#apart from the fact that it's definitely too freaking short!! ;( | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

wigglywormy · 8 months ago

Text

blurred lines, sharp twine [bakugou/deku, 5.6k, nsfw]

okay. so I haven't written a fic in over 5 years!! can y'all believe that? i used to be so active on this blog, pumping out fics day and night, but life got busy and before I knew it over 5 years have passed omg.

of course my first fic back would be something like this lol. this was written for @wreckingtickles who shares my undying love for bakugou getting absolutely destroyed. they prompted me with a fic featuring bakugou's stirrup leggings and that kinda spiraled into this huge monster of a fic.

please enjoy 8) (also i made an ao3 to cross-post my tickle fics on!)

warnings: nsfw, feet, intense tickling, bondage, veryyyy slight dub-con, minors DNI.

Izuku wouldn’t openly call himself a weird guy, but he definitely doesn’t really try to hide the fact that he’s a little on the strange side. He knows he’s a gigantic nerd (he’s thoroughly reminded of that fact by Bakugou everyday), he knows he’s a little awkward, and he knows he’s maybe even a little bit of a freak. But, through the years of trauma, war, violence, and near-death, he’s come to accept that life is much too short to deny who you are.

Moving in with Bakugou after graduation was something Izuku didn’t even have to think about. Bakugou set up a few apartment viewings, and it went completely unsaid that the smartest decision for both of them would be to stick together. Roommates equaled cheaper rent, and since they both were working under the same agency it was easy to align their schedules. Normally they patrol together (the Wonder Due didn’t get its name for nothing), but occasionally - especially lately - Bakugou has been picking up more shifts than usual.

Izuku can’t help but notice how tired Bakugou has been lately, especially tonight, coming home from his 9th day in a row of patrol. The door closes softly behind him - he must think Izuku’s asleep already as it’s around two in the morning, and Izuku turns slightly from his position curled up on the couch to watch Bakugou toe his boots off. He’s already changed out of his hero uniform, clad in only his leggings and a soft, worn looking hoodie that Izuku’s pretty sure belongs to him.

Bakugou leans his head against the wall in the foyer for a brief moment, sighing deeply, and Izuku’s heart aches at the noise.

“Late night?” Izuku asks, closing his book and setting it on the coffee table.

Bakugou jumps. “Jesus - shit, you scared the fuck outta me.”

“Sorry,” Izuku murmurs, a slight smile on his face.

“The fuck are you still doing up?” Bakugou grumbles, finally making his way over to sprawl on the opposite end of the couch, sinking into the cushions with a grunt.

Izuku shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Which, technically isn’t a lie, but. Still. Even when he lays in his bed at night during one of Bakugou’s shifts that he’s not partnered on, he finds himself teetering between sleep and wakefulness as he listens carefully for the front door to open and shut, signaling Bakugou has gotten home safe for the night. Codependency wasn’t something Izuku was planning on adopting after the war, but his heart just can’t seem to relax if he doesn’t know that Bakugou is home and safe. Breathing. Alive.

Normally it’s fine, but since Bakugou has been working himself to death the past few weeks, Izuku’s own sleep schedule has taken a toll.

Bakugou doesn’t look bloodied or bruised now, though, which is a good sign.

“I thought your shift ended at midnight?” Izuku asks, his eyes unconsciously skimming over Bakugou’s exhausted body as he slumps further down into the cushions. He folds his arms over his chest, burrowing into the oversized borrowed hoodie, and Izuku smiles because Bakugou is so loud and brash, but right now, here and safe at home, he allows himself to be soft with Izuku.

“It was supposed to,” Bakugou grumbles, rubbing a hand over his face. “One of the interns got caught up in a stupid bank robbery and ended up with a fuckin’ concussion, so I stayed late to help finish up some of his paperwork.”

“That’s sweet of you, Kacchan,” Izuku teases, and Bakugou rolls his eyes, stretching his legs out to rest in Izuku’s lap.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bakugou says, voice tense with exhaustion, “I’m a fuckin’ saint.”

Izuku let’s his hands fall onto Bakugou’s ankles, rubbing gently with his thumbs, and he swallows heavily as his eyes trail down Bakugou’s body, the black leggings hugging his muscles tightly, all the way down to the thin straps holding the stirrups along the arches of his feet.

Izuku wouldn’t openly call himself a weird guy, but shit, that’s another thing about moving in with Bakugou after graduation. Getting to see all of these new and exciting sides of him; tense and angry and bloody after a fight, soft and exhausted after a long boring shift, sleepy and comfortable on his day off.

But the damn stirrup leggings have Izuku trying desperately hard not to act up.

“Do you - uh, want a foot rub or something?” Izuku blurts out, his thumb pressing into the bone of Bakugou’s ankle.

Bakugou’s eyes narrow, and Izuku offers a small nervous smile, trying not to seem as if he’s too interested. He just wants to help his friend relax, okay? Nothing weird about that. It’s not like they haven’t massaged each other before after a long day of hero work. Bakugou’s great with his hands, and Izuku’s arms and shoulders get knotted up so tightly after hours of using his quirk.

Bakugou still has smudges of dark eyeliner around his eyes since he hasn’t washed his face yet since patrol, and it makes his gaze piercing in the low light of the living room. He’s quiet for a moment, contemplative, before shrugging eventually and folding his arms across his chest.

“Fuck it, I ain’t gonna say no to a free foot massage,” He shrugs, “Lemme take these stupid fuckin’ leggings off first - ”

“No!” Izuku blurts out, and he chuckles awkwardly as his grip tightens on Bakugou’s ankles. “I mean - um. You don’t have to, it’s fine.”

This time, Bakugou looks… curious, which is the only way Izuku can describe his gaze. He bites his lip a bit as he thinks, and when he wiggles his toes a bit, Izuku feels warmth pooling low in his belly. Bakugou’s feet are surprisingly slender, his arch defined beautifully, ideal for someone who has to be quick on their feet. His toes are slightly pink, as are the soles of his feet, and they look soft from being in his boots all day. Izuku swallows thickly, but god, he just wants to touch.

Is he into feet? Who knows, maybe, he honestly hasn’t thought too much about it until recently. Maybe he’s just into Bakugou’s feet? When Bakugou wiggles his toes again, Izuku finally glances up and catches his gaze.

“Well? What’re you waitin’ for,” Bakugou says, his voice softer than it’s been all night.

Izuku’s hands are large, tan, and calloused - a stark contrast against Bakugou’s pale skin, and at the fist press of his thumbs into the arch, Bakugou exhales quickly through his nose, body sinking further into the couch.

It’s a little difficult to massage his feet with the strap from his stirrups hugging his arches, but at this moment in time Izuku would rather die than ask Bakugou to take them off. He moves over to just one foot, pressing both thumbs into the heel of his foot, and he slowly works his way up, calluses catching onto the legging strap as he moves upwards.

“Did the bank robber get caught?” Izuku asks, hands firm but delicate, watching as Bakugou’s toes twitch when he digs in beneath them.

“What?” Bakugou replies, blinking his eyes open where they’ve fallen shut. “The - oh, shit. Yeah. Sero was actually patrolling nearby so he got him while I took the dumbass intern to medical.”

“Don’t be so mean,” Izuku chuckles, “We were dumbass interns once, too.”

“Interns, yes. Dumbass? No,” Bakugou shoots back, but then he smirks. “Well, I wasn’t a dumbass. Can’t say the same about you, nerd.”

Izuku rolls his eyes, and he can’t help it when his touch softens, hooking a finger underneath the stirrup strap to graze his nail along the delicate arch.

The reaction is instant - Bakugou inhales sharply and twitches, looking ready to pull his leg back, but Izuku holds onto the strap, preventing him from moving away.

“Deku,” Bakugou growls, and to everyone else on this planet, the expression on his face would scream angry, sharp, intimidating.

But Izuku’s known him since they were kids. Izuku can read him like a damn book, and right now underneath that glare, Bakugou looks nervous.

Izuku keeps his touch soft, one finger hooked into the stirrup strap, while his other hand grazes right beneath the blonde’s toes. His foot twitches again, his toes curling up tightly, and the only word that comes to Izuku’s mind is cute. His feet are cute, and apparently sensitive, and Izuku has no idea what monster has taken over his brain but all he wants to do right now is see Bakugou squirm.

He might be dipping into dangerous territory, but ever since they moved in together, Bakugou’s been much more open to physical touch. It almost feels like a game they’ve been playing, dancing around each other but never going to a place they can’t return from. They’ve fallen asleep cuddling on the couch. They’ve spent quiet days off with Izuku’s head in Bakugou’s lap, the blonde idly playing with his hair while they watch old reruns of All Might movies together. They’ve even spent a few nights together in bed, holding each other close when the nightmares creep up every few weeks.

But this? This might be a place they can’t return from. Izuku’s not sure what Bakugou’s feeling right now, but the lines are so incredibly blurred in this moment, and Bakugou’s cheeks are steadily turning pink, and Izuku knows he could pull away if he really, really tried.

But he’s not. He’s staying put, fingers clenched into the cushions of the couch, eyeing Izuku warily.

“You know,” Izuku says idly, moving one hand to grip Bakugou’s ankle, the other hand trailing his fingers up and down, up and down, so soft it’s barely there. “You used to be so mean when we were kids, holding me down and tickling me until I cried.”

At the word - tickling - Bakugou audibly swallows. “Not my fault you were so damn ticklish, idiot.”

“I could never really get you back because you were so much stronger than me,” Izuku muses.

“It wouldn’t have mattered anyways, I’m not fuckin’ ticklish,” Bakugou replies. His voice sounds sure and steady, but his eyes keep flickering down to where Izuku is still stroking up and down his sole. He’s tense, and Izuku can feel it - Bakugou’s trying so hard not to move, not to give himself away.

Izuku laughs quietly to himself. Of course Bakugou would see this as a challenge to himself.

“Of course you’re not ticklish, Kacchan,” Izuku says, “Maybe if you keep telling yourself that, it might actually come true.”

“It is true, you little shit - ah!”

He squeaks, his breath hitching, when Izuku flutters his fingers under his toes again. His other leg, the one Izuku isn’t holding by the ankle, jerks back, and Izuku thinks no, we can’t have that now, before tendrils of black whip shoot out, pulling his other leg back and twisting around the ankle.

“Okay, now that’s completely fuckin’ unfair,” Bakugou grunts, trying to sound unaffected, but this time Izuku can hear the shake in his voice. “The hell are you tryin’ do here, Deku?”

“Nothing,” Izuku says, a few more tendrils of black whip emerging to wrap around his other ankle so both of Izuku’s hands are free now.

“You call this nothing?” Bakugou tugs at his feet a bit, and black whip tightens to keep him in place.

Izuku ignores him. “I thought you weren’t ticklish?”

Bakugou frowns. “I’m not.”

“Then this is nothing,” Izuku teases, finally wiggling his fingers in earnest over both of Bakugou’s feet, now bound in his lap for him to do with as he pleases. The thought has his stomach flipping, molten lava settling low in his gut, and he can’t help his dick twitching in interest.

Bakugou’s reaction is beautiful, finally a small huff of laughter escaping him as he wiggles his feet as much as he can with black whip holding his ankles down. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, and they keep alternating from clutching at the cushion beneath him to hovering in the air as if he’s fighting his instinct of reaching down and showing Izuku away. His eyes are averting, as if the thought of watching Izuku tickle him is too much, and oh, he’s so cute.

Izuku’s feeling a little nice at the moment, but Bakugou’s fighting his laughter, and Izuku wants to hear him, so he moves his fingers up, scratching underneath his toes. Bakugou does laugh this time, covering his mouth with one hand in surprise as the sound escapes him. His toes curl, trying to block Izuku’s fingers, and a few more tendrils of black whip slither out and wrap around each of his toes, effectively prying them back so Izuku’s fingers can burrow into the soft, sensitive flesh there.

“Wait - no, Deku - ah, ahah.” His laughter is light and staccato, little gasps in between his growls as he covers his mouth with both hands now, muffling himself as his eyes squint in mirth. Once again, he could get Izuku to stop if he really wanted to, but besides the tugging and squirming of his bound feet, he’s not doing much else to get away.

That thought intrigues Izuku, and his confidence grows as he scratches in between his toes, pulled back and vulnerable thanks to black whip.

“I always thought your feet might be sensitive, you know, with how much you sweat and stuff,” Izuku muses, gears turning in his head as he makes mental notes on where Bakugou seems to react the most to. Underneath his toes seems much more ticklish than between them, but the arch of his sole seems equally as sensitive, especially when he pulls back one of the stirrup straps and rakes all five fingers up and down.

Bakugou gasps. “Y-you’re a d-dick,” he growls, but the words melt into laughter as Izuku does the same thing to his other foot before letting the strap go with a snap.

He gives Bakugou a moment to breathe, and the blonde finally lowers his hands from his mouth. His face is extremely flushed now, and he’s looking at Izuku with a mix of murderous intent and… want?

“Still not ticklish?” Izuku murmurs, rubbing his palms over Bakugou’s soles. The blonde twitches again, tensing, before relaxing when Izuku just rubs firmly, soothing.

“Once again - you’re a dick,�� he grumbles.

“And you’re ticklish,” Izuku teases back, scratching his nails up the sides of Bakugou’s feet this time before making their way back to the soft, pink skin right beneath his toes.

“Don’t - Deku, st-stop! It f-fuckin’ - ”

“It what?” Izuku’s feeling mean now, and having Bakugou squirming because of him has his dick hardening more in his sweats. “It tickles?”

“I - I c-can’t - ahahaha!”

“You’re so strong, you can take it, can’t you?” And oh, Izuku’s playing dirty, because there’s nothing Bakugou hates than being told he can’t do something, and if he admits he can’t take the tickling, it’d be the same as admitting defeat, and Bakugou Katsuki is not someone who’s ever been defeated.

Although, Izuku thinks, watching as Bakugou covers his mouth again and squeezes his eyes shut, tickling might just be the key to finally defeating this man.

Izuku doesn’t like how muffled he sounds, though, so he uses more of black whip to sneakily slide up and twist around Bakugou’s wrists, tugging them away from his face. A few tendrils slip up his arms and slide underneath the sleeves of his hoodie, and Bakugou’s expression turns to panic.

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare,” He hisses, but his lips are still twitching on a smile which ruins the intimidation of it. “This is an awful fuckin’ use of your quirk - ”

“So was last week, with yours,” Izuku interrupts, “when you were too lazy to microwave the popcorn and tried to just explode it instead.” Izuku laughs, remembering how long it took them to fish out all of the popcorn kernels from every single crevice in the living room.

“At least that was for a good reason!” Bakugou protests, squirming when the tendrils of black whip slip higher into his sleeves, nearly grazing his underarms now. His breathing is short, body tensed and mouth turned down in a pout.

“You’re saying this isn’t a good reason?”

“What, so fuckin’ torturing me is a good reason to abuse your quirk?”

“It’s torture?” Izuku murmurs. “I thought you weren’t ticklish.”

If Bakugou’s face could get any pinker, it would, and he bites his lip hard when Izuku wiggles black whip into the hollows of his underarms, keeping it light and feathery. Bakugou can’t hold out for long, though, and soon he’s gasping on a laugh and wriggling as much as he can in the hold Izuku has him in.

This time though, Izuku fails to notice Bakugou’s feet squirming aggressively, and Izuku freezes and gasps when the blonde’s bound feet nudge against the very obvious hard-on in his sweats.

Izuku swallows, his hands darting down to grab a hold of Bakugou’s feet. His toes are still tied back with black whip, and Izuku resists the urge to brush his fingers along the skin because something is unraveling inside of him and having Bakugou like this is quickly becoming addicting. Instead, he ducks his head, words escaping him as he opens his mouth but not coming up with anything to say.

A few seconds pass, Izuku preparing himself mentally for an explosion to blast him away or for disgusted yelling and screaming to occur. He’s already mentally drafting the text to Todoroki to ask if he can move in with him when Bakugou inevitably kicks him out once he’s freed.

A beat passes. One. Two. The silence is deafening, and Izuku finally manages to raise his eyes up to glance at Bakugou, surprised at the curious expression painted there. Bakugou nudges his heels gently against Izuku’s dick again, and Izuku hisses and bites his lip, apologies already spilling from his mouth,

“I’m s-sorry, shit, um - ”

“I should’ve fuckin’ known you’d be into something weird like this,” Bakugou says lowly, tilting his head a bit, almost like a cat analyzing it’s prey. “You’re a little freak, ain’t ya?”

The words should be harsh and piercing, but Bakugou sounds like he’s…. teasing him. And not in the mean, bullying way that Izuku was expecting. Their eyes meet, and Izuku sees a small hint of a smirk when Bakugou presses his heels in harder, wiggling against Izuku’s clothed cock as much as he can in his restraints.

“Kacchan - ah,” Izuku sighs, cheeks burning. “What’re you - ”

“What is it you like about it, huh?” Bakugou asks, his voice low.

Izuku’s head feels like it’s going to explode. “I don’t… I don’t know? I didn’t even - I mean… I like….”

Bakugou raises an eyebrow. His arms are still held tightly with black whip, the tendrils under his arms twitch when Izuku stutters, making Bakugou squeak quietly and jerk in his hold. That has Izuku’s eyes darkening again, and Bakugou still hasn’t blasted him away. If anything he’s egging him on, and Izuku’s mind races with what this might mean.

“I like… you,” Izuku starts off slowly.

“Me?” Bakugou questions, and if Izuku isn’t mistaken, there’s a twinge of something akin to hope in his voice.

“Yeah, you,” Izuku breathes, all rational thoughts thrown to the wayside now. “But I also like… having you, like this,” Izuku plays with the stirrup straps on Bakugou’s soles, fiddling with the fabric, breathing hard when Bakugou squirms each time his fingers graze the skin. “I like feeling you squirm. Hearing you laugh. Having you all… y’know, vulnerable for me?”

As he speaks, a few more tendrils of black whip slip under the front hem of Bakugou’s hoodie, slithering up and tapping away at his ribs. That has Bakugou giggling again, and god, Izuku loves his laugh. This is different from his normal laugh, it’s softer and hiccupy and the sound sends white-hot heat straight to his dick. Shit, could he come from this? Just from having Bakugou squirming and laughing and bound up like a perfect little present?

“Jesus - Izuku,” Bakugou laughs, rubbing his thighs together, and Izuku’s eyes widen when he sees a bulge in his leggings, now visible from where his hoodie has ridden up.

Izuku’s brain short-circuits then, and he’s now laser focused on the other boy, fingers moving almost mindlessly as they go back to scratching beneath sensitive toes. Izuku keeps his eyes on Bakugou’s face, his expressions, every twitch of his brow, and the blonde chokes on a laugh and ducks his head, trying to hide his face since Izuku has his arms pulled aside.

“What do you like about it?” Izuku asks, growing bolder the more Bakugou squirms.

“Fuck, oh my g-god, I d-dont - !”

Izuku moves finally, and though he keeps Bakugou bound with his quirk, he crawls up until he’s seated, straddling Bakugou’s thighs where they’re squeezed together, and now Izuku’s just a nudge away from Bakugou’s own obvious arousal.

“You don’t like it?” Izuku says, and this time, he withdraws black whip from underneath Bakugou’s hoodie, instead sliding his own hands beneath the fabric to touch bare skin. His hands are warm and large, fingers curling gently over Bakugou’s deliciously tapered waist, and though he doesn’t do anything yet, Bakugou’s shifting and squirming beneath him already.

Bakugou’s eyes meet Izuku’s finally, and when Izuku flicks his gaze down to Bakugou’s cock, hard as a rock in his leggings, Bakugou groans and ducks his head again.

“It’s not - I don’t know!” Bakugou breathes out, frustration clear in his voice. “You’re just - fuck, it’s weird.”

“It’s not that weird, Kacchan,” Izuku murmurs, and Bakugou tugs helplessly at his arms again. Izuku hums, pulling his arms with black whip until his wrists are crossed, and then slowly - absolutely mean - he lifts Bakugou’s arms up and back until his elbows are bent, bound hands pulled behind his head and forcing Bakugou to lean back more into the arm of the couch. Izuku slides further up, straddling Bakugou’s thighs until their clothed cocks finally brush, and Bakugou breathes out a shaky noise.

“It’s okay,” Izuku breathes.

“Let me go,” Bakugou grumbles, but his eyes are averted, blush high on his cheeks, teeth gnawing at his lower lip nervously. And wow, having Bakugou nervous, beneath him where Izuku can feel the heat radiating off of his body, has Izuku grinding forward, rubbing their dicks together firmly.

Bakugou instinctively tries to buck his hips up, but with the way he’s bound up, he can’t get too much leverage. Once again, he’s still not blasting Izuku off into the sun with his own quirk, so Izuku drums his fingers against Bakugou’s bare sides, drawing little circles with his thumbs right beneath his ribs.

“Ah - ” Bakugou hiccups on another strained giggle, and Izuku grins at him sharply.

“What do you like about it?” Izuku repeats, tickling oh-so-gently, because now that he has his hands touching him, he can’t stop. He can feel every hitch of breath, can feel his body tremble with restrained laughter, and there’s definitely no going back from here.

When Bakugou doesn’t respond, Izuku creeps his hands higher, towards the upper part of his ribs. His hoodie is bunched up completely now, and although Izuku would love to remove the damn piece of clothing, he’s scared if he lets Bakugou go now, this electric bubble they’re both in will pop and Izuku will have missed his chance completely.

He grinds against Bakugou again, while at the same time finally digging into his ribs, and the explosive laughter that Bakugou lets out has Izuku groaning out loud.

“Okay - okahahay! Fuck!” Bakugou yelps, taking a breath when Izuku’s fingers finally pause. “I - fuck, I don’t know. I like… how it feels, not being… not being able to move or some shit, I guess.”

Bakugou looks like he’d rather die than tell Izuku all of this, but Izuku’s already gotten this far, and there’s nothing that would ever make him stop now. The blurred line is now vanished completely, and Izuku murmurs quietly,

“You like being tied up, Kacchan?”

Bakugou frowns, glaring at him, but doesn’t respond.

Izuku continues, smirking. “You like being tied up by me?”

Bakugou squirms a bit, staying defiantly silent.

“You like being tickled like this? Helpless, vulnerable, letting me do whatever I want to you while you can’t do anything to stop it?” Izuku has no idea where this filthy mouth of his came from, but he takes this newfound confidence and harnesses it, slipping a hand down to cup Bakugou through his leggings and squeeze.

“Nn - fuck,” Bakugou pants. “No, you asshole, I don’t like being tickled - ”

“I disagree,” Izuku says, and this time when he pinches at Bakugou’s ribs, he can feel Bakugou’s cock jump beneath his hand as the blonde gasps out a laugh. “I actually think you really like it.”

“Just - when it’s you,” Bakugou finally gasps out, giggling softly as Izuku crawls his hand higher. His words give Izuku pause, Izuku’s heart beating rapidly in his chest because oh. Okay. Just when it’s him? Because it’s him?

Oh.

“Kacchan,” Izuku breathes, a magnetic pull tugging at his chest until he’s ducking down and kissing the laughter right out of Bakugou’s mouth. The blonde moans, tilting his head to the side to kiss him deeper, and Izuku happily licks into his mouth, chasing the feeling of god, fuck, finally.

Bakugou jerks his head to the side though when Izuku’s hand creeps higher, fluttering dangerous fingers into his underarm, and he yelps on a laugh, squirming and bucking up into Izuku’s other hand still kneading at his dick.

“Oh my god,” Bakugou giggles, shaking his head back and forth, and Izuku takes a moment to duck lower and kiss his neck, licking up beneath his jaw, biting gently right under his ear. That has Bakugou squeaking again, and Izuku moans as he feels the blonde tremble against him.

“God, you’re so cute,” Izuku moans in disbelief. “How can you be so hot and cute at the same time?”

“Y-you should be - ah, ahaha - asking yourself th-that - fuck, Izuku, I cahahan’t!”

Izuku stops tickling him for a moment and grins. “You think I’m hot and cute?”

“Not right now, while you’re ti - ,” Bakugou cuts himself off with an embarrassed grunt, not even able to say the actual word, and Izuku takes note of that happily, “Also, fuck you, I’m not cute.”

Izuku doesn’t respond right away, instead opting for shoving Bakugou’s leggings down so they’re bunched around his thighs, freeing his dick, before settling back up where he was seated before. He pulls his own cock out of his sweats, and when he wraps a large, calloused hand around them both and strokes, squeezing perfectly tight, Bakugou throws his head back and moans.

Tendrils of black whip slide down his legs where his feet are still tightly held in place, and as they flutter and scratch beneath his toes more intensely this time, Bakugou actually lets out a small sob, his eyes tearing up as he simultaneously tries to tug at his legs while also squirming up into Izuku’s hand on their cocks.

“You’re feet are so sensitive,” Izuku muses, his pupils so dark his eyes look black, and although Bakugou can’t really kiss him back while he’s laughing, that doesn’t stop Izuku from swallowing up every little noise he makes, lips spit-slick and panting against Bakugou’s mouth.

“Izu - Izuku, plehehease - ah, fuck, fuck,” He sounds like something straight out of one of Izuku’s wet dreams, and Izuku leans back again to stare at his face. Bakugou’s eyes are screwed up now, tears leaking out from the corners, and Izuku coos at him.

“Baby,” he says sweetly, “Is it too much?”

“Y-yes, I can’t - Izuku please.”

“I think you’re stronger than that. It’s just tickling,” Izuku teases. Bakugou’s cock is leaking, and it’s making the slide of Izuku’s hand on them both so, so good. Izuku brings out some more tendrils of black whip, sliding them right back underneath Bakugou’s hoodie to return to the warmth of his underarms, and Bakugou screams.

“It’s so - ahhaha, it’s t-too much,” Bakugou whines, his breathless giggling mixed with moans that sound as if they’re being punched out of him, and his body is strung tight, so tight Izuku can feel how close he is to breaking.

There’s something so incredibly sweet about taking Bakugou completely apart like this. Izuku pants and grinds into his own hand, squeezing and rubbing the head of his cock against the blonde’s, and while black whip continues tormenting Bakugou’s poor feet and underarms, Izuku’s own free hand comes up to grip Bakugou by the chin, forcing him to look at him, eyes blurry through his tears.

“Tell me how it feels,” he whispers, his lips just a breath away from Bakugou’s, feeling the warm desperate noises coming out of the boy’s mouth.

Izuku swipes his thumb over the head of Bakugou’s cock, his own arousal forgotten as he slips down to squeeze at the base tightly, preventing the blonde from actually coming. Bakugou makes a guttural, desperate noise, and Izuku’s grip tightens on his face, keeping him there, watching him.

Izuku’s quirk is nearly everywhere by now, black whip slithering beneath the leggings to stroke behind his knees, a few more tendrils brushing and tickling at his neck, and even more settled beneath his hoodie, prodding and digging and relentless. The fight has completely left Bakugou finally, and he’s slumped against the arm of the couch, body shaking and fighting the plethora of sensations that are overwhelming him.

“Hey,” Izuku laughs a bit, “Baby, c’mon. Tell me how it feels.”

It almost feels evil, watching as Bakugou tries to speak, to come with something, anything to get Izuku to - what, to stop tickling him? To keep tickling him? To stroke his dick again until he comes all over himself? Bakugou’s brain is mush, and Izuku revels in the desperation painted on the boy’s blushing face.

“It - fuck, it f-feels like torture,” Bakugou manages to gasp out, but he bucks his hip up when he feels black whip dig into the ticklish dip of his hip.

“You like being tortured, it seems,” Izuku points out as Bakugou’s cock leaks another bead of precome, so red and hard it’s nearly purple.

“No - ” Bakugou hiccups on his laughter, eyes widening when Izuku raises a brow,, “I mean - fine, shihihit - yes, yes, I like it, god fucking d-damnit Izuku!”

“Shh,” Izuku soothes, but he doesn’t release his hold at the base of Bakugou’s cock.

“Please,” Bakugou whines, and Izuku nearly comes when he realizes he has Bakugou exactly where he wants him.

“Please what?” Izuku releases Bakugou’s chin and his hand slips under the hoodie, pinching right at Bakugou’s top rib, a place Izuku’s learned makes him absolutely lose it.

“Pl-please let me - ah, ahaha fuhuhuck - please let me c-come!” Bakugou’s crying in earnest now, ducking his head down to press his forehead against the crook of Izuku’s neck, and Izuku’s heart leaps when the blonde bites down on Izuku’s shirt, trying to muffle his noises in the fabric.

It’s adorable, and Izuku sighs happily. “Of course, Kacchan.”

He grabs ahold of both of their cocks again, this time stroking in earnest, fast and quick. It doesn’t take more than a few pumps of his hand before Bakugou is crying out against Izuku’s neck, writhing beneath him as he comes, and Izuku keeps tickling him through it. The sensation is electric, Bakugou’s body fighting to distinguish between pleasure and torment, and Izuku groans loudly as he uses Bakugou’s come to stroke his own cock.

“St-stop,” Bakugou giggles, completely breathless, “Too - too f-fucking much - please - ”

Izuku ducks back down to kiss the sweet helpless laughter right out of his mouth, finally coming, his own come mixing with Bakugou’s between them. Izuku heaves a deep breath, slumping against Bakugou as black whip finally retracts, disappearing back into his body and releasing the blonde from their clutches.

It’s quiet for a moment, Bakugou’s arms having fallen limp at his sides, head still buried in Izuku’s neck as he catches his breath. When he shifts, flexing his legs a little, Izuku leans back, sitting up and brushing Bakugou’s hair back from his sweaty forehead.

“Holy fuck,” Bakugou manages, blinking leftover tears from his eyes. “You’re fuckin’ evil, you know that?”

Izuku giggles nervously, still riding the high of whatever the hell just happened between them. Bakugou finally lifts his arms, wrapping them around Izuku’s waist loosely, and Izuku’s heart flutters when Bakugou leans up to press a kiss to the corner of Izuku’s mouth.

