#lime: .... (scratches nose) beats me.............

[musubiki]

somtimes i think about clarinette potentially being the m34ths mechanical person/engineer/inventor/tinkerer kind of person. she can fix their weapons when they break down and is the person who helps with inventing new tech

her recent project is mecha dogs that can sniff out traces of magic. when she first shows lime shes like "these are my baby boys!! they can sniff out witches!!" and when she tries to get them to demonstrate, they walk around a bit and then walk up to LIME and point to him.

he gives her a blank look and goes "Wow nice job, so good. You got me." and she spends weeks and months trying to figure out whats wrong with them

(nothings wrong with them, lime was cuddling with mochi all night so her warmth is all over him. they were spot on)

[roosterbruiser]

𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐞 ☾ ☽ 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 

☾☽ 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 "𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫" 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰 𝐱 𝐅𝐚𝐲𝐞 "𝐂𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫" 𝐋𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫

☾☽ 𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: It’s been almost three years since the accident that took half of her, and Faye “Clover” Ledger seems fine, really. She loves her old house, she has a perpetually expanding vinyl collection, she’s got a job she likes on base, and she is only a short drive from the beach. She’s grounded--literally. Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw feels like he’s been homesick his entire life. He’s always on the move;  jumping from one squadron to another, living one mission to the next. Somewhere in between losing both his parents and carving a successful career as a Naval aviator, he’s never found himself a home. When a call to serve on a high-priority mission with an elite squadron brings Rooster back to Miramar, he finds that home. Except it’s not a house that he finds--it’s the former backseater that observes and records the mission for the Official Navy Record. 

☾☽ 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

☾☽ 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

☾☽ 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 𝐎𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟖𝐭𝐡, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟔

My hands are very, very cold.

It is a frigid October afternoon, the kind that warrants moth-ball scented linens and mulled wine. It’s a deceiving kind of cold, too, because the sky is perfect. If someone looked through a window from the inside of their house, maybe they would think it’s the middle of summer or late spring.

The canopy of the jet is closed tight, sealed impeccably, and my suit is thick. It smells of lye soap and skin. There’s perspiration gathering on my brow underneath my helmet and in the pit of my arms, but my hands are still cold.

My hands are cold every time I get nervous, even if I wear wool mittens, even if I wear our father’s thick leather gloves I’d taken before my first winter in Philly.

“How’re your hands? Cold yet?” Crimson asked on the tarmac, after we finished out walk-around.

Her helmet was tucked beneath her arm, resting on her hip, and our jet was looming behind her. It’s the only time my sister looked small to me.

The sun beat down above us, casting a shadow on the lower part of her face; her docile chin, her China-doll lips, the dimple in her left cheek, the blonde freckles over her nose. She reached out and took my left hand, then dropped it like it burned her. She shook her hand, contorting her face into a look of disbelief.

“Phew, Clover, cold as ice!”

Crimson was rarely nervous, and if she was, it never touched any part of her body. We were the same in the sense that we could command stillness in our limbs and slow our hearts with precise, measured breaths. But my hands got cold and hers never did.

Our F-18 was fragged. She watched them load mounds of ammo to our jet--API, HEI, SAPHEI--unblinking, unmoving.

“You’ll be fine,” she said after a moment, bumping me. I stood sturdy on the tarmac, my lime-colored helmet at my feet.

“I know,” I said, looking up at her.

The sun felt good on my cheeks.

She bit a grin and nodded.

“Couldn’t be a me without a you,” she said.

I zipped her khaki flight suit up so it covered her chest and shoulders. Her skin was warm to the touch, like the surface of a cooling kettle. I flattened out her shoulders and straightened her collar.

“Yeah,” I said, “and there couldn’t be a me without a you.”

Up here, approaching what feels like the top of the world, the sky is the kind of blue that seems endless and soft--like it’s made out of tufts of cotton and seamless flower petals.

We are flying somewhere over Europe, early in the afternoon.

“Approaching angels forty-six,” I say into my mask, “Maneater, you got us?”

When I speak, the scent of my smoothie thickens the air of my mask. It still smells sweet--that sick kind of sweet, the kind that would still taste sweet coming back up as bile.

“Roger, Maneater visual.”

The back of Crimson’s helmet is scuffed and scratched. Some of the scratches are so deep that patches of the baby pink color are flaking off, revealing the eggshell slate beneath it. There is a bright blue peace sign on the back of her helmet, and parts of it are chipping away, too. At the base of her neck, half a dusty blonde bun pokes out. I had twisted it into its place there earlier, after I twisted an identical bun at the base of my own neck.

“Banshee two engaging,” Crimson says, her voice crackling over the comm.

All I can hear besides the crackling comm is the sound of my own breathing. When I first came up in the air, it surprised me that I couldn’t hear the wind rushing past me. I feel it press down on my chest and hug me to my seat, but it never whispers to me.

The thinness of the air this high up is something I cherish--the moment I strain to breathe for the first time, when the cool stream of oxygen bursts through the mask and into my mouth, my nose. I like the feeling of the floor dropping out from under me, when I want to scramble around and find purchase on something to hold me in.

Our F-18 noses to the Northeast, tailing Banshee one, which is Maneater. I crane my neck--Banshee three is engaging, too. Jagger’s bright red helmet is like a blemish in the robin’s-egg sky.

“Banshee three engaged,” Jagger says, “sorry to break up the hen party.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Maneater snarks, “you didn’t.”

I know Crimson is smiling, even if I can’t see her face.

We are flying over a rocky terrain that is broken up by sprawling evergreen trees. There is already snow on the ground, the rocks jutting out from the white powder like jagged teeth. It looks very quiet--so soft, like the snow is just a dusting of powder.

“Radar?” Crimson asks.

The blinking screen is empty.

“Picture clean. Nose hot.”

“Roger. Banshee one engaging firewall.”

Maneater’s jets forward, her throttle maxed.

“Banshee two engaging firewall. Ready, kiddo?”

I reach forward to give Crimson a thumbs up. She nods without looking behind her and I hold tightly to my leather seat. The oxygen is racing inside me, like I’m gulping it down.

I’m forced against my seat like someone is holding me there. I strain to hear the wind whistle, but I don’t. One, two, three, four, five. I count the beats of my heart steadily, blinking rapidly as we approach Maneater’s tail. Crimson’s helmet is pressed against her headrest, too. The sky is so completely monochrome that it looks like we’re flying parallel to an endless screen.

“Banshee three engaging firewall,” Jagger follows closely.

For a moment, all I can hear is the jet slicing through the atmosphere, my own breathing, the oxygen hissing into my mouth. My saliva feels thick. I will my heartbeat to steady and mirror Crimson’s, which I know is cool and collected. I could be Crimson’s heart monitor--no actual connected wires required. It feels like there is a left side of myself and a right side of myself--or maybe a top version of myself and a bottom version of myself--and one part of it is always Crimson. I even know what she thinks.

The radar is still empty, blinking precisely nothing. We are approaching the target rapidly, slyly--a Russian submarine somewhere off the coast of Poland, which has been disregarding every warning to evacuate the area they have not been granted access to.

The Atlantic Ocean glimmers ahead of us, deep blue ahead of our fleet, expanding just as vastly as the perpetual sky we are inside of. The water looks deep, and very dark, almost black.

“Regretting that panini yet, Crimson?”

Crimson laughs over comm, shaking her head.

“Of course not,” Crimson answers, “dreaming about it, in fact.”

“Five ‘til target,” Jagger says, then adds, “aioli or pesto?”

“Roger. Pesto on French,” Crimson laughs.

Each time Crimson laughs, I wonder if my laugh is as melodic and infectious. Even over the crackled radio, Crimson’s laugh sounds like music, or the start of music. My sister’s laugh sounds like the split moment of amplified silence when one puts the needle on a record, when the machine seems to think. Maybe Crimson’s laugh even sounds like the first moments of the music, notes dancing from the record over a crackled speaker.

“Comanche 117,” a new voice crackles over comm, a familiar plain-toned one, “Banshees approaching target. Picture clean.”

“Roger. Banshee permission to standby?”

“Comanche 117, permission granted. Banshee continue.”

With that, each of our jets' nose's angle towards the earth below us as they descend, the terrain thinning expeditiously from snow to sand to ocean. I glance over my shoulder and the swirling waves stare back at me. I swallow hard, facing my sister again. The radar is still clean.

“Two until target. Picture clean,” I say, my voice unwavering.

My palms are sweating, but still cold. Clammy.

“Banshees, assume attack formation,” Maneater says, her voice clear and amplified.

Each maneuver of the stick feels like it's been practiced over and over again by Crimson. She flies fast and smooth, never getting ahead of team leader, never falling past the Banshee behind her. She thinks fast and acts faster. She doesn’t worry about catching her breath until she’s on the ground.

We are only a few hundred feet above the ocean now and the waves are so ominous and dark that I imagine them raising high enough to skim the bottom of our jets, knocking us out of the sky before swallowing us whole.

“Comanche 117. Banshees’ signal is buster to target.”

I fill my lungs, the skin at the base of my neck prickling. The air around me is muggy and nippy at the same time. Radar is still clean.

“Roger. One until target.”

We’ve practiced this assignment a many, dogfighting with Cyclone and Warlock, even though the mission itself is supposed to be routine. Maritime strikes are happening more often than not now. And all of us, even Jagger, have flown fragged jets at least a handful of times.

I feel that I’m on auto-pilot and Crimson does, too. If I close my eyes for the rest of the flight, my fingers would still know how to flip the right switches, my eyes would still know when to glance at the radar, and my heart would still know how to slow its own pace.

We are approaching what feels like the middle of the ocean, radars clear, holding our breaths. The land behind us grows smaller and smaller as we approach the target.

“C and C 293 visual?” Maneaster asks.

“Affirmative, C and C 293 visual,” I say.

“Jagger 692 visual?” Crimson asks.

“Roger. Jagger 692 visual.”

“Approaching target. Missile locked. Comanche 117, Banshee permission to fire away?”

“Comanche 117, your signal is bombs away.”

“Here we go,” Crimson whispers.

I look at the radar once more. Clear. Clear as the sky is blue.

“Bombs away,” Maneater repeats.

Red and yellow flames burst from Maneater’s jet, the heavy missile freefalling towards the ocean with a determined nose pointed downward. I turn and check the air around us, just in case the our nose is unknowingly cold. Jagger is trailing closely behind us. He sallutes me. I return it, then swivel back around.

“Clover, engage missile lock,” Crimson says.

It is easy to take orders from her, the older version of myself, even if it’s only by ten measly minutes.

“Roger,” I say, thumbing the heavy metal stick until the small screen squares in on the water and makes tone, “missile lock engaged. Bombs away, bombs away.”

It feels like the bottom of our plane is falling out, but it is a familiar feeling that makes the pit in my belly grows and grow until it feels like my abdomen is full of thick, dark nothing.

“Banshee three, engage missile lock,” Maneater commands.

With my helmet against the glass canopy, I watch Jagger’s missile nosedive right after ours in a plume of black smoke. I swallow hard--glance at the radar. Still nothing.

“Banshee three engaged missile lock. Bombs away.”

“Comanche 117, Banshees signal RTB. Picture clean. Approach angels 30.”

Maneater cuts through the air like it’s softened butter, jet pointing towards the heavens. Maneater is panting behind her mask, which is what she does each time we drop a missile, even during the drills. She’s like Crimson, though--she isn’t stifled by danger.

Crimson pulls the stick back, probably not even having broken a sweat, and our jet mirrors Maneater’s. I turn over my shoulder and watch Jagger follow suit.

I feel oddly naked flying with no clouds to obscure our jets. I stare at the radar, almost willing something to happen, for a bandit to blink alive.

“Comanche 117, Banshees approach angels 40.”

Below us comes a thunderous rumble and the ocean seems to split in half as our missiles destroy the submarine. The water is so high, so cold, that I shiver watching it reach up towards us, even if we are climbing to 40,000 feet. My lungs are hot and heavy, but the radar is still clear.

“Missile launch success. We have direct impace,” Jagger says gleefully, “bullseye!”

The word bullseye makes my toes curl.

“Comanche 117, Banshees approach angels 50.”

“Roger. Maneater 031 RTB.”

Each of us reaches 50,000 feet and radios to Comanche, letting them know we are en route to base. We are 50 minutes out.

When the jets level out, we are flying high and clear over the snowy terrain once more. I bring my shoulders down from my ears. I have always felt more vulnerable over the ocean--like it is waiting to lick our wings and gobble us up.

“Piece of cake,” Crimson says, sighing, “picture clean?”

“Affirmative,” I return, “piece of pie.”

Maneater chuckles over comm.

“Twins are so grotesque,” she says, “Jagger, you alive back there?”

“Alive and well,” Jagger sighs, then clears his throat, “felt a little too easy.”

Like clockwork, I say, “Radar clean, nose hot.”

“Right, right,” Jagger says, “just feel like we’re missing something.”

“Well,” Crimson starts, “I’m missing a hot, hot shower. And then maybe a drink.”

“And then a hot, hot date?” Maneater asks.

“Maybe so,” Crimson sighs, “someone to share with Clover.”

I can feel Crimson batting her lashes.

“I know a guy,” Jagger says, “a pilot. Graduated top of his class at Top Gun.”

“Jagger, you were number three,” Maneater scoffs.

“Number one in everyone’s hearts, though,” Jagger bites back. I can feel him grinning.

Crimson sighs into the comm.

“Think you can handle us both, big dog?”

I slap her shoulder.

“Maggie,” I hiss softly.

My face is burning. Hers is cool and slack. Jagger groans.

“Crimson, you’re making your sister blush,” Maneater laughs, “Hard Deck after we land?”

“Of course,” Crimson says, “we’ll be there.”

It’s nice sometimes to not have to answer. In the same way that I know the temperature of Crimson’s face, the fluttering of her eyelashes, or when she’s hungry, Crimson knows what I’m thinking. She knows what I’ll say, how I’ll answer. We are connected by an invisible string that was once a cord connecting us to the same womb.

The Hard Deck is somewhere we frequent, three to four times a week if we can swing it. It’s mostly a hangout for the Navy, the bar closest to base. Someone dressed in khaki always at the pool table or playing darts, some other uniforms sharing the expensive brandy.

The radar blinks back at me, still empty.

“What’s that God-awful song you played last time? Something about eating cars?” Jagger says this with a grimace evident in his strained voice.

“Rapture,” my sister and I say at the same time.

“That’s where I draw the line,” Maneater says, “no saying shit at the same time, lieutenants.”

I’m smiling behind my mask, glancing out either side of the jet. The sky is still clear. When I glance back at the ocean, the waves are building momentum as they race to shore, washing everything in white foam and black water.

“Who doesn’t like Rapture? Everyone likes Blondie,” Crimson laughs.

“Not their shitty music,” Maneater follows.

“I draw the line at Blondie slander,” I bite.

Crimson nods. Maneater chuckles. I can almost see her dark face reflecting the sun, the smooth parts of her skin shining blue. Her hair is also twisted into a bun at the bottom of her helmet, which I secured for her, maneuvering bobby pins in her black curls.

“Go out to the parking lot and you get in your car and drive real far,” Crimson sings, her voice raspy and amplified, “and you drive all night and then you see a light and it comes on down and lands on the ground and out comes the man from Mars!”

The sky is so blue through the canopy, the world darting past us at the speed of a fluttering eyelash. Crimson’s helmet is bobbing as she crudely sings, shaking her shoulders. She’s being a brat.

“And you try to run, but he’s got a gun! And he shoots you dead and eats your head,” I sing back.

Maneater and Jagger pretend to be exasperated on the other ends of the comm, but they’re laughing, too. Jagger’s thin chest is probably aching as he laughs because of the iron he pumped before taking flight, which was his own private ritual.

“Why does an alien have a gun? What kind of gun?” Jagger asks.

“Crimson, you’re the devil on your sister’s shoulder,” Maneater laughs.

“You’re making her blush,” Crimson exclaims.

My cheeks, as if on cue, grow pink.

Just as I open my mouth to defend myself, it happens. Two bandits blink to life on the radar. Everyone hears the chime.

“Tally two,” I say clearly.

“Position?” Maneater calls, blinking back into her authority.

“Bandits approaching from Northeast. Bandit one low four o’clock, Jagger. Bandit two high seven o’clock, Jagger,” I relay, “bandits firewalled.”

My fingers are so cold that it hurts to uncurl them. My heart jumps once, twice, then falls back into regular rhythm. Pressing my helmet against the canopy, I narrow my eyes on Jagger’s tail. Two SU-57’s approach Jagger.

“Jagger, engage firewall,” Maneater commands, breaking right suddenly to circle back, “C and C 293 visual?”

“C and C 293 visual,” Crimson bites, “Jagger, don’t let them get tone!”

“They’re gaining fast,” Jagger calls.

Suddenly, just as Maneater is falling behind Jagger, circling around to face the SU-57’s, the tone alerts Jagger. A missile drops from the jet at his four o’clock.

“Jagger, break left!” I yell.

Jagger’s jet suddenly cuts and the missile is hot on his tail.

“Deploying flares,” he calls.

Little bursts of yellow trail behind him, confusing the missile, exploding it.

“Crimson to Comanche 117,” Crimson calls, her voice still steady, “bandits engaging dogfight.”

“Comanche 117 to Banshees,” the voice says, “Banshees signal is to fire away, I repeat, fire away.”

“Hell yeah,” Crimson whispers.

My belly drops as Crimson suddenly angles our jets nose to the ground and falls behind Jagger and Maneater, behind the enemy aircraft. It is all so swift--behind them, I angle the missile lock, narrowing my eyes.

“We’ve got tone!” I yell, even though she can hear it.

“Bombs away,” Crimson yells.

The jet at Jagger’s high seven o’clock breaks left suddenly and our missile falls out from under us, cutting through the sky in a fury. The jet deploys flares, but just a moment too late. I watch it happen with my breath in my throat. Our missile explodes in the air, but close enough to his tail so that a piece of it breaks off, thick smoke swirling around the jet.

“We’ve got impact,” I call, “bandit two, high seven.”

“I’ve got tone,” Maneater calls, “bombs away!”

In just a single moment, Maneater deploys her missile and the jet doesn’t even deploy flares. The sleek, black aircraft bursts into flames instantaneously when the missile hits their engine one. A red parachute shoots into the sky just as the aircraft collides with the lip of a mountain.

“Bullseye,” I call, “what a grape.”

“Shit, bandit one has tone,” Jagger alerts us.

I look over, helmet against the glass. Jagger’s nose is straight and the bandit is behind him, missile dropping out from under.

“Break right, deploy flares,” I command.

“Deploying flares,” Jagger calls, pulling his nose suddenly to the right.

The bandit is hard and fast on him, mirroring his movement. Jagger deploys his flares in just the nick of time, only feet away from where it would really count if the missile made contact.

“C and C, time ‘til base?” Maneater asks.

“20 RTB,” I read.

“Jagger, fall back,” Maneater demands, “C and C 293 visual?”

“Affirmative,” Crimson says, “we’ve got you, Maneater.”

The rumble of our engine vibrates my throat. I gulp the oxygen coming in through my mask, blinking rapidly at the radar.

Maneater falls back behind the bandit and we fall below her, to her three o’clock. Jagger falls back suddenly, suddenly enough to confuse the bandit into following him directly into Maneater’s airspace.

“Tone,” she says quickly, “firing.”

Then I hear it. The tone in our jet screams. I look at our radar and it is clean except for the bandit Maneater’s missile is thundering towards. I look to our left, to our right, and there it is: a third bandit, aircraft so polished that it reflects the blue of the sky. It looms at our nine, vapor spreading beneath it as it zeroes in on us.

“Crimson, nose down, break left! Smoke in the air!”

Crimson smoothly follows my directions. I think I can hear her heart skip a beat, her breathing hitch.

“Deploying flares!” I scream out.

The little pops behind us are replaced with the screaming of a missile that only narrowly misses us. My throat aches.

“We’ve got another bandit hot on our tail,” Crimson yells over comm, “Maneater you got us?”

“I can’t shake bandit two,” Jagger calls desperately, “he keeps getting tone!”

Maneater bites suddenly, “Maneater not visual, Banshee one defending Banshee three.”

“Nose cold,” I call, tapping on the radar that has suddenly blinked off, “we’re naked over here!”

Crimson is throttling us through the sky in an almost zig-zag formation, forcing my head against the seat. She’s gulping her oxygen, but she isn’t picnicking, not yet.

