#and just to be very clear i don’t mean that their work is too ‘gaudy’ or too the fonts are too silly

[transmalewife]

how can gifmakers be so incredibly skilled with color, composition, symbolism, editing and all the technical skills involved and then hide all that stunning work behind a typographic atrocity the likes of which have never before been seen in any other medium. i am begging you learn anything about matching fonts and background contrast because your work is illegible!!

[pouralaura]

reflection

a small helping of psychosexual fluff featuring my Tav (Eris) and the devil she knows.

Her hair is too long, yes – but perhaps the perfect length for this purpose. A murmured incantation coats her hand with sweet-smelling oil, and she slicks her short-but-unruly blue-grey locks back loosely in an imitation of Raphael’s own coiffure. His hissed exhale is audible, and she stifles a grin, softening it into a smirk so very much like the one he often wears.

“Do you like it?”

His jaw clenches and she watches a vein in his neck pulse.

“Yes.”

tags: femdom, roleplay, degradation, very light genderplay, oral sex, mention of pegging, the usual light foot stuff you know me for

Eris had worn her hair much longer when she was younger. Blue locks hung down past her shoulder blades at one time; she'd pull it up into a messy bun or plait it when active. Pain in the ass to maintain, honestly. On her twenty-seventh birthday she’d cut it into a wavy pixie. It suits her, she thinks. Easy, no fuss. Painless in the bath, too – long hair she’d have to tie up to use the boudoir’s vast, gaudy pool, but now she leans her head back comfortably against Raphael’s damp bicep, his arm laid out casually behind her, and doesn’t worry about getting her short hair wet. 

It's verging on too long, now, though. Tickles the nape of her neck in the worst way. Needs to be cut every two months or so, which is annoying, but at least it doesn’t take long to snip back into shape. She’ll do it when she returns to Baldur’s Gate tomorrow after finishing up her weekend stay at the House of Hope.

Eris pecks Raphael on the cheek – cherishing the ensuing slight upward quirk of his mouth – and climbs out of the pool, grabbing a soft towel from nearby to dry off. She’ll spend an hour or two curled up with a book while he lounges and casually carries out some revisioning work.

He pays her no mind as she busies herself with redressing, choosing to spread his other arm along the rim of the pool and lean his head back into a tasseled pillow, eyes closing in contentment. Satisfied as a cat; regal as a king.

Eris doesn't reach for her own tunic. Instead she pulls Raphael’s crisp, clean white shirt from the neat pile of their clothing on the plush chair next to the wardrobe and slides her arms into the sleeves, buttoning it up halfway and wearing nothing underneath. He likes this look on her, of course – what manner of man wouldn’t enjoy seeing his lover in his clothing? A mark of possession; a claim; a deed of ownership. Not that Raphael would ever assume to own her, of course; she’s long refused his offer to make her his consort, and estimates said offer isn’t up for review for at least another few years (lest he incur her wrath).

Something pushes her to pick up and don his doublet, too. With an ego the size of his, certainly he’ll delight in seeing both layers on her form. It's not just for him, either; Raphael’s overwhelming scent, sweet and smoldering, always stirs her – not that she's trying to be a fucking weirdo about it, but it is what it is – and she pulls the thick material closer, inhaling him.

The sloshing sounds of the water alert her to the man's presence nearing her, and Eris soon feels the heated press of his body at her back.

“Well, well. I have to commend you on your choice of attire.”

She leans her head back against his shoulder and smiles. “Perhaps you're rubbing off on me.”

“Oh, I have before, and I will again.” The double meaning in Raphael’s words is clear as he presses his naked hips against her rear and inclines his head to mouth at her neck, moving the high collars on the shirt and doublet out of the way. “I can be very persuasive.”

“Don’t I know it, with that sinful voice of yours. What was the line, again – oh, I remember –”

Eris turns in the devil’s arms to face him. 

“The mouse smiled brightly; it outfoxed the cat!” She pitches her voice a bit lower for the next line, remembering Raphael’s seductive, lilting delivery from their first meeting. “Then down came the claw; and that, love –” 

She leans in to kiss him lightly on the mouth, but he grips her hips with a bit more enthusiasm than she'd been expecting and groans softly at the press of her lips, opening his own underneath them. Eager tongue meets eager tongue and it's clear Eris’s earlier hypothesis on his opinion was well-founded.

“Ohhh,” she purrs as they part. “Do I make a fine enough Archdevil Supreme, devil mine?”

“Second only to the real thing,” he rumbles, sliding a hand beneath his unbuttoned white shirt inside the doublet she now wears to shamelessly grope at her breast.

“Haarlep will be terribly disappointed to hear that.”

“Haarlep isn't here. And what a gift that is.”

“Shall I continue, then? Model the rest of your handsome ensemble?”

“If you must,” he grouses, but his eyes are alight with interest. She knows that look very well.

Eris turns away from him as she slides his trousers on. Of slighter stature than her lover, she finds the waist too large and the legs too long, as expected – but a clean snap of Raphael’s fingers from behind her heralds a quick cinch around her hips and a loss of excess fabric around her ankles. (She’ll remember that the next time she needs something of hers hemmed.)

“How do I look?” she asks slyly, and turns back to find him flushed.

Ah. Well-founded, indeed. Terribly, terribly correct, she was. Marvelous.

“Put on your boots,” he demands. “Complete the picture.”

Eris does exactly that, stepping over to lean against the wardrobe behind her to pull each boot on rather than balance precariously on one foot – as the waves of arousal and tension emanating from him are palpable enough to nearly knock her over. When finished, she straightens and spreads her arms wide in an obscenely Raphael-like gesture of welcome.

“Well?”

For all the words the devil has at his disposal, all seem to fail him now. He still holds his head high, mighty like a king, but the deepening flush spreading down his neck and into the wiry hairs on his chest says more than any words would regardless. His cock had already been stirring against her when he’d pressed his hips to hers before; now it’s full and hard and heavy as he looks Eris up and down.

With forced steadiness, haughty tone more than a little patronizing despite his clear interest, he finally says, “It’s as if I’m looking in a mirror, my dear. Besides the obvious differences.”

Eris smiles, and now she's the one resembling the satisfied cat. “Perhaps another touch, I think –”

Her hair is too long, yes – but perhaps the perfect length for this purpose. A murmured incantation coats her hand with sweet-smelling oil, and she slicks her short-but-unruly blue-grey locks back loosely in an imitation of Raphael’s own coiffure. His hissed exhale is audible, and she stifles a grin, softening it into a smirk so very much like the one he often wears.

“Do you like it?”

His jaw clenches and she watches a vein in his neck pulse.

“Yes.”

Victory.

Eris steps lightly, purposefully over to the ornate bed. Her voice is low again when she speaks after a moment. Smooth. Just like his.

“Then, come here…little mouse.”

As if hypnotized, Raphael comes to her slowly and deliberately. His pretty cock bobs thickly between his legs, flushed nearly as red as his cheeks. Upon reaching her, the devil says nothing, filling the silence with his shallow breaths and hesitant eye contact. Eris reaches out to touch his face, brushing fingertips softly, dangerously over his handsome jawline.

“Tell me how you'll indulge me today.”

Her lover takes a deep breath before responding, only the slightest of wavers discernible in a tone rough with arousal.

“I am yours…Archdevil Supreme.”

Eris’s heart thuds in her chest. 

“Get on your knees.”

And he obeys.

Despite having only just donned Raphael’s attire, Eris lets him undress her again now, noting only the smallest of tremors in his strong, elegant hands. He begins with her boots, pulling each one off gently and placing it to the side. She’d foregone footwraps in the interest of simplicity, so her feet are bared to him quickly – true to form, he lifts each one to his face, breathing in and out, heavy cock beginning to leak between his thighs onto the ornate rug beneath him. Presses his open mouth to each arch in turn, moistening her skin and lapping up the condensing droplets, salty and heady.

But as much as Eris loves to watch him fall apart underneath her heel, now’s not the time. She flexes her foot in his grasp, pushes her sole against his striking nose just hard enough that his head falls back. Sneers.

“There are better uses for your mouth, I think, than chasing your own sick cravings. Perhaps we ought to stuff it with cock.”

She’s not harnessed up right now; isn’t equipped with her pretty polished leather phallus her dangerous darling often desires so dearly; but this isn’t about fucking him. It’s about him worshiping her – as him. A narcissist’s fantasy. A perverse, masturbatory scene. The very flavor of deviance her handsome devil adores.

(She'll put her lovely faux cock down his throat another time, though.)

“Continue undressing me, and then we’ll discuss the terms of our agreement.”

Raphael scrambles to heed her request, unbuttoning his own trousers and pulling them eagerly down over the curves of Eris’s hips. Helps her step out of them so she’s wearing nothing below the waist. So he can see her pretty pink sex.

Bared, she studies him. His eyes are wide, pupils blown as he stares back. Hands clenched into tight fists on his knees. Beautiful cock so hard, so wanting, so desirous of himself and of her in tandem.

“Open.”

Eris slides two fingers onto Raphael’s tongue, pressing further and further back into his throat as he moans around them. Slips the other hand underneath his chin; makes him look up at her while she leisurely explores the inside of his wet mouth.

“A devil’s plaything, aren’t you? So obedient for me, sweet mouse.”

She leans back against the bed and brings her fingertips to her dripping slit, parting her delicate lips for him to see. Traces around her entrance with his saliva, thick between her digits.

“Suck me, girl.”

His mouth is between her legs faster than she can blink. So willing and pliant and needy and serving.

She hoists a knee up onto the bed to give him easier access, and to see his every move more clearly. Watches him reach for his cock. Buries a hand in his hair and yanks his head back. He whines. It’s indecent.

“What makes you think you can attend to your own pleasure? Did I grant you permission?”

“No, Your Grace,” he breathes, face shiny with her slick. “Accept my apologies.”

“Pathetic,” she sneers. “Tell me you won’t touch your cock again.”

“I won't touch my cock again.”

Rare that she can get him to obey so easily. So eagerly. He brats for her, as she does for him. It's how they’ve operated from the beginning – he likes a challenge, likes a fight. 

But, up against himself (in a manner of speaking)? 

Different.

Fascinating.

“Get back to work.”

For Eris, there is nothing like watching her devil chase his indulgence. She thrives on being the one he chooses to delight in; for all the years he's lived, he says, there is no sweeter nectar than that which drips from her honeyed cunt. His self-possessed hunger is unforgiving, and what use would she have, anyway, for forgiveness?

The act of giving oral pleasure is, by nature, a generous thing. But this is not how Raphael usually approaches it. He usually eats at Eris greedily, harsh tongue licking and savoring deeply. Pushes her, overstimulates her to the point of ache, nearly to the point of pain. Usually clutches at her soft hips and pulls her closer still, holds her in place for a sloppy and rampant feast. Usually makes a selfless act into a selfish one, making her pleasure an afterthought even when she’s the one riding his face and he's groaning, whimpering in delight beneath her, trapped so willingly between her thighs.

But now – now, with his own sex-laced tone painting his blue cherry’s words; with his own affectation and mannerism adorning her every move – Raphael is reverent with every stroke of his wicked tongue.

And the comparison, the juxtaposition, is fucked up. There’s a sick sort of pleasure in her gut, a depraved thrill at being worthy of the highest worship only when she’s playing as him. It’s demeaning and debasing for both of them: for him to be so plainly an egomaniac; for her to feel – to be – less than him, less than how he sees himself.

They’re both terribly pathetic, aren’t they?

The thought makes her shiver as the tension builds low in her belly, spurred on by Raphael’s loud and unrestrained sucks and licks at her core. She won’t be long. 

(Never is. But then again, neither is he.)

“Don’t you dare come before I do.” Threat is evident in her tone. She doesn’t expect he’ll last, even with her warning. 

And he doesn’t. Last, that is. Raphael shudders and pauses his ministrations briefly to spill onto the rug between them with a low groan, lips framing a single word, and the sight of him giving in sends a hot throb of arousal through Eris’s every godsdamned nerve. She doesn’t have time to dwell on it though, because he drags two fingers through his release, through the fibers of the carpet, and brings them to join his mouth at the apex of her legs. Slides them inside, lifting a bare thigh with his other hand to rest on his shoulder for leverage, and looks worshipfully up at her with a mouthful of her cunt as he carries her the rest of the way to her end and she comes on his tongue with a soft cry.

She knows his feelings for her match hers for him. She’s not stupid. The two of them wouldn’t be as they are if anything were different.

The single word on his lips was her name – as it always is – and she’d be an idiot to acknowledge it. He – they both – are too proud to speak of love, too stubborn to admit pride as a greater weakness than emotion.

This is enough, though, she thinks, as they curl into bed after another quick dip in the bath, after what feels like a thousand kisses she presses to his mouth. Raphael with furrowed brow, a draft and quill pen on his lap, spectacles on the tip of his nose; Eris with that book she’d promised herself earlier, too-long hair mussed in her usual style tickling the devil’s bare skin where her head rests on his shoulder.

This is enough for them.

[ripperdoc-is-daddy]

Pain and Suffering (Sanemi Mob Head Canon)

TW: Shady behavior, Deception, Dismissive behavior, Love bombing?, Reader is black, hurt feelings, shut out. Shout out to @animupiglett for the encouragement and all that fuzz. <3 PERMISSION TO REPOST OR TRANSLATE DENIED

Pt.2 Flux Pt.3 Morning After Pt.4 Menace to his Sanity Pt. 5 A Clean Break

You have no idea what he does for work 

Says he is a contractor 

You’ve asked if he was Gov or Civ and he just says “Something like that” 

Promptly shuts you up with a kiss 

Other times he dodges the question entirely 

When you ask bout the scars he says he got them in dog fights 

Since when do dogs have knives? 

You let it slide cuz 

He spoils you rotten and you have no reason to question him 

Unless you count all the late nights, bruises and cuts 

Or that time he showed up with broken ribs 

Or that other time when he was in the hospital and some big blind dude told you to mind your own business 

Does your braids and twists so you don't have to go to a salon

Knows how to properly take them down

Always has a hot oil treatment ready for your scalp and hair so you never have to worry about breakage and damage.

Has a plate ready for you to eat while he does his task

A solid partner for wash day

Never complains about helping you apply product

He likes buying you shoes 

Cuz you like hording shoes 

You also love games but he won’t buy you those 

He wants your attention on him after work. Not on fucking electric rats you chuck balls at 

Takes you out to dinner often 

Even does the Will Smith to Jada “Look at her” just to make you embarrassed 

In a good way 

He is really serious when he meets people he knows 

His friends are terrifying 

No really they look like murder hobos 

You and Sanemi were just leaving the restaurant. Your delicate, beautifully manicured fingers were entwined with his. Arm wrapped around his muscular forearm. You were leaning against him, laughing and smiling. He was smiling and looking down at you lovingly. Your fun was interrupted by a group of men approaching. Sanemi straightens up and drops your hand. “The fuck is that shit?” you wonder internally. You scoot off to the side and busy yourself looking anywhere but at the men. He notices and you know it probably stabbed him in the heart but you aren’t feeling very friendly right now. The other three men stare at you expectantly. Well, 2 of them stare, the third one and tallest of the bunch appears to be visually impaired if the milky white irises mean anything. You politely excuse yourself and turn on your heels before waiting for a response. A sigh is heard behind you and you know there will be a discussion later. But you don’t care. This always happens. Sanemi’s friends are definitely trouble but he always tells you not to think about it. You don’t know how much more of this you really want to deal with. Calling your friends they tell you to take a break. Maybe you need some distance to clear your mind. He shows up just as you are finished packing your bug out bag. What was that look? Was a sneer? The fuck!? His expression changes almost as fast as it came. The look you give shuts him up. You almost make it to the door when you feel his arms around your waist. “Don’t go.” He is pleading. You try to pull out his embrace. Not hard enough. “I can make it up to you.” he promises. “Yeah, you always say that.” You know that hurt. “It’s complicated.” You don’t care how complicated it is. You tear out his arms and leave. In front of you is the smiling Blonde with red tipped hair from before. His eyes resemble fire. Why is this man smiling at you like that? It’s unnerving. The massive guy is there too. So is the platinum haired dude with the gaudy headband. Sanemi’s hands land on your shoulder. “It’s complicated. Just wait up. I’ll be back.” You shrug him off and go to your car. “I won’t be.”  

[smxsonic]

BatXFamily

Gotham city wasn’t known for Meta-humans. Contrary to popular belief though it wasn’t because Batman had enacted a rule about metas, it was just that Meta crimes just weren’t common to Gotham. It stood to reason, Gotham may be a crime riddled hellhole, but it was an organized crime riddled hellhole. Every Rogue, Every Crime family, Even every two bit drug dealer had their turf. It was a delicate, unlawful ecosystem, and including Meta-humans in the mix has the potential to disrupt it beyond what Gotham could handle. It surprised Batman that someone would even think about Meta trafficking in Gotham. Even the rogues in Arkham would not be so fool hardy as to think they could just start trafficking Metas to Gotham. However, There he was, on the Gotham Docks watching as a ship pulled in with Cargo officially labeled “Hats”. His enemies were nothing if not loyal to a gimmick. “Alright B, I’m in position,” a voice called through the comm link. “Roger that, Maintain radio silence until we make our move.” Over at the receiving dock, an older teen crouched on the roof. Surveying the shipment of “hats”. Of course instead of fashionable headwear in the cargo boxes, there were metal pods with people in them. The preferred method of holding Metas. The boy slipped inside the warehouse, where countless civilians wearing a myriad of odd hats were unloading the Meta Pods. He pressed a button on the Double R logo on his chest to signal Batman. He then maneuvered his way to a stubby old man in a gaudy suit and a top hat. The Mad Hatter was easy enough to deal with at first glance. The Commands from his headbands couldn’t easily be hacked, but the network they were all on was. He dropped down behind The Hatter, both arms at his sides of his utility belt. “Ah,” The Mad Hatter exclaimed, “A Bird finally joins our humble party.” The hatter turned around, and Red Robin pressed a button on his belt. He had about half a minute for the connection to establish itself. “Taking up Meta trafficking, Tetch?” “I’m just a simple buyer, dear boy. These Guinea Pigs are invaluable to my research.” “Why would you need-- Don’t tell me..” “I specifically asked for any metahuman with mental powers!” Hatter’s grin was absolutely manic, “Once I can work my technology to bypass their ability to resist my hats, not even you can stop me! Which reminds me… It’s time for your fitting” Hatter snapped his fingers…. And nothing happened. Red Robin shrugged his cape away revealing the small flashing light on his belt, “Yeah, I think as long as you’re using Wi-Fi to connect your tech, I think we can manage.” “You obstinate fool!” Hatter shouted as he reached inside his jacket and pulled a gun out. Red Robin threw his Birderrang at almost the same time, hitting Hatter’s hand and Hatter dropped the gun. “You got this, B?” Hatter turned around and saw The Batman waiting patiently. With very little warning, Batman reached out and grabbed Hatter. An action that told Red Robin that he was clear to clean things up. He rolled out of the fray and tapped the transceiver on the side of his mask. “Oracle, do you read me?” A small chirp sounded from the earpiece, “I read you, Red. Did you take Tetch down?” “B’s taking care of it. Gonna need some facial recognition for the metas here.” “So he was taking Metas in after all, then.” “Specifically those with mental powers, wanted to make sure his tech worked on them too.” Oracle made a retching sound over the comms, “That’s all we need…” “Right? So you ready?” “Yeah, I’m connected to the league’s database, let’s get these kids home.” Red Robin went from pod to pod, looking into the glass as Oracle got their identity and started to tip off the relevant parties to their presence. All the while Batman was taking care of Hatter and his thralls. “Wait, Red!” Oracle called as Red Robin scanned one of the last pods. “What’s up?” “That last pod you scanned didn’t bring up a return!” “I mean, that should stand to reason, shouldn’t it? Not everyone’s going to be registered.” “Tim, I’m connected to every database in the nation, plus the Justice League’s own database. It’s not that she doesn't have any information, it’s that according to the databases, she doesn’t exist!” Tim looked into the pod. This little girl couldn’t be more than 4 or 5, the tinting of the pod window made it impossible to figure out other features aside from the odd horn-like hair decorations adorning either side of her head. “Roger that. I’ll inform Batman then” She didn’t know how long she was sleeping. She remembered the lab and some stray thoughts but she would go back to sleep just as soon as she stirred. She couldn’t hear any thoughts either, until this moment. The thoughts were cluttered, going way too fast for her to read properly. The most she could gleen from the hurricane of thoughts was “Who is she?” and “Why did they use a child?” Her eyes opened and the first thing she saw was that she was in a cave. She sat up and saw herself surrounded by a plethora of odd sights. A glass closet filled with colorful costumes, A wall filled with various weapons and gadgets, and it was tied together with a giant computer in the middle of everything. There was someone at the computer, flanked by two other people. Their thoughts were racing, asking questions, answering them and then the occasional thought about coffee. One of the two people looked back at her. “She’s awake, B” Short, to the point, and he didn’t even use a full name. This had to be a secret spy hideout. Upon that realization her eyes lit up. Did a super spy rescue her from the lab? One of the men at the computer walked up to her. “She doesn’t seem scared, she’s just looking around.” He sat at the foot of the bed, “Are you okay?” She nodded. “That’s good, I’m Nightwing. What’s your name?” “So cool,” She thought, “A-Anya” “At least there’s that,” Nightwing thought, “Do you remember anything at all before you were kidnapped?” She shook her head, “I… I was at the lab, same as always.” Everyone’s thoughts practically screamed at that. All three of their thoughts fell into sync. “A Lab? Could it be Cadmus?” “It couldn’t be, Cadmus was supposed to be shut down years ago.” “Wouldn’t be the first time something came back.” She heard a grunt from the computer, His thoughts were racing, but she could hear something about ‘going to the study and contacting Alfred’ “Nightwing, take her to the study, I’ll have Agent A prepare something for her.” They even have a superspy butler? Her eyes sparkled as she learned more and more about her rescuers. She lifted her arms to let Nightwing pick her up. He did so and he led her to an elevator. Going up, She found herself in a large room lined with bookshelves. On one side of the room was a desk with a statue right next to it, across from the desk were double doors. Those were not the doors they entered from. Nightwing sat her down on the couch as a fireplace slid into place from their secret entrance. The Double doors opened as a tall elderly man wearing sunglasses entered the room. He strode over to Anya and offered a platter to her. “A grilled cheese for the young miss?” She nodded and took the sandwich. “May as well prepare a bedroom for her, I wonder if Miss Brown would like to help.” The Butler turned to Nightwing. “I am to assume she will be staying the night?” Nightwing nodded, “I’m gonna meet up with B, but I’m pretty sure we have a lead on where she came from.” “Perhaps I should prepare a room for the Young Miss, just in case.” It was hard to see it from under the mask, but Nightwing rolled his eyes. “Please don’t joke about that, A” The Butler smirked “You only think I’m joking, Master Dick” Batman sat at the computer, deep in thought, contemplating his next move. If he was going to have a conversation with *her*, he needed to figure out her angle. “Got a preliminary read on the Kid’s DNA test.” Red Robin announced from beside him, “Seems the pink hair is a part of her metagene.” “Anything about powers?” Red Robin shook his head, “Inconclusive. It’s mental, nothing Tetch didn’t already tell us.” Batman grunted, “Any family?” “Still waiting for those results, but the computer should be showing some possible matches by now…” Batman grunted as he closed his eyes. The last time Cadmus even tried experimenting with children, they went completely over their heads. What could they gain by doing it again? Did they think that homegrowing their own Metas would work out better? “She’s fine,” Nightwing Reported as he walked to the computer, “Alfred brought her some crayons, she should be occupied for a while.” “She said she was in a lab before getting stuck in the pod,” Red Robin stated, “Did anyone else have the same thought?” “Cadmus,” Batman said, “Officially it’s shut down, an act of good will to the league…” “But we all know that’s only the Official story” Nightwing said, “Speaking of… I still have a contact in SPYRAL. I’ll see if they know anything.” Batman nodded his head, “Good, I’ll take care of the lead with Cadmus. Red Robin will man the computer. Be prepared to call the others just in case.” Both Nightwing and Red Robin looked at each other with a similar sinking feeling as Batman left the cave.

[cinnaminsvga]

Hug-o-gram | Yoongi

→ summary: 

“This is probably the dumbest idea you’ve ever had,” Yoongi hisses, but it’s kind of hard for Seokjin to take him seriously when he’s wearing a cardboard sign around his neck that says ‘Huggie Wuggie Machine!’ in bubble font. 

“Like, even worse than when we DIY’d your car into a convertible by sawing the top off?” Seokjin asks, genuinely curious. 

“Worse,” Yoongi admits, trying his best to stay out of your line of sight. His cheeks redden, matching the gaudy pink kitten ears he was forced into wearing.

{or alternatively: Seokjin is a terrible wingman. He also runs a profitable business by sending hugs to people’s crushes for a fee. Mix them together and you have a recipe for Min Yoongi’s worst nightmare.}

→ genre: college!au, hugging booth!au, fluff, humor → warnings: yoongi is so smitten that he’s a walking disaster, so much shy!yoongi to the point where you’ll want to scream, seokjin just tryna get his homie some y/n love coochie bro ;o; → words: 13.3K → a/n: another commission by the lovely @jincherie​ because she’s epic like that!! she literally just told me to write whatever the hell i wanted and well... yoobie got me Good... anyway here’s more yoongi fluff bc apparently i’m a fluff writer now and sometimes i just want my boy to be happy... appa yip yip

Kim Seokjin makes a lot of good decisions. He also makes plenty of bad ones, but he likes to think the score is lying heavily towards the positives. Min Yoongi will be the first one to quickly disagree, but Seokjin doesn’t let it get to him. He doesn’t make it his business to listen to opinions that don’t immediately align with his, anyway; he likes to call it “selective hearing.” Yoongi calls it stupidity. Either way, the point still stands: Seokjin knows a good idea when he sees one. Case in point:

“This automatic popcorn machine is absolutely divine,” Seokjin moans, his mouth agape as he waits for the Mister Popcorn Robot to bestow him with another morsel of goodness.

“Yeah,” is Yoongi’s verbose reply. He also has his mouth agape, his prone body lying side by side with his roommate of four years in their small living room. Their roomba (another one of Seokjin’s good ideas) cleans all around them, its steady whirring serving as their only source of background music. “Lowkey though, I think our position isn’t quite… as optimized as it could be.”

“What do you mean?” Seokjin asks, as he drapes his leg over Yoongi’s. His movement jostles the surrounding popcorn halo around them, as most of the food had missed their mouths by a couple of centimeters. At this point, the roomba has probably eaten more of the popcorn than the two of them combined.

“Nothing,” Yoongi shrugs, or whatever might be the lying down equivalent of a shrug. Some of the popcorn on his chest falls down, only to be quickly devoured by roomba-chi. Yoongi stares at the ceiling, tracing shapes out of the cracks that Seokjin had accidentally made when he tried using a pogo stick indoors. He points up, catching Seokjin’s attention. “Hey, hyung. Doesn’t that look a bit like Y/N?”

Seokjin squints. “You mean the mysterious brown stain near the lights? I think the toilet from the elderly couple upstairs might have leaked that.”

“No, you dipshit. The squiggly curve over there. It reminds me of her smile.” Yoongi says. There’s a stupid dopey grin on his face and Seokjin wants nothing more than to wipe it off.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Seokjin groans, turning over to envelop Yoongi in a sweaty half-armed hug. The buttery residue on his arms and stomach leaves something to be desired, but Yoongi doesn’t scoot away. He only continues to sigh dreamily, staring mindlessly at the image of you that only his lovelorn brain can imagine.

Seokjin slaps Yoongi in the face. “Dude, get a fucking grip,” he grouses, giving Yoongi a serious look. The younger doesn’t break out of his trance, further irritating him. “Will you stop pining in front of my popcorn? It’s seriously making roomba-chi lose her appetite!”

To his credit, roomba-chi did seem to be slowing down, though that could also be because it had overloaded with popcorn and was seconds away from exploding. Wouldn’t be the first time, but Seokjin always managed to find a way to save roomba-chi from imminent death. She was like a daughter to him.

“Hyung, you know I can’t. I just… God, I really like her, you know?”

“That’s the third time you said that within the last hour. Believe me, I know.” Seokjin groans, shoving Yoongi away. He sits up, reaching over to the popcorn machine and switching it off. He grabs a fistful of fallen popcorn from the ground and shoves it inside Yoongi’s mouth. “There. That should shut you up.”

“Aw weawwy wike hew, hwung.”

“And yet, you still haven’t done anything after four years,” Seokjin tuts, finally standing up. He stretches his limbs, his joints creaking youthfully. He grabs his phone from the coffee table, nearly dropping it from the butteriness of his fingers. The clock reads 4:32 PM, which means–

“Yoongi, it’s time for me to head to work. You want to come with me today?” Seokjin asks, though he knows what answer he’s going to get. You see, Seokjin’s new booming business is another one of his fantastic ideas, but it is a little... inventive. Sure, Yoongi had scoffed when he had originally suggested the idea, but Seokjin knew that it was going to be a money-maker. Sure, it had taken a few years for the business to really take off, but once it finally did…

Enter Kim Seokjin’s Hug-o-gram Service! Students from his university are able to send anonymous payments directly to him, with little notes attached for their crushes. Each love letter delivery comes with a hug from Seokjin himself, delivered straight to the person without them ever knowing who the hug came from. It was ingenious! It was lucrative! But most of all…

It allowed Seokjin to cause drama and have an excuse for it! Nothing could have been more perfect for a man like him.

“No thanks,” Yoongi snorts, rolling over to face him. He watches from the floor as Seokjin changes into a butter-less shirt, which also happens to have his own face printed on the front and back. His trusty cardboard sign that reads “I’m Gonna Glomp Ya!” also joins his attire for the afternoon, a long piece of string tied to its edges so that he can wear it around his neck. Throwing on a pair of white sneakers with the tags still attached, Seokjin is ready to tackle today’s list of would-be hug-ees.

“How do I look?” Seokjin asks, combing his hair with his fingers. It leaves an oily sheen, which he somehow makes it work.

“Ugly,” Yoongi says, like a liar.

“It’s okay, I understand. I can speak tsundere, so you don’t need to explain,” Seokjin snickers, nearly getting hit with a TV remote by Yoongi. He opens his phone again, swiping to his e-mail to see his list of hug deliveries for the day.

Seokjin gets around 10 requests a day, with around half of them coming from regular clients. He’s especially fond of this boy who has been sending hugs to his TA named Namjoon for almost a month now. He has no idea why this kid has so much disposable income, though seeing the blush on Namjoon’s face everyday makes Seokjin think that he would spend every last penny for him too. Namjoon had begged Seokjin for his secret admirer’s identity, but snitchin’ isn’t a part of his service, unfortunately.

As much as Seokjin wants to know who is crushing on who, his little business wouldn’t work as well as it did if anonymity wasn’t included in his package deal. It allows people to thirst in public without facing the repercussions, like getting a knee to the groin or a slap to the face. Not that Seokjin has ever been at the receiving end of that; everyone loves him! Like, have you seen him? He must have saved a civilization in the past with how devastatingly beautiful his forehead is.

“Why am I suddenly filled with the relentless urge to deck you right now?” Yoongi says, getting up to change into clean clothes as well. His black t-shirt unfortunately does not have Seokjin’s face on it, but that can quickly be amended if the elder of the two decides to follow his every intrusive whim.

Seokjin laughs, completely unaware of the murderous capabilities of his friend. Due to his smaller body size, his percentage of evil is unusually concentrated. “Maybe it’s because you know that I’m into pain pla–” but Seokjin’s retort suddenly grinds to a halt. He chokes mid-sentence, coughing wildly as he pounds his chest with a balled-up fist. When Yoongi looks up at him, he finds his hyung staring slack-jawed at his phone, seemingly flabbergasted by what he finds on his screen.

“What’s the matter? Accidentally sent a dick pic to your prof again?” Yoongi snorts.

“That was one time! And no, it’s…” Seokjin trails off, uncharacteristically hesitant. He shifts his gaze from his phone to Yoongi, a drop of sweat quickly forming on the back of his neck. Yoongi raises a brow, silently urging him to continue.

Instead of replying, Seokjin hands him his phone. Yoongi finds a copy of one of Seokjin’s newest hug requests, only having just received it five minutes ago. As he scrolls down, he finds that this secret admirer is a new client, but that isn’t what made Seokjin stop in his tracks. Instead, it’s the recipient of the hug that catches his attention–

“Y/N has a secret admirer?” Yoongi says, voice cracking at the end. He clears his throat, trying his best to school his face into something less… jealous. He swivels away from Seokjin, forcing himself to breathe slowly through his nose. He convinces himself that he is the very epitome of calmness.

“You okay there, Yoongi? You look like you’re about to vomit,” Seokjin says, immediately breaking his inner peace. Yoongi groans loudly, shucking the phone over his shoulder, uncaring of where it lands. Seokjin, with his superhuman and God-given reflexes… doesn’t catch it. But he did dive to the floor like a seasoned Olympian, and his ass cushioned his phone so he supposes that’s a win.

Back to the matter at hand––

“I am fine,” Yoongi says, as he continues to not be fine.

From the floor, Seokjin shoots him a disbelieving look. He lies down more comfortably, propping his head on his elbows. Screw his hug-o-gram appointments for now; nothing brings him more joy than seeing Yoongi absolutely losing it. “Really? So you wouldn’t mind if I marched up to Y/N right now and give her the warmest, coziest, most tender hug of her fucking life?”

“Y… Yes,” Yoongi squeaks, neck glowing a furious red. He has his fists clenched (adorably) by his sides, head bowed as he faces the wall of their apartment. Seokjin’s brain makes the unhelpful comparison of Yoongi with that cat meme who says “no talk me angy” in Impact font.

Seokjin grins, his wickedness from within coiling and yearning to burst from his seams. This is it! Maybe if he pushes a little more, then maybe Yoongi will stop pining like a pathetic loser! Also, it didn’t hurt that he got to push Yoongi’s buttons while he’s at it, but hey! Not all heroes go to heaven or whatever.

He grabs his phone from his ass, scrolling back to the e-mail. “So… You wouldn’t mind if I walk up to Y/N right now and tell her ‘Hey! I’ve had an embarrassingly long crush on you and when I heard about this hugging service… I couldn’t miss the chance to shoot my shot! If you’re single and ready to #mingle, then please meet me at the Corner Cafe at 2 PM tomorrow.’” Seokjin sing-songs, snickering loudly when he sees the absolute pain etched onto Yoongi’s face.

There is a pause, and Seokjin waits as Yoongi uses his tiny kitty brain to think of what to do. He can only imagine what’s going inside his head, but he has a guess. Yoongi could either: 1) finally admit his feelings for you and come clean before Seokjin has to deliver your hug, or 2) do something stupid and counterproductive.

It comes as no surprise when Yoongi goes with option number––

“Hyung, let me come with you to work today,” Yoongi decides, walking over Seokjin’s prone body to their shoe rack. He slides into a pair of sneakers, his harried movements unusual for his customary lethargicness. He grabs a coat from its hanger, stomping his feet to get Seokjin to move faster. “C’mon! We have hugs to deliver.”

“Woah woah woah! Slow down there, Simpimus Prime.” Seokjin gets back up to his feet, skipping over to him. An absolutely feral grin is stretched upon his face. “Am I hearing what you’re saying? Are you offering… to deliver hugs with yours truly? Are you finally going to take up my offer to be an employee at Kim Seokjin’s Hug-o-gram Service?”

“Of course not,” Yoongi scoffs, but his shifting eyes betray him. He fidgets in place, refusing to return Seokjin’s eager gaze. “I just… wanted to go out for once. Yeah.”

“Yoongi.”

“What?”

“You haven’t left this apartment other than to go to class in over a month. You never go out. You’re an indoor cat!”

“I’m not a fucking cat,” Yoongi hisses, like a cat. “And of course I go out! There was that one time I went outside to pick up our food delivery last week.”

Judging from Seokjin’s unimpressed stare, Yoongi’s excuse doesn’t cut it. Yoongi flaps his arms around, defeated. “Okay, fine! I rarely go out! Screw me and the bounteous crapload of assignments I have due! It’s not my fault I don’t have the time to socialize and have fun. What do you want from me?”

