#he just compelled you into giving up your popsicle with magic

[orcanist]

Dourar summer winter sketch by taoren

[emoboijk]

knj | till death

In the demon world, arranged marriages are business transactions. But this isn’t that simple. —demon au, arranged marriage au, non-idol au

01 :: 02 :: 03 :: 04 :: 05 :: 06 :: 07

2,635 words

gif credit

Inside Namjoon's head, there is nothing but rage. He feels like an animal throwing itself against the bars of its cage, trying to shake something, anything loose. He directs every ounce of power he has at regaining control of himself and he feels only a smidge of progress.

That, and Taemin's teeth nibbling at his earlobe.

Namjoon's eyes stay straight ahead and his body remains immobile. He's glad his body hasn't turned because it means he can keep his eyes on you. He's trying to catalog your and Yoongi's injuries but he finds there are too many to count. He focuses on the men standing behind you both, memorizing their faces. He makes plans to return the favor ten-fold. He wants to clench his fist or jut out his jaw, some small act of defiance, but his body won't move.

"Namjoon here," Taemin purrs, his breath fanning hotly against Namjoon's neck, "made a blood oath with me." Taemin's body curls around the side of Namjoon's possessively, his nails digging into Namjoon's bicep and his teeth running along the pulse point in his neck.

Namjoon tries to ignore it. He can't really feel it anyway. Whatever control Taemin has over his body has also numbed him.

"Idiot," Yoongi grumbles, glaring defiantly at the dark-haired villain clinging to Namjoon. One of the men standing nearby immediately steps forward and hits him in the back of the head. Yoongi sways forward, finds his balance in the chair, and leans back. Turning to the side, he spits blood on the greenhouse floor and licks his teeth. His eyes still have that defiant edge.

"He's not wrong, my love," Taemin giggles, "Giving your blood to an 'enemy'?" Taemin's shoulders shake with laughter before he moves to stand in front of Namjoon. He cups his cheeks in his hands softly and says, "It was just a ploy, hmm? You wanted to come back to me. I know. I figured it out." Taemin's eyes sparkle gorgeously and it sends Namjoon spinning back to when this all began.

The greenhouse was almost new back then. Almost new and hardly used. Ever since their first kiss—baking in the sun, poolside in jean shorts, cherry popsicles melting over lush lips—they'd been sneaking out here to be together.

Taemin always rushes in headfirst, twirling amongst the flora like a Disney character and practically glowing. He has his arms spread wide, whispering that he loves him and he feels safe and he's happy, looking back at Namjoon who lingers at the entrance.

The memory hits Namjoon so suddenly it steals his breath. He comes tumbling back to reality at the sound of your voice.

"How are you controlling him?" you spit, your voice is powerful and vicious. Like a knife, it cuts through his sentimentality. Your face is serious and pensive and angry. He's screaming and clawing and trying to move.

His pinky twitches.

"I'm not telling," Taemin sings, swinging back around to face them, winking at you, "Let's just say it took quite a bit of research." His voice goes up at the end of the sentence because it's all just a game.

"And what do you hope to accomplish?" Yoongi growls from beside you. He's bathed in shadows and the moonlight that does hit him casts him as haggard and bloody. "Blood magic won't make him love you again."

Taemin hisses at him, his eyes losing their playful sparkle and turning deadly serious in a matter of moments. A guard hits Yoongi in the back of the head again and he clatters to the floor, the side of his head smacking the cement with a crack that stops your heart.

"Yoongi!" you scream, wrenching yourself forward in your chair to no avail. Your bindings won't give, and a guard clutches your shoulder to bruising and slams you back into your seat.

"Anyway, I guess we should be on to the main event," Taemin says, his voice sugary again. He faces Namjoon once more, his expression so similar to the one he used to wear.

They're in the fields behind the main house and the grass is so tall it hides them, laying on their backs with their fingers intertwined. The sun bakes their skin golden brown and turns Taemin's hair auburn. Namjoon rolls to hover over him, both of them out of breath from laughing and kissing, thinking that this will always be the way it is. Always tasting spicy cinnamon and sugary vanilla.

"Forever and ever," they whispered. Forever and ever.

The memory stings. It had been a couple of years before you and he had met. And he really had thought it was true, forever.

But things began to unravel, as they often do. Taemin began to unravel.

"Okay, so now, kill her."

Taemin's voice is like steel, slipping beneath Namjoon's skin and slicing. It makes Namjoon snap back to focus, the memory vanishing as if it had never been there at all.

Namjoon stands stock still. Fighting, now, to stay immovable.

Taemin sighs and runs his hands through Namjoon's hair, "I know you're in there fighting this," he says softly, "but once you do it, everything will be better. We'll be better. Forever and ever."

Something in Namjoon's stomach lurches unpleasantly at the realization that he doesn't recognize those eyes anymore. Something in them has turned dark and twisted in a way his Taemin was never capable of.

When Namjoon still doesn't move, Taemin's voice loses its softness and gains an authoritative edge, "Do it." The sound compels Namjoon past the point of disobeying; it's as though his blood has turned against him.

Inside his head, Namjoon's movements feel mechanical, he throws the entire force of his mind against them. Nothing.

You watch him approach with your heart in your throat. You don't really recognize him. His movements are so fluid that they look alien. Your Namjoon is a giant with long limbs that he's barely in control of, a perpetual look of thoughtfulness in his eyes, a soft smile reserved for you… This Namjoon is blank, an imitation; he's nothing at all.

He stoops down until your eyes are at the same level. Before you can take in another breath, his hand is around your throat. He stands to his full height and holds you above him like it takes no effort at all. You gasp for breath.

His fingers around your throat feel familiar and you're surprised that, this close to death, those kinds of memories surface. You watch his face for a flicker of his real self, think you see one in the very depths of his eyes, and whisper, "It's okay," because what else can you say. You're going to die. But it's not his fault.

That's what finally breaks him. It's okay. Namjoon, gripping the steel bars that are keeping him caged in his mind, breaks when he hears you say those words. "No it's fucking not," he screams in his head.

Control comes back to his limbs too fast and his knees buckle. You fall against him, both of you folding into each other as you land harshly on the ground. You can feel his breath against your cheek, and feel the anger brewing beneath his skin. One of his hands reaches out for you and grabs your wrist; it takes you a moment before you realize he's checking your pulse.

Satisfied, he rises slowly. His hair is falling into his face but you can see his eyes are blacked out. More surprisingly, there are long fangs now crowding his teeth, poking out over his lips. He spreads his hands wide and you see his nails have grown into claws, and sharp horns are sticking up from his head. In the blink of an eye, large, leathery black wings rip through his shirt and spread open.

You lose your breath.

"Stop," Taemin commands. But Namjoon rolls his shoulders, the joints in his wings cracking menacingly. He turns to him.

"Stop," Taemin says again, but this time it's a whimper.

Namjoon has never felt this powerful before. The wings are new. He hasn't conjured claws or horns since childhood. His rage is feeding his power and it's coming off of him in waves. And he doesn't care; his vision is red.

Usually, Namjoon's power sits just beneath his skin like a current of energy, one that he keeps at bay with an incredible amount of restraint (that took an even more incredible amount of practice). Right now he's like a live wire; the casing's been removed and he is nothing but raw power.

He stretches his wings behind him to their full span, cracking his neck as he grows used to his new appendages and this new surge of demonic energy. When he looks at Taemin he wants nothing more than to reach into his chest and pull out his heart. He wants to tear out his jugular. He wants to watch him burn.

You're so caught up in watching him that you don't realize Yoongi's free of his restraints until he's undoing yours. You jump at the feeling of his fingers against your wrists, startled by his bloody face and rasping voice, "We have to get out of here."

You roll your shoulders and rub at your wrists, wincing at the strain. "I can't leave," you say like it's obvious.

Yoongi looks at you like you're stupid, "Are you kidding me?"

You roll your eyes in response, "I'm not leaving him, Yoongi."

The room is getting warmer, like twelve o'clock on a summer day, and it takes you a second to realize it's coming from Namjoon. He's burning through demonic magic at a lightning speed and it's shedding off of him like the sun.

Yoongi wraps his fingers around your arm and pulls, "Come on," he huffs, "Look, he's like a …atom bomb right now. He could go off at any moment."

You wrench yourself from his grasp, "Why do you think I'm staying?"

Namjoon's hands close around Taemin's throat and squeeze. There's a flash of childish innocence in Taemin's eyes, but Namjoon is far past caring.

Burns appear on Taemin's skin from proximity to the demonic energy and his windpipe gives beneath the forces of Namjoon's grip. Namjoon doesn't blink.

It's the most demonic you've ever seen him.

"Namjoon!" you scream.

You're afraid if he doesn't stop now he won't come back. You're afraid of losing him.

"Namjoon," you sob.

You force yourself to a stand, fighting through the demonic energy that makes your eyes sting and your skin blister. You whisper his name to anchor you, to tether him to you. You move forward till he turns.

He looks almost like a medieval painting. Horns and wings and claws. But his eyes are familiar, inky black pools like starless galaxies you could lose yourself in.

"It's okay," you whisper, reaching out to him. "It's okay," you say again as you reach him, fingers pressing gently to his jaw and his cheeks.

His brow wrinkles at the touch, a distinctly human expression overtaking his demonic form. The back of one hand wipes your cheek softly. You're crying.

Namjoon falls to his knees and with him all the magic. Taemin is on the ground and whatever was keeping him alive is gone now.

Namjoon has collapsed into you, but you can feel his breath against your neck so you know he's going to be okay. His hands are around your waist like a life preserver, and you can feel the scrape of his fangs against your skin.

"It's okay," you whisper, running your fingers through his hair just to prove to yourself that he's still here, he's still yours. "Just keep breathing," you whisper, tears falling down your cheeks without your noticing. Behind him is what remains of Taemin and you have to close your eyes. It's so horrific. Your eyes and nose sting with the smell of burning flesh.

You only open them when you hear footsteps. Jin is leading the charge, stomping in at a heavy run, skidding to a stop when he sees the scene. "Oh my god," he whispers, covering his mouth with his hand. Shortly after him, Yoongi limps in, leaning heavily against Jeongguk. And then ten seconds later, Hoseok follows with a large group of security.

"They're all…" Jin starts.

"…dead," Yoongi finishes, finally giving in to his exhaustion and collapsing against Jeongguk's side.

"Outside," Hoseok says, "Medics…" He speaks in short bursts, unable to form full sentences while he can barely process what he's seeing.

You take a deep breath and move your hand to cup Namjoon's face. His eyes are still entirely black, and his fangs still long past his teeth. You can feel his claws press harmlessly against your sides.

"Okay," you whisper, stroking his cheek softly to erase his pained expression, "You have to come back now, okay? For me."

Namjoon leans forward and presses his forehead against yours, nodding slightly. His body grows tense in your grasp and you can see his chin jut out in concentration. Slowly, the fangs retract, the wings disappear…when he opens his eyes, they are the soft brown you know so well.

"Hey there," you whisper.

"Hey," he whispers before passing out.

When Namjoon wakes up his head feels as though it's been split open, his back feels broken, his hands ache. His whole body feels completely spent and rundown. He blinks against the lights of the hospital room and groans involuntarily against the pain in his head.

"Oh my god," he hears. Your voice is tear-soaked and relieved, but he recognizes it immediately. You materialize at his bedside and grip his hand tightly, "Hi," you whisper.

"Hi." He smiles when you lean down and press your lips to his chastely.

There's a long moment where you both just look at each other, relieved that you've both survived, that it's... over. Your eyes are watering and you blink, laughing lightly, "I...I should probably get a doctor."

"No, don't go," he says, almost in a whine like a child.

"Okay," you grin despite yourself. Forgetting his wounds, you lean your head against his, pulling away sharply when he gasps in pain.

"Why does my head hurt so bad?" He mutters.

"Oh," you smile, "um…" you pull a compact from your purse and hand it to him.

"Oh shit," he says, watching his own expression in the mirror. There are deep purple bruises around his eyes, two perfect circles still healing in his forehead.

"Horns," you whisper, trying to keep yourself from giggling.

"So, my back…?"

"Wings," you nod, smiling fully.

Namjoon chuckles too, reaching up to stroke your cheek, "Guess I was pretty upset." He smiles softly and you turn your face to press a soft kiss to the center of his palm.

"Careful," a voice says from the doorway, "don't scratch her, Wolverine."