“Comanche 117, C and C 293,” Crimson recites, “bandit inbound from East. C and C 293 flying naked, nose cold. Signal?”

“Comanche 117 to C and C 293,” Comanche answers, “Banshee two your signal is bug.”

The tone interrupts Crimson. I turn around and the bandit is on our six, gaining. A missile deposits under its aircraft and screams toward us.

“Smoke in the air, break left! Deploying flares!”

Maneater screams over the comm too, declaring her tone on bandit two.

“Hold tight, girls,” she yells, “bug!”

“We can’t fucking bug,” Crimson bites, “bandit three has tone again!”

The alarm blinks all around our cockpit. The bandit is on our right wing now, faster, vapor screaming out behind the jet.

“Deploying flares!”

I slam my fist against the button as Crimson cuts sharply down.

“Angels 30,” I tell Crimson, “be careful!”

“Hard Deck is angels 5! Decreasing to angels 10,” Crimson decides.

Our plane is racing towards the earth. I watch us behind us, the radar still naked and blinking nothingness. The bandit is smoothly following us, falling behind as Crimson engages the full speed of our F-18. We rapidly fall, my belly in my throat, my neck against the seat.

“Where’s our wingman?” Crimson howls.

Jagger has bandit one hot on his tail, mirroring each of his movements like they, too, are connected by an invisible string. Maneater is hot on the bandit’s tail, but she’s deployed guns.

I realize, as goosebumps prickle my skin, that Maneater is out of missiles. For the first time, the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention, my spine tingles like someone is ghosting their finger along my spinal column.

“What?” Crimson shouts and I know that her arms have goosebumps, too.

“Banshee one deployed guns,” I call, “we’re flying naked, Crimson!”

We swallow at the same time, both of us blinking rapidly. No wingman.

“Banshee one defending,” Maneater screams, rapidly firing ammo at the jet, “Banshee two hold tight!”

Crimson levels our nose, breaking right and left, but the bandit is still hot on us, nearing us with an ominous speed.

“Faye,” Crimson calls, “nose cold?”

I knock my gloved fist on the screen. It is black and calm as the ocean before our strike.

“Affirmative,” I say.

Our bellies are full of rocks. I can feel the sweat dripping down Crimson’s face. She’s breathing hard, pulling the stick back and forth. Both our mouths are cold and dry. She’s gripping the stick with the strength of a boar, her fingernails ripping and cracking.

“Banshee two, engage firewall!” Maneater calls, still aiming her guns at the jet that is evading her bullets. It’s like an intricate dance that’s been rehearsed, rehearsed, rehearsed.

“We’re already buster to mother,” I yell, “Comanche 117, C and C 293--standby for signal.”

“Comanche 117, your signal is buster.”

“God dammit,” Crimson screeches harshly, “we’re already bustering! Banshee one engaged in dogfight. We can’t bug!”

“Comanche 117, Banshee three, your signal is defend Banshee two.”

Jagger shakily cries over comm, “Banshee three engaged in combat. Hold tight, Crimson and Clover, hold tight!”

There is a single moment of quiet before we hear tone again. I slam my fist against the button again and the button suddenly feels hollow. Behind us, no flares pop in the sky.

“Out of flares,” I yell, “are you able to move into defensive maneuver?”

“No,” Crimson’s yell lurches from her violently, “this guy knows what he’s doing!”

The missile launches out of the sky and slams into out right wing. We jerk with the force of it, my helmet slamming into the back of Crimson’s seat.

“Right wing ablaze,” I shout, tears starting to pour down my face.

“Climbing,” Crimson says, suddenly pulling the stick back so our jet races upwards, “throttle back.”

There’s another sound, a louder one--the right engine bursts, sparks flying everywhere.

“Engine one on fire!”

“Extinguishing engine one,” Crimson cries, flipping switches haphazardly.

Nothing happens. The engine is still on fire. Something feels loose and I wonder if I am feeling the stick beneath Crimson’s palms. Our plane stalls and then, all at once, we are going down.

Crimson wildly tries to bring our nose out of the downfall, pulling back, turning it. Gravity punches us back into our seats.

“I lost control,” Crimson yells, “fuck, we’re going down fast!”

We are plummeting towards the earth and I hear it, then--the whistling of the wind. Except it is screaming, bursting my eardrums.

“Mayday, mayday!”

I have never spoken these words outside of a controlled stall, a drill; just pretend. And now, as we are falling, that’s what everything before this moment feels like. Pretend--like we were just playing.

“Punch out!” Crimson screams suddenly, “Clover, punch out!”

“What?” I cry.

I feel like I’m frozen in the moment, trapped in hardening molasses. The tone hisses in our cockpit, our radar still sleeping. The back of my sister’s helmet is all I can see as my vision blackens, tunnels. I know she’s crying. I can feel the tears on her cheeks, the lump in her throat. It is an involuntary kind of cry--one that is just the body’s reaction to its surroundings. We have never punched out of our aircraft before.

“Punch out now, Faye!”

I grip the cords and pull with all my might and in perfect unison, Crimson and I shoot from our jet as the missile collides with it. It’s like we are being born again into the sky.

The wind is so piercing that I can hardly hear our plane explode. Its heat rushes at us as our parachutes bloom. I rock harshly as the wind catches under the chute. It is freezing and the oxygen that was flowing into my mask has stopped now.

I feel, suddenly, like I’m falling instead of being suspended in the air.

That’s when I turn and see Maggie, her parachute pathetically being beaten by the wind instead of catching in it. Maggie is the one that’s falling, falling fast and hard, her arms flailing as she reaches around for purchase. She’s falling towards our burning jet, her helmet a dot of pink amidst the flames. I can feel the wind ripping the skin on her cheeks, the bile that’s rising in her throat, her stomach sitting in her chest cavity. Her heart is racing and my throat vibrates with her scream. Her fingers ache with the coolness of my own. My thighs grow warm when her bladder releases.

Our 24th birthday was three days ago. It was a Tuesday. She came to my house and we watched ‘Dirty Dancing’, fielding calls and texts from the same people. She brought a bottle of prosecco that we finished and I made an almond cake--an ugly yellow thing with a murky glaze. She showed me a message from an Army boy on Tinder.

Twins, huh? I have two hands.

I had pushed her shoulder as she laughed, laughed that big laugh that vibrated my couch, my chest. She stayed late, later than she should’ve.

“Will you play with my hair?” She’d asked, already sinking to sit on the floor before me.

I scratched her scalp, ran my fingers through her silky length, pulling out any knots gently. It was something I’d done since childhood; played with my sister’s hair. The sun had faded by then, ‘Dirty Dancing’ long finished, and she’d turned on her favorite record. ‘Landslide’ by Fleetwood Mac whispered through the speakers.

“Stevie Nicks was 27 when she wrote this,” I said.

She scoffed in amazement

“Is this what we'll feel like when we're 27?”

She hummed along quietly and her voice felt sweet in my throat.

I know she is going to die the exact same moment she does, the wind shredding her skin, knotting her hair.

“Maggie!” The scream tears from my raw throat the way her parachute suddenly tears free above her, sending her down harder, faster, cords flying freely in the wind.

Maggie is free-falling somewhere over the jagged, snow-dusted rocks.

☾☽ 𝐚/𝐧: prologue is kind of a doozy bc there's no Rooster but it's important for the setup. let me know what you think!! this is my first fan fiction that isn't about One Direction so I'm a little bit off my game!!

☾☽ 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

Yandere Billionaire x Reader Pt. II

Picrew:  Mochiibon

A/N: Bro when tell you I was so embarrassed to write that part I like turned away but my hands just kept writing. Naughty hands😗

And of course boo @je-suis-argent-miel​

Thanks so much for the support! I like your posts too ❤😏

⚠[Warning: Yandere tendencies and mindset, a little bit of lime, like no seriously this focuses on super sexual stuff so like you should run, throw up]⚠

I can’t believe I just did that. Sliding down the door you swore your heart was beating a mile a minute. Your hands shakily came to hold your folded legs where you rested your head. You were petrified, still leaning on the door because you would have fallen on your own.  

The amount of energy and confidence you burned trying to maintain your dominance and eat as though- a man who has a net worth bigger than your existence- wasn’t staring you down was enough to make you nauseous. So you had to lean on the walls of your apartment just barely making your way to the toilet to puke out the salmon, (f/d), and all the ashes of your confidence. 

The only reason you were able to voice your opinion so eloquently was because you knew what he liked. For the years you spent working for his less-intense-brother being able to save yourself, him, and the company, observation was your forte. It becomes your greatest tool, especially when the senior employee reaches into their back pocket not to pull out his phone but to assassinate your boss. Being able to tackle him seconds before he can even aim makes it all worth it when you’ve not only saved a life but given a raise to treat yourself with an extra thousand dollars. So you’ll notice how he emotes with his eyes when his brother asks ‘if he’s ok.’  You’ll notice how his tight expression loosens up when the female waitress oversteps their boundaries a little bit. You’ll notice how his index finger twitches when she goes too far and you’ll notice his jealous glare when she flirts with you. You’ll notice her being laid off and you’ll take into account how grateful she is when you get her connected into another company. 

So you knew he hated you at first and you knew how that really was just him falling in love. You knew when he started to look as though he had something he wanted to say. You knew when your boss asked if you wanted to go on this date it wasn’t a question. 

Because you knew you could prepare just how you liked it and the rules on how to deal with a Billionaire came into place:

Don’t be pushed around. Say something if you don’t like it or if you do.

Remind him he’s in control. Don’t let all that you say be without belittling yourself.

Stop him before he starts. Predict his every move and there will be nothing to regret.

You followed these rules or at least you tried to. It was easier to say to punch a shark in the nose rather than it was actually doing it. You wanted to pull your hair out (if you have any). You ended the night without knowing where he stood and that was your immense failure of the night. 

________________________________________________________________

“Aaah yes,” he couldn’t wait ‘til he got home, ”Ohhh~(Y/n)!” Your whole demanding act was the hottest thing he ever experienced you doing and he just couldn’t stop himself from imagining you deny him. He stroked himself as he replayed a video of you in the comfort of your room weakly punching your pillow because your snotty cousin decided to drop by and ‘complement’ your house. I wish that pillow was me. He didn’t care that he knew you’d probably never do that to him, just the image of you being so above him was enough to finish him. 

He knew that he was a freak and before you he had indulged in his love for a dominant partner but it just never left him fully satisfied. That itch was scratched in the inconvenient setting of a meeting when he could hear your muffled voice scolding an employee for sexual harassment. The insults, the crying, your voice cracking from your meek-work voice even behind a wall got him riled up as he tried to focus on whatever nonsense his brother was spewing. It was the longest conversation on how his sister-in-law finally agreed to have babies.

Another time was when his brother-the little slack- had gotten a stain on his suit jacket while they were going to see their parents. You noticed the stain as the four of you-Ivanov, You, his brother, and an escort- stood in the elevator to meet the parents. He was wonderfully startled by the gasp from your tiny mouth.

“SASHA! What is that on your suit?” Accusingly pointing at the offending stain with your (e/c) eyes widened the biggest he has seen it. 

“Uhm-Oh-some ketchup.” The dolt nonchalantly responds, not nearly as worked up as you. 

“I can’t believe you DIDN”T TELL ME BEFORE-” “I’m sorry but really it's not that ba-``''NOT THAT BAD! IT Looks like a bird pooped on you!” “What really-oh no.”

You both proceed to argue back and forth like a married couple until you successfully hound him to ‘go to the bathroom’ while you ran to the car and got him a replacement. He wasn't so turned on that he couldn’t handle it but he felt something in his heart, like a spark and he was so lucky that the escort was so busy eavesdropping that she didn’t notice his blush. 

“Hey Sasha. What are your plans for tomorrow?” 

“Hey big bro, I’m probably gonna call up Angie for another ‘negotiation’ if you know what I mean.” 

“Will (Y/n) be there?” 

“Uhm-well I usually don’t take ‘goody-two-shoes’ on my illegal activity runs so-”

“So they’ll be in their office?”

“Yeah, by the way how was your da-”

“Goodbye.” 

“Geez, could've at least pretended we care about each other.”

Ivanov for a long time couldn’t smile. It strained his cheekbones and made him uncomfortable but when he knew you would be free for an office date he smiled with pure bliss.

[inkskinned]

my arch nemesis cynthia is, of course, at the bank, because we both were sent like clockwork to pick up the checks of our husbands. she is wearing a lovely long green gown, which i know was on behalf of me, because, as my husband will tell you, our house abhors green and glamour. already the tellers look at each other under their little hats, for they love our tirades, i’m sure, although not more than i hate them. 

“oh, is that your knitting?” my arch nemesis cynthia peers her eyes at my hands. “is it some kind of... sock?” everyone knows she and i used to be close before we were married and our husbands, smartly so, have introduced us to the idea of true vengeance.

“it is a scarf,” i say. i want to tell her that when the time comes and the world gets cold it will go over my mouth and i will breathe warm air and it will fill my lungs and i will be able to run around with my love even in the dark night. “it is not,” i say, “over surprising that you should be caught unawares of a scarf,” i say, “as i’m sure enjoying winter festivities are too beneath the handsome qualities your husband prefers.” pompous ass.

the tellers pass each other eyes for now it has started and they are delighted.

my arch nemesis cynthia thrusts out her hand. a white bottle. “rat poison,” she says. “i would expect the whole town knows about your little problem.” stage whisper. “such a shame, my dear.” then she rustles her long green skirts - which i know she wore on behalf of me - and she shimmies herself out of the room like royalty. oh, she floats everywhere she goes, beautiful black hair behind her. the bottle in my palm is cold. i will devise how to get her back starting first thing tomorrow.

the week, as always, is a long week, for there is much to make and do and knit and be. my husband comes home and i love him for who he is; for he never comes home without checking the state of the house up and down. he is the kind who loves his home so completely and sets each room like a stage for a great band to come playing. i am too ashamed to tell him why so many of the rats go missing, only make him a stew the next morning to celebrate. his favorite, although not mine, i’m afraid. plenty left over.

my arch nemesis today - of course - in a green the color of rotting. a bruise is uncarefully covered on her cheekbone, so striking against all of her dainty. her husband would say it was for her ungraceful nature, and i know mine would agree. i strike first, already delighted by my master plan, shoving over our best picnic basket tied with a bow. “i made you and yours a stew,” i say, “for beneath all that you carry” all that horrible wealth of your husband  “it seems you’re getting rather skinny.” i can’t resist one last comment. “i am worried you’re about to waste to nothing.”

She plucks it out of my hand. “yes, if it weren’t for you and your husband’s dwindling wealth,” her sarcasm is biting, “i’m sure i will be nothing in, oh, 5 weeks time.” she arches a brow. “so long from now.”

“i am counting the days,” i tell her. her lips purse. the tellers behind me make a choked titter. perhaps, by their estimation, i have won this round quite completely. i go home to my husband smiling. he asks where i have been and i tell him i’ve been at the bank, but he checks anyway because i like to get up to tricks and he doesn’t like to fall for it. it is a good game we play. at night, when he is asleep, i am so in love that i must convince myself to pull the covers over my nose and practice breathing. how silly to wake him up for a young girl’s feelings. 

the first week of five: she gives me a solid, ugly ring that requires three knuckles to hold. “i feel so badly for your status, and i must remember to practice charity,” she says. “it such a small thing, but do be careful amongst all that thin pine furnishing of your house, which dents so easily.” my husband appears at the bank’s front door. just checking. so lovely to be picked up by him. at night, in a rage, i try it - beneath the table bends easily. i scuff out the scratch with walnut before my husband can see. i pull the covers over my face in bed and breathe.

the second week: i wear her ugly ring and give her more stew, this time hearty with meat. her dress is a meadow. my heart each time it sees her collapses on itself. she hands me clothes for my husband, since his wealth continues to go missing, and the charity of her heart is so loving. i am so ashamed i bury them far by the old tree, where all my shames go hiding. again, the covers. it, by now, helps me sleep. i have gotten so good at it that i can simply shimmy my shoulders to be perfectly toasty and buried.

the third week: she asks how comes my knitting. i tell her it’s nearly complete. she asks how comes my husband, whom she must know has been ill recently, and who is doing quite badly. i go home to him, shaking. even sick he is a good housekeeper, who comes home examining for dust and dinge so i do not fall behind on my chores. who checks to be sure i spoke to only him and no one more, for fear a man might snatch me. tell me, who else has a man so involved, in this day and age?

the fourth week she is envy green. i shove a whole heaping of stew at her, for now her husband has gotten it. i say it will return him to spirits, she laughs, a sudden, beautiful sound, even in the quiet of a bank. everyone stares. maybe it is the stress that is making her quite improper. i feel the same way. so much is happening and it always seems she knows. she says she heard he has left me nothing in the will, which everyone already knows. she says she doubts either of us can dig upwards from the hole we’re both in. i look at the bruise on her nose. i tell her to mind her own husband, and be careful where she goes.

the fifth week: so final. her, garishly lime green. and i in black, to pick up a check that hardly seems the effort. it will be enough to cover my husband’s funeral. she smiles at me and hands me a silver bottle. she says quietly: now that i am destitute, there is one thing for it all, and everyone would understand quite completely. it would be quiet, and quick, and complete.

it is the night of the new moon, so dark no man can see in it. i receive notice her husband has died, and i am sorry to say i find a terrible joy in it. the air has changed cold. i have left a note asking to be buried in my scarf, the last thing i have made on this earth. i go through each perfect room, but there is nothing else to take with me, for the house has always been his and his alone, and now aches to be gone of him. i would not serve as a good tender for it. having spent so many nights watched carefully, the silly girlish freedom i’d gain would surely set the house ablaze.

i follow her instructions. quick, quiet, complete.

the horrible rustling is what does it. like a million green skirts. and then it is dark, and i am in my own coffin, eerie with pine. my head hurts but i must be quick and quiet. they have listened and buried me with my scarf. i shimmy my shoulders just-so and get it over my face. bring my arms up, ugly ring heavy, and begin to hit as hard as i can, over and over, the thin wood of my husband’s favorite furniture, the cretin. it would be pine, of course - he left me no money to be buried in any nicer recourse.

the wood splits so horribly, and then it is very hard to breathe, harder than under the covers, and i have to remind myself to be patient and continue to dig upwards, while my throat closes and my heart beats so loudly and the whole thing is so heavy it is a universe. the shifting of gravedirt is loud, and loud, and i feel i will be turned into a worm, and i fear everyone has forgotten about me, or i have gotten the timing wrong, or i will really die down here in the dirt and the cold

but then her hand, and my hand, and we are both digging towards each other, and she lifts me so easily from the ground like a plucked turnip and holds me against her, us both panting and muddied. we can only stay like this for so long, here in my pauper grave, and then we are both running to the old tree where we met, and unburying a second thing; my lovely box of shame, and men’s clothes, and all of my husband’s dwindling fortune i have slowly been squirrelling away.

my love and angel cynthia, who has black hair like a curtain and a mind so fast i sometimes am in frank awe at it, who is, even now and dirty and raw: even now the only sun in my life.

like this, i a man in an almost-dawn, and us cleaned by the river, and her smiling so widely, and only a faint bruise on her, and our pasts behind us in ugly garish colors. and her delicate hand and beautiful nose and when i finally get to kiss her it feels like green feels; my favorite color, all warm and nature and sunny grace and grass and lying awake so filled with love it makes you shake.

i hold her, and she holds me, and our future is a love like a dream unburied.

[twistedmusings]

Vil Schoenheit: After VDC Results

“I’m going to ask again, Prefect.”

“Are you going to walk me out?” 

A/N: Only thing I learned from this Chapter is to not trust a Stan kids, because they will ruin the even for the rest of us. 

Needless to say I have now officially began to simp for Vil, happy to find myself among you, Vil stans. 

If you haven’t read part one, here it is! 

Warnings: Chapter 5 spoilers, Lime soda (implied sexy times!) and de-stressing makeout session for Vil.

Vil had almost tried to kill someone today. 

It seemed strange to say, since it was somebody’s life at stake, but he had come to terms that he had shown everybody in his team a side of himself he hoped they would never see. 

He had shown you a side of himself he hoped you would never see. 

After the ‘incident’, you two had barely talked. You weren’t necessarily avoiding him and he wasn’t avoiding you either. There were just a few moments before the VDC officially started and despite the pain in his body telling him to at least sit down, the need to make it to the end of the stage triumphed as he gave it his all out there. 

