#it was meant to be speckled but I think I added too much water :( next time tho!!

[curious-creatures-crochet]

I’ve wanted to dye yarn since I was like 14.. (I’m 25) so since I’m an adult with funds I decided I would try it actually!! U know I don’t have the perfect materials, but I’m having fun experimenting and seeing what happens! This was my first attempt that I thought was soooo ugly until I worked up a little test stingray and I kinda like it!!

[thatslikely]

lined-paper confessions - s.s.

lined-paper confessions - stiles stilinski x gn!reader

warnings: mentions of fighting (scott and jackson predictably), strict teachers

word count: 1.5k

a/n: head full of stiles rn... requests for our favorite sarcastic boy are open right now so send some in!

Why is every teacher at Beacon Hills High the absolute worst?

Mr. Harris had just rapidly climbed your (highly opinionated) mental ranks to number one: your new least favorite educator. Giving you after-school detention, for doing nothing but watching with horror plastered on your face as Scott McCall, Stiles’ best friend, threw punches left and right at a topless, water-drenched Jackson, who reciprocated every strike as if he were nothing but a reflection. Seriously?

Previously, you had simply been sauntering down the locker-lined hall, Stiles on your right, passionately ranting about some unnamed problem that had him on edge for the past few weeks. You two turned down the empty, cinder-block-walled athletics corridor as he continued to agitatedly let off steam; the setting was decidedly unromantic given the unshakeable scent of overly pungent deodorant and mildew that was all too familiar. 

You clung to every word emitted from his mouth with an almost comical frown like it was a mug of steamy hot chocolate on a bone-chilling winter day. To your disgruntlement, however, his ramblings were stopped mid-sentence when Scott and his wealthy rival Jackson tumbled out from the dingy boys’ locker room, hands clenched in fists and eyes flaming with fury.

Stiles bent down in a rush, poorly attempting to conclude the boisterous brawl with furrowed, concerned brows, but he looked not dissimilar to a toothpick compared to the two burly teammates. 

“Detention for all of you!” Mr. Harris spat venomously as he dashed to the scene, his voice ringing above the grunts and slams that came from the fighting co-captains of the lacrosse team. “Detention now, Stilinski, McCall, Whittemore, Argent, and Y/L/N! Come on!”

You were dragged by the ear to the vacant library, a place which you often resided in whenever you studied with Stiles (often about mythical creatures, to your confusion). Posters that looked commonplace in an elementary school lined the walls, vibrantly encouraging students to pick up a book, or pen works for a writing contest of some sort.

Golden strips of fleeting sunlight peeked through the slatted blinds, and three gum wad-dotted tables were beckoning for the group of you to sit for the next two hours, or until Mr. Harris would finally decide that your soul had rotted away enough to release you.

You were sternly directed to the uncomfortably stiff chair opposite Allison’s, whose eyes shot daggers wherever they glanced. You flashed her an almost unregistrable smile, as if to say ‘hello.’ Slinging the loose straps of your backpack over your seat, your gaze flickering through the pin-drop silent room immediately locked on Stiles’ figure.

Boy, was he perfect.

The unbuttoned flannel over his shoulders speckled with mud from some vaguely mentioned adventure, his soft, tousled hair, that always had a lock out of place, his freckled face, that always bore some goofy expression, all of it. You couldn’t get enough; nothing would satiate your innermost desire for your lips to meld with his’, for your hands to intertwine through the hallways before class, after class, whenever, wherever. 

One eyebrow-cocked, knowing look from Scott in your direction sent Stiles’ umber eyes to meet yours’, an almost confused look swimming through them. He opened his mouth curiously, surely to ask a question, most likely something along the lines of, ‘is there a stain on my shirt?’, but before he could, Mr. Harris seethed, “Take your seats, now.”

Stiles whipped around, not wanting to anger Mr. Harris any further, and he took his seat. The room was quickly conquered with suffocating silence, which the snotty chemistry teacher was bent on ensuring.

You unsheathed a doodled notebook from your backpack, eventually indenting its pages with inky black strokes of various weights and thicknesses. Your habit of penning loose sketches, vague outlines, began one day in math when the clock seemed to tick aggravatingly slow, and every word from the teacher became drawled further and further until they dissolved into the hum of the air conditioning and the chewing of gum: the rhythm of the classroom.

The unconscious lines eventually formed to a familiar portrait: Stiles. Some would be tempted to call him your muse, your kindling of an elegant flame of creativity. You’d always nod your head in complicity more than agreement, for the smart, albeit rebellious boy meant eons more than that to you.  

You had just hit your stride, your wrist’s movements thoughtless and easy, when someone- rather something, hit the back of your head lightly with a small crunch. It was a small, scrunched piece of loose-leaf paper, ripped at the edge. 

You turned your head to the direction that the projectile was tossed at, but both Scott and Stiles appeared to be very, very engrossed in a hushed conversation, neither of their postures attempting to suggest anything suspicious.

You smoothed out the paper of the angular fruitwood table in front of you, attempting to read the almost unintelligible handwriting.

Hey :)

(this is from stiles, by the way)

Your mood lightened a smidge, a grin bubbling onto your face. You tore a piece of paper out of your notebook along the perforation.

Before you threw it in an arch in Stiles’ direction, you penned a response to his note.

Hey ;) how’s detention treating you?

(This is from y/n, by the way)

Crunch.

not great, as expected. I think I saw harris pick his nose. do you have any bleach to douse my eyes in by any chance?

You chuckled a little, a small smirk glimmering on your face for the first time this excruciatingly long afternoon.

Sorry, I’m all out. used it all after I saw Jackson shirtless. how do you survive in the locker room every day?

A smile lifted on Stiles’ face, one so inflated with abundant excitement (and hormones), he might have burst at the seams.

“Man, you’re down bad,” Scott simpered, nudging his best friend’s forearm.

“Shut up,” Stiles hissed with an eye roll.

just keep your head down and you should be fine. one time, Greenberg looked at him a little too long and he nearly turned to stone, like jackson’s abs were medusa or something.

“Passing notes, are we?” Mr. Harris queried with a malicious scowl, his knuckles white from asphyxiating a helpless ballpoint pen. He slinked over to the tables you and Stiles rested uncomfortably in, raising his brow in heavy suspicion. 

Stiles’ deep, dark chocolate-colored eyes widened in worry. “No, sir.”

“I’m keeping my eye on you, Stilinski. You too, Y/L/N.” 

As soon as Harris was out of sight, perched back at the desk and typing furiously, another wad of paper tapped your occiput. 

hey, y/n, there’s something i’ve been meaning to ask you for a while.

The note, while its contents wouldn’t usually spark too much concern, was subtly unlike the few ones you had previously received. The lines of each letter were neater, more methodical. The small blots of ink resting at the conclusion of every stroke were larger, deeper, as if the nib of his pen had rested in the liquidly black pool for a second too long.

Your face scrunched with confusion, and upon noticing your shift in emotion, Allison nimbly tapped your wrist and mouthed, ‘Is everything okay?’

You nodded with wrinkled brows while shakily scratching a reply.

what is it?

Your knee bounced up and down reflexively, clicking from your rapidly retracting pen echoed through the idle shelves and arrays of desktops. It felt like years, centuries even, before a reply finally tumbled at your feet.

do you like me?

(circle one)

yes? or yes? 

Your jaw nearly fell to the carpeted floor in shock as if gravity had been multiplied; your speedily thrumming heart was doing flip after flip in the cavity of your chest. Without a second thought, you quickly circled both of the ‘yes’es as if there were no friction under the ink-dispersing tip of your pen. Before cupping the piece of paper, you scribbled out an additional little note.

wanna go out this saturday?

Stiles’ anxious gaze bore into your hunched-over figure as you giddily wrote your reply. What if you rejected him (even though the page lacked a ‘no’ option, meaning that you would have to add one, which was even worse)? Was it possible for him to ask to go to the bathroom and just never return? Are there any secret werewolf abilities that Scott could use to make him disintegrate on the spot? 

But his overthinking was soon alleviated when he received your response, this time neatly folded into a paper heart instead of a crunchy ball. Each crease was crisp and thoughtful; he didn’t have to unfold your expert origami to know which option you circled (or lack thereof).

He grinned goofily like an idiot as his chocolate eyes glazed your response a million times over, taking in every letter, every stroke, the dot in your ‘i’ or the question mark ending your simple but heart-rate-escalating proposal.

Crunch.

stiles stilinski/teen wolf taglist:

it’s a date then. i’ll pick you up at 6? passenger seat’s already reserved for you ;)

@loulouloueh @when-you-wish-upon-a-starrynight @ronbrokemyheart @dylobilysmomg

if your name is crossed out, that means I couldn't take you! check your visibility settings so I can @ you next time!

fill out this form to be added!

[emperor-palpaminty]

could you do the going undercover as a married couple leading to realisation of feelings trope with Wrecker?

CAN I EVER 🤩

Warnings: F L U F F F F FF F F F F F, TOO MUCH FLUFF, CUDDLES, DONT LOOK AT ME- ALSO CONFESSIONS (sorta) ON A BEACH (it's a lake but I'll count it)

The beach was damp, more like a lake than the sea. Wrecker crossed his legs as he settled back on the rock, rubbing his hands and looking over the crashing waves, rivuleting over one another in tandem. He ran his thumb over the ridged surface of the shell, thinking back on the mission for a moment- he and the special operative that had been working with the Batch for a while had to go undercover on this villa, and do some long term work.

That meant sticking together, joined at the hip in a small house, undercover as a married couple. He was surprised at how much he enjoyed it.

Wrecker chuckled to himself. Was he really so shocked? He really loved her, truly- and it was bizarre even to him how well he knew her. He didn't think he could know someone as well as he knew his brothers. But here he was, collecting orange and white speckled shells, and each one was a thought of her.

The interior was smooth, a pale pink, a bit like her cheeks when she woke up from sleeping on her arm all night. Her face was always so red when she got up in the morning, blotched on one side. It was so... cute. Everything was cute to him- he was a giant, and he knew this, but she just stood out to every other small or adorable thing he saw. She was a fully rounded person and he wanted to know that person the best he could.

Sand crunched behind him, and a hand landed gently on his back. "That's a conch." Her finger tapped lightly on the surface of the shell he was examining. "They're my favorites."

"Oh!" Wrecker opened his hand, watching her fingers with a gentle fascination as she took the shell. "I found it. Thought you could have it."

"Thanks." She chuckled, lowering herself on the rock next to him.

Moments that felt like hours passed, and they say in comfortable silence, the waves lapping closer and closer to their makeshift seats. She tucked her legs up to her chest, eyes moving back to the shell. Wrecker was normally more comfortable in sound- people who loved one another shouldn't ever have a quiet room. But this silence was a warm one, and welcome one, and besides, it wasn't that quiet with the ocean at their door.

"Hey, Wreck?" She said, softly.

He hummed in response, glancing over at her. She shifted, not looking at him, eyes still plastered to the shell. "What's up?"

"I really like working with you. A lot." She smiled at the shell. Smiles held a lot of information. Her smile was soft, tender, unlike her unruly fighting side.

“I like it, too. With you, I mean.” Wrecker grinned and looked down at his own shell, the wide shape not even covering his whole palm. “You’re always a lot of fun.” There was another pause, somewhat more weighted as he added, “I can do anything with you, you know.”

She glanced at him, a grin splitting her face. “Same. But with you.”

Their smiles were exchanged, bright, big, and Wrecker felt his palms warm under the shell. It didn’t matter how much the tide came in, he would be fine with sitting by here in the setting sun and looking at her.

“Kark!” She stood, splashing back into the water, sputtering. “The tide-”

Wrecker laughed and hopped off, walking around the rocks and helping her up. “Here.”

She planted her hands in his and stood, giggling. “I’m soaked.”

Shrugging his massive shoulders, Wrecker pulled her around the rocks. “Yeah. But that’s okay, you have extra clothes.”

The woman laughed, a beautiful and throaty sound as they trekked up the sandy hill towards their undercover house. But the whole time, her hands stayed in his, and Wrecker felt her squeeze his fingers- and this time, it wasn’t just for the cover of the role they were playing.

[jadelynlace]

NSFW Prompts / Ink Drinker Modern Vikings AU Request [Ivar x F!Reader]

full series is here

request by: @quantumlocked310 

author’s note: you can find the complete NSFW prompt list here, and you can find the request by the love of my life, I mean @quantumlocked310 here. also, see if you can spot my new favorite HC for this series!

content warnings: we’re taking another trip (no, not in our favorite rocket ship), back to before these two dumb asses were out to everyone. even though, everyone basically knew it. this is mostly just sweet fluff, like you’ll need an insulin shot.

prompt: “to skinny dip with my muse”

synopsis: a weekend retreat proves to you how much Ivar is already devoted.

~

“Ivar went up to the lake house for the weekend, he said ‘for inspiration’ but I’m sure it to fuck,” Ubbe said. 

“Oh, I bet Y/N went up there too!” Hvitserk laughed. “I’ll have to text her, see what her excuse is.”

“I wonder how much longer they’re going to hide it from us, they’re practically a couple anyways.” Ubbe groaned, tossing the popcorn through the air to land on his tongue.

“Do you know how hard it is not to turn to her in the ambulance and just go “so how big is my little brother’s dick, Y/N’?” Hvitserk said. “I just want to see the look on her face before she kills me.”

“Probably the same as yours,” Ubbe started. “You two are fraternal twins after all.”

“Thanks, Ubbe, not a thought I wanted to think.” Hvitserk groaned.

The drive isn’t very long, low hum to the playlist in the mustang, your reflection in the glass as you tell Ivar about the week’s worth of calls, detail by ever loving disgusting detail. And not once does he stop you, not once does he grimace or groan, he tells you to keep going and he asks you questions about such as you blabber to him. The sun had just set as the gravel road takes to the tires, crunching as the engine slowed, rolling around the bend of the driveway and parking next to the cabin. You’re silent as you gaze at the view, pure water with the rays of diminishing sun and the breeze blows an immediate calmness through your whole body. 

Dotting the sky with a speckle of tiny lights, when night finally crept over, you two had taken to the blanket on the small patch of grass that lead to the dock. Cobble stone path in between you and the shore line as you rested your head across Ivar’s chest. Steady beating of his heart in your ears while his hands never stopped their small strokes over your shoulders, tracing your spine, but going no lower, no dirtier than he was known for. Almost as if he was trying to gauge your time together with something other than the tangles of sheets and the moans, and you gladly accepted this side of Ivar. The peaceful, relaxed side.

“Those three dots are—”

“The summer triangle,” Ivar answers. “And those, make up Sagittarius,” He adds, pulling you closer to him as the summer air laps at bare skin. 

“What about that one?” You ask, pointing your finger back at the sky. 

“That’s Libra—kinda like you,” Ivar answers through a breath of clouds as he chuckles before pulling your hand back down as he places a peck over you knuckles. 

“I’m not a Libra, actually, I’m a—”

“I meant the air sign part,” Ivar snorts. “You have strong intellect and a good mind,” He adds, taking his finger down the bridge of your nose. Your face wrinkles into a smile as your own eyes sparkle in the moon light, rivaling the great sky before you two. 

“I didn’t know you knew about constellations,” You whisper. 

“My mother used to bring me outside at night when I couldn’t sleep and she would show me the stars, and tell me the tales about each one. Sometimes I made myself stay awake just to hear her talk,” Ivar hums, turn of his lips against your forehead.

“You think I have a good mind?” You whisper, curling back up against him, inhaling the scent of his cologne from his neck line and he only hums as you nuzzle closer. “Not a dirty one?”

“I never said good can’t mean dirty,” Ivar laughs, bringing and arm out to his side to crack his elbow, popping it with a snap before curling it back around you. “Did you tell Hvitserk what you were doing this weekend?”

“No, I don’t always have to talk to him, goof ball. And he doesn’t always need to know what I’m doing, even if it’s you.” And Ivar only snorts.

“I didn’t just bring you out here for sex,”

“Oh, you’re going to kill me? Great, thank you.”

“I can’t spend time with you, without my dick being inside of you?” Ivar asks and there was a tone in his question that warranted a serious answer, like he was baring his soul and opening it before you in the night sky.

“You can, Ivar. I really like it actually,” You answer, pushing yourself up and pecking the corner of his mouth. His eyes are closed as you do so, and he fears if he opens them you’re not going to be there—it’ll all have been a dream and he’s asleep in his bed in his flat, cold and alone and sad. But they finally peel apart and catch the moon light, glimmering and lightening and you lean down to kiss his mouth, only to pull back up so you can look at him. “Your eyes are really blue…” You hum.

“I let my Dad know that you said that,” Ivar teases, cheeky smirk and you only giggle, lean back down to peck his mouth a final time but his hand stops you. Holding your head near his as his mouth takes on a war against yours, a low vibration through Ivar’s chest as he kisses you, and you can feel it from where your hand is stationed. You’re moved slowly, pushed back along the blanket and Ivar is over you, holding his weight on his forearms as his lips move with yours. It’s a slow dance they take to, a waltz that’s not hurried like most of his kisses have been. He’s savoring you now, enjoying the hours with just you and no worry for the moment you two might be caught by someone. And Ivar realizes this is what he likes more—most of all so far, between the two of you, the hidden times alone where he can enjoy you, savor you and worship you like the Goddess you are.

Your nails rake against his neck as he settles between your bent knees, nose squishing against yours and you moan as one of his hands takes on a journey down your curves. Supple touches and soft strokes from his fingerprints gracing you, touching you like a prized relic he wants to admire. Ivar’s mouth finally pulls back enough as he rests his forehead against yours, and when you open your eyes to peek up, his are still closed and there’s a soft smile on his swollen lips.

“Do you want to go swimming?” He asks suddenly.

“Yes, I love the thought of whatever is lurking in those waters having a chance to touch me.” You say back.

“I’ll hold you,” Ivar starts, moving away. “It’ll be fine trust me,” And he’s pulling you up to sit, peeling his own shirt off and then taking yours with you and you can’t help but laugh as he moves. Fingers unhooking your bra and his lips trace your shoulder blades as he works.

“Ivar—no—not fucking naked!” You squeak as he lifts you up.

“I can throw you in?”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” You hiss as he wraps you in his arms. “I will give you blue balls for the next six months,”

“Noted,” Ivar chuckles, bare feet slipping into the shore line and you shriek quietly as the water graces the backs of your thighs, chilling the heated skin and your arms are wrapped around Ivar for dear life.

“We’re not having sex in the lake,” You mumble against him and he nods, lets out a fake whine and you laugh as you feel his hands swarm your back. “And you’re going to cut your feet on the rocks,”

“Would you stop worrying for thirty seconds?” Ivar asks you, his hands dipping into the lake before he lets the water trickle down your back.

“My record is twenty, but I can try,” You answer, lips on his neck as the same wet hands start against the ends of your hair, easing you into the lake as you shiver against him slightly. “Feels nice,” You whisper and he hums as you take your own hand and drip water over his shoulder.

“Thanks for coming up with me,” Ivar says to you suddenly and you move your head away to look at him when he talks.

“Of course, Ivar,” You smile back and he can still see it, even in the darkness of the evening as you push your mouth against his gently. His hands skim your thighs, around the swell of your ass and take to your hips. You hum against him as his hands roam, sending butterflies through you. “We’re still not having sex in the lake,”

“I’ll be quick,” Ivar tries.

“As suppose to what?” You tease and Ivar scoffs. His noise makes you laugh and there’s water splashed in your face a second later; small waves you’re eager to give back before laughter rings between the two of you. “I’m only teasing, you know that I like it.” You giggle and you sag against him as he relaxes beneath the water. 

“I like it too,” Is all Ivar replies as you two stay still, relishing in each others company as the lake moves around your bodies. You know Ivar’s caught feelings, it’s so evident in how he’s holding you, how he’s being around you, and you keep you mouth closed under tight lock and key, and simply enjoy the moment. Because you know that you’ve caught them too.

Ink Drinker Tags:

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*please message me to let me know if you would like to be added or removed from my tag list. specifications for series/etc. are also welcomed, as well as feedback.*

full masterlist can be found here.

[royallyprincesslilly]

Title: Withheld {One-Shot}***

Chris Evans x Reader

Warning: Some Fluff, NSFW, SMUT, Slight Angst, Lots Of Words

Words: 5.7k

Note: I had a hard time coming up with something that reader, Y/N would be pissed about without bringing some angst. I began writing this at 6am, so this is what my brain came up with. I hope you all enjoy it.

***Loosely Edited/Proofread***

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Jesus, I can’t wait to see you. it’s been way too long.”

 You smiled as you stared at him on the FaceTime call. You loved being able to hear how much he missed you. he didn’t need to say the actual words, you could tell.

 “I know, six weeks is a long time.”

 On the screen you watched as Chris stretched like a preening cat across your bed. You couldn’t wait to trail your fingers across his chest and play with his chest hair. It had become an unconscious thing you did whenever cuddled in bed together.

 “Remember that pact we made early on when we got married?”

A smirk spread across your face because you knew just what he was talking about. “And what pact is that husband?”

 “Oh you know out after hours vows. Never go to bed angry, never fight about stupid things even if I’m being really stupid.”

 “Never leave the other without a kiss, never go more than four hours without a call or text,” you continued.

 “Uh-huh, keep going.” Chris was now smiling widely showing off every perfect tooth in his perfect mouth. No wonder this man was a movie star and lusted after by nearly ninety-eight percent of the human population.

 “No, you seem to know what you want to get to. By all means husband.”

 “Never go more than three weeks without making love,” Chris finished.

 You nodded knowing this was the vow he meant. you remembered making it. You were two bleary-eyed love drunk fools standing in a tree light beach cottage in Nantucket that was filled with red roses and white lilies of the valley and candles. You both were so disgustingly happy and enamored with each other that you didn’t care that you’d waited the last six weeks to make love hoping to make your wedding night even more special or the fact that you were both more than ready to end that love drought. All you cared about was holding hands and gazing into each other’s eyes to say even more vows, vows that were all unique that held a deeper meaning for the two of you.

 “Did I lose you?”

 You snapped out of your memories and focused back onto Chris. “Sorry, I was back in Nantucket.”

 Chris smiled widely and sighed. “I’m in Nantucket every night and for the better part of my days.”

 “I love you, Evans.” It was the only possible thing you could say. The way he smiled at you made your stomach flutter. After all these years, you were still madly in love with him.

 “I love you more, Evans.”

 The two of you spent the next forty minutes just talking and staring at each other like the two love drunk fools you were the night of your wedding.

  -Four Day Later-

 After working your ass off and rearranging the rest of your obligations you were able to shave off six days of your time away. Unbeknownst to Chris, you were thirty minutes from home and more than ready to show him just how much you’d missed him. Needing a way to contain your anxious energy you finished answering emails and messages to keep yourself busy. When you got home you saw Chris’ car in the roundabout driveway which only increased your excitement.

 After thanking your driver, you quietly climbed the stairs leaving your bags in the foyer. Your only thought was surprising your husband and wrapping your arms and legs around his body. You could almost feel the tightness of his grip around your body. You missed the cocooning warmth and safety you always felt. As you came upon your bedroom door you expected to see him sprawled across the bed with his laptop across his lap. You were disappointed when you found the bedroom empty—he wasn’t there.

 For the next five or so minutes, you searched your seven-bedroom, nine bath home for the love of your life but everywhere you checked you came up empty handed. By the time you thought to check his office, you were already more than a little antsy. The closer you got to the door you could hear sounds from behind it. unable to make it out you stopped in front of it. it was then you heard loud animated moans and cursing. It didn’t take long for those moans to pick up in volume and intensity. You couldn’t believe this.  

 You nearly busted down the door from a mixture of excitement, curiosity, and disbelief. As you opened the door and stood in the doorway you saw just what your husband was up to at three in the afternoon. Chris was in a reclining position at his desk, but he was not directly behind it, he was angled diagonally which gave you a full view of what was happening. The moans intensified in the way a performing porn actress would carry on and there was Chris with his head tilted back, eyes shut, mouth ajar just going at it.

 You stood there and watched with a clenched jaw. This would have been sexy as hell under any other circumstance, but the current circumstances were less than ideal. Chris’ moans and whimpers overcast those of the porn stars he was watching, and you watched on as he bit his bottom lip and sped his hand. He was close, you knew all his tells. 

Sure enough, you watched him shoot stream after stream into the air only for it to come splattering back down onto his fisted hand and navy-blue polo shirt. His grunts were staggered as he arched his back from his chair. Thirty seconds in and he was still coming. Chris released a long groan while squeezing his length as he stroked up. His eyes opened and it was then he jumped and lurched forward in complete and utter shock from the recycling diagonal position he was in.  

 “Y/N,” Chris yelped out as he frantically reached for the iPad that was on the desk.

 It should have been an amusing sight, him, pants mid-thigh, dick poking straight out like a lightsaber, hands covered in white jizz that also decorated his shirt, but it was not amusing. You were pissed. You’d just caught your husband watching porn and jerking off.

 “Baby--,” Chris began with a look on his face that spoke of shame, embarrassment, and regret.

 “Save it, Christopher!”

 You spun on your heels and walked back down the hall you’d just came from.

 “Y/N, wait. Ouch! Fuck!” You heard a loud bang, things falling and rustling as you made your way up the stairs to your bedroom not caring if he’d seriously hurt himself. He could handle it himself.

 When you made it to the room, you stripped and made your way into the shower. The flight was a long one and you needed to release some newly added stress. A few minutes into your shower in came Chris.

 “Baby,” he began. You felt the breeze when he opened the shower door and you glared at him.

 “Get out.”

 “What? Come on, don’t be that way.”

 “Get out Christopher!” For emphasis, you elbowed him in his rib. Chris groaned and staggered back making the shower door bang shut. You ignored him and continued to take your shower.

 “Darlin’—I missed you.”

