump your body in the hole a few minutes before they set fire to it—maybe you can be with Jimin that way.

It feels like a knife in your heart when you think about his last few delusional words. He'd told you fitfully, in a full sweat, that he was in so much pain, but he'd rather be in pain than die. He was afraid of death.

You aren't. You are in so much pain, you want to die, unlike him. Ten years of life is enough, you decide. Whatever is waiting for you after death has to be better than what you are living in right now.

So you plan it out. You wait until Sunday, until five minutes before they're supposed to come to burn the pit of bodies. You're going to jump in. Find Jimin. Burn to death with him. Simple.

Not so simple.

You stand exactly three feet from the pit (you measured it yourself, with your own feet), thinking it would be better to have a running start of some sort. But your feet are frozen as well as your mind is. You just can't seem to get yourself to move. You've pictured yourself jumping into the pit at least a hundred times before, so you can't help to wonder why you can't seem to do it now.

It frustrates you. Your mind tells you to run, to jump, but your legs are glued to the ground.

"Gonna jump?"

You nearly lose your balance at the sudden voice that comes from behind you. You quickly whirl around to see a lanky boy with tousled black hair. He's leaning against the exterior of the common building, staring at you with cold, judgmental eyes. He's taller, bigger than you, so you discern that he must be one of those older kids. You scowl at him. "And what if I did jump?" you retort.

"Wouldn't recommend it, kid," the boy says. He laughs coldly. "First of all, they're not going to burn that shit for several hours. Do you really want to lay around rotting bodies before you die?"

"What if I don't care?" you answer defiantly, crossing your arms.

"What are you? Dumb?" The boy scoffs, leaving his place against the wall and starting to walk towards you as he casually stuffs his hands into his pants pockets. "Get out of here," he says menacingly, eyes narrowing and mouth set stern. "And don't come back."

You admit you're slightly scared, but you don't back down. "No." You glare. "I don't want to."

The boy laughs, shrugging. "It's always the dumb Dystopian-borns. You can't be more than ten-years-old. What's got you so suicidal, huh?"

You narrow your eyes. "I'm not dumb!"

"Hm... Prove it... idiot."

You fume, face turning bright red as you stomp your feet. "Shut up! Leave me alone!"

The boy laughs. "I will if you get out of my sight."

Angry tears slip from your eyes as you grip your fists tight. "I don't want to! I-I want to die! My best friend's down there. And I'm going to be with him!" you yell as snot runs down your nose and your cheeks are wet with hot tears. You feel pathetic. But you need to get your point across to this mean, older boy who isn't leaving you alone. "You can't make me leave!"

There's an uncomfortable silence that follows, yet you stand your ground and glare at him. But to your surprise, the boy lets out a small sigh and begins to walk up to you. He crouches down to your level and he wipes your tears (and embarrassingly a bit of your snot) with the sleeve of his frayed (but obviously high-end) sweater. "It's okay kid," he says. Before you know it, he's pulling you into a tight hug. "Stop crying, hm? It'll be all right, kid."

Nobody's ever hugged you like that before. Not even Jimin—because he knows how much you don't like physical affection. But you needed his hug; it was long overdue.

You hiccup, crying out the rest of your tears as the boy holds you into his arms. It takes you a few minutes to calm down, and when you finally pull away from the boy, you notice that your shirt is slightly wet as well. And not from your tears, but from his. You look up to see the boy's back turned on you, hiding his face from your view.

"Let's go get something to eat, kid," he says, and you can hear just the hint of tears behind his voice. And when he sniffles, it confirms everything.

Cocking your head in curiosity, you begin to follow him—

"Wait, wait!" Taehyung interrupts. "Before you go on any further, you need to address the elephant in the room, Y/N. Why the fuck is he crying?"

"Yeah, well, I didn't know then either," you say. "It's complicated. I mean, I only found out the reason way later. If you'd just let me continue—"

"Oh, sorry. Continue, then."

"Yes, thank you—"

"Wait, lemme interrupt just one more time," Taehyung interjects again. "Just one last question." You groan, but you nod, telling him you're all ears. "Exactly how much older is he than you?"

You sigh. "He was three years older."

Taehyung sucks in a deep breath. "Right... He's, uh, dead. But damn. You were into a Utopian-born that was older? You really broke all the boundaries."

You shrug. "I guess I always didn't really give a fuck about societal norms or whatever the shit people call it."

"And yet you're conforming to the largest societal norm in Atna by studying for the Exam," Taehyung points out. "Times have changed."

You smile sadly, shaking your head. "I'm only doing this for Yoongi. He made me promise... So, here I am, trying to fulfill his wishes. Will you let me continue now?"

"Yeah, yeah."

"Anyways..."

Yoongi watches you devour the bread, but you're too hungry to care about his incessant staring.

"You should slow down," he says. "We don't want you to choke to death or anything—" he pauses, eyes turning wide before he mutters a "Shit, I gave her a fucking idea."

"I heard that," you say.

Yoongi visibly pales.

"It's okay," you assure him, setting down a loaf of bread to stare right back at the boy. "I feel better now. I don't think I've eaten for days."

"Damn," Yoongi mutters under his breath. "What kind of best friend was he for you to be this distraught over his death?"

"Distraught?" you say, blinking blankly at him.

He sighs, "Right, right, you're only ten. Distraught means sad. Upset. Depressed. All those fun words."

"Oh," you murmur. "Jimin was everything to me," you say shyly. "He promised me that we were going to go back to Dystopia! Then we could share a house and live together as adults..." you trail off, losing yourself in the figments of your wildest imaginations. "We were supposed to have so much fun in Purgatory..."

Yoongi cocks his head. "Kid, I think you liked him."

You frown at this strange comment, crinkling your nose. "Of course I liked him, he was my best friend."

"No, kid. You like liked him. Maybe you loved him. I don't know," Yoongi says, shrugging. "Think about it. Wait no, don't. Forget about him. Don't make yourself sad. Talk to me. What do you wanna do? Wanna go to my room? I have some stuff back from home there. You can play with them if you want."

You squint your eyes at the boy, staring at him suspiciously. "Why are you trying to be nice...?"

"Nice?" Yoongi scoffs. "I'm just, uh, I'm just trying to get rid of stuff that I don't need anymore. I'm definitely not being nice. So you better follow me 'cause I don't want a lot of things."

You don't buy his lie, but maybe that's a good thing. In your eyes, this boy is, indeed, nice and he's trying to help you take your mind off of Jimin. He even prevented you from leaping off the ledge and falling to your own death. You hope he sticks around.

And stick around he did.

Yoongi is bossy, straight-forward and frankly rude sometimes, things that Jimin totally wasn't. But he is also generous, thoughtful and emotional (on a good day), and that's all you needed to stick by his side.

He is so generous that in the first week that you met him, he gave you nearly a closet-worth's supply of thick sweaters and jackets for the upcoming winter. In that same way, he is thoughtful. You took the clothes gratefully, never once having held such expensive material before in your life.

On late nights when you slept over in his room, he always asked if you could tell him stories of your childhood. And you'd gladly oblige. That's when he got emotional. Though you never see him cry, you always hear it when you tell your stories. Yoongi tries to hide his emotions to the best of his ability, but frankly, he's a loud crier, so you hear him every time. But you let him think he's good at hiding his tears for the sake that he's your friend.

One day, though, you come down with some sort of throat sickness, and Yoongi practically orders you not to speak for the next 24 hours. He had his own medicine cabinet in which his rich parents gifted him before their only son was shipped off to Purgatory from their grand mansion. So you were getting the best treatment anyone in Purgatory could get.

Yoongi even offered to tell you stories that night. To repay you for being an amazing storyteller.

"I've always wanted to hear about Utopia," you croak despite having a painful burn in your throat. "I hate that place. But I want to know more about it."

"Stop talking so much," Yoongi sighs. "Do you want to get better or not?" When you're silent, (having passed his rhetorical question test in which the correct answer was to stay quiet) he smiles to himself and continues. "I hate Utopia too. It's not as great as it seems. You know that every Utopian-born is a slave to education? I think the moment I was born, I got tossed in tutoring. From six in the morning to eleven at night I was tutored. Seven days a week, no breaks. It's probably illegal, but my parents had a lot of copies of the books in the library in Purgatory. They made me get a head start on everything. After a while, you start to think about what the whole point of education is...

"My parents always told me that I was only suffering in my younger years—that I'd only have to suffer until I'm eighteen and if I scored well on the Exam, I'd be able to come back home safely and have the time of my life in Utopia. But I just didn't want to become a slave to education," Yoongi says. "I was sick of it. Sure, I'm privileged. Sure, I had everything I wanted growing up, but I didn't have one thing you Dystopians have—freedom.

"When you're studying all day every day, you don't get a lot of chances to make friends," Yoongi says. "I grew up with adults breathing down my neck and telling me to memorize useless facts. That was the closest thing to friends I ever got. I'm not sure if every Utopian-born is forced to live like this, but I can damn well infer it. Anyways, my parents aren't here now, so I can do whatever the fuck I want."

You laugh. "You don't want to go back home?" you say in your sick, gravelly voice

"I'm just tired, Y/N. I'm tired of everything," Yoongi exhales. "You'll understand when you're older."

"You're only three years older than me, though," you pout. "Do three years change that much?"

"Yes," Yoongi replies as a matter-of-fact-way. "I don't even want to take this stupid fucking test. But I also don't want to rot in Dystopia—no offense. I know I won't last there."

"Yeah, you won't last," you tell him with a giggle.

He huffs. "That's real comforting, Y/N."

"I know," you rasp. "Please tell me about Utopia, now. Are the skies really that blue? And does everyone have a pool? What do you eat there? Do you get your own room??" The last question throws you in a coughing fit, and Yoongi looks at you worriedly. He waits until you stop before he continues.

"It was always blue outside, yeah," he says, slowly, carefully as if he was taking his time to form his words to match his visualizations. "Sometimes we had scheduled rainy days for the private gardens and stuff," he says nostalgically. "I think I had about three pools in my home in Utopia, but I’m not sure if other families had them too. You know, I didn't get around much. Always stuck inside and studying." He sighs. "At least the food there was good. Way better than the crap we're forced to eat here. Barbecue ribs with generous amounts of sauce, slow-cooked potatoes in a bonfire, roasted lamb chops, fresh fruits and vegetables picked up from the nearby food-growing facilities... Caviar, licorice, cotton candy, chocolate, cakes, pudding... And if I ever ate bread, it was with fresh strawberry jam and smooth almond butter."

You don't understand half of the stuff he's saying, but whatever it is, it sounds delicious.

"I could talk about the great food there forever," Yoongi says. "The only thing I miss about Utopia is the food... It's really lonely there. I had my sleeping chamber, my pool room and my study room, but I was always in there alone. Whatever. Do you want to hear more?"

You nod. "Yoongi?"

"Yeah?"

"You cried when I first met you. Why?"

Yoongi visibly stiffens. Knowing him you expect Yoongi to wave off your question or ignore you altogether, but to your surprise, he doesn't.

"You made me feel bad," he confesses bluntly.

"Me??"

"It was just so strange for me to see someone else get upset over a friend..." he trails off. "You were going to die for him. You were going to leap into a pit because you loved your friend that much. You couldn't bear to think of a life without him. So you were going to die with him. And that just..."

"It was stupid, I know," you pout. "You don't have to say it again."

"It was stupid, yeah," Yoongi agrees. "And I'm saying it again because I can. But at the same time, it hurt me. You know, I made up my mind to jump that day too."

"You did??"

"Yeah and imagine my surprise and annoyance when I see some ten-year-old Dystopian-born in my way," Yoongi sniffles. "Pissed me off."

You huff. "Well—"

"And I was still pissed off at you until you told me you were going to do it to be with your friend," Yoongi says. "Do you know why I was going to do it?" You shake your head no. "Because I'm selfish and I didn't like my life and I didn't want to continue living in this hellhole by myself. Because I wanted to give up. And also because I didn't have a purpose to wake up to another day, but that's just one part of a plethora of other reasons. They were all selfish. It made me just... feel something when I saw you. And you were just willing to die for someone who wasn't yourself. Even though that's fucking stupid, it made me realize how I've never really lived before. And maybe you were the key to my first friendship? I don't know."

"Wow," you mutter.

"Is that all you have to say?"

"Yes, well, no? My throat's hurting again, Yoongi," you whine. "You told me to stop talking minutes ago."

"Oh, well, in that case, just go to sleep," he says. "You'll feel better in the morning."

"Thanks," you whisper against your cotton pillow. You snuggle in your cot below Yoongi's bed and let out a small sigh. "You're not that selfish, Yoongi," you say.

And you mean it. Yoongi's shown you nothing but generosity. He's shown you that he's caring when he tries to be. Even though he's unbelievably bossy sometimes, he does it for your own good. His quiet demeanor is a façade to the overwhelming emotions inside, and you can see right through it.

Yoongi doesn't answer for the longest time, so you wrap your arms arm yourself to preserve warmth and fall asleep. You wake up the next morning with an extra layer of blanket on top of you.

Taehyung begins to tap his feet on the ground restlessly, consequently making your chair shake underneath you. You try to ignore it for minutes, but the constant shaking is making it hard for you to concentrate on the textbook sitting between the two of you.

"Taehyung," you say.

"Hm?" he asks, his eyes boring into the pages of the book. "What?"

"Can you stop?"

"Stop what?"

"You're shaking my chair."

"Oh," Taehyung says. He finally looks up from his reading and makes eye contact with you. "Sorry," he apologizes hastily. "I didn't mean to do it... I just got nervous. This book is just... It's weird. I mean, when was the last time we put emphasis on family?"

"Never, of course," you say. "I barely even remember what my parents look like."

"Really?" Taehyung's eyes are large as he stares you down with curiosity mixed with just the slightest bit of pity. "Do you miss them?"

"No."

"What? Really?" Taehyung gasps. "You really don't care at all?"

"They're not prominent figures in my life," you say. "It was always Jimin. And then when Jimin died, it was Yoongi..." you trail off. "I do regret not being close to my family. I don't think I said goodbye when I had to leave to Purgatory."

"God, well, that's harsh."

"I know. What about you? Were you close with your family?"

"Oh, very," Taehyung replies. "I had three older brothers and one younger sister. My sister and two brothers didn't make it out in the world. So in theory I only had one older sibling."

"I'm sorry," you say.

"It's fine. It was in Dystopia. Too many people die so the deaths start to become irrelevant," Taehyung shrugs. "I miss them, though. My brother's dead now, but I miss my parents."

"Dead?"

"He tried to start a revolt in Purgatory eleven years ago," Taehyung says. He frowns, shaking his head in disbelief. "I didn't think he was that dumb to actually go through with the rebellion. It was a man-slaughter, by the way. Everyone in his year was killed."

"Everyone?" you say. "Even to me, that sounds severe."

"Yeah, well, it was easier for them. Assumed that everyone in that year was a rebel. And rebels deserve to die, apparently," Taehyung says. He grits his teeth, fisting his hands in slow-coming anger. "You do know why they have the fucking Exam, right?"

"To choose which people are worthy of being in Utopia?"

"That's part of the reason," Taehyung says. He leans into you so suddenly that you gasp quietly. "The government does it to weed out the feeble-minded ones. Haven't you heard rumors? In a few years, they might just exterminate Dystopia and Purgatory altogether. There aren't enough resources to keep everyone alive," he whispers with urgency, and you can feel his hot breath on your cheeks. "So they're trying to grow a stable society with highly intelligent individuals. They want to get rid of the excess. The unworthy. They do it by hosting the Exam."

He looks satisfied at your rather shocked face and decides to give you some space, leaning away and taking away the warmth on your face.

"They're going to get rid of Dystopia?" you whisper. "And Purgatory? That's not fair to the people living there. They're gonna close off Utopia forever? That's bullshit."

"It's rumored." Taehyung shrugs.

"Is that why you're studying so hard to go?" you say, cocking a curious brow at him. "To avenge your brother?"

"Maybe," Taehyung grins. "I mean, I'll see what I can do."

"You shouldn't," you tell him with a frown. "They're gonna kill our whole year because of you."

Taehyung raises an eyebrow at you. "You know what they're doing is wrong," he says. "Don't you want to right the wrong?"

"No," you say. "I don't. I'm not going to risk my life or any other lives to fix this stupid system. The only fool-proof way to beat them is to beat the Exam—by that, I mean get a perfect score. Think about it. It's a huge middle finger to the government. Imagine if only one person out of hundreds gets to go to Utopia for scoring the highest, and, you know, assuming that only one person gets a perfect score because it's that unheard of. If that keeps up year after year, Utopia will die. They'll be underpopulated. The government will realize the system is flawed with time."

"That would take years and years. And a lot of assumptions to make," Taehyung scoffs. "You're talking about one person from every fucking year having the will and intelligence to score perfectly. Statistically impossible."

"So what?" you say. "You think a bloody revolution will solve everything?"

"A bloody revolution would obviously take less time than what you're thinking of," Taehyung says. "There are people fucking dying out there. There are people eating dead bodies. One bloody revolt can do a lot for the future."

"It won't do a lot for the present, though," you argue.

Taehyung sighs. "You know what? I'm sorry we even fucking got into this damned conversation. Whatever. Let's just finish up the book."

You clench your teeth but you don't say anything, merely nodding to show your agreement.

For the next thirteen hours, it is completely silent. After the small argument, neither you nor Taehyung feels the need to speak to the other. There is obvious tension and awkwardness between the two of you—like it had been in the beginning. You try to ignore it, immersing yourself into the contents of family studies, no matter how tedious you found it. Night rolls around and both of you end up skipping dinner.

Breakfast the next day is skipped as well.

By the time lunch comes, you and Taehyung have finished reading and reviewing the last book in the whole library. He slams the textbook shut and slides it across the table. The sound isn't as jarring as you expect it to be. So you just blink your dry eyes and try to steady yourself to prepare to stand up from your seat. Maybe you should leave Taehyung alone for a while... Maybe he doesn't want to talk to you anymore. And maybe you shouldn't hang around him... He could get you killed. He could rope you around in his master plan that his older brother had left with loose ends. You don't want to die; you don't even want to think of the possibility of death.