You both turn to see Yoongi, bruised but smiling, and Jeongguk pushing him into the room in a wheelchair. Namjoon's eyes flick to his own hands and he immediately curses at the long, sharp claws. He throws his head back onto the pillow in frustration and groans.

"I tried to trim them myself," you blush, "but they kept breaking the nail files."

"Yeah," he sighs, his eyes still closed, "sandpaper is the only thing tough enough."

"I'll ask Lisa to pick some up," Jeongguk chuckles.

"How long was I out?" he wonders, eyes moving to the three of you in turn.

"About a week," you say softly.

"And Taemin?"

There's a long, awkward silence before Yoongi says, "Let's just say it makes the bone-breaking incident look like child's play."

"So he's dead?"

You nod solemnly, looking down at your hands. Gently, Namjoon fits his into yours, squeezing. "We're safe."

author’s note— i know this took forever and a day, i hope it was worth the wait

epilogue ↝

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[bigskydreaming]

Linking to an old one-shot AU headcanon-thingie that morphed into actual fic like...five paragraphs in. Its basic premise is the Zataras and Graysons knew each other from various Zatara magicians of generations past all working the stage magic circuit. So (pre-Flashpoint, of Bruce’s actual age and generation, not like, YJ version obvsly, fhalksfklsa) Zatanna ends up adopting Dick instead, and then Things Happen that result in a Jason and a Tim Zatara as well, and all three still become vigilantes, but like, ones that combine different specialties of magics with their other individual canon characteristics, like Dick’s acrobatics and Jason’s fondness of a good brawl.

(Don’t worry, Meanwhile, back in Gotham, there’s still a Bruce and as we all know, where there’s a Bruce, that Bruce is gonna Bruce. Cass and Steph and Damian all end up Waynes and Duke would be an inevitability eventually as well.)

Anyway, self-indulgently bringing this back cuz I have an unnatural fondness for Magic Batbrothers: The Musical! type AUs, and also the dynamics in this quite amused me to write. Plus, I actually have Batfamily-focused followers now, lol. 

I played Dick off as more skewed towards the ‘goofy, perpetual sunshine machine’ fandom take than I usually do, because I mean, this was mostly just crack and I do admit he is fun to write that way when its Honestly Not That Deep, and also in a universe where he is actually loved and appreciated by his little brothers, and they all get along but also occasionally hate each other lots but not really just like the real family they are AND DESERVE TO BE WRITTEN AS, AHEM!

Anyway, an excerpt to go with the link above:

When last we left our intrepid heroes, rich entitled bastards with a pervy penchant for nursery rhymes and child assassins had set their sights on claiming Dick and turning him into their mindless zombie bird-themed killing machine. 

In all fairness, they did lead with the extremely persuasive argument of 'look we totally called dibs before he was even born, so.....step off??' 

Then they kidnapped him and attempted to turn him into their mindless zombie bird-themed killing machine.

Compelling argument though that may be, Dick's brothers are not impressed. They are, however, magical, hyper-competent and extremely petty slash vindictive.

All of which is to say, Tim turns the Court into a bunch of actual owls. And then Jason summons a giant murderous hawk-demon from another dimension that eats all the owls.

And then they wait for Dick to wake up from all the drugs the Court pumped him full of in preparation for The Ritual of Zombie Assassin Making. And Tim just has to ruin it, that asshole.

"You know, hawks aren't naturally the enemies of owls," Tim says out of nowhere. Well. Not out of nowhere so much as out of concern, because Tim's natural physiological response to being worried is to get pedantic.

"What," says Jason flatly. Which is his natural physiological response to Tim being. Y'know. Tim.

Tim shrugs, his eyes intent on their older brother, who is still making like Sleeping Beauty and sooooo gonna get razzed by them for that later, once the Worries and Anxieties have all exited stage right. "It just felt like you were going for a theme. Which is fine, I'm just saying, owls don't actually have natural predators. One might occasionally get killed by a hawk, but usually that's more of a territorial dispute and still pretty much an outlier in terms of statistics."

"Why would you even say that to me right now," says Jason flatly. Not asking, because its a rhetorical question and he's currently glaring the answer to it straight at Tim's back, and that answer is ugh you are such an annoying little shit sometimes.

Which is why when Dick groggily starts to come to, he's greeted by a soundtrack of:

"God, I'm so sorry, I'm just the worst for giving you information that you didn't have before, since clearly if you had you wouldn't have gone with a hawk!"

"Well what the fuck should I gone with, a demonic taxidermist? Like excuse me for being in such a rush to heap vengeance on the pretentious shits who kidnapped our brother, I didn't have time to go to wikipedia and figure out the most appropriate dramatic irony!"

"First off, why would you ever go to wikipedia as a source, we have literally had this exact argument several dozen times - "

"First off, are you seriously giving me bullet points right now. Seriously. Bullet points. Right now. That's a thing that's happening."

"You are such an infant. How are you five years older than me? I make one little critique and you bite my freaking head off - "

"What's happening?" Dick croaks out into one of the few synchronized pauses for breath. "Where are we?"

"The secret underground lair of an evil society of ornithologists who kidnapped you because your milkshake brings all the weirdos to the yard," Jason says crankily, still glaring at Tim.

Not that fuzzy, barely conscious but always guilt-prone Dick could possibly know that its not actually him Jason's ticked at. Tim face palms at his middle brother because what are bedside manners, clearly.

"A bird-themed cult calling themselves the Court of Owls pre-selected you to be turned into the general of their elite zombie assassin army," Tim recites quickly, predicting Dick's likely request for further information.

"Well that's rude," Dick frowns. He cracks open one eye experimentally, winces when even the dim lighting is enough to give his pounding headache a booster shot. Tries the other eye. Nope. Both eyes are in agreement. Light is the enemy of all that is good right now. Ugh. Definitely rude. He likes light. How dare someone incite this unforgivable betrayal from his BFF, light? "I don't think I care for their recruitment strategy. Although at least they wanted me to be the Boss Zombie Assassin I guess."

"Yes," Tim replies dolefully. "That does appear to be the silver lining here."

Despite their antagonism of thirty seconds ago, Jason snickers. They're nuanced like that.

"Well his usual priorities seem to be in place, so I think its safe to say we got to him before they could do any actual brainwashing," Jason says. "All in favor of blowing this popsicle stand?"

"Wait, there are popsicles?"

"No, there aren't popsicles in the evil cult's secret underground murder lair. Its a figure of speech, dumbass."

"Hey," Dick pouts. He coughs once, weakly, but Jason's eyes narrow in sudden suspicion of Milking It Syndrome. "Be nice to me. I was just kidnapped and almost made an Elite Zombie Assassin Boss and my head hurts and is all fuzzy and you know how I feel about popsicles. You shouldn't joke about them if you don't have any, that's just mean. But uh, should we be rushing? If the bad guys are coming back soon I do vote for the not being here option, like, just in case turning me into the Zombie Apocalypse is still on the evil cult agenda."

He would manage to latch onto the Elite and Boss part of that info dump, wouldn't he, Jason muses. What's the timeline for how long you have to express sympathy for your almost-brainwashed brother before you can yell at him for being insufferable about it? Is half an hour long enough?

"No, its fine," Tim assures their brother. "We uh....were slightly miffed about the whole kidnapping you thing, and so we were.....efficient? I guess you could say? About making sure they wouldn't do it again. I turned them all into owls."

"And then I summoned a hawk demon that ate them. You're welcome," Jason adds, not about to be left out. Even if he's going to have words later about being characterized as 'miffed.' The walking almanac knows more words in more languages than anyone in human history, pretty much, and he goes with miffed. The fuck, Timmy. The actual fuck.

"Aww, you guys, that's so sweet." Dick beams at them. Albeit at somewhat lower than his usual wattage. Then his forehead wrinkles slightly in confusion. "Why a hawk demon? Do owls not like hawks or something?"

Tim smirks at Jason viciously.

"I hate you with the searing intensity of a thousand suns," Jason tells his brat of a younger brother. "Also, gonorrhea."

[felicismagic18873]

Beyond the Blaze(5)

Summary: 4 Years old, Alyssa Potter finds her life taking a magical turn as she steps into a world of cute green giants, talking robots and misunderstood aliens. All of it is almost enough to make her forget the probable destruction of her own world.

Pain.

It seemed like the pain was his only steady companion nowadays. Rushing through his body, spreading like a fire and burning away all that was of him. It repulsed him. Loki always did hate fire, choosing to stand a bit farther than everyone else. Maybe that is why he hated Thor too because he burned like the brightest of hellfire, beautiful and deadly. A fire that didn't deserve to be tainted by his cold presence.

Runt.

Abandoned.

Tortured.

Loki bit back a scream when waves of phantom pain caressed his once almost healed wounds with the gentleness of a deceitful lover. The only show of his pain was the slight narrowing of his eyes. He'd learned his lesson at the hands of those spiteful beings. He'll never give them the pleasure of seeing the signs of his pain.

The muzzle felt tight on his face. He longed to lick his lips the dryness of them reminded him of days-or was it years?- of going without a drop of water.

There was a soft sound, one that'd escape most people's notice but not his, never his. Not again. It was most likely the doors of the elevator opening. There was a slight shuffling of feet. Loki wondered what Thor was doing lingering at the door.

Come on Oaf, distract me.

It was the light steps that informed him that it wasn't his br-Thor. Thor's steps were as light as a bilgesnipe meaning not light at all. This wasn't him.

A form darted to the side before he could see and wide green eyes filled with awe, peeked at him from behind one of the furniture pieces.

A child.

What was a child doing here?

A moment or two passed. The child took an unsteady breath and came out of the dark. Loki barely managed to keep his own shock from showing.

The childling could pass for his daughter. He tilted his head curiously wondering what new tactic was this. He'd thrown the 'invasion', the so-called Avengers had won and he'll be taken to Asgard in a day or two. What more could they wish to gain from him by sending a child to him?

Were they out of their minds? Careless mortals.

"H-Hello." The childing whispered before standing up a little straighter and saying more firmly, "Hello. I am Alyssa Potter"

Loki dipped his head a little as a greeting. He was bored-and curious-enough to accept the company. No matter how small. The girl smiled with her whole face making her almost radiate light. There was something about this child that he was missing.

"It's nice to meet you, Loptr the cunning." The child put a small fist on her chest and bowed her head. Loki's eyes sharpened. Oh, this child knew who he was. Unlike the other mortals, she knew. He could see it in reflected in the respect and awe in her eyes. Even if it weren't for her respectful-slightly off angle-bow he wouldn't have missed it.

He tilted his head curiously. The child looked up with a hesitant look biting her lips. She took a deep breath before a tide of words escaped her plump lips, " I hope that was the right way of sayin hello. Em...Mel told me about the bow, but not about what to say. She just said be respectful. But-" She stopped suddenly biting her lips a little harder.

For a moment, Loki wondered how the blood would look against the red of her lips if she ended up cutting it but shook the thought away. The child was looking at him as if expecting an answer, then her eyes fell on his muzzle and understanding filled her face. Her lips parted, "Oh."

Oh indeed.

The child tugged at the necklace she was holding bringing his attention to it. Her whole hand covered the stone but it aroused his interest. It almost seemed like the necklace was shining with an inner light.

He barely suppressed a wince when the pain made itself known again, angry at being ignored. His run-in with the green beast hadn't helped his case. The only thing it had done was abuse his already battered body. His eyes closed on their own accord trying to push back the haziness that surrounded his mind.

A soft hand rested on his muzzle, the soft fingers touched his skin making his eyes snap open. Green eyes stared into his own. Bright with youth, unlike his own tired ones. The big eyes looked worried and he felt like scoffing. No matter how in awe the child was, he did not need her worry.

"Are you okay?", was whispered softly as if the words took all the courage the child had. Loki didn't dare to move. The mortals were foolish enough to leave a child with him unattended. But it didn't mean he was cruel enough to harm her. "I don't know what you did, . But I am sure you had a good reason or at least I hope you did."

The warmth of the hand on his cheek didn't feel revolting, it felt dare he say calming instead. A tingle spread from the child's hand into his body. Loki's eyes widened when he felt the ache in his body soothing away.

Sorcerer!

The child was a magic user!

Loki felt like laughing. He, Loki the cunning, had managed to miss the most obvious thing about the child. There was magic running through her body. He could see it now, curling around her body like the embrace of a mother.

