#honestly 'beautiful' and 'flowery' were exactly the words i needed in the beginning

[crunchyplastic]

ive been simmering like a pot of pasta sauce the whole day so let me post my rant about how you can't expect a thriving fandom without a thriving comment culture (or hell, even just a reblog culture)

[cherryatiny]

𝐀𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐳: 𝐒/𝐎 𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞

𝑁𝑜𝑡𝑒: 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑎 𝑠𝑢𝑔𝑎𝑟-𝑐𝑜𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑓𝑙𝑢𝑓𝑓 𝑓𝑢𝑙𝑙 𝑜𝑓 𝑐𝑢𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑠𝑤𝑒𝑒𝑡𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠

𝐺𝐼𝐹𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑒, 𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑑𝑖𝑡 𝑔𝑜𝑒𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑜𝑤𝑛𝑒𝑟𝑠

⩥ 𝐊𝐢𝐦 𝐇𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐣𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐠

Being in your little world full of dreams, you laid down on Hongjoong's bed, sleeping peacefully, under the fluffy comforter that kept you warm and safe.

Hongjoong couldn't help but smile as he saw you asleep for the first time. You weren't in a relationship for long, so he didn't want to come across as a creep by watching you sleep, but he just couldn't take his eyes off your angelic face.

His hand found its place on the top of your head, caressing your hair, brushing it and intertwining his fingers into your locks. Being too engaged in playing with your hair, he didn't notice your sleepy eyes being opened and staring at him until you hummed and caught his attention.

„Oh, I'm so sorry Y/N, I didn't want to wake you up, I- you're just so cute when you sleep and I wanted to pamper you with kisses, your hair looked so silky and uh, gosh, what am I talking about... I'm sorry for waking you up on your first time sleeping here, I should have made a better impression, maybe some pancakes with fruit will be a proper apology?...“

„Aww, Hongjoongie, no need to be sorry, I like it when you play with my hair, but maybe I should be angry at you because those apology pancakes sound good.“

⩥ 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐒𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐡𝐰𝐚

As you sat up, slowly opening your eyes, you looked out of the window, strong sun rays hitting your eyes immediately. You sighed and laid back down on Seonghwa's bed, trying to wake up from your sleep.

You looked to the side in hope of seeing your boyfriend asleep, but your hope disappeared when you were met with an empty bed. You frowned and crawled out of the bed, your feet meeting the coldness of the floor.

As you were looking for your slippers, the door of Seonghwa's room opened and you were met with the unsatisfied face of your boyfriend of one-month.

„Baby, why are you up already?! It's only seven am, gosh, you ruined my surprise! I wanted you to wake up to the smell of the breakfast I cooked for you. Lay back down, I'll bring the tray with food.“

You frowned at his playful scolding and laid back down under the comforter, enjoying the warmness. As the door opened yet again, Seonghwa stepped into the room with a tray in his hands, sitting down on the bed, he put the tray on your lap. A smile on his face, encouraging you to start eating.

„I wanted to make your first night spent here memorable, so I made your favourite dish, Y/N.“

„Thank you Hwa, you're so sweet and caring, I love you. Now, open your mouth, I'm gonna feed you.“

⩥ 𝐉𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐘𝐮𝐧𝐡𝐨

„Are you comfortable? Is my mattress hard enough? Do you need more blankets? Tell me if you need anything, I want you to have the best sleep you could possibly have.“

„Aww, Yuyu, you're so caring, but no need to worry, since you're sleeping next to me, my sleep can't be bad. If I'm cold, I'll just cuddle you, you'll keep me warm, right?“

„Of course baby, now, lay your head on my shoulder, I want to keep you close to me on your first night here.“

You chuckled at his request and immediately laid your head on his shoulder, your arm wrapping around his frame and adjusting yourself in his embrace.

You inhaled the smell of the flowery-freshening on his pyjama and enjoyed the warmness his body radiated. It was honestly so heart-warming to see how much your boyfriend Yunho cared for you to feel good and safe spending the night in his place for the first time.

His hand played with your hair, brushing it off your face, before you two fell asleep and drifted to your dreams, caught in each other's embrace

⩥ 𝐊𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐘𝐞𝐨𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐠

You laid on your side, on the opposite to your boyfriend Yeosang. His hand tugged you in blankets, to keep you safe and warm.

You put your arm under your head, to keep your head up and have a better look at the handsome man lying next to you, you couldn't help yourself from smiling and giggling. It was your first time sleeping at Yeosang's place, at first you were nervous, to spend the night with Yeosang, but his comforting and reassuring words washed the negative feeling away.

His shining eyes were locked on your frame, watching you carefully as if you were a fragile vase about to be broken. His arm laying on the curve of your waist.

„Go to sleep baby, I don't want you to be tired tomorrow, I'll wait until you fall asleep.“

„Yeosangie, don't force yourself to be up, no need to wait for me to fall asleep, trust me, I won't run away.”

Yeosang pouted and kissed your forehead before lying back down on the pillow and looking at your beautiful face before slowly falling asleep.

⩥ 𝐂𝐡𝐨𝐢 𝐒𝐚𝐧

„Ah baby please, stop wriggling so much, I want to keep you close so don't try to run away from my grasp.”

„Sannie, but it tickles when you caress my side.”

„Yeah? Well, it wouldn't have tickled if you weren't moving so much, so now, be still so I can keep you close to me.”

You frowned, a little pout creating on your face as you obeyed San's words and laid still on your side. San's arm wrapped itself around your waist, keeping you close as he spooned you. You offered to sleep in this position since San had only one comforter and even though he gave it to you, to sleep comfortably, you didn't want him to be cold, so you insisted on sharing it.

Both of you trying to enjoy your first night together as much as possible. Listening to each other's heartbeat as you fell asleep to the calming lavender scent of San's bed.

⩥ 𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐢

You sometimes just couldn't help but sigh at Mingi's mulishness. You knew he was being nice and didn't want to make you uncomfortable, since it was only the beginning of your relationship and you were spending the night at his place for the first time, but even though you told him it's completely okay, for him to sleep close to you, he just wouldn't listen.

You both sat on each edge of the bed, looking at each other, you frowning at him for not listening to you and he sitting there with flushed cheeks, still shy since he walked in on you changing.

„Mingi, come and sleep next to me, it's not uncomfortable for me to sleep close to you, I want to cuddle my boyfriend when I sleep, so why can't you do as I want for at least once, when I already told you I'm okay, for who knows how many times. If you're not gonna sleep next to me, but on the couch, as you insist, at least take the pillows and blankets you gave me, if not, you're gonna catch cold.”

„No Y/N, I can't sleep close to you, I want you to be comfortable while sleeping without having to deal with me. Also, keep those blankets, don't give them to me, you have to be warm.”

„Mingi, don't test my patience.”

⩥ 𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐖𝐨𝐨𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠

„Wooyoungie, stop looking at me, you're making me shy.”

„I'm sorry, Y/N, but I just can't help it when you're so beautiful. Now close your eyes, relax and sleep, get yourself your beauty sleep.”

„Hmm, only if you sing me a lullaby.”

„Lullaby?” you nodded and laid down, looking up at your boyfriend Wooyoung, who sat on the bed, hovering over you. His hand brushing your hair off your face and caressing your cheeks.

Wooyoung hummed, trying to remember any lullaby, before letting out soft angelic sounds coming out of his mouth, allowing you drift to your little world of dreams.

⩥ 𝐂𝐡𝐨𝐢 𝐉𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐡𝐨

„What are you doing, Y/N?”

Asked your boyfriend Jongho with a shaky voice when you wrapped your arms and legs around his figure, attaching to him like a koala bear.

„Hmm, I'm used to sleeping with my big teddy-bear plushie, but it's not here right now and I can't fall asleep without hugging my plushie.”

„Aw, you're so cute Y/N. Okay then, imagine that I'm your teddy-bear plushie if it helps you fall asleep. You know, you're just so cute, you look exactly like a baby koala.”

You scoffed at his words and attached yourself to him closer, your head lying in the crook of his neck as his fingers drew pictures on your back, falling asleep in each other's embrace.

[halfway-happyyy]

This piece was inspired by this lovely ask that I received an inexplicably long time ago: Seeing an intense and loving sex scene Alex just shot and it lowkey breaks your heart but you don’t show anything bc you don’t want him to get the wrong idea and think you don’t support him but he can tell you’re upset and now /his/ heart breaks bc he can tell you try SO hard not to break down in front of him all day long so he confronts you about it and you tell him everything and that you’re not angry just very sad and you can’t help it and you’re sorry and he shushes you and sweet sex ensues

fluffy smut ensues- enjoy, friends.

“Hi love,” A crewman on Alexander’s latest film, and the first friendly face she had come across since arriving on set, wrapped a free arm around her shoulder and kissed her cheek lovingly. “Alright?” He asked.

“Alright,” She smiled and set her purse down by her feet. “How’ve you been Pete? Busy, I bet.”

Peter shrugged and removed the headset from his ears. “Absolutely. Always. You uh… chose an interesting day to visit us,” He remarked with a quirk of a wildly unkempt eyebrow.

“Oh?” She asked and craned above the heads of the scant crew in search of Alexander. “I was hoping to surprise him…”

Peter cleared his throat and cocked his head to the side, his expression uneasy. “They are about to film their second and final love scene of the shoot.”

She swallowed hard and settled back onto the balls of her feet, her heart thrumming wildly in her chest. Two options suddenly become apparent to her: she could cut and run; blame it on a forgotten zoom meeting, or a lunch date with an old friend in the same city. Alternatively, she could swallow back the nausea rising steadily in her throat and remain rooted to the spot. Both options left little room for pride and her cheeks flamed under that realization, and the burning set lights around her. “Oh, that’s alright.” She smiled, shyly.

“You sure?” Peter asked. “Georgia’s camp have asked for a closed set to maximize privacy, and the entire thing was choreographed this morning, so we’re hoping to squash it in as few takes a possible.”

She appreciated his honesty and the soft, protective tone of his voice immensely, but it did little to quell the nervousness that prickled at her unpleasantly. “Sounds great,” She muttered under her breath.

Someone called out to Peter and he rubbed a hand over the rounded curve of her shoulder, offered her up a reassuring smile. “In any regard, he has been waiting weeks to see you. Cannot stop talking about it. He’ll be over the moon that you’re here.” He offered her one last knowing look before wandering off in the direction of the disembodied voice.

She had known exactly what the script entailed before production on the film had even begun, so this could hardly have been a surprise, and yet inexplicably, she still felt blindsided by it.

She watched Alexander and his co-star enter the set, designed to look like a minimalist bedroom. Laughing and talking easily about something, as if they weren't just about to film a painfully intimate scene. Without warning, the lights around them dimmed almost to nil, and the film’s head spoke into a megaphone.

“Alright guys, here we go. We know what we’re about to be doing, we want total silence, let’s try and get this thing smashed in as few takes as possible, shall we?” A dismal murmur of agreement resounded throughout the crowd as the director counted down and shouted action.

She couldn’t make out what was being said between the two actors, but she watched them approach each other with a familiarity reserved only for two people who had grown to know each other in ways solely attributed to unforgiving hours on a movie set. She watched him approach her, watched a large, sure hand entwine itself into her golden tresses, watched him bend toward her, two pairs of lips locked in a dance only they knew. It was difficult to watch and not imagine the effect it was having on him, but a past conversation swam into her mind's eye, and aided in easing her trepidation the slightest bit.

“It's never how you think it's going to be kid,” He had assured over warming amber beers, in a quiet corner of their favourite pub a year ago. “It’s quite possibly the least sexy aspect of the job. And yes, it is intimate. How could it not be? But there are so many people watching you and- so many of them have differing opinions on how it should be performed…” He sighed, frustrated. “Once I know I'm doing one, I like to try and get it out of the way as soon as possible.” He read the uneasy look on her face like an open book and reached for her hand, squeezing it thrice across the marred wooden tabletop. “It's always been you, kid.”

As his co-star began to undress him, working deft fingers down the front buttons of his shirt, she pulled it away from his shoulders with an unreadable expression etched on her face. Towered above her, Alexander stood motionless as she worked the belt from his jeans, and shimmied the pants from his thighs until he was clad before her in only a pair of boxers. Unexpected laughter between the two of them. Light and airy and utterly unfamiliar, caused waves of nausea to swell in her belly and she forced herself a deep, steadying breath. A brief moment where the two kissed each other again, before he pulled away to begin removing her clothing. Anxiety getting the better of her, she dropped her gaze to the floor and bit down on the hollow of her cheek until she could taste the metallic brine of blood on her tongue. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply again, counting down from eight in her head and trying desperately not to spiral on the spot. When she opened them, it was to the realization that they had fallen into bed together, her slight form tucked in between Alexander's open legs like it was meant to be there since the beginning of everything. Though the actress appeared nude in every sense of the word, she knew better. A thin, flower-shaped piece of beige tape covered each nipple, and she sported a flimsy pair of nude-coloured underwear. Alexander had been no better- a simple, nude tube sock was the only thing shielding his manhood from her and everyone else in the room and the notion of it made her dizzy.

It was obvious now that they had choreographed this scene beforehand. Every kiss, every touch, every moan or groan was exactly how it was supposed to be. And the further she watched, the further her heart edged towards the precipice of shattering. So many emotions. She was surprised the most to feel anger; and not at all at him, but at herself. This was his job. His passion. Something that was as easy and instinctive to him as breathing. It was something that though he denied it staunchly, coursed through his blood and exited his body in waves of raw talent.

But watching him touch the undeniably beautiful woman beneath him in ways similar to how he touched her? And always in the privacy of their own home, shielded from view of anyone and everything else? Unimaginably difficult.

“Alright Georgia, I want you to kind of pepper Alex's chest with kisses as he thrusts once more against you, and as he does that, you are going to orgasm and then he is going to follow suit.”

They did exactly as they were told, and she watched in unbridled agony as the two of them tumbled over the proverbial edge, one right after the other. Sounds of their feigned lovemaking filled every square inch of room and very nearly caused her to leave right then and there. But then, mercifully, someone called cut, and the actress extricated herself from him and the torture ceased.

“Alright, that’s a wrap on today friends. Take care, we'll see you all in a couple of days.”

Releasing a lungful of pent-up air that felt like it had taken years to come to fruition, she watched Alexander wander off the set in search of clothing. Reaching down, she retrieved her purse and stole herself for her big reveal. He had asked her to visit him a couple of weeks ago, but their schedules had hardly meshed and it turned out that this was the only time until the end of the year that she could take her leave from work.

The weighty realization that she had never before needed to work up the courage to speak to him was not lost on her. But somehow, after the wildly pseudo-intimate event in which she had just been privy to- even surrounded by the skeleton crew, a knot of unease wound itself tight in the pit of her belly. It hindered her from approaching him directly, so she stood back while he finished speaking with a crew member, her gaze downcast, thoughts spiraling.

“Kid?”

Her nickname- one that had been bestowed upon her the night they first crossed paths, roused her from her anxious reverie and she offered him a meager smile. “Hi, Alex…”

He rushed toward her without hesitation, throwing his long arms around her in an embrace that her body had been craving for weeks. He smelled exactly how she had remembered leaving him, only with a subtle hint of something else- some other foreign flowery scent and instinctively, she reeled back from him, gaze weary.

“God, it's good to hold you again.” He pulled away from her to hold her at arm’s length; could sense the apprehension rolling from her in waves and he frowned. “Did you just get here?”

She swallowed the sizeable lump rising in her throat. “Uh, about an hour ago.”

Realization sunk in behind his eyes; she could see it in the way that the glitter in his blue orbs dulled, and he sighed heavily. “Kid- I had no idea you were coming-

“It was a surprise, Alex.”

He reached another arm around her, pressed his lips to the top of her head in a gentle kiss. “I'm over the moon about it, honestly.” He pulled back from her to caress a hand to her cheek. “I'm just going to grab a few things and then we can head out, okay?”

She could feel the biting sting of looming tears behind her eyes, the words too heavy in the hollow of her throat, so she offered him a nod instead.

Their journey home- a beautiful, rented apartment in West London had been quiet save for the cacophony of masses of passerby. Random pieces of conversations in a myriad of accents, music from someone’s portable sound system, all helped to distract her from the thoughts swirling in her brain. Sitting next to him on the tube, she could feel the familiar warmth radiating from him in waves, and that seemed to abate the anxiety somewhat. Large fingers clasped together on his lap; he was staring at something unseen on the subway floor. The urge to say anything had been palpable minutes ago, but when she went to open her mouth, the precise words eluded her.