Blood, sweat and tears. He had shed them all with no regrets. 

So as he stood there, confetti raining down as the people cheered in the grand coliseum for Neige’s song and not his, he was slowly coming to terms with another realization. 

That he wouldn’t let Rook participate in anything he ever did again…ever. 

Two years. Two YEARS he had known this mysterious man and yet there was NOTHING that had tipped him off to Rook being a fan of Neige. Oh no, not just a fan. 

An extremely devoted fan. 

“...Roi de Neige...it really is such an honor!” 

Neige’s laugh was still like metal against a chalkboard to Vil’s ears, smiling as he held Rook’s hand as the other waxed poetic about his performance. He had to turn away, tears still pricking at the corners of his eyes as he wiped them away with Rook’s handkerchief. His life was just one ironic twist after another, wasn’t it? And how frustrating, to be so close to standing first and to be betrayed by someone who he thought he could trust--! 

“Stand proud and say that you are the fairest of them all, Vil! And I am sure that even the Magic Mirror wouldn’t be able to deny it!”

He chuckles as the fanfare continues, looking down at the offending piece of cloth before shaking his head and going over to his friend, handing him back the handkerchief. 

“Go on, wipe your tears. It is your handkerchief after all.” 

Rook’s surprised face was a sight for sore eyes as he dried his tears. “Thank you, Roi de Poison.” 

“Hehe~ There is Vi-kun’s usual smile~!” 

Enjoy it while it lasts, bastard. The moment we get back to Pomefiore you are going to regret not drinking that juice and melting from the inside out because I am going to make you WISH that you were nothing but a puddle of boiling goop after I am done with you, you son of a bit--

“Vil-senpai!” 

His head turns around slowly, watching you run towards the stage before flashing your staff pass at the bodyguards trying to stop you, just like how he taught you. He clears his throat as he straightens himself out, turning his whole body towards you as the stadium quiets down around him. 

Or maybe he was just paying attention to your voice only. 

“One vote.” you give him a forced smile, “Just by one vote, huh?” 

Vil points a thumb at Rook, “The guilty party is over there.” 

You peek behind him, eyebrows shooting up when you see your other upperclassman holding the hand of the team’s supposed rival and silently crying. 

“...that...the VDC really is full of surprises…” 

You both look at each other before smiling as you share a giggle, your hand going to Vil’s arm and giving it a soft squeeze before letting go.

He doesn’t want to think about what he would have done if you had been the one deciding vote. For a brief moment while the announcement was being made he thought that you had been that person, the one person he wished to curse and hate. Vil tried to imagine it, imagine directing all his anger towards you and promising you that every single day you remained at Night Raven College would be hell because of what you had taken from him. 

Would he have gone through with it? Who knows? 

Vil is a lot more relieved about the fact that you placed your trust in the team he had created and voted for him. 

“How annoying.” 

“Truly.” 

“There goes our heater money.” 

“I agree--what?” 

You turn to him, smiling as you gesture down to the hiccuping Grimm in your arms. He had tired himself out from crying and the headache that followed after had kept him glued to your arms. 

“I know he said that he was going to buy tuna with the money we would have gotten but I was thinking of buying a heater for Ramshackle.” you pout, “You guys were all complaining about how cold it was before using magic to make the entire dorm room cold proof. For a brief moment my dream of having heated floors came true.” 

Vil catches you staring at Neige, your stare not one of admiration but of clear frustration and annoyance. 

“And it wasn’t like his song was that good. It was catchy. Catchy turns straight up annoying in a few days. Watch people complain about how they wish it wasn’t stuck in their heads all the time, I give it a week.” 

Maybe it was the strong emotions he was feeling right now, or the fact that he had come to terms with another set of emotions that were directed towards you a long time ago but Vil immediately grabs your hand and holds it close to his heart, your eyes turning to look at him as he stares at you with fierce intensity. 

He wanted you to feel it. Could you feel how fast his heart was beating? 

“Potato, no, Prefect--” 

Your eyes widened, it was the first time he had referred you with that title. 

“I want you to know that I--” 

“Vi-kun!” 

The Pomefiore dorm leader can feel the vein in his head beginning to throb as he hears his rival’s voice, the Royal Sword Academy student smiling as he came up to him and grabbed his hand. 

“Let’s sing together! If we all sing together I’m sure it would be a lot more fun!” 

Neige smiles as he grabs Vil’s hand, quickly interlocking their fingers together as the other complains about the distance. His eyes meet yours before he grins and gives you a peace sign. 

“I’m going to steal him away real quick, I hope you don’t mind!” 

“Neige!” 

You blink before smiling as you wave goodbye, hugging Grimm close to you as you watch Vil be dragged away by Neige to the center of the stage. The small familiar in your arms groans as he hears the music start up again. “Not agaaaaain. Make it stoooop. My tunaaaaaaa!” 

With a giggle, you scratch the top of his head as he buries his face in the crook of your arm. 

“Go back to sleep, Grimmy. Let’s go back home.” 

The music blares behind you as you hum along to the song, bobbing your head to the beat as Vil’s voice comes through loud and clear despite the cheers and the fanfare. 

“See you guys again!” 

You smile and hug Grimm close, walking towards the exit of the Coliseum.

What a bummer. Guess you couldn’t work up the courage to tell him after all.  

--------

“You guys got everything?” 

“Ah wait!” Kalim rushes back into Ramshackle as Jalim pinches the bridge of his nose, “I forgot Vil’s face stuff!” 

You smile at Jalim, “You always seem to have your hands full.” 

“Isn’t that an understatement.” he smiles, “Are you that eager to get us out of here, Prefect?” 

“Not at all. I’ll be really lonely once you guys leave.” 

Jalim stares at you before looking back at the Ramshackle door, his actions making you laugh as you pat his back and head inside. Guy wasn’t used to people being that honest, was he? You smile when Kalim meets you at the bottom of the stairs, hugging you close and saying quick goodbyes as Jamil called out to him for the second time. 

“There they go…” 

You whistle a low tune as you head upstairs, letting out a huge sigh as you flop down on your bed.

It was the most perfect opportunity...and you blew it. 

Vil had been living with you for almost a whole MONTH and you only managed to have a decent conversation with him maybe three times. And you weren’t going to count that awkward moment you two shared that night. 

Probably the reason he didn’t talk to you at all after that! 

He had been concentrating so hard to win this competition and all you needed to do was just give him some good words of support, not go off about how you thought he was the ‘fairest’ in all of the school! What kind of STUPID confession was that! You wanted to be smooth about it and maybe ask him if he wanted to come with you to the Monstro Lounge after all of this was over. 

At least you had gotten some decent words through. It had been inspiring to watch him work. You didn’t really have an opinion on him when you two first met but watching him put his everything into this one competition made you want to put everything into finding a way back home. 

And like always, feelings of admirations grew to something else. 

Something annoying and unnecessary. 

Vil probably saw right through you, the way you would wake up early to catch him humming in the showers as you brushed your teeth. No, he probably caught on when you complimented every single meal he made when it was his turn to cook. Or maybe he caught on when you straight up admitted that you thought he was the most beautiful person on campus. 

You laugh as you sling your arm over your eyes. 

“I’m so messy.” 

A knock on your door bolts you up from your bed. You knew it wasn’t Grimm since he had taken dibs on the bath first and was probably enjoying the hot water you wish you could enjoy as well. Amethyst eyes meet yours as Vil stares at you, bag on the floor by his side as you two stare each other down.  

“...should I just leave?” 

“No!” you immediately get up and walk over to him, “Let me walk you out. It is the duty of a Prefect to see all the guests out, after all~” 

“You only have one other member living in your dorm, potato.” 

“Doesn’t mean I should ignore the title given to me. That’s what Riddle taught me.” 

You make a move to walk out into the hallway but his arm stops you, blocking your way as your eyes look into the deep purple linen. It must be really soft to touch-- “Oi.” 

Whoops, lost in thought again. 

“You say something?” 

Vil sighs and you were expecting the usual disappointed look but your heart nearly beat out of your chest when you saw him smile, your hands clenching into tight fists as you step back two steps. 

“You were talking about responsibilities of a dorm leader, so I’m doing my responsibility as well. I’m thanking you.” 

“Ha! Vil-senpai you shouldn’t be thanking me, it was the Headmaster’s decision after all.” 

Even then he shouldn’t be thanking you, if anything you should be thanking him. 

“So you’re just going to refuse my gratitude?” his fingers brush away some strands of your hair, “Did Riddle only teach you one thing?” 

You try to count by 5’s in your head as your face heats up, how were you still standing up? 

“Sorry. You’re right.” you take a deep breathe, “You’re welcome. I’m glad my dorm could be of some service.” 

It was a good idea to leave out the ‘to you’, it would probably creep him out. 

Silence hung heavy in the room as the two of you heard the clock tick away at the minutes, Vil’s arm still blocking your exit to the hallway. 

“Uhm...Vil-senpai?” 

“I want to have no regrets for this VDC, potato. As frustrating as it is...I gave it my all and I lost.” 

You open your mouth to try and console him but he stops you with just a stare. “But I have no regrets on how I approached this. The method was perfect and the song was perfect. I even managed to shape some rough looking potatoes into decent enough students.” 

He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and picking his words carefully. 

“But I intend to leave this experience with no regrets whatsoever. Both on and off the stage.” 

You tilt your head, “As in?” 

The ticking of the clock stops for a moment as your chin is tilted upwards, starts up again when you feel a hand on your cheek pull you close and stops entirely when a pair of lips press against your own. 

Your arms hang uselessly at your sides as Vil kisses you, his lips unmoving while the hand holding your cheek slithers all the way down to your waist. A shiver runs all the way from the soles of your feet to the top of your head, the sudden rush of warmth making you pull away. 

Yet he selfishly clung to you. 

“Are you going to walk me out, Prefect?” 

The answer is quick as you wrap your arms around his neck, quickly pulling him down for another kiss. His heels click harshly against the wooden flooring as you two walk backwards and fall on your bed, the purple linen you had admired earlier now caressing your arms as you pull away for a quick breather. 

“Vil--” 

He takes advantage of your open mouth, tongue pushing inside and pressing against yours as he pulls your arms away from his neck and pins them to the bedding. You want to keep your eyes open, want to see Vil in ways you hoped nobody else had seen before. The circlet on his head probably disheveled from the rough tumble you two had, the eyeliner pressed so neatly against his eyelid, the way his fingers so delicately kept you from moving as his thumb caressed your wrist. 

You can’t help but whine as he pulls away, trying to follow his lips but being kept in place by those hands on his. Vil watches you take deep gulps of air, his hands squeezing your wrists to keep you in place before moving away to  take off the circle on top of his head as he laid it gingerly on the pillow next to your head. 

“I’m going to ask again, Prefect.” 

Vil presses a kiss to your eyelid, moving down to your cheek and finally your chin as his fingers toy with the first button of your pajama shirt. 

“Are you going to walk me out?” 

He smiles when you hold out your arms open for him, your eyes begging him to not leave you alone. 

Tongues meet before lips as Vil shrugs off his robe and makes himself comfortable in your arms, grabbing his magic pen and flicking his wrist in order to shut the door to your room and locking it. 

Obviously he would have to leave before the raccoon was done with his bath, but he was intending to finish this VDC with no regrets. 

So the little furball could wait. 

--------

Omake: 

“Oi!!! Why did you lock the door!” 

“Grimm don’t come in here!” 

“Hah? You know this is my room too!” 

“I know but right now I’m-ah!-busy! I’m busy!” 

“With what--!” 

“Grimm I’m just busy! Ace left a bunch of his snacks down in the kitchen! I’ll let you take dibs on whatever you want!” 

“....no take backsies?” 

“No--oh Great Sevens--no take backsies!” 

“Fgnaa! I’ll dig in then~!” 

[dreamerstreamer]

Sugar & Spice

Pairing: Dream / Clay x gn!reader

Summary: The holidays are here! What better way is there to end the year than with Clay and some cookies?

Word Count: 2.4k

A/N: happy holidays, folks! due to popular demand, this year’s holiday special is written for dream. i hope you all sincerely enjoy and have a wonderful day!

You peered down at the bowl in front of you, your eyes narrowing. Needs more... yellow.

Your tongue darted out to wet your lips as you reached across the counter for a small bottle, quickly unscrewing the cap. Holding it over the bowl, you gently squeezed until a single drop fell atop the fluffy frosting sitting in the center. Your lips quirked upward, a twang of satisfaction running through you.

You hummed as picked up the bowl with one hand and grabbed a wooden spoon with the other. Sticking the spoon in, you began to stir, watching with hopeful eyes as the frosting’s hue slowly began to shift ever so slightly. A few moments later, your arm stilled, pride swelling in your chest at the perfect shade of lime green that stared back at you.

“There we go.”

All of a sudden, a beep filled the air, and you startled. Realization quickly washed over you, and your shoulders sank. The oven’s done preheating, you thought to yourself with a flicker of joy.

Flipping around, you slid the bowl across the counter toward the other bowl of frosting you had already made, then turned on your heel. You reached for the oven mitts hanging on the cabinet door, slipping them on with a grin as your fingers fit perfectly inside. You were about to focus your attention on the silver tray of dough you had laid out earlier when a dash of brown caught your attention. You whirled, your gaze landing on a familiar, furry face who was about six inches too close to your precious icing.

“Patches,” you said slowly, eyeing the paw she had raised over the bowl’s middle, “if you’re about to do what I think you’re going to do, don’t.”

She froze at the sound of your voice, her movements coming to a halt as you inched closer toward her.

“Seriously, Patches. You’ll get sick.”

She blinked at you, her big, green eyes scanning your face as her whiskers twitched. You held your breath as you stared back, your fingers crossing behind your back.

Her tail flicked once—twice.

Then she lowered her paw.

You nearly sank to the ground in relief, quickly leaning over to snatch the bowl away and clutch it to your chest. “Thank goodness,” you mumbled to yourself, your eyes squeezing shut. “I thought I was going to have to sta—“

“Hi.”

You yelped, leaping with a start as you whipped around, your fingers curling around the edge of the bowl. On the other side of the kitchen island stood Clay, his hand scratching behind Patches’ ear as she nuzzled up into his touch. As soon as your eyes landed on him, you let out a deep breath, your hand resting atop your pounding heart.

“Holy crap,” you breathed, sending him a shaky smile as you straightened, “you scared me.”

He flashed you a crooked grin, pulling his hand away from Patches. The moment he did, she leapt off the counter, scampering away down the hall. “Sorry. I just I finished streaming and wanted to come see what you were up to.” His eyes darted to the mitts on your hands then the counter behind you. “What are you baking?”

Your lips curled up into a small smile as you placed the bowl of frosting down next to you, quickly grabbing the tray of dough you had made earlier. “Gingerbread cookies!” You sent him a wink. “But with a twist.”

He took a step toward you, blinking down at the array of squares and circles littering the platter before his eyes caught on a particular shape. “Is that... my YouTube profile picture?”

Your eyes curved into tiny crescents. “Yeah! Aren’t they cute?”

He bobbed his head, his emerald gaze crinkling at the corners. “Very.”

You walked toward the oven, pulling it open with a gloved hand. “I have all the icing ready to go for after it’s done baking,” you said, careful not to burn yourself as you slid the tray inside, “and I even got some fondant for your eyes and smile.” You pouted as you pushed the door closed. “I was going to use black licorice, but I figured it might not taste as good.”

While you pressed a few buttons on the stovetop, Clay leaned against the counter, dipping a finger into the bowl of frosting before bringing it back to his lips. He eyed his finger curiously for a moment, then flicked his tongue out to lap up the white cream. He tilted his head, a smile tugging at his lips as he swallowed. “Mm, sweet. You sure put a lot of thought into this, didn’t you?”

You walked over to him, leaning over to tap his nose with your clean finger. “It’s a special time of year. It’d just be sad if I didn’t put in at least a little extra effort.”

The smile he sent you was absolutely dazzling, and you could have sworn you felt your head spin at the sight. “Well,” he said, “you went the extra mile, so I think you’ve done more than enough.”

Pulling the oven mitts off, you hung them back on the cabinet, eyeing the bowls of frosting. “I still have to wait for them to bake,” you began, counting in your fingers, “decorate, then clean, but after all that, then I’ll be finished.”

Clay’s hand slid over the counter toward you. “Can I help?” His gaze averted from yours, something akin to embarrassment flickering within. “I-I’m not an artist or anything, bu—“

You put your hand on top of his. “Yes,” you said without missing a beat. “Absolutely. Of course, you can.” A wicked grin flashed across your face. “If you also help me clean.”

His expression mirrored your sly one. “Like I would let you do it alone, anyways.” He wrinkled his nose. “Just don’t send any pictures of the cookies I decorate to George or Sap, though.” He nearly shivered at the idea. “They’ll definitely clown me.”

You laughed at the thought of the inevitable string of mocking messages he would be sure to receive, a wave of affection surging through you. His stare was fond as he added, “How long do we have to wait?”

Your eyes glanced at the timer on the oven. “Like ten, fifteen minutes, tops. It won’t be that long.”

He pushed off from the counter, standing up straight. “What do you wanna do for fifteen minutes, then?”

You hummed, pursing your lips for a moment before your face lit up. “Cuddles?”

He blinked at you once, then chuckled. “Cuddling, it is, then.”

You let out a small victory cry, missing the way his eyes softened. You turned on your feet, gesturing to your backside. “Help me take off my apron?”

He padded up to you with a hum, his hands reaching over to grasp at the fabric securing the apron around your waist. His fingers were warm against the small of your back, and with a few tugs, the knot unraveled in an whirl. You easily slipped the apron off your shoulders and around your head, flashing Clay another grin as you placed it atop the counter. “Thank you.”

When he returned your thanks with a soft, “You’re welcome,” you turned on your heel for the living room. You had made it about five feet when a warm hand suddenly wrapped around your wrist, stopping you in place.

You paused, turning to look at Clay over your shoulder. “Clay?” you murmured.

He raised his eyebrows at you, his smile curling into a smirk as he pointed above the two of you. “Would you look at that.”

You glanced up, and you felt your throat tighten.

Of course. Mistletoe.

You had nearly forgotten he had hung it up the day before, mischief dancing across his face as you rolled your eyes at him. Shaking your head, you couldn’t stop the lovestruck smile from spreading across your face as you lowered your head, your gaze locking onto his. He was a dork, but he was your dork, and that was all that mattered.

In an instant, his arms were around your waist, pulling you toward him until your chests were flush against one another. You wrapped your arms around his neck, leaning up to press your lips to his. He grinned into the kiss, his tongue slipping into your mouth and you made a small noise that only made him smile harder. You ran a hand through his hair, digging your fingers into the base of his locks. He tasted sweet like sugar, and you could have sworn you could taste the frosting he had licked just a few minutes prior.

You parted with a gasp, his forehead leaning against yours as the two of your calmed your beating hearts, his hot breath fanning over your face. His lips were rosy and swollen, his hair disheveled this way and that. You were sure you looked just as messy, if not more, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. Instead, you simply smiled at him.

“Happy now, lover boy?” you quipped. When he nodded, looking like a lovesick puppy, you tugged at his arm with a laugh. “Alright, let’s go cuddle, now.”

You pulled him toward the living room with ease with a bounce in your step, lunging for the couch. With a small cry of victory, you tumbled into the couch cushions, Clay following right after you. The moment he sat down, you flipped over, snuggling into his side as he slung his arm around you.

A comfortable silence settled over the two of you, your hearts beating in sync with one another as you simply basked in each other’s presences. You were practically drowning in his warm touch and the steadily growing scent of gingerbread.

Rolling over slightly, you traced a finger over the vein in his arm, murmuring softly, “This year’s been kind of wild, hasn’t it?”

You could practically feel him roll his eyes beside you as a chuckle flew from his lips. “Don’t even get me started. I could spend ages talking about how crazy everything’s been.”

You shifted in his arms, your eyes scanning his face. Something in your chest felt hazy as your gaze traced over the curve of his cheek and the slope of his nose.

“But not all of it has been bad, you know?” you murmured, reaching a hand up to his cheek. As your skin met his, he leaned into your touch, your thumb tracing over the myriad of freckles dusting his face. “You’ve done a lot of crazy cool stuff. Look at how much your channel’s grown—how much you’ve grown. You even won a Streamy award.”

