#because they’ve got them back in their clutches and this time they won’t be able to leave

[ahalliance]

this bit from baghs’ lore is haunting me . a blackboard with all the francophones’ initals . were all of them originally island experiments that managed to escape like qbaghs?

[abiiors]

birthday wish - matty x reader

part 1 of matty's birthday weekend a/n: this is scheduled. by the time this goes up, i will (hopefully🤞🏼) be on a beach somewhere, day drunk 😌 cw: very vague and brief descriptions of a panic attack, alcohol and drinking, mayhem is still with matty here because that's how it should be. also...a smidge of angst, idiots friends to lovers wc: 3.1k

“matty you fucking dick!”

her screech echoes throughout the lower floor of his house and matty bursts out laughing. george stirs on the nearby sofa, huffs something unintelligible and goes back to sleep. 

it’s 9 in the morning the day after they’ve had a late night out, no one should be awake at such an ungodly hour… least of all him. but matty has a mission to accomplish, the fucking childish prank he’s been planning for weeks to see through. 

and this scream—her calling him a “fucking dick”—is the precise reaction he’s been hoping for. 

seconds later she stomps out of his room and matty damn near pisses himself at the sight of her—dripping in water like a wet, angry cat, her t-shirt clinging to her body in all the damp spots and hair as green as an oompa-loompa's. even like this she’s a vision.

“what the fuck did you do?!” she yells again, absolutely fuming. 

between peals of laughter, he somehow manages three words. “happy april fool’s.”

“oh don’t you fucking dare. watch your back healy, i swear to god…”

and then all the yelling wakes george up who takes one look at her and flinches back. he actually flinches back letting out a string of curses in the process until his butt hits the floor. 

matty doubles over, clutching his sides, and wolf-whistles at her just to piss her off a little more. 

“hair dye in a shampoo bottle, how clever,” she huffs, crossing her arms in front of her until the damp  t-shirt sticks to her boobs and the wind gets knocked out of matty’s chest. 

suddenly, nothing is funny—not the green-tinged puddle of water near her feet, not the way her nostrils flare in anger. 

matty’s breath hitches in his throat, and perhaps for the first time he looks at her properly. the damp t-shirt ends halfway down her thighs, bunched up on one side so he can almost see the little group of freckles on the apex of her thigh. the anger makes her eyebrows furrow, makes a small crease appear right between them and matty wishes so desperately he could smooth it with his thumb. his hands tremble at his sides and he tightens them into a fist. 

finally, after what feels like an eternity, george bursts out laughing. 

matty startles—he’d honestly forgotten george was even there, still waking up from sleep and now that he is fully awake, george bursts into a fit of obnoxious cackles. 

“what the fuck happened to you,” he teases to which she just lifts one finger and points it straight at matty. 

matty, despite everything, blushes to the roots of his hair. now that he’s started thinking all these thoughts about her he can’t fucking stop—can’t stop when she bunches the towel in her hands and throws it at him so quick that it makes the t-shirt ride up a bit more. can’t stop when she places her hands on her hips so that the contours of her chest stand out under the damp t-shirt.

he has half a thought to tackle george so he won’t be able to look at her anymore but matty suppresses the urge. barely. 

“i’ll get you back, healy,” she threatens and storms back to his room. 

sure matty was the one who offered to let her have a shower in his bathroom—one, so she could stay over with the rest of their friends for the night, and two, so he could execute the prank. but now he can’t stop imagining it—her under the shower (does she sing?) using his shampoo, his body wash. 

does she smell like him now? he’d die if he got close enough to find out. 

“alright, mate?” george jerks him out of his thoughts. matty turns around to see his friend stretching sleepily, but george’s eyes are still very much trained on matty. his lips are very much pressed into a thin line. 

“you both are insufferable, don’t get why you won’t just tell her,” he mumbles on the way to the kitchen pulling out a mug for himself. 

“don’t know what you’re talking about,” matty shrugs, perhaps a bit too quick and gets another mug out. he puts the kettle on boil, gets the coffee and sugar out.

the whole time george stays quiet but matty can feel his burning stare on the back of his head. 

only when the coffees are done and george takes the first sip does he speak. 

“sure you don’t,” he mutters in a dry tone and takes his phone out (definitely to text charli and gossip about matty’s love life. or the lack thereof.)

in his head he guesses the texts that are being exchanged between them.

he’s chickened out again. 

really? i fucking knew it, he’s never gonna get to it. 

right? she might as well date someone else. 

i should set her up with a friend…

and then shakes his head like that would get rid of the frankly ridiculous thoughts. his friends would never do that to him. they've already meddled and invested too much in his love life by now to give up so easily. besides, he’ll get to it. someday. eventually. 

he’ll get to it when his insides don’t feel like jelly around her. 

he’ll get to it when he feels a bit more brave.

matty’s birthday wish has stayed consistent for the last two years. he wishes he could make a move. he wishes she were single—well, one of those things is true now. he’s no longer pathetic enough to yearn for a girl who’s already with someone else. 

he’ll never admit it to anyone but he did feel a bit of joy when she broke up with her boyfriend earlier that year—okay maybe a lot of joy when he saw how quickly she moved on. 

“we’d been growing distant for some time anyway,” she’d confessed when he checked up on her after the break up. “it was inevitable.”

and now that matty’s birthday gets closer and closer, he thinks of all ways to amend that wish. 

please fucking please give me the courage to just kiss her. 

he doesn’t know who he’s making the wish to. god?? he highly doubts it. the universe?? he scarcely believes in all that new age spirituality crap. the fucking candle company and the cake maker then. 

oh great vanilla bean who sacrificed itself for my cake… give me the courage to finally kiss her. 

he's got like a week still… if he wished every single day starting today, maybe it will come true. cake and candles or not. he's a grown fucking man, he can make a wish before blowing on a fag.

sometime around 5 pm he wakes up to an empty apartment, lingering taste of the sweet vanilla cake that she’d baked for him last year still so fresh on his tongue. 

there’s something else too… there’s the Moment that he’s not quite sure counts as a Moment even though he remembers it vividly—her fingers brushing against his lips while she was wiping away a bit of the frosting, nails grazing against his lips. just a touch too long. all of it—the intense stare, the looking away right after, the refusal to look him in the eye for the rest of the night—all of it feels like a Moment. but the rational part of his brain steers him away from that thought. 

she had a boyfriend at the time. she wouldn’t pine after someone else. least of all him. 

a somewhat humiliating memory resurfaces too—his own lyrics coming to bite him back in the ass—the speaker blaring “she’s got a boyfriend anyway” over and over again while he tries not to punch the dj. 

matty stretches and gets out of bed.

the utter silence feels nice for a change—nicer when half the house is bathed in golden light and he can just stroll through the house in search of some weed and crisps and pop. maybe call his brother and demand that mario kart rematch that’s so so long overdue. 

maybe he should let mayhem out into the backyard first. 

mayhem…

matty freezes in his tracks and slowly turns around, almost like he’s in a horror movie. 

he has not heard the dog bark once! usually mayhem is up and running at him the moment he senses him within a ten feet radius. today however, there’s no patter of paws on the floor. 

matty runs to check the little outdoor area where mayhem usually sits. even before he opens the door though, matty knows what he will find—an empty dog bed, possibly an empty food bowl. 

he lets out a low whistle and twists the door open. there’s an uncharacteristic, loud clatter and a second later he stands at the threshold, doused in hot pink glitter, dog-less, in the middle of his house. 

i’ll get you back, healy!

matty giggles to himself and takes his phone out of his pocket, trying not to get the glitter everywhere. (although by now it’s pretty much settled into his dna, he’s sure of it) 

she picks up on the second ring, followed by a very fake clearing of her throat. 

“did you steal my dog, darling?” matty launches straight into it, trying to hide the smile in his voice.

“no!” and then there’s a faint little yip in the background that sounds suspiciously like the one he hears daily. 

“right…”

“right. that all?”

as gently as he can, matty dusts off the glitter in place and walks back inside in search of a mop or something. he needs to contain the carnage somehow, but on the phone she clears her throat again. 

“did anything else happen?” 

the little giggle in her voice is so obvious to him. matty imagines what she looks like on the other side—on her bed maybe, cuddled up with mayhem who secretly seems to prefer her so much more than matty. on her bed in just a t-shirt maybe… he reigns it in before the thoughts can progress any forward. 

“mayhem seems to have ran away.”

“oh?” then there’s a little silence, which instantly fills with the sound of paws on hard wood. “maybe he’ll come back,” she hedges, “maybe…once the dye in my hair goes away, who knows.”

“is that so?”

“yeah, just a hunch.”

the silence stretches on, none of them willing to hang up first. matty wonders if she’s sat there biting her lip, trying to stifle a laugh. matty wonders what it would be like if he were to bite her lip instead.

“still green?” he tries to tease, voice slightly breathy.

“still sparkly?” she quips back. and well…yes, he is. he’s sure he’s going to be for the rest of time.

“the day’s not over yet, sweetheart.”

sweetheart. where the fuck did that come from? matty runs a shaky hand through his hair and grimaces when it come away hot pink and sparkly. it’s all over his hair too… great.

“is that a threat, darling?” matty almost chokes at the word, his face heats up. fuckin’ hell… if this is what he’s like after one word…

“we’ll see about that tonight.” 

and then like a coward he hangs up before she can shake his composure any further. he closes his eyes and focuses on the birthday wish one more time—it might as well be today, he’s faux-celebrating his birthday later with a few people who can’t be there on the actual day. he just needs to get his shit together and…not fuck up.

he fucks up almost instantly. 

when he walks into the dimly lit pub, he can spot the green-head right from the door. she’s in a flowery blouse and jeans and pulling the hair off so well that he wonders if he should have done this months ago. but matty shakes off his jitters and walks up to his friends. 

several of them are already pretty tipsy, singing and dancing along to the tunes. he is fashionably late after all. they greet him, slapping him on the shoulder as he passes by, drunkenly yelling “happy birthday” even though it’s a week away. graciously, he thanks them all, laughing and joking with his friends before making his way to her. 

turns out the list of tipsy people also includes her.

she beams when she sees him, hurrying to put her cocktail away so she can throw her arms around him. a second later her perfume invades all his senses. matty closes his eyes and takes a deep breath of it. 

“i was waiting for you,” she declares, a few words coming out slurred. “i’ve decided i like the green.”

“yeah? it looks beautiful on you.”

quickly she wrinkles her nose, stepping away from him. “you’re making fun of me!”

“‘m not!” he vehemently defends himself but in the end it’s all in good fun. fondly, she rolls her eyes and grabs his hand, pulling him to the bar. 

“i asked them to set aside this one bottle of wine for you. feel like you’d like it.”

a strange warmth spreads through him—it’s not the most special thing someone’s done for him, it’s just a bottle of wine. but then again nothing is just something when it comes to her. 

she thought about him. she’d been thinking about him. however briefly. 

matty almost leans across and kisses her then but thinks better of it. a crowded pub is no place to do it. 

turns out his first mistake of the night is drinking the wine. well… drinking too much and too fast anyway. 

what starts off as slow sips and savouring the red quickly turns into glasses of wine in a corner while they joke around and giggle uncontrollably. she’s flushed, twinkly-eyed and a bit more than tipsy now. 

matty, on the other hand, might very well be drunk. 

he feels the effects of it—the feeling of his blood being replaced by wine, the buzz in his head, the lack of filter in his words. oh, his head is going to kill him tomorrow.

he doesn’t mind though, anything to be sat here across from her, giggling over an overpriced (but delicious) bottle of wine. matty leans forward, chin on the palm of his hand and watches her laugh at his silly joke. 

“you’re gorgeous, did i tell you that?” for a moment he doesn’t recognise the voice. it’s slurred and deeper than usual and that’s not something he’d ever admit to her so casually. but then she giggles and ruffles his hair, laughing harder when her fingers come back, coated in a bit of glitter. 

“you’re so drunk. but i appreciate it, thank you.”

“no no, i’m not! i mean i am but— i mean it i—” he’s wide-eyed and failing to explain just how much he means it. matty just wants her to understand. this is not some frivolous confession of a wine-addled brain, this is serious. he is serious. 

desperation overrides any sane instinct in his brain. which is his second mistake of the night. 

the words come out faster than he can process them, faster than he can filter them and make them digestible. 

“you– you don’t know how long i’ve waited to say this. every time i get enough courage there’s either a boyfriend or something else. there’s always— fuck, forget all that. that doesn’t matter—”

“matty—”

“no, no listen to me, listen to what i’m trying to tell you.” 

the more he speaks (rambles) the more the smile slips from her face, replaced by something he can’t quite place. she’s not… disgusted by him, is she? he hopes not. that really would be the final nail in the coffin. 

“i’ve been trying—” he chokes, deeply swallowing more wine, “—been trying to tell you, i love you! i love you, i love you, i love you. i have for so long!”

and that’s when she pulls back entirely, leaning back into her chair as if she can’t put enough distance between them. her face shutters into an unreadable mask and matty feels panic bubbling up deep inside his stomach. 

shit shit shit. 

what has he done. 

oh god, he clearly wasn’t thinking straight. this wasn’t how it was meant to go. this wasn’t how any of it wasn’t meant to go. it was meant to be followed by a kiss and maybe more. it was meant to be followed by an “i love you too”. 

not… indifference. 

or worse… disgust. 

which is when he makes his third (and perhaps the worst) mistake of the night. 

matty laughs. it’s hysterical and sharp and verging on cruel. he laughs until he can feel the tears in his eyes and he can only hope they don’t spill down his cheeks. and then he says the words he can never take back. 

“oh god, look at your face. i was joking!”

“what…”

“it’s still the first of april, did you forget?”

each word is like a nail being hammered into his heart. but matty hopes it would be enough. in two seconds she’d roll her eyes and laugh at herself for falling for it. in a minute they will go back to drinking and joking. matty can pretend. he’s become quite good at it. 

instead, she gets up so fast that her chair almost clatters to the ground. 

in the dim lightning of the pub, matty can’t see the tears gathered in her eyes. although that might be because his eyes are still blurry from his own tears. 

“love—”

“you’re a cunt, matty.” she says the words with an eerie calmness, mechanically gathers her bag and phone and walks away. only then does he register the extent of what’s happening. 

the wine bottle falls to the floor and shatters when he drunkenly bumps into the table. red spills everywhere, soaking his shoes, the leg of his jeans. he hurries after her, tripping and falling as the full force of the alcohol hits him once again, calling out her name again and again. the music drowns it out. 

she’s out the door before matty’s even halfway across the pub. 

fuck… how did it go so wrong so quick. 

how did he mess it up so bad… 

he almost retches right there on the floor, grabbing a passer-by to steady himself. he needs to do something, he needs to make this right. he needs to…

he doesn't know what. his heart pounds in his chest and his throat feels so dry and tight he can barely speak, barely even breathe. matty sinks to his knees right there in the middle of the pub, gasping for breath. 

he doesn’t know what happens next, doesn’t remember much after that. all he remembers is the feeling of doom and the loud, odd rhythm of his heart. 

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[dark-frosted-heart]

Book of Memories ~ Chevalier and Licht ~ Part 3

As usual, can’t guarantee 100% accuracy on this.

~~ Flashback continues ~~

He thought he heard footsteps on the other side of the curtains.

It wasn’t just footsteps, he could hear the sound of multiple people running by on this “unusual” day.

Licht: …

He stepped out to the outside world (balcony) for the first time in a long time.

As he peered into the darkness, he caught a glimpse of a boy with the same hair color in the distance.

Licht: What are you doing out at this hour…

At the same time, there was the terrifying sound of swords clashing—

He mindlessly ran through the vast garden until he finally came across the figure.

On the small bridge laid his other half, whom he had not seen in a while.  

Licht: Nokto!

He rushed over and picked him up; luckily he was still breathing.

But when he lifted his head, hell was nearby.

His fairly older blond brother was in the midst of fighting what appeared to be assassins.

One of them appeared to have already been killed, and the beautiful garden was stained red with blood.

Licht: …

Swords, a pool of blood, and a fallen figure; all these elements reminded him of that day, that time, that moment, that scene—

Licht: Aah…

The rapid beating of his heart made it difficult to breathe, making him let go of Nokto to clutch at his chest.

Sweat ran down his trembling hands, and it was only a matter of time before he collapsed next to his other half.

However— eye contact was made with one of the assassins who had confronted Chevalier earlier.

It seemed he concluded that he wouldn’t be able to take on the beast whose skill with a sword surpassed that of an adult’s, so he went after the defenseless twins on the bridge.

Licht: …Ah

He thought he was going to be killed.

That was fine though, and he was about to close his eyes.

Chevalier: Shut in—You won’t be the only one dying.

Licht: !

The older brother who never paid attention to him before snatched a sword and scabbard from a nearby assassin and tossed it in the air.

They flew in a beautiful arc and landed before Licht as the assassin rushed toward him.

There was room for hesitation.

He parried the assassin with the sword his brother had thrown at him.

But the child's strength was no match for his, and he was kicked away as he focused on the sword.

When he got up after a tumble, he saw that the assassin was about to thrust his sword into his still unconscious other half…

Licht: Don’t!!!

The weapon aimed at Nokto falls to the ground instead of into his chest.

Before he knew it, his bloodstained brother was behind the assassin and the sword that had mercilessly pierced his chest was pulled out, blood spraying out like rain.

Assassin: Agh…You…mon…ster…

Chevalier: Say what you want. I’ve heard enough.

There were no feelings in Chevalier’s words as the assassin fell at his feet. 

The garden was back to its usual silence.

Licht: …Nok…to…

He crawled back to his other half and cradled him close.

He could hear a faint heartbeat, but his blank face showed no emotion at all.

Chevalier sheathed his sword and sighed.

Chevalier: They’ve been oddly frequent as of late. There must be multiple traitors within the castle. Such disturbances are likely to continue in the future.

Licht: Brother…how did Nokto pass out…

Chevalier: I don’t care to know.

Licht: Then…Why is he here…

Chevalier: Why should I explain it to you in detail?

Licht: …

Chevalier: That aside, shut-in.

Chevalier picked up the assassin’s sword and thrusted it before Licht’s eyes.

His breathing became shallow and he almost screamed, yet he didn’t run away because Nokto was still in his arms.

Chevalier: “That” would have been dead if it were not for me. It’s like you tried to kill him.

Licht: No…

Chevalier: This is what it means to lay down your sword for your country. We, who are required to be princes and knights, are always on the battlefield… Do you think they will take your situation into consideration?

Chevalier looked down at Licht as he stepped on the assassin who fell into a pool of blood.

The frigid gaze showed no mercy toward his younger brother. 

Licht: But…

Chevalier: Don’t be naive. Unless you wish to spend the rest of your life pretending to be a tragic prince.

Licht: …

Chevalier: No one is going to protect you. “I don’t want to kill anymore”, then take the sword.

Don’t think there’s another way.

With that, Chevalier turned to leave.