“Our stop’s next, kid.”

He rose from the seat ahead of her, offering his hand which she accepted gratefully. As the train trundled to a halt, a voice boomed loud on the speaker above them, but she could not make out what was relayed and then the doors opened for them, fresh air greeting the pair of them like old friends. She had visited England enough times now to know the feeling of an imminent rainfall; the dense moisture that pervaded every square inch of space around them and made her long for a cozy sweater, or blanket.

They walked in silence for about five minutes before the wrought-iron railing of their apartment became visible, and another heap of invisible weight dissipated from her at the notion that she would be in the comfort and warmth of their own space soon. Alexander fit the key into the lock, and opened the door for them, allowed her to wander inside first. Arriving earlier that morning, she had tried to make the space as cozy as she could before she left for the film studio, knowing that he would be spending at least another two months there during post-production. Alexander tossed the keys onto the wooden shelf in the front foyer, kicking his beloved desert boots off with a dull thud. Peeling the blue and grey plaid coat from his body, he hung that up in the front closet and reached for the coat that she had just shed, doing the same. Eyeing her in the fragmented light filtering in through the stained-glass window at the top of the front door, his expression was unreadable.

“I think we should talk about earlier this afternoon, kid.”

Instinctively, she rubbed a hand over her bare arm to ward off the chill that had finally settled itself into her bones and shook her head. “It’s not necessary, Alex.”

He clicked his tongue, gave his head a slight shake. “Don’t do that, kid. It obviously upset you, and I don’t blame you for that at all, but we should talk about it.”

“What is there to talk about, Alex?” She asked, her tone regrettably biting. “What you do in the confines of a film studio- on set, that’s your job. None of it concerns me.”

He sighed heavily. “If I had known you were coming, I could have asked to postpone the scene for a few days…”

“You weren’t supposed to know I was coming. That was the whole point...” Sensing that she was treading treacherous waters, she tried to switch tactics. “I’m fried from the flight in, I haven’t eaten much at all today- all of which resulted in a grotesque culmination of emotions, and I’m over it now.”

She viewed his 6’4” figure stood in the front hallway before her, large hands tucked into the front pockets of his blue jeans. He was sporting socks that she had purchased him for Christmas last year and the mere sight of them caused the lump that had dissipated a while ago to resurface in the hollow of her throat.

“Please, just talk to me.”

Anger evaded his tone- it brimmed instead with a gentle desperation, the resonance of it caused her heart to splinter a little deeper than it already was.

Words thick at the back of her throat, she leveled her gaze with his. “It hurt, Alex.”  

There it was.

“It hurt to watch you be so intimate with someone else- to watch her touch you in ways reserved only for my hands, and my fingers, and my lips…” Flames fanned from anger and shame licked at her throat, and god damnit, she could feel the impending threat of tears again. Swallowing hard, she shrugged her shoulders. “And it sounds so much like jealousy but it’s not. It goes deeper than that,” She trailed off, voice breaking, as she lifted her gaze to Alexander’s. “I need you to know that I love you, and that I’ll support you in every single endeavor. But it just gets difficult sometimes…”

His cerulean gaze downcast, he chewed anxiously at the edge of his bottom lip as he mulled over what to say. When he finally glanced up at her, saltwater glittered in the depths of his own eyes and he allowed himself a deep breath before continuing. “I’m sorry, kid.”

She could hear the fragility in his voice now, how close it was to shattering completely and, in that moment, she launched herself into his arms. The urge to feel him on her, raw and utterly overwhelming. A secure arm around her waist, an impossibly warm hand at the back of her head, he held her to him like it was the last time he would ever have the opportunity. They stood embraced like that for an unknowable amount of time, and when he pulled away, it was to take hold of her hand and lead her down the hallway to the washroom. Once there, he flicked on the light which bathed the room in a pale-yellow glow and turned to her.

“Arms up,” He murmured, softly.

Doing as she was told, she raised her arms for him and held her breath as he pulled the t shirt from her body, tossing it into the wicker hamper next to the sink. He placed warm kisses over the delicate line of her collarbone, as he undid the zipper on her jeans and shimmied the useless material from her legs. She held onto his shoulders for support as he reached around her to unclasp her bra, letting the flimsy material fall to the glossy, tiled loor beneath them. Gentle lips kissed the soft skin of her shoulder blade as he hooked two fingers into the waistband of her panties and pulled them down her legs, which she kicked off to the side. Standing back, she watched him rid himself of his own clothing in unconcealed awe, her hungry gaze raking over the definition in his chest, and at the taut, sun-kissed skin that rippled over chiseled muscles. He never failed to take her breath away.

They entered the shower together; a violent shiver wracked her body as she waited for the water to turn hot. Watching him from the far wall, she suddenly wanted him. She could feel a strong desire in the pit of her belly- where anger recently burned red-hot there, it had been replaced with a sheer need to have every inch of him make up for the hollow emptiness she had felt hours earlier.

He dipped his head beneath the steaming stream of water and beckoned her toward him. “Come here, kid.”

She walked into his open arms, wrapped her own around his frame and nestled her head against the part of his chest where she could feel the rhythmic beating of his heart against her cheek. His embrace, and the blissfully warm water rolling down her back was a healing salve for her soul and she could feel her anxiety dissipate with each passing minute they stood there. He gathered the wet hair from her shoulder in his hand and dropped it behind her back to press a series of scorching kisses up the side of her neck to her earlobe. Reaching for the shampoo bottle on the ledge, he poured a heap of the opaque liquid into the palm of his hand and began to massage it into her hair with skilled fingers. He worked it into a lather and pulled her back under the water to rinse it out, the subtly perfumed suds cascading freely down her back. Next, he worked the conditioner into her hair, and while that sat, he poured bodywash onto a sponge and began to wash her with a delicacy she was rarely privy to. She held onto him for support as he passed the soft sponge over the sensitive parts of her body, beneath her arms, the hollow crooks in the back of her knees, the soles of her feet. When he was satisfied with his work, he pulled her back under the the warm water to rinse the soap from her body and the conditioner from her hair. She was contentedly sleepy under the steady warmth; her eyelids heavy as she watched him cleanse himself of the day in which they had both endured. When he was finished, he held her in his arms again. She could feel the familiar pressure of his erection against her thigh, how it swelled harder the longer they remained embraced.

“I want you, Alex.” She murmured, earnestly.

A deep inhalation, she could feel him nod against her. Guiding her out of the stream of water, he positioned her up against the heated stones of the shower wall. She braced her arms above her, could feel him line himself up at her soaking entrance. Placing tender kisses down the ridges of her spine, he paid special attention to certain spots on her back that nearly made her sing out for him. One final kiss, and he pushed himself inside of her, reveling in her all-consuming heat. Dropping his forehead to the middle of her back, he stayed where he was for a moment to give her time to adjust to his size.

This was what she had been after from the very beginning; the sensation of him buried to the hilt inside of her, the delicious fullness of him, nearly brought a fresh batch of tears to her eyes. “So good, Alex…” She gasped.

He nodded against her; all forms of speech eluded him as he pulled back from her all-encompassing heat only to re-enter at an agonizingly slow pace. He grasped onto her hips as he found a steady tempo for himself, his fingernails digging miniscule crescent moons in her soft flesh.

“God, I’ve missed this.” He groaned, breathlessly.

Freeing a hand from her hip to snake it down to her sex, he pressed a skilled fingertip into her swollen clit, rubbing tantalizing circles into it. She raked her bottom lip between her teeth and bit down on it to keep from crying out, causing Alexander to nip at the nape of her neck in mild disapproval.

“None of that, kid. I can tell how good I’m making you feel- but I want to hear it, and I certainly don’t want you to be quiet about it.” Always in constant awe of the sheer, physical affect that his words had on her body, she could feel the familiar unravelling of pressure in the pit of her belly and she arched her back against him to glean more pleasure. “Fuck, you feel amazing…”

A telltale sign of a man nearing the edge, his thrusts had started to grow sloppy, and she clenched around him to help spur his orgasm on.

“Fuck, Alex,” She warned in a hushed tone.

He groaned against her and applied harder pressure to her clit as she stilled against him, mouth parted and slack as a pleasure-induced white-hot lightning bolt coursed through her entire body. She imagined that she could feel it from the tips of her toes to the hair follicles on her head, and she trembled violently against him as her orgasm loomed tantalizingly out of reach.

“That’s it, baby…” He coaxed, gently. “Come all over this cock, hm?”

She froze against him, a single sound worked its way up her throat and exited her mouth in the form of a broken scream, as she tumbled over the edge, her orgasm immediate and intense. Clenching around his cock unintentionally as she unwound from her high, her muscle contractions caused him to drop his head to her back as he too began to unravel above her.

Fingernails marring the soft flesh of her hips and ribs, he stilled against her and with a strangled cry, came into her in thick, warm spurts. She had been after this sensation as well if she were honest. The satisfying feeling of being filled with every ounce of come he had to give her, could never be replicated. Peppering a couple more kisses to her damp back, he reluctantly pulled from away her to marvel at his come as it dripped from her core and slid down her inner thigh.

“Beautiful,” He murmured more to himself than to anyone else.

She stood where she was, braced against the wall for support while she tried to regulate her laboured breathing. Exiting the shower, she relieved herself, and wrapped a towel around her frame to dry off. Padding over to the expansive window adjacent to the made bed, she peered out over a darkening London. Raindrops raced each other in misshapen lines down the glass panes, and she found that she was grateful for the current weather. Alexander approached her from behind, wrapping her in his arms around her waist, chin resting easily in the crook of her shoulder blade.

“London is a lot more breathtaking with you in it.”

His stubble tickled her neck and she smiled to herself. “I bet you say that to all the pretty girls.”

A subtle grumble, he turned her around so that she was facing him. Still entirely naked, he held her chin gently between his thumb and forefinger. Her gaze traversed the cutting line of his jaw, his lips, his defined nose, his sparkling cerulean orbs which glittered brilliantly as he stared at her. No smile was offered up, but the delicate creases next to his eyes deepened as he spoke. “Just you, kid.”

He brushed the calloused pad of his thumb over her flushed cheek.

“Yesterday, today, tomorrow.”

[lucifers-horror-harem]

Heyy so I was wondering if you could do a nsfw alphabet for Brahms? 🥺

Hey I’m sorry it took me a hot sec to post anything in a while but hopefully you enjoy! I love doing these alphabets cause it helps me get a better feel for the character.

Brahms N/S/F/W Alphabet

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Brahms is a clingy boy after sex, typically wrapping himself around your body and refusing to let go. You’re his teddy bear and he’ll throw a tantrum if you refuse to snuggle with him afterward. He loves leaving kisses along your neck and jaw and humming so deeply it reminds you of a purring cat.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

His hands are probably his favorite part of his. Especially after meeting you and reveling in how you react to his touch. No matter your size he will always see you as smaller and more fragile than him and seeing his big hands gripping your wrists or holding onto your waist always get him going. 

While he would love every part of his partner unconditionally, his favorite part would be their eyes. There’s so much emotion he can see from them, he can tell when you’re happy, worried, upset, or needy. He can’t get enough of the way you look at him with such softness when he is at his most gentle and desire when he is teasing you. And sometimes, he gets a thrill out of the look of fear in your eyes when he is being more dominant and direct with you, liking to see just how much of an effect he has on you.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Brahms will certainly make a mess out of you if you’ll allow him. He really can’t decide where he likes to come the best. A few of his favorite places would be your chest, along your stomach and thighs, and inside of you. He gets a rush seeing you covered in his come like he’s laid claim to you.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Brahms has loads of dirty secrets, he's lived in the walls for most of his life so everything of his is a dirty secret. But one of the dirtiest that he has is that before he revealed himself to you, he would steal your underwear and watch you through the walls. You wouldn't have to be doing anything explicitly erotic, but anytime his urges got the better of him and when he felt he might lose himself and lunge out of the walls to grab you, he will take your underwear and jerk it off along his cock, the fabric adding much-needed friction for him to satiate his urges and come before he does anything too rash. As he usually makes a mess of your underwear, you find you're missing a lot of pairs frequently, both clean ones and ones from the hamper. Because you know Brahms is a dirty boy and would definitely get off on inhaling your smell as well. 

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

He is a virgin, no question. The most experience that Brahms has is what he's read in the books on his shelves. He most likely hasn't read actual erotica but the books that he's read might have some sexual scenes or descriptions of such things (albeit probably only from very older books that use way too many euphemisms and flowery language). He is also aware of reproduction and how to have sex through diagrams in stuffy anatomy and biology books. As a lot of his knowledge is in a scientific context, he will really need you to guide him the first few times. After that, it's no holds barred. 

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

He has a hard time deciding. Brahms really enjoys missionary so he can pin you down and watch every expression on your face as he pleasures you. However, he is also partial to doggy style because sometimes he gets so worked up that he can’t help but want to take you as roughly and deeply as possible. 

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Brahms is always more serious during intimate moments, the most he might do is a little laugh as he teases you. He’s not one for joking during sex simply because he is still a little insecure about his abilities, though if you’re with him for long enough he might start to loosen up a bit.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Have you SEEN how hairy this man is??? Brahms has probably never used a razor in his entire life so he's a full wolfman. He also never really had opportunities to clean himself fully like in a shower (the most he probably does is a makeshift sponge bath if even that) so you're most likely going to have to get him used to proper hygiene unless you like a very stinky wall boy. He also wouldn't bother with his body hair on his own unless you offered to trim it for him. A full shave anywhere right off the bat might not be too good either, because he will feel naked and itchy for days. You will have to get used to some hair on him because even if you were offering him kisses as rewards for shaving he wouldn't let himself be completely shaved head to toe. As it is, it'll be an absolute pain trying to get Brahms to agree to you manscaping him below the belt because it is certainly a mess down there. 

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Brahms is always romantic during intimate moments. Or at least, what he believes is romantic. Most of the time he is simply overwhelmed by his desire for you and if he can manage it in the heat of the moment he will grunt how beautiful and lovely you are in your ear as he thrusts into you, praising and telling you that you’re all his and no one else’s. His heart is in the right place but you might need to help him understand the nuances of romance.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Absolutely. While he might have associations with it being a dirty act from being punished by his mother, he still finds he cannot help himself when he first saw you through the walls. Mostly it’s a way for him to calm himself down and take control of himself again when he feels the urge to reveal himself to you. At first it might begin when he sees you changing or showering, but it could escalate to him just jacking off to you doing simple tasks around the house. 

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Brahms might have a hard time putting words to describing what his kinks are because he has been so sheltered, but he has far too many to count. Essentially when he finds his perfect person to be the nanny at the Heelshire mansion, his kink will be everything about you. You yourself are what turns him on the most. He’s a huge voyeur, no surprise there. He also has a bit of a size kink because of his size compared to you. Essentially if his partner is involved, he will be down to do or try anything. 

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

He loves dragging you in the walls and having sex with you pinned flush against the wall. While he’s thrusting into you from behind, he’ll make you look through one of his peepholes and tell you exactly what he does while he watches you through them. His bed in the walls is another favorite place, mostly because he can keep you between the wall and him and you would have to get through him if you wanted to get up. He likes having you all trapped for himself. 

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Honestly, anything can turn Brahms on when it comes to you. You could show this boy a bare ankle and he would instantly nut. But if you really want to drive him crazy, wear revealing clothing. Lingerie, booty shorts, crop tops, leggings, skirts, anything that covers you while also teasing what is underneath. He won’t be able to control himself and he will either pester you all day about giving him attention or simply tackling you on the spot and giving all of his love right then and there.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Absolutely will not share you with anyone else. He refuses to even entertain that notion. On a similar note, he wouldn’t be interested in public sex, not that he leaves the Hillshire mansion anyways, but he refuses to even think about someone other than him looking at you in such a vulnerable position. You’re his and his alone.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He is usually more of a giver. Brahms always wants to make sure you’re taken care of, and as someone who is horny for praise, he gets off on getting you off. And if you tell him what a good boy he’s being? Instant nut. Though he will never turn down oral from you, though he might be a little twitchy about it at first. He’s not used to someone pleasuring him.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

When he’s horny and in more of his man persona, he’s all sorts of feral and rough with you. It’s not that he doesn’t want to take his time, he’s just usually so pent up and has such a high sex drive that he can’t help himself. It’s possible for him to go slower but it will take a lot of urging him and a bit more willpower on his end, as well as the promise of rewards if he does.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

All. The. TIME. Since he’s been so pent up for years upon years in the walls, any small action from you will get him needy. If you’re not careful, he’ll bend you over every surface in the house, and then when he’s done will scurry away while you’re sitting there trying to process what just happened, all the while cursing him for making you horny in the process, thus continuing the cycle. 

