#just completely enunciated and deadpan

[punkrockisafulltimejob]

Yoooo this new strain my dealer gave me got me se fucking loose that I was able to successfully crack my neck on the first try, AND if was a double crack :)

[infamous-light]

The Cuddle Conundrum

Agatha Harkness x Gender Neutral Reader

AO3: The Cuddle Conundrum

Summary: You were excited to show Agatha a new spell you had learned but when you mispronounced a word, you inadvertently cast a spell that left you both stuck together.

Agatha seizes the opportunity to mercilessly tease you about your magical mishap.

Word Count: 1.2K

You stood in the middle of Agatha’s cozy living room, excitement buzzing in your veins like a live wire.

You had been practicing a new spell all week – poring over ancient texts and experimenting with every incantation you could decipher – and now you were finally ready to show it off to her.

“Just promise me it’s not another attempt at making my tea taste like lavender,” Agatha quipped, amusement glinting in her eyes as she crossed her legs, the fabric of her coat shifting with the motion. “I still can’t get rid of that awful flavor you concocted out of my mouth.”

You could feel your cheeks warm slightly at her words. The image of Agatha grimacing after her first sip was etched into your memory, a mortifying reminder of your less-than-stellar tea-brewing skills.

“No, this is different,” you insisted, brushing aside her sarcasm with a wave of your hand. “It’s a spell that forms a barrier of warmth around you. Imagine it like a cozy shield that wraps around you whenever you start to feel cold.”

Agatha arched a single eyebrow, a playful gleam flickering in her eyes as she took in your serious expression.

“Really? A cozy shield?” She echoed, leaning back against the plush cushions of the couch, her posture relaxed. With a theatrical sigh, she added, “How quaint. I suppose next you’ll tell me it comes with little hearts and sparkles, too.”

You responded with a deadpan stare, refusing to indulge in her teasing. “Ha-ha. Winter’s coming soon, and I get cold easily.”

Her lips curled into a smirk as she tilted her head, a cascade of long, brown hair falling over her shoulder. “Is that so?” She enunciated each word slowly. “Well then, show me what you’ve got. I’m curious to see if it’s as delightful as you claim, or if it will leave me wishing for another cup of that dreadful tea.”

Determined to prove to Agatha that you’re capable of achieving this spell, you squared your shoulders and met her gaze with unwavering confidence. Carefully, you arranged the ingredients on the coffee table – some assortment of herbs, a delicate sprinkle of salt, and a few shimmering crystals.

Agatha watched with a raised brow, her expression somewhere between amusement and intrigue as she nestled deeper into the cushions. She observed your every move, her eyes tracing your hands as they glided over the items.

Once you’d finished combining the ingredients, you straightened back up, letting your shoulders drop as you took a deep breath, grounding yourself in the moment.

With a steady voice, you began the incantation, the ancient words flowing from your lips like a melody. You closed your eyes, drawing in the ambient energy around you, feeling it swirl like a gentle breeze. You could feel it buzzing at your fingertips, eager to manifest the magic you were trying to conjure, and a thrill shot through you as you envisioned impressing Agatha with your newfound skills.

Her attention remained fixed on you, her curiosity piqued, but then her expression shifted from interest to alarm as she heard one of the incantations sound off.

“Wait–” Agatha interjected; her voice laced with urgency. “Are you sure about that last part? I don’t think–”

Before she could finish her warning, a blinding flash of light enveloped you both, drowning out her voice and leaving you momentarily disoriented. In an instant, the world spun in a whirl of colors, and an odd tugging sensation seized you, as if an invisible force was drawing your body toward Agatha's. When the light finally faded and the world around you sharpened into focus, you looked down in horror to find that you were completely stuck to Agatha’s side. Your arms were hopelessly entangled, the skin of your forearm brushing against hers while your legs were awkwardly intertwined. It was as though the spell had fused you together in a bizarre embrace.

“Well, this is charming,” Agatha drawled, her voice dripping with sarcasm. She attempted to adjust her position, but the effort proved futile, only causing both of you to wobble precariously. “You’ve really outdone yourself this time, pet.”

You couldn’t help but feel the flush of embarrassment rise to your cheeks, hot and betraying. “I may have mispronounced a word or two.”

“A word or two?” Agatha retorted, rolling her eyes with an exaggerated flair. “I think you’ve accidentally created the world’s most inconvenient cuddle spell.”

As she spoke, you tried to maintain your composure, desperately fighting the flush creeping up your cheeks from the way your bodies were inexplicably linked. However, Agatha’s keen gaze flickered over your flushed cheeks, lingering just a moment longer than necessary. You could feel the weight of her scrutiny, but you tried to ignore it.

Then, a spark of mischief ignited in her eyes, a glimmer that sent a nervous thrill coursing through you. Without warning, Agatha leaned back against you, the warmth of her body pressing into yours. The contact was electric, sending a shiver down your spine as you instinctively shifted beneath her, hyper-aware of the closeness that set your heart racing like a wild drum. Agatha seemed to revel in your discomfort, her laughter spilling forth like a melodic tease, light and airy. It was intoxicating and disarming all at once.

“You know, pet,” Agatha purred, each word drawn out in that dangerously smooth tone. “It’s adorable watching you squirm like this. You look positively flushed.”

You opened your mouth, stammering in response, “I-I’m not – I mean, it’s just… you–” But the words tumbled out in a disjointed rush, your voice wavering as the heat of embarrassment crept further down your neck.

The next action caught you off guard as Agatha wrapped her legs around yours, her grin widening as she caught the frazzled panic in your eyes.

“Aw, you poor thing,” she cooed, her voice dripping with playful mockery. “I didn’t mean to make you so flustered.”

As she nestled closer, a soft squeak escaped your lips, a sound of surprise that only fueled her delight.

“I don’t think you realize how much of a personal cushion you’ve become,” she mused, allowing her head to rest heavily against your shoulder. Her dark, loose hair fell around you in a silky curtain, the strands cool against your flushed cheeks. “You really should consider the implications of your little spell before casting it again.” She continued, her voice low and sultry.

The heat in your cheeks deepened. “I didn’t mean for it to turn out like this. I was just trying to–”

“To what?” She interrupted, her smirk widening as if she were savoring the moment like a fine wine. “Impress me? Because I assure you, you have succeeded, my dear. A cuddle spell that binds us together? How utterly romantic.”

The playful lilt in her words only made your heart race faster, a wild rhythm you couldn’t control. It was astounding, really, how easily this witch could get under your skin.

“Maybe next time, I’ll just… stick to the basics.” You winced internally at the awkwardness of your tone.

“Or perhaps,” Agatha murmured, lifting her head to meet your gaze, her eyes sparkling with mirth. “You should embrace it. I find it quite cozy. Besides,” she added, her voice dropping to a soft, enticing whisper. “I could get used to this.”

Maybe this accidental cuddle spell wasn’t so bad after all.

[goddess-in-heaven-and-hell]

Reginald who? (ER) - A Gwynriel One-Shot for Gwynrielweeks2024

thread: Gwyn finds a way for Azriel to let go of his gentle bedside manner by comparing him to her favorite male book character – slightly drunk Azriel cannot let that slide and a challenge ensures.

Post for the NSFW day ;) @gwynrielweeksofficial

word count: 5.1k

warnings: swearing, crude language, oral (f receiving), cum play, anal play, p in v sex

Reginald growled with pleasure as he beheld the stunning beauty that was Jasmine. He itched to explore every inch of her, his hands already reaching out to skim over her abdomen and her breasts.

After what felt like three hundred years, the book finally got to the good part. Gwyn giggled to herself, sinking deeper into the cushions and preparing for what was about to come. Or rather, who was about to come.

He laid her down with reverence, observing how her chest heaved with excitement. There was only one place he wanted to be right now, and that was between her supple thighs.

Gwyn read on with wide eyes, wishing for Azriel to be near with each line passing. The male main character was so smooth, so absolutely devoted to his Jasmine it was swoon worthy. And the priestess would lie if she said his words and actions didn’t have another effect on her. She shifted in her seat, trying to get some of the pressure off as she continued devouring page after page. If this author did one thing right, it was her attention to detail.

Reginald wasn’t done with her just yet, bending his head another time to gently lap at her, cleaning her arousal with his tongue and moaning like he tasted liquid ambrosia.

Her daydream was rudely and suddenly interrupted by a loud bang, and Gwyn’s well-deserved one-on-one time with Reginald came to a stuttering end.

She jumped out of bed, more than ready to fight or run, whatever seemed like the smartest thing to do, but as she was halfway across the room, the banging was accompanied by shouting – and with a breathy laugh, Gwyn relaxed.

“Ehhhhh”, that seemed to be Cassian’s rough voice echoing off the hall, “Ladies, we’re hoooooome!”

Another bang sounded suspiciously like the vase next to the staircase shattered into a million pieces, followed by colorful swearing. This time from another voice. Were they drunk?

“Really subtle, Cass. I think they heard us anyways.”, Azriel deadpanned. He sounded pretty normal, enunciating his words carefully. Maybe a bit too carefully.

Cassian laughed, a booming sound that might have woken up the priestesses in the library too. “True. And if they went to Rita’s with US, like we ASKED them to, they could be in on the FUN now.”

He then began singing.

Yes, definitely drunk.

Honestly, it wasn’t completely off tune and had a kind of charm to it. Azriel’s laughter told another story though, and Gwyn could only guess Cassian’s performance got enhanced through some dance moves.

“Boys!”

And that would be Nesta. Gwyn snickered to herself, letting her book come to rest on the bed again before finding the bathroom. Let Nesta deal with them. When the boys did something stupid, Gwyn would usually cave as soon as they gave her the puppy eyes. That strategy was lost with her best friend, though, and as Gwyn closed the bathroom door, she could already make out Nesta ripping into them.

The priestess the proceeded to complete her evening routine, using the toilet, washing her face, teeth and applying a generous amount of moisturizer. Training every morning in the crisp, cold autumn air left her skin dry as a desert, so she took extra care of it at night. Her river nymph heritage didn’t help the situation either as it demanded constant maintenance.

Once she was all done, skin gleaming with product, she returned to the bedroom.

“So that’s what you get up to when I’m not at home to supervise.”

Sprawled on her bed, with a shit-eating grin plastered to his face, was her beloved. Only that he was not so beloved anymore as he skimmed through her book and snickered to himself.

“Azriel!”, she gasped, lunging forward in order to snatch the book away from him. But the bastard was quicker, sitting up and putting the bed between them. His eyes never strayed from the lines as he read and read.

“What kind of name is Reginald? And how many pages can this person fill with just giving head?”, he murmured, even his shadows peeking over his shoulder to get a good look.

Gwyn’s cheeks warmed in embarrassment at his crass words. Why were romance novels completely acceptable when you read them alone, yet as soon as another person asked you about it they became a criminal offence?

She rounded the bed, trying again to grab the book, but he simply lifted it over his head. The priestess was seething.

“Azriel Shadowsinger, you give me back my book this instant!”, with her hands put on her hips, she craned her neck to look up at him, trying her best to be intimidating. ‘Looking down her nose at someone’ just like the main character of the last book she read, however that was possible. But she gave it her best shot nonetheless.

Azriel cupped her cheek with his unoccupied hand, his face now relaxed. “Gwyneth, stop it. You are too cute.”

She wanted to wipe that indulgent smile off his face desperately.

So, with her best acting, she made her eyes focus on the candle behind Az, gasping in horror and pointing. It might not have worked on him most days but his slightly delayed reaction spoke volumes about how much he really had to drink. He whipped around to the invisible threat, and as soon as his hand was within reach, Gwyn snagged the book with a triumphant laugh.

She quickly leaped away from him, pressing the book against her chest protectively.

Azriel just chuckled to himself. “Please don’t tell Cassian about that. Or anyone, really.” His eyes found hers through the dim light, slowly trailing over her face, hair and exposed legs. “You got me, Berdara.”

With only a few measured steps, he stood before her. Gwyn tightened her grip on the book just in case, but Azriel seemed to have lost interest in that. Instead, his fingers gently traced her jawline and lips.

“I’ve missed you.”, he murmured, his other hand coming to squeeze her waist. Gwyn’s breath hitched as she beheld the hunger in his gaze, the slow smile he showed her. He looked so handsome tonight with his midnight black tunic that he rolled up at the sleeves, putting his tattoos on show.

Gwyn should have been jealous that the whole of Velaris got to see him like this tonight. That he likely had to turn down a lot of invitations to peoples’ beds. But the way he looked at her made her think he didn’t care about that at all. Like he only really needed on female by his side.

“I’m sorry I didn’t go out with you.”, she said softly, swallowing down the guilt at not yet being able to cope with the masses of people a night club usually held, “But I take it you had a good time nonetheless?”

Azriel snorted, his hand now slowly exploring her neck and collarbones. “It was good, yes. You’d have enjoyed the music, I think. But it got quite crammed towards the end.”

He placed a soft kiss to her neck, pulling her even closer so she had to let go of the book and throw it on the armchair. Azriel didn’t really seem to care for their conversation right now, his lips not deviating from their mission to make Gwyn squirm.

She was already so riled up from that damned book, it didn’t take long for Azriel’s ministrations to elicit a soft moan. The Shadowsinger soaked up the noise, letting his lips finally find hers. The kiss was gentle, yet it promised something more. Gwyn could taste the bourbon on his tongue as it caressed hers and she wrapped her arms around his neck to deepen the kiss.

Azriel’s muscular frame began to crowd her, forcing her to walk back a few steps, until her back met the wall. His kiss changed as soon as he had her caged in, completely at his mercy. It got more demanding, deeper, his hands now both running up and down her sides and disheveling her pajamas until he found a piece of bare skin he could claim for himself.

This was different than before. Usually Azriel was slower, more gentle as they made love, and Gwyn had argued with herself for some time now how to best ask him to… well, just fuck her. Because Cauldron boil her, that’s what she wanted.

And apparently, that’s what she was getting tonight. She could feel herself getting wet for him as he pressed his own arousal to her hip, showing her exactly what this situation did to him too.

“Az”, she whispered in a plea as he let go of her mouth, instead pushing up her top and bending down to welcome every inch of skin revealed with open-mouthed kisses. She’d never get used to it, being naked in front of him and feeling his lips on usually hidden areas. It made her spine tingle with excitement.

“Mh?”, he looked up for a second, his eyes wild with barely reigned-in arousal. “Sorry, should I slow down?”

Gwyn let out a stuttering breath, her hands finding his inky black hair to run through. “No, this is perfect. This is what I want.” A little pull on his roots drove the point home, hopefully.

The Shadowsinger growled – actually growled – and continued his assault on her stomach and waist, squeezing her tighter. She’d never seen him so lost in the moment, not constantly fighting for control over himself. And it made her own heart beat faster in her chest at the thrill of experiencing this side of him tonight.

Azriel huffed out a frustrated breath though at his awkward position. “Change of scenery.”

He grabbed her by the waist and hoisted her up the armory instead in one quick movement, his face now level with her neck. “Better.”

Was it normal to be excited about how easily he did that, how simple it must be for him to bend her to his will?

It didn’t take long for her top to be discarded on the floor after that, her own hands helping just as much as his shadows, allowing Azriel’s hands and mouth to hone in all their attention on her breasts. He kissed, suckled and licked every bit of her, paying special tribute to her nipples and the underside of her chest. Gwyn was reduced to a moaning mess, withering beneath the heat of his mouth and trying to press her center against his stomach.

“Don’t be so fucking impatient.”, he chuckled, pinning her hips to a frustrating stop, “Jasmine took everything in stride. Not once did I read about her trying to take control.”

Gwyn glowered at him. “That’s because Reginald actually saw to her needs the minute they arose.”

The Shadowsinger stilled at her words, slowly looking up at her. “Are you saying I don’t see to your needs, priestess?”

“I’m saying that you shouldn’t assume you know everything about me and my body and what I need.” The moment the words left her, she found herself regretting them. Because really, it was unfair. Azriel did know her body like his own, and did bring her the most mind-shattering orgasms. But a little voice inside her urged her on, hoping to rile him enough to completely relinquish his gentle manners. Plus, it was fun. “Because you clearly don’t.”

Azriel smiled at her accusation in a way that did absolutely nothing to calm her down. In fact, it promised retribution.

“I don’t?”

Gwyn tried to summon some bravado. “You don’t. You’re okay, you know the basics, sure. One would hope you do after 500 years of living.”

Azriel’s eyebrows rose with every lie uttered, a manic gleam in his eyes. Oh, she was going to be in so much trouble. Her center throbbed with the certainty of that. Mother, she wanted him so badly.

But her Shadowsinger stepped back and made to grab her discarded book, leaving Gwyn shivering on the armory and covering her breasts with her arms. “How about a challenge, then?”

Gwyn stared at him with doe eyes, unsure where he’d take this.

“Looks like dear Reginald managed to make her cum”, he paused, skimming the pages again, “twice with his mouth, and once more on his cock. I’d say he knows how to please her, wouldn’t you?”

Gwyn nodded, taking in the force of nature that was Azriel. He exuded confidence as he stood there in the center of the room, his eyes drilling into hers like he might die if he can’t look at her.

“So all I need to do for you to take your uncalled for and plainly false words back is”, he stepped towards her again, his mouth whispering the challenge – the promise it held – into her ear, “prove I’m better.”

Gwyn was unwell. And it clearly showed, because Azriel already held himself like he’d won. Like he’d made her cum with just his words alone. But she also knew on thing: it wasn’t easy for her to finish. Especially not with just penetration.

“I accept the challenge. And I look forward to proving you wrong.”, she whispered back.

Azriel’s hands rose to grab hers, gently pulling them away from her chest and making them meet at the small of her back where he held them hostage. “I want to add two conditions to this. First, you can’t hold yourself back. When you feel like you need to cum, you will cum. If my shadows detect you didn’t adhere to this rule, I’ll make you pay.”

Gwyn swallowed, her mouth dry with need. She’d never heard him talk like this. But she nodded to accept his first condition. Never would she deprive herself of an orgasm just to spite him. Especially right now.

“Secondly, you will not touch me unless I explicitly allow it. I’ll need to concentrate, and I can’t very well do that with your little hand wrapped around my cock.”, Azriel gave her a stern look that had her melting and nodding her head in acceptance again.

“You can’t use your Shadows either.”, the priestess was proud she found the clarity of mind to demand this little ad-on, “Reginald didn’t have them. Only his very own skill.”

Azriel puffed out his chest. “Of course not. I’ll win this fair and square.”

Silence expanded between them and the dark room as their stared at each other in defiance. And a whole lot of infatuation. Because there was never a moment Gwyn felt more desire towards this male.

“It’s on?”, Azriel asked, looking ready to pounce.

“It’s on.”, she replied.

The word barely left her mouth before his own claimed it with a roughness that took Gwyn’s breath away. He pressed her back to the wall, spreading her legs even further to accommodate his hips and wings.  

Something told her she was about to experience what it was like to be at the mercy of an unleashed Shadowsinger. And that something was his hand, finding her throat in a grip firm enough for her to moan out her approval.

“Still”, he ground out. The space between them widened again as he stepped back to pull her shorts off her body.

When they were discarded, he took his sweet-ass time to run his eyes over her nude form. Gwyn tired her best to adhere to his command of staying put, but having the undivided attention of Azriel on her made that quite hard. Especially when his gaze snagged on her exposed center and lingered. Like he planned all the things he was about to do to her to the smallest detail.

His own hands travelled up his body and began unbuttoning his tunic, revealing inch after inch of first tattooed, then bronze skin. Gwyn strained, her whole body on overdrive. She wanted nothing more than to lunge forward, feel all of him pressed against her. But she also wanted to win.

Azriel carelessly discarded his tunic, his mirthful eyes telling her he knew exactly what his little strip show did to her. “Are you wet for me already, love?”

Hearing the low timbre of his voice felt like almost like touch in itself. Gwyn arched her back slightly. “Yes.”

“Good.”, he sank to his knees before her, his head now perfectly in line with her throbbing center, “because I’m fucking starving for you.”

Gwyn gasped as she felt the first lick of his tongue against her. Her eyes closed against her will in nothing but self-preservation. Seeing him lick her would be the death of her, she knew. And she was about to relish in his attention for as long as possible.

Azriel knew he was good with his tongue and it showed. It danced along her slit with perfect pressure, honing in on her clit and circling the tiny bud of nerves in a maddening rhythm.

“Fuck”, he growled out, pressing a harsh kiss to her opening, “I’m addicted to this. I thought about it the whole night, about you underneath me.” 

The priestess gasped and moaned as his tongue once again thought of better things to do than drive her crazy with his words. She liked the idea of Azriel pining for her, his thoughts thoroughly occupied so none other could take them up. Feelings of power and love flooded her veins and joined the pleasure he was already giving her.

Gwyn was wet beyond measure now, her juices coating her inner thighs and running down on the armory. She was certainly losing the challenge abysmally if he continued like that, but was it really losing if it made her feel like this?

Azriel’s fingers moved to join his tongue, rubbing up and down her wetness to then plunge into her. Gwyn moaned at the feel of them, the roughness of his scars providing ample friction as he pumped them in and out of her while his tongue remained firmly on her clit.

Despite her best efforts to draw this out, she felt her orgasm build ferociously.

“Watch.”, Azriel ground out so close against her still that she felt the warmth of his breath, “watch yourself cum on my tongue.”

And Gwyn did. With her eyes trained on his face, she watched as he doubled his efforts. And the sight of this powerful, gorgeous male before her, that was so thoroughly hers he was engrained into her very heart, made her shatter.

The priestess came with a shout and a plethora of flexed muscles. Azriel did his best to draw it out, continuing his fingering and licking at a more relaxed pace until Gwyn collapsed in on herself.

When she regained her senses, her eyes fell on the Shadowsinger now standing at full height again. He leaned forward, his arms propped up on either side of her thighs, a smug smile on his wet face. “Why don’t you count for us, sweetness? We can’t lose sight of the challenge now, can we?”

Gwyn nodded, her lust dampened to a manageable level again. She conceded this point way too quickly, even though it was worth it. “One.”

She silently made a pact with herself. The male needed to work for it, otherwise his ego might expand to the heavens. In fact, Azriel already looked about ready to burst with arrogance.

He stepped forward to give her a lingering kiss, his tongue caressing hers and sharing her essence with her. Gwyn itched to touch him, if only his shoulders or chest or hair or anything. But he didn’t allow it yet, and begging was so beneath her.

Azriel scooped her up carefully, walking towards the bed and laying her down on the covers. But instead of widening her thighs, her grabbed hold of her ankles and lifted them in the air, leaving her center and ass in full view again.

“Hold that for me, love.”, he said as he knelt on the bed as well. Gwyn grabbed the inside of her knees and pulled them towards her chest, mentally preparing to not come within five minutes.

“Like that. Good girl.”, he murmured almost absentmindedly, focusing on her center yet again while Gwyn’s resolve took it’s first hit. Why was he so talkative all of a sudden and why did she want to cum just to hear him call her ‘good’ again?

A kiss to her thigh quickly shut down her inner monologue. By the third kiss, her mind was putty again. The fifth landed just an inch short of where she wanted it. Then, the bastard repeated the teasing process on the other side once more. Her breathing quickened again.

“Do you know what tastes even better than your arousal?”, he asked, suspended right above her clit. His lips grazed it with every word, and Gwyn jumped in anticipation. She didn’t even register him asking a question until he pinched her butt impatiently.

“No, I don’t.”, she breathed out. She couldn’t think even if she wanted to.

“Guess.”

That bloody bastard.

“Cupcakes?”, she tried weakly. It was simply the only thing she could come up with.

Gwyn felt his laugh hit her center, but nothing else followed. “No, that’s not it. In fact, cupcakes are further down the list. Guess again.”

“Azriel, please.”

Apparently, she was not above begging. And it paid off. His finger began circling her clit tightly, hitting it with just the lowest of pressures but almost continually. A slow kind of torture as he still waited for her to take another guess.

“I don’t know. Ice cream.”, the priestess panted, absolutely over this game.

“Wrong again.”, Azriel said in a conversational tone, almost like he wasn’t face to face with her dripping pussy and keeping her clit hostage underneath his finger. “But I realize now you’re at a disadvantage. I don’t think you’ve ever tasted it before.”

And with that, two of his fingers sank deeply into her with the most delicious friction and a borderline embarrassing squelch of wetness. He crawled up her body then and held out his fingers to her lips.

Gwyn stared at him wide-eyed, very much unsure of what to do. She read about this once, and honestly thought it too kinky to be real. But as she took in her Shadowsinger who watched her with the expression of a man possessed, she realized it wasn’t weird at all. At least not if it pleased him.

Tentatively, still waiting for him to stop her if that wasn’t what he meant, she raised her head and took his fingers in-between her lips. He didn’t stop her. If it was possible, his eyes turned even more mad as they darted between her eyes and mouth. “That’s it, love.”

Gwyn closed her lips around his fingers and began to suck lightly while drawing back. A tangy-sweet taste filled her mouth and she didn’t know who released a more strained moan between them. Her tongue darted out to tease the slit his fingers formed, lapping up even more of herself and Azriel ground his erection against her in a movement that seemed almost involuntary.

She honestly didn’t care for the taste, but it was better than she anticipated and seemed to drive him out of his mind. So, she took the opportunity. A distracted Azriel was a sloppy Azriel.

The priestess barely contained her smirk as she went to town on his fingers, moving up and down like she would on his cock and using her tongue to gently caress the ridges of his skin. Azriel didn’t stop her. In fact, he looked like he was put under a spell, only his hips moving against her center and finally giving her a bit more friction.

Suddenly, Az yanked his fingers back, narrowing his eyes at her. She could feel his reprimand coming, but beat him to it. “Don’t you dare. You allowed it. If not to say ‘demanded’.”

He stared at her a while longer, before conceding the point. “Fine. But then I’m not to blame for this.”

Gwyn was about to ask what ‘this’ meant, but Azriel slid down her body again, disappearing from view behind her legs. Her lower lips were spread, her overstimulated and puffy center back in view, and Azriel dove right in.

This time, nothing about his movements felt calculated. He simply lapped up every ounce of liquid that dripped out of her, wanting to be in multiple spots at once. Azriel moaned in abandon, almost as wildly as Gwyn herself, plunging his tongue into her and drinking directly from the source. His nose and stubble grazed her simultaneously as he licked her walls like he owned them.

“Azriel”, the priestess moaned out his name, fighting hard to not move her hips in time with his licks. She felt like she was floating on pleasure.

The Shadowsinger let up from her entrance, his fingers taking up a slow and torturous caress up and down her slit. Gwyn was about to wonder why he didn’t use his tongue anymore when she felt it again – lower.

Every thought of shame or panic left her though, as his tongue circled her puckered hole tentatively first, then with more rigor when she didn’t object.

They had talked about this before at some point as the topic came up in one of her novels as well. And she expressed her general interest in it, not really sure how it would feel. She’d have asked him to do this earlier if she’d known.

Her muscles twitched with all their might. The pleasure he wrung from her clit was somehow amplified by the delicate skin around her bottom and Azriel’s mouth licking and kissing around it, focusing on the thin piece of skin that separated her pussy from it once in a while.

If the feeling of it didn’t drive her insane enough, the fact that Azriel seemed to take so much pleasure in it too took her over the edge. He never even raised his head for air, never stilled his fingers and reacted to every twitch of her, adjusting his ministrations accordingly.

He played her like his favorite instrument, and she ate her previous words with each slide of his fingers and tongue. The male knew what he was doing, and she was so fucking lucky.

After a few minutes of this blissful torture, she couldn’t hold back anymore and came again with an intense wave of release. Goosebumps littered her skin and she shouted Azriel’s name into the abyss in testament of his devotion.

She let her legs fall open to each side, not caring for her compromising position as she tried to catch her breath. And her sanity.

Azriel perched between her legs, gently caressing her calves as he grinned at her.

“Well done, love. How many?”

Gwyn released a shaky breath. “Two and a half.”

His grin widened ever more. “And a half, huh?”

The priestess nodded. Usually, they called it a day after one or both of them came twice. She didn’t even know if it was possible for him to drag another orgasm out of her. But as Gwyn looked at Azriel again, at how he made to unlace his trousers and setting himself free, she had the feeling she’d give him another half a point for simply seeing him in all his naked glory. Or maybe a thousand.

She scootched higher up the bed, boldly watching him strip completely. The Shadowsinger finally discarded his trousers, shoes and underwear, and Gwyn had to fight to not let her own hand slip between her legs at the sight. How was it possible she was already aroused again?

“Since you were so good this whole time, I’ll let you decide how I take you.”, Azriel said in a low voice, his hand coming up to his cock and pumping languidly. She itched to crawl forward and lick off the beads of precum that glistened on the tip.

“Can I ride you?”, she breathed, already sitting up without waiting for an answer.

The Shadowsinger chuckled at her eagerness, but his eyes betrayed his nonchalant façade. He was quick to take up her previous place on the bed, dragging her on top of him instantly and with so much force she nearly fell on his face.  

Gwyn wasted absolutely no time. She slid onto him like he was molded just for her, engulfing him in her wetness until he was sheathed completely. Both moaned at the feeling of finally being united like this, and the priestess rocked back and forth just slightly to get used to him again.

Azriel watched her from below, his hands resting on her hips. His own breathing sounded a bit labored too, Gwyn thought with satisfaction, and he held her still with straining muscles.

“Cauldron, Gwyn.”, he ground out, his head falling back against the pillow in surrender. Or what Gwyn interpreted as such. Because just a few seconds after-

“Oh, Gods!”, Gwyn gasped as he drove himself up and into her, leveraging himself against the bed and taking control from her entirely. He set a punishing pace, thrusting into her again and again with no resistance. The priestess fell onto his chest from the force of him, moaning with abandon.

He felt so good inside of her, so perfect, hitting all the right spots.

Azriel gazed up at her, his features set in barely restrained ferocity. He looked so beautiful, sweating and panting, his ruffled hair sticking to his forehead, neck and chest flexed.