“You liked it,” Izuku says, turning to kiss him properly, now able to happily lick into the warmth without Bakugou’s laughter hindering him.

“Fuck off,” Bakugou murmurs into his mouth. “So what if I did, huh?”

Izuku just hums, because that blurred line being gone means that now he can kiss Bakugou whenever he wants, and that thought has him grinning widely and winding his arms around Bakugou’s neck.

“Ew, no, don’t get your nasty jizz-hands in my hair!” Bakugou protests, and Izuku laughs out loud, pulling his arms back quickly.

“Shit - sorry, sorry! We should probably get cleaned up, huh? Your hoodie is covered in come.”

“Good thing it’s not my hoodie, then,” Bakugou smirks. His cheeks are still flushed, and Izuku rolls his eyes as he takes his come-covered hand and smacks it right into Bakugou’s cheek before darting off of him and running away like his life depends on it.

Bakugou shrieks and scrambles to chase after him, and Izuku’s laughter echoes happily through their apartment.

#bakudeku #dekubaku #bnha #bnha tickling #tickling #worm writes #tickle fic

130 notes · View notes

valfeathers · 2 years ago

Note

I would love your headcanons for all of the Wammy boys.

ok!! finally got around to it! sorry abt the wait lol

ok so i’m going to condense these & limit myself for now,, but anyways here’s a little something abt each of the boys

there's more art at the very bottom of this text btw :)

(consulting my wammy boy google doc)

A -

he was the in-house music/pop culture expert. if you needed a music recommendation you could go to him and he'd definitely find you something.

he was a master violinist, but after being scouted for wammy's he set his sights on the guitar and spent years learning how to play. his fingers were pretty much always calloused because he kept losing his picks.

he never lost his irish accent.

B -

he was the reigning king of pranks. never turn your back on him, i mean it, he will hotwire your car to roll down a hill (true story, ask roger)

the thing that set him apart at wammy's the most was the fact that he would just. get the mop out. sometimes. it wasn't unusual to spot him cleaning something unprompted. clean freak b? clean freak b.

after A died, he didn't stay long. he couldn't stand to be under the same roof as L, and for the short while he was still in the house he moved around like a ghost, seething with just. grief and anger. he left without a word, or a note, or any sort of message at all.

L- (for everybody's sake i'll keep this one short)

he's been to his fair share of concerts, shows etc (i'm an 'L actually went out in public' truther till i die)

as teens, A & B helped him deck out his padded cell with posters etc to liven it up, and he never took them down. over time he converted it into a ragtag office

he and roger are not friends. far from it. they so do not get along. L still calls him 'codger' occasionally and roger gets reminded of B every single time.

Matt-

he cuts & dyes his own hair, and he definitely got into stick n pokes (+ bonus: the first time he bleached his hair, he had mello help him & the two geniuses forgot to use toner, so he wound up ginger. everything worked out, though, because he wanted to dye his hair red anyways)

he used to creep downstairs at ungodly hours and raid the newly stocked dining hall for cereal. he has run into L multiple times doing this.

he gives me 'broke his arm as a kid and had to wear a cast' vibes. i can't explain it, that hc just calls to me.

Mello-

like L, he got into his fair share of scraps as a kid. they've bonded over that. (+bonus: he has bitten someone before)

he was fiercely protective of matt & near when he was younger in an 'only i can bully them' kind of way that is so common with siblings.

labb gives me an excuse to imagine him as a big reader so that's what i'm doing! he read the classics as a kid & he wrote in his off time too,, he has dozens of journals that will never see the light of day.

Near-

he arrived at wammy's very young, he was actually the youngest wammy alumni on record.

i haven't gotten the opportunity to draw him with it yet, but i hc him as a cane user! a cane that linda customized for him at L's request. (from now on i Will include it in all of my near art istg)

out of the successor trio, he's the only person who was around when A was alive. he has one vague memory of A, that being A giving him a tiny wordless wave.

thank youu thankyouthankyou if you made it this far omg!! this took me a while but it was fun! have some domestic-y family-y wammy boy art to rest ur eyes after that little novella

#wammy boys #death note #this fucking GOLIATH of a post wowie #l lawliet #a death note #beyond birthday #mihael keehl #mail jeevas #nate river #the love i feel for them is so so strong #anyways i hope this was worth the wait!!#death note hcs #v wammyposting #death note fanart #this will not be the last time i talk abt these sillys #wammys hyperfixation going strong

200 notes · View notes

nayatarot777 · 2 years ago

Text

who do you need protection from?

if you’d like a personal reading, please read my pinned post for more info 💞

each pile is going to have two sections: who this person is, and how you can protect yourself. please don’t get confused with how the piles are sectioned and ensure to read both parts. ik i said that i was resting this week but i guess not - tarot is life - so enjoy this reading 😂💞

• pile one •

who are they?

> cards: strength, 6 of wands, 7 of swords

the person who you need protection from is someone who may be a control freak. they try to exert their power over situations and other people in order to control things, and for a lot of you, this person may be trying to control you in order to turn you into someone that you’re not. as if you’re an extension of them instead of an individual. they may also try to silence you whenever you attempt to speak up for yourself. they’d rather you not speak your mind. they have a lot of supporters - people who back them up and see them as someone who deserved to be praised. i’m hearing “golden child” so they could very well be used to this type of treatment from others, leading them to be surrounded by people who feed into the idea that this person can do no wrong. there could be something that they don’t want you to speak about because it would affect people’s appraisal of them. they love to win. they love to be “on top” and victorious in situations that they’re in. they really care about other people’s opinions of them because external approval is where they receive their strength from. i’m also hearing “imposter syndrome” so they know that the person who they portray themselves to be is a mask, and that the mask that they wear could very well be ripped off one day. this could definitely be a father or a boss figure of some sort. they lie. they try to deceive people and trap people through verbal manipulation or withholding the truth in some way. they could be trying to bait you with something so that when you fall for it, they can transform into who they truly are and begin to manipulate you. if you begin to pay more attention to what this person says, you’ll notice how they tell on themselves way more than they realise, and you’ll be able to catch onto whatever deceit this mf is telling you. they’re definitely a liar though.

how can you protect yourself?

> cards: strength, page of wands, king of swords

the best way to protect yourself is to take your power back and regain control over your personhood. you can do this by being in this page of wands energy (living your life with excitement, willing to experience and most of all create something for yourself). i’m also hearing that you should learn about what you want for yourself and start to travel a lot more - even if it’s just short distance. be a lot more impulsive and go after what you want to develop and create for yourself. protect this diligently - don’t speak too much. make your answers to this person’s questions and any prying very cold and distant. serious and detached. this may be someone at work. if that’s the case, keep conversations very short, curt, and professional. simply showing this person that you are willing to act independently - regardless of the expectations put onto you - will protect you. and i’m also hearing “pay attention”. observe this person and their supporters. stand up to this person whenever you can as an act of rebellion. also, if they tell you something that doesn’t sound right, do NOT be afraid to pick apart what this person says and dissect the meanings behind their words. that’s where your clarity will come from. maybe even vocalise this, because i’m seeing that this person may see you as someone who’s quite naive and immature. this person could be preying on the fact that you’re someone who likes to experience and go after new things. exerting your intelligence will intimidate them though. stay safe, pile one 💞

• pile two •

who are they?

> cards: knight of swords, 6 of cups, 7 of coins

this person is someone who is very outspoken and assertive with their opinions. i feel like they don’t think before they speak and always feel the need to give their unsolicited opinions to those around them. this person gives emotional support or “love” as an investment. as a way to manifest something for themselves. they could focus a lot on the reciprocation of energy between them and the people who they’re connected to, but it’s a way in which they get people to stick around while they set things on fire (figuratively speaking). this person is continuously working on cultivating something but they’ve been stuck in the same spot for a while. i’m seeing that this is someone from your past, or someone who’s still around you currently who you’ve known for a very long time - perhaps since childhood. you may try to heal this person in some way. i’m hearing that they set things on fire. things that people (or maybe even they themselves) work hard for. they don’t recognise the value of investing into connections genuinely. when they do invest energy into them, it’s to gain something from it. this person also focuses on the past a lot, and that’s why they don’t move forward in their lives. they focus on past connections most of all, and i’m seeing that these connections are ones in which THEY burned the bridge themselves.

how can you protect yourself?

> cards: 8 of wands, king of coins, knight of swords

the best way to protect yourself from this person is to make a rapid, sudden change in your boundaries. i’m hearing “a complete 180”. stop giving so much to this person and start giving so much to yourself and what you have going on. you need to really isolate yourself away from this person if you can since that’s where the clarity about them will come from. stop telling them so much. this person has bound you in something and you may not even realise. direct your focus to mental peace, mental stability, and attracting mental realisations to yourself. the rapid change in boundaries don’t even have to be vocalised. show this shit through your behaviour and your actions while making it verbally clear that you’re going to focus on yourself for a while. confronting this person about anything that you realise that they’re guilty of will result in a verbal conflict that you won’t be able to win, due to the fact that i feel like this person will twist, manipulate, and pretty much do anything to argue against any truths that they don’t like about themselves. actively invest into yourself and invest your physical energy into focusing on what you want to build for yourself. focus on achieving your own stability. this person is stuck in a phase of their external world for a reason, and you’re not the one who needs to help them. they’re not a child who needs their hand to be held. they can help themselves. protect your energy, pile two 💞

• pile three •

who are they?

> cards: 9 of swords, 9 of pentacles, strength

this person is someone who is riddled with fears, anxieties, and regrets but they cover it up with materialism and by controlling their ego. they’re very self sufficient in the physical world, but they don’t like to think about all of the mistakes they’ve made with others - maybe towards a family? if they feel any type of shame or guilt, they remedy it with money, materialism, or retail therapy. they also disguise themselves as someone who they’re not. this perceived physical self-sufficiency stems from the need to prove to themselves that they’re not an objectively bad person. i’m seeing that this person may very well share with others, but it’s out of their own guilty conscience. they may be someone who you released the expectations and projections of, leaving them behind and gaining self sufficiency for yourself + a lot of strength. i’m hearing that you’ve changed so much that this person wouldn’t even be able to recognise you as the same person as before. they wanted you to need them but you don’t anymore. this person is full of shame and emotional sadness. this could be an ex friend that regrets losing you or a family member who you’ve moved away from, and the self sufficiency and self esteem that they show to the world is all a lie. in actuality, they’re a complete fucking mess of a person - especially mentally. they feel like they disappoint everyone around them - and they do. because they don’t acknowledge the shit that they need to about themselves. their strength lies in their tangible items. not internally within themselves. you need to protect yourself from them because they’re trying to continue a cycle that you’ve already closed out and completed with them. they’re trying to destroy whatever it is that you’ve built for yourself because they either have a fear of you walking away from them, or they’re salty if you’ve walked away from them already. they’re miserable so they want you miserable too. they want to see a major change in your emotional state and emotional health by trying to lead you to giving up on something that you’ve invested a lot of time and energy into. they want to prevent you from moving forward and away from them completely.

how can you protect yourself?

> cards: the hierophant, the empress, the star, the high priestess

you’ve gotten ALL major arcana for this section of your reading, so i have a feeling that what i’m about to say will be easy for you to implement since your energy seems to be very stabilised - as if you already listen to your intuition (which you very well could). step into the energy of someone who intuitively knows that you’re being given everything that you’ve reaped through the seeds that you’ve planted. trust in the fact that your wish fulfilment is coming in now, and protect your creations to the fullest extent. a lot of you in this pile could be religious. if so, then use your religion (or any other alternative belief system) to ask for signs and symbols of your wish fulfilment coming through. take on a lot of responsibility over your own creation and just have faith that what you want is coming. focusing on trusting in the divine will protect you because i feel like this person will try to either affect the trust that you have in yourself and your achievements, or they’re sending you psychic attacks that lead you to doubting yourself, which is the last thing that you need. all of these major arcana cards represent an archetype that’s established. you know exactly who you are and what you’re capable of, and this is your protection within itself. you don’t even need to do too much. stay safe, pile three. i don’t think it will be that hard for you to do tbh 💞

#pick a card #psychic readings #pick a photo #pac #tarot reading #divination #tarot #pick a picture #spirituality #pac reading #collective reading #intuitive #daily tarot #tarot cards #tarotcommunity #free tarot #tarotdaily

315 notes · View notes

sincerelykarai · 9 months ago

Text

☆General Call of Duty headcanons!☆

Price:

• Personally I think he has some sort of underlying anxiety disorder. I mean; the dude is a captain of a team of people he would call his friends, so I wouldn't be surprised if he was constantly stressed out about them.

• Him and Laswell are platonically married. Change my mind.

• Can honestly see him being a neat freak? He hates it when people come into his office and start fidgeting with his stuff (Soap does this alot) and it annoys the living hell out of him.

• Sexuality wise? I'd say he's heterosexual, may or may not stare at Nik's muscles for too long but who am I to judge. He's a bisexual in denial.

• Used to do fishing for a hobby, has a ton of different types of equipment but he doesn't do it as much since he's apart of the army.

• When he was younger and first being promoted as a Captain? He didn't want it. He was terrified of the responsibility and the stress was just overwhelming. If it weren't for Laswell he probably would of quit.

Gaz

• I think he has OCD, Can't remember which post it was that talked about this headcanon but I fully support it lol.

• He sees Soap as a little brother, maybe because he misses his family back at home? But he's still happy with his new one

• Definitely a middle child, he's used to not being remembered as much and being replaced a lot so it surprised him a little when everyone in the Task Force actually invited him places.

• Sexuality wise? Personally I think he's gay. Definitely a girl's girl and a feminist. He would probably fight any perv who was harassing any female soldiers.

• Gaz definitely uses the fact that he's a charmer to get his ways. Turned in a report late? Puppy eyes along with the sweetest apology known to man kind. Wants something from price? Nothing his dazzling smile can't handle!

• Has a sharp tongue. Definitely knows how how throw hurtful insults to soldiers and it leaves them feeling pissed off and upset. He's lost a few fights but won a few as well.

Sorry this is short I'll come out with a part 2 soon I swear 😭

#john price #gaz garrick #captain john price #headcanon #please follow me #i'm new to this #general headcanons #sergeant kyle gaz garrick

15 notes · View notes

awakenthemusic · 1 year ago

Text

Swap-Meat

Cas' first thought was, We never, ever should have let Dean and Claire organize the storage rooms by themselves.

Tags: Short fic, ~550 words, Humor

For Suptober 2023 Day 12 - Swap-Meat

Under the cut or on Ao3

Cas' first thought was, We never, ever should have let Dean and Claire organize the storage rooms by themselves.

Sam took the words right out of Cas' mouth. "What the hell did you do?"

"He did it," Claire said immediately in Dean's voice, overlapping with Dean as he said, "She did it," in Claire's voice.

Dean shuffled awkwardly, started to fold his arms defensively over his (Claire's) chest, then flung them apart like he'd been burned.

"Watch it," Claire growled in Dean's voice.

"I'm trying," Dean replied in Claire's much higher register, returning his (her) arms back where they'd been before, hovering stiffly a little too far away from the sides of Claire's body.

Sam sighed. "You touched something you weren't supposed to, didn't you?"

Dean shot a panicked look down at the body he was inhabiting before jerking his eyes away again. "No, I didn't."

"Not th—" Sam let out a frustrated huff. "I meant, you touched some kind of cursed object while you were sorting through boxes, didn't you."

Both Dean and Claire shuffled nervously, the light glowing up from the map table highlighting the fact that their eyes wouldn't meet anyone else's.

Sam was completely exasperated now, "Did you both touch it?"

Dean and Claire immediately began talking over each other, blame volleying back and forth as they argued over who had done what first.

"They were just a couple of little lady statues, Sammy. How the hell were we supposed to know they were gonna do this," Dean said, flailing an arm between himself and Claire.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Did you bring them with you, or do I need to go get them?"

Claire pulled two wooden statuettes out of Dean's jacket pockets and placed them on the table as Dean complained quietly about women's fashion. "Seriously, who the hell makes clothes with such small pockets? You can't even get your phone in the things, much less anything else."

The twin figures stood about nine inches tall, their definitely female forms carved from dark wood with matching necklaces made of tiny shells.

"I assume," Cas said as he took a closer look. "That you tried touching them again in the same way you did the first time?"

Claire— No, Dean (her vocal cords, but his inflection) said, "Yeah, no dice."

Cas frowned down at the statuettes. "They're Ibeji statues, traditionally from an area of Africa around what is now Southern Nigeria, though these appear to be Central American in origin. Twins are believed to have divine powers in the Yoruba religion, but I've never heard of Ibeji statues being used for this purpose before."

"I'll see what I can find in the Men of Letters files," Sam sighed and stepped into the library.

Dean pulled out a chair and slumped down into it, groaning up at the ceiling. "I'm never touching anything in the storage rooms again."

"Me neither," Claire agreed flopping down across from him.

Cas shook his head with a fond grin. He'd give them about three days before their curiosity, or boredom, got the better of them and they were back to poking around where they shouldn't.

"Hey, I was freaking out too bad to ask earlier," Claire said, narrowing a suspicious look at Dean. "How are you so good at walking in my high-heel boots?"

#suptober23 #fanfic #fanfiction #spn #supernatural #myfics

28 notes · View notes

coffeebanana · 1 year ago

Text

15 Questions 15 Mutuals

Thanks for the tag @ladyofthenoodle and @kasienda

1. Are you named after anyone?

No, although my middle name is a family name.

2. When was the last time you cried?

I think a few weeks ago? I watched "Everything, Everywhere, All at Once" and KJBSDFKBJD. Like that movie is such a fun mix of WTF is even going on craziness and contemplating the point of existence and exploring complicated family feelings and the end is weirdly heartwarming--particularly the interactions between the mother and daughter, which is what really got me. And I was watching with one of my best friends and like right after the movie ended he was like "if we were rocks you'd be the googly eyes"--which makes no sense if you haven't seen the movie but that made me cry again because kajdfbksjbf it was so oddly sweet. (Though that was a mixture of hysterical laughter and crying ajsdjfsvjhv in a good way though!)

3. Do you have kids?

nope. maybe one day if i ever get my life together LOL

4. Do you use sarcasm a lot?

idk if it's a lot?? though i'm probably single-handedly responsible for teaching my brother sarcasm (he's 7 years younger than me so when he was learning would have been right as i was entering those peak sarcasm years LOL)

sarcasm is still deeply engrained in me though, and i nowadays when i use it i definitely pay more attention to how people react to it (ie whether they picked up on it) because i tend to deliver it in a very matter-of-fact voice. like, one of my favourite stupid sarcastic comments to make is whenever something weird weather-wise happens i'll be "but thank god climate change is fake, right?" and KJABFDKSJBD i've gotten some WEIRD LOOKS saying that one around ppl who don't know me that well and then i have to explain myself 😭

5. What sports do you play/have played?

i used to figure skate!! my mom was a coach when i was growing up, so i would joke that i lived part-time at the ice rink. it was kind of inevitable 😂. but i was never good at the jumps. i prefered ice dance or synchronized skating (think synchronized swimming but on the ice)

and i also used to play hockey!? very different environment LOL and my hockey teammates would sometimes tease me for showing up to a game in a dress after skating practice on days i had both but it was all in good fun

now...now i really SHOULD do something kajsdkbfsj

6. What’s the first thing you notice about someone?

i...really have no idea.

7. What’s your eye color?

hazel? i think?

8. Scary movies or happy endings?

happy endings. scary movies don't really freak me out but i guess i just find them sort of...low-reward? i'm not a movie person to begin with because it's hard for me to get invested in the characters in such a short amount of time. with horror movies that's even harder because they're all about shock value instead of getting to know the characters

9. Any special talents?

i am very very good at puns. does that count? 😂

10. Where were you born?

canada. on the west coast

11. What are your hobbies?

when i have energy/motivation i really enjoy cooking (or baking, but with baking i have to actually measure ingredients and with cooking i just sort of go with the flow). my new apartment is going to have space for a dishwasher--which really is the most exciting thing in my life right now--so i'm hoping that motivates me to cook more!!

12. Do you have pets?

yes!!! i have a ginger cat and her name is Curie (namesake Marie Curie because i'm a proud little nerd like that). I love her she's so stupid and has tried to eat plastic TOO MANY TIMES but every morning and night she will curl up on my chest when i'm in bed and she's just a precious bean

13. How tall are you?

5'5.5 (166cm). but i would have been taller if my spine had known how to grow straight 😔

14. Favorite subject in school?

science!! i had the same science teacher in high school from grades 8-10 (aka the only teacher in the french immersion department who was really qualified to teach it 😂) and i ADORED HER. from day one i was hooked--like she even made syllabus day fun. so i owe my love of science in part to her, really.

in university i realized i liked chemistry best amongst the sciences, so that was my major. and my favourite class i ever took was intro to quantum chemistry (which is really just quantum physics but the math was geared more towards what us chemistry students were familiar with)

15. Dream job?

okay, avoiding the typical "i do not dream of labour" answer...i really don't know. which is a problem. like i genuinely have no idea what i could do long-term that would actually make me happy and i just hope i figure it out at some point akjsdkfsjbd ... I feel like I was not supposed to leave paragraph responses for some of these but akjfkdsjbgd i can admit i like to talk about myself, okay? Anyways! I think I can find 15 mutuals who as far as i know haven't been tagged yet.

@ck2k18, @wackus-bonkus-maximus, @redundant-lava, @maridotnet, @celestialtitania, @talkstoself, @saiikavon, @sunfoxfic, @rosiesared, @mexicancat-girl, @tiredfloridianbutverygay, @fortuna-et-cataclysmos, @zenniaphoenix, @eggothemusicalwaffle, @bocadelicate

#tag game #about me

17 notes · View notes

vanoincidence · 10 months ago

Text

Not So Peppy || Van & Jade

TIMING: directly after this. LOCATION: sly slice. PARTIES: @highoctanegem & @vanoincidence SUMMARY: jade goes to look for van after she runs away from regan's apartment. CONTENT: implied domestic abuse.

Jade totally underestimated just how fast Van’s little legs were and how far they could carry her. (She probably played sports growing up, right?) Even as she sprinted out of Regan’s (or Van’s, at this point) apartment chasing after her, Jade was unable to spot any trace of her anywhere in the surrounding area. So weird. What was up with that? Wait… What if Van melted herself into another puddle and just… flowed to her next destination? That would be a pretty cool superpower to have, actually. A little awkward, sure, but totally useful. Lots of savings in gas.

And yup, she was still thinking about the melting mess. How could she not? Jade’s heart was pounding hard, and it had nothing to do with the short race to catch up to her friend. (She was in better shape than that, come on). Nope, it had everything to do with the fact that Van could melt things (wow). She could melt chairs, and… what else, actually? Without Regan’s terrible influence on her brain cells, Jade could like, put things together a lot easier. Van was no banshee. Or fae, obviously. She had magic. (Duh!) Magic she didn’t have under control. How did that even… Was it triggered similarly to Regan’s glass shattering? UGH. Not only did Jade need to find Van to check on her injuries and the general vibes after, well, everything, but also she definitely had to ask all the questions running through her head.

Unfortunately, her search around the neighborhood turned up with zero results, like, not even one suspicious looking puddle in the vicinity, so Jade decided to try her luck elsewhere. As promised, she shot Regan a quick text, letting her know she was taking her bike and heading to Sly Slice. (Plus a crying cat emoji) (Plus a heart). If Van wasn’t at Sly Slice then… fine, maybe it was better to give the girl some space. She hated that, but whatever. Maybe some people actually enjoyed being alone with their thoughts and feelings. (She couldn’t relate).

Van was at Sly Slice.

(Wasn’t it great when things worked out?)

Jade didn’t even have to look for her, noticing her as soon as she stopped her motorcycle outside the back of the store. There was Van, by herself. Well, and her pizza (hopefully pepperoni, so she would share). Jade kept it cool, though. Took her sweet time parking and removing her helmet like this was another day at the office, and she was definitely not here to check on Van. Aloofness worked with youngins, right? Probably better than sitting did. Van wasn’t a cat like Regan, or not a full one at least. She was a lot more like a mouse (which, um… maybe not the time for that comparison, but alas). The point was, Jade didn’t wanna make the wrong move or sound and potentially set off her nerves again. She flashed a friendly smile at the girl, working out the vibes. “Is this… a sitting situation? Would you like me to?” Jade really hoped not cause she didn’t wanna get her pants dirty. But for Van? She’d make the sacrifice.

“I’m sorry Regan yelled at you…Totally out of line. She won’t do that again” Jade looked serious, her voice was steady as she made the promise. She had no idea if Regan intended to ever do that again (common sense said, no freaking way) but this wasn’t about Regan, this was about Jade making sure it never happened again. Whatever measures were needed. (Just like she wished any of her siblings had taken for her) (Not that… she thought about that a lot or anything).

She approached slowly, examining their surroundings for any other signs of puddles, and when she didn’t find any (or nothing fresh, at least), Jade stood by Van’s side, shoulder to shoulder with her friend. Lowkey? Eyeing the pizza. But she also noticed her cheek looked cleaner, her hands too. A bathroom stop probably. It didn’t matter, it just made Jade feel a lot better. Physically, Van was fine, it was just a matter of dealing with those pesky feelings. She wrapped an arm around the girl, giving her shoulder a tiny squeeze. She huffed out a laugh, suddenly reminded of her sister (Ruby). So averse to physical touch in any capacity, especially as comfort, but somehow being the first to rise whenever Jade woke up from a nightmare. Just to hold her. She should Facetime her today, Jade decided, uncomfortable with the mix of feelings stirring in her belly.

“So,” Jade smacked her lips, 'cause there was no point beating around the bush. “Magic, huh? Kind of a plot twist. But totally cool with me, in case you were wondering”

—

It didn’t take very long for everything to come crashing down. One moment, Van was watching Regan in disbelief over the mention of her mouse, and the next, the artificial blonde was standing over her, eyes growing black and telling her to control it. Had she known that it was Van that was doing that to her? Was that why? How expensive could the table have been? There were a dozen questions that ran through Van’s mind as she made her grand escape– none of which would ever be answered, because she figured that Regan would never want to see her again.

The topic of Jade came to mind as she remembered the way she had made joking jabs towards the two of them on Van’s way out. Had she been hurt? Did the glass catch her? She looked down at her own hands as she rushed down the street, eager to ease the sting from the cuts the lightbulb had made. She couldn’t go home, not when it still felt wrong. Stepping foot through that door would open something inside of her that she couldn’t handle, at least not today.

She considered going to Nora’s crypt, or Cass’s cave, but she didn’t want to bother her friends with her issues. They would probably be upset with her for even thinking that, but she couldn’t help it– it was second nature to her, thinking that others would be better off without her. It was pathetic, too, and she knew she needed to get over herself.

However, the one place she figured wouldn’t reject her was Sly Slice. She could lie and say she had arrived for her shift early, even if she didn’t work today. Immediately after entering the establishment, she rushed to the bathroom to clean some of the blood stains off of her hands. There weren’t many, but the soap stung her skin as she let the cold water run over her minimal wounds. She stared at herself in the mirror for a long while, eyeliner and mascara somehow holding up despite the hot tears that spilled down her cheeks. She looked even more pathetic than she felt, which really, she wasn’t sure how it was possible.

Taking her time in leaving the bathroom, Van finally found the courage to at least eat something. It’d be more suspicious if she sat in the deep freezer and cried– so instead, she bought herself a large pepperoni pizza and took it out back, taking a seat on the plastic stools that had cigarette butts littering the ground around it.

She was focused on a small weed that’d somehow managed to withstand the cold weather when she heard the bike, and the smell of the exhaust– and then, Jade. Van looked up at the woman, gaze immediately searching her for any substantial injuries, but she made no move to get up. She looked like she was fine, so that was good at least.

Jade’s arm around her felt like lead, like she might sink beneath the wait of it and dissolve into nothing due to the pressure. Instead of recoiling from it, she stayed put. What would it tell the older woman if she shrunk down? “I didn’t know if it would be.” She wiped some of the oil from the pizza off of her chin with the back of her hand and stared down at the glossy finish of the pepperoni. “I was scared, and I should have– I told… Regan knew, because I can’t keep my mouth shut, and I should have just told you, but I didn’t know how.” Van had lost too much to her magic already, she couldn’t risk losing Jade. Regan already had one foot out the door, so in some form of reality, she’d already lost her. “How do you know that it’s real? That it wasn’t like, some trick? Why are you not scared?” The questions came out in a whisper and she cleared her throat, the oil of the pizza making it hard to talk.

—

Van didn’t flinch from the touch, but she also didn’t like, actively leaned into it. But it wasn’t an offense, Jade could totally deal with that. Again, she understood not everyone was a ‘clingy little pest’ like Jasper always called her. (Lovingly) (Sorta). But Van wasn’t any of the Bloodworth siblings, raised to struggle with displays of affection. This was not that. Van was hurt, and very recently under distress, and she was probably carrying a truckload of guilt about the whole situation. So Jade understood. Case in point, the way the young girl explained why she hadn’t been able to reveal her powers before. Which like, that was totally a personal thing anyway? And sure, she’ll be the first to admit knowing was always the preferred alternative cause she was nosy like that, but… “That’s totally fair, it’s like… a spooky secret to have. Especially if you can’t control it,” Jade nodded, giving her a comforting side glance.