All that remained in front of Licht was a sword stabbed into the earth.

With shallow breaths, he gripped the sword with trembling hands.

And then he lost consciousness.

[aurumacadicus]

Askdjghsdjgh I’m so sorry Steve

--

Steve knows he isn’t supposed to be there. The common room (specifically the common kitchen) are off-limits so that Tony, Natasha, Pepper, and Jim can have brunch. Or, well, not technically off-limits. No one has said they should scram. But it feels weird watching them drink mimosas and talk about their sex lives in the same breath as talking about business stuff.

Steve doesn’t intend to stay. He’d just left his sketchbook in the living room and he wanted to check some of the sketches he’d made to start a painting. It’s a quick in-and-out. He probably won’t even register to anyone but Natasha.

Then he hears Tony say, “My greatest ambition has always been to be a pillow princess and you know it, honey bear,” and all thought leaves his head. He’s not even certain how or when he got back to his own bedroom, but surely he got there of his own power. No one would have been able to refrain from making fun of him.

.-.

Steve doesn’t know what a pillow princess is. It’s not his business, either. Tony had no idea that Steve had been there. Maybe he wouldn’t have said it if he had. So he doesn’t think about it.

Except.

He’s hiding with Natasha in a department store, trying to pretend they’re dating to avoid being made by a mark they’d been following. He hasn’t gotten any better at this and Natasha had muttered about how the clientele of this particular store would be affronted by a kiss rather than uncomfortable, and it would draw more attention to them. Still, she’d dragged him over to the bedding with an entirely fake giggle, so he figures they’ve got to do something to look like a couple.

“Why is this pillow shaped like a triangle?” Steve asks, holding it up.

Natasha swivels to blink at him, stunned, then turns her eyes on the pillow. “...Says it’s for helping acid reflux.”

“Huh, that’s neat,” Steve says, looking down at it, and then, “I think I’ll buy one.”

“...Okay,” Natasha says slowly.

Tony is bewildered when Steve hands it to him, but he takes it with a (slightly confused), “Thanks, Steve.”

.-.

The future is incredible. Steve keeps finding different kind of pillows. Circles. U-shapes. Wavy. A cylinder??? And apparently they all have certain uses. Steve is fine with the pillows Tony has provided him, but he has purchased a body pillow just because the bed feels too big sometimes (and a few times he wakes up cuddling it, but that’s no one’s business but his).

Tony keeps accepting them. Steve wonders just how many pillows he wants to own. How many is necessary until one becomes a pillow... princess???? He still doesn’t get the term for Tony, but Tony has also referred to himself as a diva and a drama queen, so. Maybe it’s just another one of those things.

“So uh,” Tony finally says, after Steve has delicately placed a pillow shaped like a donut in his hands. “What. What are the pillows for. I’m. Running out of space for me???? In my bed. Not that I don’t appreciate what you’re doing,” he adds hastily. “But just--what are you doing?”

Steve fights the urge to fidget, wonder if he’s misstepped. “Uh. Well, I--I overheard you, once, you know--”

“Okay,” Tony says, obviously trying not to sound urging and failing.

Steve can’t help a wince. “...Well, you said, you told Jim that your greatest ambition was to be... um... a p. A pillow... princess?”

“Oh,” Tony says, surprised. Then, louder, “OH!”

“Is this not what you meant?” Steve asks, frowning.

“OF COURSE IT’S WHAT I MEANT,” Tony bellows, clutches the pillow to his chest, and runs for the elevator. “ANYWAY THANK YOU BYE.”

Steve blinks after him, absolutely stunned, and only belatedly remembers to answer, “Bye?”

[dolceaspidenera]

Hii! when I read your post about bg3 and what could be better, it’s like you I’ve read everything on my mind. I love this game, it’s an absolute masterpiece, that’s an undeniable truth. I desperately wanted sth like this after I fell in love with DA games. the minute I knew I can romance Astarion I jumped at the chance - because LOOK AT HIM!! and they’ve given him the BEST voice actor, the BEST character backstory- better and richer than any of the DA characters had. he feels alive, everything in his behaviour and motivations makes sense, the whole breaking the cycle of abuse is incredibly deep. And really makes me crave for more..more party banter, more things to talk about overall. there are certain shining moments between him and Shadowheart, moments where she teases him or is curious about certain things. YES GIVE ME MORE OF THIS overall with all the companions!

100% agree about how it is frustrating that companion reactions get overridden. I romanced Asta and wanted to hear his reaction to the owlbear and he got blocked by Shadowheart. why??? if anyone has sth to say let them say it.

Now I’m gonna rant a bit about Asta’s content in act 3. there’s quite a big difference between act 1 and 3 in terms of camp cutscenes. while in act 1 you have to long rest pretty much constantly to see everything that’s queued up, in act 3 it isn’t necessary. act 3 feels much emptier esp when it comes to Astarion or Karlach. Cazador isn’t involved in the main plotline so there’s no incentive to deal with him unless you really want to help Asty. Karlach and her soul coins - i didn’t understand their purpose, guess it was scrapped. same as the possibility for Asty to explore different ways to release himself from Cazador’s clutches, to be able to stay in the sun. as it is now there’s nothing for him, just a throwaway dialogue option added last minute that you’re going to look for the solution together. that solution should have been available in act 3–another scrapped content—necromancy of thay. as it stands now - I think mainly because of this missing content, there’s only one option to help Asty see reason to refuse the ritual and even that requires high persuasion check. all that we’re given is one good choice (which you can’t probably pass with a non-charismatic character) and two bad choices with one of them being No I won’t help you which does not give you any additional chances to reason with him. which there should’ve been especially if he’s romanced and on the highest approval. lastly, we should’ve been given a waaaay more satisfying conclusion - once again as it stands now, it deeply hurt me to watch him run away from the sun with nobody expressing any sort of concern for him whatsoever. he deserves better. and i’m too old and tired to write a fix-it fic about this 🙈

the end of rant 😅

Hi! Thank you for sharing your opinions with me 😊 I agree with you, I would've preferred, for example, fewer shiny objects and more party banters/cutscenes with our companions. Especially when it comes to friendship interactions, you really feel a lack of content. They are all amazing characters and I wish we could spend more time with them, it would have been cool to have something similar to the Citadel DLC in Mass Effect.

Regarding the companions' reactions that override each other, if Larian is hell-bent on leaving it like that, I hope there will be some saint modder out there who will be able to get rid of this mechanic. I'd do it myself but unfortunately I know nothing of how mods work 😭

And Yes, after completing the quest for the characters there's 0 content after that unfortunately when it comes to interactions in camp. Don't get me started on our best girl Karlach, they really did dirty to her. Her confrontation with Gortash is the most anti-climatic thing I've ever seen. She gets angry, understandably so, for like 5 minutes, and then that's it, everything is back to normal. AT least give us a cut scene with her stabbing the hell out of Gortash, them staring in each other eyes while he dies, give me some pathos, something! It's supposed to be the climax of her narrative arch, c'mon!

There's definitely a lot of cut content, I don't know if it's because they ran out of time or they were having budget issues, maybe a bit of both. I hope they will add them back later but I honestly doubt that. Unfortunately, the ending is really lacking as well, you can really see that they ran out of time there. Larian promised they would fix it, so I hope they manage to put together a satisfactory epilogue for all the characters. I reeeeeeally hate Astarion's ending in particular, there's no way my character wouldn't run after him to make sure he's okay and to comfort him. It would have been cool to have at least a party like the one with the tieflings in Act 1 to properly say goodbye to all characters (Dragon Age Origins really nailed it in that sense, even if it's brief you have the chance to speak with all characters and ask them for their future plans after the final battle).

[curatoroffiction]

Chaos Gremlin MC Ft. The Obey Me Cast Part 2

For part 1 of this story, please go here; link ----- Solomon arrives at the House of Lamentation and Lucifer is nowhere to be seen. Instead, he's sent Asmodeus and Satan in his stead to greet the sorcerer. "Oh Solly, it's absolutely horrible!!" Asmodeus drapes himself over Solomon's shoulders, whining. "That little gremlin destroyed my best polishes!" Solomon rubs small circles into the demon's back as he looks to Satan who is in demon form.

"Yes, they're quite quick, but once I get my hands on them, I'll be tearing them limb from limb for the damage they did to MY collection." Solomon makes a mental note that he's going to need to keep you out of Satan's clutches. A human dying to the avatar of wrath wouldn't help the exchange program. And besides, maybe if he solves this, he'll be able to prove to Lucifer that he's someone worth working with in a pact. Asmo continues mourning the beauty products and makeups that you've wasted, telling Solomon how you've used them to paint the walls and clog his tub. Satan is quiet, but when Solomon inquires to the damage you've done to his things, he loses his cool completely. "They've destroyed countless priceless books! There are some copies of those books that are the only ones left of their iterations! They've ripped multiple books to shreds, paper-mache'ing their pages as a large 'Fuck you' on my wall!" He's huffing as he can barely think straight through the bubbling rage. "They want to die. They want to die! It's the only FUCKING answer!" Satan tears off through the house again, joining the other brothers in searching for you. Asmodeus stays behind with Solomon as he slowly makes his way into the house to find all the other brothers searching for you. "They've got to have tunnels through the walls or something." Mammon gripes, glaring at the wall as Belphegor stands beside him, glaring at the floor. Belphegor was released from the attic as an attempt to solve the problem in-house. Lucifer had gotten so tired, that he 'called Belphegor home from the exchange program' in hopes that his expertise on humans might help him find you. Instead, it just gave you another victim to torment. Belphegor may have blamed humans for his family's fate, but he didn't truly hate them until he endured you. Levi's also in demon form, scouring the halls with the calculated precision of a man of war. His time as the leader of Hell's navy wasn't for nothing. He can and will find you, it's only a matter of time. At least, that's what he keeps muttering to himself. The destruction of his volumes of the limited time original "The Magical Ruri Hana: Demon Girl" editions was too much to bear. He too will have your blood. Solomon notes as he walks through the house in thought, that you've been really good at pin-pointing the exact ways to annoy and cause each brother the most grief possible. With Mammon, not only did you destroy the things he loved, you purposefully ratted him out to Lucifer and destroyed his great plots. He'd missed out on so much money because of you! He couldn't prove it was you doing it, but he knew this string of 'bad luck' didn't start until you'd come along. Beelzebub, you'd been eating his food and escaping before he could do anything about it. He knew it was you because you kept leaving him notes about how delicious it was. He'd destroyed several portions of the House of Lamentation because of this, in inconsolable rage. It's like you want to make them as angry as possible. --- Solomon reaches the room that was meant to be yours. It was destroyed repeatedly by Beelzebub, and by the time he destroyed it mid-construction from the last time he'd destroyed it, Lucifer stopped fixing it. This won't make a good area for a trap. You probably never come here. "Who have they tormented the least?" "Belphegor." "Hmm... And what have they done to him?" "He.. actually won't talk about it." Asmodeus fiddles with his own hands, looking away anxiously. "He's been... different since he came back." ".. Interesting. I'll need to go talk to Belphegor." "That might not be a good idea." "Why's that?" "Belphegor hates humans." "Maybe he hates ___ more than he hates me, and will be willing to work with me." ".. I'm not so sure." --- Belphegor glares at Solomon as he approaches. Another human. This is what humans bring. What more damage could he want to do? "Get the fuck away from me." "We have to work together to figure out how to stop ___, right?" "Not with you. Never with you." Belphegor spits the words with a sneer, only to feel a gentle hand on his shoulder. Lucifer, looking to him. Belphegor shakes Lucifer's hand off and glares at the ground. He knows what'll happen if he doesn't at least play nice. "..." Solomon decides to continue and ask his questions; "I've noticed out of all of the brothers, I can't figure out what ___ has been doing to you. Can you please tell me?" "......." Belphegor's brow furrows at the thought. Beelzebub, who has been satiated by some Hell's burgers brought by Lucifer, is no longer on a rampage. He moves to stand by his brother, resting a hand on his shoulder. This one, Belphegor doesn't shrug off. His eyes get soft looking at Beelzebub. "..." "Maybe he can help." "....." Belphegor glares at the ground. "..... They haven't done shit to me." The room pauses in surprise. Solomon looks between Belphegor and the others. What set them apart? "Didn't they do something at your request?" Satan, who is now too curious about this mystery to give into his wrath, begins the line of questioning. "... Yeah, they threw a pie at Lucifer's face." Solomon looks to Lucifer as he asks "What sets Belphegor apart from the others?" Lucifer's face flickers with an unreadable emotion. The youngest looks upset. The room is at a standstill until they hear a flickering going on from the library. Satan goes demon mode and rushes to the site. Lucifer begins spilling everything as the brothers work to fix the fire you've set in the library. How he trapped Belphegor in the attic, which inevitably leads to him spilling the beans about Lilith as he explains himself. Amidst the flames, the demon brothers have a moment of reunition, all of their baggage bubbling to the surface. And for the first time since you arrived, you come to greet the entire group. "FINALLY!" You throw your hands up in exhaustion, causing all seven of the brothers to go demon mode as they perceive you as a threat. Solomon steps between you and them, now curious as to what the hell that means. "Before you die, as I can't stop all seven of these brothers from tearing you limb from limb... Care to explain yourself, ___?" "When I got here, I met Belphegor, and he told me that no one could know he was locked up there. I figured I'd create a problem so big that they'd have to let him out, but when Lucifer let him out, he didn't tell the others! So I've been tormenting them in hopes of getting him to spill the beans!" You look quite proud of yourself. The brothers stare at you in shock. "... There would have been infinitely better ways of doing this." "And put myself at risk? Hell naw." "You're still very at risk." Lucifer's eyes narrow on you. You grin sheepishly to Solomon. "I had no magic, so I had to get creative?" Solomon sighs, shaking his head. You're too much of a handful. Still, it sounds like you prevented a bloody war, so maybe your methods had something to them. --- You were relocated to the Hall of Purgatory for the remainder of the exchange program.

[saintheartwing]

May the Force Be With You, Pt. 15: The Big Lie

“Teach me how to tap into the Dark Side.”

Mara Jade was surprised to hear these words as she stared into Kendall’s blue eyes, the two red-heads looking at one another as Zack was currently on his hands and knees, and looking up at her, pleadingly.

“You’re SERIOUS.” She said quietly. “You want to…why would you want to do that?”

“I need to pretend to be a Sith lord. I’ve talked to Omarosa and she’s agreed to help me out. I’m going to be the Master, and she the Apprentice.” Zack explained. “We’re going to get rid of the Dyad by impersonating Sith and invoking a rebellion against them.” 

“Why not do it as a Jedi?” Mara Jade wanted to know as she gestured for Zack to stand up, shaking her head back and forth. “Why do it as a Sith?”

“Nar Shadaa has been told for years and years now that the Jedi are bad, stupid, ineffective, doomed the galaxy, and never did anything good for anybody and they’re just a legacy of failure. ALL they’ve known is Sith. And despite how much many of them hate the Dyad for how blatantly authoritarian they are, well…they also have gained a fondness for Sith. That much is really, really clear. They may fear and hate the Dyad…but they also respect them. I can tap into that respect. I can give them a…lighter shade of black…a shade of grey, if you will.” 

“Fair enough.” Mara Jade Skywalker sighed. “I understand what you’re getting at. But you will tell Nar Shadaa what you truly are eventually, right?” She asked.

“Yes. And if need be, I’ll let myself be arrested. But not until the Dyad are stopped.” Zack insisted. “I can look like a Sith easily enough with the right attire. What I need…is to be able to demonstrate Sith powers so that I can really look the part. Just having the appearance of a Sith can be faked easily enough, but if you can actually shoot lightning from your hands, or Force choke somebody…then nobody’s going to deny what you are. And I’m already halfway there.” He held up his lightsaber and turned it on.

BBBRRRZZT! It thrummed with power as his face was illuminated by the glow in the soft light it gave off, the night sky overhead empty of all stars as his eyes blazed with determination. “I’ve got this going for me. Jedi never use red lightsabers, it’s an unspoken taboo. So that’ll add to people thinking I’m a Sith.”

“You need to understand.” Mara Jade paced back and forth in front of Kendall, biting her lip. “The Dark Side isn’t simply about tapping into your darker emotions. On their own, things like anger or aggression or hatred aren’t inherently a problem because there’s nothing wrong with being angry at injustice or cruelty, or hating to see others in pain. The issue is letting those feelings get too far. You have to be like a river flowing over a stone. Let it just…pass by you. It touches you…but does not move you.” Mara intoned as she stopped, turning abruptly to face Kendall. “The Dark Side’s like a drug. You can maybe use it once or twice or the like and you’ll not experience many symptoms. But the more you use it, the more addicted you become. The worse off you become. And it’s damn seductive, Zack. INCREDIBLY seductive.”

Mara hesitated, then she wrapped her arms around herself, her eyes becoming far off, her tone becoming quieter. “When you use it, its as if you can hear it whispering in your ear. Its fingers at your spine. The Force’s Light Side…it’s “voice” is…it’s like a mixture of a bonfire and a candle. It’s both a roar and yet a soft whisper at the same time. But the Dark Side starts off as a whisper that gets louder…and louder. And LOUDER. Until it’s all you hear, screaming in your ear again and again. And you can’t ignore it without the most extreme of measures. I was so close to falling into its clutches completely. I would have been lost had I not met Luke. But remember, as powerful as Love is, that alone won’t save you from the influence of the Dark Side. It has to be your will…and your willingness to embrace the Light side of the Force.”

“Does…the Force have a “will”?” Zack found himself asking. “Because from how you talk about the Dark Side, you make it sound like it has its own will.”

“It does. It very clearly does. I believe the Light Side has its own will too. They both want different things, both want to spread their own teachings, as it were, their own tenets. The Force itself is about balance between them, between the Light and Dark. Neither side meant to fully overpower the other. Always kept at bay.”

“What would be so bad about the Light Side being the only side?”

“The best way to put it would be that without any real comparison on what not to be, the Light Side would become its own antithesis. You’d start punishing people for minor things. Thieves or the like would start being treated like murderers. You’d value Order over everything else. You’d start taking away people’s freedoms, or you’d become the law unto yourself. The Dark Side is a cracked reflection of the Light, but we need the Dark as a reminder of what not to become, and the Light side to tell us what we should try to become.” Mara suggested. “Of course, that’s just how I’ve come to understand it. You may think differently…and that’s fine.” She shrugged. “People have been arguing over the purpose of the Light and Dark sides for eons. I doubt we’re going to figure out the truth of things in an evening. But let’s see if we can get you to master the first, most “basic” of Dark Side moves. Emitting lightning. All we need is a spark and we can go from there.” Mara told Zack as he nodded his head and stood up, dusting himself off.

“Okay, so I need to tap into my darker emotions to reach through to the Dark Side, and…then what?” 

“Visualize the spark in your hand.” Mara told him softly, walking behind him, a hand on his shoulder, patting it gently. “Visualize it clearly in your mind. And take your rage, or your sorrow, or your hatred and let it flow out through that spark, and it’ll spread as true lightning. Hand up.” 