Gwyn relished in the feel of him, moving in tandem with his thrusts to force him even deeper.

“Fuck, I’m close.”, the Shadowsinger growled.

But Gwyn wasn’t quite there yet. “I need more.”

Azriel’s sharp gaze focused on her, and he immediately relinquished his thrusting to let her take over again. Which was just what she needed. With a heavy, unrestrained moan, Gwyn began to ride him at a slower pace, angling her hips so that her clit brushed against his pelvis every time.

And gods, did that feel good.

Her orgasm built again, different this time with the additional weight of his length inside of her. And judging by Azriel’s face, he was with her.

With a shout that surely informed the rest of the house what they were up to, Azriel raised himself up, flinging his arms around Gwyn and came hard. The priestess was quick to follow, pressing him closer against her. Her walls fluttered around him, making sure he spilled every drop of himself.

Both panted, still cradled in each other’s arms until their breathing returned to normal.

Azriel pulled back first, finding her eyes as usual. “All good?”

“Perfect.”, she sighed, pressing an innocent kiss to his lips.

“What’s the score, Berdara?”, he asked, trying to summon some bravado as he prepared to receive a stellar review.

Gwyn released a laugh. “I’ve lost count.”

“So, am I officially a better lover than Reginald?”, Azriel brushed his nose against her cheek before nuzzling into her neck in a playful manner.

Gwyn smiled to herself, finally free in caressing his neck and shoulders to her heart’s content. Which, she decided, she was going to do for the foreseeable future.

“Reginald who?”

[autisticlancemcclain]

“Yeah. Uh-huh. That’s why your ideas are stupid and we’re all gonna die.”

Keith fumes. Like, actually fumes, making the noise and everything, face bright red and scowl twisting his face so tightly that there’s a genuine concern he’s in pain. Lance, on the other hand, looks completely unbothered, flexing his fingers and checking his nails like he has no stake at all in the conversation.

Hunk exchanges a glance with Pidge. He’s at least glad they know better, if not poor Keith — Lance’s leg is bouncing up a storm underneath the table. He’s just as affected as Keith is, he’s just being a dick for brains because he’s emotionally stunted.

“If there’s something wrong with the plan,” Keith says, carefully enunciating every word through gritted teeth, “then please point it out to me and suggest an alternative.” The ‘otherwise shut the fuck up’ goes unsaid, but Hunk feels the sentiment is pretty clear regardless.

Lance upheaves a big, dramatic sigh, flopping backwards in his chair and covering his eyes with his hand like merely voicing his thoughts is such a struggle.

Keith’s eye twitches.

“You’re going to get a knife thrown at your head,” Hunk warns pleasantly, fully aware that it will do nothing.

He’s right. Lance ignores him.

“Look here,” he says, flicking a hand — with a more than reasonable amount of fanfare, Hunk will add, in fact he’s relatively certain that Lance has painted his fingernails gold entirely so they shine and catch everyone’s attention when he waves his hands around — at the holo blueprints Keith has pulled up of the Empire warship. “I mean, you have a plan that would work well for an EXC-76E-5 ship. Enter through the west hatch, sneak through the side hallways, ambush the gathered crew on the bridge. Except —” he swipes the image to the side, pulling up a file and displaying a photo sent by the Blades of the ship they’re currently planning to infiltrate — “the ship we’re infiltrating is an EXC-76E-4, dumbass. The hallways available to the west hatch opening don’t lead to the bridge, they lead to the armoury. If we mosey our way to the one place on the ship loaded with bombs and trigger happy Empire soldiers, it’s bye-bye Voltron.” He raises an eyebrow, smirking slightly, before parting his hands in faux surrender. “Of course, you’re the leader, though. If you say it’s time to go boom, I say sayonara, cruel word. Your wish is my firm command, Oh Fearless Leader.”

There’s a moment of tense, shocked silence. Hunk hurriedly pulls out his own file, noticing peripherally that everyone else does, as well, and hurriedly scans the report — the Blades have mistakenly noted in the write-up that the ship model is the EXC-76E-5, but the photos show, very clearly, an EXC-76E-4. Lance is right, and is the only one to notice — he must have all the models memorized. It’s a very Lance thing to do.

So is being a smug little shit about it, Hunk knows that for certain.

Beside him, Allura is biting her lip hard to keep from laughing. Over the past few months, her and Lance have gotten much closer, and while that has done wonders for team dynamics, it has also done wonders for Lance’s ego, which is.

Well.

It just is.

Pidge is also notably hiding her face with her hands. Hunk himself has several years of practice keeping his face in check when Lance is right, as is his duty as the number one Lance humbler (and as Lance’s duty with him — Hunk will admit that he can be a cocky shithead when he wants to be), so he’s looking straight at Keith.

Keith’s face has dropped to a deadpan stare. He grinds his teeth, glancing at the file and then back up at Lance, who smiles sunnily as if he’s not the absolute king of being as irritating as possible as often as possible.

“You know what your problem is?” Keith mutters, angrily swiping his hand through his battle plans to delete them and pulling up new blueprints.

Lance grins smugly, placing his hands under his chin and his elbows on the table. He blinks slowly, then opens half-lidded eyes towards Keith.

“Enlighten me,” he says.

“You,” Keith continues, as if Lance had not spoken, “are really cute, so no one ever told you to shut your fucking pie-hole.”

For the second time in the last ten minutes, the briefing room rings with shocked silence. Keith doesn’t seem to have noticed that he said it, or even that he said it to Lance’s face — he’s muttering grumpily to himself, crossing out every other thing he writes. He’s not even looking at Lance.

Lance, on the other hand, looks completely shocked. Shocked does not begin to cover it, honestly. Startled, maybe? His hands have dropped from under his chin, and his brown eyes are wide, looking at Keith in disbelief. His mouth is open slightly, gaped, at a total and complete loss for what to say.

Allura loses her battle. She clamps her hand over her mouth, trying her damnedest to muffle her laughter, eyes tearing with the effort. Pidge’s shoulders have started to shake, too. Hunk, for his part, can’t decide who to stare at, flicking wide eyes between Dumbass #1 and Dumbass #2.

Suddenly Lance’s expression shifts — the shock evaporates from his face, and in its place is something smug, something unbelievably satisfied, like a cat that knows it has its prey exactly where it wants it.

Hunk is generally a mature person, but drama is his weakness. He is straining every part of him so as not to miss a word.

Lance allows Keith a couple more moments of frustration, then starts tapping a nail on the table, a sound that is well known to annoy Keith quickly and reliably. When he, as expected, whips his head towards the sound and glares, Lance smirks, eyes honestly a little salacious between fluttering eyelashes.

“You think I’m cute?” he purrs.

It takes Keith maybe half a second to clock what the hell Lance is talking about, and then he goes so red that Hunk is sure he can feel the heat of his face, from exactly where he’s sitting, ten feet away.

Seriously, he’s glowing.

“Shut your pie-hole!” he snaps. “God!”

Rapidly, he turns back to the holoscreen, enlarging the proper blueprints with his new plans so everyone can see.

Lance cackles, continuing to snigger as Keith tries valiantly to outline his new plan and not die of self-induced heat exhaustion.

When Hunk peeks over Lance’s shoulder to look at his notes, though, he sees that he’s been dotting his i’s with hearts.

———

comic this fic is based on

[bodhranwriting]

Kizzy and Sixsmith, my bestest boys and bestest friends:

"Well," Jane said, "She needs a name."

Emmett shifted uncomfortably, rocking the toddler. "But she already *has* a name," he pointed out, "her parents would have named her."

"We can't just keep callin' them 'the baby'," Sixsmith said from the corner. "It's a bit dehumanisin', right?"

"I... guess. But it doesn't feel right."

"It's a placeholder," Jane said, "Until we find them. Any ideas?"

"Well..." Sixsmith began.

"We are not saddling that poor child with any of your names, Six."

Sixsmith held up his hands. "Fuck no," he said. "I was goin' to suggest the obvious. Iris."

Emmett looked at the toddler in his arms. She mumbled in her sleep and shifted. "We can't name her after the ship!"

"Why not?"

"What do I say in years to come?" he persisted, "You're named after a ship? The other kids will laugh."

"Emmett... you're not keeping her."

—————-

“Your child,” Sixsmith announced, “is very clingy.”

Emmett raised his eyebrow. “Really.”

“Yeh. I think you should keep on eye on that,” Sixsmith said, completely deadpan. “’Cause my arms are beginnin’ to hurt.”

“Then put Kizzy down.”

Sixsmith considered it, bouncing the toddler on his hip. “… no.”

……………

A little hand tugged on Emmett’s shirt.

Sniffing a little in the cold, he looked down to see Kizzy – spherical in cold weather gear – staring at him with big eyes under her massive wooly hat.

“Yes, Kiz?”

Chewing her lip, she beckoned him to kneel down.

He did, focused on her hands. The sign language book had been the best investment in the history of the world. It made her so much happier.

She beckoned him closer still.

Frowning slightly, he complied.

Then Kizzy, little Kizzy who had never spoken a word in four years, put her mouth by his ear and whispered, “Fuck.”

Joy swamped him and he grabbed her in a hug. “You can speak? You can speak! Kizzy that’s – wait.” Emmett put her down and stared. “What did you say?”

Kizzy grinned, eyes directed heavenwards. Rocking back and forth on her heels, she calmly enunciated, “Fuck. Fuck, fuck fuck.”

Very slowly, Emmett raised his head, gaze zeroing on the figure beating a hasty retreat down the gangplank.

“Gideon Laurence Sixsmith, get the hell back here right now!”

…………..

It had been a long day and the last thing Emmett wanted was to not be able to get into the office.

The door wasn’t locked; he could turn the handle quite easily and even open it enough to stick his hand through the gap.

Something was blocking it and when his fingers brushed yellow cloth, he had a good idea of what.

“Keziah Bianca Nunn, what did I say about turning the captain’s quarters into a den?”

His only answer was muffled giggles.

Two sets of giggles. One very high pitched and the other not.

Emmett sighed heavily and rested his forehead against the doorframe. “Gideon Laurence Sixsmith, you are a full grown man.”

“An’ tech’iclly, it’s me office.”

He raised his eyebrows at that. “It’s our office. You made the announcement last week.”

“Yes, well…” Sixsmith went quiet for a moment and Emmett could hear material rustling.

There was more giggling.

“Six, Kizzy, let me in please. I have to write up the manifest.”

Sixsmith cleared his throat, interrupting him. “Kizzy says, ‘What’s the password’?”

“I work here!”

Even in this mood, his daughter’s cackle made him smile and he closed the door slightly to hide it. “Wrong!”

“’m sorry, Emmett, that’s the wrong answer.”

“Sixsmith, you’re the captain of the ship and you’re playing blanket fort with a cat and a four-year-old.”

“Yeh, ‘m captain of the ship an’ ‘m playin’ blanket fort with a cat and me grandkid. Up yours.”

“Up yours!”

“Thanks, Six, for teaching her that.”

“Hey, at least she’s speakin’.”

“… Please just let me in.”

————-

The hand gripping the straps of her dungarees was iron-tight. Kizzy clawed at the buckles desperately, wishing she could twist so she could get one good *bite* -

And suddenly there was Cloud, yowling streaking across the filthy cellar floor like lightning. The cat sprang onto her captor’s chest, claws out by the sound of his yelp. He dropped Kizzy and she scrambled for a weapon, for cover, heart hammering. Something metal clattered under her hand and she seized it, bringing up an iron bar the length of her arm. She spun about to face the man, ready to swing. Cloud was wrapped around the man’s neck -

Purring like an engine and affectionately smashing her head into his chin.

Kizzy froze, completely bewildered.

What the -?

She opened her mouth to issue a command, but the man got there first.

“Cloud?” His face was twisted, odd, but it was impossible to read exactly why in the dark. He looked towards Kizzy, scratching the cat under the chin, and added, “Then, you must be…”

“Gimme back me cat, mister,” Kizzy growled, “or I’ll whack you with this.”

[painsandconfusion]

Fluffy Pancakes

Whumping the Whumpers: Part Eighteen

(tw: blood/torture mention, mild panic, brief nudity mention (unsexy), implied kidnappee, fluff. this is just fluff.)

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Ethan jolted awake, air punching through his lungs like it was trying to pop them open - then they burned again at the loss as he struggled upright, kicking away whatever tangled his feet, threatening to drag him down.

He sat up, panting. Head spinning. Heart thrumming against his throat. He stared frantically around the room.

“Blueberries.” Nate articulated.

Ethan’s eyes snapped to Nate’s face, staring blankly. Chest heaving. Sweat trickling down his temple. Nate stood in the doorway, absentmindedly whisking some kind of batter in a bowl.

Ethan cleared his throat, swallowing down the ill-timed panic.

“...Blueberries?

Nate quirked an eyebrow up, smiling slightly. “Wow, you were really dead to the world there, weren’tcha?”

Ethan blinked at him, forcing his breaths to slow. He hadn’t recognized the room at first. Probably why he was so freaked.

Wait. Shouldn’t he be more freaked out about waking up to Nate? Not that he was afraid of Nate.

…Of course he wasn’t.

Afraid of Nate, that is.

But he could at least be perturbed about some guy barging into his room while he’s sleeping, right?

Right.

Ethan tried again, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Blueberries?”

Nate rolled his eyes. “Yes, Ethan. Blueberries.” He was still mixing. “Do you like blueberries in your pancakes? I’m gonna add some, but I won’t if you don’t like them.”

Ethan glared at the bowl. “...pancakes?”

Nate sighed. “Yes, pancakes.” He paused. “You know what? You missed your chance for input. I’m adding the damn blueberries. You can pick them out if you’re a wimp about fruit.” He grabbed the doorknob, abandoning the whisk. “Get dressed and come downstairs - these will be ready soon.”

Ethan stared as the door closed.

Then he was alone.

He didn’t have to take the time to get dressed - he’d never undressed. He wasn’t exactly used to having nightclothes and he wasn’t stripping down in a place like this. So, he just waited a few long moments, ensuring he had a grip on his heart rate after that rude awakening, then started downstairs.

Didn’t take long for him to wind his way into the kitchen.

Nate barely glanced over his shoulder as Ethan lurked in the doorframe - well, Ethan wouldn’t call it ‘lurking’. More like…standing perching. Watching? Standing completely normally? Definitely not awkward at all.

Fuck, today was weird. It was making him weird.

Ethan wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t still dreaming as Nate flipped a pancake, splatting it onto the griddle. “There’s orange juice and milk in the fridge. Glasses in the cupboard on the left of the sink.”

Ethan blinked at him.

Nate finished flipping and turned back to Ethan. “Okay, come on. If you’re going to live here, you need to be able to at least get around the house. Stop being so skittish all the time - just…do something.”

Ethan pulled back a chair and sat.

Nate let out a deadpan breath. “I guess that’s something.” He made a move for the cupboard he’d mentioned before. “What do you want to drink?”

Ethan’s eyebrows pricked together. “Aren’t we going to…I don’t know. Go downstairs and-”

“Sure.” Nate clanged two glasses on the table, cutting him off. “After you’ve had a real breakfast. You didn’t even eat supper last night.”

“I wasn’t exactly-”

“-I know. But that’s why you’re eating now. Then you can go make the little fucker bleed all you want. Sound good?”

Ethan leaned back slowly, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Good,” Nate clipped.

He pulled a pitcher from the fridge. “You’re getting orange juice.”

Ethan grimaced. “Orange juice with syrup? Seriously? It goes sour-”

Nate shot a glare at him, enunciating each syllable a bit too clearly- “Then you should have gotten the milk when I gave you the chance.”

Even as Nate slid him the freshly-poured glass, Ethan had to press back a smile that came to his face at Nate’s tone.

Why was he even smiling. Stupid weird-ass fucking morning.

“Fine.” He grabbed the glass. “But we eat fast.”

Nate shrugged. “Fine by me.” He tucked the pitcher back inside the fridge. The door closed again with a quiet snap.

Nate leaned against it, the ghost of a smile pulling across his eyes. “How long do you think it will take him to break?”

[Previous | Masterlist | Next

(tags: @prisonerwhump, @whumpawink, @mabledonut, @heathenwhump, @paleassprince, @jadeocean46910, @wormwriting, @distinctlywhumpthing, @whump-cafe@jo-doe-seeking-inspo @azayta @tropes-for-my-md-daydreams @batfacedliar-yetagain @there-will-always-be-blood @siren-of-agony @whumpworld @bandages-andobsessions @deltaxxk @whumpasaurus101)

[mochegato]

Even the Losers

Chapter 6

Chapter 1     Chapter 5

Marinette collapsed onto the barstool and immediately motioned to the bartender, ordering a drink before Adrien had even sat down. She downed the drink as soon as it came and motioned for another.  The bartender raised an eyebrow at her.  “Want me to just leave the bottle?”

“Yes,” Marinette answered gratefully with a bright smile.

“No,” Adrien answered over her.  “Just another drink for now and a water for me, please.” The bartender looked between the two of them, waiting for her response to his interruption.  Marinette pouted and slumped in her stool, but didn’t counter him so the bartender nodded and left to pour the drinks.

“Leaving the bottle would be easier,” she commented, slightly annoyed.

“And more dangerous,” he warned.  Marinette rolled her eyes and looked away.  It wasn’t that she disagreed.  She knew it was stupid.  She knew she shouldn’t drink until she blacked out.  She knew it wasn’t safe, especially in Gotham.  But honestly, she didn’t care.  The entire day had been a clusterfuck of dark thoughts and tears, after their meeting with M. Fox, and now she just wanted to forget… everything.  She wanted to forget her day.  She wanted to forget the last twenty odd years.  She wanted to forget her feelings.  She wanted to forget how to feel.  She wanted to forget how to think.

“You might want to try something else,” Adrien tried instead.  If self-preservation wasn’t going to get through to her, maybe he could use her self-destruction against her.  “If you get the bottle, you’re committed to that liquor.  If you just go by the glass, you can try different ones.”

Marinette looked at him from the corner of her eye, knowing exactly what he was doing but unable to fault his logic.  Instead she propped her elbows on the bar and buried her face in her hands.  She mumbled a thank you to the bartender when she heard him set her drink in front of her but groaned when she heard someone sit on the stool next to her.  There were plenty of open seats around the room, plenty of seats at the bar, if that’s where the person wanted to sit.  

The only reason for the person to sit so close was because they wanted to talk to her.  And while she would normally be polite and give the person a smile and maybe talk with them before turning them down, she was utterly, completely, and in all ways, not in the mood.  So, regardless of whether the person was there to hit on her or talk to her because she was a Wayne, she had no interest in any kind of a conversation.

She moved her hands just enough to clearly enunciate, “Not even remotely interested.  Move along, please.”

The man chuckled and leaned against the bar himself. “Good to hear it.  I'm pretty sure the Press would have a field day with that.”

Adrien scowled at the men who had taken the seat by them and wouldn’t take no for an answer.  “Hey, buddy, she said not interested.  Find someone else,” he growled threateningly.  

The man shook his head.  “I only have so many sisters and the others don’t drink. Well, not with me anyway.”  He motioned to the bartender.  “Actually, the only other sibling we have that can drink, besides Cass, is Dick and he is going to be absolutely insufferable for months over this, trying to make you feel welcome in the family.  So I’m avoiding him too.”

Marinette eased her head out of her hands to look at the man.  She immediately recognized him from the gala.  Jason Todd.  One of Bruce’s sons.  She narrowed her eyes at him.  What was he doing here?  How did he find her?  “You followed me here.”

Jason shook his head with a light chuckle.  He looked up as the bartender approached. “Hey Jay, Roy.  The usual?”

Jason nodded.  “Thanks, Jack.”  He waited for the bartender to retreat to pour the drinks before turning back to her. “If anything, you followed me here.”

Marinette scoffed and turned back to her drink.  “I was just looking for some place to get drunk and forget about the whole,” she motioned to him, “drama.”  She glared down at her purse.  “Lucky me.  I chose this bar.  Sorry for the accusation.”

Jason waved her off.  “No.  I get it. Paranoia is justified in this family.  Welcome to the family.  It doesn't get better.”

Marinette groaned and dropped her head into her hands again.  She motioned to the bartender as he brought Jason and Roy their drinks.  “What do you want?  Same?”

“I don't care.  Whatever you have and make it a double… please.  Is a triple a thing?”  Her eyes brightened at the idea.  Adrien motioned no behind her, his eyes pleading with the bartender.

Bartender nodded.  “Yes, ma'am.  Double it is.”

Adrien let out a relieved breath and turned to the boys.  “Hi.  I’m Adrien,” Adrien finally cut in after a few moments of awkward silence.

“Nice to meet you.  So you’re the one schtupping my sister.”  Jason reached out to shake his hand.

Marinette wrinkled her nose in confusion.  “Schtup?  What is schtup?”  She downed the last of her drink as she waited for them to respond.

“Screwing,” Roy answered.

Adrien choked on air and Marinette spit out the whiskey she had just drank.  Marinette glared at him and shot Jack an apologetic smile.  “Sorry about that.  This one and the next are on the asshole.”  The bartender looked to Jason with a laugh and nodded.

“It was just an observation,” Jason answered with a smirk.

“Don’t be an asshole,” Marinette grunted.

“That’s a tall order for Jason,” Roy grinned.

“He’s tall.  He can handle it,” Marinette snarked with a shrug.  She turned back to Jason.  “No.  No we are not stooping.”

“Schtupping,” Jason corrected.

“Stopping…” Marinette tried again.

“Sch…toooo…ping,” he corrected again, accentuating each sound for her.

Marinette blinked a few times at him.  “Screwing,” she finally finished with a decided nod.  Roy laughed hard.  “He’s my brother Adrien.  Adrien…”

“Her other brother, Jason.”  Jason finished for her.  Marinette narrowed her eyes at him but didn’t contradict him.  “And this is my partner, Roy,” Jason continued, motioning toward Roy who gave a short wave before taking another drink.

Marinette waved back at him.  She turned back to Jason.  “Partner… is that another word for screwing too?”  

Jason sputtered and narrowed his eyes at her, frustrated that he walked into that so easily, but Roy laughed loudly again.  “I like her.  New favorite sibling… don’t tell Cass… or Dick.”  He grinned charmingly at Marinette.  “But no.  Business partner.  Not currently schtupping anyone.”

Jason rounded on him and glared.  Roy looked back at him innocently.  “Yes?”

“No,” he said warningly.

“Are you another Wayne?” Marinette asked Roy.

“No?”  He stared at her for a few seconds before realization set in.  “No.  I hang out with them a lot.  Dick and I used to be on a team together so we were around each other constantly for a while there.  Our families used to be together a lot.  They feel like family sometimes.”  He grinned at her.  “But, no. Not in any way related to you.”

Marinette nodded and looked back at her drink.  At least that’s one person in Gotham her… M. Wayne hadn’t adopted after chucking her out.  Jason glared harder at Roy and punched his shoulder.  “Sister,” he hissed.

Roy grinned back.  “Yours, not mine.  We just established that.  Keep up.”

Jason narrowed his eyes even further before relaxing them as he turned back to Marinette.  “So, how are you handling… you know, everything?”

Marinette and Adrien both stared at him with deadpan expressions.  Marinette looked pointedly around the bar and her drink.  “Oh, you know… well.”  She kept eye contact with him as she downed the rest of her drink, wincing at the feeling. She looked down at her drink critically. “Why do I drink this stuff?  I hate it.”

“Maybe you should ease off then,” Adrien offered gently.

“No.  Fuck off. I want to get drunk,” she glowered back at him.  Roy chuckled and motioned to Jack for her.

Adrien sighed and raised his hands in defeat. “Okay.  Maybe something that tastes better then?”

Marinette cocked her head in consideration. “Okay.  Excuse me, M. bartender?  Can I get something that will get me very drunk very fast and taste better than this, please?”

Jack blinked at her a few times and looked over to Jason.  Roy laughed at her response while Jason shook his head.  “She’s had a rough day.  You got anything?”

Jack grunted and shook his head as he looked around. “I’ll look.”

“Thank you, M. bartender,” Marinette chirped at him. He waved her off without looking back at her.

“I think you came to the wrong bar if you’re looking for something other than the basics,” Roy mock whispered at her.

She leaned in closer, leaning past Jason to talk to Roy. “I came to get drunk and away from reporters and forget about all this,” she motioned toward Jason.  “I came to the wrong bar for more reasons than my liquor preference.”  

She suspiciously eyed the drink Jack put in front of her with a grunt, but plastered a smile on her face.  “Thank you.”  She tentatively took a sip and wrinkled her nose in disgust.  There was no way she was going to be able to drink this slowly.  The only solution was all at once.  She removed the tiny umbrella she was pretty sure he added to mock her and downed the drink like a shot.  She gasped at the horrific sensation.  Adrien just barely missed getting his water away from her before she grabbed it to get rid of the taste.

She handed the now empty glass back to Adrien and buried her head in her hands.  “Regretting your decision?” he asked with a smirk.  Served her right for stealing his water.

Marinette groaned into her hands and nodded.  After a few seconds she leaned back in her chair, eyes unfocused.  “I should never have come here.”

“Told you so,” Roy singsonged.  “Now there’s a different bar a few streets over you might like better…”  The rest of his sentence got cut off when Jason smacked his shoulder with the back of his hand.

Jason turned to Marinette with a sympathetic smile. “I often feel that way, but usually after a few more drinks.”

Marinette shook her head.  “I knew it was stupid to come.  I knew I shouldn’t have,” she groaned pitifully.  “I could feel something bad was going to happen, I just thought that was the part before we came not… not,” she motioned all around her. “God, I was so stupid.  I should have known I wouldn’t be able to just sneak in and out.”  She leaned her head on Adrien’s shoulder, fighting the tears.

“So why did you?” Jason asked as though he didn’t know.

She looked over at him for a second without raising her head from Adrien’s shoulder before closing her eyes again.  “Friend needed a job.  Was getting sc… schtuped by the hiring committee at WE and scouted by a few other places that I didn’t trust… I mean Lexcorp gets blown up less than Palmer but then he’d have to work for M. Luthor.  And, yeah, I don’t think so.  So that leaves your dad.”

“Our dad,” Jason corrected pointedly.

“So you thought you'd use your connections to get him a job and didn't think you would get noticed?” Roy asked not even bothering to hide his amusement at the apparent stupidity of the plan.  It wasn’t often he got to enjoy how laughably bad other people’s plans were.

“So,” she countered pointedly, looking directly at him, “I thought I’d use my charismatic personality to charm M. Fox into noticing him and let him know one of his scouts is poaching ideas.  You were never supposed to know I was here.”  She squeezed her eyes shut and let out another long sigh.

“But I was so stupid and now everyone knows and once they know...” she groaned and let her head drop onto the bar top with a resounding thud.  She popped her head up quickly and rubbed her head.  “Ewww.  It’s sticky. I don’t even want to know what caused that.”  She pulled some hand sanitizer out of her purse and wiped her forehead with it.

“You approached Lucius Fox with nothing more than charisma and got him to do what you asked?” Roy asked in amazement.

“And my brains, but…” she leaned closer to him as if passing on a secret, “I can be very charming when I want to be…”  She looked down at herself and frowned.  “When I’m not,” she motioned to herself, “you know. A mess.”

Roy smiled charmingly.  “I believe that.  Even when you aren’t trying.  And if this is you as a mess, normal you must blow people away.”

Marinette scoffed and turned back to her drink.  Jason waited until her attention was on her glass and shoved Roy hard enough to knock him off his chair.  Adrien raises an amused eyebrow at them before shaking his head and looking down.  Marinette looked over at the sound.  Her brow furrowed in concern.  Jason smiled casually and motioned to Roy.  “Too much to drink.”

Roy narrowed his eyes at him and rubbed his hip. “Overprotective much?” he grumbled quietly enough for Marinette not to hear.

Marinette turned back to her drink, noting it was awfully low.  She swirled the contents and nodded distractedly.  “Lucky.”

Roy bit his tongue as he climbed back onto the stool to stop from asking if she wants to be, because there's no way asking Jason’s new sister, in front of him, if she wants to get lucky, ends well for him.

“I’ll have whatever he had, please,” Marinette called out to the bartender, motioning toward Roy.

“So what now?” Jason asked.

“Now… fuck,” she whined.  She almost dropped her head on the bartop again but stopped herself just before actually making contact.  She eyed the surface suspiciously and whimpered instead.

Roy took a long drink to keep himself from talking because “Is that an invitation?” was not going to end well for him either and he was not looking to get a black eye out of tonight.  He frowned at his drink.  What was in his drink tonight?  He didn’t usually have this much trouble keeping his comments in check.

“I don’t know.  Now everything is…” she made a jumbled motion with her hands that almost caused her to fall out of her chair.  “I haven’t even…” she whimpered and eyed the bartop again before grabbing a napkin and setting it down in front of her.  She dropped her head onto the napkin with an audible thunk.

“You know your hair is still touching the counter,” Adrien mentioned with more amusement in his tone than Marinette appreciated.  Marinette groaned and sat back up.  She pulled her hair in front of her eyes to look for traces of gunk.  “She only found out about all this a few days ago and by then we were already on our way to the gala and in mission headspace so she hasn’t even had the chance to deal with it yet,” Adrien explained, keeping his eyes on Marinette.

“You didn’t know?” Roy asked incredulously.

“Nope,” Marinette responded popping the p and nodding in gratitude to the bartender for bringing her another drink and motioned for another.

“What the fuck?” Roy grunted.  “That’s messed up.  How did you find out?”

Marinette downed the entire glass.  “Heard my maman talking on the phone and distinctly heard ‘if you would like to actually meet your daughter…’ and she wasn’t speaking with my papa.  And I just…” she shrugged, staring at the empty glass like it might have an answer for her.  “… knew. I had a friend trace the call. And then I was here the next day and…”

“I think B was expecting more time to deal with it too,” Jason nodded along.

“He’s only had 20 years.  If that wasn’t enough, I may not live to when he finally has the time he needed,” Marinette groused.