The only way you can beat the goddamn Exam is to be the only person to score 100 percent. And you're going to accomplish that. For years you've set your mind on this one single goal. Sacrificed food, water and sleep for it. You're not going to let it slip from your hands this easily—not when you're this close to it.

You wobble away from the chair, never looking back at Taehyung as you try to walk away from the table.

"Wait."

His tired voice echoes in the nearly empty library and it rings in your ears. You stop walking but you don't turn around.

"What, Taehyung?" you say through gritted teeth. Though you try to hide the slight waver in your voice that would indicate your exhaustiveness, it shows quite obviously.

"Let's grab lunch together. Please," he says—no, pleads.

God, he must know how much that word affects me. He knows about Jimin, so it probably wasn't so hard to use that knowledge to his own advantage.

After contemplating for what seemed like minutes, you finally turn around to face Taehyung. It surprises you when you meet his eyes almost immediately.

"You didn't finish telling me about Yoongi," he says. "I hate cliffhangers."

It occurs to you that both of you are too proud to apologize over an argument; in fact, this was Taehyung's way of apologizing to you without uttering the words, 'I'm sorry.' Your apology would be something similar.

You nod. "C'mon," you say. "Let's go to the cafeteria."

For two whole years, you were the happiest you've ever been with Yoongi. He made you almost forget about Jimin, but you made sure you honored your dead best friend by visiting the pit every now and then. It had been the last place you'd seen him.

Yoongi likes to come with you when you go to the pit. He's been getting anxious these days when you're not by his side.

Actually, you notice that he's been acting a bit strange. In the past few months, he began lecturing you about famous inventors and world leaders. He taught you the locations and capitals of countries you didn't know existed. He's been telling you the events of history as if he'd lived through them himself. The most annoying part was when he tried to make a damn math problem out of everything.

You only assumed that the pent-up knowledge inside his head was finally getting to him and he had to let it out to someone before he exploded. So you went along with it. And you suppose that sometimes, the lessons Yoongi taught you were enjoyable.

Until it got to the point that he began to quiz you on the material you learned from him.

You groan, eyes fluttering open to greet the morning sunlight that floods through the faded curtains in Yoongi's room. You had a rough night with a bad dream. You've never been this glad to finally wake up from your sleep.

Aside from the sunlight, you're also greeted by Yoongi's loud voice the moment he catches you awake. "Capital of Senegal?" he demands, pointing at you as if you had just committed a crime.

You squint your eyes at him, frowning as you stifle a yawn. You're still cranky from having a bad dream (that you can't remember now that you've woken up), so without so much of the slightest blink of an eye, you tell him to "Please, stop."

Yoongi snorts. "No, seriously," he says. "What's the capital of Senegal?"

"I dunno," you lie even though there's no way in hell that you don't know at this point in time because Yoongi's been making you memorize the world capitals for weeks now. But frustration starts to bubble up inside of you. You thought Yoongi would know a thing or two about maintaining personal space. Making you answer stupid geography questions the moment you wake up for six days in a row was downright mean and he deserves to hear a mouthful from you. "Yoongi what the hell is up with you?" you huff. "What does the capital of Senegal have to do with anything??"

"It's Dakar!" Yoongi yells, throwing up his hands. "Fucking Dakar, Y/N! Is that so hard to remember?"

"Why does it even matter?!" you yell back at him.

"I'm trying to help you!" Yoongi shouts. "I'm helping you learn, goddammit!"

"Why would I have to learn??" you say absolutely confused out of your mind. "You know how much you hated being stuck in tutoring. Well, I hate it too!"

"Oh, shit," Yoongi curses, collapsing on his bed with his hands buried in his face. He realizes that you'd just made an extremely valid point, and it puts him to shame. "I was just trying to help..."

"What? Help me pass the Exam?" you snort half-jokingly. "Yoongi, I want to go back to my home, Dystopia, with you."

"No, Y/N," Yoongi says. "I'm not going to Dystopia."

"Then wha—"

"I've been thinking, Y/N," Yoongi cuts you off, patting the spot next to him for you to sit. You do, rubbing your eyes and trying to tame your bed hair as you wait for him to continue. "I've been thinking a lot..." Yoongi says, "about the future. I've thought about every scenario in my head, and I don't think I'll ever be content."

"Aren't you happy with me, here?" you say. "I thought we were having fun..."

"Sooner or later, Y/N, I'll have to take the Exam," Yoongi says. "I'll fail, as expected. I'll be tossed into Dystopia and I'll have to wait until you come back home. But I'll most likely die in less than a year so you'll never actually get to see me again."

"Don't say that!" you shriek. "Don't even—"

"I'm obviously not going to make it in Dystopia. I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth and waking up in this dingy room in Purgatory every day disgusts me. Think about how horrible it'd be for me in Dystopia when I can't even stand it here. Then the only solution left is for me to go back to Utopia," Yoongi explains. "And that's not going to happen because I don't intend on learning new material anymore. I'm not a scholar. Was forced to be, but never wanted to be. I give up."

"You're giving up??"

"I'm giving up."

"But Yoongi..." you breathe but no further words come out of your mouth. You don't want to put words in his mouth, but you're scared of what he's thinking of doing to himself in the future. Yet you don't have the guts to ask him about his plan out loud.

"I know, Y/N," Yoongi sighs. "But I'm not bringing you down with me."

"What??"

"You're going to Utopia, Y/N," Yoongi says. He's so nonchalant with an atrocious statement that you wonder if he has a concussion. But when he's staring at you so intently, you realize with a heavy heart that he's dead serious.

"It's too late, Yoongi," you protest. "I would never beat the Utopian-borns... I'm already two years behind the game, and if you factor in the time the Utopian-borns have studied, I'm twelve years behind!"

"It's not too late," he argues. "Think about it. Utopian-borns like me—unless they're batshit crazy—aren't trying as hard anymore. Their parents aren't there to supervise them, and they're probably insanely cocky about how much they already know."

"What's your point?"

"You can easily beat them with willpower," Yoongi says. "And I already tried teaching you some stuff that I remembered too—whether you were paying attention is solely on you, though."

You huff. "I was paying attention," you say. "And that's impossible. I'm not a genius, Yoongi. Intelligence is genetic. You told me so yourself."

"I did," Yoongi admits, "but it doesn't matter how innately intelligent you are. What really matters is willpower. And I have none. But you have a lot. I'm just saying, Y/N. Utopia... it's not really a life for me. I don't really give a shit about education and being intelligent. I don't really give a shit about anything. But I think Utopia is a life for you. It's a life you deserve."

"I can't just accept what you're telling me, Yoongi," you say.

"Yes you can," he says. "I want to leave soon, you know. I don't want to distract you from your studies... And besides, Purgatory's food fucking sucks. I bet they have better food in the afterlife."

The afterlife. It's then when it truly dawns on you of the atrocity that your friend would commit to himself.

"You can't just kill yourself," you scoff, twisting your body towards Yoongi in complete bewilderment. "What about me? I never agreed to any of this!"

"You've wanted to go to Utopia the moment I started to tell you about it," Yoongi says. "You think I wouldn't know? I'm helping you get there."

"But I don't want to be alone!" You sniffle, chin pointing to the ceiling so the tears that are starting to well in your eyes dry away. But it's no use. The more you think about being abandoned again, another person you genuinely cared for leaving you into the afterlife... it makes you feel broken.

"Well, I don't really want to live," Yoongi says. "We're all selfish. It's human nature."

"I thought you cared about me!" Your voice rises two octaves. "We were supposed to spend the rest of your time in Purgatory together! You can't just leave early because you feel like it! What am I going to do without you??" You're sobbing now, the tears running down your face in fat droplets that blur your vision.

"Hey..." Yoongi murmurs. "Y/N..." He gives you some space to cry, to let out the worst of your emotions. Then he encompasses you in a warm hug in which your face is up against the soft material of his sweater and he pats your back comfortably. "You'll get over me."

"I won't," you whimper. "That's a promise."

"C'mon don't waste a precious promise on that," he whispers.

"I will so waste a stupid precious promise on that," you whisper back. You hate him for doing this to you. For telling you that he was going to leave you so you knew what was coming—now you were dreading the moment he was going to abandon you instead of relishing in his presence, his embrace, his warmth.

For hours, the two of you bask in complete silence. You've calmed yourself down to the point that the tears roll down your face sporadically, but not in steady streams anymore. Yoongi runs his fingers through your hair, an act that he only does to ensure you that everything will be all right. It's rare that the two of you are ever this close in proximity, and you want to cherish this moment before he's gone. But curiosity pulls at the strings inside you and you just have to ask—

"W-When are you going to do it?"

"Hm?"

"When are you going to commit suicide?"

"I'm not going to tell you."

You pull away from Yoongi, scowling at him. "Why not?"

"You'll try to put a stop to it," he says. "I need to get through with this, Y/N. You can't change my mind."

"I want to say I hate you, but now I feel like I need to be nice to you," you confess, running a hand through your hair in confusion.

Yoongi smiles, shaking his head. "Act normally." He hesitantly reaches out for your hand, and when you give it to him, he holds it perfectly—not too tightly nor not too loosely. "Just promise me one thing." When you don't answer, he turns to you, squeezing your intertwined hands for emphasis. "Get to the top for me, will you?"

"I can't promise tha—"

"And please don't frown when you study. You're gonna get a permanent crease on your forehead."

"Fuck, Y/N," Taehyung chokes, blinking away a tear that was starting to become too heavy for his eyes. "That's it? You let him just... leave you like that?"

"I feel like I should've put up a bigger fight too," you admit, playing with what's left of the bread crumbs on the lunch table. "I should've helped him. Nursed him back into a healthy mental state. But what did I know? I was fucking twelve then. I didn't know shit about mental health or psychology."

"You know now at least," Taehyung offers.

"I'd rather not know," you say. "Now that I know that I could've helped him... it just feels worse." You let out a deep sigh that takes the heavy weight off of your chest. "He overdosed about four days later. They found him before I did... And since then, I've been alone, studying my ass off."

"I can't help but admire your determination," Taehyung says. "You honestly can't beat human willpower. Yoongi's right."

You smile, shrugging nonchalantly. "I just want to keep my promise with him... And maybe I want to live in glory for the rest of my life, but who am I to blame? Everybody wants that life."

"Everybody deserves that life," Taehyung says. "No one should have to go through near-death experiences to get to it."

"Life's never fair," you say. "Deal with it."

Taehyung snorts. "I know. I'm trying." He pauses, placing a pensive hand on his chin and looking off into the distance as if he were thinking hard about something. "Hey, you know, the best way to retain information is to repeat it out loud or teach it to others."

"That's exactly what Yoongi made me do," you say. "All those random quiz questions throughout the day... I didn't appreciate it then, but I'd sure appreciate it now."

"Then we can be study buddies," Taehyung declares. "We'll quiz each other. We have about a year left before the Exam. We'll review every concept in the whole damn library together. Two heads work better than one!"

"Aren't we supposed to be competitors?" you say. "I'm looking to get a perfect score, Taehyung," you grin. "If you can't keep up with my rigorous schedule, you shouldn't even be proposing this plan to me."

"Oh yeah?" Taehyung cocks an eyebrow as he grins right back at you, revealing his perfect teeth and boxy smile. "Bring it on, Y/N."

Bring it on? Oh, you'll bring it on, all right. Taehyung won't even know what hit him.

Having someone else to study with you doubles your competitiveness, which is a feat in it of itself because you are definitely more competitive than at least one hundred of your peers combined.

Every day, you've been trying to wake up earlier than Taehyung to get to the library first. The only problem is, he's been doing the same as well. You thought you had him beat when you sauntered into the library at 4 a.m. feeling quite refreshed after an hour night's sleep, but it turned out that Taehyung never even left the library. He'd grinned at you, practically staring into your soul with bloodshot eyes and croaking, "I win!" so victoriously that you really had to accept his triumph over you.

But when the two of you start to play a little game of who-can-stay-awake-for-longer, Taehyung has to put a stop to the madness when you start to mumble jumbled sentences in Latin after he asks if you need some water.

You and Taehyung look out for each other almost by habit at this point. It's become a routine for you to wake the other up if you were the first to awake. Now morning trips to the library are done together, and you have to admit it feels much better to be able to walk side by side next to someone who is willing to babble his head off to wake you up a bit more.

Dinner is skipped Mondays through Fridays to make extra time for review. On Saturdays, you and Taehyung indulge in the full three meals that Purgatory has to offer while also finishing up your studies. But Sunday, Sunday is the holy grail of the week. No studying, no library, just you and Taehyung taking some time off (for once).

Surprisingly, you'd come up with Special Sundays, after Taehyung had a huge mental breakdown over plumb-forgetting how to graph polar curves on one typical Saturday night. And the special day has stayed since. Neither of you wants to get rid of something that is the only non-study related activity of the week.

Most Special Sundays are spent in either Taehyung's room or your room. Taehyung prefers your room because you have extra blankets that Yoongi left for you, and as winter comes by, any additional coverage is very much appreciated.

This Sunday, however, you managed to convince Taehyung to hang out in his room—only because his mattress is softer than yours and you've been getting bad back and neck pains these days.

"By the time I'm twenty, I'll be suffering from a fucking herniated disc," you tell Taehyung as you groan, shifting your position on his bed for what seems like the hundredth time. "I feel so fucking stuffy. Like I need to crack my back but I can't. Don't even get me started on my fucking neck."

"By the time you're twenty, you'll be in Utopia and the special doctors will be all over you to treat Atna's very own princess," Taehyung snorts. "They'd do anything to keep the perfect scoring girl alive and well."

"Princess my ass," you laugh. "I'd like to wish. How's the cot, by the way? Kinda feel bad about making you sleep there while I take your bed."

Taehyung shrugs. "I don't mind. I honestly don't even feel a difference," he says without skipping a beat. "And we don't want your back messing up your chances. On the day of the Exam, it'd be worse to have your body betray you than your mind."

"I'd literally fucking cry if my stupid back is still like this before the Exam, Taehyung," you say. "All these years I spent with my nose buried in a book... Only to fail because my body couldn't handle it."

"That's the worst," Taehyung sighs. "But if you stretch every day, it might get better. Honestly, we need to start taking care of ourselves better. We need to reserve time to rest... to take our minds off of studying. Even if it's only one day per week."

"Yeah," you agree. "You know what's fucking sad though? We're still talking about the stupid Exam even now. It never escapes our heads."

"We're slaves to the system," Taehyung bitterly murmurs. "What do you expect?"

"That's true," you say, wincing as you try to shift your position on the bed again. "I don't expect much at this point. Not from the people who've turned the library into a battlefield and the students into soldiers."

"The Exam is the war," Taehyung says. "Losing the war means death, mostly. I see no difference."

"We are so depressing," you sigh. "But it's all true."

"I know," Taehyung says. He turns over on his side to look up at you on his bed. "You ever think about the worst-case scenario?"

"You mean like... we don't make it to Utopia?"

"We?" Taehyung smiles. "So you think we'd get perfect scores together? What happened to being competitors?"

"Oh, shut up," you snort. "We're a team. I thought it was obvious. And I am not talking about not making it to Utopia. We are not going to self-sabotage months before the fucking Exam."

"You're just going to ignore the chances? You're going to ignore the chance of failure?"

"Yes!" you say, turning on your side to face Taehyung. "Of course I am. Do you really want to lie here talking about failure? We shouldn't even plant the thought of that in our heads right now. It's all about victory. We're the smartest, most capable people in our year, so if we don't get to Utopia, no one will. Understand?"

Taehyung belts out a laugh that has you frowning. "Your confidence deserves a gold medal sometimes," he says. "I do understand you..." he continues, "but only to a certain extent."

You scoff, "Oh, come on, Taehyung. What happened to the cocky bastard I met months ago??"

"That was such a mask behind the real me, Y/N," Taehyung laughs. "I thought you knew that by now. I'm fucking terrified of failure and even the slightest thought about failing makes me want to crawl in a hole and just... vanish."

"I swear to god, Tae, if you talk about vanishing like that again, I'll seriously make you want to vanish," you threaten him with the most menacing voice you can muster up. "We're already victors to this stupid game, winners of the war. Don't you dare think otherwise."

Taehyung smiles, eyes twinkling when he realizes you'd called him by his special nickname (that he kept trying to get you to call him) for the first time. "I'll try not to," he says. "But I'm not making any promises."

"Well, that's still good enough for me."

Four months until the Exam.

You're both physically (your back pains are gone) and mentally (you've always been) ready. But your friend is another story. As more days pass, the more anxious Taehyung begins to feel. He's never able to sleep, so he steals a couple of library books back to his room every night to read while everyone else is salvaging every hour of shut-eye they can get.

His insecurities are catching up to him. And you've always been quite loud-mouthed and confident, so you don't understand him very well. Yet, you're a team, and you do not leave team members stranded.

Motivational pep talks are not really your thing, but they have become your thing these past few days. You walk Taehyung to his room from the library every night, telling him that he had nothing to worry about—that he was going to do superbly well on the Exam. Sometimes, you feel like you're repeating the same phrase over and over again to him, but Taehyung reassures you that whatever you say helps him calm down.

But the mental breakdowns are becoming more and more frequent. Taehyung can't seem to sit still for ten minutes without starting to shake his leg and vibrate the whole table. He has to stop reviewing the Exam material to catch his breath, wipe away his tears and relax the tensed muscles on his face.

You let him take his time. You're always there for him to lean on, to help him catch up on the study time that he missed. And he's forever grateful to you.

"I don't think anyone's been this understanding of me," Taehyung sniffles as you pat his back comfortingly as he blows his nose on a scratchy napkin you handed him before. "Back home, my brother used to tell me to man up when I started to have my panic attacks. He was always the mentally stronger one of us."

"That wasn't very nice of him to say that," you remark. "It's normal to feel uneasy, especially at a time like this. The Exam is four months away... Not too close but not too far either..."