What Seokjin wants is to push a confession out of Yoongi, not because he needs the confirmation, but mostly because he just wants to annoy Yoongi and say “I told you so!” He’s also pretty cute when he’s all blushy and tsundere whenever he talks about you. Should he film him and sell the footage on eboys.bb? He’s certain that goth boy over here would make a pretty penny.

“You like krabby patties, don’t you Squidward?”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Yoongi sniffs, nose upturned. He opens the door, not looking behind him to see Seokjin’s triumphant expression. “C’mon. Y/N’s last class of the day ends in a few minutes and we might catch her before she leaves the Science Building.”

Seokjin snorts. He is quick to slip his own coat on and he follows soon after. He locks their door shut, hopping over to Yoongi and matching his shorter-legged pace. “Yeah. Because you totally just know her schedule at the top of your head. You know, like a normal person.”

Yoongi ignores him. He trudges on, each step filled with determination as they make their way to Seokjin’s beat-up truck. Seokjin skips alongside him, observing the younger boy and placing bets inside his mind. The drive to campus isn’t that long as it only takes around 10 minutes to get there, but Seokjin guesses that Yoongi’s defenses will begin to chip away only 3 minutes into the drive.

He’ll start to realize the gravity of the situation, the cogs in his smooth and slushy excuse of a brain slowly comprehend what he’s about to witness. He’ll first think about how 1) he’s going to see you and that never helps his poor dainty grandpa heart and 2) he’s going to see you hugging Seokjin as he reads to you the short love confession from your anonymous Romeo. Seokjin bets that after 8 minutes, Yoongi will start to break out into a sweat, leaving gross perspiration marks on his good car seat leather.

After exactly 7 minutes and 34 seconds (Seokjin was keeping track of the time on his dashboard), Yoongi’s face turns an unflattering shade of green. “Dude. I don’t think this is a good idea.”

Yoongi had originally offered to drive the two of them to campus, but Seokjin had the good foresight to refuse. Had Yoongi been the one on the wheel, he would’ve brought them back home in an instant due to nerves. So instead, Seokjin speeds up, ignoring Yoongi’s soft whimpers of defeat.

“Too bad, but there is no turning back now. I have six deliveries today and I am not putting my livelihood on the line just because your balls have magically shrunk in size,” Seokjin snickers. He glances at Yoongi from the corner of his eye and feels the slightest touch of pity for the pathetic fool beside him. “But if it really makes you want to shit yourself from anxiety, we could save Y/N for last. Though, on second thought… That could also prolong your misery, which I will always be up for.”

“God, shut up,” Yoongi groans, slamming his head on the dashboard. Seokjin continues undeterred as he pulls into the campus parking lot, waiting for his friend to make up his damn mind for once in his life. He supposes that he is being a little harsh on Yoongi, but there are only so many sad love songs he can listen to without going completely insane.

Aren’t you tired of being nice? The demon on his shoulder cajoles, shoving the corpse of his angel counterpart somewhere down a ditch. Don’t you just want to go apeshit?

And who is Seokjin to deny his impulsive needs anyway?

“No, let’s… just get this over with,” Yoongi decides, head still smushed against his dashboard. He doesn’t make any move to get out of the car, not even when Seokjin shuts off the engine and makes a show of “leaving” Yoongi behind.

“Okay, lover boy. You have ten seconds to get your butt into high gear before I’m leaving you behind. And you should know that I’m not above playing dirty and giving Y/N the sweetest fucking hug of her life that will make her forget anyone else exists in this world, so you better start moving before I–”

Like lightning, Yoongi scrambles out of the car faster than if it had caught on fire (and Seokjin’s car has exploded before and Yoongi certainly did not seem as bothered to escape than he does right now.) He nearly trips over himself in his haste, getting caught by the car door and nearly receiving a concrete facial to boot. He straightens up with as much dignity as he can muster (which he doesn’t have very much of, if at all.) Seokjin is kind enough not to mention anything, but the shit-eating grin on his face is enough to make Yoongi bristle.

They exit the parking lot, looking to the world like the sun and moon had turned human for the day. Min Yoongi, with his all-black attire and gaunt appearance, is heavily juxtaposed with the man who appears to have been vomited on by a rainbow. They walk side-by-side together, accustomed to the stares that often come their way when they go out in public.

“I just can’t believe we’re doing this,” Yoongi moans for the umpteenth time, his movements stilted like a robot. His footsteps look heavily disjointed like his knees were beginning to rust. His arms swing like a pendulum, adding to the unnaturalness of his motions. Basically, he looks like a fucking idiot.

“Who are you calling an idiot?” Yoongi snaps. Seokjin startles a bit, realizing belatedly that he’d said that out loud. Not that he cares. Yoongi continues, “I’m not the one wearing a fucking cardboard sign that looks like a toddler made it with macaroni and glitter!”

“Hey, Taehyung told me it looked good,” Seokjin sniffs, fingering the macaroni pieces dejectedly. “I don’t need to hear an opinion from a Music major.”

“Shut up, Business major. No one likes you fucking snakes,” Yoongi retorts, crossing his arms. “Your definition of fun is going on LinkedIn and using Excel sheets.”

Distracted by their own quarrel, neither of them notice the sound of the large clock in the middle of campus that chimes every hour, signaling that it was already 5 PM. A few minutes later, hoards of students begin to leave university for the day, the walkways beginning to fill with people as they head home. Amidst the chattering and bustling of everyone trying to get out of the crowd, it is hard to notice that you are also one of the hundreds of people finishing your last class of the day.

But Yoongi notices, as he always does. Call it Y/N intuition, or whatever. “There,” Yoongi points you out over dozens of heads. Seokjin can hardly spot you, but he trusts Yoongi’s weird Y/N-dar to find you without fail. People have begun to notice the two of them, most of whom were whispering excitedly when they notice that Seokjin is in his work attire.

“Oh my god, someone’s getting a hug-o-gram! I wonder who…”

“Have you ever ordered one? I got one for my current girlfriend last month and that’s how we got together.”

“I’ve always wanted to send one, but the prices are insane! Fuck them business students and their capitalist ways.”

“Screw sending a hug to someone else! I wanna order a hug for me. Kim Seokjin is a hot piece of ass.”

(Yoongi swears the last comment had sounded eerily like Seokjin himself, but the older boy’s mouth hadn’t moved in the last minute.)

“Alright, Yoongi. Here’s the plan,” Seokjin leans closer to Yoongi, stage whispering into his ear. Everyone within a six-foot radius is eagerly eavesdropping, not even bothering to pretend that they aren’t. It’s common knowledge that Seokjin basks in their attention, anyway. Yoongi rolls his eyes, urging him to get it over with.

“Y/N is over there, right? Well, I have to send a hug to this guy named Mark Lee too, who just so happens to be over there,” Seokjin points behind them, in the opposite direction of where Y/N was heading, “so here’s my proposition. You go over to Y/N and deliver the hug for me, while I go catch up to Mark so that we can kill one bird with two stones!”

“Excuse me?” Yoongi wheezes, pushing Seokjin away from him. His eyes bug out. “Are you insane? I am not doing that. And the phrase is ‘killing two birds with one stone,’ you fucking idiot.”

“Same shit, Shakespeare! Who cares about numbers!” Seokjin exclaims, exasperated. “Listen, would you rather you hug Mark and I hug Y/N?”

“I would much rather prefer that I stick my whole fist up your anus,” Yoongi seethes.

“Interesting proposition, but maybe for a later time,” Seokjin says, not missing a beat. “Listen, dude. The longer we prolong this little bitchfest you have going on, the farther away Y/N is gonna get. You know I will stop at nothing to deliver her hug anyway, so would you rather you miss your chance right now when I am so magnanimously offering you a shot at getting closer to your crush?”

Even though Yoongi feels like his insides were slowly turning into mashed potatoes, he knows that he had already made a decision long before they left the house. Seokjin is right; this is a good opportunity for him, whether he is willing to admit it out loud. Perhaps it is just because it is Seokjin of all people who is egging him on that preprogrammed him into thinking that this was a bad idea. In all seriousness, it was just a hug, nothing fancy. It isn’t like Yoongi was going to have to kiss you––

(His heart contracts and Yoongi wonders if he’s having a stroke. The thought of your soft lips connecting with his is enough to cause the wind to knock out of his chest. God, Yoongi is so screwed.)

“Why must I always feel as though I am a snail and God is personally salting me,” Yoongi groans, stepping away from Seokjin and heading your way. Behind him, Seokjin hollers in what he assumes is friendly support, but it only further antagonizes Yoongi. The absolute buffoon waves enthusiastically from behind him, a beaming grin almost ready to split his face in two. Yoongi flips him off without looking back.

God fucking dammit. The closer that Yoongi is to approaching you, the stronger the urge to just evaporate like ice cream on hot concrete becomes. He can feel himself perspiring from every corner of his body and he just hopes that his black attire will do well to mask the slimy creature that he is underneath his clothing.

This is all Seokjin’s fault, Yoongi reminds himself. If he hadn’t started this stupid hugging service in the first place, then no one would have ordered a hug for you in the first place. Then Yoongi wouldn’t have to be in this stupid predicament either!

But you could’ve ordered a hug for her if you wanted to, says the annoying part of his brain – the same part that’s always been a little bit too hopeful for Yoongi’s liking. The whispers continue, And she wouldn’t even know it would be you! But more importantly…

“Seokjin wouldn’t know either,” Yoongi huffs irritably because he knows it’s true. The biggest thing stopping him from ever making a move on you, other than his debilitating fear of rejection and heartbreak, is the fact that he’d rather explode into spores than for Seokjin to find out that he’d used his “genius” business idea to get the girl of his dreams.

He’s afraid that one day, Seokjin would magically develop telepathic powers (a fear that Yoongi feels that the majority of the human population should also share) and find out that Yoongi doesn’t actually think his hug-o-gram service is dumb. It’s actually really cute, and Yoongi hates to admit that the success rate of his service is nearly perfect in terms of getting couples together.

But Yoongi is a strong (read: stubborn) man; he’d rather drop dead than allow Seokjin the satisfaction of seeing his business work out for his seemingly hopeless case. Which brings him to the present–

You’re standing by the entrance of the Sciences building. You are dressed nicely as always; Yoongi doesn’t think he’s ever seen you in anything remotely slobby, not even a pair of sweats like any regular uni student. You always look a little bit business proper: the epitome of someone who should be on the student council.

You’re speaking to someone, a younger male student by the looks of it. The hairs on Yoongi’s neck stand at attention and, God forbid, did he just fucking growl? Did he make that sound? By the looks of the students carefully navigating their way around him, Yoongi surmises that he did make that sound. Geez, is he some sort of animal? Is he going to turn into those feral stan accounts on Twitter that salivate over their K-pop boys like it’s their job? He hopes not.

But what if that’s the kid who sent the hug–

Yoongi shuts up his brain before he can let it finish. No, he can’t let himself go down that path. It’ll only cause him to self-combust right then and there, and he isn’t exactly keen on letting you see his entrails anytime soon. That would be the least cool thing to do, he decides. And so, with his brain turned off, he walks over to you, arms swinging robotically by his sides as he forces himself closer.

“Oh thank you so much, Y/N! You’ve been a real help to our club, you know?” The boy (Yoongi can’t believe they’re letting toddlers into university these days!) says, his eyes glittering with an ambition that still hasn’t been killed by the all-consuming dread that comes with university.

You laugh lightly, the sound causing butterflies to flutter excitedly in Yoongi’s chest. “No worries, Soobin. I’m glad I could be of help. If the editorial board needs any more help, don’t be shy to shoot me a message, alright?”

Soobin nods enthusiastically, his head bobbing up and down so quickly that Yoongi was afraid his neck would snap. “No worries, Y/N! Have a good rest of your week!” He waves a cheery goodbye, springing away with his numerous anime keychains on his backpack jingling softly in his wake.

“What a cute kid,” you sigh. You look incredibly fond, and Yoongi hates the bitter coil swimming in the pit of his stomach. That feeling soon fizzles out when you finally turn to face Yoongi. Your eyebrows shoot up, but your expression quickly morphs into one of pleasant surprise. Yoongi’s heart stops for just a moment, feet turning cold. “Yoongi! Oh my goodness, it’s been a hot minute since I’ve seen you! How’s it going?”

Let’s play a game, shall we? How many of Yoongi’s nervous ticks can you spot within the next five minutes? Think of this as the easiest game of Where’s Waldo ever!

“Hnng,” Yoongi stammers, his hand immediately going to scratch the back of his neck. His cheeks pinken, pupils shaking in every different direction as they try to focus on anything but you. It always feels like he’s standing way too close to the sun when he’s around you, hardly able to keep his gaze focused on you. He chooses to stare resolutely at your chin, but even your fucking chin was impossibly cute.

Seriously? Yoongi is a walking shitshow! His inner voice comes back, but this time it sounds uncannily like his roommate. Come on, buddy. Just say hi… You know, like a normal person. “H… Hey, Y/N.”

Success count: 1 point for the Yogurt Machine!

Even though Yoongi felt like he was living his worst nightmare, you still looked every bit like his favorite daydream. You are all smiles, seemingly unperturbed by Yoongi’s slow, embarrassing demise. “It’s so good to see you! Midterms haven’t been too hard on you, I hope?”

“I’ve been better,” he says. Better now that you’re here, he leaves unsaid. God, can you imagine if he said that out loud?

Your mouth drops open, soft cherry blossoms blooming across your cheeks. “Um, what did you say?” you squeak, embarrassed. But certainly not as embarrassed as the boy in front of you.

Yoongi stops breathing. He did not say that aloud, had he? Judging by the awkward silence stretching between the two of you, the signs are pointing to: yes. Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygo–– “Er, what I mean to say is,” Yoongi stutters through his sentence, his entire body flushing fire engine red like it’s nobody’s business. He must look like Satan’s spanked ass right now. “I… I’m here to deliver a hug!”

Confusion quickly replaces the shock on your face. You tilt your head, brows scrunching up cutely. “A hug?” you ask.

“R-right,” Yoongi says, waving his arms around because he has nothing else better to do. He gestures vaguely in the opposite direction, where Seokjin had left to find his other clients. “I’m, uhh… Helping my roommate. Have you heard of Seokjin’s hug-o-gram service?”

“Oh, yeah!” You hop excitedly in place, looking to all the world like the cutest thing in the universe. Yoongi thinks you should be classified as a public hazard, what with how you’re somehow able to give him diabetes just from standing next to him. “I totally heard about that! I’ve always wanted to send a hug, but I’ve always been a little shy.”

That piques Yoongi’s interest immediately. You wanted to send a hug? But to who? He unconsciously clenches his jaw, and he can feel a vein pop up near his neck. He forces himself to smile, but he knows it probably looks more like a grimace. “Oh really? That’s… I didn’t know you had a crush on somebody.”

Yoongi is too busy wallowing in his own self-pity puddle that he misses the way you gaze shyly up at him through your eyelashes, your hands clasped behind your back. “Y-yea… I don’t really go around telling it to just anybody,” you shrug as nonchalantly as you can. You clear your throat. “So, are you here to deliver a hug or something?”

Nothing gets past you, huh? Yoongi swallows thickly as he twiddles his thumbs. He still can’t bear to look at you head-on, afraid that his emotions would be too obvious if he did. (Who is he kidding… He knows he’s fucking obvious, and yet you never seem to get the picture!) “Yea, I am. I’m here to deliver one to you, actually.”

He doesn’t get to see your reaction, but he does notice the way your entire body stiffens. His mind immediately starts to run a minute, trying to guess why you’d suddenly gone stock still.

Did you know who your secret admirer was already? Or perhaps, were you just thoroughly shocked to receive one at all? That can’t be it… You’re the campus sweetheart! Surely it’s much weirder that it has taken eons for you to get your first hug… Or perhaps, are you so disgusted by the thought of him delivering the hug? Oh my god, what if you didn’t want him to hug you? Shit, this entire thing is a terrible idea! How did Seokjin ever convince him to do this stupid shit and get his heartbroken in the process? He swears he’s going to shove ten firecrackers up his ass the next time he sees him––

“Um, Yoongi?” You’re staring worriedly at him, your hand semi-raised as if you were about to wave in front of him. Did you say something? He must look like a fucking prick to you! He shakes his head, trying desperately to get his mind back into his body. Why must he be cursed with inner monologue disease? What is he, some sort of shoujo manga male protagonist?

“Sorry about that. I’ve been a little spacey these days,” he laughs, but even he can hear the panic laced in his voice. He sounds just on the edge of being hysterical. “Ahaha… What were you saying?”

“I was just… shocked?” You giggle softly, making Yoongi cry internally. You smirk, mischief glittering in your eyes. “I just never imagined you’d be the type to… I don’t know…”

“Willingly hug people for the sake of capitalism? I feel you,” Yoongi snorts, forgetting for a moment who he’s talking to. “Believe me, I’d rather drop dead than allow Seokjin to use me for his stupid business venture.”

“Then why are you delivering a hug to me now?” you ask, still smiling.

“Hnng,” Yoongi’s tongue feels like it’s grown two sizes all of a sudden. He wheezes, choking on his own spit as he’s caught off guard by your question. “W-well, I––”

“Just being a good friend, I’m guessing?” You’re full-on giggling now, barely trying to hide your mirth behind your hands. Yoongi understands now; you’re teasing him. He hates how amused you are by his awkwardness, but he loves the way your entire expression lights up, like you’re enjoying yourself by being with him.

“Let’s go with that,” Yoongi mumbles, scratching the back of his neck in embarrassment. He has his head bowed, hoping that his unruly fringe can finally come in handy and hide the disastrous blush encompassing his face. “Right… I’ll just, umm…”

“Am I getting my hug today, or am I gonna have to take a rain check?” You laugh, slapping his shoulder in an attempt to help him shake off the awkward tension. It has the opposite intended effect, as Yoongi’s breath hitches imperceptibly at your proximity. You had taken a step closer, and Yoongi could smell the sweet perfume you always seemed to be wearing. Please don’t pop a boner right now. That would be super fucking creepy.

“You’re…” Yoongi hesitates, arms uselessly immobile by his sides. He doesn’t know if he can even get them to move at this point, as he has lost all motor skills the moment you had focused all your attention on him. It’s a miracle that his heart remembers to beat every so often. “I’m just… I’m just gonna go for it, okay?”

You nod, hands tucked neatly behind your back. “No need to be scared, Yoongi. I don’t bite,” you joke.

God, if you only knew about the dreams I’ve had of you. Yoongi hopes to all the deities from up above that he had not said that aloud, but you don’t seem to be disgusted, so he can only assume that his traitorous brain had disconnected with his mouth for the time being.

He shuffles closer to you, the warmth of your body closing in as he makes the grueling effort to lift his arms up to gently wrap themselves around you, but before he can even fully hug you––

You’re quick to reciprocate. With a small laugh, you wrap your own arms around his torso, nuzzling into his chest with more force than Yoongi was expecting. He lets out a soft wheeze, mouth dropping open when he is assaulted by the smell of your fruity shampoo. His hands hover awkwardly above you, still unsure of where it’s okay to touch you without weirding you out.

You tilt your face up, eyes crinkling cutely by the sheer force of your grin. Both of your faces are only centimeters away from each other, and Yoongi could probably count your eyelashes if he so desired. His breathing stills as he becomes positively mesmerized by the beautiful sight in front of him. He doesn’t even hear the sound of phone camera shutters around him, as he is much too deeply focused on nothing but you, you, you.

“Hey, don’t half-ass your hug! Gimme a good ol’ bear hug!” you whine, nudging his elbows gently to get them to move. Snapped out of his reverie, Yoongi mechanically does as you say, his head completely empty of thoughts. He wraps his arms tightly around your shoulders, his wrist knocking slightly against the back of your head until you’re back to snuggling deep into his chest.

“Your laundry detergent smells nice,” you say, slightly muffled by his shirt. Yoongi lets out a breathy laugh, mostly out of disbelief more than anything. He can’t even begin to process anything right now; he feels like he’s reverted back into a single-celled organism.

“Thanks?” Yoongi squeaks, but you don’t seem to mind his awkward attempts at being a Normal Person™️. You crane your neck upwards so that you’re looking him directly in the eye. There’s a twinkle of mischief there, like you’re enjoying Yoongi’s flushed face a little too much. He honestly feels like he’s seconds away from exploding into tiny bite-sized pieces, and he fears that if you snuggle deeper into his chest, he might just do exactly that.

“So… Are we just supposed to hug for another ten minutes, or am I allowed to let go?”

Yoongi doesn’t even realize how long it’s been. You could’ve been hugging him for ten hours and he wouldn’t have known. Yoongi jerks away from you, nearly vaulting himself across campus by how quickly he lets you go. Thankfully, you don’t appear offended––you were more amused than anything. Yoongi has no idea how red he is right now; he feels like he could be blowing steam out of his ears, astounding anatomists everywhere by his peculiar talent.

“I just have to–” Yoongi pats his back pockets for his phone, clumsily pulling it out and looking for his text messages, “–read this message from your, um, secret admirer and then we’ll be good to go.”

“Great.” You nod at him enthusiastically. “Whenever you’re ready, Yoonie.”

Yoongi’s breath hitches right then, caught off guard by the nickname. Only you ever called him that, and it never fails to make Yoongi’s insides feel like molten lava every time you say it. “I… Yeah, here goes,” Yoongi mutters, trying his best to remember how to speak.

He recites the message with as much enthusiasm as he can manage, which is to say, not very much. He could probably read the phonebook with more zeal, but it’s hard to give it his all when the words feel like acid in his throat. He’s unconsciously clenching his jaw as he speaks, looking like a constipated gorilla. “...so, if you’re single and ready to #mingle, then––” Yoongi stops mid-sentence, staring resolutely at his phone screen with a grimace.

You blink confusedly. “Then?”

“Then nothing,” Yoongi finishes, pocketing his phone without an inch of remorse. “I don’t know what was up with that message, but somehow the letter got cut short. Sorry about that.”

“Huh, strange.” You shrug your shoulders, not bothering to question him.

Yoongi fist bumps himself mentally, though other people might disagree and say that he doesn’t deserve any type of congratulations, to which Yoongi says a big “fuck you!” to those imaginary haters. In the wise words of Kim Seokjin himself, “not everyone is worthy to receive your fucks, so it’s time to stop giving them.” (Kim, 2020)

“Well, that was fun! Thanks for delivering the hug to me, Yoonie,” you pinch Yoongi’s cheek, giggling when they turn even redder. “I’ll see you around, I guess? Don’t let those midterms kill ya!” You wave cheerily at him, walking past him and heading towards the bus stops. Yoongi stands frozen in place, the events of the last few minutes finally catching up to him and frying his brain beyond repair.

Oh my god, he fucking hugged you! Like, a good and genuine hug! You felt so warm and so soft and you smelled really good and it was more than he could ever imagine and just––

Yoongi’s brain is trying (and failing) to desperately parse the delayed barrage of information as it comes, but it’s hard for the little hamster running circles in his head when it has never had to run a day in its life. Yoongi’s body feels like it’s overheating even though the weather is nearing the start of winter, but that’s all thanks to you and the devastating effect you have on him.

In short, Yoongi machine has broken, and any sort of maintenance is going to be hard to come by at the moment.

Yoongi could have been standing in front of the Science building for an entire year and he wouldn’t have budged until a tornado in the form of Kim Seokjin arrived to knock him out of his brain dead state. Whistling lowly, the elder stops in front of the rigid mass of meat, an eyebrow quirked in exasperation. “Dude, nice rigor mortis cosplay. Like, yes girl, give us nothing!” he exclaims, slapping Yoongi back to consciousness.

Yoongi blinks rapidly, dazed like he’s woken up from a dream. “What? What’s happening?” he replies dumbly.

Seokjin rolls his eyes. “Yoongi. Did you finish delivering Y/N’s hug or what? I finished all my deliveries in the same time you had with Y/N, so I better hope to God you aren’t planning on applying to be an employee of mine, because you certainly have a long way to go before––”

“I hugged her,” Yoongi interrupts, eyes going glassy once more. His mouth is agape, and Seokjin can see a pool of saliva forming, ready to runneth over. He could see the rusted gears turning inside his dongsaeng’s head. “Oh my god, hyung. I fucking hugged her.”

“Yeah, and I hugged Taehyung Kim and felt his gigantic dick press into my stomach. You aren’t special,” Seokjin snorts, clasping Yoongi by the bicep. He drags him away, leading them to their parked car. “C’mon, Dampé. I’m tired and I wanna eat popcorn again.”

As they walk back to the parking lot, the campus roads are a lot less populated now that most students have gone home. Yoongi only then realizes how late it truly is and he vaguely wonders how long he had been stuck standing there before Seokjin had come to drag him back home. The sun has begun its daily descent, filling the courtyard with a warm glow and causing their shadows to grow longer as they trudge quietly to their car.

The campus is quiet enough that both of them hear the quiet buzz of Seokjin’s phone, despite him putting it on silent mode before he had gone on his hugging deliveries. He stops mid-step, causing Yoongi to bump his nose into his wide back. He yelps, shoving Seokjin forward in irritation.

“Why’d you fucking stop, you asshole?” Yoongi whines, his normal annoying personality resurfacing now that he’s begun to recover from your hug. He peers over Seokjin’s behemoth shoulders, squinting at his phone screen. “What? Another hug delivery?”

“Yeah. I’ll do it tomorrow since I think she’s gone home for the day,” Seokjin says, his tone sounding slightly too delighted for comfort. “In fact, I know she’s gone home already.”

Yoongi stills, changing his focus onto the elder’s expression. He looks… too eager to receive a simple hug-o-gram request. A shiver shoots through Yoongi’s spine when he realizes how nefariously bastardous Seokjin’s smile has grown, the tips of his smirk curling upwards like a villain from a classic Disney animation.

“What?” Yoongi glares acidly at Seokjin, but the elder is unaffected. In fact, he seems to grow more pleased the more aggravated Yoongi becomes. “Spit it out! What’s got your prostate tickled?”

“Oh, nothing,” Seokjin singsongs, shoving his phone down the front of his pants, exactly where he knows Yoongi would never touch. “Just got an interesting new regular customer, is all.”

“A new regular?” Yoongi’s pitch heightens, the hairs on the back of his neck bristling in alarm (like a cat.) “Is it… Another request for… You know who?”

“I wasn’t aware Voldemort went to our university,” Seokjin teases, thoroughly enjoying Yoongi’s distress. “Though, if you’re talking about Y/N, then the answer is not not not no.”

“Two double negatives.” Anyone could hear the audible soft rattling of his two brain cells exerting themselves as Yoongi deciphers his answer. “That means…”

Yoongi stares pointedly at Seokjin’s crotch, where the outline of his phone is glaringly obvious. “Show me,” Yoongi growls, not making a move to actually touch Seokjin’s nether regions.

Seokjin shrugs his shoulders. “No one’s stopping you from taking my phone though?”

“Hyung!”

“Buy me bubble tea first, then we’ll talk.”

“Fine,” Yoongi acquiesces, folding his arms in annoyance. “Just tell me. Is it really the same guy who requested the hug for Y/N today as well?”

Seokjin fiddles around for his phone, digging deeper when it nearly drops down the leg of his pants. When he pulls it out and swipes to his e-mails, he confirms Yoongi’s fear. “Yep. And it seems like he saw you deliver the hug today. Says that he’d prefer that I deliver the hug next time,” Seokjin smirks, enjoying the deep-set frown on Yoongi’s face.

When Seokjin takes a closer look at the order, however, he notices something a little off. “Hold on a sec,” he scrolls to the receipt, scowling when he sees the incorrect amount. “Well, you might be in luck, Yoongi-chi. Looks like loverboy sent the wrong payment. He’s a few dollars short.”

“What?” Yoongi says, for what feels like the tenth time in this entire fic. He grabs Seokjin’s phone, no longer repulsed by where it had been only a few minutes prior. Like Seokjin said, the customer had given the wrong amount, much to both their confusion.

“That’s weird, considering he just ordered a hug today,” Seokjin murmurs, shaking his head. “Oh well. Happens to the best of us. Guess I’ll just have to refund the poor sap.”

“Wait,” Yoongi presses the phone to his chest, preventing Seokjin from taking it. His hyung raises a brow.

“What is it?”

“What if I just… pay you the remaining amount? Then I can also deliver the hug to her and, uhh...” Yoongi mumbles the remaining part, but Seokjin has trained his ears to catch every whisper and mutter for moments just like this. He wouldn’t be where he is today if he didn’t perfect his eavesdropping skills to a spy’s degree. That’s right––Seokjin is a sloppy and nosey bitch and he’s not afraid to admit it!

“Oh? Do my ears deceive me?” Seokjin guffaws, pinching Yoongi’s cheeks for good measure. He hisses in response, but Seokjin isn’t afraid of some little kitten. Seokjin is a bigger bitch with a meaner bite. “Is my little Yoongi Woongi seriously offering to deliver another hug to Miss Y/N? How magnanimous of you.”

Yoongi stares at him, stunned for a moment. A few seconds pass before he shakes his head, faux disdain coloring his expression. “That’s right,” Yoongi huffs, detaching himself from Seokjin’s meaty claws. He keeps his gaze averted, like the big stupid tsundere that he is. “I’m doing this out of the goodness of my heart! I care about your profits, and I want to make your workload a little lighter! Isn’t that what you want?”

“Sure, let’s go with that,” Seokjin snickers, poking Yoongi in the tit. He swivels away, skipping merrily away to their parked car. “I’m expecting that cash in my Paypal by the time I get to the car, or else the deal is off. Make it snappy, loverboy!”

Yoongi had never transferred cash to someone so quickly in his life.

(Yes, not even when the food court on campus was doing a BOGO promo for churros. That’s the extent of how whipped his ass is, period.)

x x x x x

“This is probably the dumbest idea you’ve ever had,” Yoongi hisses, but it’s kind of hard for Seokjin to take him seriously when he’s wearing a cardboard sign around his neck that says ‘Huggie Wuggie Machine!’ in bubble font.

“Like, even worse than when we DIY’d your car into a convertible by sawing the top off?” Seokjin asks, genuinely curious.

“Worse,” Yoongi admits, trying his best to stay out of your line of sight. His cheeks redden, matching the gaudy pink kitten ears he was forced into wearing.

“Listen, I’m seriously not forcing you to do this,” Seokjin starts, even though he’s giving his utmost effort to further embarrass Yoongi by handing out flyers about Hug-o-gram’s newest employee. “Please, take one!” he cajoles, offering a flyer to a gaggle of giggling freshmen. “Make sure to reserve a hug within the week! Yoongi-chi over here is on his way to becoming employee of the month if he gets ten requests by Friday!” They all point and whisper at Yoongi, and he swears he hears one of them wolf whistle in admiration.

“That’s what makes this entire thing terrible. I’m doing this on my own volition, and I absolutely abhor myself for it,” Yoongi moans, grabbing Seokjin’s stack of flyers and smacking himself in the head with them. It probably would’ve hurt more when Seokjin still had a full-stack, but people had swarmed them the moment they entered the heart of the campus, everyone curious to see Yoongi in his interesting attire.

Seokjin might have been famous for creating the Hug-o-gram Service, but Yoongi was famous for hating the business idea, so it’s easy to understand why everyone was interested. (For good reason, he thinks darkly to himself.)

“Damn, Yoongi-chi. Looks like you’re trending on the campus Reddit page,” Seokjin laughs, wheezing even harder when Yoongi points him with a murderous glare. “What? Like you said, this was all your idea.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t ask to wear… whatever this is!” Yoongi whines, tugging on the string around his neck. The cardboard sign had been ready and prepared the moment they arrived home the other day, arousing Yoongi’s suspicions on Seokjin’s actual involvement in his current predicament. Those suspicions are put in the backburner for now, however, as Yoongi actually feels like he might die of embarrassment instead of the packets of MSG coursing through his veins from the ten ramen packs he ate this morning. Maybe both will kill him, if he’s lucky.

“Well, I would love to lend you my uniform, but I haven’t gotten a t-shirt printed with your face on it yet, so you’ll have to deal with the kitten ears and cardboard sign for now,” Seokjin says, patting him on the back. “Or, would you rather I have you wear a shirt with my face on it? I’m open to suggestions.”

“I’d rather swallow a Tide pod, thanks,” Yoongi says through gritted teeth. “C’mon, let’s move. We’ve been standing in the middle of campus like street clowns for long enough. We need to find Y/N because her class is about to end.”

“Street clowns, huh? I guess you are only missing the make-up to complete the look, especially since you seem adamant to keep honking your way through that sickening crush of yours.” Seokjin nearly catches a punch to the head, but his superior reaction time saves him from Yoongi’s sorely lacking physicality. He snatches Yoongi by the hand, dragging them towards your lecture hall. “C’mon, clown! Let’s honk this bread!”

As the two of them get closer to where you are, Yoongi’s heartbeat begins to accelerate. He wonders idly if he should see a doctor after all this, hoping that he hadn’t actually contracted heart disease due to all this stress. Lord forbid that he meet his end before he even gets to ask you out or something!

Even though he’s already hugged you once (and it was, by far, the most euphoric experience of his sad, miserable life), he still finds himself getting clammy hands at the thought of seeing you again. Nevermind the fact that he looked like a walking circus with his get-up… No, Yoongi refuses to think about it anymore, lest his last remaining brain wrinkle irreversibly smoothens.

The campus clock rings loudly, signaling the end of another block of classes. Students rush out of the buildings, with you being one of the first ones out for a change. When Yoongi spots your head of hair among the crowd, he doesn’t immediately notice what you’re wearing at first. In fact, it’s Seokjin who stops in his tracks for a moment, surprised by how you look.

“Woah, Y/N! Looking good,” Seokjin greets, rushing past Yoongi to envelop you in a hug. (A platonic hug, Yoongi reminds himself. Because unlike Yoongi, Seokjin is a normal human being who can give hugs to anyone he wants because he’s… fucking Seokjin! Lucky bastard that he is.)

“Woah!” You laugh, surprised by the sudden hug. You pat him on the back giddily, allowing him to swing you around a little. “What’s this all about? Am I getting a hug-o-gram again?”

“Yes, you are. But not from me,” Seokjin detaches himself from you, scooting away to point at Yoongi. When Seokjin moves away, Yoongi finally understands why his hyung had said you looked good. No, that was an understatement––you looked [redacted].

(For the sake of the author’s fragile ash-coated heart, she has chosen to redact Yoongi’s exact words to protect herself from slamming her head against a keyboard from how cheesy this fic is becoming. Let’s just say the word starts with a B and ends with an L. Make of that as you will.)

You must have come out of an interview or presentation of sorts because you were dressed more nicely than you usually do, which is a pretty big deal considering how put together you always looked. Your hair is styled nicely, obviously given much more care and effort than your regular appearance. You’re wearing a cute little black dress, long enough to be professional but short enough to give Yoongi breathing problems.

If Yoongi’s brain had a playlist, it would be nothing but the sound of him going HNNNNNNNNNG on repeat.

“Oh geez.” Yoongi curses lowly, smiling through the pain. This is fine, he thinks, even though it is clearly not fine. Yoongi has always been a terrible liar.

“Yoongi?” You sound incredulous, though that’s honestly a win in Yoongi’s book considering everything. You didn’t look disgusted, so that’s great. “You look…” You stop yourself, covering your mouth to hide your grin but your amusement is palpable. At least he made you laugh, he supposes.

“Like a fucking idiot? You said it,” Yoongi snorts, arms crossed defiantly. He’s trying to look intimidating, but with his cheeks puffed up and these abominable kitten ears on his head, he looks more like a grumpy cat throwing a tantrum. He juts a thumb at Seokjin, “Thank this himbo for the outfit. I definitely would have chosen something more… inconspicuous.”

“But where’s the fun in that?” You quip, still trying to mask your giggles. On the other hand, Seokjin was wheezing like a hyena, his phone pulled out and presumably filming Yoongi to add to his cringe compilation.

“Exactly what I said!” Seokjin says through his laughter, tears of mirth streaming down his face. He walks back to Yoongi, pushing him forward until he’s face to face with you. “Go on, then! We haven’t got all day!”