 “Whatever! Try saying that when you’re not wearing your Scarlet letter all across the front of your shirt,” you speared at him. Chris looked at the front of his shirt to see the speckled spots of half dried come.

 “Shit.” With that, he was out of the bathroom. Rolling your eyes, you practiced your meditation breathing. This man was going to make you go off.

 After barely two minutes he was back in a fresh white tee. “Baby look, I’m sorry. I was missing you something terrible and I kept thinking about you and before I knew it I was hard and wanting you. I don’t even know what happened.”

 “What happened was you decided to search through a porn site and watch porn to jerk off to. That is what happened Christopher. Remember those after hour vows that you brought up a few days ago?”

Chris hung his head. He remembered very well. “Y/N--.”

 “No. It was you who brought it up, you vowed neither of us would turn to porn for anything, that we would turn to each other. Why else did we make those random videos?! You decided to say fuck that and turn to some other woman who is acting. You had our videos!”

 “Fuck! I know, I didn’t think baby. I just—.” He stuttered as if he couldn’t find the right words, or he didn’t know what to say. After a few tries, he sighed out and hung his head again. “I’m sorry.”

 “Get out! You know how I feel about porn. Get out!” The second time you shouted louder. He didn’t protest at all; he simply turned and gave you your wish.

 In all your years married you’d never watched porn. There was a once in a blue moon you watched it together when you were dating as a means for foreplay, but it quickly faded when you began to feel a little weird about it wondering if he was more turned on by the women he saw or if it was you who did the trick. After a heartfelt chat, he agreed without hesitation to cut it out completely while reassuring you that you were the source of all his desire and arousal. Not only had he watched it just now, but you’d watched him find his release from it. Not you. As far as you were concerned you were rightfully and justifiably angry.

 You stayed in the shower longer than you normally would have. By the time you came out, it was a little after six. You were hoping Chris wasn’t in the room when you came out and were relieved when you got your wish. You wanted to just go to sleep but hunger prevented it. As you were about to walk out to find some food, Chris walked in carrying bags from your favorite restaurant. 

“I got dinner. I was planning on cooking for you when you got back but I wasn’t prepared tonight.”

 “Clearly you had a one-track mind.” Chris sighed but didn’t respond to your snide remark.

 Instead, he put the bags down and began piling the containers of food onto the bed. The smells that filled the room were delectable. Your mouth watered from the scent of the garlic and basil. If it wasn’t for that you would have walked off, but you were not a fool to ignore your favorites. You went over to your side of the bed, got comfortable and dug in. Chris knew you were pissed so he didn’t bother making small talk though you knew it killed him. 

You knew he wanted to talk about your trip and fall back into the comfortable groove that you always resided in. When he allowed you to pick show after show, you knew he felt the gravity of his mistake. Still, you didn’t speak, didn’t attempt to console him or even unburden him with the blessing of your forgiveness. You decided you’d let him suffer.

 By the time one rolled around you ignored him some more and turned your back to go to sleep. His sigh was a heavy one and if you were nicer you may have said good night, but you didn’t give a shit about pleasantries.

 “Baby,” Chris began as he shifted his body in the bed. You could tell he now faced you on his side.

 “Leave me alone before I make you sleep in the guest room, Christopher.”

 His response was a mixture of a deflated sigh and a frustrated groan but he didn’t protest. He knew better than to push you closer to the edge.

 The next day was not a normal day in your household. Normally you’d have a loved up breakfast in bed and then a steamy shower before you separated for the day if you both had work to do, or you’d lounge in the house together never being more then a few feet apart. That was not the case. you went about your business in your office while Chris kept clear of you. any attempt he made your response was dullness. You didn’t reciprocate or encourage; it was simple appeasement.

 He brought you your favorite breakfast, you didn’t acknowledge him when he came in. He brought you lunch, again you ignored him. He tried to make small talk you busied yourself. Through it all, he didn’t give up or slink away except to lick his wounds only to return again to continued trying. You were impressed but still not amused. So the day passed with minimal conversation between you unless it was about work or the household.

 “So you’re just going to ignore me now?”

 Something in his voice made you look up to acknowledge him. You didn’t even realize the sun had set or that he wore one of your favorite colors on him. Chris had an expectant look on his face that somehow still showed his timidness.

 “We haven’t seen each other physically in weeks, almost two months and you’re just going to ignore me? I let it go last night and most of today but come on, Y/N. We have to talk. We promised we wouldn’t go to bed angry.”

 Taking a slow deep breath, you leaned back in your chair. “I’m not angry.”

 “The hell you’re not. You walked in on me jerking off to porn. You’re angry.”

 “Glad you’ve entered the admittance stage of your shame, but nope, not angry.”

 Chris rolled his eyes then crossed his arms. It was the truth, you weren’t angry. You were pissed. He stared you down as if he expected you to quake underneath the penetration of his sky blue eyes.

 “I just find it funny how you’re not okay with me breaking a vow but you’re pretty glib when you do it.”

 “I’m sorry, okay. I fucked up. I didn’t plan it and I honestly don’t know how I ended up on the site anyway. I didn’t do it to hurt you or even give it any deep thought. It was a muscle reaction,” Chris explained.

 “So it’s a muscle reaction to go searching for other naked women rather than scroll through your library for pictures and videos of the one you married?”

 He walked inside and perched at the edge of your desk then leaned to you taking your hand in his much larger one. He didn’t speak for a few moments, both of you realizing this was the first time you’d touched in weeks. Everything in you wanted to melt into him and fall back into place and from the look on his face, you could tell he wanted the same thing.

 “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I never want to hurt you. tell me you believe that, princess.”

 “Of course I know you don’t want to hurt me, Chris. Just because you don’t want to do something doesn’t mean you haven’t hurt me though.”

 He nodded fully understanding and accepting it. “I don’t want any of that I swear to you. None of them do it for me. You know that. I just--.”

 “Needed something different, someone, different?”

 “No. God, no. I like what I have—I love what I have. I don’t need anything different. How can I when we’re always changing things up. I want you and you alone.”

 You studied him and searched his eyes for any hint of a lie. You didn’t find one, but it didn’t make everything okay.

 “I know that doesn’t make everything okay,” Chris spoke as if he read your mind.

 “Let me make it up to you.” He pulled your hand, rolling you to him. “Please.” Chris brought his lips to you and you were powerless to move or stop him, so you allowed him to kiss you, allowed him to tease your lips and your tongue and make your belly do somersaults. You quickly lost yourself and began to give in. when you felt his hand on your thigh you rolled back away from him.

 “I have work to do.” Focusing back onto your laptop and what you were doing before he came in you forced yourself to keep your eyes straight ahead and not on him. After almost a minute he stood and walked out without another word.

Over the next few days, Chris didn’t stop his attempts to get closer or remedy the wrong he’d done. He was ever the attentive husband and the caring partner. He cooked every night if he could, left you sweet notes around the house that spoke of what he loved about you or how much he loved you. he also never stopped trying to get physically closer. 

By the middle of the week, he’d upped his game from sweet kisses on your forehead, cheek, and lips to deep soulful kisses out of the blue. Now he was up to backing you onto any nearby wall, pressing his body against yours and trying to kiss the breath from your lungs. He was doing a damn good job with tempting you but still, you refused every advance he made before it got anywhere close to sex.

 If his hand roamed your body you pulled it away, if you felt his arousal you walked away. At night when you went to sleep every time he cuddled closer you got up and went to the bathroom only to come back with your body pillow. When you realized it was an automatic deterrent you began sleeping with it every night to Chris’ dismay. By Thursday it was amusing the tactics he deployed. He was motivated and determined, and every rejection and refusal only made him even more so.

 You weren’t angry anymore; it had drastically reduced over the week. The more discomfort you saw Chris in the more amusement it brought you. A punishment was not supposed to be enjoyable. You wondered how long he’d go without bringing it up because you knew he’d realized you were refusing him on purpose as a punishment. He still had yet to bring it up even though you knew for a fact he’d taken several cold showers because of his arousal.

 The night you walked in on him in the shower, you saw the extent of his discomfort. He was standing under the stream of cold water with an evident hard-on and his head hung, and shoulders slumped. His junk wasn’t blue per se but it definitely didn’t look normal. Instantly, you felt horrible. When he turned and your eyes met you opened your mouth to speak but nothing came out. You walked out of the bathroom instead.

 Almost an hour later Chris came out with a towel wrapped around his waist only to disappear again out of the bedroom door. When he came back he was dressed and walking slower with his legs in a wider stance. As he settled beside you, you fought off the urge to snicker.

 “Are you okay?”

 “Fine.” His answer was terse and a complete lie.

 “I saw you in the shower, Chris.”

 “If you saw me in the shower then you know how I am. You bringing it up now is not an inquiry about my wellbeing it is spite and for your own amusement.”

 He was right. Damn it, you thought. You hated that he knew you so well.

 “A week, Y/N. A week and you’ve been pushing me away every chance you get. No matter what I do or what I say. I’m losing my mind here and you don’t seem to even care.” As he spoke you could see the uneasiness rising up in him, he’d reached his breaking point. You didn’t speak as he continued to rant, you just let him get it all out.

 After almost five minutes he was silent again with a clenched jaw and his hands cupping his junk. He looked so sad like he’d lost his best friend and wanted revenge for it.

 “So—was the porn and nut worth it?” the look he gave you was filled with so much aggression you just had to laugh. It was meant to be a small little giggle, but it came out as a full on obnoxious holler that turned into a cackle with you wiggling your legs in the air. Chris grunted loudly and began rising from the bed. Normally it would have been a quick action but tonight it was a strategic multi- step maneuver that only made you laugh louder. He was not amused. He walked out of the bedroom with your laughter still lingering in the air.

 By Saturday you were ready to end his punishment because though it was one for him it was also one for you. You were struggling too; you were in pain. It had now been eight weeks since you were together, and you were tired of waiting. Chris was gone for morning and most of the afternoon visiting his family and a couple friends. He didn’t ask you if you wanted to go with him, no doubt needing time away from you. You weren’t bothered by it because it gave you time to get yourself ready and make it a night for him to remember.

 After running some errands and picking up ingredients for dinner and come candles and novelty items you returned home to begin prep seduction night. By three he hadn’t returned yet which gave you even more time to get yourself together. Six rolled around and Chris was still not home, it was then you called him, a call he didn’t answer so you texted. Ten minutes went by without a response and your mood was quickly souring.

 When you saw his headlights light up your roundabout driveway you’d finished cooking and prepping had opened a bottle of wine and were on your third glass and had been waiting for almost forty minutes. You were annoyed especially since the only response he’d sent to you via text was “soon.” When you asked when he would be home, his answer was “soon”. When you asked if he was almost home, he sent “soon”. You were ready to throw your phone from frustration.

 You heard the front door open and then heard it slam shut forcefully and that was the last straw. “This is soon, Christopher!”

 As you spun around to confront him, you only saw his face momentarily before he threw you over his shoulder. You squealed but didn’t have enough time to react before he was throwing you across the kitchen island right onto your back.

 “What the hell are you doing!”

 “I realized; I’ve been approaching this all wrong. Normally when you have an attitude and start acting like a brat as you’ve been doing for the last few days I respond differently. I’ve been tiptoeing and being submissive. I am not submissive, Y/N. I’ve been doing the opposite of what I should have been doing.” His voice was deep and completely dominating.

 “Which is what, throwing me across a counter?”

 “No, fucking it out of you.” Your jaw dropped. Holy hell, you thought. He’d truly reached his breaking point; this was it and you were fucked.

 “Chris--.” It was a warning, a warning you hoped would deter him from doing what every fiber of his being was telling him to do. Your warning did absolutely nothing. Using his thighs, he pushed your already parted legs further apart while using his hands to pin yours to the island. You recognized the look in his eyes you hadn’t seen it in a while. He was tired of your games, your teasing, your torture, and your neglect.

 For the first time Chris looked over your body and noticed the silk floral robe you wore that was practically falling off of you already. It was then he realized you were fully naked. “On the drive here, I thought about making this torturous for you, going so slow you’d feel my pain of seven days plus the six weeks before. I thought about new ways to deprive you of the release I know you desperately want. I came up with quite a few things, but I’ve changed my mind. Slow isn’t enough of a punishment. Instead, I think the opposite will do quite well.” His smirk was devious, but it didn’t scare you. You knew he would never physically hurt you or do anything you didn’t want. You were that in tune.

 Chris let your wrists go then took one step back. “On your knees, Y/N and I dare you to talk back.” Despite every instinct telling you to do it and see what he does, you knew it wasn’t a good idea. The ho in you wanted to act out and get crippled, the practical you knew you had to walk tomorrow. You slipped off the counter and dropped to your knees before him. you could see his need urgently pressing against his jeans. After a few moments, you peeked up at him.

 “This isn’t your first time Y/N, don’t act like you don’t know what to do.”

 You bit your bottom lip and slowly began undoing his jeans. You weren’t doing it to tease him, you were honestly nervous right now. It was always a dicey game of punishing your husband, especially in a way by with-holding sex. The outcome could have been a nice roll in the hay afterward or a downright back breaking night. It looked like you were in for the latter. Once he was free his groan was deep and strangled. All along his shaft and balls, there were violent looking purplish veins. You couldn’t stop your grimace.

 “Looks painful, right? Interesting that a married man would get blue balls, especially deliberate blue balls from his wife.”

 You couldn’t stop the retort before it slipped out, “So I guess jerking off to porn wasn’t worth it after all. I’d say said married man deserved everything he got from said wife, blue balls included.” Chris’ lips smiled but his eyes darkened. Before you knew it he was pulling you to your feet before he pushed you into the island bending you over so your ass was poking right out for him.

 “That’s fair. Just remember seven is the lucky number and since you love it so much, blue balls is the magic word,” Chris sneered into your ear. You could feel the weight of him as he hunched over you and used his fingers to circle your opening. He growled then.

 “You’re soaking wet already. Who were you really punishing sweetheart, me or you?” You refused to answer that, you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. “It’s okay, I already know.” There was no warning before he slowly sank into you. For the first few inches, it was painfully slow until he slammed into you to the hilt pulling a screech from you.

 “Fuck!” His shout echoed off the walls and shook you making your legs tremble.

 Chris didn’t bother giving you a moment to adjust, you really didn’t need it. You needed more but you were sure you couldn’t take what was coming. Chris set an early pace and it was fast, deep, and hard. Every snap forward of his hips had you grunting and lurching making your head snap back and forth. It didn’t take long before you were panting and moaning enjoying every second of the fuck you’d been dying for.

 Chris grabbed your arms and held them behind you angling your upper half up propelling him even deeper. “Fuck!”

 “Mmm, you feel this dick, Y/N? Do you feel it?” You nodded unable to find your voice. Chris continued delivering his brutal thrusts that made precise connection with your g-spot. You knew you were seconds from coming and you knew when you did your strength would go with it.

 “Shit, shit, shit! Oh god!”

 Chris began rotating his hip drilling his hardness against your walls and every crevice of you. A shiver broke free and brought with it your release that was a deafening scream and weakened limbs. Chris was there to hold you steady though. If you lived closer to people they might have called the police from thinking you were being murdered.

 “Oh my god, yes Chris! Fuck me! Don’t fucking stop!” He lifted one of your legs and plopped it onto the island giving him a new angle and an impossible depth that you were not prepared for. Jerking from him you gasped but he wasn’t having it. Chris held you in place and brought you to him by pulling your arms back.

 “Don’t run from this dick sweetheart. Take every—fucking—inch!” As he spoke he pressed forward even more stealing all your breath. You were left he’d in the air with your mouth hung open without a sound coming out. He groaned in your ear then bit your lobe to suck it in his mouth before it slipped out.

 “Look at me, darlin’.” You looked back to him to see his teeth firmly clenching his bottom lip. the look in his eyes was a conflicting one, one that spoke of gentleness and love but also of revenge and passion. One thing you didn’t see in them was control—he had none now.

 “I love you, princess.”

 Once he got the words out he proceeded to murder your pussy with deliberate, deep, hard thrusts that never slowed, or faded in intensity. From then on out you were a screaming mess. After what felt like an eternity but had turned out to be nothing but short minutes your voice was gone and you’d somehow managed to come three more times. Chris moved as if he weren’t even human at this point. He should have come a long time ago and be passed out, but he was still going, still sending your eyes to the back of your head. You felt him turn your body so you were now on your side with your plopped up leg resting on his shoulder. It was yet another angle that you couldn’t handle. When your hand flew to his belly to push him back his was there to stop you. Your eyes locked with his but the only thing he did was shake his head.

 “Fuck!” 

“Was your little game worth it?” He smirked as he said it and you knew he was mocking you. Instead of giving you a chance to respond he snapped his hips forward and ground into you once again sending your eyes to the back of your head. You held onto his hand for dear life.

 Every time your eyes met it only made the moment that much more powerful. Even through revenge punishment fucking the love you felt for each other was evident, and the connection between you was always so strong. Chris bent to you and kissed you to demonstrate the passion that you prayed would never fade between you. You kissed him back with everything you had holding his head to you. You began to meet him for every thrust he delivered. As you kissed his eyes locked with yours and the vulnerability you saw there with each wave of your body fueled you to take even more. You clenched tightly around him and felt him spear you twice then a third before he broke your kiss and shouted along with you as he poured every drop of himself inside of you to join your release.

 For several long minutes, the two of you just laid there on the counter. He had his head resting on your breast but didn’t dare pull from your body. When you felt him stir you also felt the ache between your legs. “Oh god,” you whispered with hoarseness. Chris slowly pulled back from you and yelped once he pulled out. You instantly felt the emptiness and with it brought the pain of through fucking. You dropped your hands to your crotch.

 “Tell me, was it worth it?” You glared at him then rolled your eyes, there was no need to answer. You honestly didn’t know which one to give.

 “Fuck, I’m still hard,” Chris informed. Your eyes dropped to his still hard cock and it didn’t look any less violent and intimidating. As he moved to slide back into you, you scurried backward locking your legs hoping to deter him.

 “Woah, hold your fucking horses. Jesus Christ Evans, give me a fucking minute.”  Scrunching your face you allowed the pain to show. “Oh my god.”

 “Are you okay?”

 “Are you really asking me that right now? This is what you wanted. You wanted to teach me a lesson by fucking me into submission. Congratulations Sir Fucksalot!” Chris snorted and laughed making you laugh with him. He stepped to you and kissed your cheek and forehead.

 “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to go off like that. I just—I couldn’t control myself. I lost it.”

 “I know, I saw it. It’s fine. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have used sex as a weapon.”

 “I deserved it and no it wasn’t worth it. I’m sorry.” The two of you warmly smiled at each other before pressing your foreheads together for a tender moment. In the sweetness of the moment, the thud of his hard dick brought you both back.

 “Jesus Chris, keep him under control. This pussy is out of service and closed for healing.” You slipped off the island and slowly walked out of the kitchen.

 “Wait, what!? For how long? Y/N, you can’t leave me like this.”

 “For as long as it takes, an hour, a day, a week. Who knows.”

 “Y/N.”

 “Mm-Mn Chris I don’t wanna hear it. you should have thought about that before you went full on super soldier mode.”

 You slowly climbed the stairs and played up the pain. It hurt of course but it wasn’t excruciating. This was not the first time he’d fucked you like the world was ending. You knew you’d be fine in a few hours. Chris came up behind you, scooped you in his arms and planted a kiss on your cheek.

 “You know what they say, the only way to get over the pain is to push through it.” You snorted and laughed with him joining in as he continued to make his way to your bedroom.

[yeojaa]

in the night, ii.

read part one!  dedicated to my beloved wofe @periminkle​ because she loves assassin!kook and so do i.  i honestly dunno how many parts to this non-couple couple i’ll do but ... i cannot resist them.  oops.

pairing.  jjk x reader.  rating.  ... general?  tags.  soft romance in the form of:  pining, cuddling, playing chess like losers, using a hotel room for the lamest reasons.  maybe a very lil bit of angst if you squint at the right times.  it’s just them being...  them?  ig.  wc.  1.8k.  beta reader.  @hobi-gif​ 💛

“You know, when you asked me to meet  you here, this isn’t what I had in mind.”

He can’t help but laugh, the sound teetering off his tongue into the tepid lake of espresso sitting in his cup.  You’re glaring down at the board, hand poised at your side.  You’re so focused - more so than when you’re stitching him up.  

He wonders, idly, whether that should worry him.  It won’t.

“You’re not having fun?”  He hums, the slyest smile passing over the rim of ceramic, a certain twinkle in his stare.  It’s possible he’s overtired - he hasn’t slept in what feels like ages - but there’s something awfully amusing about the sight of you, brow knit and mouth pursed into a grimace he seldom sees.  “Got something else in mind, Doc?”

You don’t humour him with a response, advancing your king to C7.  

“You sure about that one?”

“Yes.”  It snaps past your lips like cinnamon bubble gum.

Seeing you so riled up - not quite irritated but overly competitive - makes Jungkook snort, setting his cup down with a soft, drawn out sigh.

“Come here.”  It isn’t readily clear where he means but he leaves it up to you, watching you keenly. 

You’re having none of it. “Make your move.”

“Come here,”  he repeats, just that bit harder.  The edge doesn’t reach anywhere but his words;  his eyes are still a little tired, half-lidded and dreamy.  They pair nicely with the full of his cheek, how it ticks rounder and reveals a singular dimple.  Your weakness - or so he’d like to think. 

It’s with a surprising amount of dramatics that you remove yourself from the opposite seat, folding yourself into his lap with only a handful of movements.  He welcomes your weight, curling an exhausted arm around the shape of your waist. 

With your back to the arm rest, you settle with your head against his shoulder, nose cold against the column of his throat.  He can even feel the steel of your glasses, gold-rimmed and delicate. 

“Bored?”  The tone of his voice is lilting, teasing, dressed up with laughter.  It disappears into your crown of velvet, loosely braided and knotted behind your ear in your signature no-fuss fashion. 

“No.”  But it isn’t very believable because you certainly sound unenthused. 

He tries again, with fingers that flex into the soft, bare flesh of your thigh;  his other hand guides your chin, drawing your attention fully from the abandoned chess set.  “Want to order room service?”

It’s the least he can do, he figures.  Something to ease whatever mocking resentment seeps out of your skin - much like his had only hours earlier. 

Note to himself:  pick up some new clothes.  

“I want every dessert on the menu,”  you finally relent, with a terribly serious set of your jaw and intensity in your eyes.  

He snorts, again, squeezing the yielding softness of your hip in his broad palms. “I’ll call down and order.  You go take a shower or something.”  It’s not as dismissive as he means;  the blouse you’d worn over is stained red, the colour bleeding garishly over cream silk.  It even marks your skin now, caught beneath your nails and over your wrists. 

“What - it’s not a good look on me?”  

Your feigned affront is addictive, coaxing in a way he’s utterly defenceless against.  Still, Jungkook rolls his eyes - an exaggerated reveal of bright white sclera - and levels you with a look that might serve him better than the gun that rests on the coffee table.  “Don’t ask stupid questions, Doc.”

“But you do stupid things all the time.”  You’re not wrong and if there’s anyone worthy of calling him out in this same way, it’s you.  Doesn’t mean he takes it any more kindly, glowering at you so heavily he thinks you might be enjoying it. 

“Name one time,”  he retorts, fully on the defensive.  Even though he knows you’re right.  Even though he could list off just five things since last night. 

Getting ambushed in his own home

Cracking some not-so-poor guy’s skull on the corner of his Nakashima dining table 

Asking for you to make a home (or rather, hotel) call 

Asking for you at all

Asking you to stay 

He hopes you won’t catch onto the last three. 

“That time I told you to not overextend yourself after you cracked three ribs and you came back the next day complaining because you’d piledrived a guy through some scaffolding but, and I quote, ‘it wasn’t a big deal’?”  Okay, you have him there.  “Or the time I told you to take the pills in the left drawer and you took the ones from the right and ended up passed out on my floor for twelve hours?”  Another solid and mildly embarrassing example.  “Or—”

“Okay, okay.”  A single hand held aloft in the universal sign of stop;  the other remains comfortable around your waist, digits tracing figure eights over the porcelain skin beneath your top.  “I get it.”

You’re undeterred, pushing forward with abandon.  “Or inviting me to a hotel to not only stitch you back together but also play silly children’s games?”

“Hey - chess is fun!”  And so were Gin Rummy and Speed, the other two activities he’d foisted upon you post-sewing session. 

“You’re an idiot,”  you state, with a surprising amount of affection.  He doesn’t mind when it comes like this, dipped in honey and rolled in fairy floss. It satisfies his sugar craving, filling the spaces between his molars with cavities. 

“You still came,”  he challenges.  

“Just adding it to the dozens of favours you already owe me.”

He grins, roguish and far too handsome for his own good.  Even tired, with lurking shadows beneath his eyes, he’s unbelievably bright - like it’s radiating out of him.  It’s quite funny when he’s speckled in gore, blood tainting tanned skin and reminding you that he’s not all sunshine and rainbows. 

“How will I ever pay you back?”

You’re close - far too close, even sat in his lap.  Jungkook can see every freckle on your face, every lash that frames the prettiest stare he’s ever seen.  He has to remind himself he’s waiting for an answer;  it’s hard when all he wants to do is kiss you. 

He thinks you must want it too, by how the silence stretches on, catching the pair of you like a Chinese finger trap. 

“Doc?”  Barely a word, made in a whisper. 

Can you feel how his heart beats, trips and fails to right itself when you’re so close he can smell the coffee on your breath?  Is it your medical training that gives him away?  Or maybe just the fact that you’re attuned to everything about him because he’s, well, him?

Your big stupid idiot, for all intents and purposes. 

He wants to ask.  He wants to kiss you. He wants a hundred mundane things (like playing cards and eating sweet treats) only with you. 

You tear it all away with a pat to his head and a wicked smile.  “With all the dessert in the world.”

