#insult and fear (if u squint hard enough)

[yoru-exe]

loving how sakura asked his friends to trust him, how suo explicitly asked the guys to trust him too, and when he woke up, he clearly showed how he can't trust suo's crap. i just can't with this two fr

even sugishita got a much more chill description than suo in sakura's opinion guys please —

[chargeeboltz]

thinning smokes - bakugo x reader

cw: 18+ nsfw, do not read if under 18 !! bakugo makes u cum on his fingers, gendered terms used (atta girl), mild praise kink if you absolutely squint

it doesn’t take long for you to realise your unforgiving crush on your classmate, given how his proximity makes your breathing stutter and your chest do somersaults. the day you come to the unfortunate conclusion that you’re very much into him, it’s possibly the worst conclusion you’ve come to in the entire time you’ve been in UA.

your eyes find him no matter the crowd, and honestly it’s not like you’re looking for him. he’s just hard to miss, with his abrasive personality and his loud voice. he’s with kirishima, the redhead shouting almost as loud as his blonde counterpart as they attempt to solve a dispute. the argument in question? kirishima bets bakugo can’t speak to anyone politely for more than one interaction.

“I absolutely could, shitface.” he scoffs, fixing kirishima with an unhappy look. it’s not quite angry, but god it’s enough to make you shiver from a distance. “for a day, even.”

kirishimas laugh reaches your ears, he’s grinning. “a week.” he challenges, and bakugo scoffs.

“easy.” he retorts, crossing his arms across his chest, and you feel your cheeks heat up as you watch the muscle ripple beneath his compression shirt. “it can be different people.”

“nope!” kirishima says, popping the p. he knows that he’s gotten under bakugo’s skin and he’s going to exploit this. “pick someone and stick to it.”

bakugo scoffs as he turns away, and your breath catches in your throat as he makes eye contact with you. you look away, your lunch suddenly the most interesting thing in the room despite the crimson eyes burning a hole in your head. you won’t look up, heart fluttering against your chest. the days of being able to hold a conversation with him were over, they ended the day he propped himself up against the doorframe in front of you and questioned you on your training regime with an expression so cocky you were half tempted to drop to your knees there and then.

denki grins, looking up at you. “oh you are so done, so fucking done for,” he taunts, fully aware of your little conundrum. “if he’s nice to anyone around you, you’re gonna be on your knees within-“ you cut him off with a cry, turning to glare at him.

“denki!” you snap, elbowing him with a little more force than may be necessary, but you figure he deserves at least that one. it’s lucky you did, because bakugo slams his tray down on the table, gritting his teeth as he does so.

“hello.” he mutters, casting his gaze down to the table as he sits down, looking around at his classmates. you respond after denki does, not wanting to be the first person to greet him. conversation flows easily between the group, casual insults thrown back and forth regarding recent test scores. you had done exceptionally, but you weren't going to bring it up for fear of 'bragging'. that plan, however, went out of the window when bakugo fixes you with a stare.

"what'd ya get?" he asks, tilting his head slightly. unbeknownst to you, he's actually nervous about your response. he's been determined to score higher than you, and he studied harder than previous for this test in particular, even abandoning his strict bedtime in favour of studying harder.

"92," you mumble, catching his eyes and fighting the urge to shy away. his face twists, and he slumps slightly.

"how'd ya do it?" he starts, forcing himself to be nice. "let me study with ya, ya always get too good results." he mutters, shoving a forkful of food into his mouth at the end.

your cheeks burn, a burn so intense you can feel it in your ears. with a nod, you go back to your food, taking a thoughtful bite and chewing it before opening your mouth. "when do you wanna study?"

bakugo looks down at his plate, then yours, then you. "now." he mutters, finishing his last mouthful and standing up. "we can go back to my dorm, yeh?" you nod, finishing your plate and reaching for it. before you can, bakugo has a grip on it and he's walking away.

you pause, looking at your friends for an idea of what to do, but they just shrug - equally clueless. before you get a chance to vocalise your confusion, bakugo is back and hes nodding for you to follow him, so you do. "this is - you don't normally do this," you manage, choosing your words carefully to avoid upsetting the blonde time-bomb of a person. he just chuckles lightly, an exhale of air that could be perceived as annoyance if he wasn't displaying the tiniest of smiles.

"i know. kirishima told me he bets i can't be nice to someone for a week. i figured you'd be the easiest bet. ya don't piss me off like the rest of those fuckin idiots." he scoffs, walking to his dorm with you in tow. "plus, yer smart as shit and i wanna learn from ya," he admits, pushing his door open with his shoulder and letting you in first, his eyes burning into the back of your head.

you smile lightly, looking up at him to thank him, before studying his room. it's typical of bakugo - black sheets and pillows, clothes hung neatly and desk perfectly empty other than the tiniest little cactus, and a photo of him with kirishima framed. you let out a chuckle, walking over to look at the photo, when bakugo gently pushes you.

"oi, come on. i wanna study," he grunts, pushing you to the bed where you sit with a little laugh, looking up at the blonde just in time to catch sight of him as he reaches over to tug a hoodie on. you inhale sharply, the thin sliver of skin showing as he reaches up, and your mouth goes dry. being in this close proximity to a bakugo who is this comfortable with you is going to ruin you, you're sure of it. before you can do or say anything, his eyes are back on you, and they're amused. "stop ogling me, ya ain't subtle,"

you just tut, rolling your eyes and looking away. "wasn't even looking at you, what is it you want to study?" you ask, reaching for your bag to pull out your books. your mind is preoccupied on both bakugo himself, and the idea of having to tutor him, so you don't realise when bakugo shifts himself closer to you and gently pushes his knee against your thigh.

"wanna see what i did wrong compared to yours," he mumbles, holding out a hand for your paper. his cologne tickles your nose, and you go lightheaded for a moment, passing him the paper wordlessly and looking back up at him. he takes it, his hand brushing yours and sending shivers down your spine, before he just chuckles. "you're real good at those 'fuck me' eyes," he teases, watching you closely.

your cheeks heat, yet again, he’s very good at doing that to you, you think. “fuck me eyes?” you counter, taking a step that’s a little more bold than you’re used to and leaning closer to him.

“are you projecting, bakugo?”

he laughs, eyes flitting down to your lips for a split second, a gesture you can't possibly miss when he's looking at you like that.

“maybe I am,” he hums, placing your paper down beside your thigh and resting his hand there instead, calloused fingers heavy through your pants. his eyes pierce, eye contact so intense that your breath runs lighter for a second.

"wanna fuck ya stupid, pretty," he murmurs, gently ghosting his lips across yours. "but i need ya to teach me first, you'd be too fuckin' dumb to teach me once i've had my fill of ya,"

you whine lightly, leaning forward to close the inch of distance between you, kissing him with a little more desperation than you'd like. katsuki bakugo moans against your lips, the noise sending a spike of heat between your legs, as he kisses you with equal desperation.

by the time you both pull away, panting and wide eyed, bakugo has your thigh firmly gripped in his hand, and he's trailing his other hand up your spine to grab the back of your neck.

"yer fuckin' lucky shitty hair told me to be nice," he hisses, tugging you in for another fervor kiss, tasting you with an intensity that has you squeezing your thighs together. your head swims, your hands bunching the fabric of his shirt and tugging him in closer, closer still. bakugo abandons all restraint, the hand on your thigh moving between them and gently running up your clothed core.

"off, now," he demands, voice gravelly, lips still only an inch from yours. "wanna see how wet ya are from me just kissing ya," he smirks, sliding his other hand to gently grip your hair in a ponytail.

you try to nod, whining at the sharp tug of your hair in return, hands fumbling to get your pants off for him. tossing them aside, you gently tug at his shirt, eyes wide and desperate. "please," you whisper, and bakugo just chuckles as he tugs his shirt off for you, lying you back against his pillows, surprisingly soft.

"ya okay?" he asks, looking at you with an expression that suggests nothing other than sincerity. "'m not gonna fuck ya, not yet anyway," he hums, waiting for your consent to move forward. you nod, but clearly it's not enough for him.

"yes, fuck- yes, please," you gasp, and he just chuckles, pushing your underwear aside and rubbing your clit lightly with his thumb. the noise you make goes straight to his dick, and it's all his self-restraint to not flip you over and make you scream his name there and then. his hands are rough, warm, and when he buries his fingers in you, you see stars, arching off the bed and crying out his name.

"mm, this what ya wanted?" he teases, curling his fingers to brush against the spongey spot that draws another moan from you. you nod, eyes squeezed shut as he breaks you with only two fingers. you're begging, breathless and desperate, and he increases the pace to bring you hurtling towards the edge.

"oh-! kats- fuck, i'm gonna-" he cuts you off, leaning down to kiss you with such desperation you're honestly surprised you don't clash teeth. teeth nip at your lip, and fingers brush against your spot, and that's all it takes for you to finish, vision whiting out and legs shaking.

he talks you through it, kissing at your neck and gently rubbing circles into your thigh. "atta girl," he purrs, pulling his fingers out and licking them clean, smirking at the way you squirm in embarrassment. "c'mon, i've got some shorts you can wear," he hums, standing up to grab you them.

"and you have some teaching to do," he teases, but there's nothing but warmth in his voice

(me when this sucks)

[trashlord2020]

Adam Smasher (Cyberpunk 2077) 18+

          A-Z NSFW Headcannons

 WARNINGS: dubious consent (suggested) Necro (only mentioned in passing) and a callous disregard for partners enjoyment and wellbeing. 

I provide these warnings so if any of it bothers you at all you can choose to not read this. If you disregard this and get upset by what you read, you've forfeit your right to complain, fight me. These are of course my own interpretations, in no way is this a 'end all be all'

A = Aftercare 

What, letting you live isn't enough? But seriously, don't expect anything resembling 'care' outta this guy. At the absolute most if you happen to be in a room he owns you could get real lucky and he'll leave you to sort yourself out...just don't be there when he gets back.

B = Body part 

He's a full body cyborg, every part is his favourite. He's almost constantly having things tuned or updated whether it's through Arasaka or his own hard earned eddies, But if he had to pick? His Hands, they're the thing that could end his partner in the moment with just one strong squeeze and having their life literally under his hands does something primal for him. His favourite body part of his partner? He might disguise it under mocking comments and insults but deep in there somewhere there's a man still and he's a thigh man for certain. Thicker they are, the better grip they provide and if his partner is able to pay enough attention they might catch how he almost caresses the skin...

C = Cum

Bodily fluids? disgusting. When he got his ah, 'upgrade' he most certainly passed on that. Sorry ! Sections provide required lubrication (don't forget to bring your own!) for the sake of avoiding friction but his own brand of 'popping the cork' is more of a build up in static and electricity. One he can control the build up of by adjusting 'sensitivity'.

D = Dirty Secret 

He's not a shy kinda guy, he'll have his partners against the window just to brag if there's one available. No, this is more of a vulnerability than anything? Under the metal casing of his chest on each side the tubes and connectors tucked away are very sensitive. The purpose is so he knows if something is amiss or stuck and needs tending too but this has provided a sort of erogenous zone, one he's not at all keen to share with another.

E = Experience 

Before his full body conversion you could say he was quite experienced, if paid partners counted of course. It's always been about him though, even when he (rarely) chooses to provide a helping hand it's been more of a show of dominance than anything. Now with his full Cyborg body and working for the worlds most powerful Corp he rarely finds himself having to pay, most people are either curious enough...or too scared to say no.

F = Favourite Position 

Anything where he can shove his partners head down and bend them across something be it the floor, bed, table or counter He'll use it. As mentioned before walls and windows make a good substitute too. He prefers to be above his partner and them in a position of vulnerability where they have no control, he's in charge here and he takes every opportunity to prove that. It's very rare to find one self facing towards him, often too 'intimate' for his liking.

G = Goofy 

If a partner has the guts they might be surprised to find that a little back and forth sarcasm and snark is enjoyed, even respected. Just be mindful not to insinuate any insults on his behalf, he won't take that lightly and if (when) he grows bored of the talk he'll make that known none too gently, better catch the hint sooner rather than later. So I'd say about 85% serious and 15% Snark.

H = Hair

 He's got a slappable head, bald as a plucked chicken and well...he's all metal down there. No surprise.

I = Intimacy 

If you really squint and tilt your head you might be able to trick yourself into believing the way he may cage his partner in from above as almost 'intimate' but it's really not...Just a show of pure dominance, nothing about enjoying the heat pouring off them at all... In all honesty this isn't making 'love' he's simply not capable of that, likely never was. He may lower his voice till you feel it more in your bones than hear it to whisper awful, dirty things only your both privy too but there's no true intimacy in his actions or words.

J = Jack Off 

Araska didn't provide him with his 'tool' no, that's something he chose to indulge in with eddies from his freelance years and when the work was done he certainly took time to test things out. Nowadays he rarely indulges, why would you need to if he could have almost anybody that happens to spark his interest.

K = Kink

Breath play, no of course not his. The act of cutting somebodies life line off, holding them in suspense and watching the fear grow in their eyes as they wonder if he's even going to bother letting go...it really gets him riled up. The only reason he does bother to let them go instead of squeezing a little harder is that a corpse hardly has the same appeal, don’t mistake it for mercy.

L = Location 

While Adam owns his own room he often has little use for it, spending at best an hour in there a day. You'd be lucky to be taken back there. He often finds himself in hotels/resorts instead, not his issue if it gets trashed then and nobodies going to barge in to investigate all the noise, not when mutters of 'smasher' quickly spread like wild fire. Enjoy your walk of shame back home. :)

M = Motivation 

Often it's just a a general build up that leads to him indulging but a bloody fight will always leave him with some built up 'charge'. Many of his partners in recent years have been people he's done a recent job with, something about watching the blood steam off their cybernetics as they catch their breath really does it for him. Basically a callous and shared disregard for life is what would really catch his interest, otherwise it's purely down to cosmetics in which case don't expect a repeat.

N = NO 

Making love...you probably saw this coming a mile away. As mentioned he's not shy, he knows what he wants and has little issue with obtaining it but if you're expecting a tentative partner who takes care of your needs? Keep looking, he'll never be that.

O = Oral  

He's got no means of which to give oral, his jaw is made out of metal and there's no tongue hidden away. A small (very small) part of him laments not being able to taste what's he's enjoying but again, it would of been more for his enjoyment than anything. On the other hand he certainly enjoys the sight of somebody figuring out their way around him with hands and tongue, the tremor in their hands is something he picks up on without fail but this is never how he achieves his end goal. Attempting to blow Adam Smasher is the closest thing You'll get to foreplay.

P = Pace 

A constant rough pace from start to finish, as mentioned somewhere above he can control his sensitivity so if he finds his charge building up too quick for his likening he doesn't have to slow down, just dial things back a little. There's no stuttering or slipping either as it's all controlled due to years of working with his cybernetics and yet, somehow it never fails to feel so raw and animalistic.