“I’m assuming you’re officially part of Seokjin’s hug-o-gram business now?” you ask, opening your arms wide to accept his hug. Like the beta male that he is, Yoongi has to be the one to follow in your footsteps, meekly coming closer to wrap you in an embrace.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Yoongi mutters, tucking his chin onto your shoulder. He feels you vibrate with laughter, bringing a small smile on his own face. He likes making you laugh, always has.

With the cardboard sign serving as a barrier between the two of you, he isn’t as fearful of you feeling the erratic beat of his heart, though it wouldn’t be hard to guess if you looked at him. He closes his eyes, allowing himself to enjoy your hug rather than just panic through the entire ordeal like yesterday.

Soon enough, you’re detaching yourself from him, still standing close. Your arm is just a hair’s breadth away, and if not for Seokjin enthusiastically videotaping this entire experience, Yoongi might have closed in for another hug if he could manage.

“It’s always nice to get a hug from someone you like, huh?” You say, cheeks tinted a rosy color. The true meaning of your words flies over Yoongi’s head, as his feeble mind chooses to focus on your comment a little differently.

“I––Of course I like you! We’re friends, aren’t we?” Yoongi laughs nervously, unaware that he’s slowly digging himself into a ditch. To the side, Seokjin audibly slaps a hand to his face, body shivering with secondhand embarrassment from being blasted by the full force of how idiotic his friend actually is.

Yoongi sees you deflate a little, further confusing him. “Yeah, you’re right I guess…” You sigh, taking a step backward dejectedly. Yoongi flounders a little, unsure how he managed to fuck up in just a few seconds when you had just hugged him like your life depended on it.

Choosing now to interfere before the going gets rough, Seokjin steps in between and slings an arm around both of you. Yoongi groans under the weight of his arm, glaring when he notices that Seokjin had done it on purpose, but only to him. You don’t look too bothered by his rude gesture, albeit you were more befuddled than before.

“Hey, Y/N! I don’t know if you’ve ever ordered a hug-o-gram before, but I’m doing a special this week! Now that Yoongi-chi has so kindly joined the team,” Seokjin gives him a pointed look, to which the black-haired music major sticks his tongue out petulantly, “we’re doing a little promotion for first-time customers! Would you be interested in ordering one?”

Your eyes widen, looking like a deer caught in headlights. “M-me? Ordering a hug-o-gram? Well, I…” you hesitate, sending a small glance at Yoongi before looking away in embarrassment. “I would like to, but I don’t know if it’ll be well received, you see…”

Seokjin grumbles, silently cursing the stupid shithead who caused his own demise in the first place. The worst part is that he had no idea that he totally just friendzoned you! YOU! Someone who was literally leagues ahead of him. He sincerely has no idea what you see in this bumbling idiot, but everyone with a brain knows that you have been crushing on him for as long as he’s been crushing on you, so perhaps you’re a little bit of an idiot yourself for liking him back.

Being friends with the two of you makes him feel like he’s constantly wearing a sloppy wet diaper, and he hates it. He wants to wipe his ass as soon as possible!

Seokjin shoves Yoongi away roughly, ignoring his indignant squawks as he pulls you aside. He takes you by the hand, taking you a few steps away from Yoongi, far enough that he can whisper into your ear without the other boy hearing.

Yoongi fumes from the sidelines, trying to keep his emotions in check even though he’s bursting at the seams with jealousy. Not for the first time, Yoongi irritably realizes that he does act like a cat, especially in moments like this. He might make fun of Seokjin for being an attention whore, but Yoongi is the same, if only at a smaller scale. He just wants you to look at him, as selfish as that sounds.

Can someone give him a break? He’s been holding in his crush for four years now… Imagine having to take a massive shit after drinking two gallons of milk while being lactose intolerant, except every time you line up for the washroom, the line gets increasingly long no matter how long you wait. That is the extent of his suffering, he tells himself. So please, excuse his dramatics for this one instance.

(Seokjin’s Note: This fucking jackass is SO stupid. If he only knew how easy it is to ask you out, he would know that his emotional constipation could be solved if he just fucking ASKED where the next washroom is. He could have relieved himself ages ago, but NO! And he calls me the idiot! Me! The utter betrayal! I’m never agreeing to become the second lead to a rom-com ever again!)

When Seokjin finishes whispering in your ears, you appear amused by what he had said. Yoongi sweats when you turn to face him, grinning slyly at him. “Is that so…” you wonder aloud. Yoongi feels like the world has shifted on its axis somewhat, though he still doesn’t know exactly how. He has a hunch that he’s going to find out soon enough.

“Would I ever lie to you?” Seokjin laughs that annoying laugh of his, slapping his thigh in the process. He straightens up almost immediately, his expression turning deadpan in an instant. “Send me the details by tonight, and I’ll make sure to deliver it, okay?”

“Promise?” You ask, holding a pinky up towards him. Yoongi might have let out a high pitched sob when he sees the gesture, wanting nothing more than to cup your hands in his. God, if he already nearly died from hugging you, who is to say Yoongi won’t immediately disintegrate if you were ever to hold his hand?

“Promise,” Seokjin replies, linking his pinky with yours. He doesn’t forget to point a shit-eating grin at Yoongi, for good measure.

You pull away, looking happier than you did moments prior. You were absolutely glowing, filling Yoongi with a warmth that only you ever knew how to provide. He wants to make you smile like that all the time, wants nothing more than for you to live beside him, filling his walls with the sound of your tinkling laughter. You wave cheerily at the both of them, stepping away to head home. “I guess I’ll see you, then? I’ll make sure to e-mail you my request, Seokjin!” you say, winking teasingly. “Bye to you too, Yoongi! Thanks for the hug!”

Yoongi watches as you walk further and further away as the usual melancholy that follows whenever you leave soon takes its place in his soul. It might be his imagination, but Yoongi thinks the cat ears on his head might have started to droop to match his mood.

The only way he knows how to replace the sadness, however, is by redirecting those emotions on an unsuspecting victim. Lucky for him, a willing volunteer is already within punching distance.

“Ow! Stop punching me, you gremlin!” Seokjin whines, blocking Yoongi’s series of punches like a pro. He might as well put ‘professional punching bag’ on his resume at this point. “I’m trying to help you, you useless beta male!”

“How is this helping! You made me wear cat ears and whispered blasphemies into Y/N’s ears! Now she’s going to order a hug-o-gram for her crush and it’ll be the end of my chances with her! How could you!”

“I was not whispering blasphemies, you twittering tit! I was giving her advice,” Seokjin sniffs, annoyed. “Don’t say I never help you, by the way. I’ve been trying to help you for years now.”

Yoongi hits him with a steely glare. “Really? So replacing all my clothes in my closet with clown attire is your version of help? I had to wear those stupid clown shoes for a week before you told me where you hid my clothes, jackass!”

“I was only trying to help you physically express yourself! You’re already a clown on paper, might as well help you achieve your final form!” Seokjin huffs, infuriatingly haughty. “Listen, believe me. I only told Y/N something that everyone already knows anyway, so just shut your trap and let Daddy handle the rest. You’re not going to lose her, I promise.”

“Please never refer to yourself as Daddy ever again,” Yoongi seethes, stalking off towards their car. “Don’t ever talk to me again.”

“No talk, Yoobie angy…” Seokjin snickers to himself, following Yoongi with a spring in his step. This bastard is going to grovel at his feet by tomorrow evening, he’s sure of it. If he doesn’t, then Seokjin will bite his own dick in half––that’s how sure he is of his plan! (Not that biting his dick in half will do anything to his length; he’d still be left with eight inches, let’s be real.) All in good time.

x x x x x

Seokjin gets an e-mail the next morning, much earlier than any sane person would choose to be awake at. He groans lowly, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as he tries to read the contents of the letter. When he’s satisfied by what he has read, he forwards the e-mail to Yoongi before allowing sleep to take him once more.

Sleep evades him, however, when the sound of Yoongi’s big feet pounds noisily outside his bedroom. He hits his knee loudly against the coffee table, causing their beloved popcorn machine to tumble to the floor, but that is of little consequence to Yoongi right now. No, he needs to get into Seokjin’s room right now and scream––

“WHAT THE FUCK?” Yoongi hollers, slamming Seokjin’s door open. The hinges creak, desperately hanging on despite the impact. Yoongi proceeds to slam a fist upon Seokjin’s ass, who barely flinches due to the fatness of his ass cushioning most of the damage. He blinks blearily at Yoongi, but the smirk on his face is clear as day.

“Came to claim your hug so early in the morning? Well, I usually don’t entertain clients until after I’ve taken a shower, but for you… I’ll make an exception,” he yawns, peeling back his blanket and patting the empty spot on his bed. “Come on in, Yoobie Boobie… Let’s hug like it’s the last day on earth.”

Seokjin fails to realize that once he removed his blanket, he had inadvertently left himself vulnerable. Yoongi slams the heel of his foot against Seokjin’s groin, causing him to shriek bloody murder at 7 AM. He wonders, amidst his pain, whether this might be the last straw and that their landlord will finally kick them out after years of their stupid shenanigans.

“WHAT DID THAT E-MAIL MEAN? IF IT’S WHAT I THINK IT IS…” Yoongi threatens, but it’s as empty as Seokjin’s butthole. They both know the implications of that e-mail, even a toddler can put two and two together and make sense out of it. Anonymous e-mail or not, Seokjin wouldn’t just forward any hug-o-gram request to Yoongi, unless…

What did the e-mail say? It goes something like:

Dear Mr. Kim,

Thank you for offering your special promotion for new time customers of your Hug-o-gram Service! I’ve always been a quiet fan of your business idea, but I’ve always been a little shy to submit a request of my own. Thank you so much for giving me the little push that I needed to send my first (and hopefully last) hug.

I’d like to send a hug to Mr. Min Yoongi from the Music Department. I understand that he has recently been appointed an employee at your business, but seeing as how it’d be difficult for him to hug himself (while not entirely impossible), I’d like to request that you be the one to send the hug to him.

I don’t really have a message for him, per se… I’m still a little shy, even though you already told me that there is no reason to be. I want to believe what you said was true, so I’m pushing my fear aside and putting my fate into your hands. So, to Mr. Min Yoongi… “When I told you it was nice to hug someone you like, I don’t think you understood what I meant. A hug, after all, is a two-way street. They’re often served the best when it is reciprocated, if you catch my drift. :)”

Peace! :3

Regards,

[Redacted] [Redacted]

“Have your brain synapses finished connecting? Because if even this flies over your head, I’m sorry to say buddy but… You might have smooth brain syndrome,” Seokjin pipes up. He observes Yoongi’s brow crumpling, the first signal of his impending mental breakdown. If Seokjin remembers correctly, the next signal should be when––

Yoongi drops down to his knees, his phone clattering to the floor as he stares absently at the ceiling. Seokjin cringes, worried for the state of his friend’s frail kneecaps. The poor sap has bad heart health already; surely, it isn’t too early to get him a life alert button?

Seokjin scooches over his bed, dangling half his body over the edge to appraise his friend. “So. What do you plan to do now?”

For a moment, Yoongi remains silent. Eventually, he shuffles closer to him, perching his hands around Seokjin. The business student raises a brow, confused, until Yoongi pushes Seokjin back onto the middle of the bed so that he can cram himself beside Seokjin on his small double bed. He huffs amusedly, allowing the smaller boy to snuggle into his chest, though he still refuses to wrap his arms around him. Close enough, Seokjin snorts.

“I need your help, hyung.” Yoongi’s voice is small, shy. It’s so uncharacteristic of him that Seokjin immediately softens. They might act like toddlers together the majority of the time, but Seokjin truly does care about Yoongi more than anything. During early mornings like this, when the sun’s soft rays are filtering through his sheer curtains and filling the room with a gentle warmth, it’s nice to cuddle up with one another and enjoy the silence. In fact, Seokjin would never admit it to Yoongi, but he got the idea for his Hug-o-gram service from Yoongi himself, back when the younger boy would be more prone to sneaking into his bed during his bouts of loneliness and homesickness.

Above all else, Yoongi is just a boy with a lot of love to give, so who is Seokjin to say no to his pleas for help?

“You know I always got your back, Yoongi-chi. Whenever you’re ready, we can do whatever you want. Ask and you’ll receive,” he replies, caressing his soft black tresses. Yoongi hums, smiling softly into his chest.

“Thanks, dude. For being… you know.”

Seokjin’s heart pangs a little, but he ignores it. Instead, he continues combing through his hair, humming gently. “I know.”

x x x x x

It’s been a few days since you sent the e-mail to Seokjin and you haven’t heard back from him. You aren’t sure if he sends confirmation e-mails to his clients as you’d never asked for a hug-o-gram before, nor did you know anyone who has. You are forced to continue on with your days like normal, trying to ignore the unsettling anxiety from creeping up your throat and spewing all over the sidewalk.

If Seokjin hadn’t been lying to you, then there shouldn’t be anything to worry about. You’ve been harboring this crush on Yoongi for years now, and you never thought in your life that it would ever be reciprocated. He always seemed a little bit detached, a little too cool for you. Never mind the fact that he always seemed so jittery around you, like it was hard to talk to you or something!

Your answer comes on the last day of the week, after an especially rough day at class. Your back is bent, having finished a grueling four hour lab period where you did nothing but stand and stare at your reaction vessel spinning without any signal of change. You are just a little bit hangry from all the stress piling up on your plate, especially since you hadn’t eaten a decent meal since breakfast at 8 AM.

In short, life isn’t going as smoothly as you’d hoped for your senior year, but you can’t let the blues get to you too soon. After all, there are leftover chicken wings in your fridge with your name on it, and nothing beats your meat more than greasy poultry to end a terrible week.

You’re only inches away from sliding your keycard to open your shared dorm room when the door opens without prompting. You flinch backward, yelping loudly when your roommate Park Jimin grins slyly from the doorway––never a good sign, if you knew anything.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Jimin says, leaning casually against the door like he hadn’t just scared the living shit out of you. He takes one glance at your disheveled hair and lightly sweaty clothes before grimacing in disgust. “Girl, I can’t let you meet the love your life while you’re looking like that. Come on, we have a few minutes before he arrives. Let’s get you freshened up.”

“I’m sorry?” You squeak, allowing your roommate to manhandle you into your own home. He pushes you into your room, depositing you roughly onto your unmade bed. You try to make eye contact with him, but he’s too busy raiding your closet to pay you much attention. “Excuse me? What did you say just now?”

“No time, princess! Your Prince Charming is on the way, and I’ve been ordered by Seokjin to prepare you for this life-changing moment, so get your ass into gear and change into this!” He shoves a clean pair of jeans and a nicer-looking blouse at you before proceeding to grab your hairbrush and comb your tresses with the gentleness of a mother tigress. You shriek when the brush gets tangled in an especially stubborn knot, but Jimin is relentless. He nearly tears your hair by the roots, ignoring your pained whines.

“Will you fucking stop! I have literally no idea why you’re acting like a psycho all of a sudden–” You shout when Jimin begins to undress you, having to kick him in the chest to get him away from completely eradicating your remaining traces of dignity. “Okay, fine! I’ll dress myself! Just get out of my room and fucking stay away!”

Jimin looks at you dubiously for a split second, before eventually acquiescing. “You have two minutes to get changed. You wouldn’t want to keep him waiting, do you?” he says, smirking knowingly. He better dread the day that you finally wipe that annoying twinkle in his eye; it’s been a long time coming.

Left alone to your own devices, you do as Jimin says even though you’re still wildly confused by everything. To think you had been so excited to feast on your chicken wings, and instead, you went through a decade’s worth of torture within the last few minutes. Patting your hands on the butt of your jeans, you meekly take a step out of your bedroom, where Jimin is already tapping his foot impatiently by the door.

He motions for you to hurry up. “Let’s go! Seokjin says they’re rounding up the corner. Hold on,” he steps closer to you, raising your arm up to take a shameless sniff of your pits. “Sorry, had to make a pit stop. You can never be too sure,” he shrugs, disregarding your squawks of indignation.

“I smell fine! Now what are we–” Your sentence is cut short as Jimin all but carries you to the elevator, your shrieks of terror causing one or two of your neighbors to peek their heads out of their doors. When they see it’s just the two of you, they simply shrug their shoulders, returning to their lives like it was normal to see Jimin carry you in a fireman’s hold.

He doesn’t put you down until you reach the lobby of your dorm complex, barely out of breath despite having held you the entire way down. Stupid buff baby, you groan internally to yourself, straightening down your clothes in a desperate attempt to look decent. “Okay, we’re here. Who am I supposed to be meeting?”

In lieu of an answer, Jimin points wordlessly outside your building. A black car is parked on the other side of the road, and you can barely see a familiar head of hair poking out from the driver’s seat. “Seokjin? What the…” you trail off, before your eyes finally land on their target.

Yoongi stands outside the glass doorway, not dressed in his usual all-black attire. He’s wearing an outrageously cute pink shirt today, matching the color of his natural flush. He always looks effortlessly good, with his hair a little windswept in that boyishly cute way. Your mouth goes a little dry when you realize he’s wearing his famous leather jacket, the one that always got the girls and boys swooning when he walked past in them. You hated how whipped for him you were, not wanting to be like the weird kids in his secret fan club, but who can blame you? He’s just so…

You rip open the door, nearly tripping and falling over the short steps leading to the entrance. You grind to a halt in front of him and you’re acutely aware of how rabid you must look. Your chest is pounding, like your heart is begging you to step closer, just like when you had hugged him all those days ago. God, you were going to kill Park Jimin for this.

“Yoongi? What are you…” You take one look at him before your gaze drops to his hands folded carefully behind his back. It doesn’t hide the fact that there is an obvious bouquet of flowers behind him, though. Your face lights on fire when you notice they were your favorite flowers too.

“I’m here to deliver a hug?” Yoongi says it like he’s unsure of himself, but there’s a little coyness laced in his tone. His cheeks are painted a soft pink, and not for the first time, they remind you of freshly baked bread pulled out from the oven. Soft enough to kiss, you wonder idly to yourself.

“I mean… I did order a hug a few days ago, but I do recall not ordering one for myself?” you laugh a little hysterically, your breath cutting short when Yoongi grins softly in response. “I… Who is this hug from?”

Yoongi takes a glance back towards Seokjin. “Hey, boss. Am I allowed to reveal who the secret admirers are, or will that get me fired?”

Seokjin, despite being a few meters away, laughs loud enough for the whole street to hear. “Well, Yoongi-chi. Something tells me your resignation letter was coming in the mail eventually. Who cares about the rules at this point?”

“He’s right,” you quip, pulling Yoongi’s attention back. You’re smiling wide now, your hopes and dreams skyrocketing in your chest and blooming a garden in your heart. “Who cares, right?”

“Right,” Yoongi agrees, taking the last two steps he needs to get closer to you. He drops the bouquet somewhere behind you before finally, finally, embracing you once more. He kisses you gently on the forehead, the contact short and sweet.

You feel like you’re dying, but it’s all good because Yoongi looks just as embarrassed as you. But none of it matters, not when both your happiness is palpable in the air.

“Y/N…”

“Yes?”

“This hug-o-gram is from me to you. Will you go out with me?”

You’ve always been a firm believer that actions speak louder than words. So when you lean in to plant your first kiss of many many more, he knows your answer well enough.

[thelastdrop]

Personal

The cameras snapped wildly as the celebrities came down the red carpet dressed in some of their finest clothes. This is your first major premier you’re attending as a lead journalist for your small entertainment news outlet. To say you were a little intimidated by the whole thing was a bit of an understatement. You’d always dreamed of being here, but with every reporter looking out for themselves it left little room to admire your surroundings. 

So far many of the stars have arrived and you’d yet to get even a quote from any of them. Just some second hand notes you were able to take while overhearing them talk to other reporters. You know that going back without a single quote to bring to your editor would earn you an earful and probably put you at the back of the rotation for the next event.

Honestly though the best thing about this premier in particular is that one of the hottest up-and-coming actresses is in the supporting role for this film. Your first time seeing her on the big screen took your breath away. She possessed such natural beauty and had a smile that could light up a room. Not only that, but the range of emotions she was able to portray with such control astonished you. All you wanted was to have her wave in your direction and personally you could call it a successful day.

Just as the cameras died down the next car pulled up to the edge of the red carpet. The black limousine’s door is opened from the outside. Through the various heads of different people standing around you, a single long tan leg steps out from behind the door and onto the carpet below it. Almost as if you were in a movie yourself at this moment you see her head pop out giving everyone their first look at-

“IT’S YOO JEONGYEON!” you hear a female voice cry out from the collection of fans lining either side of the red carpet.

A gust of wind blows from behind you, feeling everyone’s attention be drawn to the stunning woman taking her first steps down the red carpet. A roar from the fans quickly erupts as they scream and yell things at the actress. 

While every other actress you’d seen before her tonight was wearing a very gaudy and outlandish dress, Jeongyeon was wearing a very modest outfit compared to them. A white long sleeve button up shirt with a long black collar and black bow with two long ribbons rounded out the top of her outfit. Her bottoms were simply some high waisted shorts with six gold buttons on the front of them.

Smiling that bright smile you vividly remember seeing on the big screen she waves and greets fans, signing whatever they put in front of her. It is difficult to not want to sit there and admire her as she patiently and deliberately takes her time with the fans in attendance. All you could do was hope you’d get the same kind of attention when she finally reached the reports area right outside of the theater.

“Ah looks like we aren’t going to get a statement from her again this time.” you hear a male voice from behind you say.

“Fuck! I really wanted to get something from her I could bring back with me.” another male voice says in response to him.

You turn and face the two men behind you.

“What do you guys mean?”

“What is this your first premier with Jeongyeon?” the taller one on the right asks.

You nod your head in response.

“She barely has any time to talk with reporters because of all the time she takes mingling with her fans,” the other man says in an annoyed tone.

Damn. Looks like you aren’t getting that quote. You turn back and watch as Jeongyeon continues to make her way towards your group at a slow pace. While you’re sad you still find it incredibly endearing to watch her interacting with as many people as she can. If you’re going to write about anything tonight, it’s going to be that. 

Finally Jeongyeon makes her way in front of the photographers and has her picture taken what seems like almost a million times in a few seconds. She then turns and walks in the direction of the reporters, looking down for a moment to recover from the barrage of flashes she just looked at. As she looks up, your eyes meet.

You’re positive she’s staring right at you and not someone around you. Those gorgeous dark brown eyes were locked onto you and your eyes were locked onto her. Just like they had been for the past 15 minutes. A small smirk creeps over her face and she pulls her straight brown hair behind her ear and turns to look forward, making her way past you all and into the theater. 

Jeongyeon whispers something in the man’s ear that is walking beside her. With a quick nod he heads in a straight line towards our group and stops in the middle of everyone, so they can all hear him.

“Miss Yoo would like to say she thoroughly enjoyed working on the film. She was honored when she was chosen for the role and hoped she portrayed her character to the best of her abilities.” 

Groans and moans of disappointment fill the gathering as they seem to once again have been shafted out of another chance to hear from Jeongyeon herself.

“I know, I know. I’ll be sure to tell her she should make more of an effort to come and see you all more often,” he jokes with all of us treating us like we’re some family member that doesn’t get enough attention.

The mood of the crowd lightens up quickly as the next limousine pulls up. Since you know Jeongyeon was your last real shot at getting a quote, you flip your notepad shut and begin to put it in your bag when you notice the same man walking in your direction now.

“Excuse me. Sir!” ye calls out in your direction.

You look around you and then point to yourself while looking at him.

“Yes you,” he says, stepping closer to you so you are next to one another. “Miss Yoo would like for you to have a one on one interview with her.”

“A-A what now?” you ask dumbfounded.

“A personal interview,” he says with a bit of a chuckle. “You know the thing where you ask her some questions and write down her response on your notepad. Don’t you do this for a living?”

“A what now?” you repeat yourself still in a daze at what he’s telling you.

“Listen, just go to this room,” he grabs your hand, puts a piece of paper in it, then closes it, “at the Steel Circle Hotel after the movie is over and knock. Tell her you’re the reporter she asked to do the one on one interview with.”

You look down at the papers crumpled up in your hand then back at him without making a sound.

“Well if you don’t have any questions for me I should really catch back up with Miss Yoo inside. Good luck later.” he says with a slight bow before turning and briskly walking into the theater.

You open your hand and see 3 numbers “829.”

A WHAT NOW?

---

825. 827. 829 here it is. You stand in front of the egg shell colored door and stand there for a moment. Your hands get a little clammy as you look at the looming door in front of you. Could this be some sick prank that Jeongyeon’s assistant is pulling on you? After all that was your first major red carpet event and you aren't sure if this is something that was normal.

Suddenly you hear the elevator doors ding down the hall. The noise causes you to reflexively reach out your hand and knock on the door. Fear washes over your entire body. Your heart starts to race as you wonder if you just made a grave mistake.

“Who is it?” you hear a gentle, feminine voice call out from behind the door.

You stand there and start almost running in place. You throw your hands over your face and drag them down, continuing to wonder if you’re making a huge mistake right now.

“Hello?” the voice calls out again.

“Duhh. Sorry. Hi, I’m the reporter Jeongyeon asked to have a one on one interview with.” you spurt out closing your eyes as you say the words.

You hear the lock on the door flip and the handle move. One eye peaks open and sees the stunning Jeongyeon standing in front of you. Both of your eyes slowly open as you fully take her and all of her beauty in from this short distance.

“You sure got here fast. I just got back myself.” she says with a smile while taking one of her earrings out. “Well don’t just stand there, come on in.”

Jeongyeon holds the door open with her body leaving you a space to slide by her and into the hotel room.

“Ugh, yeah sure. Excuse me.” you mumble as you sneak by her.

Once you’re in the hotel room, you look around and see some personal belongings strewn about the room.

“I’m gonna get a little more comfortable if you don’t mind waiting out here for a couple minutes,” Jeonyeon says as she reaches for her other earring and moves into the doorway of the bathroom.

“No not at all.” you say after clearing your throat.

Jeongyeon smiles and ducks into the bathroom. You hear the sound of the sink running and look for somewhere to sit down. With her clothes and luggage taking up most of the normal seats, you take a seat on the edge of her bed and pull out your notepad and a pen.

“If you wanted to ask me a few questions while I’m in here that’s fine. Just nothing too deep,” Jeongyeon calls out in a semi-seductive tone from inside the bathroom.

“Ugh okay then. Well first off you were great in the movie. I’d heard mention from a few people saying you have a shot at winning best actress in a supporting role this year as they were leaving.”

“Oh that’s such an honor to hear. I really thought the director made it so easy to understand my character and play her role out, so most of the credit goes to him.”

“Personally I wouldn’t be as humble as you. You seem to know just how good you are, but you always pass the spotlight off to someone else. Why is that?”

“Hmmm I’m not sure. I really don’t notice myself doing things like that so often.”

You hear the water stop and sit up straight in your seat.

“I was wondering if you’d like to change up the interview a little bit. I like being more personal in my interviews. It helps me get to know the reports I work with.” Jeongyeon says as she exits the bathroom and comes into your view.

Your jaw nearly hits the floor as you look at her. Jeongyeon stands before you in a set of green lace lingerie. She places a hand on her hip and lets you soak her in for a moment before walking over to you on her bed. Throwing one of her long toned legs over you, she straddles you while lightly placing her arms around your neck.

You can’t say anything as you look the breathtaking woman up and down while she grinds against your lap.  

“Well it looks like somebody wants to have my type of interview.” Jeongyeon coos feeling your cock harding in your pants and pressing against her pussy.

You can’t control yourself any longer. Dropping your pen and notepad you dive into her cleavage, kissing and licking her soft, smooth skin. Jeongyeon lets out a fit of giggles as you wrap your arms around her torso and pull her body further against your own. 

While you love how the lingerie looks on her, you need it off now. You pull yourself out of her heavenly cleavage and hook your fingers under her bra, lifting it over her head and tossing it to the ground. 

Placing your hands under her thighs you lift her before spinning and dropping her onto the bed. Looking down at Jeongyeon hungrily, you make quick work of your already loose tie and shirt. Undoing your belt and dropping your pants you watch Jeongyeon run her hands up the curves of her body before grabbing her tits and arching her back off the bed.

“Hurry up slowpoke. I want to see what you’re hiding from me.”

“Take those panties off and I’ll do a lot more than show you.”

With a satisfied smirk removes her panties as you pull your remaining clothes off. Jeongyeon hums in satisfaction as she sees your cock standing tall. She opens her legs and holds them open, inviting you to enter her.

Crawling over top of Jeongyeon you capture her lips for the first time. Jeongyeon kisses you back and brings her hands to your head, running them through your hair and pulling you deeper in. 

Guiding your dick into Jeongyeon’s wet cavern, the hopeless woman lets out a long, muffled moan as your cock stretches her out.

“Oh fuck baby…” Jeongyeon moans as you slowly slide in and out of her, reaching deeper into her with every thrust.

Her tits begin to bounce erotically in front of your face as your thrusts start to intensify. Wrapping a hand around one, you flick your tongue against her hardened nipple. Soon you feel Jeongyeon wrap her legs around your waist as she holds her body tightly against yours.

You release her nipple and hook your arms under her legs. Placing her ankles on your shoulders, you lean further into Jeongyeon to give yourself a better angle.

“What’s this big boy? You going to go deeper now?” she teasingly asks.

“You ready?” you say while smirking at the sexy woman.

“Fuck yes I’m ready, don’t hold back baby.”

With that said, you start rapidly pounding into her. Jeongyeon's moans get louder and she begins shuddering a bit as she nears her own peak. The sound of your hips hitting hers is music to your ears as you give one almighty thrust and bury yourself to the hilt, feeling her velvet walls tighten around your cock.

"Oh fuck!" she cries out.

With that, hot liquid rushes over your cock coating it in her love as she begins quivering.

You slowly roll your hips in and out of her while she rides out her orgasm. Once her high has subsided, you go back to pounding into her with the same vigor as before. It doesn't take long before the walls of her cunt recoats your dick with another fresh layer of love juice.

"Your pussy feels so fucking good Jeongyeon. It feels like you're milking me for all I've got."

"Don't stop, harder, faster, please. Don't stop."

Your cock grows even harder inside of her as you give her exactly what she desires. She begins clawing at your back and shoulders as you push yourself closer and closer to the edge. With a few more slams, you feel yourself reach your limit as you cum hard within her. Jeongyeon pants as you continue your relentless assault, not allowing yourself to stop until the last waves of orgasm leave you.

The two of you rest there for a moment, basking in the glow of your combined fluids before you slowly slide out.

“I hope you got some material to use.”

A/N - Sorry this one is a little later than the other 2, but it took me a while today to think of a good scenario. But I’m very happy with what I was able to come up with so I hope you all are too. I also once again may have gone a taaaaaad bit over the 2k mark lol. I also wanted to make sure I did Jeongyeon justice for locke since I promised him god knows how long ago I’d do a Jeongyeon piece. 3 down, 6 more to go. Hope you all enjoy reading it~

[pucksnsticksnhockeyboys]

all wrapped up for you

summary: you’d do anything for your best friend, even if that means helping him buy the perfect gift for the person he truly likes.

word count: 3k

note from the writer: day three! make sure to check back for the next nine fics! / masterpost of the Christmas fics

tagging: @bqstqnbruin @broadstbroskis @laurenairay​ @calgarycanuck​ @justjosty​ @sorryjustafangirl​ @tayella13​ @wastedheartcth​  @kiedhara​  @writinghockey​  / add yourself to my Christmas fics taglist

You really wished you were better at telling Anthony no. Wished you had taken up your friend’s offer to get brunch so you had an excuse to say you were busy on Saturday. Wished you weren’t so gone for him that the moment he said he needed help you didn’t clear your calendar.

Because now you were stuck helping the guy you were practically in love with buy a gift for someone else.

He showed up to your apartment half an hour earlier, before you had even gotten dressed for the day, and let himself into your apartment as if he owned the place. You couldn’t be mad, truly, because you had given him a key and it was far from the first time he had done so.

“Are you ready?” Anthony asked excitedly, making his way into your kitchen where you were putting your now empty mug in the sink. You rolled your eyes, grin tugging at your lips as you turned to face him and gestured to the baggy t-shirt and old shorts you slept in.

“Does it look like I’m ready, Beau?” You questioned teasingly, watching as he sighed dramatically with a grin that rivaled yours. A thought crossed your mind then, one that dampened your mood and you bit your lip to try and stop yourself from voicing it, but it was too little too late and suddenly you were speaking without your permission. “You must really like this girl if you’re showing up early and trying to drag me out of here.”

“Yeah, I do.” Anthony responded easily, and thankfully his back was turned as he dug through your cupboards for something to snack on so he didn’t see the way your face fell and shoulders slumped. You hurt your own feelings with that comment, the dreaminess in his words tugging at your heart. You wanted nothing more than to be his, but if you couldn't have him, you at least wanted him to be happy.

“I’m going to go change.” You murmured, and if Anthony picked on the sudden change in your tone he didn’t say anything. The time it took for you to get dressed and put the final touches on your outfit gave you the break you needed to collect yourself and your thoughts.

You knew the next few hours were going to be rough; you’d be spending time with Anthony, which you always looked forward to, but it’d come with a cost. That cost being helping him get the perfect gift for the person he had feelings for. The person who was, very clearly, not you.

“Ready?” You questioned as you emerged from your bedroom to find Anthony sitting on your couch waiting patiently. He jumped to his feet, clearly anxious to get started, and you tried your best to chase away any and all thoughts regarding your current predicament with him.

If he asked your help, then you’d give it to him.

“So, what are we thinking? Jewelry? Perfume? Shoes?” You asked the moment you entered the department store he had taken you to. Glancing up to him, you couldn’t help but laugh at the bewildered look on his face, clearly unsure of where to start.

“Is that stuff you would like?” He turned to face you, brows furrowed and for a moment he caught you off guard. This was a dangerous game, picking out stuff you would like only to have Anthony turn around and buy it for someone else. But he looked so completely lost and out of his element that you forced a tight smile and curled your hand around his bicep to lead him further into the store.

“Do you know her sizes? Shoes could be nice, or we can look at jewelry if you want it to be more romantic.” You mused, pulling him towards the shoe section to start. Even if he wanted to look for other stuff, you could still buy yourself something nice. Maybe you’d get something out of this trip other than your own hurt feelings and the confirmation that he definitely did not feel the same about it. A little retail therapy never hurt, right?

“She’s about your size, yeah.” He told you, certain in his tone despite not giving you a solid answer. You tried to stop yourself from running through the list of people Anthony hung out with that were roughly your size, but you came up short, certain that he would have told you if it was one of your mutual friends.

“Maybe we should look at perfumes, then.” You steered him away from the clothing section. If he didn’t know her exact sizes, then you didn’t want him to get her something that didn’t fit. Standing in front of the display shelf full of perfume, you getsured for Anthony to take his pick.

“Isn’t this the kind you wear?” He asked, grabbing a bottle off the shelf and spraying it. You shot him a look, unsure of why he would know that and how he was able to pick it out easily. It wasn’t as if he had smelt it and recognized it; he had picked it up off the shelf completely unprompted. Part of you wanted to melt at his words, to overthink and hurt your own feelings once more, but you shoved that part aside.

“And you know that, how?” You asked, grabbing the bottle out of his hands and putting it back on the shelf. There was absolutely no way he was going to be getting the same perfume you wore for some other girl.

“I don’t know, I’ve seen you getting ready for nights out too many times, I guess.” He said with a shrug, but you would have sworn you saw a blush on his cheeks. He turned away from you before you could be certain, and you were left standing in front of the shelf of perfume confused while Anthony wandered off to the counter full of different types of jewelry. “Jewelry is romantic, right?”

“Yeah, what are you thinking?” You confirmed, trying not to seem as defeated as you were by his choice of words. He was looking for a romantic gift, a gift that was not for you and you were helping him pick it out.

“I don’t know, what do you like?” He questioned, looking over the case of rings, bracelets, earrings and necklaces with confusion. You couldn’t help but chuckle at how lost he looked, and it was that tiny bit of pity that had you turning to look at the jewelry to pick out something you liked.

“I think those necklaces are really pretty.” You hummed, pointing out a row of beautiful gold chains with different pendants and designs. They weren’t overly gaudy but strikingly simple, and they had caught your eye almost immediately.