“You know how… the first night we met I literally followed you to get a metal-eating rat out of this kitchen?” She nodded her head toward the building. (And…it was better if she didn’t think about whether they had solved the rat problem or not). “And then I totally stayed like the good citizen I am to clean up the mess” The teasing smile spread all too quickly across her face, unable to keep together to land the joke with a deadpan. It didn’t help that Van looked ready to argue, but Jade continued. “I think that’s pretty much how it’s always gonna go between you and me. No matter whatever chaos goes down in the kitchen of life. I’m always gonna stick around to get rid of the rats.” Eyes narrowed, she twisted her body fully towards Van. “It’s a metaphor. I’m trying to sound more mature. Adults use metaphors, right?” She couldn’t simply be the girl with the best fashion advice, and the most iconic media takes, she had to like…be better at life. For Van. (Ugh. Was this how Regan felt when she sat on the floor?) (Was she doing her own version of the sitting? No way, she was like, totally in touch with youths).

Jade fixed Van with a look that clearly translated to ‘please’ when the girl suggested it could’ve all been a trick. She was pretty sure not even the big movie studios were doing stuff like that. The way Van whispered her questions totally pulled at her heartstrings, though. She had to flaunt some of that disarming confidence, she was scared of nothing. But it didn’t feel like the time for that. Van gained nothing by Jade boasting about her ego. It felt like the time for real talk. “I’ve just… seen a lotta things in my life, you know? Like… Most of the things we only see in movies and stuff.” It wasn’t the point now, but once she made sure Van was alright, and the whole stress of melting Regan’s apartment disappeared, Jade should definitely tell her about the vampire slaying of it all. “It would take a lot to shake me,” and that wasn’t cockiness, it was the truth. Cause she was tough. “I’m like, only scared of planes,” cause even cargo pants were a thing of the past. “They can’t fool me with that jello thing!”

Jade moved her hand away from Van’s shoulder, pinching a slice of her pizza. “I have to say, I haven’t met lots of spellcasters, though. How does that happen?”

—

Van longed to find comfort in Jade’s words– to allow them to envelop her and shield her from all of the terrible things she’d ever done, or that might happen, but it wasn’t that easy. The people who spoke like this, they always found a reason to leave– a reason to grow distant. She had decided to stop begging the moment that her mom told her that she talked too much, that she needed to learn when to keep quiet so that she didn’t say things that didn’t matter, or that might hurt somebody’s feelings. Van still talked a lot, but she stumbled over her words more often than not, and she was worried that if she opened up to Jade now, she might do just that. She might reveal things about herself that she wasn’t ready to speak out into the open.

She stared at the pizza, willing to find her reflection in the glossy oil. It was easier to focus on something that couldn’t be done, anyway.

“I think boomers use metaphors.” She sniffled lightly. Van knew that Jade was being honest– could almost feel it, even though the anxiety funneled through her like a silent storm. “You didn’t even help me, you went and made a delivery.” The comment came out in a whine as she finally looked over at her company, eyes so watery that she could barely make out the details of Jade’s features. “What if the rats are too big?” She was using metaphors now, and it wouldn’t be the last time. “What if the rats eat away at everything and make sure there’s nothing left.” Her voice broke slightly at the question and she shook her head.

Jade’s articulation and consideration should have put Van at ease– the way that her reassurance spilled into the space between them should have offered Van some kind of clearance to divulge exactly what happened with Diana, Debbie, and the man in the ice cream shop, but she couldn’t seem to find the words. Instead, she listened to Jade as she explained that there were things she’d seen that could be equated to something horrific. “But what if you say that, not knowing about what else is out there?” She bit the inside of her cheek, watching as Jade plucked a slice of pizza. She didn’t even have it in her to call her out.

“Well obviously not,” Van hiccuped, “the ground isn’t jell-o, so we’d die if a plane went down.” It was said in a matter-of-fact tone, as if it were the only thing that Van could argue in the moment. Silence split between them for a moment, but Jade was asking another question, and she couldn’t help but answer. “It’s always been like this– I’ve always been like this.” She sniffled again, rubbing her sleeve against her cheek, careful not to let the box of pizza slide from her lap. “It feels so stupid– it’s been with me for so long and I don’t know how to do anything with it. I… thought it was just bad luck for a long time, wanted it to be bad luck, but now…” She shrugged, gaze growing distant as she traced the outlines of the cardboard on the box with her eyes, following the grease imprints left behind when the box had been rattled in her haste to get outside. “I don’t know, Jade. Everyone in my family is gone, so I don’t know. What if I was adopted or something?” She didn’t think that was true– she’d seen photos of her in her mother’s arms in the delivery room, but what if that was some other baby? “What if I was swapped at birth or something?”

She knew that she should be asking about Regan, but she was too afraid to say her name.

Oh. “Ew,” Jade made a disgruntled sound, learning she was displaying boomer behaviors and acting in boomer ways. Whatever, she was not one to cringe over anything, she wasn’t about to start now. She strategically ignored Van pointing out that she didn’t stay to clean the kitchen, (cause… there were two sides to every story, right?) and focused instead on what mattered: Rat metaphors. “I don’t care about the rats,” she scoffed (Sorry Regan). And fine, she did care about the rats. Like the real ones, in the sense that they made her a little uncomfy, so much so that she actually preferred the dead ones too. But metaphorical rats were like, a walk in the park. “As long as there’s enough of you left, I’ll stay” She pointed at Van’s heart with a limp slice of pizza. Then proceeded to bring it to her mouth.

Yuck. (She took another bite).

“I was raised knowing a lot of supernatural thingies existed,” she explained, once she swallowed. “It’s cray. I know not everyone can accept it does exist, but I’ve seen lots. I’ve fought lots too,” probably not as much as her siblings, (never as much as them, that was the problem, right?) but enough to be super confident about this convo. “I can now add puddles of chairs to the list. It’s like, my own personal Pokedex”. She looked at Van, wondering how much she knew. If she even believed in the supernatural. Cause being part of it wasn’t a guarantee that you vibed with it. (Just look at Regan) (She did. She always did).

“Mhmm, yup. Same brain,” Jade shuddered, thinking of all those turbulence TikToks. Van was crying a little harder now, opening up about what it felt for her to carry this gift. (Was it so bad to be special?), Jade grabbed one of Van’s napkins, the one with the least amount of grease stains, and folded it into pieces with her free hand, until the small surface was completely clean. She reached for Van’s face dabbing the tears. Jade couldn’t relate to the whole not knowing what to do with your special juice, (cause she did pick up things at a quick pace) but the whole being behind compared to everybody else cause your training was a little deficient? Yup, that kinda hurt a little. But while in her case it was totally her fault (cause she was born too late), it wasn’t the case for Van. “It’s not stupid to feel things. Maybe the rest of the situation is frustrating, but not the feeling. Being left to your own devices sucks.” Her gaze, which had been firmly on Van’s face the entire time darted to her bike.

“What if you’re the Milkman’s daughter?” she fake gasped, following Van’s intriguing possibilities. “Wait, so not helping,” she amended quickly, with an apologetic glance. She couldn’t help it sometimes (most of the time). Chewing on the rest of her slice, Jade contemplated Van’s situation. Maybe there were people out there interested in training adorable baby spellcasters, right? That looked like a lot of power contained in one tiny girl. Maybe she’d ask Emilio if he knew any, since he had so many friends. “Alright, that was me just being nosy, we don’t have to talk about your origin story until you wanna. Maybe it comes up in a special episode” she assured the girl, wiping her fingers on the napkin.

It obviously sounded, though, like that this incident wasn’t entirely new in Van’s life. And she made sure to sound concerned enough when she asked her next question. “Has that happened a lot? You melting things?”

Van wanted so desperately to believe what Jade had to say. She needed to, for her own sanity– especially after what had just happened inside of Regan’s apartment. It was hard to believe it, especially after the way the bleach blonde had yelled at her, but it was impossible to downplay the look in her eye, the way that it all seemed so real.

As Jade continued, Van was resigned to the fact that she, too, was just one of those supernatural thingies. How much did Jade know? The last Van had asked Regan, she didn’t know about the wings, but it’d been implied that she knew other things. Jade had said it herself– something about duty, which Van didn’t totally understand. “Why are you talking about me like I’m a pokemon?” She would’ve been delighted if this were any other situation. She would have boasted about how she felt close to Cubone, but now wasn’t the time to bring her dead mom into things. Besides, there was nothing left behind from her to protect her against the things that went bump in the night. She hadn’t gotten very lucky, all things considered. Unless her magic counted, but she doubted it.

It was getting harder to feel as though falling apart weren’t necessary. It felt it– like it was the only way to truly feel everything all at once. She’d gotten so good at putting it all off, but when her emotions ran rampant, or when fear burrowed itself into her, bad things happened. She didn’t want bad things to happen anymore. Not in this way, not with Jade, and not with Regan. Not with anyone. Van leaned into Jade’s touch slightly, closing her eyes which only sent more tears spilling. They were warm and sticky and the smell of pizza grease would stay with her until she could go home and wash her face. Though, did she even really have a home anymore? What would Thea do if she went back to the apartment and didn’t see her? Would she just leave, too? Her mind wandered, but she was brought back as Jade joked about the milkman.

A soft, half-sob, half-whine erupted from her chest as she considered the idea. “Do you think that’s why I’m lactose intolerant? Is this the way of them smiting my mom or something?” She couldn’t imagine her dad not being her dad, but she did look a lot more like her mom. She hiccuped, slumping into Jade’s side slightly. She stared down at her pizza slice, no longer hungry for the distraction and pain it’d bring later in the form of phlegm and bloating. “I don’t know my origin story, Jade. It’s not like I’m actually Cassandra Cain.” Was this a way of deflecting? She didn’t know. Would Jade even get the reference? Van also didn’t know. She took another bite of her pizza, mouth half full as she answered Jade’s next question. “Always. Like, always-always.” And somehow, it was always tables. How did that work? She didn’t know. “My tires, the table– not just Re–” She choked on the name, swallowing her bite of pizza down.

“She hates me, doesn’t she?” She’d seen it in the woman’s eyes– the way she’d created a monster out of her. Control it, Regan’s voice echoed in her head like the stupid DVD logo on a television that’d fallen asleep. “I didn’t mean to break her things.”

“Well, you kinda are, right? Adorable, emotional, very powerful, you got your weaknesses too…” Jade made the point to glance down at the box of pizza. Yup. That one was gonna hurt later. Van leaning into her felt like a victory. Not just cause, it was so hard it was for people in Wicked’s Rest to allow themselves to be cared for, but mostly the Van of it all. She could’ve run again, or melted into a puddle herself or… but she was still here, with Jade. That meant something, right? At least it did to her.

Van was super concerned about the milkman situation, (though it felt a bit like deflection). Jade giggled, willing to entertain it for a moment. “Nope. It doesn’t work like that, but I’m not the science gal. Unless… milkmen everywhere were getting super busy cause like, that stuff is all around us.” She figured she could count herself lucky, that she didn’t have that kinda tummy issue yet. Jade was tempted to take the pizza away from Van, though. She might thank her later. But also, if this was how she coped, then she wasn’t gonna stop her.

“Bat… girl? Is she the gay one?” But like, didn’t most of them give extreme gay vibes anyway? It probably didn’t matter. “You’re gonna have to teach me more of that comic book stuff,” that way she’d be able to relate a lot more easily to other young people. Or even people her age. Elias probably liked comic books too. But again, this felt like another attempt and switching the conversation. Which, Jade was fine with, don’t trust her to steer an emotional conversation.

Van was eventually done with milkman conspiracies and gay superheroes, slumping against her again while admitting the (literal) meltdowns were a recurring thing. “Okay…that’s okay,” and technically, she didn’t know if it was okay that Van melted things when upset, but Jade brought a hand around her back and rubbed gently. Van could cry and eat her pizza, just not… both of them simultaneously, that was like, such a bad idea. “She doesn’t hate you,” she shook her head, thinking back of how guilty Regan looked right after scaring Van away. Nope that wasn’t someone who had hate in her heart. Besides, “I’m like, positive hate is beneath her… duty. Too strong of an emotion, you see,” other than Rickers’ beard, she figured. “Plus, my phone has been vibrating non-stop, I know it’s her with her double texting. I know, so unlike her, right?” she clicked her tongue, searching for Van’s gaze.

“She doesn’t care about the apartment, remember? She’s said it like, so many times” Jade pointed out, in case Van needed a reminder. She probably did cause, who thought clearly when they were upset? “I’m sure she’s worried she messed up with you, and embarrassed too, for saying the things she did. She’s probably thinking she should’ve checked your hands… you know, doctor brain,” she looked at Van’s palms, not only clean (save for the greasy pizza), but with no deep cut. Nothing that wouldn’t heal in a day or two. Even if it might sting a bit. “It’ll be alright, you have my word. She won’t leave without fixing this”. It was totally a new entry in her bucket list.

Van hiccuped, a slice of the pepperoni falling from her slice of pizza onto a neighboring cigarette butt. Disappointment rose in her as she watched it glisten beneath the waning sun. “I feel like that pepperoni a lot of the time. I don’t know about the powerful part.” She knew that she was– knew that if she didn’t get her shit together, more bad things would happen. After all, the portals that’d risen from asphalt and ground alike wasn’t something a non-powerful person could do. She wasn’t ready to get into those details yet, not with the Regan of it all. Maybe later.

She scrunched her nose at Jade’s comment about the milkman, shaking her head. She knew that she was trying to make a joke out of something serious– they both were, and Van couldn’t really blame her. Hadn’t she been the one to sort of start it, anyway?

“That’s Batwoman.” Van’s opinion on Cassandra Cain being bisexual didn’t matter here, she didn’t think. It’d only move them further from the topic at hand, and for once, Van wasn’t trying to run away from it. Not after Jade had offered her a shoulder to lean on and a listening ear. Van wanted to respect the older woman and not diminish this moment, no matter how badly she just wanted to evaporate into thin air. “I can… and you can probably like, learn from Cass, too. She’s really smart about comic stuff.” Did Jade know Cass? If Jade stuck around long enough, Van would make sure to introduce them. “She’s one of my best friends. She likes comics.” She sniffled again, gaze locked on the fallen pepperoni.

Finally, Van lifted her gaze to meet Jade’s. She willed herself to believe the woman in front of her, because if she didn’t, then what would happen? Who would she be without that support? Van bit the inside of her cheek, giving Jade a small nod. “I don’t know what opening up dead people has to do with like, not hating people, but…” Maybe it was a religious thing? Though, she didn’t coin Regan for being super religious. Was it Catholic guilt or something? “She looked at me like she hated me. Her eyes turned black, and I think that I did that. I’ve…” Van took a deep breath, rubbing away another stray tear, “I’ve done things like that before– like, darkness and stuff, seen it swallow people up.” Twice, now.

She matched Jade’s gaze, looking down at her hands. She flexed her fingers around the slice of pizza she still held in her hand, grease oozing onto the pads of her index finger. “People leave all the time without fixing things, though.” But again, Van wanted to trust Jade that this would be fixed. While Van knew she deserved little respect from either of them, she so desperately wanted it anyway. “I don’t know how to say I’m sorry, not in a way that might make her listen to me…” Another bite of the pizza, and Van plopped it back down into the box, careful not to touch any of the other slices in case Jade wanted another one. “And if she’s just going to leave, anyway, how can I be sure she actually is okay?”

Jade squeezed Van’s shoulder, as she commiserated with the slice of pepperoni that fell on the floor. She wondered if Katy Perry could’ve made a hit out of it too. But right, they were focusing on something else at the moment. She hummed, making a mental note that Batwoman was the gay one and she should totally look into it, then shelved it right next to the earworm she was obsessed with at the moment. That Ethel Cain x Robyn mashup. She figured the theme of gayness was pretty overcompassing for all topics. “I love Cass! She helped me pick a goodbye ring for Regan,” Wicked’s Rest was really that small town, wasn’t it? The one from TV shows. Sometimes it felt like no over 70 people lived in it.

Oh. So Van still didn’t know about Regan’s duty. Noted. Jade was glad she’d kept it vague enough to just nod along while Van spoke. That was also not something she should meddle in. As much as like, she would just love for people to let fly their freak flag high or whatever Lady Gaga said. (Was she mixing up references? Huh…) Van! Yup, better pay attention to Van, cause if she held onto a thread in her head, she’d be daydreaming forever. “No way she hates you,” Jade repeated confidently, but took a beat to consider the girl’s words. “The eyes were spooky, though… She was back to normal when you left but. I’ll have to ask her what’s up with that.” Why did Van think she was responsible for it? It’s not like she melted her pupils or something. And Regan had her own set of abilities. She opened her mouth to ask for Van to elaborate, but got sidetracked with the rest of the conversation.

“Well, I don’t think you should apologize first” Was that petty of her? Like, okay…the melted chairs were not a good look, especially if you were into sitting like Regan was these days. But the yelling felt like the bigger offender. For sure. Maybe it was Jade’s own biased opinion cause no one ever apologized for the nasty words aimed at her. Van didn’t deserve that. And she knew Regan knew that too. “I’ll talk to her tomorrow. When she feels less guilty” on cue, her phone vibrated again, without a doubt another round of texts from Regan. “And if you feel like saying sorry after you two talk, then… I guess that’s fine too,” what was that called again? Accountability or something. And actually, could they rewind a little bit to the previous point? Jade’s eyebrows pinched together. “What did you mean… you saw darkness swallow people up?” all of those words together made sense. Except, how exactly?

The goodbye of it all made Van feel smaller. Maybe after Regan was gone, Jade would replace her with Cass. Cass was cool, and she knew more about comics, anyway. Jade would probably learn a lot more about Batwoman from her. Van was only just dipping her toe into the batfam verse. Her mind wandered and she desperately tried to reel herself in. There was no point in catastrophizing something that probably wouldn’t happen, was there? Even after Regan left, Jade would be by her side, just as she was now. It wasn’t like the faux blonde was the one keeping their friendship intact… right?

“They were back to normal?” Van’s tone edged on hopefulness, void of the earlier anxiety. So Regan hadn’t fallen into some pit after both she and Jade had left. That was good, at least. She bit the inside of her cheek, mulling over Jade’s words. “You don’t… think so?” That was confusing to Van. She’d always been told when and how to apologize– to her teachers, to the grocery store clerk, to her grandmother. She was taught that apologies were the things that mattered most, and that she should always give them, even if she wasn’t the one who’d done something wrong. If that weren’t the case, then she’d learned wrong.

“Okay.” Van felt small again, thinking about what she might say to Regan, and how she’d afford new chairs. She’d been saving money on things like electricity and wifi since moving into Regan’s apartment, so maybe it wouldn’t be all that bad. She could probably find something in the town’s marketplace, she was sure of it. “I’ll try not to say sorry right away if you don’t think I should.” Maybe taking Jade’s advice here was the smarter option. Maybe Jade knew what she was talking about.

At her next question, though, Van took a deep breath. Why couldn’t she just shut up? Sometimes she spoke too much for her own good. “Like… things happen, portals open. There’s a dark hole, it swallows something– somebody whole. I thought that might happen to Regan. I got scared.” She was surely revealing too much, but it was too late to backtrack now. She owed Jade honesty, didn’t she? “I don’t know what it is, before you ask. It just… it’s happened, and it exists in me.” She shrugged simply, scraping a piece of congealed cheese off of the box’s side. “I’m still trying to figure that part out.” The tears had stopped for the most part which she was grateful for and the anxiety that buzzed in her head had quieted down some, which considering the topic of conversation, that was surprising in itself.

“Yup!” Jade popped that ‘p’ sound dramatically, as a way to cheer Van up. Had she seriously believed this was all her fault? Talk about a chip on her shoulder. No wonder she was torturing herself with pepperoni pizza from literally the worst pizza place in town. On that note, Jade grabbed stole slice, telling herself that she was technically helping Van by eating her food. (Duh!) She was in service of the community after all. “Back to the same pale blue we all love. You know, not the scary looking one, like Miley Cyrus,” she let out a dreamy sigh, thinking of Regan’s eyes. They were literally the only valid blue eyes in the world, in her opinion. Wait, Van was talking. Focus. “Nuh-uh. I know she’s gonna apologize, she’s really good at it,” Jade nodded firmly, “like, alright sure, you should apologize for the chairs after. But no one should ever yell at you the way Regan did. That’s worse than melted chairs.” Jade looked away, focusing on her bike and not the on-rush of memories reminding her of the times she might have been in Van’s shoes. (Hypothetically). Um, anyway.

Luckily Van seemed convinced by her flawless logic. Jade nodded encouragingly. Chairs could always be replaced anyway. In fact, “maybe we can steal some stools from here!” she pointed behind them, a conspiratory smile spreading on her face. Like, they could always claim someone came in and just, took them. It was way tamer than some of the stuff that went down at Sly Slice. But something told her Van would be a little scared of the idea. “Or! We can go buy some too, that works. My point is… All of that is easily replaceable, you’re not,” Jade offered a comforting smile, then proceeded to stuff her face with the rest of her pizza slice. It was a little salty. She wondered if Van’s tears were responsible for that.

Jade was thankful she’d finished swallowing her food, cause Van was opening up like, for realsies now and it was starting to sound… a little concerning. Not the craziest story Jade had ever heard by any chance, but it definitely gave her a pause, as she tried letting Van finish talking before interrupting. (And please, no jokes) (She could so do this, she could have an adult conversation). “Huh…” Jade blinked, understanding now that Van’s magic was not a ‘teehee I melt things’ type of deal. So it really could’ve been like, super bad. Like Regan could’ve been gone even before Ireland bad. And yeeted (yote) to an even scarier place. (One with no sheep, she guessed). “Where um… you don’t know where these people go, do you? When they get swallowed…” her eyebrows knitted in concern, making some assumptions. She shook her head, not the time to be nosy. “Look, it doesn’t matter, babe. You have no control over this, but you will… this stuff always starts like that. You just need your training montage and you’ll be fine, you’ll be so good. This town is probably like, the best place to learn.”

“People with blue eyes always want you to know that they have them…” Van stared off into the distance, thinking of the very reference that Jade had brought up. She felt like if she’d tried to explain the origin of the meme to Regan, there’d be no progress. At least Jade had some sense to her. Van hadn’t gotten a lot of apologies in her lifetime– though, that was relatively short in the grand scheme of things. She wasn’t used to people trying to right their wrongs with her, and the idea that Regan might apologize for yelling at her filled her with both hope and dread. It was a confusing mixture, and one that she didn’t want to focus on too much for the sake of moving forward in this conversation. “People yell all the time, especially at me.” She shrugged, stating it as the most simple thing in the world. “It happens.” There’d be no stopping it, really. People would continue to yell, and that was just how life was. Even if Regan yelling at her did hurt more than the average person yelling at her.

Van looked behind her towards the door that led back into the kitchen of the restaurant. “I think Rocky would like, definitely notice.” Janice wasn’t there to rat her out anymore, but that didn’t mean somebody else wouldn’t.

All of that is easily replaceable, you’re not.

She could have cried harder at the comment, but she didn’t. Instead, she nodded. A far away expression peeled over her features as she settled on Jade’s words. If they were being said, then they were true, right? Van cleared her throat. “I’m sure… we’ll find something. People move all the time and need to get rid of things.” Maybe she’d take Thea to a yard sale later to try and find something that’d fit the table’s vibe. Maybe Thea was better at it than her. It occurred to her then that she’d need to explain why the chairs had melted. As the anxiety bloomed over her in preparation, she did her best to push it away. Now was not the time to focus on somebody else either being afraid of her or being angry at her for doing such a thing. She thought Thea really liked those chairs.

“No, I don’t.” Van’s voice hardened as she tried to parse out any judgment that might be lingering in Jade’s tone. It was absent, though, which made her relax slightly. “It’s going to be a whole like, Aang discovering he has to save the world thing, only not as cool.” She nearly went into the details of how she’d be fine with not getting the girl if it meant Zutara could be canon in some capacity, but she wasn’t sure if Jade would even know what the hell she was talking about. “I don’t want to be dangerous anymore.” She sniffled lightly, rubbing her sleeve under her nose. “I… know that Regan is right– I do need to control it, I just… don’t know where to start.” She leaned away from Jade and sighed, brushing her hair out of her eyes with her non-greasy hand. “I’m sorry for all of… that, this…” She looked over at the older woman with a frown. “You don’t think I’m going to hurt you too, do you?”

Huh. Van was totally right about blue-eyed people. Maybe that was what Jade found so attractive about Regan’s. She’d never once flaunted the color of her eyes. Never gave her an eerie stare, not even back when she was supposed to be the harbinger of death. They were so nice and shiny (shinier every day) and sometimes they looked at Jade like… like maybe she wasn’t hard to love after all. Like maybe she could be easy, even. And that felt super nice. It was the best part of being seen by Regan, actually. (But Regan’s eyes and the rest of her weren’t gonna stay with her for much longer. Ireland was still happening) (So maybe she should start fearing blue eyes again).

“No one should be doing that, people are so freaking rude”. Her forehead wrinkled and her stomach filled with something nasty as Van claimed people yelled at her all the time. Jade passed it off as having sympathy for Van’s struggles. (Right?) Cause she did feel for the girl. Maybe a little too much, enough to feel like threatening violence, for example. She wouldn’t though. Cause she was the adult in this and all. “You’ll tell me next time someone yells at you,” Jade all but demanded, then amended her words in a beat, much gentler. “I’m not like, gonna embarrass you or anything… I just wanna know. Or, if you ever wanna tell me all about those dumb people, I’m all ears. You should tell me whatever you feel like, whenever you feel like” she suggested, a small smile smoothing out her sharp edges.

Van was right. Rocky would notice, he was like… a hawk or something. But the sentiment was what mattered, here. She would steal stools for Van. (The smuggling them bit might be harder. Cause she didn’t think they would fit in her motorcycle). But it seemed like Van got the meaning behind her words, cause her eyes looked shiny again, holding back tears. She wasn’t full-on crying, though. She was touched, and Jade squeezed her shoulder tighter, comforting her. “Yup, I bet some weirdo on the internet is ready to get rid of some furniture. All we gotta do is look”.

Jade didn’t know who Aang was, specifically. Her anime culture was seriously lacking (even if Jasper had tried), but she had totally seen a meme or two of that show on Twitter (not X). Plus, that whole korrasami situation, right? Yup, at least from a distance, Jade rooted for them and all the people they pissed off. Wait, where were they? Oh, right. Van didn’t want to be dangerous anymore. She glanced at the girl, wishing she knew about magic instead of vampires for once. She would’ve taken her under her wing so fast. She did know a thing or two about control though. She didn’t like thinking about those days, but there was a reason she knew like, every breathing technique under the sun. “Maybe we can work on the… non-magical bits for now. Like, when you feel nervous and things like that,” she didn’t wait for Van to agree or not, she was only planting the seed in case she was ever interested. They weren’t gonna solve every problem in one evening.

Similar to Regan, Van looked soggy with guilt even after being reassured. Her girls were just so tenderhearted, weren’t they? Jade hummed in disagreement. “Oh, you don’t have to apologize to me either,” she scoffed. That was even weirder. Regan did it too. Apologizing all too quickly. (What do you mean people were capable of accountability? Just… that easily?) (It sounded so fake). Her question, on the other hand, was pretty valid. A piece of glass cut through her clothes when the bulb exploded. She had been bleeding on the way to Sly Slice. But it would take a lot more than that to send Jade running the other way. Her brother’s words once again echoed in her head. (Diamonds shatter, jade sings). “Not even a little. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed… but I don’t like doing a whole lot of thinking,” besides, she was too important for the plot to be swallowed up by one of those portals. She had people to kiss and vampires to slay.

She let a moment of silence pass between the two (torture), watching Van process everything she’d been through. She looked drained, and definitely gave ‘pepperoni on the ground’ vibes now. A heaviness set in Jade’s chest too, but why dwell on that? “Do you want a drink? I can go get us something… The pizza is super salty.”

It hadn’t occurred to Van that maybe the people yelling at her were the ones in the wrong. Regan wasn’t an example of this, obviously– no matter what Jade said about what had happened, Van still felt like she’d deserved the frustration that’d come from the older woman. She had melted a chair! Had almost hurt Jade and the mice! It made sense that Regan would be upset with her, even if it did hurt, and even if Van did think that the bleach blonde would hate her for like, ever.

But still, it felt nice to have somebody in her corner. Van nodded at Jade’s insistence, a small smile pulling at the corners of her lips. Things had gotten to be so different. Between Jade and Nora, she was sure that she’d be defended from pretty much anything, even if Van was the most dangerous part of the equation (what with the portal opening and all). “Okay, I’ll… I’ll try that, Jade.” The least she could do was try, right? That was what was important here? Not turning her back on the opportunity, but instead attempting to do something out of her comfort zone? The example in this situation was just letting somebody care about her enough to defend her. “I think I can do that.”

It really stuck with Van that despite what Jade had seen her do (magic lite, all things considered), she was still offering to be by her side. “My old therapist taught me some things and like, it helped for awhile, but… things have just gotten super weird and it’s getting harder, you know?” She was sure that Jade would understand what she meant, even if at its most basic level. The whole Regan leaving thing was included in that, after all. “I still feel like I should, though. I could have hurt you.” Van didn’t want to keep this up– she would have preferred her magic leave her once and for all, but it really didn’t seem like that would be happening. “Thinking is like, super overrated, but I think too much. Maybe you can teach me how not to think or something instead of how not to be nervous.” It was said with a soft laugh as she looked down at the non-descript pizza box. No mention of Sly Slice, anywhere. How was Rocky supposed to market the shop?

At Jade’s question, Van let out a sigh, reaching up to rub at her eyes with the back of her hand. “I think a fizzy lime soda would be really nice right now.” She needed to stop feeling sorry for herself because how much longer would people put up with it? It was pathetic. She looked over at Jade and got to her feet. “I think we should both go. If I stay back here much longer I’m going to totally cry some more, and that won’t like, help anyone I don’t think.” After a brief pause, she tugged on Jade’s sleeve, balancing the pizza box in her opposite hand. “Thank you, for coming to find me. For not forgetting me or running away.” Even if they could’ve come across as lighthearted, the words held a weight that made Van immediately uncomfortable and she cleared her throat, kicking some dirt over the fallen pepperoni. “Fizzy lime time, Jade.”