Q = Quickie 

He likes for things to be 'to the point' as he's certainly not here for tea and biscuits... If he's free for the whole day and just finished a big job you might want to look into hiring a wheelchair for the next week but on average he's here to get his jollies and move on. Make sure to undress yourself though, it's an obstacle and we all know how much he enjoys tearing through those.

R = Risk

What your everyday joytoy may consider a risk he may simply see as a little spice to make things more interesting. He doesn't care if somebody was dumb enough to walk in on him but they sure as hell better be quick about leaving, he doesn't share. If his partner has (foolishly) made it obvious they don't want to be caught? He might find that a little insulting and make it a point for them to be caught or seen, again, it's about the dominance he has over them.

S = Stamina

There's no refractory period, none. If he wants to go again he can, the only thing that's going to stop him is the potential heat build-up from too many overcharges in too short a time. This right here is why you'll want to bring your own lube, things are going to get sore and quickly otherwise.

T = Toy

What he's got going on down there could be considered a 'toy'. Lots of interesting features he enjoys tormenting his partners with. That's not enough for you? He's not going to pretend to be thrilled about it but if you somehow got your own toys on hand then so long as they don't get in the way of his enjoyment, use away. Likely the only real chance you have at getting your own enjoyment to be honest, just don't try using them on him. He won't be amused.

U = Unfair 

He enjoys demeaning and talking down to his partners, talk about how 'easy' they were or laugh at how weak they're proving to be. Might physically tease, bring them to the edge if he's super into the moment but he's only going to push you over if you really beg for it...not often he will though, he's in charge and he gets to decide how this plays out.

V = Volume  

Besides all the inner workings of his cybernetics powering away and the times he decides to speak? Practically silent. No moans or gasps as he has no need to breath. If a overcharge proves to be particularly powerful (usually due to a lengthy build up) his Voice emitter may play some static feedback, closest thing you'll get to a groan. Besides, his partner will be more than making up for the silence.

W = Wild Card 

He's bisexual but straight leaning. It's leftover from the gang he ran with once long ago when he was a everyday nobody. Nowadays he's simply not bothered what others think, incapable of considering it even. Women and more feminine leaning partners will have an easier time garnering his attentions but anyone's game if they prove themselves interesting enough.

X = X-Ray

Custom Hardware baby. Don't ask me what unlucky gonk had the job to make this but it's kitted out. The shape is as expected but the length can be retracted and extended at will. When in use the shortest it can go is 6 inches (he will never keep it this short though, that's below him) and the maximum length is 14 inches although ‘yikes’ lets be real, not a lot of people are going to be able to handle that, it's bragging rights and intimidation factor more than anything. His common use of range is 8-10 inch. He can move individual sections, vibrate and even cause minor shocks at will.

Y = Yearning

If no outside factors are taken into account it can take several weeks before he considers a roll in the hay. A lack of hormones means a lack of natural drive. But a busy week of fighting and killing will quickly land him in a private 'meeting'.

Z = ZZZ 

Sleep? you're kidding right. Every few days (or weeks if it's a boring month) he has to have a system scrub and recharge of sorts. He has a private station for this so nobody is going to catch him unaware. Once the deed is done he's over and out, no pillow talk or sweet nothings. If you've managed to really leave an impression he might throw you a contact for seconds. It's run through a security system of course, can't have just anybody being able to contact him.

[heysoup]

Fluffy February Day 2 - Movie Night

Reminder to follow @fluffyfebruary ​ to see the prompt list and that I’ll be using the tags #fluffyfebruary and #fluffyfeb for these.

Continuing the fics with day two! I’m super proud of this one; It’s dripping with fluff and teenage angst. Warning for potential secondhand embarrassment - they’re both idiots in love and have no idea how to show it.

Chapter 2: Films and Fears

Pairing: Butch/Male Lone Wanderer

Summary: Dealing with life in the vault can be tough, especially for an outcast like Jamie. When he befriends Butch through his G.O.A.T. assignment, however, the two make their own safe place. Butch decides to surprise him there one day with the promise of treasure, and it leads to something more than they both expect.

Ao3 Link

Jamie tosses and turns in his rat’s nest of a bed. It’s midnight – he’s too hot, the vault’s ventilation system’s groaning is echoing around him like a damn chorus, and his sheets keep scratching uncomfortably against his clammy skin. He brings his wrist close to his face to mindlessly check his Pip-Boy for the millionth time that night, his arm feeling as heavy as lead, and he squints at the fluorescent light of the screen as he taps it awake.

Though Butch showed him a few times before, it still takes him a moment to remember the right sequence of buttons to push to unlock developer’s mode and navigate to the messaging tab the other boy set up for them. It’s only been about a month since Butch found an old Pip-Boy manual in Stanley’s locker and got this trick to work, but already there’s a considerable backlog of messages between the two.

Jamie scrolls through them with the dial on his Pip-Boy, worrying the skin of his lower lip with his teeth as he reads through some of the older messages. It’s become a new habit for him on these particularly rough sleepless nights. When he’s too exhausted to write in his journal, draw, or jump around his room in an attempt to tire himself out; he talks to Butch.

If someone had told him a year ago that Butch DeLoria, his childhood bully and teenage rival, would be one of his only sources of solace these days he would have called them insane. Turns out, giving the vault’s two delinquents deadbeat jobs with no supervision and shoving them in the same closet of a studio space could make them form a pretty strange alliance. The enemy of my enemy and all of that, right?

It also doesn’t help that Amata is forever busy with her new duties as overseer’s assistant – or whatever her job title is actually called. Jamie misses her like he’s lost a part of himself, and even though he knows she’s not locked away with her father by choice he can’t help the nagging part of his brain that is convinced she abandoned him.

Butch is dealing with the same thing, though with less consequence. His fellow Tunnel Snakes are relatively busy with their new jobs – Wally as a security guard and Paul as an engineer – but they still make some time to see each other. Butch is just one of those people who needs constant attention, which is where Jamie supposes he comes in handy. He tries not to think too hard about it.

He’s is snickering to himself while he reads some messages sent a few weeks back during one of their spats, most of which were petty insults and some pretty creative curses, when a new message blips through and pulls his screen to attention.

913473: nosebleed u up?

Perfect timing, Jamie thinks, sitting up in his bed to type. The 6-digit code is what Butch called his Pip-ID – apparently every Pip-Boy comes with one coded in by default. It was weird at first, trying to memorize the numbers and calm his own paranoia at the thought of someone hacking into their conversations, but Butch said that their numbers were for their Pip-Boys alone, so Jamie trusted him. The horrible, agitated crawling under his skin that was keeping him up all night begins to fade as he replies.

604272: didja even have to ask? 913473: just say yes or no damn 604272: k. no 913473: oh fuck off

Jamie can’t help the soft laugh that escapes him, and he grins like a complete idiot down at the screen.

913473: if ur done being an ass i have somethin for us to do 913473: if u aint busy of course 913473: meet at the place? 604272: sure. be there in 10

He switches his Pip-Boy screen off and hops out of bed, stretching languorously before grabbing his jumpsuit from where he left it earlier that day in a heap on the floor. He tugs it on leg by leg and zips it up before checking himself in the mirror.

His hair is a mop of curls on his head and he does his best to smooth it down, knowing Butch will scold him for not using the correct conditioner to tame his flyaways like he showed him. The bags under his eyes are a bit darker than usual, but there’s nothing to be done about that. He shrugs to himself and turns to the door. No point in being too self-conscious about his appearance this late at night – isn’t like this is a date or anything, he tells himself.

He doesn’t bother being quiet as he leaves his room, knowing his dad would still be working at the clinic or at the very least passed out there on one of the cots. He doesn’t come home much these days.

Jamie shoves his boots on, not even bothering with socks, and peers out of the thick window into the hallway. It seems empty, so he hits the button and creeps out through the door.

The neon blue emergency lights that run along the edges of the ceiling and floor greet him when he steps out of his apartment. He shoves his hands in his pockets, a nervous habit, and peers around the corner before continuing his path. The door closes not-so-softly behind him and he walks down the hall past the restrooms that separate his and Butch’s apartments. He stops momentarily outside the door to the DeLoria’s apartment, noticing it’s dark and quiet inside.

Butch must already be down there, Jamie thinks, picking up his pace as much as he could without making too much noise. Despite the constant creaking and rumbling of the vault’s ventilation and reactor systems the halls at night could carry quite an echo, and his boots aren’t the quietest things to sneak around in.

Patrols were lax recently but knowing his luck he’d get caught breaking curfew and would have to clean the bathrooms again. He briefly regrets not wearing socks because he refuses to take his boots off and walk barefoot on the cold steel floor, even if it is quieter.

Further down the hallway and a bit past the occupied wing of apartments, Jamie stops at the top of a short set of stairs that lead down to a small corridor with one door. A large INACCESSIBLE sign glows ominously above it, and in the corner of the hallway facing the stairwell is a single security camera. It rotates at a snail’s pace, its gears clicking audibly with every circuit it makes of the dead-end hallway.

Jamie ducks down near the wall at the top of the stairs, watching the camera as he has so many times before to study its crawling path. When Butch had discovered this place, they figured out a way to tilt the camera up ever so slightly with the handle of a broom from their shop – creating about thirty seconds of a blind spot to get them from the stairs and through the door without getting caught if they hugged the left wall.

Peering down the hallways around him one more time to make sure no patrols were coming; Jamie types a quick message into his Pip-Boy.

604272: here

He waits a few moments until he hears a couple sharp raps on the metal door down the way, telling him that Butch is there whenever he’s ready. Jamie waits a few more moments and listens to the camera click back into its blind spot before he hops down the stairs, staying low and to the left as he stalks toward the door. He hits it lightly with his palm when he gets there, and it slides open. He has just enough time to duck inside, slamming his fist on the button to shut it just as he hears the security camera restart its rotation.

“You’re still gonna act like it's some big heist no matter how many times we come down here, huh?” Jamie turns around in the darkness and is met with Butch’s grin, a bottle of beer already in one of his fists. His Pip-Boy light is on, basking them in a dim green glow.

“Keeps it interesting,” he replies, punching Butch playfully on the arm. On this side of the door is a long flight of stairs and they continue further down into the pitch darkness, hands pressing along the walls for purchase with nothing but about three feet of lighting in front of them.

The emergency lights are shut off down here, along with the security cameras – probably to save power, so Jamie turns his Pip-Boy light on as well. It’s a bit brighter, but not by much. They’ve been down here enough times by now that their bodies remember how many steps there are, but Jamie always has a nagging fear in the back of his mind that one day the staircase will just keep going forever. He shakes that thought from his head, listening to the sound of their boots stomping down the steps and focusing his gaze on Butch’s free hand as it slides against the railing.

For the past month or so this has been their escape. Butch somehow figured out how to break into the door they just passed through, and they discovered a whole wing of abandoned apartments under the ones they were currently living in. So far all they had done was clear out one room that had a ratty old couch, some blankets, a broken Nuka Cola mini-fridge, and a few wooden storage crates in it. Jamie had also rigged up a small emergency generator and they were able to find some lamps to make it a little less depressing.

Most importantly, they had booze smuggled from Butch’s mom’s liquor stash, a few cartons of cigarettes they’d traded with Stevie for some chems Jamie snuck from his dad’s clinic, their collection of comic books, and Jamie’s old BB gun for when they got bored. It’s far from perfect, but it’s space, and when you’re destined to roam the same hallways with the same people for the rest of your miserable existence – that amounts to a lot.

“So, what are we actually doing?” Jamie asks as they turn into the apartment they’d claimed as their base. Butch has the generator running and the room smells thickly of his peach pomade and cigarette smoke – he must have been down here for a few hours already.

“I,” Butch begins, stopping to pull the cork out of his new bottle of beer with his teeth before spitting it on the floor and taking a swig, “am gonna show you some treasure.” He finishes with a flourish, a self-satisfied smirk on his face, and plops down onto the couch next to his discarded Tunnel Snake jacket.

Jamie snorts and pulls up a crate, sitting down on the opposite end of the couch and propping his feet up. He clicks his tongue in mock annoyance when Butch’s boots crowd his own on the small surface and, in a fruitless endeavor, they battle for leg space before giving in to sharing. It’s obvious the other boy is already a bit tipsy.

“Treasure, huh? That’s cool, I guess,” Jamie snickers, snatching the bottle of beer from Butch and downing some before he could protest. It burns in his throat and brings a comforting warmth to his chest. He continues nursing the drink and settles further back into the worn corduroy couch, his posture absolutely terrible. Butch reaches for another bottle.

“Yup.” The bottle pops open and another cork joins the pile growing on the floor. Another drink and an obnoxious burp, then Butch sits forward - feet falling to the floor, his hands on his knees, and an excited light in his eyes. His leg is bouncing incessantly.

“Listen, I was going through some rooms down here and I found an old projector – like the one Brotch has?” He glances at Jamie, blue eyes a soft, dreamy color in the low light, and Jamie can’t help but gulp at the intensity he sees there. When Butch has a plan he’s excited about, he turns into a different person – like all the stress of conforming to the monotony of vault life has washed away and he’s finally allowed to be the mischievous and passionate person hiding underneath it all. Or… something like that. Jamie’s waxing poetic again, something he can’t help but do when around Butch.

“That’s pretty cool,” is all Jamie can bring himself to breathe out as he sips on his beer. He picks at the loose threads on the arm of the couch as he tries not to think about the fact that Butch had his lips on this same bottle just a few seconds ago.

Butch deflates a bit. “Pretty cool?” he mocks, leaning closer. Okay, maybe he’s more drunk than Jamie had first thought, if the redness of his cheeks were any indication.

“Nosebleed, I found full on ho-lo-disks,” Butch emphasizes, blowing a few messy curls away from his forehead. Jamie just shrugs.

“Okay?” he begins, not seeing the big deal. They already have these things in the classroom. “What’re we gonna do, watch some lectures? Don’t tell me DeLoria wants to brush up on his studying,” he taunts.

Butch just sneers at him in response, standing up and only swaying a bit – much to Jamie’s surprise. “You have no imagination, dweeb. Stay here!” And with that, he storms out of the room and into the hallway, closing the door behind him.

Jamie can see the green light of his Pip-Boy flash on through the window as he walks further away into the dark.

It’s a few minutes before he comes back, and Jamie can hear the ruckus he’s causing before he sees him. He’s startled out of his comfortable position on the couch and perks up. The door slides open and Butch pushes the projector into their base on its rolling cart. One of the wheels must be rusted because its screeching like a damn rat, scraping against the metal flooring as he drags it to the center of the room. He grabs an old cardboard box from the lower shelf of the cart and slides it on the floor over to Jamie with his foot before going back to set the projector up with their tangled mess of extension cords.

Jamie picks it up and grimaces at the box – it’s a little rank and it feels crusty in some spots. “This thing is probably covered in like a hundred different types of mold,” he complains.

“Didn’t give it to ya so you could judge the box!” Butch snaps, banging the top of the projector impatiently when the power flickers. “Open the damn thing.”