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Brahms is hardly a risk-taker in his own life and any sort of change will upset him. Even spending more time outside the walls is tough for him, but once he’s grown used to you the risky behavior he will have is having sex outside the walls or your bedroom. For someone so used to sneaking out of the walls without being spotted and getting reprimanded by his parents, it’s a thrilling experience for him to be so naughty out in the open with no one scolding him for it.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

While he isn’t one to last a long time, he can go for as many rounds as he can stand. Since just about everything about you gets him in the mood, he could have just orgasmed and will start getting hard again. 

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Brahms doesn’t personally own any toys but if you do he won’t protest. The only thing he might not like is if you use them by yourself. He wants to be a part of the fun too, whether he’s using them on you, you on him, or both of you using them together.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He LOVES teasing. Any opportunity to see your flustered expression while you try to scold him is one he will take. Plus he loves seeing just how needy he can get you.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Brahms usually isn’t loud at all especially if the sex is slower. He might make a few moans here and there. But when he’s needy for you he will make all sorts of animalistic grunts and groans. He’s less talkative except to tell you how good you’re being for him. He usually gets so carried away that he can hardly speak and mostly just moans in your ear as he ruts into you.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Brahms is a curious boy, and on some occasions when he steals your underwear he’s attempted to wear it. Especially anything soft and silky you might own, it’s a different sensation on his body that he isn’t used to and the whole debaucherous act leaves him unable to contain himself. You might have to invest in buying him his own undies. But even then he would prefer to steal yours because they smell like you. 

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

He is slightly above average length but he is also endowed in the girth department. Again, lots of hair down there. 

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

The easiest way to explain his sex drive is that he is the kind of guy to get hard over any bare bit of skin not covered. He will settle down more the longer you're together, but he still acts like a feral animal anytime he sees you. 

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He will be out like a light as soon as his head hits the pillow. Get used to falling asleep with his arms and legs wrapped around you and his chin resting on your head. Good luck if you need to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night.

[earths-roots-grow-up]

Headcanons on Russia’s and Prussia’s relationship with France.

Russia:

I think that in the XVIII century a large chunk of Europe had a crush on France. French culture was widespread among European courts and the language was being used to communicate in a similar manner English is used today. Frenchness was just very IN at that time.

Those countries included Russia. At that time Peter the Great was westernizing his country, and injecting French-ness into Russian lives was a part of this process - Versailles and the French court impressed Peter immensely when he went to visit France and when he came back home, he began emulating many things he observed in the western country. Language, customs, widespread mirrors everywhere, architecture, gardens. You name it.

High-born Russians would talk to each other in French and give themselves French names. Lets note that French wasn’t the only foreign language that was widespread in Russia, so were others, like German and Latin [mostly used by the academia.

“(...) of  all  the  languages  which  began  to  have  currency  in  eighteenth-century Russia, it was French that acquired the greatest social, cultural, and political significance,even if it was not always so widely spoken as German“.

The two next generations of Russians grew up within this Francophile culture and viewed it as something natural, from their perspective it was no longer an exotic fashion, just the way thing always were. Therefore, this was something more than just a fleeting fascination that lasted as long as Peter ruled - and had lingering influence on Russian culture.

“The most important stimulus for the development of French-speaking in Russia, though, was the use of French as a court language from around the middle of the reign of Peter’s daughter Elizabeth (1741–61), who had learnt it in childhood from a French lady at her father’s court.“

And so it went on from there: “At the beginning of the nineteenth century, the Russian nobility still preferred French to Russian for everyday use, and were familiar with French authors such as Jean de la Fontaine, George Sand (etc.). The influence of France was equally strong in the area of social and political ideas. Catherine II's interest in the writings of the (french) philosophers of the Enlightenment (...) contributed to the spread of their ideas in Russia during the eighteenth century.” and “ During the nineteenth century, travel in France was considered a form of cultural and intellectual apprenticeship. “.

(source) So the interest in French ideas and culture was strong in the second half of the XVIII century and in the XIX century.

So in other words, Russia had a crush on France - it was a total puppy love mostly based on superficial things, like aesthetic, nice smells and pretty, elegant European opulence but most of all: France was the ideal of what Russia was trying to become, the epicenter of European-ness, the “civilization” and Ivan was in the middle of this lowkey cultural revolution in which he was trying to re-invent himself as a modern, “European” country. So I think this crush was very much one of those "I wanna BE YOU" types of crushes, he was head over heels for what France represented - that’s why this hit so hard.

There was some more personal stuff there too, like France's eloquence, his literature and philosophy. Enter a lot of perfumed love letters! Even when the crush slowly withered away Russia still felt - and feels - strong admiration for France and honestly enjoys his culture a lot.

France himself enjoyed the crush but wasn't really that interested in  reciprocating - as mentioned above, large chunk of Europe was also crushing on him due to his culture just being in fashion, so it's not like Russia himself was standing out. But they did become friends and still have good personal relations with each other. They have a lot of passions in common, such as ballet, art, music, opera, Romanticism etc, so they still enjoy talking about this stuff together. It’s not a Deep friendship where they trust each other, don’t be fooled, they don’t trust one another at all! But they do like hanging out.

I also HC that the way both French and German were important in XVIII century Russia (as cited above: French with greater cultural significance and German more widespread) is representative of him catching feelings for both France and Prussia at this time, tho one of those wasn't just a crush.

Prussia:

My non-canon-approved hot take here is that I don't think him and France were ever friends. The exact opposite of that even.

It's true that Frederick the Great also had this hard-on for the French, and in effect Prussia speaks and writes excellent French. But after Frederick William II took over the throne, he took back all those Francophile preferences and began promoting German literature and language instead - something the educated classes of Prussia were thankful for. So because Russia shared his ruler's fascination with France his interest outlasted Peter the Great and became a more prevalent part of Russian culture for a long time, while Prussia never shared Fredrick’s fascination and therefore it got overturned as soon as the new king sat on the throne.

And that makes sense, bc in general Germans and French weren't very friendly with each other during their history. German- French enmity, also called the hereditary enmity, is an idea introduced in the XIX century, and it states that those two forces are natural enemies due to their inherently different goals and incompatible interests. Due tho this they keep bumping against each other throughout the ages. You can see echos of this sentiment it in the Napoleonic Wars, Franco-Prussian War, WW1, the Treaty of Versailles, WW2 etc. France was also the country that stood in the strongest opposition to the German Empire being created, so a big issue for Prussia.

It’s important to mention that this German-French enmity was often used as a  propaganda tool for wars and simplified the complex relations between those two groups. Of course it did, even Austrian/Prussian relations weren’t ALWAYS bad, even tho they were called ‘the biggest enemies’ by historians.

It is believed that the enmity ended after WW2 and no longer is a thing. To me that is a pretty great example of Germany taking over the reign and replacing Prussia. Prussian/France relations were bad, but German/France relations are pretty darn good. And it makes sense, because Prussia had different goals than Germany has, and they are very different individuals. I see France and Germany as friends due to their shared work in UE, tho I’m not sure if they would be something more than just work friends.

Anyway, this is Hetalia and not a historical-political deep dive - to me what counts in Hedcanon context is the general feel throughout history: were they generally allies or enemies? Were their interests clashing with one another or were they compatible, most of the time at least? The whole idea behind this “inherited” enmity is that French and German interests were incompatible, so it had to end with a conflict. And they did, many times over. I feel like the importance of the Napoleonic wars especially is often undervalued here - it was a HUGE conflict that would have a lasting impact on their relations, way bigger than the Wars for Austrian Succession, which are often cited as proof of their friendship. But they were an outlier in general Prussian/French relations.

That’s why I think Prussia and France are not, nor ever were friends, they view each other as enemies and dislike each other. Tho during the reign of Old Fritz their relationship was warmer and more amicable than during other periods, considering they actually had similar goals and fought together for a change - mostly because that was convenient for then, not due to some preexisting friendship. But I do like the idea that during this time they had some kind of difficult comradery going for a brief while and there was this fleeting “maybe in another reality we could be friends” vibe.

Due to the bad history, Prussia's dislikes of France can be seen in many small things that irritate him, like he just detests Francis' need to show opulence, his over-the-top rococo aesthetic and cuture-esque fashion sense, hight emotionality drives him bonkers and even the pastel flowery color palettes he often wears irk him. And don’t even get his started on the Revolutions! He’ll talk your ear off.

Tl’Dr: So Prussia and France don't like each other and are generally bitchy and passive-aggressive with one another. Russia and France are friendly and good acquaintances, while not exactly close. Russia just likes him - he still admires a lot of things about French culture, enjoys the language, cuisine, architecture, fashion etc, and used to have a crush on him.

Rusprus take:

Prussia in a confident, self-assured person, but when it comes to France, he can be surprisingly self-conscious. He still remembers that crush Russia used to have on him and WHY he had it -  because of many characteristics that France possesses, but Prussia doesn't. Like being romantic and sentimental, sensitive, emotionaly open, appreciative of beauty, artsy etc. Sometimes Russia finds that cute and endearing, bc it makes him feel wanted, but sometimes it's just... ridiculous.

APH Prussia: What do you wanna watch tonight, Vanka?

APH Russia: Hm... maybe that movie, Marie Antoinette?

APH Prussia: Ugh OF COURSE you wanna ogle HIM!

APH Russia: W... what.

APH Prussia: France! You wanna ogle that cheese-smelling frog-eater!

APH Russia: What... no! Gilya, Gilyushka, Gilynechka! That's absurd, I just want to watch a pretty period drama!

APH Prussia: Don’t you “Gilynechka“ me! And as if that's not enough...

APH Prussia: She was AUSTRIAN

APH Russia: Omg. Kill me now. When you have almost 1000 years of history together then even picking a Netflix show can be a minefield!

Anyway, they end up watching the movie but Prussia roasts everything in frame :D

[vaire-gwir]

I find you all Unwoven

I was sad, and then I decided to make myself even sadder writing this...yay me?

Geralt is outside Oxenfurt for a contract, something attracts his attention. Meeting Jaskier for the first time after the mountain scene doesn’t go as he expected. 

English is not my first language, I wrote it in a rush so it probably sucks a bit more than usual, let me know what you think!

***

There was music coming from inside the tavern, it was not Jaskier's voice hitting the notes but the lyrics were his, Geralt recognized them. It was a weird experience, more so because he knew Jaskier was here. He recognized the unique mix of flowers, lavender and honey that made up the bard's scent, he'd never get that wrong, it was hard to forget. So Jaskier was here, and so was the music, how strange he was not playing it.

If he were asked why, Geralt couldn't explain why he decided to enter. Last time he saw the bard was almost a year ago, and too much time passed to try and mend something he broke. And yet, he couldn't resist. The moment he caught that flowery scent he knew he had to see him, even from afar, even just for a second or two. It's been so long since the last time he saw him.

It took Geralt no longer than a minute to find Jaskier in the crowded inn, but something was off. Everything was off, to be honest. The black trousers and grey shirt were a weird sight on the bard. No colours or frilly shirts, no silk pants or lace doublets. He was sitting by himself, eyes lost in his mug, it almost seemed like he was trying to appear smaller, inconspicuous, invisible. 

He was not singing or playing, he was not talking with anyone, he wasn't trying to strike a conversation or catch anyone's eyes, he was there but he wasn't really there. That was not his bard. Something must have happened to him. That was not the man he used to know. 'You. You happened to him.' A cruel voice inside Geralt's head quickly supplied. Also, not his anymore.

Jaskier was like the middle of spring, when all the flowers start to bloom, the air is warm and filled with their scents, the nights are lighter and everything seemed a bit easier to bear. Now his eyes showed the end of autumn, when all the leaves fall from the dead trees, the nights are endless and even the days grow darker. There were no more flowers or light or sweet scents, there was nothing left. It physically hurts somewhere deep inside him to see Jaskier like that, it was painful for reasons he didn't know how to put into words.

Geralt was familiar with guilt, he knew its smell and ache, he knew how to bear it, but this was hitting him differently. He used to know a lively and bright person, chatty and quick, in love with life and everything in it, fierce and bubbly but whoever was sitting on that stool at the end of the bar was the very opposite of all that.

He observes from his corner at the back of the tavern, it's been months since he left Jaskier on the mountain after their stupid fight, and of all the times he wanted, needed, to see him again, this seemed almost unnatural. He's the last person the bard wants to see and yet Geralt feels compelled to call him, he's itching to say his name out loud and see the shadows dancing in the endless pool of ocean that were his blue eyes, he's craving to be close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin and hear him say his name, just once. Just once, like he always dreams about, like the dragon hunt never happened. 

He spent so many days regretting the words he said on top of that cursed mountain, wishing for forgiveness, cause he could deal with Yen leaving, but losing Jaskier hurt in a different way. On the way back to where they set camp Geralt secretly hoped until the last minute to see him waiting with Roach at the edge of the woods, pouting and cursing at him, but all his things were gone.

The guy wearing Jaskier's face murmurs something to the maid, slips a few coins into her hand, and gets up. He wraps a thick cloak around his thinner frame, he has probably lost some weight, Geralt can't tell for sure. When he walks out of the tavern, he has to fight every instinct screaming at him to follow him. He sits still for a grand total of a full minute before losing that fight and rushing out, following the faint trace of lavender in the air.

Jaskier is just crossing the square when a dark shadow looms behind him. "Why did you follow me, Witcher?" He whispers softly while turning around. He slowly takes in the black-clad figure in front of him, the white messy hair, the golden eyes, the frown on his face and the fine layer of dust on his clothes. Geralt is exactly how he remembers him. Jaskier feels his betrayer heart jumping in his chest.

"How did you know...."Geralt begins to ask puzzled.

"I saw you at the tavern. I spent so long searching for your face in every crowd I started to think I was seeing things, but apparently I was right this time." Jaskier lowers his eyes and Geralt can't help but notice how tired he looks. The dark circle around his eyes threaten to swallow the sunlit blue sea with their purple hue, and he's so pale, his skin so white and washed out Geralt would almost suspect he was sick if he didn't know better. 

"I... You were not singing.” He knows it's stupid to say, but he can't ask any of the other questions on the tip of his tongue. 

Jaskier adjusts the cloak around himself, trying to keep the cold at bay. Geralt is yearning to trace the contours of his face, trail his fingers over his sharp cheekbones, or over his jaw, anything, he just needs a small touch, but he knows he can’t.  "I don't do that anymore," Jaskier says.

"Why not?" His yellow eyes seem to widen for a moment at the implications of those words and he sees the pain flickering over the bard's beautiful features. Pain that Geralt put there himself. The ache inside of him burns fiercely.  He wants to apologize, but he doesn’t know where to find the right words. He’s not even sure Jaskier would listen, 

"Don't act like you care. I'm not the same person I was ten months ago. Besides, you hate my singing, you can barely stand my voice, what difference does it make to you?" Jaskier sighs, he feels drained and exhausted. Geralt was the last person he expected to see today. and the last he needed to see. Too long he spent trying to sew himself back together, too many tears were shed at every dream and every memory of their time together, too many little pieces of his heart were still refusing to stay put and make him whole. It all seemed in vain now that the Witcher was in front of him.

"That's not true," Geralt mumbles under his breath, clenching his hands at his side, resisting the urge to reach out for him. There must be something he could say to make Jaskier forgive him. 

"It's like ordering a pie and finding it has no filling. There's a word for that, in case you didn't know, and it's called disappointment. Now, why did you follow me out here? I don't think it was to tell me you suddenly like my voice cause we both know you don't and honestly, bit late for that, don't you think?" Geralt hears it in his voice that if Jaskier had enough strength left in him to be mad, he'd be furious. He briefly wonders how long he stayed angry before he gave up.