He wondered if she knew what she was doing soothing his pain. A look into her eyes revealed that no, she didn't. She still looked worried and confused. She stepped back, the fingers around the pendant tightened. She gazed at it for a moment before shrugging a bit.

The raven-haired child was not aware of the powers of her pendant, it was healing him. A gift then? Maybe from the being known as 'Melina'. The name sparked a feeling of recognition but it slipped away before he could grasp it. It seemed to happen a lot nowadays.

"It's just a mix-up, I'm sure." He heard her mumbling then she smiled at him with eyes filled with a childish hope," And they'll letchu go once you explain it at the trial! You can convince them like you convinced the dwarves."

Loki's eyes widened. Dwarves? How did-

The child misunderstood the look, she gave a sheepish look.

"I know the story's not for kids but I asked Melina again and again until she told me. Its one of my favorites."

Melina. The child kept repeating the name again and again. It was awfully familiar. If only he could place where it was from. It irritated him a great deal when a headache was all he got for his trouble.

"You know I didn't believe when he said that you were gonna hurt me. I was right wasn't I because-"

The child's eyes widened and a small shriek escaped her lips when the elevator opened with a grating noise. It was forced open by the robotic hands of that insufferable-invaluable, curious,interesting-mortal man, Tony Stark.

All emotions drained from Loki's face in record time leaving behind a smug mask that was oh so familiar. The child was staring at the energy repulsor pointed towards him with something akin to awe instead of fear. Strange child.

"Step back,Kiddo" The robotic voice lacking its usual teasing notes ordered. "I'm gonna blow this Popsicle ."

Instead of doing the logical thing and stepping away, the girl visibly pushed back her awe and glared at the genius.

"Hey! That's not nice."

Stark scoffed," What's not nice is him frying up my elevator control," brown eyes filled with scrutiny turned towards him, the child stumbled back a little her face taking on a curious look, "I thought we talked about this, Jack Frost. Any more funny games and you'll be enjoying the rest of your stay at vila de shield instead of my tower of awesomeness. I've got my eye on you."

Loki understood the real threat behind the casually spoken words. He made a face internally at the horrendous nickname but opted not to tell him that he had nothing to do with the child being here. It's not like he'd believe him anyway.

"Speaking of which," Stark continued nonchalantly putting himself between Loki and the child. He tried to make it look like a casual movement but Loki could see that he was trying to protect the child. The child that was oddly silent and serious as if in deep thoughts.

"Where is your keeper?"

Loki growled at Stark with an intensity that'd made stronger men cry, Stark just flashed a shark-like smile. He did love danger.

"Aw come on don't be like that. We all know that Thor is your glorified nanny."

Loki looked away.

"Jarvis?" The Artificial butler must've shown him something because Stark was nodding and humming the next second." Makes sense." He declared. "Now off we go. See ya later, alligator"

And with that Stark walked out guiding the silent child with him.

This certainly gave Loki a lot to think about.

-----------------------

Tony lifted his hand from the kid's shoulder to run a hand through his hair. His lips parted a little and his eyes fixed on the child, the kid was looking down at her shoes with a strange fixation as if solving some deep equation.

His mind raced over a thousand different outcomes yielding nothing. He was honestly in complete disbelief and confusion. And that was a big statement since Tony was usually the person least confused in a room. His brain worked faster than others in a way that considered unique-abnormal a voice sounding a great deal like his father whispered-and he didn't like the feeling at all.

How could Loki do something like messing with his whole system, messing with Jarvis and somehow compelling a kid to come to him when Thor had assured him that the bag of cat's magic was repressed by the handcuffs and he couldn't even hurt a fly. There were only a few things that came to mind.

One, Thor lied to them cause even if the blonde was really a big golden retriever he was basically a stranger and it was the matter of his brother, adopted or not.

Two, Thor had no idea and somehow Loki managed to break the handcuffs, unlikely seeing how banged up he still looked when his magical mumbo-jumbo should have healed him.

Three, there was an external entity that helped him do it but everyone was freed from the glowstick's thrall so no one came to mind.

And last but not least, there only other person present was responsible for it. The kid. And that was the least believable option but it had to be mentioned cause the kid was acting all weird.

Speaking of which, "What's going on in that pretty head of yours, Lilo? Did Raindeer games say something? Ignore him, we all do."

"My names Alyssa, not Lilo." The kid replied in a distant voice, still obsessively staring at her shoes.

Tony's eyebrow raised at the sullen tone, a contrast to the happy if cheeky tone she'd had earlier. Was this normal with kids? Mood swings? He had no idea but it irritated him, it made him want to fix whatever made her so morse and sad. And why wouldn't it, he was a mechanic it was his job to fix things.

The door of the elevator opened again, Tony ignored it. He knelt down, wincing when his jeans touched the floor, and with his index finger under her chin, he gently raised the kid's face to his own level. The kid kept her eyes lowered for something but sensing his stare she finally met his eyes.

He looked into the slightly shiny eyes for a second before forcing a smile on his face trying to make her feel relaxed. It worked for an unseen tension bled out of her shoulders.

"So, I have no idea how to do this. Its usually someone else's job, you get me, kid? Sooo go a little easy on me and tell me what's bothering you? Was it Loki? Cause I will mess his shi-I mean I'll talk with him if he said something and by talk I mean threaten him to Pakistan and back and-"

"I am sorry!" The kid blurted out cutting him off, "I am so sorry. I didn't mean to-I mean I did but...I didn't want you to worry and I-"

"Wait that's what you're so bothered about?" Seeing her tentative nod, he shook his head with an exasperated look," Oh come on, Kid. Consider it forgiven. It was no big deal. I do stuff that worries people all the time and it's my fault most of the time. You were just at the wrong place at the wrong time. "

Considering the issue to be resolved, he mentally gave himself a pat on the back and stood up. He almost missed the kid's whisper, "But it was. It was my fault." The words rang with the echo of another person's exact same declaration. Barton's.

He stilled. The dread that had gripped him the moment Jarvis informed him of her little detour came back with a force. He'd imagined walking in a moment too late and finding the little cheeky kids body spread over the floor with a dark figure standing over her.

Did Loki do something to the kid?

"Nah it wasn't you, kid. Its just gods and aliens and things messing with our minds. Whatever you think you did, it wasn't you."

A small hand grabbed his own, a scene similar to one before but with something heavy coating it.

"It was me, Mister Robot. I wanted to see Loptr and I wished it so much that it happened. It happens to me sometimes."

It felt like something important was happening, that the kid telling him this-whatever this was- was something momentous. The kid was staring at him as if waiting for a reaction.

Tony wondered what to do but a single glance at the kid's innocent face twisted with anxiety and his decision was made. He decided to trust her. At least until he could confirm what actually happened.

"You did this?"

The kid bit her already red lip and nodded her head, her eyes lowered again. He recognized the expression, it was the same one he had every time he stood in front of his father waiting to be punished.

"Okay." And with that, he put a hand over her shoulder, absently filing away the slight flinch that it induced and guided her out of the elevator.

"You're not angry?" She asked hesitantly look at him from under long black eyelashes.

"What? Angry? No ways!" He exclaimed a little, the dramatics worth it when the kid's eyes widened with wonder as she sat on the sofa she'd slept in earlier. "Excited and curious, more like it. So how did you do it, Matilda? Cause I'm completely lost."

Alyssa's smile lifted her whole face, her eyes scrunched up a little and her cheeks regained some of their colors. Tony noticed how ashy she'd looked earlier and pushed down the thought that the kid was afraid of something, of him.

"I dunno," she shrugged, still smiling. "I just wish for stuff to happen and it does. It's magic."

Tony hummed, "And you've always done stuff like this?"

"Uh-huh", the kid nodded. Tony mind finally came to the right conclusion and he felt like cursing. It was so obvious! How could he miss it? Jarvis did tell him that the kid said she wanted to see Odin junior and she also said she did it. It was so right in front of him and he couldn't see it!

"You're a mutant! That makes so much sense!" He declared happily, " I wonder if Hulk could sense it. Maybe your ability affects the electromagnetic fields in some way."

"I'm..I'm a what? Whats a mutant?" She leaned forward, putting her elbows on her knees and cupping her face with her hands.

Tony flopped next to the kid. His one leg folded under him and the other hanging off the side of the soda. Dark curls bounced a little as she also turned a little so she was facing him. Her green eyes shining with curiosity stared at him. Tony sat a little straighter.

"Its someone born with the X-gene.", he finally said.

"Wha?", her nose scrunched up cutely. Tony suppressed a smile knowing it might be taken the wrong way, that maybe he was laughing at her for her lack of info.

"Right. Little kid. , well its someone who...can do awesome things because of a gene...because of something written in their DNA." Seeing the blank look on her face, he groaned. "Agh, wait you don't know what DNA is, how do I even-"

"I think I get?" She tilted her head thoughtfully. " I was born with special powers?" Tony nodded, it was close enough. "Maybe I am a mutant. Huh. I called myself a wizard"

"Aren't boy witches called wizards?"

"Yep"

"Okaaay whatever tickles your fancy then."

Alyssa nodded her head with a serious expression, "Oh I am very ticklish."

Tony didn't bother to suppress his laugh, it made Alyssa laugh in turn even though she probably had no idea what he was laughing about.

After catching his breath he asked the question that was nagging him."So who are ya really, midget?"

"What dya mean?

"Name, address you know the usual." He tried to say with a casual air, not wanting her to know that he was already running a worldwide face check, it was slow but thorough.

"Well my name is Alyssa Potter and I used to live in Silvercoast, Surrey"

A blue projection showed up in front of Tony making Alyssa gasp with awe, she reached out a hand but pulled it back the last minute.

"Silvercost, Surrey. You sure kiddo?" He swiped the list of neighborhoods in Surrey. There was no Silvercost in Surrey. " Maybe you got the names mixed up? It could be 'Staines' or 'Sunbury' or something.", with a quick action, he made the face search exclusive to Surrey.

"I'm sure! But.." She hesitated a little."I dunno if Silvercost is the same in this world."

Tony's fingers stilled over the projection, "This world?" He swiped away the projection and turned his full attention towards the child. "What in the beautiful clean energy planet are you talking about kid?"

"I am kind of...well...not from here?" She asked stumbling on her words a little then rushed to explain. " I had to leave because if I didn't then my powers would be taken away."

"Not from here." A dark vacuum filled with stars invaded his mind. He managed to suppress the images that were haunting him since the battle a week ago. "What do you mean not from here? Are you an alien or something? Do other planets also have a Surrey?

Alyssa smiled a little, "No, Silly. I am not an alien." Tony breathed out in relief. "I am just from another Earth. An alte-alter-different Earth."

Tony stared at the grinning child. A different Earth. Right. He wondered if she could tell that he didn't believe her, at all. Aliens were one thing. Claiming to be from an alternate universe was a whole another can of worms.

Unfortunately, or fortunately depending on who you ask, Jarvis interrupted any further investigation.

"Sir, Doctor Banner is inquiring to the reason for your sudden exit as well as permission to access the ongoing research."

Oh yeah, Tony had made sure not to tell Bruce what was going on so he had no idea what had happened. It's just that the last thing they needed was for him to go green again.

Tony scoffed, " You can tell Green Bean that he doesn't need to ask permission for anything. And I'll explain everything to him when I come down." Hopefully, Bruce would know what the little girl was talking about. Maybe she was just very imaginative?

"I will let him know, Sir." Then turning his attention back towards the kid, Tony took note of how she was playing with her pendant again. She seemed to do it a lot.

"Okaay I'm gonna be right back kiddo.", he declared standing up and decided to leave before he says something he might regret later.

The kid hmm'd. Right before leaving Tony saw the downcasted eyes and felt something pull at him. With a sigh, he turned around and signaled Jarvis to make a projection available.

The kid's hunched back straightened immediately and with a wide-eyed look, she stared at him in shock.

"Go wild." And with a grin that was returned, Tony stepped into the elevator for the millionth time that day. The day just seemed to stretch on and on.

"What's the ETA on Thor? You said something about him and Barton going after the glowing stick of destiny?"

"No specific time frame was indicated. They came to the conclusion that the scepter might be needed for the trial."

Tony hmm'd distractedly, it explained why Thor wasn't watching his brother but why didn't he appoint someone else in his place?

Something didn't feel right. Someone messed up and he was going to figure out who did.