Jamie places the box on the couch beside him and sits up, peeling it open to peer inside. His jaw drops in amazement at the sight – more holodisks than he’s ever seen in his life, all with unique and eye-catching, full-color illustrations on the covers. He stares at Butch in disbelief and catches the other boy staring at him, an unabashed, beaming smile on his face when he sees Jamie’s reaction. When their eyes meet, Butch clears his throat and snaps his attention back to the projector, fiddling with some dials that don’t seem to change anything.

“Cool, right?” He says, his ears turning red as he dismisses his earlier excitement with a sheepish shrug.

“It’s fucking great!” Jamie laughs and begins to rummage through the box. There are real films in here, like he’s only read about in pre-war history classes or his cheesy novels. Aside from a whole slew of superhero films starring characters like The Silver Shroud and even some of Grognak the Barbarian, there are titles that look like they’re about pre-war animals in different parts of the world, some with soldiers in power armor, some ancient recordings of sports, and what looks like a few western and sci-fi films

Butch walks back over and sits beside him, throwing his arm over the back of the couch and leaning in to look at the titles. Jamie’s breath hitches at his closeness and he can feel his cheeks heating up. He tries not to show it, leaning in ever so slightly to let their shoulders brush.

“You can pick first, my treat,” Butch says while gesturing to the patchwork sheet he’d hung up on the opposite wall of the small apartment – Butch must have stitched it together himself out of whatever excess fabric he found. It’s hanging a little crooked and the projector’s STAND BY image is a bit fuzzy, but a bubble of excitement forms in Jamie’s chest regardless. He doesn’t want to read too far into things, but Butch had found this and made it a surprise specifically for them to share. That made him feel a certain kind of way.

He blinks those embarrassing thoughts away and nods, his face warm. Looking over their choices carefully, he finally decides and picks the western – he always did have a fondness for the freedom that seemed to come with being a cowboy – and walks to the projector to pop it in and press play.

He half expects Butch to make fun of his choice, but the other boy is oddly quiet, carefully inspecting his fingernails as Jamie switches off the lamps and kicks off his boots before returning to sit cross-legged on the couch. Butch still hasn’t scooted further away or removed his arm from the back of the couch, so their knees bump and he can feel the warmth of Butch’s arm behind his neck and it sends prickles through his skin.

Only as the movie begins do they realize they don’t have any speakers hooked up – so it’s completely silent in the room other than the whirring of the film in the projector.

“I didn’t even think of that,” Butch sighs and shakes his head in disappointment. Jamie just laughs.

“It’s still cool,” he assures him. “They used to have silent movies all the time apparently – especially back in cowboy days. It’s authentic,” he purses his lips at the end, trying to do his best impression of Mr. Brotch. It seems to work because Butch cracks a grin at him and snorts.

“Sure, it’ll work for now, but I saw some terminals in another apartment down here. We can check for some speakers there later,” Butch says and then his playful grin becomes roguish. “Push comes to shove, we can just swipe one from upstairs. Who’d notice a missing speaker?”

Jamie just scoffs and elbows him, turning his attention back to the film as the title screen fades in and he reads, ‘High Lonesome.’ He didn’t bother to read what the film was about, but it opens with a group of people in a wagon on a vast desert plain with plateaus towering in the distance.

There isn’t too much to see at first, but one thing that sticks with him is the impossible vastness of the sky as the camera zooms out to show a wider view of the prairie they’re riding along. He’s seen pictures of the sky, sure, but something about watching the tiny silhouettes of people move around under it was chilling – it was huge and incredibly empty. He didn’t know if what he was feeling was amazement or terror.

Despite the film being in black and white, the shimmer of the sun on the horses’ flanks as they gallop is bright enough to seem real and Jamie is completely entranced as he watches. And, luckily enough, there seem to be subtitles, so they’ll still be able to understand what’s going on.

Jamie’s trance is momentarily broken when Butch leans down and grabs something from under the couch. He returns with a box of fancy lads which he presses into Jamie’s hands. Jamie mumbles his thanks, his eyes never leaving the picture as he tears into a package and shoves a whole powdery cake into his mouth.

Butch just laughs at him and pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket. He lights one just as the young cowboy on screen does – much to Jamie’s delight – and they chuckle at the absurdity of it all.

They pass the snacks, beer, and smokes back and forth between each other as they watch their movies. When the western is over, Butch picks a film called ‘Teenage Caveman,’ saying that it has to be good because the cover has tits and a giant lizard monster on it. It ends up being the worst piece of garbage they’ve ever seen – and that’s saying a lot considering they’ve only seen one other film in their whole lives.

“That dude didn’t even look like a teenager! He had to be like thirty,” Jamie says, tossing the film into a box they decide to label ‘shit.’ According to Butch, they were like pioneers and had to record their findings, so not only were they watching the films, but they were sorting them from best to worst. As Butch had put it in his best overseer impression, they were doing future vault residents a great service and fulfilling their civic duty… by saving others from watching total pieces of trash.

“There wasn’t even a single boob,” Butch mopes, snubbing out the last of his cigarette in the cracked coffee mug functioning as their makeshift ashtray. “Talk about false advertising. The giant lizards were kinda cool, though.” Jamie smacks him upside the head.

“You wouldn’t know what a boob looked like if it smacked you in the face.”

“You take that back!” Butch laughs and tosses their snacks on the floor, lunging for Jamie who’s cackling just as hard. They’re fucking hammered at this point and they roll off the couch into a heap on the floor, knocking a crate over as they grapple at each other. They wrestle like this sometimes – it’s a great outlet for Jamie’s aggressive energy and, when they’re less drunk, Butch actually teaches him how to kick ass. Now, they’re just breathless laughs and fumbling hands as they scramble for purchase on the floor and try their damnedest to pin the other down.

Butch may be stronger on a normal day, but at the moment he’s piss-drunk compared to Jamie who still has a bit of his wits about him. He flips the taller boy over so quickly it’s almost comical and pins him, pressing his knees against his thighs and holding his wrists at his sides to stop him from getting up. He laughs triumphantly.

“What’s wrong, Butchie? You’ve never lost a fight so fast!” He grins down at the boy smugly but stops short when he sees the look on Butch’s face. It’s endearing how red his cheeks are, his hair a mess and his blue eyes wide. Butch just fixes him with those piercing baby blues.

“Don’t get cocky, Nosebleed. I let ya do it,” he says in a soft voice, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. Jamie’s mouth goes dry, his eyes fixed on Butch’s unbelievably pink lips. He hates himself for how much he wants to kiss him then and without thinking he begins to lean forward. He catches himself, though, and his thoughts have him jumping off of Butch and falling back against the couch like he’s been shocked, his chest heaving. He feels dizzy and he can still smell the earthy spice of the other boy’s aftershave enveloping him like a thick haze he can’t shake.

Butch laughs and pulls himself up into a sitting position, shooting Jamie a dazzling grin from his seat on the floor. “What’s wrong, Jamie?” Butch teases, his voice only a bit slurred and a shit-eating grin creeping its way onto his face. Hearing his name come from Butch is rare and it knocks the breath out of him. All he can do is stare.

Butch clambers ungracefully back up to the couch with him, leaning awfully close and whispering, “cat got your tongue?” His breath is warm on Jamie’s face and it smells like a mixture of smoke and alcohol, something he never thought would smell so intoxicating, but of course it does – it’s Butch.

Jamie’s heart is in his fucking throat and he can’t breathe. Butch is pressed against his side and his back is against the arm of the couch. There’s nowhere for him to escape to – not that he necessarily wants to, but he was never very good with facing his feelings. Either Butch is actively trying to flirt with him or he’s fucking around, and Jamie can’t decide which one is worse.

“You’re drunk, you idiot,” Jamie laughs weakly and goes to push Butch away by the chest but stops when he feels his heart pounding under his t-shirt. The other boy’s breath hitches and his body stiffens at Jamie’s touch, his lips parting as if he were trying to think of what to say.

“So are you,” Butch finally settles with, reaching up to wrap his fingers around Jamie’s wrist. His touch almost feels like it burns. They sit like that for a moment, staring at each other, eyes like fire.

The generator chooses that moment to shut off, leaving them in pitch darkness. Out of instinct, Jamie curls his fingers into Butch’s shirt, his ears ringing at the sudden silence in the room and his breathing becoming labored. Darkness feels suffocating to him sometimes, and this is one of those moments. It lays over them like a thick blanket, and the only thing that pulls him out of his internal panic is Butch’s free hand cupping the back of his head, fingers twining through the thick, curly hair at the nape of his neck.

He doesn’t even have time to think about what Butch might be doing before he feels the press of the other boy’s lips warm against his own. Though they’re unbelievably soft, the kiss is rushed and clumsy – desperate almost – and Jamie grunts when their teeth knock together. He wastes no time returning the kiss, though, his eyes fluttering shut as he focuses on the feel of Butch’s lips against his own and the rough burn of his stubble as it brushes against his chin.

It must have just been a power surge, because suddenly the generator kicks back on and the projector screen lights up the room. Their eyes fly open and they wrench apart, still holding onto each other as if for dear life. Whatever safety they felt shrouded in the darkness is ripped away and they’re left feeling vulnerable and exposed. Jamie’s breath comes out in stutters and he dares to glance up at the other boy.

Butch’s eyes are filled with a fiery heat he can’t even describe and something akin to tenderness – which is hard for him to pinpoint since he’s never been looked at like that before. He sucks in a sharp breath. For some reason, even though he’s been dreaming of this moment for months, he just feels terrified and embarrassed – like he fucked up somehow. The panic must be written clearly on his face because Butch pulls away like he’s been slapped and falls back to the other end of the couch.

“Sh-shit, I,” Butch stutters, his hand clutching his chest where Jamie’s was a moment before, “fuck, Jamie, I didn’t mean to.” His voice cracks, sounding almost pleading. Jamie doesn’t know what to say, his mouth flapping uselessly, and it’s too much for him to handle. He doesn’t understand what his problem is. Everything in his heart is telling him to leap forward and continue kissing Butch, but he’s just too fucking scared.

“It’s fine!” He practically snaps, standing up suddenly. He’s shaking and feels clammy and he’s sure he’s as pale as a ghost – is it even possible for something good to give you a panic attack?

He glances around for his boots for a moment, but it’s still too much and he can see Butch starting to reach for him with concern in his eyes. “I have to go,” he blurts out, and he turns tail and runs.

The last thing he hears before he leaves is Butch yelling his name, but he jogs up the steps in the darkness, tripping over his own feet and bruising his knees. He knows he’s acting like a child, but he can’t bring himself to care. He is absolutely not ready to face what’s happening and he needs to be alone in his room now.

When he reaches the door, he doesn’t even stop to think about the security camera on the other side, he just slams his fist on the button and rushes out and thankfully luck is on his side this time because he can hear the camera click into the end of its circuit.

He slows down when he reaches the halls, his bare feet making a lot less noise than his boots, but fuck the floor is cold and he regrets not stopping to find his shoes. Soon he reaches his apartment, and he rushes inside, thankful to see that it’s still empty. He locks himself in his own bedroom, suddenly feeling like everything is too much, and he rips his jumpsuit off, flopping onto his bed in just his tank top and boxers and pulling the covers over his head.

He wants to scream, maybe tear his hair out a little or punch the wall. He cannot believe how badly he fucked that up. He doesn’t even know what this means for their friendship – if he had tried to make a move on Butch and the other boy ran away, he would be devastated! Would Butch even want to talk to him anymore? He worries over these thoughts for a few hours until his brain feels like jelly. The last thing he’s aware of before falling asleep is how his lips taste ever-so-slightly like the sweet mint chap stick Butch always carries around.

---

He wakes up later to the sound of incessant beeping coming from his wrist. He groans, rubbing his hands over his eyes and down his face. He feels like complete shit – hungover, most likely, and his head is swimming.

He looks at his Pip-Boy to check the time and realizes he’s overslept. It’s two in the afternoon and he’s late for his work assignment at the studio but if he’s being honest the thought of having to drag himself out of bed and sit in a room with Butch all day doesn’t seem as great as it used to. He can’t help it when he opens the messaging app, biting his lip as he prepares to read whatever might be there.

913473: it was a prank haha i rly got u good

That one was sent almost immediately after he’d left last night, according to the timestamp. Something about it makes his gut twist, gives him a bit of nausea. He’s not sure if he believes Butch or not. Once again, he’s not sure which is harder to deal with. Dated about an hour later there are a few more.

913473: jamie im sorry pls answer me 913473: don’t ignore me man if ur mad just come beat me up 913473: are u sleeping? damn out of all the times 913473: its k. i kno u need it. gnight

Jamie doesn’t realize he’s chewing his lip to shreds until he tastes blood, and he curses, wiping it away on the hem of his tank top. His eyes are glued to the screen, his heart thundering in his ears. Dated even later are a handful of other messages and he can tell by their contents that Butch must have kept drinking in his absence. The thought of that tugs at his heart a little – maybe he isn’t the only one who’s terrified of his own feelings and kind of a fuckup.

913473: i know ur asleeeep 913473: gdamn typing onthis shit. fcking sucks 913473: m drunk but idc. i kissed u jamie n itfucking rocked 913473: wasnt a prank. im srry. dont hate me 913473: u can hit me all u want. ill evenlet u win the fight. 913473: jsut dont hate me

Jamie groans and grabs his pillow, shoving his face into it a few times and letting out as loud of a yell as he dares. It’s not enough, but it will have to do. Breathless and flushed, he’s about to lay back down when a new message comes through and his heart leaps so high into his throat that he nearly chokes. He peeks at it over the pillow.

913473: yo you’re late dude. like super late! 913473: i figured id let u sleep off the hangover a bit but damn 913473: i aint gonna cover ur ass if the overseer comes knocking. i have enough of a headache. 913473: so get down here!!! 913473: speakin of headache i was drunk as shit last night. dont remember a thing past that crappy monster movie. so ignore whatever embarrassing crap i sent you, k? 913473: and dont tell anyone im a talkative drunk or ill pummel you, nosebleed.

Jamie looks at the messages in disbelief and flops back onto his bed, his thoughts racing. He can’t tell if Butch is lying or not – he knows even if Butch doesn’t remember there was still something different about what happened last night but fuck if he’s going to bring it up now.

He’s relieved, but also disappointed, maybe a little angry – either at himself or at Butch, he can’t tell. He’s shaking, wracked with nerves at the sudden sense that everything might change soon. He can’t handle change – can’t handle much, if he’s honest with himself, but change is the hardest of all. He curls his fingers into his hair, tugging ever so slightly and trying to resist the urge to pull it out in chunks. He’s losing himself in his worries again when another message notification shakes him out of it.

“Fuck!” he shouts, wishing he could rip his Pip-Boy off his arm and throw it away.

913473: NOSEBLEED GET THE FUCK TO WORK NOW 913473: its boring alone

Jamie feels like he’s actually going to tear his hair out, but he can’t help himself from laughing. He gives in and types out a quick response.