"I just thought...we could maybe....talk?" Jaskier’s laugh is bitter and hollow, empty as his eyes.

"Really Geralt? That's rich coming from you. Now you want to talk? You know what, no. No, you don't get to come here and tell me you want to talk after I spent ten gods forsaken months trying to forget you. Don't you fucking dare. Not like this. Now if there's something I can help you with, do say so. If not, spare us both this conversation, I'm not sure I’m in the mood to have my heart broken again."

Geralt knows he's right, but it still hurts to hear it from his voice. It takes him a moment for the words to sink in, it’s like his mind refuses the real meaning of them. He steels himself before saying  "I'll leave you to your things then. Goodbye, Jaskier." And it’s harder than slaying any monster he ever encountered. For some messed up reasons, he thought Jaskier would be willing to talk to him, to give him a second chance he knows he hasn’t earned. It’s only fair that he doesn’t. 

"You were right." Geralt freezes in his spot when blue eyes search for his own golden ones. "You spent so much time trying to convince me to leave you alone and stop following you around and I never fucking listened. I realized you were right. Cause you, you got what you wanted, life, destiny, whatever, you had your sorceress and I'm finally off your hands, But what about me? That is why I wish...I wish I would have listened to you. Left. Before it was too late. Before having my heart broken."

Geralt doesn't miss how his voice breaks, he can taste the salt in the air from his unshed tears and he can't help but wonder how many times this precious human he loved cried because of him. Loves. He still loves him, even if he never knew how to show it. He stares at the black cloak trailing tiredly behind his companion, his best friend, his lover, and he knows he deserves the pain he feels for what he did to him. He whispers his poor apology to the wind, but nobody answers. He really wishes Witchers couldn't feel emotions.

[terrence-silver]

Thanks so much for your sweet tags on my story! I love all the content you provide us and I can't help myself but request more Terry from you. How about. . .Terry trying to seduce Reader, but Reader is oblivious and thinks they're just best friends.

@atmostories thank you so much, this one is for you 🖤

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This never happened before.

And he’s had his conquests. Yes. He once spent several years after he returned from Vietnam and got his Business and Masters Degree just travelling Europe and fucking around. Quite literally speaking. He had the looks to pull it off. He had the charm. He had the means and the money. Also, it was the 70′s and he needed to blow some steam off and make up for all the years lost in the war and after his parents died. But, what he never had before is someone being daft enough not to realize that when a man arranges to see you in his own private steam room sauna (which you didn’t even realize he owned, naturally - hiding the truth in plain sight) with nothing but a towel on and a bottle of champagne and two glasses that it’s supposed to mean something. How does one not understand the implications? Were you playing hard to get? Did you enjoy people working a bit more then usual for you due to some sort of abandonment issues? Was he simply losing his touch? Was this some sort of mind game? Were you somehow manipulating him for covert reasons he couldn’t quite read yet? No. No, you weren’t. Terry Silver could spot a shady, two-faced individual when he saw one (he’d know, from personal experience) and you weren’t one.

You were just - you.

Happy and friendly and cheerful and just normal. He wouldn’t call you insecure. Wouldn’t call you terribly secure either. Were you one of those people who didn’t believe they were loveable to anyone? Did you just subconsciously reject all offered affection because you didn’t believe you were deserving of it? Were you afraid? Did you have a traumatic childhood? Were you abused by someone before and who’s neck did he have to snap? Was he psychoanalyzing you too much? Terry Silver was just horrendously annoyed with you for the longest time now. It’s like you were a shut book he couldn’t read. So open, yet so unavailable. And he’s tried practically everything under the sun. He’s called you beautiful. He complemented you. Occasionally brushed against you. Smiled at you. Acted beyond polite. Beyond sweet. Was always there for you, close by, for whatever and whenever. Once or twice went as far as attempting to invoke your lust first if he couldn’t your affection and just straight-up untying the upper part of his gi and pretending to stretch out after a long training session, hoping to impress you with his physique and the sweat lining his muscles. He worked hard to look like this.

You politely looked away and excused yourself out.

Giving him privacy.

Privacy!?

-”Be careful, don’t catch a cold like that. Could be dangerous.”-

You jovially mentioned with care on your way out of the dojo training hall leaving him to stand there with a naked torso, waving him an idle goodbye, not looking back as not to make him uncomfortable by peeking - no irony, no sarcasm, nothing suggestive, no meanspirited joking in your tone of voice - just genuinely good-natured concern for his health, well-being and the utmost respect for his bodily autonomy. Honestly - fuck you. First of all, you were in LA and it was the asphalt was searing mid-summer, how the heck is he gonna catch a cold? Second of all, not even John treated him with this much detached friendliness and that was actually his friend. Even John was more touchy-feely, close and warm with him just by nature of being. This was ridiculous. In fact, it was outrageous. What was he even supposed to do next? Show up in your bedroom, just lay down and wait for you to arrive? Knowing you, you’d no doubt be absolutely okay with him chastely sleeping over and you’d probably borrow him your pillow and tuck him in too and just go to rest in the other room with not a care in the world.

How could a person like that even exist?

Did you have eyes?

Maybe he just wasn’t your type. But then again, highly improbable, Terry Silver was nearly everyone’s type and if he wasn’t, he’d make himself be their type. He’d get under their skin and make them believe he was their type even if they didn’t believe themselves initially. Oh, the idea though - the idea of not being your type. Why did it fill him with so much - well - resentment? Anger, almost? Loathing? Why was there a pit deep in his belly swallowing all his pity, patience and understanding for you like an ever-expanding crater of darkness? Why did he want to take whatever kind of person you were into a just rip them to shreds until nothing worthy admiration and attraction remained? Just degrade them, hurt them and destroy them until there was nothing to love anymore? He’s been at this game for over a year now. Over a year. In his kind of life, a year was an eternity. Two was just flat-out embarrassing. Stock-markets crash, companies go bankrupt and he makes his next million. He never spent a year trying to get anyone to like him for amorous purposes. And this beating around the bush would end today.

After much self-reflection and pondering.

Consultations from everyone starting from Margaret.

Milos, Snake, Dennis and even Mike Barnes, horribly enough.

Terry decided to pull out the big L.

Because really, who could resist a confession of love, strictly strategically speaking? It was a move worthy of the Art of War. Even when not mutual (and he’d make sure it would be by any means necessary) if anything, the other person would be flattered. Put off guard. Confused. Amused at best. Literally anything but the putrid, disgusting, disturbing sense of flat-line familial kinship you’ve endued him with against his will. He wasn’t your dad. He wasn’t your brother. He wasn’t your cousin. He wasn’t your friend. Your acquittance. Don’t you realize what he wanted to do with you? He wanted to possess you whole and make you scream on every surface in every chamber of his 100 room house and keep repeating that forever and ever and ever until you live through nothing but him. How dare you? The thought of not winning. The thought of just being rejected by your obliviousness. It brought him so close to the edge of breaking out of the weak, saccharine, nonsensical, subdued character he constructed for himself. It brought him so painfully close. Just shedding his facade and taking what he wanted in the crudest, foulest way possible - it would be so easy. So easy. At this point he was insulted.

But he held back for your sake.

He didn’t even understand why he’d care to.

Why he’d care not to frighten, repulse or push you away.

Usually, that would be his most preferred part of the game.

Not now, though.

Why?

Why he’d even begin to care to read all the possible moods etched into your face, bother with the levels of your comfort and discomfort to make the setup perfect, natural, soft and intimate and just say the words as gently and with as emotion as humanly possible without trying to come off too strongly? Which is exactly what he did. Upon which your reaction was to merely smile blissfully (disappointing) just tap him on the shoulder (even more disappointing), give it a fond little squeeze like you would your favourite coworker during lunchbreak (unimaginably disappointing) and just respond with a casual and off-puttingly, wretchedly non-chalant;

-”Yeah, sure, I love you too.”-

Yeah, sure!?

Sure!?

You kept eating the ice cream he’s bought you.

Unphased, unbothered, unaware and dumb as a rock.

Terry Silver was just stunned for the rest of the evening.

In ways he doesn’t quite recall being in, well - ever.

Did you just confess to loving him as a friend?

To his face?

And he let you survive that?

Alright then. It was decided there and then. He wanted to strangle you. Yes. But he’d leave that for another time. For now, he’d say goodbye to you in good humor and cheer like he always did and leave this unfortunate, hideous fiasco of a night behind him even though you (of course) appeared to be legitimately enjoying yourself. The next time you meet him, he’ll be himself. His actual self. None of this sugary, flowery, tame tip-toeing around the substance of things. No more sparing you. No more patience. No more waiting. No more going soft on you. No more trying to tenderly, slowly ease you into things. No. If ordinary, commonplace, humble Terry was someone you considered a mere friend - a best friend, to make things doubly offensive - the actual, real Terry wasn’t going to accept that. The actual, real Terry took whatever he wanted whenever he wanted. The actual, real Terry wasn’t lenient, merciful or even remotely open to rejection. And this was all your fault. All of it. You could have had the nice, kind, darling, innocent, angelic Terry who takes you out on cute little walks, asks permission to hold your hand gingerly and buys you ice cream and smiles charmingly at you with the widest, fullest grin he could possibly manage. You wanted the other guy instead, didn’t you? You pushed his hand. Forced it even.

He went to his actual home that night despite the risk of it.

The hills overlooking the shimmering skyline of the city.

You knew this place, without realizing you knew it.

He burned all his pretend-clothes -

On the embers of a lit cigar.

And seething with cold rage -- 

He decided to re-introduce himself to you.

They say honesty was the best policy, after all.

[come-on-shitty-boys]

//have you ever. sugawara koushi//

Warnings: School Shooting.

Word Count: 2K

Have you ever thought about getting married?

That's the question that spikes your interest and causes you to roll over in your boyfriend's arms as the two of you lay in his bed after a long day of classes and practice. You can't keep the smile off of your lips. "Well, yeah. I am a girl, after all. I think we've all thought getting married," you reply.

"Tell me about your dream wedding," he says simply, playing with the ends of your hair.

"I really want to get married in the spring, when all the cherry blossom trees are in bloom. It'd be an outdoor wedding. The alter would be under one of the cherry blossoms. It will be a fairly small wedding, just some family and friends. My dress will have lace and be so beautiful that it will cause my mother to cry when I try it on for the first time."

"What about your groom? What's he like?" Sugawara asks.

"He's perfect. He's everything I ever wanted. He has the most beautiful smile and he understands everything about me. He makes my days brighter and he's my best friend, so I know he'll always be there when I need him," you explain, a small smile playing at your lips, trying your best to describe the young man in front of you without giving too much away.

"It sounds like a beautiful wedding," he whispers, brushing your cheek softly with his nose. He breathes in your flowery scent, the scent that calmed him so much when his day was not going how he had hoped. He can feel the soft tickle of your lashes against his skin. He's been aware that this was something he dearly wished to have for the rest of his life since the beginning of your second year of college together.

You hold onto his hands, the hands that have been worn by years of playing the sport he so dearly loved. They were hands that you wanted to hold forever if the world would allow it. You desperately didn't want to live in a world where you were not allowed to call Sugawara Koushi yours. You needed to be able to see his smile and hear his voice and watch the way his face scrunched up when he laughed.

"Can I ask you something else?" He asks after the room is filled with silence for a few moments. You just nod. Sugawara leans over the edge of his bed, pulling out a shoe box that he had filled with things he couldn't bring himself to get rid off, a few medals, some old photos from high school, and so many other things, but you notice something different in the box. He picks up a smaller box out of the mess of things before pushing the shoe box back under his bed. Suga sits cross-legged in front of you with the box in the palm of his hand. His teeth have captured his bottom lip and he can't meet your eyes.

"Koushi," you say, lifting his chin so he's looking at you. You watch as he takes a deep breath and gives you a smile that makes your heart melt.

He starts to open the box, but then he shakes his head, "No, I need to do this properly," he mutters to himself. He stands up from his bed, pulling you with him so you're standing in front of him. He takes one of your hands in his and sinks down onto a single knee, his hazel eyes never leaving yours.

Your eyes widen as you look down at him and your mouth hangs open. You see him smile in amusement before lifting the lid of the box and showing you a small diamond ring that he had once told you belonged to his late grandmother.   "I want to be the groom at your dream wedding.  We've been together for almost five years and I want to be with you so many more.  Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?" He asks, looking up at you with hope filled eyes.

Have you ever thought about having kids?

Koushi asked you this on your fourth wedding anniversary.  It had been over a beautiful dinner that he had prepared for the two of you so you could both spend the evening at home, especially considering that you both had work in the morning.  The question nearly caused you to choke on your wine.

The subject of kids had been something briefly discussed when you two were still dating and had never really come up since.  You both just really enjoyed the company of one another and, up until now, didn't want it to be interrupted by a baby.  You were aware that kids had been something that Koushi did see in the future and he was aware that, while you were hesitant, the possibility of children was something you were open to.  

You were unaware of what to answer in this moment.  Yes, allowing Koushi to be the father of your children was something you had thought about.  But, were you ready for locking in your fate as a possible mother?  You weren't really sure.

You took one look at his face.  His eyebrows were knit together, trying to read you, trying to figure out if he what he had said had been to sudden and abrupt.  Should he have just kept the thought to himself for the moment and shared the desire with you later?  

The look in his eyes was nothing but love and that was what brought your answer from your throat.  "I want kids."  He recoiled back at your answer, completely prepared for rejection, so your approval came as a shock to your silver-haired husband.

"R-really?" he stuttered.

You nod, standing up from your chair.  You grab him by the tie of his shirt, tugging him softly up so he can stand in front of you.  You stood up on your toes, connecting his lips with yours.  It was perfect, as always.  The kisses that you and Koushi shared never failed to disappoint you.  It seemed like every kiss was the first.  You always felt your heart skip a beat when his soft pink lips made contact with yours.  

You pulled him down the hall, untying the tie, and hanging it on the doorknob of your bedroom.  You back made contact with the sheets and Koushi hovered over you, placing gentle kisses along your neck and down to your collarbone.  He was never one to take things quickly in the beginning.  He wished to savor every moment he could as his lips met your skin.  He enjoyed watching the way you would close your eyes and hearing you curse softly when he did something you enjoyed.  He wanted to prolong those moments, proving to you that every touch, every kiss, every movement, was meant to bring pleasure to you, to make you feel the love he held for you.

Have you ever imagined living without him?

No.  You honestly didn't.  You weren't sure you could manage in a world where Sugawara Koushi was non-existent.  And the fact that that world was upon you, shattered your world into a million pieces.  You barely kept yourself together as they lowered the dark oak coffin into the ground.  You six-year-old daughter, whom looked exactly like your deceased husband, clung tightly to your hand, tears streaming from her large hazel eyes, knowing, and at the same time not, that her daddy would not be coming back to her.  

When the breaking news came across the television that Tuesday morning, you had been tucked away peacefully in your office.  Your co-worker ran in, not saying a word, just grabbing you by the wrist and pulling you down the hall to the break room.

The others on the floor were gathered around the small TV, watching the news channel as the news anchor continued to fill new viewers in on the events.  "-student has opened gunfire on hundreds of innocent students and faculty in a Miyagi prefecture high school."  That made your breath catch in your throat.  Part of you was being reasonable.  There were many other high schools in the prefecture.  You didn't know that it was Karasuno, the high school where your husband had taken up a teaching and coaching career. But, if it wasn't, you doubt your colleague would have dragged you away from your work.

"-over thirty victims in the past two hours.  Authorities are currently trying to locate and apprehend the shooter.  There seems to be no real target, just random killing.  We will fill you in on the current situation at Karasuno High School as the information comes in."

You're unable to move.  You're pretty sure you stopped breathing at one point.  There were only thirty dead.  You didn't know that Koushi was one of those thirty.  He could still be alive.  But, Koushi wasn't the type of man to sit back back and watch it happen.  

It wasn't until the following day that the names of the victims were released.  You had been home, watching the late night news after putting your little girl to bed, knowing the truth before even seeing the list.  He would've had someone contact you, no matter his condition, if he was alive.  