#para: not so peppy #para: jade #wickedswriting #domestic abuse tw #// love jade and mary sm...

6 notes · View notes

otakween · 10 months ago

Text

Zero Men - Volume 1

Now that I've finished 0-Sen Hayato, this manga was next on the list, another oldie. At least this time it's by the Godfather of all manga, Osamu Tezuka. I think this is his first work I've ever read??? Apparently no one cares about it because there's very little English material on it. Oh well, the main character is cute!

Ch. 1

Omg I'm loving this so far! The art is so dynamic and cute and the dialogue is really colorful too. The protagonist Ricky is adorable ;w; I love his tail.

That was a pretty badass and hilarious opening with the two soldiers fighting a pointless war while also low key bonding over a baby they saved.

Ricky crying when his dad told him his tail was something to be ashamed of broke my damn heart! Glad the dad isn't fully evil though. Just misguided...

Kind of weird that the dad is like "I swear I'll find you a doctor!" Like dude...you've had many years to do that and it probably would have been easier when the kid was an infant.

Ch. 2

Obvious parental death is obvious. Ricky sure got over it quick lol.

So, so far we know that 0 men can survive extreme temperatures, are really fast learners, and have great agility. I think this is an Elfen Lied scenario where they're supposed to be "evolved humans." Making them squirrel like was kind of a weird choice but oh well.

The professor's design where he basically just has a cloud for a head reminds me of Dr. Uranus from Cyborg 009. Peak old dude character design lol.

Losing one dad and then instantly meeting your real dad is pretty wild. The emotional whiplash made it all feel kind of rushed and silly. It's nice that Ricky doesn't feel like a freak anymore tho. Kind of an ugly duckling story.

Ch. 3

Woah, suddenly the story gets very different. Forget the evil scientists, it's time for robot demons apparently! New bad guys are Enma (Buddhist God of Hell) and Satan. Fun for the whole family!

Enma kinda looks like one of the guards from Squid Game lol, simple but menacing

The scene where Enma and Satan make an entire lighthouse disappear and the keep jumps out to save his life was effectively frightening. I wonder if that guy will come back as a witness?

All of Tokyo is ripped apart and put back together in like an hour and everyone just shrugs it off!? I know Japanese people can be complacent, but not THAT complacent!

This chapter felt like an anti-communist message with every house being exactly the same but "something's missing." I googled it and apparently Tezuka was a communist, but only for a short time before he changed his tune, so it's still possible that's what he was going for.

Ch. 4

So apparently the professor is a good guy now (despite first impressions) as he teams up with Ricky to investigate Enma.

We learn that 0-men are closer biologically to squirrels than they are to humans...riiight. The adults definitely looked more squirrel-like at least.

Pretty savage of the professor to shoot up his friend with a gun to "check if he's human" (including a shot to the head!?) Reminds me of the original Stepford Wives when the MC stabs her friend in the crotch.

The way Tezuka draws the prime minister feels very Looney Tunes. He's very rubbery.

Ch. 5

This manga is very text heavy so the average chapter takes me a bit to get through. Luckily, the Japanese has been very easy so far! (Rare for an older manga...)

Ricky and the Professor escape the clutches of King Enma who was planning to kill them if they didn't reveal the whereabouts of the 0 men. They end up in the forest where Ricky finds his mom and dad again. They ask Ricky to return to their country with them but he turns them down because he's vowed to be an "ally of humanity."

I can see why King Enma wears a mask...he's pretty dweeby looking under there. I like his mad scientist hair though. The fact that his face is a little disfigured gives Darth Vader vibes.

Ch. 6

Ricky and the professor try to alert the public about King Enma's take over. People start to be swayed, but then Enma just kills anyone who tries to join the resistance, so they don't get very far. By the end of the chapter Ricky is captured again by another power hungry person after the 0 men. Gdi Ricky...

I know it's for plot convenience but Ricky's tail pops out so easily that you'd think they'd come up with a better strategy for hiding it than stuffing it into his pants by now.

Ch. 7

Ricky splits up from the professor and finds himself captive on a boat. His 0 men parents come to save the day (apparently this was like a 0 men slave ship) and they knock out their captors.

Ricky just did a dramatic goodbye to his parents in chapter 6 and now he's back with them again? Make up your mind, story!

I was proud that I was able to read the kanji 船長. The videos I've watched of Marine-Senchou (vtuber) helped me out with that one.

We end the chapter in the jungle of the Himalayas. Maybe we'll learn more about 0 man culture?

Ch. 8

Uhhh wtf!? Ricky's dad just dies in an avalanche and they're like "meh, whatever!" Seriously Ricky and his mom recovered from that way too quickly. He might not really be dead, but they believe he is!!

It was cool seeing how the 0 men have been evading humans by living in a place that's only reachable by their species. That felt believable. I bet their land is nicer than the weird place Ricky was living before anyways. No dictators (I hope lol)

Ch. 9

Lol my previous statement was immediately proven wrong in this chapter. Ricky basically went from living in 1984 to Brave New World. I quickly went from enjoying learning about 0 men culture to being like...oh...that's not good.

Kind of confusing that Ricky's mom would intentionally bring her son into this world if she knew how messed up it was? She even is like "here's our apartment where we'll live as a big happy family" but then Ricky learns that kids are separated from their parents super early in this world and sent to live in a children's village. Like...did she not think of that??

Why was chapter 9 like 3 times longer than chapter 8? Well, I've been enjoying the kanji reading challenge. This manga has no furigana...

Ch. 10

Man this story is cyclical. They escape, they get captured, they escape, they get captured. Tezuka also seems to have ditched who I thought was the main villain for now. Will this whole thing be episodic or will we get a real plot?

They come across some yeti in their travels who say "yeti yeti" like Pokémon lol. I wouldn't mind seeing them make friends with all the cryptids, but the visit was very short.

Ricky's mom asking him to shoot her tail off with a gun was pretty dark. It does seem like it would make their lives a lot easier to remove their tails (in hopefully a less painful way), but I guess it's the principle of it.

Dude at they end looked like a Cyborg 009 character with his giant buttons and fancy hair haha.

Ch. 11

And just like that we gain another random party member (and Ricky's mom gains her 2nd adopted son in like 2 chapters). Ricky and Pete bond over their daddy issues.

I was wrong, they did bring Enma back. He reveals that his new, Communist version of Tokyo was inspired by the 0 man way of living, so I guess that explains that.

Like I said, we're going in circles here. Now we're back to looking for the professor Ricky befriended in earlier chapters. After the gang finds a safe place to live, then what? Are they going to save the world from oppressive regimes? Is the goal to just be a normal, happy family?

Ch. 12

So apparently the professor they eventually find is some kind of fake (even though he passed Ricky's needle test). Can Tezuka decide if this dude is a good guy or a bad guy already!?

Kinda funny how when they found a safe place to hide out they're like "now let's confront the evil people!" Like...weren't you running to hide from the evil people? Well I guess heroes gotta hero.

Ch. 13

So now it's doomsday via Mt. Fuji erupting. Although the gang succeeded in destroying Satan's clone factory, they now need to worry about the fate of humanity.

The version of this that I got from Bookwalker is 4 volumes but MAL has it at 7 volumes, so this must be an omnibus. I wonder where the original volume 1 cut off?

That first volume was kind of all over the place. The plot progression didn't feel all that natural, but I think this was one of those stories that was supposed to be a one-off and then got expanded, so whatever. Let's see where things go in volume 2...

#0-man #osamu tezuka #manga #bookwalker

6 notes · View notes

corwynnasmith · 7 months ago

Text

Sighing internally, you wait for the paralysis to end. It's terrifying and vivid as always but you've seen all kinds of creepy shit in this in between state. The creature of shadow, bone, and too many eyes wraps its talons tighter on your arms.

Finally, the trance breaks and you wake up. But the room is dark and the creature still grips your arms.

"Oh, no," you whisper, but it hisses you silent.

"It's still there," it tightens its grip, almost whimpering. Like this, it almost resembles an oversized dog - not so scary if it weren't for the dripping shadow and exposed bones. Plus the fact it shouldn't be real or actually here at all.

Your closet door shudders. The paralysis demon practically climbs into your lap, tail wrapping both of you as it whimpers.

Despite the fact this is all probably a hallucination, your heart stutters as something scratches the inside of your closet. Your arms close on the demon almost involuntarily as you both freeze, watching as the door handle slowly turns.

The door is open. Whatever it is, you can't see it in the dark - or maybe it's too short to see past the end of the bed. Like a snake. Or a swarm or something.

"What is-" you start quietly, hoping to find out what's in your room aside from the shaking paralysis demon before the mystery creature can get any closer.

It leaps onto the bed.

Spreading cutesy stained glass wings, the tiny fairy stretches sleepily and hops into the air, buzzing closer.

"No, no, no," the demon presses closer like a flame avoiding water.

"That's a fairy," you say flatly. Shock has stolen the tone from your voice, the reason from your head.

"That's a monster," the demon squeaks.

"I'm Bonniva Goldtongue the third," the fairy straightens in the air, showing tiny pointed teeth in a smile. "And I believe you've caught my prisoner."

The demon quivers in your arms. Yeah, it freaked you out when you woke up, but it hasn't done anything wrong. Besides, the fairy seems to be in a talking mood.

"What did it do? Are you sure this is the right uh..." you trail off, unsure of the correct way to describe what you believed to be a paralysis demon moments before, but settle on the somewhat neutral, "Shadow dog?"

"Are you questioning an Oratif? Good." Without allowing you to respond, the fairy's grin widens. "I was hoping you'd fight."

That wasn't ominous at all. But it was definitely a threat. Being a woman living alone, you have the perfect response to threats.

"Augh! My eyes!" The fairy shrieks as you unload your pillow pepper spray all over the diminutive being. They wobble and fall from the air, rubbing their face and dripping of the spray.

"Run!" You tell the demon, pushing it literally into action. It obeys and you follow, the fairy's curses echoing behind you. As you sprint down the apartment hall, pounding down the steps and out the door, the creature skids into a turn, ducking behind you and pushing you up and onto its back.

Your duck onesie flapping in the wind, you ride the demon dog as it runs, holding on for dear life to a rib bone and hoping it knows where it's going.

After all, you just left a very vengeful mythological being alone in your apartment with all your earthly possessions. Including your wallet.

Dropping your head to its back you groan.

No one said being thrown into a fantasy adventure meant going broke, too.

Still, the demon dog running beneath you keeps a steady pace and an idea takes shape. You can't go back to the apartment. That fairy was creepy as hell and you're well aware fey things are not all rainbows and cuteness. But this experience has been breathtaking- the wind in your hair, the effortless stride of the demon dog practically gliding over the ground at speeds that should have had your skin rippling backwards with the force. Instead it was strangely, well magical.

When the demon dog finally slows, you slide carefully to the ground.

"What now?" It pants, eyes searching the street wildly.

"We're gonna need to make some money together if I can't go home." You pat its side, having accustomed yourself to the creature during the wild ride through the city.

It tilts its head, looking strangely cute for something made of bone and darkness, "How?"

You smile sweetly, hiding the capitalist edge to your teeth, "Have you ever heard the phrase, 'pony ride?'"

You wake up to find your sleep paralysis demon holding you tight in fear, tears in eyes. “There’s a monster in the closet”, it says.

#fairy #demon #shadow #shadow demon #short story #oneshot #silly #cute #funny #paralysis demon #writing prompt #writing prompts #fantasy #found family

3K notes · View notes

lockpickings · 2 months ago

Note

❛ just . . . start from the beginning. ❜

agonized expressions worsen as foot steps echo through the endless halls—all apart of one puzzle. it was so dark—so cold. frigid air nipped at bare skin, rain droplets biting everytime it fell from the occasional cracks in the ceiling. those occasional openings that gave light—guidance through the tunnels. the lingering smell of cooking flesh was sickening. but god, was she hungry. it almost smelled appetizing—if she hadn’t of known the type of meat it was.

hugging the walls and crouching about, scarred eyes watched for anybody to help her. alcohol had been messily poured over open wounds, but it definitely wouldn’t help in the long run. she didn’t want to die, not alone at least. knowing how feeble she was in this moment—connie knew she wouldn’t make it. going peacefully was all she wanted.

a flash of brown hair—blue flowy top following. sage green opticals widen, the corners of her lips unknowingly curling into a brief grin of relief. guilt filled her to the brim, still. does that mean leland got caught too?—sonny? julie? god—they’re too young. this couldn’t be happening.

“ ana ? ... ana ! — ”

the redhead extended her hand in the direction—pace speeding up as she broke out into a short jog. lunging towards the other, connie abruptly stopped short. she took a moment to examine her—praying this wasn’t just a delusion. that it really was her.

“ ana—please, it’s me. connie. ”

the shorter girl turns around almost immediately—terror instilled in her. connie had an apologetic flicker of light in her pupils—and not just for the fact that she spooked her. more so the fact that maria was most likely gone, and that they would be gone soon too.

before she continued with crazed rambles, connie’s focus flicked up and down her bruised & beaten form. god, no blood or open wounds but—she looked terrible. a wince, lips curling back.

“ what did they—how could they do this? — ”

did they feel no shame? no shame for the endless mangled corpses hung up as what looked like decoration? no shame for the woman on the meat hook, her body still twitching? no shame for the endless bruises on her once tanned flesh—color completely drained? the scrapes, stabs, pokes, and hand marks around her throat & waist?

connie pushed it all back. she needed to keep calm—to show ana that everything was gonna be okay, even if it wasn’t. maybe—just maybe, she could utter out an explanation, even if she was just as confused as the other.

“ back—in the tunnels I heard these.. screams I .. they were horrifying and— then there was this freak laughing it was .. terrible ! ”

connie knew she terribly failed at keeping her composure, especially as ana asked her to ‘start from the beginning.’ the beginning of their story, or the beginning of this chapter? either way, it would be the end. this was their fate, after all.

“ there’s .. people, down here ana. they’re killing us. I can’t — I don’t know how to explain much else. ”

she doubted they were even people. no, they were monsters. this couldn’t be real—it was too unrealistic. it had to be hell. maybe they had just gotten in a car crash on the way, and none of this was real—or that weird chicken they were served at the gas station gave them food poisoning and she passed out, making this some weird fucked up dream.

but as her wounds ached, and cold air bit at her—connie knew it was real. this pain was real.

#𐙚 * tw. loss / implied cannibalism / gore & violence / disturbing themes. proceed with caution.#𐙚 * lockpickings & painsnothing.#𐙚 * during house.#𐙚 * writings.

0 notes

rrxnjun · 2 years ago

Text

I'm not angry anymore (well, sometimes I am) ;; lyy

pairing: liu yangyang x fem!reader starring: singer! lee jeno, drummer! wong hendery, bassist! zhong chenle, huang renjun, lee donghyuck, na jaemin, mark lee, aeri uchinaga genre: band au, guitar teacher au, strangers to friends to not-really-lovers, college au | angst, fluff, slice of life, coming of age wc: 20k (20.481) warnings: the main characters smoke, one mention of drugs, swearing, alcohol, the whole thing is kind of corny, jeno is a bad guy, a mention of sexual intercourse, a lot of pining, unrequited love tagging: @jaynaur bc she asked me to and also because i want to thank her for the support and excitement she shared for this fic<3 playlist: funeral grey - waterparks ; the only exception - paramore ; tantrum - waterparks ; 21 questions - waterparks ; sex sells - lovejoy ; freaks - surf course ; it follows - waterparks ; gloom boys - waterparks ; perfume - lovejoy ; high definition - waterparks ; i'm not angry anymore - paramore

living the rockstar life is not as easy and exciting as it seems-with a frontman that cares more about clubbing than the band, unrequited love for the girl that's, sadly, in love with the said frontman and a huge inferiority complex, liu yangyang finds himself tangled up in the mess of being the guitarist of the next rising local punk band.

FLOAT MY WAY, I’M MELTING FOR YOU

“Are you sure they’re coming?” Yangyang asks, illuminated by the subtle light of the lamp post shining at the end of the neighbourhood. The spot he’s standing in right now is the exact border between the calm, sleeping streets of the place he grew up in, and the rowdy nightlife of the centre of the town. Only a few steps across the road and he’s in the middle of it all– bars scattered all across the corners of the town square, havoc caused by teenagers at the early stages of the evening erupting through your eardrums with a lively sense of freedom.

Liu Yangyang is standing at the border, quite metaphorically, but also quite literally as well. A few steps back into his neighbourhood and he’s back in his parents’ house, ready to go to sleep and waste another evening watching a few more episodes of Netflix Unsolved Mysteries before bed. A few steps back into his bed and he wasted another day of his youth– doing nothing, meeting no new people, having no memories he can tell to his children once he’s 45 and too old for the party life. A few steps to the other side of the street, though, and he’s walking straight to the excitement, straight to a new life, perhaps. The choice is his, and he could turn either way at any moment. There’s only one thing keeping him from walking away from the stoic place at the edge of the neighbourhood, though, and that’s his best friend Huang Renjun and his promising offer.

The thing is, he and Renjun have known each other since middle school. They’ve been through thick and thin together, skipping through their high school years together, and finally, graduating on the same day, in the same class. They’re quite the best friends, and everyone knows that. While everyone thought that no one could ever break these two apart, there was one thing that wasn’t a constant in both of their lives, and that was the fact that while Renjun went to university, Yangyang never even applied. He had bigger dreams, ones that didn’t require a degree, and even though his mother wasn’t happy with his life choices, he insisted on making them anyway.

But with Renjun attending university, there comes a bigger issue that Liu Yangyang didn’t expect to face, and that is the issue of his introverted, short bestie being more sociable than he ever was in high school. Soon enough, the older one had more university friends than Yangyang could count on the fingers of one hand, and while he was happy for him, cheering him on with both his studies and his social skills, he can’t lie, he still feels a bit threatened in the place of Huang Renjun’s best friend.

And that’s exactly why he’s now standing in the same spot at the edge of the neighbourhood for the last 25 minutes– Renjun is going out with all his university friends, and being the nice and considerate pal he is, he invited Yangyang to come with him. And Yangyang, known to have a big fear of missing out mixed with a hint of jealousy whenever his friend had more fun with other people that weren’t him, couldn’t find any other answer in him than to agree and head out with him.

“Of course they are coming! Just… let’s wait for a little more-” the boy cuts himself off when he hears a loud yell somewhere in the distance, making him turn his head around and stare into the space, looking for the source of it, because he’s very familiar with the tones of the voice and the ruckus that’s following each and every one of his friends’ step.

There’s a group of five that arrive, diverse and interesting to look at. Yangyang assumes he’d be intimidated by them if he was to walk past them in the mall, but when he thinks again, he feels like that in this very moment as well– their gazes are sharp and every person looks like cut-out from a magazine or a coming-of-age movie he’d watch with Renjun when they were fifteen and figuring everything out.

Looking at the small crowd, Yangyang wonders how Renjun even managed to be friends with them. They don’t seem like the kind that would be easy to approach, and they for sure don’t seem like they share interests with the young male. When he looks at the fairly tall man wearing a leather jacket that came towards the two of them first, it doesn’t seem like he enjoys art or reading in the quiet of his room at dawn like Renjun does. The other one, even taller and more muscular, seems like he enjoys racing more than he enjoys going to university, and so do the other ones– each one of the crowd is unique, but more intimidating than the other.

Or maybe Yangyang just isn’t used to making friends anymore. Who knows.

“Hi! You must be Yangyang!” one of them announces, smiling and cheerful. His smile makes the ice break, the panic Yangyang felt on his insides stalling for just a minute, before he nods and smiles at him.

“Yeah, it’s me. And you are…?” he trails off, eager to hear the person’s introduction. There’s still faint hesitance in every move he makes, but he figures that he might as well start speaking to the little crowd soon, or he might embarrass himself in front of the cool university kids, and he really doesn’t want that. Three guys and two girls– must be easy. Let’s get it over with.

“Na Jaemin! It’s nice meeting you,” he says, politely smiling at him again and turning around, looking at the rest of the group. The seven of them start walking, the destination not known to the boy, but he follows them nonetheless, okay with not even knowing the rest of their names yet.

“I heard a lot about you,” Jaemin snickers, “Renjun can’t stop mentioning you in conversations. Every time us two are in a Chemistry class, he can’t stop chuckling and saying how you would absolutely despise it.”

Laughing, Yangyang nods. “That’s probably why I didn’t go to university.”

“Good. I regret going, but oh well…” Jaemin shrugs, already getting more comfortable with the conversation. “Anyways, since the rest of the group is totally unhinged and didn’t introduce themselves, I’ll be the nice guy and do it for them,” he grins, pointing to the guy that approached him and Renjun at first, “that is Hyuck. I promise he’s less intimidating than he looks, he just really desperately wants to be cool.”

“Got it,” Yangyang laughs airly, nodding.

“There next to him is Renjun, but I figure you know him… That bloke behind him is Lee Jeno. He’s what Hyuck desires to be, but isn’t. Next to him we have our ladies– to the left, Aeri, and hanging off his right shoulder, finally, Y/N.”

Grateful for the friendly introduction, Yangyang nods with a smile. “Great. Any idea where we’re going?”

Jaemin shrugs, pointing to the convenience store that’s magically appearing in front of them. “My best guess would be there, and then we head off to the skate ramp. It’s empty at this hour of the day, and there's plenty of room for all of us there.”

Yangyang tries his best to pay attention to everything that’s going on around him on his way in and out of the convenience store. He bought himself some Gatorade and Pringles, tagging along with Renjun and Jaemin, yet, he can’t help but ask himself why the rest of the group hasn’t paid any attention to his presence. Perhaps he’s too invisible– not interesting enough to spark a conversation with them, not cool enough to hang out with the rest of the group.

He’s not quite sure if it’s the insecurities getting to him, or if he’s just right about his assumptions. Sometimes, it’s better to not know, though– reality might make him more hurt in the long run.

Finally getting to the skate park, Yangyang makes sure to stay close to the only people he knows how to talk to. Offering chips to Jaemin and Renjun, he manages to listen to the conversation just enough to know that Hyuck and Jeno are talking about some concert they’re going to over the weekend and that Aeri and you are talking about the project that’s due on Tuesday. Quite normal topics for teenagers to talk about, he thinks– the intimidation seeping off them must be a facade, or maybe his lack of judgement. Maybe he should reach out first and talk to someone, he thinks, but as soon as this thought creeps into his mind, it’s taken out of his head when a girl walks into his point of vision and offers him chewing gum.

Seeing him turning the offer down with a smile, you shrug at him and kick the rocks under your feet. “You’re Yangyang, right?”

For the second time that night, he finds himself nodding. The whole scenario looks like it’s cut-out from a teenage drama, the scenery reminding him of an Avril Lavigne music video that he spent his childhood watching religiously. “Yeah.”

“I’m Y/N,” you say, offering him a hand to shake.

“Nice to meet you,” he replies, wanting to be as polite and as approachable as possible.

Looking at you, he finds himself getting intimidated again. He feels like a kid hanging out with upperclassmen in high school– like someone who’s desperately trying to fit in and be mature about everything, waiting anxiously to be made fun of by the cooler kids around. You’re wearing dark clothing, long black pants and a grey hoodie thrown over your upper body, even though the heat of the summer makes Yangyang sweat in every crevice of his adulting figure. You look bold, not in your appearance, but in your aura– and something about you is dangerously pulling him in, leaving him wanting to get to know you better.

You only hum, seating yourself next to him on the tiny bench. Your thighs are touching as you stretch your legs in front of you, leaning back and supporting your body with your hands pressed into the surface you’re sitting on. “So, Yangyang,” you start, “what do you do in your spare time?”

Surprised by your question, and also acknowledging the way his name rolls off your tongue in a way he likes it the best, he shrugs. What does one reply to a stranger asking about their interests? It sounds like a trick question, when in reality, it truly isn’t. There are no wrong or right answers, yet, Yangyang feels like if he doesn’t choose the right one, he failed, and he can no longer hang out with Renjun’s friends and see you ever again.

“Oh,” he hums, “well, I used to babysit, but I realised that I swear too much to be around children,” he replies, earning himself a chuckle from your side.

“I asked what you do in your spare time, not what you used to do for work,” you repeat, catching the boy off-guard with your insistence.

“I- well-” he stutters, suddenly ashamed of each and every interest he has, for he thinks they’re not cool enough, or that they’re not interesting enough to mention to someone like you. Short in time, with his imagination not as good to think of something unique, he spills the truth. “I like music, I guess? I play the guitar and I’m actually teaching guitar lessons to get some money so I can start a band one day, or something…” he explains, bashful.

He feels the heat slowly arriving to his cheeks, a pinch of shame behind his teenage dreams, when he’s met with a hum and a pleased tone of your voice when you reply.

“That’s cool,” you say, “Jeno has a band, actually, but they’re kind of shit,” you giggle. “I bet yours would be better, when you’re good enough to teach guitar, you know.”

“Well, I don’t know about that…” he mutters, not wanting to offend anyone.

“Jeno’s in uni as well, so he can’t really focus on music. You gotta show me how you play one day,” you say, the lightness in your tone making him feel like he’s imagining everything. He wasn’t expecting this outcome, and he for sure didn’t think you wouldn’t find him embarrassing. With your proposition to show you how he plays, even though it might be just a nice gesture from a stranger, he feels on cloud 9.

“And what do you like doing?” he asks, eager to get to know you better.

Shrugging, you point your gaze towards your shoes. “I dunno. I like art,” you say, reminding him of his best friend. Perhaps you’re the one that attends the art class with him, perhaps you’re the one he met first before he was introduced to the rest of the group. In the light-hearted conversation, Yangyang doesn’t find you as intimidating as before, but looks at you as rather approachable, the least scary of them all.

“Well, if I gotta show you how I play, you gotta show me your art sometimes, then,” he says, throwing the ball back to your side of the court. Smiling at his proposition, you only nod as you search the pockets of your jacket, seemingly looking for something.

“Sure,” you say. Yangyang dares to say he hears a spark of interest in you, a glint in your tone from the way your conversation went. He doesn’t want the moment to disappear, desperately needing you to find him cool, to be his friend, because you interest him so much– but at the same time, he fears that with one bad move, he might ruin everything. Talking with you felt like walking on a shattered glass, just waiting to get pricked by the sharp pieces scattered all over the floor.

When you finally find what you’ve been looking for– a pack of cigarettes and a lighter– you open the box and take out one of them, slipping it in between your lips. “Do you want one?” you ask, offering him the box.

Now, Yangyang wants to fit in– of course he does– but at the same time, he has his boundaries. Shaking his head in disapproval, he smiles at you with tight lips. “No, thanks. I don’t smoke.”

Shrugging, you light the cigarette and breathe in the nicotine, letting the smoke captivate your lungs. Blowing out a steady stream of greyish clouds, Yangyang watches you with fascination. He won’t go as far as saying he found you attractive like that– you were still damaging your health– but in his mind, he can’t imagine you without that pack of cigarettes in your hand and without the smoke blowing out of your lungs. It’s like you were completed by that small addictive box, like you two fit together, even though he wishes you didn’t have to. He likes you like that, though, he figures– he might need to throw it all just onto the aesthetics, though.

“That shit’s gonna kill you,” he mumbles, seeing you peek out at him from under your eyelashes.

Smiling, you lean into him, your face dangerously close to someone who you just met a few minutes ago, he feels like he’s melting under your gaze. Shrugging, you blow the smoke into his face, white clouds floating his way in slow motion, a snicker escaping your lips before you move to your initial place, once again putting the cigarette between your plump lips and inhaling.

“Well, now you gotta die too.”

Looking at you, trying to come up with a better comeback, desperately needing to find out when he’s gotten so smitten with you, when you’ve engraved himself into his mind; trying to get you out and forget about you, he finds out, although a little shamefully,

that he’s willing to let you be his best mistake that he’s ever going to make.

AND I’M ON MY WAY TO BELIEVING

Running his hand through his hair, he stops at the doorway of one of the houses in his neighbourhood. It’s only three streets away from his home, and he’s sure his mother would know who lives there, if he managed to ask before leaving, but to him, the people he’s going to meet are a mystery for now. Sighing heavily, he notes that he should get a haircut, since the hair he managed to push out of his face is now back in his eyes, prickling his eyeballs in the most annoying way possible, before he rings the doorbell and waits for someone to open the door for him.

It’s an ordinary Tuesday afternoon, the clock reads 4:25pm– he’s 5 minutes early, just to be sure– and he’s going to one of his paid guitar lessons.

Usually, he has fun in these. Mothers all across the town reply to his insert that he posted on Facebook Marketplace, and some grandmas even send him letters, replying to the advertisement they saw in the local newspaper. The kids he teaches are almost always very polite and easy to work with.

When he arrives, he asks them what they know already, and he progresses from there. He’s not trying to act like he’s a licenced music teacher, because he’s not– everything he knows is all self-taught anyway, from watching youtube videos and playing the same songs with the same simple chords over and over again, desperately wanting to get his favourite songs right, until he progressed up to the point when there’s pretty much no song he couldn’t play after hearing it a few times and taking a look at the chords online. To the local neighbourhood kids, that’s enough– he’s an affordable teacher, and much more approachable one than the elderly men Yangyang’s parents wanted to hire when he was a kid. He refused back then, and he can’t say he regrets it.

Waiting at the doorway, he wonders who will wait for him behind the dark-wooded entrance. Perhaps a little boy– these are always the easiest to work with. They choose the rock, sometimes punk songs they heard on the radio or saw randomly pop out on the recommended page on youtube. Yangyang is happy with that, because that’s what he’s familiar with anyway. It brings him joy to see their faces light up when they get the chords right and when the strumming is similar to the one in the original song, and when he sings along, although a little silly, they even laugh at him and show gratitude with gummy smiles.

He won’t lie. He likes his job.

When the door finally opens, his eyes catch the sock-clothed feet of the person behind it. Eyes going up, noticing that the figure in front of him seems oddly familiar, his breathing catches in his throat and he feels his palms getting sweaty.