604272: for the love of GOD 604272: STFU 604272: im on my way now 604272: and i didn’t read ur stupid messages don’t worry. too many for me to care

He bites his lip again, his heart twisting uncomfortably in his chest as he writes out one more message.

604272: i don’t even remember much of the shitty movie lol, u know im a blackout drunk

There are a few minutes without a reply and Jamie starts to think maybe he’s fucked it up again, then more messages come through.

913473: u stupid fuckin idiot 913473: what would i do without u 913473: to pick on i mean

Jamie lets out a trembling sigh and gets out of bed, shaking himself free of his worries and tugging on his jumpsuit again. His hands are quivering, probably will be all day with the way his nerves are, but he can handle it.

It’s only as he’s going to leave does he realize he doesn’t have his shoes.

913473: i have your boots btw dumbass

Jamie is terrified of change. He’s terrified of his own emotions, especially when he can’t control them. He wishes things were simpler and he wishes he could have been born into a more agreeable body in a more agreeable time, but as he walks, shoeless, out of the apartment and to the studio space he shares with Butch, he feels a bit comforted in the fact that Butch might feel exactly the same way. Even if shit is messy and he fucks it up, Butch keeps coming back - and that’s good enough for him.

[duskandstarlight]

Embers & Light (Chapter Two)

Ao3 (for all chapters so far)

Chapter Two Nesta

Despite being airborne, Nesta slept during the journey. It had been a late night and with the alcohol flowing in her veins after her quick fuck she had slept fitfully, dipping in and out of a blend of dreams that thankfully hadn’t turned into a nightmare of snapping bones and hoarse screams.The alcohol helped with the nightmares. It kept them at bay. It was one of the reasons why she drank so much; why she embraced that slow, sticky layer of numbness that crept across her bones until it settled like a blanket.

By all accounts, Nesta should feel humiliated over what had happened at the house, but when she reached inside herself there was simply nothing. No emotion, no icy rage — just hollow exhaustion that seemed to ooze over her bones like thick oil. Her hangover was hitting her in full force now too, and without another drink to chase it away she could do nothing but close her eyes to the moving landscape and hope Cassian wasn’t pissed enough to drop her in the Sidra.

Nesta had felt Cassian’s rage in that stupidly extravagant house as if it were her own, the anger blasting through that numbness. It had startled her; the unchecked swell of it. Not that she had let it show. She was a master of blocking her emotions; of ensuring that nobody was privy to the thoughts inside her head. It helped, of course, that too often she felt nothing at all. As if she were an empty shell — a lone, battered vessel floating at open sea.

Hours later, Nesta woke to awful lurch in her stomach. When she had opened her eyes, the world was rushing around her in a blur of white. Panic slammed into her with such fierceness that all the breath was knocked out of her as they shot to the ground at breakneck speed. Fear gripped her in its talons as she braced herself for the crash, but then Cassian had flung out those huge powerful wings, flapping hard…

The world righted and steadied as she gasped for breath, but Cassian showed her no mind as he landed with the grace of an Illyrian warrior. Mud and snow slid down the protective bubble he had thrown around them — it was like dirty rain running down glass. Nesta watched a tear swell and break, tracking the thin line as it trickled down to meet the earth.

“We’re here,” Cassian said roughly in her ear.

Insults surged through her but her heart wrestled and thumped so hard against her ribcage she couldn't form the words. Instead, she loosened her grip on his neck and focussed on rebuilding that wall of ice in her mind — brick by brick — until she no longer felt anything at all but that dark, bottomless void.

The numbness swept in soon after that, especially when he didn’t even deign to glance at her. Those brown-green eyes of his scoured the perimeter, a strand of his dark hair flapping in the wind unnoticed from where it had escaped his leather.

Nesta followed his gaze but was only met with the relentless flurry of thick snow. She could barely see a foot in front of her. If she squinted, she could just make out what looked like a one-story stone house to her left. To the right — where Cassian had fixed his gaze — she swore she could see moving shadows through the gaps of falling snow... But it hurt her eyes to concentrate and she blinked as pain lanced through her temples. It seemed it would take more than a few hours of shuteye to get rid of her hangover, after all.

It was with that realisation, that Nesta decided she was done playing the fair maiden.

Making her voice as cold as the punishing wind, she said, “Well, are you going to put me down? Or is this how I’m expected to travel from now on?”

She felt him tense and when Cassian finally looked at her, his eyes were hard and unyielding. She watched a muscle feather in his jaw; surveyed the layer of stubble; the bruised smudges underneath his eyes. There was a tiredness to him that she hadn’t noticed before.

The unusual lack of playfulness in his voice was disconcerting as he said shortly, “With that shoe choice? You’ll get frostbite.”

He strode towards what was indeed a stone building on their left and stepped up to a wide wooden door that was, Nesta realised, designed purposefully for Illyrian wings. As if she weighed nothing, Cassian freed the arm wound around her back and rested his palm against the wood. His siphon gleamed and Nesta just made out the click of a lock through the howling wind as he shouldered open the door and set her down on a large doormat.

The stiff bristles poked through her flimsy shoes, biting into her skin but she didn’t protest. Instead, she surveyed the space before her.

In front of her was an open living space centred around a stone hearth on the opposite wall. A glowing log burner stood in place of the traditional fire grate, its black chimney rising up to meet the high ceiling and a huge u-shaped sofa framed the hearth, the material charcoal grey. In its centre — between the sofa and log burner — stood a rustic pine coffee table with black stud detailing. Uplit bookshelves lined the deep blue walls, which Nesta was surprised to see were neatly arranged with books and ornaments rather than misplaced weapons.

“This is my home,” Cassian said gruffly from behind her. “We’ll be staying here.”

Turning stiffly, she found Cassian taking off his leather boots. He knocked them against the door frame to get rid of the parcels of snow that had wedged itself into the grooves of the sole. She bent down to untie her laces and remove her stained shoes. He nodded tightly, as if in thanks.

“Cassian, stella meus!”

Nesta’s head whipped up at the sound of the voice, her spine stiffening instinctively. Her temples throbbed again and she wished that she could just lie down and fade into nothing.

But instead she watched as a female stepped out from one of the alcoves framing the side of the hearth. She was petite and by human standards, Nesta would have guessed she was around fifty years old, although Nesta had no idea what age that made her in fae terms. She had the same complexion as Cassian, but her dark ebony hair was streaked with grey and her skin was more weathered, as if the brutal conditions of the mountain had hardened her body.

Her face was alight with affection as she placed two wrinkled hands on the side of Cassian’s face and kissed both of his cheeks in turn.  

Cassian’s smile was full of a fondness Nesta had never witnessed — not even with Mor — his expression soft, as he asked, “Tiya, sunt tibi beni?”

The female Illyrian shrugged noncommittally as she pulled back to peer into Cassian’s face.

She patted him on the cheek — the gesture motherly — and then said in the common tongue, “Still not sleeping enough, I see?”

The corners of Cassian’s mouth quirked upwards. “Nothing gets past you, does it?”

The female stepped back, her eyes falling on Nesta. “And this is your guest?”

“Yes,” Cassian replied, waving a hand between Nesta and the female. “This is Nesta. Nesta, this is Masak — or Mas, as I call her. She looks after the house for me. She’ll be here most days.”

Mas studied Nesta carefully, a ghost of a smile on her face as she bowed her head subserviently. Nesta willed herself to speak but she felt the words push themselves down far, far into herself.

She forced her chin to dip in greeting instead.

Mas didn’t seem deterred by Nesta’s lack of vocal chords. Instead, she surprised Nesta by taking her hands in her own and squeezing them softly. Her skin was warm but her palms were rough and chapped, and Nesta wondered how they had come to be so worn.

“You tell me if you need anything, anak,” Mas said softly to Nesta. Then she turned to Cassian. “You will be gone soon, I assume?”

“I’ll be in and out,” Cassian replied vaguely. “I have business visiting the camps further north.”

Mas gave a snort of disgust, her wings flaring slightly, but she didn’t comment any further. “I made bigos for you yesterday. It’s on the stove.”

Cassian’s groan was one of joy. “You spoil me, Mas. Thank you.”

Mas nodded as she took her coat from the hook behind the front door, “I will be back later.”

“Do you want me to fly you to the market?” Cassian asked.

Clucking her tongue, Mas pulled up the hood of her coat. “Don’t fuss, sinta. It’s only a bit of snow, or have you lost your Illyrian skin spending so much time in Velaris?”

Cassian muttered something under his breath which made Mas tut again but he waved her through the open the door. A blast of wind and snow howled through the entryway, obscuring her figure, and in the blink of an eye the tiny Illyrian was gone.  

Cassian shut the door and turned back to Nesta.

They stared at each other for a second before Cassian gestured to the living space.

“Make yourself at home,” he said.

When Nesta didn’t move, he tried again. “Let me take your coat — ”

Nesta stepped neatly away from him as he tried to make up the distance between them. She knew she should feel angry so she made herself so, commanding her eyes to flash as she bit out, “Oh, so now you’re acting chivalrous?”

She unbuttoned her coat and unwound the scarf he had made her wear — the birthday gift from Elain that she hated. It was just a reminder that even her favourite person in the world had abandoned her. The thought made her hands tremble, and it took her a few times to free the ivory buttons, but eventually she managed it.

Cassian had tugged his hair out of its leather by the time she looked up. He palmed his face in exasperation.

“Gods Nesta...”

“Don’t ‘Gods Nesta’ me,” she snapped, forcefully pressing her belongings into his hands. She ignored the bulge in his biceps as he instinctively lifted his arms to catch her clothing, “I didn’t see you publicly disowned by your sister earlier.”

“You haven’t been disowned — ” Cassian started, but she interrupted him.

“No? Well, it certainly seemed that way to me.”

A pause.

Cassian stared her down and she could feel his temper as if it were its own creature; a dark shadow pacing restlessly at her feet. She wondered if others could sense his power like she could, if that’s why they balked from him on the battlefield, as he cut down men as if they were nothing but wheat and he a scythe.

In her ears, Nesta heard the frantic tempo of his pulse as it pushed against the olive skin of his throat. She pushed the sound away, praying it would disappear. Gods, she wanted a drink more than anything. Her hands shook again and she willed them to still.

“I’m tired,” she made herself say flatly. “I’d like to go to bed.”

Resigned, Cassian waved an arm to the door on the left-hand side of the living room.

“Through there. There’s a shared bathroom down the hall, if you need to use it.”

She left without another word.

***

Nesta woke to grey light and a mouth so dry she felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton wool. She wrestled off the throw that certainly hadn’t been around her last night and pushed her sweaty hair from her face. She sat up.

Water. She needed water.

Her gaze snagged on the food tray on the bedside table. Beside a bowl of what looked like cold soup was an empty glass and a jug of water. She poured herself a drink and gulped it down with shaking hands. She poured another and did the same. Then she studied the soup in front of her. Her stomach growled with hunger but she didn’t touch it. Eating was often accompanied by nausea these days, and it was too early to risk eating before she’d lined her stomach with a cup of tea.

She’d prefer alcohol of course, but she doubted she’d be getting that here. Knowing Cassian, he had probably spent the evening clearing the house of bottles.

She already hated him for it. Hated how he cared. How he ignored her order to stay away.

Through the brain fog, she vaguely recalled him coming in the night before, encouraging her to eat. She had pretended to be asleep, even though she knew he could tell by her breathing that she was awake. Nesta wondered how often he had checked up on her throughout the night, but then decided she didn’t want to know.

She was still in her clothes from the day before; her grey dress crumpled and in desperate need of a wash. She was in need of a wash, and the stabbing pain in her bladder was enough of a warning that she needed to find the bathroom, fast.

Ignoring her ever persistent headache, she climbed off the large bed and hunted through the dresser for something to wear. They were mostly empty, save for a drawer full of ghastly bright clothing, embroidered handkerchiefs, an assortment of engraved knives and red satin boxer shorts — the last of which she recognised as a Solstice present from Mor.

Snorting in disgust, Nesta pulled open the bottom drawer of the dresser to find thick, fluffy towels in charcoal grey. She grabbed one and the only plain shirt she could find — a soft grey blue, which reminded her of the open sky — and opened the door to her room.

Thankfully the living room was empty, but the distant clink of dishes chased her as she walked down the hallway to her left.

She found the bathroom easily — the door was adjacent to her bedroom — and she slipped inside, turning the lock.

Safe.

The bathroom was a good size but it was still modest in relation to Feyre’s palace back in Velaris. The square bathtub took up the majority of space, having clearly been made with wings in mind. A long, wide spout had been built into the tiled wall above the tub and a shelf hovered to the right of it, neatly arranged with bottles and soaps.

The tense set of her shoulders eased. Although she had mastered lowering her body into the bath, Nesta still struggled to put her head under water. It made washing her hair an internal battle that usually took up all the strength she could muster.

After she had relieved herself, Nesta fiddled with the brass taps of the bath, eventually finding a button on the underside that redirected the water to the spout above. The water was hot, cleansing and liberating and in her minds eye she could almost see those layers of grime and filth stream off of her, down the plug hole and out of sight.

Nesta had reached for a random bottle of shampoo and was halfway through rubbing a palmful of it into her scalp before the smell of fresh, untamed air, pine and musk overwhelmed her. She closed her eyes as she lathered the scent of him into the ends of her hair, trying not to think about the first time she had smelt Cassian up close; the feeling of his nose as it grazed the curve of her neck, the heat from his body…

With a growl she snapped herself out of the memory and tipped her head back to wash away the suds. It did her no good to think of Cassian like that. She had drawn an unforgiving barrier across the path between them, a blockade against all of them so immovable that they had given up on her.

Watching the suds stream out of her hair and swirl down the drain, Nesta concentrated on freezing over the small crack that had started to spider in one of her mental bricks of ice. By the time she had scrubbed her skin clean — of course, his soap smelt the exact same — and pulled the shirt over her head, her wall was impenetrable.

Good. She had a feeling she’d need it today.

A few minutes later, Nesta entered the kitchen to find Cassian at the stove removing a saucepan from the heat. He poured the contents into a teapot and turned to place it on the kitchen table. He stopped when he saw her, his eyes snagging on her bare legs, before travelling up her body, slowly drinking in the sight of her in his shirt, her damp hair...

His eyes gleamed and his nostrils flared. Deep down in the depths of her gut, something twisted.

She raised her chin defiantly. If he’d had the audacity to deprive her of her belongings, she was going to do everything in her power to unnerve him, and she knew that the sight of her in his shirt would throw him off centre.

“Well, you certainly look better in my shirt than that other males,” he drawled eventually.

Nesta didn’t grace him with one of her disgusted snorts. She only ignored him as she slid into one of the low back chairs at the kitchen table. He turned back to the stove unbothered, and she watched the solid set of his broad shoulders as he transferred whatever he was cooking to a plate.

He was dressed in brown fighting leathers today. He wore an olive green tunic over the top and an empty weapons belt was slung low on his hips. Despite the gear, Cassian looked relaxed… casual. Even his hair was down and shining, rather than windswept and tied back.