"God. I wish I wasn't so anxious all the time," Taehyung sighs, crumpling up his tissue and pocketing it. "I wish I was like you. Not afraid of losing... Not afraid of failing... Just so confident all the time."

"You can be like me," you say. "Just stop worrying so much."

"Easier said than done," Taehyung scoffs. "You're going to Utopia for sure. There's literally no doubt, Y/N."

"You're coming with me," you argue. "Not to avenge your brother's death or whatever. But just to enjoy the wealthy living since we both deserve it at this point."

"I'm not a charismatic leader," Taehyung shrugs. "I would've never been able to help start a revolt like him. I'd really like to go with you to Utopia... If we both got in, do you think we'd keep in touch?"

"Of course!" you exclaim. "We kept each other company in the loneliest of times. Have you seen anyone else in our year who's serious about taking the Exam making friends now? Everyone's too busy thinking about competition."

"What did I say?" Taehyung grins. "Teamwork works, and two heads are definitely better than one."

"Very true," you smile. "Remember when we fought for that book? The very first time we met?"

"How could I forget?" Taehyung laughs. "I thought you were going to murder me with that look of yours, honestly."

"Oh, wow. I'm not that scary, am I?"

"Oh, yes you are," Taehyung argues. "Do you know how hard it was for me to literally act tough in front of you in the beginning? So you wouldn't take me as some kind of wimp?"

"You acted tough for me?" you giggle, resting your hand on your cheek as your elbow sits on the table. You stare at Taehyung with an amused look on your face. "So you're just actually a big ol' softie?"

"W-Well, I wouldn't call myself a softie per se," Taehyung blushes. "I'm just uh..." he trails off. "Damn, Y/N. You put me under the spotlight."

You shrug, grinning as you watch Taehyung squirm under your intense gaze. Maybe you're a little mean, but making him blush is pretty funny. Teasing him is even funnier.

"It wouldn't be the first time. And definitely not the last," you say with a mischievous grin playing on your lips. Taehyung huffs, but his face looks much more relaxed than it had been several minutes ago—even the redness of his eyes are slowly fading away. He looks much better. He looks ready. "Hey, wanna go back to where we left off now?" you say. "If you're feeling better?"

"Yeah, sure," Taehyung smiles. "Thanks."

Goddamn. His smile is insanely contagious. It must be those perfect teeth and that boxy smile.

"No problem," you manage to murmur, feeling yourself start to blush thinking of Taehyung's immaculate smile. "Um," you hesitate, "yeah, so as I was saying before about Einstein's theory of relativity..."

Three months.

Something fishy is going on here. The closer the Exam looms over your head, the more you expected yourself to become miserable—stressed about the last-minute study material you could've forgotten over the years. Yet you find yourself rather relaxed.

It occurs to you, however, that you're only this relaxed because you have to be—for Taehyung. One of the two of you has to show strength to help the other. Pretending to be so strong-headed and confident (even when you fell into the familiar pit of self-doubt), helped you actually become confident in your knowledge and predestined success. There's really nothing to worry about, you tell yourself and Taehyung. If it's not the two of us, then it can't be anyone else.

The more you comfort Taehyung, the more he opens up to you, and the more you open up to him. Your friendships in the past have always been a little lopsided—with Jimin, you constantly comforted him, cared for him, and with Yoongi, he had been the one to take care of you. For once in your life, you had a relationship in which you both gave and took; Taehyung is your balance. The in-between of Jimin and Yoongi.

The platonic relationship with Jimin is mirrored in your relationship with Taehyung, but sometimes blush creeps up your cheeks when Taehyung teases you back or when your hands graze each other. So maybe you're not completely platonic with him.

And maybe you're just missing someone to love.

"Do you think we'd be happier if we just... never studied for the Exam?" Taehyung whispers to you as you lie side by side on your bed. The midnight moon is bright enough to illuminate just a sliver of Taehyung's face as he stares at the ceiling of your room pensively. "We would be hanging out... never going to the library... Making friends..."

You hum thoughtfully. "I don't know," you say. "I guess maybe we would be happier—just for the eight years we're in Purgatory, anyway."

"That's right," Taehyung says. "That's a good point, actually. I feel like what we're doing right now is right. We're suffering now to make gains later. And..." he trails off. "And... um, if we don't make it, at least we'll know that we tried."

You nod. "Yeah, I guess. It would be better than being tossed back into Dystopia and wondering for the rest of our lives what would've happened if we did study for the Exam."

"Exactly," Taehyung says. "I think it's crazy that we only have three months left," Taehyung says. "But weirdly... I feel less stressed than before. Maybe your optimistic preachings are getting to my head," he laughs quietly, nudging your shoulder playfully.

"Me? Optimistic?" you snort. "That's the first."

"It's true," Taehyung muses. "My anxiety isn't as bad as before, and I'm pretty sure you had a part to play in that."

"In three months, you won't have any anxiety ever again," you reassure him. "You won't even need to hear me babble on about optimism and self-confidence."

"And we'll be having the time of our lives in Utopia," Taehyung breathes.

You smile to yourself, nodding silently. The two of you let the silence consume you, letting Taehyung's last words echo in your head; it's a good way to end the conversation—on a positive note. A lasting note of hope and faith.

It's then when you feel something warm on your hand. It takes you a moment to realize it's flesh. It takes another moment for you to realize it's Taehyung's hand. When you don't flinch away, he quietly almost hesitantly encompasses your hand in his. Delicately, your fingers intertwine and lock perfectly together.

Immediately, your cheeks heat up but you refuse to speak about it. Reassurance floods through you as the two of you lay side by side in the comforting darkness of your room with your hands held tightly together.

And neither of you speak until the sun peeks out from the horizon to paint the skies with another morning, another day. You don't need to talk to Taehyung to know he's thinking the same thing as you.

We'll have the time of our lives in Utopia.

Two months.

The last-minute crammers crowd the library so much that there is a line to enter it. You and Taehyung found a very effective way to battle the sudden influx of students, though. Every day, the two of you enter the library as early as three in the morning (to ensure that little to nobody was there) and take six to seven books with you, hiding them under your jackets and sweaters.

Studying in your rooms is much better.

There are less judgmental eyes, fewer chances of catching a stupid cold that's been making its way through the younger kids in Purgatory and you and Taehyung can lounge on the beds when you get tired of sitting straight.

Two months to the Exam is shockingly close, so close that your back pains have been plaguing you once more. Taehyung tells you to stop slouching when you sit, but you find it hard to sit straight and read the tiny text of the textbooks. So you end up ignoring him.

But on some days, it hurts for you to turn your body, your back aching to the extremity that you started believing one uncalculated movement could leave you paralyzed for the rest of your life. It's on those days that you wish you listened to Taehyung earlier. You push on though, too stubborn to admit to Taehyung that he's right and too impatient to try to fix your pain at such an urgent time.

Except you're not too good at hiding your discomfort and Taehyung catches onto you.

"We should take a break," he says, closing an astrophysics textbook and practically tossing it over his head.

When you hear the loud thump of it hitting against the wall, you gasp. "Tae! You can't just throw the fucking book. We're not even supposed to have these in our rooms!"

"Maybe that was a bad idea," Taehyung says, fidgeting his hands. "A little too late now, though, isn't it?" He shrugs. "We need a break."

"I'm fine! I swear!" you say. "We'll study for a few more hours."

"Your back's killing you, isn't it?"

You scoff. "N-No!"

"You stuttered."

You groan, wincing quietly as you try to sit up straight. "I'm not gonna die because of this. I think I can keep going."

"If you don't fix that now, you probably won't be able to sit down for four hours to take the Exam," Taehyung tells you. He takes your book and throws it over his head, making you grimace when it thuds against the wall. "I'm gonna loosen your back muscles!" he declares.

"What are you gonna do? Step on my back and make it crack?" you snort. When you see that Taehyung actually looks like he's contemplating it, you quickly say, "Please don't."

"Don't worry. I'll try not to make it hurt," Taehyung grins. You look at him so threateningly that he has to raise both of his hands defensively. "Oh, c'mon! I'm trying to help."

You give him a nervous look. "So what? You're gonna give me a massage?"

"It'll help!" Taehyung says. "Just get all comfy and lay flat on the bed. Stomach on the covers, please."

The mere thought of his hands roaming on your back makes your face heat up. God, this is going to be intimate. Maybe that's why Taehyung suggested it... and maybe that's why you're actually complying with him.

Hesitantly, you situate yourself on the bed, laying your face on your arms. "Just my back," you tell him.

"Yeah, of course," he says. "I have credentials, technically."

"Oh?"

"I found a magazine about it," Taehyung says. "So I'm very much qualified."

"Oh god."

You hear Taehyung rustle behind you and you try to twist your body to see what he's doing but your back prevents you from moving. In frustration, you ask, "What are you doing?"

"Rolling up my sleeves and staring at your back. Why?"

"Why the fuck are you staring at my back?"

"I was trying to figure out where it hurts," he answers, "but I guess I could've just asked you instead."

You snort. "God, Tae. It honestly hurts everywhere. But especially around the shoulder blade area."

You can just imagine Taehyung nodding professionally, with his sleeves rolled up and his hair slicked back to prevent stray strands from poking at his eyes.

"Okay, I'm gonna put pressure there," he says. "Deep breath out..."

You obey him, closing your eyes and blowing air out of your lips, simultaneously relaxing your body. The moment you feel his hands on your back, goosebumps checker your arms. No one's ever been this close to you; no one's bothered to be this intimate with you.

"Feel good?" Taehyung asks.

He sounds closer to you than you expected him to be, and your breath hitches quietly. "Y-Yeah," you stutter. "A little lower."

Taehyung listens, rubbing your sore back with such care and calculated pressure that you have to bite your lip from letting rather embarrassing sounds from escaping your mouth. You don't realize how tense your body was until Taehyung calls you out. "You're so tense, Y/N," he remarks, his hands dealing with the clumped muscles on your back. "Try to relax."

You're red-faced, unable to admit to him that if you do as he says, you might just let out a moan and it'll really be game over then. You are not going to embarrass yourself in front of him because Taehyung would never let you live that down. And if you're really going to spend your days in Utopia with him, you'd rather not let him have any memories he can use to tease you.

"I am relaxing," you lie through your teeth. But when Taehyung gets to a particularly sensitive part on your back, you hiss through your teeth. "Ow..."

Taehyung immediately stops his ministrations. "Do you want me to stop for a second?" he asks with so much worry laced into his voice that you almost feel guilty for making him question himself.

"No!" you exclaim. "I mean, no. I'm fine. I guess my back was much worse than I thought..."

Taehyung laughs. "Well, if I do this for you occasionally and you stretch every day, you'll be in good condition again."

"Thanks," you mutter. "Really, Tae, I mean it."

You can just imagine the boy grinning ear to ear behind you. Though you expected him to say something cocky or silly, you received silence in response. "Tae?" Gritting your teeth, you try turning over on your back, which was easier than expected—Taehyung's massage had already done wonders.

With a little oof, you flip over to finally get a good look at Taehyung. "Cat got your tongue??" you tease him, raising an eyebrow and gazing at his rather blank face.

"No... no," he answers right away. "For a second I thought..." he trails off. His handsome face morphs into a look of worry, of nervousness.

"You thought...?"

"I thought I..." he trails off again, much to your impatience.

"Oh, come on, Tae," you sigh. "Spit it out!"

The boy grins, shaking his head. "For a second, I thought I heard you moan, Y/N. Enjoying yourself a little too much, aren't we?"

Okay, you had not expected that. The color quickly drains from your face and your mouth drops open rather unflatteringly. You sputter to think of an excuse, any excuse that would whisk you away from the embarrassment consuming you at this moment.

"I'm just kidding," Taehyung says as he nearly falls over in a fit of laughter. "You should see your face!"

"That's not funny!" you yell, sitting up on your elbows and glaring at the laughing boy.

"No, it was definitely funny," he says, grabbing your hand and helping you sit up. The action brings heat to your cheeks and you have to look away. "Oh, c'mon," Taehyung whines, "learn some humor, Y/N."

He must mistake your embarrassment as anger. You'll play along.

"You can literally shut up," you huff.

"Damn, you're not very scary when you pretend you're mad," Taehyung says, grinning mischievously at you.

"I am not pretending!"

"You're still holding my hand, Y/N," he teases.

Oh shit. He's right. That's the second time that's happened in one month. Is it strange to seek physical comfort? Or is it strange to feel so comfortable with Taehyung? "I-I," you stutter embarrassingly, unsure if you can even finish your own sentence when Taehyung interrupts you.

"It's okay, Y/N," he says. "I don't mind holding your hand."

You gape at him in shock—so much so that you're sure you don't look too attractive at the moment with your mouth hanging open and your eyes bulging.

Taehyung tightens his grip on your hand as he tugs you closer to him. His eyes sparkle with something you recognize as mirth, which is funny to see in a student's eyes just two months before the Exam.

Hm. You like the way his warm hand encompasses yours, and you adore the way he stares into your eyes as if he knows you and cares for you.

Before you know it, you're breathing out a rapid, "I don't mind holding your hand either."

You didn't know it was possible for Taehyung to grin even wider but sometimes even you're wrong.

One month.

This is the official crunch time. The time when existing contenders of the Exam become vicious and violent to ward off competition. The time when those who never cared for the Exam begin to host parties to live their best and lasting moments in glee. The time when some cocky Utopians begin to study—they think they're so above everyone else that they only need one month to prepare.

But you and Taehyung relish together in the time left in Purgatory together. You'll see him again in Utopia, but Purgatory is the place where you met him and got to know him. It's special, no matter how much you hate the dingy library and cramped dorms. It's special because, without the given situations, you would've never even met Taehyung. You would've spent the last year in Purgatory alone, haunted by the thoughts of Jimin and Yoongi. You couldn't have survived. Or maybe you could've. But Taehyung's helping you survive with a huge smile on your face. And happiness has never been so close to your fingertips.

Your hands are intertwined with his larger ones as the two of you stand against the wall of the building, staring into the empty pit of the dark abyss.

At this point, you're not quite sure where you stand with Taehyung, but you don't care as long as he's here to comfort you every day and you're there to hold his hand.

The cozy wool of Yoongi's sweater keeps you warm in the brisk night air as does Taehyung's presence right next to you. You look out at the pit, and for once, your stomach does not sink with misery. Paying your respects to the dead loved ones has never been this peaceful before.

"Do you think they're watching over you?" Taehyung whispers, judging you softly as he gazes up at the sky dotted with nighttime stars. "Maybe they're wishing you the best on the Exam."

"I actually have no idea..." you say, looking up at the sky with Taehyung and squeezing his hands. "But I miss them."

"You'll reunite with them one day," Taehyung tells you.

"Yeah," you say, "I definitely will."

"In the meantime, I bet Jimin's having the best time eating good meals and getting good sleep on a comfy bed..." Taehyung trails off as he looks at you. "And I hope Yoongi found his happiness by now."

You nod to yourself. "Me too, Tae."

"Only a month left, Y/N," he answers. "And strangely, this is the most peaceful I've been in my whole life."

When you look up, you find that Taehyung's already staring right back at you. A small smile stretches across your cracked lips. "Trust me, it'll be even more peaceful on the day that we're finally admitted into Utopia. We're in this together, right?"

"Definitely," Taehyung says. "I'm not nervous anymore. Not since you convinced me that I don't have to be afraid."

"Still gonna start a violent revolution?" you whisper. "Follow in your brother's footsteps?"

"Not now, not ever," he answers. "The system works. Why would I bother changing it when the people who truly deserve it are going to Utopia? I'm not brave enough to revolt... And I'm not putting you at risk for my dead brother."

"Thank you... Tae, that means a lot," you say. "Do you ever think there will be another revolution, though?"

"There are always revolutions," he replies. "There will always be more revolutions. Not everyone can always be completely satisfied with the authority's actions. It is what it is. Even if I have to take the brunt of it."

"You won't," you tell him. "We'll be long gone in Utopia before that happens."

"Y/N..." Taehyung mutters. He turns you around to face him, studying your features before pulling you in for an embrace. "I know you don't like it when I talk about this... but," he pauses, unsure. Yet he takes your silence as the cue to continue on. "In the case that we are separated after the Exam... In the case that something goes wrong... we... we should just continue on with our lives."

"And ignore whatever separated us?" you murmur against his shoulder. "We won't have to worry about that though. I told you not to worry. We're going to Utopia."

"I'm saying, just in case," Taehyung whispers. His hands run through your hair as he rests his chin on your shoulder. "But I'm sure you're right. We'll be in Utopia in no time."

You hum, basking in the warmth of Taehyung's arms. "Of course."

One week.

The library is swarming with teenagers in your year, desperately fighting over books and arguing over facts. It's funny only because you and Taehyung had once been in that state of animosity. It seems such a long time ago, though.

You and Taehyung lounge about in your room, reiterating textbook information out loud to each other over and over again so the material is ingrained in your memories. After a while, it occurs to both of you that you know too well about every book in the whole library. It's no use regurgitating the same information repeatedly when you already know it. So the two of you spend more and more time talking about your futures.

"Do you think they'll let me work as a family counselor when we get to Utopia?" Taehyung asks as he tosses another textbook against the door to your room.

You laugh when he hits the target on the door and shrug. "I don't know, honestly. Do you think they even have family counseling there?"

"You're right," Taehyung scoffs, shaking his head. "We know so little about the place we want to be in so badly."

"Maybe the more we know of it, the less we'll want to be in it," you say. "It's like that thing... that saying..."

"Ignorance is bliss?"

"Yeah, that," you say. "I'm sure we'll have good things to do in Utopia, though. Whether there is a family counselor position or not."

"But I guess we'll have to find out in a week."

One day.

You feel sudden unrest in the air. People are biting their fingernails so hard, they bleed. Others are pulling out their hairs. Some are picking at their scabs.

You and Taehyung hold each other the whole day, whispering little facts here and there to ensure complete memorization. You would be lying if you said you weren't the slightest bit nervous. Yes, you're intelligent, yes, you deserve to be in Utopia and yes, you've been diligent for years... but Taehyung's right. There are some scenarios that might just happen.