His cheeks flushed, and he buried his face into your hand, his lips pressing against your palm as his voice came out slightly muffled. “You give me too much credit.”

You lowered your hand and leaned forward, resting your forehead against his. “You deserve all of it and more,” you whispered, just for him to hear. “You’re more amazing than you know. You made your dream come true.” Your gaze was sincere as you pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, feeling him shiver beneath you. “Little Clay would be so proud.”

As you pulled away from him, you took in the sight of his rosy cheeks and viridian eyes, his lips parted in awe as he simply stared at you. You felt your face grow hot underneath his gaze, and you lowered your eyes to your lap, clasping your hands together. Even just his stare made you so flustered—was it even possible to be so deeply affected by one person?

After a few moments of silence, he finally spoke. “How did I get so lucky?”

You lifted your chin, tilting your head at him as your eyebrows knit together. “Well, you did spend literal months studying the YouTube algorithm, and you’re still constantly working on videos,” you pointed out. “Plus, you stream, so I wouldn’t necessarily call all that just lu—“

He shook his head, smiling. “No, no.” He looked at you dead on, and you felt your heart skip a beat. “I mean, how did I get so lucky to have you in my life?”

Your breath hitched in your throat. “What?”

He reached over, slipping your hand into his as he intertwined your fingers together. “You’re not something I can study for,” he murmured into your ear, his voice wrapping around you like a cozy blanket, “or some plug-in that I can code.” Something warm and gooey melted in your stomach. “You’re just you, through and through, and by some miracle, you’re sitting here with me.”

Your face practically burst into flames, and you most definitely felt yourself starting to turn to putty. You wanted to hide your face in your hand, but he was holding it, so all you could manage was a shy whine. You barely managed to catch a glimpse of his cocky grin before you turned, burying your face in his neck.

“Clay,” you whispered, hoping he wouldn’t notice just how hard your heart was beating, “you are so embarrassing.”

You could hear his smile as he spoke, squeezing your hand. “You love me for it.”

You couldn’t stop a smile of your own from stretching across your face as you squeezed back. “Yeah, I do.”

Slowly, he untangled your hands and wrapped his arms around you, tugging you closer to his chest as you sank into him. You couldn’t think of a better way to spend the holidays, all cuddled and cozied up in Clay’s warm embrace with gingerbread cookies baking in the back. As you drank in his cologne and felt his heartbeat ringing in your ears like a familiar melody, you only had one thing on your mind.

You loved him, you loved him, you loved him.

Just then, there was a deafening crash and the unmistakable clattering of bowls.

You froze in Clay’s arms, your eyes shooting wide open as his hold went slack around you.

There was a beat of silence, followed by a meow.

Your jaw dropped.

Oh my god.

You didn’t allow yourself any time to think before you scrambled off the couch, nearly tripling over your own feet as you raced toward the kitchen, Clay’s voice calling out after you.

“[Y/N]! What’s going on?”

For a few moments, there was only the sound of heavy panting. Then came a loud wail.

“Patches!”

It was far from a perfect holiday, to say the least, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

[boneswriteswords]

Just A Little Longer - Michelangelo

A/N: Here is my self indulgent Mikey goodtime lime. Let me live. (It isn’t a lime. Its a lemon. But lime rhymes with time.)

Unbeta’d because no one has the time for editing.

Also I have no idea if any of it makes sense so.....

~~~~~~

The bright neon LED lights of the alarm clock on your nightstand stood guard over you as you blinked awake. 2:04am. Awareness came slowly, your eyes dripping sleep even as the rest of you came online. You shifted, extending your body into a stretch, grinning when a muffled groan erupted from behind you.

A thick leg forced its way between yours. A heavy arm landed across your abdomen. A hard chest molded into your back.

Beyond your apartment walls, sounds of the city rage on. Waves of muted color trickle through the crack in your black-out curtains. Lines of yellow light bleed over the room. There are police sirens passing by as the house party three doors down blasts the newest Ariana Grande album. Someone honks their car horn in vicious repetition. If you strain, you can hear an muffled fighting and the shuffling of clothes as it turns physical.

All the noises harmonize and fade into nothing as you flip over, encouraging the limbs of your bed partner to stay entangled with yours. You’ve lived in the city long enough that the noises and the people and the lights don’t register much to you unless you focus on them. You know the sounds of danger from the sounds of the loud and that’s all you really need to know. Rainbow noise guided you, filtering through all the memories that you have access to you, and anything less has no space in your life.

Quiet nights are eerie after years of noise and you are more than happy having Mikey hold you in bed while the world keeps going around you.

REM does not return after closing your eyes again and you concede to being awake. It isn’t awful, not with the way Mikey clutches onto you as he shuffles - head nuzzling into whatever crevice he can reach. You can tell he is waking.

He can never remain asleep if he feels you are awake. He struggles to remain in a plan of existence where you aren’t. He fights himself awake and you never know if you need to be concerned or flattered by it.

You watch the lights as they bounce off objects in your room before looking back at him. Blurry lines. Soft shapes. Calming motions as they dance back and forth. They are beautiful but you’d much rather look at Mikey.

He has an arm curled loosely over your side while the other is resting under the pillow you both were using. You both liked long thick pillows that went from one side of the bed to the other. A small commonality made sweeter by your domesticity. His hand is curled limply and you remember that he had been stroking your head when you had fallen asleep earlier.

The muted light makes his green skin lighter. Shadows dip into the crevices of his skin and scars, revealing texture you usually only can feel. There is a darkness under his jaw and around his eyebrow ridge. You find yourself tracing the lines of shadow and light with your eyes, hurling the idea that anything could be more captivating out of the window. His breath is steady but his eyes are twitching behind his eyelids.

You see his eyes open. Three blinks and he is awake. You are jealous of how easy it is for him to go from one state of being to the next. He falls asleep quickly and he awakens even quicker. Deep blue eyes find yours and he smiles, moving his arm to drag you the tiniest bit closer. His lips twitch as he draws slow circles in the space between your shoulder blades.

There is an ache in your body, a reminder of the way he had rushed into your apartment as soon as the sun was down. The impact into the wall. Manic energy. Breathless laughter as pent-up passion bubbled over.

Your fingers trace down the side of his face, dipping down from the line of his throat to the pools of his collarbones below his plastron. He churrs the tiniest bit in response and it sounds a lot like the noise he makes when you tease the skin of his neck between your teeth.

You can’t leave marks on him. His skin just doesn’t color the ways a human’s might. Its thicker. Denser. Darker. Scalier. You can’t leave scratches either. It was a bit disappointing to find this out but knowing that he’d enjoy your marks if he was able to have them seizes you in ways you have never experienced. You imagine lining little rouge starbursts down his next and across the broadness of his shoulders and the way he would walk around with them proudly. Red lines connecting red flowers like vines.

His eyes scan over you. He is visual.

Its not always like this. You and him alone. Some nights its you and Mikey and the ghosts that follow you both. There are eyes in the shadows and they have many names and you never know who you are speaking to. They lurk while he cleans his weapons in the living room. They boldly take a seat next to you while you watch a movie tucked under his arm. Some nights, you pull up a seat at the table and serve them as Mikey makes a joke about something that happened during your day.

They exist and they try to make their home in your spaces and they take a toll on the nights when you are too weary to kick them out. A mix-match of traumas that spiral and float and smother and linger.

Mikey doesn’t just wear his heart on his sleeve. He rips open his chest and holds the organ up into the light directly. Makes you watch as it beats and pulses and moves his lifeblood through his body. There are no questions about what he does, how he feels. He is on display by choice, flitting about vulnerable as if there are no monsters in the world he lives in.

But there are days where he wraps himself up behind a glass wall to separate himself from the rest of the world. Deep-rooted hopelessness drains his light, his strength a house of cards edging towards collapse. His voice cracks and wavers. Its never his fault. No one asks for trauma. No one asks to be too late. No one asks for the life he’s lived.

Only recently has a door appeared in the glass. He always tells you where the key is so you can open it. You make sure to crack open the door and wait for him to invite you in further. If he does, you sit inside with him. If he doesn’t, you sit outside and wait for the wall to come down.

And then there are the days where you are translucent. You look down at your body and see through it, faintly incorporeal. A ghost. Light bleeds through you as you walk under the sun. Intangible and lost. You don’t feel real even as your ribs ache and the steady stream of your heartbeat remains. All that exists is quiet breathing.

All your worst nightmares are of you reaching out to hold Mikey’s hand but it goes through him. You can’t grip onto him and he walks away because he can’t see you.

Mikey tells you that he sees you. He grips your hand and squeezes and pulls you in close on the off chance that you feel like your floating away. He won’t let you but he doesn’t begrudge your fear. No one asks for the life you’ve lived.

Jeers erupt from outside but neither of you flinch. You just lean closer into each other. Mikey runs his hand up and down your spine, eyes wet, and you are astounded once more how stubbornly he loves you. How intensely he feels for you. How he believes so much that you both are it. The endgame.

You wish you could take the shadows that live behind his eyes and demand they leave. “You can’t have him,” you imagine you’d say, “He is mine. And I’m not scared of you. I love him too much.” If that meant pulling a seat up for them in the living room and offering them a whiskey laced with intention, you’d do it.

Mikey’s hand slips under your night shirt, his palm flat against the skin of your back and you melt against him. You have studied those hands and all the ways they make you feel things and you exhale harshly and slowly so as to not disturb the rays of muted light.

“You doing okay?” Mikey asks, voice dripping with drowsiness despite the awareness present in his baby blues. “Its late. Or early. Whatever. Was it a nightmare?”

“No baby,” you respond, pressing your mouth against his beak, “No nightmares tonight.”

“Good.”

You press another kiss to his beak before ducking down a little and pressing another one to the side of his mouth. The arm under the blanket shifts. His fingers stroke your head.

There is a lull.

“I love you.”

Its comes out unexpectedly but you aren’t ashamed of it. He already knows. That relationship milestone has long since passed. Even so, the words are splintered, cracked around the edges and easy to be drowned out by the sounds of screeching tires on the road and idiots on the street.

But the impact is till the same. The look he gives you is blue fire and he guides you closer for a kiss. It starts off light, gentle, a nudge against your mouth but his fingers cradled the back of your head as he deepens it. “Love you too. So much” is mumbled as he presses further into you.

Arousal simmers on the back-burner as an afterthought. You had fucked hard earlier - a frenzy, a reconnection after a week of only facetime calls and voice memos that left you worked up and over. You know you will fuck again when the sun is up because Mikey loves starting the days off right when you are both in the same place.

Right now is the time to relearn the shape of his mouth as he kisses you lazily. You pull back slowly. You stare at him and he stares at you, movements slow.  

A beat.

Two.

Three.

“You remember the talks we had?” you whisper before you could stop, brushing your nose over his, “when we had just met? The ones that lasted days at time?”

“Yeah,” he responds, his voice low, “That was a long time ago but I do. I don’t think I could ever forget.” There are flashes of light behind his eyes and you know he remembers each call. Each text thread that was either memes or philosophical questions that had you trying to unearth the truth of the universe. Each conversation that spanned days because real life creates lulls between responses.

“I fell in love with you there,” you whisper back, “Somewhere in those calls, I turned over to look into the phone and realized that you were mine and there would never be anyone else for me.”

“Yeah?” its a soft question that, from the look on his face, doesn’t require an answer, “You too?” You nod anyway. He deserves to see it.

He grins.

“I’m glad that we took our time,” you continue, wiggling as his hand scratches at your back the tiniest bit, “I like that we are friends. I like that I can say “Mikey is my best friend” when they ask me about my boyfriend. I’m glad that I got the chance to like you.”

“I like you too angel,” he whispers, his voice getting softer, warmth bleeding in the spaces between words. Heat singes around his eyes, “I like you so much.”

You hold him tighter, “no one knows my soul like you do.”

Mikey surges forward to kiss you again, his hand running down from your back to the side of your thigh. He rolls you both so he is half on top of you, maneuvering a thigh between your legs and pressing your chests touch as he slips his tongue between your waiting lips. You arms reach up to rest along the broadness of his shoulders, fingers dancing along the lip of his shell.

When he pulls back, his breathing is harsh, “you know mine angel.”

There is a sense of peace with knowing that all your exposed parts are being kept safe. The storms pass. Smoke is cleared. Petrichor sweetens the air. The dead are laid to rest so flowers can grow on their remains. The sun is bright.

Between you, pleasure kindles slowly. Hands roam and tug and cup. Kisses are scattered like constellations. There are murmurs of praise and whispers of awe. Time blurs as you sink down into it.

Mikey brushes his lips along the side of your face as he glances as the clock, the sun peeking its head above the skyline from the window, “Do you want me now?”

“Now.” You punctuate the word with a roll of your hips against his thigh. “I want to feel you.”

He sighs under his breath, hands shifting you until you are where he wants you. Your night clothes are removed and dropped by the side of your bed. His shorts follow, landing right on top of yours. He nestles firmly between your open thighs. “Okay angel. You can have me. You can have everything.”

The vulnerability in his voice shakes you. The slide of his cock into you has you gripping onto him. He draws it out, indulgent in the way you stutter and writhe against him. Its a seamless fit, despite his size. You are still prepped from earlier, wet and accommodating, and he drips like a faucet.

Mikey had never known sex could be like this. He always expected that sex would be purely physically, a thing that couples did to feel good and sate any hormonal urges. No one ever told him about how it feels when hands grip onto him, leaving trails of sparks and comets and tingles across his body that linger for days. No one ever told him that his lovers moans could vibrate along his vertebrate and resonate in the parts of his unknown. The void in his chest fills with liquid gold when he hears his named sobbed against his skin.

You hadn’t known either.

And even though you both do now, even though you crave each other more fiercely than you crave air, it always feels new when you collide. Every sensation has been redefined. Vulnerability has never felt so powerful.

You cry as you feel his cock pulse inside of you as he bottoms out and grinds forward. He grunts, his arms keeping your hips flush against his.

“How do you always feel so good?” Words emphasized with deep thrusts. Hard, slow, tapering into a grind before pulling back out. ”Always so good for me. Meant for me. Made for me to love. Made to take me.”

“Yes,” you hiss back, breath hot against his neck. Mikey adjusts, one of his hands remaining on your hip while the other slides to grip your arms behind your back. He presses you flush against his plastron, back arched off the bed and supported by the strength in his arms as he holds you. “Meant for you. And you found me.”

The casual, effortless show of strength spreads a warm haziness across your mind. You lean into it.

“Fuck - Mi...I-” There are tears in your eyes as you gasp and shudder as Mikey picks up the pace. Without warning, your mouth is covered by his and you can feel his smile against yours. A laugh bubbles up from somewhere and tapers off as the kiss turns hungry.

“Shh I have you,” he gasps between his own pleasured noises, “I have you. You are safe here. What do you need?” His hand strokes along your face as he rocks into you. His voice is breathless but full of intent. “Tell me what you want.”

“Everything,” you babble as he grind right up against your good spot, “I want everything with you.”

He groans, breathing deep as the colors blur into shapes. He tucks his arm back under you, grinding harder, your clit catching along the hardness of his plastron. Your legs tremble around his hips. Mikey kisses you again before he ducks down to your neck and shoulder, his mouth hungry and burning. Ravenous.

Something about romance ignites a wildfire inside of Mikey. You exploit it as often as you can and he lets you because you both know that nothing is said without intent, without meaning. Honesty burns under your skin and shines through your eyes every time you press words of love into his skin like galaxies in a telescope. He basks in the attention. He worships under it.

In return, Mikey spills filth into your ears. The kind that shouldn’t be as sexy as it is but god does he know what you need to hear.

(”You feel perfect, hot and tight.”/ “I’m yours.”/ “I can feel you. You are real.”/ “I know, angel, I know. You’ve been wanting me so much. You need me. I need you too.”/ “I’m going to show you I love you. You’ll never doubt it. You’ll never doubt that I love you.”/ “Angel I’m not scared of your ghosts. They are scared of me.”/)

Mikey’s voice is serrated in ways no one but you have heard. Raw and carnal and deeper than most would expect, flashing dark around the edges the more passionate he gets, the more he reaches down inside of you to pull out the parts of you only he sees. 

You fall apart from the inside and can do nothing as the bottom drops out. You aren’t scared, not with the way Mikey holds you and chases away anything that could ruin this. His “I loves yous” bleed into your skin and you take hold of his pain and strangle it. There is no room for the grief and emptiness as violent tremors rack your bodies and hands cradle exposed hearts. The lights flash and dance as the decrescendo halts everything around you.

Heavy breathing fill the room. Whispered praise is soft and there is shuffling. You wipe each other down as best you can with the wet wipes you keep by the bed before pulling each other closer. The morning light is higher, peeking between the blinds and under the edges of the curtains. 

Eventually you’ll get out of bed. Clean up properly. Make food and spend time together with your clothes on. Relax in the knowledge that the day is a good one with no dark figures hanging in the corners, waiting to come in. But, thats for later.

For now, you lay close, breathing each other in. Hands are still roaming. No one has faded and there is no cold glass protecting warm skin. Mikey murmurs something and you smile. Your smile meets his smile and laughter joins in, glimmering in the light. You peck at his mouth and his fingers dig into the skin of your flesh before he grabs the comforter and hides you both underneath it.

Everything can wait. Just for a little longer. 

~~~~~

[trojc-rewrite]

The Rise of Jimmy Casket Rewrite, Chapter 5

Tw - Past Loss

——————————————————————————

The three of them reached the hotel room, and the first thing all three of them did was throw themselves on the mattresses. The room itself wasn’t too big, two queen sizes and a small loveseat, as well as a bathroom and a counter with a microwave and a coffee maker on it.

Toast sighed, lounging on the mattress. Ghost came out of the bathroom, wiping his hands off on his red t-shirt. He looked at him, wrinkling his nose. “At least shower before getting on the bed you dirty ass dope.” He said, frowning.

Toast laughed a small bit, sinking more into the bed. “Not like you’ve never been this dirty laying in bed sir.”

Spooker and Colon looked up slightly from their makeshift pillow fort, entertained by their conversation. Ghost gave him a snarky look, and sat down on the edge of the bed. He looked tired, but not as tired as Toast felt. His limbs felt so heavy, like weights holding him to the bed.

“Long day.” Ghost said finally, messing with a piece of torn thread. Toast nodded.

Spooker stirred from the other bed, a pillow squishing from under his weight. He cleared his voice quietly. “Hey, Ghost?”

Ghost looked over at him, raising a brow. “Yeah?” He asked, sounding somewhat irritated. Spooker ignored his tone, scooching himself forwards from the side of the bed.

“Why did you leave?” He asked softly, cuddling a pillow close to his chest. Ghost’s face went white, before turning red. His tired expression morphed into one of anxiety, avoiding eye contact with the ginger.

“Don’t feel forced to answer sir, you don’t have to-“. Ghost cut Toast off.

“No! No, I do want to tell you all, it’s just, hard.” He said slowly, processing his words. He gave Toast an apologetic look. “Sorry.”

Toast sat up, nodding. “It’s okay.”

The brunet nodded, and took a deep breath.

“I left to protect you all.” He started. “I was getting worse, something was wrong with me. There was this voice in my mind, like anxiety but so much worse. Violent, horrible thoughts. ‘I could kill him for you.’ And, ‘I can protect you.’. It was like the voice knew me.”

Ghost swallowed, Toast noticed him beginning to clench the blanket. He sat forward, fighting off the urge to touch him, he knew that touching him would only make him worse.

“I didn’t want to hurt any of you, even if you all deserve it sometimes. So, I left. To get help for the voice, I knew it wasn’t just anxiety. It was a thing. So, I read around, and got help. One exorcism type thing later, it’s gone.”

He sighed shakily. “The thing called itself Jimmy, and it was not happy that I got rid of it. Or I guess him, but he wasn’t just pissed. He seemed desperate, like, hurt and frantic.

He pleaded like he knew me, ‘No! You can’t get hurt! I have to protect you!’ His head bled, like it had a hole in it. It was horrible. I told him no, and he just.”

Ghost wiped his eyes, the event was hard for him to talk about and Toast wanted to shut it down, but he kept talking.

“He said, ‘Then I’ll make myself come back.’ And then he left. But I knew what he meant. He was coming after you, and the other two. I couldn’t let that happen to you guys, so I left to find you three.” Ghost finished, and looked at Toast with a tired look in his eye. “So that’s why I left.”