You couldn't bring yourself to cry.  Everything hurt too much.  You just felt empty.  Your brain wasn't working and you were pretty sure you passed out for a moment, because when you opened your eyes, you were lying on floor with an awful headache.  What were you supposed to tell your six-year-old when she asked you when Daddy was coming home?  How would you explain that Daddy wouldn't be coming home?  How could you break her heart like that?  How could you break your heart like that?  

This was the first time you cried since the incident.  You passed your daughter off to Koushi's parents after they gave you a tight hug, his mother's eyes stained with black eye make-up.  You had told them that you wished to stay back for a few minutes and to take your daughter with them.  You watched them walk away, their granddaughter holding onto their hands between them.  

You turned your back to them, walking back to the gravestone that had Sugawara Koushi etched across one half and Sugawara Y/F/N across the other.  You knelt down the best you could in your black dress and heels, running your hand over the date as tears fell down your face, soaking into the freshly refilled hole.  

"You weren't supposed to die yet.   You promised that we would be together forever!  You promised you'd walk our little girl down the aisle on her wedding day!  It's not fair!  You can't leave me! Not yet!" You yelled at the headstone.  The tears fell even quicker down your face.  "Koushi, I miss you... It's only been a few days, but, God, I miss you.  I miss your smile and your eyes.  I miss how warm your side of the bed always seemed to feel.  Our baby girl doesn't have her daddy anymore and I don't have the love of my life.  I need you.  I can't do this b-by m-my-" you couldn't finish your words, they got caught in your throat and a sob took their place.  You covered your mouth with your hand, clutching onto the fabric of your dress with the other.  Your whole body ached with sorrow and the intensity of your sobs.

You're not sure how long you were there, but your sobs finally began to turn into muffled sniffles.  "You know how you wanted another baby, Koushi?  Guess what.  We're pregnant," you mumble, running your fingers over the curve of the marble as you stood from the grass, not even bothering to worry that you now had grass stains on the front of your dress.  "Bye, sweetheart.  We'll come see you every weekend, okay?" You smile sadly, walking away from your deceased husband for the first time.

[discordantplains]

Dear Lord

Tucker was in hell. Not the nether--no that would be preferable over the itching sneezing congestion filled purgatory he’d landed himself in. He hadn’t even been blessed enough to find the meager amount of obsidian necessary to construct a portal there during their supervised mining sessions. There was no escape and he figured he must be really desperate if he was considering the stifling dimension of Dianite’s domain a reprieve.

He sniffled, wiping at his already tender nose, and pressed his face into his pillow. He was the only one currently in the bed and breakfast they were using as a base of operations. Sonja and Waglington had gone out to explore the town, Tom left to do who knows what--probably get in trouble with Captain Captain--and Jordan had already turned hermit and was down in the basement tinkering with a portal to get them home.

The hope Jordan’s portal was bringing happened to be the only thing keeping him from bashing his head open on the nearest hard surface. Though, to be fair, it already felt like his head was being bashed open.

He’d never had allergies this bad, not in the savanna in Mianite or the fields around his home in Ruxomar. Whatever grass grew in this gods-forsaken plane was seriously nasty stuff. Both inside and outside he was suffering, hell even underground was bad. His head pounded and felt full of cotton, his sinuses felt fit to burst, and his eyes were throbbing. He was constantly adjusting his jaw, hoping that his ears would pop and relieve some of the terrible pressure in his skull but he hadn’t been lucky thus far. His mouth didn’t feel much better--his tongue was slightly swollen and his throat felt like it was grating against sandpaper every time he swallowed. 

He had already gotten medication from SkeleTom and it didn’t seem to be doing anything. The alternate swore up and down that it should have done something at least, but Tucker wasn’t seeing a difference. Sleeping didn’t help either. He woke up this morning feeling worse than the previous days and mining had been pretty miserable to begin with. The alternate alternates, who Sonja had dubbed the “Alts Squared”, followed every move they made. Even Tom, who had made threats of going off the grid, hadn’t managed to escape Honey’s watchful gaze. If he didn’t feel so sick Tucker would have been impressed. He’d never been able to control Tom like that.

Speaking of, the grating zombie champion had woken him about thirty minutes ago, jabbering on about spending time with Captain Captain. Not only did he not feel up to spending extended periods of time outside, but he didn’t exactly trust Jordan’s alternate not to go crazy and murder them all. Mianite knows he’d already tried. Or maybe that was his version of playfulness. Honestly, he was worse than the Modesteps and the Ianite pirates put together. 

After only a few moments of lying face down in his pillow the pillowcase was wet with snot from his constantly dribbling nose. He sat back in disgust, sighing frustratedly. He needed out--and he didn’t know if he could wait on Jordan to build his portal.

With an appropriate amount of sniffling and groaning he put on the simple armor he had managed to craft the day prior and stepped outside.

It was midday and the sun beat down on the city in the plains relentlessly. As soon as he took his first congested breath of fresh air he sneezed and regretted leaving the safety of the bed and breakfast. But sitting inside all day was driving him madder than his allergies, especially when everyone else was being productive. He had already wasted yesterday in a drowsy haze of SkeleTom’s defective medication.

He still wasn’t going to hang out with Tom and his evil pirate fixation though. 

The walk from the bed and breakfast to the town square was a short one and Tucker wasted no time gazing at the sights. He was a man on a mission. As he rounded the side of a building and the Mianite temple came into view he quickened his pace, stepping over Captain Captain’s tripwire, and slipped inside.

It was cool and dim in the temple, the only light source being a few long burning candles on the quartz altar at the front. All of the windows were shuttered with heavy wooden blinds, likely to keep the elaborate tapestries hanging from the rafters from fading in the sunlight. They were brilliantly colored, depicting Mianite enacting various forms of justice while golden wheat shone behind him. Tucker wasn’t impressed with the artistry. Compared to the temple in the land of Mianite this was nothing. Honey may seem like the picture perfect Mianite champion but her temple sucked and Tucker took pleasure in besting her on that front. 

He approached the altar and swiped the book laid open on the center of it. All pages prior to the one it was open to had been ripped out. The tears were neat and close to the binding--clearly Honey’s work. There was a dropper behind the altar, shimmering with a godlike enchantment, and Tucker figured that’s where he should drop prayers. It was interesting how similar communication with the gods was here in comparison with his home dimension. He was hoping this god would be a bit more responsive than his own, however. 

He grabbed the quill on the altar as well, noting the beautiful golden feather and plopped down on the front pew preparing to write until the god responded. It’s not like there was anything else to do in this city without getting penalized anyway. Honey had made that very clear.

He started out eloquently, introducing himself, because he had to remember that this wasn’t his Mianite, and explaining the circumstances. He made note to mention that he was the Mianite champion in his own universe and give a flowery overview of his deeds and accomplishments. Tucker figured that the higher this Mianite thought of him the more he would be willing to help him out. He definitely wanted to speed run this experience-- no waiting around on world ending calamities to open up the void. And no waiting for Jordan to figure out what even Deviser Gaines struggled with either. 

He had just gotten to the part where he heroically slayed Dianite to rescue Ianite and save his dimension when the solid oak doors swung open behind him and heavy footfalls approached. He stifled a cough and looked over his shoulder, expecting Sonja.

Honey was marching towards him instead. Immediately Tucker straightened up, trying his best to look the part of a proper champion despite feeling like Tom on a sunny day. Which was to say--bad.

“You’re quite devoted.” She intoned, coming to a stop at the end of his pew.

“Yeah well, I try.” He chuckled awkwardly, before pausing and running a hand through his hair. 

He felt he had made a rocky first impression with Honey courtesy of a few too many snarky remarks. She was also kind of scary and her rapier and armor was well above what he had managed to craft the few days prior. Not to mention he could barely read her. She was perfectly stone faced aside from her ears.

“I’ve been praying so we can get out of your hair. Figured if anyone can get me out of this gods-forsake- erm... if anyone can get us home it’d be Lord Mianite.”

“A shame. I was rather hoping you’d decide to stay.”

Though her words were passive her tone suggested that he strongly reconsider is bid to leave.

“Not a chance.” He laughed, “No offense, this is a nice town and all but I’d rather die than stay here. Actually, scratch that- I probably will die.”

“I won’t let that happen.”

He believed her.

“Look, I’m not trying to be rude here, but nothing short of an ancient prophecy from Mianite himself is going to get me to stay.”

“I take it that’s happened before.”

“Yeah, it was a whole big deal in the last dimension we were in. Don’t think it made much of a difference though, we sort of caused the end of the world on our way out.”

He balked under her observant turned piercing stare.

“Uh, that’s not going to happen here, though.”

“I should hope not. I’ve labored too many years here to have it all destroyed because of some unexpected guests. That being said, you’re still welcomed despite your apparent track record.”

“Gee, thanks.”

He sighed and closed the prayer book, before standing and placing it back on the altar. 

“Speaking of track record,” he began tredeptatiously, “and you’re smart so I’m sure you’ve picked up on this-”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“-that’s not what I- I’m taken. Um, look Tom isn’t exactly the most rule abiding person. He's been pretty good so far, and you've been doing a good job keeping track of him, but he won't stay so placated for long.” Honey’s stern eyes didn’t leave him the whole time he spoke. Tucker ended up choking on his cough in the back of his throat--unwilling to show weakness. 

“Yes, Sonja made that clear during the initial tour, and his conduct during your allotted mining hours affirmed it. You need not remind me, I am keeping an eye on it. We are well versed in dealing with troublemakers.”

“Right,” he muttered, “Captain Captain. I just figured I’d warn you, Mianite champion to Mianite champion and all.”

He placed his hands on his hips in a very self important sort of way but Honey didn’t react beyond blinking. Tucker pressed his lips together in a firm line, never missing how the inhabitants of Ruxomar had thought him hot shit more than now. 

“He doesn’t care if you kill him by the way,” he added, moving swiftly on from that embarrassing floundering, “he’ll just keep popping up like nothing happened, it doesn’t work on him.”

It was strange that that was the statement to wring a reaction out of her. To Tucker it seemed she would have been able to infer something like that, but the tilt of her head and squint of her eyes indicated otherwise. He felt something tighten in his chest. The implications of the source of her confusion were less than ideal.

“What’s that look for.”

She continued to look at him, brows furrowed in confusion and the blatant telegraphing of her emotions made him uncomfortable.

“I don’t follow.” She finally said.

“What part.”

“Is he immortal? A god?” she asked and the bad feeling in Tucker’s chest grew heavier.

“I mean technically yes, he’s Dianite-”

And he didn’t miss the way she flinched, the muscles jumping in her forearms and biceps as she tensed. 

“-but not in this dimension. Okay, I’m about to ask a potentially stupid question, um-- do you guys not come back to life when you die?”

“No.”

Fuck.

“Oh gods- I need to-” and he took a few unsteady steps back to the pew before sinking down into it like all the breath had been driven from his lungs. It felt like it. Or maybe he was about to have a panic attack.

Of course this dimension had no respawn, why would it. There’s apparently a pattern to keep, after all. 

Unwittingly, his mind flashed back to a small dark cave, with holes and crevices in the rock stretching up above him, shrouded in shadow. It felt like the world had dimmed around him, and he could feel the grit of cobblestone and coal under his fingernails. The air tasted stale and dank. He felt claustrophobic. 

He pushed his hands through his hair, gripping tightly and knocking the cap from his head. 

This was just like the island, although he had no intention of dying here. He was going to live and escape. He didn’t want to die again, not like that. Not without being able to come back. 

Honey was taking his mini breakdown rather well, just standing impassively and letting him work it out of his system. Maybe later he would scream into his pillow until he went hoarse, but for now he needed to make sure Sonja’s alt² didn’t think he was too much of a crazy person. 

“I’m fine, that’s fine--normal even, sorry, I said it would be a stupid question.” He paused to breathe, finding it a little hard and not entirely because of his allergies. 

“If you need some time I’ll be on my way.” Honey started, motioning to the doors. And though he realized she probably didn’t get what was happening, he appreciated her discretion.

Tucker sighed and breathed in and out a few more times before sitting up and placing his hat back on his head. Unfortunately, he couldn’t afford to sit down and think about tight cave spaces and hissing monsters that were always just out of his line of sight.

“No, I have more questions.” He wheezed before snapping his fingers, “A priest, do you have a priest? Declan?”

“We do not.”

Right, of course not. That would be too easy. What’s the point of a world where death is permanent if it isn’t inescapable?

He also thought it odd, because even on Trinity Island Declan had a way of reaching them. Tucker just assumed he was a universal constant. Though if anything he learned about Ihatchu so far was to be believed, it was that Captain Captain was a murderous maniac and probably killed him. 

Thinking about that now and knowing that those who died stayed dead set him on edge.

“Tell me about Mianite, how do I get in contact. What’s the fastest way.” 

He might've been losing his cool a bit.

“Writing prayers is the most assured way to-”

She cut herself off mid sentence, Tucker hanging on her words like the end of a rope, holding his breath. 

“Honey-”

“Silence.”

He shut his jaw with a clack, frustrated energy thrumming under his skin. He wasn’t a particularly patient person on most days but right now it felt as though if he didn’t get answers from Mianite himself right this second he would explode. Or scream. Or both. 

Honey was statue still. Her ears were twitching continuously and he could hear her quick inhales in the silence of the temple. He didn’t miss how her hand had drifted to the hilt of her rapier. She seemed to be waiting for something that only she had noticed.

He stilled as well, but couldn’t hear or smell anything out of the ordinary. Before he even had a chance to open his mouth and ask what she was paying attention to she was storming down the aisle and out of the doors at a furious pace.

He followed, scrambling up out of the pew and dashing out after her into the evening air. 

The first thing he noticed was that he had spent much longer inside the temple than he thought, and the second thing was a large column of black smoke rising up into the golden sky a few blocks away.

Honey was already disappearing down a street in that direction. 

Tucker had a bad feeling about this. 

He followed suit, boots pounding against clean cobblestone streets. 

It was clear what had happened before he even rounded the final corner. Tucker could hear the roaring crackle and feel the heat of flames before actually seeing the fire. But as soon as he did it was obvious who had started it.

Standing an unsafe distance from the inferno was Tom, cackling like mad and looking entirely like Dianite incarnate. Reflections of the flames glittered madly in his dark, undead eyes and his suit was smoldering slightly as rogue embers sizzled against the cloth.

It was only then did Tucker realize that the structure currently on fire was an entire fucking house.

“Oh, you fucking idiot.”

Tom spotted Tucker and lifted his hand to wave at the same moment Honey rushed and clotheslined him. She swung wide, her heavy forearm bracer catching him in the throat and sending him flat on his back in a singular movement. Tom’s shriek of surprise was cut short as his back hit the street and the breath was driven from his lungs.

 Honey pinned him with her knee and immediately straightened, scanning the surrounding streets with her hawklike gaze. Tom writhed beneath her, horrid choking sobs adding to the roaring of the flames as he struggled to take in air.

Tucker didn’t quite get what she was looking for until he saw a glint of something metallic and spotted Captain Captain leaning on the railing of a porch across the street. The pirate and lawmaker locked eyes across the way. The Ianite champion grinned before shaking his head and turning to head out of sight.

“You’re not going to go after him?” Tucker asked, nodding to the side alley where Captain Captain had disappeared.

Tom had started squirming more purposefully under Honey’s weight, reaching for a wicked looking dagger that had been knocked free of his belt and was lying a few feet away. She increased pressure on his sternum and he let out an undignified squeak.

“Get off of me, lady!” Tom whined, legs thrashing.

Honey ignored Tom’s protests, turning to Tucker. Her expression was so fearsome he noticeably stiffened, taking half a step back.

“He’ll get what’s his.” She growled. 

Normally, Tucker would've offered his assistance in apprehending him, but recently learning he was a very mortal man had him acting with caution. He didn't want to test his luck when the outcome could very well be a crossbow bolt between the eyes. 

 “And Tom?” He asked above the flurry of foul words the Dianite champion was now spitting at Honey.

“Tom will receive punishment fitting the crime.”

Tucker did a double take, “What? No trial?”

“Have you any doubt of his responsibility for this?”

Tucker looked at the blazing inferno and then back at Tom, still struggling beneath Honey and looking like he would kill if he could.

His answer was an unfortunate, “No…”

With a deft movement, Honey let up the pressure on Tom’s chest and fisted her hand in his hair at the nape of his neck. She yanked hard, twisting his head so his face was pressed harshly into the street. Tom sputtered as his teeth hit cobblestone, lips splitting and staining the ground red. 