Zack held his hand up so that it was aimed up at the sky, and took in deep, long breaths, focusing intensely. Tap into his darker side…tap into his more extreme emotions. Tap into the sick, twisted, foul part of himself. 

Tap into…

Pain.

Yes. Pain. That night. That night he was lynched. He had been awoken after falling asleep on the couch for a nap to find himself being dragged out of bed, screaming, yelling. “What the fuck are you doing?!”

“We’ll teach you, f--got!” He could hear before somebody kicked him in the head. A horrible KRACK noise seemed to ring out, he was sure he’d broken something as he felt something being wrapped around his neck, tight and heavy, it was getting harder and harder to breath as he was being pulled up, up into the air. 

Then he managed to break free. His sweaty neck made the noose limp, and he flopped to the ground, trying to run, scrambling desperately, barreling for the house, to get to the attic, to get a weapon, something, ANYTHING. But then somebody dived, and grabbed him, ripping his jacket off, bringing him back. He yelled in pain, his body colliding with the front steps as he was forcibly tugged back. He was being hung all over again, the noose tighter than before. 

Couldn’t breathe…

Couldn’t…breathe…

It HURT…oh FUCK, it hurt, and…and why was it so much hotter in the air around-

A fire. Somehow, a storm had formed, a bolt of lightning had fried the nearby tree, and one schmuck who’d been holding onto the rope had gotten sizzled as well. The smell of roasting flesh was sizzling in the air, people were screaming and hollering and all Zack could think of as he heard this was perhaps the last time he had ever invoked a higher power…

“It serves you all goddamn right.”

KRRRRZZZZAAAAAAAAAAAAP!

Raw, potent, thick bolts of lightning crisscrossed from his hand, Zack and Mara Jade flopping back, Zack barely holding his hand up as it sparked and sizzled. The blasts of lightning barreled forth from his fingertips and palm alike, shooting up into the sky, Zack’s eyes wide with amazement as Mara Jade felt a big smile spread across her face. It wasn’t even a LONG stretch of lightning, it only went about a yard or two, but…

Still…

Lightning. Lightning from his hands.

“Whatever you tapped into…it worked well.” She said. “That’s some impressive lightning for a first time.” 

“Wow…really?” Zack blushed. “Thanks. That means a lot, coming from you.” He admitted.  “But we need to go talk to your husband. I’ve got an idea for how to REALLY boost my “Sith” bona fides. It’s gonna be positively crazy though. Not sure he’d be up for it.”

“What’s it involve?”

“Well…him, dead.”

“…go on…”

…

…

…

…Darth Raize and Darth Furiosa were currently relaxing in their suite, turning on the news as Rey fed her beloved some grapes. “Grapes are fun!” Rey said cheerily as she tossed the grapes through the air, Furiosa snatching them up with her mouth alone. BOP! One bounced right off her nose as Rey giggled.

“Drat.” Darth Furiosa sighed as she shook her head back and forth. “Waste of a good grape.” She commented dryly as they took notice of the news. “Hmm, this is odd. I thought for sure the guy who sat next to the Rodian woman in “Nar Shadaa News” was that native from Naboo? That nice, tall drink of hot chocolate?”

“I didn’t know you were bi-curious.”

“Oh, I’m not, but if I was…ROWR.” Furiosa chuckled. “Now they’ve got a gungan working for them?”

“Hey, the gungan ain’t that bad-looking either, he clearly does some REAL advanced pilates.” Rey remarked with a raised eyebrow, looking at the gungan in the sleeveless shirt as he sat alongside a female Rodian announcer on the news broadcast. “I hope they address the hostage situation soon.”

Indeed, there had been reports of teachers at a school being taken hostage. The Dyad had sent guards to deal with the hostage-takers and now they were eagerly waiting for results. PREFERABLY in the form of the hostages’s foreskins being delivered to them. They were feeling up for some Biblical judgment. 

“We’re just getting word that a hostage situation has been seemingly resolved…albeit unusually. The guards found the hostages had been released, and the criminals gone. The criminals did, however, leave behind what appeared to be a recording that said that they would be broadcasting on all channels within two minutes.” The rodian newscaster informed the audience. “They said that “You’ll know us when you see us”, and to “listen to the TRUE words of the Sith, not those of pretenders who know nothing of the ways of the TRUE power of the Force”.”

Rey stiffened. Furiosa’s head snapped away from looking at her beloved’s face to glare darkly at the vid screen as everything went static-y and a dark room began to manifest. A man with a horrifically scarred body, his eyes covered by a white cloth, his hair all white, wearing black pants and wielding a red lightsaber stood there. He had his lightsaber embedded in the ground as if he was a “King Arthur” type addressing his round table, and by his side stood a young woman in dark robes. She had dark dreadlocks, a visor over her face, and wore dark grey and black clothing underneath the robes, with dark gloves as she held a purple lightsaber up to illuminate what was apparently ANOTHER prisoner-

Oh.

OH.

It…it couldn’t be.

It couldn’t FUCKING be.

But it was. LUKE SKYWALKER?!

“We’re here to speak to the Dyad. My apprentice, Darth Omarosa, is almost as eager as I am to show Nar Shadaa what a true Sith is. I…am Darth Mendax. You’ve been led by pretenders for far too long. The Dyad are poor imitations of what a Sith is. It’s time you put your trust in TRUE Sith who can show you a better way. The Sith Code teaches you that through victory, your chains are broken…that the Force shall free you. Indeed…it will. For you ARE in chains. All of you! Chained to the authority of the Dyad, who decides your every right. There is no DEBATE over whether they are right or wrong. There is no standing up to them. Outright protest or rebellion is not just outright discouraged, but quashed. Any economic rivals of theirs mysteriously end up dead. Their political rivals are…removed. They are cruel and abusive towards their workers, and will callously use force over mere slights. Even literal Force. I’ve heard several stories of how they electrocuted guards over jokes they didn’t like? Poor taste cracks about one of their dead mother’s? And because they ARE the law…who could stand up to them? Well, we…are your answer. We are the future.”

“I’m going to hack into their broadcast!” Rey proclaimed as she raced over to her desk, and began to swiftly type away onto a nearby laptop she had, her fingers flying. She was much more technologically savvy than Furiosa when it came to issues like this, and the fact that these new Sith were broadcasting the signal to EVERY channel that carried the news or entertainment in Nar Shadaa meant it wasn’t too difficult. Soon, there was a distinct “screen-in-screen” on display on the vid screen as Furiosa stood behind Rey, scowling along with her at the two other Sith. “The fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Ah, we were hoping you’d call in.” said Darth Omarosa. “Wassup, giiiiirls?” She asked cheerily. “Guess who’s the new head bitch in town? That’s right. Me. You’re lookin’ at her. And I just took a DNA test. Turns out I’m ONE HUNDRED PERCENT that bitch.” 

“If you turn up to our tower and BEG us not to kill you, MAYBE we’ll ONLY beat you to a pulp.” Rey snarled darkly. “You’re no Sith!”

“Sure we are. Who are you to say?”

“US!” Furiosa snapped. “We’re descended FROM Sith!”

“Big deal, so am I. My family goes back centuries. I’m the third Darth Omarosa.” Darth Omarosa bragged. 

“Besides, all you need to be true Sith is to follow the Dark Side of the Force, to use its power, and to have a master and an apprentice. A simple requirement. You only fit half the bill.” Said Darth Mendax with a small smile. 

“WE were here before you! We, as the last Sith, get to decide what a Sith is!” Rey snarled.

“No you don’t.” Darth Mendax snorted. “What an asinine argument. If there were no more doctors in the galaxy except one, and that person decided a doctor meant “somebody who cleans your plumbing”, he’s not a doctor anymore then, is he? The galaxy has an idea of what it means to be a doctor, common sense says a doctor is somebody with a doctorate, or who uses medicine to make people better, something like that. Somebody who fixes your plumping isn’t a doctor. It’s a plumber. Just because he says he’s a doctor doesn’t make him one. Much like how…” Darth Mendax hesitated, before he spoke up. “To belong to the faith of the Sun God, Sude, you need to actually believe he was God. You can’t call yourself a Sudean if you don’t believe he was God. That’s a basic tenet to adhere to. Without it, you’re not a Sudean.”

“Yeah, we fit what this galaxy has decided is a Sith better than you do. Can I?” 

“Yes. Go ahead.” 

“Don’t-” Luke now spoke up, before he began to be cut off, his voice gargling and gurgling being raised in the air, gripping his throat as Omarosa leisurely held her hand up…and then flicked him back, and forth, back and forth, hovering him behind them as Darth Mendax turned around.

“Now we’ll make this super clear. Your reign is over, Dyad. Turn yourselves in to us, or leave the planet. Or this…will happen to YOU!” He proclaimed as he held his hands up.

KRRRRZZZAAAAAAAAAPPPP! A horrifying crackle of lightning struck Luke, and he twitched, spasmed and shook, screaming like a madman before THA-THWUMPHF. He hit the floor, moaning and groaning as Darth Mendax frowned. “…oh. He’s not dead yet. Well, I can fix that easily…” He walked on over to Luke’s fallen, prone form, and forcibly lifted Luke up, holding a knife to his throat as Darth Omarosa got behind the camera they were clearly using, and zooming in. “I want you all to watch this. Don’t…fool around with us!”

SCHAA-PLOOORSCHHH! Blood splattered as a knife cut through the neck…

And the video cut out. Rey gasped, mouth agape, Furiosa pale from shock…and fury as she balled her hands into fists. “…they made us look like fucking FOOLS.” She hissed out. “We need to find them. And DESTROOOOY them!” She snarled, kicking a nearby chair right into the wall with such force it broke apart, as Rey wiped her brow, nodding.

“I agree, I agree. But…” She frowned a little, rubbing her chin. “That…that Darth Mendax…he sort of looked vaguely familiar. You don’t think that…I mean…”

“The LOGOSIAN? That was my first thought, but…look at him!” Furiosa went back to the laptop, replaying the footage. “His hair’s the wrong color, there’s no noose scarring around his neck, his voice was totally different, and…well, the Logosian was a freakin’ TWINK. He was a wimp who could barely hold a lightsaber up. This guy’s…ripped!” She said, gesturing with a hand at the screen. “He’s too athletic! I think he’s even taller than the guy was! And there’s no way that Logosian who fancies himself a Jedi would ever try to kill LUKE SKYWALKER. He just iced him in cold blood on live television!” She proclaimed. “No WAY is it him. It’s too stupid and too insane for him to do something like this. And he doesn’t look or SOUND anything like the Logosian.” 

True. Darth Mendax didn’t look or sound anything like Zack.

…because Zack had put in a lot of time to ensure he looked much better. He knelt down by Luke and then reached his hand down, focusing as he grunted. He’d made sure that his legs had been covered by those dark pants…and now he took his pants off, showing off his bare skin, revealing…he’d clearly pulled off a big chunk of his own legs and skin and muscle and blood vessels. All of that had been attached to a “package” of skin he’d carefully attached to Luke’s throat for the little performance they’d done, a fleshy “blood balloon” that, when sliced open, would bleed aaaall over just like he’d hoped. Luke moaned as Zack put the skin and everything back upon his own body, slowly reattaching it, cringing slightly as he then got out a big, fat bottle of Bacta to apply to Luke as Luke began rubbing it into his wounds.

“Damn…I’d forgotten how much it hurt to be struck by lightning. Guess they’re wrong about it never striking twice.” Luke chuckled. “…oh, wow. I’m SMOKING.” He held up his arm. Yes, sure enough, his clothing was actually smoking! Hot damn. “And that was quite the Force Choke.”

“Just like we practiced.” Omarosa said with a grin as she coughed a bit. “Hoo boy, yeah, you’re REALLY smoking. I think you might have overdid it, Zack.”

“Sorry. Sorry. I’m still barely able to control it.” Zack confessed nervously. “But our plan worked. They think you’re dead and they think I’m a Sith.” He said as he reached up to his throat and rubbed his chin, focusing intensely upon his throat muscles and his tongue, taking in some deep breaths. Logosians had total control over every single piece of their body…and that included the necessary parts that laid out how their VOICES came out. He’d never thought he could use his abilities to change his voice box, but…

Weeks of practice and it had all fit together perfectly. The Dyad had bought it. Hook, line and sinker. 

“Now I can operate in Nar Shadaa with everyone thinking I’m dead, and YOU can operate openly as a Sith.” Luke said to Zack as he blew some smoke off of his arms, as it finally dissipated away.  “It was a pretty clever plan.” He confessed. 

“Listen, Luke, I’m…I’m still REALLY sorry I had to electrocute you and have Omarosa choke you.” Zack confessed. “I feel terrible about it.” He murmured, rubbing the back of his neck and glancing down and to the side. “I know it was necessary for the plan but…still…”

“I’m glad to hear you say that. It means you’re not a Sith.” Luke said with a smile. “Because a Sith wouldn’t have cared. Any means necessary. Remember….don’t become like that.” He said as his smile faded and his voice became solemn. “Don’t you EVER lose sight of your moral compass. No matter how difficult it may be. You’re going to have to step into the darkness to save the light. Don’t step in too far.” 

“I know. I’ve got something I think is an easy win.” Zack offered. “The Dyad has been hyping up a potential Mandalorian attack. They always went on and on about Mandalore being a threat. But the thing is, it’s been years since Mandalore attacked. I don’t think they ARE a threat. I think they’re exaggerating what’s going on up at the moon base. And if I can expose it…” 

“Can you get up TO the moon base without being seen?” Luke inquired.

Darth Omarosa grinned. “Gee. Can a Dark Side force user who’s been on the run for years sneak into a military base without being seen? Boy, that IS a tough one!” She laughed. “Just you watch. It’ll take all of ten minutes. By the time we leave, they’re gonna be screaming about where did all their rims go and what happened to their wallets and who ate all the pecan sandies.”

“PECANS?” Zack said, sticking his finger in his mouth. “Ew, GAG!”

“This from a guy who drinks pickle juice?”

“Yeah, well, Luke likes that green milk stuff!”

“Heyyyyy! You promised to never talk about that!” 

“Oh, shit. S-sorry! Sorry! My bad. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll buy you some new robes.”

“That’s good. Because since our Jedi temple burned down, I can’t afford to get new ones anyway.”

“You can’t just ask L’ezz for some money?”

“He said “I’m already breaking my bank to rebuild your temple, don’t ask me for funny money for clothes”.” Zack confessed. “He’s not wrong, it’s gonna take millions of credits to find a new spot for the padawans and everyone else…and we’ve got to find somewhere with really improved security.” 

“Well I hope he finds a place. And soon.” Luke admitted. “Because I need to be honest, I’m kind of tired of crashing with my sister, Han AND Chewie.”

“Does Chewie snore?”

“No. HAN.” Luke confessed. “And through his nose. It’s like this loud whistle-snore that sounds like a Rardarian Skunk Beast in the middle of heat.” He remarked, cringing. “And he always sleeps in the nude.” He added as he shook his head back and forth. 

“Believe me, I know what it’s like to sleep close to a guy who snores too loudly and sleeps in the-”

“Don’t you DARE finish that sentence!” Zack insisted quickly. “Or I’ll tell Luke about the thing in your locker!”

“You wouldn’t DARE.”

“Omarosa has a picture of Mon Mothma in her locker.”

“…really? Mon MOTHMA?!” Luke asked, sounding rather stunned.

“I can’t help it.” Omarosa confessed. “Some older women really turn me on. Better tell your sister to stay away from-”

And both Luke AND Zack groaned at once. 

[hourcat]

care (word count: 1,869)

Charles catches him on the walk back to the parking lot.

Which—really, considering the fact that he’s probably still riding on his pole-position high, paired with the fact that Pierre is exhausted and just wants to crawl into his own bed and sleep the rest of the night, isn’t all that difficult. A Charles with this kind of success still fresh on him has the energy to get to Pierre’s side in a matter of strides.

“Hi,” he grins, bumping shoulders with Pierre. There are still so many people here, so they can’t exactly hold hands, but this is an okay alternative for now. Besides. Pierre’s got sweaty, clammy hands from the fact that he’s still not all healthy, and they’re shoved into his pants pockets. But his best friend’s energy is infectious, contagious, impossible to not pick up even a little. So he turns to look Charles right in the face, squinting a little as the sun and the wattage of his smile combine forces to beam directly into his eyes.

“Hi,” he answers, bumping Charles back. The small laugh and ducked head he gets in return says all he needs to know. “You look like the sun, you know.”

Charles’ face softens more. “Aw, Pierrot—”

“The yellow of your shirt is really blinding.” He lifts a hand to his eyes, mock-blinded, and laughs when Charles’ fond expression falls into the usual eyeroll he gets after making a particularly bitchy comment. “Oh, did you think I meant because you are glowing?”

Charles whacks him in the shoulder. “Shut up,” he answers, and this time it’s Pierre who gets to laugh quietly with his head bowed. Absentmindedly, he fishes for his car keys that have tumbled somewhere deep in his pocket. “I thought you would be happier with me, Pierre, today has been so gooood for the first time in ages—”

“Charles,” Pierre says, stopping in his tracks as he gets a hand on the car keys. “Of course I am happy for you, mon amour.” He glances around quick and then cups the back of Charles’ head, still decked out with the garish highlighter-yellow cap. “You know I am.” He thumbs at his best friend’s hairline, murmuring something soft and shapeless the way he does when they’re nestled together in an ocean of hotel blankets. Charles echoes the sound, shuffling a breath closer. His eyes are so clear under the 16-emblazoned brim that it’s almost hypnotizing. “I just still don’t feel right.” If there’s one person he can admit this to freely, it’s Charles—even if he worries, he also understands the need to compete even being sick. With the hand clutching his keys, Pierre wipes away the sweat that’s been collecting on his brow.

Charles just hums. “I know, Pierrot,” he murmurs, ducking closer so that they’re now firmly shoulder-to-shoulder, no daylight between them. Then, in a smaller voice: “Can I come over?” Pierre, still staring at him, sees the look in his eyes—not desperate, not needing validation or Pierre’s touch or punishment or anything, just…Charles. There’s a little smile playing on his lips, almost shy.

Pierre laughs softly, unlocking his car from where it’s parked a few spaces over. It beeps, distant enough to not be painfully sharp. “Charles, you know I’m sick.”

Charles shrugs. “I know.”

“And we can’t—we do have a race tomorrow, so I can’t treat you how I did last time we were here.” Monza weekends always mean wrestling in Pierre’s luxurious sheets, Charles pinned to the bed and worked so thoroughly he’s sweatier from Pierre than he is from the race. Things had gotten especially torrid last year. (It’s a habit they’ve formed since they’d both stepped into the world of the grid together, really, and one that he’s particularly fond of.) But Pierre knows he won’t be able to do that this weekend, considering he still feels a little too warm to just blame it on the late-summer sun.