Maybe you and Taehyung earn perfect scores along with six others. Or maybe you and Taehyung earn the same scores as fifteen others. Or maybe you and Taehyung don't earn the same scores at all, leaving you separated forever.

You try not to dwell on the negativities too much. After all, it's no use to think of such thoughts anyways, they'll only distract you while taking the most important test of all time. Positive thoughts, only.

Tomorrow will be the very last day in Purgatory. For four hours, you and the hundreds of other students in your year will take a life-changing test. The Exam results will be kept confidential for a painstaking two hours after the final student finishes the Exam. Then men in white suits will whisk away the highest-scoring ones without another word. You will know when you didn't score the highest. Because the men in white will not give you a second look. They will walk past you like you are the scum of the earth. You've seen it happen; you've seen how much that can break someone.

You swear that you will not be broken. You will be the victor who is escorted out with the men in white. You will be accepted into a wealthy society. You promised Yoongi. And Jimin would've wanted to see you like this.

Most of all, you and Taehyung are in this together.

You visit the pit with him in the dead of the night one last time. There are already a few dead bodies piled up in the dark abyss and the stench of death protrudes up your nose quite uncomfortably, but you manage to ignore it. This will be the last time that you will see the last place you saw Jimin and Yoongi. If it weren't for them, you wouldn't be here, so confident about acing the Exam with another man you see your future with.

When you close your eyes, you can imagine your ten-year-old self standing at the edge of the pit, contemplating jumping to be with Jimin. You can see Yoongi scoffing at your stupidity before taking you into his arms and reassuring you. You can see your ten-year-old self crying. You can see a younger version of Yoongi crying. And every year after Yoongi's death, you've visited the pit by yourself. Until this year. Until you met Taehyung. And now you're not so alone anymore.

"Are you tired?" Taehyung asks, placing a warm hand on your cheek.

Your eyes flutter open immediately and you shake your head. "No, I was just thinking. I don't think I'm going to miss this place, but I'm going to miss the memories I made here." You fist the fabric of your sweater—Yoongi's old sweater, which is surprisingly still pretty large around your frail, petite frame. "It's too bad I don't really have a token of remembrance with Jimin..."

"He was all of your childhood," Taehyung soothes you. "I'm pretty sure you don't forget your childhood best friends."

"That's true..." you sigh. "God, I really don't want to forget anything that happened in my life. I need to remember all of this," you gesture towards you and Taehyung. "So we can recall it in the future."

"You'll remember us for sure," he says. "How can you forget? When you'll see me every day, pestering you for the rest of your life?" Taehyung teases, poking at your cheek playfully.

You roll your eyes. "Fun."

"Damn right," he coos, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "We deserve the fun."

"I know," you say, smiling at his unfiltered flirtiness. "C'mon," you tell him, grabbing his hand and dragging him into the building, "we should sleep early today."

"Good idea," Taehyung giggles. "To getting perfect scores tomorrow!" he yells to the sky, his eyes squeezed shut as he dwells in the last few euphoric moments of being in the fresh, night air before being tugged into the dorms by you.

Your heart flutters when he grins widely at you, revealing his row of pearly whites. Damn. You used to hate those too-perfect teeth, but now you love them as much as you... god, as much as you might love him.

To getting perfect scores tomorrow indeed.

One hour.

One hour before the Exam, everyone is lined up to enter their own private room, which is barely a room at all from what you've heard. The space is hardly enough to fit a desk, but it's decorated with bright fluorescent lights and spotlessly white walls. Apparently, it looks more like a mental asylum than an Exam room.

Some may be sensitive to such a small, suffocating place, but you don't really mind. As long as the information is in your head and you don't come down with amnesia in the middle of the Exam, you're fine. You're more than fine. You're going to win this thing—with Taehyung of course.

You and Taehyung hold each other's hands, strangely not as nervous as the jittery teens around you. It's strange for the two of you to be in silence for so long, but it seems fitting in such a loud environment. You probably couldn't hear each other even if you did speak.

There are peers who are already crying. Those who are missing because they jumped into the pit the night before. Those who are physically unwell and have failed to take care of their bodies. Those who look confident on the outside but their eyes brim with fear and uncertainty. And then there is you and Taehyung—radiating confidence.

Taehyung squeezes your hand when the men in white come into the halls, starting to drag the students away by random to shove them into the private Exam rooms. The process takes forever, according to the others, given that there are hundreds of students and hundreds of small rooms.

"It's hilarious how they haven't come up with a more efficient system," you whisper to Taehyung, shaking your head in disdain. "You'd think after taking away the smartest people in Atna that they'd somehow make this process less time-consuming. But they didn't."

"What?" Taehyung whispers back, looking confused as he sees you talking but he can't hear a single word.

"It's hilarious how—" you stop yourself, "NEVER MIND," you say, raising your voice. He wouldn't be able to hear you even if you did yell. And you weren't going to risk a sore throat before the Exam.

Taehyung nods at you, squeezing your hand. The two of you are reduced back into a state of silence as you watch your peers being taken away before you. The men in white are getting closer and closer, and for the first time, you're nervous. You've waited six years for this moment. Four hours are going to decide your future.

Taehyung must sense the tenseness building up in your shoulders because he places his hands on them, wordlessly telling you to relax. You thought in the last moments, you'd be comforting him, but you suppose it's the other way around.

The tables have turned.

The two of you are closer to the men in white than ever. Both of you are going to be whisked away any second now. Taehyung turns you to face him and hands you a tiny ball of paper, grinning.

He mouths something that you do not hear over the incessant roar of students, but you can make out exactly what he says. 'I'll see you in Utopia.'

The small amount of pressure on your shoulders is immediately lifted. 'I'll see you in Utopia,' you mouth back, tightly clenching your fist around the tiny ball of paper he had given you. He gives you a bright, reassuring smile before a man in white takes him away. You watch him leave, mirroring his smile and letting out a deep breath.

When a man in white finally whisks you away into your cramped Exam room, you can't help but feel reinvigorated. Even if your desk is shaky and your chair squeaks when you shift in it, you're absolutely hung up on the fact that you need to finish the Exam as quickly and carefully as possible to read whatever Taehyung had written on the small piece of paper.

The countdown commences, the camera in the room zooms in and out to check if you were keeping your integrity... the Exam booklet sits in front of you.

God, you're so ready.

Confidence surges through your body. You're going to make it out alive. You're sure of it.

Well, that wasn't so bad at all.

You don't want to brag, but the Exam was a piece of cake. The questions were never about understanding the material—instead, they focused on the specifics. The stuff you couldn't common-sense your way out of. The stuff that you either knew or didn't know. But you're a strong memorizer so the questions—even the oddly specific ones—were easy.

The men in white already took your Exam booklet away to score it. Now you're forbidden to leave the testing room for two hours while they grade it. But it's boring in here.

Your neck is a bit sore from looking down at the paper and your fingers ache from gripping your pencil. Maybe once you get to Utopia, Taehyung can give you one of his insanely therapeutic massages?

There's nothing really to do in the room except stare at the camera that's still watching you or counting the number of cracks on your desk. You contemplate for a short while whether to open the note Taehyung had handed you, but you don't want to risk an accusation of dishonesty.

If you're accused, you're likely to never be seen again.

So you make use of your time and doze off. After taking the Exam, you realize that there's no doubt you scored extremely well (you might've even gotten a perfect score!) and all the nervousness you had over the past several years (which wasn't that much) have vanished into thin air. You're confident enough to sleep.

In your dreams, you see Jimin, Yoongi and Taehyung. The four of you are best friends in a world that looks like Utopia but isn't. There is no Exam that determines your whole future. There is no Purgatory, no Dystopia... No horrible education system. No rats... No pit... It's a utopian world that's better than the Utopia that you know today.

And you're only woken from your heavenly dream when there's a knock on your door. It opens before you can stay anything and a man in white gestures for you to walk out of the room. Rubbing your eyes and shaking away your drowsiness, you obey him. The man closes the door once you are out of the room.

Left and right of you, there are hundreds of students standing outside of their rooms. The tension, the nervousness in the long hallway could be sliced with a knife. But you don't contribute to the sea of worries. You lean against the door, waiting for you to be whisked away, waiting to meet Taehyung at the end of the hallway. Waiting to be driven away in some grandeur vehicle.

You wait for only two people to be taken away. Or maybe there are others who scored a perfect score? No matter. At this point, you only care if you and Taehyung made it.

Everyone holds their breaths as the men in white start to walk through the halls. You see Taehyung ahead of you, already giving you a silly look and smiling confidently at you. You breathe a huge sigh of relief before turning your head to watch the men in white.

So far, they haven't taken anyone from their stance in front of their Exam rooms. Your heart beats loudly in your chest when they come closer and closer to you. God, they must've passed at least two hundred people to get to me. And still no high-scorer.

You and Taehyung have an enormous chance now.

You hold your breath as the men in white come closer and closer.

Any minute now...

You grit your teeth, tensing your shoulders when they're so nearby, if you reached out to them, you could touch their white suits. Your ears ring, drowning out the cries of the students who were standing behind you and were left stranded by the men in white.

Closer and closer and closer...

Your nails dig into your skin.

Closer...

You nearly scream in victory when a man in white stops straight in front of you. He nods in your direction and then places a hand on the small of your back to escort you away.

You can feel the burning eyes of jealousy digging daggers on your back as you begin to walk. But you can't help feeling like royalty. This is the moment you've been waiting for. You've been selected. You've scored the highest. You're going to be Utopian.

Taehyung catches your eye and gives you a huge thumbs up from afar. You're grinning from ear to ear as you begin to approach him. As soon as a man in white officially deems that he is coming with you, you're going to proudly hold his hand and walk through the hallway like you owned all of Purgatory. You're going to spend the proudest moment of your life with him by your side. Knowing that you made it through with him. And then you're going to read his note in the vehicle, on the way to Utopia. You have it all planned out in your head. It's going to be wonderf—

Wait.

The man in white who is escorting you is not slowing down, and the other men around you aren't looking to stop either. Wait.

You're going to pass Taehyung at this rate. Wait a fucking minute.

You suddenly break out in cold sweat as you and the men come closer and closer to Taehyung.

There's no way.

He had to have done extremely well. He has to come with me.

Taehyung looks a bit taken aback as well. His eyes reflect fear and the worry lines pressed on his forehead indicate no less than that.

You don't lose eye contact with him as the men continue to escort you down the hallway.

"Taehyung," you murmur when you're directly next to him. "Taehyung!" you yell. Your voice echoes eerily across the corridor.

"Y/N!" Taehyung yells back.

He's behind you now. The men won't let you stop walking.

"Taehyung!" you scream again, trying to turn around to look at him. "Tae!"

"Don't turn around, miss," the man escorting you speaks gruffly.

"There's been a mistake!" you cry. "Tae-Taehyung is supposed to be with me! Taehyung!"

"Don't make this difficult," the man answered. The hand on your back suddenly seems threatening.

"Y/N!!" Taehyung shouts again. His eyes brim with tears and he sinks to his knees.

"Get up!" someone yells at him. "Stand up, boy!"

"Y/N!" He ignores the command, sobbing with his hands reaching out for you and eyes pleading for safety, for your comfort.

You twist your body around, shaking off the grasps of your escort as you yell his name so loudly that your voice echoes across the vast expanse of the hallway.

"Behave," your escort grunts with gritted teeth as he tugs you away, gesturing the other men in white to block your view from Taehyung.

Tears stream down your face as you beg the men in white to let you see Taehyung one last time. They don't budge. It's not until you hear the beatings and Taehyung's agonizing screams that you try to kick the men's shins and escape. But they catch you, hoist you up and carry you away.

You thrash, scream, "Please don't hurt him!" but the screams, grunts and kicks never stop. You always thought your walk down this hallway would be glorious—the glory only lasted for a few minutes. You were supposed to walk down here hand in hand with Taehyung. Now Taehyung might be dead for disobeying orders.

You were supposed to be draped in silk and mink coats. You were supposed to be spritzed with sweet fragrances and treated like a princess. But everyone—even your peers—look at you with what you recognize as pity. Or maybe even disgust.

They must think you're crazy for not being thankful for being a high-scorer on the Exam. Some would kill to be in your place right now.

You hadn't expected—after your eight years in Purgatory—for your journey here to end like this. You're embarrassingly carried across the shoulder of the man in white, forced to dangle over him like a dead animal. You can feel the scrutinizing gazes of your peers. The ones who didn't get chosen.

It strikes you that you're alone now.

No more Jimin. No more Yoongi... And no more Taehyung.

You squeeze your eyes shut, praying for another person who scored the same as you. Maybe you'll find a new friend? Maybe you won't be alone again.

But the hallway ends and opens up to a door and you're still the only person the men in white have escorted. Your heart sinks. You're alone.

They shove you in a shiny black vehicle where the inside is air-conditioned and smells of roses. There are unfamiliar snacks in elaborate wrappings and ice-cold fizzy drinks around you—all for you—but you aren't hungry. The tears won't stop.

Were the riches and wealth worth the loneliness that will consume you for years to come?

You are a legend. A model figure. A genius.

The first to ever score 100% on the Exam. You're dragged from here to there, paid by the richest of Utopians to tutor their young children before they're sent off to Purgatory.

Frankly, you're upset at the lavishness of Utopia. There is always more to eat—so much so that one-fourths of every meal goes into the trash. The people here put ice cubes in their water to cool it. In Dystopia, there was never enough to eat and water was scarce. Purgatory never had a diverse array of food, and water was always lukewarm.

You're not sure if you belong here.

You miss Taehyung more than ever these days. Your new home is far too large for one person. You feel empty, cold inside. Even basking in the sunlight shining through your gold-rimmed window isn't enough to warm you. You tug the sleeves of Yoongi's sweater over your hands. Even after all these years in Utopia, you can't get accustomed to the fancy, frilly clothes here. You like Yoongi's old, frayed sweaters much better. And it's your only token of remembrance of him. You feel like you did him well because after all, you kept your promise. But Yoongi was wrong about one thing: the life of a Utopian did not suit you.

You can't help but think back to the days of Dystopia—of you and Jimin. Taehyung's right, you never really forget your childhood best friend. You've written down all of your memories about Jimin in a black leather-bound journal, which you keep out in the open by the window sill. On harder days, you like to read through the entries to refresh your memories and recall the stories that make you laugh or tear up with nostalgia.

The magnificent garden outside your home looks empty despite the plethora of flowers and colorful vines that sprout and bloom across the expanse of the healthy, verdant grass. Sighing, you clutch the silver locket resting between your collarbones. You've been wearing the necklace ever since the day you were first admitted into Utopia.

Inside the locket is a neatly folded up note. The piece of paper is old and crinkled and it has obviously been ripped out from a textbook called Family Studies. Taehyung's writing is etched onto it in black ink. You've read over the note so many times that you know exactly what it says by heart.

Y/N,

I was saving this to tell you in Utopia, but I can't wait for that day, even if it's tomorrow. I need to tell you now that I love you. Thank you for being by my side. Thank you for dealing with me. Thank you for calming me down.

You're welcome for those back massages. You're welcome for listening to your stories about Jimin and Yoongi. You're welcome for being by your side. I do it so much because I hate seeing you lonely.

Utopia will be great, Y/N. I think we'll live a great life there, don't you think?

I just want to say that if anything happens, we need to continue on with our lives. Because whatever the Exam decides, we deserve the results.

Nevertheless, I'll see you in Utopia, Y/N~

You tear up every time you open up your locket and study Taehyung's handwriting and his last words to you. Of course, you love him too. And it kills you that you don’t even know whether he's alive.

How cruel it is to live in such a wealthy place but feel worse than you had been in Dystopia and Purgatory.

The Exam is a curse. There is no way you could've beaten it, but you'd very much rather be hauled back into Dystopia with someone you care about than being stuck in this fast-paced, artificial world with no one but yourself.

It dawns on you horrifyingly. You did not beat the Exam. You did not win. You survived it.

And for the rest of your life, you must suffer the casualties.

—masterpost

—masterlist

[ladyreapermc]

Fic: Make it Hurt (Brooklyn Baby Series)

Summary: Bee visits John and finds a very different man than she has grown used to. A very good kind of different in her opinion. Part 1: Brooklyn Baby | Part 2: A little loss of innocence | Part 3: Insatiable Craving | Part 5: Play with Fire |

Paring: John Wick x Reader (Bee)

Wordcount: 4,5 K

Warnings: age gap; smut (rough sex; powerplay; choking; dirty talk; unprotected sex)

Author’s notes: we’re getting to know Bee a little better. Hope you enjoy it and feedback is always appreciated.

You turned around in front of the mirror to take a better look at the flimsy fabric covering your breasts and groin. Could that even be called fabric? Just delicate lace held together by sheer tulle in a deep blue. The boyshorts hugged your hips snuggly, the material covering everything but so seethrough that you still felt exposed.

At the same time, you felt beautiful. Powerful. Attractive. Like the saleswoman suggested, the bra pushed your breasts up, making them look bigger, inviting, while the panties accentuated your curves. You were a feast to the eyes and even just admiring yourself in the mirror was enough to set your heart racing.

You had never done this before, buy special lingerie with someone in mind.

Before Mr. Wick came into your life, you only ever had two real boyfriends. One throughout high school, the one that took away your virginity. The second one in your freshman year of college, before your father died. There were a few other hookups here and there but you had mostly kept yourself guarded and uninterested in relationships. Especially with boys your age.

Besides, they were always more interested in having you naked and their cocks in your cunt. No one had ever looked at you as if you were something precious. Not until Mr. Wick. Every time you stripped for him, it felt like he was committing every inch of you to memory so it felt fitting to give him something to look at. Something you knew he would appreciate. Even if the lingerie set cost you a big chunk of your month’s salary. You knew it would be worth it.

You could almost picture now in your mind, the darkness in his deep chocolate eyes. You could hear the rumbling growl vibrating in his chest as he took you in, his calloused hands dragging all over your skin; his wicked mouth leaving marks on your neck and collarbone, making you drench the lace covering your cunt until it turned a darker shade of blue...