Cassian cast her a look over his shoulder. “Did you figure out how to redirect the water to the spout above the bath?”

Resetting her frigid posture, Nesta said tightly, “Yes.”

“Good.”

He set a glass with an inch of amber liquid in front of her.

“Drink this first,” he ordered. “It will help.”

Disbelieving, Nesta took the glass and sniffed. The familiar smell of alcohol hit her, paired with woody undertones — he had given her whisky. She tilted the glass towards her, watching the liquid tip invitingly, but didn’t make a move to drink it.

In her peripheral vision, she saw Cassian’s hand grasp the edge of the table. She could sense his closeness; smell the notes of pine and musk and that clean, bracing taste of sky. She gripped the glass hard but her body betrayed her: her hand shook.

She hated herself for it.

“You’re not the only one who has dealt with alcohol withdrawal,” Cassian said, his voice surprisingly soft. “I don’t fancy Nesta Archeron going cold turkey, so drink up. That should stave off the shakes for a bit.”

The alcohol burnt the back of her throat as she knocked back the whisky. Immediately, her body purred in thanks, that numbness seeping into her bones. It wasn’t enough to completely rid her of sensation… but it would do for now.

“Good,” Cassian said, putting the empty glass in the sink and placing a pot of tea and a plate of plain, toasted bread onto the table. “Now eat.”

The command was clear but her stomach rolled. She shook her head.

“Nesta.”

It surprised her that his voice was pleading now. His large hand gripped hers, his fingers encircling her too slim wrist as he slid into the chair beside her.

“Please eat something. You’re wasting away.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Liar.”

Nesta stilled at the force behind the word, and deep inside her, the beast stirred. Cassian froze, as if he too knew what lurked beneath her skin. She took a long breath, slowing the thrum of her veins until the creature went quiet; slumbering in the darkness.

“I can’t,” she snapped.

Cassian studied her for a moment, settling back in his chair as if he was there to stay. They sat in stalemate for what felt like eons, their gaze never breaking. Cocking his head to the side, Cassian stared at her as if she were a puzzle he was trying to figure out, his gaze assessing.

Everything about him screamed General — a warrior who would take no shit — but it seemed that her stubborn defiance won out as he suddenly stood and strode towards some double doors set into the wall. He disappeared inside, emerging with a jug of purple liquid.

He poured it into a new glass and set it in front of her. “It seems we're sticking to a liquid diet. Drink up.”

“What is it?”

She examined the contents and smelt… berries? Her stomach growled but for once, there was no sweeping nausea.

Cassian snickered. “You’ll like it.”

It annoyed her more than he knew that she did like it. It tasted of summer and honey — of warm, lazy days in the garden with Elain, reading a book on the grass.

“Ok?” he asked.

He was watching her closely, as if he was ready to whisk her to the bathroom as soon as she started retching.

After a few tentative sips, she reached for the tea pot he had placed on the table. She poured a milky tea into her mug — the only thing she had really wanted for breakfast — and sighed as she tasted it, the sound escaping her before she could stop it. It wasn’t black tea after all. No, it was unlike anything she had tasted before. It was warming and fiery and sweet, with hints of ginger and cinnamon and cloves…? She almost didn’t care what was in it. All she knew was that it was the best thing she had ever tasted and under no circumstances could she let him know.

Looking up over the rim of her mug, she found Cassian staring at her brazenly.

“Stop watching me,” she ordered coldly.

A slow, cocky grin. “Why? Does it unnerve you, Nesta?”

She arched an eyebrow — a picture of cool indifference. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”

Leaning back in his chair, Cassian stretched his wings lazily. “What better things do I have to do but spend time with an angry witch?”

Drinking deeply from her mug to stop herself from snarling, Nesta bought her time to reinstate that expressionless mask. She knew what he was doing. He was trying to rile her, provoke her until she snapped, because emotion was better than no emotion. But she was fed up of these petty games, so she got straight to the point;

“I need my clothes.”

Cassian smirked. “I think you look fine.”

“I am not here to amuse you,” she hissed.

“What a pity,” Cassian said, helping himself to her toast. “Here I was, looking forward to my strip tease.”

He spread a large dollop of strawberry jam over the bread. It reminded Nesta of the remains of the battlefield victims that had faced Styrga. She looked away.

“Although,” Cassian mused, “Mas usually arrives at midday and I’d hate to scare her off.”

“I believe we were talking about my clothes before you wandered off into your far-fetched fantasy,” she snapped.

“Speaking of Mas,” Cassian continued conversationally, as if she hadn’t even opened her mouth. He took a bite of toast, “aside from the Inner Circle, she is the only person who is allowed in and out of these premises. Nobody else is allowed to enter without my say so and anybody who tries to get in, will find the magic around the door and windows throwing them backwards thirty feet.”

Nesta snorted at that. Oh, she saw straight though that casual announcement. It was wholly laughable that he thought that she would bring someone back to his own house. It was nice, she thought, to think that not even he thought she had a sense of boundaries.

So she hit him where it hurt.

“And am I allowed to leave? Or am I trapped here just like Feyre with her half-wit ex-boyfriend?”

Lowering the toast that was halfway to his mouth, Cassian levelled her with a hard stare, one that he no doubt used to keep his armies in line. She stared right back at him, her body frozen with that unnatural stillness that she knew scared the shit out of all of his happy, little circle — him included.

Leaning over the table, Cassian curled his fingers around her arm. They were warm, like fire to her ice.

She didn’t move an inch as his voice dropped an octave, so it was little more than a rumble as he said, “Listen sweetheart, Illyria is not like Velaris. You can explore the camp as you like in the day, but at night it is not safe for you. The drinking hole here is dangerous for females and the bastards here will not think twice to take what they desire — and i’m not talking consensual. Do you understand what i’m saying?”

Her chair legs scraped angrily against the floor as she stood up. She was done.

“Am I to wear this all day or did anyone in your happy circle deign to bring any of my belongings?” she snarled.

Cassian moved so fast he became a blur. Before she had time to blink, his hand was across the doorway, blocking her from her exiting the kitchen.

“Nesta,” he said fiercely. “Am. I. Clear.”

She surveyed him for a moment, taking in his broad heaving chest and the dark tattoos that snaked up his arms. Then she stepped towards him.

The first thing she noticed was his warm, ragged breath on her cheek. And the smell of him... it was overwhelming, as if it sung to her and only her. Slowly, she turned her face up to his, relishing in the way that every muscle in his body tensed. Satisfaction thrummed through her as his dark eyes flitted to her lips — as if he couldn’t help himself — before his gaze locked with hers. The action alone was like a key clicking as it turned in a lock and heat flared inside of her. It was a warmth that started in her chest and flooded through every bone in her body, threatening to thaw the ice that coated her veins…

“Nesta,” Cassian murmured, her name like a prayer on his lips.

His hands dropped to rest lightly on her waist and her chest burned and pulsed. There was no other way to describe it. No other way to explain that pulsing in her blood that felt fast and slow all at once. Nesta waited — she waited patiently until his resolve wavered and his breath hitched.

As his head bent towards hers, she shoved him hard in the chest. And Nesta questioned his ability as a warrior when he stepped back in surprise, leaving the doorway open wide for her to step neatly past.

She held her head high as a primal snarl ripped from him, the sound reverberating around the room with such force that the shelves rattled.

Pausing at her bedroom door, Nesta finally deigned to look back at him.

Cassian was staring at her, his eyes stunned and burning with unbridled rage. She wondered how many women had refused him before her. None, she would wager, apart from Mor.

If she could have, she would have laughed.

But she couldn’t, so all she said was, “We are crystal clear. Now leave me alone.”

[squadlessgeek]

Title: When He Sees Me

Summary: human au ; logan is nervous and overthinking when roman sets him up on a blind date. based on the song “When He Sees Me” from Waitress, and this wonderful animatic by @voidsides / @artfromthevoid

Warnings: 

Word count: 2,435

Pairings: Logicality (Logan x Patton) and background Prinxiety (Virgil x Roman)

Tag List: (let me know if you’d like to be added or removed) Tag List: (let me know if you’d like to be added or removed) @monikastec @persepinecone @horsesquid @sassyandmessy @ilivetoexist @lizaelsparrow @galaxy-warping @insanityandimperfection @sander-fander-sides  @swlotakulady34 @llamaavocado @applecannibal @helloisthisusernametaken @wildhorsewolf @justanotherpurplebutterfly @beautifully-terribly @awkward-avocado-of-death​ @ab-artist​ @toujours-fidele​ @an-awkward-gay​ @anaveragegay​ @gingergiraffe101​ @i-just-punched-malfoy​ @musikasworld​ @constantstateoftired

Read it on AO3

The ringing in Logan’s ears almost drowned out the excited giggling from Roman, the amused snickers from Virgil. Almost. He blinked a few times, shook his head, even pressed the tip of a fingernail into the pad of his thumb hard enough to hurt, hoping to wake up from some sort of awful dream. None of the above worked.

“I’m sorry, you what?” He asked finally, brows drawn together and staring Roman down like he’d just dealt the worst betrayal in the history of their friendship.

Roman raised a hand to his face and laughed behind it. He lounged carelessly on their sectional sofa, his boyfriend of three years, Virgil, settled in beside him. The three had been roommates since college, and while being the third wheel was occasionally awkward and undesirable for Logan, they were his best and only friends, and it just made more sense to keep their living situation the same throughout the years; economically, of course.

“I set you up! He’s so cute, Lo, look!” Roman tried to show Logan a picture of the mystery man, but Logan brushed him aside. He looked to Virgil for help, who only shrugged.

“It’s just a date,” Virgil said from behind the screen of his phone. Logan gawked at him. The most apprehensive, cautious person Logan has ever known, somehow calm about the situation. Of all people, Logan would’ve expected Virgil to understand.

Logan took a deep breath and adjusted his glasses, turning towards the staircase that led to the bedrooms upstairs. “I’m not going,” he said. Roman complained loudly, hopping up from his seat to follow his roommate upstairs. “End of discussion. You can’t just— I don’t understand what the thought process behind this decision was.”

“He’s cute, and single! See, you two have so much in common already.” Logan rolled his eyes and stopped at the top of the stairs, turning to look at Roman. “I swear, you’ll like him. Even if you don’t work out romantically, you two could still be adorable as friends. Plus... I think he’d be good for you.” 

Logan squinted down at Roman, the gears turning in his head as he tried to figure out what that could mean. “Good for me?”

“You know what I mean. You need to get out more, meet new people. You seriously smell like an old, wet book. That’s not even an insult, it’s just the truth. Right? Back me up, V.”

“I’m not part of this,” Virgil called from the couch.

“Whatever,” Roman continued. “In any case, you should go.” He reached for Logan’s hand, who only resisted a little while Roman tugged him back downstairs. “I know you’re scared, but—“

“Scared?” At the bottom of the stairs once again, Logan pulled his hand away from Roman, shaking his head. “Please. I’m not scared.” Roman raised an eyebrow at him, the corner of his lip twitching up into a skeptical smile. “I’m not! It’s just— you don’t really know him, right? You only recently met him. He could be dangerous. He could be unstable, he could turn out to be some stalker with psychopathic tendencies, he could be anyone!” As Logan rambled on, he paced around the living room, only working himself up even more. Roman kept trying to interject, and Virgil, now interested, opted for watching this scene play out rather than keeping his eyes glued to his phone.

“Lo, he’s sweet—“

“What if we sit at a booth and he wants to sit beside me instead of across? What if he talks too much, or too quickly, and I’m not interested in what he has to say, or worse, I can’t understand what he’s saying at all? What if he asks me too many questions, tries to pry into my personal life before I even know him? There are so many things— you don’t understand, he could prefer Coke instead of Pepsi, he could eat Oreos the wrong way, he could prefer the movie over the book, he could drink his coffee with way too much sugar. Oh, my god, he could be colorblind! How untrustworthy is that?!”

Logan only stopped his tangent once he actually looked at the expressions on his friends’ faces. They looked at him like he might explode, like he was crazy, and it made his entire body tense.

“So,” Roman cautioned, “You’re scared.”

There was a beat of silence as Logan pushed his hair back, regained his composure. And yet his voice cracked the slightest bit as he breathed, “Terrified.”

Admitting his fears was never his strong suit. Admitting anything, really, was quite a feat he was not too familiar with. He let himself sink onto the other end of the sectional, removing his glasses briefly to rub at his face. Virgil sat forward in his seat and placed a tentative hand on Logan’s knee.

“I’m just being cautious,” Logan sighed, sure that Virgil was going to comment on how crazy he was acting.

“I know,” was what he said instead. Logan looked up at him, meeting his eyes, watching that familiarly hesitant smile. “But I don’t think you’re afraid that you’ll hate him. I think you’re afraid that you’ll like him.”

Logan felt his face grow warm and averted his gaze to the carpet, Roman "Oooh”-ing dramatically from the other side of the couch. He quieted with a sharp look from Logan, but the words still hung heavy in his mind. He was afraid of so many things, mostly of the unknown. Of what he could never be sure about. Of ifs and buts and maybes. And this whole thing was chock full of the unknown. But maybe, facing his fears wouldn’t be so bad, because in a way, it would calm them. At least he could be sure.

“There is probably one thing you should know,” Roman said, snapping Logan out of his thoughts. “Patton is colorblind.”

And so the unknown becomes the known.

And in a way, it’s comforting.

Roman According to him he’s wearing a baby blue sweater and overalls. Cute. He’s got round glasses and just an absolute mess of freckles, and he literally lights up a room when he walks in - you can’t miss him. 10:22am

Virgil we told him you would probably be the only person on the whole block wearing a tie. he’s excited that you both wear glasses. good luck lo. u got this. 10:28am

Logan sighed to himself as he scanned the messages in the group chat the three of them shared. He decided against correcting Roman on his incorrect use of the word “literally,” and instead put his phone on silent and tucked it back into his pocket. He didn’t want to come across as rude if it went off in the middle of this... interaction. He preferred not to call it a date. Calling it a date made it real in a way that Logan would rather avoid for now. Just until he knew more.

When it was his turn in line, he ordered a coffee, sixteen ounces, black. As the barista rang him up and took his card, he decided that this was ridiculous. He shouldn’t have come. He should have stayed at home, made his own coffee, gotten some work done. Instead he decided to spend the day standing in a cafe full of people nothing like him, for a stranger that might not even show up. A stranger who might be wrong for him in so many ways, who might not be worth the anxiety of an ordeal like this.

He could have Roman apologize for him, and it would be fine, everything would go back to normal and he would never have to think about the colorblind stranger again. He had more to lose from staying than he did from leaving. He thanked the barista as she handed him his cup, and turned back to the door with full intention of going home.

But then he understood what Roman meant.