He thrashed, kicking with his legs, but Honey held fast and flipped the rest of his body stomach down with a sharp knee to his kidneys. 

“I’m taking him in.” She decided, then inclined her head towards a narrow line of grates bordering the street. “Use the city’s waterline to put out the fire, I won’t have it spreading.”

Tucker hesitated. He couldn’t just let Honey take Tom away, what if she killed him? Rationally, he knew she wouldn’t, that would be absurd but…

“Hey now, shouldn’t I tag along to see how you do things? Not that I don’t trust you but we’re used to a more democratic system when it comes to doling out punishment.”

He inhaled sharply before continuing, “Griefing was against the law in our dimension as well, I’m sure there’s some sort of explanation that would…” Tucker trailed off. Was he really about to say there might be a reason that justified Tom burning a house down? He hoped for the zombie’s sake there was one. What the hell had gotten into him. 

Honey was unmoved by his pleas.

“How many times will you have to defend the actions of your friend, preemptively or in response to his misdeeds, before you take a critical eye to his moral character.”

She had a point. They were making an awful lot of excuses on Tom’s behalf. But the alts² didn’t know Tom. He was an obnoxious Dianitee who liked to play with fire but damn it, he was Tucker’s friend too. 

“I’ve known him long enough to make my judgments.” He retorted. “I’ll put out the fire, just don’t do anything permanent. You aren’t the only Mianite champion around anymore.”

Honey’s dark eyes narrowed, the fire flickering dangerously in the reflection of her pupils.

“Reconsider that statement.” She said coldly, standing and hauling Tom with her.

Tucker stood his ground, likely foolishly. He doubted she’d kill him, that wasn’t exactly just and she seemed to pride herself on that sort of thing, but she was stronger than him, more geared than him, and had very sharp teeth and big muscles. In a one on one he would decidedly lose, but if he backed down here than what sort of a man was he, no less what sort of champion. 

Honey didn’t back down so much as brush him aside. Wrenching Tom’s right arm up and behind his back, still gripping his hair, she shoved him down the street in the direction that Tucker knew was the jail. 

The zombie was cursing loudly, and Tucker caught his wild gaze as he was marched past. 

“Tucker! Dude back me up! No one was living there what’s the big deal!”

“He will be released in the morning.” Honey said as a final goodbye, leaving Tucker to deal with the house fire himself.

Tucker coughed, the acrid taste of smoke hitting the back of his throat. Perfect.

In the end, he did a very half-assed job of putting out the fire. He made sure it wouldn’t spread to any other buildings and then bailed, figuring the structure would be a lost cause anyway. 

There were much more important things to attend to, like making sure everyone else knew there was no respawn. It was then that he realized that Tom had no idea and had burned down a building with the confidence of someone who could never die. 

And Captain Captain had probably egged him on to boot. He was totally trying to get Tom killed!

The sun was well on its way to dipping below the horizon now, and the sky was tinged a dusky purple. Streetlights began to flicker on as Tucker turned and sprinted back towards the bed and breakfast, flames still crackling at his back. The shadows on porches and down alleyways began to seem more sinister as he ran and he had to focus on the rhythm of his feet and breath to keep his brain from conjuring up creeper hissing. Thank Mianite for intuitive city layouts because he was back on the doorstep of their shared living space within a few minutes, if horrendously out of breath. 

As he leant heavily on the doorframe catching his breath, feeling the congestion crackle in his chest alongside the smoke inhalation, a familiar soothing voice piped up behind him. 

“Hey Tucker, there’s like a big fire over there or something. Wonder what that’s all about.”

Tucker whipped around, only looking mildly crazed, to find Waglington staring placidly back at him.

“Get inside, we need to have a meeting.” He ordered hoarsely, pulling open the door and shoving the wizard inside. 

“Ah, is it about the fire?” Waglington asked, not in any hurry at all despite Tucker’s urging.

“No- well yes, that’s part of it.” They entered the bedroom, and Sonja was already present, lounging on her bed and scrawling crossly into a journal.

“Where’s Sparklez.” Tucker badgered.

“Downstairs.” Sonja answered without looking up, and Waglington shuffled over to peer at her notes. 

“What’s got you so peeved.” The wizard inquired, flicking the tips of her ears which were lying flat against her head in displeasure.

She sighed heavily. 

“I’ve been trying to investigate some lights out of town, but Mericho’s dogs won’t let me out.”

“Hmm that is a predicament indeed.” He murmured, and Tucker tuned them out, hurrying down the steps to the basement.

“Jordan!” He barked, startling the Ianite champion into dropping a component he was holding. It broke in half upon hitting the ground and a piece of it skittered somewhere out of sight.

“Oh gods-” He turned around blue eyes blazing angrily, “Tucker!”

“Worry about that later, I have news.” And he grabbed the shorter man by the wrist, tugging him back up into their shared living space. He stumbled crossly after Tucker, fixing his askew sunglasses as he was yanked along.

“Okay, stop.” Jordan grumbled, snatching his hand back from Tucker with a scowl, “what’s this about.”

“We’re missing Tom.” Waglinton observed.

“You smell like smoke.” Sonja commented.

Tucker muffled a cough in his elbow. “I’ll get to that.” He paused to make sure he had their full attention before continuing. Jordan cast a mournful glance down at the cellar and Tucker snapped his fingers to bring his focus back around.

“I was talking to Honey today and to make a long and awkward conversation short,” he inhaled sharply,  “we have no respawn.”

“Well, that sucks.” Jordan said eloquently. 

Sonja frowned, looking back at her notepad. “That makes a lot of sense actually.”

Waglington looked confused.

“What so like, if we die, we die?”

"Yeah, pretty much." Tucker confirmed, "And I have no idea what happens when we do die. Dec isn't here, no idea if the gods will pop up any time soon, so-"

"Wait, no Declan?" Jordan piped up, "I thought he was like- a universal constant."

"Yeah, that's what I thought too, and if I'm honest here I think he straight up died."

“That’s troubling.” Waglington muttered, sitting down on his bed.

“Right. So we should all just keep our heads down, no dangerous shit.” He crossed his arms. “Speaking of-- Tom decided to burn down a house tonight and got himself caught by Honey.”

Waglington laughed, Jordan sighed heavily, and Sonja put her head in her hands. 

“She wouldn’t kill him, right?” Jordan worried.

Tucker shrugged, “She said she’d release him in the morning so that implies not.”

That seemed to be enough for Jordan, who tentatively stretched with a yawn, spine audibly popping.

“Alright, well, I guess that’s fine…”

Sonja’s face wrinkled, “Not really. I can easily picture him pissing her off even more.”

Tucker huffed. “Not much we can do about it, trust me, I tried.”

In truth, he probably could have tried harder, but no one else was there and therefore couldn’t challenge him on it. 

Tom would be fine.

"Look just-" he sighed, taking a shaky step backwards until the backs of his knees hit his bedside, and he sunk into the mattress with a quiet huff.

"-we had instructions on Trinity Island. Beat all the bosses and be the last one standing. But here we don't have a guaranteed revival, even if one of us makes it out. We can't just fuck around like on Ruxomar."

Waglington looked the most troubled of all, and Tucker was reminded that the wizard had never gone without respawn before. Tucker could practically see the gears turning in his head as he likely parsed out the quickest way to become invincible via local magic.

"Well, this place doesn't seem so bad." Jordan pitched in, "All I have to do is finish the portal and it'll be okay."

Tucker didn't miss the way Jordan had clipped his sentences, his tone rife with his trademark subtle passive aggression. He winced, recalling the intricate looking portal component Jordan had dropped.

The Ianite champion didn't spare him another glance, slipping back downstairs.

Tucker was busy feeling sorry for himself. 

Sonja shot him a sympathetic look from where she was curled up against her headboard. 

"What a world, huh?”

He frowned, sniffling as his allergies tickled the back of his nose again.

"It's a crap one, that's what it is."

...

Tucker woke in the morning to the sound of a door slamming open. He jerked awake, not that he had been in that deep of a sleep to begin with, to see Tom’s ugly mug stomping through the bedroom towards the stairs to the basement. He would’ve gotten up to stop him--Tom needed to learn about their mortality like yesterday-- but as soon as he sat up he felt the phlegm in his lungs and hacked and coughed to regain his breath.

The mucus he spit out was thick and disgustingly yellow. His mouth tasted like smoke.

By the time he had pulled enough air into his lungs and recovered, Tom was already in the basement and Tucker could hear the indistinct rumble of Jordan’s voice.

Tucker swiped an unused notebook from Sonja’s bed and began his prayers to Mianite anew, keeping an eye on the cellar stairs for Tom’s return. He’d go down himself but he had a feeling if Jordan broke another portal component because of him he’d probably get a lot more than passive aggressive.

It wasn’t long before he could hear Tom’s voice rising in volume from the basement anyway. Jordan marched up the stairs soon after, Tom hot on his heels, gesticulating wildly.

“You admit to wanting me to suffer!”

Jordan ignored him and nodded at Tucker before exiting the bed and breakfast. It looked like Tom was fixing to go after him and so Tucker stood, taking a step forward to grab the zombie’s shoulder and prevent him from pursuing the Ianite champion. 

Tom attempted to shrug out of his grip, hurling one last sentence at Jordan’s back.

“SkeleTom’s a limp dicked pushover, when you get bored of being his bitch let me know!”

“Tom, quit it.” Tucker grumbled, pulling him back from the doorway.

The zombie rounded on him and Tucker noticed he was cradling an injured hand to his chest.

“You can’t seriously be chill with this, can’t you see Sparklez is traitoring us?”

“Look man, I don’t give a shit about SkeleTom, but what I do care about is the fact that we have no respawn and you’re acting like a maniac.” 

Tom paused, looking confused. Tucker could see the gears turning in his head before his eyes sparked with understanding.

“No shit?”

“Yeah man, so I’m pretty sure Captain Captain was trying to get you killed.”

Tucker waited with a patience he reserved just for Tom and saw the zombie still and go silent. His eyes unfocused and the red light in them dimmed slightly.  He absently flexed his broken hand tentatively and looked at the ground, then Tucker. "That can't be it," he said more in a pleading tone to himself than Tucker. 

Tucker held to that patience like a man drowning in the sea clutching driftwood as he was carried into a torturous storm. "Tom, I'm serious. Go help Wag or Sonja--lay off on the pranking and shit until we're home."

"No!" Tom immediately defended. He crossed his arms. "I'll just be more careful. That was just a slip-up. If Captain MoreFun meant to kill me he would have." The zombie sighed and deflated, looking at the door Jordan had long left.  "I just…"

"Yeah, Tom?" Tucker asked gently. If his allergy drained brain was interpreting things correctly, Tom was upset.

"We don't hang out," Tom said to Tucker, eyes still dim. "First you got busy in Ruxomar, then Jordan found everything to do but hang out and Wag always is off building. I just want someone I can go do pranks with--someone who finally won't get bored of me." 

It hurt. Tucker had got consumed with Blood Magic and Mianite knows what tech Jordan had been doing. "Tom, we're your friends. I'd hug you but I'm starting to feel like vomiting."

Tom wrinkled his nose and then shook his head quickly. He looked at Tucker and genuinely smiled, but let it drop. "What am I saying? That's just the healing potion talking." Tucker sighed as Tom spun on his heels to the door, giving him a middle finger. "Fuck you, I can do whatever; you're all losers and Captain Fun is a lot more entertaining." 

Tucker let him go, he had a list of things to accomplish and at the end of the day it was clear that not even Honey Badger could reign Tom in.

| ABOUT | CHARACTERS | PLOT |

[greeneyedgirls4]

Heart of a Saint. Life of a Sinner.

Summary - Her name was Raven. She had it all. The mind, good looks and sparkling personality. She truly was the Queen of everything.. or so she would let you think.  

Her name was Raven.. and this is the story of how she died.

Chapter - 3/32. Bucky x reader.

Warnings - None. One bad word.. or two. Just some fluff and Bucky being a twat :) I can’t wait for you all to read the rest!

You can also find me and this story on - AO3 and Fanfiction.net so feel free to leave some feedback wherever suits (I love feedback so honestly go for it!) please and this is my Masterlist. Thanks and enjoy!

I walk into the small shop at the end of the road. It’s a corner shop but it has everything you would need in such a tiny space. It amazes me really. Noticing the young man behind the counter looking at me, I nod and slip quietly behind the rows of drugs and food.

Glancing at the opiates my mum usually gets, I grab a pack and stuff them into the pocket of my jacket before smiling at the young man and leaving. It won’t always be that easy Raven.

Getting back home wasn't too difficult. The streets are quieter around dinnertime and I knew for a fact I had only a small chance of running into someone I know.. and that’s exactly what happens.

“Raven..” I hear a voice shout. Turning I slowly feel my heart begin to race. It’s the young man from the shop. Once he has caught up with me I give him a small smile. “You don't recognise me.”

I take him in for a moment. He’s quite attractive, I think I would remember him. Shaggy blonde hair and crystal blue eyes. He’s wearing quite rough clothes too and he's very small and skinny for a boy who I would say is my age. “I’m sorry, I don’t.”

“I’m Steve. My dad works with yours at the factory.” He replies, a wide smile gracing his face when I slowly nod.

“You’re the little boy that was always sick..” I say without thinking.

When he nods I feel a little sorry for him. His head almost looks too big for his body and like it is ready to drop off at any slight movement. “I was.. am.. always sick but mum is letting me go to school again.”

I smile at him once again only this time it’s softer and brighter. “That’s amazing! Will you be going to our school?”

He points to the shiny building standing out among the rows of houses at the bottom of the hill. “I will. I should probably go, I’m covering for a family friend and I can’t leave the shop unattended.”

“Of course. It was nice seeing you again.” I shout as he begins walking away. I grip the packet in my pocket and begin turning away only to stopped by Steve’s voice again.

“You can keep the drugs but next time use money.”

I don’t even face him. I can feel my face heat up and I can only imagine that I look like some kind of tomato now. Once I get home I slam the packet down on the table in front of mum and go to bed without dinner. She’s the one making me do these things. If mum and dad would just stop drinking then we would have money for the house and for things like drugs and food and clothes but instead we don’t. I wouldn't be surprised if we’re homeless by Christmas.

The rest of the week comes and goes and it wasn’t long before Saturday came around. I had no idea what to wear. Was it a date? Should I dress up like it is one or dress down like it’s not? If I dress up then he may get the wrong idea but if I dress down then he may think I’m not interested in him and simply put me in the dreaded friend-zone. A dress. A plain dress. What could go wrong with that?

After a good hour looking for the perfect plain dress I find my favourite flowery yellow one in the back of my wardrobe. It’s nothing fancy but it’s also not a complete let down. It’s somewhere in between I could sleep with you now and I’m not interested in you at all.

I don’t want to overdo it so I only put on a small bit of makeup and some nude lipstick. I wait at the door for Bucky, not wanting him to see the mess the house is still in. It’s been fifteen minutes past when he said we were to meet. I’m about to go back inside when I hear him calling my name.

“Sorry I’m late.. wow.” He says, his eyes automatically looking me up and down as I make my way down the path towards him. “You look beautiful.”

“Really?” When he nods I smile. Of course I do. “Thanks. You look quite handsome too.”

Bucky stretches out his arm for me to hook mine with which I happily do. As we walk in silence it gives me the opportunity to take in what he’s wearing. It’s nothing special but it suits him. A light black jacket with a white t-shirt underneath and a pair of dark trousers and shoes. Yes, it suits him. He must have seen me taking him in because I see his face move so that it is in front of me.

“Getting a good look there Raven?” He cheekily says causing me to blush.

“Don’t flatter yourself Barnes. I’ve seen more attractive chickens roaming the streets.”

“You hurt my pride doll.” I see him act hurt and do the whole dramatic hand to chest look but the cheeky smile later returns when I roll my eyes.

After a few more minutes of silence and me trying to walk down the hill in super flat shoes, we finally make it to the field that the circus is being held at. It’s not a big field and it’s certainly not a big event but it’s the first circus we have had in a few years so of course the place will be packed.

“I didn't know there would be so many people.” I whisper as we weave through the line just in time to catch the gymnastic act.