[swyllh]

junshua: all real values

title: all real values 

premise: junhui can control probabilities. he can’t make boys (like jisoo) fall in love with him.

genre: angst, fluff, modern magical au

wordcount: 4183

ship: junhui x joshua

warnings: implied sexual content

cross-posted on: AFF

"you are the kind of boy that boys will fall in love with. they will fall hard, fast, and short of your every expectation." 

the coin, suspended in mid-air, glints knowingly. this is where he begins, this is where it falls - everything narrows, shrinks, crowds in on this one moment of judgement. the sound of passers-by and irrelevance fade into an inconclusive, bated breath. junhui squints, feels the pounding of blood and instinct in the back of his head. he pushes the thought forward, needling focus into a single, hard point before his eyes. fate, undecided then, twists and tweaks itself accordingly.

"heads," he whispers. the coin slams back down in his palm, yielding.

"you cheated," a girl younger than him cries, and the bubble of miracle splits open - everywhere, sounds and noises come rushing back in. 

a car passes them by in the adjacent road, and a dog is barking fervently. sunlight winks in the periphery of his upward glance, and everything feels right again.

"i didn't," junhui says calmly, pocketing the coin. "i guessed right." 

he's not good at math. the answers are straightforward and stubborn, laid out in the hard, honest strokes before him. the chalk crumbles at his glare, but remains firmly etched on the blackboard. junhui sighs, and raises his shaking hand. someone, qiutong or yanpeng, fakes a cough behind him. his math teacher, an old but humorous man, folds his arms and gazes knowingly at junhui's unmoving figure.

he presses the chalk into the board, and starts writing gibberish. but if he believes it's right, then maybe he'll be spared the extra homework. 

tell me i'm right, he prays, turning over to look at his teacher. the old man lowers his glasses and squints, getting up from the table. things are looking hopeful, and junhui gulps nervously, willing his gift to somehow transcend the laws of this world to spare him for this one period.

"wen junhui," his teacher says slowly - possibly a tone of wonder? - and then clocks him in the head. "don't sleep in class next time."

he goes on his first date in the summer of 2010. it's hot, and sweltering, and chock full of smoke. the fact that he's wearing hand-me-downs and ratty old sneakers doesn't help, but he'll do what he can with it. the popsicle in his hand is melting with a vengeance, but it's a stinging mint that he regrets buying. whatever. he bites into it, relishing the cold and the strange tingling sensitivity it bestows on his gums. 

"wen junhui!" qiutong yells, nervous but brave. "over here, you dummy!"

he turns to where her voice is, and nods his confidence into place. she looks at him appraisingly, and he smiles brighter. qiutong's dressed up much nicer than he is - she's managed to stay sweat-free, a biological victory on her part, and not past the point of overdressing. he thinks he'll be able to get his first kiss by the end of the day. it's not a particularly nice thought, and it leaves a somewhat sour taste in his mouth. but still. he's a teenage boy, and that's what always happens.

she does kiss him, shyly, on the cheek, and he thinks he should have pulled her back for an actual kiss. but he doesn't, and she stays smiling at him while he walks her home. 

summer vacation passes with a rapid, heated succession of sweet nothings and cotton-dry kisses. his fling blurs into a hazy, stifling memory, like deliberately coy touches against his neck. qiutong, still wearing her hair long and sleek in a ponytail, prances into another girlish infatuation with the boy next door. junhui continues reading his comics in class.

but over the summer break, some things have visibly changed. yanpeng, a funny guy who had only reached junhui's nose at best, returned with a tall, lanky frame. he's still the same goofball struggling with the guitar, but this time, there are clusters of girls in quiet amazement when he practices.

his hands have gotten bigger too - his middle finger and thumb are no longer separated when he circles a hand around junhui's loose wrist. 

"heard you went out on a date with qiutong," yanpeng says, wriggling his eyebrows.

It's meant to be a greasy gesture, but it comes off as rougish and playful. junhui licks his lip, caught by the leftover itch of summer.

"yeah."

"lucky bastard," yanpeng exclaims, leaning back in his chair.

his tanned, uneven neck is all hard edges now, leading down into the barely visible hollows of his collarbones. the rest vanishes behind the clean white folds of his shirt. crisp, junhui thinks, almost cool.

yanpeng leans forward, peering into junhui's face. "did you kiss?" 

junhui doesn't trust his voice to speak (it still breaks embarrassingly whenever he's pretending nothing's changing). so instead, he nods, mildly pleased with the effect of this one simple gesture: yanpeng's eyes widen, beautifully bright with awe.

"you lucky bastard," yanpeng says slowly. 

junhui smirks, his ribs threatening to burst under a shameful mix of pleasure and want and guilt. at this distance, he can see the light-brown flecks in yanpeng's eyes, as well as the flutter of each lash. his gaze wanders down in a sinful, vulgar blink, resting on the other boy's pale, chapped lips. 

it's nothing like qiutong's - she had always been wearing those sticky strawberry glosses that clung to his cheeks possessively. and though they were sweet and feminine, she kept reapplying them. eventually those kisses felt like obligations, and the tacky weight of each smack too heavy to bear alongside the summer heat.

"i wonder what it's like to kiss," yanpeng says, leaning in.

junhui suddenly pulls away, and the motion extinguishes a light in yanpeng's eyes. no one speaks. the silence pushes yanpeng back to face his own worksheets, leaving junhui with a devastatingly attractive view of his straightened spine. 

i wonder what it's like to kiss you, junhui had thought. 

in a heartbeat, he hears those words echoed through yanpeng.

the party clamours on; junhui holds the red plastic cup close to his chest, laughing at some beer-soaked joke that's being shared. qiutong is in the corner, whispering in the same low dulcet tones she'd croaked into his ear the last summer. in the narrow span between a failed beer pong toss and the lucky outcome of a bet, jun finds himself finishing the last of the alcoholic infusion.

yanpeng is kissing someone else now. the sight of it - junhui's suddenly pressing a palm to his mouth, overcome by the acrid taste of bile rising up his throat.

don't look at me, he thinks, stumbling back into the counter and then, why don't you look at me like that. please. please. pleasepleaseplease.

yanpeng shifts, pulling away from his first kiss with a dazed look. the universe, morbidly amused, makes him stare unseeingly through junhui. 

junhui bolts out of the house.

the stars, winking fervently, form an intricate carcass against the hollow sky. junhui wipes at his mouth, heaving uselessly. something bubbles at the base of his throat and reduces him into a laughing wreck.

he pulls out a coin, cool against clammy heat of his fingers. it offers no resolution, and is only ever honest in its glossy, half-hearted reflection. he tosses it, right hand moving in a well-practiced flourish. the coin spins into a white glint, suspended in midair, awaiting judgement. 

"heads," he whispers. the coin slams back down in his palm, yielding. 

he moves to seoul in a few years. the language is an assortment of words uncertainly shaped in the same sounds, but his intonation is always just a little off. korean tastes strangely reminiscent on his tongue, like home in an alternate dimension.

he begins with simple odd acts here and there, underlining auditions with a ballpoint pen, circling unknown words and mistaken characters. but his determination to succeed is what pushes him forward - literally. 

a firm handshake, neatly-pressed shirts and a leatherbound will ticking against his wrist - he wants, he wills. 

it's how he meets jeonghan. the shoot is less moving than he'd expected; when they bring out the cameras and leave the recording mics behind, junhui starts to feel a little worried. but he's immediately overwhelmed by someone entering the room, and can't help but turn around.

the man, glowing and eternally understanding, graces him with a smile - one that forgave all of his misconducts and unfortunate kisses. redemption, too easily earned and hardly ever well-deserved, glides towards junhui in a couple of strides. even the taste of his name on junhui's lips is a refreshing gift. 

"yoon jeonghan," jeonghan had introduced himself. "you must be junhui."

junhui takes his hand, compelled. "yes." 

(something fizzles, pulses, stings just right - jeonghan's eyes light up, mirroring his own.)

in a matter of minutes, he's agreed to move in with jeonghan and his family. 

family is a pretty broad way of phrasing it - from chan to mingyu, the boys have absolutely nothing in common. that is, until junhui sets his bag down in his room, and is immediately accosted by eleven new faces. seungkwan's the first to arrive, his bright, glossy face in a face mask and cucumbers in either hand. 

"you must be junhui!" seungkwan coos.

jeonghan sighs, and gives them a look. "really, seungkwan? you had to get the whole house up and moving at eleven?"

seungkwan startles, and turns to face ten other faces. "no, that wasn't me! i wouldn't have brought them."

at this, chan awkwardly raises his hand. "i think it was you, jeonghan-hyung."

"yeah," seungcheol confirms, wrapping an arm around jeonghan's waist. he presses his face into jeonghan's shoulder, sighing. 

"sorry," jeonghan says, though it's more towards seungcheol than anyone else. "anyway, this is wen junhui."

there are introductions, and the same fizzle runs through the room. junhui knows there's something different in this house, but he just can't place his finger on it. minghao, the only other one speaking mandarin, sits him down, and shoos everyone else out the room. jeonghan retreats, kindly shutting the door behind him; if not for that pointed gesture, he might have felt compelled to follow him, too.

"jeonghan-hyung is very attractive," minghao says, matter-of-factly. "i remember things. you?"

"what?"

minghao shrugs. "everyone in this house has a gift - vernon can heal cuts and bruises, seungkwan is sensitive to the space around him... things like that."

"oh," junhui says weakly. "that makes sense."

minghao's expression softens, if only minutely. "it's alright, we take care of each other here."

junhui, silent for a moment, finally says, "i believe you."

the same current jolts down his arm, and leaps in avid, endless circles around his room. minghao, stunned, stares at him with his mouth agape. 

"does jeonghan-hyung know about this?"

jun shrugs. "he knows there was something, i don't think he knows what it exactly is."

"it's not safe," minghao says quickly. 

"not if i will it to," jun bites back with equal fervour. "and i will."

minghao stares at him, eyes darting to his packed, singular luggage and the newly-furnished room. there must be something that's won his approval, or at least his pity, and so he nods, jutting his chin out sharply and downwards. he raises a finger and taps his temple.

"i'll hold you to that."

probability is a game; junhui has mastered it. each morning when he wakes, he watches the shadows of leaves dance on the ceiling. from there on, he wonders how his day will go, counting the forks in his path: the shared bathroom will be empty, there will be just enough milk for his cereal in the fridge, the train will be right there when he reaches the platform... he could go on forever, count every variable of free will in the deterministic universe. the coin will always yield; the chances stacked in his favour. the odds of every event falls prey to a binomial distribution - it will, or it won't. 

but junhui always wills. he has to. 

seungcheol and jeonghan are exchanging delicious, intimate words in the living room after a particularly rousing dinner routine; mingyu's outdone himself this time. junhui sits by the kitchen counter, and scrolls through his phone. minghao's reading a book next to him. he doesn't know exactly what it is, but something makes him look up.

the sight freezes him: jisoo, jaw tight, is burdened with the strangest succession of emotions on his face. junhui follows his gaze and finds that it lands on jeonghan.

junhui knows it. even at this distance, he can taste the sour, acrid taste in the hollows of his cheek. 

and then jisoo is looking straight at him, eyes wide. junhui takes it as a cue to leave. he stumbles out of the barstool, and rushes back to his room. in the darkness of the stairs, he wonders if someone, anyone in this house is hiding in the black spots of the hallway, listening to the uneven pounding of his heart. he hates being so transparent, so easily read - jisoo had probably felt something, and found a single name curled up behind junhui's facade. 

it hurts, still hurts. he doesn't know if it will ever go away.

(he wants it to, he doesn't want it to)

"junhui?" jisoo's voice is behind him, and an extra pair of feet are padding along the corridor. "junhui."

"yes?" he's glad his voice doesn't crack now.

he turns around to see jisoo, whose face is flushed and marred by worry. 

"please don't tell anyone," jisoo whispers. 

junhui stops in his tracks. "what?"

"just now," jisoo says. "you saw."

it hits him - he had recognised himself in jisoo just then, which means...

pressing his lips together, junhui walks over to his room and pushes the door open. 

"let's talk inside."

jisoo, slightly chastened, enters his room. junhui slips in after him, locking the door behind them. he can't say he's not taken aback - jisoo, one of the older boys, has always been a picture of unmoved tact and poise. now, however, he's worrying his lip and sitting on junhui's bed. junhui settles down beside him, leaving a polite distance between them. 