“Twenty years,” Roy mused.  “Isn’t that when…” he trailed off and his eyes got wide realizing the timing of Dick’s adoption.

“I think he was planning on doing something soon,” Jason said louder than was necessary for their close proximity, leaning forward slightly to cover Roy.  “And being able to ease into it, slowly, making sure you… and Damian, weren’t too overwhelmed and you could move at your own pace,” Jason offered, fighting down the odd feeling defending Bruce left in his chest.

Marinette stared at him, swaying slightly in her seat. “Did you come here to drink or defend your dad?”

“Our dad,” he corrected.

“Because you seem to be doing a lot of one and not the other,” she continued as though he hadn’t said anything.  

Jason shrugged.  “Easy fix for that,” he said raising up his glass and finishing the contents.  “So… you staying around or what?”

Marinette whimpered again and eyed the bartop.  “I haven’t thought that through yet.  That wasn’t the plan, but then again getting found out wasn’t the plan.  Getting drunk tonight is now the plan.”  She looked over at the hoodie Roy had thrown over the back of his chair and back at the bartop.  “Can I…” she motioned toward the hoodie and reached for it at the same time.

“Oh, are you cold?  Yeah sure,” Roy almost fell out of his chair trying to get out of the way so he could hand the hoodie to her.  She gave him a weak smile and thanked him before spreading it out on the bartop and dropping her head audibly on it again.  She sighed almost happily as she let her head stay down on the bartop. Roy watched her in amused fascination and let out an amused huff.  “Not what I was expecting, but glad you’re getting use out of it, I guess…” he chortled.

“And do you always need to have a plan?” Jason asked curiously

Marinette and Adrien snorted in sync.  “Do you have a plan,” Marinette mocked, raising her head purely so she could take another drink, but decided to keep it up to educate them. Jason looked over to Roy to see if he was as confused as Jason was.  “I have lots of plans,” Marinette continued swinging her glass around to accentuate her words.  

“I have plans.  I have contingency plans.  I have backup plans.  I have plans for plans,” she started listing off on her fingers.  She looked at her hands accusingly as she ran out of fingers and almost dropped her drink.  She set down her drink with a frown and continued counting off her plans.

“I have plans to back up backup plans.  I have plans for contingencies that the contingency plans didn’t cover.  I have plans for when things go sideways.  I have plans for when things go to shit.  I have plans for when things go exactly to plan,” She leaned over to them. “I’ve never once gotten to use one of those.  I have life plans.  I have death plans.  I have future plans.”

“That’s a lot of plans,” Roy noted, fascination laced his voice. “Any of them turn out for you?”

“No!”  She threw her hands up in exasperation.  “And then I have to make a new plan on the fly.”

“Sounds familiar,” Jason grumbled.

“If all your plans get destroyed before you can complete them, why bother making them at all?” Roy asked.

Marinette brought the fingers together in front of her face and stared at it as though she were holding something precious.  “It’s all about the illusion.”

Roy snorted and nodded.  “She’ll fit in.”

Marinette narrowed her eyes at Roy.  “Is that an insult?”

Jason laughed and Adrien dropped his head into his hands.  “Jesus, Mari,” he groaned.

She scrunched her nose at him.  “What?  He said I’d fit well with M. Wayne.”

“I meant his kids,” Roy assured her.

“Oh…” Marinette answered sheepishly.  “Sorry.”

Roy waved her off.  “Nah. It’s okay.  I get it.  I meant you’re smart, sassy,” he eyed her with an amused glint in his eyes, “short…”

Marinette rounded on him, mouth agape in insult.  She quickly closed her mouth and glared at him.  “Not too short to kick your ass.”

Roy laughed and grinned at her.  “Violent.”

Marinette scrunched up her nose and turned back to her drink. “Not like I’m out there every night beating people up.”  She took a swig of her drink, missing the glance Jason and Roy sent each other before looking back at her for any indication she had meant something more by it. “Anymore…” she muttered under her breath just loud enough for Adrien’s sensitive ears to hear it.

“But,” Adrien cut in.  He motioned toward Jason.  “Short?”

“Yeah,” Roy granted, “Jason’s the exception to the short part.”

“Damian’s the exception to the sassy part,” Jason added.

“Who’s the exception to the smart part?” Marinette asked.

“Dick,” Jason and Roy answered at the same time.

“Who’s the exception to the violent part?” Adrien asked, concern edging into his voice, because that wasn’t exactly a comforting quality to be associated with Marinette’s new family.  

Jason scoffed at the idea of any of them not being violent.  “We were hoping it was going to be her,” he motioned toward Marinette.

“But, nope,” Roy finished, popping the p.  “I mean Duke isn’t particularly violent.  He can protect himself but, like, he’s chill about it.”  Roy eyed Marinette analytically.  “Maybe you can be the exception to the emotional car crash part,” he offered.

Marinette snorted inelegantly, took a swig of her drink, and looked back at him.  “That wasn’t on the list.”

Adrien leaned past her to look at the boys.  “She wouldn’t be the exception.  She’d be leading the pack.”

Marinette shoved his shoulder.  “Like you’re any better.”

Adrien raised his glass to her.  “Never said I was, Bug.”  He eyed his glass with contempt.  “You know, this would be a lot more effective if there was alcohol in here.”

Jason ordered another round for them and raised his glass to Marinette when the drinks came.  “Well, at least now I know why you were completely uninterested at the gala. Because I'm your brother.”

Marinette scowled slightly and hunched over her drink at the bar.  “Not my brother.”

Jason looked at her curiously, a frown forming on his lips before a hurt look flashed in his eyes.  Almost immediately, the hurt turned into annoyance.  He pressed his lips together hard.  “Right, another blood child.  Another kid that thinks only blood matters. So adoption doesn't count?”

Marinette furrowed her brow in confusion. She faced toward him and pointed toward herself.  “Given away and never contacted again doesn't count.  You he cared for.  You he wanted.  You're his son, but I am not his daughter.”

Jason’s eyes softened looking at her and he nodded in understanding.  Feeling unwanted, he understood.  Feeling abandoned, he understood.  Feeling like you weren’t considered good enough, he understood.  Feeling replaced, he understood.  And the fact that Bruce had made someone else feel that too, that it wasn’t just him, pissed Jason off more than he could express.  He didn’t even bother reacting when Roy punched his shoulder.  “Maybe not. But you're still my sister,” he assured her.  “I want you.”

Marinette scoffed.  “You don’t even know me.”  Adrien gently bumped her shoulder with his and gave her a gentle warning look.

“I know you better than he did,” Jason reminded her calmly.  “I have more to base my decision on than he did, and I know enough to know you’re my sister and nobody can change that.”  He gave her a devilish smile.  “You’re stuck with me now.  Fuck the old man.  He did this to himself.”

“And,” Roy interrupted excitedly.  He raised his drink for her to clink.  “Now you get to be an official member of the Shitty Dad Club.”

“Oh,” Adrien perked up.  “Can I be a member of that club?”

Roy eyed him suspiciously.  “What are your qualifications?”

“Neglect, severe emotional abuse, and he was a supervillain who tried to kill me regularly,” Adrien rattled off nonchalantly.

Roy blinked a few times.  He looked to Marinette for confirmation.  She nodded almost imperceptibly.  He turned back to Adrien and raised his drink.  “Right.  Welcome to the club.  We meet whenever there are drinks.  We should get you one.  You deserve it.”

Chapter 7

Tags:

@maribat-bdbwm @jayjayspixiepop @redscarlet95 @alice-hazelwood @deathssilentapproach-blog @unoriginalmess @alyssadeliv @emotionalsupportginger @frieddonutsweets @when-no-wings-do-broomsticks @toodaloo-kangaroo @colorfulmongerpsychicranch @iloontjeboontje @wolf-for-life @maribatserver @aespades @prettylittlebutterflie @imarivers8  @certainmuffinbagelcalzone @ritacrow-blog @unoriginalmess @demonicbusiness @kking13 @lady-bee-fechin @blur-of-colours @kittenmywaythrulife 

[xlehukax]

Thank You For The Music

Foreword: This is for the Sanders Sides Gift Exchange! Analogical Soulmate Au, as requested by @romantichopelessly! Happy holidays. And there’s also a playlist!  @sanderssidesgiftxchange! 

Ships: Logan x Virgil, (Background) Patton x Janus 

Word Count: 8374 

Warnings: SelectiveMute!Virgil, like one fight scene, Cursing, Logan’s ignoring feelings, it’s mainly the Logan and Virgil show... I don’t think there’s really anything! 

Summary: Logan’s been asked to assist a local student on campus. Having nothing else to do, he agrees: and so starts a connection that he would’ve never expected, and one that flowers more beautifully than he could ever imagine. (Soulmates can hear each other sing in their heads: Italics are either singing or sign language) 

~~~~~

Somehow, Logan thought his fourth year in College would feel different. Like he’s gone on some sort of journey: like he’s learned in the education manner but also in the lifestyle sort of way. 

It doesn’t appear that way. It seems like Logan’s the same. 

No friends. 

No challenges. 

Nothing to be excited about whatsoever. He’s going to college for the degree at this point, and the title alone. It’s why when the professor for his Microbiology class asks him to stay after, it shocks him. Especially so close to the end of the semester. 

Is he not doing enough? A quick inventory of his mind ensures that he hasn’t forgotten anything. The professor must need something: she’s taken a shine to him anyway, it probably isn’t bad. Logan gathers his things and then places them carefully in their individual places in his bag: once everything is where it belongs, in pockets and folders and sections, Logan presents himself to the professor. She smiles at him over the top of her laptop, eyes sparkling with mirth before shutting the lid of the machine. 

“Thank you for seeing me, Logan,” she grins. 

“I’m going to be blunt here: why have you asked me to stay? I assume that there is nothing out of order.” 

“No, no… your grades are impeccable, participation is great, and you’ve been fantastic. It’s simply that you’re so outstanding that I want to ask a favor,” his professor asks shrewdly. Logan hums for a moment, debating, before wincing in pain and clutching his temple. 

“Logan! Are you alright, dear?” 

“Ah, yes. It’s merely my soulmate,” he says by way of explanation. The professor smiles broadly. 

“How fantastic! Anything good?”

Logan quickly takes stock of the song: his mystery mate sang Overkill yesterday during Office Hours, and Sally’s Song the day before that while he was at his college apartment. He only knew because a) these were repeating songs, and b) he’d looked them up right away. Listened to them after the music fades to hold them close. 

It’s funny that he never once thinks that the original is better in any sense than the sweet song of his soulmate. His (Logan’s assumed it’s a he, based on his own sexuality and interests) music is so sweet: his voice is lilting and beautiful and it makes Logan feel so guilty. So guilty, because he must be the most beautiful man in the world and Logan hasn’t given him anything. Logan does not… sing. 

And in a world where you hear your soulmate’s singing in your own head, it’s a betrayal. 

“So? What is it?” the professor’s voice snaps him back to reality. 

“Oh, I’m not sure. It seems to go… oh, oh, oh, I got a love that keeps me waiting. Oh, oh, oh, I got a love that keeps me waiting. I’m a lonely boy, I’m a lonely boy,” he repeats the song in a monotone. The professor snaps her fingers. 

“Ah, The Black Keys. Lonely Boy, a classic!! It’s a good song, your soulmate has some bloody good taste. And, what are you doing, letting them be lonely like that?” she winks at him, “It’s quite the song.” 

“I do not see how this is relative to our conversation,” Logan deadpans, tired of this discourse already. If it has nothing to do with academics, he doesn’t want to hear it. 

“Oh, I’m sorry. I got off-topic. Anyway, you know ASL right?” 

“Indeed.” 

“Perfect,” she smiles gently, getting up from the desk and dusting herself off, “There’s a student at the school, it’s his second year: he’s mute and uses primarily ASL to communicate. So far, he’s been surviving by being with his brother. But the brother is changing schools after this semester to go to a better nursing school and… well, we need someone to look after Virgil. Virgil Williams is the name of the student and Patton Williams’s the brother. There’s not a lot of students who know ASL here, and from what I’ve heard you don’t really participate in extracurricular activities. This would be not only a great way to flesh out your resumé but also simply a great thing to do, you know, humanitarian wise. Would you be up for it?” 

Logan considers for a moment. It’s true, he doesn’t do a whole lot outside of schoolwork: he does tend to have too much free time spent re-reading books. It doesn’t have to be anything special: it’s only helping this kid when he needs it. No problem whatsoever: he’s tutored people before, it’ll be similar. 

“I don’t see why not. Do I have an opportunity to meet with them before I agree completely?” 

“Oh, of course! They should be at their dorm now… here’s the dorm number,” she passes him a slip of paper and what this job will entail and waves him off. The dorm’s only a short walk away: it’ll be less than a ten-minute walk from the lecture hall if he crosses the Courtyard. 

Logan walks briskly: he doesn’t require the extra exercise due to his rigorous workout schedule but it’s always nice to stretch his limbs. He breaks into a light jog, his bag bouncing slightly on his back as he moves, and makes it there in exactly 8.7 minutes instead of 10. Logan wipes the sweat from his brow with a cloth before entering the dormitories and heading to the shared Williams dorm. It’s on the third floor, right outside the elevators. 

Logan takes the stairs. 

He combats a sudden influx of nerves at the door: swallows it deep and regulates his features. Professional, he thinks to himself. Be professional. 

His knock is answered immediately as if they were standing at the door. Logan’s presented with a man who breaks out into a broad smile immediately: his hair is pulled up into a small bundle at the top of his head, sparse brown curls sticking out haphazardly. He’s quite large and strong-looking: he’d be intimidating if his eyes didn’t have that same sort of sparkle that the professor did, his large circle-rimmed glasses hiding absolutely nothing. 

“Oh!! You must be the guy the Prof knew!! Hello! I’m Patton!! It’s so great to meet you!! Agh, I’m so excited! Well, Virgil too,” he grins. Logan blinks. He is… a lot. 

“Greetings. I am Logan,” Logan signs the words alongside the verbal words to demonstrate his fluency. Patton squeals and Logan winces. 

“Haha, sorry about that. Again, eee! So excited! I’ll introduce you to Virgil,” Patton holds the door ajar for Logan to enter, gesturing to the small pile of shoes to remove his. Logan gently unties his trainers and places them beside a pair of Doc Martens and Toms. They’re about as different as they could be: one is black and bulky with thick purple laces, the others a sky blue with little paw prints. Polar opposites. Logan diverts his attention to Patton, who’s been jabbering on about something or other. 

“-and there he is! Virgil, come on out kiddo- meet Logan!” Patton coos at what at first glance seems to be a shadow but in reality is a man who practically hides by the door of the conjoined bedroom. He’s encompassed by an oversized hoodie. 

“Hello, it is nice to meet you, Virgil,”  he signs out silently. Patton bites his lip to stop himself from speaking, but his noises of excitement escape anyway. Virgil signs back a meek hello: his hood falls off in the process, and Logan scrutinizes the face that he’s apparently going to be assisting for a while. 

Virgil has long dark hair: unkempt and uncut, old dye lingering stubbornly on the tips of it. His eyelashes are long, drooping over his cheeks, as he avoids Logan’s gaze. He possesses dark circles under each eye- so dark it seems intentional. Virgil tugs his hood over his head the moment the silence stretches a bit too long, and he’s gone: a rabbit ducking into a hole. Logan wishes he’d put the hood back down. 

In all regards, Logan means to say that Virgil holds palpable beauty. 

The idea within itself isn’t strange: Logan understands the various societal norms and standards that society adheres to beauty and usually makes deductions off of that, but there is… something about Virgil. Virgil’s not muscular looking, or overly lean, or anything of the sort. He’s simply…  enchanting. 

“Well, say something!” Patton shouts, breaking the silence. “Or, I mean, sign something, Virge. It’s too stifled in here: do either of you want something to drink?” 

“Water?” Virgil signs. His hands are shaking.

“I’ll have one of those too,” Logan adds on. Patton smiles at the two of them and finger guns. “You can hear, correct?” Logan asks, keeping his tone easy. He makes sure to enunciate each of his words, just in case. Virgil blinks up at him moonishly. 

“Yes,” Virgil says, worrying at his lip. 

“You don’t need to be afraid. I’m only here to help you,” Logan attempts to smile at him comfortingly: judging by Virgil’s expression, it seems more like a grimace. “Let’s sit down and talk about this, alright?” Logan sighs. He pulls out a chair at their small table and lets Virgil sit in it, pushing him in. Immediately after, Virgil pulls his legs to his chest and wraps his arms around them. He’s vanished completely into his hoodie. 

Logan sits next to him, rather than across: he doesn’t want to make him feel like he’s being interrogated. 

“I’m sorry,” Virgil says. 

“You have nothing to be sorry for?” Logan replies, more of a question than an assurance. “My apologies Virgil, but you’re not trying to impress me. I am simply here to introduce myself so that I can begin to help you. I am here for you. You can take as long as you want.” 

Virgil peeks out from under the hoodie like a prairie dog emerges from a hole. Hair first, then curious eyes, then his hands. 

Logan smiles. 

“Now, let’s draw up a contract here, to outline what we’ll be doing this year. I do believe,” he retrieves the papers the professor had given him, “that you already have a solution for classes, so you will not require my assistance there. It’s more after school hours and personal activities, no?” 

Virgil nods meekly. 

So… Virgil just needs a… friend? A friend who knows ASL? Logan’s heart swells in his chest: Virgil just needs a friend. 

Logan doesn’t let his excitement show: because deep down, deep enough that he’ll never admit it fully- let alone say it aloud- he’d truly like a friend too. 

And as Virgil glances over the contract and bites his nails and spares him the smallest glance before Patton returns with two glasses of water and a plate of supermarket cookies… Logan can’t help but feel like this will become more. 

The contract is solidified: Logan will go to Virgil after his classes end, assist him with homework or anything else he needs at the time. Logan will be on speed dial for him if talking to people if needed. Logan will be paid a small sum per day, as well as the equating service hours. 

Patton can’t stop thanking him with tears in his eyes. Virgil doesn’t look at him once, spares him no glances. Rather, his eyes are downcast for the next hour that Logan’s there. He has a little fidgeting toy and presses it in his lap. Logan exchanges cordially with Patton, Patton cheers animatedly, and Virgil is silent. 

“If I may ask… why now? Is this not your second year of college? Why would you leave now?” Logan asks. Patton’s expression saddens. 

“Oh… well, I’m transferring to a better medical school after this semester and- I couldn’t leave Virgil here without any help- he waited for me so we could go here together and… I can’t leave with no safety net for him,” Patton says tearily. He wipes at his eyes and goes to squeeze Virgil’s shoulder.

Virgil sinks deeper into his hoodie. Logan feels deeply uncomfortable. 

“So thank you, Logan: you seem so nice, and so smart, I’m sure that I’ll be leaving him in capable hands,” Patton assures him, and then looks at the time mounted on the wall, “Oh! You must be going now, huh? I’ll walk you out,” 

“Goodbye, Virgil. I look forward to seeing you soon,” he says curtly, before letting Patton lead him back to the door. As he ties up his shoes, Logan opens his mouth hesitantly. 

“You are… you are a good brother, taking care of your younger sibling like that,” he does his best at comforting. Patton laughs at him. 

“No, no! Virgil’s my older brother by two years. Technically, he should be at your level: but he waited for me to go. We’re really close and we help each other out so… Goodness, that’s the reason why I’m doing all this, reaching out to the teachers and organizing things for him. I want to -no, I need to- help him out. Like he’s helped me,” Patton explains. Logan blinks. This means two things. 

Patton feels guilty. He feels oh so guilty, and Virgil probably feels betrayed. Betrayed and alone. 

Virgil and Logan are the same age. 

~~~~~~

The end of the first semester comes quickly. It was only a few weeks away, and Logan spends minimal time with Virgil: giving the brothers space to make amends before he comes between them. 

On the last day of the quarter, Logan makes his way to their dorm room. Music had been stuck in his head all day: his soulmate singing the same song over and over again. It’s beautiful, of course, but nagging as he tries to focus. Logan debated singing a little “shut up please” but even that little snippet of musicality makes him nervous. 

And what would his soulmate think? What would he think, after years of silence, that the first thing he gets in return is a demand for silence? Logan shivers at the thought of it. The song goes: Time is an illusion that helps things make sense, so we’re always living in the present tense- it seems unforgiving when a good thing ends, but you and I will always be back then. 

Logan likes the scientific simplicity of it, and finds himself humming along as he swiftly walks across the courtyard to the dorms. His soulmate’s voice rises with the music: piano, he thinks. His soulmate is playing the piano and singing over and over and over again. In his mind's eye, Logan wishes he could comfort him: do the soulmate things that soulmates do. Embrace him and calm him and quell his fears. The music fades in time for him to get to the dorms: Patton’s already outside, bags packed. 

Logan is giving, or rather attacked, with a hug from Patton. 

“You are leaving now, yes?” he says, trying to make it seem like he’s not worming out of the embrace despite his discomfort. Patton releases him after a moment, worrying at his lip. 

“Yeah! I’ll visit as often as I can, call me if ANYTHING happens, and-” 

“Patton,” Logan grips his shoulders, “I can handle this. Go on now,” Patton nods tearily. 

“You promise you’ll take good care of my brother? You have to- to pinky promise, because if anything happens to him it’s going to be my fault,” Patton wipes his eyes, and there’s that intimidating that he always knew Patton had the potential for: “You have to promise. I love Virgil more than anything or anyone in the world. He is the kindest, most thoughtful person. You may not see it right now, but he is. Virgil is the best person I know. You have to help him when he needs it, even if he doesn’t want it,” 

“I promise, I’ll perform to the very best of my ability Patton,” Logan says steely, “I promise. You go and pursue your dreams.” Logan and Patton both glance up to the window of the dorm that Virgil’s in: the curtains are closed, and Patton sighs. Gives Logan a meaningful look. 

Patton juts his pinky in his face, and Logan exasperatedly links his. Patton’s face brightens, and leaves to the nearby road where a taxi awaits. In Logan’s head, a new song begins. It starts with a guitar and then continues with his soulmate’s angelic voice: “Words are flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup, they slither while they pass, they slip away across the universe-” 

Logan watches him go for a moment: and then he starts walking into the dorms to check in on Virgil. Logically, he’s probably feeling due amounts of stress and uncertainty in the new situation. 

“Nothings gonna change my world, nothings gonna change my world…. images of broken light, which dance before me like a million eyes, they call me on and on across the universe,” 

Logan’s heart feels full, an odd feeling: there’s something about the music and the situation that blends and rushes into his chest so wonderfully. Perhaps this is what it’s like to be with your soulmate: life and soul singing together in perfect harmony. 

“Thoughts meander like a restless wind inside a letter box, they tumble blindly as they make their way across the universe,” 

Logan takes the stairs step by step, enjoying the music as long as he can. 

“Nothings gonna change my world, nothings gonna change my world, nothings gonna change my world, nothings gonna change my world…” the music stops all at once, guitar too: Logan misses it for only a moment, before he remembers that it’s no passing street musician but rather his soulmate. His soulmate who sings so perfectly. The soulmate he’ll never meet. 

He arrives at the Williams’ dorm- err, now just Virgil’s, and raps on the door. He waits for a “coming!” but then realizes his mistake. He waits patiently for Virgil to open it: and when he does, it’s only a crack. Logan stares back at the scrap of Virgil’s face he can see. 

His lips purse. 

“Would you like to let me in?” Logan asks gently. Virgil’s face tightens nervously, and he signs something quickly. 

“I’m not okay right now,” he says. Logan swallows. 

“Can I help with anything? Or should I leave?” he keeps his voice as soft as he can. Virgil’s head shakes a vehement ‘no’. 

“Virgil… I-” he tries to come up with a reason, a real reason for him to stay. There is none. If Virgil says he doesn’t need any help then there’s no reason to stay. Logan swallows. “If you have no need for me… then I… I should leave,” he sighs. The door closes shut behind him with a click. 

Logan’s moving to leave when he has a new idea. He raps on the door once more. Virgil’s face peers through the crack in the door again. He rolls his eyes at Logan. 

“What is it?” he signs. 

“Fancy a game of chess?” 

~~~~~

Unsurprisingly, Virgil is a silent but deadly good chess player. He’s forward thinking and takes no risks that he can’t counter the backlash of. Logan is thrilled to play with someone so astute. 

“Checkmate,” Logan announces, after a long and difficult game. Virgil huffs in mock indignation, and knocks down his own king. “You’re quite proficient at this, Virgil. We should play more often.” 

Virgil blushes, signing a quick “Thank you” and then zipping his hoodie up further. Logan finds himself smiling at him. 

“Would you like to go again? Or do you have work to do that I can help you with?” 

“Again,” Virgil signs, hands quivering slightly. Logan chuckles and resets the board for another go. Virgil bites at his nails and waits. It’s too quiet without Patton’s incessant yammering. Logan decides to ask the first question that comes to mind. 

“Do you have a soulmate?” 

Virgil makes sweater paws and ducks into his hoodie more. 

“Oh- I’m sorry, is that a bad topic-” 

“No. I do not have one.” 

There’s been cases of people ‘missing’ soulmates: only to find that they were dead, or that they didn’t want a soulmate and merely ignored them. Or like Logan, who don’t sing whatsoever. 

“Ah… well, that’s a shame, Virgil. You’d be amazing to have as a soulmate, I’m sure,” 

Virgil flushes deeper, if it’s possible, and hugs himself. Logan finds himself smiling again: Virgil’s cute. 

Perhaps he said it out loud, because then Virgil’s growling at him and signing a “Fuck you, I am not!” 

“Maybe just a little bit?” Logan teases, he teases, such an odd and different thing for him to do. But teasing Virgil is different. It’s like another game and Logan doesn’t feel out of place or silly: it’s still serious.

“No! No!” 

“I think you are,” 

“No! What? No!” 

“Hmm,” Logan merely says, finishing the chess board. 

~~~~~

His soulmate has a crush. A sort of crush that’s teetering constantly between deep pining and attempting to squash it. 

It’s apparent, between the lines of “Fly Me To The Moon” and “despair”. In other words, I love you. Cause it’s not romantic, I swear. Fill my heart with song and let me sing forevermore. I want you to be here, but please don’t come near. You are all I long for, all I worship and adore. It’s not love, I swear. 

Today’s song is “Raincoat” (according to the internet) and if that’s not appropriate, Logan doesn’t know what is. Once more, Logan wishes he has the confidence to thank him for the soundtrack that’s been accompanying his life as it rises in joy each day. 

These songs… they’re a quick change from the dreary songs that had been going on a few weeks ago. Logan, ironically, doesn’t mind the sappiness, actually. Usually he would, but it fits his recent joy. 

Virgil’s exactly what he wanted, what he could’ve never hoped for. He’s smart, he’s clever, he’s shrewd, he’s not touchy, he respects boundaries… 

It’s perfect. Logan goes and sticks with him each and every weekday after classes end. They work together, they read together, they watch True Crime shows, they eat dinner together, they play chess and cards and backgammon and Clue and everything possible. They talk: and miracles upon miracles, Virgil seems to like him. 

Today is different. Today is a weekend: there’s no real reason that Virgil should need him, he’s never before, but he was invited to have lunch with him anyway. Even though it’s going to be snowing! Even though it’s freezing! Even though in any other instance Logan would be curled up at home with a good book and Star Trek. And rather… rather they’re going to get Hot Pot at the small university town in Logan’s ramshackle car. It gives Logan the strange feeling of hope rising in his chest that Virgil wants him around as much as he does. That Virgil enjoys it as much as he does. 

Enjoys the company, the quiet, the whole thing. 

He doesn’t even have to go up to the dorm: Virgil’s waiting for him outside the building. Logan waves after he gets out of his secondhand car: Virgil offers a small one in return and walks up to him. He’s all bundled up in several mismatched layers: though he still wears aggressively ripped jeans with skinny knees peeking through, he’s wrapped in several warm coats. 

Logan gets a sudden urge to press a kiss to his shaggy hair and hug him tightly, the slouching man at the ideal height. He squashes it quickly, blushing anyway at the mere thought of such romances, and lets Virgil into the passenger seat without looking at him. Virgil taps his hands on the front of the car, a rare grin donning his features. Logan swallows. 

Virgil has never looked more beautiful than he does right now. With a smile and all of those layers and his hood just barely adorning his head. Logan notices now that his makeup is different today: a sparkling purple rather than the usual dark tones. 

“Where to, Virgil?” 

“I do not care!” he signs excitedly. Logan chuckles. 

“How about sushi, then?” 

Virgil smiles and nods. Logan sets the car into reverse, and then drives out of the parking lot. Virgil fiddles with his fingers. I should say something…

“Would… would you like to listen to any music, Virgil?” Virgil’s head bobs an exuberant yes, and Logan gestures to the old car radio: Virgil fiddles with it, and finally ends up with a channel that’s not staticy. 

‘You’d be like heaven to touch… I want to hold you so much,’ At the beginning of ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’ Virgil sinks into his hoodie: Logan casts his eyes off the road for a second, glancing at Virgil- the scrap of his face that he can see is ruby red. At least the car isn’t silent anymore, he thinks to himself. Virgil’s quiet (well, not signing), and the song plays to completion and fades into “This Guy’s In Love With You”. Virgil, if it’s possible, seems to hide even more. 

“We’re almost there, do you want me to turn it off, Virgil?” Logan suggests. 

“It’s fine.” 

“If you say so… seems like you’re hiding but…” 

“Fuck you.” 

‘Say you’re in love, in love with this guy… if not, I will just die’ 

Logan turns off the radio as they turn into the parking lot of the local sushi joint. He unbuckles his seatbelt and turns to Virgil. 

“Eat in or take out?” 

“To go,” he signs. Logan hums: maybe one day, they’ll be able to go out together for a meal. Virgil doesn’t like public places due to his anxiety, and Logan doesn’t want him to be uncomfortable and he’d never push him but… it is a classic ‘friend’ activity to go out for dinner together. It would be nice, but having a friend generally is nice and he’s not about to lose him over some stereotype. 