“The diamond ones?” Anthony questioned, looking to the rack just next to the one you had been pointing to. Shaking your head, your head, you moved closer so that the necklaces were in reach. They truly were a gift you’d love to receive, and it stung a bit that Anthony might be buying one for someone other than you.

“No, not necessarily. I don’t think the price tag matters, but maybe something a little more personal, you know?” You explained, your fingers brushing over the dainty gold chains absentmindedly. Glancing up, you noticed a far away look in his eyes as he studied you and most definitely not the jewelry you were showing him. “Beau?”

“Yeah, I got it.” Anthony said quietly, like he was having a completely different conversation that you were unaware of. You gave him a confused look, but chose not to question him. Your heart was hammering in your chest as a result of the way he was looking at you, a soft smile on his lips and a look that was too similar to adoration in his eyes. All too soon, though, his gaze drifted over your shoulder as if searching for something. “What about that?”

“A candle?” You asked, following his gaze to the section of seasonal and decorative candles. Anthony nodded, a slight flush to his cheeks as he grabbed your hand and pulled you away from the jewelry and to the candles. “Beau, you asked me to come along for gift ideas but you haven’t listened to a single thing I’ve suggested.”

“Just trust me on this? I promise she’ll like this.” He assured you, though he didn’t sound all too convinced. Candles weren’t the most romantic gift, certainly not as much as the jewelry and perfume you had just been looking at, but he had the advantage of knowing who you were shopping for.

“You know, this would be a lot easier if you told me who she is. Have I met her before?” You questioned, grabbing the first candle off the shelf and smelling it. You were trying to act inconspicuous, but you were dying for information.

“Yeah, but I’m not telling you.” He said, a bashful look on his face as he avoided your gaze and examined the candles as if they were the most interesting thing in the world. He must have felt the weight of your stare, because he shot you a mischievous smile that nearly knocked the wind out of you. “It’s a secret.”

“Does Barzy know?” You challenged, picking up another candle and inspecting it as a way to try and seem less interested than you were in Anthony’s love life.

“That’s not important.”

“So he does.” You stated, a victorious smile on your lips despite the way your heart raced at the thought of getting closer to finding out who had Anthony all worked up. Maybe it would be best if you didn’t know who it was, to live in blissful ignorance for a little while longer, but you had never been the best at preserving your own feelings. Hence the reason you had agreed to spend your free Saturday helping Anthony buy a gift for someone else. “Come on, why won’t you tell me?”

“How does this smell?” He dodged the question, grabbing the closest candle and holding it up to your face to get your opinion. You gave him a curious look, but otherwise dropped the subject and focused on the apple cinnamon scented candle he held.

“Here, try this one instead.” You sighed, handing him the candle you had previously been testing. With a heavy heart, you watched as he gave the candle sniff before looking to you for guidance. “Wisteria and jasmine, it’s supposed to be a romantic combination. I’m sure she’ll love that, whoever she is.”

“Yeah,” Anthony started, watching you with the same adoring look in his eyes that made your heart race. “Whoever she is.”

You couldn’t help but feel a little guilty satisfaction as you watched Anthony hand the candle to the cashier, because even though some other girl would be getting his attention along with that gift, at least it wasn’t something entirely too romantic.

It was a few days until Anthony finally came around to your place again. He had told you that he needed to come over and give you his gift, because he was supposed to be heading back home to see his family soon and wanted you to have it before he left. Your present for him was sitting on your kitchen table, a nice leather wallet wrapped and ready to be exchanged, and when he finally knocked on your door you jumped to your feet to let him in.

He was nervous, you could tell from the way that he knocked instead of letting himself in and how he rushed past you with little more than a quiet ‘hello’ and a kiss pressed to your forehead. With a furrowed brow, you shut your apartment door and followed after him into your living room, where instead of making himself at home on your couch like he usually did, he was pacing the length of the room.

“Beau, are you alright?” He stopped at the sound of your voice, and spun to face you a little too quickly. He didn’t say anything at first, just dragged his hand through his hair and nodded despite looking anything but alright.

“Here’s your present.” He blurted, holding out a wide, flat box. Definitely not a candle. It was evident that he had wrapped it himself, you could see how much tape he used and how the folds were less than neat, but you smiled happily all the same.

“Let me go get your gift, and we can open them together—” You started, but Anthony shook his head quickly to shoot down the idea.

“No, you need to open yours first.” He said decidedly. You didn’t put up an argument, and instead took the box he was extending towards you and settling down on the couch. Anthony stayed standing, and you tried not to let that unnerve you, but something was going on with him.

After unwrapping the present, you opened the lid of the box to find a familiar blue and orange jersey inside. With a chuckle, you lifted the fabric up to better read the name and number on the back of the jersey. Beavullier, number eighteen. It was a running joke between the two of you, that somehow you, his good luck charm, didn’t even own one of his jerseys.

“Thanks, Beau.” You smiled genuinely, but before Anthony could say anything in response your gaze caught on something else in the box with the jersey. It was a smaller, black box that you instantly recognized as one for jewelry. Your breath caught in your throat and you glanced up to Anthony, but he was just watching you with a nearly unreadable look in his eyes.

You opened the box, a shocked grin instantly making its way onto your face as you saw the dainty gold chain and the tiny circular pendant of the necklace. You remembered it as one of the necklaces you had pointed out to him in the department store.

“You said personal.” Anthony said quietly as you brushed the pad of your finger across the lowercase ‘a’ engraved on the pendant. You felt your heart skip three beats at the realization of what the ‘a’ meant. It was for Anthony. He was giving you a necklace with his initial on it.

And he had you convinced that he was terrible at buying romantic gifts.

“Yeah, I did.” You replied just as quietly, carefully setting the boxes on the coffee table before standing and crossing the short distance to where he was standing in your living room anxiously. “Who is the other girl, Beau?”

“There isn’t another girl. Never was, never will be.” He confessed, his hands slowly finding purchase on your waist as you stepped closer to him with each word that passed his lips. Your heart was hammering in your chest, but a thin veil of confusion still covered you. Regardless, your hands fell to his chest, and you could feel the rapid beat of his own heart under your palm.

“Why’d you buy the candle that day, then?” You questioned, because for the past few days you had done nothing but think about how he bought another gift for another girl. Anthony smiled sheepishly, ducking his head slightly in nerves.

“I couldn’t exactly buy your gift with you right there, now could I?” He explained and you couldn’t help the chuckle that fell past your lips then at his comment.

“What’d you do with it?” You were teasing him then, simply bidding time until the conversation that you felt was inevitable came. The one where you finally told Anthony how you felt, the one where he, hopefully, said he felt the same.

“Gave it to Barzy. He really appreciated you picking out the scent, by the way. Said it was exactly what he was looking for.” He mumbled, his head dropping lower and lower in search of a kiss you wouldn’t hesitate to give him. He was teasing, buying time for you to pull back but you stayed still, tilting your chin up slightly in a bid to get him to finally connect your lips.

“Well, tell him I said you’re welcome.” You grinned, shaking your head in mirth at their close friendship. It was then that Anthony closed the gap between you and him, your hands moving of their own accord to hold his face as he kissed you with everything he had. It was a little dizzying, to finally have his lips on yours after so long spent dreaming of this moment. Even when you pulled back ever so slightly to breathe, it was clear both of you had smiles that would last for days.

“Besides, I needed to take you shopping to see what you liked. Pretty smart, eh?” He grinned, clearly proud of himself. You rolled your eyes playfully at his comment, but he only tugged you closer to him until you were flush against his front.

“Beau, I’ve spent the past week and a half thinking you had feelings for someone else. You could have played it a little smarter.” You teased, shifting so your arms were wrapped loosely around his neck. His expression flickered then, to one a bit more serious and he was looking at you with a sincerity in his eyes that would have made you melt, if his kiss hadn’t already done so.

“So, you like me too?” He questioned, and though his wording felt a little juvenile you nodded honestly, your gaze shifting to match his.

“Wouldn’t have kissed you if I didn’t.” You told him, tilting your chin up in search of another kiss that Anthony wasted no time in giving you. “And I definitely wouldn’t have done it again.”

“Do you want to put on the necklace? I want to see you with my initial.” He commented, a little cheekily but mostly happily. You nodded, slowly slipping from his arms to pick up the box you had set on the coffee table. With a sly smile of your own, you asked;

“Help me put it on?”

[hopelesshawks]

If you're still doing it, and if you feel inspired with the character : Bakugou Katsuki and the song "From Now On" from The Greatest Showman.

You can write with another character if this one doesn't inspire you!

Send me a song and a character (still open)

Ohhhh I love this!! Pro hero!Bakugo who let all the fame of being number 2 get in the way of his relationship me thinks. Thanks for sending this in 🥰

Bakugo used to love the fame and attention that came with being a top hero.

He used to love the way people would scream his name with stars in their eyes when they saw him; the way the idiots in suits over at the HPSC would congratulate him on his incident resolution rate; the way the press would sing his praises; the way his name sounded after the words Number Two Hero even though he’d much rather hear it after number one. He loved it all.

But you?

You fucking hated it.

You always said it was the worst part of hero work. The fans, the paparazzi, all of it grated on you. You hated that since Bakugo had cracked the top 10 you two couldn’t go on date night without getting blinded by cameras. You hated going to HPSC galas in an expensive outfit you’d never wear a second time, sipping overpriced champagne even though you’d be just as happy with something a tenth of the price. You hated that you couldn’t go on social media without seeing speculation about your relationship and your sex life literally everywhere or even worse hundreds of people all stating exactly why you weren’t good enough to be with the Bakugo Katsuki. But what you hated the most was the way Bakugo loved it; the way he preened under the praise, his chest puffing up with pride, ego absolutely blooming under all the superficial attention; the way he’d kiss you in front of paparazzi just so the headlines would be filled with mention of you being his. The rest you could deal with but it made your skin crawl how much he’d change when the public’s watchful eye was on him. At home he was the man you fell in love with, but the minute you left he regressed to the obnoxious asshole you’d first met during your first year at UA.

It was a recipe for disaster and in retrospect Katsuki really should’ve seen the break up coming. He can barely remember what had set off the argument in the first place, probably another gaudy headline or crude Twitter trend about the two of you. You’d been upset about it, raving about invasions of privacy and feeling violated and he’d been dismissive, the way he always was when it came to these things.

“It comes with the territory, just fuckin’ get used ta it already,” he had scoffed.

“The issue is you encourage it Katsuki! You care more about the fame and how good it makes you feel than you do how that added scrutiny makes me feel!” you fired back.

“Why can’t you just fucking deal with it??”

“I shouldn’t have to!”

“Well maybe if you did your fuckin ranking would be better!”

It was a low blow. Bakugo knew it then and he still knows it now. You try so hard to be the best hero you can be, but at the end of the day popularity plays a nontrivial role in the ranking system and being the “““just average””” significant other to one of Japan’s biggest rising stars isn’t a recipe for popularity.

“Get out….”

Your voice had been dangerously low. He’ll never forget the way it managed to sound both terrifyingly lethal and devastatingly heartbroken.

“Shit, wait (y/n) I didn’t mean that I-”

“I said get out!” you had yelled, voice quaking with pent up emotion as you started shoving him out the door. If he really didn’t want to move he could’ve easily resisted but at the time he’d been too shocked to even try, reeling backwards and letting you force him back into the hallway of your apartment building.

“Talk to me when Bakugo Katsuki comes back, I’m fucking sick of Pro Hero Dynamight,” you had said before promptly slamming the door in his face.

In the month that followed Katsuki threw everything into his work, taking longer shifts and pushing himself harder so that by the time he got home he was too beat up to feel the aching pain in his heart and too exhausted to notice his apartment didn’t feel like home the way yours did. He ignored the pitying looks from his friends, brushed off their concerned words and sympathetic gazes with grumbled “I’m fine”s and eye rolls. He filled the hole you left in him with the praise and admiration of the adoring public.

And then came the day you’d been warning him about since he first became a household name.

“The Cost of Victory: Pro Hero Dynamight destroys city during villain chase”

The story matched the headline, tallying up all of the damage he’d caused to buildings and other public property while trying to apprehend someone’s half ass attempt at recreating nomu. As shoddy as the thing was it could take a fucking hit and there was no denying the collateral damage was decently expansive. What the article failed to mention, however, was the amount of damage done before Bakugo had arrived on scene. It made sure to comment on the number of casualties in the incident but conveniently left out how much larger that number would be had Katsuki spent more time worrying about some stupid hunks of metal over catching the damn monstrosity and saving civilian lives. He guesses “Pro Hero Dynamight does his best despite being out gunned and having zero back up at his disposal” isn’t as catchy or clickworthy of a headline.

The very same websites showering him in praise just a day or two before now viciously rip into him. He can’t take a step outside his apartment without seeing article after article shredding him to pieces or getting a camera shoved into his face asking for comment on the criticism. His Twitter feed is full of former fans deriding him for falling short of perfection, calling him a narcissist, a showboat, a fucking menace to society as if he’s the sixteen year old kid chained up at the sports festival all over again. So he stops leaving his apartment entirely.

Kirishima is the one who finally gets him out again. The bar they go to is small, further away from the downtown area than most people are willing to stray. Between that and the fact it’s still relatively early in the evening, they have the place to themselves. The only other soul is the owner/bartender who seems entirely uninterested in the fact that Red Riot and Dynamight are patronizing his establishment. It’s perfect, giving Bakugo the space he needs to rant to his best friend. And rant he does. He lets it all pour out while he paces: the frustration, the rage, the disappointment, the guilt, until there’s nothing left in him except an aching sadness that has nothing to do with the fake fans and shitty headlines. “Y’know what the worst fuckin’ part is?” he rages, face red from bellowing for the past lord knows how long and tears already welling in his eyes at what he’s about to admit. Kirishima barely has time to ask what the worst part is before Katsuki is choking out around a frustrated sob “I wouldn’t even give a shit if I still had (y/n).”

Kirishima is out of his seat and pulling his friend into a hug in an instant. He lets Bakugo shake apart, doesn’t mind the tears soaking into his shirt or how tightly the other man is gripping onto him. He stands solid and firm, the same way he always has and always will for Katsuki until the sobs turn to hiccups. “They’re worried about you, you know,” Eijirou finally tells him. “Yea? How the fuck you figure that Shitty Hair?” Bakugo grumbles miserably into his shoulder. “They’ve called me every day since the article came out to check on you,” the red head admits and it’s enough to make Katsuki stiffen in his hold, scared to hope. “Really?” he asks, voice gruff but quiet. “Really. So are you gonna go to them or what?”

You’ve been staring at your phone for at least an hour, debating whether to call Bakugo or not, when a knock on your door snaps you out of your pained contemplation. You pull the long sleeves of the hoodie Bakugo gave you for your birthday down over your hands as you move to answer the door. Imagine your surprise when the very man who’d been plaguing your thoughts is the one standing outside your door. He looks rough. His hands are shoved into his pockets, back hunched over, face red and puffy, and even though he hasn’t looked you in the eye yet you can tell his are red rimmed. He’s been crying, you realize, and it breaks your heart a little. “Ya just gonna stand there or can I come in?” he asks and it snaps you out of your thoughts again. “Right yea sorry come in I guess,” you say, stepping out of the way to let him in.

He’s almost twitchy, like he wants to make himself comfortable the way he always used to but can’t. You wince a little when you realize it’s the correct assumption to make. Still he doesn’t say anything, he just stands there looking somehow simultaneously out of place and like he never left. “What are you doing here?” you finally sigh. “You said talk to you when Bakugo Katsuki came back and he—or I—or whatever did,” he mutters and a pang of something that feels suspiciously like guilt hits you at the words. “Oh… Is—is that all you wanted to say or?” He glares at a distant point over your left shoulder, presumably collecting his thoughts, before he finally meets your gaze. “Look I-” he breaks eye contact again, growling a little in frustration at himself as he continues to struggle to find words. You don’t say anything though, knowing he needs to work through it himself. “Things have been pretty shit for me lately,” he finally admits. You can’t help but scoff at the comment although one look at him and his pained expression has you regretting it. You clear your throat awkwardly. “Sorry, yea, keep going.”

He huffs before continuing and even though he still won’t meet your eyes you can tell how difficult this all is for him.

“Look things have been pretty fuckin’ shitty lately with everyone and their goddamn cousin in Japan hatin’ me but it’s made me realize some shit. I’ve been so fuckin’ focused on chasin’ the fame and the fans or whatever that I kinda forgot about the important stuff…”

He only trails off for a moment, steeling himself for whatever he’s about to say next. It’s almost funny how much it reminds you of him right before a big fight.

“But from now on,” he starts, finally meeting your gaze, puffing out his chest as if daring you to challenge whatever’s going to come out of his mouth next. “From now on I’m not gonna let all that stupid shit blind me alright? I promise, from now on I’m only focusin’ on the real people in my life, not the goddamn extras. Ok?”

His eyes are blazing as he finishes and it literally takes your breath away.

“Ok.”

“Ok, then….” he trails off, his eyes slide away again as his confidence wanes, “then can I come back home again?”

Your heart shatters and forms anew at the words as you find your feet moving before you’ve even told them to. You throw yourself into his arms, pulling him close, the jagged edges you both left in each other the night you broke up re-aligning and mending themselves. “Of course you can Katsuki, I’ve missed you,” you sigh, each word wrapped in relief and joy. “Fuckin’ missed you too dumbass,” he huffs back, although you don’t miss how wet it sounds. When you pull back it’s only a fraction and only so you can reel him in for a gentle kiss, pouring every missed I love you into it so there’s no room for doubting if you’ve truly forgiven him.

It’s a promise. A promise to do better from now on. And Katsuki means every single second of it.

General Taglist: @ahtsuwu @oikawaandkuroostan @oliviasslut @black-rose-29

[perfectpaperbluebirds]

Prompt # 29: Motion Sickness 

@sicktember Alternate prompt # 1: Warm Soup

Title: Professional Touch

Fandom: Criminal Minds

Based on this post

Hotch is in the middle of a serious monologue when he interrupts himself by sneezing. The team takes care of him. 

A storm was brewing in Agent Hotchner’s office. Hotch was used to weathering storms of course, they all were, but this particular storm involved Chief Strauss, meaning it was harsher than most. The rest of the team kept glancing at the door to Hotch’s office anxiously. The section chief and unit chief had been shut in for over thirty minutes with the shades drawn. Every now and again raised voices could be heard, but it was impossible to make out what they were saying. 

"He had a cold when he came in today," Reid murmured to Prentiss at one point. "This can't be easy for him."

Finally, after the forty-five minute mark had come and gone, Chief Strauss emerged, looking defiant and haughty as ever. She made sure not to meet the eyes of anyone else as she strode to the elevator, disappearing inside it without a word. Hotch stood in the doorway of his office watching her go, his look inscrutable, aside from his closely drawn eyebrows. Once she was gone, he turned his attention to his team, who collectively gulped as they noted his stony expression. Yet the expression was less powerful than it normally would have been, because he was visibly ill, with flushed cheeks, a chapped nose, and dark circles under his eyes.

Still, he was their chief, so when he approached Reid and Prentiss, they sat up at attention. Hotch glanced at the haphazard stacks of files mixed with old takeout containers on Emily's desk with a frown. 

"I need you to tidy up your workspace, Prentiss. We need to present a good front for the Bureau at all times. You're also behind on submitting your reports. Work on that, please, right away." His tone was smooth but firm. There was no doubt how serious he was.

"Yes sir…." Emily said, looking confused.

"Reid, was there something I can help you with?" Hotch asked, since the doctor was staring at him intently.

No, I'm good--"

"Then back to work," Hotch said dismissively. Walking past Derek's desk, Hotch gave him a stern look, as the younger agent was flipping through paperwork with his feet propped up on his desk.

"Morgan, can we try to look somewhat professional? This isn't your living room."

Aaron didn't see the look of disbelief Morgan gave him as he pointedly looked away and continued through to the break room. 

JJ walked in at the tail end of that exchange. As Hotch disappeared, she nonchalantly made her way over to Reid and Prentiss. "What's up with him?" JJ whispered, shooting a furtive glance at the unit chief.

"Beats me. But I hope he gets over it soon, whatever it is," Emily murmured back, reluctantly starting to clear the trash from her desk. 

It was evident Hotch was still on the warpath when Garcia joined him in the break room moments later. She was dressed in her usual style of attire, wearing vibrant lime green and pink and compete with gaudy jewelry, fluffy pen and brightly colored folders. However, her purpose in leaving her office was not work-related today, but was evidently to bring over homemade cupcakes that were as brightly colored as her. Hotch watched her skeptically. Garcia, meanwhile, handed a cupcake to each team member, making friendly small talk as she did so. After a moment, Hotch approached her.

"What's the occasion for the cupcakes?" he asked.

"Nothing in particular. Just celebrating the lack of dead, mutilated bodies I've had to look at this week I suppose," she said cheerfully.

Hotch rubbed his nose gingerly. "Garcia, I feel I have to intervene here. You are aware you work for the FBI, yes?"

"Yes sir…?" she said, beginning to deflate immediately.

"And you're aware investigating homicides is what we're paid to do?"

"Yes…." 

"Then don't you think it's a bit inappropriate to celebrate the fact that we haven't taken any cases this week?"

"I'm sorry sir, I--"

"In fact, I've been meaning to address your general lack of professionalism. Your attire and attitude toward the work we do here is a problem."

Garcia had fallen silent, and was merely listening with wide eyes. Meanwhile Derek had leapt to his feet and was slowly approaching with fire in his eyes, ready to defend his girl. 

"As an integral part of this team, I expect you to behave appropriately for your role, along with everyone else. The lack of professionalism this whole team has been displaying lately needs to be corrected immediately. There is-- … Hehhht'sss-CHOO! tttsss'CHOOO! hnnxxt-CHOOOF!"

Shocked silence hung over the room at the unexpected interruption. Most of the team had never heard Hotch sneeze before.

Garcia was the first to break the spell. "Bless you, sir," she said quietly.

"Thank you," the chief mumbled in response, harshly rubbing his nose with a handkerchief. His face was visibly red, but whether from the violent sneezing or the embarrassment, it was hard to be sure.

"Are you ok, boss? You really aren't looking so good," the technical analyst said tentatively. 

Hotch was silent for a moment as he continued to tend to his nose. Finally he sighed heavily. "I suppose I'm not feeling the best today."

"C'mere for a sec," Garcia said, stepping closer to him, her tone soothing as she immediately shifted into caretaker mode. 

If Hotch noticed the change in how she addressed him, he made no indication, but allowed her to approach, looking at her expectantly.

 She reached up a hand to place it against the tall man's forehead, then clicked her tongue, giving him a sympathetic look. "You're burning up, mister. No wonder you're miserable."

"Jack has been sick all week," Hotch sighed. "I suppose I was bound to catch it."

"You should go home, man," Derek interjected. "Like she said, you look terrible."

"I'm actually… feeling a little strange all of a sudden. I think maybe I should rest in my office for a bit before I drive." He was indeed looking a bit wobbly, and the team instinctively drew closer to catch him if he fell.

"Let's go sit you down then," Garcia said gently. The group began to walk their leader back to his office. As soon as he reached his desk, Hotch collapsed into his chair with a groan and closed his eyes.

"Let me get you some medicine," Emily said, hurrying away. 

"Hotch, have you been getting any sleep?" JJ asked with concern, putting a hand on his shoulder. 

"Not as much as I should," he admitted, his head now resting on his hand. 

"Then you should really go home and rest…." she said.

"I can rest just as well here," he said, raising his eyes to meet hers. Emily returned just then with a bottle of medication, so JJ was saved from answering, though she couldn't keep the worried look from her face.

Hotch got no better as he "rested", but he didn't worsen either. Soon it was clear he had no intention of going home, ill though he clearly was, or even lying down on the couch. He was pale and dizzy, yet he insisted on staying at his desk and continuing to try and work. He was interrupted constantly with sneezing fits though, and soon he was shivering as well, much as he tried desperately to hide it. The team hung around, wanting to be helpful, but Hotch didn't want to be helped. He wanted to pretend nothing had happened.

However, Garcia was having none of that. She disappeared shortly after Hotch had relocated to his office, but reappeared some time later carrying a steaming bowl, which she placed in front of their boss.

"What's this?" Hotch asked, glancing down with a sniffle.

"Soup, silly. It's what you give to someone you care about when they're not feeling well."

"That wasn't necessary," he said.

"Yes it was. You're all shivery and sniffly and sick." 

Hotch was still for a moment, then he pulled the bowl toward himself almost hesitantly. Picking up the spoon, he took a mouthful, and then another, humming quietly in appreciation. "Thank you, Garcia," he said quietly. "This is exactly what I needed."

"You're very welcome," she said with a smile, turning to leave. 

"Garcia?" he called out.

She turned expectantly.

"I'm sorry for what I said earlier. You're wonderful exactly the way you are, and I don't want you to change. Strauss was digging into me earlier about professionalism on this team, but I shouldn't have passed that on to you. I apologize for that, and it won't happen again. Keep up the good work."

A sunny grin split her face. "Thank you sir. All is very much forgiven. There's plenty more Garcia sparkle to go around."

He almost smiled too. "Thank you. You're free to go."

"I'll get back to work. You take care of that fever though. We need you in tip top shape. This show doesn't run without you."

"Will do. Thank you again. For everything."

[tomorrowsdrama]

So the costumes in rebel princess are obviously beautiful and incredibly detailed.  But I love that the costuming also informs us about a character’s social standing and for some characters, their state of mind as well.  Or in Song Huaien’s case, how far into the dark side he’s gone.  He’s really the inspiration for this post.  As I was re-watching some of the early episodes while waiting for the new subs (shhh, I know I’m unhealthily obsessed with this drama), I noticed not only how drastically his costuming/hair has changed, but also that he’s pretty much a mirror of whoever he chooses to follow at the moment.  Cheng’s very own Single White Female without the obsessive craziness, if you will.  Delusional?  Sure.  But not quite crazy.

But first, let’s talk about the clothing of the noble class.  I’m sorry for this thesis that I’m going to inflict on everyone that no one asked for.  I’ve joked about the long trains on Awu/the nobles’ clothing before, but it’s clear that they are a sign of high status and wealth.  The higher ranked/wealthier you are, the longer your train is it seems.  Also, just in general, the nobles’ outfits usually include an abundance/overflowing of luxe silky and billowy material.  See:

And the nobles can afford to have such styles of clothing not just monetarily, but also lifestyle wise.  To put it bluntly, the nobles don’t have to do shit in their lives so they can afford to drag long trains of expensive fabric back and forth in their huge manors/the palace.  These clothes aren’t for functionality, but for beauty/showing off your wealth (whether intentionally or not).  If they need to go anywhere, they have comfy carriages to travel in instead of walking long distances.  If they need something?  That’s what servants are for.  I mean, just imagine how cumbersome it is to move around with such huge billowy sleeves and six feet of cloth dragging behind your ass.  You don’t have to imagine, just look at this scene where Daddy Wang visits Prime Minister Wen in prison (oh, how I regret taking this time for granted and condemning Daddy Wang for imprisoning that old fool):

Look at how his train drags over the threshold of the prison door.  Daddy Wang literally has to lift his train and throw it over a bench in order to sit down.  

The higher your status, the less physical activity you have to partake in a.k.a. the more useless you are, so it should come as no surprise that the longest train I’ve seen so far in the drama belongs to none other than our Useless Mopey Teenager Zitan:

The clothing choices are pretty deliberate, because whenever a character needs to do something more than just sit around enjoying tea (or wine if you’re Awu), they are given clothes that are more practical for moving around. Like the outfit Awu wore when she chased after her dad:

It’s much shorter than her usual garb and she’s wearing simple black pants underneath which makes horse riding and chasing after a traitorous father much more manageable.

What’s interesting is seeing the opposite happen with Hu Yao.  Hu Yao is usually in very practical and simple clothing since unlike the rest of the nobles in the capital, she has to fight against invaders and protect Cheng.  But when she goes to meet our Emo Emperor Zitan, of course she has to be dressed up in a big frou frou dress that makes it hard to walk:

It highlights just how impractical this type of extravagant clothing is for any kind of life other than a noble’s.  Hu Yao can barely walk without tripping over her own dress, let alone fight.  Also what the hell is that giant bow?

Now let’s talk about Daddy Wang’s clothes.  So before he gets exiled for attempting a coup, Daddy Wang was arguably the most powerful man in court.  He was the head of the Wangs, the most influential noble family in Cheng.  The past 10 empresses of the empire were daughters of the Wang clan, and his sister, the current empress, listened to whatever he said (for the most part).  Also his nephew wass the crown prince and easily manipulated.  He’s also wealthy AF so his status and wealth was apparent in his clothing.

Look at the sheen on that fabric and all that intricate embroidery work!  But then of course, he gets exiled and understandably has to put on some more humble clothing:

Simple, unembellished clothing made of coarse fabric that can withstand moving through the fields and rough terrain while you covertly make your way towards your disappointment of a son.  What really sticks out to me though, is his wardrobe choice after he reunites with the turnip.  Instead of going back to the lavish and ornate clothing he used to wear, he opts for an understated gray and black outfit with no long train in sight:

Turnip obviously can afford to put his dad in fancier clothing.  I mean look at the gaudy over-embroidered monstrosity that he’s wearing.  But it makes sense that Daddy Wang has now opted for something a bit more subdued and modest.  He’s been defeated once and is no longer the powerful prime minister he used to be.  Also, the Wangs do not hold as much clout as they used to because 1) empress has gone mad; 2) potato emperor is dead; and 3) the official head of the Wangs is now...Turnip.  

But make no mistake, his clothes may be simpler than before, but they’re still made out of very nice materials. He is after all, still Daddy Wang.  And Wang will rise again if he can help it! 

Next we have the seagull.  Ugh, yuck, gross, I hate her.  Anyway, now that I’ve gotten the bad taste out of my mouth...So for the majority of the drama we see her in light pastel colored clothing with little to no make up as if to imply that she’s a sweet, innocent thing:

She’s also usually pretty covered up.  But then she becomes Concubine Su (ugh) and all of a sudden she’s in bold colors, wearing red lipstick, and most noticeably, gotten very breast-y

Man, did Seagull make a wrong turn and accidentally stumble onto the set of The Empress of China?  She’s definitely got the tackiness to fit in with them.  This drastic shift in styling is clearly to signal to the audience that Seagull is now a seductress ready to do whatever it takes to hold onto that magical flute and never let go.  Also, whereas before she was a snake hiding in the grass, now it’s all out in the open (at least to the Wangs) just like her bosom.

Look, she even gets her own long train to reflect just how useless she is.

And finally, we have Song Huaien, Cheng’s very own Single White Female who molds himself to whoever he happens to follow and takes on their personality and principals (or lack thereof).

In the beginning, he is stuck to Xiao Qi’s side like a shadow, dresses similar to him, and even wears his hair like him.  He’s like the kid brother who copies everything his cooler older brother does because he looks up to him. 

Notably, he’s the only one in the Ningshuo crew who wears his hair down with a half bun, just like Xiao Qi.  Hu Guanglie (RIP best bro) is XQ’s oldest friend and literally devoted his life to him, but he’s also his own man and did not need to copy XQ.  He never wanted to be him, he only wanted to serve him. 

If you didn’t pay attention, you wouldn’t be able to tell who’s who.

When you follow a brave, honorable general who’s sex on legs, you too will be a brave, honorable and sexy general.  Song Huaien never looked better than when he tried to emulate Xiao Qi.

Interestingly, when Song Huaien goes off with Awu and starts to fall for her, he also starts to incorporate some color into his previously all-black wardrobe.  I guess spring arrived in his heart even though it was the cold winter:

Hm, now I’m starting to wonder if a part of his crush on Awu wasn’t influenced by his desire to be like XQ a little bit.  And then, sigh, he starts to get tempted by the riches of the capital city and the internal shift in his character is materialized externally through how he wears his hair in his first appearance in court:

This is the first time we’ve seen him wear his hair in any style other than the usual loose half bun.  And of course, his top knot conforms and fits in with how the rest of the ministers wear their hair.  Now contrast that with Xiao Qi who only wore his hair in a top knot once:

and then promptly went back to his usual hair style:

Sure, he looked good with the top knot (when does he never look good), but it wasn’t him.  Unlike Song Huaien, XQ is secure in himself and knows who he is.  He is not easily swayed or corrupted.  That is why he is able to remain just like how he always has been, internally and externally.

The next change we see in Song’s appearance is his armor.  Now that he is Count Suyi, his armor is noticeably more ornate.  Unlike XQ’s armor, which remains pretty much the same barebones armor we’ve seen since the beginning, Song’s gets fancier and fancier as he gets more lured in by the nicer things in life.

At this point, his hair is still down like before.  But then the next time we see him after his wedding, his hair style is changed into a high ponytail:

Which is a very good look, don’t get me wrong, but it is again another physical representation of the change happening in Song internally.  It’s kind of a weird limbo he’s in because it’s not completely a top knot, but it’s definitely neater and closer to a top knot than his previous hairstyle.  At this stage, Song hasn’t completely crossed over to the dark side quite yet.  He’s still kind of wavering and going back and forth.  So a high ponytail that is a shift from his prior hairstyle but not quite the same as the nobles’ hairstyle makes sense.  He keeps this look for a while and even momentarily goes back to his less fancy self while dealing with the floods away from the capital.  That is, until he joins hands (or is it roots?) with Turnip and it’s all downhill from there, character-wise and also appearance-wise.

First, we have this very ill-advised mustache and goatee which mimics the same facial hair Turnip all of sudden started sporting:

Matching facial hair to commemorate their entry onto the shit list, perhaps?  Anyway, turns out facial hair isn’t for everyone, including Song Huaien.  But this isn’t even the worst of it.  As Song Huaien continues his descent into being a greedy, spineless, puppet for Turnip (HIM of all people! or should I say, of all root vegetables?), he gets uglier and uglier.  I mean:

He looks downright haggard and as if he aged 20 years overnight.  Notably though, he looks exactly like the rest of the useless ministers in court.  He has definitely lost the sheen, vigor, and hotness that he once had when he was following XQ.  It’s as if the ugly inside is reflected on the outside as well.

I guess when you follow a weaselly coward like Turnip, you too will turn into a weaselly coward.  Oh Song Huaien, Song Huaien.  What a disappointment you turned out to be, you dumb, greedy bastard.   

[mylifeisactuallyamess]

Vampire!Hux x Stackhouse!Female Reader

A/N: So this is something I’ve been working on for a long time. It’s a Star Wars, True Blood mash up and I mean mash up. Like I smushed the two together, rubbing them between my hands making fanfiction breadcrumbs. We have Vampire!Hux 🤓 Shapeshifter!Poe and Werewolf!Kylo further down the line. Reader is the sister of Jason but trust me she’s not as annoying as Sookie (I couldn’t think of anyone to replace Jason because he’s the bomb so reader had to be a Stackhouse!) Bill doesn’t exist, because he too was annoying. I am posting this first chapter in celebration of @clydesducktape milestone celebration! Congrats Thia! I hope this is enjoyed.

Warnings: Not much for now, maybe some stalkerish behaviour from Hux. Mention of drinking, telepathic abilities. It will be a Darkfic and NSFW 18+

Word count: 4078

He’ll never forget the first time he saw you, the way your lips curved into a smile, how your eyes danced in the dim light of the club, the shape of your body, the sway of your hips as you walked and the fall of your hair with every movement of your head. He swore he could hear the strands as they settled softly. No, he’ll never forget the first time he saw you or the way your scent drifted over to him, carried on the rush of air when the club door opened. It was divine, he had to use all his self control not to rush over and steal you from your group of friends and have you in the office. His pupils dilated in a rush, if his heart beat it would be pounding in his chest, instead he heard yours; loud and clear, a steady beat in his ears drowning out all other sound. His nose flared sucking in as much of you as possible. Your blood sang to him, making you a beacon amongst the crowd; you smelled like sunshine, fresh flowers and grass, so earthy and light….you smelled like daylight. And he had to have you.

You shivered slightly looking at the gaudy neon sign on the side of the squat brick building. The night sky had begun to finally darken overhead and your excitement rose making you feel fidgety as you hopped from one foot to the other. You were surrounded by a group of friends who were all chatting excitedly about visiting the new vamp bar in Shreveport. You were intrigued, you’d never met a vampire before and now they were out of the coffin everyone wanted to meet one.