"it's ironic," jisoo says first, "that someone so attuned to other people's emotions is betrayed by their own."

junhui doesn't know what to say to that.

"i like him," jisoo whispers, soft but firm. junhui is envious of that - confidence is often too loud. "i like him so much, junhui."

"how long?" junhui wants to slap himself for the question.

jisoo takes it in stride. "a while. since i met him. i don't know."

junhui knows what he means. the room, too large for this silence, shifts in and out of focus. 

"i had a - someone i liked," junhui says. "he almost kissed me."

the admission feels more like a confession of guilt. but saying it aloud emboldens him; he takes a coin out of his pocket and makes an unnecessary gesture to show it off. jisoo leans forward, drawn in by the magic trick (or the sudden stir of regret in junhui's chest). 

"heads or tails?" junhui asks. 

jisoo shrugs. "tails."

"heads," junhui says, and tosses it. 

the coin lands. junhui doesn't need to peek to tell he's right. the point's been made anyway - jisoo's solemn now, catlike eyes glowing in the dimly lit room. 

"i pulled him into it," junhui says, "and i pulled us out of it."

the thing about guilt is, the longer you keep it, the more attached you become to it. you think yourself special for it, and let it guide you around; a stockholm prisoner, chasing blindly after the vivid blaze of uneasy heat and stealthy fear. it grows greedily, gaudily, like a precious little secret to be hoarded. 

junhui finds himself casually, carelessly glancing at jisoo. the many innocent gazes exchanged morph instantly into a confirmation of their individual crimes. in many ways, junhui feels like an accomplice, picking out the way jisoo is so readily attuned to jeonghan. to the common eye, it would just be a side-effect of their gifts - jeonghan is a steady force of attraction that demands; jisoo is too emotionally available for his own good.

junhui learns to read jisoo - he doesn't cringe, much less frown. the only indicator of hurt and heartbreak is the small, wrinkly smile toying on his lips and a strained silence to mimic calmness. something about discovering this makes him pleased, as though it confirms his own nagging discomfort. 

(that, and the fact that it's getting harder for him to keep his eyes off jisoo.)

junhui doesn't mean to, but he overhears a fragment of a conversation. he's almost done getting dressed and leaving his room, when jeonghan's voice, meek and confused, slips into his room.

"do you ever hate what you have?" 

there's a pause. "yeah, it's tiring."

it's jisoo. 

"it is, but everyone's dealing with it." jeonghan pauses for a moment, and when he speaks again, it's fraught with doubt so unlike him. "shua, do you think seungcheol...?"

"he does."

"how do you know it's real?"

"it is."

he finds jisoo in his room later, sipping on a cup of tea. jisoo answers only on the third knock, eyes rubbed raw. his shoulders fall at the sight of junhui, and the faltering excuses shed themselves almost immediately. jisoo paces back to his bed, and rearranges the pillows around him.

"i heard," jun says, honest, "what you and jeonghan-hyung talked about in the hallway. i'm sorry."

"it's alright."

junhui joins him on the bed. "you okay?"

"never been better," jisoo jokes, holding out a hand.

junhui takes it. "you're really strong, hyung."

"i'm not," jisoo denies, still smiling despite the puffy eyes. "i'm really not."

junhui shakes his head. "i think you are."

jisoo exhales shakily. 

"believe me," junhui says, earnest. 

when jisoo fixes his gaze on him, junhui suddenly gets an urge to pull out his coin and prove something, anything - he'll spin possibilities out of nothing for jisoo, build an entirely new universe to house jisoo's inexhaustible heart. 

"i trust you," jisoo says, squeezing junhui's hand. 

junhui wakes up to an uncomfortable chill pooling around his shorts. his neck is hot, sweaty, and longing for a second more of dream-jisoo's caress. 

jisoo. dream. kisses. 

junhui sits right up, and fumbles to get the incriminating, tainted pair of shorts off him. in the shower, he turns the temperature down to the lowest, and scrubs at his skin till it turns a shameful red.

"jeonghan-hyung's gone," minghao says to him in the morning. 

"what?"

minghao looks concerned, but jisoo's hand falls on his shoulder in a comforting gesture. "he'll be fine; seungcheol said to leave him alone."

jisoo doesn't seem to think so - the twitch of his eye, a grim look poised over his face and the stiff, strained hand on minghao's shoulder... junhui wets his lip and swallows, mind wandering to trace the contours of jisoo's hand. he knows it's a good, steady weight, and jisoo's got long fingers as a guitar player. 

"junhui?" minghao asks. "you okay?"

junhui doesn't trust himself to speak. but jisoo is watching, and the thought of jisoo catching on sends a confusing thrill down his spine.

"check his fanbase's twitter," junhui offers. "i'll talk to the photographers we know."

he grabs his leather jacket, and hops off the barstool at the kitchen counter. as he's about to leave the penthouse, jisoo's hand circles around his wrist. junhui panics, stilling completely. but jisoo's too absorbed in his worry for jeonghan, and misses this.

"thank you, junhui," jisoo says, sincere - knowing the depth of jisoo's feelings for jeonghan makes junhui want to cry, or throw up, he doesn't know which.

so he says, "trust me.",  if only to hear the three words again.

"i trust you," dream-jisoo had whispered into the crook of his neck. 

real-jisoo had just smiled and said, "ten years isn't long when it's with yoon jeonghan."

wonwoo finds his lost keys one day, and knocks politely on his door. when junhui opens it, wonwoo's stonily standing there, keys in his outstretched hand.

"i think you lost these," wonwoo says, features softening. "they were in the shoerack."

"thank you, wonwoo," junhui says, and then adds teasingly, "you're such a keeper."

wonwoo flushes, but smiles anyway. "i'm good at this anyway."

sunlight filters in through the windows and hits the rim of wonwoo's circular glasses just right. he's goodlooking, there's no denying that. junhui plays with his keys, drawing for time, trying to picture wonwoo in place of jisoo in one of his less ridiculous dreams. 

(it still involves a great deal of kissing though.)

"um, junhui?"

"oh," junhui says. "oh, sorry, i just zoned out."

wonwoo laughs, a warm chuckle. "yeah, minghao says you've been doing that a lot."

"thanks, though," junhui grins back, embarrassed. 

there's a creak, and both junhui and wonwoo turn to see jisoo hastily trying to close his door. jisoo jumps, as though caught redhanded for some reason. 

"hey," jisoo says, biting his lip. "sorry for interrupting. i didn't mean to eavesdrop-"

"oh, no," wonwoo says. "i'm going back to my room anyway. bye, junhui, don't lose anymore things."

junhui rolls his eyes, and playfully replies, "you'll always find it for me."

wonwoo shuffles off to his room, shaking his head. junhui's tacky, exaggerated smirk is stuck on his face, until he sees jisoo's expression. there's that same small smile on his lips that doesn't quite reach his eyes. jisoo swallows, his arm limp against his side. then, catching junhui's gaze, quickly flashes him a smile before shutting the door completely.

save for the guitar playing, jisoo is nothing like yanpeng. 

junhui's only memory of yanpeng spans across the awkward adolescent summer of 2010 - the uncomfortable chafe of starched collar, limbs too long and excited boyish smiles. with jisoo, however, there's only the thought of cool, breezy quiet and long, yearning talks in hushed whispers. there's also the occasional hand holding and heads-on-shoulders, but junhui tries not to indulge himself beyond reason. 

jisoo is kind, pliant, and overly generous. he's a good person, really, but he's always catching junhui unawares with his friendliness. it leaves junhui wanting, and trying so hard not to will it to happen. jisoo is no coin, much less a hot-headed experiment for the sake of curiosity.

junhui holds back, tossing pennies in the air and catching them before they can yield to his command.

the day jeonghan returns, abashed and exhausted, junhui's at the door, mildly spiteful; jisoo looks relieved to see jeonghan, and physically delivers him into seungcheol's waiting arms. junhui knows it's childish, knows it's terrible of him to be irked that jeonghan's back - a part of him is soothed now that their resident angel is back, but still.

minghao pulls him away, glaring. "wen junhui."

"what is it, hao?"

"you're not exactly being discreet."

junhui shrugs. "i haven't done anything."

"of course you haven't," minghao says, rolling his eyes. "what was that with jeonghan-hyung?"

junhui shakes off minghao's grasp. "i'll tell mingyu to cook up something for tonight then."

it's the worst idea he could have. there's something eeriely reminiscent of the way jeonghan and seungcheol are curled up on the couch, lost in their own world. junhui's just done with the dishes - he had been avoiding minghao's rebuke - and stepping out of the kitchen. 

he spots a familiar figure near the dining table staring over at jeonghan. 

it's jisoo. jisoo is looking in jeonghan's direction, a small smile on his lips- something in junhui snaps, like a dam bursting apart, acrid bitterness flooding through him. his hand mechanically rises up to cover his mouth, overwhelmed.

don't look at me, junhui thinks, please, please, please, why don't you look at me like that?

jisoo's head turns towards him instantly. junhui barely registers anything before jisoo's hand is wrapped around his wrist, guiding him back to his room. they stumble awkwardly through the hallway, familiar but still unused to the dark. 

in the safety of his room, jisoo's grasp suddenly feels like a morbid reminder of all his dreams. he tries to shake it off, and jisoo lets him, if only to cup his face.

"junhui," jisoo whispers, "i'm going to do something. stop me if you don't want this."

jisoo moves forward, and presses his lips against junhui's. it's everything jisoo is - kind, soft, pliant, and generous. junhui stills, struck by the strange, giddy feeling of redemption, or something better. and then he pushes back, hand tangled in jisoo's shirt, insatiable heart going want, want, want. 

(something fizzles, pulses, stings just right.)

when jisoo pulls away, eyes gentle and bright, junhui feels the rush of spring bloom in the tiny, tentative space between them. he moves in, guided by jisoo's fingers rubbing circles on his jaw, and learns to savour the taste of new beginnings in the quiet murmur of his name.

[paxetamara-blog]