Virgil’s not ordinary, so why would their friendship be? 

“Come now, Virgil, let’s order,” Logan gets out of the car, helps Virgil out, locks the car. It all feels very normal, very quaint. He has to admit that he enjoys it, despite what one would think if they met him. 

Walking into the restaurant is normal. Ordering food (ordering for both of them)? Also normal. They wait for their sushi in the front, Virgil warming his hands by blowing on them. 

“Do you enjoy spending time with me?” 

The question bursts out of Logan with little warning: he doesn’t even register that he said it until after it’s out of his mouth. He’s about to rescind the words when Virgil responds. 

“Yes. Yes. I love spending time with you,” He blushes slightly, looking away, “And you make me feel safe.” 

Logan blushes: he grabs the newly presented food and goes back to the car- but Virgil grabs his sleeve. 

“Do you want to sit in the park?” Virgil asks, nervous after the flurry of hands.

“It’s freezing outside,” 

“I know,” he signs, his expression saddening slightly.

“There’s no one out here.” 

“I know, I can see. I’m mute not blind,” Virgil rolls his eyes, heading for the car already. Logan chuckles and clasps his shoulder: Virgil stiffens under his touch.

“I don’t think I said I didn’t want to,” he teases. Virgil’s eyes widen, and then a smile creeps up his lips. 

“Okay!” Logan and Virgil walk right next to each other into the park: Virgil signs quite fast that he rather likes the cold, and that the skeletal trees remind him of his favourite movie, and does Logan like Nightmare Before Christmas, and what about stop animation? And halloween movies? 

Logan chuckles and answers all of his questions, slowly fielding them back to him. Virgil never talks this much when they’re in public. It’s nice to see him opening up, Logan thinks to himself pridefully, Is this my doing? 

He doesn’t mean to preen, but it happens anyway. 

“Why are you doing that with your chest?” 

“Oh, apologies, Virgil. It was accidental.” Logan reels himself back in: it’s so strange to have to do that. He’s never done anything like that, something that breaks his front stage appearance. It’s odd: like there’s another, smaller, smiling, animated Logan inside of him. A little Logan that’s been ignored and malnourished for a while now. Virgil giggles though, and Logan stops amidst his musings to stare at him. 

That was… cute. Why was that cute? Genuinely cute, not teasingly. 

Virgil catches him staring and glares at him, though his cheeks flush. 

“What are you looking at, nerd?” 

“Ah- it’s nothing. Would you like to sit down here and eat?” Logan points to a random bench: Virgil shrugs and sits, holding his arms open for his food. Giving him his food and sitting down next to him is a battle of wills: if it was another other person, in any other situation, he’d excuse himself and leave. But it’s Virgil, and the man looks so thrilled to just sit with him: it’s his friend. He’s not abandoning him. Even if his emotions are crawling up his throat. 

The silence is amicable as they eat. The first flakes of snow start to fall, and Virgil’s attention is drawn to them immediately. He watches the snowflakes float down slowly, enraptured. 

“You’d think you’ve never seen snow before,” Logan chuckles. 

“Fuck off,” Virgil signs fluidly. He doesn’t even look at Logan, simply eats his sushi and quickly stands to spin in the snow. “It’s beautiful.” 

“Yes,” Logan agrees, as he watches Virgil laugh quietly and kick the powder around, as Virgil’s eyelashes are decorated with snowflakes, as he holds his tongue out like a child, as Virgil looks so free and unafraid in his lonesome company… “It’s quite beautiful indeed.” 

~~~~

Patton’s coming back in two weeks. The second semester is almost over, spring finally showing her colours after a frigid winter, and Logan’s almost nervous. The music in his head doesn’t help whatsoever to calm him. What if something changes? It’s not like Patton’s staying, he’s allegedly very happy at his new school, but… Logan can’t help but worry at the idea that something in their dynamic will change irreparably if Patton reenters. 

There’s nothing you can do about it, he assures himself once again, Just keep doing your job. Logan’s class lets out early, and he takes a brisk jog to meet Virgil outside his class. By now, Logan knows his schedule by heart and knows where to meet him. 

He waits outside the lecture hall, student after student exiting… he waits until it’s fifteen minutes after his class has ended. Frowning, Logan peeks inside: it’s devoid of people, even the professor. 

“Virgil?” he calls out into the empty room fruitlessly. Panic starts to rise inside of his chest as he calls for the anxious man. “Virgil? Virgil, where are you?” 

He searches each aisle of the lecture hall, calling Virgil’s cell phone. Virgil hates it when he calls him, but if he’d just pick up, it means he’s okay. Logan feels incredibly antsy as he runs out of the room, sprinting at full force (he’s a strong man) around campus calling for Virgil. He wipes at his face: he can’t have the budding tears block his vision. He needs to find Virgil. 

“Virgil, where are you? Virgil, I need to find you. Virgil, please please be okay,” he dashes around a corner and drives his heels in to stop. 

Virgil. 

His beloved hoodie in a secluded alleyway. 

Logan reaches down and grasps it: he’d never leave it alone, let alone in a public place. Logan shakily picks it up into his hands, feeling the fabric: it’s dirtied. He gently folds it and puts it under his arm.

He’s starting to walk away when he hears the muffled shout and the sound of a punch’s impact. 

“Oh, so you want to talk now, huh?” Another punch. “Fucker.” 

Logan walks purposefully in the direction of the noise: two large women and one large man are whaling on Virgil, kicks and punches and spit, who’s curled up on the paved ground in the fetal position. Logan takes out the first buff woman with a strong punch to the side of her face, the second with a well placed kick and shove. The man runs away, pulling his fellows along with him. 

“Virgil, they’re gone now. Are you alright?” 

Virgil makes a broken sob, holding his midsection with his eyes downcast, and spits out some blood. Logan sighs and bends down to Virgil’s level, and wipes his mouth with a handkerchief from his book bag. He gives Virgil his hoodie (which he takes to immediately) and rubs his back. 

I should’ve gone after them, made them pay- 

“OH MY STARS, are the two of you alright?” a fanciful voice calls out from the entrance of the alley way. 

“We just saw a trio of assholes running away with some wicked bruises-” 

“Remus, that’s not the point!” The two boys walk into the alley, one worrying with a red letterman’s jacket and coiffed hair, the other (Remus) morbidly interested with a large denim jacket and wild hair sticking up every which way. They have the same face, unnervingly, though the wilder one sports a partially-grown mustache and the other has a scar though his eyebrow. 

“Alright, alright, I’ll bite. Are you okay?” Remus asks, extending a hand to Virgil. Virgil looks away and tucks into Logan more. Remus retracts his hand with a shrug. Logan gives the both of them steely looks. 

“If you’re here to promote any more harm or mockery, I advise you to leave concurrently.” 

“Ooh, put those big words away, Daddy,” Remus mocks. His brother elbows him roughly. 

“Remus, be nice. They’ve clearly been through quite the ordeal! Greetings, I’m Roman, this is Remus. We’re in Virgil’s class, and we saw him being… escorted, one could call it-” 

“Forcibly swept away!” 

“-Thank you Remus, out of class so we followed along after reporting it to the professor. He seems to be in quite a state: is there anything we can do?” Roman finishes, rolling his eyes at his twin. Logan sighs and adjusts his glasses. He doesn’t want to accept their help. He can take care of Virgil by himself. But…

He takes a closer look at the poor beaten man, at his bloodied mouth and shirt and his bruises and scrapes and thinks beyond him. 

“I thank you for reporting it to the teacher. This is a heinous act, and I loathe to think of what would’ve happened if I arrived later or not at all,” he attempts to look thankful, but judging by their expressions, it doesn’t work. Logan pinches the bridge of his nose. “Could you alert the on campus clinic that we’ll be coming? One of you? The other can make sure they don’t come back as I take Virgil there,” with that, Logan takes a deep breath and gets to his feet, holding Virgil tightly in his embrace. Virgil turns into him, making a pained sound. 

It breaks Logan’s poor heart. My friend, my friend, my friend- he’s hurt. 

“It’s alright, Virgil. I’ve got you, you’re safe now,” he whispers to him. 

“Cute!” “Ick.” 

“Oh come on now, Remus, they’re precious!”

“I came over here for the bloody beat down! Not touchy feely lovey-dovey!” 

“I will never understand you. You’re absolutely vile,” 

“Ah, look in the mirror lately?” 

“Excuse me,” Logan growls, diverting their attention from their bickering, “Are you going to help or not?” 

“Ugh,” Remus rolls his eyes, “I guess I’ll go to the clinic.” 

“Goodbye, Remus- you see, he’s a bit of a pain, always been that way,” Roman sticks his tongue out childishly at Remus, who returns the gesture in a more lewd fashion. “Alright, let’s help the emo up,” Roman extends his hands to help: Logan turns away, holding Virgil alone. 

“He is not emo. Virgil is a selective mute,” Logan frowns at Roman. 

“Aha, it’s just a mere quip!” 

“Oh,” Logan swallows. They walk in near silence to the infirmary: How weird it is that the silence with Virgil seems familial and warm but with this Roman it feels charged and uncomfortable. 

“You aren’t a very funny guy, are you?” 

“Excuse me?” Logan glares at him through his glasses, holding Virgil tighter. 

“Take no offense, but I mean… you’re very uptight! Serious. Grumpy. Straight to the point. I’ll stop prattling on synonyms, but I think you get the point now,” Roman explains. 

“I- I’ve never thought about it that way. I presume you’re right,” he frowns. Logan’s never felt like any of those: he just likes working. And now he feels foolish: perhaps that’s the reason that he’s never gotten anywhere socially. Is it his inability to “quip”? 

Would Virgil be happier with him if he could? 

As if he heard his thoughts, Virgil winces in pain in his arms. 

“Oh! Virgil. Should I hold you differently? Are you uncomfortable?” Virgil looks up at Logan blearily: his eyes open in recognition and a full-face blush breaks out all over his face. Virgil takes a bruised hand to hide his face. 

“Awe look at ‘im! Debbie Downer is shy!” Logan whirls over to glare at Roman’s almond eyes angrily. Virgil turns away. 

“Don’t talk to him that way,” he growls. Roman flushes and stammers. 

“It was only teasing!” 

“It was hurtful, and the last thing he needs right now is that. So do me a favor and leave those quips to yourself,” he reprimands. 

“Yes, sir,” Roman salutes. Logan looks away from him and back to Virgil. 

“Hey. Why did those thugs hurt you anyway?” he questions. Virgil frowns. “You don’t have to tell me-” 

“No- I will. I was- I was singing in the bathroom,” he signs shyly. 

“Wait- how could you-” 

“Sometimes I talk when I’m alone. Or sing. I’m nervous around people, when I’m by myself it’s okay,” 

“Oh,” Logan shouldn’t feel so betrayed, he knows he shouldn’t: this is the way Virgil is, after all. He’s a selective mute. He can speak when he wants. And if he doesn’t want to speak around Logan well- it’s fine. It’s his choice. 

It shouldn’t bother Logan. 

“So those jerks beat you up purely for the angelic music of your soul? Their cruelty knows no bounds, if they were to hurt you for communicating with your soulmate! How dare they, those vile, disgusting, cotton headed ninny muggin ruffians!” Roman supplies, filling Logan’s silence with declarations of war. Virgil laughs slightly at Roman, rolling his eyes. Logan swallows his questions, his pleas for “what about me?”. 

Virgil can like whoever he wants. It doesn’t have to be just Logan. 

~~~~

Virgil had asked Logan to drive him to the airport to pick up Patton. Logan wanted to say no, to say that he didn’t want to, hell, just leave him at the airport but… Virgil’s face betrayed his excitement, and Logan couldn’t put him down. 

So now he’s waiting in the pick up zone with his car, waiting for Virgil to come back and completely ignore him again. Logan blinks.

Is that what this is about? 

Does some part of Logan, some illogical part that manipulates his feelings, worry that Patton would mean Logan’s out of the picture? Logan grips the steering wheel. It’s Virgil’s choice! If he wants to hang out with Patton, sure. Sure. It’s fine. 

Logan makes a low growl. 

It’s not fine. 

~~~~

And… there was nothing he could do. He stopped coming to visit Virgil during the mid-semester break: why should he? Virgil was with Patton. He’s happy. He doesn’t need Logan around… 

Logan hates it. He hates not going over each day, each class ending with Virgil’s tiny smile. 

He hates his soulmate, whoever he is, for singing so sadly whenever he wakes up. 

“What's the name of the game? Does it mean anything to you? What's the name of the game? Can you feel it the way I do? Tell me please, 'cause I have to know… I'm a bashful child, beginning to grow…” 

“Shut up,” Logan tells him quietly each time he goes at it again, “Shut up. I don’t want your questions, I can’t answer them.” 

Logan, for the first time in his life, isn’t happy doing his work. There’s no gratification from finishing something: there’s no hunched over man beside him gesturing wildly as he finishes so quickly. There’s no giggle as he presses his glasses higher on his nose: there’s no smack on the shoulder when he corrects his work. It’s so… so bland. Was it always like this? 

Before Virgil, was it always like this? 

Logan finishes his test and hands it in at the front: his professor gives him a confused look. Logan twitches as his soulmate starts to sing: “It's you I like… not the things you wear…” 

“Is everything okay, Mr. Adleman? You seem… listless, lately. Distracted. And you took all of the allotted time to finish your work- quite out of the ordinary, I’d say,” 

“I assure you, sir, everything is normal,” he merely says, before adjusting his bag and exiting the classroom. 

“Not the way you do your hair… but it's you I like,” 

“Shut up,” Logan murmurs under his breath, walking stiffly with his head down down the hall. His soulmate’s voice is beautiful, as beautiful as always… but Logan can’t bear it. He’s already dealing with so much! To hear his soulmate’s longing notes doesn’t help. If anything, it exasperates his issues. Logan is grumbling under his breath when he hears it: and suddenly, all his issues get worse. 

Patton’s in a classroom, with his teacher and a few students, singing to them: 

“The way you are right now… way down deep inside you…” 

“The way you are right now… way down deep inside you…” and his soulmate croons at the same time. 

“Not the things that hurt you, not your toys; they're just beside… you,” 

“Not the things that hurt you, not your toys; they're just beside… you,” 

They both stop at the same note, and Logan swallows. 

Patton. 

Patton, smiley, hazel-eyed, exuberant, talkative, Patton, is his soulmate? Patton, the Patton he’s been mildly despising for the past few days.

 I can’t believe it. But I presume… he has a right to know. And maybe we can make this work? 

“Ah… Patton,” Patton’s face whirls to Logan’s in the door, and his face lights up. Logan can’t help but set his face: aren’t soulmates supposed to elicit some kind of joy in their partners? When they finally figure it out, isn’t it supposed to be some revelation? 

“Logan!! How nice!! I haven’t seen you this whole trip, what a delight! Virgil’s been all out of sorts without you around, it seems,” Patton grins, sliding off the desk he was sitting on and walking over to Logan. 

“I- I think- I think you’re my soulmate,” he stammers. 

“What?” 

“I- I heard your singing, in my head, as you were singing in here-” 

“Oh my god. No, no, Logan,” Patton smiles at Logan tearfully, his hands landing on his shoulders, “That was Virgil. I started singing that song because Virgil was singing it again when I left.” 

“That’s- that’s impossible how-”

“If you need any more proof, then just look at my soulmate: I met him at school, he flew in after me,” Patton smiles dreamily and waves at a man sitting in the corner, typing on his phone: he has two black forearm crutches and deep burn scars  across the left side of his face. 

“Hullo,” he greets from the other side of the room, “I’m Janus. Pleasure, fellow Patton soulmate,” Logan’s mouth dries as Patton giggles. 

“It’s really Virgil. That- that makes a lot of sense but- I can’t believe it-” 

“Okay, how about this, Lo?” Logan’s nose scrunches at the nickname, “I’m going to send a message to Virgil: and you go sneak back to the apartment. He’ll sing. It’ll match up. Then you have to confess. He’s thought he’s been alone… for so long. He’ll be so happy: so thrilled to have a soulmate… even more so if it’s you.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Patton shakes his head, chuckling. Logan looks away: his teary eyes are too much for him. Logan clears his throat. 

“Let our third go, Pat!” Janus calls, his voice smooth. Logan casts him a glare, though he blushes, and walks off. Thousands of thoughts swirl through his head, clouding his vision. He almost loses his way to the dorms. His mind is so full, so so so full, and then a voice breaks through it all. 

“If I could ride a bike, I’d zoom around the world, with you sitting there behind me…” 

Logan’s breath hitches. If that’s Virgil, he hates not seeing it before. Meeting him and not loving him right away. Not beating around the bush. But embracing him with everything he is, using all he knows to help all he needs. 

“I’ll take you to places, past several faces… just livin life so carefree. If I could sail a boat, I'd cruise across the seas, a sweet adventure for us two,” 

His pace increases as he gets to the dorms: he runs up the stairs maybe a little too fast. The music increases in volume but perhaps it’s in his head. The door to Virgil’s room is cracked open. 

“I'll be Jack and you Rose, just please don’t let me go, cause I'll be nothing without you. Oh when you call me… I'm drifting on clouds, like I'm dreaming,” 

Logan’s footsteps falter as he peers through the door. Virgil, with a guitar, singing those notes so sweetly. It matches up in his head, it matches perfectly, and despite himself, Logan starts to er up. It’s perfect harmony, it makes his heart swell and the whole world brightens. 

This is what it’s supposed to be like.  This is my soulmate. Virgil’s voice rises and falls, and it becomes so mind numbingly soft. 

“But in the morning, I'll wake up and see that you're stuck… here with me,” Virgil sings, his voice sad, “If only you knew, what I would do for you. I'd jump up and hold you… so tightly…” Virgil sobs, “Logan. Logan. I’m sorry. Whatever I did. I’m sorry. I miss you.” 

Logan’s chest pulls. His voice is like an angel. Virgil, his soulmate, wants him back. Everything he thought… was wrong. He needs to tell him, he needs to- 

No. No, it would embarrass both of them, and Virgil’s anxious. He needs to do it in a way that would make no room for error, no room for suspicion of any foul intent. 

Logan… needs to sing. 

~~~~ 

It’s all planned out, only a few days later. The sun is out, the weather is warm. Patton has Virgil entertained, introducing him to Janus in the front lawn. Roman and Remus are keeping people away in their respective fashions so that they have privacy. Logan adjusts his tie, getting ready in their apartment. He wants to have the song at it’s apex before meeting him as his soulmate. 

Logan clutches the ring in his pocket: a customary soulmate ring, black and fitted to Virgil’s finger. They haven’t been together, and he doesn’t have to accept it of course but… he wants to do this right.  

This has to be perfect. 

He takes a deep breath and opens his mouth to sing. 

“I'm nothing special, in fact I'm a bit of a bore… If I tell a joke, you've probably heard it before,” Logan sings softly. He chuckles- something so foriegn to him, so averse to what he wanted to do just a week ago- and he doesn’t sound bad. As he sings the next few lines, he runs out to the window by the elevators and can just barely make out Virgil on a picnic blanket rising to his feet and looking around confusedly. Logan carefully walks down the stairs, taking his time as he goes: 

“So I say- thank you for the music, the songs I’m singing. Thank you for all the joy they’re bringing: who can live without it? I asked in all honesty, what would life be- without a song or a dance, what are we? So I say thank you for the music, for giving it… to me,” he sings, breaking out into the fresh air. Logan sings the next few stanzas under his breath, making his way to Virgil’s picnic spot. Virgil’s standing up, shaking Patton’s shoulder and signing wildly. 

“I've been so lucky, I am the girl with golden hair: I wanna sing it out to everybody…. What a joy, what a life, what a chance!” his voice rises as he nears the grass, heart beating wildly. 

Virgil’s fallen to his knees, his crying sounding even from where Logan stands, dozens of feet away. 

“Thank you for the music, the songs I'm singing. Thanks for all the joy they're bringing. Who can live without it, I ask in all honesty… What would life be? Without a song or a dance what are we? So I say thank you for the music,” he’s suddenly close, standing at Virgil. Virgil looks up, tears running down his face. He gasps: he smiles: he laughs. “For giving it to me.” 

Virgil stumbles to his feet, and wraps his arms around Logan’s middle. He chuckles, and hugs him back, squeezing him tightly. Virgil cries into his chest, hiccuping and laughing all the same. 

“So I say,” he rubs his back, and presses a light kiss into his hair, “Thank you for the music, for giving it… to me.” 

There’s no fanfare, no wild confetti or cheering. It’s quiet, as Patton and Janus laugh and Virgil tearily accepts his ring before digging back into his chest. It would be perfect like this but then… 

“Logan,” Virgil whispers, hiding in his chest, “Logan.” It’s so quiet, but it makes his heart burst in joy. Virgil didn’t have to say anything, he would love him anyway, but it shows. It shows the trust. 