“You cold?” Shaking your head you looked up into the deep brown eyes of your friend Poe.

“I’m ok, just wish they’d let us in, you know?” He grimaced slightly.

“Not sure I’d wish for that.” You looped your arm through his and pulled him close, enjoying his warmth, Poe was always so hot, he was like your own personal radiator.

“Come on, we’re just here to scope out the competition, I’m sure these vamps have got nothing on us. I mean,” you gestured at the sign. “Look at it.” Poe smiled and dipped his head slightly causing his curls to cascade over his brow.

“Yeah maybe.” You shook his arm in an effort to get him to loosen up.

“What’s up? You were all for this earlier?” You asked, a hint of concern in your voice. He pulled his hand out of his pocket and gave his stubble a quick scratch and he wrinkled his nose.

“Ah, you know me, I aim to keep everyone happy.” You rolled your eyes, he was too much of a softy, a real push over.

“You don’t have to keep us happy! I can always report back if you don’t want to come in?” His eyes widened slightly and you could see the clench in his jaw as he pressed his teeth together.

“You’re not going in without me,” he rumbled. Your eyebrow rose at the gruff commanding tone in his voice, one you hadn’t heard before in all the years you’d known him.

“Yes boss!” Just then the door opened and a cheer rose up from the crowd outside. Jannah turned to beam at you as the line shuffled forward and you smiled back. You noticed Poe’s arm tense against yours and gave him a reassuring squeeze, his sense of unease was coming across to you the longer you had contact with him. Your barriers were lowering, whispers edged your mind and you tried harder to block them out. People streamed into the loud club, a tall blonde woman stood by the door watching everyone with a bored expression on her face until you reached the door. Her arm stretched out to stop you both entering, her eyes were bright as she scanned you both.

“ID,” she drawled, holding out a perfectly manicured hand, her fangs flashed when she spoke and you let out a giggle.

“Oh! You’re my first vampire!” You gushed as you dug out your ID. She pursed her lips and looked down at the card, cocking an immaculate eyebrow. “I haven’t been ID’d in such a long time! It’s so nice to meet you.” She sighed slightly and handed back the card.

“I can’t tell human ages anymore. You bloodbags all look the same to me.” Her blue eyes slid over to Poe when she spoke, a hint of smirk playing on her lips. “Go on in,” she drawled.

“Thank you!” Smiling broadly you dragged Poe in after your friends, it was dark all blacks and reds but you just assumed that was the commercial vampire aesthetic. The bar spread along the right hand side, the bartenders performing inhuman tricks and serving at superhuman speed. The middle of the club was made up of space to dance, punctuated by tables to stand around, a couple of poles flanked a stage and you couldn’t draw your eyes away from the scantily clad woman climbing up and down them with ease. Your gaze finally settled on the stage, a vampire, you assumed, was reclining in a deep red leather and gold chair. He had a shock of red hair that flopped over his brow giving him a soft appearance. His pale skin almost glowed from the spotlight that shone on him, his long fingers rested delicately on his lips while he surveyed the area before him, his bright eyes settled on you and it felt like all the hairs on your body rose at once making you shiver again. He lounged comfortably like a ruler regarding his kingdom in a dark suit, with a white shirt and a suit jacket in only what you could describe was a throne the longer you stared.

“If you’re not comfortable we can go,” said Poe and he moved to block the vampire from your view.

“Are you kidding? This is great!” You exclaimed. “Nothing like your bar though Poe, I’m sure these guys have got nothing on us, I bet they don’t even serve food,” you said leaning into him and whispering in his ear. He chuckled and placed a hand on your back.

“No, I don’t think food is a vampire’s, thing.” Your eyes widened and you covered your mouth with a hand to stifle a giggle.

“I didn’t think that through, did I? Anyway, let's get a drink.” The music wasn’t too loud and you were able to hold a conversation with your group of friends, Poe hovered closely by your shoulder as protective as always. He had his reservations about the vamps coming out to mainstream, he didn’t think they should have but you just thought it was exciting and brave of them to do so. You sipped your drink gazing around the club and tapping your foot to the music, until you found yourself looking at the stage again. The vampire’s eyes were trained on you with an intensity you’d never experienced before making your breath hitch in your throat.

It’s said that vamps have heightened hearing and you wondered if he could hear the increase in your heart beat, the rush of each pound as your blood coursed through your veins. You played with your bottom lip out of habit and he leaned forward in his chair, his blazing gaze never leaving you. Your lips parted and dragged in a sharp breath, your skin began to tingle, your heart fluttering erratically. It was so hot in here all of a sudden and you shifted under his intense attention trying to release some of the tension that had gathered in your body. Your eyes flickered as he stood up suddenly, your body seemed to cease functioning more and more the closer he got, your group of friends trailing off their sentences in awe. He drew level with you, his gaze still trained on you like you were his prey and he was stalking you. Not even Poe’s protective hand on your waist could break the spell you were falling under and everything dropped away the closer the vamp got. You reached out instinctively only to find his mind was empty, blank, silent and you felt your interest grow, the heat under your skin reached a fever pitch and you vaguely remembered to breathe. Your head swivelled to track his movement as he walked past you, finally pulling his bright gaze away from yours at the last moment and the noise of the club returned in a rush.

“Ok,” said Jannah. “What was that?” You frowned and shrugged.

“I can’t hear him,” you looked around, letting your barriers drop slightly. “I can’t hear any of them.” Poe frowned.

“You mean your….” you nodded, a relieved smile breaking over your face at the thought that if you were surrounded by vampires you wouldn’t have to exhaust yourself all the time by blocking out their thoughts. This was something you needed to explore.

The temperatures had soared today, after all the rain it was a relief to finally have some sun. You reclined in the chair baring as much skin as you could without being indecent, you couldn't explain it but the sunlight seemed to rejuvenate you, it warmed your entire body from the top of your scalp to the very tips of your toes, the heat curling around you, basking your skin in its vibrant heat. If you could lay here for the rest of your life you would, being outside, in the sun was the only real pleasure you got these days and you wouldn't give it up for anyone. The sound of large tyres broke your calm but you were used to it, you could sense his annoyance as he got out of the truck and you slowly placed your barriers back up, your brother's mind was one place you didn’t want to be. He called your name curtly and you sighed lightly.

“What’s this I hear you went to that fucking vamp bar in Shreveport?” He demanded loudly, making you sit up in annoyance.

“Would you keep your voice down? I don’t want Gran to hear!” You hissed. He looked around quickly before crouching down next to you, his short blonde hair seemed golden in the light, his eyes tracking over your body making you stick your tongue out at him. “You think I’d be sitting out here like this if I had vampire marks all over me?” You asked haughtily and he frowned.

“Stay out of my head!”

“I’m not in your head, moron. I know you.” He hummed in irritation and you settled back into your chair. “Is that all you came to say? To try and police me by making comments on what I do with my free time?” He said your name in defeat as he settled down in the short grass.

“You’re my baby sister, I just want you to be safe.” You looked over at him through the lenses of your sunglasses.

“I was safe, Jason. I promise, Poe came with me, and Jannah, Finn and Kaydel.”

“See, I wasn’t fucking told that. Why wasn’t I invited?” He whined.

“No, you just assumed I’d be stupid enough to go by myself, you weren’t invited because we went to scope out the competition.”

“Jason!” You both looked over at your Gran standing on the porch. “Get out of the sun kids, you’ll burn to a crisp. Come and have some lemonade.”

“You got any food Gran?” Your brother asked hopefully as he dusted himself off.

“I always got food for my growing boy, come on.” You slowly sat up, you didn’t want to go in just yet but you also knew your Gran would hound you until you had a drink and something to eat at least. You grabbed the dress that was hanging on the back of the chair and slipped it over your bikini before making your way indoors. You had a light lunch with Jason and your Gran before making your way upstairs to get ready for work. The water from the shower was cool on your sun heated skin, you took your time making sure you were fresh and all the dust from the dry ground had been washed off. You dried your hair and you pulled on your uniform for the bar thinking about how busy your shift was going to be tonight.

“I’m off to work Gran!” You said loudly as you grabbed your bag off the banister at the bottom of the stairs, dusk had fallen outside and your shift started really soon.

“Bye sweetheart! Say hi to Poe for me. I really wish you’d bring him here for dinner one night.” You leaned down and gave her a kiss on the cheek while rolling your eyes.

“Bye Gran,” you glossed over her comment with a knowing tone to your voice. “Don’t wait up for me.” You locked the door behind you and stepped down the porch steps to head to your car, your feet faltering before you came to a stop. Someone was standing in your driveway, blocking your route to the car.

“Excuse me? Can I help you?”

“I don’t know. Can you?” His voice was clipped with a heavy British accent, he had a large black overcoat on and his hands were clasped behind his back.

“Well I don’t know you’re just standing there,” you replied with annoyance. He turned slightly and the light from the porch fell on his face, you recognised him immediately as the red haired vamp from the bar. “How did you know where I live?”

“Phasma looked at your ID.” Right.

“Surely she can’t just hand out my information like that?” You could feel panic rising in your chest and you looked up at the house worried for your Gran’s safety.

“Don’t worry,” you shrieked loudly and backed up a few steps because he was suddenly before you looking down at you, curiosity marking his high cheek boned face. “I can’t get in without an invitation.” He stated, his red hair falling across his brow.

“So that’s true then!” You gasped, your hand clutching your top as your heart raced. He didn’t move, his light green eyes suggestively making their way down your body. “Stop looking at me like that,” you snapped.

“Why?” He didn’t sound like he was teasing, he was genuinely asking.

“Because it’s making me uncomfortable and you’re making me late for work.” You walked round him in a wide circle but he just followed your movements with peaked interest.

“He makes you wear that to work? Isn’t it a bit revealing?” He asked. You scoffed, shoving your key into your car door.

“Unlike what the women were wearing last night at your place,” you murmured to yourself.

“You noticed then.” You screamed again, he was so close, his voice bleeding smoothly into your ear as he leaned over your shoulder. You recoiled when he sniffed your hair, his eyes fluttering closed slightly. “What are you?” He whispered.

“I’m a waitress, who’s late for work. Now if you’ll excuse me…” you wrenched the car door open feeling relieved when he made no moves to stop you, the wheels kicking up gravel and dust as you pulled hastily away.

“You’re late!”

“I’m sorry Poe!” You threw an apologetic smile his way, rushing past the bar.

“Took your time,” said Jess as she winked at you. You stuffed your bag in your locker and hastily tied your apron before heading out into the diner. It was busy which for the business was great, but for your mind it wasn’t. It didn’t take long for your concentration to slip, you began rattling off orders before the customers had even opened their mouths making them eye you nervously. You plastered a big smile on your face and each time you did it felt like you were losing a piece of yourself. It was so tiring, blocking this many people’s thoughts from entering your mind all at once. Your break finally came around and you disappeared out the back door leaning heavily against the building.

“You taking a moment babe?” Asked Finn lightly as he stepped through the back door.

I knew Poe shouldn’t have taken her last night. She’s too pure for that vamp club.

“Yeah Finn, just having a breather, so loud in there tonight,” you said pointing with your thumb over your shoulder.

It’s not loud for me, you’re the one with crazy weirdness going on… Finn smiled and it was moments like this where you hated being a telepath. You hated not being able to completely block out your friends thoughts because it changed the way you looked at them in that moment. Other people’s thoughts aren’t meant to be heard. He threw some rubbish in the bin slamming the lid back down.

“I’ll see you back in there biatch,” he waggled his eyebrows, dragging a slight giggle from you before he disappeared back inside. You scuffed the dirt with your trainer wishing you didn’t have to go back in and face the stares and unheard comments of everyone around you. It was lonely being different, maybe that’s why you admired the vamps so much but then there were a lot more of them and everyone could see they were vampires. You told people you were telepathic and they recoiled like you had a deadly disease, because sucking blood was much better, you thought with a loud sigh.

Thankfully most of the diner had emptied by the time you went back in, you rolled your shoulders to try and ease the tension in your neck. Poe popped his head out of the office when you were refilling the salt pots and softly called your name with a jerk of his head.

“You looked tired.” He commented while closing the door.

“Yeah, I’m sorry I was late, the vamp from the bar turned up at my house,” you finished with a laugh turning to your cubby. “Not sure what he wanted, he didn’t even tell me his name. He seems a bit stuck up if you ask me….” Poe said your name with a hint of panic, his hands gripping you tightly as he spun you round.

“What do you mean the fanger was at your house? Which one?”

“Don’t call them fangers, and it was the red haired one never gave me his name.” He gripped you even tighter and you frowned. “Poe, you’re beginning to pinch…” he released you to run a hand through his messy dark curls.

“Damn! I knew we shouldn’t have gone! You, definitely not.” He muttered angrily and began to pace in front of you.

“Poe calm down, what’s the matter?” You asked, watching him walk up and down, you tried to get a read on him but Poe had always been one of those people who’s thoughts seemed to be fuzzy, out of focus almost. More images and feelings rather than words themselves.

“This is bad, what did he say to you?” You crossed your arms wondering why Poe suddenly made you feel like you’d done something wrong.

“I don’t know, we chatted.” Poe huffed, his hand rubbing over his face, he looked as drained and tired as you felt.

“That’s Hux, and if he’s shown an interest in you this is bad,” he explained.

“Well he can’t get in my house and he can’t bother me during the day so I think I’ll be just fine. I can look after myself.” You snapped, turning back to your cubby and grabbing your stuff. You hated how everyone thought you were some poor helpless girl that needed looking after and right now you could feel that rolling off Poe in waves. “I take it, can I go?” He nodded miserably and moved to the side letting you pass him, you caught the image of his truck just at the edges of your mind. “No, I don’t need a ride home!” You shouted as you left his office.

You sighed heavily and rested your head on the back of your seat, you weren’t sure why today had been far more exhausting than usual, maybe the unexpected visit from a vampire of all people had put you on the back foot. You turned the car on and headed home, when you pulled into the driveway you cast all your senses around but you couldn’t hear or see anything. Not that you would.

“Ok, he’s not here, just get out of the car.” You muttered, psyching yourself up to make the journey to your front door. You grabbed your bag and made it to the porch when a voice rang out behind you.

“What are you?” You turned slowly to see him standing at the bottom of the stairs, you saw he had a smart suit on under his overcoat, his hands still clasped behind his back, his head cocked to the side.

“Why don’t you go home?” You insisted. He had a confident air about him as he began to slowly climb the steps towards you, a smirk splitting his face. Again you couldn’t get a read on him, nothing in his mind, no words, emotions, images and you found yourself relaxing in someone else’s presence for the first time ever. He stopped a few paces from you when he reached the top step, his piercing eyes looking over you like he’d never seen you before.

“I could go home, but something draws me here.” He turned and faced the garden meaning you got a good look at his profile. Not being able to know what he was thinking or feeling you found out, put you at a disadvantage and even though it was relaxing you weren’t sure you liked it. He took a few steps along the porch, turning his back to you to look up at the sky.

“Well if that’s all you’re gonna say I’ll be heading to bed,” you told him.

“Humans….” he murmured. “Such basic creatures.”

“And you’re not?” You asked boldly, stepping forward. “From what I heard all you do is sleep during the day and drink blood.” He regarded you over his shoulder, the breeze sweeping in and ruffling his flame red hair slightly. You blinked and he moved, appearing before you like he’d teleported. You stumbled backwards and he followed you step for step, his eyes boring deep into yours until he had backed you up against the wall. “What do you want from me?!” you asked in a rush. He bent forward slightly so his nose just ghosted over your hair and you could hear him breathing deeply. He straightened, flexing his shoulders in a fluid movement, his pupils blown wide almost making his eyes appear black, his mouth opened and you jumped as the fangs seemed to erupt out of nowhere.

“You smell like sunshine…..” he groaned and placed a hand on the wall next to you, leaning into your space. Your heart rate rocketed, you scrunched up your face and turned away from him thinking this was it, this was the moment you were going to die. He was going to drain you and leave you here for your Gran to find in the morning. You felt his fingers on your chin and you gasped at how cold they were, leeching the very heat from your skin. Your eyes flew open to gaze into his, you felt like a rabbit caught in a pair of bright, intense headlights, although now he was only millimetres from your face you could see his eyes were a rich green grey colour and they were mesmerising.

“Your eyes…” you murmured without thinking and he stilled. He could have been a statue, his chest didn’t even rise and fall as if he didn’t need to breathe. The silence hung between you like a living thing, loud in the motionless of you both. You flinched when his fangs retracted, but he didn’t remove his hand from the wall or his fingers from your chin for a few more beats. Your hair ruffled in the wake of his sudden movement and you looked up and down the porch, finding yourself so very alone.

“What the hell….” you muttered, giving yourself a mental shake. Whatever this was, whatever was happening you didn’t want to be a part of it.

[themurphyzone]

PatB Oneshot: Crystal Clear

AN: Part of an art trade with @plutonis in honor of her upcoming wedding. She tasked me with writing an introspective piece for a Brinky wedding. The art piece I requested is for the next chapter of Nova, so you’ll see the finished product there. 

Prompt given by Pluto: I was wondering if you could do a little fic in which Brain is walking down the aisle on his wedding day, and we hear the thoughts going on in his head. What is he thinking? How is he feeling?

AO3 Link

If Brain had his way, he would’ve taped himself to the table leg with extra strong industrial strength duct tape and remained there for the rest of his life.

But Romy wouldn’t let him attach himself to said table leg, and Wakko already ate the duct tape to prevent him from getting it. All other binding materials, including the shoe strings and gluesticks, had been placed on a shelf mockingly out of his reach.

And since he was already in his wedding dress, he couldn’t even climb the shelf to retrieve the necessary materials.

“Dad, you’re killing the glarb,” Romy complained as he pried Brain from the table leg.

“Unhand me at once or so help me, Roman Numeral One!” Brain shouted, trying to break free from Romy’s grip, but it seemed their son had inherited Pinky’s unusual strength.

Wakko wasn’t any help either. He just watched the spectacle from his perch on the dresser, chomping on a platter of garlic prawns swiped from the catering company. Thankfully, Brain had the foresight to order plenty of garlic prawns for their celebratory dinner.

As soon as Romy’s grip loosened, Brain broke free and reattached himself to the table leg.

Funny, how he wanted this for so long. Yearned for it. And when the time came, even after all the progress he’d made, he was still afraid for reasons he didn’t understand.

It was illogical, he knew. He trusted Pinky more than anyone else, even himself.

But even that wasn’t enough to get him moving again.

“Guess someone’s gotta tell Ma you’re not coming,” Romy sighed.

Brain’s fingers dug into the wooden grooves.

“He’s definitely gonna cry. Probably gonna curl up on the couch and watch daytime soap operas with buckets of triple fudge ice cream or something,” Romy continued.

Sweet, innocent Pinky being heartbroken at his own wedding. Running off and doing who-knows-what, because he could be very unpredictable when he was truly distraught. His simple mind eroding away because of the unhealthy combination of trashy soap operas and ice cream diet.

Brain’s heart clenched uncomfortably at that mental image. With great reluctance, Brain let go of the table leg and marched over to the mirror to smooth out the wrinkles in his wedding dress to keep his hands occupied as he quelled that troublesome idea.  

“You’re gonna tell him that Brain’s in here, right?” Wakko asked.

“Sure,” Romy replied.

Wait...everyone knew of his intentions to see this wedding through to the end. And he'd never let the hard work and efforts of their wedding plans go to waste.

It was just a ploy.

Brain took a deep breath. To lose his temper before the ceremony would surely spell catastrophe. He wanted to keep this an emotionally satisfying occasion, for Pinky’s sake.

“Romy, I won’t deny that your tactic was effective. But you will refrain from using my fondness for Pinky against me in the future,” Brain said.

Perhaps Roman Numeral One took after him more than he thought. It was impressive and aggravating at the same time.

"Sorry, Dad." Romy's head dropped as he handed the bouquet to Brain.

Like with Pinky, Brain just didn't have it in him to remain angry once an apology was issued. He transferred the bouquet to one hand and lifted Romy's chin from its downcast position.

"Look alive, Romy. This is a celebration," Brain ordered as he turned back to the mirror. "And Wakko, you're not touching our wedding rings with prawn-stained hands."

Wakko pulled out a kitchen sink from his hammerspace and started washing his hands without removing his gloves. With the soft hum of Happy Birthday in the background, Brain turned back to the mirror and examined himself one more time. They didn’t have long before the ceremony began.

His dress towed the line between simple and extravagant. Ruffles in the right places, but not so many that it would hinder movement. A small hole had been cut to fit his tail, carefully sized so that it was easy to thread the stiff appendage through. His sleeves cut off at the elbow, white fabric giving way to a delicate flower pattern, lending an elegant and dignified quality to the outfit.

It hadn’t been easy obtaining this dress. He’d lost track of how many toy aisles Pinky had dragged him down, and he didn’t want his outfit to come from the toy section of Walmart. Pinky had eventually called Dot for help, and with her connections, she arranged for a fashion designer who specialized in making clothes for dolls to help them out.

And while they eventually put the issue of clothes behind them, they had a fair number of arguments when Brain found a reason to reject all the dresses Pinky suggested. Especially with that gaudy puffed sleeve dress Pinky loved but Brain hated.

“I realize we must’ve been insufferable for the past few months,” Brain said. Planning for a wedding wasn’t anything like planning for world domination, as he learned the hard way. But it was Pinky’s wedding as much as it was his, and after one vehement disagreement, Brain had realized he was pushing out Pinky’s contributions to impose his own.

It wasn’t easy, but he did try to turn over some aspects to Pinky, just to see how he did with them. And Brain didn’t regret that choice, because the results were absolutely wonderful.

“Yeah, you and Ma were ruining my vibes,” Romy gave a lazy smile as Brain nudged him in retaliation.

Romy had said something similar when he’d first run away from home, but mischief had long replaced the anger. Though Brain still didn’t think ventriloquism was a lucrative career, he’d made his peace with Romy’s lifestyle while repairing their relationship. And Romy wasn’t the only one who derived happiness from working with dummies.

“Regardless, we’re grateful that you came,” Brain said.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Romy shrugged. “Better save your sap for the ceremony though.”

“I’m not being sappy,” Brain muttered out of principle rather than true irritation.

It was 2:55 pm. Five minutes until the ceremony began. He was running out of time.

He quickly fixed his leaf crown and attached veil so that it was less crooked. In years past, he never would’ve been satisfied until a golden crown with embedded jewels rested atop his head. But now he found the leaf crown was worth so much more than gold.

Then he made sure the transparent veil covered his face. The thin fabric didn’t hinder his vision, but he felt like he was looking through a lens.

Everyone would be watching him. He wanted that thin wall of privacy between himself and the onlookers. Seeing outside, but concealing his feelings within.

He didn’t have to. He knew he didn’t. But old habits die hard, it seemed.

The clock chimed three. It was time.  

What could go wrong?

“Don’t worry!” Wakko exclaimed as he picked up the purple velvet cushion with their wedding rings. “I didn’t mistake these for tiny Ring Pops this time!”

Brain was a fool. A sentimental, lovestruck, starcrossed, and twitterpated fool.

Wakko brought up the lead as they marched through the twisting hallways of the enormous property they’d rented for their Hawaiian wedding. Surprisingly, coming up with a location for their wedding hadn’t been difficult. After a stressful day of making other arrangements, they’d chosen a scenic, relaxing travel documentary to unwind.

As soon as the documentary showed a beautiful Hawaiian beach at sunset, they both agreed on making Hawaii the destination of choice for both wedding and honeymoon. Brain gripped the flower bouquet tightly, careful not to crush the petals between his fingers. Romy’s hand was on his elbow, light enough to not be intrusive but quick to react so Brain didn’t run into a wall.

He’d assigned Pinky to the task of flower selection, and Pinky had researched the meaning of flowers extensively with an unusual amount of focus. If Pinky had his way, he would’ve gathered one specimen of every flower in the world and brought them to the wedding, though Brain eventually convinced him to narrow his list down to a single digit range.

Brain was only familiar with the rose as a symbol of love, and he recalled the meaning of only two other flowers within their wedding. The rest were completely lost on him. The first was the magnolia, which represented perseverance. As such, a white magnolia stood proudly in his bouquet, nestled among the red roses of passionate love. Pinky had chosen the magnolia for Brain, and insisted Brain choose at least one flower too.

Though Brain didn’t place much stock in what the websites claimed, he just went along with it to humor Pinky. But he’d settled on the colorful freesia, just to thank Pinky for his friendship, faith, and trust for all the years they’d known each other.

Their miniature procession stopped at a glass sliding door that separated them from the rest of the proceedings.

Brain gulped and clutched the bouquet to his chest.

Beyond those doors, the wedding guests mingled with each other on the grass. A gorgeous, azure beach formed the perfect backdrop to the ceremony. White, fluffy clouds dotted the sunny skies, and the beauty was rather foreign to him. He’d spent far too much of his life hiding away in the darkness of a sterile lab.

It seemed the entirety of their Animaniacs coworkers had shown up for the wedding. He was surprised by the turnout, but it seemed that everyone had been clamoring for him and Pinky to tie the knot for years.

And while the usual toon antics were prevalent among the guests, Brain’s attention was drawn to the very front, where Pinky was arranging flowers on Pharfignewton, who’d jumped at the offer of being Pinky’s best mare.

Back then, the sight would’ve incited a feeling he’d come to realize was jealousy. Now he was just grateful that Pinky received some physical affection from someone when Brain couldn’t give it to him.

Wakko opened the screen door, causing a stir among the guests in the back, which caused a ripple effect that spread to the front and prompted everyone to take their seats. Pinky slid off Pharfignewton’s back, bouncing on his toes and craning his neck to see Brain.

Even from this far away, Brain saw Pinky’s bright, goofy smile. It made him regret keeping the veil over his face, cloaking his happiness even from his partner.

“Testing, testing!” Yakko said into the microphone. When he’d been ordained to officiate a wedding, nobody knew for sure. He shuffled through the cards for his opening speech. “Alright, everyone. We’ve all been very impatient for this moment, so no more delays, capiche? Dot, start the music!”

A hush fell across the audience, and even the most rambunctious members of the Animaniacs crew fell silent as a soft piano arrangement of A Whole New World began to play.

Wakko proudly held the cushion with the wedding rings over his head and marched to the front. From the aisle, Mindy reached into her basket and threw pink flower petals into the air, and Buttons held onto her so she didn’t fall out of her seat.  

Romy released Brain and followed Wakko. Pinky greeted their son with an enthusiastic hug, and Bunny flashed them a thumbs-up from her seat.  

All the attention was on Brain now.

He wasn’t sure if he wanted it.

He wanted to flee inside the house. Tell everyone to go home and they’ll get refunded the costs at a later date. Take Pinky to city hall and sign a document to make their marriage official instead.

The audience whispered.

He saw the worry in Pinky’s eyes, a stunning shade of blue that popped out from the beautiful Hawaiian beach. They were too far from each other to speak normally, but Pinky laid his hand on top of the colorful freesia pinned to his white dress shirt, just over his heart.

Trust me, he was saying.

And Pinky had proven himself worthy of his trust long ago.

Slowly, Brain laid his hand on the magnolia, the centerpiece of his bouquet.

I won’t give up.

Pinky smiled that soft, knowing smile of his. Emboldened by his encouragement, Brain stepped out of the house and onto the white, silky path that had been laid out for him.

He took slow, methodical steps to steel his nerves. This was his reward, and he was allowed to have it.

No more electricity, no more fear of rejection.

The happiness of having someone by his side. The sorrow when they were separated either by force or by choice. The surprise of receiving gifts from Pinky when he’d done nothing to deserve them. The guilt that came from upsetting Pinky with morally questionable schemes.

Emotions he’d once derided as frivolous were now precious and dear to him.

All the good, all the bad, and everything in between. And this occasion marked a brand new beginning, a new chapter of their lives that would bring new happiness and surprises. Though they’d be sad, angry, or terrified sometimes, they’d always be together.

That’s what counted most.

The melody of A Whole New World floated gently through the air. An airy tune filled with wonder at a world previously unknown to them.

He and Pinky dueted this song so many times that the lyrics and background instrumentals were permanently etched into his mind.

Only now did he understand what the song was truly about. Leaving behind their defined roles, into a freedom-filled sky. Just the two of them, exploring a huge world together. The burdens of the past and worries of the future left on the ground, and all that mattered was the present.

Being themselves, and experiencing things they’ve never experienced before.

It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

He could hardly wait.

Pinky waited for him, taking Brain’s hand in his own. He was absolutely breathtaking up close.

“Narf,” Pinky whispered, and Brain would never tire of that endearingly stupid word. “You did it, Brain.”

“All thanks to you, Pinky,” Brain replied, and Pinky’s tail wagged at the praise.  

Together, they walked to that beautiful wedding arch with intertwining pink and blue flowers, stopping in front of Yakko’s podium. Brain gave his bouquet to Romy so he could properly hold Pinky’s hands. Romy gave them a lazy grin, and Pharfignewton lowered her head so Romy could have a good perch. Wakko proudly balanced the cushion on his head, and Dot stood beside her brother, giving him a friendly shove without knocking the wedding rings off.

And Brain realized he was still seeing the world through veiled eyes. Though his vision was unimpeded, he’d barely noticed there was a filter among all his doubts and fears.

He’d kept the veil for a transparent amount of privacy when he walked down the aisle, but now that he was with Pinky…

Well, it just wasn’t necessary anymore.

He brought Pinky’s hands to the veil. Their eyes met, and a silent understanding passed between them.

Then Pinky threw back the veil, and the filter he’d been looking through was completely gone. And Brain saw the...no, he saw his world through fresh eyes.

A bright, happy, silly mouse stood before him, a colorful burst of freesia on his chest, and beautiful sky-blue eyes filled with endless love, promising hope and warmth and companionship forever more.

“You’re so pretty, Brain,” Pinky giggled.

It was the most wonderful sound for his compass, his heart, and his world.  

No more tolerating. He fully accepted the undeniable fact of how much he loved Pinky, and Pinky loving him back from this point forward.

Never before had he felt so much happiness, and he was ready for everyone to see it.

Unable to contain himself, Brain leapt into Pinky’s arms and kissed him. Though he heard their audience reacting with shock, it was all just background noise to him. And he’d never been a patient mouse.

Pinky was surprised at first, but his strong arms wrapped around Brain to support him, and he kissed back wonderfully.

Fireworks exploded in Brain’s mind, or maybe the Warners set some off, he didn’t know. But he had to come up for air, and he released the kiss, though it seemed Pinky could keep going for quite some time.

“Technically, you’re supposed to wait until I say ‘you may now kiss the Brain’, but who am I to stop true love?” Yakko grinned.

“Sorry,” the mice chorused, though neither of them regretted the little break in protocol.

The audience burst into cheers, and Yakko led them in a standing ovation for a good five minutes before they all settled down enough for him to start his opening speech.

“Love you, Brain,” Pinky whispered as he put Brain down and took his hands again.

“Love you too, Pinky,” Brain replied, and he couldn’t wipe the smile off his face.

Everything was laid out before them, clear as crystal and bright as day.

End AN: This is cheesy but I don’t care I love it and they’re married now. 

The Hawaiian setting is not a reference to the PatB fic Trouble in Paradise, it’s just that the last wedding I went to was in Hawaii and it was so romantic.

3rd time I’ve referenced A Whole New World in these fics. This song is just too perfect for them. 

[pedropascallovebot]

Let's Kill Tonight

summary: You're a bit out of practice, but being entrusted with the retrieval and return of Helmut Zemo shouldn't be too hard, right? Even if he is your old sorta-boss and you still are nursing unfortunate loyalty towards the team. You can manage. And him being... slightly more attractive than how you last left him won't be a problem.

Right?

warnings and a/n: i have.... no clue what this is if not a complete rewrite of mcu canon purely for self-indulgence. reader has a kinda shady past and in result will talk graphically about violence in later chapters and there's lots of gun action in this one. very fun, very cool! alright. i hope y'all enjoy teehee

—

The weather where you're at doesn’t usually vary much from a sunny sky, but alas, you’re absolutely drenched by the time you step inside the diner. You hadn’t expected the rain. Your usual five minute walk to work turned into a hike through muddy sidewalks and water droplets that kept hitting your eyes, and by the time you tied your apron around your waist the day felt over before it even started. Your boss gives you a closed-lip smile and glances at your empty section of tables, and you just know you’re going to be late on rent again.

For what it’s worth, Lüleburgaz isn’t the worst place to slip under the radar. It’s not underpopulated by any means, but it makes it perfect to blend in with the crowd as best you can. Honestly, you're just trying to make it a day without a proper therapist. Your roommates are great listeners, don't get it twisted- but all they really know about you is you're Sokovian and they don't really need to hear about the stuff that happened before your country was crushed by some guys in tights and iron suits. They don't ask you much, and you're grateful.  After an unfortunate five-year gap in employment (which isn’t your fault- it’s kinda hard to find jobs when you’re reduced to dust unexpectedly) you were lucky to find somewhere that was willing to hire you without a legally issued identification card and that was also willing to pay in cash under the table. You broke out the books and attempted to learn the language as best as you can, and while you're struggling a bit, you can at least understand the menu and what a customer is ordering. It was far from ideal- ideal would be completely erasing any trace of memory regarding you and your… history, so to speak, from anybody who has the potential to be a threat to you. Ideal could also be an island somewhere, maybe Praslin or Nassau, where you could swim in clear waters and drink copious amounts of fancy fruity drinks instead of whatever liquor your roomies had hiding under the counter. But until that happens, being on the sorta-run for some questionable past career choices seems to stick.

Said questionable career choices led you to be introduced to a network of interesting people, some less horrible than others, but all of them carried the same unmistakable signal of danger displayed in flashing lights above their heads. When you hear the bell to the restaurant door jingle, signaling the arrival of someone new, that weird gut feeling activates and your eyes flicker up to see a pair of high heels and sunglasses, even though the sun hasn’t been out all day. Everyone else eating their food don’t even spare a glance to the door. This should comfort you, it should tell you that you're fine and that there's nothing to worry about, but it absolutely doesn’t and suddenly you’re inconspicuously making your way to the back, muttering something to your boss about taking your break early. Ripping off your apron, you throw it to the side and let it land on the ground next to you, and you lean your head against the brick wall behind you. Your fingers are twitching as the pressing issue of impending doom continues to rise in your gut. You barely register the creaking sound of the back gate opening.

“Do you want a cigarette?” Suddenly, you’re in fighting stance as an unfamiliar voice speaks less than a foot away from your ear. You don’t recognize this new face, but she looks expensive and entirely too out of place for a diner that receives in its eggs already prepared and frozen.

“I’ll take that as a no, then,” she continues, and fishes a lighter and pack out of her coat pocket. “Good choice. These things will kill you- and so will this godawful food you serve here. What a relief that after today you won’t step foot in this place ever again, huh?”

Your mouth opens to say something, but you decide against it. Instead, you slightly lower your fists, keeping your eyes trained on her seemingly unbothered expression. She takes a long drag of her cigarette before giving you any more information. The silence is deafening, and you mentally take note of the clear path you have through the open fence and towards the street if you chose to run. Something tells you this lady didn’t arrive here on foot though, and she probably had an expensive vehicle waiting out front waiting to catch up to you if you chose to make a break for it.

“You’re jumpy- probably a little bit out of practice from the whole ex-assassin thing, right? I can work with that. I have to applaud you: as far as hide and seek spots go, this wasn’t horrible. We’ll have to improve your people skills, but-“

“Who are you?”

You grow increasingly frustrated as it starts to sprinkle again, leaving you cold and wet as your company opens an umbrella she had previously stored away in her coat.

“I don’t like being interrupted, so let’s not make it a habit, hm? My name is Valentina Allegra de Fontaine, and you’ve become annoyingly important to my cause. Come on, we’re leaving.”

She begins to walk towards the gate, but you stay put, beginning to toy with the idea of unsheathing the knife stored in your boot.

“I’m not going anywhere with you, lady.”

This makes her turn around and sigh in frustration.