Charles just shrugs again, leaning into Pierre a little more. “I know,” he says simply. Like what he’s after is obvious, as if anything Charles Leclerc has ever wanted in his life has been so clear.

Pierre sighs. “What if I get you sick,” he mumbles, the persistence of his best friend’s puppy eyes as effective as ever. “Charles, you are on pole this weekend. If—”

“Pierre,” Charles interrupts. He grabs Pierre’s wrist and tugs it from his pocket, lacing their fingers together. The immediate look on his face looks like a mix of disgust and pity. “Ew. You’ve got sweaty hands, mon petit.”

Pierre snorts. “Sick,” he points out, and Charles just squeezes his hand once before letting it go.

“Don’t care,” Charles mumbles. “Anyway—I will be extra cautious and drink plenty of water, and you have Tylenol in your cabinet, yes?” Pierre huffs. “Yes, I know you do. So—there. Pierrot. Please—let me take care of you.”

That softens the Frenchman up a little more. He takes Charles’ elbow gently and tugs him further through the parking lot. “Okay,” he concedes. “I don’t want you making soup or anything because the last time you almost burned my kitchen down, cheri.”

Charles lifts his hands in innocence. “I would never,” he says. “Once is enough for me.” Pierre snorts. “I will meet you there, then, yes?”

With one last gentle touch of his elbow, Pierre nods. “See you at home, cheri.”

-

Charles beats him there.

Pierre figures that out because the door to his apartment is open, and Charles is the only person he knows who seems to forget to close the door everywhere he goes. “How did you get in so fast,” he laughs, slipping into his own apartment and pointedly shutting the door behind him.

Charles, standing at his counter, laughs into his glass of water. “Did you really forget what kind of car I drive, Pierrot?” He takes a sip and then walks over, wasting no time in looping an arm around Pierre’s waist to pull him close. “As if I was not the fastest man on track today.”

“Okay, now you’re just bragging.”

Charles laughs. “I know,” he says softly, bumping his nose against Pierre’s. “I did bring soup, too, by the way.”

Pierre chuckles, slipping by Charles’ waiting lips to tuck into the crook of his neck, cheek heavy on his shoulder. “How many speeding tickets did you get between Monza and here, Charles.” Charles just presses a kiss to his nose. “Mmm.”

“Not enough to keep me away from you,” he answers softly. “Now, come, Pierrot. Drink some water.” Another gentle kiss-nuzzle. “I looked through your medicine cabinet, and somehow you don’t have Tylenol. I don’t understand.”

“Charles,” Pierre mumbles, leaning more heavily into him. The weight of the day has caught up to him more substantially, now—his limbs feel like cement, and Charles’ arms are so warm and steady around his waist that it feels like they’re already in bed. “Charles, I am tired. I can drink water in bed.”

Charles whines. “But soup.”

“I don’t need soup, cheri. You are enough for me.” He peels away.  “Bed, please.”

Normally, when he says it, Charles practically trips over himself to get there first. Bounces back into the pillows, spreads himself wide so that he’s propped up against the headboard, begs for Pierre to touch him before he’s even made it to the mattress. And when Pierre doesn’t ask nicely, it’s even more obscene.

But today, right now, Charles just nods, quiet, and kisses his cheek sweetly. “Okay, Pierrot,” he murmurs. “I will meet you there. Let me get you your—I don’t know, something from your cabinet that will help.”

He doesn’t have to be told twice. The shuffle to bed isn’t even that long, anyway. “Don’t be long,” he mumbles, and then trods off. The jacket is shed first, not even an attempt to kick it out of the middle of the hallway. When he reaches his mattress and sits down on it, he kicks his shoes off. When he flops back into his sheets, he reaches a hand to the button of his pants and starts to peel them away.

“Wait, wait,” Charles’ voice says, gentle as ever. Pierre glances up; his best friend is standing in the doorway, expression fond, a glass of water in one hand and a small mug in the other. Probably soup. A laugh catches somewhere in his throat. “Let me help you, mon cheri.” He pads across the floor and sets the glass and the mug down on his side table, then turns his attention to Pierre, who’s still got his fingered hooked in the belt loops of his pants.

“You’re so kind,” Pierre deadpans as Charles tugs on the fabric, about as effective as Pierre had been for the two seconds he’d actually tried to do it himself. He gets an eyeroll in return. “Charles, come on, just—”

Charles gets another tug in and the fabric finally gives in, down by his knees in a moment. “There,” he hums, a self-satisfied smirk spreading across his face. “See? Who takes care of you better than me.” Pierre just whines at him. “I’m coming, I’m coming, shush.” He sits down on the mattress as Pierre scoots backwards, now just in his boxers and his half-opened button down. “Here. See?” Charles rolls over to tuck into his side properly.

“Mmmmmm.” Pierre closes his eyes, exhales. He’s exhausted, he’s so tired, he’s ready for bed. It’s barely 6pm and he’s almost entirely knocked out. “Charlito, nobody takes care of me better than you.”

Charles drapes his arm over Pierre loosely and snuggles into his shoulder. “I am the best,” he reaffirms, and Pierre chuckles, turning his head so that he can kiss Charles on the forehead.

“You are the best,” Pierre echoes. The laugh that rumbles through Charles is soft, more a vibration than a noise. “Better than soup.”

His best friend groans. “You should eat something, you know, Pierre.” Another sigh. “And the soup is good, mon amour, you will like it.”

Pierre laughs, nuzzling closer, entirely ignoring the point of what Charles is saying. “Oh, so you tried it? Good, that means it isn’t poisonous.”

He gets an affronted noise in response. “You think I would poison you, Pierre? Please.”

“Hey, I am P5 tomorrow, Charles, I will be right on your ass. You must be very threatened.” He laughs tiredly into Charles’ hair. “You never know.” Charles huffs and tucks closer into his side. The pressure is comforting, warm; there are no blankets but Pierre is plenty warm where he is, secure in the arms of the man he loves. “Mmm, congratulations on pole, sweetheart. You were fantastic.”

Charles makes a soft noise and tightens his hold on Pierre. “So were you,” he mumbles. “Racing at home is my favorite thing in the world. With you.”

Sleep is swallowing Pierre entirely, now. “Mmmm,” he answers, dropping one last kiss to the closest part of Charles he can find. “Mine too, bebe.”

He falls asleep to Charles murmuring nothings in his ear, French and Italian and English all mashed together, a lullaby only for him.

[dickwheelie]

sooooooo I wrote a sequel to that love entities jmart post that got pretty popular. all you really need to know is that post mag 200 jon becomes a local cryptid and listens to people's stories about encounters with the entities to help unburden them of some of their fear. please enjoy!

_____________

Just inside the entryway of Old Fishmarket Close, hidden just out of sight of the street, there stands a shrine. It is not an old shrine of weathered stone, nor is it carefully crafted with intricate religious symbols, nor is it static, weighed down by years of collected dust. It is in many ways a living shrine; flowers bloom and wilt at its feet, while above it, against the wall of the Close, piles of paper, photographs, and keepsakes are haphazardly stacked and stuck. The shrine seems to breathe as each day passes, as innumerable and unsung hands replace its flowers and let their offerings crawl up its wall like vines.

The shrine is not marked, but everyone who looks for it, in the shadows of the entryway, knows precisely who it is for.

You arrive that day with only a piece of notebook paper in your hand. Upon it is written a short message, and not an uncommon one to see at the shrine: Thank You. A substitute, of sorts, for the flowers and other gifts that people often leave. You, like many others, are not well off, and you hope that a small note can make up for your lack of material offerings.

As you approach the shrine, a gust of wind whistles through the alleyway and rustles the pages plastered across the length of the wall. You’ve brought no adhesive, so you slip the piece of paper partially beneath a bouquet lying on the stone walkway. It’s relatively fresh, so you hope it won’t be moved anytime soon. You’ve no idea who replaces the flowers, but you suspect it’s never the same person twice. The locals all know about the shrine and the person it’s meant for, and they’ve grown protective of them both.

Dozens of other people have had the same idea before you; the ground is littered with short notes of gratitude. Thank you for listening, says one, transcribed in loving calligraphy, the i’s dotted with hearts. Thank You For Finding Me, Whoever You Are, says another. I rely lik yor hat, says one written in crayon. Another says, You’ll probably never read this, but thank you for hearing my story. There must be hundreds of them, and there are more each time you visit.

You had spent the better part of the morning trying to come up with something more eloquent to write, but you’ve never been great with words. Telling the mysterious person your story had been the only time you’d ever felt as though your words matched your thoughts, that what came out of your mouth was exactly how you felt, and that the person you were talking to understood you fully.

You suppose a thank you is better than nothing, and after one last fond look at the shrine, you turn to go.

A footstep that is not your own echoes down the alleyway. You turn, half-alarmed, but relax at once when you see who it is.

You have only ever seen him once before, about a month ago when you told him your story, but he is difficult to forget; his figure tall and thin, his posture horrendous, his features hidden entirely by a long coat and a wide-brimmed hat. He stands now at the far end of the alleyway, hands clutched before his hunched torso, giving you the distinct impression he’s staring directly at you.

“Um, hello,” you say, haltingly. You’re not quite sure how to address him, but you figure a polite greeting is universal. You gesture at the shrine. “I don’t have, uh, another story or anything. I was just leaving a note for you.”

His hat tips curiously to the side, and he shuffles forward with his cautious gait, peering closer at the shrine. The dark brim of his hat swivels towards you, as though asking a question.

“The shrine,” you say. “I just left a short note. It’s no big thing, I just—I wanted to leave something.”

The words seem to mean nothing to him. He looks at the shrine, then at you, then back at the shrine. He steps a bit closer to it, and reaches out a long-fingered, gloved hand to touch the petals from a bouquet of daffodils. After the briefest of moments, he pulls away again, hands resuming their wringing.

A thought occurs to you. “Do you . . . do you not know what this is?”

He shakes the hat once.

“This is . . . this is for you,” you say, spreading your arms to encompass the garden on the ground and the sea of pages above. “The flowers, the little trinkets, the thank-you letters—it’s for you. From . . . from all of us, who’ve told you our stories. You’ve helped us so much, we wanted to let you know how much we appreciated it. How grateful we are.”

He doesn’t react, and so you reach out and pick out a card, one that says, Talking to you about how scared I was of the dark made me less afraid of it. I sleep better at night because of what you did for me. Thank you, mysterious stranger. Much love, E.M.

“Here,” you say, handing it to him, and he takes it with a shaky glove. The brim of his hat lowers as he reads. "That’s just one of them. There are loads more just like that.” You survey the pile and pick out another. “This one’s from a kid, thanking you for helping their mom . . . And this one’s just a simple thank you note but they did cover it in glitter glue, so, there’s that . . . And this person wanted you to know that their anxiety improved after talking to you . . .”

He takes note after note from you, reading them all, silent and unexpressive as always, but there’s something in his posture that is unbearably human. Somehow it reminds you of how people stand when they hold a baby chick in their hands.

“I can’t believe you didn’t know,” you say, not unkindly. You’re both sitting on the ground now, amidst the bouquets and piles of thank-yous. “Who else would this all be for?”

As he picks up yet another note, a tremor runs through his body. He raises a gloved hand to the shadows beneath the hat, and you watch as two drops of water stain the page in his hand. His chest convulses as more tears fall, his hand moving under the hat to wipe them away, but they keep coming. Still he makes no sound.

You didn’t know he could cry. You don’t know why you’re surprised; he’s strange, certainly, and perhaps not entirely human . . . but he has heard so many horrible things, and human or not, he deserves a chance to cry.

“Are you—are you okay?” you say, not sure what to do.

The hat nods once, and then shakes.

“I . . . I know it’s probably a lot, all at once,” you say, and you reach out to touch his arm. The movement comes naturally, without much thought; you would have done the same for a friend.

He flinches at your touch, and you immediately pull away, but then he relaxes again, and nods. Tears are still falling from the shadows down onto his coat.

You touch his arm again, gently, and he doesn’t move away. “I’m sorry if it’s overwhelming. But we really are grateful, and you have a bad habit of not accepting thanks. This was one of the only ways we could think to . . . to show you.” You take a deep breath, and gaze into the shadows of where his face might be, doing your best to look him in the eye. “We don’t really know who you are, or why you came here, or why you choose to listen to us. But somehow, we know you mean well. I think everyone who’s told their story knows that, me included. That you’re trying to help us, that you want to do good. And you do. We . . . we want you to know that you’ve done good.”

His chest rises and falls shakily, and though he still makes no sound you swear you can hear a sob. He reaches out and grasps your arm in turn, and suddenly you realize what he needs.

“Can I give you a hug?” you ask.

The hat nods, again and again, and you open your arms, and he falls forward. You would have done the same for a friend.

You almost expect the hug to be gentle, but it is not; it is tight and desperate, and feels so human you do not think twice about hugging him back just as tightly. He is not terribly warm, but you can feel a heart beating beneath his coat. A few tears fall on the back of your jacket. You know that if you just looked up, you would be able to see his face beneath the hat, but you keep your eyes shut tight.

When you move apart, a few moments later, he seems a little more composed, and no more tears fall from beneath the hat. He straightens his back a bit, growing taller even in a sitting position, and you can see just the barest hint of a mouth, which is smiling a delicate, wobbly sort of smile. He brings a gloved hand up to his chin, placing his fingertips against it, and moves them towards you, once, twice.

You are by no means fluent in sign language, but you recognize the sign for Thank you when you see it.

You smile back at him. “You’re welcome,” you say.

He looks back at the shrine, at the piles and piles of notes he has yet to read. You watch as he picks up a handful more, seemingly at random, shuffling them in his hands and pressing them close to his chest. After a pause, he reaches out and slowly picks up one of the bouquets, overflowing with small blue flowers. You’re not entirely sure, but you think they might be forget-me-nots. He pulls a single flower from the bunch and tucks it, carefully, into the collar of his coat, as though for safekeeping.

He nods once, satisfactorily, and stands slowly, giving a small bow in your direction before he turns and shuffles back down the alleyway, the bushel of blue flowers peeking over his shoulder, rustling in the breeze.

Just before he is swallowed by the shadows at the far end of the Close, you call out, “Thank you! Again. For . . . for everything.”

It’s certainly just a trick of the light, but when he turns back to look at you, just before the shadows overtake him, you swear you can see the light catch on a single, twinkling eye, crinkled in one corner by what must be a smile.

[sxlver-sweet]

HEY BABE!! How are you ? Just wanted to speak cause I'm feeling ✨ romantic ✨

Imagine reader crushing on Mitsuya but being scared of confessing because the whole school crush already on him? So reader who saw that he was really close to a tall guy approach this guy ?? And like she ask "hum... You're hakkai right?" And Hakkai freeze the hell out of his life just for reader to say that she actually has a crush on Mitsuya because he's "perfect" and Hakkai beating the number one fanboy of ✨taka-chan✨ just finded his new bro ?? Because he has nobody to fanboy over mitsuya with all day and they become best friends and he tries to help reader with her crush.

But little did they know Mitsuya already crush on reader and see reader and Hakkai becoming closer and closer and he start to become jealous and like when he is with Hakkai he's like "oh that's new this when can you talk to a girl beside yuzuha?" Reader is just always with him but he doesn't know and it's starting to pissed him off 😩 but she's just talking about him with his best friend. And one day reader is with Hakkai on top of the rooftop during lunch talking about him and reader slips and Hakkai catch her but mitsuya only see them like hugging and that's when he has enough so he come and takes reader's wrist and drag her to reveal his feeling.

and Hakkai being the clueless clumsy person he is just "huh?"

I'm sorryyyyyy babe it's too long I just wanted to have your thoughts but I got excited😩😩

I'M SO LATE I'M SO SORRY FDSKLFSND THIS GOT LOST IN MY INBOX i hope you still want to talk 👉🏽👈🏽

but kdflskmdfl that's such a cute idea wait—

i can absolutely see hakkai finding it easier to bond with another girl over a common interest that they both feel so strongly about. it would still take him some time to get used to interacting with another girl, but i feel that more progress would be made faster. when you shyly admit to him that you actually have a crush on mitsuya and aren't just admiring him as a person like he is, i feel like hakkai would gape at you, eyes wide with shock and lips parted in a shouted, "seriously?" you latch onto his wrist, shaking his arm desperately and hissing at him to quit being so loud about it. i can imagine this being the point where mitsuya notices your close bond with hakkai, courtesy of hakkai's tall ass having summoned the attention of everyone in a two-mile radius with his screech.

at that point, all mitsuya sees is you clinging to hakkai's arm and feverishly whispering something to him, clearly flustered by his outburst. he examines the pout gracing your glossed lips as you stand there, all cute and sugar-sweet with your short uniform skirt swirling around your thighs and eyes vibrant with a sense of excitement that he can't quite decipher the source of—or, maybe, he just doesn't want to admit that the sight of you hovering around hakkai causes a flicker of irritation to stir in the pit of his stomach. maybe, he doesn't want to entertain the possibility of hakkai—who, before now, has never been able to so much as greet another girl—sharing a romantic interest in you. he'll proceed to examine you from afar, the tick in his jaw and white-knuckled fingers digging into his knees betraying the faux-unbothered expression adorning his face as a member from the sewing club grills him about fixing a button on their uniform. truth be told, he hasn't heard a word they've said.

he likely won't go out of his way to disrupt the bond he thinks you and hakkai have. he'll immerse himself in his other responsibilities as a method of distracting himself, and you'll probably end up seeing less of him. he really doesn't want to distance himself from you, but, seeing as how hakkai appears to have finally found himself a suitable partner, he deems it the only solution to handling the crush he developed on you somewhere along the way. when hakkai visits the sewing club after school, mitsuya will likely thread his burning inquiry into casual conversation so that he won’t run the risk of deterring hakkai from pursuing you. he chuckles, "ah, yeah, i've seen you around with (name). i didn't know there was a girl here you actually felt comfortable talking to."

then, when hakkai answers, "oh, yeah... she's nice," mitsuya's deft fingers twitch involuntarily and he promptly stabs his finger with a sewing needle.

the cycle of mitsuya running himself ragged trying to forget his feelings for you won't be broken until he spots you and hakkai embracing on the rooftop from the sliver of space between the ajar doors. he doesn’t even register how awkward you two looked, you clutching onto the railing for dear life and hakkai stooped over you with one arm tightened around your waist. all he noticed was that you two were close enough for this moment of be classified as intimate, and neither of you seemed uncomfortable. actually, knowing his dumbass, mitsuya will most likely just accept this as his new reality and decide to resign himself to merely watching from the sidelines—watching as fate intertwines his and hakkai's fates together in the most heart-wrenching way possible. he doesn’t want to stir up any kind of conflict, especially when he’s positive that his feelings for you would be unrequited, anyway. he would be prepared to turn his back and walk away, only to pause when he hears your voice ring out.