When the show takes a break for a few seconds Bucky takes my hand in his. It’s bigger than mine but so warm in comparison and I find myself loving the feeling. “Do you want to go somewhere else?”

I shake my head, eyes still focused on the woman hanging upside down on a rope about twenty feet off the ground. “No, no I’m just surprised.”

“Well if you want to leave at any time.. just ask.”

“Sure thing.”

When the show is over and after visiting a few stalls and animal acts we head over to the food section. Bucky orders a vanilla ice-cream for himself and, surprisingly but politely asks if I want one too. I have no money though so I make an excuse that I was full from having too much dinner. In fact, all I had for dinner was some toast that I found in the back of the cupboard, allowing Den to have the last of the beans instead which I knew were still in date.

Bucky returns with not just one but two small tubs of ice-cream. “It wouldn't be a date if the lady didn't get some ice-cream.” He says, handing me the tub and spoon. “Not that it’s a date.. or anything..”

Not a date. Good to know. “I understand and thank you. I feel like I should pay you back.”

“Mm..” Oh no, the cheeky smile has returned to his face and I know exactly what he has in mind. I’m pretty sure he does this with all the girls. “A kiss could do it.”

Sitting up straighter I carefully lean in before turning his face and gently kissing him on the cheek. Retreating back I watch as his mouth hangs open as if I was the first woman to ever not kiss him on the lips. I probably was. “You said a kiss.. you didn't say where.”

“You’re too cheeky for your own good.” He says, lifting a spoonful of ice-cream and watching me as I take one too. “Remind me to specify where I want kissed in the future.”

“Oh so you see this as a regular event?” I say, keeping my face neutral as my heart races.

“Maybe..” And with that said we both sit in a comfortable silence just watching the hundreds of people make their way through the circus.

Tagging a few friends to spread the word a bit more hopefully  - @deathbyukmen @ex-bookjunky @fanboyswhereare-you @myplaceofheavenorhell @galacyan-imagine @xllizette @honeybournehippy @sgtbxckybxrnes @wolfpawn @jackierand @cumonbucky @scarlettsage77 @lokisgloriouspurpose9  @archy3001 @redlipstickandplaid  @unicorns-and-fairy-dust @starstruckpastalandbear and anyone else who wants to have a nosy.

This story is heating up and I’m super excited for you all to read it so please leave your thoughts/comments and good vibes or give this a little share or like :D xo

[leio13]

La Tristesse Sale

A Soukoku Fic

Summary: It had been 3 weeks, 5 hours, 28 minutes, and 32 seconds since Mori requested to see Dazai’s annoying partner, and much to Dazai’s own surprise, he was eager to resume their antagonistic dynamic, but when he returned, Chuuya wasn’t as Dazai remembered. He was cold, without that familiar passion.

For the last 3 weeks, Chuuya had underwent a series of experiments to enhance his ability and create the ultimate killing machine: Corruption.

Relationships: Soukoku (Dazai/Chuuya)

Betaread by the lovely @fraink5! Thanks for continuously supporting me throughout this wild ride!

Chapter 3: Mal

Mal- [adv.] evil, wrong, damage, ache

Masterpost | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Ao3

A woman dressed in a grand kimono stormed down the hall and threw open the doors of the skyscraper's highest office. It was probably the most aggressive thing Mori had seen the woman do, especially this early in the morning. She strode over to his desk, fire dancing turbulently in her eyes. “I would like to speak to you.” “Go right ahead.” His face held the same smirk it normally did as he gestured towards the chair he had just pushed out from under the desk. His eyes had no light in them whatsoever. “What did you do to Chuuya?” The woman's eyes didn't spare a second for the empty chair; they remained focused on the man at the other end of the desk. “I simply ameliorated his ability.” Mori's chin rested in his hands, his grin hovering over them. “You destroyed the remains of his humanity!” Kouyou's hand clenched into a fist, and she could feel her decorated nails digging into her palm. “Humanity?” The man with combed back midnight hair chuckled. "I'm not interested in his humanity." Kouyou opened her mouth to say something, but before she decided what exactly, she was cut off. “The Port Mafia isn't interested his humanity.” Mori kept his eyes on Kouyou's face, and Kouyou averted her gaze. “Chuuya—no, corruption is a tool for the Mafia. That's as far as its importance goes.” Turning her back to the mafia head, Kouyou hastily made her way for the door. “I will admit though…” The woman slowly met the boss’ stare. “I didn't plan for it to have such negative consequences on his body.” Mori sighed. “I'll have to fix him up later.” Halfway out the door this time, Kouyou was stopped by that insidious voice again. “Oh, and Kouyou, I said he was merely a tool for the Mafia. Therefore, members of the Mafia ought not to make superficial relationships with him.” She could feel his grin searing the back of her head. “Of course.”

It was Friday, and Dazai really didn't want to spend his weekend writing a goddam report, but it was too late to back out now. Besides, it's not like he had anything better to do. He already had enough of Akutagawa's presence this week (which didn't even include the practice session he was headed to right now). Certainly, he wasn't going to see that brat over the weekend. Not if he could help it. Each hour torturing the black-haired runt was so tiring, and the brat always asked for more. Hadn't he beat the kid senseless enough already? Dazai's patience was running out as he checked his watch. “Say, Akutagawa, we've been training really hard this week.” His apprentice's eyes widened slightly. “Dazai-san?” “So, so hard. So many extra hours, wouldn't you say?” Nobody would say that honestly. In fact, they had trained for even less hours this week than normal. Dazai approached silent Akutagawa and backed him into a wall, staring down with menacing eyes. “Starting when it's still dark out…” His hand inched towards the other's throat.

Akutagawa gulped. “D-Dazai-san?” Dazai coiled his fingers tightly around the boy's pale neck and lifted him until they were face to face. He could hear the boy gasping for air and grinned. “Ending late in the night…” Akutagawa's desperate breathing hastened, and Dazai could see the brat's chest heaving through his black jacket, his hands trying to grab at something, probably his dwindling life force. Weak. Dazai had to give him a little credit though for maintaining eye contact, but it wasn't enough for Dazai to let go. “So many hours…” Akutagawa attempted to suck in one last gulp of air before crying out, “Y-yes, Dazai-san.” “Just as I thought.” Dazai finally let go and exited as if nothing had happened, ignoring Akutagawa's coarse coughs. Outside the room, he could still hear Akutagawa struggling to stay conscious, but he still had no intention of turning around. He wasn't interested in that brat's health. Only Ch—he stopped his thoughts before they stepped out of line. The sun was barely starting to set when Dazai reached his destination. There would be enough time before visiting hours ended.

The smell of the hospital always managed to surprise Dazai no matter how many times he'd been there. It was so clean, so sterile to the point it nauseated him, but he ignored the churning in his stomach and continued on. Room 101 looked just as he had left it last, Chuuya's hat still resting on the lamp. The daisies from last Sunday had started to wilt and were practically dead at this point. So had the white lilies from that Monday, and the petunias from Tuesday weren't in much better shape. The purple hyacinths and the primrose from Wednesday and Thursday respectively though were still lively, and today's irises were also fresh. Chuuya probably would have enjoyed the colorful aesthetic, but that aesthetic would probably wilt entirely before he woke up. Dazai slumped into the chair against the wall. What was he doing with his life? Why was he here? The only reason he could think of was curiosity. Indeed, he just wanted to know what shape his partner was in. Why did he keep bringing flowers (and why didn't he throw the dead ones out)? Perhaps he felt the room needed a little life. Clearly new Chuuya wasn't going to provide any. Most importantly, why was he sitting down and lingering? Why was he still here? Before he could explain himself, his thoughts were interrupted by a soft groan. He straightened-up in his chair and hesitantly walked closer to the bed. Chuuya's eyes cracked open. The deadness was still there.

Dazai sighed, part in unexplainable relief and part in sorrow. He quickly covered it up. “Ah, Sleeping Beauty! You're awake!” Chuuya's eyes stared in Dazai's direction, and Dazai took it as a sign to continue, “just in time, too! I was starting to worry that I'd have to kiss you!” He closed his eyes and braced himself for the hit he knew was never going to come. After a moment of nothing, Dazai opened them hesitantly. Chuuya hadn't moved at all. Did his lungs even move? Was he even breathing? Alive? Then, as if answering his questions, he heard Chuuya inhale through his nose. When he finally focused back on Chuuya instead of his inner monologue, his partner was sniffing the air, trying to identify the amazing smell of bleach and air-fresheners. Suddenly, the redhead sat up and scanned the room, his eyes holding a certain level of awareness for which Dazai was grateful—perhaps a little too soon. Without a word, Chuuya had backed against wall, head in his hands, his mouth wide open. Then, the loud, ear-splitting scream hit Dazai, and he felt his hands reach for his own head. He glanced up towards Chuuya, who continued to scream. Between each excruciating howl, there was a painful gasping sound, and Chuuya’s body would contort violently. His pupils had shrunk to dots as tiny as they had been in his corrupted form. He was convulsing so relentlessly that Dazai worried he would smash his head into the wall by accident. Dazai couldn't let that happen, but what was he supposed to do? He glanced at the door that now seemed miles away. He couldn't wait for a nurse to show up. Cautiously, he slid onto the edge of Chuuya's bed and crawled closer. From up close, he could see the redhead's nails digging into his skull. Some blood was beginning to pool around, but it had yet to spill out. Dazai didn't want to give it that chance. At what seemed like an unbearably slow pace, Dazai extended both his arms closer to Chuuya. The redhead (with pupils so small and unfocused) didn't respond to Dazai's approach. Carefully, Dazai wrapped his hands around Chuuya's small wrists and squeezed ever so slightly, pulling the redhead's hands from his face and only then realizing he had been calling his partner's name frantically for the last minute. He took a deep breath. “I'm right here, Chuuya.” Dazai sighed and breathed in again, Chuuya's wrists rattling in his grasp. “It's just me, Dazai. Your annoying partner.” Awkwardly laughing to himself, Dazai hoped Chuuya would say something “witty” back. It didn’t even have to be witty. Just anything. But Chuuya didn't respond. The screams continued, at this point, having adjusted to be white noise in Dazai's mind. Dazai slid his hands up Chuuya's wrist until his hands were wrapped around Chuuya's fingers. Chuuya squeezed Dazai's fingers back with overwhelming strength, or was it Dazai who squeezed Chuuya's hands desperately? Maybe it was both of them, trembling furiously on the small hospital cot and squeezing each other's hands until the blood clotted. Whichever it was, Dazai loosened his own grip until Chuuya's shaking hands could sway Dazai's left and right. But that wasn't helping Chuuya either, so Dazai went back to pressing lightly. He watched Chuuya's face until his partner's eyes met his own, the shaking seemed to reside a little, and the howling stopped. An eerie silence hung in the air. Chuuya's eyes, slowly reverting back to normal, peered down at his hands in Dazai's grasp. In mere seconds, he wormed out of Dazai's grip and flopped on his side, staring thoughtlessly at the flowery nightstand. Dazai could see Chuuya’s body trembling, could hear his short, desperate breaths, could tell he had not calmed completely, but decided to give his partner space and retreated to his chair against the wall on the opposite side of the room, listening silently as his partner's breathing evened out until he was almost definitely asleep. He wiped the few drops of blood off the redhead's forehead with a tissue and started for the door. As he was leaving, a nurse finally walked in. “What happened?” “Nothing.” Nothing Dazai could explain at least.

[ti-infires30x]

Symphonic Dysfunction

Chapter 1

The cavernous walls of the hallway seemed stifling and cramped this morning. Namjoon usually found solace in the sound of his shoes click clacking across the tile, reverberating and filling the empty hall as if the acoustics were built for him. A far cry  from the Performing Arts Center that his father had conducted at, with its slatted panels that shifted and directed the sound offstage as if the world was his music box for just a few minutes. Still, he was grateful for what he had here at the YONSEI. Even if the Auditorium practically rattled,  he would make the best of it. Even if ‘the best of it’ included having his kids play their concert in the hallway outside so they could understand how it feels to hear and be heard. The first hour or so that Namjoon was at school were hardly his favorite of the day but they were definitely moments of silence that he cherished. As an interim conductor of 3 string Orchestras, a full symphony, and his part-time student status as he grapples to juggle his final semester toward his Masters degree in Conducting, he has little time to himself.

Running a hand over his face, he wipes his eyes and lets out a yawn as he finally rounds the bend to the fine arts hall. Why they stuck my parking space all the way over by the gym with the coaches, I will never know. Namjoon made it a point to avoid the coaches at all cost after their altercation over funding in the fall. How many soccer jerseys can one team need that we don’t even have room in the budget for a proper score library? Coach Wonho, a rookie soccer coach who everyone took a shining to because of  his reputation as a former starter for the South Korean Olympic team, assumed upon meeting Namjoon that he was a fellow coach. An easy misconception to adopt largely because of Namjoon’s towering height, youth, and physical fitness, however Mr.Kim was quick to correct his colleague. Ever since Namjoon told Wonho exactly where he could go to find his precious special edition cleats for his team, the two had not necessarily been on good terms.

Regardless, Mr.Kim continued to plow on and was already being thrust into his 2nd semester as Orchestra director for the YONSEI University symphony program. Mrs. Eun Joo had been very pregnant at the beginning of last year’s fall semester and had left on her 3 month maternity leave.  3 months turned into 6 months which turned into her resignation as word spread of the paternity of her child. Wonho walked around like he was the most virile man in South Korea for months afterward. The Dean, of course, caught wind and every member of faculty was greeted at the beginning of the term with a flowery email filled with sheepish wording that said in no uncertain terms: don’t fuck your coworkers. Especially the married ones.

Inadvertent as his employment was, he loved it nonetheless. The chief reason that you could tell that Mr. Kim Namjoon loved nothing more in his life than his job was the smile that could be seen on his face whenever he saw one of his kids. The visible change as his chest swelled with pride, his eyes brightened, and his legendary dimples appeared was infectious.  Each student carried that energy and confidence with them throughout their day because when that pride is directed at you, there can be no doubt in your mind that it is genuine and deserved. Of course, he can only call them his ‘kids’ in his head since in reality, there are quite a few members who are considerably older than he is.

Checking his watch, Namjoon winces at the time. 7:45am. Right on time for sectionals. With a concert date looming, Namjoon decided to buckle down and have the kids lead student taught sectionals for his struggling club students. Led by the Chamber top group, of course, the advanced students would instruct the non-major students who were merely in the Camerata Orchestra for something to be involved in, with drills and practice techniques to level up in their musicianship. As lovely as an idea that Namjoon remains convinced that it was, since its inception about 2 weeks ago, it has gone less than smoothly. The first Monday sectional featured the section leader of the violas abandoning their Little’s altogether upon hearing them screech out the opening chord of their Telemann. That Wednesday, the 1st violin first stand knocked over what had to have been the tiniest freshman girl on campus  in their attempt to rock paper scissor who gets to play the tuning note. Oh, and the poor dear that told Hobi he should ‘lighten up’. I honestly don’t know if she’s going to pick up a bass ever again.

It was now the following Friday and it was time for none other than the cello sectionals. The previous week they had gone fairly well under the guidance of Park Jimin, and Namjoon saw considerable improvement of the Camerata group’s G major 3 octave scales in rehearsal. They were working hard and there was no doubt that the reason for the improvement was Jimin’s skill paired with Taehyung’s sheer magnetic approachability. And his smile, of course his smile. As talented a cellist as Jimin is, Kim Taehyung could make the devil feel comfortable in a church. Of course it helps that many of the freshman girls were absolutely infatuated with him. And with good reason, it must be said.

Fumbling with his belongings  at the big double doors of the Orchestra hall, Namjoon goes red in the face as he drops his keys. Again. He’s had a set of keys for the Orchestra Hall since his sophomore year as a student. He was in the room more than the instructors so Eun Joo-nim finally caved and printed her annoying little try-hard a copy.

His father had told him that he should never do something he enjoyed as a job because it would soon become a chore, however, he was never happier than he was now. The job came with its difficulties of course, he got very little respect from the rest of the staff. Namjoon tried to remain patient with those who condescended to him, he really did. He fully understands how ludicrous and humiliating it must be to have a department head who has only been able to drink alcohol legally for 3 years. At 22, he was the youngest faculty member by a long shot, but that didn’t bug him at all. Having graduated high school at 16, 3 years ahead of his peers, he was comfortable with being the youngest in the room. What made Namjoon uncomfortable was the assumption that he was inherently less than qualified just because of his age. If I’m a shitty conductor, then I’m a shitty conductor but don’t you dare pin that on my age.