“The way I see it, you have two choices. Go back and finish bussing tables so you can make an extra couple dollars, or come with me so we can talk real business. As far as I’m concerned, you’re the only one between the two of us that poses a threat. I’m not the one with weapons hidden in my clothes, am I?”

Your eyes narrow, but you don’t argue. Instead, you hesitantly join her in her path towards a gaudy car (you knew it) that looks way too out of place to be in this parking lot. For a split second you consider going back and giving your manager somewhat of a notice of your absence, but Valentina’s walking so fast that you don’t really have time to continue considering.

“By the way, I distinctively said my name is Valentina Allegra de Fontaine- I don’t like to repeat myself, don’t make me do it again.”

-

You barely have time to sit down before Valentina is barking directions at her driver and scolding you for getting rain water in her backseat. You remain silent, and a little bit uncomfortable as Val finishes her cigarette completely before bothering to inform you of whatever the hell she’s got going on.

“Tell me what you know about super soldiers,” she finally gives, crossing her legs and glances at you expectantly.

You search her face for any kind of indication that she’s kidding, but she seems serious. It kinda feels like your soul is being stared into and you want to look away but you can’t. What does she not know about super soldiers that she can learn from you and not from literally anywhere else? Admittedly, all you know is what clips of newspapers would give you. Something about rogue experimentation, something-something Winter Soldier, and then, most recently, the Flag-Smashers and the rumors flying around that they've got some serum floating around. All of this seemed to be public knowledge though. Nothing a woman who’s willing to corner people in the backlots of their jobs couldn’t find out from a simple Google search.

“I asked you a question, didn’t I?”

“I can’t say I know much.”

For what feels like the millionth time in the span of twenty minutes, she sighs, bringing out her cell phone and starts punching some buttons.

“And what about this man? Does he ring a bell?”

You do your absolute best to not look as tense as you feel when out of the corner of your eye you see a familiar face in a tiny, grainy picture. She shoves the device in your hands, and right there center of the screen is-

“Zemo, right? That was a trick question. Hard to forget the face of your old boss, I’d assume.”

Suddenly, you’re upright in your seat, the earlier feeling of danger settling right back into place. Valentina, of course, just lets out a laugh, while you’re planning on swan-diving out the damn window.

“The Colonel isn’t my boss,” you protest, and a burning sensation makes its way to your throat.

“Isn’t he though?” Valentina is now fully turned towards you, her hand reaching to grab the phone back. More buttons are pressed, and she’s reading your name from an official looking online database. “It says here you’re wanted in a lot of countries, huh? I wonder why that is- oh, look at this, would you? Seems like your name and EKO Scorpion are mentioned in the same sentence at least three times just on this page.”

Your eyes narrow, and you waste no more time in grabbing your gun from your coat pocket, and Valentina seems to have the same idea, the phone  in her hands is now replaced with a much newer and nicer pistol than you’re carrying. It’s silent in the car for a few seconds, and the driver in the front dares not move a muscle. Val is the first to break, and she lowers her weapon with a shit-eating grin you’re growing tired of seeing.

“Let’s start over. You’re associated with an elite death squad assigned to defend the interests of a country that’s no more than a pile of rubble and dead memorial flowers on the ground. You never had an official invitation, but they paid you good enough money for you to get your hands dirty for them. Too bad that without a leader, your little syndicate fell apart, didn’t it? Unfortunate, what happened to him really. And how inconvenient it must have been for you- I’m sure the law doesn’t usually side with individuals associated with terrorists. Luckily for you, you had a five-year break from being on the run.”

The urge to fall back into old form and pull the trigger at the slightest sign of trouble starts to rear its ugly head, but you take a deep breath and try to align your focus to your current situation. This doesn’t have to be deadly. She knows your history, she knows your name. She could just be blackmailing you. Easy fix, offer her better information on individuals that are far, far away from you. You’re sure you can think of something juicy enough to entertain her and fray her interest in you. This doesn’t have to end in a gunshot. She has access to all of the shit you’ve done. You don’t know what she knows. She could be from the American government. Kill her, and lessen the risk of being thrown in a prison cell to rot.You’re desperate, and you’re scared, and it’s making you vulnerable. You take another deep breath in, and lower your gun.

“What do you want?” Valentina falls back into her seat, clearly very amused by the entire situation now that guns weren’t drawn.

“The Flag-Smashers are becoming increasingly difficult as they’re forming alliances with seemingly every gang of mercenaries for hire. The serum belongs in the hands of someone who knows what to do with it, don’t you think?”

This lady is clearly out of her mind, but you’re too far in now and you don’t feel like questioning her on her morals or the ethics of this situation.

“I don’t want any business with Morganthau, and I don’t care about super soldiers. If that’s all you need me for, you might as well find someone else.”

“Who said anything about you dealing with Flag-Smashers? No, for you,” she starts, grabbing the phone once more and resuming that annoying clicking as she searches through various links, “I have a slightly less… hazardous task. No killing involved, sadly. I’m sure your lovely skillset will keep until it’s needed, but you will be finding Zemo for me, where I can pay him far too much money so he’ll kill the Flag-Smashers for me.”

It’s your turn to laugh, now. “In case you haven’t heard, Helmut Zemo is rotting away in prison for the rest of his life. How is he going to be of any help to you?”

Valentina doesn’t bother giving you a verbal response, just shoves that damn phone in your face again. You glare at her before your eyes skim over the article. Breakout. Zemo. The Falcon. Prison. You curse internally, and she lets her arm fall back to her side. You realize you haven’t been paying too much attention to where the driver was taking you both until you feel the vehicle holt to a stop, and you look up to realize you’re in a parking garage, and the faint sounds of airplanes fly overhead.

“As of now, you and I are a two-man team, but this won’t be the case for long. Zemo is with Sam Wilson and James Barnes in a safehouse in Riga. You and I aren’t the only ones looking for him, however, which makes your job a little tricky, but I don’t have much faith in the guy assigned in returning him to Berlin.”

“Who is he?”

“I assume the name John Walker doesn’t need an explanation?”

You shake your head.

“Walker can be of use to us, and we’re gonna need him- just not yet. What I need from you at the current moment is to make sure you get to these coordinates,” the driver is suddenly handing you a slip of paper with numbers scribbled on it, and you take it, “before Walker gets Zemo.”

You inhale, and Valentina gives you a look.

“I assume you have a question?”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to get Walker on your side sooner? Maybe if you could say the right thing, persuade him to bring Zemo to us-"

Valentina cuts you off with a scoff. “What? That if we tell Captain America to hand over an international prisoner so we can extract information and hire him to kill for us he’ll do it? Walker wants one thing right now: he wants that serum. Coincidentally, your friend Zemo wants that serum gone. IF we get to him first, which you will, he’ll be more than happy to oblige. Walker is at a tipping point, but he’s not useful to us. Yet. We just have to wait until he's vulnerable.”

She takes your silence as an okay to continue. “Get to Latvia, find Zemo. Use that pretty face of yours to charm him into coming with you, maybe share some war stories around the campfire. I don’t give a damn how you get it done. Walker’s already halfway there by now.”

You are really starting to question how Valentina is getting her information, but before you can say anything else, she’s motioning for her driver to slide another piece of paper in your hand. Your eyes go wide at the numbers listed after a dollar sign.

“I assume this would be enough to cover your services?”

You look up at her, nodding your head slightly.

“Half now, half when you bring him to me,” she finishes, and the driver is unlocking your side of the car. “It looks like we’re in business then.”

[trekkiepirate]

Master of All

My Witcher Secret Santa gift for @motionalocean! @thewitchersecretsanta

Crossposted to AO3 HERE

nearly 9.2K of BAMF!Jaskier and Geralt being progressively more smitten. 5 Times Jaskier Is Good At Things Geralt Didn't Expect And The 1 Thing He Knew Jaskier Was Good At. PG-13 for bad words, canon-typical violence, and the +1 Under cut because it’s hella long.

1. Pickpocketing

“Well,” Jaskier huffed, “I sincerely hope you missed one of those ghouls and they come back and eat this whole rotten village. Starting with that alderman. No, starting with his appalling son who has the AUDACITY to claim he was a better singer than me. My gods, Geralt, I don’t even think I’ll complain of the lack of a roof and a bed this evening. Sleeping under the stars with my very dear friend-“

“-not friends,” Geralt huffed.

The interruption entirely ignored by Jaskier. “-who is twice, thrice, no no no ten, a hundred, a THOUSAND times the man that they could ever dream of being. Asking a man-“

“-not a man,” Geralt said, expecting, correctly, Jaskier would ignore this comment too.

Jaskier, instead, whirled and looked at Geralt like he had punched him. Actually, he looked more upset than when Geralt has, in fact, punched him. “Of course you’re a man.” Jaskier tilted his head. “Well, I cannot say for certain as I have not yet seen you… in a state of undress. Though not that the having of a penis makes one a man. It’s more about your own identity-”

“Jaskier,” Geralt sighed, sliding two now-skinned hares onto sticks over the fire.

“You’re a man because that’s who you tell the world you are.”

“I don’t.”

It seemed only every other sentence was going to get through Jaskier’s tirades as he stopped speaking.

For a few blissful seconds. “Geralt,” Jaskier put his hands on his hips, voice exasperated as if he were a teacher who expected better of his pupil. “Geralt,” he said again, “you are the best man I have ever met. Smarter than any scholar, kinder than any priest, more noble than any titled twat.”

Geralt blinked. Jaskier seemed so sincere. “We’ve just met.”

“Right, well, we’ve actually been traveling together for four months, but I imagine time feels different when you’re basically immortal, so we’ll let that slide.”

A frown twisted Geralt’s face. “You’re young. You can’t have met that many people.”

Jaskier pursed his lips and put on what he called his Viscount voice. Though why he’d pretend to be a Viscount was beyond Geralt. “I studied for years at the most prestigious and widely attended university on the Continent. I have met plenty of people, Geralt. And you are still the best one I know.”

Geralt hmmed. “Your good opinion won’t buy us a roof and a bed.”

A grin like a succubus, pretty and dangerous, spread over Jaskier’s face. He reached into his trousers and produced a bag of coins. “It might do.”

The same bag of coins that the alderman had refused to give Geralt after he cleared a nest of ghouls from a field. He’d taken three crowns and told Geralt that it couldn’t be worth the whole bag if it only took him an hour.

As it was, most of that hour was building the bomb he’d need to destroy the nest. The ghouls had been sated by feeding on villagers who’d tried to kill them and were slow.

“Where-” Geralt shook his head, he knew the answer to that one. “How?”

Jaskier tossed the bag in the air and caught it. He continued doing so as he spoke. “Remember when I gestured around his, frankly gaudy and most certainly fake, prized vase?”

Geralt stared at the boy. “You distracted him by making him think you might break his vase and then stole his coin out of his pocket.”

“Exactly! Really it’s his fault for so blatantly putting the coin away while looking down his nose at you.” Jaskier grinned bright and extracted one coin from the bag before handing it to Geralt.

“Thief’s fee?” Geralt nodded at the coin.

Jaskier’s smile got even more mischievous. He balanced the coin on his thumb, then flicked it.

It hit Geralt in the chest and fell into his lap.

“Well, tossing a coin is the chorus of the song anyway,” he winked, then spun around, grabbing a cooked hare and blowing on it before taking a large bite. “They’ll see,” he said as he chewed, “my song will become a hit! ‘Toss a Coin’ will be sung the entire length and breadth of the Continent and men like that will be the pariahs, the outcasts. Anyone who denigrates a witcher will be spit upon in the streets. See how they like that!” Jaskier’s next bite was near savage, tearing the meat from the bone. But the next moment, he grinned over the fire at Geralt. “And until it does become a hit and you are lauded as the hero you are, and don’t say you’re not a hero, I see your mouth opening and you can very well shut it again for all the credence I’m going to give you saying you’re not a hero.” He gestured wildly with his hare, grease dripping slowly down his hand and forearm, on display since he’d rolled up the sleeves as his chemise on such a warm night.

Geralt found his next breath a little harder to take as he stared at the bare forearm. He hmmed and took up his own meal.

“So until that day, I will gladly make sure you are properly paid for your work,” he waggled the fingers of his left hand at Geralt. “One way or another.”

“Don’t get caught,” Geralt said. “I won’t break you out of any jail cell you land in.”

Jaskier laughed. “That is a bald-faced lie. You did the exact thing two towns ago and that wasn’t even me risking my freedom and safety for you to be given all you deserve.”

Geralt looked up at Jaskier, then quickly back to his hare when he found the expression on Jaskier’s face too… too much like something warm settling in his stomach. He ate the rest of the hare as fast as he could.

No one had ever said Geralt deserved anything. Not anything nice, anyway. But Jaskier seemed to think that Geralt was a kind of hero in a tale and wanted him to be treated as such.

Fool’s errand, he thought. Jaskier was young and didn’t know how the world worked outside of the high walls of a university. He’d learn. Until then…

“Fine.”

Having gone back to eating, Jaskier was silent for a moment as if trying to recall where the conversation was picking up from. “What’s fine? Oh! Me stealing when people refuse to pay you your just wage. Of course it’s fine. Don’t worry your pretty head for a moment; I’ve never been caught yet.” He waggled his fingers in Geralt’s direction. “Dexterity is name of the game when one spends one’s life dedicated to possibly the most delicate and finnicky instrument known to man.” He looked down at his gifted elven lute like it was his flesh and blood child, so loving and soft.

When he raised his head and looked at Geralt, his adoring expression didn’t change in the least.

Geralt cleared his throat and threw the hareless stick onto the fire. ‘Go to sleep, Jaskier.”

A few more large bites and Jaskier did as he was told, snuggling into his bedroll. Which Geralt had bought him when Jaskier proved that no amount of silence or disinterest would keep him from staying at Geralt’s side, praising every deed in song. He picked up the bag of coin and wandered over to Roach to tuck it safely in her saddlebag.

The horse nickered softly and seemed to throw her head repeatedly in Jaskier’s direction.

“Don’t get attached,” Geralt scolded.

Roach tilted her head in Jaskier’s direction and kept it there.

Geralt sighed and whispered into the still night air. “Thank you, Jaskier.” He patted Roach, now seemingly satisfied, and made his way to his own bedroll, set a bit behind Jaskier’s so the bard was close to the warm fire and that anything that leapt at them from the woods would have to get through Geralt before it could get to Jaskier.

He laid there, thinking about how quickly making sure the boy warm and safe had become a priority.

2. Knowing Who The Nobles Are Everywhere They Go

“Nope,” Jaskier plucked the sun-faded paper from Geralt’s hand, ignoring Geralt’s exasperated expression. “Oh no, no, no, no. Nope, you will not be taking this. Well, you will not be taking this contract with Duke Hereward. He’s an absolute bastard and will quite surely stiff you of your deserved coin. No, we’d best find where,” he squinted at the ink, “Meadwood Farms is and go straight to the farmers themselves. Hereward will weasel his weasely way out of giving you anything. I’d gladly steal anything he might have of worth-“

Geralt glanced around, hoping no one who worked for the Duke was listening, as Jaskier did not seem to understand what the word ‘discretion’ meant.

“-alas the double-edged sword of fame means if something were to go mysteriously but deservedly missing after we took our leave, I’d find my lovely new position as a professor at Oxenfurt suddenly taken from me.” He smiled at Geralt. “I need something to do during the winter while you hide away in your Witchery mountains to do… mountainous Witchery things.”

Suppressing the urge to smile, Geralt nodded towards the inn. “I’m sure someone will know who owns the farm in there.”

Jaskier grabbed Geralt’s arm and began to drag him (well, steer him as if Geralt had truly not wanted to be led, there was no way the boy, barely into his twenties, could move him) towards the inn. “Good people of Ellander!”

“Jaskier,” Geralt nearly rolled his eyes.

“Your prayers to the Great Meletile have been answered,” Jaskier continued. “Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf himself, has come to aid you with your monster problems. Merely point us to Meadwood Farms and you shall soon see why Geralt is the hero of the Continent.”

Geralt was strangely glad his body no longer had the ability to blush. Jaskier’s absolute faith in Geralt was steadfast and it made something heavy and warm settle in Geralt’s chest. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be able to feel this way, to be so… cared about.

A pretty-eyed maiden made her way over to them. She smiled brightly at Jaskier. “I work at the farm. I’d be ever so glad to lead you… and the witcher there.”

The eye rolling couldn’t be controlled this time, as Jaskier immediately brightened under her attentions. “Well lead on, good miss. I presume it’s miss?”

“It is,” she giggled.

Geralt was rather glad they barely paid any heed to him as they flirted their way across town to the countryside. “What is it?” Geralt eventually asked.

Both Jaskier and the young woman, Elzbet apparently, startled as if they’d forgotten Geralt was still there. They probably had.

“The monster,” Geralt clarification. “What is it?”

Elzbet shrugged. “I didn’t see it. I do not know. Master Prospero was the one who saw it. He’s in the big house.”

Jaskier grinned. “Yes, yes, Geralt head up to see Master Prospero. Elzbet has promised to show me a most charming little corner of the barn. Apparently, there’s an owl’s nest there.”

Geralt would turn over every coin he received for the contract if there was actually an owl’s nest anywhere in the barn. All Jaskier was likely to see was up the girl’s skirts. Stomping away with a little more force than he probably needed to use, Geralt found the farm owner and got the information he needed.

It was a nest of nekkars and Geralt has cleared them all out by that night. The reward scraped together by the workers was only a third of what Hereward had promised, but it was given in gratitude and with open hands. Prospero himself was so grateful, he offered Geralt and Jaskier a room in his home for the night, as well as their dinner that night and breakfast the next morning.

Jaskier spent most of the night trying to find a suitably dirty rhyme he approved of for owl.

“Howl. Or yowl, which I will make you do if you do not put that candle out.” Geralt said at last.

“Oh you,” Jaskier tsked as he quickly scribbled down a few more lines. “You know what that Witchery magic does to me.” He winked.

Geralt buried his head further into the pillow. “Didn’t get enough with your farm girl?”

Jaskier gasped, affronted. “Excuse you, Elzbet is more than a farm girl, she is the love of my life.” He sighed dreamily. “I might stay, you know. With her.”

“Better her than me,” Geralt grumbled.

“I know you don’t truly mean those words or I’d be heartbroken beyond repair to hear you say that,” Jaskier shrugged out of his doublet and pinched out the candle flame between his licked fingers. “But what if I did? Stay?”

Geralt huffed. “You’d make a piss poor farmer.”

Jaskier laughed lightly. “Probably true.” He sighed. “Would you miss me?”

“Go to sleep, Jaskier,” Geralt said in lieu of an actual answer. “If you’re to be a farmer, you must get used to early mornings.”

Humming thoughtfully, Jaskier settled down, the line of his back just an inch away from Geralt’s in the bed. “Good night, Geralt.”

In the morning, Jaskier packed and took his place at Geralt’s side. He tried out lyrics and chords and by the time he and Geralt made camp that night, Jaskier had a new ballad. It was about love between a wanderer and a maiden, whom he loved but left to follow the open road he had long ago promised his heart to, his truest love.

Though he never actually sang the word road, Geralt realized as he watched Jaskier sing it a week later in a tavern. The song itself was called Walking The Path.

3. Gwent

“Dammit,” Geralt growled as he threw down his remaining card. A clear weather was useless when there were no weather cards in effect. The score was tied, but his opponent played with a Nilfgaardian deck and therefore won all ties.

The smarmy git was smiling at him like a smarmy git. “Fair is fair,” he held out a hand, “I’ll be taking your unique card now.”

It was lying next to the card the other man had anted up in the center of the table, but clearly humiliation was part of his winnings.

Geralt picked up the card and dropped it into the other man’s hand. “Here.”

“Better luck next time,” the bastard called out and he gestured another player to take Geralt’s place.

He still had all the coin he’d won, the cards had been the only prizes in that last round, so Geralt went over to the bar and ordered two ales and a glass of wine.

By the time he was picking up the second mug of ale, Jaskier had finished his set and bounded over, downing the wine in one go as always and ordering himself another.

“What’s this face? Is my singing truly that bad? Please know, if you say anything about pie, I will be forced to waste this lovely wine on your rude head.” Geralt grunted. “Singing was fine. Lost my game is all.”

Jaskier tilted his head. “You were winning when I last checked in on you.” He looked at his glass. “Do you need some coin? I got a fair amount tonight, people around here are very anti-Nilfgaard and my lovely little ditty went a treat. You must have heard the cheers.”

Geralt nodded. He had. In between games, he’d kept his eye on Jaskier. The djinn incident was two weeks ago, but this was Jaskier’s first performance since he almost lost his voice. And life.

The bard had been nervous and Geralt hadn’t even started playing gwent until the anxious scent faded into his usual confident burst of sundried linen and mint. The crowd was just as adoring, just as loud as always. Jaskier’s voice hadn’t suffered any permanent damage and Geralt was relieved. After all, his unthinking words had been the reason Geralt had almost lost… that Jaskier had almost lost his voice.

“Not coin,” Geralt said at last, draining his mug. “Lost my best card though. Drew an unlucky hand and couldn’t seem to bring it back around. Ended in a draw, but the bastard played as Nilfgaard so he took the tie.”

Jaskier frowned. “No chance to get it back?”

Geralt shrugged. “He plays here a lot, apparently. Has rules about only one match per opponent.” He shook his head. “Nothing for it.”

Putting down his half full glass, Jaskier nodded. “Right, well then.” He turned and headed towards the tables set up for cards.

“Jaskier?” Geralt blinked at the space the bard had occupied a second ago. “Jaskier?”

Jaskier was already standing in front of the bastard.

Geralt couldn’t remember his name, wasn’t even sure he’d been told who he’d been playing against.

Jaskier’s relaxed ease was gone, instead his shoulders hunched up, making him look for all the world like an angry cat about to take a chunk out of the next person who tried to pet it. “Valdo Marx,” Jaskier hissed out like the very letters of the name offended him.

Huh. Geralt looked at the man who’d defeated him.

Valdo looked up with a beatific smile. “Julian, is that you? I did think I heard your particular brand of empty words and trite notes in that boyish tenor of yours.”

Now no longer just upset about the card, Geralt’s fingers twitched towards his sword. Sure, he’d not exactly complimented Jaskier’s songs recently, but his insult was born of trying to offend the man into shutting up so Geralt could find the damnable djinn and get some fucking sleep.

Which, looking back, was a useless attempt as Jaskier had been drunk and Drunk Jaskier was even more prone to rambling than Sober Jaskier.

“Normally, I’d be quite glad to just punch you in the nose,” Jaskier smirked, “again.”

Taking a closer look, Geralt did notice that Valdo’s nose was slightly crooked. As if broken a few too many times.

“But if seems you have some pretentious rule about not allowing people to win their losings back from you like an honourable gentleman would.” Jaskier crossed his arms. “So I’ll play you for Geralt’s card.”

Valdo blinked blankly. “Geralt?”

Jaskier clucked his tongue as he sat down. “My goodness, you are out of touch. Everyone on the Continent knows I sing of Geralt of Rivia, heroic Witcher of legend and my very best friend in the whole world.”

Geralt didn’t bother to object.

“Then again, you rarely get to leave Cidaris, don’t you?” Jaskier produced his gwent deck and began to shuffle it. “I often wonder how you’d do in a town you didn’t grow up in? But then your father’s money wouldn’t be there to buy you a court position now would it? Has he bought you a title yet?”

Though Jaskier couldn’t see it, perhaps because Jaskier couldn’t see it, Geralt grinned broadly at that.

Valdo grinned back nastily, revealing he had a missing canine tooth as well. “If he did, at least one of us would use their title to make a difference to their homeland. Tell me, Julian,” he laid out his deck and dealt himself a hand, “when did you last visit Lettenhove? Or do you still think wandering amongst the common folk singing dirty songs in dirty taverns is the proper way a viscount should behave? Whatever would your mother day?”

Geralt watched Jaskier’s grip on his own hand tighten, just slightly. “Just play, Marx.”

Huh. Apparently Jaskier wasn’t making the whole viscount thing up.

“Oh now now,” Valdo laid down his hand, “we haven’t set terms yet. You want the Witcher’s card, right? This one,” he picked it up and flipped it along the back of his hand. “But what will you bet? I never play for anything as gauche as coin. Some of us get wages, not a handful of coins in a dusty lute case. Actually,” Valdo leaned forward, “that’s what we’ll play for. Your pretty lute. See if you can perform in royal courts without your maaaagical little instrument.”

“No.”

Jaskier and Valdo both snapped their attention to Geralt.

“No,” he repeated. Jaskier’s lute was his livelihood, his most precious possession. Geralt wanted his card back, but not at that price. Jaskier was a clever player, Geralt knew, but Valdo’s deck was evil, full of spies and scorch cards. “Not the lute. Choose something else.”

Valdo shook his head. “Don’t think I will,” he turned back to Jaskier. “You bet your lute or I walk away and your witcher never sees his card again.”

Geralt put a hand out to grab Jaskier’s shoulder and urge him up to their room, but Jaskier just nodded. “It’s a bet. Play, Marx.”

Worry came over Geralt and he found himself pacing behind Jaskier, trying not to look at his cards because then he’d know if Jaskier had a good hand and if he didn’t…

If Jaskier lost his lute, he’d be crushed. Geralt would buy him another; he’d have to. But to lose the lute Filavandrel had given him… Jaskier always said it brought him luck, sounded sweeter than all others, even when slightly out of tune.

“It will always remind me of the day my life changed forever,” he’d smile at it, then at Geralt.

Geralt still hadn’t worked out whether he meant the day he wrote the song that made him famous or the day he learned the world was much more complicated than his human-written studies might have led him to believe.

Geralt watched as Jaskier’s hand dwindled to two cards.

Valdo still had half a dozen.

It was the last hand; both had won a turn and this would decide the winner.

Rubbing a hand over his face, Geralt closed his eyes and leaned back, trying to meditate or at least clear his mind. He still had his winnings from the other matches he’d played tonight. He had no idea how much a lute cost, but he’s fairly sure he’d be able to cover it. Did this town even have a shop that might carry one? It was only just inside the borders of Cidaris, not a particularly large village now that Geralt thought about it.

“You,” he heard a hiss, “cheated.”

Jaskier was smiling. “I did no such thing. I merely used your same tactics against you.” He held out a hand. “The card. Unless you’d like to try and win it back?”

Valdo spit out some words in Elder as he threw the card at Jaskier and stomped out like a petulant child.

Geralt was rusty and only caught every few words. Something about Jaskier’s bedroom habits and something else about being a pathetic, he thinks the word was supposed to mean hound or something like that. One phrase that Geralt did catch, as he’d heard it assigned to him once or twice before translated to ‘unlovable’.

Jaskier sat frozen through the tirade and when Geralt rounded the table, he found Jaskier’s eyes to be far more full of wrath and pain than it ought to for someone who had just won a game against a rival.

His face schooled into a triumphant grin, though there was still a sheen of sadness in his eyes. “Your card, Geralt.”

Geralt took it gently, sliding out his deck into order to tuck it away. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Well, if I lost I was thinking of just stabbing him and making a run for it,” Jaskier waved a hand.

“It’s not that important,” Geralt insisted, ten minutes later as they readied for bed. “It wasn’t worth risking your lute. If you’d lost it. It’s more precious to you than everything, else you’ve said so yourself.”

Jaskier looked up from folding his doublet and smiled, not his cheeky performance grins but a small, genuine thing. “Not everything. Now,” he sat on the edge of the bed and tugged off his boots, “may I see the card I won from Marx in what is going to be immortalized into an incredibly epic song as soon as I come up with a rhyme for ‘thrice broken nose’?”

Geralt took it out and handed it over.

It was a fairly new card for the Northern Kingdoms deck. An ashen haired little girl pouted in a frilly pink dress, clearly displeased at being painted.

“Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Princess of Cintra,” Jaskier read. He handed back the card but his hand hovered, as if he might reach out for Geralt’s shoulder or even his cheek. “Yes, this is something worth taking a risk for, no question. …15 points and all,” he said after a moment, when he realized Geralt wasn’t responded. “Course I missed the opportunity of stabbing Marx, but I’ve no doubt the chance will arise again someday.” He laid down and stared at the ceiling.

“Jaskier,” Geralt began, finding his words dry up when those beautiful (when did he start thinking of Jaskier’s eyes as beautiful?) blue eyes blinked up at him. “I… th- you played well.”

A pleased and nearly shy look came over Jaskier’s face. “I know how much you enjoy it. Just wanted to be sure I’d be a worthy opponent for you, dearest witcher.” He stared at Geralt a moment longer, as if looking for something in his face. He shook his head slightly as if coming out of a dream. “Goodnight, Geralt.” Jaskier turned and faced the wall.

“Hmm,” Geralt hummed as he laid down, facing the opposite wall. “Goodnight. Jaskier.”

4. Sailing

Geralt surveyed the people sitting around the table and frowned to notice one missing. “Where’s Jaskier?”

“Went fishing,” Eskel said off hand, jumping right back into his conversation with Coën.

“He what?”

Lambert looked up from his gwent match with Ciri, “He took my boat and went fishing. Said he wouldn’t be much help in a hunt, but this way he wouldn’t be and I quote, ‘useless’ and he could be a ‘worthy winter companion’.”

Geralt winced. He’d apologized for his harsh words on the mountain and Jaskier had forgiven him. But it seems some of the hurt from that day still lingered.

“Where did he go?”

Eskel and Lambert exchanged a look.

“I don’t know his coordinates,” Lambert answered.

“Dammit!” Geralt barely kept himself from hitting the table; he didn’t want to scare Ciri, who had put her cards down and was watching the scene with interest. “You know what’s out there. Drowners and bears and I’m not sure we entirely destroyed that harpy nest from last winter and-“

“And he assured us he could handle it,” Eskel said.

Geralt growled. “He’s human! He could get hurt.”

Coën piped up at last. “Jaskier went north from the lakeside hut.” When all eyes turned to him, Coën shrugged, “He wanted to know where the good fishing spots are. I told him.”

Spinning on his heel, Geralt headed for the door to the keep, grabbing a silver sword from a rack of them on the way. He had a location and a direction. He could pick up Jaskier’s scent from there.

Geralt hadn’t bothered to grab a coat and the winter winds bit through his leather and linen clothes almost immediately. It didn’t matter. Jaskier had been alone in the wilds for who knows how long and even without the monsters and the beasts, there were dangers. The bard could overbalance and tumble into the icy waters. What if he hadn’t thought to grab warmer clothes? Geralt picked up speed, wishing he’d thought to bring Roach. Wishing he’d thought about anything other than running to get to Jaskier and…

And he wasn’t sure what would happen after. He just… needed to know that Jaskier was all right. That he was safe. He hadn’t been safe, Geralt sighed to himself as he ran, after Geralt had snapped at him.

Geralt was sure it was just another spat; that he’d arrive back at camp and Jaskier would be there very pointedly writing a song about a heartless cad who was mean to his very best friend in the whole wide world. Jaskier had a good half dozen songs like it already, this would be one more.

Only he wasn’t there. Geralt arrived to find Roach eating the last of the apples Jaskier had packed just for her and giving Geralt a very judgmental look. “Leave off,” he growled at her as he packed up what was left and led her down the mountain. “We’ll pick him up in town and you two can whisper about how mean I am.”

But Jaskier wasn’t in town either. Nor could anyone say which way he went. Geralt cursed then like he cursed now, seeing the roof of the hut by the lake and yet no sign of Jaskier.

Bad things happened when Jaskier went off alone. Geralt shook his head to rid himself of the image of Jaskier, strung up by his hands, those beautiful talented livelihood-making hands threatened and Jaskier said nothing, gave no secrets away. Some because he didn’t know and some because he…

Geralt doesn’t know why Jaskier didn’t break, except he does. The man is brave, he’s stupid and criminally loud, but he is also the most loyal man Geralt has ever known. Steel dressed in silk.

Closing his eyes and inhaling deeply, Geralt picked up Jaskier’s scent. It’s his soap and sweat and Geralt knows it like he knows his own.

Jaskier has the only boat and Geralt doesn’t fancy a swim, so he sticks to the shoreline, eyes casting about for any signs of danger or Jaskier.

Geralt very specifically tries to avoid thinking about danger AND Jaskier, which means that is all his brain will show him. Images of Jaskier surrounded by drowners, of a boat floating listlessly because the man at the rudder had been torn to pieces by harpies, a bear raising its blood-covered maw with a scrap of bright fabric caught in its teeth.

The last thing he’s thinking is that he will come upon Jaskier peacefully hauling a net of fish into the boat, adding the larger ones to a bucket next to him. So of course, that’s how the story goes.

“Geralt?” Jaskier called, eyes as round and surprised as the fish wriggling its last throes in his hands. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Is everyone okay?”

Jaskier dropped the net thoughtlessly onto the boat’s hull and with a series of quick and efficient movements, had the boat floating over to where Geralt stood on the shore. The bard hopped over the side and hurried to Geralt, hands twitching as if he wanted to check the witcher over for any injuries. “Geralt?”

“What the hell were you thinking?”

A frown coming to rest on his face, Jaskier put his hands on his slim hips. “What was I thinking? What were you thinking? You’re going to catch your death without a coat, yes I know,” he said as Geralt opened his mouth, “witchers can’t catch colds, immune systems, mutagens, blah blah,” he went back to the boat and finished sorting the fish, “blah. What could possibly have happened that you hurried all the way from Kaer Morhen without so much as a single piece of armour or a cloak?” He turned, suddenly serious. “Is everyone all right? Is Ciri all right? She’s not ill, is she? Did she take a tumble on the training course?”

Touched by how much Jaskier cares about Ciri, despite having known her a relatively short time, Geralt shook his head. “She’s fine. Everyone is fine.”

“Then what in the name of Meletile, Freya and any other four gods you would care to name are you doing here?”

Geralt wished he’d spent less time thinking about the past and more time thinking about the future as he ran. He’s starting to get used to that feeling in general. “You weren’t there.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened, then softened. “Surely someone told you I’d gone fishing? I let everyone know. I didn’t,” he smiled sardonically, “think you’d even notice.”

“Why?”

Head tilted like a puppy, Jaskier raised an eyebrow. “Why did I go fishing or why did I think you wouldn’t notice? I went fishing because everyone does something at Kaer Morhen. I don’t,” he sighed, “have anything but music to offer and I’m well aware of your opinions on that. I assume your fellow witchers share them and also your witcher hearing, hence my lute case gathers dust. I do, however, know how to sail a boat, catch some fish, and cook said fish. So I thought I would make myself useful. As for you not noticing, well, I’m hardly your first priority here and,” he quickly added, “I understand completely. I shouldn’t be. Ciri comes first, always, of course. Hell, I wasn’t your first priority when we traveled together. Roach was. Speaking of, where is she? You couldn’t have tied her up too far away now.” Jaskier looked at the tree line as if a large mare would suddenly appear.

“I… didn’t bring her,” Geralt said, shame slowly rising in him at Jaskier’s words. Geralt couldn’t refute any of them. He hadn’t noticed the lack of music, assuming Jaskier still played in his room. As for when they travelled together, it hurt deep in Geralt’s gut that Jaskier thought he wasn’t a priority to Geralt. His words were often harsh, but Geralt made sure Jaskier had enough food and hunted more to ensure that he would. He bought Jaskier a warmer, if less stylish, cloak that had seen the bard through most of his twenties.

Jaskier had hefted a bucket of fish in his arms and just stared blankly at Geralt. “You… didn’t bring Roach? You, what, walked all the way here?”

Geralt’s eye twitched. “I ran.”

“For Meletile’s sake, why?”

“There’s…” Geralt cleared his throat, “drowners around. Sometimes. And bears. There might be some harpies left over from a nest we destroyed last winter.”

Jaskier settled the bucket back into the boat. “Were you… worried about me?”

Geralt nodded. Words were awkward and he wished to use as few as possible.

A look not unlike something like wonder crossed Jaskier’s face. “Oh. I… oh. I’m,” he spread his arms as if presenting himself, “fine. As you see. I… guess we should head back.” He gestured towards the boat. “I’ve a decently sized haul. I can make use of this for a while.” Jaskier stood in the shallow water, “Climb on in, and I’ll take us back.”

Geralt didn’t move.

“Oh,” Jaskier looked abashed. “Unless you’d prefer to steer?”