"thanks for catching me!" you chirp to hakkai, who immediately releases you and steps away, "that fall would've been pretty bad. anyway, about mitsuya... i was thinking of inviting him on like... a study date. is that weird?" when hakkai simply answers with a thoughtful hum, you scramble to explain yourself, "look, i just want to go on a date with him! and, i thought this would be the least awkward way to do it—whatever. the point is, i need your help with this. i'm planning on asking him after lunch tomorrow, but i was hoping that you would... kind of... ask him for me."

pls, the way your heart sinks when the rooftop doors creak open and mitsuya strolls through with a small smile curving his lips.

"why not just ask me yourself right now?"

[actress4him]

Could you do "I know youre in there somewhere. Fight." For Shiro I and Keith for the Had Things Happen Bingo? Much love!

Got another one done!

@badthingshappenbingo

Fandom: Voltron: Legendary Defender

Prompt: “I know you’re in there somewhere” fight

Warnings: burns, memory loss/wipe, mild blood

.

.

This Galra isn’t like any they’ve ever encountered before. Every other Galra has been towering, muscular, dressed in armor and a stoic expression that rarely changes other than to sometimes show anger.

But this one… Shiro watches carefully, prosthetic activated, as it slinks across the floor. Despite being bipedal there’s something almost cat-like in the way it moves, yellow eyes flashing in the dim light. It’s biding its time - watching, waiting. They’ve already tangled twice, and Shiro learned very quickly that he’d underestimated its strength when he’d first seen its size. It’s the smallest Galra he’s ever seen, probably somewhere around Lance’s size, and it fights with only its fists and claws, but Shiro has barely been able to hold it off.

There’s no indication whatsoever that it's about to attack again, no matter how closely he watches it. One second it’s across the room, the next it’s coming at his face, hissing with sharp teeth bared. Eyes widening, Shiro takes quick steps backwards, swiping with his arm to knock the Galra away. It ducks under the swing and comes after him with its claws, snarling. Feral, he thinks as he dodges and spins away. That’s the only word he can think of to describe this thing. 

It kicks his knee hard and he stumbles, barely rolling out of the way in time to avoid the creature jumping on his head. The team is close by. He knows he can call them in if he needs it. But they need to be out there, searching the facility, finding out if the rumors were true and Keith really is being held prisoner here. He can handle one tiny Galra until then, even if it is feral. 

He manages to land a good hit with his prosthetic, finally, hearing the too-familiar sound of skin sizzling for an instant. The Galra doesn’t have on any armor, is only dressed in a thin tank and baggy pants, and the swipe made contact with its bare arm. It yelps, faltering slightly. There’s a brief flash of pain on its face, replaced almost instantly with fury. And Shiro almost falters himself, almost falls prey to the renewed frenzy of attacks, because…

No, it couldn’t be. Doesn’t matter how familiar those two expressions looked. He’s just projecting onto this scrawny Galra that happens to be similar in size to Keith, who he’s been searching for for weeks.

Claws rip into the unarmored section of his waist, drawing blood immediately. Hissing in pain, Shiro forces his mind back onto the fight, dodging kicks and blows and trying to get in a few of his own in between the flurry. This fight is exhausting. He can hear the team in his ear, reporting to each other from each section of the facility they check, and it sounds like they’re almost done.

They’ve almost checked the whole place, and no one has found Keith.

His frustration lends strength to his next strike, and it lands square in the center of the Galra’s chest, sending it to the floor and sliding backwards with a darkened handprint seared into its shirt. He knocked the air from its lungs, apparently, because now it’s staring up at him with wide eyes and gasping for breath that won’t come, one hand clutching at the burn. The longer fur on top of its head falls down over one eye like too-long bangs. 

And suddenly Shiro can’t move, can barely breathe himself, because…the body type, the hair, the facial expressions…

It can’t be. The thought is so far-fetched it’s ridiculous. But…

“Keith?”

There’s no response at first. The Galra is too busy choking on the oxygen that’s rushed back down its throat and slowly pushing itself backwards away from Shiro to pay attention. 

But he has to know. Has to be sure. He crouches down, eyes darting all over, trying to see past the purple fur and yellow eyes and fangs. 

“Is…is it you? Keith?”

This time, there’s an immediate reaction. His head jerks up, fear and confusion warring for precedence in eyes that shouldn’t be so expressive. An instant later he’s on his feet, scrambling away to press himself against the far wall.

“Hey, hey it’s okay, you’re okay.” Shiro stands, slowly, unweaponized hand held out in front of him as if calming a wild animal. It doesn’t seem like too bad a comparison, actually. “It’s me, Shiro. You know me, right?” 

Keith - he’s sure it’s Keith now, somehow, everything about his body language now that he’s not trying to kill Shiro screams Keith - shakes his head, gripping it with his hands on each side and tugging at the fur there. His chest rises and falls rapidly. Shiro winces at the reddened skin he can see through the holes in his shirt.

“Keith…”

The third time incites an entirely different response. Shiro gets the tiniest glimpse of fangs flashing in the light before a body slams into him, knocking him flat on his back. His helmet keeps his skull from cracking too harshly against the floor, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t stunned. Keith is on top of him, snarling, scratching, not doing as much damage as he could be in his desperation, but in real danger of prying off Shiro’s helmet any second. 

“Hey! It’s me, it’s Shiro! You’re just confused right now, but you don’t want to do this!” He tries to grab onto his wrists but they’re moving too fast. He doesn’t want to hurt him anymore than he already has, but he’s running out of options.

Thankfully, that’s the moment the rest of the team tumbles into the room. The bad news about that is, they don’t know it’s Keith, and Lance is already aiming his gun.

“Don’t shoot!” Shiro screams, fending off Keith’s claws with his deactivated prosthetic. An idea comes to mind, and he glances to the side to make sure it’ll work. With a commanding shout of, “Pidge!” he grabs Keith suddenly around the waist and heaves him off, tossing him toward the team as far as he can and rolling over onto his stomach with the momentum.

Pidge, smart girl that she is, immediately does exactly what he wanted and uses her bayard to tie him up. It’s not a clean wrap, one arm is still out and swiping at the line and the floor, trying to break away, but it’s holding him for now, especially once Hunk grabs onto Pidge to keep her from being yanked across the room.

“Don’t hurt him!” Shiro blurts, panting. “Just…just keep him there.”

The team stares at him inquisitively as he levers himself up off the floor, still trying to catch his breath, and walks over to the irate Galra. Crouching down in front of him, he catches the clawed hand that immediately comes at his face and pulls it down safely between them. Keith growls again, teeth bared, but Shiro can tell from this close that it’s less angry now and more desperate. He’s scared. Somehow, somebody - and Shiro would bet his last dollar on Haggar - has changed him so completely that he doesn’t even remember who they are.

“What did they do to you?” he whispers, rubbing his thumb back and forth through the short purple hairs covering his arm. Keith startles at the motion, jerking his arm back, but Shiro keeps a firm grip on it. The utter confusion on the boy’s face is just more confirmation that this is, in fact, his little brother. He looks now just like he did the first time Shiro had put a friendly arm around his shoulder, back at the Garrison. Like he has no idea how to process gentle touch.

It makes his heart hurt. All these weeks that they’ve been searching, he’s known that nothing good could have been happening to Keith. But this…this blatant evidence that he’s been hurt, that for now, at least, he’s back to the scared, hurting boy he was when they first met… Shiro doesn’t even care about the fact that he looks like a Galra. He just wants him to be happy again.

“It’s okay.” He longs to put a hand on his shoulder or ruffle his hair, but knows he’ll just get bitten, so he settles for continuing to stroke his arm. “It’s gonna be okay. We’re gonna help you.” Somehow. He’d get his little brother back, somehow, no matter what it took.

“You’re safe now, Keith.”

[saphirered]

We've all seen fics where Caleb's SO dies and gets resurrected, and we seen Caleb accidentally hurting his SO, but what about Caleb accidentially killing his SO? Maybe Reader got burned by one of his fire attacks? The revival's successful, but damn, the angst.

Angst was requested and angst you shall receive. I hope this is to your liking. 😘

Trigger warning for death and grief themes.

Caleb sits on his knees, head bowed, whispering pleas in Zemnian to the gods, the world, to you, your cold hand encased between his own, occasionally pressing a kiss to it in the hopes you’d just wake up. But you’re not going to wake up. Not in the way you would in the morning when you’ve had a particularly late night and Caleb has to drag you out of bed, you being stubborn or pretending to still be asleep so you maybe could convince him to join you for a little more. Not in the way after you got knocked out in a fight, when you sit up and rub your eyes with a grunt like usual. Nothing within his capabilities will wake you up.

So here Caleb sits, begging for it to be a nightmare, some sick and twisted tricks played on his mind but there’s no denying this is real and this is the truth. You’re dead. You’re dead and it’s his fault. You ended up as collateral damage in his reckless attempt to kill the creature. You got stuck in the crossfire of that. He hadn’t realised you were doing so bad already, you even sent him a wink right before when he asked if you were okay. Why did you? Why didn’t you just tell him you weren’t? Why did you lie? Not lie, omitted the truth.

He knew exactly why you did it but that doesn’t make it any easier. You’d known the other’s weren’t doing great and barely holding on already. You were severely outmatched and couldn’t get away from the creature. Not without it chasing after you and running you in an even more perilous situation. Anything Caleb could do would affect anyone close to the creature. With Yasha having dragged Beau out of the fray you were the only one left to hold it at bay while the clerics worked on patching them up, Fjord and Veth offering them cover. You were the final line of defence. At the end of the day you had to keep the clerics alive.

Caleb took a calculated risk. A fireball to send the creature dropping into the ruined depths of Aeor. He had tried to keep you out of the range but wouldn’t have been able to strike the creature without putting you at risk. The spell worked and the creature got hit with full force. It was your attack right before the fireball struck that had send it stumbling, then with the blast, it lost its footing and stumbled off the edge.

But you too, dropped. and when you did, the creature’s tail lashed out, grabbing onto your body, dragging you with it. The creature had hit the platform below in its fall and the impact had made it release you, saving you from the full drop. Caleb had rushed to the edge, fear, pain, anger and guilt riddling his mind thinking he had truly lost you but there you were, bloodied, bruised, broken and burned. Because of him. All because of him. How could he have been so stupid and reckless. When he brought your body back to the others, he wasn’t quick enough. You’d already faded into the cold embrace of the Raven Queen and the clerics had expended their last resources.

So that leaves Caleb here, sitting at your side a day after you died, body preserved by the graces of Caduceus and the Wildmother. The clerics set up their ritual, working around him and you as the others help where they can. Beau and Veth had tried to console him, tell him it wasn’t his fault and if he hadn’t they might all have been dead right now. He appreciates his friends trying but it’s of no use. He already made up his mind and it’s not going to change anything. You died because of him. He murdered you and how is that any different than his actions in the past? How does that make him any different than the lives he’s taken in the clutches of his former mentor? Is there truly no redemption for him? You’d slap him for even thinking that way.

“Mr. Caleb? Why don’t you try talking to them? Persuasion has worked in the past to coax someone back.” Caduceus places a hand on the wizard’s shoulder but it barely registers. Yet the firbolg knows they did not fall upon deaf ears when the whispers stop for just a moment.

“I-. I do not think they’d want to hear from their murderer.” Speaking the words make them so much more painful. By the looks of it, Beau is ready to unleash in a degrading rant about how wrong Caleb is, breaking him apart only build him back up but she’s held at bay by Yasha. This is not the time and place. Caduceus doesn’t claim to know what Caleb’s going through, nor may he be the brightest mind here but he understands and can empathise.

“I know no matter what I say it won’t change your feelings so instead I will offer you this. You owe it to them to try. Not for what happened here but for the countless times they’ve been there for you, have had your back, and for the unconditional love they’ve given you. You owe them to try.” The wizard looks up over his shoulder to the firbolg, pain in his eyes, and the trails of silent tears that have long since run out. Caduceus is right. He owes it to you to save you and right now it is within his power to try. If he doesn’t, if he fails he’ll have condemned you to this fate. If he succeeds with this part, he’ll be able to look into your eyes again. You may never forgive him but he hopes to see you smile, hear your voice even if just once more.

Caleb nods looking back at you, bringing your limp fingers up to his lips and pressing them against your knuckles. He takes in a deep breath and tries to find the right words as Caduceus steps back. What are the right words? He cannot afford to fuck this up. He cannot afford to fail. He must succeed. He must.

“I know I might be the last person you want to hear right now. I want you to know I’m sorry-“ Caleb’s voice cracks as he feels the eyes of the others on him. He brushes some of your hair away from your forehead, running his thumb across your cheek.

“I don’t-uh. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know if I can do this. You’re always here for me during difficult times. You’d put your hand on my cheek and tell me ‘If anyone can do it it’s you, Caleb Widogast. You could move mountains if you set your will to it. Now stop being stubborn before I slap some sense in you.’ but now you’re not here to tell me that. You’ve shown me there’s a world beyond the walls I put up, that there is a light at the end of that tunnel, but now I cannot help but feel the world has grown dull, the walls are caving in, and that light is fading.”

“I have no right, no right to ask you this, but I need you to save my world one more time. So please, I beg of you. Do not leave me to brave this world without you.” The weight of his heart heavy on his conscious. Caleb feels a pressure causing a ringing in his ears. He’s so focussed on you, he cannot take his eyes off you. Not even when the others do their part in the ritual. He realises this pressure is coming from the effects of the spell to bring you back. He holds his breath, not daring to take in oxygen if only to savour the moment, hoping it will not pass, that for just a little longer he can hold on to the hope you’re coming back instead of having that hope crushed by a potential failure.

The pressure fades but nothing happens. Nothing changes. It’s silent as everyone waits for something, anything to happen. That moment alone feels like an eternity of suspense. Caleb finds himself whispering prayers and pleas in Zemnian again, your hand clasped between his own as he squeezes his eyes shut tightly to live through the memories of you, preserve them for the rest of his life just in case because he refuses to forget even a single one of them. He’s so consumed in his own mind he doesn’t notice warmth returning to your fingers. He doesn’t notice your chest beginning to rise and fall. Caleb’s pleas continue.

“Would you mind translating that? I think my brain got a bit scrambled.” Caleb freezes and his eyes open. Your eyes are closed but your brow is furrowed. Furrowed in discomfort. Not sleeping and not void of your usual expressions. Colour has returned to your limbs and face and no longer dulled. Caleb falls silent in disbelief, frozen in place and mind blank.

“Caleb?” You speak his name, peaking through one eye to see the wizard in his disheveled state. You sit up, grunting in pain. Apparently being brought back from the dead isn’t kind on your physical form, not even mentioning the exhaustion weighing on your mind. You could sleep for a couple of hours… or days… or weeks… You could do with a break really. All of you could. You nudge Caleb’s head up by his chin allowing your fingers to slide onto his cheek.

“Blink twice if you need me to get Beauregard to slap you back into reality.” You muster a smile as you brush your thumb over his cheekbone. Caleb doesn’t understand how you’re not recoiling in disgust or lashing back in anger. He doesn’t understand how you can look at him with love and kindness.

“I’m so sorry. Please-“ Caleb goes off in a spur of apologies, begging for your forgiveness.

“Caleb, I love you but you really need to stop. This is a problem for another day.”

“You died. I killed you. How can you even look at me like you do?”

“So what? I died. I’m here now. I got better. Now preferably I’d like to not die again, some things are beyond our control. And if you need some kind of reassurance; Veth killed Cad that one time and he doesn’t hate her.” Veth yells a ‘hey’ in defence while you earn a chuckle from the firbolg. You know Caleb isn’t just going to take your word for it and you’re also not going to make anyone buy you’re totally okay with just dying and being brought back to life because you’re not but you also know that you can’t blame Caleb for being a factor in what happened when you yourself were aware of the risks of the situation you were in. You made your own bet and it didn’t pay off but all your friends are still alive and well, Caleb’s still alive and well and that alone makes it worth the risk you took.

“You have no idea how much I love you.” Caleb breathes as he pulls you into his arms with a gentleness as if you’re made of porcelain, or will fade out of existence if he holds on too tightly.

“I think I have a pretty good estimate but we can compare notes later if you’d prefer.” You pull back enough to look at Caleb’s face, brush aside some of the red strands and softly place your lips on his. It’s not a heated kiss but one filled with emotion and a desperation no less. Neither of you thought you’d get to be in each other’s arms again but here you are despite everything. Maybe your work here isn’t done yet. You still got some asses to kick.

[tangledstarlight]

...i said i was going to make it and well, here we are i guess. im so sorry for this.

Carlos Molina’s to Guide to Ghost Hood (title subject to change) 

welcome to the 1st edition, maybe i’ll make a 2nd if i get inspired enough but also, this is such a mess already i don’t think the world needs a part 2 dfghg

Link to the power point is in the first reblog. (i’d highly recommend watching it for the full experience dfgh)

Link to ao3 also in the first reblog. 

below the cut is the accompanying fic and description of the rules/guide.

The tape recorder lets out a low buzzing sound as Carlos presses a button on the side and stands it up between them on the dining room table. Julie shoots an amused glance at Reggie who’s taken up residence in the chair next to him, the two of them flipping open notebooks and clutching pencils. 

“Where did you even find a tape recorder?” She wonders, stretching out a finger to touch the silver rectangle only for her hand to be swatted away by Reggie.

“Found it in a box of moms stuff and dad said we could order some tapes from amazon,” Carlos replies matter of factly, straightening up in his chair once he seems to have found the page he was looking for. “Right. Let's start off easy, shall we?” 

He looks at her expectantly and Julie rolls her eyes, waving a hand at the two of them, “Lets.” 

“Question one,” Carlos taps his pencil at the top of his page before squinting at her, “Did you conduct any séance related activities before the ghosts showed up?” 

Julie blinks at him, wondering if he’s joking but the pair of them just look back at her, heads both slightly tilted and it’s at that moment that she realises how serious they’re going to be about this. It was going to be a long afternoon of questioning apparently. 

“No, I didn’t conduct any séance related activities. I just put on their CD and they y’know, fell out of the sky.” 

“Interesting, interesting,” Carlos mutters as he looks at Reggie’s notebook as the older boy writes her answer down, underlines something and taps it with his pencil that makes Carlos let out a small hm. “So you don’t know anything about the dark room? Didn’t make any wishes?” 

“No,” Julie shakes her head, watches Reggie write something else down and tilt his notebook to Carlos. It’s weird, watching them communicate like that, like they’ve created a shorthand between them and don’t even require her presence to have a conversation. Which is obviously true because they’ve clearly discussed all this beforehand. 

“You walked through Luke right? What did that feel like to you?” Reggie’s question catches her off guard and she looks between them, but Carlos is already looking at her, waiting for her answer. 

“It was um cold? But also not. I--” she frowns, trying to think back to that first night in the kitchen when she’d turned around and walked through him. Back when she’s barely known any of them and was more annoyed by their presence then comforted. “It was weird. The first few seconds after I walked through him I just felt cold but then it was like a rush of warmth? You know when you get one of those random shivers that runs through your whole body? It feels all weird and tingly but also kinda nice? Like that.” 