He scowls then, the expression wolfish and touched with agitation.  It presents in the narrowing of his stare, his sharply set jaw.  “Sounds like pretty lame payback to me.”  Can you hear the edge of petulance, how it colours syllables the faintest shade of goblin green?

“Got something else in mind, Jeon?”

Having his words thrown back at him only makes him laugh.  It reverberates out of his bare chest, filling the quiet of the luxury suite;  it bounces around just as you do, leaping to your feet with a grace he can’t mimic.  He’s mesmerised, as he always is, gaze trained on you - your loosened bun, the curves of your back, how you look in the jeans that look nearly painted on they fit you so well. 

“Grab a bath, Doc,”  he returns - less of a suggestion and more of a demand. 

“Better have those desserts once I’m out.”  A threat rather than a joke, though you’re far too unassuming with your old lady glasses and wide, expressive stare.  For your sake, Jungkook crosses a heart across his chest and nods solemnly, earning him a devastating grin that works far better than your intimidation. 

“Have I ever let you down?”

You’re already gone, a trail of your clothes left like breadcrumbs.  He still hears you.  “I mean - you did bring a knife fight to my door.”  

“We don’t talk about that!”  He calls back before the sound of running water takes over, distorting your laughter.  Neroli and cedar wood comes - your signature scent.  He can’t help the way he inhales deeply, satisfied, as he plucks the room phone from its holder.  It’s an addiction, a second nature action that he can’t help, whether you’re curled in his arms or tending to his broken, bleeding body. 

It’s dangerous, he knows.  

His old mentor would tell him don’t get involved, Jeon.  That living a life like this came with sacrifices.  Things he’d never really cared for - at first.  But now?  

He daydreamt about them more often than he should, in all the quiet moments in between.  They painted the prettiest pictures in his mind, wishful thinking in the form of everyday occurrences:  coffee in the morning, you in his (unstained) clothes, drives in the countryside, a bed shared at night. 

All because of you and your healing hands.  He’d never thought you’d be so good at your job, stitching him up inside and out.

It’d be better if he left, packed his ruined clothing and stopped appearing on your doorstep.  It’d keep you safe - and him, too.  Relationships meant weakness and in his line of work, weakness was something to be exploited, like an open wound with a thumb pressed into it.

Instead, he waits until the cart of desserts appears - lemon tarts and basque cheesecake and a dozen other things that scream diabetes! - and wheels it right into the bathroom, closer to you, because he always wants to be closer to you.  

“These don’t look like apples, Doc,”  he hums, settling himself on the back edge of the tub, careful not to dislodge the towel that’s folded beneath your neck.  The wet of your hair seeps into the material of his pants, sticking cloth to sinew and brawn. 

“An apple a day keeps the doctor away but a tray of desserts will keep me here forever.”

“You planning on living here?”  Quipped with an offering - a cocoa masterpiece of four layers, held gingerly between his thumb and forefinger.  

“Might as well milk it,”  you tease, accepting the bite with love in your eyes and a tongue that sweeps, just barely, over his suddenly electrified skin.  He knows what you’re doing just as well as you do;  it’s next to impossible not to lean into the desire, slide the digit home and press down into muscle until you’re drooling around it.

“Might as well,”  he echoes, those same fluttering pink hearts reflected in his stare.

tag list.  @neverthefirstchoice​ @youwannabelostandnotbefound​ 

[mci-writing]

I Thought Rhododendron was a Warning (Midoriya Izuku x reader) [Hanahaki Au]

A/n: This fic originally was meant to be posted July 26th for @birds-have-teeth's Izumonth Server Collab! Hope you enjoy this fic as much as I enjoyed writing it, even though it’s a little late ^^’

Warnings: Angst; Hanahaki Au; Barfing of flowers, descriptions of throwing up; descriptions of choking and being unable to breath; descriptions of blood; descriptions of coughing up blood; descriptions of various forms of pain (namely chest and throat pains); mentions of the word toilet and it’s various synonyms

“People always say to be cautious of what flowers you cough up when you choke up, but how are you to know which ones are a warning sign and which ones are in dire need of check up? Sure, colors and shape could give it away if you know your botany, but what if you’re completely clueless? That’s where this guide to flowers and their symbolism comes in, to help you overcome your Hanahaki and your feelings without having to immediately get the surgery-” Midoriya vividly remembers each time that commercial or one similar would appear on the television and they were always followed by his mother’s quick response of changing the channel or turning it off altogether. Her statements that would follow were always disapproving of such products, saying they would probably kill a person off faster rather than actually help them with living longer. 

That was really his only exposure to any forms of Hanahaki discussion at home. His mother never really felt the need to elaborate on the disease other than giving the basic fact that you normally caught it under unfortunate, romantic situations. What these situations were, he had no idea, and the only clue he really had on that matter were things he’d hear in passing conversations at school. There’d been rumors of other kids in his middle school catching cases, yet they never really seemed to be enough to actually draw his attention to the illness.

He had assumed he would continue to live in that naive, blissful unawareness he’d developed over his juvenile years, but his years at Yuuei forcefully and uncomfortably opened his eyes without his consent. The first month consisted of their Pro teachers reminding them of just how much more important their lives were than a small crush and that they should keep their attention on their studies rather than trying to confess their feelings. Aizawa was especially vocal about this, to the point he set aside a day to tell the class stories of students and Pro Heroes that had to let go of their dreams when they died of the disease and how the percentage that did receive the surgery were never the same. And those words of advice followed him through his Yuuei days, echoing each time there’d be an announcement of one of his many schoolmates lost to the disease. It especially hit different when one of his classmates caught a cold case and, many times, no one had even known about it. He remembers watching Kaminari choke to death in front of everyone on the sports field one day and another time it caught Hagakure before the premature intermission of their second Sports Festival.

Midoriya believed he’d heeded enough warning not to find himself in the situation he currently found himself in. Even now, each mention and memory of Hanahaki is being thrown back at him as he tries to find where to go next with the blood covered, grassy vomit he recently regurgitated into his toilet.

“Midoriya?”

The flowers. Always take notice of what flowers you spit up. Even just an attribute of a vine of stem could help determine your current state- The sight of the flowers makes him wonder how he didn’t choke on the individual flowers, each a small flower in a bundle to make up a cone-shape. There were mainly two of the cone-shaped put togethers, a few smaller flowers and their petals also hanging around and floating in the water with small twinges of stem. 

“Midoriya, are you okay in there?”

He knows a set of lilacs when he sees them, even with the accompanying splotches of blood. It’s a common starter flower during most first attacks that has killed just as many as it has warned. They were usually associated with innocence and purity, the beginning of a budding annoyance that Midoriya wouldn’t easily be able to just overlook-

“Midoriya? Are you feeling well? You seemed a little faint in color before running off to the powder room-” It’s too late when he hears the bathroom door open, his body lurching forward in surprise at the sudden interruption, “Hanahaki…”

It’s too late for him to hide the evidence and he can’t just immediately make up an excuse for why there’s a nice sight of bloody lilacs chilling in his toilet. The frightened, paling appearance of the sudden guest’s face doesn’t help in the slightest, their feet seemingly glued in place as their eyes dart between the obvious mess of the floral bile and his completely frazzled form.They were pretty sure he was still shaking, but whether it was from fear or him fighting to get the choking feeling of flowers out of his throat had been beyond them.

“I… It’s not what it looks like! A-At least, I hope it’s not what it looks like! I’m fine, though! It came up easy-” Midoriya rambles on nervously, his hand coming up to tug at his white tee while his green eyes glance around the room for various explanations. His hands whimsically move about and around him, coming together to hold and clench themselves before releasing to move on to picking and playing with each other, “A-Anyway, I’ll get myself cleaned up and we can finish the- (Y/n)?”

His rambling stops once they fall to their knees before him, their hands gripping his shoulders tightly. Their eyes glance him over, an extra emotion swirling through their (e/c) irises before they pull him into a tight hug, messy shirt and all. He’s taken aback by the sudden action, his own limbs slowly coming up to wrap around their form. Their hand comes up and pats his back softly, those pats turning into reassuring back rubs as he continues to toss up flowers into the commode.

“I’ll help however I can, Izuku...”

“Blaaagh”

“Like getting you a breath mint. Immediately getting you that breath mint” They state as they quickly rise to their feet, heading out the bathroom door and closing it behind them.

~~~

He originally believed everything would be fine after that one incident. He planned to get it under control, use home remedy after home remedy to prevent it from affecting him any further. He confidently felt he was making strides to recovery without needing to get a surgery to remove feelings he still couldn’t even place. He could survive having one mild attack in his life and live the rest pretending he never had hanahaki. 

He knew it wasn’t that simple, but to have the hope peacefully tug at his chest in comfort with each ad he passed seemed as though the force of his life was taunting him once more by waving a seemingly unattainable dream in his face. The idea of constantly drinking weed killer was still very concerning with how often it’d been recommended (he decides to set it as his last ditch effort when the weeds become too much for him) and he’s pretty convinced he should close this article (Y/n) sent him out of fear of something infecting his device. Well, that was the plan up until something peaked his interest.

Lo and behold, surrounded by the most erotic and scam ridden ads Midoriya’s seen on the internet, sat a flower alignment chart. His curiosity is piqued at the sight of the familiarly unfamiliar diagram and his fingers are quick to hover over the image before downloading and sending  it to his partner in deciphering where he currently stood on the danger scale. 

Dummy Thiccy 🧜: It’s a flower chart. Tells you your danger zone

Well, yeah. He figured that much given the sight he’d found it in the first place. He sighs in exasperation as he lays back against his pillow. He closes out of his messaging app, going to google for a more broad and direct response to said chart.

He hovers over his keyboard as he thinks of where to start in terms of keywords. He wasn’t too concerned with the flowers he’d spit out yesterday, in terms of how at risk he was of having thorns pierce his lungs. He starts with similar charts, lifting himself from the comfort of his sheets to grab one of his many empty journals stored under his bed.

He maps out his own diagram, taking only the results many of them had in common and noting the rare differences between them on another sheet. He decides to check the other things out in the morning when he catches just how late it is, his eyes skimming over his finished project before setting it over to the side. His eyes linger on his home-screen a moment after, the sight of him and friends smiling back at him so happily reminding him of why he needed to get rid of it. 

The memory of the white flowers fill his mind again at that, some of the lilacs speckled with a red he’s seen out in the field too many times. It reminds him of how congested he felt, the tightness of his chest and how he struggled to even get any of it passed his throat, let alone ignore the piercing feeling he felt as the weeds also made their way out of his system. He had to keep himself from panicking to hold up the front for his friends while they were in the other room and hold back the fear he felt when (L/n) caught him bent over the toilet.

His cheeks flush from the awkward aftermath of that encounter. There was already some distance between them prior (why had been completely unknown on his end), but the sudden tense feeling after the whole bathroom situation with the complete opposite of the comforting feeling they gave when they found him there. Even now, their responses and questions just didn’t click the same way they did a week ago. While he, of course, wanted to approach the situation and figure out what was up, he just couldn’t. He had no way to go about it.

And now he’s literally puffing up daisies, possibly on the verge of death. If they’re in a bad place now, he can’t imagine how much worse it’ll be when he does die. 

The thought has his heart pounding in a different way than the adrenaline he’s used to feeling, aching in a way only they could cause. He finds himself blankly gazing at their smiling face, seemingly on the brink of laughing at something one of them said. All the while, the reminder of his hours ticking down if he doesn’t handle this soon hollowly echoes through his mind.

His breathing begins hallowing as the heavy feeling in his chest returns in a seemingly swift attack, the stems digging at various parts of his body in an almost threatening manner. He feels himself lose his breath a moment, his head spinning and eyesight dotting before he manages to break out of his flinched stance enough to rush himself to his bathroom. He doesn’t have time to really process too much aside for him throwing the toilet seat up. The pointy stems force their way out of his mouth, reinforcing just how painful the whole thing is. His eyes tear up and he’s there long enough for paresthesia to kick in on his legs from the cut off of proper oxygen flow.

His body trembles when he finally finishes hacking up the fauna. More blood covers the flowers than he last remembered, white corona surrounded by bright yellow perianth with both covered in unsymmetrical red splotches. His chest heaves as he desperately inhales as much air as he can. His back presses against the cold wall tiles of his bathroom after he manages to catch enough breath for his mind to begin functioning properly. It’s the first thing to alert him of his senses coming back, the blur of his eyes slowly coming to after. 

With the little energy he has left, he climbs over to his toilet once again out of curious desperation. Proudly standing on end are numerous daffodils, taunting him and reminding of just what he’s going through. He’s suddenly hit tier 2. No warning and immediately after him worrying over the well-being of his friends. 

He uses the wall to get to his feet, pushing off of it and steadying himself on the toilet tank. The lid makes a loud clank against it, causing him to jump a bit and fall back against his sink counter. He winces slightly from the pain, his hand gripping the area and rubbing it soothingly. His hand grips the counter, using it to hold himself up as he reaches over and flushes the toilet.

He’s exhausted when he finally gets back to his bed, ready to let sleep drown him into a healing rest, yet his phone’s notification light continues to flash in the corner of his eye. He groans as he leans over, the light practically blinding him as soon as his screen flashes on. He flinches, eyes remaining squinched as he swipes away social media alerts. 

Dummy Thiccy 🧜: Please be careful tonight. I’ll be there in a heartbeat if you need me

His face heats up a bit as he reads it over, coming to a revelation he wished he’d come to sooner. His body seemingly sits up on it’s own as he feels his chest tighten a moment. 

His breathing grows labored once more, his hand gripping his chest in some weak attempt to ground himself. His hand reaches for his phone as calmly as he frantically could, managing to dial (Y/n)’s number, a shade of red blooming over most of his face. It wakes him up a bit, his emerald eyes widening in a sudden realization that he 

“Hey, Izuku? Something up-”

“I-I need some help. C-Could you- Agh!” He falls back in pain, his grip tightening as he continues to scream out in agony. His throat feels lodged up, something feeling as though it’s forcefully crawling up. He painfully swallows it back, a faded voice echoing through his ears as he feels his eyesight fade to black.

~~~~~

Midoriya blinks away the sleep in his eyes, the blaring lights from the ceiling making it a little hard to truly open his eyes. The overwhelming smell of insulin and antiseptic fill his nose. He struggles to make out his surroundings beyond that due to the feeling of an extra weight holding his body down. He shakes around a bit to shrug the figure off of him, sitting up enough to see just a little more of the white room. He’s sure he’s in a hospital room after further assessment, more than likely thanks to (Y/n) after he called them in the midst of panic (and it makes him pretty glad he let them take one of his keys when he first moved in unless he somehow forgot to lock his door again).

He lays his head back against the pillow provided for him in exhaustion, yet he’s unable to just close them and rest. His mind is practically racing with so many thoughts, thoughts he wished he had his newly formed chart for. He couldn’t have just jumped danger levels like that, especially not after just finding out the person of his affection had been his current lifeline just a few hours ago (or what he assumed had been a few hours. Kinda hard to tell when you’re passed out from loss of air for a majority of that time). It wasn’t off the table, and he knew that fact, but it was too soon for the both of them. They were already at an awkward place before and he doesn’t just want to force his feelings onto them, especially if they’re going through something he didn’t know about. It felt wrong.

There’s a shift as (Y/n) sits up from laying over him. They take a moment to stretch, a couple of their bones popping and cracking before they relax to sit back against their seat. Their face makes it obvious that they had fallen asleep and their arm is quick to wipe away the bit of drool on their cheeks. Midoriya feels his face warm at that, his eyes quickly averting when he notices their attention drift to him.

 “Hey, sleepy broccoli. They had to pump a LOT of pain medicine in you” He perks up as they begin speaking to him, an almost prideful smile on their face as they continue, “They say you’re lucky that a sudden attack like that didn’t kill you. I, of course, was rooting for you! You’ve come back from worst”

Yet, he can see the painful look being held back in their expression. He stares a moment, taking it in and trying to figure out why they even had that hesitation on their face. He sighs out, weakly smiling up at them and attempting to sit up on his own, “S-Sorry to call you so late in the night. Your number was already there and I guess my fingers acted on instinct”

“Yeah… Instinct” They murmur, their thumbs rubbing over one another out of nervousness. They stare at him a moment, an awkward silence filling the room and causing Midoriya to wonder if he’d responded the wrong way. 

He goes to fix up his statement, enforce how grateful he is for their assistance through all of this. They get caught in his throat before he can mutter a word, another choked up feeling coming and going.

“They did say your symptoms have been escalating a little faster than what they’re used to, considering you’ve begun developing vines along different parts of your chest and torso. They plan on putting you on watch for when things become too much and they have to… t-they have to do the procedure to… remove them… Seems this person’s really running their circles around your feelings, Izuku” They let out one of their worried ‘hehs’, sending him a pitiful smile of the same calibur. They pull their phone from the pocket, opening their dial-up before turning to him with a solemn smile, “So let’s get them called up, yeah?”

He feels the feeling crawl back up his throat, this one a little harder and scratchy; A hurtful kind of scratchy that makes him feel like something’s tearing at the inner skin. Another lump comes to his throat when he notices the tears in their eyes. He’s unable to tell if it's the weeds or something else entirely, “(Y/n)...”

“Don’t pull a (Y/n) and give up on them, please. My biggest regret was giving up on my feelings for you, but now I know for sure they’re not in vain” A few stray tears run down their cheeks only for their hand to quickly come up and wipe them away, “So please, Izuku… Tell them how you feel before you feel nothing at all-”

He’s unable to hold back as he feels himself cough, his hand quickly going to cover his mouth and catching the dark red petals that fall. (Y/n) is to his side, gripping his shoulder with one hand. One of their fingers holds the call button to request for assistance. Their (e/c) eyes widen in fear at the color of the petals in his hand, more of their tears coming and dripping down their face.

“Everything’s going to be okay, Izuku-”

“No! I-It’s not!” His arms cross over his chest, hands holding at opposite shoulders as he rocks himself. His chest heaves before he releases another sickly, airy cough. He manages out a dark crimson rose, his hold on himself tightening as more vines etch their indents onto his skin before taking a familiar, healthy shade of green. The shade contrasts with the growing paleness of his skin and the growing red bruises from the thorns pricking at his it. He coughs up another rose and the shades of red are almost indistinguishable as the shade of his own blood gets darker and comes out more clumped than before.

“Izuku, we have to go get you a doctor-”

“No! N-Not until…” he struggles to get the words out as it gets harder to breathe. He tries to ignore the feelings of needing to throw up, swallowing down the thick brushle in his chest. He’s unable to do so, coughing up another and another until his arms are completely decorated in the thorny vines. He takes a deep breath, slowly sitting up enough for his emerald eyes to meet their (e/c) ones. He fights down the nauseous feeling, his face twisting into a grimace as he pushes the small phrase, “I-It’s you-”

A sharp pain catches him before he can finish, various doctors and nurses rushing to his side as he screeches out from the unrivaled pain in his chest. They’re forced to watch as the color in Midoriya’s eyes begin to fade before his body fully goes limp in their hold.

They’re chest seemingly begins to contort, their heart squeezing with emotions they shouldn’t be feeling, that they couldn’t be feeling. The feelings all collide at once as they stand to the side, watching the futile attempts of the medical team to save Midoriya Izuku. They stand there until the team leaves, a dullness to their stare as the staff wheel him out of the room.

And once they’re gone, (Y/n) finally breaks down again...

[of-tatooine]

inferno. | canto i - prologue

Midway on our life’s journey, I found myself In dark woods, the right road lost.

Nightfall brought the shiny starts with itself, along with the moon and the faint sound of crickets in the trees. The rustling of the leaves slowly yielding themselves into the chilly western breeze, a certain inherent warmth to it.

It was a seamless comfort, seldom too hard to come by, to relish the quietness of it all. How seamlessly day turned into the looming night, oranges and pinks blending into the deepest and darkest of navies and blacks. Not many days, let alone nights, went by without some sort of touble lurking deep in the darkness - and they never were not the ones they wrote fairytales about.

That night, the drawn curtains that sealed the room from prying eyes managed to let some of the white moonlight in. The silver rays shone on the small arsenal of guns laid out on the crimson comforter, bottles of holy water and a range of knives splayed out on both of the beds. Faded out photographs, some black and white, old newspaper clippings, stained yet recent photocopies of cattle mutilation reports along with electric grid failures in various states - adding onto the decor in accordance with the grim theme.

“You’re gonna answer that?”

The painfully familiar ringtone of the flip phone echoed across the paper-thin walls of the motel room, the vibrations spreading out onto the dresser as it made a series of croaking sounds - almost too desperate to be answered, to be picked up and spoken into, after being thrown onto that wooden furniture for God knew how many days straight.

In total contrast to the agitated ringing of the device, a gentle hum joined the cacophony of sounds along with heavy boots creaking the hardwood, the rustle of papers as they are parted by calloused hands. The popping sound of a marker’s cap was the latest addition as a tired John Winchester continued his thinking standing up - paying no attention to any external distractions as his furrowed gaze kept on analyzing the old, coffee-stained newspaper lore he had managed to dig up over the case, lost in the haze of his reading as he shut everything else out.

“Dad, it’s me.”

It was always him.

There was no evident, nor allowed choice other than sitting there, waiting until his worried yet utterly characteristic voice died down and surrendered to the beep. Jaw clenched, the spare silver bullet you had been toying with between fingers dropped on the wooden table in a couple of clinks.

“Where the hell are you?”

Residual moonlight reflected off of the engravings on the piece of metal as it dropped, sending shards of light into the room that broke through the partial mellow darkness - only illuminated by the weak yellow bulb of the desk lamp. It was not the first time he had heard his son reach out to him in such worry laced in his usually playful and gruff voice, becoming graver with worry with each consecutive call that rang the phone, yet left unanswered - nor would it be the last.

“Listen, I’m on my way to find you. Call me.”

If he had been just a piece like him, he would not stop calling, no matter how much time and effort it could and would potentially take him - knowing very well that with each residual ring of the line, the chances of him being dead and gone would significantly increase.

If only he knew.

A low sigh would escape your parted mouth as you got up with a certain tiredness looming over your body, yet your mind seemed to keep you plenty occupied with other things than to think about how just many cuts and bruises were speckled alongside your skin, just how much your muscles ached from all that running - reminding you of your poor choices of foregoing the welcoming warmth of the bed.

And then, just like you had been expecting in some sort of sensing way, a second ringtone emanated throughout the stuffy air of the room - this time coming from another source which happened to be your phone.

Son of a bitch.

His head was raised ever so slightly, the moonlight hitting his hardened face in such an angle that the faint yet present, worried specks in his green hued orbs shone out - overbearing the darkened and more determined gaze he always held. The internal dilemma, the constant tug of war between the fatherly instinct and the hunter’s sense reflecting off of his expression - his jaw clenching, eyebrows furrowed in a stern gaze but an eminent gentleness to the demeanor. His look briefly was directed at the phone, trailing to focus on you for a split second before redirecting his attention to the big, chunky journal resting open near his frame, at the edge of the bed.

“You know better.”

In a split second, he had managed to drag out whatever reason you may have had, subconscious or purely deliberate, and eliminate it.

Picking up a call when you have not done for so long was nowhere to be found in your intentions - it was mere muscle memory, some sort of underlying reflex that made the hand extend inches closer to the one thing that tied him to you. Knowing who was at the end of the other line was a certain luxury that would prove to be too much to ask for. Picking up the phone meant seeing the number, which was memorized a long time ago. Succumbing to the urge of hearing his voice once again. Letting go of the task at hand.

It meant weakness, screamed selfishness and better yet, was pure danger and dread.

It was disobeying direct orders, and he would have none of that.

All were things that he knew you did not need at that very particular moment - so he was keeping you away from the unnecessary distraction as much as he could, doing a damn good job at that. Listening to each and every order the veteran would dish out at you seemed to be an unwritten rule etched deep into your conscious, and it always came to your rescue whenever you would expect less.

It was one of the main reasons you had been alive for this long. It made you last with all of your limbs intact, walk and talk and breathe as you ran from hunt to hunt.

It was a longshot yet everlasting hope of yours that it would keep you from the prying hands of death for just a tad more.

“Yes, Sir,” came out slightly muffled out of your lips but audible nevertheless, exhausted eyes fixated on the damn phone, left alone near the half-finished coffee cups, a trusted, small yet jagged tactical knife and cat-eye shells.

The shells. Grasping them in your hand, that was enough to get you up as your feet dragged you towards the door with a sigh lingering on your lips, a short-lived one in the presence of the man. The textured and grainy rumble of the marker against paper filled the room as his one hand splayed open a faded and overused map, a long finger tracing out the state of Colorado.

What you saw last before turning around to double check the locks on the door, was the name of his eldest written over the blank page, in capitals.

An eyebrow cocked up slightly, not expecting your work further out West to be done. If the mountain state was where he would take you next, he would have to let you sleep a little more. Then again, while it was no secret that you had been one of the handful people who understood the man well - John always seemed to have a covert yet planned agenda running in his mind.

A quality he had certainly passed down to his sons.

“We don’t have much time until he picks up our tracks,” his gruff voice started explaining as you knelt down near the locked wooden door of the motel room, covering the slit that let the faintest hint of white streetlight in with handfuls of salt along the boards - just like they had taught you. Empty eye shells were what followed the nightly precautions, rising up to do the same near the window sills, just below the fabric of the curtains. Arms stretching out under the oversized jacket draped over your frame as they reached, performing the same exact routine that had you engulfed within for the past couple of weeks.

“We’ll move out in a couple of days. I’m guessing it would take him at least a two day drive,” the man kept on reasoning as the cover of his leather-bound journal was shut gently, careful not to spill any of the precious contents.

An understanding nod came out of you, mind rushing as he left the journal by his equally unorganized desk. Hustling pool and being the cause of a bar fight at the same joints, repeatedly, for more than a couple of weeks got boring pretty quick anyway - a breath of fresh air would be nice.