“No,” Geralt shook his head. “You can steer.”

He could. As Geralt had seen, Jaskier clearly knew his way not only around fishery, but sailing.

Jaskier nodded again to the boat and Geralt stepped in, settling at the bow.

Proving him right, Jaskier shoved them into the water and hauled himself over the side, quickly settling at the rudder and turning them around to head back towards Kaer Morhen.

Geralt cast a glance into the bucket of fish, seeing a few other smaller ones surrounding it. Several fish stared unblinkingly at Geralt as he stared back.

Jaskier hummed then cut himself off when he realized he was doing so, with a nervous glance at Geralt.

He wanted to say something. Tell Jaskier the humming was fine with him. That he should get out his lute and play for them. That Geralt wanted to hear his music, his voice. That the fillingless pie comment all those years ago hadn’t been a slight to Jaskier’s singing but the content of his songs, so many full of dirty humour or exaggerated lies.

All he could manage was “You sail good.”

Staring just as wide-eyed and unblinking as the fish, Jaskier slowly said, “Thank… you… I, uh,” he looked back at the water, “grew up on the coast. Been sailing since I was strong enough to move a rudder. Fishing even longer.”

“Why didn’t you fish that day? You could have caught your own.” Geralt winced as his words were said. Jaskier wasn’t focusing on that day with the djinn. He’d need to be specific.

But Jaskier was already answering, “I was heartbroken and near blind drunk,” he laughed, light and slightly forced. “I’d have fallen in as soon as I bent over to grab the net, hence why I was hoping you would share your haul.” He pursed his lips. “Rather wish I hadn’t, looking back.”

Geralt found himself stuck for words again. They came easy with his brothers in arms. Even with Ciri, he found himself managing to find words of comfort or encouragement when it seemed she needed them.

But Jaskier had always made things complicated for Geralt, since the day they’d met. He could annoy Geralt like nobody and nothing else; Jaskier got himself into trouble on a fairly regular basis, was fussy about his clothes and hair, and could talk the hind legs off a donkey while never saying a blessed thing of worth.

But damn if Geralt didn’t want him there, in all his messy and loud glory. He wanted Jaskier safe and, as recent events had shown, Jaskier was safest at Geralt’s side, because Geralt would move heaven and earth, call upon any help and damn the cost, to keep Jaskier so.

Geralt was in love with Jaskier. The revelation felt both sudden and slow at once. Like he’d been falling in love so quietly and steadily, there was no way to point to the day or hour that he’d actually fallen.

“Fuck.”

Jaskier, lost in daydreams, started. “What’s the matter now?”

“I,” Geralt scrambled for something to say. Should he tell Jaskier he loved him? No, that was absurd. Jaskier, for all his lingering stares and the near constant scent of lust that used to surround him, didn’t love Geralt as more than a friend, if that. Lust was not love, Geralt knew that well. He was with him for the songs and the safety. Sure, Jaskier cared for Geralt, he said it often enough, but he didn’t love him. Like how Geralt was realizing he loved Jaskier.

Who was staring at him expectantly.

At least this time, Geralt kept his annoyed at himself ‘fuck’ inside his head. “I was thinking of all the times we could have taken the river, instead of the roads.” He found words, though he wasn’t sure they were the right ones. “If I’d known you could sail. We could have… sailed. Before now.”

Jaskier dropped his eyes to the bottom of the boat, then turned away as if needing to check where he was going, as if he hadn’t been steering blind for the past several minutes, instinctive. “Ah. I’m sorry. Maybe I should have told you. Though we weren’t often by the,” a slight hesitation, “the coast.”

“You’re doing very well.” Geralt twitched his lips into as big a smile as he could manage and still felt it came up short.

But Jaskier’s visible cheek rose in a smile. “Thank you, Geralt.”

5. Sword Fighting

A whirl of light green and silver flashed from Geralt’s side, a movement near dancelike in its fluidity, accompanied by a whisper that sounded almost like counting.

Geralt turned just in time to see the bandit’s surprised face before his cleaved straight through torso fell, leaving the remains of his trunk and his lower body to fall to the ground a couple seconds after his head and shoulders had.

Jaskier stood behind the now deceased bandit, blood splattered all over his outfit and his face, still twisted into a mask of wrath. The sword in his hand was red with blood, silver glinting through the drops.

Geralt thinks it’s possible he has never been so turned on in his whole life and he’s going to have a good long talk with himself about why that might be later on.

The moment passed and Jaskier lowered the sword, wiping it on the deserter’s trousers. “Oh blast, sorry about that Geralt, I’ll clean all the blood off properly once we get back to camp. No worries. I know it’s silver for monsters,” he sneered at the dead man and then at the others who had foolishly decided to try to rob a witcher and his companion, “but I rather think it’s still apt. I’ll pay for the repair at the next blacksmith we come across if I damaged it too much.” He held the blade at eye level and examined it. “I think it’s mostly all right and Geralt are you okay? They didn’t manage to knock you in the head, did they? You’ve been staring at me for the past few minutes.”

Geralt was trying to sear the image of Jaskier looking over the blade as if, as if he KNOWS what to look for in a damaged sword. A sword he had used to kill a man creeping up on Geralt. A sword he had welded with deadly and graceful precision. Geralt’s own sword.

A very, very long talk. Possibly in the cold stream they’d just come from before they’d been ambushed.

Jaskier leaned past Geralt to sheathe the sword into its place across the witcher’s back and the spicy smell of anger had dissipated completely into Jaskier’s usual chamomile and honey concern scent. Underlaid by the copper of the blood.

It took a good deal of self-discipline for Geralt to not outright whine when Jaskier laid a warm hand on his cheek, tilting his head to check for injuries.

“Your pupils are very round, darling,” Jaskier said, the endearment he used so often sounded like music to Geralt. “Are you injured? I could grab you a potion if you are. Or maybe you’re just tired.” Jaskier dropped his hand and turned back to where they had laid down their belongings when the first men broke through the cover of the trees, using speed and surprise over strategy.

Geralt was sure he’d had them all until… until Jaskier killed the man who had managed to sneak up on him. Who would have put a sword through Geralt if not for Jaskier’s quick action and Geralt circled back to the image of Jaskier, bloody and snarling like a feral animal as he cut the man down with no hesitation.

A very, very long talk in a very, very cold stream.

Jaskier whistled and Roach came from her hiding spot in the trees. He patted her neck and dug through her saddlebags. “Geralt, are you out of Swallow? We have the spirit and the celandine but I think we might need to head towards the coast so you can cut down some drowners for their brains.” He smiled brightly. “Maybe they’ll be a contract for them as well. And a tavern that appreciates fine music. We could have a va- a very nice day. Or two.” Jaskier ducked his head and pink bloomed in his cheeks.

Geralt found his hand lifting of its own accord and landing on Jaskier’s shoulder.

The bard turned expectantly, then frowned when after a moment Geralt didn’t say or do anything else. “Geralt?” His voice was soft, the scent of his concern drew stronger. “Geralt, are you sure you’re okay? You seem stunned or something. Are you sure you didn’t take a hit to the head?”

“Sword,” Geralt said at last.

“He speaks,” Jaskier smiled briefly. “He speaks nonsense, but he speaks. What about a sword? I already told you I’d take care of any repairs needed after my impromptu maneuver. I don’t think there’s any permanent damage done. It wasn’t even that difficult. You have very good moves, dear.”

Geralt blinked as he realized where he’d seen the move Jaskier had performed. It was one he’d been taught at the School of The Wolf. Jaskier used one of Geralt’s own moves. One of his Witcher moves. To save his life. “That was… that was a witcher move. How did you…” he couldn’t even finish his question.

Jaskier shrugged. “I’ve followed you for over two decades, Geralt. On and off, sure, but still. I’ve seen you fight nearly every creature you could come across. Including bastards like those,” he nonchalantly tossed his head towards the dead men on the ground, his fringe flicking back into his eyes boyishly. “I memorized the moves you use. Granted, I’ve mostly practiced on training dummies and sparring partners, but I’ve run across my fair share of evil and desperate men before.”

“That… wasn’t your first kill?”

“Gods no,” Jaskier tilted his head and scrunched up his nose as he calculated. “Maybe my… dozenth? Or so. Now I tried not to pick up a sword unless necessary but that gutless bastard,” he spit at the man’s bisected body, “was in your blind spot. You probably would have managed to parry, but I didn’t want to take the chance.” Jaskier smiled. “Good thing too, now that we know you’re out of Swallow. Here,” he held out a canteen of water, “drink this. Get your strength back.”

Geralt took the canteen and drank slowly to give himself time to readjust his worldview on Jaskier. “Did you… count? When you were…”

Jaskier nodded. “Oh yes. Your movements are so like a dancer’s that I memorized them to a beat.” He smirked. “I’ll make a ballad out of them some day. I’m still in the habit of the counting, but eventually I’ll stop needing that, I suppose.”

“Right,” Geralt said, nodding as if he wasn’t imaging Jaskier, in plain shirt and tight trousers, sparring with Geralt on the grounds of Kaer Morhen. A blink and it was a different kind of sparring. In a bedroom. “Huh.”

“Well,” Jaskier said, as he dug back through the saddlebag, “there’s some White Raffard’s if push comes to shove. Makes sense after that last nest of nekkars. Frightful creatures by the way, possibly my least favourite of them all. Though you’re low on White Honey as well, so hopefully we can find a herbalist and stock up a bit before you have to do any major fighting. ”I’m glad now that I all but raided Oxenfurt’s gardens before I joined you for Spring. Got plenty of honeysuckle in my bag and I’m sure we can find some white myrtle with no problem this time of year. Where’s your alcohest, dear? I’m sure Lambert didn’t let you leave Kaer Morhen without every type of spirit known to man.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, unable to take it anymore. “We need to get back to camp.”

Jaskier whirled around and looked at Geralt then up at the sky, the sun slowly descending in the late afternoon light. “Oh you’re right. Best head back now before we lose the light. Pity we had to have that fight after the nice splash we’d had in that stream. Do you think there’s time to wash again before we head back?”

Geralt nodded. “Yes. Let’s do that first, getting clean again. That’s a very, very good idea.”

“Hmm,” Jaskier hummed, “I didn’t expect that answer from Mr Uses Monster Guts As Shampoo.”

“We’re going to need to get very clean,” Geralt said, “because as soon as we get back to camp I am going to fuck you.”

Jaskier froze. “Whaaaat did you just say? Geralt, I think I misheard you.”

Geralt shrugged. “Or you can fuck me. After seeing you fight like that, I’m letting you choose how we do it.”

“Seeing me fight.” Jaskier opened and closed his mouth a few times, trying to find which of the many words he had at his disposal he wished to use.

“Or I could just suck you off, if you’d prefer that instead.”

“Geralt of Rivia. Geralt… Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde and I have never been more grateful for the night Vesemir got drunk and shared stories of your youth, I need you to be very, very serious about that offer.” Jaskier licked his lips. “Because I would very much like to take you up on it and if… if it’s just for the night, I don’t rightly think we should risk our… ye gods, you’ve never even called me your friend and here you are offering sex as if… is this just because you feel obligated? I’m sure you would have moved just in time but I couldn’t risk letting that man hurt you and-“

Geralt reached out and pulled Jaskier close, which shut the bard up. A trick Geralt was wishing he’d let himself try before. “I am very serious. If you want it to be for the night, it’s just for the night. It could be a more… formal arrangement if you’d prefer that.”

Jaskier dropped his head to Geralt’s shoulder and breathed out heavily. “I died, didn’t I? I misjudged the distance and the bandit killed me and this is heaven. I didn’t think I’d go to heaven. Huh.”

“Not dead,” Geralt said, lifting a hand to thread through Jaskier’s hair. “Not letting you die. Ever. Especially now that I know how well you fight. You’re living just as long as I am. Don’t know how. I’ll ask Yen, maybe she’ll know of some-“

“Okay,” Jaskier took a step back. “Now, now you’re just being… you want to ask Yennefer, a very very scary witch that you sleep with on the regular-“

Geralt shrugged. “Going to have to stop that now that I have you.”

A high-pitched whine issued from Jaskier’s throat. “I’m going to need you to stop saying things like that if you don’t mean them… how I… ho- expe- think you mean them.”

“I mean them how you think I mean them,” Geralt said. “Most likely. I mean that I would very much like to take you back to our camp and check at least a few things off the mental list of sexual acts we’ve both been compiling right now.”

Jaskier squeaked, “Both?”

Geralt nodded. “I would very much like to do so tomorrow night and for as many nights as you want me. And to extend your allotment of nights somehow. Yennefer has been searching arcane magic things for decades, surely she’s found some anti-ageing or immortality spell by this point. She wouldn’t have needed it, but I’m sure she would have made note of any.”

“Sure she can’t make me younger before she does that?’ Jaskier asked, relying on humour to help him deal with the inrush of information he was being given.

Tilting his head, Geralt looked Jaskier over very thoroughly, noting with some satisfaction what effect his assessing stare had on the state of Jaskier’s trousers. “I like you as you are now. Not the whelp that followed me when It was stupid and dangerous. You’re a grown man now. You’ve filled out. I like how you look.”

Jaskier ran a hand through his hair. “Pardon me if this all seems very sudden.”

“Not sudden,” Geralt said. “I’ve liked how you looked for years.”

“You never said anything.”

Geralt smirked slightly. “I know you’ve lusted for me. I can smell arousal. You never said anything either.”

Jaskier flailed again. “You didn’t consider me your friend, so forgive me for assuming ‘Hey Geralt, you’re the most bloody gorgeous person I’ve ever seen in my whole life would you like to bed me and then marry me’ wouldn’t go down very well.”

“I thought,” Geralt started, “you only wanted to follow me for the songs. For the fame and coin it earns you. It’s why you started following me.”

Struck speechless, Jaskier just stared.

Geralt continued. “I’ve thought of you as my friend, but I didn’t think you thought of me as yours. Until you saved me. Until you learned how I fight in case you ever needed to save me. Until you knew what my potions do and which ones they are. All the little things you’ve done for me throughout the years make sense now. I know friendship. That’s not friendship; it’s love.”

“I have loved you since,” Jaskier waved a hand theatrically, “since you told the elves to let me go. Since you let me stay with you even though you could have outrun me easily on Roach. You hunted enough for two and laid our bedrolls close so I wouldn’t freeze on cold nights and especially after the mountain, you’ve barely let me out of your sight and… oh my gods, I am thick, aren’t I? I am so thick! I am Mr. Thick Thick Thickety Thickface from Thicktown, Thickania. You don’t talk, you do. That was your way of… of… saying how you feel. Isn’t it?”

Geralt hummed and nodded.

Jaskier’s smile could have outshone the lovely sunset happening somewhere behind them. “You love me. Geralt, you… love me. Like I love you. Oh my gods, are you sure I’m not dead? Or having the most wonderful dream? This is real,” he took a step closer and reached out cautiously to pull Geralt into his arms. “This is real, right?”

“It’s real,” Geralt nodded again.

A laugh bubbled out of Jaskier, eliciting a smaller but no less sincere one from Geralt. “If I wasn’t covered in blood, I would be kissing you alre-“

Geralt leaned in and pressed their lips together, relishing the happy gasp Jaskier made against his mouth. “Hmm, I’m bloody too.”

Jaskier kissed Geralt, a small peck and then another. “Where was that stream again?”

Geralt pulled back and took Jaskier’s hand, guiding him in the dimming light. “I won’t be bedding you and then marrying you,” he said.

Confusion scrunched up Jaskier’s face before he realized what he had said before. “Oh bollocks, I didn’t mean that- necessarily- I don’t- where would we find a priest or priestess any- I wasn’t suggesting-”

“We have to have some courting time before we should even think about marrying,” Geralt continued. “it’s only proper.”

“Right,” Jaskier nodded so fast, it was a miracle his head didn’t fly away. “Right, right, right, right. Of course, of course, of course. Proper… proper courting. Geralt?” he asked as they arrived at the stream. “I love you. I just… can I say that now? Because I’ve wanted to say it so many times and I’ve been biting it back for years and I just… I just love you.”

Geralt smiled. “I love you too.”

+1

Wow,” Geralt said, staring up at the ceiling. “That’s how you manage to get away with those abysmal pickup lines. I mean… wow.” His heart was racing so fast it almost sounded human after the passionate, athletic and frankly innovative sex they’d just had. "I always did think it would be good."

He didn’t need to turn to see Jaskier’s smug smile, but he did anyway.

Jaskier’s grin was wide and stretched his cheeks even higher than normal. He tossed his sweaty fringe out of his face and kissed Geralt, deeply, slowly, perfectly. “You’re welcome.”

[honeysidesarchived]

THE LAND OF GODS AND DEVILS, a sequel.

—part ii.

word count: 9.2k

rating: m for now, rating will change in later chapters as things develop, tags will be updated accordingly.

warnings: naughty language, massively canon-divergent, roman gets his own tag because he’s a fucking nutso, canon-typical violence, established relationship that might not be the healthiest, age gap, domestic murder family. if you’re here i imagine you know exactly what he’s about.

notes: hello! it has been a hot minute since i updated, but i promise i am not dead. i just went on a real vacation and juggling two longfic projects at once is (surprise) very time consuming! but i am here with chapter two. it's a lot of roman pretending not to be jealous when he's actually seething inside (we love to see it), as well as a few little drops of intrigue. yes, i know, i TOO wanted an entire longfic about roman and varya just making out between dramatic proclamations of their violent devotion for each other, but alas, alack.

special thank you to my beta @starcrier who of course helped me proof a good portion of this, and is eternally my cheerleader and the loml, as well as @shallow-gravy who put her eyes on the very very rough draft of this when i wanted to bash my head into the top of the desk a-la-roman's theatrics. without you this chapter would not have happened!

and thank you to everyone who has read this so far! carry your throne was truly my baby and so getting to write a sequel for it is the most incredible feeling. your support means the world to me. <3

Roman did not like sharing his things.

It was perpetually difficult enough to have let Varya waltz around the club so that she might have happily enjoyed being lavished attention on (attention that was, to be kept in mind, not his)—but watching a stranger, an interloper from her past, indulge himself in her, that was excruciating. Because that’s what it was, in the end; less about his girl enjoying herself and more about people enjoying her, realizing they would never have her, that she would always be his.

So as Irina took the twins back upstairs and Roman ushered her back into the throng of partygoers, he did so with intent; Roman watched Varya wind her way from person to person, lingering at their friend Dorian—dutiful member of the press always content to show her in a good light—before she and Maxim connected.

Roman watched them. He watched the way Maxim beamed at her, the way he ducked his head to hear her say something. He laughed and rocked back on his heels a little, and when Varya brought the glass to her lips, Roman saw it—saw Maxim’s eyes dart down to her mouth, their ascent short-lived as he busied his hand with sweeping a stray curl from her face. Maxim seemed very comfortable touching Varya, he thought. Men were never comfortable touching Varya. They were either—he had found, at least—aware of her proclivity for having hands cut off or (what he could only argue was the most correct deterrent) understanding of the simple politeness that came with not putting your hands on another man’s woman.

More than anyone, Roman appreciated having the things which others could not, so that he could be envied: but this?

This was treasonous. Poisonous. Heretical. Not in my fucking house.

Puzzling yet was Varya’s willingness to let her childhood friend conduct himself in such a way. She was a greedy thing, his girl; he knew that she so loved the attention, preening and glowing under the adoration. Greedy and hungry for love. Had she always been so active a participant in the act of touching, of being touched? Even by a stranger?

Not a stranger, he reminded himself tartly. Childhood friend, the man whose father she killed. That’s two fathers now, in her ledger—her own and someone else’s. And petulantly, he thought it a bit unsettling that it was a bond he could never have with her—dear old dad was already dead as a fucking doornail, wasn’t he? No chance Varya would want to ice him for Roman a second time.

He had determined to swallow his pride (impressive, gracious, generous) and make his way over when Dorian swept in; Dorian, preening and wrapping his arms around Varya from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder and making the noisy announcement, “Stealing her away, thank you!” just before he steered her past Maxim. There, the crowd shifted and scooted out of the way to reveal the birthday cake getting wheeled out on its little tray, decorated in gem tones and sparklers.

The determination to close the distance between himself and their newfound associate did not abate, even with Dorian’s well-timed interjection. As he wove through the crowd of milling partygoers, accepting compliments on his good work, he waited until he got within a foot or two of Maxim to stop. Everyone was applauding the cake. Everyone was having a great time looking at the expensive cake glimmering under the oh-so-obnoxious chandelier, but mostly he thought they were applauding his wife.

So, Roman clapped. He clapped, because the cake was out and the sparklers were fizzing and popping prettily, dancing golden light across his wife’s delighted face. He clapped, because everyone else was clapping, too. He clapped, and he flashed an all-teeth smile at Varya from over the top off the elaborately decorated cake (tasteful, not gaudy, of course).

Over the fizzing and popping, and without taking his eyes off of Varya, he said to Maxim, “Did you fuck my wife?”

Maxim clapped. He clapped, too, and he stood there for a moment and blinked a few times and replied, “What?” His accent was thicker than Varya’s, and thicker than Ilarion’s had been.

“You speak English, don’t you?” Roman snipped, his words and perhaps some of his annoyance masked by the party chatter. Varya shrieked delightedly when Dorian dabbed frosting on her nose. “I asked if you’ve fucked my wife?”

The blonde cleared his throat. He rubbed the back of his neck, apparently grateful that the attention had gone from clapping now to cutting the cake. In the corner of his eye, Roman could see Zsasz lurking—watching, keeping an eye, making sure he didn’t need to intervene on Roman’s behalf. Always a good man.

“No, Mr. Sionis,” Maxim replied, talking over the din of music and laughter.

Good, Roman thought. And then: “Do you want to?”

“Want to what?”

“Fuck,” Roman bit out, “my wife?”

Maxim barked out a laugh. He looked caught off-guard by the question—like maybe he wasn’t sure if Roman was asking to threaten or offering to join their marital bed—and then he said, “You have put me in an uncomfortable position. If I say no, I am insulting my childhood friend. If I say yes, I am insulting my new boss.”

There was something about this that flared a little spike of victory in Roman’s chest. Yes, that was right—he was Maxim’s new boss. And Maxim should be nervous about pissing him off, shouldn’t he?

“But,” the blonde plunged on, “I imagine having something that other people want feels good, does it not?”

His eyes narrowed. He smiled thinly. What the fuck was that supposed to mean? “Yeah,” he agreed, “it sure fucking does.”

There was a moment where it looked as though the other man was going to say something, his mouth opening but no words coming out, brows knitting together at the center of his forehead; but then silk and warm stretches of skin were filling up Roman’s vision, Varya having swept around to come to him, eyes bright. They’d only been at the party for a little while, but already his fingers were itching—he wanted, having stood by idly while greedy hands brushed against his Varya, and it was time to erase them all, he reasoned. Wipe her clean of them as best he knew how.

Still, she had not looked so happy in a while, he thought. Varya always beamed around the twins, practically glowing radioactive from the inside out, but it had been a long time since he’d seen her so delighted without them in her arms. And surely, this was a testament to his doing—his meticulous, flawless planning, regardless of whatever wrench Maxim Kuznetsov was trying to throw. Yes, Roman thought, he had done exceptionally, in this as in all things.

“Romy,” she said sweetly, “are you playing nice?”

“I’m always nice, kitten,” he demurred, sliding his arms around her waist and nosing the hair at her temple automatically. Every time she came around, the gravitational pull was inevitable—hands on, hands on, hands on, making sure everybody knew exactly who she belonged to. “But you can ask your little friend, if you’re worried I’ve hurt his feelings.”

He said, you can ask, but he kissed her after he said it, purring against her mouth and keeping her otherwise preoccupied; when she did pull away, still encircled in his arms, she smoothed her hand along the exposed skin of his sternum and looked inquisitively at Maxim.

Roman mimicked the tilt of her head. The blonde regarded him for a moment, and then Varya, and then smiled.

“Your husband is very accommodating, Varushka,” he told her, shrugging as if to say, and what else would he be? “I have never met a man like him.”

He felt his mouth downturn—Varushka, the same pet name Ilarion had used with her. It was one thing to accept that his wife’s twin brother would always be held in high regard in her memory, that he’d had to endure the Varushkas and the closeness that they had shared that purposefully, intimately excluded him.

“That’s because there’s nobody like me,” Roman idled, despite the venom thrumming in his veins. He was cool. He was cool and fine and totally cool. Varya hummed and planted a kiss against the slope of his jaw; her nose brushed the hollow of his throat, more than content to remain there.

But even though their exchange remained pleasant, for a second, the blonde Russian regarded him with the same deadpan, venomous gaze that Ilarion had so often. It was so close to the way his wife’s twin had looked at him, in fact, that the disdain which had been almost exclusively reserved for Ilarion himself now prickled up the back of his throat like a bile—instinctual, muscle memory.

He had seen the same look crossing the faces of the men from St. Petersburg, flown all the way to Gotham to meet their new pakhan, as Varya had put it: disdain. We’re not for you, those fleeting glances said, despite the acknowledgment in all other things that they were. What do we want with some American gangster?

He was vaguely aware of Varya and Maxim saying something, exchanging words, but their voices had dulled to the cartoonish wah wah wah of an old-time cartoon, with Varya’s occasional laugh vibrating against his sternum. Maxim waved a hand dramatically. There was ink, there; he hadn’t noticed it before. He’d been too busy inspecting the man’s stupid fucking face, trying to find the lip of his mask somewhere in there. False fucking face, that’s all it was.

And yet: Roman could not help but feel a little burn of intrigue at the sight of the inked Cyrillic letters on the back of the man’s hand.

“—stairs, my darling?”

Varya’s voice bled through the dull static that had overtaken his mind. He glanced at her, reaching up and tracing the slope of her jaw with his thumb, his other fingers splaying along the spine of her neck. Obediently, her chin tilted. She was complacent like this—docile, even; he could have snapped her neck if he wanted, dug his nails into that warm, dusky skin and watched the blood well, and she would have let him—so much so that he wondered at it for a moment. All of his hard work, all of his tempering, cupped right there in his hand; she was his.

Rather than admit to having checked out of their conversation, Roman pressed the pad of a gloved thumb against her lower lip and deferred, “Whatever you want, kitten.”

Briefly, the thought that he had agreed to let Maxim into his loft occurred. Oh, what a dreadful thought.

“Then it’s settled,” she replied. “You can stay while the party goes on, of course, Maxi.”

Maxim lifted his head, regarding them with a gaze that was no longer venomous, but playful. “Of course.”

“And you’ll leave the address of where you’re staying with Armazd?”

“If you want it, I will.” He cocked his head, smiling politely. “Goodnight, the both of you. I am happy to finally put a face to the name Roman Sionis.”

What the fuck is it with these people, he thought wearily, and with no absence of annoyance. This is just how it had been before—everyone saying things beneath the things they were saying, layers and layers and layers, piling up over each other. Didn’t any of these stupid fucking gun dogs say anything exactly the way it was?

“Yes,” Roman agreed, “I bet you are.”

With great purpose—and having determined that Varya was quite done with the evening—he planted his hands on her hips and turned her, steering her towards the doors which exited out of the club and into the hallway housing the elevator. It was her birthday, after all; there was nothing he could do except whatever it was she wanted.

“Goodnight, Maxim,” he said over his shoulder, steering the brunette in his grasp toward the door. A distressed ugh! sounded to his left, and he turned to see Dorian glaring at him accusingly.

“You get her all the time, Roman,” the journalist announced. “Surely you can spare her for a little longer?”

“Afraid I can’t,” he replied over his shoulder, squeezing Varya’s hip when she stifled her laughter. “You see Dorian, close to a year ago, Varya and I decided that we had plenty of other uses for cake to be explored on our birthdays—”

Another disgusted sound came, but it was too late; Roman was already nudging Varya through the doors to the hallway, and down to the elevator. Once the door clicked shut behind them, it was quiet; it was the one area of the building where it seemed like the air conditioning didn’t quite reach, having so many accesses to the outside, and so the air already felt a little humid and muggy.

“Oh, we forgot the cake,” Varya pouted, trailing ahead of him. She’d collected the hem of her silk dress loosely in one hand, keeping it from the floor as she wandered to the elevator to push the button. The neon red of the Exit sign cut across one side of her, illuminating her in half crimson and half shadow. It reminded him of the night he’d come back to the loft to find her covered in another man’s blood, kitchen knife in hand.

And mine, he thought. Varya Astakhova, the gem of St. Petersburg, only living heir to the Astakhov gun-running fortune, his wife.

“Darling,” she purred, breaking him out of his thoughts, “are you going to just stand there all night?”

“Maybe,” he replied idly. “Maybe I will just stand here all night and stare at my wife, hm? Who would stop me?”

“Well, certainly not me,” she demurred, turning to look at him fully now. “But you can hardly kiss me from there. And what am I suppose to do, go without cake and without your hands on me?”

The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. Roman thought about the way Maxim had looked at him—just for that tiny split second—all of the disdain and venom welling in his gaze before it was wiped away. Your husband is very accommodating, I’ve never met a man like him. And that fucking tattoo on his hand. It nagged at him, dragged his attention away from the very, very delicious task at hand.

“Roman?”

“You go,” he announced. “I’ll be up in just a minute.”

A plush, ruby lower lip pouted out. Roman sidled over to the elevator, planting a gloved hand on the doorway so that the doors wouldn’t close, and she prompted, “What could you have possibly forgotten when all you need is right here?”

“You are most spectacular,” Roman agreed, reaching up and twisting a curl around his finger. “But it’s just a quick thing. Don’t worry that pretty head, kitten. I’ll be up in no time, and you had better—”

When he leaned in, their noses brushed; Varya hooked her fingers in the space between the buttons of his collared shirt and tugged a little, playfully, humming sweetly.

“—have this dress off,” he finished, voice pitching low and warm, “by the time I get up there.”

“And what if I don’t?” The cloying, saccharine tone of her voice belied the little spark of rebellion in her words. Roman made a pleasant sound against her mouth, a humid warmth plunging down his spine when she closed the tiny space between them to kiss him; it was entirely unhurried, and on instinct his free hand went to the small of her back, pulling her more flush against him as her lips parted prettily beneath his to sigh.

He said into the kiss, “Why don’t you try it and find out?”

“Is it a test?” Roman felt her smile. “I love tests.”

“Get upstairs,” he growled, unable to resist a final kiss. “Wicked thing.”

Varya did pull back, reluctantly and with a dramatic, long sigh. She’d always had a thing for the dramatics. “Fine, I will go upstairs all alone,” she drawled. “Don’t keep me waiting, Romy.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He stepped back, dropping his hand from the elevator door and turning around to head back to the club. The party was still in full swing; people wouldn’t even begin to start leaving for another few hours, patiently and dutifully babysat by Armazd and Zsasz (well, mostly Armazd—Zsasz was not good at being ‘patient’ or ‘dutiful’ if it didn’t include face-carving). It was like having three nannies on payroll, instead of just the one.

The door swung shut behind him. People chattered brightly over the music, lingering around tables in clustered groups. He could see at least half a dozen mobsters and their families, associates of Varya’s from overseas, socialites she had charmed and wealthy businessmen determined to get into their good graces before the weapons chokehold came into full effect.

But there was only one man he wanted to see.

Dorian Young had been smitten with Varya since the moment they’d met, through Roman—and since then, they’d been nearly inseparable. Dorian had even done her the kindness of writing Ilarion a flattering obituary. It would have been annoying, if Roman considered Dorian a threat in the least. He did not.

“Dorian,” he barked out, catching the brunette’s attention. He smiled, full-teeth and as charmingly as he could. “Buddy-mine. I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Oh?” Dorian arched a brow loftily. “A favor outside of the eternal wisdom of Gotham’s madonna, Roman? How scandalous. You know I can’t resist a special in.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” Roman adjusted one of his gloves absently, glancing around the room before inclining his head and taking a few steps outside of the cluster of milling partygoers. He didn’t have many concerns about being overheard, given the noise level, but it was better safe than sorry. “You have access to certain records, don’t you?”

Now two perfectly-manicured brows arched upward before Dorian cleared his throat, dark eyes fluttering in a bat at innocence.

“I’m a journalist, Roman,” he intoned somberly. “If someone were to give me access to records that were anything but public, it would be a grave and disgusting infringement on the American Privacy—”

“Yeah yeah yeah, shut the fuck up,” Roman interjected, waving his hand. “I don’t give a shit about that. How about this: you don’t use the records you aren’t able to access, and you don’t dig up literally everything you can on Maxim Kuznetsov.”

“The ex-boyfriend?” Dorian tsked his tongue. “Roman, green is not your color.”

“Hey? Dorian? Don’t be a fucking moron.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Well just say you’ll do it.”

“You mean,” Dorian amended, “that I won’t.”

Roman let out an exasperated noise, clapping a hand onto the man’s shoulder and giving him a little jostle that was meant to convey he wished that he could instead be strangling him in that moment. Varya would have been upset if he did. Dorian flashed him a pearly grin.

“Consider it done. Or not-done, as the case may be.” He took a swig of his drink, sucking his teeth. “Anything I should be on the look-out for?”

“Any red flags. Suspicious shopping behavior. Outgoing calls to private numbers. He’ll likely have two separate phones—one burner, one not.” Roman dropped his hand from Dorian’s shoulder. “Armazd will have his address, if you want to get that from him before you leave tonight. And—one more thing.”

The journalist looked at him expectantly, waiting.

“Not a word,” he continued. “To anyone. But especially not to Varya.”

“If you’re sure,” Dorian ventured.

“The surest.”

It was when he turned to depart the party—for real, this time; he was tired of waiting to unwrap his wife—that Dorian said, “Roman?”

A deep, calming breath. I need Dorian, he reminded himself, and V’s fond of him. Roman pulled another one-eighty. “Yes, Dorian, beloved of my wife?”

“How is Varya?” Dorian’s eyes narrowed. “I mean, really?”

The question was not one that Roman had anticipated. Why would she be anything other than great, glowing, in love with her life? Sure, the last year had been full of turmoil—but they had come out of it fine. Better than fine. Roman had gotten everything he had wanted, and Varya—well, much the same, hadn’t she?

Dorian’s prying reminded him of the way Varya’s body had stilled, the way her expression had hardened, that dark, wild look slipping into her eyes when the lights in the club had blinked on to reveal the surprise party. She’d looked frigid, the softness wiped clean from her in that split moment.

“She’s fine,” Roman replied after a minute. “I mean—she’s great. What do you mean?”

“I can’t get a good read on her. You know,” Dorian pointed out. “And she did watch her supposed-to-be-dead daddy unload a round into her twin brother while she was drugged to the gills on ketamine.”

Well, when you put it like that, Roman thought dryly.

“Some of us, Dorian,” he said primly, “are able to rise above our trials and tribulations and come out better, hm?”

The journalist smiled. He didn’t looked swayed by Roman’s words, but eventually he said, “I’ll contact you as soon as I find out anything.”

“Good man.”

It was only a few minutes from the club’s main floor up to the loft, but those few minutes felt like an eternity; stretching out, impossibly long and endless in front of him. Varya’s birthday was supposed to have been a problem-less occasion, and now he had several problems lining themselves up in front of them. Chiefly, Kuznetsov. And the rest of them, too, but mostly Maxim.

Roman tugged the gloves from his hands and shrugged the suit jacket from his shoulders as the doors to the loft slid open, the gentle ding announcing his arrival. Faintly, he could hear the classical music that Varya favored to play in the twins’ room as they slept; there would be a little speaker on the table closest to her side of the bed, so that she could rouse the second either of them needed her, but they were good babies, like she’d said; it was rare when they didn’t sleep through the night.

He tossed the articles he’d disrobed from onto the long dining table as he passed, nudging the door to the bedroom open.

“Ah,” he sighed, eyes roaming expanses of warm, dusky skin exposed to him as Varya lay stretched out on the bed, “I see we went with behaving tonight?”

“I told you,” she replied demurely, “I love a good test. I can hardly resist the challenge.” Her eyes glittered playfully, and she propped herself up on her elbows, the silk of her underclothes rustling in a way that beckoned him—his hands, his mouth. “You didn’t bring any cake up?”

A quick laugh billowed out of Roman as he sidled over, stepping out of his shoes before climbing onto the bed. “It’s vanilla, you know. Not chocolate. It would have been sacrilege, in memory of our first big fight.”