“Did it feel like you got a feel of Luke?” Carlos asks and Julie shrugs, a slight blush on her cheeks and somehow, despite the fact they can’t see each other, the two of them share a look. 

“What’s the next question,” anything to move off the topic of walking through Luke and how it felt. 

//

“Oh Julie is gonna be so pissed at you guys,” Alex mutters but makes no move to step in and stop the ‘experiment’ currently going on. He watches as Reggie tries to put a hand on Carlos’ shoulder, fingers phasing through the younger boy's jacket with a frown. 

“She won't be pissed if it works,” is all Reggie says, face morphing into one of concentration as he slowly lowers his hand on to Carlos’ shoulder again. 

For his part, Carlos bounces slightly on his toes, eyes fixed on the notebook in Alex’s hand in case they need to tell him something. And okay, Alex might not fully agree with the way the two of them are going about this whole thing, but he can’t say he’s not on board with it. Their whole stint as ghosts has been nothing but confusion after confusion that not even Willie has answers for. Does he think Reggie and Carlos are going to uncover some fundamental thing that makes them the way they are? Probably not. Will they maybe get him some kind of answer? God he hopes so. 

Especially since there’s been small moments in the last few weeks where Ray and Carlos have been able to hear them even without them playing music or Julie nearby. Which had scared all of them. Thought it was nothing compared to Ray’s reaction when he’d apparently walked into the kitchen to find Julie and Luke hugging, only for him to vanish when they suddenly let go. It was a hell of a way to find out they could be seen if they were touching her. 

“Oh!” Carlos suddenly exclaims, head whipping to look at his shoulder where Reggie’s hand is resting solidly on the fabric of the jacket. Alex feels his eyes widen a fraction and watches Reggie’s smile widen as he squeezes slightly on Carlos’ shoulder. “Oh my god! I can feel that!” 

“Holy shit,” Alex whispers, grip on the pencil in his fingers growing. 

“Hey! I heard that too! Quick! Write it down! 30 minutes and- and however many attempts it took!” Carlos grins, face turning towards him and Alex doesn’t even have time to feel guilty about swearing before he’s scribbling in Reggie’s notebook.

//

“Thanks again for taking me,” Carlos says as he pulls his seat belt across his chest and clicks it in, eyes drifting from his tia in the front seat to the little notebook resting on the back seat and the pencil that’s hovering just a few inches off the paper. Subtly he sees it tap on the page, once, twice, and he bites down on his grin, tucking his hands under his thighs to stop from bouncing in his seat. They’re ready. 

“Of course mijo,” Victoria smiles over at him as she turns on the engine, fingers already messing with the buttons on the radio to find her favourite station. “I have to say I’m impressed. Planning ahead for your dad's birthday.” 

“Mhm,” he agrees, his eyes on the notebook that he can just see in the rearview mirror. The pencils resting between the creases in the pages and he holds his breath as the radio jumps to a different station. 

Victoria frowns slightly, her eyes darting from the road to the radio and back, hand reaching out to change it back. When it jumps to another station. And another. Carlos feels his eyes widen a little, legs bouncing on top of his hands as he watches the radio cycle through station after station, only lingers for a few seconds on each before moving on. 

Finally it stops, the words of Despacito ringing through the car and it’s lucky they’re at a red light he thinks, because when Victoria tries to change it it jumps right back. 

“What the f-” she starts, the furrow between her brows growing deeper and the knuckles on her hand that’s still gripping the wheel turning white. 

“Can we leave it? I like this song,” he looks over at her with a smile, blinking in what he hopes is a completely innocent way. He’s pretty sure she’s too distracted by the radio to question it. 

“Sure, sure,” she mutters, not even looking at him, eyes going from the road to the radio. 

The song ends and from the corner of his eye he can see the pencil in the back moving, Reggie or Willie writing something down and he has to stop himself from turning around to see what it is. Instead he watches as tia starts changing the radio station again, her fingers never leaving the touch screen as if that was the problem. But the second she lands on her favourite 80’s classics station and is moving her fingers away it changes. Skipping through stations again until Despacito is once again filling the car. 

It’s probably lucky that they’re at another red light and that there’s no one behind them because her eyes widen and she’s suddenly saying words in Spanish that he knows he shouldn’t know and is pulling over to the side of the road. 

“We have to get out! The car is being possessed! Out, out Carlos! Come on!” Her seat belt is off and her door is open before Carlos even has a chance to process what’s happening. The notebook from the back is pushed in front of his face and he tilts his head a little to side to read Reggie’s familiar handwriting, 

Too far? 

“Maybe,” he whispers back, taking the notebook out of the ghost's hand as he starts to get out of the car, plucking the pencil out of the metal spirals and making a note about not pushing tia in a moving vehicle and to wait until after they’ve gone shopping first. 

She’s got her phone pressed to ear when he joins her on the sidewalk, pacing up and down. Carlos is pretty sure there’s going to be a family dinner story time in their near future. 

//

Luke watches as Carlos sets his tape recorder up, idly plucking out a half finished tune on his guitar in order to be seen and heard. He doesn’t really get the other boys interest in figuring out their ghostly state of being. The same way he doesn’t really care about finding answers to all of Alex’s questions. 

They ate some bad street dogs. They died. Julie brought them back and then she saved them a second time. They can play music and sometimes be seen. He already has all the answers he needs and it’s two words: Julie Molina. 

Would it be nice to know what the black room was? Sure. Did he sometimes wonder why they could be seen but other ghosts couldn't? Sometimes. Did he want answers? Only if someone was going to give them to him without having to do the work. Was he going to sit here and answer all of Carlos’ questions because it was important to him and to the others? Fuck yeah he was. 

“Does that think pick up our voices even if we’re not playing and not near Julie?” He nods at the recorder on the table after Carlos hits a button. 

“Yeah! It’s so cool too. You sound like, all static-y and I have to listen really hard sometimes because your voices fade in and out but they’re there!” 

Okay, Luke can admit that is pretty cool, “That’s wicked. Maybe we should start using that to communicate instead of writing.” He was really sick of people commenting on his handwriting. 

“Dude that’s genius! It would be like leaving each other voice notes!” He gestures in the air with his pencil the same way Julie does when she’s realised the issue with a verse and Luke smiles softly. He doesn’t know what voice notes are, but he’s glad he could contribute to the communication issue. 

“What questions have you got for me then little dude?” He raises an eyebrow at Carlos as he flips through his notebook. 

//

When he’d first knocked Alex down Willie never thought it would lead to him sitting in the Molina’s family living room, a whiteboard resting on his knees as a twelve year old shows him bar graphs and pie charts of information on ghosts. 

There was probably some kind of domino-butterfly effect going on that had led him here. But he’s too busy trying to fit all his know ghost knowledge onto a whiteboard so Carlos can fill in the gaps in his knowledge. 

Over the years Willie has met a lot of lifers, has interacted with a handful at the HGC but he’s never met a family like the Molina’s. Who found out ghosts were real and instead of running, or trying to profit off of them, had just...welcomed them into the family. Arms wide and hearts open. 

And more than that, here was Carlos trying to get answers to questions that none of them really had an answer too. 

“Black room, yes or no?” Carlos asks, holding up a flash card and a clothes peg, ready to add it to the line of string stretching across the room. It was already littered with other cards in an order that Willie really didn’t understand but seemed to make perfect sense to the younger boy and Reggie. 

Not for me, or anyone I asked at the club, he scribbles down, turning to the board around. 

“Just like we thought,” he nods to himself, taking two steps to the left and reaching up to attach the card, “An anomaly.” he whispers it to himself and Willie has to bite his lip to stop from smiling before remembering that Carlos can’t actually see him. 

“Hey,” Alex’s voice from the doorway drags his gaze away from the lifer and the smile he’d been trying to stop spreads across his face, “How’s it going?”

“I don’t think we’re even half way through,” he chuckles, gesturing with one hand at the stack of flashcards and the charts he hasn’t even seen yet. “Do you understand this system?” 

The exasperated laugh that leaves Alex’s lips is answer enough before he’s even shaking his head, strands of blonde hair dipping into his eyes and Willie wants to reach to move away, “Not a clue. They’ve tried to explain it to us but it makes zero sense to anyone but them.”  

“Hey, Alex, stop distracting him, we’re working here!” Carlos’ voice makes him jump, head turning back to where he’s standing with his arms crossed and shaking his head in disappointment in the vague direction of where Alex is standing. 

“Wait, can he see you?” Willie frowns, mind trying to remember if he knew this or not. 

“No, he’s just really good at sensing us these days,” Alex sighs, but there’s a fond look in his eyes as he looks at Carlos, “He says it’s his ghost powers kicking in from how often he hangs out with Reggie and from all the failed teleportation experiments.” 

“The failed what now?” 

“Oh, you’ll find out. I think it’s section 7?” Alex grins, pushing off from where he’d been leaning against the doorway and waving.

Willie turns back to Carlos feeling a little more confused than he had minutes ago but also much more intrigued about teleportation experiments. And if he could help get some answers for any of the many questions Alex had, that was cool too.

//

Carlos Molina’s Guide to Ghosting. So you became a ghost, huh?

 (working title, subject to change)

By Carlos Molina, with special thanks to Reggie Peters and Willie Skateboard. 

1st Edition. 

Dedicated to Alex Mercer, so he can stop asking so many questions. We’re working on it buddy.

1. Tangibility 

They can walk through anything (except my sister now, reasons still unclear). 

Works especially well with walls, doors and locked vaults (see exhibit a) 

When they walk through people it “allows them to get a feel for the person” – Reggie Peters. “It’s weird” – Alex Mercer. No comment from Luke Patterson as he was too busy staring at Julie. 

2. Souls

Objects can be attached to their souls. 

Still unclear if it has to be an object that they were close to in life, or if they can attach their souls to any object once a ghost. 

Experiments with Reggie Peters are still ongoing. Updates will follow.

3. Being Seen

Can be seen by “lifers*” when they play music with Julie. 

This is the first rule which only applies to our ghosts. 

They can be heard when they play music without Julie. This is also unclear as to why, working theory is “Our music is just so awesome it transcends deaths!” – Luke Patterson.

Mr Willie Skateboard was quick to point out it’s “weird” and “ghosts aren’t supposed to be seen by lifers.”

4. Touching

Our ghosts can now touch Julie. The biggest change in their afterlife. 

Still no explanation for it. Experiments are ongoing (see exhibit b) 

Have witnessed Julie hugging the air many times only for Alex or Willie to appear. Same with hand holding. (see exhibit c for dads reaction) 

5. Magic

Some ghosts have powers and abilities. 

Willie* can control different types of technology. Appears to work best with cars. This we believe correlates with who a ghost dies. 

In our expedition to test his skills he skipped through 15 different radio stations of Tia’s car until he found one playing despacito. Test was a success. Tia does think her car is haunted now however.

6. ???

There was a dark room. 

All other ghosts interviewed had never heard of it before. 

All our ghosts agreed it was weird and creepy. 

We are choosing to pretend it didn’t happen. 

Working theory: a hole in time that they fell through. Must find a way to test.

7. Teleporting

part 1)

Ghosts can teleport wherever they want in the world. 

Only the most powerful can teleport a lifer with them (will keep attempting)

part b) 

Our ghosts can pinpoint Julie’s exact location wherever she may be in the world. 

Will be helpful if she is ever kidnapped, Julie however wishes they would stop using said power to find her in gym class.

“I already have find my friend activated” – Flynn had to say on the matter. 

part c) 

Julie can summon the boys to her if she concentrates hard enough. Came in handy when an evil magician tried to kidnap them.

Also possibly how they escaped the dark room, no way to prove or deny this as dad won’t let me eat a bad hotdog to become a ghost.

Working theory: magic of music and family 

See Exhibit d 

See Exhibit e  

[hotshotsxyz]

like it means something

buddie (2.8k) (read it on ao3)

Evan. His own name won’t stop rattling around in his head. Evan.

He brings Eddie home from the hospital and everything’s - not okay, Eddie still got hurt and Buck still had to watch it and Bobby’s still hurt too, but - they’re getting there. No one died, and that’s a hell of a lot better than it could’ve been. No one died.

Evan.

Eddie kisses Chris’s forehead and Buck grins wide, because yeah, of course he would take care of him if the worst happened, but this is what Christopher deserves. His family, alive and whole and well.

Taylor’s there. Of course she is, Buck’s mind supplies, you asked her to be. She’s your friend. More than a friend? Buck doesn’t know. There’s a lot to unpack there, and with everything else that’s happened, they haven’t had the time. It’s a conversation for another day.

Abuela, Pepa and Carla each take their turn fussing over Eddie and then, to Buck’s surprise, him too. He doesn’t understand why. Eddie got shot, not him. Eddie’s the one who hasn’t been home in a week, not him. Eddie -

Evan.

Buck’s at a loss. It’s a party of sorts, but Eddie’s exhausted and so is he. Buck feels completely wrung out, and he can see the tension in Eddie’s expression that says he does too. He wants to tell everyone else to leave, but it isn’t his place. Still, though, Taylor seems to get the hint first. She pulls him aside with a gentle hand to his shoulder.

“I’m going to head out. Is there anything you need?” she asks.

Buck shakes his head mutely.

“Just... get some rest, okay? I know you want to take care of him, but you’re not the only one who can.” She presses a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, then heads over to where Eddie and Ana are seated at the dining room table to make her excuses.

Taylor is half right and half wrong. There are other people that can take care of Eddie, but Buck won’t be able to rest unless he’s nearby.

Evan.

Abuela and Pepa leave next, citing the sinking sun and the growing weariness in Eddie’s movements. They each kiss him on the cheek and go with the promise to return in the morning. Abuela’s left behind enough food to feed an army for a week, stacked in the fridge in carefully labeled Tupperware.

Then Carla goes and it’s just Eddie, Ana, Buck and Chris.

Evan.

Buck should probably go, he knows, but he can’t quite bring himself to. He knows Eddie’s okay, has the living proof sitting right in front of him, but the second he looks away all the tension of the week returns, the fear and anxiety mixing sickeningly in his stomach.

Christopher has fallen asleep in Eddie’s lap, head tucked into his good shoulder. Eddie himself is fighting yawns. It’s been a long day.

Finally, it’s Ana who breaks the silence, standing and pressing a kiss to Eddie’s forehead. “Get some rest,” she says. “And text me if you need anything.”

It’s virtually the same thing Taylor said to him, and it strikes Buck as odd. They’ve been together, what, six months now? She should be saying more. Maybe she’s not because he’s here. Buck still can’t bring himself to leave.

Evan.

Neither of them has moved in the minutes since Ana left, but Eddie’s eyes are starting to drift and Buck knows he needs to sleep.

“Let me take Chris,” he says softly.

The grateful nod Eddie gives him is a testament to just how tired he really is.

Buck picks him up carefully and carries him to bed. He tucks him in and presses a kiss into his forehead. Once upon a time, he might’ve wondered if that was his place. Not now, though, not after everything Eddie said. He loves this kid like his own; he’s not going to pretend it’s anything less.

Evan.

He flicks the light out and makes sure Chris’s night light is on before gently shutting the door. Wordlessly, he returns to Eddie’s side.

There’s a grimace of pain on Eddie’s face that hadn’t been there before, and a quick glance at the clock tells Buck that he’s way past due for another round of medication. He grabs the pills and a bottle of water from the kitchen.

“The doctor said I can give you ibuprofen, too, if this isn’t enough.”

Eddie shakes his head minutely. “No, this is okay.” He swallows the pills Buck offers him dry, then washes them down with a swig of water.

“You need to sleep,” Buck says. “I should-“

“Stay, please?” Eddie interrupts him.

And how could Buck say no to that?

Evan.

Buck’s barely asleep when he hears Eddie cry out. He’s on his feet in a second and by Eddie’s side in less.

Eddie’s asleep still, but his face is scrunched and he’s curled in on himself like he’s trying to make himself smaller. Buck places a hand on his leg and shakes him gently.

Eddie shoots up, hissing in pain and clutching his shoulder. His eyes dart wildly around the room, unseeing.

“Hey, hey, just a dream, you’re okay,” Buck says.

Eddie’s eyes are wide with fear as they meet Buck’s. He sucks in a ragged, shuddering breath, then sags.

“I- you. You were- fuck,” Eddie stutters, scrubbing a hand across his face.

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” Buck repeats. He pulls Eddie to his chest. “You’re okay.”

Buck rocks them back and forth gently as his shirt slowly grows wet with Eddie’s tears.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Eddie gasps against him. Buck just holds him tighter.

“Don’t be,” he murmurs, “I’ve got you.”

Eventually, Eddie pulls back, wiping his eyes with his good hand.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Buck asks after a moment.

Eddie shakes his head but begins to speak anyway. “It was- I saw you, covered in blood and I couldn’t... couldn’t move, or, or help you. And- and then you were coughing up blood, just like at the party, and I tried, Buck I tried but it was like I was stuck in quicksand and I couldn’t-“ Eddie’s breathing has gone ragged again, so Buck grabs his hand.

“Me?” he can’t help but ask.

“Evan,” Eddie says, so tenderly it hurts.

Evan.

They fall asleep curled together, Eddie’s hand resting over Buck’s heart. It’s the first decent sleep Buck’s had since the shooting.

They don’t talk about it the next day, mostly because Buck doesn’t know what to say. He suspects Eddie doesn’t either.

Instead, much to Christopher’s delight, Buck makes pancakes. The three of them eat together on the couch, watching some cartoon that Chris seems interested in and Buck’s never seen before. It’s so painfully normal. Buck was terrified he��d never get to have this again, and now that he does he can’t shake the feeling that the other shoe is going to drop.

Evan.

That night, Eddie wordlessly pulls Buck into his bedroom. They lay facing each other in the dark. Buck wants nothing more than to bridge the gap between them, but it might as well be the Grand Canyon.

There’s not much light in the room, just the ambient glow of the city filtering in through the cracks in the blinds. It’s enough to see Eddie’s face by, but it doesn’t help Buck read his inscrutable expression. He eventually gives up trying and closes his eyes.

He’s stiff, and sleep evades him. If Eddie’s shifting is any indication, he’s still awake too. Finally, Eddie heaves a sigh and, to Buck’s surprise, wraps a hand around Buck’s wrist and pulls. Buck opens his eyes and sees the silent question in Eddie’s.

Is this okay?

Buck presses himself into Eddie’s space without hesitation.

Evan.

Eddie has a doctor’s appointment the next day, and Buck’s agreed to meet Taylor for coffee after dropping him off. Carla’s with Chris for the day, to help him with school, leaving Buck with a free hour on his hands for the first time in over a week.

His stomach has been in knots all morning. He’s not sure if it’s the prospect of letting Eddie out of his sight for the first time since he’s been home, or the conversation he knows he’s about to have with Taylor.