“Surprise,” he whispers back, pulling him in closer. “Thank you. For everything, Virgil.”

~~~~~

The End! Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed! 

Taglists:

Anything & Everything: @myraiswack, @blindtaleteller, @head-over-heart, @karushinekomiya

Sides of the Sanders: @a-goldengirl-in-a-condominium246 

If you enjoyed, please reblog- it truly means the world.

Want to be tagged on other works in this genre or just generally? Asks, DMs, or comments are all wonderful.

Liked it a whole coffee’s worth? Here’s my Ko-fi.

[ibis-gt]

I’M SO GLAD YOU ASKED!

clipping. is a bay area-based three piece harsh noise rap group, featuring mc daveed diggs (Yes That Daveed Diggs From Hamilton) rapping over the instrumentals of william hutson and jonathan snipes! they do mostly darker songs, featuring murder and dismemberment and sex and violence, presented in a mostly deadpan monotone at staggering speed by the classically trained diggs, who enunciates each word so unbelievably clearly for the pace he’s going at. i am nerding out under the cut. oh my god it got so long.

they have a couple albums out! their first, ‘CLPPNG’, is a decent debut but enormously outshined by their following album ‘splendor & misery’ which was nominated for a Got Damned Hugo Award. holy SHIT. and it’s GOOD! ‘splendor & misery’, named after the never-written sequel to samuel r. delaney’s ‘stars in my pockets like grains of sand’ (full title would have been ‘the splendor & misery of bodies & cities’) follows the sole survivor of a futuristic slave uprising as he tries to navigate the ship he’s now completely alone on - except for the ship’s AI, which falls in love with him over the course of the second song. it’s a gorgeous and haunting album intercut with spirituals and loaded with code in the form of ciphers hidden in the beats. simply put: it FUCKS.

then comes ‘there existed an addiction to blood’ and ‘visions of bodies being burned’, which are forays into horrorcore rap. i think the band really shines here. TEAATB blew my fuckin socks off, i really could not pick a favorite - although ‘nothing is safe’, ‘run for your life’, ‘the show’, and ‘blood of the fang’ would be my top picks. ‘run for your life’ in particular does amazing things with binural sounds, creating a soundscape of a city street with the song’s beats played through passing cars. and these guys literally went out and drove past a recorder whilst blasting the music from their cars to get this sound. when they say ‘field recordings’ they MEAN IT. ‘blood of the fang’ is biting political commentary and a call to arms, spat so quickly it takes several listens and the lyrics in front of you to get it all but it’s worth it. ‘the show’ is a grisly torture session, paid for by a silent, unblinking audience. ‘nothing is safe’..... you just have to listen to it. holy shit.

VOBBB is also extremely good, with hit after hit - ‘say the name’, ‘96 neve campbell’, ‘check the lock’, and ‘she bad’ have got to be the tops for me though. this one draws a lot more influence directly from horror movies, with ‘say the name’ being pretty directly about candyman, ‘96 neve campbell’ being a tribute to the final girl trope, and ‘she bad’ playing with the blair witch. ‘check the lock’ i think is also based on a movie or movie trope but i’m not sure. it’s good as hell though, the bassline is incredible.

ALSO clipping. has a series of songs called ‘story’, they’re called story + a number, they’re released out of order and we haven’t gotten any multiples of three yet. they’re extremely good and somehow all connected, people from other stories keep showing up in the songs, and clipping. likes to hide code in their music a lot. i think the story in splendor & misery contains the phrase ‘grace is randy’s sister’ in morse code, and something about a woman named amy, who i think is the narrator’s therapist in story 2. idk other people figured this out not me lol.

and clipping. has lots of singles and EPs that are very good! ‘wriggle’ is awesome, ‘the deep’ is an afrofuturist song about mermaids that is also a novel written by river solomon and the band is credited as co-authors.

aaaand at the end of all of that, just a reminder that clipping.’s songs and subject matter are dark as hell and if you are upset by violence, murder, and frank discussions of racism, maybe avoid them! there is also a mild amount of sexual assault in some of their songs but it’s never really given a lot of focus? just like. avoid story 4 (which is actually my favorite story but it is Dark! OK!)

[eggtoasties]

Chapter 2: II. Adagio

Read Chapter 1: I. Allegro

Pairing: Kuroo Tetsuro x Reader

Word Count: 3.7k

Summary: Kuroo used to think the best sound in the world was a volleyball hitting the court on the other side of the net. Now, he has other things on his repertoire.

They were both called to the music room during study hall. As Kuroo walked towards Jouda-sensei, he watched as their teacher tried to cajole her into something, unable to catch their words at a distance. Arms crossed, she sent Kuroo an unimpressed stare making him respond with a nervous grin as he came to a stop.

“I was hoping to set you two up for lessons during study hall,” Jouda-sensei said, nodding between the two of them.

“No offense,” she said, quickly glancing at Kuroo, “but I’m paid to do this outside of school. Also, I don’t really have time to meet every single day—shouldn’t Daisuke be doing this? I’m sure he,” she jutted her chin towards Kuroo, “and I will both get called to other teachers and clubs during study hall so I don’t know if this’ll work out,” she huffed.

Eyebrows raised high, Kuroo said, “Wow, didn’t realize I was dead meat to you already, first chair,” resulting in a pout from Jouda-sensei and a glare from her which made him nervously snicker. He put his hands in his pockets, subtly wiping away at the clamminess of his palms.

“Aw, come on now, you know Daisuke-kun isn’t…” Jouda-sensei trailed off, trying to find the words, “the best at teaching. But,” she said brightly, “you’re the leader for a reason! And it doesn’t have to be every day—just coordinate with each other and other people to set up a rotation. I just want Kuroo-kun to be set up with good habits from the start.”

Sighing wearily and nodding, she faced Kuroo as Jouda-sensei left them.

Slouching in what he hoped was a nonchalant pose, he flashed a grin.

“So, are you gonna charge me by the minute?” Kuroo arched his brow. “Because I don’t really have the funds for that. Plus, I’m pretty sure you’re not allowed to sell anything on school grounds.” Readjusting his backpack straps and slightly loosening his tie, his eyes met hers quickly before finding a place over her shoulder. “But, if you don’t have time or whatever that’s--” he stumbled over his words, “I’m sure I can figure something out.”

Rolling her eyes, she loosened her school tie. “Yeah, I’m going to charge a thousand yen a minute and if you don’t pay up, I’ll have my goons knock your kneecaps in.”

“Didn’t realize being captain,” she shot him an amused grin and he bookmarked it for later, “of the orchestra came with your own henchmen. Maybe I should’ve started way earlier,” he drawled.

“Yup,” she said cheerily, popping the ‘p.’ “They do all my coursework and bully people out of their lunch money so I can add it to my secret treasury in the cave underneath the school,” she said conspiratorially. “Also,” she began, facing fully towards him. “It’s nice to meet you—I really don’t mind helping you out, it’s just that with my last year of high school things are hectic with exams and applications and I really can’t commit to everyday,” she explained.

His shoulders relaxed with a breath he didn’t know he was holding, previous tension dissipating with her explanation. Kuroo nodded and held out his hand. As she grasped it, he raised a brow at the strength of her small grip and brightly painted nails.

“I get it.” Kuroo finally said. “I’m a third year too and it’s hard enough as it is without having to teach a newbie every day,” he said, semi-fondly thinking of Lev, “—all good.”

“Alright, well,” she said, swaying on the balls of her feet, “let’s get started.”

She had him play open strings so she could assess his posture and Kuroo was not accustomed to being the center of such intense concentration. Sure, he’s served a million times in games where he knew every eye was on him, but she seemed to scrutinize every aspect of his body. The distribution of his weight on his legs, the angle of his shoulders, the slope of his wrists, finger placement, and even his face—there was something to adjust. To be fair, she did say his face looked like he was constipated, but he figured it was because one should always look serene during such a cultured activity.

A gentle tap to the shoulder, a tap to his left inner wrist, her hands guided his body as he became accustomed to the instrument. She stood slightly behind him to his side at one point and gently held his right arm and set another hand on his shoulder to show him how the bow should move. He’s used to his body—Kuroo would say he has a better understanding of what his body is capable of than most people but, gentle movements to work with a foreign object was completely new territory. She’s not teaching him how to read a volleyball midair and figure out what the best millisecond worth of contact is. She’s not grabbing his lanky arms to show him how to position for a block—this is completely different.

He figured it’s one thing to adjust to new innovative plays mid-game and another to feel so entirely helpless and clunky. Although she’s only been patient and gentle, he can’t help but feel unsure and awkward in his body as he tried to follow her instruction. Maybe, Kuroo thought to himself, I should cut Lev some slack.

“Can you feel how your arm hinges at the elbow, but the elbow itself stays still?” she asked, lightly grasping his elbow and guiding his forearm. His skin tingled at the contact through his shirt and he repressed a shiver.

He’s used to physical contact—from his teammates. High fives, hugs, and fist bumps. But from a stranger…it’s different. He’s hyper aware of the calluses of her left hand when she taps the bare skin of his wrists and although each touch is light and fleeting, a part of him wished they’d linger for a little longer.

After a while, she grabbed her instrument and mirrored his movements, showing him the angles of her body in relation to the violin and bow. He stood in awe of the confidence of her actions, drawing a rich deep sound from the strings unlike the scratchy wobbly sounds he’d been producing.

She taught him two scales, explained basic music concepts he vaguely remembered from piano lessons and before he knew it, study hall was coming to a close. Head full with new information, shoulders a little tense, he absentmindedly fixed his tie while they packed up.

“Don’t feel discouraged during class,” she said. “Everyone around you has been playing for years longer. Just keep practicing and you’ll get there.” Adjusting the books in her hand she asked, “Why’d you decide to take orchestra?”

“I needed art credit. Can’t sing, can’t draw, didn’t want to do something on the computer and I didn’t know what band music was,” he shrugged. Immediately, he internally cringed at his explanation.

“Wait, actually--” Before he could try and amend his previous statement, he’s cut off by her laugh.

“You chose well,” she said. Then leaning towards him, she dropped to a faux whisper, “orchestra’s better than band.”

Kuroo felt heat creep up the back of his neck while she laughed so he tilted his head to the side and covered it with a smirk. “I don’t know about that,” he said cockily.

She snorted which did little to calm the confusing beating of his heart and he couldn’t help but feel disappointed that she didn’t take the bait. Oh well, he thought, better try harder.

“You’re the one who enrolled in or-ches-tra,” she said, over enunciating the syllables. “Unless,” she sing-songed, “you feed into the stereotype that athletes are,” she pouted and batted her lashes, “stupid.”

He guffawed at her boldness but revelled in the glint in her eyes and the smug way she held her head.

“It wounds me that you would insult my intelligence without even knowing me,” he sniffed and wiped away a fake tear while she stifled a giggle. “I cannot believe my music teacher—my classmate—my captain has a bias against athletes,” he frowned and tilted his head. Pausing for a beat in contemplation, he sighed and continued lazily, “You must have been one of those kids in elementary school who always got picked last in gym.” He shrugged before delivering the final blow, “So you had no choice but to turn to music.”

He kept his face neutral as he studied her reaction. Her eyes narrowed at him and he broke out into a grin.

“It’s okay to admit it, I promise I won’t ask you to do something impossible like catch a ball or something,” he said, waving a hand placatingly. He caught the corner of her lip twitching despite the deadpan stare she tried to maintain.

“Give me your number,” she said, pulling out her phone.

“Woah, woah,” he said, dodging her attempts to force her phone in his hands. “If this was all an elaborate ruse to ask me out,” he dodged a jab to his side, “you didn’t have to get Jouda-sensei in on it too, who would’ve thought our little prodigy had it bad for the volleyball captain?”

“First of all, study hall is ending, but it seems that you were too preoccupied with trying to flirt with me to notice,” she said as Kuroo crossed his arms indignantly. Was he trying to flirt, he wondered. “Also, you’re forgetting that you’re the one who needs violin teachers,” she explained impatiently, finally getting him to accept her phone.

“Plus, if anything this just shows that you’ve been planning to confess to me for the past three years, but you were too nervous so you used your arts credit as an excuse to talk to me when everyone knows there are easier ways to get the credit,” she rambled as he punched his number in. “Also, you have a stand partner and a section leader—both of whom are not me, so I bet you,” she pointed an accusatory finger, “roped Jouda-sensei into this cozy little arrangement,” she said triumphantly.

Kuroo stuttered. “Maybe you should be a writer—what is up with your imagination?” he asked disbelievingly.

“No, no,” she said breezily, waving a hand absentmindedly, “I just figured you out, no need to feel embarrassed.”

Shifting his weight to one foot and running a hand through his hair, Kuroo’s lip quirked. “Guess you caught me,” he shrugged nonchalantly, extending their jest, “I’ve been in it for the long con, but,” he dropped a little lower to her height. “I never lose.”

Kuroo wanted to stab himself. It’s one thing, he mentally berated, to say those lines in the shower. Another thing entirely to say them to a human being? So used to provoking people just before they really got annoyed, he figured he got too comfortable. While his friends were used to his sarcastic quips and little agitations, not many people threw it right back at him. Should I apologize? Am I going to fail orchestra? Yamamoto was right, I should’ve taken sculpture I should’ve—

He was broken from his internal panic when she gently pushed his shoulder. “Well, seeing that the volleyball team has never won nationals, that seems to be a lie.”

Completely forgetting his previous anxieties, his mouth gaped open. “W-we’re definitely making it to nationals and we’re definitely going to win this year!” he nearly yelled. “A-and since when do you keep up with the volleyball team! This is more evidence that you’ve been trying to get my number for the past decade!”

“Who said anything about the past ten years!” she screeched. Kuroo watched his phone in her hand with concern as she waved her arms in disbelief. “And Yaku’s in my homeroom, idiot. He talks about the team constantly,” finally shoving his phone back to him.

Sighing a little in relief he checked his messages. “If I’m so wrong about you lusting,” she rolled her eyes so hard all he saw was white, “after me for all these years, what’s this!” he exclaimed, presenting his phone screen to her face.

It was a message from her that read: “Tetsu-chan, I think you’re so, so, so, so, sO cute!!” with several brightly colored heart emojis trailing after the message.

She immediately lunged for his phone to which he responded by smugly holding it above her head, pouting a little when she wouldn’t try and jump for it.

“Y-you planned this!” she yelled, making a move to grab at his sleeve.

“Nope,” he said languidly, smoothly side stepping her advances. “You just think I’m so, so, so, so, cute!” he said brightly as he placed his phone in his back pocket.

“I’m going to break your kneecaps in your sleep,” she grumbled.

As the bell rang and study hall ended, he sent her a little wave as he walked to his next class.

“Looking forward to it!”

.

Nearing his next class, he felt a short buzz in his pocket. Pulling out his phone he grinned at the texts. Nothing like riling people up on a Tuesday morning to get his blood pumping.

After he had left her standing in the music room, cheeks tinged pink and arms crossed, she sent him several texts. Many of them listed the ways she was going to abuse his kneecaps—he wasn’t quite sure why she was so fixated on them—poking fun at athlete stereotypes, and how he’d better practice every day.

They spent the day sending each other sporadic insults without heat which eventually devolved into actual questions about each other.

How did you start playing the violin? When did you start volleyball? Do you play in orchestras outside of school? What’s your position? How should I practice? What are sports practices like? What class are you in? What’s your favorite food? What’s your favorite color? What do you mean you bought a chemistry set for fun?

Kuroo was in his history class when he realized he was barely paying attention to the lesson. Expecting his usual meticulous notes when he looked down at his notebook, he saw he had hardly filled half a page of information. Too preoccupied with the little thrill of excitement that came with each text, he couldn’t help but discreetly check his phone every few seconds. He tried paying closer attention to the lecture, but tapped his foot restlessly, itching to see how she responded.

.

The school day ended in a blur and he found himself in front of the club room door. Violin case in hand, he swung open the entrance and proudly stated, “I learned scales today.”

“Fukunaga and I took choir last year and learned scales too,” Yaku responded. “Stop looking so proud about it, it’s literally a basic,” he commented offhandedly as he put on his uniform.

Chest still puffed, Kuroo didn’t let it deter him. “I’m reading music!”

Kenma grimaced over his phone when Lev seemed impressed and Fukunaga tried to stifle his laughter behind his hand.

Pulling top from behind, Kuroo asked, “Yaku, do you know the concertmaster?”

“The, huh?”

“The first chair violinist. Our year, in class 3-B?” Kuroo clarified. “She’s about this tall,” indicating with his hand, “her favorite color’s blue and she really likes fruit tarts?”

Ignoring the questioning glances from his teammates, Kuroo waited expectedly. Yaku paused. Eyes widening in recognition he brightened.

“Yeah! She’s been in my homeroom for the past three years, she’s nice. Smart, big on music, does a bunch of music competition thingies!”

“Thingies?” Kuroo mocked. “How old are you?”

“Shut up you glorified bean pole! I don’t know what she does in her free time, why are you so interested all of a sudden?

“She’s my violin teacher! I just wanted to make sure she wasn’t a serial killer or something,” Kuroo mumbled, tying his shoes a little forcefully.

“Okay,” Yaku drawled out, not believing his teammate. “I know the theatre club always asks her to be in their pit orchestra, but man their funding really got cut over the years, I wonder how they’re going to build the set this year, I mean they’re really trying to out-do themselves and—”

He stopped when he noticed the rest of the team staring at him in varying states of confusion and disbelief.

Yaku sniffed. “I have other interests and friends outside of volleyball, thank you very much…” he said, turning his head.

“Wow,” Yamamoto said, slowly shaking his head from side to side. “Yaku-senpai doing Shakespeare or something, could you imagine?”

“Yaku-senpai would definitely play the jester or something,” Lev chimed in. “But he’s so small would the audience even be able to see him on stage?” He wondered out loud.

Facing away from his bickering teammates, Kuroo hid his flush in the collar of his warm up jacket and willed for the heat to subside. He thought about what Yaku said—not about him being secretly into theatre, which Kuroo would definitely use in the future—but about having other friends outside of volleyball.

He knew he wasn’t as shy as he used to be, thank god, but he realized he had always kept his inner circle small. Not entirely on purpose, but those he spent the most physical proximity to tended to also become close friends—thinking fondly of his parents forcing him to meet Kenma.

He remembered how he nearly threw a tantrum when his Tou-san told him they were visiting neighbors down the street and that they had a son his age that he could play with. The thought of leaving their home—which hardly felt like home at the time of their move—to meet some stranger had filled him with such trepidation he had promised he’d practice the piano harder if he could just stay home.

However, his Tou-san gently grasped him by the shoulder and made him carry the box of oranges to Kenma��s. Multiple hours of awkward stuttering and silent game playing finally bloomed into a tentative friendship with the introduction of a volleyball and Kuroo figured that now Kenma’s more of a brother than anything else.

Outside of his team and casual school acquaintances, Kuroo thinks of Bokuto. A pleasant surprise when they met at a Tokyo training camp. With Bokuto came Akaashi and with Kuroo came Kenma and Kuroo never felt the need to expand beyond his core group. But meeting her—is different.

Different in that she stumbled into his life outside the court and he’s not sure if his fingers had ever been this sweaty from texting all day. He wondered if she’s a sign that he should actively try and meet new people but he quickly discards that idea and chalks it up to serendipity.

“—hey cut it out!” Kai yelled at Yaku lunging for Lev who was holding a volleyball in one hand, “To be or not to be, will Yaku-senpai ever grow again?”

Snapped out of his musings, Kuroo raised two hands to the group, “Alright, alright,” he tried to placate while Kai held Yaku back and Yamamoto cried tears of laughter.

“Keep going, Lev!” Yamamoto egged on.

“Too sleep, perchance to dream,” Lev continued, “that Kuroo-san will finally fix that rooster’s head of his.”

Amidst the collective roar of laughter, Kuroo snatches the volleyball from Lev’s hand and throws it at him.

.

Head lolled back against the train window, grimacing at the pull of his worn muscles, Kuroo stretched in his seat. Next to him, Kenma absentmindedly scrolled on his phone, sporadically showing Kuroo funny tidbits to pass the time on their nightly commute back home.

“Kuroo,” Kenma said as quick fingers typed out a text, “why are you taking this orchestra credit so seriously?”

Pausing for a bit, not-so-subtly reading Kenma’s text, he responded.

“I had a lesson earlier today and it seems like,” he ran a hand through his hair, “I don’t know, a disservice,” his voice rose up as a question while his brows drew together, “if I don’t give it my best shot when everyone else is so much better.”

Kuroo shrugged at Kenma’s contemplative nod.

“Anyways,” Kuroo continued, “she said thirty minutes of daily practice for a beginner will go a long way and she said we’d only really focus on the stuff for the concert so hopefully I can manage by then.”

Pausing his scrolling, Kenma looked up at Kuroo and blinked at him.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Kuroo narrowed his eyes at Kenma, having a growing suspicion of where his friend’s thoughts were, but ignored it in favor of watching him scroll through his phone.

Other passengers shuffled around them, coming and going onto their train and Kuroo looked out the window, frowning slightly at the last remnants of sunset fading away to cool indigos.

“Y’know, Kenma, I don’t think I want to just do volleyball for the rest of my life,” Kuroo said softly, breaking the stillness between them.

“No shit,” Kenma responded instantly over the animated beeping of his game. “Your joints definitely can’t take it for the rest of your life.”

Scoffing, Kuroo rolled his eyes. “Please--I mean, I’m going to go to college and still play, but,” he shifted his gaze towards the ceiling of the train car, “I want to learn more things.”

“Yes,” Kenma said slowly, “that makes a lot of sense.”

“I like learning new things, I always want to know more and I don’t know,” he pulled at his shirt collar. “With violin--it feels like I haven’t sucked at something for a while.”

With that Kenma snorted, thinking of when Kuroo tries to play video games with him or that horrendous volleyball club promotional poster Kuroo made that yes, he did take a picture of before crumpling and throwing it in the trash.

Kenma’s game pinged as Kuroo hugged his violin case between his legs.

“Plus,” Kuroo continued, “she said music is kind of like math with the rules and the counting, and when it all comes together like pieces of a puzzle it makes your hair rise and I feel like that’s kinda like volleyball too.”

“You get goosebumps when you solve a math problem,” Kenma repeated slowly.

“Missing the point there, but yes.” Contemplating a bit he added, “More when I balance a chemical reaction, but yeah, why?”

Kenma paused his game and set it on his lap, lips twitching.

“You’re not allowed to judge me,” Kuroo complained.

“I am,” Kenma responded quickly.

“Well quit it.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Kenma popped the knuckles of his fingers and unpaused his video game.

“No.”

They sat there for a beat, each thinking about the unknowns--the unknown power of this new boss guarding the princess in the tower and the unknown of the near future, where game plays are traded for textbooks and the hopeful future of featherlight, fleeting touches and sweet, sweet melodies.

[twokinkybeans]

Company Chapter 5: Beltane - Epilogue

Moodboard made by Kim <3 Summary: All is well that ends well. Author’s note: Thank you soooooo much for joining me on this “art project!” I hope you enjoyed it! There might be some things that one could wonder are unresolved, but I have answers to all questions. They just didn't feel right to put in this chapter. If you're curious, feel free to ask! <3 Thanks again and til next time!!! <3 -Lien Warnings for this chapter: Smutty and fluffy. Magic sex. Yay! Go to the Masterpost Read Company - Chapter 5: Beltane - Epilogue on AO3

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Peter saunters through the woods, a goofy smile spread across his face. There’s no backpack filled with food resting on his shoulders this time. He doesn’t need it. In his hands, he casually clutches a bouquet he bought. It’s a colorful collection of wild flowers the florist carefully put together. He breathes in the early Summer air and skips once over the forest floor, making a twirl. “Oberon?” Peter asks quietly. Purposefully. A swift presence appears behind him and he turns with a smile. “Puck.” Tony and Peter come together in a tight embrace. The Fae unashamedly breathes Peter in and smiles a kiss into his hair. “Peter…” “Tony.” “Stars, my name sounds so heavenly from your lips.” The college student’s shoulders jolt through his laugh against Tony’s chest. “What am I supposed to reply to that?” Peter chuckles. Tony gently rubs his cheek on Peter’s hair. “Mmm… Just say my name once more.” “Only once?” “Maybe twice… Or three times. Or a thousand.” Peter smirks and pulls away to look the Fae in the eye. “Won’t you prefer kissing my lips?” An immediate grin plasters itself on Tony’s face. “Now that is a reply.”

It takes less than a second for them to cross the distance and share breaths. They connect and Peter shamelessly pushes forward, rubbing his crotch against Tony’s thigh. A brief growl escapes Oberon’s throat and he pulls back, lips wet with Peter’s love. “Needy,” he tuts. “Always,” Peter teases, wiggling his eyebrows. Against Peter’s wants, Tony pulls back further and eyes Peter’s hand as he takes it back in from behind Tony. “What do we have here?” “I brought you flowers!” Peter excitedly exclaims. The gears in his head turn and he looks at it for a second before sighing. “Sorry, I guess I didn’t realize this gift is kind of useless… You can literally make flowers with a wave of your hands.” His arm drops. “You don’t need more.” “I want them,” Tony deadpans. Peter looks up surprised. “You do?” He scoffs quietly. “Yes, these flowers may be dying soon now because they’ve been cut, but they’re a gift from you. You thought of me when you got these. You made the effort to get me this. Part of your day was spent caring for me by picking this. Every gift is an honor to receive- especially from you.” Peter grins with delight and offers Tony the flowers. The Fae gratefully takes them and closes his eyes as he brings them up to take in their fragrance. “Mmm…” Oberon sighs content. “Do they smell good?” Peter asks shyly. “Lovely…” Tony opens his eyes. There’s a mischievous sparkle in them that has Peter’s gut tingle with anticipation. “But I know something that smells even better.” Peter’s breath catches in the back of his throat, but he manages to push the next word out regardless. “W-what?” The Fae’s irises light up and with his magic he tightens the bond that was created by sharing their names. All Peter can focus on now is everything Tony; this blissful yet unexplainable floatiness that comes with being near the Fae. Oberon pushes in, casually tossing the flowers to the ground so he can push both his hands under Peter’s shirt. “You.” Tony invades Peter’s space and presses gentle kisses on the shell of the young man’s ear, ocassionally leaving some kitten licks. Peter can only smile and let it all happen. “Your smell, your taste, your presence…” The growl Oberon lets out sends a shiver through Peter’s entire body. Tony’s fingers find Peter’s nipples. “You, my sweet, are divine beyond imagining.” Right at the enunciation, Tony pinches his fingers together, causing Peter to gasp and buck against Tony’s body. “You are a deity and deserving of a world I will gladly give you.” The speed at which Peter completely loses his intelligence around Oberon still boggles his mind. Right now, however, Peter is perfectly content with where he is. “But, you-“ “Just because I am the one who can perform magic, does not mean I am not the one utterly entranced by you.” One of Tony’s hands lowers back down Peter’s chest, tickling his skin. “By your voice, your eyes, your…” Suddenly, Oberon’s fingers breach the hem of Peter’s pants and curl around the hardening shaft. “…shape.” A quiet moan falls from Peter’s lips. “T-Tony-“ As a reward, the Fae squeezes and tugs, causing Peter to lean into it even further. “Again.” “Tony-“ Another reward, another moan. “Again.” “Please-“ “Say it, Peter. Say my name.” “Tony!” … Puck and Oberon lay in a clearing in the woods, surrounded by blooming flowers and a pleasant warmth. The breeze gently washing over them is slightly chilly, but more than welcome under the sun. They’re bare, staring into each other’s eyes as their hands tease hair and skin. Their heads are crowned with flowers, an indication of their reign of their small and contained makeshift kingdom. The corners of their lips are curled up indefinitely, showing no sign of ever pointing down again. They bask in the sunlight and each other, enjoying their flushed bodies and entangled legs. “Would you stay with me?” Oberon whispers quietly, eyes searching. “Forever?” Peter sighs content and scoots a little closer until his head rests on Tony’s chest. “And rule Winter Court?” “By my side.” It’s quiet for a second too long for Tony’s taste. “You can say no.” “No, I-“ Peter sits up straight, breaking the tranquil scene. He stares at the flowers, away from the Fae. “I want to be with you.” “Just not at court?” Peter nods quickly. “I wouldn’t fit in.” Tony laughs at that and joins Peter in sitting up straight. “Beck will probably try to kill me after what happened last time.” “First, he would not. If he even so much as tries to touch one hair on your beautiful head, I will have him lose his. Secondly, do you think I fit in?” His hand finds Peter’s face and moves a stray curl before cupping his jaw. “Am I cold and evil?” Peter grins. “Occasionally.” Tony huffs faux-offended. “Name one time!” “Hmm,” Peter teases as he grabs his chin, thinking carefully. “About an hour ago when you considered not letting me cum after three hours of edging?” The Fae bursts out laughing and quickly moves in until they turn and Peter is caged on the ground between Oberon’s arms. “What is the alternative?” Peter wants to swear at his cock, already betraying him again. He decides to play along, though. “You could just let me cum whenever I want to.” Oberon pouts at that. “Oh, but what’s the fun in that.” His tongue swiftly finds Puck’s bare chest and swirls lazy circles before he leaves a wet kiss. “Would that not bore you?” “Why don’t we find out?” Tony lowers his abdomen until both of their semi-hard cocks brush past each other. Peter gasps at the fluttering sensation, but it quickly turns to a whine when Oberon simply keeps teasing. “Tony-“ “You think you can go again already? Are you not tired?” Peter puffs his cheeks. The question is kind and considerate- Peter hadn’t even thought of whether or not he would actually be able to go again. It’s not soon and he does have the libido of a college student, but their three hour edging session did take a lot out of him. “Or do you need a hand?” Oberon smirks. A strangled moan escapes Puck’s throat when suddenly, Oberon grabs both of their cocks in his hand and starts stroking them while also lazily rolling his hips. The hand seems to glow slightly and Peter feels rejuvenated. Awake and present and… Fuck, he’s horny. “Evil,” Peter whimpers at Oberon's magic use, which causes Tony to slow down his movement. “I can stop if you want.” “No- fuck, no, keep going.” “As you wish.” Tony puts in a bit more effort now and seems to relish in the fact that Peter is already a mess again. His look darkens. “I’ll be as evil as you want me to be.” Even if that’s not what Peter meant – and they both know it – Peter doesn’t care anymore. “Our promise may be fulfilled after today, but I will make sure you keep coming back every time.” The student bucks into the Fae’s hand. “H-H… How?” Peter bares his teeth in a cheeky grin. As much as Tony teases Peter, Peter still likes to fight back. Puck moans unashamedly when Oberon’s magic envelopes and enters him, pulsating and caressing and simply straight up fucking him into oblivion. The edge nears dangerously fast and all Peter can do is take it. Oberon sucks a mark on Peter’s neck and growls. “By keeping you coming.” “Please-“ “Oh, what a beggar you are,” Oberon taunts. “How many times do you want to come, my flower?” His eyes sparkle with delight. “Once? Maybe twice? Three times? Or a thousand…” Peter grips some of the flowers next to him to ground himself. His chest heaves with his heavy breaths. “Answer me, Peter.” A scoff falls from Peter’s lips before he answers. The Fae certainly likes to use their newfound bond to make Peter do all kinds of things. “Until all I can say is your name.” Tony leans in, fully pressing himself against Peter now, rubbing their bodies together. He moves in to kiss Peter, but before he does, he whispers victoriously. “Now that is a reply.”

----------------------------------THE END ----------------------------------

[jimlingss]

Arcadia

➜ Words: 9.6k

➜ Genres: 50% Fluff, 50% Angst, Dystopia!AU, Utopia!AU

➜ Summary: In a new era, the human race has largely been eradicated through warfare and disease. You are one of the few left, living in the forest and making use of the wild. Or at least that's what you think until a man quite literally crashes into your home.

cr.