If only that air did not include the demons and the supernatural that seemed to hunt you just as much as you hunted them. It would never be that easy, it never was.

The nonchalant shrug on your shoulders turned into a slight slump as you leaned against the table, your lips drawing out in a smaller line as you took notice of the man’s impenetrable gaze, looking at you with some sort of familiar concern. A deep sigh followed as his leather covered elbows rested on his dark blue jeans, running a hand over his stubbled face.

“Something big is coming, and I think this time, - ” spilled out of his mouth in a breathy series, head shaking just slightly in the weight of his words as his eyes shone with relentless determination.

And it brought such pain, such great, suppressed agony that only a few could see.

“This time we will kill it.”

[cyberdva]

house of cards- j.jk

Summary: A vacation by the shore with a break from constant labor was all a young couple could dream of and when that time finally presented itself it was exactly what they pounced for. A tiny community on the edge of a coastline caught the attention of a young idol and his hidden lover, yet the all but homey atmosphere chipped away at an alarming rate past their arrival. Small happenings caught the eye of the sharp-witted woman, more and more occurrences kept shoving chilling encounters her way. Something was brewing and with the faith of next to no one it was in her hands to keep the life of her dearest at bay along with the force of a menacing spirit having ties to hundreds of myths, it might just be too late. Was it time for a final goodbye?

Warnings: Horror Themes, Sexual References and Romantic Scenarios, Violence, and Cursing  (Perfect Just For Your Halloween) 

Word Count: 4.7k

BTS Masterlist

Main Masterlist

“A house made of cards, and us, inside

Even though the end is visible

Even if it’s going to collapse soon. 

A house made of cards, we’re like idiots

Even if it’s a vain dream, stay like this a little more…”

-

A frisk zephyr of overlooking, pristine Autumn air plunged a heavy set attack through the leaves of helpless trees. Tiny bumps formed by the hundreds along the skin of an unsuspecting idol. His mind was still set in the summer season, time was nothing but a concept to the young adult’s mind. Hours spent training and rehearsing can do that to a person. Life was hard enough trying to shield your personal life away from the public, Jungkook always thought of it like putting his memories in a small box, they never saw the light of day again. His inner frustrations boiled inside of him. He already missed out on so many important journeys in a common life. Even now at age twenty-three  he still has to beg for a break, on his knees if he has to.

“I’m telling you. Nothing’s going to go wrong. Can you please trust me for once.” His voice laced with anticipation, a weekend away from everything, from all the hell pushing its way through the cracks of its gates, felt like a dream. Which was the problem, “like a dream.” Jungkook wanted more than anything to ditch his constant rehearsals and run away with his endearing better half. If it weren’t for the constant bickering of the elders in his group the plan would’ve been set in stone. 

“Fine,” Jungkook sprung back in his girlfriend’s direction and threw his bulky arms over her shoulder, “Just this once, I don’t want Joonie to get mad at you.”

“Yeah, yeah…”

Finally the day came, it was a risky trip, especially with the newest comeback just around the corner. Really, a miracle. In retrospect, it wasn’t the most organized plan, but the small house the couple rented was only a mere hour away. More like thirty minutes away since Jungkook was driving. Y/N would constantly poke fun with him for his reckless behavior behind the wheel, not like she was complaining. It took a good half hour just to reach the highway, the area was lined up with houses, one by one space filled the gaps and the scene trickled out.

Up and down, up and down, the two of them bobbed up and down continuously. You would think for such a mainstream road it would be in much better condition, A wave of uneasiness fell over  Y/N, her eyes crinkled while still trying to keep her composure. Her mind shifted between thoughts of car sickness or a longing of home. Up, up, up they went, the evergreen landscape quickly morphed into blue waves. Jungkook gave a quick glance her way, then again. His brows furrowed, but his eyes stayed on the road. 

“Baby? Are you doing okay? You’re not pregnant or anything, right?” Even with the joking manner his voice gave a shaky form. He cleared his throat, unsure how to continue.

"Nope, I'm ok." she hissed. This road was too crazy, the car too crazy, the whole scenario far from a nice day off. “And no I’m not pregnant yet. Relax a little bit. I just haven’t been feeling great these past few days.” She trailed off. Y/N knew it sounded silly, but as if just admitting it made it real and added a big weight on her chest.” A huff of air spilt from her mouth in a laugh. With hands gripping the edge of the window, things felt easier. Still, a small lump of anxiousness stayed embedded in the back of her mind. Something just felt wrong. There was nothing to pinpoint exactly what. 

“You’re probably just hungry or car sick,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll get over it.”

“I hope so,” Y/N replied. The tiny bit of his smile twitched in the corner of his lips. “Maybe I just left something back at the house. No big deal, no big deal.” She attentively reassured herself.

"Are you sure?" Jungkook squeaked. "We can pull over. I don’t want you to be in any pain."

"Don't worry." Y/N muttered while she chewed on her nail, it was a bad habit. She couldn’t help doing it. Relief washed over her contemplation just imaging how her old friends tried to force her out of it. Soon sorrow after, it had been forever since they last talked. “Nonsense.” A voice reasoned back, Y/N dropped reminiscing on the past quickly. She looked out the window and her mouth grew dry. So much water, she thought. All those farms way back when and none in sight. 

Small airplanes gilded with banners, advertisements for local businesses, or even insurance, it must be ironic if one of those crashes. The place looked menacing. The road became shorter and turns filled their place, looks like their next stop was to fill up the tank. Y/N could see the townsfolk, not all congregated. They speckled out every few yards or so. The vehicle stopped abruptly and Jungkook hopped out without a word. Once the cut door swung open the soft song dancing across the air went dark. Silent. The wooden and glass buildings still standing, the old-timers sitting at the gas pumps, the store shelves still full, the strangers walking. They're all strangers out here, but they've all lived here since more people have come and gone. Weathered, even at their age.  She looked to her boyfriend, her eyes widening. What if that were him? What if they both died there? Or anywhere like this, it better not come to that. She meant no offense, but these people seemed off. It could just be the way they look, but even their movements felt robotic. They were already strangers here, not like they were really going to fit in. Having the small break made Y/N’s nerves settle, the car door slammed shut and back onto the freeway it was.

Blue blurs formed again and music, louder this time, picked back up. Manufactured cool air blew onto Y/N’s face, her fingers clasped the opening shut. The feeling could be described as far from pleasurable. The small knacks in the road kept coming, the build up was painful. A glitchy GPS voice crackled on and off. 

“Dammit, I thought I fixed this.” Jungkook whacked his head against his seat. The poor man spent hours trying to mend the apparent virus filled app, Y/N grabbed the device and replaced it with hers. No bother in trying to mend it now. There was only around five minutes left until they arrived, elation flared through their veins. 

“This is it.” Gravel crunched beneath the tires, leaving a path of marks down the long driveway. Trees cascaded down the trail, sunlight shined down past the windshield, lighting up the various screens underneath. The silhouette of the house loomed down beyond the small white garage which was accompanied by a lean basketball net attached by the top. It was homely, clearly meant for a larger family. It gave more space for random objects trying to fit that “beach theme.” Y/N swung her backpack over her right shoulder with a loud thud, Jungkook snagged his wallet from the cup holder and plopped a dark bucket hat over his head. Even with the odd setting, he couldn’t be noticed by an unsuspecting fan, it definitely wouldn’t end.

“Found the keys under the mat, you can head in.” The door was painted and off brand white, a chiseled glass pane was positioned in the center. It creaked open to reveal a balmy ambience, the kitchen laid straight ahead. A warm brown color pallet coincided with a lemon motley. A beam formed on Y/N’s face. This place lightened the foul spirit from before. The parlor was across the way, a giant TV cascaded over the wall with a slim couch behind. It was cute, except for the off setting décor. There comes a point when too many seashells overload a room. Next to that mess was a long corridor which probably led to the bedrooms, maybe even the bathroom and suddenly Y/N caught wind of a sound, like footsteps. Walking just right in front of her, right down that same hallway. Instinctively, she followed. Her hand shook with small pints of fear. More assorted paintings graced the wall, she didn’t bother stopping to poke fun. The creaking moved faster, so did she. The end of the pathway was nearing, the energy darted to the left, a children’s room. Y/N’s heart beat with fury, her mind was screaming at her to stop, far too late. A whisper swirled past her ears, it was at a nearly unintelligible decibel. The bed was perfectly made, a doorway led to the posh yard out back, and a mirror clung to the wall. No child would really want to stay here, too antiquated. Again, the murmurs returned, this time more of them and they were much louder.

“Bring her back. Bring her back.”

“What in the goddamn fu-” The glass door slammed itself shut, there was no wind, no person. Small cracks forced their way through the corners of the frame. Y/N’s eyes were stunned open, a hand covering her dropped jaw. There is no way she saw that, this has to be a joke.

A hand grabbed her shoulder, shivers ran up her arms with an ache. Her head zipped around with an instinct, her palm smashing into whatever was behind her. A mistake, Jungkook toppled down, grasping his eye. A single tear slipped down the red shot iris. His nose crinkled in distress.

“Baby!” She rushed over to him, “Are you okay? You scared the absolute shit out of me!” Her fingers pressed up against the sensitive skin which relived the man of a groan. 

He brushed her off, “It’s okay, don’t worry.” He pulled her into a quick hug and placed a kiss on her forehead. She was trying best to ignore whatever the hell just happened. “Babe,” he groaned, “It’s so good to see you again.” His body slumped onto the spare bed. Children weren’t an “issue” yet, so the room lost its charming use. In all honesty, it didn’t look really safe to begin with. Open outlets, high ledges, who knows what could happen here. Jungkook grabbed Y/N out of her thoughts, literally, and plucked the air right out of her. Soft lips powdering small kisses across the woman’s face much to her delight. A pang of red heat rose to her cheeks. It was hard to notice, but a wave of satisfaction tore through the face of the maknae. 

“You see me all the time Koo, what do you mean?’ The space radiated passion. This is all Jungkook could have ever asked for. Of course, the circumstances weren’t all the best, but still it was perfect to him. His hands roamed their way across her torso as the kiss deepened. A gasp exploded from Y/N’s mouth with her boyfriend’s lips grazing the crook of her neck.

“Koo.” Her words trembled with conflict, ”Jungkook.” His attention cracking back to actuality, hair dilated with static and all, a faint mark of his tenderness was left by a circular imprint. His smile beamed with devious pride, slowly growing bigger. 

A hand intercepted his ardor. "There’s still stuff in the car. We have to bring it in, before the sunsets please.” A slick eyeroll was the only response mustered up. 

“You’re no fun…” Jungkook slumped to the ground from the edge of the bed into a crumpled pile on the floor. His posture curved and a small pout was sent in Y/N’s direction, down to the small flick of his outer lip. Only she could barely escape his enticing puppy dog eyes. A continuous click sprouted from the disturbed blinds behind their heads, the pressure was obvious. Neither one of them made the first move, it had been so long, too long. They sensed something else though, again no one could put their finger on it.

Amusement was drawn from the other despite the odd mood, ”You’re such a child!” Y/N giggled, which got Jungkook going. He propped himself right back up with full energy bouncing off the yellow-chipped walls.

“We can do whatever you want after we get our bags, scouts honor.” Y/N delicately placed one hand on her chest, the other up on the air. Her boyfriend had absolutely no clue on what she was talking about, but still went along with the spiel best as he could. A dazed nod came from him and his slim finger grasped the ends of his hair, running them through the roots. He slid a small elastic over it all, forming a tiny bun in the back of his head. Jungkook knew it drew his girlfriend wild, that’s why he does these sorts of things. Out of the room he went, Y/N stood silently in her same place, trying to listen for something. Her mind on high alert kept driving her insane. Her only hope, maybe some Advil, was still locked in the car. Her head never moved its spot, furthering the booming discomfort she felt, staring at the large door. It wasn’t right, or it was just her imagination once more. Too soon to determine according to her. The jingling of the car keys signaled the end of her inner battle, louder and louder they went. A small crack emitted from her ankles while slipping her shoes on, accompanied by a groan. It’d been forever since the two of them went out, being locked away in your house while the days stripped away can do that to a person. Hell, it has happened! Jungkook’s hand graced her back ever so slightly, sending the woman into brief hysteria. 

“Screw you!” Y/N jabbed at the chest of her boyfriend playfully.

Jungkook dogged her blows and stuck out his tongue, “Hey! You’re being the jumpy one today!”

Instead of going all the way round the lot, the couple opted for passing through the shady back door, much to Y/N distaste.

“It’s just a door, sweetheart.” Jungkook cooed. He found the situation comical, not knowing the full story of what happened. He grabbed the handle to the exit and it slid back with haste, they were quite careful as to not rupture it even more. The landlord didn’t seem like a pleasant person from their experiences. It felt like opening a greenhouse while stepping outdoors. Even with winter approaching, the atmosphere clung to their frames likes a spider entangled in pesticide. The grass beamed an unnatural green giving it some otherworldly look. Along with the various brightly colored lawn décor, it looked god awful. 

There was a light mist floating above them, blending in with the ash sky. It was truly a freak of nature photo opt, the weather changed more promptly than usual. 

“Maybe we should buy another house like this, huh?” The boyfriend wasn’t just yet done with his rampage of witty one liners, most of which making no sense.

“I never striked you as the suburban family type of man.” Y/N patted his back.

“Dear god no, my standards aren’t that low. Imagine the neighbors.” Now that’s the real horror show. The car was already unlocked, rapidly the trunk was swung open. Just two suitcases and a medium sized bag was left. 

Parading back in didn’t take much time. Next door was the main bedroom, it was nearly identical to the other. Jungkook wheeled his belongings into a folding closet, grabbing the TV remote in the process. Finally, he could rest. Y/N did the same, afterwards she made her way towards the washroom, in hopes of placing a bag filled with various items for hygiene inside. The events that occurred minutes ago had already been mangled aside. 

A mortified shriek came from the very same room Y/N had just stumbled into. Jungkook’s head snapped right up, quickly running down the narrow hallway pictured with corny beach puns and postcards he busted the door right open. The very bags his paramour had just lugged in clatter to the cheap wooden flooring in an instant. With one hand covering her mouth, the other shakily pointed to the wall across the way.

An assortment of hundred legged creatures made their way around the right side of the room, some on the floor, even on the ceiling. Stares of horror were the only response, at least thirty of the innocents were visible.

“Dear god,” Jungkook didn’t like bugs, even more than Y/N. His nerves sprung shot and slowly made his way out of the doorway. The inamorata looked for any spray or object to hurdle their way. The only option was to scavenge through whatever chemicals that could be found in the cabinets. Her shoes slid across the floor with an edge while trying to compose herself. Her boyfriend was scared shitless and the least she could do was calm his nerves. After grabbing handfuls of bottles back she went, but Jungkook was already in her place. 

“Y/N.. you saw that right? You saw the bugs?” His voice trembled.

“What is happening… are we going insane?”

So much continued to happen, proceeding the weird visions Jungkook and Y/N sat outside, watching the stars form. A small dinner was prepared, outdoors of course, the weather refused to make amends and discomfort was high. 

“You know, it’s getting pretty late,” Jungkook smoothed his hands around his lover’s waist. “We should go back inside and try to get some rest. We’re going to be okay.” He got up and extended his arm out as an offer to cling to. No exchange of words provided. Tiredness washed over the two, there was no point in arguing. Walking back into the shady house found only hours ago could be considered the worst choice made, but carelessness was the new fad. Both doors were locked upon entry. The house was warmer than before, Y/N stripped into a cooler outfit, Jungkook removed his lighter shirt and as soon as they hit the bed they were out like a light.

Y/N shot straight up in the air, breathing heavily. Her head whipped around to the clock, 2:24 am. Her other half was still passed out, but he wasn’t the only other person watching them. A large, black figure stood right outside the same glass door. It looked inhuman, what seemed to be seven feet tall, a bony structure giving it the posture of a lazy school boy and it was looking right at her.

Violently shaking the man she whispered, “Someone’s outside Jungkook. Please tell me we aren’t going to die.” He awoke at an instant trying to grasp what was going on around him. Anxiety mixed with shock filled his mind. He held her back down to his chest seeking to go unnoticed.  

“We aren’t going to die. I love you so much princess, please trust me.” Empty promises, he didn’t know what was going to happen. Hope was the only option he had. Hope was the only thing that could save him. He was going to stay up as long as he could until his body gave in. They ran past the doors, the creature created haunting moans while pushing at the crystalware. He showed Y/N into the small supply closet. Sobs racked out of Y/N body, Jungkook’s tears plopped past the roots of her hair. He kept gripping harder onto her, trying to get as close as possible to her core.

“Honey, we have to stay very quiet so nobody gets to us. Okay?” He whispered.

“I know. We don’t want to get in trouble. I’ll go first.” Y/N said, quietly breathing heavily.

“Okay, you know I’ll never let anyone hurt you.” His angelic voice replied, “I’ll go get a knife. Stay right here.” Objections spewed from her mouth, but he didn’t listen.  

The distinct sound of glass shattering filled the vicinity. Then silence. The walls felt like they were closing in on them, the girl knew this might be it. She couldn’t even say goodbye since her boyfriend clamped her mouth shut with his vast palm. It was for the best, surely her head would’ve been on a platter from her cries being found.

“JK?” Y/N called out for him with a longing for his response, “Jungkook? Please come out, I think we’re okay!” So much desperation in her sore croaks. He had to be out there she knew he was.

Her hand flew up in defense as she took a deep blow to her stomach, toppling over the metal coffee table. The ringing became worse, old coffee from yesterday morning mixed with the liquid flowing from fresh, small cuts. Her arms flew up in retaliation, but Y/N’s instincts weren’t as sharp as the knife on the kitchen counter once held by the goner searching for protection. 

There wasn’t any screaming, no struggle or pain. All she could hear was the soft singing of him, they were forever young. He was gone. His smell engulfed her senses, memories, all gone. Y/N would see him soon

“A house made of cards, and us, inside

Even though the end is visible

Even if it’s going to collapse soon

A house made of cards, we’re like idiots

Even if it’s a vain dream, stay like this a little more…”

They sang, they mocked. Her mind was numb with the figure of god-knows-who hovered over her limp physique. Little to her knowledge, Jungkook’s phone laid in the grasp of their left hand with the tantalizing feeling to take a photo to capture this moment. All for nothing.

It was over, they should’ve just stayed home.

Moral of the story: always listen to RM.

cyberdva. 2020

[fatefulfaerie]

Comfort

Wrote this as a birthday present for the amazing artist @territheturtle but it’s the holidays so here’s some more wholesome botw 2 content.

Kind of long, I had a lot of ideas. I suppose that’s a good thing. Or not, your choice to make.

“Hey…uh, Link?” Zelda prompted as she swirled around the remaining soup with her spoon, looking at it ripple and bend before she looked up to him.

“Yeah,” he replied casually as he took a drink of water.

“Can you teach me how to cook?”

He suddenly coughed rather abruptly, as if choking on the water he drank, his face reddening and his eyes watering.

Zelda eyes searched him as he let out another cough and put his head in his palm.

“What?” 

Link let out a chuckle as he started to clear their bowls from the table.

“No way.”

“Why not?” Zelda said with a slight whine.

“Oh let me see,” Link started teasingly before holding a lightly fisted hand before him.

“You burn things,” he said, extending one finger out.

“You’re impatient,” he said, extending out a second finger

“You don’t listen,” he said, a third finger meeting the rest.

“You put in goddesses know what.”

There went the fourth finger.

“And you throw things when you’re upset,” Link said as he emphasized his open and empty palm, “no.”

“I do not throw things,” she insisted, “that’s completely improper.”

Link pointed to his forehead, “bag of supplies,” and to a scratch on his arm, “bow and arrow,” and then his right shoulder, “book.”

“You’re fine,” she said quickly.

“And you’re not cooking,” he said with a smirk as he crossed his arms, “I like our house. I’d rather it not be burned to the ground.”

“Our house?” she asked slower, with a softer tone.

“Y-yeah,” he said, starting to clean the bowls, “our house.”

Zelda smiled as she stood up and approached Link, leaning on the edge of the counter where she stood beside him.

“Cooking is a good skill to have,” Zelda reasoned, “and growing up in a castle means that it’s one of the many skills that I don’t have. So, I figured that since you’re such a good cook, you could teach me.”

Zelda looked to Link, hoping she appealed to his vanity.

“Nope,” he stated simply.

“What if I need to cook for you?”

“Why?”

“If you’re injured…or sick…”

“Only your cooking would make me sick,” Link said jokingly.

Yet Zelda’s frustration was starting to fume, Zelda standing up straight from leaning on the counter and balling her hands into fists.

“I order you to teach me!”

Link smiled, amused at her antics.

“Your orders don’t work anymore, Your Highness.”

Zelda scoffed, inhaling to voice her most heightened anger before her eyes trailed from his smirk to his hands.

He had finished cleaning their soup bowls and was now portioning out flour, sugar, butter, milk, and eggs.

A smile spread across her face, Link looking over at her odd silence and smiling when he knew it meant that she noticed.

“Promise me you’ll listen.”

Zelda nodded quickly.

“I promise,” she said excitedly.

The two of them shifted over to the neatly organized counter, everything so tidy in their own small bowls that Zelda marveled at how she didn’t notice him preparing this much sooner.

“Okay, what are we making?” she asked.

“Fruitcake.”

Zelda looked to Link, surprised to no end. How could he remember that? He doesn’t even remember his mothers’ name and he remembers her favorite food?

No, it couldn’t be, it must just be a coincidence.

“Now everything is already rationed out,” Link said with a gesture, Zelda biting her lip in deep thought, “since we’re baking we do dry ingredients and wet ingredients separately, but eventually they all go in the same bowl. Flour is first.”

Zelda picked up a small bowl and tossed its’ contents in the large bowl.

“Then sugar,” Link prompted, Zelda doing the same thing as she went down the line, repeating it when he said, “and then baking soda,” and, “then baking powder.”

Zelda looked to Link when she finished to find him holding a spoon.

Without a word, she took it and started to stir the piles of white powder into, well, more white powder.

“This isn’t too bad,” she remarked, “what next?”

“Next is the liquid ingredients, so butter, milk, and eggs.”

The butter and milk went in fine. This was simple to Link, but she was getting the hang of it quickly, making him smile as he leaned an elbow on the counter. She’d even stirred with every new ingredient without being told to. “There, see, simple,” she added.

Yet Zelda glared skeptically at the egg as she brought it before her.

“So…” she prompted, hoping the answer would come to her along the way, or that Link would reveal it to her.

“Well, we don’t want the eggshell bit,” Link said, trying to help with a subtle hint, “so you have to crack it open in the center to get out the insides.”

“What if I get shells in the batter?” Zelda asked

Link shrugged. Apparently this wasn’t as life or death for him as Zelda was making it out to be. Shells in cake seemed absolutely horrid to her, but he didn’t seem to care.

Or, and this is what Zelda was starting to fear, he was actually trusting her to do a good job. 

“Here,” he said, taking out another bowl, “you can try it out away from the batter.”

Zelda took a deep breath as she nodded, trying to crack open the eggshell into two halves with her hands.

Yet it crumbled open completely, Zelda looking at the mess of yellow goo and eggshells with panic.

Zelda’s hands froze, looking to Link quickly before averting her glance.

“Link…I…I’m so sorry…I didn’t mean to…”

“Hey,” he said with a chuckle, placing a hand on her shoulder, “it’s okay. There’s a reason why I took out five eggs. We only need two.”

“Oh,” she said with a small laugh as Link took a rag and wiped the mess off her hands.

“I’ll tell you what,” Link said, “I’ll show you how to do one, and then you can do the other. How does that sound?”

Zelda nodded, Link taking another egg and a clean bowl, Zelda watching attentively. 

“I usually use the rim of the bowl,” he said as he lightly touched the egg to the rim, “and hit it lightly three times to create a crack.”

He did exactly as he said.

“Then once it has a bigger crack like this,” Link continued, holding up the egg to Zelda and tracing the crack with his fingers, “I can put my thumbs between it and crack it open.”

From two halves of eggshells perfectly plopped the insides, the yolk coming out without so much as a speckle of an eggshell.

Zelda was so mesmerized by the precision that she barely heard him say,

“Now, your turn.”

“Link,” she started to argue, “I don’t know if I can…”

But Link handed her an egg nonetheless, despite her objections.

“The problem with you,” Link started, “is that you think everything is simple and straightforward, and then you blame yourself when it isn’t.”

Zelda furrowed her brow, inhaling to refute it before Link added, as if he always meant to add it,

“It’s your only fault.”

Zelda blushed, averting her glance with a smile.

“You flatter me too much,” she said as she tapped to egg on the rim without even thinking.

Link watched with wide eyes as she cracked it open with her finger as perfectly as Link had.

“I don’t think so,” he said, pouring the egg contents into the larger bowl as Zelda stirred and stirred them all together.

“Scrape the sides of the bowl to get all the ingredients,” he suggested, “we don’t want to miss anything.”

Zelda nodded as she did exactly that, Link pulling out two thin cake pans.

“Good,” he said, “I think it’s ready to get poured into the pan.”

“How do you keep it from sticking to the pan when it cooks?” Zelda asked, watching as Link pulled out another stick of butter.

“Would you care to do the honors, Your Highness,” he said, ceremoniously sheathing the butter from its’ wrapping as if it were a sword.

“Thank you,” she said as she took it, “Hero of Hyrule.”

Link smiled as she buttered the pan.

“I’m assuming two pans for the two layers?”

“Y-yeah,” Link affirmed.

She was catching on quick.

Together they poured the batter into the two pans and placed it in the furnace, both smiling at the deed.

“I’ll make the frosting while you cut up the fruit,” Link instructed, placing the rest of the ingredients on the countertop.

“How will we know when the batter is cooked?”