“Damn Bee!” Daisy’s voice startled you from your thoughts, making you hurry to grab a towel and wrap it around your body. “You look hot! Is that for the new boyfriend?”

You could feel the blood rising to your cheeks. Every time Daisy mentioned your boyfriend, guilt sunk in your gut like you had swallowed a rock. Could you even call Mr. Wick a boyfriend? The denomination seemed so wrong. There was nothing boyish about him and you certainly didn’t know if what you had with him could be considered a relationship… But it was definitely something you were more than willing to explore.

Everytime you thought about it, you asked yourself how could you bear looking at Daisy when you were fucking her dad? She was your best friend. Surely there was some unwritten rule that said this was a capital offense, making you one of the most horrible friends in this God’s green Earth. Still, even if guilt consumed you, every night Mr. Wick haunted your dreams and you couldn’t bring yourself to stop.

Life had never been all that kind to you. Unlike Daisy, who came from a wealthy family, your mom was a school teacher, your father was a cop. They had to gather every penny to put you through college. And you had to work every single day since you were 15 to be able to get the things you wanted in life. And you never wanted something as badly as you wanted Mr. Wick.

You wanted his softness and care. You wanted his experience and the ability to reach the highest edges of paradise with the work of his fingers. You wanted the domination and the thinly controlled savagery that you could see peeking through his dark brown eyes. You wanted everything Mr. Wick was willing to give you and maybe that made you a crappy friend, but you weren’t about to give it up. Not even for Daisy.

Did that make you an awful person? That you were putting a man above your friend?

“Maybe,” you shrugged, taking off the lingerie while your body was still wrapped around the towel, replacing them with your usual cotton panties and sports bra. “I just saw it and thought it was pretty.”

“It’s more than just pretty,” Dasy said bouncing on the bed. “So, things are getting serious huh? When do I get to meet him?” You wanted to let out a hysterical laugh at the irony.

“I want to make sure it’s really serious before...” you bit your lip unsure. Before what? Before you confessed to your best friend? Before you knew if it was worth sacrificing your friendship over it?

“Alright,” Daisy shrugged, but you could see it bothered her not knowing. “As long as you’re happy. You are, right?”

“Yes.” You grinned. “Very happy. I’m spending the weekend with him,” you confessed, tone giddy and Daisy smirked.

“Nice! You won’t be able to walk for a week.” You giggled, covering your face. You sure hoped so.

“I should get going,” you got up, shoving the lingerie into your bag and turning to face Daisy. “What are your plans?”

“Just gonna head to my mom’s. Do some laundry, and hang out.”

“That sounds good.”

At the mention of Mrs. Wick that weight on your gut returned. You liked Daisy’s mom. She was so warm and kind. Even took the time to show you how to take proper photos with your camera and using telescopic lenses. You never considered the implications of fucking her ex-husband. Especially because you knew one of Daisy’s biggest dreams was to see her parents together again and here you were, playing the other woman.

“Have fun,” you said with a choked voice as you stepped out of the dorm, Daisy barely looking up as she called ‘you too’ after you.

You took the bus to Mr. Wick’s house even if he had offered to pay for your taxi. It was a long journey and you wanted to take the time to center yourself and be ready for whatever the weekend had in store for you.

Once again, Mr. Wick had been away on business and you had to content yourself with your hands and toys while Daisy was in class, but they didn’t even come close to the high you got from Mr. Wick’s fingers or even his words. You keep playing and replaying your time together, the way he held you down and kissed you breathlessly and worshiped your body like the most gorgeous work of art.

Just thinking about it now was enough to send a flush of arousal through you, making you press your legs together and bite your lip as you stared out the window, watching the street lights passing you by, your skin being cooled by the air of the bus.

You took a second to stand outside his door, fixing your hair and making sure everything was in place before you rang the bell. The second you crossed the threshold, Mr. Wick had you in his arms, claiming your mouth in a kiss that was passionate and with just the right edge of teeth.

You hadn’t seen him the entire week and the best you got was a few text messages here and there, as he was busy with work, which you still didn’t know exactly what that meant. Daisy seemed unable to explain what her father did for a living beyond the general concept of something with import and export and that it took him out of the country a lot.

You didn’t understand how uninterested she could be about what her dad did but couldn’t exactly push the subject without attracting too much attention to yourself and your curiosity. You would have to ask Mr. Wick yourself, even if he seemed even less inclined to offer you any information either.

He pressed you against the wall of the foyer, dislodging your bag from your shoulder and it fell to the ground with a soft thud that you barely noticed, too busy enjoying the chapped lips that pressed against yours and the wicked tongue that seemed keen on finding and exploring every inch of your mouth.

You have barely caught a glimpse of him when you got in, noticing only dark fabric and you felt eager to look at the handsome face and kind and warm eyes.

“Wait, wait...” you said pulling yourself away with a little struggle.

You took a second to look at him and this was a far cry from the Mr. Wick you were used to. He was clad in a black, three-piece suit that looked tailored to perfectly fit his broad shoulders, strong chest, narrow hips, and thick thighs. His hair was slicked back with gel, exposing his face and showing a severe scowl. His eyes blazed with a sort of wildness that you hadn’t seen before and that went beyond just arousal. It was more like a salvage need and it was enough to make your blood boil.

“Never mind,” you sighed, letting him claim your mouth again, lift you up and take you to the couch, setting you on the armrest.

“Take those off before I rip it off.”

His voice was almost a growl as he tugged on your jacket and shirt so you obeyed as quickly as you could because you actually liked that jacket. You shrugged it off and yanked the shirt over your head, throwing carelessly to the side while he worked on your jeans, pulling it down your legs.

There wasn’t just rush in his movements, it was plain desperation that you could almost taste on his tongue as he kissed you. The smell of metal, close to shiny new pennies lingered on his skin, as well as that same acrid scent that reminded you of fireworks in fourth of July, but much more intense. Those smells were quickly becoming your favorites, along with the lingering smell of leather and paper, with just a touch of cigarette smoke­­. The scents that made up this man.

His kisses were harsh all over your jaw and neck. His beard rubbing like sandpaper over your skin and you knew you would end up with beard burns, but you didn’t fucking care. You could already feel the tightness in your cunt, that constant throbbing of arousal as blood rushed through your ears, being cut only by the clank of metal as Mr. Wick unbuckled his belt and undid his trousers, lowering them only enough to free his cock.

You glanced between your bodies to look at his erection, hard and hot and, leaking. You licked your lips, ready to get to your knees for him. You have been researching and practicing deep throating and you wanted to show him what you learned, but Mr. Wick held you still and tugged on your panties to expose your cunt to his heavy gaze.

A low rumble escaped his lips, like a feral animal looking at his prey as his fingers brushed against your swollen clit and slick entrance. Just checking how wet you were, how ready for him. Mr. Wick guided the tip of his cock to your slit and, through the haze of wildness in his eyes, you thought you saw a hint of hesitation.

“I can take it,” you assured, your arms coming around his neck, bracing yourself. You knew he was probably too big to take it all at once like this but at the same time, you knew this was something he desperately needed and you weren’t about to deny him. “Do it. Take what you need.”

It was all Mr. Wick seemed to want to hear because he pushed inside you with one hard thrust, making you scream.

It hurt. Fucking hell it hurt.

He was so huge and thick, and you could feel your walls stretching to try and accommodate him, your legs squeezing around his waist as if they wanted to close themselves, protect your most vulnerable spot from the intrusion but it was too late.

Tears prickled your eyes as you buried your face against his neck, weeping softly. And that made Mr. Wick pause, one of his fingers pressing under your chin, tilting your face up to look at you. That wildness was still there but laced with something else. Worry and maybe even guilt.

He gently kissed your eyes, as if to taste your tears, before he brought his thumb to your mouth, pushing past your lips and you sucked it on it, swirling your tongue around it, coating with saliva.

Mr. Wick took it out and brought it between your bodies rubbing your clit just the right way until the familiar sparks of pleasure were back. At the first quiet whimper of need, he started to grind against you and it was still a little painful but you were getting wet again, so it also brought you such arousal. Especially as he peppered kisses all over your neck and shoulders, softer this time, with just a hint of tongue and teeth caressing your skin and collarbones.

You buried your hands in his hair, tugging gently until you could reach his lips, sealing them with your own as you rolled your hips to meet his and Mr. Wick’s thrusts started to gain speed and strength according to the noises you murmured against his mouth.

Soon pain and pleasure mixed and you were doing your best to meet his thrusts, desperate for more, faster and harder. His grunts and growls spurring you on, your heels digging on the small of his back. You wanted to let him take everything from you. Use you for his needs like a dirty little whore. That thought filled you with such a deep lust that you barely recognized yourself or the steady torrent of filthy words coming out of your mouth.

“Please, sir, don’t stop. Fuck my pussy, make me hurt,” you were moaning against his jaw, your breath coming in short and hot puffs. “I like it when it hurts. I like feeling your big dick drilling into me.”

His hips were snapping so hard against you now, you could feel his balls hitting your ass. The wet sounds of your drenched cunt filled your ears along with your moans and his grunts. It was filthy and you loved it and the coil of pleasure kept tightening so hard inside your core at each stroke of his cock and swirl of his thumb on your clit.

You could feel your body beginning to tense in need, your thighs quaking and that delicious heat that always started at your center began to spread through your veins almost as if it was being driven by each sharp hit of his cock on your cervix.

“May I cum, sir?” you sobbed, fingers digging on his back, the fabric of his suit thick under your touch. You knew you weren’t going to last.

“No,” he growled, looking into your eyes, that dark edge returning as he brought a hand around your neck. You keened softly and nodded, trying to focus on anything else but the overpowering arousal going through you but it was impossible. Your entire being felt alight with it and you couldn’t hold yourself together.

“Please, please, sir,” your voice was a pathetic whine and there were tears in your eyes again. Mr. Wick wasn’t slowing down and you couldn’t control yourself.

Your climax felt like a rushing wall of fire, bright and all-consuming, especially as Mr. Wick easied his grip on your neck, letting blood flow again. Another scream tore through your throat as the high of oxygen made you dizzy and hazy. Your body convulsing and your cunt pulsing around his cock. It only spurred him to thrust harder and faster, his grunts becoming louder as he finally stilled and spilled inside you.

For a moment, the two of you just panted against each other’s cheeks, sweat cooling in your skin as you tried to recover from the intense sex. You could almost see the change happening in Mr. Wick. The ferocity from moments before dying down as his breathing slowed and his eyes cleared, being replaced by guilt and regret as he pulled out of you.

He dropped down on the couch cushions with a sigh, his fingers digging on his muscled thighs, head ducked low. Dread filled you. Did he regret it? Did you do something wrong?

“Mr. Wick...” you started softly, kneeling beside him, unbothered by the mess of fluids running down your thigh.

“You know, considering what we’re doing I think you can call me John.” His chuckle was almost self-deprecating as he turned his head to look at you.

“Alright. John.” The name felt foreign in your tongue, as you sat on your heels and looked at him. You two made quite a sight. Him, still mostly dressed, apart from the undone trousers, while you were a complete mess. “Is everything ok?”

“Yes,” he assured cupping your cheek but the smile he gave you was too sad for you to actually believe in it. “I just... this isn’t how I planned our time together to go. I shouldn’t have used you like that.”

“I don’t mind,” you said with a shrug and a smirk, turning your face and pressing a kiss to his palm before running your tongue teasingly over the calloused skin, making him smile. “Apparently, I liked to be used.”

“Still…” he sighed again and you took the opportunity to climb in his lap, arms coming around his neck again, not really caring about the mess you were making on his very expensive looking trousers.

“No. You don’t get to feel guilty for giving me exactly what I wanted,” you argued, hands cupping his jaw, forcing John to look at you. “I enjoyed every fucking second of it. You can wreck my pussy anytime you want.”

This got him to smile again and it looked a little more real this time, some of that guilt slowly fading as he rested his forehead against yours, breathing the remains of your cologne and the natural musky of your sweat.

“It isn’t supposed to be like that, darling,” he said. “If I’m gonna be your dom, I have to take care of you even if you are willing to push past your limits. I’m the one that’s supposed to say no to that.”

“It was a good hurt,” you replied with shrug. “I promise I liked it, more than I can put in words. And besides, you’ve given me so much; I’d like to let you take what you need in return.”

For a moment, John just stared at you in consideration then he pulled you closer for a deep kiss, full of gratitude and affection and something you were deeply afraid to think about too closely because it terrified you to realize you might be starting to grow feelings deeper than what would be healthy.

Once he pulled away, you caressed John’s face, tracing the sharp lines and you looked into his eyes as the two of you just breathed together. You wondered what had happened that broke through his control and made him so salvage with you. You wondered if you could ask.

“Not yet,” John breathed out, cupping your cheek like he could read your thoughts. “Maybe soon.”

“Ok.” You smiled, resting your forehead against his again. “I can wait.”

“Thank you.” He smiled too, tightening his grip on you and getting to his feet with you in his arms, your legs around his waist. “Let’s shower and then I’ll think about your punishment.”

“My punishment?” You frowned at him as John smirked and kissed you softly.

“I seem to recall you coming without authorization, darling.”

“Oh yeah,” you giggled, hugging him like a koala as he took the stairs towards the second floor and his bedroom, setting you on the bed long enough to shed his clothes. It was only then you realized you hadn’t seen John fully naked yet so you took the time to admire his beautifully shaped body.

As you first suspected, he wasn’t ripped like a gym rat, but built with solid muscles that one developed from working with your body for too long and once again you wondered what John did for a living to keep himself in such good shape because it didn’t strike you like something out of vanity.

He turned his back to you to set his clothes aside, giving you a perfect view of his tattooed back and your breath caught in your throat. You didn’t think anything could make him more attractive to you.

Apparently, you were wrong and before you could stop yourself, you came to your feet, running gentle fingers over the inked skin, and John shivered and tensed, turning around and catching you in his arms. Now you could see the scars dotting his pale skin, the long vertical line on his stomach being the most prominent one.

“John…” you started, but he kissed you into silence, distracting you from your questions as he tugged into the master bathroom and the shower stall, fingers finding that spot inside you and rubbing it until you were crazy with need and riding his hand into a brand new orgasm.

After the shower, you two lied in bed together, John in his stomach, and this time he let you ran your fingers over the dark ink adorning his back, tracing the slightly different texture of the tattooed skin as you explored the lines. Despite his relaxed position, you thought you detected a slight tension evident by the bunching of his muscles whenever your fingers landed on a scar.

“Do they mean anything?” You asked, fascinated by the man under your hands. “I mean, I know this one.” You traced the bold lines of the letters of fortis fortuna adiuvat across his shoulder blades. “My dad had one just like it. He was in the marines.”

“Had?” John turned his head to look at you.

“He died a couple of years ago.”

It was almost impossible to hide the small tremble of sorrow that always invaded your voice whenever you thought back on your dad. Here you were, trying to pry information out of him and John, completely silent managed to get even more out of you.

There was no point in doing this halfway now and you took a breath, leaning back and staring at the ceiling.

“He was a cop and died on duty. Investigation ruled out as a random mugging gone wrong and the case went cold but he was investigating this Russian crime family. I always thought it might have been them but what do I know? I’m just a dumb girl.”

Your tone was bitter and angry, and you couldn’t help but pull away from John even more, feeling too bare and raw. Talking about your father’s murder always did that to you. Tears gathered in your eyes and you squeezed them shut, trying to steady your breath and ignore the tightening in your heart. You didn’t want John to think you were a pathetic little girl crying for daddy but sometimes you couldn’t avoid the bitter frustration.

He died two years ago, but it still felt like it happened yesterday. Back then, you had gone to everyone you could think of: your dad’s partner, his captain, the superintendent of the police department… anyone who you could try to ask for help. But they all repeated the same line that there was nothing they could do and let your father’s case just die down.

So you decided to take up the investigation yourself, taking hold of your father’s files on Tarasov’s family before the department could take them away. You also shifted your major to pre-law so you could get into the force. Follow his footsteps. You only had another year to go before you could apply to the academy. Maybe by then, you would have enough to prove they did it and no one would be able to ignore you again.

“I’m sorry about your father,” John whispered, his arms coming around you, his lips pressing soft kisses over your shoulder and nape. His tone seemed honestly apologetic and his hold comforting so it was easy to relax against his chest.

“Thanks,” you turned around, glancing at him from beneath your lashes. “Now you know my sob story. It’s your turn.”

There was a long moment of silence, the only noise in the room was the sound of both of your deep breathing. You almost thought that John wasn’t going to say anything, but after a kiss to your forehead, he finally spoke.

“I have no other family aside for Helen and Daisy. I grew up in a group home, never met my parents and I joined the Marines at 18 because I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

“I’m so sorry, John,” you wrapped arms and legs around him and he chuckled at your nearly octopus-like hold on him.

“It doesn’t matter,” he kissed your forehead softly once again before he rested his chin on top of your head. “I should start dinner if we’re planning on eating something.”

“I am hungry, so get your ass to the kitchen, Mr. Wick.”

“Don’t be cheeky, young lady,” he smirked at you, his mock glare a pale comparison to the scowl you had seen hours before.  

You just giggled letting go of John and watched him put on a pair of jeans before moving out of the room. For a while, you just lingered in bed, smiling to yourself every time you shifted your body and the dull soreness between your legs made itself known.

It was nice to feel the evidence of John’s passion and you were even happier that you managed to get out of him a bit of his story. Maybe this could lead to something more serious but that was something to think about in the future.

Right now, all you could think of was getting your clothes and the bag that remained at the foyer so you could put on the lingerie you got for John and you could distract him while he made dinner.

Trying to be as quiet as you could, you tiptoed down the stairs to the main floor of the house, wearing only one of John’s white button-downs. You managed to gather your clothes and move to the door to pick up the bag without alerting him. That was when you saw through the glass panels of the front door, Daisy jumping out of a taxi. Panic filled you and for a couple of precious seconds, all you could do was stand there, frozen in place.

All it would take was for Daisy to look up from her phone to see you. Fortunately, you managed to shake yourself and bolt out of the foyer, coming back to John’s room. Fuck! What were you gonna do now?