RUNES, ALPHABET OF MYSTERY Rune casting RUNECASTING - DIVINATION "Divination - regardless of the tools - works because in the system one is using the individual card/hexagram/rune etc. represent the whole in some unified way. At the moment of 'random' mixing, because of intent, the cards order themselves to mirror the reality of the querier." Sig Lonegren (Sig@geomancy.org), author of The Pendulum Kit and books on dowsing, labyrinths, and sacred geometry. Visit his site at http://www.geomancy.org 1. Runecasting Techniques Runic divination, "runecasting", is not "fortune telling". Runecasting works deeply with the subconscious. The rune pouch with its runic symbols represents the entire universe. As one poses a question, one's entire conscious and unconscious mind is focused toward that question, so that the runelots selected are not truly random selections, but rather choices made by the subconscious. Runecraft operates on an ancient form of psychology. Even back in Viking times, there was a remarkable understanding of the human psyche. They recognized cause and effect, and the interconnectedness of all things. The word to describe this interconnectedness was "wyrd", which was eventually perverted into the modern meaning of "weird". It did not originally mean something unusual or strange. Rather, it referred to the far-reaching effects of that which one does. The concept of "fate" was also not as we know it now. Instead of a helpless predestination, "fate" meant a destiny created by one's earlier actions. Wyrd was pictured as a web, like that of a spider. The symbology is excellent. When the spider steps onto a thread (a path) the vibrations affect the entire web and that which is contained within the web, just as our actions affect our immediate world and those around us, and the actions of others affect our lives. When one does a runic reading, one usually addresses a particular issue, and examines the past, the present and the "future", or rather "what will be if one follows the path one appears to be on". The future is always perceived as mutable, changeable. The runic reading is done as an evaluation process, not as fortunetelling. One has an opportunity to look at what has occurred in the past (regarding the issue being questioned), what is occurring right now, and what direction one is headed. A runecaster does not see the future. He/she examines cause and effect and points out a likely outcome. Not exactly occult, is it? It's not supernatural and it's not very mysterious--although the uninitiated considered it a delving into mystery, much like a patient of a psychiatrist might. It's certainly not magical or demonic. Instead it is a methodology for examining the path one is on and what the effects might be, by making use of one's subconscious (i.e. an "intuitive perception"), unfettered by limited conscious belief systems. Dowsing, or "divination" by bent stick or pendulum is similar. It is not supernatural. It is, again, a manifestation of one's subconscious. All "intuitive perception" is such. Nothing magical about it, merely a means of awakening one's right-brain. 2. How to do a Runecasting Find a suitable place to do the reading. You do not want to be disturbed. Try to sit facing North if possible, the direction of the Gods in Norse mythology. Place a small white cloth on the surface in front of you. You work with the runes on this cloth. This cloth protects them from getting dirty and also forms the boundary for the casting. Carefully form a question in your mind. Take your time doing this, as it is very important that you do not change the question midway through the reading. Once you have the question firmly fixed in your mind begin to gently mix the runes in their bag or container. Continue to mix the runes until you feel compelled to take up certain rune lots. (This is why it is important that the rune lots be of the same shape and size: so that you can't identify each rune by shape.) Continue to stir and select lots until you have the correct number of runes in front of you for the layout you will be using. Keep track of the order in which the runes were pulled, laying them in their proper position in the layout as you pull them. You can use any Tarot layout, or one of the methods described below. Runes are oracles, and oracles are often obscure. Each rune can mean many different things. It is up to the runecaster to decide how these meanings apply to the question at hand. You may get even deeper interpretations through your own "gut" reactions to the rune's definition. However, don't delude yourself in thinking that you have a completely different understanding of the cast than indicated by the traditional interpretations. Stick to the recognized interpretations, but learn to expand on their meanings through insight and meditation. 3. Simple Castings Here is one way I do a rune casting. I reach into my rune bag, stir them around a bit and pick up a bunch. I "cast" them onto a white cloth, and see how the symbols land. Some will be face down and I ignore them. If a rune is upright, it has a certain meaning. If a rune is upside down, it has a different meaning. The combination of the visible runes affects the interpretation. Sometimes the runes "sing" to me and the answer to the question is instantly clear. Here are the three non-structured castings I use most frequently. On another page I'll describe some formal "layouts" to be used for runecasting. 4. Casting the Norns The Norns are the Norse goddesses of fate. Urdh was the goddess of the past, or what has been. Verdhandi is the goddess of the present, what is. Skuld is the goddess of the future, or what shall be. Fate or wyrd was a very important factor in the psychology of the ancients. A Norns cast is very simple, consisting of three runes, drawn one at a time from the rune pouch and laid in a row. If face down, flip them over as if turning the pages of a book. The first rune represents the past of the situation in question. The second indicates the present, the path that the querier is currently on. The third suggests the future, a likely outcome if one continues on the present path. This lovely representation of the Norns was created by Paul Dempsey. Used with permission of the artist. © 1994, Paul Dempsey. All rights reserved. 5. Nine-Runes Cast "This method will give a detailed overview of a person's situation, providing insight into where they are in terms of their spiritual path, and clarifying the options and possible outcomes available to them. Nine is a magical number in Norse mythology. Pick nine runes at random from the pouch. Hold them between your hands for a moment, and focus on your question (if you have one). Then scatter the runes on the table, floor, or cloth if you have one. Read the runes which land face up first. These will relate to the current situation and the circumstances which led to it. How the runes are read is largely subjective, but in general, runes lying in the center are the most immediately relevant, while those lying around the edges are less important, or represent more general influences. "Runes that are close together or even touching often compliment each other, or may even represent a single thing, while runes which fall on opposite sides of the pattern frequently represent opposing influences. Occasionally, a rune will land completely off the cloth or fall off the table. Some people consider such runes to be particularly significant, while others ignore them completely. "Once you have looked at the runes which landed face up (and remembered which ones they are), turn over the rest of the runes without moving them from their positions. These represent outside or future influences, and will point to possible outcomes. It is up to you to decide what the various positions and patterns in a reading mean, but once you have come up with a few general rules, try to stick with them. As I have said before, consistency is very important. However, rune readings by their nature are very fluid, subjective things. Try not to impose too much order on your readings by inventing set meanings for every triangle, square and tetrahedron. Runes are like people - you never know how they will get along together until you introduce them. Look at the patterns and relationships that appear in each reading and see what interpretations make sense to you." from Runic Journey by Jennifer Smith. 6. Casting on the Ground Rune-tines (such as twigs or popsicle sticks on which the rune symbols are inscribed) work best for casting on the ground. I use these simply by tossing all 24 onto the ground and read the runes which land upright, in the positions in which they land. Their relative positions give their relations. For example, if two upright runes are close or touching and lying nearly parallel, then the runes are related. If they cross, then they are in opposition. There are obviously many degrees of this, and you also have to consider groups of runes, and ones which are far away, and the general direction. This technique relies heavily on intuition, since it doesn't have a spread to lay the runes in, like tarot would use. Between 4 and 8 runes generally land upright, which is about right for most inquiries.

[kiribakus]

yes, you say you’d like to || kiribaku week 2017

kiribaku || 5,800 words || semi-nsfw || for @kiribakuweek2k17

“You’re a popsicle biter, you fucking animal,” Bakugou says.

“You’re not?” Kirishima says around a mouthful of ice cream.

“No,” Bakugou says. “I prefer my teeth unfrozen, thanks.” He wraps his mouth around the popsicle and Kirishima realizes his mistake very, very quickly.

day one: studying / summer / anger

>> READ ON AO3 <<

Kirishima thought it would be a good idea to invite his squad to the beach. Just him, Kaminari, Mina, and Sero hanging out; maybe they’d pick up a watermelon on the way. Kaminari had a big umbrella, Mina had extra beach towels, and Sero’s mom made the best snacks. Kirishima still had a volleyball and net from middle school. The net had some tears and was probably a bit too short, and there wasn’t a chance in hell that Sero wouldn’t cheat, but they could still relax and let loose. Heavens knew they weren’t getting any rest being run ragged by the hero offices they were interning under.

But of course, Kaminari never went anywhere without Jirou, so she was added to the list. Fine. Jirou would bring an old boombox and promised to DJ. But Jirou couldn’t keep secrets from Yaoyorozu, who Kirishima then felt compelled to invite, who in turn accepted and cancelled study plans with Iida, who in turn mentioned the beach day to Uraraka and Midoriya, who naturally told Tsuyu and Todoroki. With eleven of their old class invited, it seemed douchey not to invite the rest of 1-A and that’s how Kirishima found himself in charge of a class reunion rather than a simple outing. But even with the rest of their class finding their own rides, that made eleven interested parties trying to fit in Kirishima’s van that fit eight.

At least Todoroki offered to take Midoriya on his motorcycle (but when the hell did Todoroki get a motorcycle?), so Kirishima could force the girls to squish together in the back. Kaminari—the traitor—called shotgun and promised to pay gas money, so Kirishima couldn’t be all that mad at him. He could manage this, with everyone bringing something to eat. He could manage it until—

“What the hell? And I wasn’t invited?”

“Must be your wonderful personality working its magic,” Jirou snipes Bakugou on the way to lunch. Kirishima feels his stomach drop to his feet. How had he heard?

“Actually, it’s pretty weird that he wouldn’t invite you,” Kaminari says. “I only mentioned it because I thought you’d turned it down.”

Kaminari. That traitor.

“Like hell I want to rub shoulders with you snotlickers any more than I have to,” Bakugou snaps. “I wouldn’t go even if he did invite me.”

Ah, he’s done it now. Put Bakugou on defensive mode. Kirishima’s gotta talk his way out of this one. “It’s not—don’t take it the wrong way,” Kirishima calls out. The group turns to look at him, Jirou’s mouth in an ‘o,’ and Kaminari unable to meet Kirishima’s eyes. But Kirishima doesn’t have time to chew him out.

“I want you to come,” Kirishima says. “Of course I do. I just thought—that composition we have coming up. You said you needed to focus this weekend. I didn’t want to, you know, tempt you away from your holy shrine of focus or—”

“You’re the one who needs to focus, numbnuts!” Bakugou snaps. “I could write that composition in my sleep. You’re the one who needs to worry and you’re kicking it at the seaside! Worry about me? Ha!”

Kirishima smiles. “I supposed my worry was all for naught. Well then, Bakugou, would you like to come with us? Shotgun’s free.” Kaminari protests and Kirishima stomps on his foot.

“I only ride shotgun,” Bakugou says. “Better fucking be free.” Then he turns on his heel and marches off towards the cafeteria.

Kirishima waits until Bakugou is out of earshot, then socks Kaminari in the arm.

“Ow! What the hell, man?” Kaminari yelps.

“You know what that was for,” Kirishima says.

Jirou twirls her earjack. “Thought we were one person overbooked already.”

“Yeah!” Kaminari says, scowling. “How was I supposed to know you didn’t invite him? Given that you're fucking wh—”

Kirishima smacks a hand over Kaminari’s mouth. “Dude, do you ever keep people’s secrets?”

Jirou looks between them, raises her eyebrows, and looks away. “Ooookay,” she says. “I think I know what’s going on here. And I don’t want any part of it.” She walks ahead of them.

Sighing, Kirishima resigns himself to a life of suffering.

---------------------------------

As his friends pile out of the dorms, the boys in board shorts and the girls in bikinis wrapped in sundresses, Kirishima presses his forehead against the steering wheel and thinks about what a bad best friend Kaminari is.

If Kaminari hadn’t mentioned this outing to Jirou, Kirishima would still have the will to live. Because once Jirou told Yaoyorozu and this whole thing spiraled out of control, it was impossible that Bakugou would not find out. And Bakugou, out of spite alone, would definitely want to come to the beach.

Meaning that Kirishima’s life was over.

The worst part is, Kaminari knew! Kaminari knew how Kirishima felt about Bakugou, particularly Bakugou shirtless and dripping with sweat, the heaving of his chest as he chased after a volleyball or the bunching of his thighs as he prepared to spike. A hand brushing back through spiky blond hair, untamed even after swimming in the ocean, a trickle of water running down a pec, turning pink under the sun…

Kirishima is a simple gay man. A simple gay man with a big, fat crush.

The last thing he needs is Bakugou shirtless in the sun, when Kirishima is thirsty enough from the heat. He is not willing to pop a boner because he wrestled with Bakugou for the ball or they were having a splashing contest and Bakugou ended up laughing or something. Kirishima refuses to let the contents of his fantasies get any wilder because when it came to Bakugou there’s always a lot of contact and physicality involved and Kirishima is already so, so weak as it is.

Still, this is Kirishima’s reality now, so he needs to face it with a clear mind and a head held high. The girls are the first out of the dorms, splitting up with Tooru, taking Ojiro’s car. They wave and then move towards Kirishima’s van. He hops out and offers to help pack their beach bags. They’re all very cute and Kirishima sends a small prayer of thanks that Mineta was too sick to make it to their outing.

“Oh!” Uraraka says. “This is your van, Kirishima?”

Kirishima nods and pats the baby blue door. “Yep, she’s all mine! A bit beat up on the outside and not as tidy as she could be on the inside, but she’ll get us there.” Even with her paint chipping and the engine’s slight whine when he started her up, Kirishima loved his van.

The girls pile into the back, having no problem squishing an extra body into the back, but it wasn’t the girls Kirishima was particularly worried about. Jirou volunteers to be the odd one out, probably going to sit in Kaminari’s lap or something equally revolting. Iida's next, with Midoriya and Todoroki trailing, heading off to Todoroki's bike.

And then, “Oi.”

Kirishima turns away from his conversation with Tsuyu about a swimming competition to cross his arms over the edge of his window and stick his head out the window. “Why, hello there, handsome.”

Bakugou is wearing a black tank with an orange and yellow Hawaiian shirt and black swim trunks patterned with explosions. Not a single tit or nip to be seen. Kirishima feels relief settle over his shoulders and he tilts his head, grinning at Bakugou.

“You better not be wearing that stupid hat when you drive,” Bakugou says. “It’s dangerous.”

“Of course not,” Kirishima says, knocking back his straw hat. The tie latches it around his neck, hanging down his back. “Can I offer a beautiful stranger such as yourself a ride?”

“You’re so fucking weird,” Bakugou says. His eyes flicker over Kirishima and the van and he scowls harder.

“Something wrong, sugarlips?”

“Call me anything but my name and I’ll blow your balls off,” Bakugou says. Huffing, he hoists his beach bag further up his shoulder. “Your van doesn’t match your hair, fuckface. It’s weird.”

He marches around the front of the van as the rest of the crew shows up. He slams the door after he climbs in and immediately slouches, kicking off his sandals and propping his feet up on the dash, poking the glass with his toes. Kirishima notices him buckle himself in, though, and he grins. Good to the core, Bakugou was. He can almost hear Kaminari’s voice in his head, you mean rotten to the core.