Silence hung in the air, thick with anxiety and confusion. And then, Colon jumped up suddenly from the bed, causing pillows to lurch off the mattress. “The scratches!” He cried, “The scratches, the fire, Gavin. It’s all connected!”

Ghost turned to him, his nose scrunched in confusion. “What? What happened that you three didn’t tell me?”

Colon grabbed Spooker, peeling the bandaid off of his neck. The wound was healing, red and scabbed over, with dried blood sticking to the skin. Spooker flailed, smacking his hands against Colon's arm. “We left because we had started seeing these cuts on each other, as well as other wounds like bruises and scratches. Toast has some, I have a big bruise, and this is Spooker’s wound. Toast decided it had something to do with you so we left. Admittedly, I didn’t believe him at first, but he was right.”

Ghost stared at him, wide eyed. “Okay, and about the fire?”

“Well, we were staying at this gross motel and then, we woke up and it was lit on fire. Like in flames. We escaped but that's how Toast got his wound.” Spooker explained, now removed from Colons grasp.

Toast nodded as Ghost turned to him. “Another bizarre thing; we checked out the wreckage in the morning, and in the wood were these green vein-like things. They were glowing.”

Colon settled on the edge of the bed, making eye contact with Toast. “I wonder if it wasn’t Gavin that started the fire. When he hit you on the bridge, he had those lime green flames. They looked almost identical to the ones at the fire site.”

Ghost sighed. “All this for an exorcism. Who does this Ghost think he is and why does he care so much about who’s head he’s in. If I were a ghost, I’d be happy as hell to leave somebody’s head.”

Toast shrugged, “To be honest with you sir, I would have no idea.”

Spooker looked at Toast, “That reminds me, Toast, that night of the fire you were having a weird dream. We could tell, you were whispering about some ‘Mary’ girl. What was that about?”

Toast stiffened, and Ghost’s face turned angry. He spun to Spooker, glaring, “Hey! Don’t you-“

“It’s all right sir, he doesn’t know. It’s not his fault.”

Toast blinked away tears, closing his hands softly around his ring. It took a few minutes to get the words out, they were stuck in his throat, struggling to leave.

“Mary was my wife.” He said quietly, breathing out. Spooker and Colon stared at him. His heart seemed to beat in slow motion, his stomach filled with grief. It had been years since her death, but every time the wound opened it bled again. He closed his eyes, trying to calm down. A few tears fell down his face and he bit his lip.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know. Toast I am so sorry.”

Spooker said quietly. Toast could hear him shuffle off the bed, and he could feel the bed's weight shift as he sat next to him. Ghost huffed quietly from beside him, but Toast was thankful when he didn’t raise an argument.

“It’s all right.” He said solemnly. Ghost sat closer to him, he could feel his best friend's warmth on his side, showing as much affection as he could muster in the moment.

“I bet she was amazing.” Spooker murmured. Toast smiled.

“She was. Her smile was as bright as the sun, and it made you feel warm from head to toe. She had these beautiful hazel eyes, so filled with love. She was beautiful, but her personality was even more beautiful. She was sweet, and caring. But she had that kick to her, sarcasm that could almost beat Ghost.”

Ghost stifled a small chuckle beside him, and Toast knew he was thinking about the time the two had a sarcasm match. Ghost had barely won.

“She would have liked you Spooker, she would’ve liked Colon too.”

Toast dried his tears, sniffling.

Ghost turned to him, his green eye round. “You okay?” He asked.

Toast nodded, “I’ll be okay sir. So, anyways, back to the mission.”

Colon snorted from the other bed, “We can worry about the mission in the morning. It’s late, you and Ghost just got done crying, and you’ve almost died twice in the last 24 hours. We all need sleep.”

Ghost nodded, “And we need to get you to a doctor tomorrow morning too. That leg looks bad, if we wait any longer you could need an amputation.”

Toast let out a groan, “But-“

Ghost shook his head, “Absolutely no buts. This is coming from me, Johnny. Sleep, then I’ll take you to the doctors.”

Spooker looked at Ghost with a confused face. “Can you even drive Ghost?” Ghost rolled his eye.

“Of course I can!” He snapped. “I just don’t most of the time because Toast offers too.” He slipped under the covers, snorting.

“Now shut off the light I’m going to bed.” Ghost grumbled, turning face down on the pillow.

“I’ll sleep on the love seat.” Toast got up, but Ghost grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him down back onto the mattress.

“No. Now get the fuck in bed and sleep.” Ghost demanded. Toast bit back an argument, and slipped under the cover.

Toast felt the warmth settle over him, immediately melting into the mattress. He felt so warm and at ease, like he’d never get up. Colon reached up and turned the fan off, the light going with it.

The air conditioning hummed quietly from the window, keeping Toast at the perfect temperature. Ghost flipped over in the bed, “Hey Toast.”

“Yes sir?” Toast whispered back to his friend.

Ghost shuffled under the covers, “I hope you sleep well.” He whispered awkwardly. Toast smiled.

“You too sir.” He chuckled.

Spooker leaned up in his bed, “Awwwwww.”

Ghost flipped over aggressively. “I’ll kick the shit out of you.” He threatened, throwing a pillow at him. Spooker dodged it, and Colon let out a yelp as it hit him instead.

“Not! Cool! Ghost!” Colon yelled.

Spooker laughed, “Yeah Ghost, don’t throw pillows at Colon.”

Ghost huffed and fell back into bed. Toast smiled so wide he thought his cheeks would fall off.

‘Together at last.’ He thought to himself. Tiredness overwhelmed him, dragging him into sleep.

——————————————————————————

POV - Toast’s wife is dead

[powerosewaterpuff]

YO ITS ME AGAIN , so um , some fear gas content in your au please , like fear gased dick and big bro jason comfort him

i genuinely have no excuse as to why this is so late, but oh my god school has been up my ass lately and i haven’t been able to get back into the groove of writing so I took this as an opportunity to build on that a bit. so tysm for the prompt! i rlly rly appreciate it hehe and again this had no excuse to be as late as it was ngl. but again this is my robin reversal au with jason being the oldest (i cant think of a good early hero name though ugh!) and dick being younger than him so enjoy! also so dick isn’t officially robin (he only does that when jason dies), but the persona still exists and he will join on major missions but bruce still has him in training so casual patrols are a no unless they have no other option for back up yk?

tw// there’s a slight mention of needles! it’s super short but i wanna be on the safe side as well as mild mention of cuts and scratches!

it took prodding. begging. and absolutely pleading to get bruce to agree to let jason and dick patrol together on their own. dick and or robin was not a constant on patrols with jason and bruce, as bruce wanted to ensure dick was fully equppied and trained before rushing into the field. it didn’t matter how much dick whined, or complained, or did as twice as many flipping kicks in training, the answer was always a solid no unless supervised or it was necessary. so it was a massive stretch to assume that bruce would agree to let them patrol together. they were practically in shock as bruce gave a nod after a few moments of silence. he even surprised himself. maybe it was the puppy eyed stare (mostly dick), or the reassurances that alfred would be on their comms the entire time, or even the full promise by jason that everything would be alright, but something made bruce say yes. more field training would be more than beneficial for dick anyways, (and that bright smile his youngest gave him and tight squeeze of a hug from his eldest didn’t hurt either).

the only promise jason was going to be able to fulfil was that scarecrow was going to rue the fucking day he decided to rear his ugly face out of arkham. it didn’t matter that bruce was beating the living shit out of him, holding no punches. jason was still brimming with rage. he hopped rooftop to rooftop, whipping his head around wildly as he searched for a fear gassed blur of neon colours. he wished he had been fucking a nanosecond faster, to reach out and pull dick from the blast of fear gas that swam through his nose and induced him in this fucking crazed frenzy. dick had just taken off his mask, right as jason was telling him to wait before bruce gave them the signal, and now jason was scouring the streets of gotham trying to find his brother. (he was going to fucking break scarecrow’s face, if bruce hadn’t already)

jason’s life was never one attributed with luck, it seemed like every possible slot in his pile was stacked firmly against him. except for when out of the corner of his vision he saw a stumbling mesh of a yellow cape climb onto a roof to his left. jason, took this as his initiative to attempt to stealthily sneak up next to dick, using his dark costume as an advantage.

he crept gently over to the building as he saw dick stumble onto his knees and he winced a bit as blood began to trickle down dick’s leg from the gashes beginning to form. dick was looking around wildly, almost in a desperate search for something. now, jason would’ve waited. he should’ve waited. bruce has drilled into his mind that dealing with victims of fear gas had to be done as meticulously and carefully as possible. dick shouldn’t have been any different, jason was able to hold to hold himself back. or he should’ve been able to.

it wasn’t until he saw dick scream out for his mother in a guttural rasp and leap towards the railings of the rooftop, did jason feel his legs take off as he stretched out, and managed to secure an arm around dick firmly. dick screeched even louder, wailing for his mother as he dug his nails into jason’s arms. jason gritted his teeth tightly but held on, because fuck that hurt. dick struggled and pushed, stamping his foot against jason’s leg and attempting to squirm out of his hold. but jason held on.

jason began attempting to reason with dick, he leaned his head down and gently placed it against dick’s. he murmured a bunch of fucking nothing as dick sobbed his throat raw. jason leaned closer to dick’s ear as dick began to shake in fear rather than anger and shut his eyes tight.

“dick? it’s jason, it’s just me. we’re on some fucking rooftop somewhere, and you are safe. okay? i’m holding you, and you’re safe, nothing is going to happen. bruce is gonna be here soon, and everything is going to be okay. i know you’re seeing god knows what, but i’m gonna get you out of this alright? i-i promise.”

jason couldn’t say he wasn’t dumbfounded when dick stopped angrily squirming around and began pressing his face into jason’s chest, with fat tears streaming down his face as he let out a wet sob. jason hesitantly wrapped his slightly bleeding arms around dick even tighter, curling up around him as he tried to push out the sound of dick’s sobs. he was never exactly good at dealing with dicks tears, he hated them so fucking much.

it didn’t take long for batman to arrive on the scene, but it was a scene he didn’t exactly like. his oldest son was cradling his youngest son as he heaved and sobbed. bruce silently stalked over, tapping jason on the shoulder as he waved his hands quietly, indicating that he could take dick off of his hands. jason was, not surprisingly, hesitant. (that untrustful hesitance was something, no matter how far jason did with his recovery, would always exist. that need to protect himself, or anyone he could care about no matter who it was against. that deeply rooted and innate need for self preservation, it marred jason’s soul with broad brush strokes. fading, but never leaving. )

jason almost shook himself into realization, realizing it was batman who was standing in front of him, and not someone of possible harm. he slowly unfurled his arms around dick, but was once again left dumbfounded when dick gripped onto the back of his uniform even tighter. the once muffled sobs got louder as dick desperately tried to hold onto jason. jason felt bruce’s stare, fucking digging into him, but he found himself not caring as he quickly curled back around dick. rocking back and forth, not bothering with the useless platitudes but keeping a firm lock on the back of dick’s neck and his waist. he peered up at batman and caught his gaze, and with a hushed agreement, they nodded at each other.

jason looped his arms around dick’s legs, his face twisting into a deeply set frown as dick’s sobs began morphing into hacking coughs, harsh and volatile. he managed to get himself standing upright as he pressed a kiss onto dick’s tear stained check, whilst still rubbing his back. the pain of others always had physically manifestions on jason. he fucking hated it. his mother would be splayed out on the couch, muttering incoherent fucking nonsense and jason would feel bile sting at the back of his throat, almost tempting him to kneel over and lurch as his body shook violently. and now, hearing dick’s fragmented breaths and shaky sobs, he felt like doing just that.

it had taken an effort, to get jason and dick safely off of the roof, and at the end bruce opted into scooping jason up who had dick clinging onto him like a koala, and simply carrying them both into the batmobile. alfred has already been long informed of the situation and had been able to promptly prepare an antidote that would be ready for their arrival. that did not mean, of course, that dick was compliant in taking the antidote. it took shushing and holding and soft whispers to get him to stop squirming enough for the needle to safely prick through his skin. alfred had opted to use little superman stickers afterwards, they were always dick’s favourite.

it had taken a while for dick to become conscious again, as alfred had added just a touch of sedatives to the antidote. just to help dick relax. when he did wake up, the world around him looking slightly fuzzy around the corners, he found himself encased in two sets of arms. was he in bruce’s bed? dick attempted to sit up but was met with a hand in his face pushing him back down, he turned his head to the side to be met with hazy lime green eyes and a lazy smile.

“dickie, sleep. now. you’ll wake up bruce— dont look at me like that he’s a light sleeper and you fucking know it. now go back to sleep, we’ll talk in the morning.”

“I just woke up though, why am I going back to slee-.”

“sh. your voice is too loud this early in the morning.”

“you’re so annoyin—and get your hand off of me!”

“make me—slapping my hand isn’t doing anything, bud.”

“shut up. i didn’t ask.”

“you’re still not making me”

“i’ll kick you.”

“do it. c’mon. do it right now.”

“fine—stop pinching my cheeks, jay! ow, ow, ow.”

“stop kicking me, then i’ll stop pinching.”

“that’s not fair! who made you the king of rules, assh-.”

“boys.”

“sorry bruce.”

“i’m sorry, B.”

“i’ll whoop your ass tomorrow.”

“I’d like to see you try, you old sack of bones.”

and with a roll of the eyes, a feathery soft kiss was pressed into dick’s forehead. a soft smile curled at dicks lips afterwards, a warm fire nestling in his heart drove the lingering hazy darkness away. dick nuzzled closer into the bed sheets as the two sets of arms encasing him only held on tighter. all curled under the fluffy bedsheets as the morning sun began to rise on the horizon, seeping through the cracks of the dark curtains as a kaleidoscope of colours painted the early morning sky.

fin.

i rlly should’ve made this longer with a little more detail but i haven’t gotten back into the groove of creative writing yet so take this with a grain of salt lmao. but anywho tysm for reading and tysm for the prompt! again i rlly wanna get back into creative writing so hopefully i’ll written sm shit? hopefully? maybe? idk? but again tysm for reading and i am so so sorry for how long this took :]!!

[ladyinsertnamehere]

Pelt

tw: unsympathetic Patton, abuse, Logan attempts to drown himself but is saved at the last minute, feel free to let me know what I should add

“Logie-bear!” The singsongy voice piped up behind him. His captor - er, his ‘boyfriend’ - was running down the length of the pier. Logan stared back down at his feet dangling over the edge, purposefully avoiding eye contact with the tall lanky figure that sat down next to him. “Whatcha doin’ out here?” Patton asked, putting his hand on Logan’s leg. “You shouldn’t be out here anyway - what would happen if you fell?”

Well, that was a good point. The water was a good way down, and Logan wasn’t sure he could swim in such deep waters. Well, he could, just not without —

Logan yelped as Patton squeezed his knee. He removed Patton’s hand from his leg and started swinging his feet more violently, staring at the crashing waves several feet below.

How he longed to be back down there, surrounded by icy water yet unfazed as the chill nipped at his nose. Twisting and gliding through the briny sea. He missed the feeling of fish scales in his sharp teeth. He ached for the feeling of transforming back. If only he could find his —

“Alright, Logie-Bogie, it’s time to go home.” Patton pulled on Logan’s sleeveless arm and heaved him back onto the beach.

The next evening, Logan was out on the beach, picking up shells and running his fingers over them, before tossing them back onto the sand. As he leaned down to pick up one in particular, another hand reached out at the same time.

“Oh! Sorry.��

“Ah, it’s okay, no problem.”

The stranger was pale as could be, with shoulder-length brown hair that had blond highlights peppered throughout. His lips were framed with a thin pencil mustache and prickly chin fuzz. His swimming trunks were lime green, and his legs were so dirty that you couldn’t tell where the sand ended and the freckles began. And his voice - OH! His VOICE! - it was so warm and deep, and so NICE.

Logan couldn’t just stand there, he had to do or say something. He looked down at the shell in his hands. “Ah! I suppose you...need this, don’t you?” he said, handing it to the stranger.

“Oh, no thanks, actually,” the stranger refused, “This one’s empty, I’m lookin’ for clams. You could keep it, if you like.”

Logan smiled as he scratched his fingernail along the ridges of the shell. This is something he liked doing since he was little. He’d come up onto the beach for an hour or so, and feel the shells in his hands. Then he’d return to the sea just in time for supper. Well, at least he did, until someone stole his —

“You’re the son of one of the fishermen, aren’t you?” Logan remembered, and the stranger nodded, pursing his lips. “Cool,” said Logan, and he stared down at the shell, shyly.

“Lo-Lo!” Patton’s voice called from a several yards away, “Who’s that you’re with? Do you know him?”

“Sorry, I’ve gotta go!” Logan turned and ran towards Patton as the stranger shouted a farewell at him.

Patton gripped Logan’s arm forcefully and scolded through his teeth, “WHAT did I tell you about speaking to strange boys?” Logan muttered an apology as his captor - no, boyfriend - dragged him home.

A few days after that, Patton had taken Logan to a small diner. Not a fancy restaurant in the slightest, just a joint on the boardwalk where you could get soda and burgers and fries, even a milkshake if you had the money. Patton was in the bathroom and Logan was scrunching and stretching his dark blue tee that he begged Patton to get him. The movement of the fabric reminded him of the sea, and the shirt was soft and form-fitting enough that it reminded him of his —

“Clam man!” Logan exclaimed happily as the stranger he met a few days ago slid into the booth opposite him.

“Well, I usually go by Remus,” he laughed, as Logan’s heart skipped a beat, “But clam man is fine too.”

“Oh,” Logan had just remembered he never introduced himself to Remus, “I’m Logan.” He extended his hand to shake.

For the next few minutes they exchanged pleasantries and talked about Remus’s father’s fishing business and Remus going out day after day to collect clams. Soon Patton came back from the bathroom and slid into the booth next to Logan. “Oh! Who’s this, Logie-poo?” Patton asked, making Remus giggle. “I met him on the beach the other day,” Logan explained, “His name’s Remus.”

“‘sa pleasure to meet you, mister...”

“Patton,” he finished Remus’s sentence, “Call me Patton. I assume you’ve met my Logie-Bear?”

Logan zoned out while the two of them spoke, leg bouncing. He looked intently at the salt and pepper shakers and tried to remember the home he had lost so long ago. He forced himself to imagine clearly the twisting and turning of the fish in the water. It has been so long that Logan was struggling to remember what it felt like. Oh, he desperately needed to find and steal back his —

“Yeah, my brother Roman doesn’t really care for the family business, so he’s gone into fashion design, and I’m really proud of him. He even runs a little shop not far from here that specializes in plus-sized clothing -“

“Oh!” Patton squeaked, then turned to his boyfriend, “Y’hear that, Lo-lo?” He playfully squished his boyfriend’s pudge. Logan had to bite his hand to keep from laughing - if Patton knew it tickled, he wasn’t going to stop tickling him.

“Hey, I’ve got a fabric that your brother would LOVE,” Patton told Remus, “It’s the most beautiful sealskin you’ll ever see!”

Logan’s heart caught in his throat. Sealskin. Patton wasn’t a hunter, and he didn’t keep sealskin around the house, except for Logan’s pe—

“Oh, no, no, his clothes are a strictly ethical line. No animal skin.”

“Awh, bummer,” Patton sounded genuinely dejected, “but I understand where he’s coming from.”

Before Logan had time to breathe a sigh of relief, Patton piped up again: “Hey, even if he won’t take it, I’m sure you can wrap it around you to protect you from the cold?”

Remus refused, but Patton persisted. Logan’s breath quickened. He excused himself from the table, bolted out the door and made a beeline for the pier.

He stripped off his shirt and his shoes and his pants as he made his way toward the water. Even if he couldn’t go home, maybe he’d just...drown. He steadied himself a few seconds and took one final breath before he jumped —

And got pulled right back again. Remus had followed him out, and had grabbed him from behind, wrapping his arms around Logan.

“Woah, there, buddy,” Remus exclaimed as he hauled Logan back into the pier. “Something wrong?”

Logan tried to say something calmly, but he could already feel tears streaming down his cheeks. “I just wanna go home,” he sobbed.

“Alright,” Remus replied softly, “I’ll get Patton and-“

“NO!” Logan exclaimed. Remus was clearly not understanding him. “Not home with Patton!” He stared out into the sea, sobbing more, “I want to go home.”