“It usually takes a half an hour,” Link said, “so set the Sheikah slates’ timer to thirty.”

“Got it,” Zelda said, excited to test out Purah’s new ‘clock rune’.

Ever since Link returned from the Shrine of Resurrection, Purah has seen the slate as her own plaything, experimenting on it as if it was her own. 

She was overjoyed when Link and Zelda told her that they would be mainly settled in Link’s Hateno house for now, Zelda getting her bearings after her hundred-year fight with Ganon.

Yet, the pair humored the old Sheikah, no matter how young she really was, allowing her to install the clock rune, the voice rune, the script rune. They were all trivial compared to what the other runes could do, but Zelda was delighted nonetheless.

In fact, the last time they were there she kept going on about making pictures move, but the pair of Hylians figured silently that such a notion was far-removed from reality.

Zelda shook off the curious thought as she placed down the slate, focusing instead on the cutting board before her.

Fourteen Hylian berries, one Akkala lime, and one Faron orange, the Hateno grapes, wild berries, and Tabantha berries off to the side, obviously not needing to be cut.

“Link,” she prompted as she looked over to him.

Of course he practically had the frosting done already.

“Maybe you should do this,” Zelda said, her voice hesitant, “I’ll probably cut myself with the experience I have.”

“Nonsense,” he said as he took a step closer, the bowl of frosting now put aside, “as long as you keep your fingers away from where the blade is going or could go, you’ll be fine.”

Zelda nodded, picking up the knife with a shaky hand and placing the blade on top of the orange. She sliced it cautiously until the orange was in eighths, doing the same with the lime before moving on to the Hylian berries, cutting off their tops and halving each of them.

“There, see,” Link said, “not too bad.”

“I’ll get rid of these tops for you,” he said as he reached over and cupped the green and red remnants in his hands.

He only realized how close he had gotten to Zelda when she looked to him, them both realizing with red complexions that their faces were inches away. He must have looked ridiculous, holding fruit in his hand as kept his close distance to Zelda, to the Princess of Hyrule of all people. Her back was barely turned but her head was, their eyes flitting downwards as their breathing heaved.

Link felt as if his heart jumped out of his skin at the sudden and loud beeping that ensued from the slate, Link closing his eyes with a sigh.

“Remind me to tell Purah to change that to anything else but the shrine sensor tone,” Link said before stepping away, tossing the fruit tops in the trash.

Zelda exhaled a deep breath as she registered what almost happened, her eyes searching nothing in particular.

Trying to compose herself, she suddenly bounded towards the furnace, inhaling to sniff the sweetness of the cake. 

A hundred years too long.

Her excitement perhaps getting the better of her, she extended her hand to withdraw one of the pans, Link only looking over in time to hear,

“Ow!!” Zelda clutching her hand with the other and squinting her eyes shut as she whimpered.

“Zelda!” Link exclaimed as he hurried over, placing his hands on the sides of her arms, he clutched her as he continued, “talk to me! You burned yourself didn’t you?”

Link’s eyes were swimming with concern as Zelda nodded.

He rushed her over to the water spout, hastily running cold water before he forcefully took her hand underneath it. She breathed a sigh a relief at the sensation, Link practically holding her in his arms as the water continued.

“See,” he started, "this is exactly what I said, Zelda, you burn things, important things.”

The hot pain soothed under the cool stream, Zelda able to breathe a little easier.

“I’m sorry Link…I don’t know what I was thinking…there’s knowing how to cook, and then there’s common sense…I’m pretty sure I wasn’t thinking at all.”

“It happens to everyone, Zelda,” Link said, “this is a lesson everyone learns, again and again, you’ve learned it before, too.”

“To not burn myself?” she asked.

“To not be as foolish the next time,” he clarified.

Zelda pondered his words as he let her go, her head downcast. It stayed down even when Link put a hand to the back of her head.

“Hey,” Link prompted softly, “look at me.”

Her eyes met his.

“You did great today,” he continued, “you learned, and you learned fast. Just trying new things says a lot about you.”

Link chuckled.

“Maybe tomorrow you can teach me about how all this Sheikah technology works.”

Zelda laughed and nodded, her expression melting.

“And maybe some Hyrulean history, too?” she asked hopefully.

“Whatever you want,” he said soothingly, Zelda thinking she would get lost in his voice until something sparked in her mind.

The cake.

The cake that was done but still in the furnace.

Link apparently had the same thought, rushing over and preparing it. 

It was the delicate things that Zelda didn’t want to ruin, the layers, the frosting, the placement of the fruit. 

Yet, Link brought all the little parts over to the main table anyway, narrating what he was doing step-by-step as if there really was a moving picture of him.

Zelda considered how marvelous that would be as she leaned her head on her hand, in her eyes a deep admiration.

It wasn’t long before Link cut a slice for her and offered it forward with a smile, Zelda returning the expression before her eyes trailed down to the dessert for her to enjoy.

She took a cautious bite as Link took a hungry one, the swordsman waiting for her reaction as they both chewed.

Her expression, however was warping in ways Link didn’t want to see, Zelda tearing up.

“Z-Zelda?” he asked timidly, “are you okay? Does…does it not taste good? I suppose my taste buds…”

Link stopped completely what he would describe as babbling as she shook her head.

“It’s perfect,” she whispered, placing the fork down and bringing her hands to her mouth.

She closed her eyes as more tears fell, Link on the verge of standing up.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I must seem crazy…I’m crying over cake.”

“I cried over a shirt a few months back,” Link said, “emotions never come when we want them to.”

Zelda nodded, exhaling as she brought her hands back down. They were placed as if she were bracing herself against the table, every muscle tensing and freezing until they weren’t.

A warm hand had calmed them in mere seconds, Link forgoing his own hesitation, and now that the deed was done, he didn’t want to let go.

“I remember the last time I had this,” she said softly and sadly, Link paying great attention, “it was my seventeenth birthday. We were to depart from the castle early, too early, in order to ascend Lanayru Mountain by midday…”

“I overslept,” she continued, “my handmaidens rushed to prepare me for a day that I didn’t want. In fact, I wished for all the days before, all those times I could think of my powers and excuse myself just a little because I had not yet reached seventeen, because I had not yet prayed to the statue at Lanayru Mountain. I knew that if this day in particular went wrong, I truly would be a disappointment.”

“The door to my chambers gave way to three knocks. I tensed. I thought it was my father, bidding me a good-bye, a good luck, and another scowl of disdain for this daughter he was cursed with.”

“But…I opened the door, and…it was you. Standing there, with an apologetic smile on your face and…a slice of fruitcake on a plate.”

“I…I don’t think I would have eaten at all that day if it weren’t for you.”

“I don’t remember that,” Link said his eyes searching, “I…wish I did.”

“It’s okay, Link,” Zelda said, Link eyes popping back to hers, “your compassion remains intact, your courage as well. Things like that…are not so easily forgotten.”

Zelda took another bite of cake, this time with a growing smile as her fingers entwined with his.

“No,” he said, “they aren’t.”

[starlling-writes]

How to Care for a Dragon

- Fantasy short story - Monster pet - 1500 words - Suitable for everyone, no warnings - Based on this prompt [pictured below] from @write-it-motherfuckers​: Writing Masterlist

I had no idea how to care for a dragon—

Yet I took the little one in. I left him in the bathroom while I grabbed provisions. Food, water, a couple spare towels. The entire time I gathered things, I was looking up how to care for a dragon. It was all overwhelming. I don’t know why I bothered researching so much; I’d only have to look after him until I handed him over to the wildlife preserve once they opened.

Once work hours finally rolled around, I called up the rescue center and got an appointment right away. Thankfully, the dragon was small enough that I could use the carriers I used to take my ferrets to the vet.

I wasn’t obligated to stay as the vet went about a routine check, but I waited. I was worried about the poor baby. The vet later told me that something likely happened that made the dragon’s mother abandon him. At such a young age, hunting was difficult, thus resulting in him rummaging through my trash. Apparently, I caught him just in time too. He had eaten something that was causing an obstruction. A few more days and…

The surgery was going to be pricey but I could afford it. I had been saving up to go back to school, but this was more important. School could wait, if it meant saving a life. When I mentioned the news to friends, I got mixed reactions. Some were supportive and proud of me for being so kindhearted. A few criticized me, saying I was making a mistake for throwing away my future for a feral animal—I started to cut these people out of my life after this revelation.

I agreed to foster the dragon while he recovered from surgery. The vet office needed the space, and it would cut down on my bill. I still had work, but hopefully I could get someone to come over during my work hours to watch over him. I didn’t trust the little dragon to not destroy my home or attack my ferrets, Socks and Dr. Fusby.

As the days passed, I watched his personality burst forth. Despite all my worries, he loved Socks and Fusby, and they loved him too. While I had to keep the ferrets locked up overnight, all three of them pestered me until I let the little noodles out to play and cuddle and nap with their new scaly friend. My phone was now filled with picture and videos of them.

He needed a name still.

 I had no idea how to care for a dragon—

However, the little guy was in no state to be released into the wild. With a damaged wing, he would likely never fly. And given how bad he had done on his own before, the specialist didn’t think he’d survive long if released. I asked to keep him. He was already used to my place and loved my ferrets. It would be a challenge, but I was up for it. I’d make it work.

After much consultation and agreeing to many follow up appointments with both the vet and the wildlife rehabilitator, they gave me the greenlight.

Now that he was officially mine, I felt comfortable giving him a name. Given he was pale green with black speckles, and what he was eating when I found him, I decided to name him Kiwi.

On the way home, I stopped by the pet store and got a brand new collar for Kiwi. I also got him a harness and a couple toys. The cashier was shocked to see a dragon, but quickly called up their coworkers so they could all gush and pet him. Kiwi loved the attention.

Finally home again, Kiwi wanted nothing more than to play with Socks and Fusby. I picked the furry noodles out of their cage and sat down on the floor. While being a jungle-gym for two ferrets and a baby dragon ended me with a lot of scratches and a rat’s nest where my hair used to be, I did manage to get a cute picture of the four of us. A new family photo. I’d have to get it printed and framed soon.

Training a dragon was similar to training a dog. Sort of. He learned the basic repertoire quickly, and more so that obeying my commands got him food. Then, Kiwi started doing them without prompting. He would walk up to me and sit or lie down, which should have been a good thing. But if I didn’t notice him soon enough, he’d started whining; and if I didn’t give him a treat, he’d start wailing and flapping his wings carelessly, knocking things over.

I really hoped this was just a phase he’d grow out of. Soon.

I wasn’t ready for when Kiwi started breathing fire. I became close friends with the fire department. But after the third major fire Kiwi caused, something had to change.

I began looking for a new home, something made of bricks or stone—something less flammable. The only property I found was quite out of the way, but that made it affordable. When I went to the house for a tour, I learned that it was right next to its own little pond with a rocky shore. I could already see Kiwi sunning himself there in the summer; Socks and Dr. Fusby would enjoy being outside in the warm months too.

I bought the house.

Moving was a hassle in every way possible, but it would be worth it in the end. Now Kiwi had plenty of room to run around. And less things to set on fire. Another thing that worked out well was there were plenty of trees for him to claw. He shed his talons like a cat, and the bigger he grew, the faster he destroyed traditional scratching posts.

How quickly this new house became a home.

 I had no idea how to care for a dragon—

So I grew concerned about Kiwi’s size when he rivaled a moose. He could barely fit in the house now—which was a fact he did not seem to realize. I began renovations. I opened the existing house as much as I could, then added a new room all for Kiwi. It might be more appropriate to call it a barn than a room.

As he grew up, I became less worried about him being outside. His manners had improved greatly and he was such a mama’s boy that I was confident he wouldn’t run away. Some days he’d take longer to return when I called him in for dinner or for bed, but he always came home. I decided to remove the outer doors to his room so he could go in and out whenever he liked.

Then he started climbing the house and the trees. I was at a loss at what to do when he refused to come down. It wasn’t like I could call the fire department to help get him—he was too large for anyone to move without his consent. I wouldn’t have minded exactly, except he kept felling the trees. It was a mess. And I worried about him hurting himself.

At a loss for what to do, I called up the wildlife experts who had helped me when I found him. They suggested that Kiwi likely enjoyed the view and missed flying. Of course, how could I have not guessed that? He often ran around flapping his wings. But that was only half of the issue solved. Now I had to figure out what to do about it.

I was relaxing at home, looking for something to watch on TV, when inspiration struck. It was an old movie that gave me the thought: a tower. There was plenty of land around to build a tower big enough to support Kiwi’s growing weight. I could add scaffolds along the outside for him to climb—and stairs for me to climb so I could join him up there.

Time for more construction.

It was a challenge to keep him off the tower as it was being built. I had to chain him up by the pond to keep him away. His cries and whimpers for freedom broke my heart, but it needed to be done. I offered to help lay some of the stones so the construction would go minutely faster. It was exhausting work.

Once the final brick was set, everyone gathered with food and drinks to watch as I unleashed Kiwi. His eyes were glowing with joy, locked onto the top of the tower. The moment he felt the chain go slack, he bounded forward and scaled the tower like a giant cat. When he reached the top, he let out a jubilant roar and burst of flames; he was so proud and happy.

 I had no idea how to care for a dragon—

But letting one into my life and into my heart was the best decision of my life.

— — —

Writing Masterlist

[fc5holidayexchange]

FAR CRY 5 HOLIDAY EXCHANGE 2019 FIC

FAR CRY 5 HOLIDAY EXCHANGE 2019 FIC “Made For Me”

Nora Williams/John Seed. Nora finds her soulmate.

For @farcry5-obsessions

“I honestly had such a fun time writing this. I hope I was able to do Nora justice and I really hope you like it. <3”

Soulmates are a funny thing. There are all sorts of movies about people finding the person they were meant to be with and yet very rarely did it happen. It was hard to find someone with the exact same freckles as you. There were entire websites dedicated to matching distinct patterns together and still the number of people who actually found their other half was less than a million.

Nora had never understood how it all worked when she was little, if she was being honest she still didn’t totally understand it but at this point, she’d accepted it. Her skin reflected her soulmate’s: if she scraped her knee they got a scar; if they broke their nose she woke up with her’s a little crooked.

She wasn’t sure when the first scar had appeared, her mother was never specific but Nora always suspected some of the smaller ones had always been there. Silvery speckles decorated her palms, presumably from where her soulmate had fallen over and over again, causing the wounds to scar over.

If she compared pictures of herself through the years she could see the evolution of the markings across her body. Her nose had got a little crooked when she was 11, a paper-thin scar had appeared on her cheek when she was 8.

She never thought much about it at first, what the collection of injuries implied. It wasn’t until her stepsister had gasped when they’d been changing that she realized the scars were probably something wrong. A smattering of lashes were scattered across her back. It wasn’t too hard to figure out they were the scars from being beat with something like a belt or a whip, though her dad said belt seemed more plausible based on the pattern.

The first tattoo appeared when Nora was 15, a cross on her left wrist. She hadn’t noticed it at first, it hadn’t been until her 4th period when someone asked about it that she realized it was even there.

When she was 18, Nora got her own tattoo, a small black plane on her collar bone. She’d always liked watching planes fly by her house when she was little so it just felt right. The next day there were two more planes alongside it, the trio forming a “V” formation. It’d brought a smile to her face to see her soulmate adding on to what she’d started.

After that, the tattoos came in waves. She’d wake up to five new ones, then nothing for months. There were more planes over the years, lots more planes. She contributed her own occasionally, a crescent moon on one arm, the next year a dove. Her soulmate had added on to that one, surrounded the bird with a halo of leaves and a cherub reaching for it. Just like with the planes before, the addition warmed her heart, she saw it as an unspoken appreciation and solidarity.

They had been the biggest factor in the decision as to what she should major in, of course, there had been other factors but in the end, it came back to her soulmate. No one helped them when they were going through hell so she wanted to do her part and help someone else.

Two weeks before her graduation Nora had woken up to find her knuckles covered in scars. Some of them were barely visible but others stuck out, evidence towards the severity of the injuries she deduced. That same day she’d gotten a peacock feather tattooed on her arm. A symbol of protection, in hopes that her soulmate, whoever they were, might learn this and know that she cared. She couldn’t do much but if she could give them even a sliver of hope she would try.

• • • •

Nora woke up to a heavy throbbing behind her eyes, she didn’t dare open her eyes. Icy water lapped at the side her face, mud and silt soaked into her hair and clothes, covering her arms. The bliss in her blood made her limbs heavy and the world around her sound like her head was underwater, maybe it was. Someone shouted, the sound melding with the rest swirling around her head. The voices grew louder as the drugs from her mind cleared.

When she finally did open her eyes, it was to a dark sky, stars poking out from behind wisps of clouds. The air smelled like pine needles and rain; if it weren’t for the cultists prowling around the edge of her vision like vultures on a carcass she might even say it was peaceful.

She tried to lift her head but the head still spun a bit, her stomach doing flips when she even considered sitting up. A cultist crossed her vision, drawing her attention to another body on the ground near her, she was certain there would be more if she could just look around.

“This one?” The cultist asked, his voice reached her like he was a thousand feet underwater.

“No,” Another walked in front of Nora, his finger pointed at her. She suddenly realized the stars weren’t just in the sky but also swirling and twirling all around her. The man kept eye contact with her as he passed.

“Don’t seem very worthy.”

“It is not for us to judge.” A pause, the cultist above her swam in and out of focus. “Deliver her unto the waters. The Cleansing begins tonight.”

Nora’s eyes fell closed again as she was lifted up, her head slumping forward. The thought alone of trying to keep her head up was exhausting. It felt like a million tons of brick had made itself at home in her skull.

She must have blacked out, for when she came to again it was to muffled preaching and her lungs screaming for air. She opened her eyes to a rippling face above her holding her until ice-cold water that threatened to fill her lungs as it worked to numb her body. Now she wasn’t sure what were the effects of the leftover bliss pumping through her heart and what were side effects from the river’s attempt to freeze her.

“We must wash away our past. We must expose our sins.”

She’d been in harrowing situations before, this should be nothing new. She had been trained for situations like this, well maybe not this exactly. She was supposed to keep a level head, think through the situation rationally, use what she’s spent years learning to find a way to get herself out of this.

Instead, her mind shut itself down. Maybe it was a vain attempt to protect herself from the horror she was living. Perhaps she’d just been through too much too fast and the stress had finally broken her. Regardless, her mind was empty, her body taking over as panic filled her chest and she wailed, her voice lost before it reached the surface of the water.

“We must atone…”

The hands gripping her shoulders pulled her up, her knees threatening to buckle. Nora took a shaking step forward, the cultist holding her up.

“For only then may we stand in the light of God and walk through his Gate unto Eden.”

She looked up to see a pair of lights far off, maybe a car’s headlights, she wasn’t sure. A man, her brain was functioning well enough to recognize his voice as John Seed, stood feet from her. His body obscured one of the lights and the fuzzy, swaying of her vision made it look like a halo around his head.

She was walked forward slowly, her eyes never leaving him as he blessed the newly baptized and spoke passionately from the text in his hand. Each step felt easier until she was almost striding forward only stopping when she was in front of John. He closed his book, looking her in the eye with distrust and contention. She couldn’t say she blamed him, she’d been wrecking hell for the cult and he likely thought it was her fault this had all happened. If Joseph was to be believed it was all her fault.

Nora spared a second to looked down, her eyes catching on the word ‘sloth’ carved into his chest and crossed out. Her heart clenched and a hand involuntarily went to her own chest to cover her own marking, currently concealed by the shirt she had on.

“Not this one,” John spoke, his voice cold, and his arm darted out to stop the man leading her. He took a sure step forward as he handed off his book. His eyes dropped momentarily to glance at her hand before meeting her eyes again. “I’ll deal with her personally.”

“But—“ John cut whatever the man was going to say with a wave of his hand, the other wrapping around her arm and pulling her forwards towards the cars.

Nora was lifted into the backseat. John didn’t speak a word, silently waving off the people that offered to come with him.

“We’re fine. Finish up here. This one needs my personal attention.”

By the time John pulled the car to a stop again, Nora’s world had stopped spinning and the stars in her vision had gone away. John remained silent as he opened her car door and lead her into his ranch. Now that she wasn’t drugged to hell or on the verge of drowning and her brain decided to start working again she only felt confused.

“What am I doing here?” She questioned as the door clicked shut behind her. John’s back was to her and she heard him sigh before he turned back around.

“Those marks on your hand, your tattoos, did you get them yourself?”

“I— no. What’s it to you?” Her confusion turned into distrust, she tried to cover the hand in question with her other only to quickly realize she was putting those marks on display as well.

“Your soulmate’s?”

“Yes…?” Her heart fluttered with anxiety at the direction the conversation seemed to be going in.

Wordlessly, John nodded and reached up to unbutton his shirt. He kept his eyes locked with hers as he dropped the crisp blue material to the floor.

Her heart clenched at the sight, the same marks that hard disfigured and decorated her own skin were perfectly reflected on his. He took a deep breath and she watched the Eden’s Gate symbol on his stomach swell and the trio of planes below his collarbone rise as if they were flying. The scar on his ribs stretched and she didn’t hesitate to reach out, her hand connecting with warm skin and covering the old wound.

“Can I?” John asked after what felt like 10 minutes of silence. Nora nodded and pulled her own shirt over her head so she stood in front of him in her bra. He looked as amazed as she’d felt at the sight. His hand reached out and ran along her arm, thumb rubbing slow circles over the peacock feather there. The other came up to rest over the ‘sloth’ in her skin.

“I’ll be honest, I never expected to meet you.” His voice was quiet, his eyes filled with a cascade of emotions as he met hers once again.

“Neither did I, but here we are.” Nora smiled and for what seemed like the thousandth time in the last five minutes her heart clenched as he returned her smile.

“Here we are.” He repeated, unable to keep the joy from his voice. His composed mask slipped and he pulled her into a tight embrace. He clung to her like she might disappear at any moment and if she was being honest, Nora did the same.

When they finally broke apart enough to look up at each other, Nora raised a hand to cup his jaw. She ran her thumb against a long healed scar on his cheekbone and smiled at how unreal this all felt.

She didn’t wait a second longer, pushing herself up to capture his lips with her own. The two moved in perfect sync until they had to break away again to breathe, their foreheads pressed together.

“We’re soulmates,” John said aloud, a light giggle on the edge of his voice. Nora nodded, her forehead bumping his with each moment.

“We are.”

[minsyal]

Mutual Feelings Pt. 9, [Revali x Reader]

Summary: Smart nerdy stuff that smart nerdy people do

“Incoming!” The small metal hinges on your door shook as a heavy foot collided with the old crackling wood, only making its condition worse. The door flew open, slammed against the wall, and rattled the entire room. If the shelves and desk weren’t bolted to the wall, they would have clattered to the ground or move. Purah stood under the frame with the widest smile stretching across her face.

She was nothing but a lit firecracker. Her smile spoke words of mischief, as it always did, speaking essays and forty-minute presentations without her even having to part her lips.

You slid the papers you were working on under a leather-bound book. She wouldn’t like their contents. After all, they were full of information to the Divine Beasts controls that she didn’t know about. Controls that you added. You could imagine the look on her face if she learned that you were going behind her back to answer the Champion’s requests.

“Morning, sleepyhead.” She waltzed into the room with an energy that dumbfounded you. How she managed to stay in a perpetual state of joy was something that intrigued you, but you had no desire to live through yourself. “Brought you more super royal work! I know how much you love all that jazz.”

“You know me better than anyone.” You joked, turning your chair to face her. “What is it?”

“Oh,” she danced around you to slink toward the window. “you know! Just… some stuff.” The pile of papers in her hands didn’t seem like too much work. There were only two notebooks and maybe a dozen sheets of paper with scribbles all over them. There was one thing you took note of, the princess’s perfect cursive that seemed to glide across the page.

“Some stuff.” You repeated, quickly snatching a paper before Purah could protest. “Zelda’s work?”

“Precisely!”

“Why?” There was no way Zelda would want you messing with her work.

“Well. Big boss-man told her to focus on her powers. That means that you and I, more so you,” she quickly added, “get to finish it for her!”

“She would be furious if I so much as touched this.” You speedily put the page back on the stack that was now perched on your desk. “Are you sure we’re supposed to do this?”

“It’s not so much as finish it. Rather,” she leaned to the right and then swayed to the left, “add it to our work! It’s about the shrines and everything. You know? Science stuff.”

“Is she allowed to continue searching for shrines?”

“Probably not. That means less trips with her for you! Maybe more time to spend with,” she waggled her brows in a suggestive manner, “you know who.”

“Purah, let’s not go there.”

“Oh sweetie, you already went there! In fact, you’re way past there! You’re,” she pretended to cast a fishing hook off into the distance, “waaaaayyyy over there! And over there,” she pointed in the opposite direction, “was the point of no return.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“All in a day’s work!”

“Don’t you have other work to be doing?”

“Nope!” She swayed on her toes, the mischievous smile never leaving her face. “So, are you and Revali like, a thing?”

“It was nice to see you, Purah.” You rose from your desk chair and began pushing her out the door. “Please, visit less.” Her feet halted in the hall. “I’ll send a card.”

“It better tell me you and Revali are dating!”

You slammed the door in her face. You could hear her giggling to herself as she left.

Shortly after meeting Keumi and learning of her situation, you traveled alone to Zora’s Domain to obtain updates on how many shines were identified in the surrounding areas from King Dorephan and Mipha. Sidon, who is Mipha’s brother, tagged along but proved to be little to no help as he was just beginning to learn how to utilize his swimming skills.

While there, you met a peculiar older gentleman who gave off an air of wisdom and vast medicinal knowledge. He was kind, quiet, and understated. Unlike the other Zora, he lived in the outskirts of the Domain. His whereabouts remained a mystery to the other Zora, and he was said to only appear when he sensed illness.

It was surprising when he set foot in the Domain seeking you.