“Alright, we ready to go?” Kirishima asks. He’s answered by a roar of cheers.

Even though the ride to the beach isn’t long, chaos ensues the whole way. Sero ends up squished between Iida and Kaminari, while Kaminari leans into Jirou, getting stabbed by her earjacks every time he tries to touch her thigh. The girls chat and giggle over the sound of the radio that Kaminari and Sero keep getting Bakugou to change. Bakugou, unmoved by their pleading, makes one attempt to change the station, ends up blasting static, and promptly gives up. When Kirishima tries to change it himself, Bakugou yells at him to keep his eyes on the road. Every now and then, Iida tries to calm everyone down so that Kirishima can focus, while Kirishima spends the entirety of the ride trying to figure out how to get Bakugou in his van again.

They’re the third party to the beach, Ojiro, Tooru, Shouji, and Tokoyami having secured an empty space for all their umbrellas and towels, and Midoriya and Todoroki having set up their own little corner off to the side. Midoriya's rubbing sun lotion on his stomach and Todoroki's back and Kirishima has to swallow and look away. While some people (Kaminari) might enjoy having hot classmates, others (Kirishima) would rather be able to look them in the eyes without having their eyes immediately drop to their chests.

“Kirishima!” Mina calls. “Let’s set up the volleyball net!”

And for a while, Kirishima doesn’t have to think about anything. He sets up the net with Mina and Shouji, then immediately gets pulled into a game of beach volleyball. He sheds his shirt, to whistles from Jirou and Kaminari, who he flips off with a smile. He and Mina make a kickass team against Sero and Iida, although he would swear that some of Iida's saves were inhumanly fast or that he saw a flash of tape. When they come up against Shouji’s height and limbs, however, they’re outmatched in a second, even if Tokoyami isn’t that athletic. Kirishima high fives Midoriya as he and Todoroki tag in.

Soaked in sweat and sand places the sun don’t shine, Kirishima heads for the water, yipping at the cold of the water even well into summer. He joins up with Tsuyu and Uraraka, floating and trying to sink each other. Kirishima challenges Tsuyu to a body-surfing competition and, predictably, loses miserably.

“It was a nice try,” Tsuyu says. Uraraka throws her arms around Tsuyu’s neck and hangs from her.

“Shouldn’t try to best a frog in water, huh?” Kirishima says. “Still, this is the ocean; I thought I had a chance.”

“Very foolish, Kirishima-chan,” Tsuyu says.

Kirishima sighs and flops back in the water. “I wish we could come out here every day.”

“Me too,” Uraraka says. “Maybe if we beg Aizawa-sensei…?”

“Not a chance,” Tsuyu says. “Distractions are ‘illogical.’”

“Speaking of distractions,” Uraraka says. She sinks into the water. “Don’t look now, but someone has eyes on you.”

It takes Kirishima a moment to realize she’s talking to him. “Me?” he says, pointing to himself.

“Shh,” Uraraka hisses. “Yes, you. Your two o’clock. Make it look natural.”

Sitting up, Kirishima lets his gaze wander slowly down the beach, trying not to be obvious about looking for his watcher. He passes by the area Uraraka had mentioned but doesn’t see anyone—oh! They lock eyes for just an instant, but then his eyes are hidden by a book under the shade of an umbrella. Kirishima blinks.

“I think that’s my cue to leave, ladies,” Kirishima says.

“Knock him dead,” Tsuyu says. “If he doesn’t beat you to it.”

Kirishima jogs out of the water and up the sand to the gathering of umbrellas. Yaoyorozu and Jirou are also reading together. Iida is napping in the sand with his head propped up on a beach towel while Midoriya and Todoroki cover him with sand. Midoriya is in the process of creating a lovely mermaid tail for his friend while Todoroki sculpts a massive pair of jugs on Iida's chest with careful hands. Kirishima is laughing by the time he reaches Bakugou's umbrella, Bakugou pointedly not-looking at him.

He topples onto the beach towel next to Bakugou, flicking sand and seawater on him in the process. Bakugou flinches and snarls. “Get out of here, asshole! You’re dirtying up everything!”

Kirishima rolls his eyes. “It’s the beach, honey. Everything gets dirty.” To prove his point, he kicks a bit of sand onto Bakugou's foot. Bakugou smacks him with the book he’s reading. He flicks a little more sand. Bakugou hits him again. Kirishima goes flick a little more sand, and ends up kicking a whole bunch over a sand-free Bakugou. Oops.

This time Bakugou scrambles to a sitting position, swearing and raising one palm, explosions crackling from it, and secures an attempting to flee Kirishima’s shoulder with his other hand. He makes as if to punch Kirishima in the chest, but hesitates even as Kirishima hardens his front. Bakugou's eyes flicker up and down Kirishima’s chest for just a moment before he sets his shoulders and flops back down, muttering, “Not even worth it.”

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Wait just a second. What was that? Kirishima can feel his heart thrumming against his rib cage and he turns on his side, eyes wide as he looks at Bakugou. He didn’t imagine that. Bakugou gave him a once-over. Bakugou checked him out.

“Dude,” Kirishima says. “My manliness a little too much for you?”

“Why don’t you tie a stone around your neck and take a swim?” Bakugou suggests through gritted teeth, staring hard at his book.

“I understand my bod can be a little overwhelming sometimes,” Kirishima says, running a hand through his hair. “But no need to be jealous of these tight pecs; you’re fine enough on your own.”

“I’m what,” Bakugou says.

“I mean,” Kirishima says, swallowing. “In a strength test you’re going down against my guns, but you’re not too shabby yourself, is what I—is what I meant to say.”

Bakugou fixes him with a murderous look. “You’ve got two seconds to convince me not to blow a hole in your stomach.”

“Oi, everyone!” Sero calls from over the ice chest. “Popsicles!”

Kirishima tilts his head to the side. “I’ll get you some ice cream?”

Bakugou wrinkles his nose, but snaps his book back open. “Red.”

“Dude, seriously? Everyone knows blue is where it’s at.”

“Oh. My God,” Bakugou says, throwing his hands up. “Can you just leave?”

Kirishima grins and salutes him, rolling off the towel and joining the scurry to get ice cream. He holds up two fingers and Sero procures a red and a blue popsicle from the ice chest. They’re cold and wet with condensation as Kirishima trots back to the safety of Bakugou's umbrella, the rest of their friends settling around them under their respective umbrellas. He tosses the red one at Bakugou who snatches it out of the air.

“One red, coming right up,” Kirishima says, throwing himself next to Bakugou, their shoulders brushing. Bakugou grunts and sits up, tearing off the packaging with his teeth. It makes Kirishima’s heart skip a little, but all of this is manageable. It’s the ideal, actually—sitting with Bakugou at the beach, Bakugou covered up and Kirishima’s dick in his pants. And now they had ice cream.

He takes a bite out of the popsicle, crunching on the sugary ice, and hears Bakugou make a disgusted noise next to him. Kirishima raises an eyebrow.

“You’re a popsicle biter, you fucking animal,” Bakugou says.

“You’re not?” Kirishima says around a mouthful of ice cream.

“No,” Bakugou says. “I prefer my teeth unfrozen, thanks.” He wraps his mouth around the popsicle and Kirishima realizes his mistake very, very quickly.

Kirishima’s fantasies weren’t especially adventurous. Ever since the rescue he’d had this thing for imagining holding Bakugou's hand, so there was that. But he hadn’t even thought too in-depth about kissing, let alone…that. But even if he was out of practice, Kirishima was still a healthy, horny, eighteen-year-old boy and the love of his life was doing some unmentionable things with that popsicle.

In order to quell the thrumming under Kirishima’s skin and the racing of his heart, he looks away, pointedly. But that only works so long when Bakugou slurps at the ice cream and Kirishima just has to see what he’s doing.

If only he’d just lick at it. But no, Bakugou wraps his whole mouth around the ice cream bar, dragging his lips across it slowly and lapping at any juice that might try to escape. He whittles down the width of the popsicle, bobbing his head, and Kirishima has to look away again. When he glances back, Bakugou's running his tongue along the length of the popsicle, staring into the distance. A single droplet of red trickles down the corner of his mouth and Kirishima imagines pressing his mouth to the underside of Bakugou's chin, chasing that droplet to its source and kissing—

Bakugou snaps his jaw down around the popsicle and cleaves it in half. Kirishima starts and has to pretend to not be watching.

Bakugou chews the ice cream. “Hmm, not bad.” He takes bites out of the rest of his ice cream and Kirishima doesn’t have the balls to look at him again. When they finish, Bakugou chews on the popsicle stick, baring his teeth. The color from the ice cream stains his teeth and lips red. He looks like a barbarian with his teeth bared, blood staining him from his last kill. He looks like an animal. Kirishima imagines that he is the prey, having his insides torn out by this noble beast, and how he’d be thankful to go at the hands of someone like Bakugou.

“’S what you get,” Kaminari says as he walks past Kirishima, obviously having seen Kirishima’s entire dilemma. Kirishima looks up at him and Kaminari shakes his head, mock-disapprovingly. “Impure.”

Kirishima grabs his ankle and Kaminari nearly trips with a yelp. Kirishima rolls his eyes as Kaminari flips him double birds. Kaminari was such a crap best friend.

Kirishima had waited until the start of their second year to tell Kaminari of his pent-up feelings for Bakugou. How the violence under Bakugou's skin made his heart race, how every smile that bore teeth made his skin itch with tension, how Bakugou's focus, crystal clear and impenetrable steadied Kirishima in a fight, made him feel braver—

“Dude, that’s so gay,” Kaminari said. “You are so gay for Bakugou.”

“Well….yes, that was the point,” Kirishima said, a little thrown off guard. “It’s been eating away at me—”

“I mean, I knew you wanted to do him,” Kaminari said and Kirishima choked on his own spit. “C’mon, man. I have eyes.”

“That’s not—that’s not entirely the point—”

“I know, and that’s why you’re weird,” Kaminari said, pointing his frozen yogurt spoon at Kirishima. “Pretty much everyone in the class wants to bone him. Just look at him. He’s a natural ten, dude. I mean, I’m easy, but even I don’t give away my tens to just anyone. Only him and Todoroki. And my girlfriend, of course. Not even you make it and you’re…you.”

“I can’t believe my best friend wants to bone me,” Kirishima deadpanned.

“All best friends want to bone each other,” Kaminari said, snorting. “If they say otherwise they are lying.”

“I don’t want to bone you.”

Kaminari gave him a look.

“At least not when you’re being an insensitive ass,” Kirishima conceded, grumbling.

“Most everyone in class will agree Bakugou is totally fuckable,” Kaminari said. “Mineta was right when he said the hero course is full of babes. But no one in their right mind wants to date him, except you. Why? What is appealing to you about getting screamed at or blasted on a daily basis? What is it, exactly, that calls you to Bakugou Katsuki?”

He’d been thinking about that question since he decided that Bakugou was worth following at USJ. And over their three years at UA together, Bakugou had done nothing but give him more and more reasons to fall in love. So when Kaminari asks something like, Why are you drawn to Bakugou Katsuki? Kirishima wants to ask right back, Why aren’t you?

You like it when Jirou ties you up, Kirishima wants to grumble. Who’s really the weird one here?

“Let’s go wrestle,” Kirishima suggests, stretching his arms over his head. All this musing has him itching to move. After the whole ice cream thing, a shirtless Bakugou wasn’t going to faze him. “You can’t really plan to sit under this umbrella all day.”

“Sure can,” Bakugou says. “I’ve got fair fucking skin.”

“Oh, boo,” Kirishima says. “That’s no excuse. Put on some sun lotion.”

“Eat a dick,” Bakugou says, flipping him off.

Ignoring the part of his brain that immediately responds, I’d eat yours, Kirishima peeks over the top of Bakugou's book. “Please?”

“Die, maggot,” Bakugou says, swatting at him.

Kirishima resorts to rolling on the ground next to Bakugou, nuzzling his shoulder with the top of his head. “Bakugou,” he whines. “Bakugou, come on. Bakugou, please.”

Bakugou's ears go red at the final note of Kirishima’s whine so he repeats it, over and over. “Please, please, please—”

“Alright!” Bakugou snaps. “You—you plague. If it will get you to shut the hell up, I will roast my skin until I’m a fucking red bean, you snotting, sadistic, asswipe.”