“Y/N?” he asks, a little taken aback.

You offer him a tight-lipped smile, an expression you pull when you see another teenager in the mall with their parents, both of you shopping for groceries. It’s the awkward smile that says that you recognise their torture, for you are experiencing the same; that awkward smile that reads don’t laugh at me, because you’re in the same position.

“Hello,” you greet, taking a step to the side so he can get inside.

Yangyang freezes in his spot. His legs don’t move, too hesitant to enter the house you live in, and he suddenly regrets not asking his mum about the residents of this house before he left. Not that he would know that it’s you anyway, for his mum always provides him with the last name and the occupation of the parents, but at least a hint would be nice, perhaps a mention of a daughter his age, even; both of these would let him prepare for the rush of heat in his cheeks and the awkwardness in his visit.

“Um…” he mumbles, scratching the back of his neck, “am I… am I in the right house?” he asks suddenly, embarrassment creeping into his veins. Mentally going back to the address in the text message he got three days ago, checking the house number only a few metres to the right of the front door, it’s as clear as daylight– he’s at the right place, at the right time.

“Yeah,” you nod, furrowing your brows in confusion. “Will you get inside already, or are you going to stand there all day?”

Eyes wide, Yangyang nods hurriedly, finally stepping inside of the house. Taking off his shoes, making sure he takes his sweet time so he can calm his racing heart, he thinks of every possible thing he could say to you to make the whole encounter less awkward. Or is he the only one that feels awkward at this moment? Are you alright with everything that’s going on? You don’t even seem to be surprised, to be fair. Maybe you expected to see him at the door.

“So,” he starts as he finally straightens his back and meets eyes with you, “um… I came to teach guitar, so… where’s your sibling?” he asks, cracking his knuckles in the process.

“Sibling?” you repeat.

Feeling like he’s said something wrong, but continuing in his interrogation, Yangyang furrows his brows. “Yeah. To… teach guitar to?” he says, feeling more confused than ever.

“I don’t have a sibling,” you simply reply, spinning in your place and taking the stairs up, making Yangyang freeze in his spot in hesitance once again. This whole thing feels like a fever dream, and he doesn’t think he can wake up that soon.

A few seconds pass in complete silence, the uncomfortness of it all making Yangyang’s ears ring, when footsteps march through the space and make him swing his head up, seeing you standing at the top of the stairs. “Are you coming? I thought I was paying you for teaching me the guitar, and not for standing around,” you mutter.

Teaching you the guitar? Now, every other person would comply and run upstairs, apologise for being all over the place, maybe even mumble a poor excuse of how they haven’t slept well and that’s why they’re not in their right place today. But this is Liu Yangyang– and you’re Y/N, the girl he met almost a week ago and hasn't been able to stop thinking about since. And that’s why Yangyang only simply stumbles over his own legs and drags himself upstairs, still trying to make his mind comprehend the whole situation and let himself process what’s happening.

He appears in your room in a moment. The journey there has no memory in his brain, for he thinks he acted on auto-pilot, too lost in his thoughts. When the smell of you lingers all around him and punches him somewhere deep in his gut, that’s when he finally wakes up and proceeds to do what he’s supposed to.

The room looks just like he’d imagine it to look. It looks so, so definitely yours; with posters of bands hung all across the walls, stitched between with artwork and polaroid pictures, not one spot left empty in the whole room. The rug in the middle of the space is white and fluffy, the long bristles reminding him of the dog he used to have when he was a kid. There’s not much furniture in your room, and it’s also fairly small, but there’s everything a university student would need in a room at their parents’ house: a big bed, a closet, a bookshelf filled with literature and a desk that’s a little too messy, but still looks oddly organised. The last detail that completes the aroma of you in the room is the easel set in the corner of the room, right next to the guitar stand, like a little pair of necessities that belong together, never to be seperated.

He finds you sitting on the bed, the black acoustic guitar already nestled in your lap, glancing up at him through your eyelashes. The look you give him is unreadable– or he doesn’t know you well enough to read in your expressions yet. Taking a mental note of the urge to get to know you enough to know what you want to say even from a simple look thrown his way, he sits next to you and clears his throat.

“Shall we start, then?” he asks, hearing you snicker.

“I’m waiting until you finally get a grip, you know,” you say, “I’m ready when you are.”

Your words make him feel the heatness in his cheeks again, embarrassment a familiar emotion to feel whenever he’s in your presence. He once again recognises that he feels strangely intimidated by you in this setting, suddenly scared that he forgot all the chords and he doesn’t know how to play anymore, even though the thought of that is ridiculous and unbelievable, since before, he was sure he could play Smells like teen spirit even in his sleep.

“Okay, so…” he starts, “let’s start with what you already know, and then we can progress from there, I guess?” he chooses the tactic he always does when he teaches the neighbourhood kids, but at this moment, everything about the guitar lesson is making him unsure in his skills. This is the first time he’s working with someone his age, and to find you being the one replying to his insert, it makes it all even harder for him.

“I mean… I know the basic chords, but that’s about it,” you shrug, averting your eyes off him.

This is the first time Yangyang notices you shying away from his glance. He doesn’t dare to pin much importance to it, for he thinks it must be nothing, but something deep inside of him makes an assumption already and the air is suddenly lighter to breathe for him. He’s in charge now– he’s the one that knows everything, and you’re the one that wants to listen to him and learn from him. He’s not about power dynamics at all, since it would feel strange to pay importance to that, but suddenly, he no longer feels like he’s less from you, but rather on the same level, only a little more skilled, and that makes him feel more sure in his conversation and more strong in his moves.

“Okay, great,” he muses, “that’s a good start. Do you have a particular song that you would like to learn how to play? That’s usually the best way to learn, I think,” he suggests, glancing at you with curious eyes.

If he tried hard enough, he could maybe make out the song you’d choose by looking around your room and paying more attention to the posters on your walls. He’s quite sure he’ll be familiar with it, your music taste overlapping with his, although there are a few bands he’s not familiar with on the pictures on your walls and he suddenly wants to ask you all about them and let you recommend your favourite songs to him. He’d listen to them all afternoon, making sure to get every detail and search for everything that makes you enjoy them so much, trying to get to know you through your favourite melodies. He knows it’s too soon for a step like that, but he makes sure to keep it in his mind for later, when you two are closer; if that moment ever comes, of course.

“Hmm,” you hum. Suddenly, you stand up with the guitar still in your right hand, searching for something in the mess on your desk. There’s your phone in the grip of your left hand now, and with a few taps to the screen, you offer it to Yangyang, a site with the chords to the song you chose now shining on full display. “This one,” you mumble.

Now it’s your turn to look bashful. Yangyang notices the sudden shift in the atmosphere, liking how the awkwardness is suddenly out of his blood system but rather entering yours. Scrolling through the page, his eyes scan the chord progressions, nodding to himself as he recognises the tune, already playing in his head.

“Great! Let’s get to it, then,” he says.

Nodding, you stay glued in your place at the other end of the bed. Your guitar is still placed neatly on your right thigh, resting against it, waiting to be played. “Maybe try playing it so I can see what you need helping with?”

The suggestion makes you nod, a nervous lick to your lips is made as you take the guitar pick into your right hand and nestle a little in your seat, trying to relax. Not wanting to make you more nervous, Yangyang makes himself not look at you while you play, resulting in letting his eyes roam all across your room, trying to remember the details just in case he’s never invited over ever again.

You start playing in no time. Even a complete beginner could hear that you’re not used to the instrument yet– your strumming is inconsistent, the changing of chords slow and not all strings play when you press them– too weak for the note to ring. It’s okay, though; everyone starts somewhere and this was a good effort. The G chord is played wonderfully, as Yangyang recognises that this one in particular is not an issue amongst his students, but when you get to the D minor, Yangyang suddenly hears a sigh full of frustration as the strums don’t ring and you seemingly get a cramp into your left palm.

The melody, although a little chopped up and wonky, suddenly stops. You look over at your guitar teacher sitting to your right, trying to find help in him.

“Your hand got cramped up?” he asks, voice full of consideration he uses when he teaches the small children. He let it slip unknowingly, but now that he recognised it, he prays you don’t make fun of him for the endearing tone of it.

“Yeah,” you nod, chewing on the inside of your cheek.

“I see,” he nods, shifting closer to you. He tries to be full of confidence, because then, it’s easier for him to mask the effect you have on him and the growing aspect of it the closer you physically are to him. Taking the guitar softly from your hold, he presses down the strings in the right order, three fingers used for the simple chord, strumming to let you hear the chord out loud.

“What you’re doing wrong is keeping your thumb too far up on the back of the neck,” he says, showing you the way you were playing the chord before, “this way, you have to make more pressure to hold the strings down, and the uncomfortable position makes your hand cramp up. Try moving your thumb a little lower,” he explains, once again showing you.

You hum, taking the guitar back from his hold when he offers it to you. You try to hold the strings down in the way Yangyang’s shown you, but your fingers just won’t comply, too used to the way you were playing the chord before. Watching you with amusement, Yangyang chuckles to himself and unconsciously moves to you, reaching for your hand from behind, and manually moving your thumb closer to the bottom of the neck of the guitar.

The contact of your skin on his burns him a little, even though he was the one that initiated it and touched you first, and he suddenly feels like a teenager once again, hating that the way he feels about you reminds him of the silly crushes he used to get on his classmates and never acted up on them in the fear of being rejected.

Moving back to his initial place, he sees you bite down on your lower lip as you strum down the strings, hearing the chord loud and clear, your hand in a way more comfortable position now. Humming again, perhaps in understatement, perhaps in satisfaction, you look up at Yangyang again, smiling a little. “Thanks.”

He shrugs. “It’s okay. That’s what I’m paid for,” he snickers.

You roll your eyes at him, but your lips mirror a cunning smile. He teases you back with the words you used when he first arrived, making him wonder if you find him more fun now, when he’s relaxed.

Sitting quietly, you try playing the song again, now a little more smoothly. Yangyang finds himself humming along, not daring to sing the lyrics just yet, since he’s not that eager to embarrass himself in front of you with his singing as he is when he teaches the kids. But when you look up at him and grin in amusement, he knows he did the right thing– the atmosphere is lighter now, the weight falling off his shoulders.

“You didn’t mention wanting guitar lessons when we last talked,” he says, going back in time just a week ago.

“Yeah, well,” you stop playing, “I wasn’t really set on it back then yet.”

“I see,” he hums, “what made you change your mind, then?”

Chewing on your bottom lip, you laugh to yourself. Putting the guitar down, between your bodies sprawled out on the bed, you fold your hands on your stomach. “If I tell you, promise you won’t laugh.”

Surprised by your request, for Yangyang thought there’s not anything in the whole world that could ever make you ashamed, he nods and agrees. “I won’t laugh. I promise.”

Squinting at him, as if to see if he’s truly honest with his promise, you breathe in heavily, getting ready to speak. “Well… remember how I told you that Jeno’s in a band?”

“Yeah,” he nods. How could he forget? That dude has everything Yangyang ever wished to be.

“So… his guitarist is kind of a dick,” you start, “he doesn’t go to practices, skips the gigs, shows up high sometimes… so Jeno wanted to kick him out and find someone better. And I kind of wanted to be the replacement, but…” you trail off, not daring to look at Yangyang in fear of hearing his laughter.

“Yeah, well, you’ll have to pay me for way more lessons to be the next lead guitarist of an underground band,” Yangyang notes, not trying to make fun of you– rather just tease you, to lighten up the atmosphere.

“Yeah,” you giggle, “you’re right. But maybe you could join them.”

“Me?”

“You said you wanted to have a band,” you mumble, shrugging, “this comes close, at least.”

Grinning to himself at the proposition, Yangyang shakes his head in disbelief. “You haven’t even heard me play. For all you know, I could be a total fraud.”

You turn your head to look at him, eyes squinting in examination once again. “You’re right, dude,” you mutter to yourself, “play me something, then. I’ll be the judge if you’re the one suitable to be the next lead guitarist of an underground band,” you say, throwing his own words back at him, trying to act out his voice in a teasing manner.

Singing, Yangyang shakes his head at your proposition. You must believe him– otherwise, you wouldn’t have texted him to give you guitar lessons, after all. To fulfil the promise he’s given you back in the skate park, though, he takes the guitar laying between your bodies, straightening his back and sitting in a more comfortable position, he presses down the chords you so desperately wanted to learn just a few minutes ago, before you two got lost in the conversation.

A simple G, D minor, a C major 7. Repeating over and over, a strumming pattern so easy and comforting, it’s forever engraved into his brain. He remembers hearing the song for the first time when he was younger, too embarrassed to admit to Renjun that he likes it, since he was always posing as the emo kid in the town. The band might suit the genre, but the lyrics are as sweet as sugar, so romantic it makes his heart clench.

Caught somewhere in between it all, in the midst of the moment, hearing you silently hum the lyrics to the song you’ve shown him, Yangyang foolishly finds himself dedicating the song to you. This is the second time you two have met, but your whole presence, the way you scrunch up your nose when you laugh, the way you are so genuine and straight-forward, with nothing to hide, he finds himself pulled towards you, wanting to know you deeper, desiring to explore every last crevice of your inside.

He never wanted to be in someone else’s band. He always wanted his own, so he can be in charge of everything, so he can be the leader everyone follows. But if being in Jeno’s band meant meeting you more often, he figures he could try it out. Who knows, he might even like it.

He’s never tried so hard for a girl before. He never really had the urge. Spending his days with blissful carelessness, wasting away his youth by doing nothing, he never really found anyone to yearn for as hard. He swore he was content with loneliness, but perhaps, no one before was ever worth the risk.

Just like in the song he’s playing, you are the only exception.

SO EXCUSE MY TANTRUM, CAN’T YOU SEE I’VE GOT MY HANDS FULL?

Leg nervously bumping up and down, Yangyang chews on his bottom lip as the buildings behind the windows of the car blur into themselves and motion him forward. Hearing a low beep coming from his lap, where he threw his phone after aimlessly checking Instagram for the seventh time today, he reaches for the device and unlocks it.

y/n: are you close yet

Looking around, trying to find out where the hell he’s even going, he turns to his best friend on the driver’s seat. “Are we close?” he asks.

“Who’s asking?” Renjun mumbles, turning on the left blinker and taking a turn towards that direction, pulling up to a street Yangyang’s never seen before in his whole life.

“Y/N,” he answers, checking all the houses, as if to try to see if you show up at the doorstep of one of them, awaiting their arrival.

“We’re quite literally 15 metres away from Jeno’s house,” Renjun mutters, turning down the music playing on the radio. Yangyang hums in understatement, quickly looking back over to his phone and typing a swift reply.

yangyang: we’re here

As the car comes to a halt, parking at the edge of the sidewalk in front of one of the houses on the street– each and every single one of them looking the same, with white walls and a brown roof, creating a homely atmosphere– Yangyang finds his nerves rise even more. It’s not like he’s meeting Renjun’s friends for the first time, after all, so he really doesn’t get the sudden rise in adrenaline. Sure, he only saw Jeno, Jaemin and Hyuck once, but at least him and you are pretty acquainted by now, considering that he gave you guitar lessons three more times since the last time, before he finally agreed on meeting Jeno and his bandmates for a band practice; just to see if he’s fit, nothing more.

Maybe he just really wants to impress everyone. The rest of the band is filled with strangers, so maybe that’s where his anxiety is coming from.

He almost opens his mouth and tries to talk about it to Renjun, since the boy always gets his emotions and tries to help him calm down whenever his overthinking is getting too irrational, but when he jumps out of the car and closes the door behind him, there’s a screech coming from the small gate leading to the property, making his eyes drift towards the source of the sound.

You wave at the two, standing in the open gate, a shining grin plastered onto your face. After Yangyang gets out his guitar from the backseat– the electric one, as you specified in your texts last night– you run up to him and envelope him in a quick, yet, comforting hug.

He didn’t realise you’ve gotten this close, but he welcomes the embrace with open arms. He catches a sniff of your perfume– a mix of roses and vanilla, sweet, but also light. It travels from his nose all the way up to his brain, numbing his senses. If this was the only smell he could feel until the end of his life, he wouldn’t complain.

“Finally! They’re all waiting for you in the garage,” you say, leading the pair towards the house. The gate to the garage is open, revealing a group of people clammered in the small space, leaving Yangyang at least some time to prepare for all of them.

Going up to the make-shift practice room in Lee Jeno’s garage, Yangyang puts on his best charming smile, hoping to seem at ease and not at all awkward. Adjusting the guitar in his hold, he comes up to the group and greets them with undeniable ease.

“Hello,” he says, watching Renjun as he fist-bumps the rest of his friend group and sitting at the old, orange couch in the corner of the garage.

“What’s up, man,” Jeno says as he comes up to him, once again, with a handshake. Yangyang begins to wonder why he always looks so cool– even when he’s wearing simple sweatpants and a Nirvana shirt enveloping his torso, he looks like he’s cut-out from a Rolling Stone magazine. He doesn’t even need that bloody leather jacket to look good. Life truly is unfair.

After greeting everyone, Yangyang finds himself awkwardly leaning against the arm of the couch. There wasn’t much space for him to sit, but that was okay– he was here to play the guitar anyway, he could stand. The garage was filled with people he knew, and also didn’t. It felt weird to have such a big audience. He felt like that time when he applied for the school’s talent show; he almost pulled out the minute he saw the tens of people sitting on the folding chairs in the school’s auditorium, waiting for him to begin playing.

He recognised Jaemin– who warmly smiled at him when he went up to him and greeted him with a rehearsed fist bump– and he also recognised Hyuck, Jeno and you. There was a guy sitting in the corner of the room, who he was told was Mark and he was here to ‘hang out’, and the other two were Hendery and Chenle, the band’s drummer and bassist.

“Want some beer?” you ask, looking at him brightly from your spot next to him. He shakes his head in disapproval– he didn’t really like the taste of it, and much to everyone’s dismay, he was a light-weight and he really didn’t want to embarrass himself in front of everyone sitting in the garage, watching him perform.

Yangyang’s left feeling lonely even in the full room of people. It’s somehow alarming, but also understandable. He’s not close to any of the people here, except from Renjun, and he’s been with him for the last few hours, so it’s only natural for his friend to drift towards someone else now. Looking around the garage, he spots a sign in the corner of the room, a long, white fabric spray-painted with red.

Chucky Tribute, it reads. Finding himself chuckling under his breath, you look over to him, raising your eyebrows to find out what he’s laughing about. Pointing towards the sign, you only roll your eyes with a grin.

“That’s the band’s name,” you whisper sincerely into his ear, “Jeno’s a fan of the Chucky movies.”

Upon hearing this, Yangyang already knows he signed up for a wild ride.

After some more catching up between Renjun and his friends, and some awkward conversation that sparked between Mark and Yangyang after he recognised the anime on his shirt, Jeno turns to him with the true reason for his visit today.

“Okay, so,” he starts, “we could try to play something together, so we can see if you’re the fit to be in the band,” he says. Something about his sentences makes Yangyang feel like he’s looked down upon– as if Jeno was the master of everything, not believing that someone like Yangyang could be good enough to be in his band, however small and underground it might be. Looking over at you in the corner of the room, seeing that you’re a regular at the band practices, gazing at him with a hopeful smile, he complies, though.

“Not that we have any doubts about you, though,” Chenle, the bassist chirps from the other side of the room, “our last guitarist was a stinker anyway, so there’s no way you could be worse than that, really.”

“What they’re trying to say, essentially, is that their standards are low in the first place, so there’s nothing to be afraid of,” Renjun teases from his spot next to Jaemin, earning a laugh and a playful bump to his shoulder from Hyuck sitting on his other side.

“Right,” Jeno rolls his eyes, trying to organise the whole evening at least a little, “anyway. Back to what I was saying… maybe you can try playing something and then we’ll see, I guess… I don’t really know how to go about this anyway,” he shrugs, watching Yangyang with curious eyes.

Yangyang feels his palms sweat, but he gets up from his spot nonetheless, getting his trusty, beloved guitar he got from his mother for Christmas out of its case and plugging it into the speaker. Strumming the strums a few times, as if to practice, he nervously clears his throat and points his gaze towards the neck of the guitar– even though he’s certain he could play it even if he went blind– just so he doesn’t have to look anyone in the eye.

Putting his fingers into their right places, he starts improvising. No one really told him what to play, so he assumes they don’t really want to hear any song in particular, so he doesn’t even try to imitate something or fish for chord progressions to anything in his mind in the first place. Moving fast across the guitar’s neck, he masters a melodic play, something he himself is kind of impressed with, something he doesn’t feel ashamed to play. He gets really into it, momentarily forgetting all about his surroundings, as he often does when he plays the guitar, when a low rhythm of drums flows into his ears and makes him look up, seeing Hendery grinning at him from his place behind the drumming kit.

Not a moment passes before Chenle gets to his bass guitar, completing the rhythmic section of the band. The melody flows through the walls of the garage, making Yangyang smile in joy, because only now does he truly feel in his element, when Jeno picks up another guitar and the whole make-shift symphony makes the audience cheer and yell in amazement.

When the players get tired and the song is done, Yangyang finds everyone clapping, making euphoria run through his veins. Perhaps this is what he was always destined to do– and even the slightest hint of the cheering of an audience, all because of his song, is like a gas fueling an engine, a spark that creates the fire in his soul.

His eyes subconsciously find your figure, standing up from your seat. Your eyes light up and your lips are tugged into the brightest smile he’s ever seen on you, running up to him with much force, arms only dangling by your sides,

before you pass him and he finds himself turning around, watching you envelope Lee Jeno in a fierce embrace.

“That was so good! You did so well, oh my god!” you cheer.

The euphoria fades. Yangyang’s smile drops only a little.

I WISH THERE WAS A SITUATION TO BE MAD AT, OR A PERSON I COULD BLAME

Sitting cross-legged at the edge of your bed, strumming your guitar softly, the sun starts setting and the orange hue makes the features of your face soften. Your room turns into a quiet abode, only filled with the sound of the guitar, mindless chords blending together beautifully as Yangyang continues playing, staring at your face.

“You know you still have to pay me if you call this a guitar lesson, right?” he says, watching you as you lay on your bed, legs pressed against the wall and your head hanging off the edge of the mattrace.

“Yeah,” you reply, “it is a lesson, just so you know.”

“You haven’t picked up the guitar the whole time I’m here,” Yangyang notes, laughing.

“I’m practising listening today,” you mumble, looking at him with eyes squinted from your teasing grin.

“Didn’t realise I was your personal jukebox.”

“Shut up and continue serenading me, won’t you?”

Snickering at your comment, Yangyang continues to mindlessly strum the guitar, wondering how and when exactly he got into this situation. A few weeks ago, he didn’t even know about your existence, and now, he’s locked up with you in your bedroom multiple times a week, giving you guitar lessons and sharing small-talk with you when you invite him for dinner to your parents’ kitchen and feed him dry cereal instead.

He’s not confident enough to sing in front of you just yet, but humming the lyrics in his brain is enough for him in this situation, for they fit the whole scenery with a 100% accuracy; I think I've lost my mind/ blurring the fact and the fiction/whilst simultaneously fixing/myself up with a girl named Panadol.

“Have you ever written a song?” you ask suddenly, not once initiating eye contact with him as your head is still hung down the edge of the bed.

“Not really,” he replies, but if the two of us continue meeting this often, I might start, he thinks. “You?”

Humming, you take a few seconds before you reply to him. “I have.”

Your words surprise him, making him halt in his movements. “No shit,” he blurts out in awe, “show me!”

Awkwardly laughing to yourself, you finally plop yourself up on the bed and sit opposite of him, shaking your head in disapproval. “No. Not a chance.”

“Come on!” he insists. “You can’t expect me to not be curious about it, now that you mentioned it.”

“We don’t know each other well enough for me to show it to you,” you mumble, “not even Aeri knows about it.”

“We meet up multiple times a week, and since I’m your trusted guitar teacher, I think I deserve to hear your music progress,” Yangyang pouts, trying very desperately to get you to show him what you’ve written.

“There’s no use in trying, you won’t convince me,” you laugh, set on your decision.

“What do I gotta do, then?” he snickers. “Play 21 questions with you?”

“Maybe,” you shrug, “maybe I’ll show you after that.”

Knowing damn well that you won’t– because Yangyang knows that it’s not as easy to show someone you don’t know that well something that you treasure so close to your heart– he nods and sets the guitar aside, getting ready to play the stupid game with you, just so he can finally know more about you. Sure, he might just learn some trivia about you; things that barely matter in the bigger picture that is life, but he will get anything he can, because you’re basically his biggest interest in life at the moment, right behind music.

“Okay,” you nudge him with your foot, “shoot.”

“Why do I always gotta start?” he gasps, a little offended.

“Because!”

“Okay, alright,” he rolls his eyes, “what’s your favourite colour?”

Sighing at his generic question, you shrug and point towards your torso, hugged in a grey hoodie. Realising it’s the same one you were wearing when you two first met, Yangyang smiles a little, but resolves into teasing you again. “That’s not a colour, that’s a shade.”

“Don’t disagree with me,” you snap back, furrowing your brows. “It’s a colour.”

“It’s a shade of black, actually, so it can’t be your favourite colour-”

“Fuck, okay,” you roll your eyes at him again, irritated, “fine. When did you start playing the guitar?” you ask, changing the subject.

Searching through his mind for an answer, Yangyang hums, lost in thought. “I think I was like eleven, or something?” he says, sounding more unsure than in his final exams, when he forgot what the topic was about.

“Eleven?”

“Yeah. My mum got me my first guitar for my eleventh birthday. I kind of sucked, but I enjoyed it anyway,” he says, smiling to himself.

“When did you first want to be in a band?” you ask again.

“If you ask now, that means you’ve wasted another one of your questions and I can go twice in the row next time-”

“Just answer the damn question, Yang!” you curse at him, playfully hitting his knee.

“Jeez, alright,” he mutters, “chill out.”

“I can’t chill out if you take the rules of 21 questions this literally!”

“Okay, okay!” he puts his hands up in a defending motion, grinning at the annoyance in your face. Something about pushing you over the edge, making you completely annoyed with his antics, makes a spark of joy illuminate his insides. It’s like he’s doing his job right– getting on your nerves, but still being the tiniest bit endearing with it. “It’s actually kind of funny, you know.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah,” he nods, “I was in surgery when I was like… nine? Maybe ten, I’m not entirely sure. And when I was in a coma, I had this dream where I was on the stage performing my most favourite song, and I had the best time ever. So that’s kind of when I decided that this is what I wanna do when I grow up.”

Looking at him with endearance, you laugh at his story. The noise makes Yangyang feel like he’s on cloud 9 again, the state of euphoria you bring him into once again swimming through his veins like he’s on drugs.

“No way!” you giggle.

“I’m serious!”

Laying on the bed, getting more and more comfortable in his presence, you plop your feet into Yangyang’s lap and rest your head in your crossed hands. The sight of you like this, making physical contact with him, comfy and snuggled up in the blanket, Yangyang almost makes his imagination run too far. It almost feels like he’s in your personal space, the only person you let in, it’s like he’s your boyfriend, sitting in your room and chatting about everything and nothing at all at the same time, just enjoying your time together.

“Your turn now,” you say, waiting for his question.

Humming in response, he carelessly rests his hands on your ankles, finding their place there as if they were made to be there from the very start. “What is your song about?”

“Yangyang.”

“What? I didn’t ask you to sing it to me, or to show it to me. I’m simply just asking about it, that’s different,” he explains, a voice of a know-it-all that always got on everyone’s nerves.

“Still! Can’t you ask something else, then? I’ll answer everything, but that.”

“Okay. What’s the name of the song?” he asks, grinning teasingly.

“Okay, that’s it. We’re not playing anymore-”

“Fine!” he stops you, tugging you back to your place by your ankles when you dare to move away, as if you wanted to escape him altogether. “I have another one.”

“I swear to god that if you mention my song again, I will physically-”

“When did you start liking Lee Jeno?” he asks.

Your voice cuts out, the whole moment freezes. He feels like he’s in a youtube video, put on pause, stood in the same motion, holding the same expression. In reality, he’s trying to stay stone cold, expression stale, so you don’t realise just how much he cares about your feelings towards the boy.

You’re shocked, he can see it in your face. Maybe no one’s ever noticed before. Maybe he’s the first one; but the truth is, it’s not that difficult to see when you get so cheerful whenever he’s around, subtly touching him and sending compliments and light-hearted teasing his way whenever you get the chance.

Or maybe it’s not that obvious at all. Maybe Liu Yangyang just pays too much attention to who’s the object of your interest.

Strange, isn’t it?

PILLOWS PRESSED UNDER YOUR KNEES

Grinning to himself, playing the last few notes of the song Jeno and his friends wrote a few months ago, Yangyang finds you sitting at the old couch in front of him, your phone pointed towards the little show. The video of him playing the guitar will soon hit your Instagram stories, and Yangyang will widely grin as he realises it’s him that you’re showing to the whole world on your social media, and not Lee Jeno, as one would expect.

Once the song is done and over, you clap with much excitement and Yangyang smiles at you. The band practice is now over and he moves to the guitar case he left next to you on the floor, hiding his guitar in it so it doesn’t get damaged.

“That was good,” Jeno says, sitting at the armchair in the far right of the garage, getting out a pack of cigarettes from somewhere and lighting one between his lips, “we’re gonna rock that show. It’s good you got the songs so fast, Yangyang, or else we would be fucked.”

“I’m a professional,” he shrugs with a grin, earning himself a laugh from Chenle.