Logan had been looking away from Remus, but it was almost as if he heard it click for him. His father had told him about selkies, and he himself had caught a glimpse of one transforming once. “Oh. Well,” Remus put his hand in Logan’s, “Looks like I’ll have to take Patton up on his offer for that...um, sealskin.”

“You will be doing no such thing,” came a startlingly firm voice from behind. Patton had finally decided to catch up to the two of them. He grabbed Remus by the shoulders and hauled him into the water below.

“NO!” Logan screamed, watching him fall. Patton forcefully took his boyfriend’s hand and dragged him back along the pier.

Patton threw Logan into the house and slammed the door.

“What was that?” Patton’s voice was no longer sweet and friendly. “How DARE you betray me like that?”

Logan stuttered and stammered but was met with a hard slap to the face. Patton did NOT look happy.

“Go get some clothes on, and STAY in that room until I let you out!” Patton ordered. Fearing more violence, Logan scurried into the shared bedroom.

They both heard the knock at the door - Patton from the kitchen, and Logan muffled from the bedroom. Logan then heard the door be opened, someone being slammed against a wall, and then shouts and threats he couldn’t understand. Soon, the bedroom door clicked open, and Remus barged in, knelt down by the bed, and hauled out a safe from under it. He twisted the combination lock back and forth until it clicked and opened the door. He tossed the fuzzy mass of grey towards Logan.

His pelt!

Remus grasped Logan’s hand, and Logan immediately understood that it was time for them to run now.

Remus led him through the living room where Logan saw a similar-looking man (most likely Remus’s brother) pinning a fighting Patton to the wall in anger. Logan didn’t have much time to see the blood dripping out of Patton’s nose before hurrying out the door.

The two of them made it to the beach, and only then did Remus turn to Logan.

“Take your clothes off.”

“What?”

“Oh - I can turn away if you want. Take your clothes off so you can slip your skinsuit on.”

“Don’t call it that.”

“Just start taking your shirt off.” Remus handed Logan the seal pelt and turned away, covering his eyes with his hands.

Logan did as he was told, taking off his shirt and his pants and his underwear and pulling the pelt on over his legs. The velvety skin fit snugly over his body, just like it did when he first came out of the water.

“Hey,” Logan suddenly said. Remus turned around, hand still over his eyes, though peeking through his fingers.

“What’s gonna happen to Patton?”

“I’ll deal with the legal repercussions later.”

“I can’t just leave you here like that.”

“It’ll be okay, maybe we’ll see each other again some time.”

Logan paused a moment. “I guess...thank you.”

Remus smiled in return.

Remus watched as Logan pulled the pelt the rest of the way up. The stretch marks on his stomach and sides lined up perfectly with the dark spots on the sealskin. Logan waddled a little way into the water, pulled the skin over his head, and dove into the sea.

[honey-makki]

If It Could Have Been Me

Characters: Nishinoya Yuu X Fem!Reader

Summary: “Why do we desire, above all other things, that which has the greatest power to destroy us?”

Warnings: like two curse words

Song: the 1- taylor swift

Genre: angst, past loves

Word Count: 2k+

A/N: first and foremost i am a folklore gay. second i am so sorry for this i do not know why i was inclined to write 2k+ words of noya angst but i was, so here you go.

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

Picking up your drink at the bar, you head back to the table with your friends. The sting of tequila isn’t completely covered by the ginger beer, but that’s your favorite part, the slight pain that comes with having fun. Laughing into your mug you muse on how that's been a common theme in your life. Sprained ankles from volleyball, getting a little too drunk at a party, stung by a jellyfish at the beach, and him. 

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

Saying that you met Nishinoya wouldn’t be completely accurate. He was late and running to practice, changing on the way after being hung up by his teacher. You were buried nose deep in your diary writing about your weekend plans. Were. You were looking at your diary but now you are on the ground laying next to a man who curiously was half dressed and had a tshirt stuck on his head. He turned, you think, to look at you and apologize but turned the wrong way. The absurdity of this situation reduced you to giggles which turned in deep laughter. You reached up to help him get his shirt on, but only after glimpsing over his toned body. 

His brown eyes crinkled together, paired with a shining smile that matched yours. Jumping up, he reaches down to help you up. You take his hand and notice he already has your diary in his other hand. “Hi, uh, I’m sorry for running into you, especially when I wasn’t even fully dressed. My name is Nishinoya and I’m a third year. I have to run to volleyball practice but here is your diary.” The words seem to flow freely out of his mouth, getting increasingly faster as the sentence goes on. “I didn’t mean to see anything but I did see that you don’t have weekend plans, can I make this up to you by taking you out for coffee?” 

You nod your head slowly, overwhelmed, and he smiles and scratches the back of his neck. “Cool, wanna meet at Sakanoshita Store at 11 tomorrow?” You haven’t stopped nodding but another smile encaptures your face. “Alright, I’ll see you then!” And with that he rushes off with a jump in his step

Realizing that you never gave him your name you called out, “Hey, Wait my name is Y/N. Y/N Y/LN!” He turns around, gives you a thumbs up and keeps running, narrowly missing a wall. With a laugh, you head on home, with the beat of your heart in your ears. He was a whirlwind and you were at his mercy already.

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

You find yourself back at the bar, trying to get the bartender's attention. A tall, dark and annoying man on your left and short, loud and trashed one on your left. You just want a drink, not a man hitting on you, not a man touching you. The longer you are here the more alcohol you need, and by the time the bartender gets there you order the usual and a shot for both you and him with a wink. Lime chasing the burn of tequila in your throat, eyeing the bartender trying to decide if that was going to be your choice of pain tonight. 

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

Saturday rolls around, and suddenly it's 8pm. You two spent hours at the cafe laughing about embarrassing stories, talking about your dreams and soaking up everything you could about the other person. Noya leads you out by the hand at closing time, not wanting the day to end but not having an excuse to stay with you. 

You take the lead pulling him down the road skipping, surprisingly enough he joins in until you reach a stop at a park. The fountain lit faintly with lights, the playground dark and the place was utterly empty. You both started blush with that realization but neither of you notice the other since you are too nervous to look. You might have learned about his dreams today, but it was light, it was populated and it was not as personal as this.

You let go of his hand and head over to the swings on the playground. Once you sit, you see Noya still standing there in front of the fountain, “Hey, Noya, wanna push me on the swing?” you call a little louder than you probably needed to for how silent the park is. 

He turns around with a grin, “I would be honored to push you on the swing, Y/N”. another hour passes of y’all taking turns pushing each other on the swing and eventually settling into two individual ones. The tension seems to be building between the two of you as the night draws to a close, he gets up from his swing, and before you can follow, his hands grip the chains and he leans down to look at you. “Hey, Y/N, I’m really happy you agreed to come out with me today,” giggling he adds, “there isn’t anyone else I would have wanted to run into in the hallway.”

Looking up at him you feel warm, you don’t think it's due to a blush, but rather just happiness that you have from being around him. The light he radiates makes the park seem like 4 in the afternoon, not 9pm. Wanting to reciprocate the feeling, but having a lump in your throat, you reach up, brushing his blond bangs out of his eyes and rest your hands on his cheeks. Your hands warm up the longer they are there due to his maddeningly adorable blush. You take the opportunity to lean up for a chaste kiss. 

After an embarrassingly long time kissing at the swings, you head back over to the fountain on your way out of the park. You reach in your purse for some pennies, giving him one and retaining one in your hand. “Close your eyes and make your wish and then toss it in. It’ll come true if you believe hard enough” you whisper more to yourself than him. I hope that Noya and I love each other one day. Little did you know that this wish wasn’t precise enough. 

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

Fists buried in the sheets, eyes blown out, chasing your high. Well, that’s what you are pretending is happening, but really the bartender just wants to get his dick wet with little regard for the other party involved. Tired of acting, you manage to flip him over, and ride him until you reach orgasm. The orgasm wasn’t even worth the amount of effort that was involved, you think about while getting dressed to leave. Bruises are already starting to form on your hips, muscles tight, but hey, what is a little bit of fun without some pain?

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

Every date you went on with Noya ended with you at a park, throwing pennies in the fountain. Your wish evolved over time as did your relationship. You didn’t even realize your feelings until you wished to stay in love. The penny plopping into water pulled you out of your mind and you immediately turned to him. Words tumbling out of your mouth, genuine but nervous, “Hey babe, I love you. It’s ok you don’t have to say it back right now, but I would feel weird realizing it here and not saying it. This place just seems special--.”

He cuts you off with a deep kiss, something that feels different. Passionate, warm, all encompassing.Your bodies are flush together, arms around waists, hands in hair, mouth on mouth. His love is almost blinding, hot to the touch, but you can’t get enough. He’s the sun and you are a planet, dependent on each other for purpose.

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

The next morning you get a call from Kiyoko asking if you would be her Maid of Honor. With a tired smile, you muster all the enthusiasm you can and agree stating that you would love to do so and look forward to helping with any preparations. You’ve never heard Kiyoko have as much enthusiasm and nerves as she did on that call. Helping her and standing there with her will be one of your life’s greatest honors but it hurts knowing she’s marrying Tanaka and that you’ll have to see him. Hell, if your friendship with Tanaka is consistent, then Noya will probably be the best man, with that thought and a deep groan you roll back over to sleep off your hangover and regret for last night. 

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

Months with Nishinoya fly by faster than you expected. Its dizzying, its deep, its reckless, its fearless, its love. Getting kicked out of theaters for being too loud, playing pranks on mutual friends, late nights spent under the stars together. Deep love isn’t easy love. There are arguments about the time, or lack of, that you spend together, about the future, about how serious this is. Do you have congruent dreams? Do you respect each other in the same way? Do you think they are the one?

One night, you are standing in front of the playground from your first date, tears streaming down your face, his already dried and looking frustrated now. Words soaked in anger, edging on vitriol flowing out of your mouth, “How the fuck do you expect me to feel when we haven't had time to hang out in 2 weeks, you barely respond to my texts and I see you studying with someone that you know has a massive crush on you?” Just thinking about it, you start shaking your head out of anger, “I’m the top of our class! I’ve always helped you with any assignments or concepts and you know I don’t mind. So why were you with her?”

“Y/N you know that we’ve been prepping for nationals and as vice captain, I have additional duties. I didn't want the only time we spent together to be you tutoring me. I don’t want you to think less of me because I’m not as smart as you,” his voice with increasing ire and face is red. You aren't sure if it's out of embarrassment or anger, but you know that you never want him to feel either of those things when he's with you. 

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

Between preparations for the wedding and your heavy workload, you've been so busy that you barely have time to think. You wish you didn’t have any time to think because every spare moment is spent in your favorite memories. Nights with Noya under the stars, in the parks, screaming to the music in your car, cheering him on at nationals. We were something and boy it would still be fun if you would've been the one, you reflect while putting together centerpieces for the reception in Kiyoko’s living room. 

Not wanting to be too obvious, you ask Kiyoko about the bridal party and what each of them are up to, starting with the bridesmaids. When he is the only one left you let out a small laugh and say, “I bet he’s up to some cool shit, still taking every day as an adventure.” Kiyoko looks at your wistful smile, eyes lost in memories, on the brink of a few tears. She knows what happened. She knows that your love was deep, it was enviable, edging on brutal and it burned brighter than the brightest star.

She also knows how it wasn’t meant to be. That to you two, to love is to destroy and in that destruction you felt truly alive. The passion you felt slowly consumed both of you until there was nothing left. Your love couldn’t be contained, and it was just something that neither of you wanted to fight hard enough for. He wasn’t the one but that didn’t matter in the moment because, humans will destroy themselves before they will recognize a simple truth. 

Your desire for the things that have the power to ruin you is barely managed by the passage of time. The further away he is, the easier it is to push the memories down just past the point of wanting to create new memories, to being nostalgic about the old ones. you have no regrets about the time you spent with him, except that your last wish in the fountain wasn’t I wish Nishinoya was the one.

Tags: @lydzisanerd​ @shiggywiggy​ @nonexistent-social-life​ 

[sourbat]

#6 Pickleface, please!

Tongue-tied 

enjoy :)

It’s nearing one in the morning, and Pickles is flipping through the channels, heel tapping through the line of infomercials with the steady hum and beat that echoes with the drum of Murderface’s fingers against his stomach. Coffee, booze, weed and just about every brand of chip and candied popcorn known to man litters the surrounding couch. The blanket once shared between them now clutters the floor, pooled mainly around Murderface’s feet.

Murderface sees a flash of red on the screen and spits up a bit of his drink. He points a finger. “Hey, shtop there!”

Pickles lifts his heel. “Here?”

“Nah, nah! Go back a few channels!” Murderface says, then grabs at the near-empty bowl of caramel corn. “I shink I shaw your fashe…”

“Oh, great,” Pickles mutters sarcastically, but a twinkle in his eyes tells Murderface he’s already looking forward to whatever insults the guy has in store for him. He presses his arched foot onto the pedal, goes back a few channels till Murderface stops him with a shake of the arm. Pickles slaps his hand away once he settles. “Alrighty, what’s the damage this time?”

A boring, late night documentary on the history of glam rock, starring a bunch of no-names who likely majored in music appreciation and realized the only way anyone was going to bother listening to them was to mask their fancy words with flashy images of bands Pickles barely remembers from his youthful days. His tongue drags against the top row of his teeth, tracing the shape of his left incisor while Murderface insults the jackoff with the thick-rimmed glasses donning long, poorly dyed hair.  

“What a fuckin’ tool,” Pickles comments, earning a loud cackle from Murderface. 

“For real,” Murderface agrees, then reaches for the bong situated near the edge of the table, and prepares himself a hit.

Pickles is in the middle of grabbing the discarded blanket when he catches the man fingering the bowl. “Oh, lemme have a bit when yer’ done,” he says, thinking he’s got another half-hour in him before passing out for dreamland. He glances at Murderface’s slightly protruding stomach and already fantasizes resting on it right once he’s finished getting stoned.  

Murderface flicks the lighter awake. “Shure thing, dude.” 

Then pops a frontline image of Snakes N’ Barrels, and as the screen is hit with a blast of smoke, Pickles hears the usual spiel from the narrators who try to come off more progressive than necessary. Some rando brings up how brave Pickles was for coming out before anyone else, how he was a pioneer for queer representation, what a badass he was for performing right after surgery, blah, blah, same old shit. Pickles takes a deep hit once he’s handed the bong, smiling inwardly as the words on the screen start to blur and intermingle with Murderface’s less than forgiving commentary. A thick finger waves at a much younger, shirtless Pickles posed with an albino anaconda, and the guy nearly retches a cough before breaking into a lisped series of predictable penis jokes. Pickles holds his breath through it, letting the smoke kill whatever reasonable thought he has before spewing it in the direction of a ceiling.

“Not bad.” Murderface compliments the solid twirl of smoke as Pickles places the bong back on the table, slumps back into the cushion, then slides further on his right, falling on top of Murderface’s side.

Pickles eyes settle on a debut poster for Snakes N’ Barrel’s summer tour across Asia, and as the nobody historian, musician-whatever dude talks about how androgyny played a role in levelling the field for women performers, Murderface utters a steady whistle.   

“Damn, you’re sho hot in that picture!”

“Thanks, was like…half my age back when I posed fer that,” Pickles comments. High on weed, sugar and nostalgia, Pickles stares at the dying image of his younger counterpart shifting into that of an all-female metal band, and sinks further, head now resting on Murderface’s arm. “Dang, I used t’ be a real hottie.”

Murderface ceases sorting through the caramel corn for chunks of crystalized nuts and turns to face Pickles. “Ushed to?” he asks rhetorically. “Dude, you’re shtill hot.” He rolls his shoulder, stirring Pickles to sit upright. Murderface sets the bowl aside and reclines into the corner of the sofa. “Getting the dreads wash the besht deshision ya did,” he says as Pickles drags some fingers down the corner of his eye.

A tired laugh. “Doesn’ help much against the baldin’.”

“Yeah, but look at you,” Murderface says, gesturing at Pickles’ arm. “You got bad-ash dreads, larger muschle mash, and your levels are conshtant now so you getta keep that goatee!”

Pickles rubs the bridge of his nose. “Thanks.”

Murderface leans in as Pickles reopens his reddened eyes, grim eyes shifting to a more suggestive stare. “You know I like your goatee.”

“I know.”

“Sh’real good look on you.” Murderface withdraws a little, rubs the back of his neck as his eyes settle on their covered toes, then adds, “Err, it’sh rugged.”

“Heh, thanks.” Flattered, Pickles brings hand to his goatee, tugs and smiles against the resistance of a full beard.

“Wish I could grow a beard,” Murderface mutters, mirroring Pickles’ movement with his own, and dragging his massive hand across his jawline. “Anyshing I grow comesh up uneven.”

“Nah, dood, yer’ good,” Pickles insists with a short jab of the elbow. “Ya’ aged fine. Yer’ rockin’ the ‘stache.”

“And a beer gut,” Murderface remarks, hands dropping to pat the exposed stomach peeking through shorts and a slightly raised shirt. With the atmosphere covered in a veil of smoke, and Pickles and Murderface already so high, it was impossible to read the words and tone and figure if Murderface was joking or not. Pickles, lacking forethought and a filter, assumes the former. Even at his best, William can be a critical, self-judgmental bastard. 

Pickles drops on his hands, rolls his red eyes and shakes his head at Murderface. “Whaddya talkin’ about, dood? That's the best part of you!”

Murderface frowns. “What?”

Pickles raises a finger at Murderface. “Ya used t’ be a skinny, insecure baby-face!” He snickers a wide grin, then jabs his finger at the round gut. “Now yer a real man,” he says, opting to pause and enjoy the gentle quake of William’s stomach, and raises his eyes to the widening lime-colored irises dilating at his remark. Pickles laughs. “A real man with a sharp tongue, good humor, thick-ass mustache and… soft pillow fer a gut!”

“O-oh, well.” Murderface produces that humble, shy smile he only dares to express when it’s just the two of them.

Pickles eats it up and pushes further. “I mean, ya may not be as manly as this work of art,” he adds, gesturing at himself and earning an exaggerated eye roll from Murderface, “but yer perfectly fine fer snugglin’.” 

Even in the dark of the room, and the hazy veil layering Pickles’ vision, he can make out the start of an uncontrolled blush.

Murderface opens his mouth, but only nervous chuckles come out. He scratches the back of his head again, raising a lax shoulder in the process and steering his eyes away as he struggles to add on to the piling list of compliments. Picking on the man’s lowering defenses, Pickles slumps further, arms sliding and body lowering, closing the gap until his head rests comfortably on top of Murderface’s stomach.

He feels Muederface twitch beneath him. 

“Look at me, Will,” Pickles says, and unleashes a mean snicker once Murderface drops to meet his lazy stare. The man’s definitely blushing now, and to top it off, he’s at a loss for words. His lips are curled in, fighting between a frown because he can’t think of anything to say, and a widening grin because he knows what Pickles is going to tell him.

So he says it. 

Pickles chuckles up at Murderface. “Ya’ know how I feel ‘bout my pillow.”

Some old broad shows her face to the camera. She narrates over some basic-ass music and talks about some band neither men recognize. A face of some unknown singer pops up, and Pickles yawns, flutters his heavy eyelids and brings the blanket up to his shoulders as he stares mindlessly at the screen. Murderface is nice and warm tonight, he thinks, and welcomes the cozy embrace of a cannabis-induced sleep. Underneath, he senses Murderface’s slowed breathing in the form of gentle rises and falls, and before he passes out for the night, feels something rough and wet press against his cheek.

[mischiefandi]

10, 11, 3 please! With a portion of Stiles Stilinski.💜also so glad you’re back!!!!!!

10. “You know you always do this-…”

11. “Wanna play a game?” “I don’t like games.” “You’d like this one.”

3. “So…about last night.”

Warnings: mentions of drinking and sex

A/N: ty love!! I'm so excited to start writing again on here, it’s been so long. thank you for your lovely ask and I hope you enjoy the blurb <33

blurb timeee (1k):

Rock music blasted through the bar speakers as Y/N slowly stirred her drink with her straw, metal occasionally meeting glass with a soft clink. She stared down at her almost empty beverage and sighed quietly. It had been a long night. 

Why, you ask?

Well, third-wheeling can often-times either be irritating, tiring, or a pain in your ass. Scratch that, it’s all of the above. 