“Was it chocolate?”

“Oh, yes,” he told her gravely. “I’d never forget. Don’t you remember? You were a terrible brat to me, and then you didn’t speak to me for a week, and then you showed up with a cake—”

“Terrible brat?” She laughed, feigning insult. “On my birthday, no less.”

He grinned. Leaning down, he pressed a leisurely, open-mouthed kiss to the top of her sternum, hooking one hand in the crook of her knee to yank her down the bed so that she was more firmly under him, eliciting a playful little shriek out of her before he tugged the tie of her robe loose.

“Your birthday, yet here I am, unwrapping a present,” he murmured, leaning down and pressing a kiss to the slope of her jaw. He rumbled, pleased, “I’ve been thinking about you all day, you know.”

Varya made a sweet little sound. “Is that so?”

“Mmhm.” Roman kissed down the pillar of her throat, dragging his tongue over a faded love-bite bruise. He’d need to renew that. “Especially when you put on that dress. Admittedly, I am a bit disappointed—I was looking forward to cutting it off of you if you misbehaved.”

“For someone who spent all day thinking about me,” she murmured coyly, “you certainly spent long enough coming up here.”

Roman paused in what he was doing—his fingers hooked in the top hem of her underwear, scandalous things that they were—and glanced up at her. He was trying to gauge where she was actually at, emotionally, but true to what Dorian had said, it was almost impossible to get a read on her.

“It’s just business, baby,” he replied.

“Oh. Of course.”

“You see? I told you not to worry about it.”

“Yes,” Varya agreed, “what would I know of business?”

Roman groaned, pressing his forehead to the smooth plane of her sternum. The scent of her jasmine perfume washed over him, and even though he was this close to indulging himself (which he, above all others, deserved the most), he knew Varya wouldn’t let go of the conversation so easily.

“It’s nothing,” he insisted. He let the fabric of her underwear snap back into place against her hip bone, sliding down her body to kiss down her abdomen. “Focus on enjoying your birthday,” he added, “and let your man worry about everything else, hm?”

Varya’s lashes fluttered lightly, eyes watching him hungrily as he worked his way lower and lower still.

“Ambitious,” she murmured, “to think that I will let go of it so easily.”

“Well,” Roman replied against her skin, “I suppose it’s lucky that I love tests, too. And I always—”

The thin, silky fabric of her underwear made the most delicious sound as it ripped, tearing satisfyingly. Varya made a soft, sweet sound, and he glanced back up at her.

“—pass with flying colors.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

In his experience, Roman found that the best time to approach Varya about things was first thing in the morning. If he was exerting any amount of true self-awareness, of course, he would have acknowledged that “approaching” Varya about anything was not about the time of day, but rather how it was done—a skill Roman thought he had only honed in their short time together.

It was nearly ten; they’d roused late, thanks to the previous evening’s festivities—including an after-hours indulgence that Roman was more than pleased to drag out— and now Varya was chatting conversationally with Zsasz, who provided minimal noises between mouthfuls of food. It was as though her annoyance from the previous night had faded with the glow of morning, which left only the bones that Roman had left to pick.

Therefore, in a show of good faith, he let the chatter carry on for a little while before he decided to Broach(TM).

“So,” he said, sitting in his usual spot at the head breakfast table, “Maxim is funny.”

To his right, the brunette hummed and idly stirred her coffee. The gentle clink-clink of her spoon against the side of the mug was almost soothing; little creature comforts Roman hadn’t realized very often that he truly liked.

“I don’t remember you ever mentioning him,” Roman continued casually.

“I do not like to talk about boring things.” Varya’s brow was furrowed, lips pressing into a little line as she read the newspaper. “Pass me the cream, my love?”

She was feigning disinterest, but he thought she might have been listening more closely than she let on; one wolfish little ear swiveled in his direction, always.

He did as she asked. “He has an interesting tattoo on his hand.”

“I did not notice.”

“No?”

Varya finally tilted her head to look at him, dark eyes inquisitive. She didn’t ask what it was she was thinking, not right away; instead, she waited, did that thing where she let him sit in silence, maybe in the hopes that he’d fill it with his own chatter. He didn’t, of course. He wasn’t stupid.

“Romy,” she said sweetly, setting the paper down and resting her chin in her hand as she gazed at him, “won’t you just ask me what you want to ask me?”

There was no room to stop the irritated noise that came out of him at her words. He scoffed and settled more comfortably in his chair, lifting his chin a little and watching her.

“Or we can play the little game,” she acquiesced, as though she were speaking to a particularly tedious child. “You don’t really care about Maxim’s tattoo. You just care what I think of him.” She fluttered her lashes. “Hm?”

“No,” he replied tartly. “I’m curious about the tattoo.” He paused. “And also what you think of him.”

“I think he is boring.”

“Well, I could have told you that.”

A smile curved her mouth, delicate and fine a gesture as gossamer spread across those soft, Renaissance-features. That painting of her that had been done in the ballroom of the Astakhov mansion was still around somewhere, wasn’t it? Not that he needed a painting when he had the real thing, but maybe he’d hang it in the foyer, as a reminder to anyone who just happened to pass by.

“As far as I’m concerned,” Roman continued idly, “this man of yours—”

“My man, is he?”

“—is just one more obstacle to getting what I wanted. How do you think he’s going to react when he finds out that you put his daddy in the ground?”

“If,” Varya replied. “And what do you mean, obstacle?”

Another scoff came out of him. “Varya,” he chided, voice welling with a patronizing tone, warm and buttery, “come now.”

“Roman,” she replied. Her tone mimicked his. “Explain it to me like I am five.”

“I know the oh-so-omniscient lords of St. Petersburg and Moscow are dragging their fucking feet because they don’t like me.”

“You are trying too hard.” She settled back, dipping a bit of cream into her coffee and stirring again. Clink-clink. It offered him no comfort now; it had become a way for Varya to dismiss him. Don’t you see, Roman, how busy I am? “They are like cats. If you try too hard to gain their affections, they will balk and bolt. They hate being coddled, except by a woman. It’s terribly outdated, but what can you do?”

“I’m—” A sharp, incredulous noise came out of him. “I haven’t spoken more than a handful of words to the lot of them!”

“You see? That is already too much.”

“Well, I don’t want them to like me,” he managed out, feeling the bubbling frustration rising up in him. “I couldn’t give a shit if they like me or not. I want them to accept that leadership is changing hands and they have a new boss to answer to, now.” He leaned forward, forearms rested on the table. “And I know Daddy Astakhov liked to brand his things, hm? So what’s Maxim’s tattoo mean?”

Varya leaned forward, too. “I do not know,” she replied evenly, “and I wish you would stop bringing that man up in my presence.”

“I can’t very well erase him from the conversation completely when I’m inheriting his business.”

“My,” she snapped out viciously, suddenly, “you are inheriting my business, Roman.”

It was just a split second. It was only a split second of venom welling up in her expression, suddenly so wicked that not even Roman was shielded from it; it was worse, now, than it had been before. Those times he’d seen the switch inside of her flip had been under great duress. Was this duress to her, now?

Women, Roman thought, watching her smooth dark hair from her face and collect herself. Perhaps motherhood had not made her soft, but rather emotionally volatile. He couldn’t afford to look more hysterical than his wife, so he waited—with great patience and grace, he thought—for her. She cinched the silk robe at her waist more snugly.

“You know that I am happy to do so,” she continued, as though she’d not just bitten his head off in front of Zsasz, “and that I have no problem with it. I just want...” Now, her voice trailed off, and she skimmed the pad of her index finger along the rim of her coffee cup before she picked up the newspaper again, as well as the red-ink ballpoint to her right. “I want it done right, that is all. And if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.”

A buzzing sound vibrated from the marble hallway leader to the elevator. Roman was waiting for Varya to issue her apology (which she was certainly going to do), and Varya wasn’t looking up from the newspaper.

“Who could be coming so early?” his wife idled, spurring on that molten-hot frustration inside of him as she continued to avoid the topic at hand. “Not someone you called on, Romy?”

The buzzer was the last thing that Roman wanted to think about, let alone deal with. He had much more on his mind; Varya’s elegant dodge of his questions, and—most importantly—her blatant dismissal of his concerns about their current timeline. She was all well and peachy over there, wasn’t she, drinking her coffee and reading her paper and not doing him the courtesy of looking at him?

She had always been a needler, Roman reasoned; she had always had a wild, stubborn streak in her. He’d watched her sit and push Ilarion’s buttons for an entire dinner, once, just to see him get to the edge of snapping at her. She was good at it. He liked it about her, liked watching her do it; might have even made a past-time out of the whole sport of it. How quickly can my little viper unravel a man? Place your bets, gentlemen, time ends when the idiot’s screaming his fucking head off in a public place.

And he would have been foolish to think that she never did it to him.

“Zsasz,” she said, without looking up from the paper, “be a darling and get that, won’t you?”

Zsasz, who had been sitting at the far end of the table watching all of this unfold the way a man might watch a trainwreck happen, moved to come to a stand. Roman barked out, “Stay,” and the movements stilled considerably, immediately. It was satisfying, at least, in an exchange which had been everything but up until then. He turned his gaze to the brunette on his right.

“Do you think I’m an idiot?” he said tersely. He gestured to Zsasz. “Sit.”

The blonde did. Roman could feel Victor’s eyes darting between them.

“Oh, darling, you are spoiling my morning.” Varya set the newspaper down on the table and smoothed it out primly, the thin paper edges fluttering between her fingers. “Why would you ever say such a silly thing?”

“Varya.”

“Surely you do not mean to.”

“V,” he snapped.

“Well, I do not know what you want me to say,” she replied after a minute, leaning back in her chair to finally look at him. “My father never deigned to share his operations with me. It was always ‘what a tedious child you are, Varvara’ this, and ‘since love and fear can hardly exist together, if we must choose between them, it is far safer to be feared than loved’ that. I mean, the man spent most of my life quoting Machiavelli at me. Do you think he told me what all of his little art projects meant?” She shrugged, picking her newspaper up again, ignoring the second sound of the buzzer. “You could just ask.”

The irritation spiked high and hot in his throat. Of course, he could just ask. Of course, he could, but he was the fucking boss, which meant doing things like asking an employee what a stupid fucking tattoo meant were below him. He replied tersely, “Why don’t you figure it out for me? Clerical work and employee management is your forte, after all.”

Varya hummed. It was a prim, musing hm, the sound she made when he’d said something she found to be particularly annoying. “If you wanted me to personally manage Maxim,” she demurred, glancing at him through dark, sooty lashes, “you only had to say.”

Somehow sensing this particular phrasing was not going to go over well with Roman (it wasn’t), Zsasz said, “Can I buzz ‘em up?”

“Yes,” Varya replied.

“No,” Roman insisted.

“Romy, there’s a guest.”

“I’m not through with you,” he snapped.

“I’m gonna buzz ‘em up,” Zsasz announced.

Roman felt the frustrated note rising in his throat, strangling it before it could quite make its way out of him. His jaw set; his eyes followed Zsasz on his way out of the main room and toward the elevator to—presumably—let up their guest (intruder). He drummed his fingers against the top of the dining table and said, “You think you’re very funny, don’t you?”

“Darling.” Varya leaned forward, elbows on the table, lacing her fingers together and cradling her chin atop them. She looked awfully pleased with herself, the little snake, that gigantic stone sitting on her finger. “If I knew what the tattoo meant, I would just tell you. Why not? I could tell you what the word is, but that is hardly ever what the tattoo actually means.”

Darling, she said, as though she hadn’t just snapped her teeth at him moments before. Roman sucked his teeth. Yes, it was very reasonable, he thought; Nikita had always cherished his son over his daughter, had always anticipated Ilarion taking over the business, as Varya had framed it—and even once, Ilarion had confirmed himself. He wanted you and only you, Ilya, and that’s why you couldn’t look at him when he died. That’s what she’d said, and the memory of that night—of Varya, needling the person she was closest to in the world, weaned from venom and taking so much pleasure from inflicting it on someone else—reminded him that there was still much about his wife left to be unearthed.

And it would be an unearthing. Roman had no doubt that it would be a graveyard he would be turning over, full of skeletons—not just a closet.

From the other room, the sound of an infant’s cry drifted down the hall. Varya’s gaze flickered to the space over Roman’s shoulder, behind him, and she came to a stand.

“I will ask, if you would like me to,” she told him, coming around the table and smoothing her hand along his shoulder in what was supposed to be a peace-making gesture. “But I don’t think there is a reason to bother yourself with the detail.”

He felt his mouth press into a thin line. Fine, he thought, fine, the tattoo isn’t a big deal. But what about everything else? “This is all taking a long time, V.”

“I know.” She paused, and then softened a little, all of her button-pushing and needling having dissipated for the moment; Varya leaned down and kissed his temple, and then the top of his cheekbone. “These things take patience, you know. It is not just a—used car business we are inheriting. There are processes, formalities, the like. The men have to know they can trust you.” She paused, tilting her head and regarding him with dark, inquisitive eyes. “You just have to trust me, Romy.”

Roman sighed. I do, he thought, turning his head to look at her. Don’t I?

Of course, he did. She was his wife, the mother of his children—and Roman hadn’t even wanted kids, not really. Not until he realized how much they, by proxy, made Varya belong to him. There was nothing quite so devoted as carrying someone’s child, was there? So yes; he did trust her, in the same capacity at which he supposed a man trusted a relatively-domesticated panther on a chain. Maybe just a smidge more than that. But enough to expect she’d bite off someone else’s hand, and not his.

“Fine,” is what he said, and the word still came out a little petulant. “I will. I do.” Reaching up, he snagged her wrist when she started to pull away, keeping her in place. She watched him expectantly.

When he didn’t say anything—just watched her, gauging her—she prompted playfully, “Are you going to scold me?”

Roman pressed the pad of his thumb to the pulse point on her wrist. His eyes narrowed. “I ought to, vicious girl. You just can’t resist pushing a button when you see it, can you?”

Her pulse jumped pleasantly under warm skin, whether by the term vicious girl or his touch, he didn’t know. It seemed that storminess had passed as soon as it had arrived; and though she hadn’t yet uttered the words I’m sorry, he almost preferred her like this. Coy.

“You would be bored, otherwise.” Her eyes glittered, mischievous. “Don’t you think?”

His fingers stayed curled around her wrist, but she didn’t try and pull away. Watching the flutter of her eyelashes, the way the corners of her mouth quirked upward in a smile, he felt nearly won over. How tedious, Roman thought, that even when he was irritated with her, he found her endearing. That’s amore.

“Don’t goad me,” he warned, and Varya smiled dreamily at him.

“I love you,” is what she replied, and then leaned down to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Let’s never fight again.”

He dropped his grip from her wrist and she stepped around his chair, the silk of her robe fluttering behind her as she started to the sound of babbling infants. The one or two cries that had roused her initially had melted down into baby-chat. Roman was reminded, once again, that they had a nanny on the payroll for seemingly no reason.

“Varya,” he called, taking the newspaper from where she’d left it on the table, “I mean it.”

Her voice drifted from down the hall: “Of course, Romy.”

The sound of the nursery door opening echoed, and then Varya’s voice; saccharine-sweet, honeyed and muffled by distance. He glanced over the front of the newspaper, but it was impossible to focus on the words—what did they matter, anyway? He didn’t give a fuck about what was going on in Gotham. He had bigger fish to fry. Bigger, Russian, potentially radioactive amalgams of different fish that seemed to be stalling on a deal that should have been up and done with already. Not to mention, one of those fish breaking off of the nightmare-fish and showing up, unannounced, sporting tattoos likely administered to him by Nikita Astakhov himself?

These things take patience.

Roman suppressed a scoff. Like he didn’t have patience. He’d been the most patient. Varya had dragged her feet for about a month after they’d put Ilarion in the ground, but after that, things had typically moved fast—the engagement, the twins. Everything except the thing Roman had been waiting for since the beginning. Of course, he’d never anticipated inheriting the business himself and had only gone into the whole thing wanting an exclusive deal, but now he knew better. He knew what was owed to him. He knew what belonged to him.

The elevator door down the main hall dinged. Roman didn’t bother stifling the sigh that wanted to come out of him; it was only ten in the morning, who could possibly need him and for what? He pushed the chair back from the table and came to a stand, sucking his teeth and prepping what he thought could only be the tranquil expression of a man ready to murder before Maxim stepped inside.

He blinked. The tranquility fled his face. Zsasz trailed in after him, looking uneasy. There was something about his expression that didn’t sit right with Roman, the hard lines of the blonde’s face setting him even further on edge. Would his suffering never end?

“Oh, Maximillian,” he greeted, keeping his voice the pinnacle of lazily annoyed. “Clocking in for work a little early, aren’t we? Over-achieving?”

“I am an early riser,” the blonde acquiesced. He looked genuinely apologetic, the fuckhead, in Dolce & Gabbana, no less. “I hope I did not disturb you.”

“A big wager to make, first day on the job.” Roman trailed Zsasz with his eyes, watching the blonde pace around the far end of the table. What had gotten into him since he’d gone to buzz their guest up? Idly, he sat back down at the table, resuming to glance over the words of the newspaper he couldn’t have given two shits about.

And he said nothing. He instead enjoyed, immensely, the act of letting Maxim stand there in silent uncertainty. It was probably almost a full minute before Maxim cleared his throat, prompting Roman to set his newspaper down with a sigh, as though it were very troubling that he had to stop this thing he didn’t even want to do.

“If you’re here to play catch-up with Varya, she’s busy today,” he deadpanned, turning his gaze reluctantly to where Maxim stood. “And every other day. Generally, I think it would be safe to assume she’s much too preoccupied to assist with whatever problems you might have; that type of work is beneath her now, you know.”

“I am sure being a mother and wife is more than enough to keep her busy,” Maxim agreed soberly.

“And transitioning the business in my name,” Roman replied pointedly.

The blonde shrugged, smiling a little. “Of course.”

He felt his eyes narrow. He leaned back in the chair, interlacing his fingers while his elbows rested on the armrests of the chair. It was impossible to figure out what it was about Maxim that Varya might have liked; the man was painfully well-mannered and non-confrontational, which Roman knew wasn’t her style at all.

Never mind that Varya had not once said that there was a romantic interaction between them. That didn’t matter. He knew how men looked at his wife, and Maxim had been a little too comfortable touching her for there to have been nothing at all.

“But, I did not come here to speak to Varya,” the Russian continued, taking a few steps toward the table. “I actually came here to speak to you, Roman.”

Roman blinked. Well, that wasn’t what he expected.

“What?” he asked flatly.

“I wanted to come and see if you were free today,” Maxim elaborated casually. “I was Nikita’s man. Now, I am yours. It only seems right I get to know you better.” He gestured with his hand. “I know you have more than enough help around here, and I was tied up in Turkey before, but...”

Roman’s lips pressed into a thin line. He saw no trace of yesterday’s venom in Maxim’s face, no indication that he was trying to be sarcastic or pull some kind of joke. Instead, Maxim’s face looked completely open and earnest.

“You’re here to ask me on a fucking lunch date,” he began, “and not Varya?”

“Varya,” the blonde replied demurely, “is not my boss.”

Huh, Roman thought. He swept his gaze over Maxim scathingly, and then looked at Zsasz, who remained unreadable. Well, wasn’t that just the most unhelpful thing? It did feel nice to hear Maxim say it, even if Roman would rather see him crying or begging or bleeding out.

“I’m busy today,” he replied after a moment, turning his attention back to Maxim. “But you can swing by the—”

“Maxim.” It was Varya’s voice. Roman turned to look at her. There was no baby in tow. This wouldn’t have been unusual, if Maxim had been a stranger; she tended to keep the twins as far out of reach of people she did not know as much as possible, nested away for safety. But Maxim had been her childhood friend, hadn’t he?

“Good morning,” Maxim greeted her warmly. “I was just asking Roman if he would—”

“I know what you were asking,” Varya interrupted. “You overestimate yourself, showing up to your boss’ home unannounced, don’t you think?”

Maxim looked about as lost as Roman felt; the sensation that he’d stepped into a fever dream very suddenly was washing over him. He looked at Zsasz. The blonde gave a little shrug, as though to say, Why the fuck would I know?

“Varushka,” Maxim ventured after a moment, “you know I did not mean...”

“I don’t know anything at all,” the brunette replied coolly. “You should have called ahead.” She paused, and then added purposefully: “Temka never showed up unannounced.”

Roman found himself in the very strange position of feeling...bad (?) for Maxim, standing there a little helplessly, the poor thing. Varya’s words had gutted him. He could only assume that she was referring to the blonde’s father when she said Temka, by the look on his face, and that—

Oh, you wicked thing, he thought, affection welling up inside of him as he looked at Varya, you know just how to unravel a man. Sticking a salted hot-poker straight into his grief-wound, aren’t you?

“I am sorry,” Maxim said after a minute. “I did not mean to be so thoughtless.”

“The transgression is not mine to forgive.” Varya swept around Roman then, sitting back down in her seat. She looked at him, expectant. “Roman?”

“Me?” he asked.

“It is as Maxim said,” she replied. “You are his boss, not me.”

He waited to see if there was some kind of strange undertow to her words, but he could find none; just Varya waiting, expectantly, for him to excuse Maxim’s showing up without having called ahead. It was odd, and he couldn’t figure out why it was that she was acting like this toward Maxim now—had it been the Varya is not my boss comment? Was she trying to make up for their little spat?

It was commonplace for nothing to be straightforward, with Varya. This was different.

“So,” she continued primly, turning to look at Maxim now, “apologize to your boss.”

“I am—” Maxim stopped, like he didn’t want to do it, drawing Roman’s gaze to him. Quite suddenly, Roman thought he knew exactly what his wife was doing; putting the blonde in a position where he’d have to put good faith behind his words. Varya is not my boss, he’d said, but did that matter if he couldn’t even apologize to Roman?

He finished, more smoothly now, “I am sorry, Roman.”

Roman beamed. “Insolence forgiven,” he replied, all thoughts of his disagreement with Varya gone now. He reached over the table, snagging her hand and dragging the pad of his thumb across the back of her hand. “As I was saying—I am busy today, but you are welcome to swing by the club later this evening. Before midnight. We get busiest just before the witching hour.”

Maxim ducked his head. “Of course.”

Varya’s nails skimmed Roman’s palm. She didn’t look up when she said, “Was there something else, Maxim?”

“I do not think so.”

“Then,” she replied sweetly, “have a lovely afternoon.”

A moment stretched where the blonde looked a little unsure, and then he cleared his throat and said, “Of course,” and excused himself down the hall. Varya circled something in the newspaper with her red-ink pen, her other hands still interlaced with Roman’s.

“Mr. Zsasz,” she began, “did you let Maxim up?”

Zsasz looked at Roman. “I didn’t,” he replied after a minute. “Armazd did.”

“Hm,” came the reply, even as she noted something in the margins of the paper.

“Were you apologizing for your tantrum, just now?” Roman asked. He would puzzle out why Armazd letting Maxim up was worthy of a hm later. Now, he could see the hint of a smile ticking the corners of Varya’s mouth upward, but she did not sway from whatever it was that had captured her attention in the news of Gotham; instead, she circled something absently.

Varya said, “Did you find it a suitable apology?”

He considered. “Well, I would have liked it better if you’d made him cry.”

“It would have spoiled my appetite,” she demurred, folding the newspaper primly and coming to a stand. “I am taking the twins to the park with Irina. And Zsasz too, if you’ll spare him. I won’t be back until late afternoon.”

“Late? Then you’d better come here, wife.” Roman tugged on her hand, watching her expression warm when he said wife. Once, he might have squinted at loaning Zsasz out to her. Now, he didn’t mind; especially if it gave a peace of mind that she and the twins be that more secure. “So that I can get my fill of you before you’re gone.”

The brunette laughed, letting him tug her down onto his lap. She carded the fingers of her free hand through his hair and brushed their noses together; it was all glowing affection, now, warmth buzzing under her skin.

“Oh, darling, now I want to leave quicker, and more often,” she murmured, “so that you’ll never have your fill of me.”

Roman supposed that was how she’d gotten him in the first place. Hooked him with being inaccessible, with being coveted—as if she had always known he was not a man could resist something considered off-limits—and now that he had her, he couldn’t get enough of her. He’d seen the way that others looked at her, and by proxy him; with want. With envy. Bruce Wayne could eat shit.

“Roman,” Varya said, “I want you to be careful when you are around Maxim.”

He paused, pulling back to look at her a little. She smoothed her hand over the slope of his collarbone affectionately.

“You are right,” she continued. “When Maxim finds out what I did—if he does—he will be angry about it. He is used to being the right-hand man, you know. Do not...” She glanced down, looking for the words. “Do not give it to him so easily. Make him work for it and prove himself to you.”

Tracing the lines of her expression—soft, concerned—Roman dragged his thumb across her wrist.

“I told you, doll.” He planted an affectionate kiss to her wrist. “Don’t worry about these things. I’ve got it perfectly under control.”

“I know,” she agreed. “I know you do, Romy—”

“Then stop this fussing,” he interjected mildly. “You’re spoiling your very charming apology. You know I love a good public humiliation. Which park are you taking the twins to?”

The dark eyes of his wife swept over his face for a minute, contemplative and impossible to gauge, before she smiled at him warmly.

“The one just a few blocks away. It has the most shade. Mr. Zsasz, won’t you bring the car around?”

And just like that, things were back to normal. Varya swept away to busy herself with getting ready and loading the twins, and Zsasz went to pull the car around, leaving Roman at the table for a rare moment of peace. Soon enough, he’d have all the information he needed from Dorian, and he could well-and-truly mitigate Maxim Kuznetsov as a problem, and everything would be back on track. He could bet money Varya didn’t think he’d had the foresight to dig up information on Maxim—it wasn’t his style to get his hands dirty, but extreme circumstances called for extreme measures.

Roman sighed, quite pleased.

Back to normal.

[oneletteredwondered]

Insulted

Sum: Virgil works at a coffee shop and Remus is annoying. Annoyingly pretty.

Pair: Virgil/Remus, Dukexiety

Written for @dukexietyweek! Day 4: Coffee (Shop)

Warnings: Lots of swearing, mentions of the word pedophile in reference to Remus’ mustache, insulting remarks towards customers, some awkwardy mild panic feels, mostly stupid interactions.

--

Roasted is a fairly popular coffee shop. If only for the tourist attraction aspect of it that the employees are allowed to be as mean as they want to you and insult you with every order. They’re snarky and rude, and unless they actually get your order wrong, which they don’t, they don’t apologize for shit. They’re delighted when new-comers enter the shop unaware of the rules.

And whatever deity believed in above help the poor soul who asks for the manager because they are worse than the employees with a wicked wit and sharper tongue. 

The rest of the employees would be scared of the manager because of this, but they have seen the man have a panic attack over potentially not having enough straws for the day even after three separate employees offered to go to the store and buy some. They’ve also seen the manager cry because they saw a video of a spider that was too cute for words which renders him pretty unintimidating. Besides, the manager has always been on their side of an argument anyway.

It’s a slow day and Virgil knows Missy hasn’t been sleeping right, or eating right, or feeling like she’s been doing anything right. So he packs her a muffin and a hot chocolate, and tells her to fuck off on home for the day. She doesn’t say thank you but the relief is clear in her shoulders so he knows it was the right thing to do. Besides it’s dead right now and he can handle a few customers for the time being until another employee shows up.

He serves a few people, some very eager to be insulted, some coming in with gaudy outfits for the sole purpose of being insulted, he has fun with those.

“What do you want?” He asks the next person in line, not even looking up from the register.

“I’ll have a large cup of whatever you are.” The person says and Virgil narrows his eyes and looks up. He stares at the stranger for all of three seconds.

“You have a pedo mustache.” Is what he says. The stranger breaks into a wide grin.

“Why thank you!” They sound far too delighted by that. Virgil continues to glare at them while writing the word ‘pedo stache’ on a large cup.

“What do you want?” He asks again more forcefully. The stranger hums in thought and Virgil would snap at them for taking too long but they are the only one in line right now.

“Hello?? Hurry up?” Screw it. He snaps his fingers in their face. Stranger man gives him a wicked smile and Virgil hates the little lurch in his chest because holy fuck and wait stranger is actually kind of pretty. Even with a fucking thin line mustache. Their eyes are bright green and streaks of white are layered in their hair. And Virgil always was a sucker for people with piercings and this dude sure has some to spare.

“Well if you’re not on the menu, I’ll have the raspberry lime tea. Hot as you please,” They say. Virgil writes cold on the cup.

“Anything else you fucking weirdo?” Virgil asks cause seriously it is kind of rude to be flirting with employees while they’re working but in the worst way Virgil kind of likes it cause it means he can say shit like that.

“Oh shit uhm, fuck.” Stranger man says and Virgil glares at them. Both for not being ready and also he kind of likes the way they say fuck which is not what he was expecting to deal with today.

“Jesus Christ dude were you not ready to order like why are you wasting my time?” Virgil demands. A few patrons of the place snicker into their cups and stranger just smirks at him.

“Sorry I don’t have a brain to mouth filter and it gets worse when I see a pretty person,” They wink and Virgil glares harder to will away the attempt at a blush on his cheeks.

“What else do you waaaaant.” He whines at them. Stranger laughs and pulls out a piece of paper. Virgil can already see the long list of items on it and groans.

“Relax it’s all one order,” Stranger says and Virgil scoffs.

“That’s so much worse!” He says. Stranger laughs hard at that.

“Well it’s not mine, princess back at the office is a picky bitch.” Stranger says with comically wide eyes and Virgil hates himself for it but he snorts. He schools his face back to neutrally angry and refuses to give the stranger the satisfaction of seeing him smile just yet.

So stranger man rattles off a long winded order that Virgil groans at with every new direction. He can easily make the drink of course that won’t be hard but he can complain about it so he will. He writes ‘princess’ on this cup.

Stranger man pays and Virgil sets about making the drinks very aware of the other watching him from the waiting counter.

“You just gunna keep staring at me like a stalker or what?” Virgil snips at them, pausing for dramatic effect. Mustache dude grins at him and leans on the counter with his head in his hands.

“I like the view,” He says. Virgil makes a retching sound and keeps making the drinks in question. He does his damn best with them and hands them off.

“Get the fuck out of my establishment,” He says and turns away. Stranger laughs and takes his drinks.

“Thanks for the buzz baby!” He calls out as he exits. Virgil flips him off.

As soon as the dude is out of sight, Virgil collapses on the counter in a heap of nerves and embarrassment. The only reason he was able to keep his cool was because he could hide it behind a massive amount of snark and spite. But stranger man was super pretty and wild and Virgil almost wishes he did something about it.

“You okay?” Parker asks when they show up for their shift.

“Do I fucking look okay?” Virgil asks them desperately. Parker just laughs and that’s good enough of answer for him.

--

“Hello gorgeous!” Virgil snaps his head up from the counter he’s cleaning.

“Oh hell no,” He says and walks away from the front to the back office, leaving his employees to handle Mr Mustache in his stead. He can’t handle it right now. Not when they’re wearing a fucking leather jacket and wild smile. He just can’t do it. So he hides in the back for as long as he can. Which ends up being about a whole ten minutes.

“Uh boss man?” Virgil groans cause that’s him. He’s boss man. Fuck. He drags his hands down his face and looks over at Todd. Todd shifts from foot to foot.

“There’s uhm. I just. Can you-” They don’t have to finish. Mom friend override has been activated and Virgil is heading to the front no questions asked. It’s not a rush right now thank goodness, but they lady at the counter is giving her all in 'entitled customer'.

“This is an outrage, I want to speak to the manager.”

“The fuck you want bitch?” Virgil says without thinking. The lady gapes at him openly.

“This is the worst shop I have ever been in.” She says as if that’s supposed to hurt. Virgil shrugs at her.

“You’re the worst customer that’s ever been in, did you want coffee or not?” He asks her and she gapes again and walks out. 

“Put another ten in the draw for walk outs.” Virgil tells Todd who beams and takes the money from the register to put in a jar near the back. Once it’s full they have a party of some kind.

“That was beautiful,” A voice says and Virgil whips around and comes face to face with Stranger Man over the counter. They’re smiling at him crookedly and Virgil's mouth drops because he was not prepared to see them here still or this close to him or so damn pretty.

“Fuck you,” Is his reflex response.

“When and where darling?” Stranger angles over the counter to leer at him and Virgil squeaks. Full on, flat out, squeaks in embarrassment. The entire room seems to pause and watch. Virgil is frozen in shock and stranger looks like he just saw light for the first time which is absolutely unfair.

Virgil dips, and dips hard. He spins on his heel to lock himself in the office. He makes it there only to realize he can’t handle being in such a small space with his anxiety overriding him. He snatches his jacket off the back wall and catches Todd’s eye before he slips out the back door and into open air. 

Once outside he leans against the wall, puts his head in his hands, and lets out a very pitiful whine as he sinks to the ground. That has to be one of the softest things he’s ever done in regards to a customer in his life and it will haunt him for years to come he knows it.

He spends a few minutes running through his breathing exercises which goes directly to shit when he hears footsteps approaching.

“I’m fine Todd go back to work,” He snaps.

“The name’s Remus actually.” Virgil jolts and looks at the stranger standing over him. Stranger, or well, Remus, gives him a small sheepish smile and pulls at a random strand of his hair. Virgil sinks lower in on himself.

“You’re a lot different in and out of shop.” Remus says after a sufficiently awkward silence. Virgil grumbles and hides his face in his arms. His entire body tenses when he feels Remus slide to sit beside him.

“I am uh. Like, legit sorry if I made you uncomfortable.” Remus mutters. Virgil groans.

“I was not ready to deal with your stupid pretty face today.” He whines. Remus laughs at that.

“You think I’m pretty?” He asks and Virgil realizes his mistake in word choice. He glances up to Remus in panic cause now that he's admitted it, Remus looks even more pretty.

“Well I just- you know it’s- I don’t- Whatever!” Virgil word vomits all over the place. Remus continues to smile at him infuriatingly.

“Even with the pedo stache?” Remus continues to tease. Virgil decides he’s had enough and elbows Remus hard as he can. Remus lurches a little but he’s laughing. They lapse into an easier silence.

“Silver tongue ain’t so shiny out of work is it?” Remus asks him then but not meanly. Virgil snorts and covers his mouth with his hand to hide his smile.

“I have to get passed the awkward first,” He says. Remus hums in thought and snatches Virgil’s hand away from his face. Virgil lets out a dignified noise and snaps his jaw shut so hard it clicks when Remus places a kiss on his palm... then licks him.

“Gross what the fuck!” Virgil yanks his hand back and wipes off the slobber and decidedly not looks at Remus’s blinding grin.

“There! Now it’s not so awkward!” Instead of an answer, Virgil stands up and heads back inside the shop, leaving Remus cackling in the back. Virgil leans up against the door to hear him walk away and finds himself smiling at the interaction.

--

“Welcome to Roasted, or not welcome because we close soon I don’t actually care, what do you want?” Virgil is looking through receipts, making sure the till is all correct for the money they made today.

“I want your number.” Virgil freezes. He blinks dumbly at the papers in his hands and then up to Remus standing casually at the counter. His hands are in his pockets and he looks for the world unbothered but more subdued than Virgil has seen him before.

“Numbers not on the menu,” Virgil says dumbly in attempt to cover his frantic feelings. Remus shrugs and looks around the empty shop.

“Yeah but it’s what I want.” He says it so plainly. Virgil glares at him.

“Order something or get out.” That causes Remus to smirk. He orders a small tea and Virgil makes it silently, adding the receipt to the pile to check on. He pauses before handing the drink over, looking over his shoulder at Remus who is preoccupied with some of the decorative things on the walls. Virgil writes his number on the cup.

“Get your shit and get out,” He says and puts the cup on the counter, going back to his papers and ignoring the way his heart pounds in his chest at what he just did. Remus gives him a sad sort of look and leaves with his drink leaving Virgil wondering if he did the right thing.

Only for his stomach to swoop pleasantly when Remus swoops back into the shop 3 minutes later with a wild smile on his face and refuses to leave until they work out the plans for a dinner date.

--

“Go away.” Virgil greets.

“Never.” Remus smirks back at him.