You sat with the medicine man, listening diligently as he told you stories of his many travels throughout Hyrule. He had been everywhere you had and more. The ingredients he collected for treating illness were from all walks of the land.

“What brings you to the Domain?” He asked, folding his wrinkled hands in his lap. The two of you sat on the steps of the Domain.

“Research.” You commented.

“Just research?” He implored, eyes leaving you to look off dreamily to the sky. He closed his eyes, taking in the breeze that blew through the canyon walls. “I think you’re here for far more than that.”

“More?”

“You have someone special to you. Very special,” his gaze returned to yours, “and they’re very sick.”

“How do you know that?” You whispered, eyes going wide.

“It’s all over your face.” He smiled, “And I’m not oblivious.”  

The medicine man, Sopho, told you of a mysterious plant with an inimitable name, “Omisaato.” The enigmatic flower heavily resembled the Silent Princess, but with small differences in its shape and the introduction of golden speckling on its petals. It radiated the scent of fresh vanilla bean and only sprouted from the ground once a year in varying locations around Gerudo. Sopho told of its intense healing abilities. When brewed correctly with specific ingredients, it could cure even the most devastating diseases or genetic mutations.

He couldn’t provide you with the exact information you needed but could gift you a descent sized book that he had bought on a trip to Kara Kara. Even if there was no evidence of its existence, it was worth a try.

It could fix her. It could save her.

Though it was only a few days ago, Zelda was growing restless. She was itching to breach the walls and return to the wild where she could spend time with what she loved most. You’d find her lingering in the library for longer periods of time, watching over your shoulder as you sifted through her research notes. She’d practically be dangling from the balcony to see what you thought of her work. It was detailed, far more detailed than you had ever bothered to do. She described the make and model, how many screws and bolts she estimated they have, and where she hypothesized, they led to. With such a small entrance, it had to go down. But where? That was the looming question.

“Why don’t you just join me, instead of scare the hell out of Link?” You turned around to find her wide-eyed, either surprised you called her out or surprised that you knew she was there. With a short nod, she descended the stairs and sat down across from you at the table. Link stood a few feet behind her, looking as uncomfortable as he typically did while he followed her around like a lost dog. “Link, come on.”

He hesitantly sat down.

“My notes.” Her fingers danced across the pages that you piled together. “What are they like?”

“They’re yours,” you let out a tired laugh, “you tell me.”

Many emotions crossed her face in very few seconds. Her eyebrows drew together as she contemplated what she wanted to say next. Link was staring blankly at her, likely wondering the exact same thing as you. Zelda reached out and fixed the stack neatly, ensuring the pages corners lined up perfectly.

“Thank you.” She finally said in a quiet tone. “For saving me when we were in Hebra.”

Catching you completely off guard, you examined her expression, trying to figure out whether or not she was telling the truth. She showed no signs of dishonesty. Her eyes were glossy and large, her fingers rubbed together lightly, and her shaking leg inched the table over with each bounce.

“It’s no big deal.” You gave her a tight-lipped smile. “Guess I didn’t expect being a royal scientist meant experiencing 60 volts of electricity coursing through your veins.” With another smile, she was relaxed and smiling back. “Your notes are good. Detailed to all get out. But we haven’t been able to pinpoint whether the shrines in the different regions vary. I’d like to arrange a trip to Gerudo, sooner rather than later, to examine the shrines there.”

At the mention of traveling, she perked up. Something crossed her face that told you the conversations with her father were resurrected in her mind as she physically slumped a bit.

“We can request it to make ambassadorial relation meetings with Urbosa and for the possibility of finding another spring in the desert. He won’t question that.” You assured her.

“I’ll have it arranged at once.”

The next day you set out with Link, Zelda, and Mipha for Gerudo. Daruk and Revali had decided traveling separately would be faster and more efficient for the group as a whole. Plus, they wouldn’t even be allowed to enter the city so getting there immediately wouldn’t be called for. Zelda was much more pleasant than usual. Her attitude changed the moment you suggested the trip and a way around the King’s tightening rules for the young princess. She didn’t even question the cage you wore on your back meant to house the legendary flower.

Mipha, on the other hand, was curious as all get out. She poked and prodded at it, examining the welding techniques used. Link and Zelda led the group while you walked along side the Zora princess who swam slowly through Aquame Lake.

“What is it for?”

“I’m collecting some samples from the desert to take back and analyze at the castle. Boring stuff.” You laughed it off.

“Fascinating.” She was always so joyful. If there was a definition to innocence, it would surely be Mipha. “I’ve always wanted to do more scientific things. There’s just no time to.”

“You’ve helped me install updates to Ruta. I’d say that’s pretty scientific.” You commented. Mipha smiled, ducking beneath the water for a moment before coming back up.

“I mean with lab goggles and coats!”

“Next time I visit, I’ll make sure to bring an extra.”

“I’d enjoy that!”

[zweiginator]

As It Began

Brian May x Fem!Reader

Summary: Brian is twenty-three and working at earning his PhD when he meets you--coy and effortlessly beautiful--in an elective literature course. He’s infatuated by your inattentiveness to him, and he has never wanted anybody or anything more than he wants you.

Word Count: ...12,129.... (i said she was long)

Warnings: Pining, angst, sadness, lust, flirting, (kind of) cheating, filthy sex (unprotected, mutual masturbation, oral) --she has everything

The last bit of summer was dwindling as the days became shorter, the sun seeming to extinguish itself perpetually before nine. Brian looked through his window, down upon the streets of London as yellow raincoats and soggy boots sloshed through glassy rain, the city lights haloed upon grease-slicked streets. He had to focus extra hard to see anything else than his quite bemused-looking reflection, glaring through the cold window as if his sharp nose was pressed against a personal black mirror, and not his bedroom window, where rain was slapping against the glass with such force it made him wince--he got jumpy at night.

But nine was barely night; Brian had made do with the sunken bags which hung under his eyes like a speckled nest where his sleeplessness gathered into shades of pinks and purples, luckily barely visible from his freckled tan, deep from the sunny breezes in Tenerife which kissed his cheeks, cascaded down his languid body.

He’d spent the summer on the humid, lush fields in Tenerife, stammering through Spanish and squinting through poorly-assembled lenses and telescopes borrowed from the university--that the department only let him have after filling his ears with passive threats. They knew Brian would never disrespect their property; he couldn’t disrespect anything if he tried.  

And now, his hands were dry from that quintessentially summer sun as he traced the rain droplets that trembled from the slope of the shingled roof, wishing he could feel the water seep into his pores, so he could think about anything else, other than the oppressing anxiety of his next journey that would surely immortalize those sunken eyes of his. He was going to start his studies for his PhD the next day, his father’s urging. And while of course Brian wanted to continue his studies as well, his stomach felt tightly-wound and his fingers trembled like the rain on the window as he thought about the work, the classes, the time he would have to inevitably spend on school. He was lucky enough to have received a full scholarship for his PhD, but left the endeavor feeling more forced upon him than his father’s dreams of him did. His work at his undergraduate studies was impeccable; he received almost perfect marks and he spent the weekends teetering between two very antithetical sides of himself. One weekend Brian would be sat on a rooftop with his college friends, their hair mussed from the mid-summer’s breeze, stringy from the wind pulling the strands apart as they quarreled about angular measurements and accuracy. And the next weekend he’d have eyeshadow firmly packed onto puffy eyelids as he tried to maneuver his bony hands over his guitar, his flowy sleeves like wings which seemed to take him to a more natural state of himself, where the expectations for him weren’t so serious.

His eyes began to flutter shut, the London traffic becoming a sort of lullaby for him as he laid down on his bed, which sat against the window. His sheets were crisp and cold, and his teeth chattered as he pulled a fleece blanket of his over him, up to his shoulders. He leaned over to his bedside table and fiddled with his alarm clock, his white nail polish glowing by the yellow street lights which gleamed through the window beside him. He set the clock for 8:30 AM precisely; his elective literary studies class beginning an hour later.

__

“Brian, would you turn the fucking alarm off?” Roger rattled the doorknob before turning it swiftly and flipping the light switch on and off, on and off.

Brian groaned, pulling his flattened pillow over his face, his hair sloppy from sleep. “What are you talking about, Roger?”

“Your bloody alarm has been blaring for almost half an hour; you woke us all up, we thought we were going crazy!” Roger yanked the cord of the clock, sighing in relief as the sharp ringing finally stopped echoing through his ears.

“Half an hour?” Brian sat up, rubbing his eyes. He did the math quickly, despite remaining half asleep. “Shit!” He thrust himself out of bed, his comforter promptly falling to the wooden floors as he realized class started in less than thirty minutes.

“My alarm was going off for half an hour and you never bothered to wake me?” Brian glared at Roger, who was laying on Brian’s naked bed, his hands woven together, resting on his chest as he looked at the ceiling.

“Not my job to wake you up, Bri. You’re twenty three. Why was your alarm even set?” He furrowed his eyebrows, interrogating Brian, who struggled to button his flared trousers due to his shaky hands.

“You waited fucking half an hour! Now I’m going to be late and it’s my first day!” Brian stood in front of a mirror which hung by his closet, mussing his hair in an attempt to somehow reverse how messy it looked already, loose curls arranged in awry tufts.

“First day for what?” Deaky walked in, his feet padding against the cold floors. He was wearing his boxers and a baggy t-shirt, his voice groggy from a restless slumber.

“University! I’m still going to school, remember? I’ve only told you on about eight different occasions.” Brian shrugged a white button-up on, not bothering to fasten it all the way; he didn’t have time. He turned his necklace around on his thin neck so the chain was positioned as he wanted it to be.

“Right. Well you definitely told us that while we were pissed off our asses.” Roger had plugged Brian’s alarm clock back into the wall, and was attempting to set it to the correct time again by looking at a watch of Brian’s sitting beside it.

“Whatever. What time is it, Rog?” Brian yawned, pulling a light jacket on as he sat on his bed, scouring the floor for socks to wear. He found a navy blue one an a black one and decided those colors were similar enough to count as matching.

“Quarter past nine.” He pat the clock gently as he finished setting it.

“Fuck.” Brian piled his books into his arms and shoved them into his school bag before grabbing a dull pencil and tucking it behind his ear, the yellow barrel obscured by his thick curls.

“Bri we’re recording a demo at five tonight. Bring your guitar; you always forget it and we’re too fucking poor to wait on you like last time and waste our rental money.”

Brian glared at Roger and slung his guitar case over his shoulder, his school bag hanging heavy on his other one. He was embarrassed to be bringing his bulky instrument on his first day of classes, and was on the verge of anxiety-induced tears by the thought of being late on the first day where school was actually meant to be real and professional and for something.

He strolled through the streets taking wide and sure strides, staring at his watch so often he mumbled ‘sorry’ to quite a few strangers as his guitar case knocked into their sunken shoulders. It was almost half-past, and his shoes were caked in a thin, rain diluted mud, making his presence on the street that much more palpable, a constant reminder that he was late. He was walking against the wind, and his eyes were squinting, his breath caught, frozen in his nostrils and trapped in his throat as the heavy air blocked his lungs.

He ran to the liberal arts building, his guitar hitting against the ridges of his spine as he dodged leisured students who were chatting through the corridors. His watch read nine thirty-four, and he bit his lip as his knuckles rapped against the cherrywood door of the classroom, his metal rings making a clean, tinny sound against it. He had always prided himself on being on time to school. He was always waiting by the door, sitting on a small glossy wooden bench as his foot tapped in tune to the clicking of his watch, waiting for the hour to strike. He hated being late, and he was attempting to rehearse what he was going to say, when the professor opened the door, pursing her thin lips, which she painted red, probably in an attempt to reassure herself that her youth wasn’t completely lost.

She rose her thin, almost semicircular eyebrows, opening the door wider for Brian to come in. When she saw his guitar case, she scoffed, and Brian’s face reddened, feeling her judgement as his professor looked him up and down, noting his disheveled hair, his exposed chest, tight pants, muddy shoes. Brian sauntered through the door, trying his best to look cool and relaxed, channeling his on-stage persona which was admittedly hard to summon when seventy-five colleges students were staring at him as if he were an unworthy specimen.

“This isn’t a music studio, I hope you know that much--,” She paused, looking at her roster, waiting for Brian to fill in the blank. He stood in front of the rows of seats, and he finally understood why students were referred to as pupils; he felt more than one hundred of them watching his every move, amused by his perturbation.

“Brian. May.” He straightened his back, trying to get his guitar to fall more comfortably on his body; it was starting to make his back ache. He continued, trying to redeem himself, but it presented itself as a lost cause. “I know it’s not uh--a music studio. My band has a recording session after my classes today. I wouldn’t normally be so--late. And messy.” He added, shaking his head slightly to move his hair out of his face, even though he wanted nothing more than to hide behind it.

The class snickered, their chairs orchestrating a symphony of screeching against the paneled floors as they stifled laughs at Brian’s embarrassment.

“Well, keep your guitar by the door, so people can actually see the lecture you’ve so kindly interrupted.” Brian quickly pulled the strap over his head, his hair bouncing back into its place--not that it really had a place on his head. Each strand fell on his face--upon his brow, differently every day. “You can sit down next to Y/N Y/L/N. She’s front and center. Can’t hide in the back when you fail to be on time.”

Brian’s eyes followed the professor’s--who he learned was named professor Lee--perks of standing beside her desk for over two minutes; he counted on his watch. You sat exactly where she said, and you were looking at him with concern, your legs crossed over one another as your sneaker-covered feet bobbed up and down. You were wearing a casual dress with black tights, your shoulders covered by a thick coat. You were drawing swirls along the curved corners of your notebook, your fingers tracing over the metal spiral simultaneously. Your eyes were boring into his, your lip sucked between your teeth nervously. Brian’s eyes widened as he took in your features, the easiness of them making him nervous to sit down next to a creature so beautiful, and effortlessly so. Your hair cascaded perfectly, falling in a way that was completely opposite of his own. His shoulders fell as he took his school bag off, setting it on the floor next to yours. You gave him a genuine smile, your eyes crinkling, eyebrows framing the grin flawlessly. He smiled back, canines poking through bitten, wind-chapped lips. Brian stretched his legs as he slyly buttoned his shirt up a bit more, feeling out of place in a room full of pristinely dressed, serious students. He always identified as a serious student, but his confidence was severely off-kilter because of just  how much he stood out. HIs hair wasn’t gelled down, he didn’t wear a nice tie, or tailored trousers. His nails were painted, fingers adorned with silver rings, still cold to the touch. He had grown more comfortable with feeling uncomfortable--different--because he had to as a performer. He’d learned to embrace his style, which would forever be more akin to his musical persona than his studious, scientific one. But sitting next to the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, he wished he could have made himself a worthy contender of getting to know you. He wished he wouldn’t have embarrassed himself so much, made himself look uncaring, stupid. He wanted to promise you:  yes, I’m smart! I care so much about this; I’m not normally like this!

But he pulled his own journal out, fresh and leather bound, a gift from his father for enrolling into university once again, almost as soon as the accomplished glow of graduation wore from his face, the happiness immortalized by hundreds of photos his mother insisted on taking. He reached behind his ear, in search of the pencil he had tucked there earlier. He couldn’t find it, and he desperately patted his pockets, rolling his eyes as he failed to find one in his bag as well. His heartbeat was warped, uneven as he leaned towards you, your perfume wafting into him, making him even more nervous, somehow. You felt his eyes on you, and saw him leaning in through your peripheral vision, so you turned your head to face him, taken aback by his big, hazel-but-leaning-towards-brown eyes, his eyelashes delicate, but heavy looking nonetheless. His nose was aquiline, curved and prominent, a centerpiece that accented the rest of him well. His bottom lip protruded as he asked you if you would so kindly spare him a pencil. Or pen; he specified he would be okay with any utensil.

You rummaged through your bag, handing him a purple pen, the plastic cap barely bitten, but you were a bit tentative on giving it to him. His fingers brushed against yours, and you noticed the size of his hands, the white nail polish, chipping along the edge of his nails as he took the pen from your loosening grasp.

“Thank you, Y/N.” He whispered, looking up at you through his impossibly long lashes, as he scribbled on the corner of the first page of his journal. The pen was dry, and Brian poked his tongue out, poking the tip of the ben with it, the sting of metal coursing through his mouth, making him wince a bit.

“No problem, Brian.” you uttered, watching as the ink began to flow upon the page, purple ink bleeding into illegible scribble as he focused on the lecture. You turned away and did the same, until the professor dismissed class, the students intuitively and synchronously gathering their things to leave. Brian was slower, not wanting to leave before you did. He mirrored your actions, filing his papers in a folder, closing his journal gently, pretending to be fascinated by a blank, speckled piece of paper inside of it. He only stood up to leave as you did. He halted by the door, where his guitar case sat, leaned against the edge of the chalkboard. He bent down, picking it up slowly, trying not to be too conspicuous with his side-eyed glances to you, as you smiled at a couple, letting them leave in front of you. You hung your head, messing with the hem of your dress, pulling a frayed string from the seam. Brian stood at the door, looking at the plethora of novels shoved into professor Lee’s wooden bookshelf that, uncoincidentally, matched the wood on the classroom door perfectly. Your pen was between his lips, protruding out like a long skinny and purple cigarette, as he feigned interest in whatever book cover caught his eye.

As you neared him, Brian’s stature improved, his back straightening although his lower back was tender from the weight of his many bags and cases. He quickly took the pen from out of his mouth, wiping the spit that gathered on the end on his sleeve.

“Sorry.” he handed the dried pen to you.

“Don’t worry about it.” Your fingers lingered on top of his as you took the pen back, sending a jolt up the back of your neck, and you shivered a bit.

As soon as you and Brian left the classroom, your friend’s arm was draped around your shoulder, leading you away from the bewildered face of Brian, standing in the hallway, looking like a sea of words were jumbled in his mouth, unable to get out.

__

“How was it?” Freddie took a sip from a half-drunk beer bottle, passed to him by Deaky. Brian was the last to arrive at the recording studio--his astronomy class was long and strenuous, but he felt a lot better, because that’s where he really fit in, where he knew what he was doing.

“Besides being late because you guys are assholes, it was fine.” He took his guitar out of its case and pulled the leather strap over his head, tracing the swirling designs which reminded him of the designs you drew in your tattered notebook.

“Darling, you’re getting your PhD. You’re smarter than all of us, so you can figure out how to wake your skinny ass up.” Freddie took another swig of beer, tilting his head back. His jaw was prominent, and his eyes were a bit puffy, like the rest of the band’s.

Brian sat down on the couch next to Roger, strumming, pulling each string, pronounced and harmonic as the melody thumped through the cigarette-smoke tainted air around them. It was impromptu; Brian came up with it on the spot, his mouth hung open as his coin plucked the strings, vibrations coursing through knobby fingers.

“That’s a nice sound, Bri.” Deaky scooted near him, and watched intently as Brian repeated it, his lip pulled taut between his teeth.

“Got lyrics for that? A composition?” Freddie set his bottle of beer down, standing up as the producers came in on time, for once.

“Uh--no. Just came up with it on the spot.”

“It would be a shame to waste that; it was gorgeous!” Fred pinched Brian’s cheek and pointed a finger at their two producers--short, burly men that contrasted from the band’s look. They looked tired, and annoyed by their liveliness, by their perpetual feelings of having nothing to lose--except for money.

They began recording a short EP, and it was a good day at the studio. Their voices meshed together, silk that was carefully threaded, impossible to pull apart, cohesive, but somehow still fragile and elegant. They never missed a beat, and their long nights of playing until their fingers were blistered and their voices shaky paid off.

The producer pulled his headphones off, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He was smiling though, which was rare for his usually quite cold and harsh demeanor. “This is really strong, guys.” He said, his smile growing so his crooked teeth poked from under chapped lips. “I have a good feeling about this demo. Radio stations have a good chance of actually playing this.”

Brian nudged Roger, and they all began to celebrate, taking swigs from a flat bottle of beer sitting on the edge of a coffee table, scattered with playboys and time magazines--requests from both sides of the spectrum.

“But,” He finished, pointing a finger at them. “I think it would be better received if there were a slower song. Keep Yourself Alive and Liar are fantastic. And I love how My Fairy King slows it down a notch. But I think it needs one more strong song, just to show them you can do it, you know?”

They all nodded, understanding his point, and willing to follow whoever or whatever to the end of the earth if it meant they could gain a speck of recognition for over a year of musical differences, failed bookings, unimpressed record companies.

“Brian, maybe something with that guitar thing you did?” Roger suggested, pointing his almost-empty beer bottle at him, sitting on the arm of the couch, watching as the producers prodded with the controls, playing with the sounds.

“Yeah, I’ll try to come up with something.” He picked the chipping nail polish from his cuticles, trying to think about possible lyrics. But the thing about songwriting--writing in general--for Brian, was that it couldn’t be a forced act. It was like that for everybody, he thought. It had to come deep from the subconscious, the chambers of the heart, submerged in blood and vulnerability.

__

It was the third week of classes before he saw you again. You had been sick for a week--he didn’t ask you, or know for sure, but he could see it within the rawness on your nose, how your lips were chapped just slightly, your skin a tad paler. He shuffled in his seat as you sauntered towards yours. Brian’s smile faltered as he saw a hand resting on your lower back, against the suede of your coat, probably soft against his fingers. It was a guy he recognized; he sat a couple rows back. He was the complete opposite of Brian physically: more than a head shorter, neat, straight blond hair. He wore expensive suits to class, and wire rim glasses that looked outdated, but he also pulled them off nicely. He was more forward, his hand was tracing down your body, inching lower on your back, almost pulling at the top of your skirt. His name was Thomas, he believed--or maybe he went by Tommy. Brian’s gaze followed Tommy’s fingers, as they crawled towards your hips, digging into the soft skin before he kissed you softly. Brian quickly turned his way as his eyes met Tommy’s, instead looking at the door, watching the students trudge in, finding their seats as they shrugged off soaked coats, rubbing their hands together to create any kind of friction. He raised his eyebrows at Brian, hanging your coat on the back of your seat. Your lips pressed a firm kiss on his jaw as he stood up again, your dark lipstick staining his skin.

The lecture began, seemingly as soon as Brian tore his eyes from your profile. You could feel his stare, his jaw tensed. And then he looked away as professor Lee came in, setting her bag down before getting to her lecture, her dainty fingers holding a fresh piece of chalk, dry in her hands.

“We’re beginning our section on ballads today.” She scrawled the word in white, her handwriting lopsided, uppercase, angry. Brian covered his journal with his arm, writing your name on the top of the paper, so small he had to squint to make it out. He scribbled it out just as fast, realizing how stupid he was--a post-graduate student, a few years away from being Doctor May, pining over a girl who was dating his obverse, a guy he could never be--never wanted to be.

“I want you all to write a ballad or an ode. I want it to be abstract and complicated. It needs to be professional and serious--this isn’t just some entry level course. It should be done by the 2nd of October. I’m giving you almost a month, so be thorough, creative.” Professor Lee rubbed her hands together, a puff of powdered chalk billowing through the air as she dismissed the class.  Brian slammed his journal shut, pushing his pen behind his ear as he quickly packed his belongings; he had to go as soon as possible. He grabbed his bag quickly, shoving the journal inside along with his textbook, not caring that his paperback ripped a bit as the tough corner of his textbook nudged against it. Tommy was between your desk and Brian’s, his hands in his pocket as he waited for you to pack up your things. He adjusted his glasses as he made eye contact with Brian, Brian rolling his eyes the almost imperceptibly at his smug face, his expensively tailored shirt and silk tie.

“How did your recording session go?” Tommy asked, condescendingly, handing Brian a small paper he had dropped--a draft of a song he was writing. He snatched it from the shorter man’s hand and shoved it in his pocket.

“We recorded a demo. We’ll see if it gets anywhere; we just have to make some finishing touches.” Brian pursed his lips, his curls flopping as he picked his bag up. You and this Tommy--Brian still didn’t know if that was even his name--followed him as he left, almost mockingly. As if he were saying look, I have what you want. I’ll never let you forget it. Brian stood up taller, slowing down so he was walking next to you, your boyfriend on the other side, his arm around your waist, holding you tightly. You looked up at Brian as he spoke, more relaxed now, mellow and sultry.

“I’m hoping the demo is well-received. We worked really hard on it.”

What he said was innocent enough, but as you watched his face, his curls falling over his dilated eyes, his lip bitten, his shirt unbuttoned like always, you wondered what he was doing. His jaw clenched, and your face grew hot as his sleeve just barely brushed against yours; two whole layers in between making you imagine how touching his bare skin would feel--but you couldn’t do that. Brian opened the heavy door, leading outside where a persistent rain was cascading through the streets. The clouds were almost yellow, hazy, like the leaves which crunched beneath the feet of perturbed Londoners, shuffling past each other, shoulder-to-shoulder. He ushered you out, making sure that Tommy went first. Brian pressed a hand down on your shoulder, and the touch was firm, you felt it everywhere.

“Do you--” you began, pulling your hood up to cover your head, looking at Brian, angelic yet almost sinful to look at.

But he interrupted you, patting both your and Tommy’s shoulders as he raised a hand to greet a blond guy across the street, who was holding a cigarette between his lips, shielding it with jittery hands as he attempted to light it by the covered entrance of a restaurant.

“I’ve gotta go,” He grinned at you two, pointing a thumb across the puddled street. “See you guys next week?”

You nodded, a shiver rising up your back, not because of the cold, but because of Brian’s voice; you’d never noticed how nice it really was. You grabbed his wrist, and Tommy glared at you confused.

“Brian.” You said, assured. He quirked an eyebrow. “You’ve got an eyelash on your cheek.” You stood on your toes and plucked it off, the dark hair prominent against your fingertip. You held it in front of his lips. “Make a wish.” You nudged your finger forward, bumped by a stranger’s shoulder against your own. Your finger grazed against his bottom lip, just barely, as he blew his eyelash, watching as it was whisked away.  