Sitting on the couch next to you, he finds himself enveloped in a weird sense of euphoria and excitement. In a week, he’ll be playing his first ever concert– Jeno said not a lot of people will attend, since they’re not known as much in the town, but it’s still something. A first step towards something, if you will. And Yangyang is happy with taking things slow this time around. Sure, he’d be happier if the band wasn’t called Chucky Tribute, and yes, admittedly, he’d be glad if the songs he played were his and the lyrics were more thought-out and not as surface-level as they are, but he’s happy with what he’s got. Better than nothing, right?

“I better head home soon,” Yangyang mumbles, standing up from his spot on the orange couch. Being around all those people without Renjun still feels kind of awkward, but he concludes that he can work on it some other day.

“We’ll just pack our things and go as well,” Hendery nods, “this was a good one, guys!”

“Man, I would do anything for a spicy McChicken right now,” you mutter, looking around at Jeno, “wanna order and watch Netflix?” you ask him, the question feeling like a knife in Yangyang’s back.

The thing is, you two established that Jeno is the guy you like a few weeks ago, back in your room. Yangyang promised to himself that he’ll try to get over you, but it’s not as easy as it seems when you’re everywhere he goes; your presence is enough to make him like you even more and more, and that’s a fact that feels more like a curse than a blessing.

“Nah, I’m not really feeling it today,” Jeno mutters, not even meeting your eyes as he scrolls through his phone and takes another drag of his cigarette, letting the ash fall to the dirty floor.

“Oh,” you say, the hint of disappointment in your voice is too noticeable, breaking Yangyang’s heart a little. He wonders how Jeno could be so blind, and mentally curses at him for turning you down, because god knows that if he was in his place, he’d never say no to you. “ I- I better go as well, then…”

Paying your goodbyes to the rest of the band, Yangyang finds himself outside of Lee Jeno’s garage, hesitantly scratching his neck with the offer he’s about to propose. “Still up for that spicy McChicken?”

“Hm?” you hum in question, looking at him with big eyes.

“We can drive to Maccies together, if you wanna. I’m starving,” he proposes, seeing something behind your eyes shift– perhaps relief, or hope, from seeing that someone is still up for hanging out with you, even though you’ve been turned down from the object of your desire.

Kicking the rocks under your feet, you shrug. “I mean… I’m down, I guess.”

“Okay, sweet,” he nods, striding towards his little Volkswagen Golf that he got from his father when he decided to buy a new car, “let’s go.”

Your body drags itself into his white car, slumping into the passenger’s seat. The disappointment in you is still very much seen in the slouching of your shoulders and the frown that is ever-so delicately written into your face, but Yangyang makes it his quest to make you feel better. Turning the engine on and turning up the music in the radio, being quite satisfied with himself that he put the Paramore CD in before he left, he drives off Jeno’s driveway and strolls through the city, into the McDonald’s at the edge of the town. The one in the centre is closer, but that one doesn’t have a parking lot– that’s why he’s opting for the safer choice.

When he finally gets there and parks in one of the vacant parking spots with much struggle, to be fair, since this was the part where he almost didn’t make his driving test when he was getting his licence, you follow him outside of the car, a little more stride in your step than before. When you get into the McDonald’s and find your place in the line of people wanting to order, Yangyang’s body situates itself right behind you, looking through the menu. He usually gets the chicken wrap, but just to be fancy, he will get it with fries and a coke today as well.

“One spicy McChicken,” you order, smiling at the cashier behind the pult.

“Coming right at you. Anything else?”

“No-”

“And one chicken wrap with fries. And two cokes, please,” Yangyang orders, catching a glimpse of your confused expression, “it’s on me,” he mentions, seeing you roll your eyes.

“You know, in any other circumstance, I don’t let men pay for me,” you say, “but I also could not care less today, so go ahead. I’ll pay next time,” you promise, seeing him get his card out and paying for your meal.

Once the order is ready and you two take a seat in one of the ugly red booths in the corner of the room, you unwrap your burger and get right to it. Yangyang watches you with undeniable adoration. Everything about you is full of amazement for him– the way you manage to not get the sauce all over your face, the way you don’t bat an eye over the spice in the burger. He studies your face, grateful that you don’t look at him, but rather watch the world behind the window, making him not caught.

“Want some fries?” he asks, offering you the pack and glancing at you. Turning your head to him, you sigh.

“I really wanna get over him, you know,” you start, putting the burger down and pulling at your hair in frustration, “I hate that I’m still so caught up with him. I despise it. But he’s so sweet, and he’s so charming, and I’ve known him since forever! It’s just so hard to let go of him, but I know that I should, because none of this is good for me in the first place…”

“I mean… that’s not what I was asking, but go ahead,” Yangyang mumbles, seeing you crumble in front of him, all frustrated and heartbroken because of his bandmate.

“It would be easier for me to move on if he was a complete dick, you know,” you mutter, pouting a little from the sadness in your heart. The expression is kind of adorable in Yangyang’s eyes, but a little heartbreaking nonetheless, for he knows the frown is genuine and there’s nothing he can really do about it.

“Give it some time, Y/N,” Yangyang finds himself saying, “time heals everything. Don’t push yourself into anything, because that’s only gonna make you feel worse in the long run. Let yourself feel things, you know,” he shrugs, seeing you watching him with eyes big, resembling pools full of emotion he’s not even going to try to decipher.

Taking a bite from your burger, you smile at him with a full mouth, an expression that would look disgusting coming from anyone else, but you. “Wow,” you say, “didn’t think I’d get actual, useful advice from you, you know.”

Gasping, Yangyang acts hurt. “So you’re saying my advice is useless? Haven't heard you saying that when I teach you the guitar.”

“We could argue and say that that’s not really advice,” you grin, kicking his leg under the table, “but no, I’m serious. Thanks. I guess I really needed to hear that right now.”

Smiling at you, grateful that he was able to help you at least a bit, Yangyang offers you the fries again, watching you take one and plop it into your mouth. “I’m glad you understand me, though. Aeri doesn’t help much, since every time I talk about Jeno, she keeps bad-mouthing him and telling me how I’m blind if I like him that much. You should have heard her what she said when she found out that we-”

Raising his eyebrows at you in question, Yangyang hums. “You?”

“We…” you nervously laugh, trailing off.

“You what?”

“I- well… Promise not to tell anyone? I wouldn’t be telling you this at all, but I already started and you seem like a person that I can trust with this, but please, swear to god that this will stay between you and I only,” you say, quite sincerely, looking at him with pleading eyes.

“Yeah, of course,” he nods, “what is it, then?”

“We… me and Jeno hooked up once,” you say, chewing on the inside of your cheek, eyes drifting away from Yangyang’s, “it… it was a while ago, after one of their shows back in July, and I thought it was getting somewhere after that, but Jeno… Jeno didn’t really seem like he wanted something more, so I just never talked about it with him after that.”

Blinking a few times at you, feeling like someone’s just suddenly unplugged his brain, leaving him with no power to gather his thoughts, he stays silent, trying to process everything. His blood goes cold and the food in his mouth suddenly tastes like dirt, his mood dropping instantly, for Lee Jeno had more of you than Yangyang ever will, and all of that while not caring for you near as much as he does.

“Don’t judge me,” you say, awkwardly laughing to yourself.

“I’m not judging.”

“Yes, you are, I can see it on your face!”

“I’m not judging!” he insists, finishing the last bite of his chicken wrap.

“What is it, then?” you push him, stomping your feet under your table. “Your face changed. You’re judging.”

“Yeah, maybe I am,” he blurts out, “not you, though.”

Looking at Yangyang for a few seconds, your eyes soften. Pulling your lips into a tight line, an expression only vaguely reminding him of a smile, you nod and sigh in understatement.

“Yeah. That’s why I’m getting over him.”

I DREAM OF YOU ALMOST EVERY NIGHT, HOPEFULLY, I WON’T WAKE UP THIS TIME

The drums ring all the way from his feet towards his heart, making it bump quicker and quicker as the rhythm changes and Hendery starts playing the opening melody of their last song of the night. Yangyang scans the crowd once more, trying to engrave it into his brain forever, trying to remember all the faces and all of their expressions, their outfits and haircuts, their lively smiles and cheers coming out of their mouths at each song they perform. This is the first time Yangyang is playing for a crowd that seems to be enjoying itself– he never knew that Chucky Tribute could have this many fans.

According to Chenle and Renjun, Jeno is kind of a big deal at their local university. He can only imagine that half of the crowd are his admirers; each girl in a prettier outfit than the other, screaming louder than the other in a non-spoken competition over his heart.

The view of the crowd enjoying the music is a lovely one, for sure. But when Yangyang’s eyes finally land to the very middle of the crowd, the spot he was saving for last, he realises that the sight of you in the crowd, holding your hands high as you jump around to the familiar songs, occasionally taking a picture of the band or recording a short video, that this sight– the sight of you, is for sure his absolute favourite.

“Are you ready to jump? Let’s go!” Jeno cheers into the microphone, the whole crowd that is currently packed in one of the medium-sized bars in the centre of the town listening to him and doing as he pleases– going absolutely crazy, jumping around and screaming when the chorus hits and some of them recognise the lyrics.

A doll with red hair lands on stage, thrown there by a grinning girl in the first row, making Jeno chuckle and take it from its spot on the floor. Yangyang soon realises it’s Chucky– Jeno’s most favourite fictional character, the one he named his band after. It’s kind of funny, the sight of the rockstar running around with the doll in his hands, screaming the lyrics to his song, and he almost lets out a loud laugh when the frontman gets to his new guitarist and makes the doll rest at his biceps, like a newborn baby. The crowd laughs at that, followed by a loud cheer, as they like the sight of their new guitarist and find it funny.

The sense of euphoria that comes with the last chorus is something Yangyang never knew he could feel. Lost in the music, enjoying the melody of a song he didn’t know a few weeks ago, he feels at home. He’s not good with crowds of people, for he always feels like he is watched and judged, examined by a microscope, but right now, he feels like he is in one unity with everyone present– music connects them all, no barriers left.

“Thank you so much everyone, this was Chucky Tribute! Make sure to stream our music on Spotify and Soundcloud, we’ll see you again soon!” Jeno says, moving to the edge of the podum and bowing, leaving the band to follow his lead and wave at everyone as the group leaves the stage.

Running off the stage, still grinning, Yangyang chugs some water in the backroom and once again, packs his guitar. If anyone would see him right now, they’d surely think he won a lottery or something, with how cheerful and genuinely happy the boy looks.

“The best part of playing at bars is the thing that comes after,” Jeno laughs, making Yangyang furrow his brows in confusion.

“Now, we party,” Hendery concludes, shooting a serious look at the newbie.

Once they’ve wiped their sweat off and drank some more water, the small group is heading towards the door to the bar. Now, Yangyang is not usually the one up for a party, but today is a special day. Of course he won’t miss out on the first afterparty with his new band.

You find him at the entrance. Your smile mirrors his, and your eyes only leave him for a second, as Jeno passes by and you greet him with a strange sense of politeness. Once Yangyang is close enough to run towards, you envelope him in a bear hug, jumping around in excitement. He takes notice of your perfume– this is not the first time he’s smelled it, but the light aroma of roses and vanilla always manages to make him feel a strange sense of bliss.

“You did so well! Oh my god, I’m so proud of you!” you yell encouraging words into his ear, making him jump a little from the loudness of your voice.

“Thank you!” he says, jumping around with you and squeezing you harder for a mere second. Something about you being the first one to congratulate him on the first step towards his big goal makes his heart swell, the sight of the light behind your eyes making him feel a tad emotional.

“Now let’s go party! Renjun and Jaemin are waiting at the bar,” you say as you move from him, “Jun ordered you a beer, he insisted that you liked it. If that’s not the case, blame him, not me.”

Laughing as you two disappear deeper into the bar, you quickly find the two at the bar, accompanied with Hendery, Chenle, and who he remembered was Mark, even though he’s only met him once. “Where’s Jeno?”

“Most likely somewhere with his groupies,” Renjun shrugs, sliding the beer closer to his best friend. “You did well, by the way. You looked like a rockstar,” he says, a teasing tone sent his way with a grin on the older one’s face.

“Oh, shut the fuck up-”

“I mean it! Now, have your beer so we can get some shots,” he says, making Yangyang roll his eyes and chug the beer, although not in one go– he’s not a monster. Or an alcoholic. Yet.

Once he’s done with his drink, the group moves to one of the booths in the corner of the bar. It was full just a moment ago, but the group that was sitting there before left, so they were free to take their spot. It was more comfortable to sit on the royal-blue sofas than the tall, lanky barstools, and Yangyang was happy for the support of the cushions under his bottom, if he was about to drink more. His centre of gravity is always a little messed up once he has something to drink, so a tall barstool wouldn’t really help him in this case.

Glancing at you, sitting right next to him, you don’t seem as unhappy with Jeno’s lack of presence. It makes him feel a bit relieved, especially after the talk you two had at McDonald’s a week ago. He knows that one can’t just get over someone in a week, but the idea of you still yearning after someone who was so out of reach was making Yangyang’s head hurt, so he was happy to see that you’re not running after him, or trying to look for him in the crowded bar.

You take your phone out of your pocket, yelling over the loud music as you read out the text shining on the screen of your phone. “Hyuck should arrive here any minute! He says he’s sorry for missing the gig, but he had to watch his baby sister, so there was nothing he could do.”

“It’s okay!” Chenle yells back, taking another sip of one of the cocktails you ordered for him when he was still in the back. He complained about it looking too girly for his current look, but he liked the taste nonetheless, so the argument was quickly settled.

“Yeah!” Yangyang chimes in, “family comes first. And babysitting,” he adds.

“Wait! Didn’t you use to babysit too?” Jaemin asks over the music, pointing his eyes at Yangyang.

“He did!” Renjun agrees with a laugh.

“But they kicked him out because the girl he was babysitting learned the word fuck from him,” you add, laughing as you remember the story he told you once when he was over at your flat.

“That’s not why they fired me-”

“It was! You told me!”

“It really wasn’t, you’re just-”

“Listen. We all know that’s why, every other word that comes out of your mouth is a swear word,” you say, grinning at him as he gets worked up over the small argument.

“I don’t fucking swear-” he tries to argue, when it hits him. He… he just did. Right there.

“Anyways!” Jaemin chimes in to lighten the mood, “I believe it’s time for shots!”

“I-”

“No, Hendery, you can’t skip this round and no, we don’t care that sambuca makes you sick. Now, let’s get to it, lads!”

The shot glasses with the clear liquid are distributed amongst everyone in the circle, all of them taking the shot. Once the glass is pressed against Yangyang’s lips, he catches a telling look from Renjun on the opposite side of the table; a one that asks what is going on between you and the girl you were too shy to talk to when you first met her, but he ignores it and just lets the sambuca shot hit his throat, swallowing. No one is brave enough to not make that disgusted face after taking a shot, but at least no one gets made fun of. Just yet.

With Yangyang’s low alcohol tolerance, he can sense that the teasing is only yet to come.

More and more shots in, he can feel his head spinning and all jokes shared along the group get only funnier. Somewhere along the way, Hyuck arrives, squishing himself next to Mark at the edge of the seat, greeting everyone and congratulating Yangyang on his first ever gig. When there’s a promise to drink to that with him, Yangyang is suddenly tugged by his hand, making him almost fall over as you try to make him stand up from his place.

“No, pretty boy, you’ve had enough for now,” you say, “let’s dance it out, shall we?”

“Probably not the best idea, Y/N,” Renjun notes from the other side of the table.

“We’ll be fine.”

“No, you don’t understand, like, he will fall over. It will happen,” Renjun explains once more, the sureness in his voice not making you even bat an eye.

Yangyang doesn’t even try to advocate himself. There’s no use– Renjun is most likely right, and he will fall over. But he also doesn’t really pay attention to the conversation you’re having anyway, when your hand is still in his, fingers intertwined, and the nickname you used for him, although a little mockingly, is still ringing in his head.

Dragged across the dance floor, you two find your place in the corner, where there’s not that many people around. It’s getting late and the bar is only getting more crowded, leading towards the rush of the night, but Yangyang doesn’t find himself minding as you hug him loosely around his neck and swing with him to the music playing through the speakers.

“Are you alright?” you ask, looking at him with honest concern.

“Yeah,” he nods.

“Do you feel sick? Do you want water?” you ask him questions, all caring and making his heart swell. No one’s ever made sure he was okay when drinking before, so the sight of the frown on your face is making him feel content in your hold, as he dances with you– although not really catching the rhythm, since balance is the thing he’s trying to catch at this very moment.

“I’m fine,” he says, smiling at you, “just a little drunk.”

“I can see that,” you laugh, “are you having a good time?”

He nods. “Are you?”

“I am,” you agree, smiling at him.

Yangyang finds himself pressed closer to you, but it really might just be because of the alcohol, when he talks closer to your ear. He doesn’t have to yell as much this way, and he finds it more comfortable, considering that he would still like to have his voice when he wakes up in the morning.

“Thanks,” he says.

“For what?”

“For… watching me play, I guess,” he shrugs, “and for staying here after.”

“I think you’re forgetting that all those other people are my friends as well, Yang,” you tease him, the tone of your voice making him shake his head in disbelief and roll his eyes at you.

“Okay, well, that’s true. But… I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I do. I just don’t know how to articulate myself.”

You laugh at the simple honesty behind his drunken slurs, finding the tired boy endearing. “It’s okay,” you don’t push him.

“It’s just… if it wasn’t for you, I probably wouldn’t be here tonight, that’s all,” he says, finally, not knowing that he secretly articulated everything he wanted and more, making you smile at him.

One of the hands that was previously clasped with your other one around his neck moves up towards his face, brushing the hair that’s falling into his eyes out of his face. The boy watches you with big eyes, mouth a little agape in shock. This action feels intimate to him, only treasured between you two, tugged secretly in the corner of the club. He feels weak in his knees, and although he manages to hold himself up, he knows that it’s no longer the effect that alcohol has on him, but yours.

“Don’t thank me. You were made for this,” you say, “you shined out there, you know? Give it a few more gigs and you’ll have even more groupies than Jeno,” you giggle, pressing your forehead against his for a brief second, just to be close to him, allowing yourself to be sincere even in the loud atmosphere of the night.

Swallowing hard, Yangyang chuckles airly, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “You should probably stop looking at me like that.”

“What? Why?” you ask, confused.

“Because it’s making it really hard for me to act like I don’t like you,” he confesses, watching your expression shift– the wrinkle between your eyebrows appearing for a second before your palm moves away from his hair and briefly touches his cheek and you move away from him, shaking your head.

“You’re drunk, Yang.”

He is. But even being sober can’t make his feelings for you go away.

“Yeah. I am.”

KISS ME LIKE NOBODY WOULD WHEN I WAS SIXTEEN

When you and Yangyang meet, it’s usually either at your place, in your little room covered by posters and artwork, or in town with all your other friends; going to the skate park, or having boba at the local mall. You rarely have time for just each other alone, and the only times when Yangyang has you all for himself is in your quiet room, where you learn to play the guitar, and he stares at you with fondness when he casually plays you love songs just for the sake of playing something, not wanting you to see the intentions behind his song choices.

Today, though, you’re nestled at Yangyang’s place– at his little balcony, to be exact. His parents were going out to the theatre, they said, so you only met them briefly, but Yangyang is glad for that fact, because he’s almost certain they’d embarrass him in front of you with childhood stories or prying questions, assuming you two were together, and he’s not entirely ready to face that yet.

Alone in the whole house, you tucked yourselves into the small space of the balcony, sat at the floor with pillows under your bottoms, looking out to the hills. Yangyang used to complain to his parents about the placement of the balcony– when he was little, he didn’t understand why someone would want to look outside and see nature, only metres and metres covered in tall trees, when they could look out and see the busy street, people living their lives, laughing and screaming in joy. The older he gets, though, the more he understands why this is so much better; the sight of nature calms him down, creating the balcony into a humble abode, a relaxing spot for him to watch the trees move with the wind. If he’s lucky, sometimes, he can even spot a stray deer, looking out of the forest, tasting the city on its tongue. He subliminaly tells it to come back where it came from, for it’s safer for the animal to be kept in the woods, but he feels like the sight of it makes him appreciate what he has even more.

It’s early November, the leaves of the trees in front of you are starting to turn all the pretty colours of the rainbow, orange hues making the place look ethereally beautiful. You sit next to him, legs crossed, your outfit the most casual he’s ever seen you wear. The sight of sweatpants and the loose hoodie on your frame makes him unconditionally happy, for it means that you’re comfortable with him to the point of not even needing to dress up.

“Why is your guitar so different to mine?” you ask him, furrowing your brows in question.

“Mine’s an acoustic, yours is the classical one. The strings are different,” he notes, seeing you nod in understatement.

Your guitar lessons are not as frequent as they used to be– truth be told, you only paid for an actual lesson a few times. The other times, when you two just laid in your bed and talked about everything, only sometimes taking your guitar into your hands and playing a song or two, Yangyang refused to take any money from you. It would be like paying him for hanging out with you, and that’s not the case here. Sure, he helps you with playing, he shares advice, but it’s not the regular guitar class he gives to the kids in the neighbourhood, and that’s why he’d feel bad to make you pay for them.

“They hurt my fingers,” you scowl, making Yangyang giggle at your hurt expression.

“They’re harder to play, ‘cause they’re steel,” he says, “want me to play instead?”

“No,” you say, shaking your head, “I wanna show you something.”

Opening his eyes wide in surprise, Yangyang only nods, becoming you to start. When you came over into your room, you didn’t say much. Your eyes travelled around the walls, adoring the few posters he hung up above his bed, squinting at the collection of energy drink cans at the top of his wardrobe. There’s a bowl full of guitar picks on his table, which you scanned over faintly, and a hoodie, the only thing he forgot to clean up before you arrived, draped over his chair. When your eyes found one of his guitars– the acoustic one– in the corner of his room, you asked to borrow it, taking him by surprise.

Strumming the guitar a few times, testing it, trying to get to the rhythm and the sound of the new thing, you clear your throat and look at him again one last time before you start. “I practised some more, since your guitar lessons are pretty much useless now, when you won’t shut up for one minute-”

“That’s entirely your fault!”

“Whatever,” you mumble, “but, basically, I think I finally learned that song.”

Smiling faintly, perhaps a little nervously, you start playing the song you requested him to teach you in your first guitar lesson. The chords fall smoothly from your hand now, the strumming rhythmical and exactly like the original, everything falling into its place nicely.

You even start singing, and although your voice is not the prettiest one when you sing, the notes sounding flat and the high-notes a little shaky, although your voice isn’t like from the movies and you’re not a princess that’s good at everything, something about this moment feels truly special to Yangyang. When you notice the seriousness of the whole thing, his examining eyes and the lost expression, your singing turns more silly, purposefully not hitting the right notes towards the end of the song, dragging the lines for longer than you should, making Yangyang laugh.

He thinks that perhaps, he’ll remember this moment forever. When he’s old and the memory of you fades, his brain no longer able to make out the sound of your voice, he’ll go back to this day, to the strumming of the guitar, and he’ll have you back, for at least a second. He’ll remember the way your hair reflected in the golden hour, he’ll remember the sound of your voice when you sang the chorus of the song, he’ll remember the way you smiled at him after, a little proud, but still shy, and he’ll feel the same things he does today, looking at you in real time.

“How was it?” you ask, a hopeful glint in your tone.

“Wonderful,” he replies, and he means it– it’s an easy song to learn, sure, but he knows how much you’ve tried, how much work you truly put in. To work on something so hard and finally get to the goal, must feel fulfilling. He’s proud of you, in a way.

The grin that appears on your face is wider than he’d ever seen, as you put the guitar down next to you and try to battle it, as if you were afraid to show him just how much this moment meant to you.

“Thank you.”

“For what? This was all you, as you said, because I can’t shut up for one minute in our guitar lessons, so…”

“Fuck off, you know I was only joking,” you say, “we both know that I wouldn’t have done this without you. It’s a small victory, but it’s still important to me nonetheless.”

Your body shifts closer to him, a hesitant look on your face flashing for a second before you wipe it off and hug your companion from the side, both of your hands enveloping around his torso. Warmness spreads all through Yangyang’s body, making him wonder that perhaps, it’s the appreciation you are trying to convey, sending it to him through your touch. Your head rests on his shoulder, staying in your position for a few more minutes, just listening to the silence that’s only occasionally ruined by the chirping of birds or the shuffling of the wind in the trees.

Yangyang doesn’t dare to break the silence. He only lets you do as you please, when you pry your hands off him and move so you’re more comfortable, with your head still resting on his shoulder. It’s a simple act, but it means a lot to him– a subtle hint of affection, perhaps, which he treasures close to his heart.

Your hand silently finds his, resting in his lap. Taking it into your hold and playing with his fingers, Yangyang finds it hard to not think about just how much he’d like to kiss you right now. The smell of your shampoo mixed with the hint of your perfume hits his nose, lullying him to sleep.

A little naive, perhaps, he thinks of the paradox– you started playing the guitar for someone you were chasing after, and proceeded with it for someone that was chasing after you.

Or maybe, it was all because of yourself. You just needed someone that would support your little dreams. And with the dreams treasured somewhere deep in Yangyang’s insides, some that no one else but you knows, perhaps you two are a great duo. Nobody else would hold you up just as much as he does.

SO SPIN THE BOTTLE IN YOUR BRAIN AND MATCH THE WEAKNESS WITH A NAME

“If I knew that you’d just be doing your homework, I wouldn’t have come,” Yangyang mumbles as he lays on your bed, looking at his phone. His screen shifts with Tiktoks– the social media is almost embarrassingly too addictive for him not to check up on it once in a while, and now, when he has nothing better to do, he naturally gravitates towards it.

Also, just for the record, that’s a lie. And he knows it– he just won’t admit it. Of course he would come anyway. Even if you told him that today’s activity is staring at the ceiling for three hours straight, he’d come. He’d come for any event you invite him to, because it means that he can spend time with you, stay in your presence. And that’s enough for him.

“Shut up,” you mumble, “I already pushed this assignment back too much, because you wanted to go get boba the other day.”

“So it’s my fault you’re late on assignments?” he gasps, offended, as he puts his phone down to put his whole attention towards you.

“Yeah,” you nod, a little absently, “of course it is. You were distracting me from my studies.”

Scoffing, Yangyang shakes his head in disbelief. Truth be told, he’s happy to be your distraction. That means you gravitate towards him whenever you need to get your mind off things– that means he’s your safe space, in a way. The realisation warms his heart a little as he proceeds to climb off your bed, joining you on the floor.

You’re sprawled out on your white fluffy carpet, with a plastic white tablecloth thrown over the surface, a canvas plopped in the middle of it all, tubs of acrylic paint carelessly situated all over the floor. As an art major, your homework is different to the usual. You don’t write lengthy essays, although the time for them comes every once in a while when you take your Art History class. Your assignments mostly include doing art itself, not only studying it, but experiencing the beauty of creating on your own skin.

“What are you painting?” he asks, eyes scanning the canvas.

It’s not a big one, it’s just the right size to fit on the plastic covering under it, making sure your pure white carpet doesn’t get paint stains on it. He notices the brushes all over the place– one is even thrown under the bed, making Yangyang chuckle as he remembers your sudden outburst of frustration a few minutes ago, huffing through the silence and throwing something to the other side of the room.

“Don’t look. I hate when people look.”

“Why?” he asks, confused.

“It makes me feel watched. I don’t like it,” you mourn, stopping in your process and finding his eyes for a split second, truth mirroring in them.

“I’m not watching you,” he mutters, “I’m just looking. I’m appreciating the art, if you will.”

“You’re gonna judge it. I hate when people judge my art,” you say as you get back to painting, mixing the shades on your pallet and then moving back to the canvas, plopping them on there, creating all sorts of images in the small space, “it makes me wanna cry when they say it’s bad.”

“Isn’t that like… the whole point of art school?” he asks, confused.

“Yeah. Exactly,” you nod, making the boy hum in understatement. “Makes me feel fucking miserable, to be honest.”

Yangyang chuckles. The room falls into silence again, as you let him watch you paint. He feels special, for you said you don’t let people watch you, but even with his eyes plastered on the whole scene– your art, but mostly you, scanning your focused face– you don’t glare at him, you don’t curse him off, you just let him peacefully sit next to you, appreciating you.

After a while, you start to hum a song, seemingly happy with your progress on the painting. Your eyebrows relax and your face doesn’t look as tense, and when Yangyang takes a look at your painting, it seems like you’re almost finished; not a blank space left on the canvas, your hand taking the smallest, tiniest brushes, adding small details to the whole thing.

“What did you paint?” he asks again, making you chuckle.

“Don’t you have eyes?” you ask, making him roll his eyes at your question.

“I do,” he replies, “but I wanna know what it symbolises, you know. Like.. What was the theme you were supposed to paint and shit, that’s what I’m interested in.”

Your eyes meet his for a brief second, smiling. Perhaps no one’s ever asked you about your art in such depth before. “It’s a William Oliver replica. It’s a scene from Much Ado about Nothing,” you say, finally done with your piece, stretching back to straighten your neck.

The painting is a beautiful scenery, Yangyang would even go as far as saying it looks like the original, although he’s never seen it before. It’s a picture of two women sitting on a bench in the woods, one of them looking past her shoulder at a couple walking by, her expression distraught. He wonders why you chose the piece, but before he has time to ask, you’re already giving him the reply.

“We were supposed to replicate a painting that resembles one of our deepest emotions and… I chose this one,” you add, chewing on the inside of your cheek.

Taking one last look at the saddened woman, her expression dark and solemn with the sight of the couple passing by, Yangyang suddenly understands it all, he no longer has the need to ask you what the deepest emotion you have is, because it’s clear as day, right there in front of him, served on a golden plate.

And you might try to mask it, try to hide it from him as hard as you can; perhaps that’s why you haven’t told him the original name of the painting, after all, but he can see it in your eyes, he can sense it in the way you speak about him when he comes to your mind.

Perhaps Yangyang understands your art so well because he deeply resonates. He too feels the way you do, he too looks at a pair passing by, the sight of them together making his heart clench with the feeling you can only describe as Unrequited Love.