It happened in the afternoon.   A deafening noise from the sky. A thin whistle that crescendoed. Louder than what you’re used to hearing. Ringing in your eardrums. It shrieked horrifically — rumbling the ground — roaring through the silent forest. And you looked up to see a streak of white in the sky. Immediately, you dropped the animal in hand, abandoned the trap at your feet and ducked your head.   But the explosions never came raining down on your skull.   Instead, it happened in the distance. An explosion that made the evening sky spark bright white.    It took a full minute for it to die down, for the smoke to fade into the horizon as if nothing occurred a moment ago. Yet, you stalked the fumes and commotion, crept in the shadows. You knew better than to approach foreign things, to approach clamor and potential danger.   But the forest had been quiet for so long that it provoked your curiosity.    What you found past the shrubbery and trunks of spruce is a giant white cylinder with rounded edges. A capsule. So white that it burnt to the back of your eyelids, in no way natural whatsoever. But the colour had been marred by dirt and foliage after it crash-landed. The mud and ground hugged it, molded against the shape after it quite literally smashed into the Earth.   Before you could approach the thing and investigate, there was another noise. An unfamiliar whirring. It made you flinch and stumble back, taking refuge behind the trees.   But as you peeked out, you saw something crawling out of the open compartment. A groan.    Someone.   You hadn’t seen another person in years.   Immediately, you stepped forward and he saw you. Eyes darting to look into yours.   He was in stark white clothing from top to bottom, pants that stopped too short at his ankles, a shirt that was cut awkwardly and too small for his broad shoulders. It was vivid against his dark hair and golden skin, almost made him look ridiculous. But you supposed at the time you didn’t look any better — ripped jeans, dirtied boots, a worn jacket taken years ago from some loot and your hair tucked into a baseball cap with a logo too faded away to discern.   “I-I won’t hurt you,” he stutters out, putting up his hands. “I...I’m Seokjin. I’m part of the rescue fleet of Arcadia.”   Arcadia?   The man, Seokjin, sighs after your ongoing silence. “Sorry. Of course you wouldn’t understand me. I,” he enunciates slowly and points to himself. “Am. Friend.” His hands wildly form a heart for you to see and then he points at you with his left while still making wild gestures with his right. He tries to smile brightly. “I. Help. You—”   “I understand you,” you deadpan with an impassive expression.   The man is visibly taken aback, eyes rounded as his mouth opens and closes comically. “Y-You can speak?”   Your arm lifts and your index finger points at his head. “You’re bleeding.”   ... .. .   He looks around the interior of the tree house like a lost child, seated on the floor and waiting for his parents to return. It’s a meager shack made of alder, large gaps for windows, tattered backpacks stained and collected in the corner by some pairs of shoes and an old radio. There’s a fishing line hung diagonally across the room and above his head, used to dry clothing. But he finds himself drawn to the radio and crawls over to try to switch it on, tugging on its antenna, turning the dials.   Yet, all that answers is noisy static.   “It’s been broken since a long time ago,” you pipe up, nearly startling him to death with your sudden presence. But you had simply climbed up the ladder quietly. “I’m still tinkering with it.”   Seokjin sets the radio down. “I have a device similar to it. Thought this one would work.” He pulls out a black and thick rectangular piece of plastic from his back pocket and you scarcely recognize it.   “A walkie-talkie?”   “Kind of. It’s called an Erewhon device. State of the art technology, even if it looks chunky. It transmits radio waves without any limit of range and it syncs to one other device. No third can ever join or hack into it. I use this one to communicate with my base. Or at least I usually would, if the thing didn’t break in the crash.”   You don’t understand anything he’s saying, so you chalk it up to gibberish.   “It stings.” Seokjin sharply inhales as you apply pressure to his wound. But the ache soon alleviates when you wrap bandages around his head. “What’s your name?”   It’s your last roll of bandages.    “Y/N.”   It’s not like you to be so generous or welcoming towards a stranger. The nature of your upbringing and life has ingrained an innate suspicion to anyone who isn’t yourself. But there’s a characteristic about the man in front of you that doesn’t make you doubt his intentions.   It must also be partly because you’ve been on your own for so long and your inner subconscious is willing to dance with danger if it means having some kind of contact with another. But whatever the case may be, you don’t feel wary of Seokjin even if you should.   “Are...there any others?”   “Other humans? There hasn’t been any for years.”   “There’s….just you?”   “Just me.” Until now. “Where did you come from?”   “I come from a place called Arcadia. It’s a utopian society just off the Zion mountain and Elysian Fields,” he says as if you know what those places are. “It has everything and it’s where the remaining people have gathered for years. I actually rescue people like you who are still alive and bring them back. How...how did you manage to survive on your own out here?”    “I just do.”    “How long have you been here?”   “I don’t remember. The apocalypse happened when I was young.”   Seokjin makes a noise of acknowledgment like he understands. “It happened when I was seven.”   “I remember celebrating my fifth birthday in an underground bunker with my parents.”   He doesn’t ask where they are. If they aren’t with you now, it’s safe to assume your parents are dead like his are.    “I had a lot of people help me along the way, a lot of people who died,” you say, “I’ve been in sanctuaries and communities until they fell. Everything was only temporary. So, I’ve been on my own for a while.”   “Arcadia is different,” he says with bright eyes, breathy voice full of wonder and hope. “It’s where the new world is beginning. I can take you there.”   “Isn’t your flying machine broken?”   “You mean my Xanadu Shuttle?” Seokjin scratches the back of his neck and chuckles. You notice how the tips of his ears turn scarlet. “Actually, it was my first time taking it out that far. I’m kind of new to all this. But don’t worry! When it crashed, it sent a notification to headquarters and gave coordinates, so they should find me soon. I’ll try to fix my Erewhon device too.”   You don’t pretend like you know the things he’s referring to. “Are you hungry?”   “I have dried pemmican!” He lights up as if remembering and pulls a transparent wrapped bar from his back pocket. You wonder what else is in those endless pockets of his.    Seokjin must read the puzzled expression on his face since his smile widens. “Want to try it?”   “Sure.” You rip open the wrapper and you’re met with a dark red and gray block, and a meaty scent that makes you slightly nauseous. But you’ve eaten worse before, so you take a bite.   Seokjin instantly laughs when your expression wrinkles up. “It tastes better the more you eat it. Promise.”   “It’s awful.” There’s a temptation to spit it out the window, but afraid that it might be considered rude, you swallow it down and quickly hand back the monstrosity to him. “Do you want rabbit?”   “Sure.”   … .. .   It’s odd to eat a meal with someone — an experience that you’re unable to pinpoint your last memory of. It’s rather mundane, but mundanity has long been a privilege in this era.   “You can sleep in the tree house if you want.”   “Where will you be?”   “I usually like to sleep on the forest floor anyway.” It isn’t a lie. One of the few things you love is drifting off while gazing at the stars, that the last thing you see is the sparkling horizon before it’s blue again when you awake. “How many people are there in Arcadia?”   “About twenty five hundred people so far.”   So far. But if what he tells you is true, then it’s a big settlement.   As if able to see how he’s piqued your curiosity, Seokjin continues, “It’s an amazing place and we’re completely self-sufficient. There’s an agriculture industry that’s growing and greenhouses underground that gives us all the food we need. They developed a water filtration system as well and it’s connected to the mountain springs nearby. There are pods that people live in, schools that kids can go to, jobs, medicine— you’ll see when I take you back.”   “I never said I was going with you.”   “What? Why wouldn’t you?”   You don’t answer.   … .. .   “Morning.” You watch as he climbs down the ladder and nearly slips off. It’s an amusing sight to see his hair in a disarray and his eyes swollen beyond recognition. “Glad to see you’re finally up.”   Seokjin, on the other hand, is baffled at how you’re already moving so energetically. “When….did you get up?”   “Since sunrise. Changed your bandages too, if you didn’t already notice. I’m getting breakfast prepared. There’s a stream down this path that you can wash your face in. Collect water for me while you’re at it.”   You hand him a silver pail.   Walking off, Seokjin finally gets a good look at the forest. It’s quiet, save for the chickadees he notices in the thin branches of the spruce, twiddling as he passes and the woodpeckers hammering against the alder. There was just enough rays of light bursting through to allow the saplings to flourish and shrubs to overgrow. And the verdant green almost blinds his vision with how vivid it is. He’s never been so surrounded in nature before — never has it encapsulated him completely.   When Seokjin returns, he’s more alert than before.   “Thought you got lost for a second. You can set the water over there. Do you want to help me look at my traps?”   He follows you and nearly steps into a trap before you yell at him. But he’s amazed. You’ve designated a whole section full of traps made of loose string and branches, and when he asks, he learns they’re treadle snares to drowning snares.   “They don’t yield a lot of food. It depends on the season, but it mainly depends on luck.”    “What do you usually eat then?”   “I have some canned stuff from the cities, but there’s a lot of berries and herbs around here that are edible. I’m in the process of growing some basil and tomatoes too, so I never really starve out here.”   Seokjin is astounded. You can see it on his face, but you don’t know why that is. It’s not like any of these things are impressive. It’s just things you learn once you’ve lived out here long enough.   “You’re making a fire now?”   He watches as you take out a curved piece of wood with string attached and another piece that’s pointed at the end. You saw it back and forth on some more wood and Seokjin watches the smoke, how the friction creates the heat, how you transfer the embers to tinder.   “Is this how you always make fire?”   “Nowadays. At the beginning when I still had materials, I would use batteries and steel wool. Even flint and steel. But the bow drill method works fine. I save my matches for when I need them.”   “That’s incredible. Is this what you do? I mean, collect food and make fires.”   “I guess.”   “Do you do anything else? Do you ever get bored?”   It’s an interesting question — boredom. A privilege in itself to be bored rather than worried. Though you suppose that in this quiet forest with no one else, it’s a wonder how you never went insane. But while loneliness sporadically plagues you, you’ve never necessarily felt isolated or deprived. It’s always been this way. You’ve learnt to adapt to it. Humans can handle more than they think when push comes to shove.    “There’s always something to do. Whether that’s upkeeping the tree house or making more traps or planting. But sometimes in the summer, I go exploring for a few days. Into the cities. There’re lots of places I haven’t been. It’s a good opportunity for me to get seeds, food, and clothes, so I’m never….bored.”   “Wow, t-that’s...that’s impressive.”   “There’s nothing impressive. It’s just the way things are.”   “I...went to Arcadia in its early days,” Seokjin explains, “It was established twenty years ago, right after the apocalypse began, so I’ve never really got to see the outside world.”   “They don’t let you leave?”   “It’s not that. It just isn’t safe to. Actually, that’s why I wanted to join the rescue fleet. It gives me a chance to see the outside world.”   “You haven’t even seen anything yet. If you want….I can take you somewhere. Better than this.”   “Really?!” Seokjin’s eyes widen, irises practically glistening.   Your lips tickle, threatening to upturn. “Sure.”   … .. .   Past the stream and thicket is a clearing. A meadow of daisies. It’s overgrown grass that reaches to your knees, white petals spilling over with yellow centers filled among them. The sound of insects buzzing and circling through the field is heard as the sun beats down. You found this place a good year ago and while it doesn’t serve much of a purpose, you left it undisturbed.    The apocalypse was a catastrophe, but it did a lot for nature.   “This….this….” Seokjin is breathless, unable to force a coherent word out. He looks over at the blue horizon that seems to steal the land as the abundance of flowers overwhelms his senses.    “It’s beautiful, huh?”   He stays silent, taking in the sight in front of him. He has seen a vase of flowers at best — most certainly not a boundless field of them. Not like this. Not in the entirety of his life so far. Not in a way where he could inhale the fresh air, count clouds, memorize the azure shade of the sky, and not where he is unable to see where the end or the start is.   Seokjin is overwhelmed, and he realizes why the choice to stay remains. Why you would refuse his offer of coming back with him to Arcadia. A part of him also wants to stay here. Where freedom lies.   “I’m sorry,” he murmurs while still taking in the sight. The colours are so rich that he feels regretful he couldn’t see it sooner. “I didn’t mean to push you to come with me.”   “It’s okay. I’ll come with you.”   Seokjin finally peels his eyes away from the scenery to gaze at you.    Yet you continue to look forward. “You made me curious about this Arcadia.”   And the corner of his mouth turns into a smile.   … .. .   The next few days are spent with Seokjin — noisy at your side, but it’s entirely invited.   He goes back to his vehicle, his so-called fancy Xanadu Shuttle, and tries to contact his people. Much like your radio, there’s only static on the other end when he flips and fiddles with switches and the lights eventually die off. He messes with his Erewhon too, the little walkie-talkie device, though it’s to no avail. But Seokjin never becomes discouraged. He remains optimistic, a rarity in today’s climate. The man has no doubts they’ll come for him and even reassures you.   In the meanwhile, you show him how to start a fire, how to collect berries and certain plants, and he helps you sharpen the knives you have. But the man looks away when you have to kill the animal you trapped and he makes you kill the bugs that land on him as well. It’s a bit ridiculous and outlandish, but frighteningly natural how quickly he falls into place and adapts.   You forgot what it was like to have someone with you. To be able to talk to someone.   … .. .   “Are you ever lonely?”   Seokjin asks one night when he’s laid on the grass, arms tucked underneath his head and staring up at the stars by your side. He copied you after several occasions where he found you like that. You immediately heard the gasp that left his mouth the first time he laid down. It’s beautiful enough that he’s unconcerned with insects and doesn’t get up until you chide him to.   “Sometimes. Then I think about how people are more trouble than they’re worth.”   He grins. “Why do you say that?”   “People mess up things and always have their self-interest at heart. Learned it after I had a gun pointed on me by someone I thought was a friend.”   “I’m sorry.”   “It’s alright. Just the way things are. Anything to survive, right?”   “Is that why you’re on your own?”   “Partly. It’s hard when people die too. I’d rather not deal with that.”   “Why’d you agree to help me then?” Seokjin asks after a moment. “If people always mess things up.”   “I don’t know. It’s been a while since I’ve seen someone. I thought talking to you would be worth the risk. And it’s not like you’re not messing things up. I’m leaving with you, right?”   Seokjin grins, meeting your eyes. It goes quiet and then you pipe up again—   “I do sing sometimes to myself. Helps keep me sane.”   “Like what?”   “I don’t know.”   “Show me.”   You outright scoff. “No.”   “Please?”   A sharp exhale later, you start mumbling, slurring words together in some obscure melody. Your voice is rigid and stiff, out of tune even to your own ears. But you’ve heard it from your parents before. It’s some jingle on television back when electricity still worked.   Instantly, Seokjin starts laughing.   “Hey, it’s not my fault I don’t know the lyrics!”   “No, no, i-it’s amazing, please continue!” Seokjin squeaks out in the midst of a giggling fit and the corner of your own mouth twitches into a subtle smile.   … .. .   Unfortunately, these simple days don’t last long. Seokjin continues messing with his Erewhon device whenever he gets the chance — banging it on the tree house wall much to your dismay, curling up with it using a screwdriver kit he got from his capsule — and one evening, it suddenly comes alive.   There’s the sound of static and someone’s muffled voice.   “Hello?! Code White. R-six-four-three. This is Kim Seokjin from fleet seventy two.”   “R-four-......three-nine.”   It’s difficult to discern, but that’s all the other line says before the device goes silent again.    You look to Seokjin, anticipating dejection and disappointment. But instead, a grin spreads into his cheeks and his eyes crinkle ever so slightly. “Y/N. They’re coming soon.”   … .. .   It’s a morning of checking for traps, of hearing the orchestral songs of nature, of holding your breath as the breeze whisks through the strands of your hair. You’re tip-toeing to the simple snare laid on the ground when the familiar, deafening noise returns to the sky. A thin whistle that crescendos. Louder than you’re used to hearing. Ringing in your eardrums. It rumbles the ground, roaring through the silent forest. And you look up to see a streak of white in the sky.    It’s a larger white vessel with glass windows around. So white that it burns to the back of your eyelids, in no way natural whatsoever. And it descends to the same place Seokjin crash-landed.   Seokjin finds you and the two of you venture through the forest and shrubby towards it.   There’s a whirring and a compartment opens. Three different people step out, dressed in that unnatural white much like Seokjin is, pants and shirt cut off oddly. They look at Seokjin with smiles and incredulous expressions.   “I can’t believe you actually crashed.”   “It wasn’t my fault, JK!” Seokjin whines immediately and then quickly greets the other two females who he’s evidently less friendly with. “Amber. Lizzy. Good to see you too.”   “This something I expected from Namjoon or even Jimin, not you,” the shorter-hair girl named Amber huffs out as she playfully shakes her head.   “At least he’s safe,” Lizzy says with a smile. “Saves us from having to transport him back in a stretcher. But….who’s….that?”   Her eyes dart over to you and the other two strangers follow her line of sigh, re-directing their attention. Then their mouths drop open, eyes widening in surprise, having not seen you there.   Seokjin steps aside, allowing the light to shed on you. “She’s a lone one.”    “A-A lone one…?”   “Are you okay? Do you need help?” Amber whispers softly, lowering herself to meet your height and connect your eyes with hers as if you were a wounded animal. But then light flashes beneath her irises and her brows furrow. “Right. She might not know how to speak. Where’s my translation devi—”   The corner of Seokjin’s mouth tilts. “She does.”   You step forward, directly underneath the canopy spotlight coming through the spruce, walnut, and alder. “My name is Y/N.”

Arcadia. It’s protected by a dome-like structure reminiscent of glass, but as one of the strangers narrates, it’s supposedly a magnetic force field to protect against natural disasters. The place is ruled by tall buildings like the cities, but unlike it in the sense that they’re not decaying. They haven’t turned brown under wear and tear, don’t have moss growing on the sides of it. Rather, there are patches of green in between the paved pathways, flickering screens that are seemingly floating mid-air, masses of people walking past one another.    It’s a utopian society, they tell you. But you’re not sure what that means.   “Welcome to Arcadia,” the voice from above speaks rigidly.   The door whirs as it opens.   And white is all you see. White floors. White walls. People dressed in white. The white lights burn your vision as you stagger out, being aided by the strangers who were onboard with you.   They welcome you. Tell you they hope this place could be your refuge and new home. And you’re taken immediately by strangers until you begin thrashing, calling out to Seokjin until he consoles you. He promises that they mean no harm, that he’ll see you soon, and it’s enough for you to be relieved.   They lead you away, give you a new set of white clothing that are soft to the touch and a bin to place your old clothes in. You feel vulnerable as you strip from your grimy clothes and trade them in.   You’ve never been able to afford to hold onto sentimentalities. But it’s hard to let them go.   … .. .   “Hello—” The doctor glances at his clipboard. “You must be the new refugee, Y/N! Oh right, they call it newcomer now, not refugee. Anyway, nice to meet you, I’m Jung Hoseok. I’ll be assessing you today and setting you up to live in Arcadia. You understand me, correct?”   “Yes, I do.”   “Excellent! Makes things easier for me if we can speak the same language. But feel free to tell me if you want me to slow down. We’ll take things one step at a time.” The man grins brightly and sits on his stool, spinning around to a thin screen on the desk. “We’re going to be doing some tests together today, so I can figure out what I’ll need to help you with and we can make sure your transition is as smooth as possible.”   “Okay.”   You knew a doctor once. She was similar to him, whimsical as he seemingly is, until she had to amputate her own arm and then bled to death.   “Do you have any questions?”   “Not really.”   There’s an eye examination done until you tell him you don’t know all the letters of the alphabet. He switches to pictures afterwards and is enthused as he tells you that your eyes are apparently fine. He makes you lay down and open your mouth to examine your teeth. You spit into a vial, have your blood drawn. You step into a white capsule with black bars twirling around you. He shows you a picture of your bones and scanned brain with the excitement akin to a child’s afterwards.    And he asks too many questions.   “So you mainly ate rabbits, berries and other plants? Fascinating.” — “How often do you sleep?” — “So your bowel movements were pretty consistent?”   You miss Seokjin.   … .. .   “Seokjin, can you please tell us what happened on the fifth?”   The commander, chief, supervisor and several others are seated on the other side of the table.   “Yes. I was dispatched to forty one degrees, twenty four point two eight minutes north. Halfway there, I….became distracted by the scenery, and went off course. I became alert again when the shuttle skimmed along treetops. The console received a malfunction notification and I subsequently crashed into a forest area.”   “The maintenance record shows your Xanadu Shuttle was updated on the second of the previous month?”   “Yes.”   “Then do you accept responsibility for this incident?”   “Yes, I do.” There’s no point in putting up a fight. All the evidence is all in the machinery and Seokjin had made no attempt to hide it.   “I’m interested in the girl you rescued,” the Commander speaks up, tapping his pen on his clipboard. “When did you come into contact with her after you crashed?”   “After I crashed, I exited my Xanadu Shuttle and caught sight of her standing amongst the trees. I think...the accident got her attention and she came to investigate what it was.”   He nods and the people on the other side of the table look around at one another. There are soft murmurs and Seokjin stays quiet through their deliberation, keeping his eyes on his own report.   After a minute, it simmers down.   “The panel appreciates your honesty and integrity, Seokjin. In spite of your circumstances, you were able to rescue someone who will become a valuable member to our society and such a thing should not be overlooked. However, the crash was ultimately on your part and as such, you will have to be put on probation for a period of two months. The panel will also require that you retake your license class. Do you agree these actions are necessary?”   Relief washes over him. Seokjin thought this was it. He was anticipating that he’d lose his job.    “Y-Yes. Thank you.”   “You will have to pass your license class.”   “Yes, I will.”   “There is one more thing I would like to discuss with you, Seokjin,” The Commander speaks up. “I spoke to our Premier and Minister prior to this meeting and we came to an agreement that it would be in the best interest of everyone involved if you could foster the newcomer you rescued. Typically, as you know, we house newcomers for a while and monitor them. But she...seems to be a special case.”   The Chief furrows his brows. “Yes, she was isolated, wasn’t she?”   It’s known to all that the lone ones are usually the people that are most unstable. The ones with animalistic behaviour as a result of living in the wild and being socially deprived. The problematic ones. But they’re wrong. Seokjin doesn’t outright refute his own superiors, yet he’s certain that you don’t have any of those issues. You’re not violent. Uncivilized. Barbaric.   “Usually people are found in groups or clusters.”   “Exactly that. But it seems like Seokjin has built a rapport with her. It might lead to a smoother transition if there’s immediate integration. Or at least, it’s an experiment we want to try. He has a calm temperament as well which makes him an ideal candidate to attempt this new method. Would you be willing to house this newcomer for a period of time, Seokjin?”   He doesn’t need a second longer to think about it. “I wouldn’t mind whatsoever.”   ... .. .   Seokjin finds you and almost bursts out laughing with how relieved you look.   “Jin!”    He doesn’t mind the nickname either.   “I haven’t seen you in a while.” Hoseok twirls around with a blazing smile, his white coat fluttering with him. “But I have a feeling you’re here to see my little guest and not me.”   “You’re right.” He enters and stands by your side. “Has everything been alright?”   “Of course!” Hoseok interjects before you can answer. “I’m one of the best doctors here, what do you take me for? We had a very fun time together, right, Y/N?”   “Uh, sure.”   “I’ll take it.”   Seokjin smiles and looks at his old friend. “Is there anything…?”   “She’s healthy. She’s been taking care of herself well. Nothing that’s too concerning.”    Hoseok's eyes meet yours and he grins. “You’re approximately twenty to twenty five years old. Unfortunately, it doesn’t look like you have any family here in Arcadia, but you don’t have any diseases, so that’s something to be happy about! Minimal dental work that needs to be done. Blood pressure is good. You have a slight magnesium and iodine deficiency, but nothing dark greens, whole grains, fish and eggs can’t fix. I’ll give you some vitamins to be safe and some medication to avoid illnesses you’re potentially susceptible to in Arcadia.”   “That’s good news,” Jin exhales.   “You’re also healthy enough to have children!” Hoseok announces and if possible his grin widens. You blink at him and he quickly reads your confused expression. “Right, you might not be aware but it’s one of the main ambitions of Arcadia to repopulate society. People with the most compatible genes get paired together into family units. Depending on how your integration goes, you might get paired up in a family unit by the end of the week.”   “What?” You’re reeling. Starting a family and having children are things at the very back of your mind, not even in the realm of what your thoughts are, and you’re not sure what to think at this news.   Jin sighs at his friend. “You’re freaking her out.”   “Am I? Sorry,” the man laughs and looks at you. “Don’t worry. No one will force you. It’s just...highly suggested and recommended.”   … .. . “That’s the dining hall.”    “What do they serve?”   “On Mondays, there’s quinoa. Tuesday is this dried beans dish. So on and so forth. Don’t worry, there’s poultry too, so there are eggs and chicken breast which you can order. There’s corn, milk, cheese and a selection of fruit too. They also serve protein powders you can mix with water that gives you the same nutrition value.”   “It’s not like...that stuff you gave me, right?”   “You mean pemmican? No, it’s better. Or at least I hope so.” He smiles. “Everyone has the same food. Sometimes during celebrations though, they serve different things.”   “There’s not much privacy, is there?”   Seokjin follows your line of sight to the glass buildings where you’re able to see the people working on each floor. “I guess not. I’ve never really thought about it.”   You suppose it’s something to get used to. “Are...people staring at me, Jin?”   “Don’t mind it. It’s not everyday we get a new face around here.” Right as he says that, you lift your head to discover your face plastered on one of the screens at the top of the building as if you were a wanted criminal. Seokjin laughs. “News spreads fast around here.”   “I bet it does,” you mutter, a bit unnerved.    “It’s a nice place if you follow the rules, trust me.”   “What happens if someone breaks a rule?”   “Well, there’s a focus on restorative justice for small crimes. So people often do community service or talk to victims or the people they affected and try their best to fix their mistakes.”   “What about big crimes? Like if you killed someone.”    Yet, Seokjin stays silent for a moment. “They disappear.”   Your brows furrow, not sure what he means. But he doesn’t elaborate and you don’t push for an answer, uncertain that you want to know more.   Arcadia isn’t as you expected it to be. When Seokjin told you stories, part of you anticipated it being lesser and merely blown up in proportion through his evident love of this place. You had predicted a community ridden with suspicion, like many of the sanctuaries you had been to before they inevitably collapsed. Leaders suppressing their people. Scarcity in resources.   Another part of you expected an otherworldly universe, full of gibberish and things you didn’t understand. Much like the technology he carried with him or the shuttle that crashed in the forest.   But what is presented in front of you is a sort of familiarity in a changed background.   People like you know them, except courteous and independent.   “This is my housing unit.”    It’s a blinding white, two stories with the top floor off center and extended off the right side. It looks like two boxes haphazardly stacked on top of each other with giant pane glass windows at the front.   “It’s not much but it’s my home.”   You nod as your eyes drift to his lawn — a tiny patch of grass that surrounds the path leading up to the front door. As if entranced, you launch forward towards it. But it feels different underneath your feet, past the soles of your shoes. The soil isn’t soft. There aren’t any lumps, no grip when you try to root yourself into it.   Seokjin notices your reaction. “It’s artificial grass.”   “What does that mean?”   “It’s fake.”   “Fake? You can’t get real grass?”   “Guess not.”   The interior of his home is less white than all of Arcadia. There are mismatched cushions, wooden tables and bookshelves, fake yellow flowers on his marble kitchen counter, paintings of oceans and cities placed on the wall next to photographs of himself growing up. You glance over the knick-knacks lining the shelves, snow globes and postcards, tiny things you’ve always seen lying around shops in the decaying towns, but never paid much attention to.   “Sorry. It’s a bit messy.”   “No, I like it.”    He shows you to your room, an empty one down the hall. It’s much less decorated than his living space and he quickly excuses himself to tumble back in with heavier blankets and proper pillows. “Had I known you were coming, I would’ve had everything already set up!”   “I don’t think any of us knew I would be here.”   He laughs. “That’s true.”   You walk to the window, taking a peek outside to the white city that towers over and covers the blue sky, the tiny patches of grass that alleviates the brightness of Arcadia, the flying shuttles hovering past the paved paths.    “You’re probably tired, right? Do you want to rest a bit? I have a few things to do, so…”   “You don’t have to worry about me, Jin. I can take care of myself. Probably.”   Seokjin ends up shutting the door after promising he won’t take long. But it’s the first time in hours that there’s finally silence. And you allow the quietness to simmer down on you as you take a seat on the edge of the soft bed that sinks underneath your weight. You stare at the sheets, the white walls and floor, the luminescent sunlight streaming through the windows.   You’re not sure how you feel.   … .. .   You stare down at your slab of white meat, so white that you wonder if everything in Arcadia is dyed in this blinding shade. It’s something you might have to ask Jin, even if it’s a bit ridiculous.   You’re just not used to having meat that isn’t charged by the flames of a bonfire. But still, you tear it with your fingers and when you bring it to your mouth, it tastes dry and heavy — like it’s fake.   “This isn’t very good, is it?”   “It isn’t?”   Jin blinks and you lift your head. Immediately, your eyes connect to a stranger who instantly turns away and it occurs to you that people are watching.   “Don’t worry. It’s because you’re not using utensils. Here.” He hands you a metal stick with three prongs at the end and another one that’s rounded. Understandably, it’s awkward in your hold, hurts in your grip. It goes silent as you fumble with it. The chicken breast almost flies off your metal tray.   “It’s okay.” He smiles at your visible frustration and reaches over to slice it with a knife. Jin gently takes your hand holding the fork and pierces the piece. “Like this, see? Not too bad, right?”   “It would be easier with my hands.”   He agrees, “It would be.”   “Hey, you’re Y/N, right?” A familiar red-head comes prancing up to the table and steals a seat next to you. “I’m Lizzy. We met on the Xanadu Shuttle, remember? I was the one telling you all about the history of Arcadia?”   “Yes, I do.”   “This is Namjoon. He’s one of our robotics engineers,” she introduces a gawky, strapping male with framed glasses. He takes a seat next to Seokjin.    “A pleasure to be of your acquaintance. I’ve heard quite a lot about you in the past two hours or so. I am friends with Hoseok. He doesn’t indulge me in much information, he told me he received a great person of interest in his office. I believe that person may be you—”   Seokjin interrupts his ramble, “Namjoon.”   “Don’t mind him,” Lizzy laughs, ignoring the two men as she leans over the table to intrude into your personal space. “How are you getting settled in? Everything okay?”   “Yeah. I’d say everything’s okay.”   “I heard you were living with Jin now. Tell me, is he as messy at home as he is at work?”   “I am not messy,” he protests.   “Only a little,” you divulge her with a small smile.   Namjoon smiles. “I heard you crashed. Glad to see you’re still alive and well.”   “Thanks.” Seokjin’s eyes roll as his voice drips of sarcasm. “I’m sorry you couldn’t use my body for your next humanoid robotic experiment.”   “Not now, but in due time,” the other man teases then turns to you. “It’s a shame you’re partnered with Seokjin. He can be quite clumsy and forgetful. You’ll end up becoming his handyman like I am.”   “His first time he got into a Xanadu Craft, he broke the console,” Lizzy tells, making your mouth upturn.   Namjoon swallows down his food before asking, “If I may be intrusive, Y/N, is it really true that you were alone? In the forest, I mean.”   “I...was.”   “How long were you alone for?”   “I’m not sure. I think maybe two years.”   “And before that?”   “I...uh...traveled around and met different people.”   He leans forward. “And what happened to those people?”   “Well, some...passed away and others went somewhere else.”   “What did they pass away from?”   There’s a loud scraping of a chair against the tiled floor, grating to your ears. “I’m stuffed. Aren’t you, Y/N? I think we should head back now. Sorry, Joon, Lizzy. Might have to cut your questions short there. Maybe you can ask more next time.”   “Oh, alright then.”   They bid you farewell and Lizzy waves with a smile. As you exit, you look at Seokjin. “Thank you.” He saved you from answering, from bringing up memories you had no intentions of returning to.   Yet he smiles and then looks away, feigning ignorance. “For what?”   … .. .   They’re wrong. It’s not a shame at all to be with Jin at all. If anything, you think you’re quite fortunate. Ever since you’ve met him, he’s proven himself time and time again to be thoughtful and considerate — traits that you thought were gone in this era. But it’s him who makes it easier to deal with these changes, to enter into this new world.   … .. .   “I thought you were gone,” he says, looking down at you with a smile. You’re laying on his lawn in the middle of the night in bare feet. “I knocked on your door and then searched my whole house.”   “Where did you think I was?”   “I don’t know.” Seokjin plops down on his artificial grass, stretching out his body and laying beside you like all those times before. “I was worried. I thought something happened to you.”   “I’m sorry.”   “Don’t be.”   “I couldn’t sleep.”   It’s quiet as the pair of you look to the sky with your hands folded on top of your stomachs. The lamp posts nearby casted warm glows on your visages. The warm breeze making his cheeks rosy. Yet, none of you can see the stars — not with the light pollution of Arcadia, not when all the buildings were towering so high and covering it, not like out there in the middle of the forest.   “Remember when we were in the forest, Jin?”   “I do. I remember that one time, you didn’t completely put out the fire and my pants almost set on fire.”   You giggle and Jin relishes in the sound. “I apologized for that and who told you to sit so close to that spot?”   “Hey, I just wanted to be next to you.”   You remember the nights when you were able to drift off while staring at the horizon and how you were awoken by the first blush of dawn, sunlight coming through the trees. You have a feeling it’s going to be a long time before you have an experience like that again.   It’s going to be a long, long time. If ever again.   “I feel homesick,” you whisper, finally being able to pinpoint your emotions and it’s the most honest you’ve been since you arrived. “I don’t want to be paired up with anyone or have kids.”   Jin reaches out and you feel his hand against the back of yours. He holds it, clasping it tight. You shift and your eyes meet. “Don’t worry. They can’t make you do anything you don’t want to.”   You trust him.   … .. .   “If you want, we don’t have to eat in the dining center anymore. We can eat at home.”   The corner of your mouth pulls. “Is that allowed?”   “I’ll find a way around it,” Jin promises.   … .. .   “Please, Hoseok.”   “You know that’s not how the system works. There’s not much I can do anyway.”   “But you can put in your recommendation.”   He’s silent in contemplation. “She’s compatible with you, but more so compatible with others. Plus, she’d assimilate better with someone stricter.”   “I want to protect her. She’s my responsibility. Pair her with me.” Seokjin won’t let you be paired up with someone else in a family unit, expected to stay together and have children. He’ll keep his promise to you and be with you until the end — it’s also his selfish wish to be with you.   The other man sighs. “I’ll make a note of it, but I can’t promise anything.”   … .. .   You’re unfamiliar with the devices at hand — the kitchen appliances with automated voices that speak when you come close, the machines with tens of buttons you can’t read. They’re all things you once overlooked when you scrambled for remaining supplies.   “Is everything okay?”   “I’m trying to heat this up. You said I could use it, right?”   “Yeah. Here.” Seokjin comes behind you and takes your hand, guiding you where to press. “Click this button and then this one.”   You don’t understand technology at all. Even the television is odd, an overload on your senses.   “What do you think?” he asks, watching your reaction in amusement and how your eyes are as wide as the screen flashing against your face.   “It’s...a lot to take in.”   “That’s okay. Do you want to go outside instead? We can, if you want to.”   You glance out the window. “I’m fine here. I’m not used to there being so many people.”   “How about we work on some more worksheets?”   “Again?”   Jin laughs and the sound is tinkling. “You have to learn eventually. Come on.” He pulls you up and is happy to sit next to you at his kitchen table to teach you how to hold a pencil, how to write each letter and answer your questions.    You’re a fast learner. Today your strokes are smoother and you learn how to spell his name.   … .. .    Seokjin often knocks on your door before going to bed to bid you goodnight. Yet he seldomly finds you there, where you’re supposed to be. He wonders if you’re outside on his lawn again, but instead, he discovers you standing in his living room. You’re gazing out the window quietly with an unreadable expression.   “Is there something wrong?”   You turn around with a small smile. “I’m just a little homesick.”   He joins you, staring out at the city and the lampposts lined on the paved paths.    “How do we go outside, Jin? Not just outside, but beyond the dome.” To the forest again.   “Most people aren’t allowed outside because it’s dangerous. You would need to have my job or something similar, and that’s after you graduate from a three year program and pass several exams.”   It’s quiet and neither of you look at one another or speak when you reach over, discreetly taking his hand into yours. Seokjin laces his fingers through yours and squeezes.   He’s the only reason you can starve off the longing sewed uncomfortably in your chest.   ... .. .   In the following days, he receives a notification. The leaders are interested in you as a newcomer and extended an invitation to the party. So he helps you pick an appropriate outfit and the two of you enter with your hand looped around his arm as he reassures you.   “You must be Y/N!” The strangers, leaders of Arcadia, welcome you with tall bubbling glasses, one of which that you receive from a waiter. It tastes disgusting, but you try to not let it show on your face.   “It’s good to see that you’re getting yourself accustomed to Arcadia. I see you’re with your future partner this evening.”   The man laughs boisterously while you exchange expressions with Seokjin.   “That’s supposed to be a secret,” the woman beside him chides.   “Right, right. The postings of the new family units go up on Friday. My apologies for ruining the surprise, but I assume it is a happy one.”   You look up at him, gazing meeting Seokjin’s at once. The relief is overwhelming and what follows is a kind of excitement. Part of the weight lifted off your shoulders and Jin smiles tenderly. He leans in close, whispering in your ear so you’re the only one who hears—   “You shouldn’t look at me like that in a place like this or I might just do something about it in front of all these people.”   It’s bold. Unexpected but you know with the heat that rises into your face, it isn’t unwelcome.   “Y/N, is it?” The intimate moment is intercepted by other individuals approaching in blue attire, form fitting dress simple and modest. “You must be the newcomer! I’ve heard so much about you.”   “Yes, how has your transition been? Are you finding everything accommodating?”   You hope they don’t come close enough to feel the warmth radiating off your cheeks. “Yes. Arcadia has been very welcoming to me.”    They smile. “It’s so fortunate you can understand us and we don’t have to use those translating devices.”   “You were alone, correct?” another asks. “How did you fare in the wild like that? How did you manage to even eat?”   “I trapped animals like rabbits and squirrels and roasted them over fires.”   Laughter is suddenly roused all around you.   “Aren’t you glad you don’t have to do such a primitive thing anymore?”   “What I’m curious about is how you’re still alive without any radiation poisoning.”   “I used a radon detector. It was given to me a long time ago by an older woman who was with me. She died.” Automatic silence sweeps through the crowd. You clear your throat. “But I used it when I traveled through the cities.”   “I see.” Some are fascinated while others aren’t. “How preserved are these old cities?”   “Most buildings are still relatively in-tact. There are abandoned cars and buses too, but they’re useless without fuel and everything’s been raided, so there’s not much left. It’s one of the reasons I started to live in the forest.”   “Poor thing,” someone sympathizes, “Someone should’ve rescued you sooner. You wouldn’t have to suffer so much.”   “I didn’t suffer.”   They’re taken aback, clearing their throats and moving on from the subject. A man directs to the refreshment table — all the while Jin pulls you closer to him and away from the prying eyes of Arcadia.   … .. .   Later on in the evening when Seokjin’s gone to relieve himself, you meet an old man seated alone at the table.   “I was outside too,” he croaks. “Until two years ago.”   Your eyes find his — past the wrinkles are bright irises — and you remain silent.   “Many things happened that the people here would never understand. But my biggest regret is coming here willingly. Arcadia offers many things,” he says, “it has everything but one.”   “Freedom.”   … .. .   The words stick to you. Like flies to honey. Or the magnets on Jin’s fridge. They don’t cease from your mind — a plague that spreads, a pollutant that you can’t shake off no matter how hard you try.    Jin worries about you, but he doesn’t ask. He knows every time he does, you’ll reassure him that you’re fine.   So one night, he takes your hand and shows you to his television.   “Put this on.” He hands you a black, heavy device and smiles at your visible reluctance. “Trust me.”   You slip it on top of your head and it sits comfortably over your eyes, obstructing your vision in complete darkness. Headphones are put over your ears and you discover both of your senses of sight and sound are completely disabled. “What are you doin—”   The words die upon your tongue the moment the machine flickers on.   There are chickadees chirping and woodpeckers digging against the bark. The sound of insects flapping their wings in the beating sun and the whistling wind intensifies. You see the forest, a forest. Canopies of spruce, walnut, and alder cascading light to the verdant floor overgrown in shrubbery.   A cry chokes in your throat, but then it bubbles into laughter instead. You jump up and down.   “I see it. I see it!” You whirl around, looking in each direction. To the blue horizon and the sound of the rustling leaves.    Your home.   But when you take it off, it’s all gone. You’re shrouded in darkness with Seokjin’s features barely discernible. You’re trapped in the very utopia you had followed him to.   And you cry.   For the first time in his presence, for the first time in a long while, sobs break through your frame at what you’ve lost — what you’ve traded in, what you’ve given up. Jin embraces you, arms wrapped around your frame, trying his best to keep you whole.   “I want to go back.”   … .. .   Jin makes it easier to be in Arcadia. He gives you reason to become accustomed to it. He makes you wish you wanted to stay. But he’s not enough to dissipate your constant wistfulness.    He isn’t the solution to your plaguing dilemmas, but you’re glad he doesn’t have to bear that burden.    You wouldn’t want Jin to harbour the hardship of being your fix.   … .. .   It’s in the dead of the night that Seokjin comes out of his room and finds you. In the dark, you’re seated on the floor with your knees folded to your chest and the virtual reality headset slipped on top of your head, over your eyes and ears.   You’re taking it all in. The orchestral songs of nature, the birds and leaves, the swaying of the grass and flourishing shrubs, bathing in the warm sunlight you cannot feel.    He sees you, but doesn’t say anything, merely turning away.   At same time, you feel the presence of another and slip the device in time to catch his retreating backside.   “Jin,” you call out for him, knowing you’ve been caught.   He hums, turning around and the two of you look at one another.   “I’m sorry.”   The dark-haired man smiles tenderly. “It’s me who should apologize. I’m the one who brought you here selfishly.”   “It’s not your fault. I’m the one who agreed to some and I’m...the one having trouble adjusting.”   “That’s not it. The problem is you’re not where you should be. Home. Not my home. Not Arcadia. But your home. “   You stand and he meets you halfway.   You press your face to his shoulder and he embraces you. “I’ll help you go back,” Seokjin murmurs against your hair. “I thought you would be happy here, but I don’t want to keep you against your will.”   “Come with me.”   “You know I can’t,” he whispers in spite of your soft-spoken plea. “I have a life here. Like how you can’t leave yours. Arcadia is my home. It always will be.”   You hold him closer, shutting your eyes to savour the moment. “Won’t you get into trouble?”   “I’ll find some way.” The corner of his mouth turns. “I always end up fine. You will too.”   … .. .   The year’s posting goes up and just as the man had said, you and Seokjin are paired together. The two of you hold hands as you look at it, taking your time to read it over. It’s slow, but you understand nonetheless.   You’re congratulated by those around him, people you recognize and friends you have yet to know. It’s fortunate it worked out that way, but it’s still bittersweet, knowing of your upcoming departure.   And that same night, five hours past twelve, Jin takes you across Arcadia. The white shuttle is ready when you arrive in the dark and you scarcely recognize its scratched paint and dented surface. It’s the same one that he crashed in, the one that took him to you.   “I programmed the path back. It’ll go automatically without you needing to drive it. And once you close the door, it’ll come back on its own. I’ll erase the data’s history. Take this.” Seokjin gently places the sling of a heavy bag on your shoulder. “There are clothes in here, blankets, medicine, a first aid kit, some canned food and seeds of new plants you don’t have. It should help you out.”   Tears threaten to spill from your lash line. “Jin. Wait.”   Hope blooms within him, wondering if you’ve changed your mind, that you want to stay. But he knows having such selfish desires won’t help him, so he puts them away. Just for a moment.   He tries his best not to hang onto you, to hold you down.   “It was because of you that I could even cope so well. You made it so much easier for me. I...I…”   But Jin lets his greed slip.   He closes the distance and kisses you senseless. The man swallows your soft gasp and comes to cradle the back of your neck as you ease into him. You relish in the gentle touch, his tender affections and taste one another’s lips. It’s bittersweet, yet he pulls away with a faint smile.   “You should get in.”   You nod, pulling away from him. Everything the two of you wanted to say has already translated through the kiss.   Still, you take every moment you can and look to him. “Thank you, Jin.”   The doors whir as it closes. He gazes at you till the very last second, till it shuts. The thin whistle diminuendos as it lifts into the air. He watches the shuttle fade from sight and when the sun lifts at the first blush of dawn, what’s left is a streak of white in the sky.

The world is limitless.    You have learned of such a fact at a young age, traveling from desserts to mountains, finding all the hiding places and safe spots that others had claimed no longer existed. But they did and you’ve sought refuge in this forest, found a home amongst the rustling foliage and canopies ruled by spruce, walnut, and alder. There was just enough rays of light bursting through to allow the saplings to flourish and shrubs to overgrow. And without the presence of others, you could listen to the woodpeckers hammering against the wood, the wings of insects fluttering about.   Everything was the way you left it. Unchanged from the time you left like it was waiting for you.   It’s as if Arcadia and Seokjin was a fever dream. Except the mementos brought back with you reminds you otherwise. You dig into your bag, looking through what he’s given you, everything he picked out that he knew would help. But you discover something special at the very bottom.   It’s a black, thick rectangular piece of plastic reminiscent of a walkie-talkie, synced up to only one other without a third in between.   You hold the Erewhon device to your lips and press the side of the button.   “Hello.” There’s a pause. “My name is Y/N.”   Silence follows.   But then there’s the sound of static and someone’s crystal clear voice.   “Nice to meet you. I’m Seokjin.”   A wide smile spreads into your cheeks.

[yourdeepestfathoms]

I Ain’t A Judas (part two)

[Off-West End]

TW: Blood

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

Lynn had seen her fair share of gruesome injuries in her time, both as an active sports player and gym coach. 

When she was on her high school’s wrestling team, she vividly remembered throwing her (male, mind you) opponent to the ground and hearing the distinct sound of bones cracking. There was something haunting about being on top of a person while their skeleton seemed to fold inward, having her ear so close to that sickening snap. The resulting nightmare-inducing scream was actually a mercy to the other noise.

She had scrambled off of the boy, backing away on her hands and knees like she was a scared animal. Her opponent must have landed wrong when she pinned him because his knee was bent at an unnatural angle and he was screaming bloody murder. Someone in the audience threw up. Someone else fainted. The boy’s parents rushed over to him and began yelling.

The parents had tried to sue Lynn for the broken leg, but the school defended her, saying it wasn’t her fault and injuries were to be expected in sports. She obtained a title of sorts, being one of the most feared wrestlers in the district. She took it with honor, despite its double-edged outcomes.

The experience desensitized her to all types of gore, but not without a price. For a while, she was sensitive to any sound that resembled snapping bones. Even a foot stepping on a twig was enough to bring back the memory of the boy and the broken leg. She got over it eventually, but at the time, it had been hell.

Injuries became repetitive after that. Broken arms, broken legs, broken noses- she saw it all when she became a coach. They always went the same way, too- that damned snapping sound, a limb bent at an angle that wasn’t normal, screaming that was so loud it could probably break the sound barrier, everyone in the general vicinity panicking like chickens with their heads cut off. Not that Lynn blamed them for such a reaction; she supposed it wasn’t ever the same after you were chest-to-chest with someone when the injury happened.

But in sports, broken bones were the worst thing that could be inflicted upon someone. Scratches, bruises, black eyes, bloody noses, even the broken bones themselves to some extent were nothing compared to other horrors. So as the repetition of injuries continued its cycle, Lynn believed nothing could get worse than that time back in high school.

And then she entered the darkened White bungalow and saw Carrie on the ground, surrounded by blood and covered in blood and frothing up blood, and that way of thinking was thrown out the window.

This. This was worse.

Lynn used to think that the screaming was the worst part of any injury, regardless of severity. That elongated, guttural sound of agony that the victim didn’t have the power to mute or muffle, bearing completely raw emotion, ripped out from the throat without control or consent. 

But as Lynn had knelt above Carrie White’s body, she now knew that the screaming was a mercy. The silence was the real thing that she should have been fearing all these years.

The screaming, at least, as awful as it was, meant the victim was alive. Even with their mind clouded with agony, they were sentient enough to even feel that agony. They were there, they knew, they could feel.

Carrie White was not, did not, could not.

The silence did not bring serenity. The silence did not bring peace. The silence brought panic- overwhelming, blood-rushing panic that made Lynn feel like she was standing in the middle of a rushing white water river, battered by the current. It made everything fall away into little broken pieces that would never be able to form its proper puzzle ever again. It made her feel true, unadulterated, unbridled terror for the first time since she was sixteen and in a gymnasium that smelled of salt and sweat with another kid screaming his heart out right beneath her.

It made her feel helpless.

And then, as if a giant log had been hurled from the raging river of dread and hit her in the face, awareness came rushing back to her. She stopped the flow of tears that she had not been able to fight back in those initial moments of hysteria and got her head on straight. 

Sue was there, holding Carrie’s body close to her chest. Margaret was there, too, face-down on the floor, unmoving, but Lynn could have hardly cared. Her focus was entirely on the young girl bleeding all over the place before her.

The cause of that bleeding didn’t feel real, either.

  “Her throat. She slit her throat.”

Lynn remembered watching something on TV, one of those cookiecutter crime shows that had been copy and pasted dozens of times before, saying something about how a throat wound could bleed out within minutes, if not seconds. She cursed her school training for not teaching her how to deal with this, opting instead to make all the teachers relearn the heimlich maneuver and CPR for the hundredth time in a row.

When she took Carrie’s small, shaking body into her arms, she discovered something worse than the silence. The gurgling. That wet, foamy sound that gargled in the back of Carrie’s throat, so desperate for proper articulation and enunciation, choked back by a torrent of her own blood. It may have meant she was still alive and fighting, but Lynn much preferred the silence.

Unwrapping Sue’s shirt from around Carrie’s neck and actually gazing upon the wound felt like a physical knife against Lynn’s throat. She had never been one of those people who could feel pain from watching others get hurt, and yet, in that moment of raw horror, she swore she could feel her own flesh being sliced open, muscles and tendons snapping away like weak thread, vessels punctured and windpipe split, slowly filling her lungs with her own blood, drowning her, restricting breathing--and then she realized she wasn’t breathing. Not while she looked at the gash. It used its severed arteries as a noose and strangled her, so she strangled it back.

Even with the hideous green and brown curtains wrapped around the wound like bulky bandages, Carrie’s neck was still so small. Lynn’s hands were so large. She felt like she was trying to asphyxiate a baby bird.

Lynn realized then that the experience in the gym was not the most horrific thing she had ever witnessed. At least she was a teenager when it happened. Being an adult and squeezing onto a child’s slashed open throat hurt in more ways than she could truly express. There was just something so fucking terrifying about being the one to pinch gushing blood vessels closed, to be the hands around a dying girl’s throat, to be the one and only defining factor to if that girl would survive the night. Even though she knew it had to be done, Lynn wanted to cut her hands off for the things they had done in those horrifying six minutes before the ambulance arrived.

Carrie’s eyes had looked so dull, so lifeless. It was a stark contrast to half an hour before she was bleeding out all over the place, when they were full of joy and life.

Lynn had never seen Carrie so happy before. She had never seen her dance, either, which made everything pre-blood dump even better. Carrie looked like a normal teenage girl, having fun at her school prom, being treated as she should have been all these years.

Lynn remembered, clear as day, those hours before the destruction.

Carrie had truly stuck out like a sore thumb in the Prom, but not in the way that any of her bullies had been expecting. The dress she wore, hand-sewn herself she had said, was soft pink and seemed to glitter in the overhead lights. Her red hair was brushed back to neatness, though that one iconic lock of bangs still dangled in front of her left eye. When they had spotted each other, Lynn was endeared to watch Carrie rip away from Tommy and run over to her in her heels. 

  “Miss Gardener, you look incredible!” Carrie had exclaimed.

  “Thank you, Carrie,” Lynn said. “You look beautiful.” As shy and modest as always, Carrie ducked her head and said, “Oh, thank you.”

Tommy had then walked over to them. “Miss Gardener, I don’t think I would ever see you in a dress.”

Lynn gave him a sharp look. “Tommy.” 

Tommy cleared his throat. “You guys want some punch? I heard Stokes and Freddy spiked it.”

  “Oh no,” Carrie said in a woebegone voice. “Isn’t it dangerous to drink spikes? What if someone chokes?”

  “Really?” Lynn said to Tommy at the same time.

Tommy had laughed, then noticed Lynn’s unamused, deadpan expression. He stopped instantly.

  “Uh-- No.” He said. “I’m joking.” He rubbed his palms on his black pants. “I’m going to get us some of that punch! Which is not spiked!”

Lynn rolled his eyes as he skittered away, then turned her attention back to Carrie. She looked so amazed as she gazed around the Prom, like it was the nicest event she had ever been to.

She and Carrie had talked until Tommy came back, but it wasn’t the last she would see of the girl. She chatted with her several times during the night, even danced with her on a few occasions. It was nice to see her smile after everything.

But of course, it had been ruined. Would Carrie ever get to experience true bliss without someone taking it away from her?

The memory of the blood dump had brought Lynn back to the present, to the blood on her hands on that moment. Every time she would lift them long enough for Carrie to get air, more would gush out, and she slammed them back into place every time, desperate to halt the flow. She wouldn’t have taken them away at all if Carrie wouldn’t have suffocated from the pressure on her neck. 

Lynn thought about Chris when she was effectively strangling Carrie. Her own will was keeping her from adding the proper weight to Carrie’s neck, so she made herself angry to compensate for the thing she really didn’t want to do.

How could anyone be so cruel? Especially to someone who didn’t deserve such treatment? Lynn imagined it was Chris beneath her hands, and that made her squeeze tighter.

She knew it had been Chris, and not just because of her gut feeling. Norma had told her.

During the panic of laughter and shock and confusion after the blood dump, Lynn had found Norma Watson, Chris’s second-in-command, in the crowd. For a moment, she didn’t know if it was even really her, as she wasn’t used to seeing her without her trademarked red backwards hat, but then recognized her snarky face and grappled onto her with her nails dug in. However, when Norma looked at her, her face was anything but snarky. It was horrified.

  “What happened?” Lynn had demanded. “Who did this?”

  “Chris,” Norma told her instantly. She looked back to the stage, to the blood dripping off the edge. “I-I didn’t know it was blood…”

  “What?”

Norma shook her head, mouth hanging open.

  “Norma!” Lynn dug her nails in further. She didn’t care if it got her fired, she had to know. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Norma looked back at her, wide-eyed and sickened. “I didn’t know it was real blood.” She said. “Chris-- she said it was red water. Just dyed with food coloring. I didn’t think she would--”

Lynn had released her, noticing that Carrie was now gone. She couldn’t stick around any longer. 

Before she rushed away, she could have sworn she faintly heard Norma utter, “I’m sorry.”

When the paramedics finally came rushing in, Lynn did not let go of Carrie. She couldn’t risk it, not anymore. Not when they were so close to salvation. The paramedics let her stay by the girl’s side until they got to the actual hospital, but then not even she could remain. She had to peel her hands back, and they were completely covered in blood.

She and Sue sat in the waiting room for what felt like forever, when it was really only two and a half hours at best. They spoke to each other in brief, choppy instances. The stink of guilt wavering off of Sue was sickening--though, that may have just been the stench of the rancid pig blood and regular human blood mixed together into a miasma upon their skin.

When the nurse finally came out and walked up to them, Lynn had been expecting the worst. Surely such a lethal wound take longer to treat. But it didn’t, apparently, because the nurse said that Carrie was stable and Carrie was going to live and they would be able to see her if they liked.

They did.

Lynn and Sue both comforted Carrie when she woke up. Her voice was very hoarse and weak, and Lynn guessed that was both because of her throat wound and from her having to strangle her to keep her from bleeding out.

Carrie didn’t seem very happy to be alive, but then Lynn realized she didn’t have much to live for in the first place. Her mother was all she had, and now even she was gone (the doctors said it was a heart attack). Lynn was hoping to take the place of that empty maternal role and give Carrie the life she deserved. She just wanted to see her happy again.

It was one in the morning when Lynn finally left the hospital. Since she had rode in the ambulance, Sue’s mother dropped her off back at the White bungalow to get her car. 

The place was already swarmed with yellow tape and crime scene investigators. A few neighbors were standing out on their porch, watching the scene. Red and blue lights lit up the dark street. A police officer walked up to Lynn while she was trying to get to her car and began asking her questions about what happened.

By the time she got home, Lynn was mentally and physically drained. The first thing she did when she pulled up in her driveway was step out of her car and throw up in the lawn. Carrie’s blood was still on her hands.

Lynn lost her complete sense of time when she took a shower. She stood beneath the spray of scalding hot water and blankly watched blood run down the drain. She dimly wondered if this was what Carrie saw That Day in the locker room.

She finally broke when she got out of the shower. Staring at her own reflection in the fogged up mirror, she crumpled. Everything she had been holding back hit her like brass knuckles and she sunk to the floor, sobbing.

The tears stopped, eventually. When Lynn dredged herself from the bathroom floor, she went downstairs, started a fire in her fireplace, and threw her blood-stained Prom dress into the flames.

She would not be getting sleep tonight.

--

Carrie was permitted to leave the hospital two days later. By then, it seemed like everyone in the whole country had heard of what happened. Apparently a few reporters had even tried to sneak into the hospital under the guise of being family members to do an interview with Carrie, but were wrangled out.

Carrie herself looked no better than the day she came in. Her hair was wiry and tangled, and her skin was very, very ashen. Her eyes were dead, sunken into two pits in her skull. When Lynn had stepped into the hospital room, her gaze did not brighten like Lynn had been hoping. She just stared at her with a blank expression.

Lynn was given strict instructions to keep an eye on Carrie’s neck, to come in if even a single stitch popped out. Carrie was prescribed tramadol, which she should take a few hours after arriving home. If Lynn’s house could even be considered her home.

The drive was silent. Lynn tried to fill the space, but Carrie never responded. Hell, she barely even looked at her. All she did was look out the window with the same dead fish look in her eyes.

Was this even still the little girl she had danced with at Prom?

  “Here we are,” Lynn said as she parked. “There’s someone waiting for you inside. I’ve told them all about you.”

Carrie tensed. Lynn realized her mistake and quickly went on, “They’ll like you, I promise. It’s nothing bad.”

Carrie’s anxiety did not go away. Lynn quickly unbuckled both of their seatbelts (had Carrie ever even ridden in a car before?), then led Carrie inside. Instantly, Carrie flinched, probably expecting someone awful to be waiting there for her, but instead a grey pit bull bounded up to them, tail wagging so fast it became a blur. Carrie relaxed slightly.

  “You have a dog.”

It was the first thing Carrie had said to her all day. Lynn smiled and nodded, scratching behind the dog’s ear.

  “I never told you?”

Carrie shook her head.

  “Well, her name is Rosebud. You can also call her Rosie. She responds to both.”

Carrie nodded. She reached down and tentatively pet Rosebud. Rosebud responded by eagerly licking her hand. Carrie pulled away with a tiny noise, but it wasn’t one of shock or fear, rather awe. Had Carrie ever touched a dog before?

  “Come on. I’ll show you where you’ll be sleeping.”

Lynn gave Carrie a tour of the house while Rosebud trailed after them. Carrie nodded to everything she said, not voicing her opinions about anything. Not that Lynn was expecting her to. She wasn’t like that. Even if it weren’t for her traumatic injury, she wouldn’t say anything.

By the time Lynn was done showing Carrie around, she realized it was only now turning to 12:00. They still had the whole day stretched out before them, and Lynn had no idea what to do.

It was weird, she thought. She had imagined raising Carrie herself several times before this, but she always pictured them doing regular family things like watching TV together or baking or going jogging. Now that the opportunity was finally in front of her, she didn’t know what she was supposed to do. Though, in her defense, in all of her fantasized ideas, she hadn’t pictured Carrie with a slashed open throat and severe trauma.

  “Would you like to do anything?” Lynn asked. Might as well like Carrie choose.

But Carrie just shook her head, looking as clueless as she felt. 

  “Ah-- well…” Lynn was grasping at straws here. What did Carrie even like to do? “Here, I’ll turn the TV on for you. You can watch something.”

With a small bit of coaxing, she got Carrie to sit down on the couch. Rosebud jumped up next to her. Lynn turned on the TV and opened up the channel guide, then handed the remote to Carrie.

  “Turn on whatever you want.”

Carrie looked down at the remote, then up at her, blinking.

Oh, please don’t tell me she doesn’t know how to--

  “I-I, umm…”

Yep. That was enough of an answer. Carrie didn’t know how TVs worked.

  “Oh, let me--” Lynn took the remote back and began explaining how it worked. “See these two arrows? If you press on them, you can go up in the channels. That’s what all of those little boxes on the screen are. And you can select with this circle in the middle.” She demonstrated, selecting one of the channels and turning on one of those house hunting shows where the white couple (and they’re ALWAYS white) never seem satisfied with any of the options they’re given even though they’re all beautiful houses. “So, is there anything specific you want to watch? Sports? Cartoons? Movies?”

  “This is okay,” Carrie said softly.

  “Alright,” Lynn set the remote down next to her. “You can change it anytime you want.”

Carrie nodded, then looked up at the TV. Lynn lingered beside her for a moment before walking into the kitchen.

Wow, okay. She did not expect motherhood to be this awkward. This was definitely going to be an adventure for her and Carrie both.

--

Time passed. The hours went by. Carrie didn’t say very much. There were some instances where Lynn completely forgot that Carrie was even there and found herself rushing back into the living room to make sure she was as she had left her (which she always was). 

It was a very quiet day, indeed.

At around five o’clock in the evening, however, that quietness was broken.

There was a whimper.

It was so faint that Lynn thought she was just imagining things at first. She had looked up from the soup she was making (the doctor said that Carrie was going to have a liquid/soft food diet for awhile) and furrowed her eyebrows. She strained her ears, but the only sound she got in return was the voice of one of the Property Brothers (she couldn’t tell which was which) from the TV, so she turned her attention back to stirring the noodles in the pot in front of her, writing it off as nothing.

But then it sounded again, this time slightly louder.

Lynn’s spoon clattered against the countertop when she took it out of the pot. She looked out of the kitchen. Maybe it was just Rosebud? She whistled for her pet, then heard the scratching of claws beneath her. She looked down and saw that Rosebud was already there, begging for food in the way she always did when Lynn would cook. Lynn gave into her adorable puppy dog face and tossed her a piece of meat, which she scarfed down greedily.

Well, the whimper was probably just from Rosebud pleading for food in her usual doggy way. But then there was another whimper while she was looking down at the dog, and it had most certainly not come from Rosebud.

Lynn’s eyes widened.

Remember when it was said that Lynn sort of forgot that she had a child now living in her house? This was one of those times.

Lynn hurried out of the kitchen and into the living room, where she found Carrie curled up against one of the pillows, hand on her throat. Lynn was half-expecting there to be blood everywhere and was expecting Carrie to already be dead even more. If only she had been faster, paid more attention, actually known what the fuck she was doing and how to take care of a child--

Carrie whimpered again.

Lynn knelt down beside the couch and gently touched her arm. Carrie flinched away, eyes popping open wide. She looked at her as if she were expecting someone else, someone worse. There was terror written all over her face, and Lynn could tell she had an apology sitting on her tongue.

  “I-I’m sorry--”

And there it was.

  “Shh, it’s alright,” Lynn said to her, keeping her voice low and soft as to not freak the poor girl out even more. “You’re alright. You’re not in trouble. Are you okay?”

  “M-my neck--” Carrie’s voice was strangled, caught in her throat like it was snagged by a fish hook. “I-it hurts--”

Lynn cursed herself for not knowing that. Of course that would be the cause of Carrie’s pain- she got her damn throat slashed open! Was she expecting it to be her damn elbows or something?