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[kanene-yaaay]

Could and Should

Kanene’s note: *Looking at this monster*

LOOK-

LOOK-

I DUNNO. I DON’T HAVE ANY IDEA OF HOW OR WHY THIS IS LIKE IT IS.

I just- dfghjkkjhgfdfghiopoiuytr xDDDD. Oh gosh. This is for an experiment. I’m dfgyhjukikjhgffv xDD. Someone save my soul.

Warnings, fun facts, random things and stuff:

* Lee!Roman and Ler!Logan/Ler!Janus (Kind of. Because there is no tickles here, just teasing) Romantic Pairing. Human AU.

* Mentions of intense tickling 

* Hmmm… This is a Tickle-Fanfic! If you don’t like this kind of stuff, please look for another blog, there are plenty of amazing art in this site!! ‘u’).

* This have 4.200 of Roman just being A BRAT.  ‘w’)b.

* Also, if you’re not comfortable reading about Janus, he only shows himself (but being mentioned before) after the “(...)”, so feel free to stop reading there if you wanna! <3

* Sorry for any spelling, pontuation and grammar mistakes! I didn’t proofread that one very well, so I will probably be correcting a few things later. Any advice is always very, very welcome!

* They’re very gay and this fanfic is inspired in this post. (I’m trying to find it. It’s a post about brat lees and shy lers, give me a sec-).

* A versão em português brasileiro irá ser escrita, ainda. Eu espero! Thankys for reading, my lollipops! Do something crazy today, take a good rest, talk with the one that you love and drink water! Byeioo!~

                               [~*~]

He wore his favorite boots. Hamilton’s playlist blasting in his room and giving him a more than good reason to sporadically throw the outfit he choose for that specific day together with his makeup onto the bed and swirl across the place singing and performing ‘My shot’ with all his being, increasing even further his excitement and adrenaline which were already running, probably breaking all the speed limits in his veins and soul.

 Especially when he thought about what he was about to do.

There were many differences in the world: right and wrong, day and night, divergent opinions, divergent ways to see the world and even differences in the meanings of words depending on where exactly you are localized in the planet. Roman grew attentive to this after he started to be Logan and Janus’ boyfriend, both of them always using every and any opportunity to begin a whole discussion about moral, philosophers, really weird humans habits - Particularly slangs. These two nerds seemed to simply don’t understand an infinitesimal piece of their existence. It was precious admire their confused and frustrated faces every time he and Virgil decided to shout or recreate vines together. -  Or animals habits (Roman isn’t able to even look at a dolphins after that one) more often than the one with dyed hair was willing to try to count.

 “Oh, yeah.” He spun before his body mirror, doing some poses as an extremely confident and shiny smile took over his features. This was one of those days when he felt just like a perfect dose of absolutely amazing. “I’m digging my own grave, aren’t I?”

 Yes. Roman didn’t doubt a fraction of second about this. However, he thought in the same moment a smirk bloomed itself in his face, leading his expression to gather a particularly malefic look, he couldn’t stop imagining how much he would love every second of all of this.

 Roman adjusted his clothes, his fingers tracing the golden words in it.

 Every. Second.

 So… Of course. Perhaps Roman wasn’t a nerd about concepts or meaning or even differences as his two incredibly smart boyfriends, but he knew very well that there was a clear distinction between what he “could do” and he what “should do”. He understood that not everything that is possible to be done had to be done and not everything that should be done in every single occasion was something possible to be done. This was only normal and simple common sense, right?

 Roman finally arrived The Place, the wooden door shutting with a soft ‘click’ behind him, which was immediately muffled by his steps, those almost as echoing as the dangerous gleam in his eyes when they focused on (poor) Logan, who had just closed the cash register and now adjusted his glasses in order to be presentable to attend the new client. When the latter fixed his glare on him, the welcome sentence he should say died in his tongue in the exact moment he acknowledged who just arrived. 

 Then it was a good thing that Roman didn’t had a single drop of common sense, right? The one with dyed hair decided proudly amused as he observed the blush consuming entirely his boyfriend’s face.

 In the last week Logan and Janus ganged up on him with ruthless teases before, during and after their tickle fight - ‘tickle fight’ obviously being an euphemism for the way they both suddenly squished the smaller between them and started to tickle him with those stupid, beautiful smirks and teases whispered on his ears that happen or not to be extremely sensitive, which should be UTTERLY,  DEFINITELY AND ABSURDLY illegal. - And the aforementioned knew, deep inside he really recognized that - technically - he didn’t had any obligation to get revenge on them.

 But he wanted.

 Also, he could, therefore he should.

 And that was exactly what he was doing in this very same heartbeat.

 “Logaan!” He opened his arms, aware of how this showed even more his skin, while got confidently closer in his red, adorned with some special golden details, crop top.

 Logan couldn’t deviated his glare, no matter how conscious he was that his whole face betrayed his neutral expression as it painted itself in dark and darker shades of red. His eyes running nonstop in the words on the other’s vestments, as if they mocked of him and his necessity of keeping a professional and serious facade during his work.

 Tickle me, Elmo~

 Logan’s gaze inevitably went to the - immensely ticklish, his mind unhelpfully remembered him - totally unprotected belly from the other’s. His fingers twitched, clawing the air for a moment before he realized what he was doing, deciding to deviate his gaze to the cash register before him, the adjustment of his tie taking more time than it would usually do. 

 “Ouch.” He could almost hear the pout in his dramatic boyfriend’s voice – if he really stopped to consider, which he already did previously, Roman and Janus were almost tied when the subject was about their dramas. - as he positioned himself right in front of him, almost laying his torso entirely in the balcony in order to find his glare again and, as always, Logan couldn't help but let himself be captured for his beautiful eyes. “I came here in a good, impressive, romantic act to accompany my dear beloved during his break and that is how you pay me, not even looking me in my fabulous face? I feel wounded.”

 Logan scoffed, already signaling for one of his coworkers to take his place as he removed his hat, folding it carefully and putting in his pocket while he moved to the small space between the employee’s place and the costumer’s room, Roman cleverly taking some quick steps to put a bigger distance between both. 

 “I highly doubt that this is the reason of why you’re here today.” His gaze got back to the words printed on his crop top, a malefic gloom getting stronger in his eyes, his feet leading him closer, and closer and closer. “Actually, I’m certain of the real meaning behind this ‘visit’ as you say.” And closer and closer and-

 “Nah ah ah!” Roman shook his index finger almost in his face, taking the opportunity to move some meters away. “Now, now, Logan, I would expect better of you! No love business during the shift, remember?” Teasing smile. “Keep these silly hands to yourself, would ya?”

 Logan.exe had clearly stopped working. It was easy to say for the way his furrowed brow and very confused look stared at him with such honestly that Roman couldn’t help but let a laugh out, quickly holding Logan’s hand and dragging him to the farther table on the establishment.

 “I wasn’t thinking on this and you know it very well, Roman.” The one called only smiled, letting go of his hand in order to taking a seat.

 “Is that so?” He purred, his chin resting on his hand as Logan tried to sit next to him. “It’s not what it looks to me.”

 Logan deadpanned at him rolling his eyes and internally considering his words – because the poor guy couldn’t bear the thought of breaking a rule. - before going, instead, to the chair in front of his boyfriend with a quick  “Very well, then.”

 “So, how is your day doing?” Roman dropped his teasing for a bit. “Is that okay?” He whispered, the honest questions making a soft expression took over the features of the one who wears glasses. He signed, his lips going slightly up as he gave an almost unnoticeable nod. 

 “My professor is crazy and absurdly unaware of how much time a normal day possess, I���m certain. Our final presentation was quite… adequate, but-” The listener let himself be carried into his venting, having no idea of what he was talking about, however trusting him to elucidate his mind in maybe some minutes. It didn’t lasted long before Logan started to divagate about the last subject learned and Roman felt in a secure ground to begin tapping in the suffice of the table.

 Persistently. Rhythmically.

 “And saying this means that, when compared to every other person on humanity-” Roman tapped a bit louder and Logan’s left eyebrow trembled for some seconds. Nice. He was getting his attention. “-We have only, genetically saying, 0,02% of difference- Could you stop this?”

 Roman blinked innocently, almost seeing the gears of one in front of him moving at full speed in his mind as he repeat the sentence, the tip of his finger colliding in the wooden surface purposely.  A dash, two dots, dash dot dash dot, dash dot dash, dot dash two dots and one dot, a quick space, two dashes and a final dot.

 Logan’s eyes concentrated in his fingers, he repeated the pattern, his smile increasing.

 Tickle me. Tickle me. Tickle me. Tickle me. Tickle me. Tickle me. 

 He could see the exact moment when Logan understood it. It was in the same heartbeat that light blush found room on his cheeks and he deviated his gaze, cracking his fingers.

 “Stop what? I’m doing nothing.” Roman wriggled his fingers of his free hand, the sentence still echoing between them.

 Tickle me. Tickle me. Tickle me. Tickle me. Tickle me. Tickle me. 

 “You are literally asking for it.” The one who wears tie, and now a quite determined look, supported the weight of his body on his elbows as these rested on the table, leading to his whispers being audible only for them. “Be careful to don’t do something you will regret later, my very sensitive subject.”

 Tickle me. Tickle me. Tickle me. Tickle me. Tickle me. Tickle me. 

 “I’m not afraid of your ticklish” Roman absorbed the challenging tune as well, letting it slip slowly together with the words through his tongue. He refused to move or squirm under the other’s sparkling promises, his chin lifting some inches in the air. “Tickly” He knew how this word managed to fluster Logan and was quite of pleased for the way his boyfriend’s tip of ears gained a soft shade of red, refusing to acknowledge how hot his own face felt and was. “Tickles, mister.”

 “Oh, aren’t you?” Roman felt a wobbly, more uncontrollable, smile grow in his features despise his efforts as Logan backed again, his gaze resolute and analytical, his fingers crossing themselves in front of him, a parody of Sherlock Holmes that made tingles spread on each his tickle spots. “Well, that is a pleasing information that I will sure keep and use in another moment, be sure. We can’t touch, you said? Very well. In that case we will have so much fun for the next hours when I will explain to you, slowly and thoroughly all details of course, how I will tickle and destroy you and each and every one of your immensely ticklish, vulnerable and many, many spots which you so kindly choose to remind me.”

 Roman considered himself a really lucky person, but when - in that very glory moment - Logan’s phone rang, his alarm going off and breaking the concentration of the duo, he literally giggled in relief, knowing his personality well enough to be completely sure that Logan wouldn’t need much more than another two or three phrases like that to transforms him in a blushed, high-pinched giggly mess and he still had Janus to go, tease and try get some revenge and hopefully not die during the process.

 “It seems that you’ve been ‘saved by the bell’ as said.” Roman was sure he never heard this slang in his whole life, albeit he didn’t want to press further his luck, instead choosing to press his back on the wall in the seek to put the most inches of physically distance between him and Logan’s elaborated teases. “I shall go back to my work now. You’re so creative and imaginative, right? Try to not think in the thousands ways, figuratively talking or not, I will wreck you when I get home.”

 He then turned away.

 And Roman knew, believe me, he really, really, really knew very well he shouldn’t press his luck any further.

 But he was always up to a challenge, anyway.

 Before he could even debate with his own conscience and common sense about how this was an absolutely horrible idea, Roman got up in a blink of eye and squeezed that exact point where Logan’s side connected with his hips, making the most serious one jump a few centimeters in the air, an almost yelp running from his lips. Logan stopped right on his tracks, not bothering himself to turn in the other's direction to stare with the corner of his eyes right in Roman's lee soul.

 “Te arrepentirás de hacer esto.” (You’re going to regret doing this.)

Roman felt his eyes widening as cold, panicked shivers ran across his spine, opening again that traitor wobbly smile on his face. Logan very rarely used Spanish, Roman’s first language, holding it for the special cases when he was on a full Ler mood, since it spiked the smaller sensitiveness to the atmosphere.

However, the latter couldn't help the answer which already escaped from his mouth and flied in the room.

 "Oh, will I?"

 "Sí." (Yes.) Logan smirked. Logan. Smirked. "Y yo voy me assegurar de esto." (And I will make sure of this.)

 ‘Oh. Mierda.' (Shit)

(...)

‘Well, he was already dead, wasn’t he?’ Roman thought as he at arrived Janus’ work ‘What more he had to lose?’

(He didn’t know who would be proudest for this optimism, Patton or Virgil.)

 The one with dyed hair forced himself to concentrate, cleaning his head of the previous teases just as using all his will power to ignore the uncountable butterflies profusely flying in his stomach. Janus was a very serious person in his work as well, but he wasn’t nearly fond to rules as the other and definitely more tricky and less going right on the spot than Logan.

 He was mostly like drag an only one finger around your worst spot, encircling it and watching  as you dissolve in desperate giggles while asked ‘What is the matter, dear, something is bothering you?’ and stay there, sometimes lightly attacking another spots so you can’t get used to the feeling but never staying for too long, until he is absolutely sure your sentiviness is at one hundred percent and so he can finally attack that helpless spot without a single drop of mercy. 

 Which was a technique very divergent of Logan’s, who would prefer to take, as everything in life, the moment as an experiment. First documenting out loud and on a specific archive in his cell phone all the things he would do with you, starting with spots he would “study”, techniques that should be “experimented” and sometimes tools which would “help him to get more accurate data”. He would document every single result, not bothering if Roman’s laughter got in the middle of it.

 “Ok. Ok. Okokokokokok!!” Roman almost squealed when a cold wind softly hit his skin, quickly rubbing his belly to get the ghost feeling of tickles away. Maybe, just MAYBE, enter into that rain of memories wasn’t a very good and clever way to calm and prepare himself for the danger he was about to face. He looked at the time on his phone, noticing Janus was already on his break and he would need to be quick if he wanted to do that.

 “Okay, Roman.” He murmured to himself, cleaning his crop top from any dust and walking confidently to the door. “You can do this. You are strong, you are brave, you know what you want and therefore you will get what you want! You will get into there, be amazing and get back your mean sneak boyfriend for every little single tease he dared to give to you! Because you are royalty and no one can win royalty!”

 ‘French Revolution.’ Some un-welcomed part of his brain remembered.

 ‘Shut up.’

 ‘Actually, is there any Royal Family in the power nowdays?’ It continued.

 ‘England.’

 ‘You are not in England.’ Shut!! up!!!

 Roman got inside and he managed to win the game, taking all the blows, walking proudly and - most important - not giggling when Janus fixed his hawk eyes on him and simply smiled back, gladly following him to the table they always went on the breaks without any attempt to get close or tickle him.

 As any other usual day, they sat there in silence, appreciating each other’s company and making small, quick talks between the sandwiches Roman bought them (He would do the same to Logan if he didn’t get dizzy eating during his work), and as any other day with no revenge planned, Roman finished his snack first and just stared at his beloved one.

 “This will not work with me. You know that I’m not Logan.” Janus didn’t even looked up his food, pointing in a casual voice. “But enough of me. Did you went to his work like this?”

 “Yes.” Roman couldn’t help the smirk opening in his face. Janus didn’t had an slightly idea of what was about to come. “Poor nerd. You should had seen how much red his face was! I thought for a moment I broke him.”

 “And you didn’t took a picture for me? Shame to you and your family.”

 “And your cow.” Janus scoffed for the reference he totally didn’t intend to make. “Also don’t try to play innocent, I know he probably already gave you an entire report of what happened and what you both will plan to do. I know you, you know?”

 If Janus was surprised, he only demonstrated this by a toothless smile painting itself on the corner of his mouth, his eyes still focused in his plate, the comfortable silence again falling against them.

 Roman started to humming. He wasn’t lying, he knew very well the same teasing wouldn’t work for both of them. Words were far better with Logan than Janus. But that didn’t mean that he haven’t planned what he would need to do.

 He was in the middle of “Itsy Bitsy Spider” when Janus started to grew slightly restless, his fingertips tapping on the table (not in a pattern, just annoyed) and his gaze running time from time to Roman and the words in his vestments. An evil idea crossed Roman’s mind and he started to humming the “Round, Round The Garden” patiently waiting for the moment Janus’ eyes finally dislodged themselves from his phone, turning his attention back to the first in the exact part of  ‘And tickle over here!’ the heartbeat chosen by Roman to poke his own belly button, letting out a soft ‘Boop’ noise fly from his lips.

 It was as if he was pressed an actual button instead of the one in his belly, because suddenly Janus’ whole face was dyed with a bright shade of red, quickly deviating his face to his device one more time, the resolute look in his expression only increasing more and more as Roman decided to repeat the movement a few more times.

 “Anyway.” Roman just smiled bright, blinking naively in Janus’ direction when the latter got up. “I’m done, wanna go to the parking lot?”

 That sounded like a trap, or probably was just the sound of his own phone buzzing in his pocket. He nodded and followed his boyfriend’s lead, the talking and sound of plates and cups clinking gradually fading behind them as they arrived to their destination, the one with dyed hair watching Janus’ acts carefully, but noticing no indications that he was about to do something.

 “Oh, I almost forgot. Is that okay?”

 Janus stopped for a little, fondly sighing and finally allowing himself to lock Roman’s eyes.

 “Yes. Just not around so many people next time, okay?”

 “Oh, gosh. Right, right! I, er… I apologize, dear. We can stop immediately! I can go to our home and get another shirt-” The rest of his sentence was interrupted as Janus captured his lips in a quick kiss, a smirk founding way to his fond expression.

 “I wouldn’t take you here if I wanted that to stop, don’t you think, my ticklish prince?”

 A blush spreaded across Roman’s cheeks, who was totally unprepared for the unexpected display of affection and specially the use of this specific nickname, a squeal escaping as some scribbles were left behind his ear, making him immediately jump and walk some centimeters away, a hand in front of his mouth in order to let any other sound escape. 

 “Hey, snake! Don’t you know that masterpieces are better left untouched?”

 Janus snorted and rolled his eyes, resting his back in the wall and looking back at his phone, which remembered Roman he had some messages as well.