Y/N had just spent all night holding her tipsy friend’s purse as she made out with her new boyfriend, the pair sucking each other’s lips off like a couple of blowfish. They just couldn’t keep their hands off of each other, the party-goers beside them awkwardly trying to ignore the not-so-PG-13 scene unraveling before them. This wouldn’t have been a problem if Y/N had had a special someone to keep her company, but it had been months since her last date, and she was alone. Completely, and utterly alone. 

She groaned and let her head fall onto the bar in front of her, hissing at the impact, a soft throb erupting in her forehead. 

“I see your mood hasn’t changed since the last time we saw each other,” a voice spoke, and her eyes widened. She would recognise that voice anywhere. 

“What are you doing here?” she asked sharply, looking up at the man she hadn’t seen in months. His amber eyes bore into hers and he smirked at the sound of her question, sliding into the seat beside her. 

“I’m just enjoying a Friday night after a long day’s work,” he answered, still smirking. 

“Did you know I was coming here? Did Amy tell you?” Y/N insisted dryly. 

The young man, straightened his tie and looked over at the dance floor, his gaze landing on the aforementioned brunette sliding up and down her lover. He turned back to Y/N with a grin. 

“I’m not even sure she knows you’re here,” he scoffed. 

Y/N rolled her eyes and pushed back her stool, ready to walk out the door and not look back. But he gently grabbed her arm, stopping her in her tracks.

“No, wait, come on, stay. What’s the worst that can happen?” he pleaded. 

“You know, Stiles, just talking to you’s already pretty bad.” 

“You always did have a flair for the dramatic-” Stiles started but quickly stopped at the sight of her glare. “-I’ll play nice. Please, I’ll even buy you a drink for your trouble.”

Y/N hesitantly looked at her ex, weighing her options. On the one hand, their relationship had ended quite badly, in fact it had taken months for her to get over him and the hurt he had caused. But on the other, she still cared about him, a lot, and she had thrown back quite a few drinks. Finally, she sat back down and took a hold of her straw once more, her eyes resting on her empty glass. 

Stiles sighed with relief and flagged down the bartender. 

“A beer and a cosmopolitan on the rocks, and could you make it with two lime wedges? Thanks.”

Y/N slowly turned her head to him in confusion. 

“You remember my order?”

“I mean, it’s pretty standard. You just like it with more limes.” 

She nodded just as the bartender placed the drinks before her and Stiles. 

“So, why did you want me to stay so bad?” she asked as she took a sip of her cosmo, the liquid soothing her nerves. 

“Wanna play a game?” he replied. 

She scoffed and shook her head. “I don’t like games.”

“You’d like this one.”

“Hm, let me rephrase. I don’t like your games.”

“Shocking. I thought you liked assholes like me.”

“Stiles, I’m seriously not in the mood for whatever this is.”

“Come on, you haven’t missed this? You used to love it when I pushed your buttons.”

“God, you know you always do this. You provoke me and you make your little jokes, because you’re too afraid to actually say what you mean. You’ve always been so scared of being honest and you cover it up with your stupid banter. Well I’m not gonna let you do that anymore,” she said, struggling to keep her voice down as her vivid emotions bubbled inside of her. 

Stiles looked at her, his lips pursed into a soft grin.

“What are you smiling at?” she snapped. 

“No one knows me like you do,” he answered, still grinning at her. 

“Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you spend months in a relationship with someone. You tend to notice things like that.” 

“I know you too.”

“Right, like you payed attention.” 

“I did,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically serious. “I know you hum to yourself when you make breakfast. I know you wrinkle your nose when you smell something you recognise. But more importantly, I know you’re devoted to your work and to your friends and family. I know you hate dishonesty and you value respect over everything else. I know you hate me for being so immature when we were together. I know you deserve much better than what I gave you back then.”

Y/N watched him, tiny pearls of water forming in the corners of her eyes and she struggled not to let them spill. After a pause, she finally spoke, her voice cracking with emotion. 

“Wh-why are you here?”

“Because I also know you’ve been waiting for me to come back.”

“How?”

Stiles smirked and nodded towards the brunette still dancing the night away in the back of the bar. 

“I knew it,” Y/N whispered, her glistening eyes still fixated on the man she had loved so dearly.

“Am I wrong?” Stiles asked, his voice hoarse as his face somehow got closer to hers.

She shook her head and inched her face closer, their noses grazing before he dove in and pressed his lonely lips to hers, pulling a soft gasp from her mouth. She welcomed him in a warm embrace, ignoring the music and the lights and the chatter, melting into his familiar kiss. 

The next morning

Y/N opened her eyes, the sunlight peering through the curtains forcing her to shut them almost immediately. Groaning she rolled onto her side, her bare chest meeting someone else’s. 

“Good morning, stranger,” she mumbled lazily. 

Warm arms wrapped around her naked body, pulling her into a peaceful embrace. 

“I missed waking up like this,” Stiles replied, his heart beating steadily. 

“So...about last night...” 

“I don’t want this to be just a one-time thing. Do you?”

Y/N reassuringly smiled up at her lover and shook her head. 

“I don’t either.”

“Okay, good.” 

The pair lay in silence until Y/N spoke again. 

“Did you really change?” she asked, doubt seeping in. 

Stiles looked down at her and placed a soft kiss on her delicious lips before answering. 

“I only came back once I knew I was ready to do better. All I ask is that you give me a chance to prove it to you.”

Y/N nodded with a grin. 

“Sounds good to me.”

hope you enjoyed this! I had fun writing it <3 thank you again for your request, lots of loveee

[lilibug--xx]

Kayla my love! You deserve 10x the amount of followers but I will celebrate nonetheless. For a fic prompt, how about Betty/Veronica with 13 or 38? And obviously I've been naughty.

(@veronica–luna Paige! You are too cute for words and I love you. I went with 38!)

It started out slow. 

Granted, they kissed before they ever really became friends to begin with. Veronica always liked to do things for spite, and it didn’t even phase her to kiss Betty in front of the cheerleading squad while Cheryl watched on with a sour face. 

But it landed them on the squad in the end, a little more push and shove to it but Betty was busy wiping Veronica’s lipstick off her lips with the claw of her fingers—too stuck on what it felt like than the reason behind it. 

Then it was a hand on her arm, fingers straightening a wrinkle, nails scratching through her scalp as she re-did her ponytail, the bump of their shoulders sitting close together—the smell of expensive perfume that lingered even in her dreams. 

Seven minutes in heaven at Cheryl’s house on the night of Homecoming changed everything and nothing when she spun the bottle and it landed on Veronica. They walked out of the closet with the same color lips and this time Betty didn’t bother scraping it away. 

“What’s the harm in a kiss?” Veronica shrugs over her salad the following Monday, when Kevin inquires about what happened during their time. 

His eyebrows rise the same amount that Betty shrinks in her seat. 

“Everything?” he challenges, with a tilt of his head in Betty’s direction. She can feel the bump of his knee against hers but she doesn’t look up from where she was picking at the skin of her apple. 

“We’re just friends, Kev.” Veronica rolls her eyes, stabbing a slice of cucumber on the end of her fork and crunching down on it, her lips a perfect burgundy. “I used to kiss my girlfriends all the time in New York." 

"Your girlfriends—" 

"Not like that,” she waves her fork at him. “Maybe it’s just a posh thing." 

"Maybe it’s a rich kids with nothing better to do thing,” Kevin offers a little quieter, a touch of resentment in the way he hunched over the table. 

“Oh we had plenty of better things to do, I’m sure. Riverdale is so droll in comparison." 

They let it drop when Archie joins them at the table, his guitar provoking more questions than the ones still fluttering around in Betty’s stomach. She’s not sure why, but she can’t eat the rest of her lunch when she notices Veronica’s hand on his thigh under the table. 

The next thing she knows is it’s Christmas and even though Veronica isn’t supposed to have any money, she still does by anyone else’s standards and it hurts when Betty opens her gift. 

An opulent gold key necklace, a single pearl dangling from the same chain. It feels expensive and her own hand-knitted beret and scarf set feels like a joke. But Veronica loved it anyway, wrapping her up in a hug, lips at her ear and neck whispering her thanks, making Betty’s heart nearly beat out her chest. 

She replaced her old necklace for the new and the weight at her throat was almost a comfort. 

Then, on Valentine’s day, Veronica gives her a card with a lipstick printed kiss over the seal and a matching imprint left on her cheek. 

"Happy Valentine’s day, Bee.” She runs the side of thumb over the glossy mark, before tapping her on the nose. “Now, have you seen Kevin? Or Jughead? I want to give them theirs before lunch." 

Betty glances down at the stack of similar cards in her grasp and it’s no wonder her stomach sinks. 

"Not sure, haven’t seen them,” she murmurs, fingertips grazing over her cheek and coming back sticky. 

“I can always cover you in more." 

Betty looks up from the card with a scrunch of her nose. "What?”

“Wipe my kiss away and I’ll cover you in more,” Veronica teases, lips curving up. “That’s what I’m going to tell Jughead too. I want everyone to know who my Valentine’s are." 

"Right,” she answers, fingers itching to scrape down her cheek to see if she’s being serious. “He probably won’t listen." 

She was right of course, and she had to bite back her laugh when Veronica chased him down the hall with her heels clacking loudly all the way. 

It’s Spring Break when Veronica touches her, and maybe they can blame it on the warm air in Cancun and the increase in bare skin, but it’s almost certainly the bottle of tequila Hiram allowed them to take from the villa down to the beach. 

They’re laying in the shade, biting limes and licking salt from their wrists as they sip from the bottle and get drunk beneath the afternoon sun. Her mother would kill her if she knew this was what she was doing. It was a wonder Veronica’s parents convinced her at all to let Betty go. 

But they did, and it melts her inside everytime Veronica speaks an ounce of Spanish. Which, is a lot, considering they’re in Mexico. 

Perhaps she says as much, lips a little looser from the alcohol. 

Veronica leans her head to the side, bundling up her hair in a fist to offer her neck out. "Pour the salt on me, mi bella." 

"You’re cruel,” she manages around a laugh, grabbing a pinch of salt and sprinkling it over the crease of Veronica’s neck were her skin is slick.

“Just exploiting your weaknesses." 

"For what?” Betty leans in even closer to lick a wide strip up her neck from where the salt begins. She doesn’t have to imagine Veronica’s shudder or her sharp little intake of breath, because she’s painfully aware of it all. She licks her lips of the taste and only moves back far enough to tag a swig from the tequila bottle. 

A little bit dribbles down her chin and she swipes at it with the back of her hand. Before she can reach down for a lime, Veronica holds one up to her lips. She bites down, lips puckering around the fruit and shuddering at the dark gaze watching her with rapt attention. 

She releases the lime, lips parting to take in a breath but then Veronica is kissing her. There’s a hand in her hair, one on the bare skin of her thigh where fingertips are reaching beneath the hem of her coverup. 

Betty sighs, shoulders relaxing as she sets the tequila bottle down to bring a hand up to slide into Veronica’s dark hair. She grips, pulling and leaning closer, shuffling further into the gravity of their connection where she feels like she’s tumbling head first into darkness. 

It’s different than the time they kissed at Homecoming, with the light and warmth streaming through the flutter of their eyelashes as they breathe each other in. Their breath salty and sweet as the lines blurs where one begins and the other ends. 

Veronica’s hand finds her hip, fingernails scratching over the tie of her bathing suit, trailing toward the front where she parts her legs the best she can. Then it’s tentative but sure fingers brushing over the space between her thighs, over the damp nylon covering her sex. And she bites down on the lip between her own, gently, even though it doesn’t mask the whimper that floods the other girls mouth. 

Her chest expands with a pent up breath, Veronica licking into her the seam of her lips and corner of her mouth and her fingers brushing more firmly until she feels she might just combust. 

“Veronica,” she pants, hand tightening in her hair to tug her away for just a moment. To allow a sliver of space between them if only to lick at each other’s lips and find the remnants of salt and sweat not their own. “What are we doing?" 

"Just kissing,” Veronica murmurs, though her fingers are still brushing, thumb sweeping down just over Betty’s clit and she nearly sits up on her knees at the sensation that feels so foreign. “What’s a little kissing between friends?”

But she’s had enough of that, a huff blowing through her lips as she moves her other hand to grab hold of Veronica’s wrist. 

“We’re not just friends and you fucking know it." 

Veronica’s mouth parts, tongue sweeping over her bottom lip to wet it. It’s strawberry red like the paletas they ate earlier. "¿Porque no los dos?”

She laughs, eyes crinkling shut before darting forward to press a kiss to her lips, sucking in her breath of surprise. “You did that on purpose." 

"Sí.” Veronica grins, fingers now creeping beneath the hem of her bottoms. 

Betty finds she can’t find much more to complain about, as her head tilts back with a hum. Lips find her throat and ear, teeth biting into her skin with the same firm pressure as searching fingers. 

It feels like heaven.

[cainsnocreaturefeature]

He cleaned up nicely for a nerd.

Of course she wouldn’t say that out loud, though. Lord knows he’d lord it over her head for a decade if she admitted it, especially to him. But she wasn’t going to lie - he did clean up very, very nicely. Billy and Cindy were a frightening duo to mess with when it came to coordinating someone’s appearance, and Monty had ended up being one of their best works yet.

Again. She would never tell him that outright.

Cindy had done a good job with his outfit by choosing darker greens to complement her lighter greens and teals, and his mask may have been simpler in its design, but it mirrored her own mask, a portion curling around the right side of his face like the trailing end of a butterfly’s wing the same way one did on the left side of her face. Thankfully enough only a small fraction of his freckles were covered up by the mask - Carla didn’t particularly like the idea of not seeing them, anyway.

Carla liked his freckles. They might have been one of the nicest parts about him.

“You’re lucky my feet are metal now.”

Carla paused, and lifted up the skirt slightly to see where her shoe was. The heel of her left shoe was quite nearly embedded in Monty’s left foot.

Oops.

“Did I actually-” She lifted the heel away delicately to see what damage she’d caused. “Ugh. Sorry. My bad.”

“You are so lucky I couldn’t feel that.”

“I know, cabron, don’t get on my ass about it,” She grumbled, glaring down at the floor to watch where she was stepping this time. Stupid heels. Stupid Cindy. She had half a mind to snap off the heels already, but the shoes weren’t built to be flats. Damn it.

The hand that Monty was holding felt a slight pressure on it, and she glanced towards it to realize that Monty had squeezed it - in reassurance? Maybe. He guided Carla to the right as he said, “It’s just a little dent. Don’t worry about it.”

“I poked a hole right through it.”

“It’ll be fine, trust me. These babies are practically made of the same thing Penny’s metal parts are made out of,” Monty paused in leading the dance to lift himself up slightly, clicking his heels together and making a tinny little sound with them as he did so. “Really no harm done.”

Carla scowled down at the heels on her feet, clicking them against the dance floor. “Stupid Cindy making us all wear heels. What even is the point? She herself stopped Alice from wearing any because she was so tall but I still had to wear heels?! Where is the equality?!”

“I think they’re fine.”

“Of course you do. Estúpidos malditos tacones.”

Monty laughed, but not unkindly. He’d found her predicament highly amusing for some reason, much to her chagrin, but at least he’d been extremely helpful when it came to helping her find her bearings in the heels. Carla didn’t wear heels normally - as deadly as they were (and she appreciated that), they weren’t exactly comfortable for the kind of things she did every day.

Carla gave him a look as the music shifted in tone into something much more lively - was that a tango? “How dare you derive pleasure from my pain. What kind of partner are you, Montgomery M. Montgomery?”

“A devilishly handsome one who’s about to pull you in for a tango.”

Beat.

“Wait, wh-”

Suddenly, all the partnered dancers on the dance floor all drew close to each other - Monty and Carla included. The sudden proximity made Carla realize exactly how much height her heels added - and how much height Monty had added with his robolegs.

“Cheater, you’re not this tall,” Carla accused, her hands falling into place.

Monty grinned. “Maybe so, but it looks like you’re the only one who caaaaares~”

“Oh, shut up, gringo.” Her grip on his hand tightening, it was her turn to take the lead - and Monty followed willingly, matching each of her steps with his own. Thank god they had at least a semblance of an idea as to what they were doing on the dance floor - tango for second semester physical education paid off after all.

Carla hooked her leg around his waist and leaned far backwards, one hand outstretched and the other holding on tightly to Monty’s shoulder - while Monty’s one arm supported her back as the other hand stretched out. With a sweeping motion, Monty pulled Carla back on her feet before engaging in a series of rather complicated twists and turns, their legs only just barely entangling with each other’s as they made their way through the dance floor.

“Not bad,” Carla teased. “And you said tango was pointless.”

“I didn’t say that,” Monty corrected as they twirled past a pair of dancers. “I said tango was pointless without a good partner.”

Carla raised an eyebrow, a teasing smirk threatening to spread across her face. “And you’re calling me a good partner?”

“Maybe so, miss Morte. Maybe so.” Monty dipped his head ever so slightly, looking up at Carla through half-lidded eyes, and for the briefest of moments Carla considered the possibility of him having captured the stars and placed them in his eyes with how they glinted in that exact moment. “But I guess you’ll have to prove to me that my assumption was correct, huh?”

Carla’s face broke into a mischievous grin paired with a look Monty could only describe as extremely, extremely attractive. “Oh, you’re just asking for it, querido.”

And then she took the reigns, just as the music swelled.

Oh, how fast, how excitingly they danced, getting lost in the music, getting lost in each other’s eyes, not paying too much mind to the dancers all around them, nor to the people who were seeing them, nor to the path they followed on the dance floor they tread upon. Even though they weren’t thinking about it, their feet already seemed to know where to go, traipsing and twisting and turning and gliding them across the area and allowing the two of them to focus only on the person whose gaze they were holding - the person right in front of them.

Neither of them really noticed exactly how it happened, but it came to a point where they realized that they were both a hair’s breadth away from each other, their noses brushing the other’s cheek as the music slowed considerably - still unfinished, but slowing.

She should’ve reacted to his proximity.

But she didn’t.

Her mind was elsewhere.

How pretty his eyes were, up close. A ‘shamrock green’, Lily had called it, to differentiate from Nugget’s emerald and Penny’s lime. Time and time again Carla had gotten almost close enough to see them in their beauty, but not this close. Being this up close and personal with him felt like she was dancing dangerously close to the edge of something she wasn’t sure she completely understood - something dangerous, but exciting.

Were those words she associated with Monty Montgomery?

Monty’s breath fanned across her face, warm and familiar. The corner of his mouth was dangerously close to her lips, his hand still resting squarely on her back, the other holding one of hers as her other hand held onto his arm like a lifeline. In the soft light of the ballroom, his eyes shone like diamonds in the rough, and the crystalline chandeliers high above their heads bounced light and dappled them across his cheeks like the stars in the sky.

He was beautiful.

(And if she’d been in his head in that moment, she would have seen herself through his eyes - radiant in her beauty, her eyes sparkling like fireworks in the sky, her playful smile that shone like the sun and could light up the room - and learned that he thought the same.)

It was only the two of them in that ballroom at that moment, the others be damned.

As the music slowed to a stop, Carla turned her head to the side slightly, and met his lips with her own as her eyes fluttered closed.

Oh, Monty Montgomery was a dangerous man. And Carla liked to flirt with danger.

-=-=-

That hadn’t been Penny.

That hadn’t been Penny.

Kidd felt nauseous. His hands sought purchase on the fabric of the table, clenching it in his fists and threatening to tear the delicate cloth with how tightly he held it in his hands. Numbly he could tell Billy was asking him something - probably about what was wrong, if he was okay - but he couldn’t hear it, per say; everything had thinned out into white noise as his brain repeated over and over one word.

Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.

As Penny neared their table, her appearance hammered in home how blind he’d been - how terrified he’d been of what had been about to come that he’d failed to see what had been right in front of him. She was taller than how she usually was thanks to the heels Cindy had made her wear - but not as tall as the Penny impersonator had been. Her braid was just as intricate, draped over her left shoulder, but her mask was different, more complex - white with blue featherlike patterns on the right side of her face, as opposed to the plainer black mask of her impostor.

“Hi guys,” Penny greeted warmly, waving to the group before beaming at the sight of Ozzy and the others. “You came!”

Jerome smiled. “Wouldn’t miss this party for the world, Pen.”

Her voice was more mature, and much louder. The soft voice should have tipped him off.

Idiot. Idiot.