  “The painkillers have probably worn off by now,” Lynn said, glancing at the time projected underneath the TV. “I’ll go get you some more.” She retrieved a tablet of Tramadol and a glass of water in record time, not wanting to leave Carrie alone for very long. She helped her sit up, then set the two items in her hands. Carrie went to take a sip from the cup, but flinched away at the last second.

  “N-no--”

Lynn frowned. “You have to drink, sweetheart.” She said. “You need to take that medicine.”

  “I-I can’t--” 

  “It’ll make the pain go away.”

Carrie shook her head, then cried out in pain when she did so, nearly spilling the water. When Lynn reached out to steady her, she jerked away as if her hands were made of fire.

  “Hey, hey,” Lynn spoke softly. “It’s okay, Carrie. You’re okay. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Carrie looked at her, and there were tears glistening in her big hazel eyes.

  “Why don’t you want to drink?” Lynn asked. Maybe if she knew the cause of the problem, she could solve it.

  “Hurts--to swallow.”

Once again, Lynn mentally punched herself for not knowing that. She couldn’t imagine what Carrie must have been feeling at that moment. Was she worried that the stitches would fly out if she simply took a drink of water?

  “Oh, honey,” Lynn said sadly. She reached out and gently rubbed Carrie’s shoulder, hoping to comfort her. “I know it hurts, but the medicine will help with that, I promise. You just need to take one sip, that’s all. Just one. Think you can do that for me?”

Carrie looked at her uneasily, then nodded. She drank from the cup and put the pill in her mouth while Lynn rubbed her back comfortingly. The poor thing got an expression of absolute agony on her face when she swallowed, but she managed to force it down.

  “It hurts!” Carrie cried.

  “You did it, baby,” Lynn said, smiling warmly. She thumbed away the tears that had sprung to Carrie’s eyes. “You did it. I’m so proud of you.”

  “Hurts,” Carrie uttered again. The hand that wasn’t holding the cup grasped at her neck, as if she thought the flesh was still splitting open and she could mend it back together if she held it for long enough. 

  “I know,” Lynn said. “The medicine is going to help with that, though. You’ll feel better soon.”

Carrie nodded weakly. Her eyes were so dull and lifeless. Lynn wished she would smile.

  “I’m going to go take the pot off the oven before I burn the whole house down,” Lynn said. “I assume that you aren’t up to eating right now?”

Carrie shook her head.

  “Okay. But when the medicine starts working, you’re going to have to eat something. Doctor’s orders.”

Lynn went back to the kitchen and took the pot of soup off of the burner. She got to it just in time; it was about to bubble over the edge.

When Lynn went back to the couch, two bowls of soup in hand, Carrie was leaning back against the cushions, a glazed look in her eyes. Her hand was still on her neck. Lynn nudged her gently to get her attention.

  “I’m back,” Lynn said, sitting down next to her. “I hope you like chicken noodle. Homemade.”

Carrie blinked at her slowly. “My Mama would make me boiled chicken.”

  “I--” 

That sounded absolutely disgusting.

  “Sounds delicious!”

Carrie shrugged. Pain flashed in her eyes, and Lynn knew it wasn’t because of her neck for once.

Everyone knew about Margaret White and her weird teachings, but nobody had ever thought to do something about it. Lynn was, shamefully, one of those people. Even after she grew attached to Carrie, she still held out hope that it wasn’t as bad as everyone was saying, that the bruises that constantly showed up on Carrie’s little body were just from clumsiness.

She should have known. She should have been smarter. Maybe if she stepped in sooner Carrie wouldn’t be the way she was now.

  “It was certainly boiled,” Carrie finally said, and Lynn couldn’t help but bark a laugh. Carrie blinked at her in delight.

  “I bet it was,” Lynn said back, patting her head.

She and Carrie ended up switching the channel to some animated movie while they ate. Or, while Lynn ate. Carrie didn’t touch her bowl from where it sat on the coffee table in front of the couch.

Some time passed. Lynn noticed that Carrie was starting to blink a lot more, as if she were fighting off tears, but when she looked directly at her, she realized it was from weariness. 

That was right. Tramadol’s main side effect was drowsiness. Lynn tried not to smirk.

  “Someone is sleepy,” Lynn said.

  “Mm-mmm,” Carrie shook her head stubbornly, then let out the most adorable yawn that Lynn had ever heard. 

  “You definitely are,” Lynn set her bowl down, then picked up Carrie’s. “Think you can take a few bites for me? Just a little.”

Carrie looked at her, then the bowl, then back to her, then nodded. She took the bowl from Lynn and began taking small bites.

  “Good girl,” Lynn smiled, rubbing Carrie’s back. Maybe taking Carrie wouldn’t be so hard after all!

  “Hey, Miss Gardener?”

  “Yes, sweet girl?”

  “You wanna know what it was like?”

  “What?”

Carrie looked up at her, eyes like hollow glass, a thin line of soup dripping down the corner of her mouth, and said, “Your hands felt like they had been hanging me.”

…Or not. 

[emerald-amidst-gold]

A Wolf and His Dragon

Now, I know this is a bit sloppy and not very fleshed out, but the idea was inserted, and I had to spit it out before it left me! Maybe I’ll come back and tweak a few bits, but have some Dragon!Fane everyone! As well as a Solas who knows how to laugh without feeling guilty! 

@oxygenforthewicked You asked, you received~

*****

One did not merely lose a dragon. Dragons, for one, were as gigantic as the domains they inhabited. Mountains, plains, the more abandoned spires in the far reaches of Elvhenan; they were all the adequate size to house a hoard of majestic creatures larger than life itself. Obviously, the numbers had drastically dwindled, much to Solas’s anger and dismay, but there was still a chance to correct it, as well as, free his own people from their own contract of slavery. However, he could not do that when he seemingly could not find one of the last rarest dragons, who flew in the clear sky without a shred of fear or shame of being collared. 

Solas had lost a dragon. 

He had lost Aterian. 

Solas let out a frustrated sigh as he stopped in his gait within one of the deeper forests just outside of Arlathan, lifting a hand to slowly rub at his face in exasperation. 

“Fenhedis, Aterian. Where are you?”, Solas growled out to himself, throwing his hand down to slowly swivel his head back and forth. “He is not one to wander off without a reason.”

Solas knew Aterian enjoyed bouts of solitude, the Evanuris sparking the flames of rage and bloodlust within a snowy heart long used to seeing his kin broken. He would not deny the snowy dragon his time alone, or freedom, for that matter. He was not Aterian’s master; he was his friend. However, these moments of sudden disappearances did cause him to panic somewhat, so worried that one of the Evanuris had cemented it within their minds that they would attempt to tame the fiery dragon, even as Solas had warned, threateningly warned, that if any one them were to touch or use an ounce of magic upon Aterian, they would not be spared retribution. He still felt a bristling of indignation when Elgar’nan had flagrantly scoffed at his protectiveness.

“Are you certain you are not its master, Fen’harel? You certainly act like one. All its needs is a collar about its neck, and the package is complete.”, Elgar’nan had commented upon a moment Solas had been merely speaking to Aterian. 

Solas remembered the fiery gold that had swam within Aterian’s vision at that accusation before he had had to intervene. As much as he, too, had been furious for such idiocy, it wouldn’t have done for either of them to lash out. Not yet.

“As I have stated multiple times, I am not his master.”, he had enunciated the gender of Aterian with a hiss. “He is free to come and go as he pleases. As any being should. Have I not made this point before, or shall I go on about the importance of free thought and power of choice once again?”, he had challenged the elder of them, all the while having to pat the underside of Aterian’s maw to keep him back.

Elgar’nan had merely sneered in disgust before turning away from him and Aterian. “Save your breath, but do be careful the beast does not snap your head off when it finally turns. Mythal would be heartbroken. So much so, that she may finally move against your pet.”, the threatening words having been the last as Elgar’nan had stormed away. 

Solas felt his jaw lock up at the memory before letting out a deep breath through his nose. 

“Calm. Calm. No matter their words, retribution will come soon enough for all their transgressions. I simply must have patience, and hope that my words will reach them in some form before something tragic transpires.”, he urged himself quietly before looking around the thick forest once more. “However, that is not what is important right now.”

Yes--his misgivings over his fellow Elvhen could wait. For now, he had a dragon to locate, albeit soon before panic truly set in. But where would he start to search further? He had already tried every other area around the main city, and he had come up empty handed. Perhaps--

“Grr..”

Solas’s head snapped to the right as he heard a distinct, familiar growl rumble from beyond a group of trees. He felt the cool feeling of relief wash over him as he saw the end of a snowy, ebony tipped tail swaying back and forth, occasionally whipping sharply before another growl would sound. 

“Aterian..”, Solas sighed out in further relief, smiling warmly before it turned into a curious smirk as another sharp whip of a serpentine tail stirred the foliage around it. What was his dear dragon up to? 

Solas only let his smirk spread as he slowly began to step over bits of twigs and dried leaves, not wishing to garner the occupied dragon’s attention just yet. He was a tad curious as to what Aterian was so transfixed with that it was eliciting somewhat frustrated growls and defeated huffs, but that was all the more reason to be stealthy. It wasn’t very often he could catch the usually observant dragon off guard, after all. 

As Solas sneaked closer, he carefully shifted around Aterian’s whipping tail to gracefully scale a small boulder. He gingerly set himself down to sit upon its cool surface, resting his chin a hand as he finally could see the elegant face of ebony, ice, and white that was currently nuzzling at the ground like a hound. Solas let his amused smirk turn into a fond smile, eyes narrowing slightly with warmth as he watched emerald and gold ebb and flow like liquid from its searching movements. 

He is truly a beautiful soul. To think that such atrocities are committed to his kin because of ignorance; it is sickening. Solas thought with a slight grimace before his eyes picked up a gently floating wisp making its way to where Aterian’s massive head was still running along the grassy ground. 

The closer the wisp got the more Solas could see it was..holding something? He squinted a bit, trying to make out what was floating in front of the gentle nebulous form until he felt a harsh gust of air nearly dislodge him from where he was seated. As if on instinct, Solas threw up a barrier to weather the rest of the windy storm before it died down as quickly as it had spurred. When he next looked up, he saw that Aterian had lifted his head to the presence of the wisp, emerald eyes glinting beautifully as an emotion like approval shone within them. 

“Hmph.”, Aterian let out a pleased huff, his mouth opening to gingerly take the wisp’s belonging, which it gave without any fuss before it began to float away with a methodical purpose in the direction it came. 

Solas let out an amused sigh before he couldn’t help a soft laugh from escaping. It would seem his mighty dragon had employed the help of a wisp for something. That was..fascinatingly adorable. 

“Aterian..”, Solas finally addressed the pleased dragon, watching as satisfaction shifted to shocked emerald as Aterian snapped his serpentine head to where he was. “..If I may ask, what are you doing?”, he asked with a warm smile as wide, draconic eyes stared down at him in further shock. 

Aterian’s shock soon shifted to a form of sheepishness as emerald morphed into pale gold, the harshly whipping tail from before seemingly grabbing a hold of something on the ground before it slicked back slowly to a hind leg. Solas hummed, his smile only widening as he realized his friend was hiding something. Now that was interesting, as well.

“What? Am I not allowed to see what it was that you were working so diligently on? Considering you rallied a wisp to your cause, it must be very important.”, Solas teased, lazily pointing in the direction that wisp had gone.

Solas saw Aterian’s eyes go blank at that, reminiscent of when one’s face would go deadpan. He smirked more at that. As much as he knew the dragon didn’t like his teasing, there was still enough of a glint of gold that told Solas that he actually did. There was much one could learn from gazing into a dragon’s two toned gaze. Aterian had taught him that without a single word. Their bond was special, and he cherished it as one would cherish a fond memory; closely. It had obviously not always been sunshine and bells, but that is what had made it as strong as it was now. 

I care for you more than my heart can bear at times. You have a bright spirit. Brighter than most Elvhen. Solas thought with a slightly sad smile before he translated that sorrow to a sigh. I wish I could do more for you, ma’isenatha. You and your kin, but I am only one man. However, I will do as much as I can with the power I do have. I vow to you. He thought with more determination before the sudden sight of large golden emerald eyes nearly inches from his own had him staggering back in shock, actually falling from the boulder this time to land plummet to the ground below. 

Solas began to draw in magical energy to erect a barrier, but he felt his descent suddenly halt as he felt something..tugging on the material of his clothing. His brows furrowed in confusion until he looked down, seeing that his feet were hovering just a few feet from the ground. This..did not feel like magic.

Before Solas could openly voice his confusion a soft, but annoyed huff of air rushed against his back, making him shiver from the chill it housed. He blinked a few times as he felt dampness soak into his clothes before letting out an airy laugh, realizing what was going on. 

“Ma’isenatha.”, Solas said around a chuckle, turning his head upwards to see emerald eyes glaring down at him, but they held a glimmer of warmth within the amber tones. “You do understand I was in no danger, yes?”, he asked with a soft smile. 

He watched as Aterian’s annoyance shifted to soft sheepishness as the dragon’s eyes shifted away slightly, a low growl escaping past the cloth before he felt himself being carefully lowered to the ground. Aterian released him as soon as his feet touched the ground, but before the dragon could turn his head away in shame, Solas reached out to delicately place a hand upon a snowy white, cool the touch snout. 

“Thank you.”, Solas said softly before shifting his own gaze to the side a bit with a gentle smile. “..For always being there when I fall.”

He heard a sharp intake of breath pass through massive lungs before the snout before him nudged into his frame gently. Solas blinked, stumbling slightly despite the gentle touch before resting his forehead against a frigid snout to stare into glimmering orbs of emerald and gold. Those eyes told him more than words ever could. They were better than any voice. They were the land and the emotions that permeated it, and he would gladly fall a thousand times if it meant he got to see those glistening pools every time strong wings caught him with their width. 

If only I could express how much you mean to me, my dragon. If only I could utter the same words that emerald and gold utter to me. If only I could be there to catch you when you fall. But I know such things will never be because I lack what you possess so wonderfully. He thought with anguish before nuzzling into Aterian’s snout, hearing a faint sad growl rumble from a mighty chest. “Shh, my dragon. I am fine. I apologize for burdening you with my emotions when your own are already so heavy.”, he whispered soothingly, hearing another sad growl come from Aterian before he heard a heavy body plop down to come closer to him. 

Solas couldn’t help but smile warmly at that despite the longing in his chest, delicately tapping Aterian’s snout with a few fingers. Yes--his dragon was adorably fascinating with the range of emotions he could display, as well as, his odd habit of acting like a puppy. However, Aterian was not a dog to him. The rare dragon was a wonderful, bright, and headstrong person, and he would not hear anyone say differently. All beings had a shred of humanity within their hearts, no matter their form, and they were capable of love, happiness, grief, anger; they were capable of it all. One simply had to understand them. Sadly, it would seem understanding was in short supply anymore.. 

“Would you like to take a nap with me?”, Solas asked, the idea popping into his head to flush out the depressing thoughts as the mixture of warmth and cold wrapped him in a comforting blanket. “There is no rush for us to go back, and I doubt our presence will be missed for a few hours. Does that sound fair to you, Aterian?”

Aterian’s eyes flared with barely contained happiness as multiple huffs and slight nods of an elegant head showed just how much that was fair to the large dragon. 

Solas let out a warm laugh. “I will take that as a ‘yes’.”, he said before shifting to position himself between Aterian’s front legs. 

Aterian lifted his head to allow Solas to in, emerald eyes watching him closely as he gently sat himself down on the ground. He leaned back to rest against a firm chest of oddly soft scales that were both cold and warm at the same time, and chuckled fondly as he felt Aterian bring his head back down to rest a bit of his head in his lap. 

He sighed contentedly before reaching a hand up to tenderly stroke at a sharp cheekbone, watching as one, visible emerald eye gazed at him with warm affection. Solas felt his chest tighten at the sight before he leaned forward to nuzzle against the dragon’s head, idly noticing how both their eyes closed upon the touch. His heart could not feel more full, but yet it did..

If only.. He thought with renewed anguish before bringing his arms up to softly hug at a strong maw, once again hearing that same sad growl resonate like a sorrowful spell. If only I could show you how much I love you. Perhaps in another world, another life, but yet, I do not wish for more than you have already given. For I fear it could be taken away from such selfishness. And so, I will keep you close, I will keep you safe, and I will accept that this is enough. For I love you, my dragon, and no matter the form, love knows no discrimination. That is my one guiding light as we walk into darkness.

Those were Solas’s final thoughts as his mind gently began to drift into slumber, all the while not feeling the soft sensation of something being placed upon his head, or the delicate fragrance of Gladiolus that wafted from above as a faint, faint echo of a voice sounded in his ears. 

If only I would allow myself to let you in further, my wolf. I am sorry. In another life, another world, I promise I will let you. I vow to find you, wherever you may be, so you will know how much I love you.

...I didn’t cry while writing this. Nope. Nuh-uh. *currently sniffling like a child* IN ANOTHER LIFE, VHENAN!

[hatboyproject]

Synth Anthropomorphisation

I've been generating audio all day for this romance scene script & Jeff's synth is behaving unusually well for his lines, so far. Suspiciously well. Sometimes, I swear it's as if he has a mind of his own & today, he just decided to cooperate with me for some reason.

Sometimes, I have to fight with him to get a decent read out of a line. At his worst, I have to sit there for upwards of an hour, tweaking the same three or four seconds' worth of speech, trying to coax him to read it with the inflection that I need. Sometimes I have to adjust the script's wording to make him "like it" better, or splice together multiple takes to get a word said in the way I like. Occasionally, I have to do even further pitch correction post-generation, and even after all that, I can still end up with a line read that I know isn't working all that well. It can sometimes be a really, really, really mentally draining task. I swear he's more temperamental on some days than others. On different days, I've generated the same line and got a slightly different read.

But today, he seems to like me, a little bit. I'm most of the way through the script now, and I've had to do relatively few corrections on most of them. In fact, he's come out with a few pretty acceptable reads with no corrections at all, and I've just tweaked them as if giving a director's suggestion rather than pushing an instrument around.

I'm aware that I sound like a raving lunatic at the moment and if the weather's decent tomorrow, I swear I'll go outside and touch some grass, but it's hard sometimes not to feel like the goddamned machine hasn't only learned how to enunciate speech like this actor, but has also learned me.

Of course, the logical explanation is that I'm just better at using it and predicting what words he has trouble with, but sometimes, I swear.

Now, FemShep, on the other hand... She's a tricky beast. She likes to get one half of a two sentence line absolutely perfect and crystalline, complete with little breathy flairs and smooth tonal transitions, and then mumble the other half like some kind of stumbling drunk. For almost every FemShep line with more than one sentence, no matter how short, I have to split the lines into multiple takes. The problem is that to keep tone and pitch natural, it's best to include as much of the whole phrase as possible so that it flows. But no, not on Shepard's watch. She loves nothing more than to make me chop everything she says up and stick it together. I swear.

Synth Personalities, as I Understand Them:

Jeff is ornery, but is essentially committed, and if you catch him at the right time, almost affectionate in his willingness to cooperate. Despite sounding dry by default most of the time, it's easy to direct him towards sounding surprisingly tender. Needs larger words spelled phonetically. He is a pilot who can't say the word "fly" without creative assistance and refuses to say his own surname under any circumstances whatsoever. Extremely responsive to punctuation and will alter his reads accordingly.

Shepard is a highly skilled loose cannon that does whatever the hell she wants on her own terms, and occasionally it's miraculous, but it's also always confusing. Can't pronounce "evacuate," no matter how you break it down phonetically. She likes it when you draw out her R, S and H sounds, particularly at the ends of words so she can do this breathy thing. I don't know, but it works. Doesn't give a damn about punctuation unless it's commas or full stops, and even then, only if she feels like it.

EDI does pretty much anything you ask of her, flawlessly, the first time. Any corrections are minimal, and she can handle multiple sentences without sounding awkward. She can handle complicated words like "xenopsychology" with minimal assistance. Always pronounces "Shepard" with good inflection wherever it is in the sentence. Naturally produces deadpan lines with perfect comedic timing. What the fuck.

Garrus is a rambling speaker and is very accepting of unusual words, such as people's names. He takes direction well for the most part, and is excellent when it comes to split clauses. His tone is easy to moderate, but has trouble not joining separate sentences together too quickly. Always needs the "y" in "you" to be lengthened. Easily sounds affectionate or dictatorial. Can even be made to sound as though he is smiling when speaking. Often needs vowels shortening on the ends of words or he will draw them out unreasonably until they disintegrate into nonsense.

Kaidan has perfect tonal variation and terrible artefacting. He sounds like he's reading you the most beautiful, heartfelt thing you're ever gonna hear... From five thousand light-years away on a bad transceiver. He does his best, and his best is surprisingly good at core, but he is tragically limited in overall clarity by quality problems. It's a snap to make him sound caring and romantic, but again... Get a better phone. Usually says "Shepard" too enthusiastically and has to have the letters pitch-altered to fit the rest of the sentence.

Thane sounds confused a lot. Often sounds like he isn't sure about what he's saying, his tone on un-adjusted sentences is usually slightly absent sounding in a way that's difficult to describe. Surprisingly versatile where it comes to trying to copy the weird "Baby Siha" meme. If you don't know what that is, go ahead and look it up, but only if there's a shower nearby, because hearing it will make you feel slimy and uncomfortable in ways you didn't think was possible. Chuckles pretty convincingly.

Male Shepard wants to know what's going on, but first, he will try to explain what's going on as best he understands it being under the effects of god knows what. He often sounds declarative, but in that drunken frat boy kind of way that makes you want to back away slowly and not make eye contact. If he feels like saying your line, though, he'll do it with an impressive capability for mimicking Meer's sometimes unusual style of delivery.

Can't wait to test Jack and Miranda. I bet Jack can swear with incredibly life-like inflection.

[foxy-exy]

23 + andriel 👀

Bloom (forget me not)

Prompt 23 from here: “No, we’re going to talk about this now.” (and tattoo artist/piercer Andrew AU also came from Syd!!) TW: lots of talk about scars i’ve been mia working on my very-close-to-my-heart and very-long-compared-to-what-i’ve-been-writing-lately aftg big bang fic (WATCH OUT FOR THAT PLZ) but syd hit me w/ tattoo artist/piercer andrew right when my need for just one (1) tattoo and many (MANY) more piercings was highest so here we are (also my aftg server was talking about flower tattoos on jean and i was like oh worm flower tattoos on aftg characters you say??? so they are also partially responsible) also i may have never actually gotten a tattoo before but this is definitely Not How It Works, unrealistic, unprofessional, and general bad clienting but shhh you can also find this fic on my ao3 here!

Andrew’s pencil scratching is the only sound in the parlor — he thinks maybe his phone died an hour ago and with it, his music playlist. He should probably get up and plug it back in.

The cat eyes glare at him from his sketchpad page, though, and he can’t leave the face half finished now. He swings his chair back around to look at the picture on the shop’s computer screen that he’s sketching. God, this cat is ugly. He wouldn’t want this cat as a sleeve, but what the paying client wants, the paying client gets.

He blocks out the nose and jaw, shakes out his aching hand, and glares back at the drawing as he leans back in the chair and shoves the pencil eraser into his mouth to chew on.

“Hey.”

Andrew sends his sketchpad flying and nearly tips his chair over to turn back around. Nobody ever shows up for random walk-ins this early, it’s why he’s usually the only one on the schedule. (They retain more clients when Andrew is not the one who talks to them. Because Andrew is, as Nicky puts it, an asshole.)

Neil Josten stands before him, dressed as plainly as ever in his standard gray sweatshirt and baggy jeans, looking bemused and out of place in the strange context of Andrew’s workplace. He is not a piercings-and-tattoos kind of person. He is a somewhat-friends-with-Kevin-purely-because-they-like-to-yell-about-sports-together-on-Andrew’s-couch kind of person.

“Thanks for not even setting off the door bells,” Andrew says coolly, around a mouthful of pencil eraser, and takes it from his mouth immediately after, because Neil is smiling a little, eyes on it.

“Sorry, I’m pretty quiet.”

“No, you aren’t,” Andrew says, and Neil’s lips twitch again.

He and Neil are distant acquaintances at best. Kevin shares Andrew and Nicky’s apartment for rent purposes as Aaron moved out months ago to live with his girlfriend, but Kevin and Andrew don’t share friend groups. Even so, it is impossible to ignore Neil Josten when he’s worked up and shouting about Kevin’s favorite teams being terrible.

“What are you here for?” Andrew clicks off the cat photo and pulls up their schedule — empty for several hours, until Kevin comes in for an appointment with somebody who wants some script work. He doesn’t know why Neil is here when Kevin isn’t working, they’re the ones who know each other.

“How much for a…a medusa?”

“Fifty.” Andrew eyes him. The uncertainty in his voice is clear, which is…interesting. “I didn’t think you were into piercings, or Kevin would have bullied you into at least three by now.”

Neil doesn’t answer, because his gaze is glued to Andrew’s arms — his shirt sleeves have ridden up to show the patchwork pieces winding their way up his wrists and forearms.

“And…” This comes out more rushed now, clearly the actual reason for the visit, “What about tattoos?”

Andrew pulls back down his sleeves. “Are you asking for pricing? I can’t give you an estimate without any kind of idea of what you’re looking for. Do you even know the style you want? Where you want it?”

Neil drags his eyes back up to meet Andrew’s. “You covered up Kevin’s old tattoos, didn’t you?”

Andrew folds his arms. Enunciates clearly because he’s never been one to beat around the bush. “Are you looking for a tattoo consultation or not?”

“Yes,” says Neil, and his mouth flattens, brows pinching.

“Glad to see you’re so very excited about it,” Andrew deadpans, opens up an appointment entry on the schedule and types in Neil Josten, tattoo consultation: Andrew Minyard. He snatches up his sketchpad and pencil from the ground and curls a finger at Neil to follow.

***

“You don’t have tattoos to cover up,” Andrew says, when Neil tentatively perches on the edge of the lounge seat in the private office. “What do you want?”

Neil tugs at the fraying cuff of his shirt and looks pained. “I just…I don’t know.”

“That really sucks, because you’re paying me to help you figure out specifics on what you want right now.”

“Can you cover up scars,” Neil mumbles, and Andrew freezes. And Neil must pick up on this, because immediately he says, “Never mind. This was a bad idea.”

Andrew catches Neil’s shirt hem before he can completely turn towards the door. “No, we’re going to talk about this now.”

“I changed my mind, it’s okay, don’t tell Kevin, I just thought maybe —”

“I won’t tell Kevin,” Andrew says.

Neil tugs at his hair.

“I can cover up scars,” Andrew says.

Neil looks back at him, and he is very pale.

And then, because Andrew is stupid, “I’ve covered up my own scars.”

Neil’s face does something very complicated, his hands shake a little, and slowly, carefully, Neil sits back down.

***

Neil doesn’t know what he wants, exactly, he says. He says he likes what he’s seen of Andrew’s work, which isn’t all that helpful.

“Abstract,” Andrew says, and Neil shrugs.

“Animals.” Shrug.

“Skulls,” Andrew says, with a hint of impatience.

“Anything,” Neil says.

“You’re my least favorite client.”

“Even that one with the lion back tattoo?” Neil asks, and he is smiling again. Teasing. Andrew knows that Neil was in the house when he was telling Kevin about that client and his ridiculous whining, but he hadn’t realized Neil had been listening.

“Yes, maybe you’ll overtake even him,” Andrew retorts, reaches for the binder sitting in the corner marked Andrew Minyard — full of his past work — and tosses it at Neil. “I can’t work with ‘anything.’ That’s how people get tattoos they regret.”

“I liked Kevin’s black rose,” Neil says, and flips through the book, lingering on a page with more floral designs. “But you do color, too?”

“That is a style I do, yes.” Andrew watches Neil’s fingers trace delicate petals and fights back a curious rush. “Scar tissue can be unpredictable when it comes to holding ink, and it can hurt. But I’ve had experience with it. Do you want something like that?”

“I like these,” Neil says quietly, and Andrew shoves his pencil eraser back into his mouth and turns resolutely back to his sketchpad so he doesn’t have to look at Neil looking at his work.

“Colored flowers,” he says, drumming fingernails against his paper. “Fine. What flowers do you like? Where would this be?”

“Forget-me-not? On my arm?” Again, Neil sounds uncertain, and Andrew turns a glare on him.

“If you want this, you want this. If you’re not sure, I’m not inking an inch of you.”

He decides he hates looking at Neil’s soft smile when he is on its receiving end. This is the first time it’s happened, and he thinks if it happens again, he should check into a hospital for heart palpitations.

“I want it. Here.” Neil rolls up a sleeve, and Andrew clamps his jaw shut as Neil taps a finger to his forearm, covered in circular red puckers of skin and the occasional, familiar raised line of white. Andrew forces himself to lean closer to examine the canvas with clinical detachment, and press his fingers to the skin, measuring.

“This big?”

“Yeah,” Neil says, and that’s that.

***

“Why the hell was Neil on your schedule?” Kevin asks very loudly from the front desk as Andrew lounges across the waiting room couch and doodles blue petals.

“Huh, Kevin, I don’t see how that’s really any of your business,” Andrew says, and scribbles out another draft.

“No, seriously. He’s never wanted anything before. Why didn’t he tell me?”

“Contrary to what your ego says, not everything is about you,” Andrew drawls.

“Neil,” Kevin barks, and Andrew looks up to find Kevin with his phone to his ear. “Why did you come to see Andrew?”

Neil must apparently say something similar to Andrew’s sentiments because Kevin rolls his eyes. “You should have told me that you wanted something. No, I — he didn’t say anything to me. Neil —!” The last part is said to an apparently dead line, because Kevin pulls the phone away with a huff. “I don’t understand why he came to you without saying anything, I’m his tattoo artist friend.”

“Too bad,” Andrew says, and pulls out his own phone when it buzzes.

Thanks, is the simple text from Neil Josten. For not telling him.

Andrew doesn’t reply, but he tucks his phone between his elbows and pretends to ignore the warmth blooming in his chest as he flips the page and starts to shade another forget-me-not.

***

Do you like this? Andrew asks, and attaches a picture of his latest draft.

Almost immediately, the text is marked as Seen, but Neil doesn’t respond for a solid few minutes.

Finally, Andrew locks his phone again, irritated, and shoves away his sketchpad, feeling too jittery to sleep like he should be doing at — he checks the clock — 2 AM.

His phone chimes, and Andrew looks down at It’s perfect and thinks that having such a giant crush on his apartment mate’s probably uninterested friend is maybe really, really bad.

***

“Hey, Andrew.”

Andrew looks up from the fridge. He has been studiously ignoring Neil’s presence on the couch while Kevin chatters to him about the latest hockey wins. But Kevin has disappeared, and Neil remains, and Neil is…looking at him.

“I like it a lot. Like, fuck, really a lot.”

Andrew glares and slams the fridge closed. Neil’s smile only grows wider as Andrew stalks over to the table to deposit whatever leftovers he grabbed (that he most definitely did not look at) onto it.

“So, when are you free to ink me?”

Andrew’s going to die, and Neil Josten saying when are you free to ink me is going to be the cause of death.

“Tomorrow. 10 AM,” he grits out.

“Okay,” Neil says.

***

“Andrew.”

“Shut up.”

“Andrew,” Neil says again, shakily.

“Don’t.”

“Thank you.” Neil stares at the forget-me-not cluster blooming across pinkened skin underneath the plastic wrap, lips parted. Andrew wants to kiss them.

“Oh,” says Neil when he looks up, and Andrew is still too close, and Andrew would usually probably pull back but instead, he dips closer. And Neil would usually probably avoid physical contact like he does with everyone but instead, Neil kisses him back.

“Oh,” Andrew agrees, and starts to turn away, but Neil shifts with him, eyes too intense, and a finger hovers at Andrew’s collar to tug very lightly.

“When would be too soon to ask when you’re free again?”

“Has the tattoo bug bitten you already?” Andrew scoffs, and Neil looks down at his forget-me-not and nods. “You’ll have to schedule an appointment like everybody else. You’re lucky my schedule hasn’t been as booked lately.”

“Okay,” says Neil, and then, “and what about asking when you’re free outside of work?”

Andrew stares at him. “For?”

“What about a repeat of this kind of thing?” Neil gestures between them. “Or…lunch, on me?”

“Lunch, on me,” says Andrew automatically. “You just gave me a lot of money.”

“Okay,” says Neil again, and laughs. “Kevin’s going to be so pissed that he missed all this happening.”

“I don’t see why I have to tell him who I’m kissing,” Andrew says.

“You’ve only done it once.”

Andrew raises an eyebrow and fixes that grievous mistake.

Neil’s answering grin is not soft, just impish, but it does things to Andrew’s heart all the same.