 Janus sent 40 pictures

 ‘Pictures’ was a euphemism. Janus sent a fucking evil mix of images of brushes, feathers, electric toothbrushes buzzing and dragging across his skin, tingling and tickling and leading to snorts and giggles to come out from his lips, feeling that only increased as he went down the conversation, finding the tickle gifs of fingers scratching at his neck, scribbling in his unfairly ticklish armpits, poking his ribs, prodding his wiggly sides, kneading his thighs and spidering behind his knees. They flowed nonstop and felt almost real.

 “Oh my my, you always were weak for the teases, but you looove them, don’t you?” And it was true. Roman was already squirming and even starting to giggle uncontrollaby just for seeing Janus’ messages, his mind running and involving him in a sea of memories and shivers that ran across at every single centimeter of him, making his nerves to buzz and tingle and leading him to almost feel the ghost tickles again.

 However, when Roman found Janus’s glare, noticing that shine he knew so well and the smirk that made a smile split his face in half, he obligated himself to not deviate his glare or hide his giggles, to look him dead in his eyes and let the words fly freely from his mouth.

 “Yehehes. I do.”

 Janus face lighted up, not expecting such an honest answer. “So you admit it? Awww. You’re so adorable and precious.”

 “Yehes, I lohohove every single onhehe of them and how happyhi and excited they ahahall make me feel, juhuhus as I lohove when you and Logahan’s tickle mehe sohoho much. My heart melt wihihit how you are all so evil and yet so caring, mindful and cute. Ihihi swear I can almohohost explode of excitement when you chase me and yohohou hold me and tickle me more for running ahaway from the tickles. I love when you sing those horrible, atrocious, mean rhymes and when you ahahand Logan pretend to have a normal discussion as if you both weren’t wrehecking me. I love how silly and yet malefic, amazing tickle monsters you both can be and how vuhulnerable, happy, special and loved you make me feel. I lohove your whispered teases and your not-so-subtle ones. I love with all my sohoul all of this, but-” Roman took some steps in his direction, leaning closer to Janus’ ear.

 “I love even more that you are so baffled with me saying all these truths out loud that you didn’t even remembered to record it.”

 He tweaked Janus’ hips, watching he jump a few inches while he took the opportunity to move away, bright smile.

 “And I’m never saying this again.”

 Janus stepped closer, his eyes in a mix of pure adoration and danger that flamed and quickly consumed them. Roman lifted his finger, shaking it just as he made with Logan.

 “Nah ah ha. No touching, remember?”

 “Oh, really?” Janus moved to his direction. “I don’t think so. Not when such masterpiece so willing decided to come in here with so teasy, sweet words and cocky attitude. Give me a good reason to not pin you down right here and use all those good information you so cutely shared with me, my wiggle giggle lee.”

 “I will run.” Roman blurted out, his mind running, seeking for any excuse to keep his game going on.

 “I will catch you. I always do.”

 “If you attack me now you will not gang up with Logan later.”

 This made Janus stop, looking at his with a raise of eyebrow.

 Silence. Roman couldn’t even lessen the excited smile that took over his features, his muscles tensed and prepared to run for his life.

 “Very well.” And just like that Janus made his attention come back to the device in his hands leaving an atonished Roman to himself. He couldn’t believe his bluff had actually worked!

 Well, maybe he made it worse to himself? M a y b e. He didn’t know, he was just happy with himself at this point.

 “Well.” Janus looked at his clock. “My break was over, anyway. I see you later, lee.”

 Janus kissed Roman’s cheek and got into the store, rolling his eyes, exasperated when he looked behind him just to see his boyfriend no so subtly stretching all he could as he waved him a goodbye, blowing him a kiss.

 “He is so screwed when we get home.”

[baby-grayson]

Kind Stranger|GBD|Part 6

Parts 1-5 Trigger Warning: I explain the accident that gave Kate her limp in this chapter, if that is material that would be sensitive for you I would suggest not reading. & FLUFF! Tags: @styles-dolan​ @evergreendolan​ @someonetogray​ @vintagedolan​ @prettyboydolan​ @dolansficsandpics​ @graysavant​ @baby-turtles​ A/N: I skipped the night in between parts 5 and 6 because I didn’t want to include smut in the middle of the fic. I allude to what happened but if you are interested let me know and I can write it as an “outtake”. Thank you again for reading, all your lovely comments warm my heart!

A dense mass moved toward Grayson’s chest. His eyes fluttered open, heavy with dreams and hazy memories of last night. Grayson bent his head down to kiss his sleepy partner on the top of her head before wrapping an arm around her body and bringing him closer to him. Kate curled into chest, laying her head on his bicep and wrapping a leg around his waist: knotting her sheets around them. Grayson slid a large, calloused hand over her thigh before cupping the area under her bum and bringing her even closer to him. He left his hand there and gently traced his thumb over her soft, delicate skin. Kate pulled her head up from his bicep and smiled softly at him, Grayson could barely make out the beautiful sight through his heavy eyelids. Kate nuzzled into Grayson’s neck, winding her arms around his upper body, looking to match every inch of his skin with hers. Grayson wrapped his free arm around her back, clutching at her body wearing his shirt. “Good Morning,” Kate’s voice was muffled from inside of Grayson’s chest. He smiled, flickering his eyes open wider, “Good Morning,” he leaned down to kiss the top of her head for a second time. Grayson’s heart swelled. This scene was his version of perfection: his own personal heaven. The early morning sunshine blinked through Kate’s bedroom window, laying perfect rays down on the sleepy couple. They were intertwined in a messy sheet, with a heavier blanket laying on the floor beside the bed. Kate’s sweet, citrus scent enveloped Grayson’s nose: triggering an inner blissful calm. His swollen heart nearly melted when Kate lifted her head up: layers of shiny, soft, dark hair covered parts of her face, her cheeks plump and pink with sleep, and an adoring, hazy look in her eyes. Kate’s eyes diverted from Grayson’s gaze momentarily. She looked toward the ground, at the blanket strewn on the floor. She bit her lip softly, last night filling her head. She blushed a deeper shade of pink, Grayson noticed this and took it as his cue to kiss her forehead and tighten his grasp around her. “You look good in my shirt,” his continued to thumb her thighs. “You look good in my bed,” Kate’s eyes shined up at him, Grayson couldn’t distinguish the naughty, knowing gaze from the remnants of her angelic, dreamy face. Grayson chuckled lowly; his voice still hoarse from waking up. Grayson’s eyes quickly darted down toward the foot of the bed, where he noticed movement. Grayson’s eyes found Kate’s bad foot twitching and flicking the edge of their sheet. He looked back at the ethereal figure in his arms and bit his lip tight between his front teeth. “Are you feeling okay?” Is that what he should ask? Is that how you ask that? Grayson clenched his jaw, trying to stop thoughts about what kind of pain she might be in to illicit that physical response. Kate nodded, “Yeah, I am—” she escaped Grayson’s shoulder to look up at his face, finding his eyes stuck on her leg. “Oh yeah that”, she thoughtlessly let a soft sigh leave her mouth. “You don’t have to talk about it,” Grayson started, growing concerns that he was invading her mental space. Even though he invaded her other space last night. Kate, becoming more awake by the minute, shook her head—wisps of dark hair dancing around her ears. “No, it’s okay. Really.” She smiled softly at him, noticing the tentative look on his face. This conversation was never easy for her; having a tall, dark, handsome man in her bed did not make it any easier. Kate sat up, releasing her hold on Grayson. Grayson unwound his arms from around her, silently sad to not be holding her anymore. His thumb already missed the feeling of her skin. Kate swung her leg in front of her. She traced her fingers along a cluster of thick, knotty scars that decorated her left foot, ankle, and faded into the middle of her shin. Grayson drank in the scene: her angelic figure, entranced by the early morning sunlight, and draped his old t-shirt juxtaposed against avenues of rubbery, jagged, surgical flesh. “I was fifteen,” Kate started but they didn’t meet each other’s eyes. She continued to stroke the scars with soft fingers while Grayson set mesmerized by the dance of her hand against her leg. “I was riding my bike, I was coming home from a friend’s house. I remember the sun was going down so I was trying to get home fast.” Her fingers stopped. Grayson looked up, awoken from his hypnotic state, to find her eyes closed. He saw her chest rise and fall from under his shirt before she continued. “I was going down this big hill, trying to take a shortcut home when—when I got hit.” Her shoulders fell and curled towards her knee. “It was a drunk driver—or at least, that’s what the police said. I don’t remember it. They don’t know how long I was laying on the ground before someone found me.” Grayson didn’t realize his mouth was hanging over. He struggled to find words or actions. He didn’t know what to say, ‘I’m sorry’ sounded pathetic. Grayson’s teeth sank into his bottom lip. The pair sat there, frozen in that moment in time. Kate hunched over her mangled leg, fraught with the memories of a traumatic accident. Grayson grasping at invisible words and feelings, failing to hold onto a sentiment for long enough to let it escape his lips. Kate broke their silence first, speaking more to herself than Grayson. “In a weird way, I’m almost happy it happened,” her voice stayed just above a whisper. “That day I realized, if I’m going to be on the planet—I want to do something good for this planet.” She pulled her hand away from her leg, tanging it in her hair instead. She started to sit up but was haphazardly shifted when Grayson’s large arms enveloped her. Their heads graced the foot of the bed, nearly completely shifted from where they began the morning. Grayson’s heartbeat comforted Kate. She wrapped her arms against him again, using her fingers to trace shapes into his back and biceps. Grayson held her like she was a newborn baby: fragile and in need of protection, but precious and special. His sleepy brain could not fathom the depth of his emotions; respect, adoration, sadness, gratitude, and pride swam through his head. They stayed like that, in that same position for another moment in time. Grayson was unsure whether he fell asleep again or surrendered to his emotions. He kissed the top of Kate’s head and pulled himself away from their embrace to look at her face: round, jovial, and beautiful. “This is my shirt now,” her voice held a sureness foreign to this moment. A hearty laugh escaped Grayson’s throat. He smiled down at her. “You can have it,” he winked mindlessly, “I have plenty more.” She toyed with her fingers in his hair, brushing unruly locks past his ear. “I’m sure you have so many with your own face on them,” she laughed with a light airy tone, only partially kidding. She raised an eyebrow when Grayson nodded subtly, “And socks, sweatshirts, bikinis, swim trucks, hats, charm bracelets—” her loud laugh interrupted him. “And at what point in our relationship will you give me the uniform?” She laughed through her words, missing Grayson’s pupils dilate, and a lop-sided grin appear when she said, ‘our relationship’. Grayson was glad she laughed at her own joke, it gave him time to snap out of his romantic state. “I’ll talk to management about getting you sized and fitted,” they shared a quick, sweet kiss at the end of this last word. Kate wiggled out of his grasp, tossing her legs over the side of the bed. “I need a shower,” she declared matter of factly. Grayson turned onto his side, shifting his weight on his elbow to continue to drink her in, “I thought you took a shower last night.” “That was before you dirtied me up,” Kate gave him a knowing stare and stood up, stretching slightly and looking down at him. Her heart sang to see his gorgeous, sleepy form enraptured by her sheets. “I’ll go get clean; you find a breakfast place.” Grayson nodded in agreement while she floated out of the room. Grayson sat on the edge of the bed, in his underwear, and ran a hand through his hair. He wasn’t sure if he was groggy or just intoxicated with her—with last night, this morning, and the future. While Kate hummed from the shower, Grayson found quick mix in a cabinet and made pancakes in the tiny kitchen of her one-bedroom apartment. He set a table with some disposable plates and felt his heart fly when she left the bathroom. She wore his shirt and pulled her hair into a bun. The kitchen smelled like maple syrup and budding romance. The ate, talked, and got lost in each other’s eyes. The morning couldn’t last forever though, as Kate bargained with Grayson to give her the afternoon so she could study. Grayson, utterly confused about what grad school really was, begrudgingly agreed. They stood in her doorway, a hazy picture of how last night started. She kissed him sweetly, thanking him for breakfast. Grayson embraced her, basking in her scent. “One thing,” Grayson started, his palms starting to sweat again. “I really like you, and I’m glad we’re doing this but—” That wasn’t a good way to start this “I would appreciate it if you kept us to yourself for now.” Kate furrowed her brow and pulled back from his arms, “Okay? I will?” Grayson nodded quickly, exhaling between his words, “It’s just with my career…privacy is an important thing. Ya know?” Of course she didn’t know this was all knew to her. Kate kissed his cheek and nodded, “My lips are sealed.” Grayson thumbed her shoulder and rolled his eyes playfully, “Now don’t do that to me.” He kissed her head quickly before saying goodbye. He walked to his car shirtless, wanting to always be able to see her in his shirt. Kate leaned against her front door after shutting it. What did she just get herself into? Grayson danced through his front door, throwing his keys down and greeting his twin brother with a bright smile. Ethan looked up at his beaming, shirtless, and giddy brother. Ethan raised his eyes when he made eye contact with Grayson. Grayson didn’t need twin telepathy to guess what Ethan was thinking. “I really like her,” Grayson started, putting his hands on the back of a dining chair and shrugging slightly. His face was dressed in a goofy smile and puppy dog eyes. Ethan wanted to be happy for Grayson, he really did, but he just wasn’t convinced that his brother was handling this smartly. “So she finds out you have money and a platform, and then sleeps with you that same day?” Grayson recoiled, leaning his weight into the chair and pushing his heels into the ground. He shook his head, “We didn’t have sex.” Ethan recoiled slightly, looking his brother up and down. “Then why did you spend the night? And why are you shirtless?” “We did other stuff…” Grayson’s voice puttered out toward the end, completely different from his usual booming tone. “What are you? Like 15?” Ethan’s confusion sounded judgmental coming out of his lips. He witnessed the some of the cheer leave Gray’s eyes. Ethan’s mind wandered back to the previous afternoon, when he met a petite girl with long hair who gave his brother doe eyes. Ethan wondered internally what about that girl made his brother melt. Or maybe it was just the fact that there was A girl. Grayson sensed his brother’s skepticism and filled in with, “I really like her. I more than like her, I respect her E. She’s smart, and funny, and kind. She has a purpose in life.” Grayson’s voice grew louder with eve word. “I can see myself with her. I want myself with her. She’s different…You don’t meet girls like her every day.” Ethan crossed his arms in his chair, trying his best to let Grayson’s word convince him. He gnawed at his lip slowly and looked up at his brother when Grayson started again, “I think you’d really like her if you got to know her. Let’s do something together—the three of us. I promise you’ll like her.” A/N: Thank you for making it to the end! I know not much happened in this part, but I woke up inspired and still thinking about Part 5 so I wrote this in a rush of excitement. I hope you enjoyed. As always, I appreciate any kind of commentary!

[delicatelyherdreams]

Pragma(tic) 9: The Past Comes Back to Haunt Her

Pragma(tic) 8: He Gets Found Out (and a Phone Call)

Pairing: Persephone!Bucky Barnes x Hades!Reader

Summary: In a world where the old gods never truly died, you must learn to navigate your way through the ups and downs of immortality. And if living forever wasn’t hard enough, an ancient evil is now threatening to break free after centuries of silence. And as if that still wasn’t hard enough for you, now a pesky and infuriatingly handsome god is trying to wedge his way into your life. Gods, work, love, and conflict—what more could a goddess need? [Hades & Persephone AU]

Word Count: 4651

Warnings: Language; PTSD

Pragma(tic) Masterlist

Previous 8: He Gets Found Out (and a Phone Call)

The sky was blue and clear, not a single cloud in sight. The summer sun beat down on your back as you leaned over your work in the middle of the clearing. Your hands moved fast, your tongue was held in between your teeth as you concentrated, your brows knit together, and you focused. The world, the clearing, and the trees surrounding you melted away as you worked. Only your project mattered.

You spun something out of nothing, twirling your tiny, childish hands around the small, abnormally shaped ball that hovered midair. Red flowed from your palms, gravitating towards the center of your creation, and it stuck wherever it landed. It solidified as it hit the surface, adding to the shiny jewel that was forming in your hands. The gem was see-through, completely clear, but a satisfying shade of red that you loved. A small smile danced across your lips. Your mother was going to love this.

When it was finally the size of a small pebble, you stopped revolving your hands around your creation and instead brought them together in a cup beneath it. The red object fell through the air, landing in your palm.

You beamed down at it before standing, hiking up the skirt of your white chiton, and running over to the woman who was seated on a large rock at the edge of the clearing and was watching you with an amused gaze.

She was beautiful, perfect, the very definition of grace. Her rich dark hair was braided with gold and jewels (most of which you had created for her) and cascaded down her shoulder, coming to rest right above her heart. A gold chiton hung loosely from the titaness’ shoulders, covering her body while leaving her arms, shoulders, and collar bones out for the sun to kiss. 

You scampered over to her as fast as your little legs would take you, holding the red stone out in front of you. “Mama!” you cried, your young voice filling the air. “Mama, look! I made another one.” You stopped at her feet and held it up.

Rhea smiled down at you and took the jewel from you. “So lovely, my darling,” she mused, holding it up to the light and gazing through it. The sun streamed through the jewel, casting a pink glow on her tanned skin. Her smile widened. “Wow! It’s clear all the way through.”

“I think it’s prettier like that, don’t you? It makes your face change colors!”

“So it does.” She closed her fingers around the jewel and pulled her braid closer to her. Her fingers worked to tuck it into the braid with the others. “Thank you, little one. It is beautiful.”

You bit your lip to hide your smile and sat cross-legged at her feet. “You’re welcome, Mama.” 

Her eyes trailed over the stones her dark braid. Most of them were red. “You seem to like making the red ones the most. They match your eyes.” She chuckled softly and turned her gaze to you. “Do you have a name for your creations?”

You nodded, a smile brightening your face. “I think I wanna call them rubies. I dunno why, it’s just a nice name for the red ones.”

Your mother hummed. “Well, be absolutely sure that that is what you want to call them. Once you give them their name, that will always be their name. They are your creation and what you say goes.”

You frowned up at her, your gaze curious and confused. “What do you mean, Mama; ‘what I say goes?’”