Brian waved a goodbye at you, his ring shining under a particularly bright street light as he strode across the street, his hands now shoved deep in his pockets, his hands playing with the perforated edges of a song, hidden away.

___

That night left him sitting at his desk, his fingers gripping his pencil, which he forgot was behind his ear until Deaky teased him for it.

“You’re such a geek, with your pencil behind your ear. How studious you are.” He reached up and grabbed it, and Brian took it back, facetiously rolling his eyes.

Now, he used that pencil, tapping on the crumpled paper in front of him, the same piece that was tucked away in his pocket all day. It was a little soggy, but it would work well enough. The boys were bugging him to write a song, and he knew he had a ballad to write for class anyway. The rubber eraser was dull, completely flat and black, from all of the erasing, and it had grown shorter from how much he had used it. He leaned back on the legs of his desk chair, a mahogany wooden one his father made for him as a housewarming gift. He squinted his eyes, trying to make out the time on his alarm. His eyes focused, and he sighed deeply. It was nearing four AM, and he didn’t have a single, cohesive line written down. He turned off his desk lamp, the only light in his room from the stars, which seemed to be unusually bright, and unshrouded by heavy clouds, like they always were in London. Brian hugged his legs to his chest, looking out the window, his eyes glossed over, tired but unable to sleep. He picked the fuzz from his socks, taking a deep breath before dozing off, curled up tightly. The flat was empty; Deaky was at his girlfriends, Roger and Freddie out at the bars. But he sat alone, like always, cold.

__

The week elapsed quickly, and Brian hadn’t looked at the song--well the lack thereof--since shoving it in the depths of his school bag seven days before. That next Monday was sunnier than usual, and the flat was eclectic, even at ten AM--which was much earlier than the other three men would ever choose to wake up. They had a gig that night, only because a desperate pub owner’s former booking backed out after they all developed awful strep.

“What a blessing!” Freddie clapped his hands together, alluding to the other band’s sickness.

“Watch it, Fred. Karma’ll get you if you keep saying that shit.” Deaky rubbed his eyes, pulling socks on his feet, which looked numb.

“Oh, shut the hell up. We needed this.” Freddie poked Roger’s sides, sitting on his stomach, making the blond wince in pain. He groaned, pushing Freddie off of him, holding his stomach as he curled into himself. He was hungover from the night before; he and Freddie had stolen sips of uncountable martinis, whiskeys and gins at the bars the night before, and the concoction of it all seemed to be chemically reacting inside of him.

“Fuck, Fred. I won’t be able to play if you kill me.” He rolled over, shoving a throw pillow over his head. “Let me be.” His voice was muffled, his lips against the couch. “How are you even functioning, Freddie? You drank more than me.” His voice was barely intelligible, but Freddie understood perfectly well.

“It’s the adrenaline, sweets. Where’s Brian?” Freddie left Roger alone, walking over to his room. The door was shut, and Freddie, opened it, Deaky following behind him.

“He’s at uni to finish some astronomy thing so he can take the day off for the gig.” Deaky took a bite out of an apple.

“Chew it right in my ear, Deaky.” He rolled his eyes, and Deaky chewed more dramatically, directly into his ear as he ran away.

“You’re fucking deplorable, Deaks. Who raised you?” He giggled, taking another apple from their counter, biting into it just as pronounced, the juice dribbling down his chin. They heard keys jingling outside of the door, and Freddie looked through the tiny peephole, shoving Deaky aside so he could see first. But Deaky swung the door open.

“Bri!” He ruffled the taller man’s hair, and Brian pulled his bag off of his shoulder, dropping it on the ground by their coat rack, the hard books inside clunking against each other. “You ready for tonight?”

“I suppose. I’m a bit nervous; we haven’t really played in awhile.” He shut the door behind him, pulling his jacket off.

“DON’T FUCKING SLAM YOUR SHIT ON THE GROUND, BRIAN!” Roger screamed, groaning into the crevice of the couch.

“He’s hungover.” Freddie nodded, throwing the core of his apple into the trash, along with Deaky’s. “But he has to suck it up and get up! Because we have a show to put on at seven!” Freddie screamed towards the living area, and Roger’s feet twitched, startled by his voice.

“Get me about four painkillers and a cold glass of water and I’ll think about it.” Roger sat up, his eyes sunken and bloodshot, making the blues of his irises that much more pronounced. Brian reached into the cupboard and got him three painkillers.

“All we have left.” He confirmed shaking two other empty bottles of pills, tossing them away. Freddie handed him a glass of water, the ice clinking against the spotted glass.

Twenty minutes later, they were in the band van, Brian driving since he was the most level-headed. Roger would usually insist, but he was in the back, leaning his head against the side of the van, groaning as he hugged Brian’s blanket around his body.

“Turn the heat up, maybe?” Roger scolded, projecting so Brian could hear him over the rattling of their instruments.

“The heat is on, love. You can’t feel it when you’re as far away from the front as possible.” Freddie turned to face Roger, who was flipping him off as he crawled to the front so he could warm up a bit.

“Turn right at this light, Bri.” Freddie pointed to the traffic light a ways away, the yellow light hazy and fuzzy around the edges.

“I know how to get there.” Brian stopped at the light, the windshield splashing with a thick coat of muddy rain as other cars drove away. Brian gripped the wheel as he turned, the windshield wipers ridding the window of the acidic rain.

He parked the van at the back entrance of the pub, where, thankfully, there was a small awning so they wouldn’t be completely soaked. They lugged the drum kit out first, and Roger refused to help, widening his eyes and holding his stomach, feigning and over exaggerating his hangover.

“I’m sure this mysterious illness will suddenly cure itself when you find a groupie tonight.” Deaky slung Brian’s guitar over his back, grabbing extra drumsticks, thrusting them into Roger’s hand. “Can you handle these, Rog?” He patted his back gently, giving him a faux-sympathetic look. Roger faked a cough and wobbled inside as Brian locked the van, their wardrobe bags tucked under his arm.

__

It was nearing seven, and the band’s persistent advertising paid off; they were almost at capacity. Brian peeked out from behind the curtains, seeing everyone packed together tightly, the sound of Roger’s cymbals only accentuating the loudness of the crowd.

“It’s packed.” Brian smiled, giving his bandmates a thumbs up as he slung his guitar over his body. All of their outfits were a lot more flamboyant than usual, the patterns more daring, pleats more defined. Their eyes were caked in makeup, and eyeliner threatened to smear from the sweat that was already forming from nerves and body heat in excess.

The show began almost promptly at seven; they had begun to set up too early, but they couldn’t help the excitement of having their own gig--no openers, no distractions--even if it were entirely coincidental. They played with complete precision, their voices flowing through each other, harmonies flawless. Roger’s beat never faltered, Deaky’s fingers never skipped a chord. Freddie’s voice was clear, resonating loud, his projection making a microphone almost unnecessary. Brian felt in his element, talented. He was zoned out, not thinking about university for the first time since classes began weeks ago. His fingers slid across the strings, almost automatically, even though he hadn’t seriously practiced or played in what felt like months. The recording studio was different; they had the ability to fuck up. But there, on stage, was the real deal. It was showing the world their capabilities when there was no room for mistakes, and a quite sufficient amount of room for ridicule and criticism. But the crowd wasn’t critical, Brian thought, as he watched them sway, entranced by Freddie’s performance, his mike stand almost conducting them to move in sync with each other. His eyes squinted, blinded by the red lights, the stage smoke which Freddie insisted was a critical part of the experience. And as the lights were cut, Brian, along with the rest of the band hated to feel the beginnings of the end already. They wanted more, wanted to be the center of attention for more than a two hour set every few weeks, whenever they could get lucky enough to book something semi-substantial.

As Brian ducked backstage, he already heard the unmistakable sound of a champagne bottle being popped, then the protests as the foam bubbled over. Deaky sucked it from the side of the bottle, Roger opening his mouth to catch the drops which were dripping down the side of the green glass bottle. A bartender handed Brian some champagne flutes, and he fumbled with them holding each one between a bony finger as he set them down on the table, which was really an empty beer crate. Freddie poured them all a glass, and then another one. And they popped open more bottles of champagne before they ventured to the bar, where crowd members bought them shot after shot, which they downed, out of respect, of course.

So Brian wasn’t all that surprised when he woke up, drool dried on the side of his cheek, his arm hung off the side of a booth, his body halfway obscured under a table which was cluttered with dirty glasses, limes with the juice sucked out. His arm was severely asleep, and his head was pounding, his legs curled up since the booth was much too short to fit his entire body. He tried to sit up, but he hit his head on the bottom of a gum-plastered table.

“Ow!” He rubbed his head, and Deaky jostled on the booth across from him, groaning. His shirt was all the way unbuttoned, and one of his shoes was nowhere to be found, the other one still snug on his foot.

“Fuck.” Brian ran behind the bar, throwing up in a trashcan as he held onto the edge of the marble tabletop for support. He stood up, wiping his mouth with a napkin he found under a diluted martini. He was getting himself a glass of water when he saw the time on a neon clock hung near a shelf of vodkas. It was 8:55 AM. It could be worse he thought, quickly filling three more glasses with cold water, setting them by Deaky, Freddie, and Roger who were all knocked out, snoring in different corners of the bar, stinking of booze and sweat, just like Brian probably did. He grabbed his guitar and the keys to the van, changing into his old clothes which sat, pooled in the back. Except he accidentally put on Deaky’s shirt which was way too tight. But he didn’t have time to change; he just put on a velvet blazer and some trousers that could have been Freddie’s (they seemed a bit short), and grabbed his school bag, patting himself on the back for underestimating himself the night before. He left the keys back with Deaky, knowing he’d be the most apt to drive them home, judging by Roger and Freddie’s sleeping positions--Freddie was almost upside down, and Roger was on the floor, half naked, still holding on tightly to a half-drunk bottle of gin.

Brian jogged to class this time, the streets a bit quieter, as most of the weekend crowd had dwindled. Everyone seemed to know where they were going, and Brian strode through the outskirts of campus, cutting through a small trail lined with foliage. He held his guitar this time, his knuckles numbed and white from gripping the handle so hard. He lifted his watch--it was 9:26. He ran into the liberal arts building, like every Tuesday, sliding through the heavy wooden door, etched with swirled designs that reminded him so much of home, although he didn’t know why.

He was in his seat by 9:28, sweating profusely, and extremely self-aware of how weird he must have looked. Last night’s makeup was smeared around his eyes, glittery eyeshadow now highlighting his cheeks. His mouth was dry, his shirt two sizes too small. His pants were a bit short; he had definitely grabbed Freddie’s on accident. And he probably smelled awful, with booze on his breath to top it off. He leaned on his elbows, covering his mouth as he tapped his pen on his desk, trying to distract himself from your gaze, which he felt boring into him, and he just wanted to crawl into himself and never be seen again. He felt many eyes on him, judgemental and glaring; he stood out even more than usual, and he didn’t even know why he bothered coming. He rested his head on his desk, hoping he would forget about the stares if he couldn’t blatantly see them. His curls laid splayed on the desk, his hands in fists, his ankles cold from his much-too-short-pants.

The door slammed, and everyone sat up a little straighter, subconsciously fixing their hair that didn’t need to be fixed, straightening an already straightened tie. Brian lifted his head, the brighter lights that the professor turned on as she arrived making a dull pain ache between his eyes and run down the bridge of his nose. If he had to guess, he was still a bit tipsy from the night before.

“Long night, Mr. May?” Professor Lee looked inquisitively at Brian, who squinted at the mere brightness of her pale skin. He was glad she only said it loud enough so Brian could hear, and maybe you.

“Concert last night.” He answered, blinking slowly to savor his dwindling energy, already low from a severe lack of sleep--even for him.

“Smeared makeup,” She wiped a line of eyeliner from his cheekbone. “Is quite the look.”

You smirked in your seat next to him, crossing your arms. As class began, you could feel Brian’s gaze deepening on you, staring at your hands resting on your cheek, your legs clad in a skirt. The remaining alcohol in his system minimized his usually very heightened inhibitions, and he stared at you shamelessly but sadly, knowing his pining was nothing but a lost cause. You shifted in your seat, glancing at Brian whenever he wasn’t looking at you--which wasn’t often. But he looked good. His pupils were dilated, the aftershock from being drunk, you were sure. His chest was visible, and his shirt was a bit too small; makeup accentuated his sharp features yet softened them a bit. His hands rested under the desk, in his lap, where he spun his ring around his pinky finger, waiting for the lecture to end.

And seemingly hours and hours later, it did, cued by professor Lee slamming her book of ballads shut, dust fuming from in between yellowed pages.

“Don’t forget, your ballads are due next time I see you. I hope none of you have procrastinated.” She pointed an accusatory finger at the class, and they all lied through their teeth with enthusiastic head shakes.

“And Brian?” She called out, looking directly at him, the tallest one in the room by far. ��I will be expecting an invite to your next concert; I’m quite curious about you. I think we all are.” She sat down at her desk, straightening a stack of books, as she looked at a very confused and embarrassed Brian, standing up, his guitar slung over his back like always.

“Um,” He stammered, trying to recall the booking schedule while it seemed like the whole class was frozen, waiting for Brian to humiliate himself, probably. “There’s one tonight. It’s at Imperial College, in the auditorium.” He nodded.

“Could I come? I’m sure some of your peers would love to see it too.” Professor Lee’s overly nice demeanor was confusing Brian, and his eyebrows furrowed together as he scratched his head.

“Uh--if you want. I mean yes, you’re all welcome. It’s 2 pounds to get in.” He didn’t want to invite everybody, but if their crowd was lacking and Freddie found out Brian’s modesty cost them a good show--he’d never hear the end of it.

You watched Brian pick at his jacket, absentmindedly stroking the velvet to distract himself from this embarrassment. He truly hoped nobody from class came to see him--not because he doubted his talents, or those of the rest of the boys--but because he knew these rich city kids wouldn’t appreciate the music, much less the performance. But you saw Brian straighten his back as he looked at you, his lip tugged by his teeth, as he decided he didn’t really care what these people thought. Why should he? He watched as your boyfriend hooked an arm around your waist, kissing the top of your head as he began to walk to Imperial College.

__

Brian was already late for rehearsals and setting up, so he didn’t have time to go home and shower. He locked himself in the bathroom at the college instead, awkwardly ducking his head in the sink, just to make him feel a bit cleaner. He found a bit of cologne in the bottom of his school bag, and he silently thanked whatever circumstances left it there. He snuck backstage, shaking his hair dry, a misty rain spraying down his shoulders as he did.

Freddie perked up as he saw him, and grabbed his shoulders, sitting him down on a broken amp. “You scared us half to death, Brian!” He slapped his shoulder, holding his hand out. “Roger hand me that cloth.”

Roger mocked him, rolling his doe-eyes. “A please wouldn’t hurt ya.”

Freddie just closed his fingers over his palm a few times, a gesture for him to get on with it. “No time for manners, Rog. We have a lot to rehearse.” Freddie hummed in delight as he felt a wet cloth being placed in his hand. Freddie bent forward, wiping the excess makeup from Brian’s face; it was smeared under his eyes, around them, on them. When he was satisfied, Freddie handed him an eyeliner pencil. “Also,” Freddie continued, gesturing to Brian’s outfit. “Give Deaky and I our clothes back when you change. Cropped and flared pants are not a look, not even for you sweetheart.”

Brian sat in front of a mirror backstage, his legs crossed as he lined his eyes carefully, like Freddie taught him. He pulled his eyelid taut, his mouth hung open as he smudged a black line on the puffy skin by his eyelashes. He changed into his own pants, which Freddie so kindly returned to him, and unbuttoned Deaky’s much-too-small silk button-up, breathing with relief when he finally had his full range of motion again. The concert was hours away, but Freddie insisted that the band fully immersed themselves into rehearsals--and that meant the makeup, the outfits, the nail polish.

__

At six forty-five, the crowd began to shuffle in, and Brian could feel his stomach tightening with anxiety--or was it pure fear? He found himself searching for you, but he couldn’t see; the contrast of the brilliant stage lights with the pitch-black pit was too large.

Brian was startled, as Roger slapped a hand on Brian’s shoulder, covered by ridiculous pleats and ruffles. “Are you alright?” He raised an eyebrow, and Brian turned to face him, shrugging his shoulders, his hands wrapped protectively around the neck of his guitar. He flipped his sixpence between his fingers.

“I’m fine.” Brian sighed. “I think some classmates are coming here, and I don’t really want them to be.”

“Why’d you invite them then?” He questioned, sipping some water to swallow a pain-killer.

He didn’t know, really. He told himself it was for Freddie--for the rest of the band. To make them feel like they were accomplishing something, like people were receiving their music well, because in all honesty it felt like they were screaming into deaf ears when it came to their music. But the pit in his stomach that he felt his heartbeat in told him he just wanted you to come. He wanted to show off to you. He wanted to show off to your boyfriend, truthfully.

“We deserve bigger crowds. More publicity.” Brian shrugged, and took Roger’s water of out of his hand, sipping some before handing it back. It was nearing seven and he felt the adrenaline coursing through his veins, on a highway to his quickening heart. The stage lights dimmed, and Brian could see Professor Lee, sitting cross-legged in the front row. A few other peers of his stood next to her, whispering as they side-eyed the stage. And you were right next to them, Tommy’s arm thrown over your shoulder, you nodding solemnly about something he whispered--or probably yelled--in your ear.

The crowd was lively and charged, jolted by the unorthodox performance they gave. Freddie glanced at Brian, giving him a small thumbs up, nodding his head towards where you stood, watching intently. You recognized the blond from a few weeks earlier, even though he was shrouded in a veil of sweat, glistening from the green lighting. The bassist was wearing the same shirt as Brian was earlier, but it fit the smaller man much better; he was able to move his arms swiftly, his shoulders bobbing as he fingered the frets. The singer was a powerhouse, a puppeteer, commandeering the crowd with the curl of a finger, an inflection of his voice. He kept swaying towards Brian, leading the taller man to in front of where you stood, neck craned to watch them--well, to watch Brian. He made eye contact with you plenty of times, his mouth agape, and he had to tear his gaze from your flushed face to focus on his playing. But it seemed his only flaw onstage was the utter perfection of his playing, which was almost maddening to you, and especially to Tommy, who saw you watching him quite intently. Brian tilted his neck back, a familiar sheen of sweat covering the expanse of its elegance, his fingers intuitively strumming as he watched you, followed your every gaze with a more intense one of his own. You found your eyes tracing the expanse of his legs, and then watching his fingers move, his forearms tensing from underneath an angelic shirt. You grabbed your boyfriend’s hand and squeezed, and he looked at you, almost relieved by the action. Brian was coy, biting his lip and raising his eyebrows, challenging you. He moved to the other side of the stage swiftly, bouncing over cords elegantly as he knelt down, holding his guitar flat as he strummed, eyeing some girls in the crowd that he would admittedly, never take home. But he wanted to test the waters, to see if you really were that blind. Couldn’t you see he was infatuated?

And sure enough, your gaze was fixed just on him, your ears ringing from the delay in Brian’s guitar, the piercing sound of his talent perfusing the room. Then, the concert ended, and you felt an emptiness pool in your stomach, pervade your thoughts. Brian gave you one last side-eyed glance, his lips pursed in something more akin to anger--not concentration. You tightened your grip on your boyfriend’s hand, convincing yourself this was his performance, a show he put on to keep people wanting more. But you couldn’t help but want so much more yourself. Whatever he was doing, it was working.

Brian hopped offstage a few minutes later, his face clean from the sweat, but his chest still heaving from the high. He talked to the professor, whose hand found his shoulder, giving it a solid pat as she congratulated him. The rest of the peers, Brian noticed, were suddenly changed; now they adored Brian, and a few girls from class hung onto his arm and fluttered their eyelashes, asking him about arbitrary musical things which they definitely had no desire in learning--they just watched his lips, beads of sweat falling over them. And you watched them too, admittedly. You tried to be conspicuous in your glances, but Brian caught your eye and smiled sweetly and innocently as Tommy pulled your arm for you two to leave.

__

As he got home, Brian’s thoughts were consistent. He was thinking about you--your hair, the way you laughed and intertwined your fingers with ones that weren’t his. How you stared at him--or maybe Roger?--so intently, so focused. The rest of the boys were at the bars still, probably pissed out of their minds like every night. But he sat at his desk, tapping a pen on the paper. The pen, to him, made it harder to start. He couldn’t make a mistake, and he needed to write about something unguarded, something completely true to his feelings, and the only thing he thought of that fit the bill was you. How you didn’t really see him. How you looked at him more like a subject than a person, how you turned your nose up and looked away when Brian stared. But also how reticent and ambiguous you were, teasing him with stolen glances--just a few. So his pen ran across the paper, sketching his thoughts distinctly.

He didn’t want to lose his chance with you--no matter how slim it was. He wrote until the sides of his hands were black from ink, and his fingers cramped, unable to form a legible letter no matter how hard he tried to. The morning sun crept through white curtains as he wrote the last line, scribbled and underlined and faded by a lack of ink.

So sad it ends

As it began

He folded the paper on his desk, and laid down, getting a few measly hours of rest.

Freddie burst through the door at nine AM, shaking Brian’s foot, which hung off the end of his bed. He was laying on his stomach, hugging his pillow, in his trousers, his hair awry.

“The studio awaits us!” Freddie clapped his hands together, poking Brian’s nose which barely poked out from the hair obscuring his face.

“Right now?” Brian whimpered, sitting up and rubbing his tired eyes.

“I don’t get up this early on purpose, sweetie. Now, did you write that song you promised us?” Freddie spun a globe which sat on Brian’s table, tracing his finger along the equator.

“Oh,” He thought for a second, still groggy. “I did, actually. Last night.”

“May I read it?” Freddie’s fingers plucked the folded paper on Brian’s desk, he assumed that was it.

“Go for it.” Brian put an old hoodie on, shoving his hands in his pocket.

Freddie’s face contorted in a multitude of emotions as he read the lyrics, and he sighed heavily as he finished. “Sad,” he nodded. “But, I love it. Quite honestly it’s nice.”

Brian smiled; it wasn’t too often that Freddie actually approved of a Brian May original.

__

The producer replayed the track, flipping a different switch, per Roger’s request.

“More drums at the end.”

Freddie scoffed, rolling his eyes, puffing a cigarette slowly. He pointed it at Roger, who yanked it from Fred’s grasp and puffed it himself.

“This isn’t a drummy song.” Freddie took the cigarette back, taking a deep drag.

“At some parts it should be!”

“It’s Brian’s song.” Deaky lit his own cigarette, leaning over the control panels to watch the producers work. “What do you think?”

Brian shrugged. “I think it could be a bit heavier with the drums at some part. Rog played really well today.”

Roger blew a kiss to Freddie, batting his eyelashes dramatically. “What did I say?”

The producer added stronger drums, a pen between his lips as he nodded at the enhanced sound, the beat dramatic. “I like it, guys. It’s a strong demo, and White Queen is only adding to the strength here.” He sent the band home with a few copies, almost translucent from overdubs and countless alterations.

__

The deadline had approached--Brian could tell by the nervous, forced banter between his peers, Their papers crinkling as they surreptitiously attempted to hide the content from the class--although they would all be presenting it soon. Brian flipped the demo in his hands, tracing his fingers over the sleeve, where Queen was written in deep blue marker, underlined with a tracklist underneath. The tension in the room was palpable as professor Lee strolled in, her usually straight hair barely curled, the gray strands glistening under the lights.

“The dreaded day.” She announced, sitting at her desk as she read over her roster, looking up at her class, awaiting, terrified. For the entire lecture, she called names randomly, summoning them to the front of the room, where they read bland poems in hushed, monotone voices. A few were good, but Brian wasn’t paying attention; he was shifting in his seat uncomfortably, feeling nauseous from his anxiety. She was torturing him, he was sure of it. They were running out of time, when she glanced up at him raising her palm up, a command for him to get up. He grabbed his record player from under his chair; it was wooden, a gift from his mother a long time ago.

“What is this setup?” She questioned, gesturing to him.

“My ballad is a song I wrote.” Brian set up the record player, his face flushing as he heard disapproving groans. You sat up in your chair, watching him as he took a small vinyl from its paper sleeve, setting it gently on the player. He placed the needle in the middle, and the bridge to Liar began to play, booming through the tiny speakers. “That’s not it.” Brian laughed nervously, looking up at Professor Lee; he was kneeling on the floor, trying to find the right place. When he did find it, soft, almost harp-like guitars flooded the room, and Brian stood up, leaning against a desk at the front, his arms crossed as he looked at his feet, not knowing what to do. He looked intently at you, hoping you’d understand it was all for you. The drums were enhanced, matching with Brian’s heartbeat, thumping, hard, and assuredly audible. Freddie’s voice was magnetic, and so were you. He was so drawn to you, and he didn’t know the first thing about you--what your major was, where you were from. He just had to have you, and he tugged his lip between his teeth as he shook the hair away from his eyes.

You watched him too, the way he was so obviously nervous, yet assured of his talent by the way he smirked almost inconspicuously as a particularly good lyric was sung, a guitar riff heard. His chest was red from a blush that crept up his entire body, his forearms looked strong under his sleeves which remained rolled up, despite his constant pulling at them. He was doe-eyed, his lips bitten and his skin tanned, his curls and waves extra defined. You couldn’t deny how attractive he was, and although it wasn’t him singing--he wasn’t even speaking-- it felt like he was singing to you, for you. You felt a shiver run up your spine, like when Brian’ touched you for the first time on that street corner, fleeting but so there. The song ended, and the class erupted into applause, whistling as Brian took the vinyl from the turntable, giving them a tight smile. He felt so vulnerable, but also like nobody got it.

“That was beautiful, Brian. Do you mind telling what it’s about?”