Because he’s thought about it, and the idea of being with Taylor… he’s kidding himself. Before, maybe. But now, after, with the mess of feelings he has twisting in his chest - he’s not in a place to start something new. He’s not even sure he wants it - her - anymore. Taylor’s great, but she could never fill the hole that was punched in his chest by the same bullet that tore through Eddie’s shoulder.

He’s starting to wonder if he’ll spend the rest of his life dividing things into before and after.

Taylor’s already seated when he arrives, fingers wrapped around a cardboard coffee cup that’s still steaming. Buck almost expected to change his mind when he saw her, to suddenly remember why he was interested in the first place, but mostly he’s just anxious to get back to Eddie. He doesn’t even really feel the old curl of attraction he’s used to. He sits in front of her, suppressing a sigh.

Taylor looks up at him, wearing an expression he can’t quite decipher. “Buck,” she says.

Evan.

“Hey, Taylor.”

“You don’t want coffee?” She asks, inclining her cup towards him.

Buck shakes his head. “Had some this morning,” he shrugs. “Don’t want to get jittery.”

Taylor frowns slightly, but doesn’t say anything.

They sit in awkward silence for what feels like an eternity before Buck finally breaks it.

“Look, Taylor,” he sighs. “There’s a lot going on right now, and I just… whatever this thing is between us, I’m not sure I have the space to figure it out. You deserve someone who’s all in, and I just can’t be right now.”

Taylor blows out a breath. “Oh thank god,” she says.

And that’s… unexpected. Buck raises a brow.

“You’re my friend, and I care so much about you, but I- I was scared, and I didn’t know what to do with it, so I told myself it was something else.” Taylor doesn’t look him in the eye. “All this earnestness is making me nauseous,” she jokes weakly.

Buck huffs out a short laugh. The tightly wound anxiety in his gut loosens, just a bit. “Friends, then?”

Taylor finally looks at him and smiles. “Friends,” she agrees.

“How was coffee?” Eddie asks. He’s looked vaguely constipated since Buck picked him up, but insists that his appointment went fine.

“Good,” Buck replies honestly. “We’re on the same page.” He’s driving, but out of the corner of his eye, he sees Eddie’s face do something complicated.

“Good,” he says. “That’s good.” There’s a beat of silence. “So you’re… together, then?”

Buck glances at Eddie, whose eyes are fixed on the road ahead of them. His expression is carefully neutral, but tight around the edges. Buck huffs a soft breath. “Nah,” he says. “End of the day it wasn’t what either of us wanted.”

Some of the tension bleeds out of Eddie’s posture. “Oh. I, uh- are you okay with that?”

Buck chuckles lightly at that. “Yeah, Eds. Pretty sure I’ve got everything I need right now.”

Evan.

Sleeping in the same bed at night becomes something of a habit, just like not talking about it does. It’s not that Buck doesn’t want to. He’s just… not sure how. What do you say when you’ve got so many feelings that you can’t even begin to decipher them, and the only thing you know for sure is that the thought of letting your best friend out of sight for more than a few minutes sends you careening towards a panic attack? There’s not exactly a greeting card for that.

This song and dance, though, it’s familiar. Comforting, in its own way. They’ve always flirted with the line between friendship and more, daring to put a toe over it, but never to take an actual step. Buck can’t help but wonder if this is a step, and they’re both just too chickenshit to admit it.

Evan.

“Where’s Ana?” Buck asks one morning, apropos of nothing. “I would’ve expected to see her around more often.”

Eddie stiffens. “We, uh, we broke up.”

Buck whirls around, nearly flinging egg against the backsplash. “When?”

“After the party.” Eddie shrugs uncomfortably.

Buck’s eyebrows raise. “I’ve been with you 24/7 since then,” he says. The question is obvious.

Eddie rubs a hand through his hair and frowns sheepishly. “I… texted her?”

Buck’s jaw drops. “You ended a 6-month relationship, a week after you got shot, over text?”

“In my defense, I was on a lot of painkillers. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Buck can’t help but laugh, throwing his head back. After a moment, Eddie joins in.

“That,” Buck says between giggles, “was not cool, man!”

“Nope,” Eddie agrees.

It’s the best either of them has felt in weeks.

The night after Buck’s first shift back at the station, Eddie has the worst nightmare he’s had since that first night. It takes Buck three tries to wake him, and the glassy look in his eyes remains far longer than he’d like.

“Please be careful,” Eddie says finally. “You have to- I can’t-“

“I promise,” Buck says, holding him tight to his chest.

Evan.

It’s Buck’s own nightmare that brings things to a head.

He’s been sleeping surprisingly peacefully since Eddie’s return home, but when the nightmares do return, they’re the worst he’s had.

He dreams he’s stuck beneath the firetruck, white-hot pain radiating up his leg, watching helplessly as Eddie bleeds out in front of him. Eddie tries to drag himself to Buck, but each pull makes the wound gush even more blood. Buck tries to yell for him to stop, but he can’t make his jaw work.

He finally wrenches it open, only to find himself sitting bolt upright in bed. His throat feels raw, like he’s been screaming, and Eddie’s hand is clutching his forearm. He knows where he is, but the panic from his dream isn’t receding. It grows louder and louder, until finally, Eddie’s voice cuts through.

“Evan!” He says sharply. “You’re okay, you’re fine. You’re in my room, with me. We’re both okay.”

Buck sags and falls back against the pillow, willing his breathing to slow. “You keep saying that,” he whispers in the dark.

“What?”

“My name. Like it means something.”

“It does,” Eddie says. “Every single piece of you matters.”

And Buck… Buck almost believes him.

Evan.

The elephant in the room grows larger every day, but still, they don’t talk about it. For all intents and purposes, Buck lives at Eddie’s. It’s been months. Eddie doesn’t physically need his help anymore, but neither is willing to let the other go. With Eddie’s return date drawing nearer, though, it’s getting harder to ignore.

Buck doesn’t want to ask, but he has to. He’s been waiting for the other shoe to drop since practically the first night, and he can’t take it anymore. He decides to soften the blow with pancakes.

“I should probably go back to my apartment,” he says, as casually as he can manage, as if the words don’t feel like ripping his still-beating heart out of his chest. Buck tries not to examine that feeling too closely.

“You need something?” Eddie asks, like it hasn’t even occurred to him that Buck might not come back.

“No, I-“

“Oh,” Eddie says. His expression goes carefully blank.

“I just-“ Buck tries to explain.

Eddie holds up a hand forestalling him. “I get it,” he says. “It’s fine.”

Buck swallows, ignoring the voice in his head that says definitively that it’s not.

Evan.

Buck’s out the door, duffle in hand, when Eddie stops him.

“Buck, wait,” he says, “Evan!”

Buck drops his bag in surprise and turns, only to find Eddie much closer than he expected.

“Don’t go,” Eddie says in a rush. “Stay, please. I need you here. With me.”

Buck gapes at him, as slowly the knot of emotions in his chest begins to unravel. The string that encircles the edges, that one he knows well: fear. The one beneath it: anger, at the sniper and the universe for hurting Eddie all over again. Hope and devastation intermingle, while grief lay coiled off to the side.

And the string that runs through the middle, holding it all together… that’s love.

Oh.

Buck gets it now.

He takes a step forward, closing the minuscule gap between him and Eddie. “I don’t want to go,” he whispers.

“Then don’t.”

Buck kisses him, soft and sweet. A promise, one which Eddie returns in kind.

There’re still a million things to talk about, but for once in his life, Evan Buckley is pretty sure he has all the words he needs.

[2-cute-4-school]

𝘯𝘤𝘵 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮 𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘪𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘴/𝘰 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦

requested by the national cutie pie @heartyyjeno​

Mark Lee

he can be a bit oblivious sometimes bless his soul꒰๑˃͈꒵˂͈๑꒱୭

so he’s kinda clueless as why tf you’re so pouty 

has he said anything stupid earlier? forgotten any important date?? or... even worse

ARE YOU ON YOUR PERIOD?? (ｼ;ﾟДﾟ)ｼ  ᵉᵛᵉʳʸᵒⁿᵉ ʰᵃˢ ᵗʰᵉᶦʳ ᵗʰᵉᶦʳ ᵒʷⁿ ᵖᵉʳᶦᵒᵈ ʸᵒᵘ ᶜᵃⁿ’ᵗ ᶜʰᵃⁿᵍᵉ ᵐʸ ᵐᶦⁿᵈ ˢᵒʳʳʸ

he’s too nervous to even prod at you rn

especially after a trainee who just happens to be wearing his hoodie passes by and you-

did you just growl?!?? ( ⚆ _ ⚆ )

but you’re his baby and you’re just SO deflated and he HATES seeing you anything but happy and lively so he just can’t stand by and watch you so upset cuz his lil heart hurts too (๑◕︵◕๑)

“babe, are you uh alright?”

“yeah, just a little bit cold” *trying to subtly hint him*

“oh! that’s not good, you should have dressed warmer, should i go ask manager-hyung to turn up the heating in the practice room??”

 ‘maybe i should just set your ass on fire to warm up’ (►˛◄’!)

“or do you maybe want my hoodie?? it should be enough so you won’t be cold anymore, where did i... ohhhhh”

*light bulb turning on above his head* (〇o〇；)

“it’s fine mark, it’s not like you love me anyway it’s fine i should have seen this coming” *loud fake sobbing in your hands* *mark panic*

“no no baby come on-”

“let’s just get the divorce papers, mark lee!!!!”

“but we’re not married-” *sobbing intensifies* “i’m sorry, I’M SORRY!!! i didn’t mean to!! here, just a second!!” (´⊙ω⊙`)！

this specimen just took off his shirt and draped it over you in the middle of the practice room

“mark, wtf are you doing?!?? i was only kidding!!”

“how was i supposed to know, what if you were seriously upset-”

“hyung, can you help-”  *chenle slams door closed* *dolphin screams* “you’re paying for my eyeball removal surgery, you nasties!!”

“chenle NO”

Huang Renjun

my man here catches on pretty quickly what your pout is about

you didn’t make it exactly hard to notice either (；¬д¬)

“y/n, want some ice cream?”

“no, i’m cold, you can shove it up yo ass and share with dear [redacted]”

jesus i wonder why your s/o is mad renjun

he’s not sure how to approach the situation at first, worried that he might get a tube of ice shoved somewhere he wouldn’t want it to ゞ◎Д◎ヾ

he decides to just be himself read as blunt

“baby come oooon, i can ask them to give it back”

“no, then i’ll seem like a possessive bitch” (Θ︹Θ)ს

“don’t call yourself that!! but then should i just run back to the dorms and get another hoodie?”

“no, i missed you this week, i don’t want you to leave”

“then you can just come with me?” (≖^≖๑ )ﾌ

“but i’m too lazy to get up” same reader same

renjun : ఠ ͟ಠ then wth DO YOU WANT ?!!!?!!

your soul renjun

he’s a bit lost and you’re kinda under the weather too and he HATES it because you’re his kitten and he CAN’T and WON’T allow you to feel anyhting but like absolute royalty with him ೕ(⁍̴̀◊⁍̴́ฅ)

so he just drapes himself over your back, wrapping his arms tightly around you, caging you in a warm embrace and nuzzling his cheek into yours

“who needs a hoodie when they’ve got a junnie??!?!” (˃̵ᴗ˂̵ ๑)

how could anyone stay mad when a cutie like renjun just curls himself around you and pulls you flush against himself, wrapping his limbs around you and peppering kisses everywhere in reach

you’re basically purring in content at this how could you not 」(￣▽￣」)

depending on how tired the both of you are, you might qualify for a good ol’ nap cuddled up against renjun 

but don’t let this fool you

you AIN’T gona catch him making the same mistake again

he’s asking you first about absolutely anything

“no renjun, i don’t need the last of your toilet paper, why do you even- you know what, don’t answer that, just go take a shit in peace” Σ(-᷅_-᷄๑)

Lee Jeno

we all know jeno is too much of a sweetheart to say ‘no’ (๑′ᴗ‵๑)

he might be freezing himself and he’d still give his hoodie away to the first person who asks learn how to say NO kids

so now you’re both freezing and on top of everything you’re upset too

that’s a DOUBLE KILL for sweet babie jeno (๑◕︵◕๑)

“babe i’m sorry how was i supposed to know you don’t like them??”

“it’s not even that, jeno, you’re literally shivering!! why would you give it if you’re cold too?”

and that’s when jeno’s bf sathelit sprung into action

“wait... ‘too’?? are you cold, my baby??!??!?” (ʘᗩʘ’)

“no, wait, i mean yes, but that’s not-”

“i’ll be back in a second” he isn’t even kidding

he comes back with a blanket AND heating pads (that he doesn’t miss a second to clutch to your cheeks and then coo at your fish face)

“where did you get these from?” *suspicious*

he tells you he borrowed stole them from hyuck by politely asking for them threatening with a flex of his arm while eye smiling the entire time hyuck stood no chance ( ⚆ ᴗ ⚆ ) *nervous chuckle*

but jeno allows you no debating time before he wraps you in the blanket like a lil cutie patootie WARM burrito and leaves a *smooch* to your forehead ( ˘ ³˘)♥

you can spend an eternity arguing with him that you should take turns since he’s cold too, he isn’t taking ANY OF IT

his bubs isn’t allowed to be cold and he wants you to forget about who he lent his hoodie to too

the only way you can get him to relent is refusing to stay cocooned in it

“y/n, wear it or you’ll catch a cold!!” ( •̀ω•́ )σ

“sorry to burst your bubble, but you can and will catch a cold too!!”

that’s how you found yourself sandwiched between jeno’s arms, suffocating from both his bodt warmth and the blanket enveloping THE BOTH of you

best sauna would 110% recommend ୧( ⁼̴̶̤̀ω⁼̴̶̤́ )૭

Lee Donghyuck

my man here knows EXACTLY what he’s doing once *that person* asks him for his hoodie with a flirty smile

he lends it over with that shit eating grin but not without watching from the corner of his eye as you deflated like a loney baloney ( ◞᷄દ◟᷅ )

pretends to not notice your pout and lack of answers to his remarks

“y/n, wanna order chinese tonight?”

sweet, but not on my watch asshole *silence* (˵¯͒⌢͗¯͒˵)

“i’ll take that as a yes, i’ve been craving some seaweed soup”

*eye twitch*

‘fine u lil booger two can play at this game’ (•̀o•́)ง

you leave the room and return... wrapped up in MARK’S sweater and plop down back next to hyuck proudly (ฅ⁍̴̀◊⁍̴́)

he tenses up and turns to you

“y/n” ooooh damn you’re in deep shit

*you bat your eyelashes innocently* “yes my dear?”

“you stink, can you move further away?”

you... did not... JUST HEAR THAT??!?!!? (ﾉꐦ ⊙曲ఠ)ﾉ彡┻━┻

but you get up and walk with your tail between your legs to the other side of the room and curl up in a ball of failure

you both do your own things insilence until-

*sniffle* *hiccup* *SNIFFLE*

“y/n?” *silence*”baby??” *hiccup*

oh no oh no NO NO, hyuck’s baby ain’t crying on his watch (╯’□’)╯

he DASHES to your side and envelops you in his arms while cooing apologies and sweet nothings in your ear

“come on baby, you know i didn’t mean it, i just want your attention and your attention only and i only meant that mark’s hoodie stinks, never you, you’re my baby, you can’t-” ヾ( •́д•̀ ;)ﾉ

and then your shoulders start shaking and hyuck starts to actually worry until your sobs turn into... giggles?? hold up, WHAT??

he turns you around just to see you in a fit of giggles, the only tears present are the ones building up in your eyes from laughter

“oh you think you’re smart, don’t you??” (⁎⁍̴̀﹃ ⁍̴́⁎)♡

ATTACC OF TICKLES FOR YOU

Na Jaemin

another sweetheart tbh who wouldnt be able to refuse out of courtesy

but he just KNOWS he fcked up the moment you turn away when he leans in to kiss you (︶︹︺) ╯ ( ് દ ് )

but he ain’t giving up so easily

no matter how upset you are, depriving him of his dose of kisses? federal crime!!!! CRUELTY!!!!!!! ╰[ ಠ Ĺ̯ಠ]╯

so he keeps on pushing his affections on you

a clutching back hug, a rushed kiss wherever he is able to land it considering your struggle to avoid him, a nuzzle against your cheek, a pinch to your cheeks, a failed attempt to lockyour hands together

my man here tries not to show disappointment whenever you succesfully escape his ♡ 𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓮 ♡   

jaemin, grumbling: “you and jisungie, a couple of hooligans, i’ll leave you on the welcome mat tonight for this” (҂⌣̀_⌣́) he won’t he loves you too much, he can’t fall asleep if he’s not 110% sure you’re well fed and happy

but he still babies you to no end

“come on my baby, what should i do so you forgive me hm?”( *¯ ³¯*)♡

you, an entire baby: *huff* “so now you care huh? go ask or no, go TAKE CARE of [redacted]” 

jaemin’s last braincell performing swan lake on thin ice male version 2020 be like ₍₍ ◝( ･’ω’･ )◟ ⁾⁾

so he sighs and leaves the room

so NOW you’re worrying that mayyyybe you pushed him a bit too far

but before you even get the chance to walk down the hallway in your mighty search for your boyfriend, everything suddenly goes black

no you didn’t pass out or did you

jaemin just creeped up on you and ENGULFED you in a blanket hug for which he DEFINITELY didn’t run a marathon to buy༼つ ் ▽ ் ༽つ

when you finally manage to worm your head out of the fluffy cocoon he engulfed you in, your words were still muffled

“nana?? how did you even-???”

he just hugs you tighter and cuts off your questions

“shhh, all that matters is that you are ABSOLUTELY ADORABLE and i am maybe perhaps forgiven??”  ◕ ‿ ◕ 

how could you ever refuse this precious soul

Zhong Chenle

so i can see one(1) scenario in which he would lend his hoodie to someone he SPECIFICALLY knows you don’t fancy

if you had a let’s say disagreement before and we all know he can be PETTY big time sooo basically he’d do it just to spite you ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

and the lil shiz looks SO PROUD of himself

but you’re not letting the brat win we ain’t no losers _へ__(‾◡◝ )>

so you just creep up behind him and stick your glacier hands up his shirt and rest them on his warm back

when i’m telling you he broke the record for the highest jump and most likely shattered any windows in the vicinity ༻(〃ຶ⌂〃ຶ)

“y/n!!!! keep your ice cubes to yourself!!”

“but i’m cold”

“your cold, your problem”

“watch me say the same thing when jaemin’s chasing you around with a wooden ruler” （；¬＿¬)

things settle down after that

or so he thought!!!!! (งಠل͜ಠ)ง never let your guard down lele sigh

another sneak attack to make sure chenle gets a SOUR taste of absolutely pure pettiness so he gets sick of it himself lol

this time a bitch ain’t joking

you shove your entire head under his shirt and then slither yourself so the top of your head pops out of chenle’s shirt collar let’s hope chenle made the wise choice of wearing a loose shirt so you both won’t suffocate

so you just blink up at him like (◕ᴥ◕)

and chenle is shrieking the entire time sigh

and while you’re too cute for him, its not exactly comfortable for either of you so he pats your head and begs asks you to get out of his shirt(?)