She grinned slyly like she knew something you didn’t—which she probably did. “Come with me, my child, and I shall show you.” She reached down and took your tiny hand in hers.

You stood up and walked with her.

She led you through the trees, stepping over fallen logs and helping you over them too. You didn’t know where she was taking you, but you didn’t care. You just loved spending time with your mother.

She was the best mother there was, always there to love you and hug you and squeeze you tight. She loved you, and you loved her.

Rhea guided you through the trees over to a new clearing, but this one wasn’t surrounded by trees. This one was a cliff that came to a point. She took you right up to the edge.

From up there, you could see a vast majority of the land that you lived in. You could see rolling hills taking over the whole area, with small dots nestled in the valleys and near the sea. Each dot was a village that held many people. You’d often sneak down to watch them

Your mother stopped you at the edge of the cliff and sat down, beckoning you to sit on her lap. “What do you see, my dear?” 

You sat down on her thigh and leaned back into her chest. “I see people. It’s the Mortal World, right?”

“Yes. This is the land known as Sicily. And who lives there?”

“The mortals.”

“Very good. Now, you know that you are not a mortal. You’re an immortal, what the humans would call a god, or, in your case, a goddess.”

You turned your eyes up to her, sparkling with curiosity. “Are you a goddess, Mama?”

She laughed. “No. I am a titaness. I am older than the gods, but that’s not important.” She plucked one ruby from her hair and offered it to you. “Because you are a goddess, you get to control some aspects of the world. You are a goddess of wealth, and so these jewels that you create will be worth a lot. The names you give them will be used by mortals everywhere because they are yours. It is one of your powers, and more will develop as you grow older. It is a great responsibility to bear.”

You frowned. “But I’m just a kid.”

“You may have only aged seven years, my child, but you are still their god nonetheless, and they will worship you just the same.” She chuckled. “I know you will be a great goddess. You will go down in their stories as one of the greatest in history.”

You giggled. “I hope so, Mama. I wanna be a good goddess. Do you think the mortals will like me?”

“It is hard to tell, my child. But so long as you stay just, benevolent, and fair, I’m sure they will.”

You opened your mouth to ask her something else, but you were stopped by a loud crash and the earth shaking. You shrieked as you fell off your mother’s lap, sprawling on the ground.

Your mother blanched and shot to her feet, staring at something in the distance. “(y/n), hide.”

“Mama, what—?”

“Go!” She grabbed you by your wrist and threw you towards the tree.

You obeyed, running into the trees to hide beneath one. Looking back out at the clearing, you saw your mother grow larger, her height soaring until she was giant. So tall, was the titan’s true form, that she towered above everything else, even mountains. When your mother was at her full height, you hardly came up to her big toe. She rarely used this form with you (unless you wanted to say hi to the birds) because you hated feeling small and insignificant. You’d only seen this form once or twice, and only when he came around. 

You turned your head over your shoulder, almost too scared to look.

You could see him. He was always in his full size. You saw his monstrous form towering over everything, but you couldn’t make out any distinct features. He was all black. He marched towards your hiding spot and your mother, undoubtedly glaring.

“Kronos,” your mother purred, trying to mask the fear in her voice with seduction. “To what do I owe this pleasure, my darling husband?”

“You know why I’m here.” His deep voice thundered over the valley, startling birds out of their nests. “I want her.”

“Wh-Who?”

You frowned at the time, filled with confusion. You knew she knew he was talking about you, but you would later realize that she was trying to protect you.

“Our daughter,” he hissed. “She has been allowed to roam the earth too long. She should’ve been dealt with right after she was born. Instead I was soft and allowed you some time. Now I have come to collect. Give her to me.”

Your mother bit her lip and shook her head. “No! I can’t. She’s just a child.”

“A child who will destroy us.” His face was black, not a single feature was visible, but you could’ve sworn that his eyes flashed red. “Now give her to me! I know you have hidden her near. You never stray too far away from your precious child.” His head turned down, and you knew he was searching for you. His eyes pierced the very trees before you felt them settle on you. You could hear the smile in his voice as he cooed, “Found you.” 

A black hand appeared out of nowhere, plucking you from your hiding spot by the back of your chiton. 

You screamed as the ground disappeared from beneath your feet, twisting and turning in a struggle. All you could cry out was, “Father! No! Please, no!”

“Kronos! Let her go! She’s just a child!” your mother wailed, suddenly at his side and clinging onto her husband’s arm as she tried to wrench you from his grip. You could see the fear for your life in her eyes.

He sneered down at her, his eyes turning red with agitation. “She won’t be a child for long. I must contain her while I can.” Then, with a swift motion, he yanked his arm out of Rhea’s grasp, causing her to fall to the ground, and opened his mouth, bringing you closer and closer to his lips.

With a sickening drop of your stomach, you knew—in your young, tiny heart—you knew what he was about to do. You screamed as you panicked. “Father, please! I don’t wanna go in there! I’ll be good! I’ll be a good girl! Just please don’t.”

His mouth didn’t move, but you could hear his voice clear as day in your head. “I’m sorry, little one. But I have no choice. I cannot kill you, so I must contain you.”

You continued to approach his mouth and you were starting to grow frantic. “Father! Please! Don’t!” Tears were rolling down your cheeks as you struggled and writhed, but your efforts were fruitless. He didn’t stop. “Father!” you tried again, begging him to spare you. “I’ll be good! I’ll be a good god! Just, please! Father! Dad! Daddy, please!”

But he only brought you closer to his mouth until you were hovering right over the opening. And, before you knew it, you were falling. He had dropped you and the wind was soaring past your ears. The fleshy pink of his gullet encompassed your vision, covering more and more of what you could see until there was no light left. As you plunged into the darkness, you could hear only two things: the sounds of your mother’s wailing, and your own screams of pure terror as you fell down, down, down—into the pit of your father’s stomach.

———

“NO!”

You sat bolt upright in your bed, the sheets clinging to your body with a cold sweat. Your chest rose and fell rapidly with shallow panting and your panicked eyes darted all around you. It was black, just as black as your prison.

“Light!” you summoned, holding out your hand. A scarlet fire erupted over your palm, casting a dim glow over the room. You waved your hand all over, shining light on the furniture that made up your bedroom. It took you a good moment to realize that you were at your own home rather than in your father’s stomach, and when the realization finally settled on you, you were only slightly less panicked than you had been. 

Releasing the ball of red fire to drift around the room, you threw the covers off of your body and began to pace the hardwood floors. Your sports bra and sleep shorts were damp with your own sweat, and the night air hitting your skin made you shiver, but you didn’t care. Your mind was elsewhere.

He’s not here. He can’t hurt you anymore. He’s in Tartarus. He’s locked up. You’re safe.

But you didn’t believe the thoughts one bit.

You still felt like you were falling. You could still feel the wind rushing past you. You could still hear the screams—your screams.

Your chest grew tight, like a hand was crushing your heart. You winced at the pain, trying to push it deep down.

You shoved your fingers through your hair, taking a fistful and tugging. The dull pain usually helped you focus in on reality, but this time it seemed to do nothing. You were still trembling, and you had no hope of calming down on your own. 

You needed something alive. Cerberus was out of the question because he was on his shift guarding the borders. Peggy was also out because she was there too. You needed someone else; someone to talk you down, someone to tell you what your mind was already saying.

Brock, of course, was the first person you immediately thought of, but upon further deliberation, he probably wasn’t the best choice. He didn’t like it when you were too emotional. He was always awkward and stiff around you when you tried to talk to him about your past or about your nightmares. He hated it. 

You pulled harder at your hair, the squeezing in your chest only tightening and crushing your heart. 

You needed someone who could listen and make you feel better. You needed someone who could be trusted with the more sensitive side of you. You needed—

You stopped dead in your tracks. Your head turned slowly towards your phone, which was sitting dark on your nightstand. You had his number, he’d said that you could call him anytime you needed. Well, if there was ever a time you needed him, it was now.

Your feet were moving before you knew it, and you were unlocking your phone and pulling up Bucky’s contact just as quick. You pressed “call” and held the phone up to your ear.

As you heard the dial tone, you had to wonder: was Bucky even still up? Were you disturbing his sleep or was he still awake? Would he be bothered—

“Hello?”

His voice snapped you out of your thoughts and your jaw went slack. Holy shit, he’d actually answered. 

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck; what the fuck do you say? “Hey, Buck. It’s (y/n). You know, the scary Queen of the Underworld? Yeah, listen. I just had a nightmare and I’m acting like a toddler and need you to calm me down.” That was laughable and pathetic. This whole situation was pathetic. You should’ve just hung up and called it a night, but your heart wouldn’t let you.

“Hello?” he called again, his voice teeming with worry.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and whispered, “B-Bucky?”

You could hear shuffling on the other end of the line. “(y/n)? What’s wrong? Are you okay? Are you hurt?” He was definitely concerned now, and—although you felt bad for making him worry—it was comforting to know he cared.

You shoved your hand through your hair again and squeezed your eyes shut as you sat down on your bed. You could still see the faint red of the fire floating around behind your eyelids, but it was little comfort. Your voice trembled as you stuttered, “I-I…” You mentally cursed yourself. You couldn’t even form a damn sentence in your frazzled state.

“It’s alright, Doll. I’m here now,” Bucky soothed, trying to coax you into speaking. “Use your words. What’s wrong? What do you need?”

“I… I need you.” Admitting your need was crushing and you could feel your muscles stiffening as the severity of the fear inflicted by the nightmare finally dawned on you. It felt like your whole body was atrophying like you were turning to stone. Within moments, you would be frozen in place as the panic truly set in.

“I’m on my way.” The line went dead as he hung up, plunging you back into the silence of your mind. 

You couldn’t tell if it was better or worse to be in the quiet room, but the only real comfort you had was that Bucky was coming.

And, sure enough, you heard rumbling overhead—the telltale sign that signaled the ceiling of the chasm opening up above you. A loud thud resonated outside your house; something heavy had just fallen into the Asphodel Meadows. You were so frozen on your bed that you couldn’t even make yourself stand up to go to the window to see if it was him. You could hear footsteps running across the fields, growing closer until they were right outside your door. From there, the front door opened and you could hear footsteps bounding into the entryway before coming to a stop. It only then dawned on you that Bucky had never been in your home and that he probably wouldn’t know where your room was. You wanted to yell for him, scream his name, something, but your voice was locked in a cage at the base of your throat. You wanted to stomp on the ground, jump up and down, to do anything, but you were stone. You could not move.

The footsteps began to move again downstairs and you heard him shuffling around.

Find the staircase, Bucky.

You prayed to any higher being there was that he would find you, you needed him so badly. 

Please, Buck. It’s right by the door. I know it’s dark, but you can find it. Right up the stairs. My room is the whole floor. Please. Please hurry.

As if listening to your silent directions, the footsteps neared the staircase and began to mount them. You could tell he was on his way up because you heard the creak of the fifth step up. No matter where you stepped, it always creaked. The thudding grew louder as he grew closer until he finally reached the door. That too creaked open as he moved it ever so slightly, and he called out in a quiet, careful voice, “(y/n)?”

You would’ve sobbed with relief if you could but the lump in your throat was still preventing you from speaking.

He began to enter the room, rounding the wall that separated your sleeping area from the rest of your chambers. When he saw you, he called your name again. Receiving no answer, he began to approach you as one would an easily startled animal.

Which, if you were honest, you probably were at that moment.

He continued to walk towards you until he was right at your side. “(y/n)?” he said again, his voice gentle, comforting, loving. He sat down next to you and the mattress dipped with his weight. “(y/n), I’m here. It’s me. Bucky. I’m here. It’s okay; you’re safe now.” He hesitantly reached out and placed his hand on your shoulder.

You flinched at the unexpected contact and your head snapped to the side to look at him, your eyes undoubtedly wild with the fear from the nightmare.

He didn’t jump at your sudden moment but the worry in his eyes only increased. 

You scanned his face, taking in every detail. It helped to ground you. His blue eyes seemed purple from the rouge light floating in the room and his skin had turned ghostly. His features were contorted with worry, confusion, and care. He cared about you, wanting to make sure you were okay. He’d dropped whatever he was doing just so he could rush to your side and make sure you were safe. It was the most that anyone had done for you in a long time.

You didn’t realize tears were streaming down your face until Bucky’s large hand cupped your cheek and his thumb wiped the liquid off your skin.

“It’s okay,” he murmured as his thumb traced small circles over your cheek. “It’s alright, I’m here now.”

At that, you broke.

Tears began rolling down your cheeks in an abundance, the torrent never ceasing. You sobbed, and you sobbed, and you sobbed. Silent screams escaped your mouth as you cried into Bucky’s shirt. Your tears soaked his shirt, but you didn’t care. The crying was relieving; you couldn’t remember the last time you just let it all out like this.

Bucky simply held you. His arms had wrapped around you at some point, and he pulled you close into a hug. You were sitting in his lap, his arms were holding you close, and his chin was resting on the top of your head. He was rocking you from side to side as a mother would her child, doing his best to comfort you.

You were surprised at how well it was working. Normally, it would take you hours to calm down, but, with Bucky—with whom you’d only spent a handful of blissful evenings—it was mere minutes. 

Soon you were just sitting there, sniffling in his arms.

He pet your hair and continued to rock you, mumbling, “Shhh. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

You nodded your head, pulling away from him just enough to peer up at his face. “I’m sorry,” you whispered.

His eyes narrowed at you and his head cocked to the side. “What for?”

“For bothering you.” You dragged the back of your hand across your nose. “And for crying all over you. You shouldn’t have seen me like that.”

“Like what?”

You couldn’t believe he was making you spell it out. “Like a mess. I’m a queen. I’m supposed to be calm and collected and I was sobbing like a baby.” You shook your head with a bitter laugh. “I’m pathetic.”

“No, you’re human.” Bucky brought his hand up under your chin and lifted your head so you were looking at him. “It’s normal to cry and feel sad. It’s normal to be scared. No one is immune to it, not even the badass Queen of the Underworld. Everyone is scared of something.” He tilted his head to the side, his lips quirking up into a gentle smile. “Don’t ever be afraid to be afraid around me, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good.” He shifted so you were closer to him on his lap. 

Your head once more fit right under his chin. With your ear pressed to his chest, you could hear the faint beating of his heart and you couldn’t help but dwell on how nice this was. 

You never got this with Brock. Tender touches didn’t seem to be a part of his vocabulary. But, with Bucky, this felt natural and good. You felt safe in his arms and that was nice.

Bucky allowed you to sit in the silence a bit longer before finally asking, “Do you wanna talk about it?”

You hesitated. “Mmm, kind of do, kind of don’t.”

“Which ‘kind of’ is winning?”

Your lips formed a tight line. “Kind of do,” you answered truthfully because you did want to talk about it. Your family had begged you to talk about it for years, insisting that it could help you cope. “It’s therapeutic,” your youngest sister had said. “Mortals do it all the time. Talking about your trauma helps reduce it.”

“I’m not traumatized,” you’d insisted.

But you both knew that was a lie; the nightmares were living proof that your childhood had impacted you in a big and not-so-good way.

Bucky glanced down at you, his own lips forming their own line. “I can listen if you want to talk it out. I’m good at that.”

You breathed a chuckle. “I bet you are.” Letting out a heavy sigh, you peeled yourself out of Bucky’s arms and moved so you were sitting cross-legged on your bed. “You might as well get comfortable; it’s a long-ass story.”

He hardly moved. “I’m ready.”

You bit your lip and nodded. “Alright.” Pausing to take a deep breath, you began with, “My childhood was fucked.”

He snorted.

“Hey, don’t laugh!” You crossed your arms and hunched over in a pout. “I’m trying to share something deeply personal here.”

“I know! I know! I’m sorry. Just, you were so blunt. I was expecting some sort of build up, but you just came out with that and I… I know I shouldn’t laugh, but I couldn’t help it.”

You tried your damnedest to fight the smile that was rising on your own lips, but you failed miserably and found yourself smiling with him. “Get yourself together, Buck. I’m serious here. My childhood definitely falls in one of the bottom three childhoods of all time. The… The myths got it mostly right, but they were always hazy on the details. They said that my father, Kronos, ate me right after I was born; they were wrong.” You lifted your eyes to the ball of red light that was still dancing around your room. “I was seven. Old enough to have some experience, old enough to know that I had parents and that I loved them, but not old enough to understand why my father didn’t love me back. My mother never let me around him; she said he was a bad man. I didn’t understand. How could someone I love be bad? My seven-year-old brain was just barely comprehending the fact that I was going to live forever, I had no ability to process just how bad my father was. 

“I knew that he was my father in the way that I knew my mother was my mother. I knew that he was someone important to me, and that I loved him and wanted to please him and make him proud. So, every day, I did my best to be a good kid, to be something he could be proud of. I thought that could make him love me.” You hung your head in shame. “But, no matter what I did, it wasn’t good enough. I didn’t understand why he ate me. I didn’t understand why he hated me so much as to try and kill me. I didn’t know what I did to deserve living in isolation for over a decade in his stomach. There is nothing quite like being totally on your own, Bucky; to not know what you did wrong but to be punished anyway. It does things to your mind and I…”

“You still dream about it, don’t you?” he asked softly. “That’s why you were so scared.”

You nodded. “Yeah. I relived the whole thing again. I’m a grown woman, with more than two thousand years of experience, and I still get spooked by nightmares.”

“Everyone is scared by something,” he murmured. “Your thing is what happened to you in your past.” 

“Yeah…” You took a deep breath and pulled your knees up to your chest. 

Bucky looked at you, his eyes scanning over your face. Suddenly he stood and rounded the bed to your side. “Come on; let’s go.”

You blinked at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Come on!” He offered you his hand. “We’re going out. It’s the best remedy for a nightmare. You get to go around and do things and forget all about the bad dreams.” His smile was warm and filled with promise.

“Where are we going?”

“It’s a secret but,” grinning down at you, he held his hand out further, “do you trust me?”

You stared at his outstretched hand, a small flame igniting inside your chest at the prospect of adventure, and you took it. “I do.”

Next 10: She Sees the World in a New Light