Just as he turned toward the door, someone else walked through it. His eyes, behind round wire frames, held a mix of hope and nerves, and didn’t try to hide the fact that they were looking for something in particular. Freckles dusted his cheeks and the bridge of his nose; if one were to focus they would notice that the little dots continued down his neck and beneath his sweater. Baby blue. Accompanied with white overalls.

You can’t miss him.

Logan’s stomach twisted, especially as the nervous and hopeful eyes landed on him. Too late. As he walked towards Logan, the latter panicked. He could slip past him, quickly walk out, get into his car, and leave. Or he could pretend to be someone else, despite the description his friends provided. Logan? Who’s he? Never heard of him.

And yet.

“Hi! Are you Logan? I like your tie.”

He found himself answering, “Yes. Thank you.” He managed to recover enough to extend his free hand, blinking away the initial shock from seeing him. “Patton, right?”

The handshake was accepted, though not before Patton gave him a funny look, like it was an odd greeting. Had he already somehow messed up? But he was smiling, in a way that was almost painfully genuine, so evidently things weren’t starting off too poorly. “That’s me! Should we pick out a table?” Logan let out a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding. Table, not a booth. Good start. Logan preferred plain chairs over booths any day.

“Yes, let’s. Are you going to order anything?” He asked, gesturing to the counter where he’d gotten his coffee. Patton shook his head and held up a reusable cup that would have matched the shade of his sweater if it weren’t for the countless stickers decorating it. The contents looked very chocolatey.

“I brought my own!” he said, as he picked a table and sat down, Logan following his lead. “It’s just a milkshake; caffeine has the opposite effect on me, makes me tired.” Okay, while sugary milkshakes in the morning were a questionable dietary choice at best, at least his coffee order wasn’t some complicated, elaborate, unhealthy thing. “So, I’ve heard lots about you from Roman,” Patton said, sitting cross-legged in his chair. It didn’t look comfortable. Logan felt himself break into a cold sweat, wondering what his roommate would have said about him.

“Oh?” He tried his best to sound casual, collected.

“Only good things, don’t worry. Well… Sort of. I mean, you know Roman, he can make everything out to be way more dramatic than it actually is.”

Logan nodded at that, sighing to himself. The amount of insects he’s had to let outside in order to quiet Roman’s shrieking… “Well, what sort of things did he tell you?”

Patton twirled his straw between two fingers, his eyebrows drawing together as he recalled the information. Every expression he made was very pronounced, like he wore every emotion and thought out on his sleeve. Logan couldn’t believe Roman would see these two people, entirely opposite of each other, and think that they would be completely compatible for one another. “Um… well he said you’re very focused, and stubborn. And smart. Very smart. And that you know the answer to just about any random question you could think of.”

Logan couldn’t help his small twitch of a smile. Roman called him smart. And the last statement was true enough; he could recall several late nights when he’d get a knock on his bedroom door and Roman or Virgil would poke their head in, ready to ask some inane question. One of his favorites was when Virgil asked if bees sneeze. They don’t, by the way. They lack noses, as well as mouths and lungs. “He also said that you were nervous about this date,” Patton continued, before sipping his milkshake with an amused glint in his eyes. Logan stiffened. “It’s okay! I was pretty nervous too. It’s been a while since my last date, so…” He trailed off as Logan shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Patton’s confession of his own nerves should have helped to calm Logan’s, but it didn’t. 

“I… don’t tend to do anything that may come with a high risk,” he said. “With things like this, there’s so much unknown. And I’m much more comfortable sticking with things I already know. If I’m completely candid, I almost didn’t come. And I almost left before you arrived.”

While Patton so far had worn most of his emotions in his expression, now there seemed to be something he was hiding, though not very well. Logan could tell by the small, forced smile, and the way he looked down at his cup, that what Logan admitted had stung in one way or another.

“It’s nothing personal,” Logan said quickly, for some reason eager to reassure him in a way that he usually never cared to do with anyone else. “Roman probably told you that I appreciate new information, I like to learn as much as I can. Well, I was… nervous… because of the unknown. Because I didn’t know anything about you. But I think… I think I’m willing to learn.” Patton’s genuine smile had returned, at least a little bit, and his eyes flitted down to the table. Logan followed his gaze and saw that he had subconsciously rested his hand on top of Patton’s while he spoke. Warmth flooded into his face and he pulled his hand back, apologizing softly.

Patton giggled, the most musical sound Logan ever heard. “It’s okay. I liked it.”

His happiness was infectious; Logan definitely understood what Roman meant about lighting up a room.

And, worse, he understood what Virgil meant the night before. I think you’re afraid that you’ll like him. Facing one fear means facing a hundred more, each more terrifying than the last. If Patton had been unlikeable from the moment they met, Logan would have walked out of that cafe having lost nothing. But instead, he left feeling as if he’d gained something.

And everything that could be gained, could also be lost.

Before they parted ways, they exchanged information. Their phone numbers, and Logan had also given Patton the link to his blog, since the latter grew excited when it was mentioned, and insisted on reading it. No one had ever been excited to read his blog before.

Just as Logan arrived back at the apartment and pulled his phone from his pocket to unsilence it, a new notification from a new contact was displayed on the screen.

Patton When can I see you again? 12:02pm

[tayegi]

The Anti-Fan Ch. 1

Loosely based on the movie So I Married an Anti-Fan

For @btssmutgalore and the prompt “Enemies to lovers” i hate u

Word Count: 4,313

"What, really?! I get to work on the BTS article?!" You cry in excitement at the team meeting.

Your editor winces at the volume of your exclamation, "Yes, is that okay?"

"Okay?" You repeat in surprise, "It's amazing! I was such a fan of them back when I was a student! Wow, this makes me feel so nostalgic."

Minyoung, the fashion contributor, snickers at your reaction, "Careful, Miss ___. Your bias is showing."

"What?" you turn to her in confusion, "How did you know my bias was Min Yoongi?"

Seunghoon is rubbing his temples at this point, "Is it safe to give you this assignment?"

"Yes, of course!" You quickly say, fearful that the editor might change his mind, "Am I interviewing the members for their newest album last year?"

"No, that's already old news," Seunghoon says, "Let's do something a bit different."

"Oh… Maybe we can do a fashion analysis, then?" you suggest, "Their styles have been so popular amongst students these days. The Gucci glasses that V was wearing in their newest vlive was sold out in hours!"

"Yes, but they're always interviewed about their fashion tastes in a group… I think it might be more interesting to conduct a personal, in-depth interview with a single member."

"Suga just released his second mixtape…" you subtly, not-so-subtly, hint.

"What? Oh, that's nice. But I'm more interested in their maknae. How would you like to write an exposition on Jeon Jungkook?"

"Jungkook?" You repeat in surprise. You know very little about the youngest member of the group, "I mean… I guess that's fine?"

"Great!" Seunghoon beams, "I'll forward you his company's contact information and you guys can setting up a meeting for this week."

"Oh… okay…"

It's been a while since you've followed BTS. They blew up in popularity in 2016, but you only really obsessed over them before 2015, when you were still a clueless, happy-go-lucky university student with lots of time to slack off and no real stresses. Adulthood has drained you of all your time and passions, and replaced them with responsibilities and taxes.

Back when you first loved them, they had just debuted as a rookie band and Min Yoongi had caught your attention at once. You had been so enthralled by the fiery rapper that you didn't have eyes for anyone else. All you knew about Jeon Jungkook was that he was the cute, talented maknae who a bit too well-loved by the other members. It's a bit perplexing why the editor chose him to be featured in a fashion magazine adhering to women in their 20's and 30's, but as a junior writer, you really can't complain. You've worked your ass off for two long years just to post columns, and you'll jump on this chance for a rare full editorial opportunity.

So you contact BigHit's publicity manager as soon as you can to set up a meeting with the young idol in the company's café that Saturday evening.

It takes you and the photographer quite some time to get through multiple rounds of security at the BigHit building. First, there's the security guard who won't let you in until you call the BigHit PR manager to fetch you. Then, you have to show multiple forms of identification, including your driver's license, which the security guard squints at for over five minutes until you recreate the same dazed expression in your photo to assure him that it's actually you. And then comes the metal detectors and the pat down that leaves you feeling very violated—especially when your snacks are confiscated.

But finally, finally you are escorted into a café in the company's front office. It's a cozy spot, unable to seat more than a handful of people, and clearly designed to just supply the idols with coffee on the go instead of any real socializing opportunities. Still, it's big enough for your photographer to set up the lights and his tripod, and it's so rare to be allowed a peek into the infamously secretive building that you really can't bring yourself to mind.

You're still helping the photographer tinker with the perfect lighting when a broad young man swings by with two coffees in hand.

"Hi, are you Reporter ___?"

You look up, surprised, but privately pleased by the name, "Yes, that is me."

"Ah, great. I didn't know what you wanted, so I ordered you an iced Americano. It's pretty hot out today and the coffee here is fresh."

You accept the coffee with a bow, then turn to assess the man for the first time. He's unbelievably good-looking with strong, masculine features and wide brown eyes. Even when dressed in a simple outfit of ripped jeans and a plain white tee, you can tell that he's ripped. His forearms bulge in the act of simply handing over your coffee. You unconsciously lick your lips, "Thank you so much." Damn. Even the managers at BigHit are ridiculously attractive. If you didn't know any better, you'd have thought him to be a celebrity of some sort. An athlete maybe? His thighs are certainly thick enough to belong to any soccer player. Maybe you'll loiter around after the interview to collect a phone number… "This is delicious," your voice drips with innuendo as you wrap your lips around the straw and take a deep draw of your drink.

His mouth curves into a blinding smile in response, "I'm glad! Is the lighting okay, Miss? Should we get started soon?"

You turn to look at your photographer, who gives you a thumb's up. Then you turn back to the manager, wreathed in smiles, "Yes, we're all ready," you purr, coyly reaching over to rest a hand on his arm, "Thank you so much for all of your work."

His brow furrows briefly before he smiles again, "Great! Then where should I sit?"

You blink, confused by the question for a second before you collect yourself, "Oh… Um… what about across the room at that booth? You can easily monitor the conversation from over there!"

A frown has completely replaced the smile on his handsome face, "Wait, what do you—?"

"Ah, there you are, Jungkook!"

Both of you turn sharply to find an enormous, hulk-like man standing in front of you, lanyard around his neck identifying him as a BigHit staff member. Bewildered as to who he could possibly be addressing, you glance over your shoulder, but there's no one else there.

The tall man stops to wipe down his smudged spectacles before continuing, "Oh, you already delivered the coffees. Great, but let the makeup-noonas touch you up first, okay?"

"Ah, it's just an interview, Sejin-hyung," the younger man complains, "No one's going to see my face."

"But there's a mini photoshoot afterwards," the tall man who must be Sejin, says, gesturing to the camera, "We can't have you looking like a slob. You're Jungkook of BTS, after all!"

Your blood freezes to ice in your veins as you slowly turn to assess the younger man you had mistaken as a BTS manager… There is no way this chiseled god of a man can possibly be Jeon Jungkook, the cute, shy little bunny you remember from your ARMY days in college. He has grown half a head and packed on so much muscle that you can't imagine how much tailoring the poor stylists had to do to fit him in his clothes. Your mouth dries.

"J-jeon Jungkook?"

He beams at you, "Sorry, I forgot to introduce myself! I'm Bangtan's youngest member, Jeon Jungkook. Nice to meet you, Reporter ___."

You stare at his outstretched hand for a second too long before you finally take it, "A-ah, hi. Nice to meet you too." His hand is large and his skin too-pleasantly warm against yours. You swallow tightly and slip your hand out of his before he can shake your hand properly, "Why don't we sit down and get started?"

It's hard to tell at first how this grown ass man who practically exudes testosterone could possibly be the scrawny, puppy-like kid who was every fangirl's ideal son? It's been over seven years since their debut, so he's now… twenty-three? Twenty-four? It's ridiculous and beyond unfair that a young man in his early twenties can look so good.

But as the minutes roll by and the two of you delve deep into his aspirations as a musician, aspects of the teenage Jeon Jungkook you used to cherish so much begin to come out. The way his face lights up when he's talking about his solo performances, and how his smile widens so much that his eyes scrunch up to familiar crescent-moon shapes. Ah, here's your precious bunny son who you love so much. His warmth and contagious positivity has you loosening up and you find yourself truly enjoying your conversation with him.

By the time you walk out of the interview an hour later, you're feeling really great about yourself. The conversation about his musical inspirations was so interesting that you're positive that the newest issue of the magazine will spike in sales. Maybe you'll be able to escape the gossip column for good. They'll have to make you a permanent writer after this!

You're humming to yourself even after you thank Jungkook and send him off, then immediately rush to email your editor the recording of the interview. You're in the process of helping the cameraman clean up when you suddenly receive a phone call from Seunghoon.

"Good evening, Mr. Park," you chime cheerfully when you pick up the call. You're still so pleased with yourself that you can't keep the syrupy sweetness out of your tone.

"What the hell was that?" Seunghoon barks back, abruptly knocking you out of your airy mood.

"Wait… what? What's wrong?"

"Your interview," he huffs, "I just took a listen to it, and it's garbage! What were you thinking?!"

"I-I," you stammer, ego instantly deflating under this abuse, "I didn't think it was that bad…"

"Why the hell were you talking about musical theory nonsense for a whole damn hour?" he spits out, "I thought I would die, I was so bored."

Your face flushes at the insult, "I… I thought it was pretty interesting, sir."

He snorts on the other end, "Are you forgetting that we're a fashion and lifestyle magazine, Miss ___? Young women don't care about Mozart or piano scales or whatever BS you were talking about. That shit doesn't sell. But do you know what does sell? Sex."

"S-sex?" you repeat in astonishment.

"That's right—sex. These boys have been so uptight with revealing any aspects of their personal lives. It's been seven years, and there hasn't been a single scandal with these kids—no dating rumors, no drunken incidents, nothing. Can you even imagine how a sex scandal with Korea's favorite maknae would blow up?!"

"I didn't think of that…" you quietly admit, "But, sir, if their image has been so spotless all these years, what makes you think that they'd slip up and admit something?"

"I don't know," he growls, "But this is one of the first times they've allowed reporters in the building. You should've tried something!"

"Like what?!" you sigh in exasperation.

"You're a moderately attractive young woman. You should've thought of something."

"What?"

"Use your womanly wiles or something," he scoffs, "Well, it's too late now. Just go home and think about what you've done."

"I—sir, you're being really unreasonable right now!" you exclaim, only to realize that Seunghoon has already hung up on you. You slam your phone on the table and bury your face in your hands with a strangled scream.

"Why are we stopping here?" the cameraman asks as you pause by a small, dingy bar on the way back to the car.

"I need a drink," is your blunt response as you grab him by the elbow and drag him in.

The older man shifts awkwardly from foot to foot as you grab a few menus and pull him into the nearest empty booth, "___, I have to get back to my family tonight. The kids need to be tucked in."

"I know, Kikhyun," you sigh as you massage your aching temples, "Let me just chug one shot and order some snacks and I'll be fine, okay?"

Still, he hesitates, "___..."