“am i getting your hoodie then?”

“i can’t just barge in and ask for it back”

“alright them i’m suffocating you FUN” (╯✧∇✧)╯

“i’m buying you an entire store of hoodies, JUST GET.OUT!!!”(;≧皿≦）

you have to restrain him for actually going on a shopping spree cuz he LOVES spoiling you but he pays in cuddles while you’re snuggling in your favourite hoodie of his

Park Jisung

confused babie /(@ﾟﾍﾟ@) a mood 

he probably lent his hoodie cause he was too shy to refuse and didn’t even know you don’t like the person he gave it to

and then he’s clueless when you’re pouty ｢(ﾟ<ﾟ)ﾞ??

jisung: “do you want some water??”

you: *grumbling visibly upset* ( ｰ̀εｰ́ )

jisung, at a safe distance away from you, scratching his head, rethinking life choices: “...okay, maybe not. how about choco milk?”

he keeps an eye on you but other than that he’s LOST lol

that’s when the ✨𝓱𝔂𝓾𝓷𝓰𝓼✨ kick in

emergency contact momma jaemin is the first person jisung calls once he escaped to the ‘bathroom’

“jisung, you know i love you, BUT ARE YOU DUMB?? HOW COULD YOU- blahblahblah” my man is listening to an entire rant about how to treat your partner well 101 (۶* ‘ꆚ’)۶”

now that he knows the theory, he needs the practice

but you might already worry that he fell in the toilet with how long he’s been gone for god forbid you fall into that dark void

so he calls chenle

“chenle, i’m treating you to hotpot if you bring me a blanket or hoodie in less than 5 minutes”

“add in some steak and it’s a deal” ( ✧≖ ͜ʖ≖)

“i’m so selling your soul for a piece of gum, FINE!! just be quick!!”

THIS BOI RIGHT HERE!! A TREASURE!!!! he would step on his honour just to make sure his bubs is hapyy ˭̡̞(◞⁎˃ᆺ˂)◞*✰

so after he excuses himself again to retrieve the blanket from chenle

he BURRITO WRAPS you in it and then sits down next to your confused but undeniably happy form and pats your head nervously while he rambles you’re still his most sought after for of comfort no matter what

“i’m sorry for being a bad boyfriend, i should have realized you’d be cold too and that i should always put you first and i-”

you cut him off with a chaste kiss to his cheek which definetely doesn’t leave him speechless and tomato red in the cheeks (๑♡⌓♡๑)

“it’s okay, i was just being dramatic, you should always put yourself first tho, okay baby??”

baby is malfunctioning but he still nods mindlessly and kisses your cheek back ( ᵅั ᴈ ᵅั;)

[tennessoui]

would you be willing to go more indepth on the TA au first kiss scene?

i'd be willing to apparently really really really fucking in-depth with the TA au first kiss scene it turns out.

(3.1k, no porn but a lil raunchy there at the end)

This is not the first time Obi-Wan has been over to Anakin’s house. At the start of the semester, back in August, Professor Skywalker had invited all of his TAs to dinner, to introduce himself to them outside of the classroom.

This is different, though. Obi-Wan’s alone as he dismounts from his bicycle and stands it up against the garage door. No one else will join them tonight. Anakin had only asked him over.

If Obi-Wan thinks about that too much, he’s not going to be able to ring the doorbell.

He’s already late as it is, having changed multiple times since Anakin had texted him. What does one wear to the house of one’s professor who one desperately wants to fuck?

Lingerie, obviously. Check.

But on top of that?

He’d gone with a navy blue sweater over a simple t-shirt and jeans. Even still, when Anakin opens the door, he feels immediately overdressed. Anakin’s only wearing a black tank top and dark gray sweatpants that cinch at the ankle.

Alright. It’s official. Obi-Wan doesn’t think he’s going to survive the night.

“Obi, great!” Professor Skywalker exclaims, ushering him in and out of the cold November air. “I was worried you’d slipped on ice riding over here. It really is starting to get dangerous to bike in this sort of weather.” His tone becomes disapproving, something that absolutely doesn’t make Obi-Wan’s cock twitch in his pants. “I’ve seen your tires, they’re not up to the way it gets icy up here.”

Obi-Wan could say that he knows the weather better than Professor Skywalker, seeing as how he’s been a student at the same school for going on five years now, and Professor Skywalker still has partially-unpacked moving boxes sitting around his living room.

But what he says instead is, “Yes, Professor,” which makes Anakin freeze for a second before he hurries into motion again.

It’s interesting, is all.

“I told you to call me Anakin, Obi-Wan,” Anakin says sharply, turning away. Alright, yes. Obi-Wan’s body does react to that tone.

“Sorry, Professor,” Obi-Wan murmurs with a half-smile when he sees the way Anakin’s back stiffens for a second.

“You must think I have the patience of a saint,” Anakin mutters to himself. Louder, he says, “Shoes off and do you want some tea?”

Obi-Wan bends down to start untying his shoes, perking up at the mention of tea. “You have tea? I’ve never seen you drink tea on campus.”

“I have rooibos and earl grey,” Anakin shouts from the kitchen. Obi-Wan stands, shoeless, to follow him curiously, looking around the house as he goes. The entrance hallway opens up into the living room, which is sunken into the floor. There’s a dining room table a few feet from the couch, positioned next to a window looking into the kitchen.

There are still moving boxes scattered around, even though it’s already mid-November.

“Earl grey, thank you,” Obi-Wan says absently, still taking in Anakin’s home. Gently he lays his messenger bag on the table next to Anakin’s laptop and retrieves the papers he’s been invited over here to grade. When the kettle goes off, he peers through the window to watch Anakin assemble his cup. “Oh, that’s my favorite brand,” he says happily. Anakin flushes and busies himself putting away the apparently incriminating boxes of tea.

“What a coincidence,” Anakin replies, handing the cup to him through the window. Obi-Wan wraps his cold hands around the mug and allows the warmth to travel through his body. He’d forgotten his gloves, an idiotic move that can only be blamed on his nerves for the night.

But now that he’s here, he suddenly doesn’t feel quite so nervous anymore. It feels natural to sit with Anakin like this at his dining room table and grade their students’ work.

It feels right and scarily easy.

They get to work with little more chatter, as these papers are supposed to be handed back the next section class.

After one high score and two middling ones, Obi-Wan sets down his pen. “You still haven’t unpacked everything?” He says this observation like a question.

Anakin looks up at him from the paper in front of him and adjusts his glasses as he processes the words. “No, not really,” he agrees. “I never usually do, not until I find something that makes me want to stay in one place for a while.”

Obi-Wan’s hands tighten around his mug of tea. His voice comes out more strangled than he’d like. “You’re thinking of leaving?��

“It’s a temporary position, Obi,” Anakin says slowly, taking off his glasses and setting them down on the essay. “I’m renting this place from the school, but even then the lease is up in February.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t know what his heart is doing, but he doesn’t think he’s ever been in so much pain. Not to be dramatic or anything, but the thought of Anakin leaving as quickly as he’s blown into Obi-Wan’s life feels as if it can kill him.

“Oh,” is all he says. “Do you have a bathroom I can use?”

Minutes later, Obi-Wan is staring at himself in the mirror, hands gripping the sink. He’s still reeling from the very real possibility that Anakin will leave in a few short months. That he’ll go to some other college in some other city and make everyone fall in love with him there as well, and Obi-Wan will never find out what it feels like to kiss him because he’d been too scared of breaking the rules or being rejected to try.

Resolve forms in his mind. If Anakin is looking for a reason to stay, Obi-Wan will give him one.

But Obi-Wan’s never really set about seducing a professor before, is the problem. He doesn’t know what Anakin likes in his partners, and he doesn’t know if he even really likes Obi-Wan at all. There are hints sometimes, certainly, the way he’ll stare at him in class, the casual way he’ll touch his lower back when they’re walking somewhere, all of his behavior that night at the bar near Halloween.

But there’s a difference between feeling arousal and acting on it. And there’s an even bigger difference between wanting someone once in your bed for the night and wanting someone enough to stick around town for a few years while they finish school.

So it’s not even seducing Anakin that is real problem here. It’s keeping him interested afterwards. And Obi-Wan needs to start now, before the semester ends. If he waits until January, he won’t have enough time before Anakin’s lease is up. Hell, he doesn’t even have enough time now, not really. He’d probably need four months alone just to get Anakin to look at him with more than dark, considering eyes.

Alright. Alright.

He’ll start with coffee tomorrow morning. He’ll go out there and finish grading papers with Anakin, and then tomorrow before class begins, he’ll bring Anakin a cup of coffee. It’s a start.

Anakin’s made a fair amount of progress by the time Obi-Wan exits the bathroom-cum-war council room. “Alright?” The professor looks up with a small furrow between his eyebrows.

He’s so gorgeous Obi-Wan almost gives up right then and there, but he’s never been a quitter.

“Alright,” he agrees, picking up his mug and carrying it to the kitchen. He’ll just add some more water and a little bit more milk and get started on the rest of the papers. The sooner he finishes, the sooner he can go home and start planning. The thought makes him excited and nervous all at once.

He glances up through the kitchen window just in time to see Anakin lean back in his chair and stretch his arms so far up that his tank top rides up enough that his tummy--or, well, defined abdominal muscles as it were--flashes into view.

Which, of course, makes Obi-Wan’s life flash before his eyes. He trips and then promptly curses when he rights himself but half the tea spills out over his sweater.

“Obi-Wan?” Anakin’s there immediately, as if he’s teleported from the table to the kitchen instead of gone around the normal way. “Are you alright? Are you burned?”

“No, no, I’m fine,” Obi-Wan mutters, blushing furiously. His seduction of Anakin is never going to work if he keeps behaving like a clumsy idiot in front of the older man. “Just got on my sweater, it’s fine.”

Anakin’s hands grab at the hem of Obi-Wan’s sweater, and when he doesn’t protest, slowly drags it up and over his head, careful to keep the wet stain from his hair.

Obi-Wan’s breath catches in his throat at the look of intense concentration Anakin’s wearing, how dark his eyes are. It’s almost exactly what he wants, but it’s not enough because Anakin backs away quickly, sweater clutched in his hands. “I’ll get you one of mine,” he says gruffly, turning to leave the kitchen, but Obi-Wan stops him with a hand on his arm.

“It’s really fine, Anakin, I’m not cold.”

“You’re covered in goosebumps,” Anakin points out, laying his hand on Obi-Wan’s own arm.

Obi-Wan swallows and bites at his lip. “I’m not cold,” he promises. A part of him wants Anakin to hear what he’s not saying. A part of him is afraid he will.

But Anakin only nods jerkily once before exiting the kitchen and returning to his seat at the table. “You’ll tell me as soon as you feel so much as a slight chill,” he insists, picking up his glasses and resettling them on his face.

“Yes, Professor,” Obi-Wan murmurs as he sits down, just to watch Anakin’s jaw clench tightly for a second before relaxing.

They resume grading in silence, but this silence is tense. A different beast than the previous one.

Halfway through his sixth paper of the night, he furrows his eyebrows at a student’s paragraph. “Professor,” he says, standing and moving to lean over Anakin’s shoulder to show him the error. He places one of his hands delicately on Anakin’s skin, because he is a weak, weak man. “They’ve gotten this bit extremely wrong, but the paragraph after this one is basically the same thing but with the correct information. What, do you think it’s just an editing error?”

Anakin looks at the paper without saying anything.

Obi-Wan adjusts his position so he’s more leaning over next to him instead of behind him and points out the relevant sections. “Would you dock points, do you think?”

Anakin’s jaw bunches as his nostrils flare for several long seconds, before he seems to snap out of whatever had taken his mind away. “Take a few off, but for formatting not for content,” the professor decides.

Nodding in agreement, Obi-Wan stays where he is and makes a note in the margins. He looks up at Anakin when he feels his eyes rest heavily on him. “What?” he asks. “Do I have pen on my face?”

“Just haven’t seen you this dressed down before,” Anakin’s voice is incredibly low and the timbre of it makes a shiver run down Obi-Wan’s spine. “You’re always so buttoned-up in class.”

Obi-Wan wets his lips. Somehow the words that come out of his mouth are not ones he’s approved of saying. “That’s not true,” he says so quietly it’s almost a whisper. “I wouldn’t say I was buttoned-up at the bar.”

Anakin inhales sharply and he leans towards him with dark, dark eyes. “You were all dressed up then, weren’t you?” he murmurs. Obi-Wan can’t stop himself from swaying in Anakin’s direction, even if he wanted to.

Slowly, he nods, paper forgotten under his professor’s burning gaze.

“Do you still have it?” Anakin asks hoarsely. “I’ve been wondering what you did with that little dress for weeks now.”

“Didn’t keep it,” Obi-Wan replies honestly. His mouth dries incredibly fast when Anakin’s hand falls to his arm.

“You’ve got goosebumps again,” Anakin observes, rubbing a thumb over his skin. “Are you cold?”

“Not cold,” he whispers, moving closer than he’s ever dared. He’s terrified that if he speaks louder than he is now, the moment will be ruined. They’ll snap out of this, whatever this is, go back to grading papers, and then Obi-Wan will leave and tomorrow morning he’ll buy Anakin coffee and try to make himself come across as the perfect life partner for his professor.

But he wants this so much. He thinks they’re standing on the edge of something that could very well be amazing.

Anakin’s opening his mouth to say something, but Obi-Wan cuts him off. He wouldn’t be able to hear it over his pounding heart anyway. “I kept the lingerie though,” he says. “Do you want to see them, Professor?”

For a second, those words and all they imply hang in the scant few inches between them.

Then, “Jesus fucking Christ, baby,” Anakin groans, sounding torn to shreds. He pushes his chair back so fast that Obi-Wan stumbles.

Anakin’s hands are there to catch him and pull him into his arms, mouth descending onto his.

Obi-Wan moans into the kiss immediately, wrapping his arms around Anakin’s neck and tugging their bodies as close together as he can get them, making helpless little noises he’s never made before in his life. Anakin’s not quiet either, not as his hands roam down from Obi-Wan’s waist to trace the outline of his ass before he grabs it and rocks them together. The pleasure skyrockets when their bulges grind against each other, and Obi-Wan has to break the kiss just to gasp for air.

Feeling brave and desired and hot, Obi-Wan grabs one of Anakin’s hands and slips it down the waistline of his pants, just far enough that he can feel the spread of lace over his skin.

“Baby,” Anakin groans again, rubbing his thumb over the cheap silk of the Halloween costume’s panties. “Baby, fuck.”

Obi-Wan pushes back into the hand, trying to convey how much Anakin really can fuck him, should he want. Obi-Wan wants.

Before he can say anything though, Anakin’s lips claim his again and his tongue fucks aggressively into his mouth. It feels so good, especially when Anakin scratches up the skin of his back gently with one hand. The touch has Obi-Wan turning pliant and weak in the knees, something Anakin must realize because he edges Obi-Wan closer and closer to the table before sweeping the contents off with one hand and lifting him up with the other.

He spreads his legs automatically and for a second everything is perfect when Anakin comes to stand between them, mouth biting searing kisses into his neck while Obi-Wan tries to keep rubbing their pelvises together. He throws his head back and to the side with a high moan, mouth falling open as he stares uncomprehendingly at the ceiling.

Does this mean he doesn’t have to buy Anakin coffee before class tomorrow?

The thought of school is like a bucket of ice water poured directly over his head. Almost frantically, he pushes at Anakin’s chest, trying to get space between them.

Anakin detaches himself from Obi-Wan’s skin with the utmost reluctance. His lips are red and wet.

But Obi-Wan needs to be responsible, and he’s currently sitting on his professor’s table, papers scattered on the floor around them. “Fuck, half of these weren’t stabled together,” he cries, hopping down and starting to pick up the students’ papers. “Shit, Professor--”

“You were just sucking on my tongue like a professional slut, Obi-Wan, I think you can call me Anakin,” Anakin bites out, working his jaw furiously as he watches him crawl around on all fours from above. The nerve of the man for causing the mess and not helping at all to clean it up!

Obi-Wan feels just petty enough that he pauses at one of the papers and arches his back, pushing his ass out and looking over his shoulder. “I thought you liked it when I called you professor, Professor,” he responds in what he hopes comes out sounding mostly sultry.

It seems to work if Anakin’s reaction is anything to go by. “Fucking hell, Obi-Wan,” the man snarls, but his sweatpants make the twitch of his cock impossible to miss.

“What a pair we make,” Obi-Wan says, just for the fun of torturing Anakin. “You’re not wearing any underwear and I’m wearing lingerie.”

He finishes with the papers and stands to stack them on the table.

“I think you should go,” Anakin grits out, watching Obi-Wan intently.

Obi-Wan’s heart stops for a second and he’s suddenly terrified he pushed too far, too fast, that Anakin hadn’t enjoyed the kiss, that he remembered he was too annoying to keep around, that--

“If you don’t go now, you’ll be spending the night in my bed, and I think we need to talk first,” his professor finishes gently, reaching out to rub his thumb over Obi-Wan’s lip.

Obi-Wan licks it immediately, and when no protest is made, brings it further into his mouth.

“Obi-Wan,” Anakin sounds extremely pained.

Slowly, he drops his thumb from between his lips. There’s hardly a foot of space between them. It’s too far. It’s too close.

Anakin’s right. They do need to talk. And it shouldn’t happen tonight.

“Can I borrow a sweatshirt for the bike ride back?” he asks quietly, crossing his arms over his chest. “Only it’s cold outside and--”

And you smell really nice, he finishes in his head. Out loud, he says, “And I think I’d look good wearing something of yours, don’t you think, Professor?”

Anakin’s eyes narrow and his hands clench tightly into fists at his side. “I didn’t have you pegged as a brat.”

“You haven’t had me pegged at all yet,” Obi-Wan points out with a grin. As if magnetized, Anakin’s thumb comes up and digs into one of his dimples.

“I’ve wanted to lick these since the first time I saw you smile,” his professor whispers like they’re in a confessional.

It’s incredibly easy to reach out and trace one of the lines of Anakin’s octopus tattoo down his arm in return. “I’ve wanted to do the same with your tattoos for months now,” he admits. “Will you let me? After we talk? Will you let me put my mouth on you?”

His fingers dance across the front of Anakin’s sweats, before veering back up to more friendly territory.

Anakin’s eyes are dark with promise when he nods in response. “I’ll do more than let you, baby,” he growls. “I’ll put your mouth on me myself.”

Obi-Wan shivers.

No, he probably doesn’t need to buy Anakin coffee tomorrow before class.

But he probably will anyway. Just because the way Anakin’s looking at him makes him think the other man isn’t going to get much sleep tonight either, and it’s the least he can do.