His grip on the tablecloth tightened. Billy placed his hands over one of his hands, but said nothing. He didn’t know what to say - not when Kidd wouldn’t say what was wrong.

“Weren’t you wearing red earlier, Pen?” Madison asked curiously. “Did you change your mind?”

Penny blinked, confused, as she clasped her hands together in front of her. “I don’t know what you mean. I wore this before I came here.”

“Huh.” Madison scratched at her cheek thoughtfully. “Must’ve been a trick of the light.”

“Or we thought someone else was you,” Ozzy offered. “But I highly doubt that. You’re sure you were wearing that already before you came here?”

Penny nodded. “I did consider the red and black dress, but I went with this in the end. It appealed to me more - I hope Theo doesn’t mind that I didn’t match with him... oh!” She perked up. “Speaking of which, have any of you seen Theo?”

Ted went out to chase the fake Penny.

He’s not back yet.

“He-” Kidd was startled by how tight his voice seemed to be. “He went looking for you outside.”

The cyborg’s mouth formed an ‘o’ of surprise. “D-did he know I was already on the way, or did someone fool him into thinking I was already here?”

Oh, how unintentionally on-the-nose she was sometimes.

“Something... something along the lines of the second,” Kidd murmured. At the look on Billy’s face, he released the tablecloth with a heavy sigh before standing up. “I... I’ll go look for him for you. Stay here with everyone else.”

Billy stood up. “I’ll go with you.”

“No- no, stay here, with everyone else too. I’ll-” Kidd’s eyes darted frantically around before spotting a familiar duo in green. “I’ll take Monty and Carla with me. They know this place better than anyone. Just... just all of you stay here. Okay? Stick together.”

Stick together. Don’t be an idiot.

Idiot. Idiot.

Billy frowned. “... You’re sure?”

“Please, Billy,” And here Kidd held both of Billy’s hands in between his, holding on tightly. “Promise me you guys will all stay here together. Cindy, Ron, and Alice - I know they’re together, at least, even if not here. Just- just please stick together. And keep an eye out.”

Be safe.

Billy knew his unspoken words like the back of his hand - he and Lily both did. They had to. Kidd was almost as cryptic as Alice - but at least he was more sensible than she in wording. With a solemn nod, Billy withdrew his hands, taking his seat once more.

Penny cocked her head to the side. “I could always just look for him myself... it’s no trouble at all.”

“It’s fine, I just- we’ll find him for you. No need to run in that dress, Penny.” And with a nod, Kidd headed for the dance floor towards where Carla and Monty were. He melted into the throng of dancers, weaving his way through and losing sight of the group at the tables -

- just as someone showed up, decked in whites and blues with hints of dark grays, his hand placing itself on Penny’s shoulder.

Penny visibly jumped before turning around. At the sight of who it was, however, everyone saw her eyes light up in genuine delight.

“Theo! There you are!”

[daysswithyou]

Fallen Chapter 24: Déja vu

previous / next

Characters: DAY6 Young K x OC (Rachel)

Warning!: Cursing and swearing, mentions of blood and bodily wounds

------

Tear me apart,

Rip me to shreds,

Leave me as nothing but skin and bones,

An empty shell of what I used to be before.

---

With the stars and moon hanging overhead, Younghyun dropped you off outside the female living area and made you promise that you’ll take a shower before meeting him for dinner an hour later. You nodded, mustering up a weak smile just to show him that you’re alright. You returned to an empty room; Esther should be with Jae now, presumably having a dinner date. You scrubbed your body vigorously in the shower, wanting to get rid of every last bit of dried salt clinging to your skin. Your skin was red, raw and tingling by the time you exited the shower but you could care less. At least you felt clean, clean from all the dark thoughts that previously clouded your mind, though you could never be fully cleansed of the painful memories. Walking along the hallways, you jumped when you saw someone waiting outside your door.

Bubblegum pink hair… classic red nails… This was Ayeon standing outside your room, no doubt about that. You gritted your teeth at the sight – seeing her always spelt trouble. Straightening your back, you ignored her but alas, before you could even get a grip on your doorknob, her voice had reached your ears.

“Drinks? My treat.”

“No thank you, I’ve got somewhere to be soon.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t be such a wet blanket Rachel. It’s just harmless drinks.”

You turned around and crossed your arms before fixing Ayeon with your hardest stare.

“Really? The last time I checked, you don’t ever find me without good reason.”

Ayeon chuckled, but it was a mirthless laughter. Oh, how she wanted to scratch that stare off your face but not yet. Not now. Like a female lioness, patience will be her greatest virtue now – before she went in for the kill later.”

“Alright Rachel, you got me. I do have some things that I want to tell you.”

“You can just say it here.”

“I would need a little more time than that. So why not get comfortable over drinks?”

Ayeon lifted her red lips into a smile, and you knew that you weren’t actually left with a choice. Unless you went with her, she would not stop hounding you. You might as well get it done and over with.

“Wait here.”

You entered your room and slammed the door shut before leaning your back against it. You sent a quick text to Younghyun to tell him that you’ll be late – he didn’t need to know that you’ll be with Ayeon else things are going to get really messy. You swiftly switched off the phone screen once the message was sent. Remembering that she was still outside the door, you scrunched your face up in annoyance, gentling messaging your temple due to the massive headache that was currently splitting your brain open.

What the hell does she want with me?

---

Ayeon decided to go to a bar by the beach and you mentally swore for agreeing to her stupid deal in the first place. Being on the beach again reminded you of today’s earlier events and you could feel the discomfort crawl under your skin, almost like a million ants were festering under your skin. But there was no way – no fucking way – that you’d admit this weakness to Ayeon. Suppressing your fear, you held your head up high as you walked behind her. As the bar got closer, you could hear the addictive tropical house beats blast from the stereo speakers, the occasional lyrics becoming clearer once you reached the hut. You recognise some of the people at the bar as your classmates and you gave them a small wave as a greeting. Some waved back but quickly frowned when they realised who you came with. Guess your bad relationship with Ayeon is still widely remembered by everyone. You heaved a sigh as Ayeon greeted the bartender with a smile and waved them over.

Let’s just survive this conversation, then go get dinner.

You’re broken from your reverie by her question.

“Martini for you?”

“Yes. Lime. Please.”

“One vodka for me, and one lime martini for the lady here. Charge both to my bill.”

You watched as Ayeon passed her black card over and you kept your gaze on her, expecting her to initiate conversation. But she merely glanced at you from the side of her eyes, smirking as she did so.

“You’re in no hurry, right? Let’s enjoy the music and ambience as we wait for the drinks.”

This bitch is playing with me. Fucking hell.

“Sure.”

You kept your voice levelled, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of knowing that your blood was currently boiling inside because of her. Thank goodness Lady Luck was on your side tonight, for the drinks arrived shortly and you resisted the urge to gag when you saw the bartender throw a wink at Ayeon, to which she giggled like some love-struck main in a chick flick. You felt a vessel pop in your temple, and you quickly brought the drink up to your lips, hoping the hot liquid would distract you from that sight.

“Out with it Ayeon. I know you’re not here to enjoy my company. Say your piece, and then we can both part ways.”

“Ouch Rachel, I am hurt.”

You tsked at Ayeon and you saw the shift in her gaze. She released her lips from the rim of the glass cup before turning fully to face you.

“Since you’re so eager to leave, Rachel, I shall cut to the chase. I know about the deal, and I want Brian back.”

Upon hearing her words, you scoffed out loud with your tongue in cheek. The audacity of this bitch to want him back after all the damage she has done. Has she no shame?

“Ayeon, in case your memory fails you, perhaps I should remind you that you’re the one that broke up with first and then publicly humiliated him. After all the damage you’ve wrought on him, you want him back? Your shamelessness is truly astounding. Besides, you can’t just ask for it back. It no longer belongs to you.”

You expected Ayeon to land a harsh slap across your face for insulting you, but she merely pulled her lips back into a smile, showing off her perfectly neat rows of white teeth.

“Oh really? I think it does. Normally I would have taught you a lesson for insulting me but I shan’t waste my energy when I’ve got an easier method to deal with you.”

You watched as Ayeon tapped her phone screen a few times before your phone screen lighted up – as with all your other classmates surrounding you – with a notification from the school app.

You continued to glare at Ayeon. What game is she playing right now?

Ayeon doesn’t waver under your gaze, she merely picked up the stem of her glass delicately before bringing the clear liquid to her lips.

“Check it. I’m sure you’ll be very interested to see it’s content since it involves… a certain… someone.”

The bite in her last word made it clear who she’s referring to and your fingers moved on their own accord to swipe at the notification. A video post with no caption is presented to you and you pressed the play button. The whole video is dark due to poor lighting and you barely make out his figure until the moonlight shone across the planes of his face, illuminating his prominent, handsome nose.

Younghyun… but what the hell… why does he look so dishevelled… and that suit…

You recognised the suit now – it was the one that he wore when he showed up looking all dazed and frightened at your doorstep. The image of his fear-stricken face appeared in the forefront of your mind again, the harrowing image knocking the wind out of you. Audio emitted from your phone speakers again; someone was shuffling offscreen. When you saw her, that’s when you felt the phantom, ice cold hands wrap their fingers around your throat, slowly but surely squeezing the life out of you as it got harder to breathe with each passing second. You’d recognise that pink bubblegum hair anywhere – one that is currently sported by the same lady sitting in front of you in flesh.

The pair in the video was none other than Ayeon and Younghyun, the former whom now had Younghyun pinned against the wall as she aggressively sucked his face. Younghyun had one hand up her thigh, with the other on her lower back. Then, a flash of white hair in the video – Dowoon. Dowoon whom had accidently witnessed this sinful sight that very night. The weight of the truth finally hit you all at once, one that had you stumbling out of your chair as your phone clattered against the glass table top.

So, this was what happened that night. This was what Dowoon was trying to warn me about this entire time. Gosh… I’m such a fool. Younghyun cheated on me. Another guy fucking cheated on me – again. I’m so stupid for believing him… for believing that he loved me.

Against your wishes to not show an ounce of vulnerability in front on Ayeon, your body betrayed you as your throat ran dry, scalding tears already pooling at your lash line. Your grip on your phone is so strong that the screen almost cracked, your nails pierced into the soft flesh of your thigh and drew blood in the process. Ayeon snickered from her spot in front of you, relishing in the sight of your emotional torment. She broke you again – twice now. Oh, just how much more pathetic can you be?

“Like what you see Rachel? Told you his heart still belongs to me.”

Your body felt so weak due to the torrent of emotions currently raging within you – so incredibly weak that you can’t even make a sound to retort Ayeon. Then the sound of a suppressed giggle came from behind you and that has you snapping your head up to look at the person. Your classmate is currently stifling their laughter behind the palm of their hands, the fingers pointed at your pathetic self. More laughter erupted around the bar, some openly jeered at you now. This sort of scene… it’s all too familiar to you.

The canteen.

Jaebeom.

The public breakup.

It’s happening all over again – you’re the prey laid out in plain sight for all the wolves to see, before they closed in to rip you into shreds. Your head rung painfully with their shrill laughter; your heart hammering so painfully hard in your chest that you thought it might shatter your ribs. Your head is jerked back by Ayeon to face her, her perfectly manicured fingers digging viciously into your jaw,

With a sneer, she spat: “Go on, run Rachel. Run like you always do, run like the pathetic creature that you are. That’s what you do best anyways – running from all your problems.”

She then pushed you off to the side, sending you tumbling off the chair. She stopped short of kicking sand into your face – you looked wretched and pitiful enough. She didn’t feel the need to trod all over you again, you’re already doing a good job making yourself look absolutely miserable. Rising on wobbly and unsteady feet, you stumbled out of the bar, moving further away from the group of people that wanted nothing more than to tear you apart.

One step,

Then the second,

And another.

Soon, you’re thundering down the length of the beach, kicking up sand behind you as their laughter got softer and softer,

And then,

Silence.

The quiet static of cricket chirps filled your ears, the sound mixing up with the distant lapping of the waves upon the shore and the rustling of palm trees above you. It was quiet – just you against the world with your broken heart. On a normal night, you would have enjoyed the tranquil atmosphere and view; the stars still looked pretty hanging like shining crystals in the sky but tonight… your soul felt void. Completely drained and sucked dry of every good emotion in this cruel world – you honestly doubted that you’d be able to feel positive emotions after all the turmoil that you’ve gone through in your life, more so after tonight’s events. Younghyun’s cheating incident was really the last push that sent you tumbling over the edge, crashing into a million pieces with no hopes of ever being whole again. No matter how hard you tried, the unwanted images from before refused to leave your mind. Even when you squeezed your eyes shut, the cursed images kept replaying again.

Her lips on his…

His hands on her thighs…

The forsaken clothes on the floor.

One need not be told to know what happened next. The memory sent a shockwave through your body, and you lurched forward violently as your chest caved in on itself, forcing you onto the hard gravel, scrapping your knees and palms in the process. Yet, the physical pain was nothing compared to the emotional turmoil within you. A strangled sob escaped you as the first tears streamed down your face like a thundering waterfall – never ending and soaking your outfit wet. You really did not want to make a fool of yourself and cry in public but you knew you could not keep it in anymore – else the pressure would kill you. So, there in the middle of the street, you wailed as you felt your heartstrings snapped. It was physically possible to die from a heartbreak and for a moment, you considered the possibility that you might. You were not sure how long you cried for – minutes? Hours? Time lost it’s meaning to you. After all – you no longer had an appointment to keep, or a place to be. You cried yourself dry, till you could not physically produce tears anymore. You felt like you were going to pass out any moment, and the first instinct would be to call Esther for help. To talk? To come and get you? Maybe both. You just knew that you wanted your best friend by your side now to hold you and tell you it’s going to be alright – because you no longer had the strength to say those words to yourself – maybe you needed someone to tell you so that you would believe it.

You tapped your phone screen weakly, only to realise that it had been damaged beyond repair during the incident just now. The screen was glitching – now it would be impossible for you to contact Esther. The additional distraught of being left with a damaged phone and no means to contact anyone caused another wave of frustration to bubble up within you and you let out a disgruntled sigh, the sound scratching against your hoarse vocal cords. With blurry vision, you slowly rose from the ground and stumbled forward. You didn’t know where to go – all you knew was that you wanted to go far away – to a place where no one would recognise you, and no one you knew could find you.

Away from Ayeon, away from Younghyun, away from this damned life that you led.

To leave things behind, you’d have to keep moving forward – and so you did. You dragged your limp body forward along the unknown path with no idea where it’ll lead you. Even when you walked right into the middle of the road, you didn’t notice until you saw a burst of light so bright that pain shot right through your eyes as the horrible screeching of tires pierced through the silent night, the smell of burning asphalt making you gag. It took you a few seconds to realise that you nearly got ran over by a car – almost, but not quite. The shock sent you collapsing onto the floor, scrapping your already wounded hands more. Any further abrasions and your skin might just be ripped to ribbons. The headlights of the car were inches from your face and when you lifted your eyes to look at the driver, you aren’t even surprised anymore.

She wanted you dead, maybe she was just making sure of it now. From her seat behind the wheel, Ayeon sneered at you. You’re a pest that just won’t die, constantly interfering in her life and making it difficult for her. And now? You nearly sent her to jail for an almost hit-and-run incident. The bright headlights gave Ayeon a clear view of you and she scoffed. Not only did you feel like a pest, you even looked like one. Disgusting – a creature that no one would want to look at. Your eyes were bloodshot from all the crying; no doubt. Your hair has fallen out of the neat braid it once was in, the strands of hair clinging to your face. Your nice outfit now stained with red, your perfect hands and feet now ruined from the damage you’ve caused yourself. Ayeon always knew you were… pathetic… but she never imagined this level of degradation that you would wreck upon yourself. Ayeon does not have sympathy to help you so she swerved her car and left you in her dust. Someone will pick you up eventually, or you could get run over by another car for real this time – she honestly could care less.

As for you, you just sat where Ayeon had left you, much too distraught to move yourself to a safer place. The world hates me so much, it’s trying to kill me now. It should have just now when it had the chance to. Why am I not dead yet? You chuckled darkly to yourself like a lunatic at your thoughts, pressing your forearm against your face. But the laughter soon gave way to more tears, though you previously thought you were incapable of producing more after crying yourself dry. You don’t know how long it’s been since you’ve sat by the side of the road, listening as cars passed you by.

The next time you saw light, Esther’s face was right in front of yours. One look at you, and tears immediately brimmed in her eyes – a rare sight for someone as tough as her.

“Rachel… what happened to you?”

---

The notification appeared on Esther’s phone screen when Jae went to get coconut drinks for them.

Ayeon? What’s the crazy gal up to again? Another video? What is this?

Esther pressed play and by the time Jae returned to her side, her face had turned ashen with her jaws clenched and lips pressed into a thin line.

“Esther? What’s wrong?”

“That bastard. That bastard that we call a friend. He cheated on Rachel.”

Jae nearly dropped the drinks when she turned to face him – never before has he seen such feral rage in her eyes, the fire blazing fiercer with each passing second.

“What are you talking about? What did Brain do?”

“This. This is what he did.”

Esther shoved her phone in Jae’s face and clicked play. Oh, now he knew. Now Jae knew why Esther was going mad with rage. There was no mistake about it – Brian and Ayeon are back together again. And now the whole world knew.

“I need to find Rachel. I need to tell her this before she finds out on her own.”

“Wait Esther, let’s not be brash. What if she’s seen it already?”

“Then all the more I need to be by her side to comfort her. Twice, this has happened to her. She’s gotten her heart broken by jerks that don’t deserve her. I know he’s your friend Jae, but this is where I draw the line. You don’t have to follow me, and I’m sorry but date night will have to wait.”

With that, Esther took off down the length of the beach, racking her brains on places that you might possibly be at. Jae returned the drinks to the stall owner before hollering after Esther, as the stall owner hollered at him to take the money back. She ran to the other end of the beach when she spotted you there. A speck in the middle of the road. That’s you for sure – she’d recognise your favourite sundress anywhere.

“RACHEL!”

Jae thought he would finally be able to catch up with Esther after running for so long, but he only groaned when he saw her picking up speed again. How she coulf outrun him despite all his basketball training still baffled him – he’s truly got one hell of a girlfriend.

When Esther finally got to you, she nearly stumbled back from the shock. Who did this to you? Who reduced you to this weeping, hollow shell of a person that she once knew as her best friend? The wounds – oh gosh the wounds were the worst. Long cuts across your legs and arms, the wounds festered for a long time; she could tell because of the dried blood against your white dress. Some were deep with gravel stuck between the gaping wounds, she could only pray that you would not need stitches but she was not optimistic. But it was your eyes that told your story without words – oh, how could someone’s eyes hold so much sorrow in them? The blood smeared across your face gave you a ghastly look, but it was really the look of anguish in your bloodshot eyes that broke Esther’s heart and forced tears through her eyes.

“Rachel… what happened to you? Who did this to you…that monster! The wounds… they look really bad. You must have been out here for so long so let’s get you to the hospital first alright? Those wounds must be cleaned before it gets infected.”

Esther moved to help you up gently, but you merely gripped onto her shirt tightly, pulling her down to sit beside you.

“It hurts Esther… it hurts…”

“I know Rachel, I know. That’s why we got to get them cleaned alright? Then they’ll hurt less once they’re recovering.”

“Not the… not the wounds. Here. It hurts here. It hurts so much I think I might just die.”

“Where…? Oh, oh no, Rachel please don’t cry. He’s not worth your tears… please don’t cry…”

When Esther finally looked down at you, you weren’t holding onto your wounds in pain like a normal person would. Instead, you were clutching onto your heart, fisting the fabric above that area so hard that you might tear the material at any time. Nothing could compare to the emotional pain that was still wrecking your body at this point in time. Even Jae – whom was watching in the background – felt anger slowly rise within him for the pain his friend had caused you. No one deserved to suffer through this sort of emotional torture. Brian had disappointed him, and all of them. As you continued to sob into Esther’s embrace, Jae’s phone rung in the background.

Brain Kang calling

Not now Brian.

Jae’s phone continued ringing, and when Jae finally lifted his eyes to look at Esther, he knew that she could never forgive him.

“If it’s Brian calling, tell that bastard to get lost, and never appear in front of my sight again. I will rip him to shreds if he does, I could never forgive him for what he had done to her.”

Jae gulped, swiping the red button as the world around you went black.

Like déjà vu, your whole world came crashing down on you.