Brian faltered, but then stood up straight, sighing as he watched you scribbling in your notebook, feigning inattention at him. “I’m infatuated with a girl who doesn’t give me the time of day. The song is about our love that ended as it began, because she can’t see how much I want her.” Brian took his vinyl and record player from its position on a chair and gathered his things, embarrassed by his confession, although it was quite indirect. He left before she ended class officially, forgetting his bag completely.

You were confused; was he angry with you? Was he speaking to you? Picking up his heavy bag, you followed him out, as the rest of the class left along with you. You couldn’t find him among the crowd of students filing outside, mixed with the influx of students going to their noon classes. You pushed your way outside, trying to peer around the midday crowd of Londoners, when you saw Brian leaning against a van parked crookedly across the street. You walked to the other side, avoiding traffic and mumbling an apologetic excuse me to a middle-aged couple you bumped shoulders with. Brian’s face was in his hands, and he was now sitting in the driver’s seat of the van, looking distraught. You knocked on the window, pointing to his bag in your hands as he lifted his head up. His mouth pulled itself into a barely perceptible smile, his lips red from nervous biting. He reached over and unlocked the door, and you got in, without thinking, setting the bag between the driver’s and passenger’s seat. The tension was thick, even though the air was truly cold and thin and hard to breathe in.

“Thank you, Y/N.” He sniffled, clearing his throat a bit.

“You should really tell that girl how you feel. I’m sure she wants you just as much.” You looked at Brian’s profile, his tensed jaw peppered with day-old stubble, his lip protruding slightly.

He turned his head, looking at you almost sinfully. “I don’t think it’s possible for her to want me that much.” Brian had leaned forward again, and he looked at your lips blotted with a deep red lipstick. He wanted it all over him, he thought, tracing his gaze up your nose to look into your eyes. You could hear your hearts beating, and you felt unable to form a syllable, too focused on his eyelashes, which beat against his cheeks, almost innocent-looking.

“Maybe she does.” You retorted, and Brian tucked some of your hair behind your ear. His lips were millimeters away from your own now, and you could feel the edge of his bottom lip tickling yours, his breath ghosting over your mouth, down your chin.

“She has a boyfriend; I know that much.” Brian’s voice was deeper than you had ever heard it before; it was sultry and commanding you, like he did on stage, like he had been since the first day you met him.

“Not anymore.”

Brian held your chin, tracing your lips with his thumb as he sighed, his necklace hanging forward as he leaned closer--impossibly closer. You kissed the pad of his thumb, looking at him keenly as he kissed your jaw, biting your earlobe gently, teasingly, as he whispered in your ear.

“The back?” His fingers swept over the hem of your skirt, and your own brushed through his hair; it was softer than it looked, silky to the touch. You obliged, following him to the backseat, which was quite roomy and comfortable, a blanket thrown over the cushioned seats. Brian sat you on his lap, caressing the ends of your hair as he kissed at the junction of your collarbones, his hands resting on your hips, dragging down over your ass--just like your boyfriend did, just like he dreamt of doing. He squeezed and massaged at the exposed skin--he had bunched your dress around your waist as soon as he had you on his lap. Your fingers pulled at the extra-curly strands of hair at the nape of his neck, and he groaned deeply, sending a jolt to your core, which was lazily grinding against his cock, still restrained by dark velvet trousers. You tilted your head back, moaning as he left open-mouthed kisses at the base of your neck.

But you wanted his mouth on yours so bad your lips were quivering as they connected with Brian’s, which were anything but tentative as they sucked your bottom lip. Your nose was squished against his as you slipped your tongue into his mouth, now grinding yourself firmly against Brian’s cock, which was hardening. You could feel his thickness sliding against you, and your panties were beginning to soak at the feeling of him, the sounds of him groaning into your mouth. Your lipstick--like he had dreamt of so many night before--was all over his mouth, stained into his stubble, trailed down his neck. His hips bucked as your fingers fumbled with the button on his pants, you were almost unable to maneuver the metal button through the hole. But you got it, eventually, as he pulled your dress all the way over your head, rubbing at your clit through your wet underwear, his hips lifting so you could slide his pants down. They fell against the floor, and Brian lifted his foot out of one leg, using it to peel it from the other. You palmed his dick through his briefs and pulled his blazer off, rubbing your hands down the expanse of his chest, ridged and bony, as his nails dug into your hips, grabbing you desperately.

Now, you kissed his neck, sucking at a sensitive spot by his pulse point. He whimpered and threw his head back, rolling his hips faster, you kissing lower and lower on his neck before you reached his collarbones which jutted out from hot, barely freckled skin. He moaned loudly, begging you for more with his eyes, which were widened and dilated with desire.

“I’m so hard for you.” He whined, pushing your panties aside, sucking a finger into his mouth and prodding it inside of you, rubbing your clit with his calloused thumb. Your hips jerked as he added another finger--his middle one--which was so long and dexterous, massaging the front wall, deep inside of you as his thumb did the same languid motions to your clit.

You pulled at the elastic of his underwear, scratching your nails at his hips as you peeled them down his legs. He continued to finger you gently but quickly and skillfully, making you cry out at how good it felt to be full, to be lusted after like this. You spit in your hand, stroking his bare cock slowly, teasing him as your palm ghosted over his tip. You twisted your hand around the shaft, tracing your nails against the prominent vein which ran along it. It was pulsing under your touch, and Brian moaned in shallow breaths, bucking himself into your hand. You rubbed your thumb along the head and gathered a substantial amount of precum, sucking it off of your finger as your other hand squeezed at his balls.

That made him scream, and you shushed him, cupping his balls in one hand as you continued to jerk him off in the other. His hand squeezed at your ass, and you loosened your grip, reveling in the way he whined from the lack of friction on his aching member.

He took advantage of the lack of grip you had on him, curling his fingers deep inside of you, nudging at your g-spot, his mouth mirroring your own pleasure, before he leaned in to kiss you messily, your hands pulling at his hair in an attempt to get him closer. The touches were aching and so needy, your mouths interlocking, your breaths shared with one another.

“I need you,” He moaned against your neck, your hand lazily pumping him as he curled his fingers and rubbed at your clit loosely, the relaxed motion of it all making you grab at his wrist. His eyebrows were furrowed, eyelashes beating against the tops of his blushed cheeks. Then, Brian was pulling his fingers out, pushing them in between your lips. He flipped you over so he was hovering on top, resting on his knees as he sucked on the same fingers you had, making your back arch at the sight of his bitten lips savoring your taste.

You writhed underneath him as his cock slid against your entrance, his velvety tip rubbing against your clit softly. You ran your foot down his back, pushing at his ass with it, a silent bid for him to do what he wanted the most. “I don’t have a condom,” He rested his head against your neck, almost defeated.

“Just pull out, Brian.” You ground your hips upward, watching as his cock slid against your folds.

“Fuuck,” His eyes rolled back. “That’s so good. Feels so good.” He slid against you for a bit longer before he thrust into you, balls-deep. He stopped for a minute, his pelvic bone flush against your inner thighs. You gasped, and he did too, reveling in the feeling of being so deep inside of you.

“You’re so tight.” He mumbled, looking down at you through lashes barely covered with last-night’s mascara.

You just rolled your hips against him, yanking his face down to meet yours by his cold necklace, the chain tickling your sternum as his face hovered over your own. Your lips touched each other’s, your foreheads pressed together, soaked in a sheen of sweat. He pulled out, until his tip was barely inside of you before pushing all the way back in, making you gasp against his mouth that tasted like mint, and only faintly of gin. He thrusted slowly at first, pulling all the way out just to push right back in, making you feel every inch of him, every vein against your walls as his middle finger rubbed at your clit in tight, assured circles.

“Deeper.” You nod your head, urging him, before hooking your leg around his hip and pushing him into you, forcing him as deep as he could get. His breath hitched in his throat, and he lifted your hips up a bit, fucking into you at a new angle which is making you and him dizzy, your ears ringing from feeling all of him--all at once. Brian was unable to keep his eyes open as a strangled groan fell from his lips. He lifted your back, holding you to him as his thrusts became sloppier, his hips rolling unevenly. You pushed his hair back from his face, pressing a kiss to his mouth, his eyes unable to stay open for too long; his eyelids were so heavy.

He opened them enough to watch you fucking yourself against him, your hips rolling in tune with his own, his fingers digging into your hips; there were already purple bruises dotted along them. Brian opened his mouth, nodding as he gasped, his head buried in your neck as you pulled at his hair gently.

“I’m-” He groaned, now holding you by your waist, his lips idle against your collarbone.

“I know--me too.” You nodded, and he pulled out quickly, jerking himself off until his cum painted your stomach, oozing down your hips a bit. He caught it with his fingertips before it could ruin the seat, and you grabbed his hand, licking his seed off of his lengthy digits as he kissed down your torso, his nose resting against your clit as his tongue angled upwards to lick and suck at the nerves.

“Brian,” You whined, pulling his hair as he looked up at you innocently, his hips rocking against the velvety seat. He nibbled just barely at your clit, and you came, chanting his name, your back arching, your hands fisting at his hair. His chin was soaked and he sat up, looking down at his cock which was achingly hard, yet again.

His back was against the seat and you knelt in front of him, sucking him into your mouth, looking up at him through tear-soaked lashes. You licked a firm stripe from the base of him to the tip, and then he was groaning, cumming on his tensed stomach just from the look in your eyes that showed you wanted him too.

You helped him get dressed again, wordlessly pulling his briefs up, and then buttoning his pants while he did the same to his shirt. He handed you your dress, which was lodged between the seat cushions, wrinkled and cold. He pulled it down over your head and kissed your nose, zipping you up, pecking your shoulders while he did so.

You were tired, yawning against your hand as Brian climbed in the front seat, starting the engine after fishing his keys from his pocket, lifting his shaky hips for more leverage. He stroked your hair and gave you a cheeky, bashful smile--only funny because of his drastic duality which always surprised you.

“I hope this isn’t over.” He rubbed a circle on your bare knee, looking at the rearview window before pulling out of the parking spot with ease.

“It’s only just begun.” You held your hand over his and leaned your head against the window, the cold glass cooling your red-hot cheeks, still burning with arousal--but not even close to the scarlet that donned Brian’s cheeks, lifted by a huge, toothy smile.

__

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[juju-on-that-yeet]

There Are Worse Things I Could Do, Chapter 1/10

Summary: After a week of strained silence following Yancy’s accidental confession to Illinois, Yancy reaches the end of his rope and runs away from Ego, Inc. Yancy struggles to survive on the streets as Lo struggles with his own guilt. Will they find their way back to each other, or will Yancy stay away forever? Warnings: None (will change in later chapters) Characters: Yancy, Lio, Captian Magnum (will change each chapter)

Tag List: @tired-eldritchhorror @artist-in-space @starshine-robotics (right now this list is ppl who I think would be interested; if you want to be added/removed let me know! ^^)

Read on AO3

Enjoy!

~

After Yancy’s confession, he avoids Illinois completely.

He can’t stand to be near him after that horrific crash and burn, and he can’t stand how badly he still wants him, even after that rejection. If he tries to hang out with Lio again who knows what he’ll say, who knows how much more of a fool he’ll make of himself? It’s better to stay away.

It’s just as well, because the heartbreak and rage don’t go away overnight. He barely sleeps the night after it happened, and he wakes up still raw. Yandere stays near, alternating between fretting over Yancy, trying to soothe his tears and quiet his anger, and begging Yancy to let him “talk” to Lio, with eyes shining blood red. But Yancy won’t let him, that’s not what he wants. Yandere offers to go to Bim on his behalf, maybe speak to Marvin about a love potion, but Yancy doesn’t want that either.

Yancy doesn’t want to force Lio’s love, he doesn’t want to make him do anything. The best he can hope for now is to get over it, move on, and resume his friendship…if it’s still salvageable.

Lio doesn’t try to talk to Yancy, either.

When they pass each other in the halls, Lio pulls his hat down over his eyes. They both have phones, but Lio doesn’t try to text. He stays away from Yancy’s room just as Yancy stays away from his. Yancy doesn’t know if Lio feels awkward or disgusted or guilty or what, but he’s not about to talk to him to find out.

After two long, agonizing days of Yancy mulling over the confession and avoiding Lio, Captain Magnum returns from his latest voyage.

Yancy doesn’t greet him right away, as much as he wants to. Lio’s likely going to greet him, too, and Yancy doesn’t want to run into him yet. A few hours after Magnum returns, Yancy hears him knock on his door.

“Ye in there, mate?” Magnum asks, “I ain’t seen ye since I got home.”

“Yeah,” Yancy mumbles. He’s sitting on his bed, holding his pillow to his chest. He lets his face fall into it, muffling his words. “Come in.”

Magnum comes in, bending slightly to get through the doorway. His tree-trunk feet thunk along the floor as Magnum walks to Yancy.

“What’s troublin’ ye, lad?” Magnum asks. He sits down on the side of Yancy’s bed, and the whole thing creaks under the weight. Yancy hardly notices. He shrugs at Magnum’s question.

“Somethin’ happened while you were away, s’all.” Yancy says, not looking up from his pillow.

“Aye, I gathered,” Magnum answers. He leans closer, and the bed protests. “Are ye up for sharin’?”

Yancy finally looks up from his pillow at him. As huge and intimidating as Magnum always appears, his heart is big enough to match his stature. He looks at Yancy with gentle concern, with earnest desire to figure out what’s wrong and help his friend out. Yancy can’t help but acquiesce to it.

“I guess,” he mumbles. He scoots forward, pillow still in his hands, and ends up in Magnum’s lap. Magnum hugs Yancy easily, enclosing him completely.

It was a common ritual for them back before Ego Inc., on days where Yancy itched from all the freedom, days where he just needed to be somewhere quiet, protected, tight. With the cells of Happy Trails far behind him, Magnum’s hold is just as good, and Magnum doesn’t mind in the slightest. Yancy sighs, already feeling better with Magnum’s arms tight around him. It feels like safety, like protection.

But he did say he’d tell Magnum what’s going on. He’s worried about that, worried Magnum might think oddly of him for this. As far as Yancy knows, Magnum doesn’t know how he feels. He sure as hell never told him. He has to confess it all over again.

“Well, it can’t go any worse than last time.”

The thought almost makes him start crying, but he takes a shaky breath in instead.

“S’about Lio,” Yancy says, “I…I’m into him. I’ve been into him for a while. I meant to just keep it to myself, but…” He sniffles. Dammit, he’s going to cry. “But I told him by accident. An’ he rejected me, ‘cause why wouldn’t he? He ain’t the committin’ type, and I ain’t no prize, but now…we ain’t talked since. That was a couple days ago.”

There’s a few moments of silence as Magnum ponders what he’s been told. It’s not the painful, heavy silence that happened after Yancy’s confession to Lio, but something much lighter, thoughtful. Magnum wears how he feels on his sleeve, he exudes his emotions like he has his own aura. Yancy doesn’t have to lift his face from Magnum’s chest to know the expression on Magnum’s face.

“I had the feelin’ it had to do with Lio,” Magnum muses, “He’s been mighty scarce today, just as ye have.” He ruffles Yancy’s hair with a huge hand. “But ye and he are goin’ to have to talk one o’ these days, mate.”

“I know that,” Yancy whimpers, “But the hell am I gonna say?? I already said too much. And it still…” He sniffles again. “It still really hurts.”

“Ah, me poor lad…” Magnum murmurs, hugging Yancy tighter. Part of Yancy wishes Magnum would just crush him right there with his bare hands, so he wouldn’t have to feel like this anymore. Of course Magnum never would, though.

“I don’t got much in the way o’ advice,” Magnum admits, “But I do know that the sooner ye clear the air, the better you’ll feel.”

“I guess,” Yancy says. He’s not sure he believes it.

“Perhaps I can have a chat with Lio meself,” Magnum suggests, “See if I can’t get him to speak with ye.”

“Maybe,” Yancy sighs. He doesn’t want Magnum to pressure Lio into anything, but then again, Magnum knows when not to be pushy. Maybe something will change this way.

But it doesn’t.

A few more days pass, and Lio doesn’t come to Yancy. Yancy still can’t bring himself to go to him. Magnum does his best to cajole them into interacting, but nothing works. Yancy feels worse as hours pass, worse at Lio, worse at himself. He feels bad for not taking Magnum’s advice, he feels bad for making him feel torn between his two best friends. He feels bad for worrying Yandere, too; the poor guy’s beside himself trying to help Yancy feel better. But Yancy’s never had a relationship failure that wasn’t a catastrophic meltdown, and this is the worst one yet.

A week after his confession, he leaves Ego Inc. one night, alone, to get some fresh air. He walks around the city, goes to a park, sits on a bench by a pond. He stares out at the water and wonders if Lio is sleeping right now. Maybe Lio’s awake, too, staring at his ceiling and wondering how everything got so wrong. Maybe Lio’s packing up his bags for an expedition so he can get away from Yancy’s confession in the morning. Maybe Lio’s taking a walk just like Yancy, maybe he’s somewhere else in the city trying to think about something else. Maybe he’s in this very park, right at this very moment.

That thought almost makes Yancy want to get up and go somewhere else, but he doesn’t. He’s too tired, too sore from tears.

He doesn’t mean to stay there all night, but the next thing he knows, he’s waking up with a crick in his neck to see dew on the grass and early morning fog in the air.

He means to go home, he means to wander back to Ego Inc. and go back to sleep in his own bed, but instead he watches ducks gather on the surface of the pond, dipping their heads to grab waterbugs. There’s some in pairs, the green-headed mallards with the brown speckled hens. There’s even a handful of ducklings paddling after a lone hen, and their incessant, squeaky peeping is the only sound in the quiet morning.

The morning grows late, Yancy stays where he is. More ducks come and go. His phone rings suddenly, and he looks to see Yandere’s name there. He sends it to voicemail. He expects that to be his only interruption; Magnum still hasn’t gotten the hang of most modern technology. But a few minutes later, Lio’s name lights up his screen. A rush of anger fills him.

“Oh, NOW he wants to talk!?”

He means to send him to voicemail, go home, and avoid Lio like normal.

Instead, he throws his phone into the pond, scaring the ducks, and walks away in the opposite direction of Ego Inc.

[wooleeza]

Code: Realize High School AU. Victor Frankenstein is a transfer student from Switzerland, and Headmaster Saint Germain pairs him up with the school's star shooter, Abraham Van Helsing, who needs to gain credits for social service in order to qualify for a scholarship to university. They begin an awkward friendship, but it is not long before Van realises that his feelings go beyond platonic for his new friend who has brought light into his life. How will the oblivious Victor react?

Please note that this is a slash pairing of Van with Fran (i.e. M/M) and will have mature content at the end of this tale, so please only read if it is your cup of tea. No copyright infringements are intended and I make no money from this. I'm merely playing in the lovely sandbox these otome game characters have inspired. Please request permission if you would like to translate or repost this story on other platforms. Feedback is much appreciated! Thank you for your support!

Cover design by hikari011 ❤️ Thank you for the lovely art and ideas which made this story possible.

Code Realize AU - Chiaroscuro - Chapter 1: At Your Acquaintance 

Chapter Summary: Van meets Victor

It had begun to drizzle, and Abraham Van Helsing, aged 17, glanced up at the sky in irritation. Rainy weather meant inconveniences to his clay shooting practice later, and besides the added burden of cleaning and drying out his beloved handcrafted wooden shotgun, the humidity would make his glasses fog up. If the rain came down hard and fast, it would be hard to watch for hits and misses. More to protect his gear from the rain rather than himself, he unfolded the portable umbrella that he was carrying.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a tall and slender boy carrying a stack of books in his arms. He was hunched over the books, seemingly more concerned about protecting them instead of himself from the elements. His jacket, which looked at once both too large and too short on him, had been pulled forwards to shield his precious cargo.

Rolling his eyes, Van Helsing stepped forward and held out his deployed umbrella. “Here,” he said brusquely, and the other boy jumped probably a foot into the air before looking at him with a startled expression.

Large green eyes rimmed by long eyelashes stared at him past oversized, rimless, rain-speckled glasses, then shifted their gaze to the fabric case that he was carrying on his back. The boy shook his head frantically, sending his copper-brown hair into a fluffy, dishevelled cloud. “It’s a short walk back,” he said, his voice musical, soft and lilting. “Thank you!” Then he was off at a fast trot, slowing down shortly after as if to catch his breath, before disappearing around the corner.

“Hmmm.” Van Helsing stood there awkwardly with his proffered umbrella still extended outwards. The boy had an unusual accent and he wondered where he was from. Shrugging, he righted the umbrella back over himself, then continued on his way.

***

The rain escalated, and just as Van Helsing had predicted, the downpour made it hard to see his hits and misses, and his shotgun was now wet from the rain. He would have to wipe it down as much as he could and dry it out for at least a day, then polish the surface so that it would gleam again. It had been a gift from his late father to him, and he would keep it as well-maintained as he could.

“Nice shooting today, Abraham,” said Jimmy Aleister, the coach of the shooting club. “If you keep up this standard, you’ll be representing the district in no time.”

“Hmmm,” came the non-committal reply, and Aleister sighed. Abraham Van Helsing was his star performer in both pistol and shotgun, but his personality had always been rather prickly. The boy was antisocial to a fault, which reminded him…

“I want to put your name in for a regional competition,” he began carefully, “so I contacted your headmaster. He agreed with me that there is great potential for you, and that this could gain you a free ride to and through university, but there is one area you need to work on first.” He paused, wondering how to phrase the next part, but eventually settled for the direct approach, for it was the best way to deal with Abraham. “He said you need to fulfil the social service aspect first, so he told me to tell you to approach him after your lessons tomorrow.”

“Hmmm,” grunted his star gunner again, and Aleister fought the urge to throttle the stubbornness out of this brooding teenager. “Do consider it, Abraham. A free education stands before you if you do well there. It isn’t something that just anyone can get. You’ll lessen the burden on your family out there on the East End, and you know they gave up so much just so you could study in Central London instead.”

The blond boy was quiet as he began cleaning the drops of water off his shotgun. Finally, his reply came, soft and curt, but betraying the slight Cockney accent he was always embarrassed about nonetheless. “I’ll think about it.”

***

The next day, Van Helsing stood outside the door of his headmaster’s office after he was done with lessons for the day, and upon knocking, was bidden to enter. He was surprised to see the copper-haired boy from the previous day already seated inside. The latter’s jade-green eyes also widened upon his entry.

“Ah, Abraham! You arrived at just the right time. Are you here to talk to me about the social service fulfilment?” Headmaster Saint-Germain said pleasantly. The headmaster was a well-spoken individual, more compelling than strict, and he was not an easy man to handle, so nobody dared to cross him when they could help it. Van Helsing generally tried to fly beneath his radar, but his reputation as the school’s star shooter preceded him, so encounters were inevitable. He nodded wordlessly – the Headmaster knew his more reticent ways.

Saint-Germain gestured to the empty seat beside the copper-haired boy, and Van Helsing took it. “This is Victor Frankenstein,” he said, indicating the former. “He is a transfer student from Switzerland, and he will be with us at least until the end of this year. Victor, this is Abraham Van Helsing. He’s one of our stars on our shooting team.”

Now that the pleasantries were out of the way, Saint-Germain could finally get down to his real objective for summoning the two of them.

“Abraham, your coach Jimmy contacted me about the possibility of signing you up for the regionals. It will be a great step forward for you, and a scholarship is all but guaranteed if you do well. Even qualifying for it alone can boost your shooting standing, but if you want that scholarship, there is a criterion which you have failed to meet so far where social service is concerned,” he said. “You must have at least 40 hours of social service rendered each year, and according to my records, you seem to have sorely neglected this aspect in favour of your training. You only have 3 hours of that so far, and there are only two months left to the regionals.”

He flicked his intense blue gaze over to Frankenstein, who was fiddling nervously with his hands in the other chair and darting anxious glances at the blond youth beside him. “And that’s where Victor comes in. Our young friend here joined us just this Monday, and he needs help in catching up with our curriculum. He’s got the knowledge, mind you, but he’s facing some issues because all of our subjects are not in his native language. In particular, he’s having difficulties with the English assignment he’s received from Mr Lupin.” The blue eyes turned back to Van Helsing. “It will be a win-win situation if you can tutor him, Abraham. I’ll count the hours towards your social service requirement, and Victor here will receive the support he’ll need to integrate into our system. What do you think?”

Van Helsing sat there, absorbing the barrage of information that had been launched at him. He hadn’t been keen on social service to begin with, because it involved interacting with people and that was the least of his strengths – he didn’t like either of his last experiences at the elderly home or the orphanage because the residents had mocked his Cockney accent, and so he had just given up. He had no idea what Frankenstein would be like, but the boy had been nothing but pleasant so far and given that it was just one person, he could always distance himself from him after the stint was over if it turned out that they did not get along. He could tolerate his presence for a while at least. “I’m fine if he is,” he answered.

Saint-Germain smiled and turned back to Frankenstein. “And you?” he asked benevolently, receiving a tentative nod in return. He clapped his hands together in satisfaction. “Well, it’s settled then. Why don’t the two of you head on out to compare your schedules? I’m sure Victor will be available most afternoons since he has yet to join any of our clubs or activities. I’m certain that you can both work something out.”

“Thank you, Mr. Saint-Germain,” said Victor as he rose from his seat and bowed. As for Van Helsing, he was more than glad to be out of the headmaster’s office, so he gave a terse bow before beating a hasty retreat. The headmaster watched them go with a benign smile curving his lips. Abraham Van Helsing, talented as he was, had been too much of a loner ever since he entered his school, and most of his peers were terrified of his taciturn ways. A non-judgmental stranger as sweet-natured as Victor Frankenstein might just be the first real friend that he would finally make.

Continue reading the other chapters on: Wattpad - https://my.w.tt/dozBfLjTZ4  Archive of Our Own - https://archiveofourown.org/works/23127223/chapters/55339897