"Fine!" you exclaim as you jump to your feet, "I'll go get everything to go. Geez, you drive a hard bargain," you complain as you rush up to the counter to order.

The part-timer behind the cash register shoots you the most irritated look when you come up to him, "I'm about to leave for the night," he informs you as he pulls off his apron and slams it on the table.

"Oh, can you wait just five minutes? I just want to order one thing to go."

"Go find the owner of this place," he growls before exiting from behind the counter.

"Wait, sir!" You call after him, but he's already gone. Sighing, you have no choice but to wander around the mostly deserted little bar. There's no one wearing an identifiable employee's apron, so you venture to the second floor instead. This part of the bar is more sparsely furnished—only a handful of secluded booths in strange nooks and corners partially illuminated by bare light bulbs hanging from the ceiling. Smoke curls in the shadowed room, obscuring your vision as you frantically search for an employee.

There's a group of old men smoking and sipping soju in the booth near the staircase, and a cuddly couple in the back corner. But besides those people, you don't see anyone else. You just want your goddamn chicken so you can go home already. Why does this have to be so hard?

"Excuse me, sir, do you know where—"

But they ignore you to nosily cheer and swallow another round of shots. You bite your tongue, frustrated, and move towards the young couple in the very back instead. They're so invested in themselves, the young man whispering (probably filthy) nonsense in the woman's ear, and his hand inching up her skirt as she giggles nervously. You want to roll your eyes at the excessive PDA. Kids these days…

"Hey, you guys. Have you seen the…?" your voice trails off when you identify the young man in the booth. He's wearing a cap to shadow his face and a face mask, but you'd recognize that broad figure and those large brown eyes anywhere.

It's Jeon Jungkook… And he has his hand up some random girl's skirt.

You stand there in the middle of the hall for a few seconds, unable to do anything but gape at him with your jaw dropped to the floor. Could this possibly be the sweet, considerate musician you met with just two hours ago? The one who raved about learning to play the drums and showed you a clip of the new song he was producing? Could that really be the same person as the fuckboy feeling up the blushing girl in a dingy bar right now?

Do you know what does sell? Sex.

Knocked out of your dazed disbelief by your editor's voice in your head, you quickly scramble for the phone in your bag. Your shaky hands somehow manage to punch in the password. Your thumbs are slippery with sweat as you try to open up the camera app. One of the most beloved idols in all of South Korea, caught cozying up with an unknown female companion in a bar.

This will make Seunghoon so happy. You'll probably get a permanent position as a reporter. You'll never have to write another column about flavored lubes again!

Giddy with excitement, you zoom in with the camera until you catch a clear shot of Jungkook's face. Then you press the button to capture the shot—

Click!

Your whole body goes rigid as the sound of your camera's shutter echoes throughout the deserted restaurant. For one crippling second, you pray that Jungkook hasn't heard the click. That you can escape this situation unscathed and get showered with praise by Seunghoon in the office the next morning. You're just about to turn and run for your life when Jungkook suddenly looks up, his eyes meeting yours from across the room.

You freeze, eyes wide like a deer caught in the headlights, but there's nothing you can do. There's no mistaking the camera in your hand pointed straight at him.

"Reporter ___?"

Your face drains of all color. Then you're turning to bolt down the stairs as fast as your feet will carry you. You make it almost to the bottom rung of the staircase, so close that you can practically taste your freedom, when a strong hand abruptly shoots out to grab you by the elbow and forcibly yank you back.

You squeeze out a shriek of surprise before Jeon Jungkook spins you around to shove you against the wall, "I didn't realize you were following me from the office, Reporter ___," he murmurs in a deceptively soft voice, shoving down his face mask so he can speak more clearly.

"I-I swear I wasn't," you hurriedly rush to defend yourself, "I just wanted to grab a snack—I had no idea you'd be here!"

"Mmm, is that so? Then how come you were so rudely snapping a picture of me without my permission? You weren't thinking of posting it, were you?"

You hesitate at that, unwilling to lie to his face, but also fearful of the strange aggression that has overtaken the seemingly docile younger man, "Can you please let go of me?" you politely ask, "It's rather uncomfortable to have this conversation in this environment."

Jungkook smiles at that, making his teeth flash in the darkness of stairwell. But to your surprise, he suddenly jerks his hips forward, effectively pinning you against the wall by your connected pelvises, "I'd hate to make you uncomfortable," he purrs, the hand that slowly travels up the length of your bare arm contradicting his words, "But I'm afraid you might try to run off before we finish our conversation."

You try your best not to show any signs of weakness as you hold your ground, "I'm not deleting the picture, Mr. Jeon."

Jungkook sighs deeply, his face laden with faux disappointment, "I thought you'd say that, Reporter ___. It must be important to your career, hmm?"

You eye him warily as you try to assess his strategy, "Sex sells, Mr. Jeon. I hate to put you in this position… But maybe you shouldn't be sneaking around with girls in the first place."

"I'm just a human man," he says, lips forming a cute pout of protest, "Asking me to be celibate and chaste for the rest of my life to keep the fangirls happy… Isn't that too much?"

"Yes, of course," you cautiously agree, "Idols are human too, they have their needs. But maybe you should come clean to your fans instead of pretending to be chaste while sneaking around behind their backs."

"Do you really think the fans would understand?" he snorts, "I don't think you understand how petty and jealous some of them can be. No, it's better for both parties if no one finds out."

"But it wasn't difficult for me to catch you in the act," you point out, "Wouldn't it be worse if it was a fan who caught you instead? Maybe this is a better way of revealing your secret to the public."

"If it was a girlfriend, I would understand. But being caught in a scandal with a random girl… That would be mean to report, don't you think?"

His face is so close to yours, warm breath fanning the side of your sensitive neck and lips mere inches from yours, that your brain feels fuzzy from his intoxicating proximity. You blink several times to try to collect your wits and prevent your descent into mindless lust. "I… I just… you should've been more careful," you stutter, trying to ignore how nice his lithe body feels pressed against yours. This is every fangirl's ultimate fantasy to be pressed up against the wall by BTS like this. It feels like you're dreaming.

"You don't know how hard it is," he says, his voice dripping with innuendo as he slowly presses a hand against the wall next to your head to cage you in further, "I've been expected to be on my best behavior since I was fifteen years old," he sighs, "No girls, no dates, nothing. And after seven whole years of hard work, don't you think I deserve a break?"

"O-of course you do," you stammer, shakily wiping at your sweaty brow, "You're all young men with hormones and needs. But—"

"But what?" he interrupts, "Do all my years of hard work deserve to go down the drain just because I was taking care of a physical need? You don't know what it's like," he whispers, his voice suddenly so soft that you have to crane your head to hear him, "You don't understand… you don't understand how frustrating it is. I get so hard that it physically hurts and I feel like I might explode. And all I can think about is a female companion to ease my pain… Just an hour is enough… Especially if she's as pretty as you, noona."

All the blood in your body shoots to your face at the unexpected honorific that slips past his slick lips. You're vaguely aware that you're gaping at him, eyes as wide as saucers and jaw hanging, but you can't control your shock. Never in a million years would you have expected such filthy shit to be coming from BTS's precious golden maknae… Especially not with his hand sliding up your shoulder to caress your collarbones and the length of your neck in such a hungry, predatory fashion that you almost expect him to choke you.

At this point, you can't tell if you'd like that or not.

"Mr. Jeon, I—"

"Jungkook," he corrects in a husky voice that sends heat straight to your core, "Please call me Jungkook, noona."

"I…" you swallow the excess saliva in your mouth and reluctantly agree, doing everything you can to appease him so that you can escape from this situation, "Ok… ok, Jungkook."

He brightens at this, mouth curling into a self-satisfied smirk, "That sounds so good coming from your pretty little lips." He leans in at that moment, making you flinch in shock, hand darting up to press protectively against your mouth, but to your relief, he's only reaching for the phone gripped tightly in your hand. "Can you please unlock this for me, noona?"

You wordlessly obey, thumb punching in the passcode before you can catch your mistake, "Jungkook... what are you doing?"

"Putting in my number of course," he laughs, showing you the screen where he's entering in his information, "So you can contact me whenever you like… Oh, and I'm going to delete this picture, by the way," he says, scrolling to your gallery next to select the stalkerish photo of him feeling up the girl in the booth, "It'll just save us both a headache," he says with a wink.

You should stop him. You really should. This is straight up coercion and you shouldn't let him manipulate you this way. But it's hard to think, much less act, when his strong chest is pressed against yours, squeezing all the oxygen from your lungs.

"Jungkook!" You exclaim, eyes bulging in shock when you feel his hand dart from the curve of your neck down to your backside.

He simply laughs, "I'm just returning your phone, that's all, noona."

You swallow tightly as you feel him slip the slender device into your back pocket. Then, with one last swat to your ass that makes you squeak, he pulls back. As soon as there is space between your bodies, you slump against the wall, suddenly winded and gasping for air.

Amused by your disheveled appearance, Jungkook teasingly ruffles your hair before stepping away, "I'll see you around, Reporter ___."

By the time you get back to the cameraman, he's worried beyond belief, "What took you so long, ___?"

You numbly shrug your shoulders as you walk past him, "Just a run in with someone I knew…"

Kikyun's confused as he jogs after you, "Wait, what about your snacks?"

You shake your head, "Suddenly, I'm not so hungry…"

Bewildered by your strange behavior, your colleague has no choice but to follow you back to the car.

Later that night, after the longest, hottest shower of your life, you sit in a fluffy bathrobe on top of your bed, laptop opened in front of you as you ponder the strange occurrences of the day.

Jeon Jungkook, the beloved maknae of BTS, just hustled you. He seduced you, overwhelming you with his sheer presence, then manipulated you. All it took were a few words dripped in honey, and he had you eating out of the palm of his hand like a dog.

Your blood boils with indignation. How could you have been so easily exploited? You're a grown ass woman with a college degree, not some silly love-struck teenager who thinks her "oppas" can't do no wrong.

And so you shift your gaze back to the image blown up across your computer screen. It's a bit blurry, but Jungkook's face under his cap is as clear as day. And no one could mistaken the hand up his female companion's skirt as anything virtuous.

That silly little maknae hustler. Does he not realize how iCloud works in this day and age? A slow smile spreads across your face as you contemplate what to do with your new discovery. It's like the winning ticket to a powerball jackpot. And only you can cash it in.

Author’s Note: I wrote this for my follow forever drabble game. 

Please be understanding and stop asking me about updates :) 

[cajunroe]

waltray + modern witches!au ↳ the united states marine corp of witches was the first of it’s kind to allow witches in the military. and ray and brad were among the first to enlist. best friends since grade school, they’d stuck together through everything - discrimination, hate speech, the whole lot - and studied more on spells than social studies. so when they finally got the chance to put their skills to use, they didn’t hesitate. two years later, and stronger than ever, their driving through some desert highway, in their designated and distinguishing black mopp suits. a requirement, the government had said, to protect them. ray knew damn well it was to keep the rest of the marines away from them. and he’s sure it’s the reason they’re the first ones on this mission. the corps saw them as expendable because they didn’t understand what and who the men really were. they gave a whole new meaning to ‘devil dog.’ and it wasn’t war and fighting other witches that surprised ray, he prepared and trained for that. it was the man on top of their humvee, he wasn’t prepared for. something about the silent power and bloodlust he felt come off walt drew him to the other man time and time again. and when the two are sent ahead, being the most powerful witches in the platoon, something happens that ray could have never prepared for.

another shot of electricity flew over ray’s head.

“fuck these asshole don’t know when to quit. what’s eta on the cov?” ray shouted, cov being a nickname, among the many others, for coven, their platoon,at walt who was on the other side of the street, panting from the force of his powers.

“ten, maybe fifteen minutes. they’re stuck behind a ward. fick and gunny are working on breaking it.”

a burst of force knocked out the wall walt was using for cover and he made a mad dash for ray.

ray covered, shooting massive bolts of fire from his hands.

“we’re not gonna make it, if we don’t take out the front line.”

walt, out of breath, panted, “any suggestions?”

ray laughed, “yeah but you’re not gonna like it.”

brad was swearing up a storm.

if anything happened to ray or walt, it’d be his fault. he’d sent them ahead, much to ray’s excitement, only because he’d thought they were in the clear.

“trombley!”

trombley ran up quickly, “yes sir.”

“how accurate is your shot spell?”

“fuckin’ accurate.”

“good. with me. reporter., stay in the humvee”

brad grabbed trombley by the arm and pulled him to the side of nate and gunny.

“what?”

“sir, we don’t have enough time to counter the ward. trombley is gonna blast it, sir.”

nate stood up and for the first time saw genuine worry and fear in brad’s eyes.

“accuracy?”

“90-93.”

nate looked to gunny who nodded sternly.

nate looked back to brad, “do it.”

brad sighed gently, “thank you sir. i recommend moving them men back at least four yards.”

“okay.”

“permission to stay and help tombley, sir?”

nate smiled, fear in his eyes betraying his expression, “permission granted.”

brad rolled up his sleeves and instructed trombley to do the same. 

then, for the first time in his life, he prayed. prayed that this would work.

walt gawked as another blast slammed through the build they were using for cover.

“ray! we can’t do a summoning spell, my kit is in the humvee.”

ray groaned, “brad is gonna kill you. you’re not supposed to go anywhere without your kit walt!”

walt rolled his eye, “now that we established the obvious, i have a suggestion.”

ray sent another flash of fire, this one hitting the man on the far right, and consuming him with flame.

he looked to walt, squinting, “what is it?”

walt swallowed hard, “unison.”

ray laughed, “unison? are you fucking- walt people die trying that shit and we haven’t even practiced it!”

walt groaned, “look we’re gonna die either way, at least this way we die trying!”

ray sighed, “fine, but don’t come yell at me in the underworld because you shit plan got us killed.”

walt smiled and ray could die happy knowing he was the reason for it.

unison was powerful, but dark magic. two witches, combining their powers, had unreconcilable and irrevocable outcomes, usually in the form of massive casualties. it’d been outlawed in many countries, but the good ol’ u-s-of-a was trying to hone in on the power as a new form of wmd’s. ray jokingly liked to call them witches of mass destruction. it was a testament to how the world viewed them, as taboo, weapons, outsiders. he simultaneously loved and hated it. 

the rolled up their sleeves, tattoos lining up perfectly and held on tight.

“okay trombley, i’m going to put a shield around us and i want you to focus all of your psycho bullshit on the ward. think about it completely shattering. pretend it insulted your sister for fuck’s sake. just take. it. down.”

trombley smiled, cold and feral, “yes sir.”

brad placed his hands on the ground and spoke softly forming a protective shield against the blast radius.

“now trombley!” 

in an instant the ward was down, collapsing several building around them as well.

there were resounding cheers from the men behind them and brad radio for them to hurry their ass up.

holding onto one another, ray could feel everything from walt - anger, fear, desire, power - and he was intoxicated.

slowly the repeated spells, in unison, to build their strength.

the earth began to shake and ray gripped walt’s arms tighter, the power almost too strong to bear.