I CAN STILL SMELL HER PERFUME, DID IT RUB OFF ON YOU?

“And…” Jeno’s singing suddenly trails off, his eyes shooting towards the ceiling as he searches for the next lyrics in his head, sighing when they don’t come to him as naturally as they always do. The band practice isn’t going well today, and frankly speaking, it’s getting on everyone’s nerves.

Hendery slams the drums with much furiosity, cutting the rhythm off abruptly. Yangyang finds himself following him, his strumming coming to a halt as an angry figure appears from behind him, screaming close to his ear.

“What the fuck, man?” Chenle yells at the leader of the band, sighing. “We have a gig in three days and you can’t even focus on a single band practice?”

Jeno shrugs, pacing around. The frustration smeared all over his face is enough to make the whole group even more annoyed, the tense atmosphere making the air in the old garage feel particularly heavy.

“You come to the practice late,” Chenle starts his little rant again, counting all the reasons why he’s annoyed with his bandmate on his fingers, “and mind you, the practice is at your fucking place. You live here and you’re half an hour late. Then, you’re all over the place; not paying attention to anything we have to say, forgetting the lyrics, playing the chords wrong in the few little songs where you actually have to play the guitar-”

“Are you done?” Jeno cuts him off, the tone of his voice stern and cold.

“I mean, I could go on, but it seems like you don’t really wanna hear it,” Chenle says, pacing towards the sofa and taking a seat on it.

“Glad you caught that,” he scoffs, not meeting anyone’s eye.

Yangyang doesn’t say a word; he’s not the one for verbal or physical fights. Sure, he does have some pent-up anger inside of him, most of it aimed towards Jeno, but he won’t dare to show it. It’s not his place to say anything. He hasn’t been in the band for long, and for all he knows, the frustration he feels towards the boy may as well be because of the unreciprocated feelings you have for him. And now, that wouldn’t really be fair of Yangyang to act on, would it?

So instead, he wanders over to the corner of the room, figuring that it’s time for a break, sitting on one of the old, dusty armchairs.

“What’s gotten into you?” Hendery asks, making the other boy frown.

“I don’t know, man,” he shrugs, indifferent, “I’ve got a headache.”

“Hangover again?” Chenle asks, the tone of his voice ironical and snappy, snickering to himself when the boy doesn’t reply and instead just looks ahead of him, too shameful to answer the simple question. “Of course. I could’ve guessed that.”

“Look, it’s not my fault that you don’t take the opportunities you’re getting into your hands,” Jeno shrugs, grinning to himself. Leaning over to the small coffee table in the middle of the garage, he takes the can of Redbull into his hands and takes a sip from it.

“What opportunities, you say?” Hendery asks.

“Well,” he starts, “the parties, the invitations, the attention…” he trails off, before a snarky look falls to place onto his face, “the girls…”

Chenle scoffs in response, putting his legs up onto the table. “Maybe if you gave more attention to responsibilities, the music and the band, we wouldn’t be still stuck in this fucking garage,” he shrugs and Hendery only hesitantly locks his eyes with him, nodding to show him that he agrees with his point.

“Well, it’s still my fucking garage, isn’t it?” Jeno grins, meeting the others’ eyes.

After another set of sighs, nothing being able to loosen up the atmosphere and make the air lighter, Hendery moves from his spot on the sofa and takes the bag from the floor. “You should probably get some sleep. We’ll practise tomorrow, since you’re pretty much useless today.”

Chenle follows his actions, feet pacing around the garage to gather his things and hide his treasured bass guitar into the case, taking it with him. “See you tomorrow,” he says, turning around to wave at Yangyang, still sitting soundly in the corner of the garage.

With only the two of them left in the dusty practice room, Yangyang feels himself get awkward. The truth is, it’s easier to get on with Hendery and Chenle. He finds them to be more approachable, less intimidating and also more friendly. Yangyang doesn’t recall ever hearing Jeno speak to him with the niceness they always use, and he also doesn’t remember the prideful boy to ever look at him with eyes that would show that he finds him equal. Something about their relationship is always based on a feeling of superiority and however hard Yangyang tries, there’s nothing he can do to make the feeling go away.

Figuring that it’s his time to leave, he stands up and moves towards the sofa, where his bag is.

“I hope you’re in better shape tomorrow,” he mutters, getting closer to where Jeno’s sitting.

“What, you’re gonna give me another lecture? I’ve heard enough, trust me,” he snaps back, making Yangyang furrow his brows in confusion and shock, sighing to himself. Leaning closer towards his bag on the sofa, something lingers in the air, and it’s not the awkwardness or the unsaid rivalry between the two.

It’s the smell of roses and vanilla, the faint aroma of it hitting his nose and making his stomach twist in anger. Suddenly, everything clicks into place– the hangover, him being late and all over the place, the smell of your perfume lingering on him wherever he goes.

“Were you with Y/N?” he asks.

“What?” he furrows his brows, pointing them onto the other boy as he scoffs. “You’re jealous?”

“Jealous?”

“Yeah. Because I can get her whenever I want, and you can’t?” he says, cocky and full of confidence. “Don’t worry, I caught the way you feel about her long ago. Too bad she’ll never be yours, man.”

Gathering his things, hands trembling and his whole body lighting on fire, he finds himself walking off towards the exit. Turning around only once, he finally gets out what he’s been thinking of for the past few weeks.

“You know what? Fuck you, Jeno. You can look for a new guitarist for your next gig now. I hope you find someone that doesn’t find you absolutely fucking insufferable.”

You might be completely his, magically under the rockstar’s spell, but the truth is, sadly, that Lee Jeno can never be truly yours. You’re always gonna have to share him with every single girl at the club, with all his crazy fans that post about him on Facebook. You’re always just gonna be his second choice, the girl he turns to when no one else is around, the girl he uses for his pleasure when there’s no other person willing to get on with him.

And that makes Yangyang perhaps even more furious than if you were dating.

This might be his deepest dream, the thing he’s felt the most happy and excited about in a long while, but still, he can’t find it in him to continue in a band with someone that only finds you when they feel like it, stripping you off of everything, using you to their best and then throwing you out like a piece of trash, not satisfied with you anymore.

He could never go on with someone like that.

IT’S 3:45, THE TAXI’S NOT ARRIVED, I DON’T THINK THAT HE’S COMING

The rain hitting the asphalt does nothing to make Yangyang feel better about everything– truthfully, it makes him feel even worse, as expected with the gloomy weather, as he walks down the street towards the bus stop at the edge of the neighbourhood, the one that is the furthest away from his house, away in the crevices of the roads that he doesn’t know that well, despite living there his whole life.

It’s a little past eleven and he’s gotten your text just about ten minutes ago. The contents of it were simple, just a single sentence asking him to meet you at the bus stop at the edge of the neighbourhood, far away even from your house alone.

You two haven’t spoken in a little over three days. After quitting the band, he’s pretty much sheltered himself from everyone. Even Renjun’s calls were getting ignored, and while the rest of the group just figured to leave the poor boy alone, his best friend made it his quest to walk down to his house and scream at him in person, for the little angry human was worried that his friend was six feet under a long time ago.

Nearing the little glass box, acting as a bus stop, Yangyang already sees your figure sitting at one of the benches, knees up and pressed towards your chest, hugging yourself. The sight of you makes Yangyang’s heart break just the slightest, for he already knows what’s going on just by reading your text message. It would be healthier for him to stay at home and leave you to deal with everything on your own, but he was never the one for good life choices. Somehow, he always has to fuck himself over. His own sweet self-sabotage.

Drenched in rain, droplets of water falling off the tip of his nose, he finally makes his way towards you and sits on the bench next to you. Sniffling a little, presumably from the cold, he waits for you to talk first. It’s hard for him to find words to say to you at this moment. No conflict happened between the two of you, but he’s sure you already know about what happened between him and Jeno, and he doesn’t have it in him to talk about it. He doesn’t know what you think about the whole thing; he also doesn’t know how Jeno explained it to everyone. All he knows is that the uncomfort he felt whenever he was around him is not something he should be putting up with, and that the decision he made was final, and also good for him, in the end.

“Why didn’t you take an umbrella with you?” you ask him, your voice faint in the silence of the night.

Shrugging, he snickers. “Dunno.”

The truth is, Yangyang doesn’t like umbrellas. Walking anywhere with them feels awkward and embarrassing, and he’d rather die than to feel humiliated. It’s a habit of his, to walk everywhere without an umbrella, even when it’s storming outside. The struggle of getting his wet clothes off before he hops into a hot shower is not really worth it, if he really thinks about it, but old habits are hard to break.

Taking the hood off his head, Yangyang runs his hands through his hair, shaking the water out. You lean away from him for just a second, trying to shield yourself from the droplets of water flying everywhere, but there’s no use– you end up getting a little wet anyway.

Chewing on the inside of his cheek, he finally breaks off the awkward silence. “There are no buses coming at this hour.”

You nod. “I know.”

“So… why are you here, then?” he asks.

Shrugging, you sniffle from the cold as well, making Yangyang notice the lightness of your clothes. The fabric looks thin, the mesh long-sleeve doing nothing to shield you from the cold, and he suddenly regrets not bringing another jacket with him to keep you warm.

“You already know why, Yangyang,” you mumble, “you already know.”

“What happened?” he asks.

The truth is, Yangyang has a faint idea. He may have quit the band, but he hasn’t forgotten the schedule yet– today is the day of the gig. It’s a special one, presumably, because it’s away from the town. A big bar somewhere in a big city called Chucky Tribute to play on the opening night, so there must be a lot of people there, leading the band to getting more recognition than ever before. Everyone went– the whole friend group, including Renjun and Donghyuck, although the latter always seems to be late everywhere. Everyone went… except for you two.

“Jeno was supposed to drive me,” you say, “but he never showed up. I called him numerous times, sent him lots of texts, but he just wouldn’t reply.”

“Have you tried reaching the others?” he asks.

“I have. They arrived safely, had a great show…. Jeno didn’t mention me… you know, it’s funny,” you chuckle ironically, bitterness behind your tone, “Jaemin thought I just didn’t feel like coming today. They’re all there and now I look like a douchebag that doesn’t want to support their friends. It’s ridiculous.”

“That makes two of us,” Yangyang scoffs, trying to lighten the situation.

Humming, you only resolve to nod. “Then, Jeno texted me saying he’ll send a taxi for me and that I should wait here.”

“He did?”

“Yeah,” you faintly reply, shuddering from the cold. “So I’m… waiting, I guess.”

Yangyang smiles to himself. Everything about you screams devastation– the way your eyes don’t meet his, the way you refuse to change your position into another one, hugging yourself to comfort. The makeup under your eyes is a little smeared, but he won’t mention it. You look devastatingly lonely, and something about you texting Yangyang just to battle the feeling makes him feel at least a little valued by you. It’s a sign of something– a sign of your trust, perhaps.

You’re waiting for Jeno’s taxi. It should make him seep in envy, but it doesn’t. Strange.

“You know, I finished my song the other day. I could show it to you sometime,” you say, starting a conversation, “it had a lot to fix and I wasn’t quite happy with it, but I think you’d like it. It’s… it means a lot to me.”

“Sure,” Yangyang nods, scooping himself closer to you. Seeing you shudder from the cold once again, he bites on his lower lip, hesitating on his next question, but saying it out-loud nonetheless. “I know this might sound a bit out of place and as if I’m being stingy by not offering it to you, but I’m really cold as well, so do you wanna share my jacket?”

Looking at him for the first time since he got there, you shake your head in disbelief and break out into a grin. “You’re unbelievable,” you say, “but yeah, sure. Thanks.”

Moving closer, Yangyang takes off one of the sleeves on his jacket, pressing his side flush to yours, watching you as you take his jacket and drape it over your right side. Soon enough, taking the boy by surprise, your left arm moves under the jacket and hugs him around the waist, making yourself more comfortable in the awkward position.

“Thank god for your ridiculously oversized clothing,” you mumble as you sigh in warmness, making him snicker.

Sitting in silence, the time passing without either of you knowing or noticing, the intimacy and closeness of you two occupying both of your minds, Yangyang wonders how he ended up in this mess. Living his teenage dream for a little over a month, playing one show, getting to know you and falling for you harder than he’s ever fallen for anyone before. He thinks he’d rather be unaware of his growing feelings for you. It’s not like they hurt him, it’s not like the idea of not being loved back by you makes his heart break or anything, but he feels like slowly, it’s ripping on his edges and making him feel a little worn-out.

He wonders why your actions towards him haven’t changed since he drunkenly told you that he liked you. You showed no signs of discomfort with him, no awkwardness. It’s like somewhere in the depths of your soul, you were content with the idea of Liu Yangyang being in love with you. What that says about you, he doesn’t know, but it’s sure that it has to mean something.

Your head slowly falls onto his shoulder. The steady rhythm of the rain falling on top of the roof of the glassy bus stop acts like a lullaby, the darkness, only lightly discarded with the yellow hue of the lamppost a few metres away providing you a shield of some sort. The neighbourhood is almost scarily silent, but it’s no wonder due to the late hours of the day.

“I’m glad you came,” you mumble.

“Of course I came,” he replies. The choice of his words is quite obvious– there’s nothing else he could do, but to help you ease the pain of being thrown away to the side by Lee Jeno once again. After some time, it almost looks like he’s getting used to it.

“Sometimes, I wish I loved someone else. Sometimes, I wish that someone was…” you trail off, not finishing your sentence, but rather choosing to start a new one instead, “Jeno doesn’t deserve it. I’m done with him now. For good.”

Yangyang doesn’t reply, leaving your words to sink in. Noticing the familiarity of your sentences, the things you’ve already said to him multiple times ago, he only snickers in half-amusement, half-pain. “Are you?”

Thinking, you shrug. “Most likely.”

“I mean… it’s okay. You can’t really make your emotions go away like that,” Yangyang says. He knows what he’s talking about, after all– he tried.

“Yeah,” you agree, “but I think it doesn’t hurt to try.”

Remaining silent, Yangyang pays attention to the rhythm of the raindrops falling to the ground. Your body hangs off his, holding on to his clothing as if to keep yourself afloat. Somewhere along the way, his arm found its way around your waist, but he doesn’t really remember when it happened. All he registers is the faint movement of his fingers against your skin, trying to calm down the storm you refuse to show him, but he knows too well is going on inside of you at this very moment.

Eyes travelling towards the red neon sign outside of the bus stop, Yangyang finds that it’s 3:45am already and the time he spent with you passed by without him even noticing.

“It’s getting late,” he says.

“It’s been late for at least a few hours now, Yang,” you mumble, the nickname rolling off your tongue soundly.

“Yeah, but I mean… I don’t think the taxi’s coming,” he explains, a bit of hesitance in his voice, trying not to break your illusion.

“Oh, I know,” you muse, “I know. I knew it the very moment he sent the text that he’s gonna call it for me.”

Your statement confuses him, makes him furrow his brows and search for an answer. When you don’t explain further, he gets it, somehow, and the realisation both breaks him and makes him feel content all at once, as most things about you always do.

You already knew you could never trust a word that comes out of Lee Jeno’s mouth. And in times where you most need comfort, you call Yangyang.

You always call Yangyang.

“Let’s go home then, shall we? I’ll walk you.”

I’D LOVE TO BE IN LOVE WITH YOU ENOUGH TO WRITE A LOVE SONG

Looking at you plucking the strings of your jet-black guitar, sitting in your room, Yangyang is enveloped with a strange sense of nostalgia that cuts right through his bones and sits inside of his stomach. You’re sitting at the opposite edge of the bed, not looking him in the eye as you strum an unfamiliar melody.

Nothing much changed since the two of you met for the first time. You’re still the same you that surprised him with a sharp remark as he entered your house for the first time, the same you that he silently adores and watches, paying attention to all details; the freckles on your skin, the calluses on your fingers, the hesitant smile you flash him as you start singing the lyrics to your song almost absent-mindedly. And he’s still the same person you met in the park; the boy with a dream, only waiting to be fulfilled, the boy that tries so hard to find his place in the world. The boy that quietly supports you with each step you take, the boy that fell for you fast and hard, without knowing how to control it.

Your room is still the same shade of white, splashed with colour on the edges, where the posters reach. The comfort and the easiness of the atmosphere is still the same as well.

The truth is, everything stays the same. Time passed, but nothing happened. Ignoring the mess in the middle, it’s like you’ve come full circle, stayed exactly the same, stuck in motion, but progressing nowhere. Yangyang can’t choose if it’s scary or comforting.

But when your eyes meet and you sing the lyric, your voice unsteady, but absolutely, 100% raw and honest, Yangyang thinks that perhaps something changes over time. His feelings for you don’t disappear, not at all, but they progressively grow. They deepen and he starts to understand them, getting in touch with them, welcoming them despite knowing they will never get received and reciprocated.

“I’d love to be in love with you enough to write a love song,” you sing, the easy chords forming a melody, the lyrics hitting the boy in the stomach.

It’s like they’re addressed to him the same way they were addressed to yourself. A silent confession, opening yourself up to him completely, because after all this time, he’s the only one you can get yourself to fully trust and let see everything. The truth is, he deserves it. After being so patient; after being so calm and caring with you and your emotions.

When you’re finished with the song, putting the guitar aside, Yangyang can’t help but grin at you.

“Us two could make a band, you know,” he smiles, seeing you roll your eyes at him.

“Don’t think the rockstar life is for me, dude,” you say, moving closer to him, but still keeping your distance. That’s how it works between the two of you all the time, in a way; you always somehow get closer, but the pit between the two of you never really disappears. Maybe, it never will. But that’s okay.

Yangyang is okay with that.

He’s not angry about it anymore. The truth is, some situations can make him truly furious; seeping with jealousy, cursing at his fate for making him feel the things he does, asking himself all the what ifs and why me questions. But after taking a step back, Liu Yangyang can finally recognise what he found and what he learned, and appreciate the anger for being there, for it’s an emotion as well and he has to let himself feel it, and finally let it go.

Maybe, he’ll never have a band. Maybe, he’ll never be the same as Lee Jeno. Maybe, he’ll never have you.

But he’s not angry about it anymore.

Your body slowly shuffles next to him, putting your head on his shoulder. Something about the gesture makes him feel all warm inside, a slight smile creeping up his lips at the sight of you curled up to his side.

And once again, he thinks that perhaps, he’ll remember this moment forever. When he’s old and the memory of you fades, his brain no longer able to make out the sound of your voice, he’ll go back to this day, to the strumming of the guitar, and he’ll have you back, for at least a second. He’ll remember the way your hair reflected in the golden hour, he’ll remember the sound of your voice when you sang the chorus of your song, he’ll remember the way you smiled at him after, a little proud, but still shy, and he’ll feel the same things he does today, while looking at you in real time.

And that’s okay for him. Sometimes, even a glimpse of someone is enough.

When you cuddle up with him in the bed later that day, watching Netflix like the old times; when a kiss lands into his hair and makes him shy away from your touch, he wonders if he’ll ever live up to Lee Jeno and if he’ll ever get loved by you the same way you loved him before.

He’s not angry anymore.

Well, sometimes, he is.

541 notes · View notes

casuallivi · 2 years ago

Text

The tittle alone has me kicking my feet

Then I saw the picture.... And had to cross my legs like a good little lady...🤭🤭🤭🤭🤭🤭🤭

Yeeeeeeeey, a Cassian journey! I love, love, love when you write Cass!!!!!! Love this littles strolls about his days and to-dos, let's gooooo

Man building things >>>>>>>>>>

I, too, would like a Cass to recreate smuttiest smut with me, where do I sign?

Cassian, in turn, was watching them, while pretending like he wasn’t watching them,

Cassian is such a gossip girl! That's why he and Feyfey go so well together 🤭🤭🤭🤭🤭🤭🤭

He vetoed the short hair thing on his wife.

Forbidding Ness from doing something??!? And you??? Oh baby, that's like dangling a smut book in front of her, she'll end up doing just to contradict you 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣😂😂😂😂😂😂

You know what I like? Man who truly know their woman! Good for Varian, for knowing that his gremlin likes puppies

and his office was like his life–full of sunshine, of his Elain.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

That was sick, SICK!

Wait a minute, YOU GAVE HIM ANOTHER SCAAAAAR

Bitch, are you Zade-ing my Az?!?!? I'm onto you nikita 🧐🤨🤭😂🤣

“You are not retired,”

"Fuck am!” Az insisted. “I am not doing any fucking favours for anyone, especially him.”

Cass threw a meaningful glance at the stacks of reports and papers, which definitely indicated that Azriel was not, in fact, retired at all.

“What’s that, then?” he cocked his brow at the papers.

“Charity.”

Loooooooool, this entire exchange????

GOLD 🥇 🪙

Az rubbing his retirement in Cass face, shit-talking about Rhys WHILE living in his former house is peak sibling behavior!!!!! Now that's how you do siblings, petty, annoying, fucking mad, but still loving each other. I would not grab a glass of water for my bro, but I'll donate him organs if that fucker needed it. Got love to hate them siblings

AND ELRIEL SHARES ONE LIFE NOW?!?!?!? excuse me, I'mma

Cassian didn’t comment, but he wondered if part of the animosity between Rhysand and Azriel was due to the fact that Elain was beloved, and Feyre was the High Lady. Feared and respected, but not loved.

Oooooh, the plot thickens!

First, I love that years have gone by! These are freaking immortals, why put the events one after the other?! Let people catch a break, age, live life, damn! And everything they've done since Bryce (love the mingling of the worlds 💕✔️) got there?? Amazing to see!

Honestly, finally some magic, power and money being used to enhance people's lives! I'm so tired of reading about how beloved they are in velaris, how the people love him, how good of a high lord he is, and yet, we see nothing of it. Show me!!!!! Apart from a library to shove broken women in, there's nothing. And now Feyfey gives art lessons to orphan... And what else? Of course they will show respect for the great curse breaker and defender of the rainbow, but war is over. After that they become... A couple that lie to each other and hides in a fancy mansion.... It's kind of sad.

And Az' monologue?!?!?!!!?!? Let me just highlight something, real quick

My human woman

My Elain

My woman

And the rest of Azriel's monologue!?!?!!!

FACTS, KING! WOOOOORD!!!!!!!

Don't you just love when quiet, lethal, man let that tongue loose - in every sense of the word, wink wink - and sent our legs trembling?!? Uuuuurgh, I love this man so much

Gwyn Berdara, Mor’s mate and wife, mirrored her, tying her long bronze locks with a blue ribbon.

I'll pass commenting on that cause you already know 🤭🤭🤭

Nesta watching Cassian with heart eyes.... I just know my boy is getting so laid tonight! My man! Is nice to see Nesta being envious of Elain's relationship for a change. Poor Elain and Azriel had to suck their thumbs in the shadows while Nessian could play I'm the sun happily and married, it's good to see they set healthy parameters of relationship (even if they are hella crazy possessive, buts that's the fae way paired with Azriel shadowsinger crazy ass, and Elain isn't far behind, that is one crazy obsessed and possessive lady, lool)

He had added tiny pink roses to the blunt black curls of his tattoos, delicate vines that wrapped around the Illyrian markings, making him an Illyrian, but also Elain’s.

You did nooooooooot

Bye, I'm done

Dead and gone

Byeeeeeeeeeeeeee

How to Make An Illyrian Baby

Elriel Month 2023

Language of Love: Acts of Service

Azriel and Cassian build stuff. For their ladies. And the ladies are very happy with the results. (Canon)

Warnings: Language, some smut

“I have too many books,” Nesta stated, looking around her library. Bookshelves were groaning under the strain of endless tomes.

Nesta had a semblance of order when it came to her books: Sellyn Drake, war books, war strategy books, book dedicated to Cassian, which she’s been collecting for the past few years–surprisingly, there were quite a few, because he was, in fact, a living, breathing legend–and then romance novels. Light erotic romance novels, heavier erotica, and then, tucked into the bookcase that was in the shadows were her faves–the smuttiest of the smuts–the ones she and Cassian liked to recreate. Her very best one was about an Illyrian war veteran and lumberjack, who wanted to find a female to carry his sons. He travelled 500 miles through the wilderness to find his mate and give her his seed. That one gave Nesta a lot of ideas, especially those revolving around Cassian being dressed as a lumberjack. A depraved, sex-starved lumberjack.

Her husband towered, standing in the doorway, his arms crossed on his chest, her bright hazel eyes assessing the situation.

“Do you want to donate some? To a library?” he proposed.

Yes, that would be prudent and logical to do. But Nesta felt possessive of her books. The only other thing that she loved more and cherished greatly was Cassian. He was her glorious brave general, and not that she’d stroke his ego with her words and compliments, lest his head grow even bigger than it already was, but she loved him more than all of her books combined. Yet, she could not part with the books. Each one told a story of her own life, and walked alongside her on her journey. There, on the left, were the books that she read while she was here in the very beginning, when they were just Made, and Elain sat in her room, catatonic. Below those, were the books that she read when Cassian was courting her. Fine, technically fucking her, but that was their own, private manner of courting. There were books that Elain and Feyre gifted her, books that Emerie gave her, adventure novels that Gwyn was excited about. Nesta wasn’t much for adventure stories herself–she’d seen a little too much adventure in her 30 years–but she understood why Gwyn loved them and how they took her out of her own humdrum existence.

“No. I don’t,” she said simply, her tone even, but decisive.

“Alright then,” Cassian nodded. “We’ll figure something out.”

“Maybe the House can offer more space? Create some shelves,” she proposed.

There was no reaction from the magical House. Usually, it gave some indication of having heard its Made mistress, but this time around, there was no reaction. It didn’t suddenly gather all the books in neat piles, and didn’t create shelves out of thin air.

Nesta waited for a brief moment and then sighed and announced, “I am going to train”.

“See you later, Nes.”

Cassian flew out of the House fifteen minutes later. He circled over the training platform, where the females were sparring individually and in small groups.

It was no longer haphazard like it was before, when they started out. Now, everyone wore comfortable cotton uniforms, and no longer exercised in leather. There were females from other Courts who joined the ranks, and who brought innovative ideas, such as comfortable shoes, made for running. Nesta and Mor were sparring together, with wooden swords, their swings packing a significant punch. Mor was dressed in a red tunic and white leggings, while Nesta remained true to her subdued palette–black leggings, dark shirt, her hair woven tightly around her head.

She’s been threatening to cut her hair short–like Elain.

Elain had shocked everyone, absolutely everyone, when one day, she arrived with a cute, but very short bob, having chopped off her long thick tresses. Cassian couldn’t believe it. Nobody could. But Nesta, who always found her hair a nuisance to begin with, eyed Elain’s short hairdo enviously and with serious intent.

The only person who didn’t seem to be put off by the short hair was Azriel. That night, at dinner, while Elain flitted back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room, Azriel insisted on helping her. Cassian, in turn, was watching them, while pretending like he wasn’t watching them, and saw how many times Azriel’s scarred palm landed on Elain’s bare, exposed neck. How the long fingers ran over the back of Elain’s neck, stroking, caressing. How his knuckles skidded over the delicate skin of her throat, and how, when they thought that no one was watching, Azriel clasped his hand over Elain’s throat and squeezed. He pulled her to him, his hand firmly circling the long, elegant neck of his not-so-secret lover, while his lips captured hers in a deep, scorching kiss, biting her lips, sucking on her tongue. The way Azriel kissed Elain–it was usually done in private, but when Cassian happened to witness it, it was utterly filthy and inappropriate. Azriel kissed Elain like he wanted to brand her. Her neck was always marked with his teeth, and now, with her short hair, the mark was obscenely obvious. Cassian wondered if it was a not very subtle ‘fuck you’ to Rhysand, who still refused to grant them permission to marry, even though he was aware of their relationship. Rhysand said that until the mate bond between Elain and Lucien was officially rejected and certified by a priestess as null and void, there would be no formal recognition of Azriel and Elain’s relationship, and they were forbidden to marry. Cassian disagreed with his High Lord on his stance, and his bullheadedness, but he didn’t have a say in the matter.

So, as it stood, Elain kept her hair short, with an elegant upsweep, which has now become fashionable across Prythian, and her neck was always marked with bruises and teeth imprints from the Shadowsinger.

Despite how good the short ‘do looked on Elain, and how Cassian was envious of Azriel’s easy access to Elain’s lovely neck, he baulked at the idea of Nesta cutting off her hair. Nesta might have kept it braided or in a tight bun, but there was something special when Cassian pulled all the pins out and it fell like a silken waterfall around her. He vetoed the short hair thing on his wife. So far, the veto stood.

Nesta and Mor waved at him, when he flew past them, while Amren, who was lounging on a chaise and definitely not sparring or exercising, gave him a disinterested glance. No one spared him many looks in general, because most of the females were crowding around Amren’s dog, also named Amren. Varian gave the puppy to Amren as a Solstice gift, and though everyone waited with bated breath to see how she would react to this shaggy portly fluff ball of a puppy, she was…elated. Nyx burst into tears, also demanding a puppy, but Amren refused him coldly, scooping the dog in her arms and cuddling it the entire night.

Since then, the dog hasn't left her side. She loved that damn dog more than she loved anything, and named it Amren, though it was a boy dog. Cassian supposed that the name was fine. Amren Jr. was now as large as its cranky Fae mother, and he was still growing. Cassian wondered if Amren would ever try to ride Amren Jr. like a horse.

Cassian flew across Velaris.

It was a pretty, sunny spring day, where every tree seemed to be in bloom and bursts of pink, white, cream, purple and blue tree canopies made his flight more enjoyable.

He landed quietly at the black wrought iron fence of the townhouse. It was still a handsome white building, but Elain had repainted the front door a cobalt-blue. Branches of heavily flowering trees hung over the fence, making this a truly Fae house, with fragrant pink and azure blossoms swaying gently in the breeze.