“Aww, babe,” Kirishima says.

“‘Babe’?” Bakugou mutters.

Ignoring him, Kirishima continues. “Just put on the really strong stuff. I’ll do your back.”

“You will not.”

Kirishima pouts. “Fine. Burn.”

A muscle in Bakugou's jaw twitches. He sheds the Hawaiian shirt and stuffs it in his bag. Then he grabs the tank by the neck and tugs it over his shoulders in one swift movement.

(Had Kirishima said something about shirtless Bakugou not fazing him? Ha. Good joke, Eijirou.)

“What,” Bakugou deadpans, stuffing the tank in his bag and fetching sun lotion from his bag. “Never seen a shirtless dude before?”

“We change in the locker rooms all the time,” Kirishima points out, making a commendable effort to look Bakugou in the eyes.

“So what’s your deal?” Bakugou says.

Oh, Kirishima thinks. Oh, wait, this is dangerous.

“I—” he starts, but he’s cut off by a feral grin spreading across Bakugou's face. “What?”

Bakugou cocks his head to the side and wow, why did that look so hot on him and stupid on Kirishima? Bakugou grins. “All that talk about being a tough guy—you’re intimidated?”

“I am not,” Kirishima says. “I’ve seen you naked before!”

“Uh-huh,” Bakugou says. He runs a hand down his chest. “More than you expected, up close?”

Kirishima can’t feel his face. There’s no way Bakugou can’t tell that he’s a gay, flustered mess when he’s burning all the way down his neck. He can’t look at Bakugou's body and he definitely can’t look at Bakugou's face, so he looks at his hands, too cowed to speak.

He jumps when a bottle of lotion catapults into his lap. Kirishima looks up and Bakugou has his back turned to him, dabbing lotion down his arm. “Well?” Bakugou says, and Kirishima scoots closer to him. He squeezes some of the sunscreen onto his hand and then approaches the planes of Bakugou's back.

When he first dabs the lotion along Bakugou's back, Bakugou shivers at the cold. The muscles of his back tense and Kirishima can see the shape of his shoulder blades, the sinews of his neck, and the line of his spine. Kirishima smooths out the lotion, white on already white skin. When he sets his palms against Bakugou's skin, Bakugou tenses again.

It’s okay, Kirishima wants to say. It’s okay.

His face is still hot. Being allowed to touch Bakugou isn’t helping. Even so, Kirishima’s heartbeat steadies and he lets out a long sigh. He rubs the lotion into Bakugou's shoulder blades with the heel of his palm, his fingers rubbing in over the tops of his shoulders. He works his way down, dragging a thumb down the length of Bakugou's spine. The tension in Bakugou's body slowly lessens and he arches forward, baring more of his back to Kirishima.

Kirishima finishes rubbing in the last of the sunscreen on Bakugou's lower back and looks up to see that Bakugou has stopped moving. His eyes are almost glazed over. Kirishima presses the heel of his hands into Bakugou's back experimentally and Bakugou doesn’t move aside from the flutter of eyelashes.

“Um,” Kirishima says.

It only takes a word to get Bakugou moving again. He straightens up, twists to snatch the bottle of lotion from Kirishima’s lap and starts vigorously applying sunscreen. “What?” he snaps, quickly followed by, “Thanks.”

Are you mad or thankful? Kirishima wonders, grinning. Bakugou was an adventure.

“I’ll race you to the water,” Kirishima says, getting to his feet.

“What? No. No, you motherfucker, I’m not ready—!”

Kirishima sprints towards the ocean, Bakugou swearing colorfully behind him. He hears Bakugou scramble to his feet and then the telltale sound of him using his palm explosions to blast him towards the goal. Kirishima takes a running dive into the water at the same time Bakugou propels himself face first into an oncoming wave.

Kirishima comes up laughing. The water sizzles where Bakugou landed and he rises from the water, shaking his head like a dog and his hair standing up every which way. Kirishima splashes him with water and Bakugou uses both hands to create a tidal wave, wading through the water to presumably punch the shit out of him. Kirishima runs away, diving into the water and swimming away, sending a spray of water into Bakugou's face.

“You little—” Bakugou says.

He pursues by wading after Kirishima, trying to grab ahold of Kirishima’s ankle. Kirishima evades him for about five minutes before the current and a larger wave pushes him back into Bakugou and Bakugou finally grabs him, pulling him closer, one hand ready to blast. Kirishima hardens himself in time, but the blast Bakugou unleashes is little more than a puff of soot and a spark.

Kirishima cackles, floating on his back and holding his sides at Bakugou's pathetic showing. “Oh man,” Kirishima says. “Water’s not your thing, huh?” Bakugou dunks him.

When Kirishima comes back up for air he’s ready to start another splash war, but is stopped by Kaminari calling his name.

“Oi!” Kaminari says. “Can you and Bakugou pick up a couple of boogie boards? The rest of us are getting stuff from the van to set up for lunch!”

“Yeah, no problem!” Kirishima calls back, waving. To Bakugou he says, “C’mon. Todoroki’ll want a surfboard to show off, probably.”

“He doesn’t show off,” Bakugou says.

“No,” Kirishima agrees. “Not normally. But Midoriya Izuku…”

“Ugh,” Bakugou says with feeling. “Disgusting.”

“Nothing wrong with two dudes loving on each other,” Kirishima says.

“It’s wrong if it’s Deku,” Bakugou says. “He should just fuck the megane and leave Deku out of it.”

Kirishima raises his eyebrows. “You think the three of them…?”

“I don’t care, fuckmunch!” Bakugou snaps. “I just happen to possess eyes.”

Kirishima starts a race to the surfboard rental and in the interest of reducing casualties, Bakugou doesn’t use his Quirk. And still wins. Pure willpower, that boy. Kirishima rents three boogie boards and a short surfboard for tricks for Todoroki.

“Here,” Bakugou grunts, putting his card forward before Kirishima can fish the cash out of his bag.

Kirishima blinks. “You don’t have to—”

“Sparky paid for gas, didn’t he?” Bakugou says. “Get your filthy paws out of your wallet.”

Kirishima smiles.

“Shed’s round the back,” the clerk says. “Pick out the boards you want. I’ll need to hold your license until you return them.”

Bakugou hands his over and they walk around the shack to the board shed. Kirishima hauls open the shed door and steps inside the bamboo shack they called a shed. He claps his hands together. “Alright! What are the most embarrassing boards we can find for Kaminari and Sero?”

He glances back at Bakugou and has to do a double take. Bakugou's arms are crossed over his chest and he’s looking at Kirishima with an unreadable expression.

Kirishima swallows. “Uh, Bakugou?”

“Do you know what this looks like?” Bakugou says.

“What does what look like?” Kirishima asks.

Bakugou shakes his head and takes a step towards Kirishima. “You’re either incredibly stupid or incredibly good at playing stupid.”

“Dude, what?” Kirishima says. “What are you getting at?”

“You,” Bakugou says, taking another step forward. “Me. Separated from the rest of the group. Alone together.”

Kirishima squints at him. “I don’t…do you think I’m going to launch a surprise attack on you or something?”

“A surprise attack,” Bakugou says. “Well, I suppose it would be something like that.”

He steps into Kirishima’s space and steals the breath away from him. Bakugou's close, close enough to brush their noses together, close enough to take Kirishima’s chin in his hand and tilt it up, close enough for Kirishima to feel behind him for a wall and collapse against it.

“Is this what you wanted?” Bakugou asks. “Did you think you’d get the jump on me?”

“Wh-what…” Kirishima says, hardly able to hear over the beating of his heart. “What are you even…”

“I know you want me,” Bakugou says.

The floor opens beneath Kirishima’s feet. He stumbles, and Bakugou grabs him by the arm, knee pressing between his legs to steady him. “What…” Kirishima says. “I don’t—”

“You do,” Bakugou says. “You watched me eat that ice cream. I saw your eyes on my mouth.”

“Oh,” Kirishima says, and nearly falls over again.

“You look at me with hunger, you call me by pet names I never asked for, you’re more tactile with me than anyone else,” Bakugou says. “I know you want me.”

“It’s hard to, you know, think, when your knee is between my legs,” Kirishima slurs.

“But then you say something like that,” Bakugou says. “You look away. You don’t make a move. When given opportunities to push boundaries, you play it safe. When we’re alone together, you think nothing of it. When you have the opportunity to see me without clothes on, I’m the last one you invite.”

“There’s…a reason…” Kirishima says.

“Well then what the fuck is it?” Bakugou snaps. “Because I’m sick to fucking death of you dancing around me. Tell me what you want from me! Sex? A fuck buddy? Or is it just pent-up frustration that you can’t stick your dick in Kaminari because he has a girlfriend?”

Kirishima goes very, very quiet. “I want…”

“Yes?”

Kirishima swallows. “I want to make you as happy as you make me,” he says. “I never even got as far as imagining sex. I just, uh, love you a lot? Like, a lot, a lot? So I was always thinking about how I could help you have a good time and not pop a boner and make things awkward at the same time.”

Bakugou leans back and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Are you an idiot?”

“Probably,” Kirishima says.

“Definitely,” Bakugou says. “You hair-brained, mixed-signal-sending moron.”

“Sorry,” Kirishima says, offering a small smile. “I just…really like you, Bakugou.”

“Yeah? Well, I hate your fucking guts,” Bakugou says. “You’re pushy and a personal space invader. You have no respect for peace and quiet and you always have to drag me into all your stupid bullshit.”

“Uh-huh,” Kirishima says, putting his hands on either side of Bakugou's face.

“Your pet names suck. Your hair is stupid. You’re a fucking dumbass. Your fashion sense is terrible.”

“Uh-huh,” Kirishima says, pulling Bakugou's face closer to his.

“You really, really suck,” Bakugou says, his lips brushing Kirishima’s. “I’ll never get used to you.”

“I’ll never get used to you either,” Kirishima says. “But that’s what makes this beautiful.”

He kisses Bakugou, his entire body surging to meet Bakugou. Bakugou presses back against him, crushing Kirishima against the wall of the shed. He chases the faint taste of cherry across Bakugou's lips, mingling with salt from the ocean. Kirishima feels like he really is being eaten alive this time, the predator he’d seen earlier surrounding him and pressing into him, protective and wanting, even as he tears Kirishima apart.

Kirishima wants Bakugou's teeth on him, on his lips, on his tongue. He doesn’t bite back but Bakugou's tongue finds the points of his teeth anyway, a tentative swipe over sharp. Kirishima feels Bakugou's curiosity in the way his body shifts when he finds that they’re as sharp as they look. He likes Kirishima’s tongue, which is well and good because Kirishima likes putting his tongue in Bakugou's mouth.

“You’re never blowing me,” Bakugou says against Kirishima’s mouth. “Not with those teeth.”

“Aw,” Kirishima says. “I kinda want to, though.”

Bakugou inhales through his nose at that, which makes Kirishima thinks that statement isn’t as set in stone as Bakugou would like to think.

“Hey, Bakugou,” Kirishima says, draping his arms around Bakugou's neck and looking into bloodred eyes. “I think you like me.”

“Bullshit,” Bakugou says. “Dunno where you got that idea.”

“Uh-huh,” Kirishima says, and kisses the corner of his mouth.

“Let’s get these boards and get going, asshole,” Bakugou says.

“I’d love to,” Kirishima says, “but unfortunately, I’m still too hard to function. Any ideas?”

“Just one,” Bakugou says. “I think you have a pretty good idea of what it is.”

---------------------------------

On the way back home, the sun setting in the background, Kirishima is the only one awake.

All five girls are piled on top of each other, everyone leaning in against Yaoyorozu, who has a line of drool running out of the corner of her mouth. Kaminari has both Sero and Iida in his lap, snoring loud enough to hear over the radio. And leaning against the window in the passenger’s seat, arms crossed over his chest and a scowl on his face, Bakugou naps soundly.

Kirishima doesn’t mind being the only one awake. He’s been glowing all day, enough that everyone getting laid regularly were able to pick out one of their own. Kaminari and Jirou made retching noises, but Todoroki had given Kirishima a once-over and a thumbs up, and coming from the hottest guy in class, Kirishima thinks he’s done well.

The radio plays: I’m sailing a ship on a lake that never runs dry…

Kirishima smiles. Yes, he’s done well.