“Good morning Mr.Kim!”, the proud bearer of a boxy, bouncy smile swoops down and picks up Namjoon’s keys for him. Namjoon can’t help but melt a little as Taehyung grins at him as if he’s never been happier to see someone in his entire life. Taehyung is blissfully unaware of his slightly dishevelled state, touting sweatpants with one leg rolled halfway up his shin, a massive hoodie that he stole from his older brother, ashen hair that stuck straight up the back of his head, and a sleep-puffed face.

“Good morning Taehyungie,”, Namjoon indulges, as he swings the door wide for Taehyung to accommodate his cello. “And don’t call me Mr. Kim.”

“Yah, Tae! Hold the door!” From down the hall, an undeniably beautiful man cartoonishly speedwalks to the door, laden with a stack of papers that makes the broad man look tiny.

“Good morning, Jin!” Tae chimes once again.

Chest heaving, Jin storms into the office door that sits adjacent to the front entrance of the Orchestra Hall and sets the papers down with a huff.

“Yah! You call this maknae ‘Mr.Kim’ but all I get is “Good morning, Jin”? You should be ashamed, how can you treat your hyung like that? Worse still, your concertmaster? I bust my ass making sure we have scores and assignments and all I get is-” Jin’s half-hearted, bemused tirade is cut off as abruptly as it begins as another boy enters the room, the door yawning shut behind him.

“Kim Namjoon. Kim Seokjin. Kim Taehyung.” His soft voice renders any harsher tone obsolete and the boys stare at the smaller boy blinkingly as he takes up the remaining space in the office. As if answering their unspoken question he stifles a yawn and mumbles, “You’re all “Mr.Kim”.’

The tirade quieted, Jimin rolls his case to his section and begins unpacking his cello. A stark difference from his stand partner, Jimin is the picture of elegance. Or as elegant as a 21 year old man can get. His honey colored hair perfectly in place, dressed simply in a loose collared shirt and ripped dark jeans, Taehyung continuously found himself captivated with the effortless way that Jimin presented himself. I wish I could be that cool. Looking down at his own clothes, he mentally kicks himself for not putting in more effort on a day to day basis. That’s just not where my energy goes,he reconciles with himself, I’m concerned with other things.

Taehyung crosses the hall to the cello locker room, fetches his cello case, and returns to take his place next to Jimin as second chair. Jimin frets over his cello, rosining his bow, tuning and re-tuning, ensuring his music is in the right order. Glancing over at Tae, who is busying himself with plucking out chords in an attempt to play a double stop that he hasn’t yet heard, Jimin grows envious of Tae’s care-free nature. I wish I could just fly into things like Tae does, without a plan. It would save me so much trouble.

All too aware of the silence that has settled in the hall since he stopped his plucking, Tae clears his throat to cut the awkward tension. The most unsettling thing is silence in a place that is supposed to be filled with noise.

“So what are we going over in sectionals with the Little’s today?”

“Tae, you can’t call them Little’s, Jeong Jae-Sun is a year older than us.”

“But. But. He’s so… Little!” Tae pouts. “Have you seen his bow hold? He might be able to knock me out in one punch and outdrink… well, you; but he has the bow hold of a 6th grade girl.”

“Yeah I know Tae, I was tempted to bring thumbtacks to fix our Yoo Soo Jin’s collapsing wrist. If they keep playing like this, they’re going to hurt themselves.”

Jimin falls silent and rubs his wrist, empathetic pain from his own tendonitis flaring at the memory of their poor posturing. I got hurt, and I was playing correctly. Jimin had played violin since he was 3 and while he was training for his audition for Julliard his sophomore year, he worked so tirelessly that he developed carpal tunnel syndrome and couldn’t play for months. The beginning of the end of his promising violin career.

    Namjoon takes long strides out of his office to his place on the podium before chuckling, “First of all, no one could ever out drink our Jiminnie. Second of all, I’m glad you’re showing so much concern for the well being and progress of our kids because we’re having an emergency rehearsal Saturday and I need you there if you can make it.”

    Tae heaves a great dramatic sigh and throws his head back, sinking down into his chair until the neck of his cello is resting on the back of his chair. “And if I can’t make it?”

    Namjoon sobers a bit and faces Tae, “Then I completely understand, but I do hope you can make it. You make the kids more comfortable. They love you.”

    Jimin bends to set his end pin up and then hoists his cello up onto his shoulder, “Besides, what do you have planned? You practically live here.”

    “That’s pretty rich coming from the one that I found sleeping in a practice room at 4am last week.” Tae shoots back in mock defense.

    “Yeah, and what were you doing by the practice rooms at 4am last week?” Jimin wheedles.

    Tae’s face falls when he sees that he’s been beat. ”...Practicing.”

    Jimin’s face brightens into a smug shit eating grin and his posture screams an explicit, check mate.

    Tae, already embarrassed at being outed hangs his head over his cello and absently picks at the rosin build up under his bridge. Face reddening at the anticipation of the ribbing to come, Tae mumbles, “I have a date on Saturday.”

    Jin materializes from thin air next to the podium and begins shouting about how “this girl better not break your heart” and “make sure you stay safe, use protection, you don’t know what these hoes got” and “oh lord, he’s just a kid. Don’t you think you should wait a while to date again?”

    Namjoon raises a hand to silence Jin and melts further at the visibly mortified maknae in front of him. Leaning down to where they meet eye to eye, he smiles affectionately at Tae. “Well, who is it?”

    Tae, grateful for the reprieve in shouting, allows his smile to fall open once more and his cheeks redden in a very different tone as he recalls the object of his infatuation. I can’t believe I got this lucky. Years of pining and I finally got her to say yes to  a date. A real date.

    “Chung So-Young.” Jimin could tell from the lilting way Tae hung onto every vowel in her name as if he were afraid to let go of them, that he was head over heels for her.  

    “Oh, the saxophone player from Jazz Band? I thought she was with Hobi?” Jin pops Tae’s love sick bubble without remorse.

    Visibly pouting, Tae snaps back, “Look, if I swore off being interested in any girls that Hobi-hyung has been with then I would never date anyone. I don’t have many options as it is since Kang Mo-Yeon turned the entire Yonsei English Society against me. And I really like this girl.”

    Jin returns to the office, fuming. Shutting the door firmly behind him, he lasts a good 3 seconds before whipping it back open and marching back to the cello stand. Tae might have been intimidated by the massive man barreling towards him with rage in his eyes had it not been for the knowledge of his intent. Jin comes to a halt and in a deluge of profanity begins cursing anything that has to do with Kang Mo-Yeon and the YES club. “How dare she cheat on you and then convince half of the campus that you’re the jackass?! Tae-Tae?! You couldn’t hurt a fly! You’re a jackass but you’re OUR jackass and if she publishes one more vaguely accusatory article in the English Paper I will single handedly drag her ass-”

    “Jin-hyung.” the honorific coming from Namjoon is enough to give Jin reason to pause. Namjoon jerks his head to the door and the herd of cellists that are gathering around it, waiting for the sectional to begin. “There’s a time and a place. They don’t all need to know his business.” Turning to Tae, he places his hand on top of Tae’s mop of hair and  smiles down at him. “Have fun on your date. Just know that there will be a legion of cellist noonas absolutely heartbroken that their handsome oppa isn’t there to show them thumb position for the upteenth time.” Laughing at the sheepish flush that graces the boys cheeks once again, Namjoon adds, “Oh, and stop giving May Sun private lessons, I overheard her working in the practice room the other day and she knows how to do everything you’re teaching her. She’s been playing dumb to get more time with you.”

    Struck dumb by that information and deaf by the resounding cackle from his stand partner, Tae sits mouth agape like a fish as the floodgates of the door break and none other than May Sun is the first to breach the Orchestra room.

    “Good Morning Taehyung oppa!” a bright girl who is far too well done up for 8am, in a cute outfit, heels, and full makeup, plants herself firmly in front of Taehyung and presents a muffin to him. “I brought you breakfast, oppa! I wanted to say thank you for all of the time you’ve spent with me on lessons this week. Kamsahamnida- oppa!”

    Jimin does his best to choke down his laughter but Taehyung just straight up chokes. Stuttering like his bow in the Dvorak piece, he numbly takes the muffin and, in an attempt to avoid further conversation, stuffs the whole thing in his mouth.

    Namjoon prompts the confused looking girl to unpack her instrument so they can start sectionals, and she scatters to do as she’s told. Jimin leads sectionals in his signature matter of fact style, fixing bow holds now and again. Although he receives less attention borne of infatuation from his pupils, he receives the most respect and attentiveness. Jimin has studied at Julliard and has a reputation as being hands down,  the best cellist in the school, and the most stern. Conscious of his intimidating demeanor in rehearsal settings, Jimin is glad to have Taehyung present to lighten the mood. Jimin is glad for the company but frustrated that this is the one facet of the musical process that he doesn’t excel at. Taehyungie is training to become an Orchestra teacher, it only makes sense that he is a natural teacher. People are drawn to his personality, people are drawn to my music. There’s a reason I’m applying for my Master’s in Cello Performance and not Music Education. Despite his regular pep talk regarding the fact that it is ok to not excel at teaching, Jimin still envies the easy way that Tae corrects the kids with kindness and patience shining in his eyes.

    8:40am comes and goes and students enrolled in the 9am Symphony block class begin to show up. A small boy with shining white hair stalks in without a word and settles into the back row of the 2nd violin section as if he was made for that chair. Somehow willing himself invisible even in the morning light, he fades into the background of the classroom. Tae waves at him from his adjacent place in the Orchestra, furiously mouthing “Morning, Yoongi-ssi!”

    Next to make an appearance was a man with the complete opposite and equal energy as Yoongi. A tall figure entered that exuded so much attitude that he actually sauntered into the room through the side door. Dressed to the nines in an effortlessly cool look of dark jeans, a dangerously low-buttoned collared shirt, and the latest Yeezy’s that color coordinated perfectly with his round tinted glasses and bandana. Every head in the Hall turned to follow his gait to the bass locker as if transfixed by his energy. He appeared aware of but completely unbothered by the attention he was receiving, even smirking slightly as he met eyes with several of the cellists, making them blush furiously.

    Namjoon takes advantage of the pause in productivity to address him from the podium. “Nice to have you back Hoseok-hyung. I trust the Jazz Studies field trip went well and you are returning to us as a more enlightened and sensitive musician.”

To which Hobi grins, scratching the back of his head and stammers something along the lines of ‘Uh… yeah it was, great.”

    Seokjin peeks his head out from the office and shouts, “He went to New Orleans and he studied… jazz? Yeah right, Namjoon. He is returning to us with a higher alcohol tolerance and at least 3 STD’s.”

    “SEOKJIN. NOT the time.” Namjoon pulls out his Director-nim voice that he hides away for special occasions such as these.

    The entirety of the participants of the now long dismissed sectional remain standing in the back, watching the verbal volley with bated breath. Eyes bouncing from Jin to Hobi to Namjoon as if if the contents of the conversation were going to be on their final exam.

    “Don’t you guys have classes to go to? Go on, scatter.” Jimin speaks up, shooing the group away with no regard to his social reputation with them.

    The remainder of the relatively small 20 piece orchestra files in, class begins and they go straight into the Holst Planets movements that they had been agonizing over for months. After Hu Yoon-Ji and Seokjin’s savage ‘discussion’ about whether the Andante Maestoso should start on an upbow or downbow, the final missing seat is filled. Another boy barrels in and as soon as he comes into view he gives the impression that he has grown very quickly in a very short period of time. Not exactly towering in height, but large and muscular, he looks as if he should be on his way to lacrosse practice, not Orchestra. He chucks his bag near across the room and rushes to unpack his violin. Crashing through the rest of the Orchestra, nearly knocking Baek Chi-Young’s stand over in the process, he finally takes his seat next to Jin, a huge smile plastered across his face.

    “Nice of you to join us Jungkook.” Namjoon, says, with only minor sarcasm.

    “Joesonghamnida, Sunbae-” Jungkook attempts a full 90 degree bow from his chair but ends up hitting his head on his stand and knocking his instrument out of tune. Rubbing his head, he looks up at Namjoon apologetically. Namjoon could tell that he had prepared a well thought out apology and excuse to present on behalf of his tardiness but the lump on his head and the humiliated look on his face was all the penance he needed.

    “That’s okay Jungkook. Just tell Coach Wonho that you need to leave soccer practice early next week and I’m sure we can get you here on time.”

    “Yes, sunbae.”

    “And stop calling me Sunbae, Kookie.”

    “Yes, sun-... Namjoon-hyung.”

After running their 30 minute show, once, twice, and spot checking trouble areas, Namjoon finally released the class.

    “Good work today, guys!” Namjoon bellows to the fleeing kids.

    “Get home safe, hyung!” Echoes back from the retreating crowd and Namjoon is sure that it’s Hu Yoon-Ji.

    “With Jin driving? Not likely!”

    “Yah, drive yourself then!” Jin snips back from his position in the office.

Although Namjoon was technically Jin’s sunbae by occupation, Jin is more than happy to point out the 2 year age difference between the two roomates. Jin casts his thoughts back to his freshman orientation. He had waited on pins and needles for his roommate assignment and was shocked when a gangly boy with a jet black bowl haircut rolled in with a suitcase that was wider than himself. Tagging behind were an older couple that he assumed were his parents.

“Kim Namjoon?” Jin questioned, as the boy took in the room with oddly wise eyes.

“Pleased to meet you. You must be Kim Seokjin. You’re a violin performance major, aren’t you?” Dumbfounded by this child’s confidence, Jin merely nodded. Namjoon’s parents rushed in with a distinct air of protectiveness.

“So you’re Namjoon’s roomate? Please take care of him. He won’t be here long so just, while he’s here, can you please make sure he doesn't cause too much trouble for himself?” Jin agreed as noncommittally as possible and then beat a hasty retreat to the hall on the pretense of saying goodbye to his parents. His parents had left hours ago, but he needed distance from the smothering tension in that tiny brick prison. Catching his breath just outside the door he catches snippets of a conversation. Chills ran down his spine as they always do when you know that you’re overhearing something that was never intended for your ears.

“You’re only 16, are you sure you don’t want to take a gap year or two? We can still get a spot in the Engineering camp that offered you a scholarship.”

“Min-ya, it’s not worth it. He won’t listen to us. You’ve been telling him for years to abandon this music foolishness.”

What surprised Jin the most wasn’t the sentiment from Namjoon’s parents, it was more common than not in the fine arts department for students to not have the blessing of their parents. What took Jin aback was the stony silence coming from Namjoon’s side of the conversation, as if he had nothing to say so nothing should be said. That level of maturity from a sixteen year old kid was something unheard of. Even Jin, who had a supportive, if absentee family, snapped at his mother occasionally with his 19 years of experience.

He decided at that point that he would do exactly as Ms.Kim requested of him. He would protect little Namjoon and hopefully learn as much as he can from him. Not that he would ever tell him that.

“Jin-hyung, what time is your Music Theory class today?” Namjoon interrupts.

“I only teach Tuesday and Friday. We can go home for lunch and come back at 2pm for Philharmonia.”

“Excellent!” Namjoon, practically bounces out of his chair, rocking on the balls of his feet. Slipping into his jacket he qualifies, “Do you want to go to Goreul-saem first, I don’t feel like cooking tonight.”

“Namjoon, you haven’t cooked in 6 years.”

“Yah, I cook sometimes! I made ramyeon for you last week.”

“Jinja, fine. We’ll go out. But I know it’s just because of that cute noona that works the register.”

“No, I-” Namjoon panics as he goes to lock the door of the Orchestra room behind him.

“Yah, yah, yah, They serve the same menu at Booreul- saem but you’ve insisted on Goreul the past three weeks. Booreul is closer! I don’t care if you like her, just fucking ask her out already so I can stop wasting my time on it!”

Namjoon scratches the back of his head and stares at the floor. “I guess. Yeah, that’s true.”

“I know! When I have ever been wrong?” Jin slings his arm across the shoulders of his dongsaeng and they marched back down the hallway together.