“ray, ray look at me.”

ray looked at walt, pain beginning to take hold in his body.

he saw walt’s eyes shining the brightest blue he’d ever seen and began to feel more calm, balanced, like he was in control.

“we can do this. i got you.” walt smiled as bricks crashed around them and ray’s heart felt like it was going to burst out of his chest.

“if we survive, remind me to tell you something.”

walt pulled ray into him, hands not letting go.

he leaned in and whispered in ray’s ear, “i already know.”

ray pulled walt closer to him and as their lips crashed together, the entire enemy line burst into flames and ash. 

when the platoon finally were able to reach ray and walt, they found they weren’t need.

the two men were sitting in the middle of the road, holding hands, and talking heatedly.

ray looked up, “well it’s about you lazy sons of bitches. we’ve only been waiting for ten fucking years. you want us to win this war without you.”

brad was out of the humvee and on them in an instant.

he looked between the two of them intensely, “you both good?”

walt smiled, “we’re good sir.”

he let go of ray’s hand, still feeling their connection even as he walked away.

brad looked at ray who was looking at walt.

“hey bradley, remember when we tried unison in seventh grade and ended up killing your neighbors cat.”

“yeah the, uh, tabby, right? god i hated that thing.”

ray smiled, “yeah well walt and i just did that to the entire fucking enemy line!”

ray shouted the last part and jumped up and down in excitement.

brad gawked, “how the fuck did you do that?”

ray just ran away and back toward walt.

“ray!” brad ran after him, “how did you that?!”

ray turned around, still running backwards, “love, bradley, with sweet, sweet gay love!”

brad walked back the humvee in contemplation, maybe he should try with nate sometime.

anonymous - thank you! i’m not sure if this is what you were looking for and if it isn’t send in another ask and let me know. i know a lot of modern witch!aus are very soft gothic, etc. but this is gen kill, so i took it a little differently. thank you!

send me a pairing and an au and i’ll make an aesthetic post + ficlet 

[sapphyrelily]

Chapter Five - Dissociation

This is the last chapter I’m posting at this time for HQBB! The next chapter will be up next week~

Read on AO3

The isolation is eating him alive, and there’s only so much he can do when he’s a spectator in his own body.

…it’s not really his body.

With the pills blocking not only his ability to control Semi’s body, but also any communication he has with the sole other person he can talk to, there’s a limited amount of things he can do to occupy his time.

(So he says, though he spends hours sleeping – whatever the pill is, it makes him groggy and disoriented.)

The one thing that keeps recurring – that keeps haunting him – is the memory of what he had done to cause all this, the start of everything going wrong.

It is after hours, the last customer finishing their payment and leaving. Semi waves to the little dog cradled in the man’s arms and sets about straightening the table.

I can do it, if you like.

You sure?

Yeah. It’s just a little bit.

Okay.

Semi must be more tired than he lets on, judging by the heaviness of his body as he takes control. Shirabu stretches as much as he can before resuming the task of sorting out the papers and checking the money in the register.

Just leave it for tomorrow.

Are you sure? I could do it.

I’m hungry, hurry up.

Geez, okay.

The money stored away, receipts kept aside, he opens the door to the back room to get the handheld vacuum cleaner to clean the floor.

(He thinks he makes out Kuroo and Yaku’s voices from beyond the examination room door as he walks past, but pays them no mind.)

(Or maybe…)

He hides the thoughts from Semi as he continues vacuuming, setting the vacuum aside as he closes and locks the front of the store.

The soft murmurs from inside the examination room have stopped, and if he strains to listen, Shirabu thinks he knows what he might hear.

(Gentle jibes, lazily thrown insults. Transparent insinuations that spiral into a little more.)

(A little too much, in his opinion.)

(They’re in public, after all.)

He switches the vacuum back on, sweeping around the area he had missed before, inches away from the examination room door.

(An almost silent groan, hidden by the growl of the machine.)

(Now or never.)

He twists on the knob of the examination room door, pushing it inward just a shout goes up in his brain.

What are you doing?!

Shirabu ignores him, focusing instead on the loud gasp that arose when the door was opened. He feigns ignorance and surprise as he peers round the door, taking in the slightly dishevelled figures of his co-workers.

Maybe that could be passed off as nothing, but the fact that Yaku is sitting on the examination table and that Kuroo is leaning on the counter across him, arms crossed – the casualness is too forced to be natural.

Shirabu turns the vacuum off, bobbing his head, as if he’s uncertain. “Ah. Sorry. I didn’t think anyone was in here. I was going to sweep inside?” He looks between them, as if nothing is amiss.

Yaku recovers first, exhaling heavily. “I’ll do it, it’s fine. Can you check that we threw out the biohazard bags in the surgical room?”

“Sure.” He pushes the door a little wider, leans the vacuum against the wall. He can feel their stares on him, but doesn’t say anything, keeps his eyes down.

As he makes to close the door, Kuroo calls to him. “Hey, Semi. I think we’re done for the night, so after the biohazard bags go out, you can go. Don’t wait for us.”

“Oh. Sure. Got it.”

“It’s been a long day, go home and rest,” Yaku agrees, eyes flicking between them.

“Okay. Goodnight then.” Shirabu dips his head and closes the door softly, turning away from the scene.

It didn’t seem so bad then, but the longer he thinks about it, the more details he recalls.

A tiny tugging at the back of his mind when he opened the door.

The shocked, tense horror echoing from the corner of his mind while he made his apologies and excuses to their co-workers.

The terror bleeding over and infecting him after the door was closed and he had walked away.

The hushed exclamations, full of disbelief at first, and as he remained apathetic, fanned into fury.

Shirabu looks out through his foggy screen, at the slightest glow of light, dully registering the familiar desk, the glare of the computer screen, the frames on the wall of the waiting room.

He reaches out until he reaches the barrier separating them, pressing against it, smiling to himself as it bends around the pressure.

It’s just a little indentation. Hardly enough to budge the barrier. Almost like poking it, with a finger.

What did you think you were doing?

He had shrugged then, and he shrugs now, though there is no physical sensation to go with it.

You would never say anything about how annoying their PDA is, so I did something.

I don’t want to lose my job. A pause, slow realisation, creeping dread. Shirabu, you could have made me lose my job!

He turns, tilts his head back until it hits the barrier; it curls around him, bending with him, but he never passes through.

Odd, how it feels like he has a body, though he is intangible, trapped, locked in place in his mind.

But the fear still lingers, from that memory half-lived, and it continues playing, like a cinema reel.

(He doesn’t like this part.)

You’re being dramatic.

A shot of fresh fear makes his heart sink, though he knows that it’s not his emotion.

Did you see Kuroo’s face? Shit, shit, shit.

It’s fine.

No, it’s not.

(Semi sounds so scared.)

I’ve never seen him so impassive but so angry.

It’ll be fine, geez. He probably thinks it was an accident.

How do you know? Are you sure?

(Debilitating terror, undiluted panic.)

Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.

He takes several deep breaths, mimicking the memory, sliding into the motions of the past.

(Not to calm himself, but for his friend.)

Stop worrying.

What if they hate me, what if Kuroo sacks me– Oh my god, I have nowhere to go, no second plans–

Calm down. I’ll get us home, okay?

How can I calm down? How are you so calm?

(Hysterical.)

It’s just a prank. And they think it’s an accident, it’s fine.

No, no, no, it’s not fine…

Shirabu slaps himself a little, shaking the memory out and shuddering.

(Is it counted as slapping? The memory of the physical pain is so fragile – so faint and insubstantial. It’s not enough.)

(It’s not enough.)

He doesn’t really want to think about what came next, when they were finally home and Semi had attained some semblance of calmness.

(He’s relived the fight so many times, it makes him sick.)

Looking out through the impermeable barrier, he wonders, if perhaps he should have made better choices.

-----

(Regret always comes too little, too late.)

(What would he have changed, if he had a second chance?)

(What could he…have…done…?)

-----

There’s one thing they never tell you about isolation. They never tell you how much you’re forced to remember, how much you spin thoughts round and round and round, until they’re warped and out of shape.

(They never tell you how much you can misremember things, losing and adding detail to a faded polaroid.)

(Twin voices, hard and heavy and filled with disapproval.)

(‘I expected better. You have failed.’)

(‘I don’t trust you. You’re too strong.’)

(Blending, bending, slotting together until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.)

(‘You’re so stupid.’)

They never tell you exactly how much you can forget.

(And yet, there is still so much you remember.)

-----

He can’t remember much of anything, these days. Everything is happening through a filter, and though he sleeps forever, he is never rested. He is itchy and unfulfilled, but he can’t leave.

He can’t…leave?

Leave where?

He wonders sometimes, about much too philosophical things. About how inhabiting a body is weird, because you see out of your own two eyes, move limbs with and without conscious thought, watch things happen yet make things happen, and how does it all come together?

He doesn’t know.

-----

It comes to him one day, another philosophical thought.

Where am I?

Do I have a body?

Why have I been staying still for so long, not doing anything?

He’s so confused.

He has no answers.

So he continues staring at his foggy wall, the tiniest light it allows, the only other thing he knows besides the silence, until he falls asleep.

-----

A tiny stirring, one day, out of the blue.

Who am I?

-----

He rouses a little at the sound of voices, surprised to hear something. It has been a while since he heard someone else’s voice, since he heard something other than the droning of his own thoughts.

(The sounds are far away, a little muffled, but he can hear them.)

He strains forward, straining to fill an ache he didn’t know he had.

“Hey, you okay?

A tired chuckle. “Slight migraine. Don’t worry about it.”

He puts his imaginary hand up against the barrier, pleasantly surprised when it bends beneath his palm. He presses closer, eagerly listening.

“You’ve been having migraines for weeks. Shouldn’t you go see a doctor?”

“I’m fine, really.”

He feels like he should know this voice. He thinks he does. The person – man? Boy? – sounds so drained.

He hears nothing for several moments, but squinting through the barrier, he thinks he makes out a person with short, sandy-coloured hair frowning at him. He frowns in return. Why would a stranger be frowning at him?

“Semi, if you’re not better by Friday, I’m dragging your ass to the doctor.”

Semi. He thinks he knows who that is. Is it him?

No, no. It isn’t. But Semi is someone very close to him, he thinks.

“Yaku, I’m fine. Really. It’s just the medicine.”

“Medicine’s supposed to make you better, not worse.”

He winces, pulling away from the barrier.

He doesn’t like medicine. He knows it’s bad, but he can’t fathom why.

He scoots back into his dark corner and doesn’t think about medicine, but cradles the little gem of a name that he gleaned.

-----

“Hey. Are you sure you’re okay?”

He perks up. He knows that voice. It’s ‘Yaku’. He shuffles towards the barrier and leans into it, letting it hold his weight as he listens.

A sigh. “I’m sorry. I’m just so tired lately.”

A soft clicking. “Have you been sleeping well? Eating properly?”

“Of course. I’m a functioning adult.”

He laughs a little to himself. Semi isn’t a functioning adult, though he tries. He’d love to tell him that, just to see what would happen, but the barrier is impermeable.

(How does he know that? That Semi tries and fails to be a functioning adult?)

“…actually, I’ve been having trouble sleeping.”

“Do you know why?”

He hears nothing for a bit, but the image of Yaku shifts from side to side, so Semi must be shaking his head. “I just can’t fall asleep.”

“Chamomile tea. Warm baths. Worse come to worst, sleeping pills,” Yaku suggests.

“I’m not sure I’m allowed sleeping pills. It might mess with the other medicine I’m taking.”

“Ah. You should ask your doctor about that, then.”

“Yeah, I will.”

He snorts and shifts off the barrier. Semi isn’t going to do it. After the few times that he managed to listen and learn more about him, he knows that Semi wouldn’t.

He doesn’t know why, though.

-----

He feels jovial when he wakes up one day, and doesn’t know why. But he sprawls out next to the barrier anyway, hoping to hear something interesting.

He doesn’t expect to hear something so chilling.

“Shirabu?”

(He knows that name.)

(He thinks it’s...him.)

He presses a hand against the barrier, surprised when it parts. It’s thick, like Jell-O, and reforms around his wrist. How odd, he muses.

“What are you doing here?”

He looks up, through Semi's eyes. There’s no one there, just his empty bedroom.

Semi-san?

“Shirabu, what are you doing, standing there?” He feels the frown Semi makes. “I thought you were in my head.”

I am. Shirabu realises it’s true. I am in your head.

“I see…you. How are you standing there?” Semi waves in the general direction of the edge of his bed, but Shirabu sees nothing.

Semi-san? My body is dead?

(The words come out before he can think them over, but he thinks they’re true.)

(Bright lights, cloying antiseptic, a scratchy gown on his skin.)

(An overwhelmingly sweet smell, and he fades out.)

“But you’re there,” Semi insists. “I could touch you, if I wanted.” He stretches forward, and Shirabu watches hopelessly as he catches nothing but air, nearly falling off the bed.

I’m…not.

He sounds so small, even to himself.

Semi shakes his head, squints at the same spot. “Huh. No one’s there.”

I told you that.

But it’s like Semi can’t hear him anymore. He continues sitting on the edge of the bed and muttering to himself, the words nonsensical.

Shirabu pulls his hand out from the barrier, hugging it to himself.

He doesn’t want to think about it.

-----

(But he can’t avoid it.)

Every other day now, he notices things.

The barrier is thinner on some days, more permeable. And he hears things, things that make him scared and worried and more than a little concerned.

By day, the fog of lethargy that hangs over Semi, that makes his actions slow and confused. The way he keeps rubbing his temples, the base of his neck, sometimes the spot between his eyebrows. The little complaints he grumbles to himself, the reassurances to the customers and his co-workers that It’s just a small migraine, don’t worry about me.

It can’t be small, if it continuously bothers him. Shirabu wonders when it all started, because Semi never had headaches back in high school.

(High school. They used to go to high school together.)

(Another piece of the puzzle, but he’s missing almost the entire set.)

But night time is when his true worry begins to set in – behind closed doors, in private, where the only witness to the madness is him.

Nausea, so strong that he can feel it behind the barrier. So powerful that it makes him want to retch himself. Those days where the nausea is too overwhelming, Semi skips meals, sipping at water, maybe an energy drink to keep his strength up. Maybe a packet of biscuits, followed by the dreaded pills, and then Shirabu’s vision fades out, the barrier reinforced.

But sometimes in the night, he wakes, and the barrier is thinner. Leaning against it, he can feel the chills that shake Semi even under three thick blankets and long-sleeved pyjamas, the weight of the material tucked around him, a protective shield against the world.

The worst of it, he feels, is the nightmares.

He has been shocked awake in the middle of the night too many times, a sitting duck as the phantoms torment Semi. He can feel terror and panic leaking in through the barrier – made thinner by his distress.

It makes him feel tense and anxious as well, and long after Semi has fallen asleep, he remains awake, worrying.