He unlatched the gate and stepped into the courtyard. Elain was toiling on the side, planting forget-me-nots around the perimeter of the house. She looked cute, in a simple blue shirt and black leggings, with a thick headband around her short curls.

“Hey petal!” He greeted her.

“Cass!”

“He home?”

She nodded and nodded towards the door, letting Cassian make his way in.

It was good with Elain. Comfortable. Cassian didn’t need to say too many words. The girl always had the knack for just understanding him.

The townhouse smelled like bread and roses–as usual. There was always the rich yeasty doughy scent that permeated the air–like a bakery. But there was also a whiff of roses, as well as honey, and jasmine. It smelled uniquely like Elain and Azriel here now.

Nothing drastically changed inside the townhouse since Rhysand’s times, but it definitely wasn’t his anymore. It was Azriel’s and Elain’s. Furniture was rearranged, and the style was different–sleeker, more modern (whatever that meant). Something about this ‘modern’ thing that Bryce Quinlar had brought from her world and apparently Elain really liked. Cassian wasn’t too sure what it was, but apparently, it involved sofas that weren’t fluffy. It also wasn’t as stuffy as when Rhys lived here, because Azriel didn’t like anything ‘extra’. Things had to be functional, comfortable and minimal.

Azriel’s office and the house library had been rearranged in the way that his desk faced the wide open kitchen. Cassian suspected that Azriel liked to watch Elain and wanted an unobstructed view of her at all times. That was the main change on the first floor–walls had been knocked down, so Azriel could always watch his girl. Whether Elain realised why it was done, Cassian wasn’t sure, but Azriel was wildly obsessed with Elain, and there was no hiding it.

“Hey!”

Cassian could spot Azriel from the foyer. Azriel was in his office–a bright place, with huge windows and light pouring in and bouncing off the cream walls and plain shelves. Azriel avoided the dark at all costs, and his office was like his life–full of sunshine, of his Elain. It didn’t escape Cassian that Azriel was glancing out the window, catching a glimpse of the garden and his girl working in it.

“Hey you too,” Azriel tore his eyes away from the window and looked at Cassian. “What’s going on?”

Azriel wore a simple soft hoodie–another of Bryce’s contributions–and it was Azriel’s new informal uniform. He and Elain had invested early in the manufacturing of these hoodies, as well as sweat pants, both of which became wildly popular across all of Prythian, as well as the Continent. Let’s just say that they absolutely killed on that investment and were so fucking wealthy, they singlehandedly built and supported all the orphanages and schools in Illyria, as well as training facilities for females across all of Prythian. They opened libraries, girls’ schools and vocational training colleges for Illyrian females. It was ironic that Azriel, who hated Illyrian customs and attitudes all of his life, was now the predominant supporter of the changes that were taking place there. Nesta and Elain insisted on further investments in Illyria, and now, all these hoodies and sweatpants were manufactured there. It was actually kind of incredible, the more Cassian thought about it. He had spent 400 years trying to better the lives of the Illyrian people and make something of his land, and it took something else entirely to drive the changes–a girl from a different world, and three sisters who had experienced the best and the worst of what the world threw at women.

“You want to eat? Drink?” Azriel asked, as Cassian took a seat across him and stretched his legs.

Azriel looked healthy. Happy. It was always difficult to read him, but Cassian knew him well enough.

“No, I am good,” Cassian assured him, watching the man’s hazel eyes track Elain outside the window. The bright light of the office really showcased Azriel’s thick raised scar that stretched from his temple all the way to his chin, slashing across his cheek and crowding his eyelid. It was a gruesome fucking thing, made by a Made dagger, and everyone knew that the scar would remain forever, though it didn’t deter from Azriel’s handsomeness. It was almost like he wore it with pride, never hiding it behind his hair, or anything else. It was a scar that he received when Elain came to rescue him from certain death, and saved him. The scar, he felt, was a small price to pay for her sacrifice for him, and her love. Because no one loved Azriel quite like Elain. She tore him from the clutches of a Death God, and fought for him, and brought him back to life.

“I need your help,” Cassian said at last, after Azriel fixed him with a questioning gaze. Resting his laced fingers on his flat, muscular stomach, Azriel quickly announced,

“I am not helping anyone with anything if it takes me away from my girl.”

It was the first time since Cassian stepped in that a shadow popped up and circled Azriel’s feet. The shadows didn’t appear frequently anymore, and never when Azriel was at home–Azriel’s comfort and general satisfaction with life didn’t require the shadows any longer. However, Cassian knew that he brought a measure of distress to his friend right now, and he felt bad about that.

Cassian rolled his eyes and muttered,

“You are the worst besotted person I’ve ever met!”

“I am not besotted. I am in love,” Azriel objected lazily. “What do you want?”

Before Cassian could even open his mouth, Az added roughly,

“If it’s some shit from Rhys, you can forget it. I am retired.”

“You are not retired,”

“Fuck am!” Az insisted. “I am not doing any fucking favours for anyone, especially him.”

Cass threw a meaningful glance at the stacks of reports and papers, which definitely indicated that Azriel was not, in fact, retired at all.

“What’s that, then?” he cocked his brow at the papers.

Az puffed his cheeks and said,

“Charity.”

“Charity?”

“My girl lives in this city and this Court. Her sisters too. You. I am not leaving it to go to Hel because someone missed something vital that endangers you all. I can easily pick my girl up and fly with her to my beach house which is far, far, far away from here. But..I don’t want you to be thrown in some new fuck up war, and I don’t want Nesta to become a widow, and all that,”

“Oh, generous of you!”

“I am generous,” Azriel agreed easily. “I do all of this because I can, and I have a sense of responsibility, and not because I have to. So, I repeat, if this is an order from the High Lord, you can both stuff it. So, what do you want?”

“I guess lucky for me that this has nothing to do with Rhys. But I will take that drink, because dealing with you is a pain in the arse,” Cassian sighed.

Azriel smirked and got up, going to a cart which was lined with bottles of expensive liquor. He poured them both a measure of whiskey and handed the tumbler to his brother.

Oh Cauldron boil him. Wherever Az got this whiskey from, it was sublime. Cassian smacked his lips, savouring the deep smokey taste, with hints of citrus and even cherries in it. So what if it was 9 in the morning? Good whiskey was always a good idea.

“We need to build something,” Cassian said at last, and Azriel’s eyes immediately narrowed. The thick pink scar stood in sharp contrast to Azriel’s dark skin and as he cocked his head, it became even more pronounced.

Adding quickly, Cassian said, “and no, it will not take you away from your flower.”

“I am not helping you build another cabin,” Azriel warned.

400 years ago, the three of them, Rhys, Cass and Az, built a cabin in Illyria. It was for Cassian, and it was a mammoth project, since they did absolutely everything themselves. It took a couple of years and a lot of sweat, and pain, and frustration, but the cabin stood and Cassian and Nesta went there pretty often. Nesta loved the rugged terrain, the mountains, the low, but vast skies, the dramatic waterfalls and the immense forests. It was wild and beautiful.

“Nothing quite so elaborate. My wife needs some book shelves.”

Azriel hummed under his breath and then offered a single nod.

“Fine.”

“Well, that was easy,” Cassian smirked and Az glowered at him, but it was without any bite or threat.

“How many shelves?” Azriel asked, as he went to the kitchen to rinse their tumblers.

“No idea. A lot. The books are overtaking the House and she is refusing the donate any of them,”

Humming again, Azriel looked around the huge kitchen, which was remodelled to suit Elain’s needs. She cooked and baked voraciously, but mostly for the orphanages or to distribute the breads and the pastries to the less fortunate. Azriel was a big male, but even he couldn’t consume as much as Elain baked. She also had a bakery, where she employed human survivors of the War, who created many specialities from the Human Lands. Needless to say, the place was popular and Elain re-invested all the money that the bakery made into building housing for the humans across Prythian.

It surprised Cassian a bit, how charitable both Azriel and Elain were, and how much effort they put into bettering the lives of others, especially children and females. When he’d asked, Azriel avoided answering for the most part, only ever saying that since he got a second chance at life, he didn’t want to waste it on destruction, but wanted to put it towards creation. And that was that.

Running his gnarled scarred fingers over the long butcher block countertop upon which Elain did most of her baking, Azriel mused, “maybe I’ll build something too…” The counter was definitely banged up–chipped in some places, scuffed, burn marks littered all over the surface, gouges from knives and scrapers and rolling pins and bowls and other utensils all peppering the once gleaming surface.

They left the house and skirted the side of the building. Azriel immediately extended his massive wing, shielding Elain from the sun. She was crouching on the ground, her hands dirty, her brow sweaty.

“Flower, you need to wear a hat,” he admonished lightly, while she tipped her head back and smiled at him. “Your pretty face is getting all burned and red,”

“It is not!” she argued.

“You look like a beet,” he noted, and Cassian chuckled. She did. She was red and sweaty, but her brown eyes gleamed with joy.

No one would’ve thought what this smiling, soft woman was capable of. No one would’ve guessed what she did. If someone didn’t know their story, no one would believe it. It was unbelievable. It was legendary. It was the stuff of myths, where only four short years later, no one thought that it actually happened. But it did.

Elain Archeron had bargained with the Cauldron, and offered up her own immortality to save the man she loved. Elain, the gentle flower grower, fearlessly stepped back into the ink-black waters of the Cauldron, returning to its horrific depths willingly. She, who clutched her dead lover to her chest, and who offered to share one life with him, in exchange for his own. Azriel was dead. He had no immortality. He had nothing to bargain with. He only had the love of Elain, who pleaded and begged and sacrificed on his behalf. And the Cauldron agreed. It bound Azriel to Elain’s life. One life. For both of them. If she died, he died. If he died, she died. Together. Forever. Unable to exist without each other. The Cauldron tethered them with a bond unlike any other. Elain gave up her perfect immortality, her grace, so she could live whatever years she had with Azriel. The only such bond in existence, created especially for them. Only because the Cauldron loved Elain and wanted to make her happy. Elain made the Cauldron purr.

She was laughing now, crying “I am not a beet!” while playing with Azriel’s wing. He poked her on the head with the claw and then warned, “I better see a hat on you!”

She sighed dramatically and muttered, “fine!”

“Thank you,” he drawled and then scooped her in his arms.

She traced his cheek with her dirty finger and then asked, “do you want beet salad for dinner?”

“My favourite,” he smiled. “With goat's cheese?”

“Yuck,’ she grimaced. “Fiiinnnneee…”

He laughed and pressed, “And almonds?”

“And almonds,” she nodded. He wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed her nose, then her mouth.

Cassian stepped aside, to give them room.

Azriel stroked her face, her neck, before biting her at the juncture between her shoulder and her neck, sinking his teeth into her skin cruelly and possessively. She stilled in his arms, while he sucked, his mouth laving and hurting, kissing and biting her. He was always feral with her, barely controlled, completely consumed by her, and consuming her in turn.

The bargain was harsh, but in Cassian’s opinion, perfect for them–Azriel wouldn’t have been able to live without Elain anyway. If she wasn’t with him, he’d simply hurl himself down on the ground from a great height and not unfurl his wings. Unlike most beings, Azriel didn’t fear death. Like Cassian, he walked side by side with Death all his life, and dying was the most natural thing to him. Cassian might have had a healthy respect for death, but Azriel taunted it and fought it. Though now, thankfully, he was thoughtful about it. But only because it involved Elain.

“You want to wear a flower crown?” Elain asked, once Azriel finally forced himself to pull away from her. Cassian was of mind that Azriel would just take here right then and there, on the lawn of their house. Would it surprise him? Not even a little bit.

“Sure, flower, let’s do it!” Azriel agreed easily, a smile playing on his handsome face.

She got excited and rushed to a cart, where her tools and seeds were stored, from which she retrieved not one, but two flower crowns. Azriel looked at her like she was a falling star, the most beautiful sunset of his life, like the sun at dawn.

“Cass, you want one?”

Well, Cassian certainly couldn’t say no to her, considering how thrilled she looked right now, so he nodded and stooped, so she could place one on his head. He was a smart man. He liked Elain, but also, he didn’t want to be beaten to death by Azriel’s boot for refusing Elain’s flower crown.

She laughed and told him ‘You look good!’

“Anything for you, petal.”

They flew to the market, and then walked down the crowded paths, while Fae gawked at them. Some dared to ask for autographs. It wasn't every day that the Commander General and the Shadowsinger were strolling down towards where lumber, metals, and construction materials were sold. Two huge Illyrian warriors, sporting flower crowns. Neither Cassian nor Azriel removed their new decorations, and didn’t really care whether they looked odd. Multiple people stopped and told Azriel to pass their regards to Lady Elain. Because Lady Elain paid for a healer for someone’s son. Lady Elain found housing for someone’s uncle. Lady Elain’s new park was wonderful. Lady Elain’s free kitchens served the best potato and sausage soup.

“Are you planning to patch things up with Rhys any time soon?” Cassian queried, as the two of the selected wood, nuts and bolts, fasteners and lacquer.

“Not planning on it,” Azriel shrugged, filling the cart with dozens of wooden planks.

Carefully, Cassian prodded, “Is that reasonable?”

Azriel remained placid under the scrutiny, choosing whatever he needed for his own project. Calmly, he asked, “what do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know. That you’ll be the bigger male in this ridiculous standoff, and you’ll,”

Interrupting him, Azriel said, his tone dry and crisp.

“I am in love with a human woman, Cassian. Just like you. My human woman grew up believing in certain things–betrothals, marriage, weddings. Maybe it matters little to you and I, but my human woman always wanted that. She wanted love–to love and to be loved. She was betrothed and about to be married once, and she was torn from that world and that future, and given to another male. A male she didn’t know, didn’t want, and didn’t like. She was shackled with a bond she didn’t even understand, and while everyone told her how special it was, and how she should ‘give him a chance’ she was developing feelings for another male–me. She wanted me. And Rhys forced me to break her fucking heart, Cassian, because of Lucien! Because of his political agenda. When it came to him stealing Feyre from Tamlin, that was all dandy! Oh the great mate bond that was bestowed upon our High Lord. The mate bond that trumps all. Well, not only was I forced to reject the woman I love because of Rhys’s political machinations, he didn’t bat an eye when he found out that Lucien was shacking up with Vassa. In his mind, Elain had to ‘deal with the bond’, sit alone and untouched by anyone, while I was sent on missions all over the world, so he could keep us apart.

“Elain went and did whatever Rhys commanded for the good of Prythian and his Court. She had to match wits with a Death God and bargain with the Cauldron. When it came to saving his mate and son, Rhys was dropping on his knees for Nesta, who did an exemplary and selfless thing for them. But when Elain did the same, but it was for me, and for Prythian, somehow, it wasn’t enough.

“All I ever wanted was to offer my Elain what she dreamed of–a proper betrothal, and a wedding, and a marriage. Not some secret bullshit thing, where we have to hide it from everyone, the way we had to hide our relationship.

“But alas, we do not have the great and magnificent Mate Bond! Which apparently is the only thing that matters to Rhys. You and Nesta were mated, you were married, and you get to live your life as you please. And I am happy for you. But I live under the threat of banishment, stripped of my rank, and forbidden to marry my woman. Either I have to become an oath breaker, and a traitor to my High Lord and my Court, or I have to live in shameful silence with Elain, like we are two criminals.

“So no, I am sorry, but I am not planning on patching things up with him.”

That was the longest that Cassian ever heard Azriel speak. It was a tirade from a male who did not lower himself to tirades. There was something agonisingly sad and wretched about the betrayal that Azriel felt from Rhysand, and it pained Cassian to see things devolve like that. Five, almost six years on, and there was no resolution. And Cassian couldn’t blame his brother.

In the end, Cassian simply said, “Elain deserves better. She deserves the world.”

Azriel nodded, saying, “that’s why I am going to build my baker girl a new counter. It’s time.”

The sun was beating down on one of the inner courtyards of the House of Wind. Thankfully, a pleasant cool breeze from the sea brought some relief, though the men preferred working shirtless anyway.

Cassian and Azriel worked well together–they were mostly silent, knowing what needed to be done without unnecessary commentary. The camaraderie was familiar and pleasant, honed to perfection after centuries of friendship and brotherhood. Rhys didn’t like building things, and preferred to use magic when he could, so it would be done quicker, and perhaps better. But there was something about getting calluses on their hands, and the tingle of strain in their muscles from lugging all the parts and then hammering and screwing them together. There was innate satisfaction with producing something that came from them, and was built with their own hands. They’ve completed three bookshelves already, and were working on Azriel’s butcher block right now. It was a simple job, if a little tedious, but the polishing of the surface was also calming, relaxing even. While Cassian was sanding and polishing, Azriel was on his knees, attaching a fastener to the side of the block, his muscles straining and his dark golden skin gleaming with a sheen of sweat.

“We got company,” Cassian murmured with amusement.

Azriel glanced over his shoulder, and saw a bunch of females strolling about, sneaking through the columns that lined the loggia one level above. They were milling around, pretending like they had some business here, in this corner of the House, where none would ever step foot in before.

Azriel huffed and returned to his work, while Cassian heard an audible gasp from a few ladies, when they were faced with the expanse of Azriel’s bare back, clad in thick muscles and decorated with black ink. He had added tiny pink roses to the blunt black curls of his tattoos, delicate vines that wrapped around the Illyrian markings, making him an Illyrian, but also Elain’s. Cassian had seen Elain’s own tattoo–exactly the same black swirls like Azriel possessed (actually, all of them did) for luck and glory on the battlefield–and boy, oh boy, did she need it!--swirling the side of her torso, under her left arm. She also had tiny roses dotting her skin, but they were cobalt blue. Because she was Azriel’s.

“What are they doing?” Mor raised her brow, while she wrapped her thick blond hair in a ponytail.

Gwyn Berdara, Mor’s mate and wife, mirrored her, tying her long bronze locks with a blue ribbon.

Nesta, who stood still, watching the males work on fitting a shelf into the slots, said,

“Apparently building stuff,”

“What is it?” Gwyn wondered, though it was pretty obvious what was being built, and Nesta gave her a ‘I slay my enemies’ look, at which Gwyn quickly added, “I mean, why bookshelves?”

“Told Cassian I needed bookshelves,” Nesta said bluntly.

“And he just went and built you some shelves?”

“It would seem so,” Nesta agreed and cocked her head, watching her husband, until a small smirk appeared at the corner of her mouth.

Mor was watching them too, while doing sit ups and stretches, to ‘limber up’ according to her, because she and Gwyn and Emerie were going to be participating in a sunball tournament tomorrow. Nesta thought that the whole thing was stupid, but many people around her took this game way, way too seriously and there were complex strategies being worked out all the time. One team had Feyre, Gwyn, Emerie, Cassian and Varian, plus a few other Fae, while the other team was led by Mor, Azriel, Rhys, Cerridwen, Balthazar and others.

Nuala, Elain, Ressina and a few of their friends from the city, as well as Azriel’s younger sisters were on the cheer squad, pumping up the crowds, doing stupid and risky gymnastics for no reason.

Nesta and Amren had no interest in sunball, and thought that the whole thing was ridiculous. However, they were completely outnumbered. It was for the best that Nesta wasn’t on the teams–she’d just fight with Cassian constantly, just like Feyre did with Rhys and Mor did with Gwyn. At first, Elain was also all fired up about joining, but she could barely tackle a poodle, let alone someone like Cassian or Balthazar. Besides, everyone knew that Azriel would smite anyone who’d touch her or hurt her. Elain was pouting for a week straight when she didn’t make the teams, or even the subs. It was Varian–the Captain of the Blues–who suggested that they all needed a cheering squad, and Elain just about tackled him when she heard about it.

Nesta had to admit that the cheer squad was pretty impressive. They did all kinds of magic, Nuala floated through things, Azriel’s sisters flew and performed acrobatics in the air, and Elain played with both fire and water.

“Cauldron boil me,” Mor muttered under her breath, “but they are pretty.”

They were pretty. The two indescribably beautiful males sure knew how to impress. Cassian was thick and agile, powerful and rough, like the mountains and the winds of Illyria. Azriel was slender and carved, elegant and devastating, dominating and calm, like the blue waters of the ocean.

Nesta didn’t much care for Mor breathing her admiration for Cassian, or Az for that matter, but she didn't say anything.

“Yeah, you can get pregnant just from looking at them!” Gwyn announced, and Nesta winced.

If anyone was going to be getting pregnant here, it would be her. By Cassian.

She could barely tolerate other females looking at her husband, but she also felt a bit smug–after all, he was building stuff for her. He wanted to please her. He loved and adored her. He was hers.

Nesta’s learned a lot in the past six years of her marriage and matehood. She learned how to compromise and what fights were worth her time, and which weren’t…and curiously, the longer she lived with her mate, the more she realised that most fights weren’t worth it. She preferred to love him. She watched Elain and Azriel, whose temperaments were very different from her own and Cassian’s, but who always set an example with their relationship. They hardly ever disagreed, and instead of jibing and nagging, they praised and supported each other. Elain only ever sang Azriel’s accolades and while Nesta figured that they probably had some disagreements, Elain and Azriel knew how to resolve them quickly and peacefully. And Nesta realised that she kind of wanted more of that, as opposed to bickering and arguing. When there was nothing to fight about, why perpetuate the unnecessary tension? So she didn’t join the sunball teams, because she wanted to keep the peace, and right now, she felt like praising her husband.

Nesta left the others behind and went downstairs.

‘Heavy motherfucker’ she overheard Cassian grunt, his huge arms holding the heavy structure steady, while Azriel scowled as he jammed and shimmied the last of the shelves into place. Through gritted teeth he hissed, ‘next time you are buying Nesta a bookshelf! Like a normal person!’

Nesta approached Cassian from behind, admiring his sweaty back, where each divot and scar, every tendon and birthmark were familiar and beautiful. She wrapped her arms around his trim waist and pressed her cheek to his spine, between his wings.

“But Nesta likes it when her husband builds stuff for her,” she protested and Cassian’s massive body shook with laughter.

Nesta never grew to like the term ‘mate’, unlike Feyre. She always preferred ‘husband’, because that’s what Cassian was–he was her husband. Her lover. Her mountain. Her soul. And she loved to ‘husband’ him in front of others. She just wished that her sister Elain could do the same one day–because no one ever wanted to marry a male more than Elain wanted to marry Azriel.

“Hello Nes. This was supposed to have been a surprise,” he reminded her.

“Don’t know how this was going to be a surprise,” she shrugged, “when you’ve been hammering, cursing and thrusting all morning long!”

“Thrusting?” Cassian huffed and Azriel gave him a look. “I certainly haven’t been thrusting. Otherwise, I would’ve remembered it!”

Nesta laughed softly and kissed Cassian’s back, “sounded like thrusting.”

Azriel finally wedged the last of the shelves in place and Cassian let go of the bookshelf at last and Nesta ducked under his sweaty arm, as the three of them admired the fruits of their labour.

“You like?” Cass asked, wiping his brow.

“I like,” she confirmed.

The shelves were simple, but beautiful. Made by her husband’s own hands. And what could be more precious than that?

Azriel folded his arms on his wide chest and asked, “And the House couldn't have built these for you?”

Nesta looked up at Cassian and the ferocious look of pride and satisfaction on his handsome face, and stroked his cheek.

“The House knows what’s real. I only want real.”

Nesta’s hand skidded over Cassian’s thick arm, her fingers tracing the patterns of his tattoos and then she whispered, her voice husky,

“I think I need to be alone with my husband, Az.”

“I would agree,” Azriel chuckled, as he tugged his shirt back on. “All it took is a little sweat and some rudimentary building skills,”

Cassian shrugged innocently, his big hands circling around Nesta’s thin waist.

“Ladies like a builder, brother.”

“Ladies do,” Nesta confirmed, her cool unusual eyes glazing, sliding over the panes of Cassian’s phenomenal body.

Azriel smiled, saluted them, grabbed the heavy countertop and then winnowed away.

Elain was out when Azriel returned home. He had about an hour to wrangle the old countertop off its base and affix the new one. As he got to work, he pondered if Elain would be as enamoured with his building skills as Nesta was with Cassian’s, and where that appreciation might lead.

Despite the lovely morning, by midday the weather’s changed, and thick spring clouds rolled from the sea. Azriel opened the tall doors in the kitchen, so that the cool pre-rain breeze wafted inside from the garden, which smelled exquisite from all the flowers and the blooming trees. He watched as the heavens opened up and a swift, heavy downpour came down quickly and violently. As he screwed the new countertop in place, he hoped that Elain wasn’t caught up in the storm, but, not 10 minutes later, he heard her at the front door. Felt her. Sensed her actually. Knew that she was near him now. He walked to greet her, throwing a lingering look at the new, shiny, polished, pristine butcher’s block. It looked amazing, if he could say so himself.

Elain was soaked. Dripping water from her dress, her hair, her eyelashes, everywhere.

“Beautiful, why didn’t you winnow?” he asked, standing in the doorway, watching her, as she tossed her sopping wet shoes on the floor.

She looked at him and a lovely light lit up her face–the same light that always came out of her when she saw him.

“I love the rain,” she said simply, and then pulled her dress up without thinking about it, scrunching it up and tossing it on the floor by the shoes.

Azriel watched her, unmoving, though he was smirking, and said, “Please, continue and don’t stop on my account.”

Before she could retort, her eyes popped open widely and she gasped, craning her neck–’what is that??’ She could see into the kitchen from here, and the new countertop was hard to miss.

“Az…” she breathed. “You…you made this?”

“Sure did, gorgeous,” he nodded and as she tried to run by him, his arm shot out and he grabbed her firmly around the waist, pulling her to him. She only wore a silk undershirt, which was also soaked from the rain, and he didn’t waste any time tearing that off of her.

“Az,” she croaked again, because now, she was completely naked, save for her white stockings, which moulded over her plump thighs, and he was completely dressed. Hefting her in his arms, he lifted her off the floor and her legs wrapped around his waist, as she draped her arms over his shoulders.

“You made that for me?” she breathed. And the smile that bloomed on his lips was devious, enticing and a little evil.

“I heard that girls like shit built for them,” he teased, as he walked them slowly from the foyer and into the house. His large hands gripped the backs of her thighs, before he repositioned her, so that he cupped her bare ass, his fingertips positioned precariously close to her centre. She keened into him, breath hitching higher in her chest, her breasts rising and falling.

“Girls do,” she nodded, echoing her sister’s words. “I want a big, sweaty, brawny man to build me things,” she growled, her teeth biting the tip of his ear.

“Are you describing Cassian?” he joked, those bold fingertips tracing the rim of her entrance.

“There is only one big, sweaty, brawny man in my life,” she bit his earlobe savagely, before sliding down and nipping on the column of his neck, placing slow, open-mouthed kisses on his skin, the thick veins of his throat.

“Care to test the countertop? Make sure it’s well made?” he proposed, as she sank her teeth into his skin, biting and kissing his neck, surely leaving a mark on him. His control wavered and he picked up his pace, almost running to the kitchen and slamming her down on the new surface. She yelped and bounced on the hard wood, while he roughly parted her thighs and stepped between them, sliding his sweats down and freeing the cock that was legendary. She barely managed to prop herself on her elbow, though he wrapped his arm over her back, preventing her from falling back, while at the same time, he drove his thick, heavy shaft into her.

She screamed from the agonisingly painful, but delicious thrust, as he filled her so suddenly and completely, she had no time to process it.

“Oh, by the fucking Cauldon,” she wailed, trying to adjust to the pressure, and the glorious drag of that magnificent pole, while he began to pound in her relentlessly, not allowing her any time to adjust. All she could do was just take it.

A chant of “fuckmefuckmefuckme” burst forth from her lips, and he smiled a taunting little smirk, murmuring ‘language, little Elain’, shaking his head at her, as he drove so deep inside, she was left completely breathless. Falling back on the new counter at last, she could only take the merciless ramming of that massive dick, thinking that there would probably be an imprint of her ass in the surface of the counter from how hard he fucked her.

Apparently, roughly fucking ladies on newly built things was what the gentlemen liked.

She clamped tightly around him in no time, her breasts bouncing wildly from the force of his thrusts, and her back arched at an unnatural angle, as she careened over, grabbing his hand and squeezing hard enough to almost break it. Not that Azriel cared how hard she pawed or squeezed him. He spilled inside of her with a hoarse, feral groan, pressing his forehead to hers, while he rolled the wet stockings down her legs.

“Pleasure to serve my lady,” he grunted against her lips, and she burst out laughing. “How’s the counter?”

“Probably left a bruise on my butt, but otherwise, amazing!”

Ten Months Later

How does one make an Illyrian baby?

Build furniture for the mother, and then fuck her on it, that’s how.

Azriel and Elain made their way to the House of Wind. Well, they took a carriage, like normal people, and once they were deposited in front of the red mountain and the massive building within it, Azriel picked Elain up in his arms and flew the short distance to the private quarters, where Nesta and Cassian lived.

Cassian opened the doors on the terrace and his face broke into a wide grin.

“Lemmie see them!” he demanded impatiently.

Azriel smiled and carefully laid two swaddled bundles into his brother’s waiting arms.

Grumbling, Cassian muttered, “I can’t believe you made two!”

Azriel wrapped his arm around Elain’s shoulder and then whistled, adding smugly,

“Well, brother, I can offer you some pointers for next time…”

“What next time??!” they heard Nesta’s voice from the lounge.

She was laid out in a wide armchair, looking cool and unbothered as usual.

No one would tell you that she gave birth yesterday morning.

“We are definitely going to discuss the ‘next’ part,” she warned Cassian, who sat down on the edge of the chair and scooped another baby–his own–into his arms.

“What did you name her?” Elain asked.

“Parvati,” Nesta said, gently stroking the baby’s head with her finger.

“Daughter of the Mountain.”

“Well, Parvati, it’s nice to meet you. These are your cousins, Ramiel and Isabelle.”

“The three of you will do great things together.”

credit to @gracie-rosee for Amren and her dog HC

153 notes · View notes