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emmyhem · 4 years

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it’s about time (l.r.h)

a/n: hi again! first of all i want to say thank you for the support on “seven things” it means the world. secondly, my requests are open and i’d be happy to write something for you. this is a jealous bff!luke imagine i wanted to get up this weekend, i didn’t do a very thorough edit before posting so hopefully there aren’t any typos. i am working on the request for a lashton x reader love triangle piece right now and will hopefully have it up by monday or tuesday. thank you, i hope you enjoy - emmy :)

pairing: luke hemmings x reader

summary: being best friends with the guy you’re in love with is extremely taxing especially when you have to watch him be with another girl all night. just when you’ve finally had enough of waiting around for him he ruins your plans for moving on.

warnings: alcohol, using alcohol as a coping mechanism, slight angst, jealous luke, mentions of throwing up, cursing, luke’s a bit of an asshole.

word count: 3.3k

“God, could they get a room?” you scoffed leaning into Calum as you watched your best friend practically eat his date’s face from across the club.

“Jealous are we y/n?” Calum laughed slinging an arm over your shoulder.

“No, just utterly disgusted.” you said before slamming back your fourth shot of tequila.

That was a lie, you were jealous. You were so insanely jealous that you could scream.

Luke had met his date, Hannah at the studio last week. She was new, working at the front desk. She had caught Luke’s eye the second she walked in the room with a bright confident smile, and a flirty look in her eye. Luke had asked her out the next day and was practically giddy when she accepted.

And that’s how they ended up in the corner of the club, Luke’s hands tangled in her hair, and her tongue down his throat. All the while you were trying to not look bitter, and distracting yourself with one too many drinks.

It wasn’t a new routine. You couldn’t count how many times you’ve had to sit back and watch a girl way prettier than you, be in the exact position that you would quite literally die to be in, with your best friend of 4 years. And somehow it seemed to hurt more each time, which meant more drinks for you.

As you felt the familiar and comforting burn of your fifth shot of the night slide down your throat Calum shot you a knowing look.

“Maybe you should slow down there, kid.”

You rolled your eyes and took his Corona from his hands using it as a chaser.

“Corona girl?” you heard from behind you. When you turn, your eyes meet a pretty pair of green ones (you still preferred Luke’s blue, but what the hell).

“Tequila girl.” you clarified.

“Respect.” the man said, extending a strong tattooed hand. “I’m Austin.”

“Y/n” you said, shaking his hand. You glanced over your shoulder at Calum who was now engaged in a conversation with Mikey and Ashton beside you.

“Pretty name, pretty girl.” he smirked. “So, can I get you a tequila?”

You giggled, happy for a distraction from Luke.

“You can get me a margarita, on the rocks.”

“Deal.”

The two of you chatted as you sipped on your drink, mind getting hazier with each sip. And you don’t know if it was the alcohol or your determination to get Luke off your mind but Austin was really, really hot.

“Do you wanna dance with me?” you asked before you had a chance to convince yourself otherwise. You were never really a dance in public kind of girl, normally the closest you got to showing your moves on the dancefloor was Just Dance in Luke’s living room.

“Absolutely.” Austin replied, sliding an arm around your waist to lead you to the dancefloor.

The bass beat shook the floor as the two of you made your way to the middle of the club. As you stopped you realized you had absolutely no idea what to do. You never did stuff like this. You can’t even remember the last time you went on a date, let alone danced to sleazy house music with a stunning stranger. You glanced around you hoping to follow the lead of the more experienced dancers around you.

A redhead to your right swung her hips, inching closer to her partner's body with each movement until she was pressed directly to his chest.

“Seems like a good place to start” you mumbled to yourself.

The second your hips were in movement Austin’s hands gripped them strongly guiding your movements closer and closer to him. As the beat built and your movements slowed to a teasingly slow pace his grip tightened causing your tight white dress to bunch up on your thighs.

With the alcohol in your bloodstream and Austin’s breath on the back of your neck you nearly forgot about Luke and your perpetual sadness, that is until you locked eyes with him from across the room.

Hannah was tucked under his arm sipping on her drink, but his gaze was locked on you, he had an unrecognizable look on his face, and a jaw clenched so hard you feared he would break his teeth.

You took him staring as the perfect opportunity to spin around, inches away from Austin’s face looking up at him through your lashes. His pupils were blown a bit, eyes filled with lust. He was practically breathing into your mouth. You will yourself to just kiss him. It’s not like you were Luke’s girl you thought, so you started to lean in.

As Austin placed his hand on the back of your neck you felt someone grab your arm tugging you out of Austin’s grip.

“Y/n” Luke appeared next to you.

“Is there a problem man?” Austin said grabbing one of your hands.

Luke rolled his eyes with a sly grin on his face, “Cal wants to talk to you.” he said to you not breaking eye contact with the pissed off guy in front of you.

“I’m a bit busy.” you said annoyance brewing in you as you ripped your arm out of Luke’s hand. “Can it wait?”

“Nope, said it was important.” he said nonchalantly “Better go find him.”

You internally groaned, “I’ll be right back.” you said leaning in to peck Austin’s cheek.

“Y/n, C’mon!” Luke shouted over the music.

“Fine!” you groaned leaving Luke and Austin behind you as you scanned the bar for Calum.

After searching for a few minutes you saw him in a booth with Ashton, and Michael talking and laughing.

“Calum,” you called. He glanced up at you waving a hand above his hand. You slid into the booth next to him, your patience growing thin.

“What is it?” you said.

“What?” he said, confusion spreading across his face.

“Luke said you needed to talk to me, what’s up?”

Calum’s eyebrows tugged together glancing at the other guys.

“I haven’t talked to Luke since we got here.”

You rolled your eyes and turned to the corner across the room where Luke had Hannah pressed up against the wall.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” you said out loud, rubbing your temple in frustration.

Ashton gave you a sympathetic smile and glanced at Michael who was practically sleeping on Cal’s shoulder.

“Maybe we should head out.” he said motioning to the drunk mess that was the three of you.

“No” Calum whined, dragging out the oh sound. “y/n was about to get some.” he teased poking your side.

“Just take him home, y/n/n.” Michael groaned, not even opening his eyes.

You pondered the idea, you never did stuff like this. But Austin was hot, and Luke was preoccupied. To say the least.

“I could take him home.” you say aloud trying to convince yourself.

“Then do it.” Calum challenged.

“I will.” you stated proudly. “You guys get Luke. Ash, you get the uber, and Austin and I will meet you at the door. “ you gave a quick nod to the boys and went to get Austin.

Austin stood exactly where you left him on the dance floor.

“Thank god you’re back. I-“

Before he had a chance to finish, you crashed your lips onto his. He quickly fell into the kiss moving his hand to the small of you back. Before it went any further you pulled apart about an inch, and spoke into his mouth,

“Come back to my apartment?”

“Absolutely.” he said an excited smile growing on his face.

When the two of you made it to where your group was struggling to stand by the door Luke pulled apart from Hannah, looking Austin up and down. His eyes stopping where your hands were interlocked.

“Love, a word?” he slurred, nodding his head away from the group.

You walked with him just outside the door.

“What’s up?”

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean with this guy, what are you doing with him?”

“Um, taking him home with me?” you said confused.

“You can’t do that.”

“Who says?” anger began building as you looked up at him.

“Uh, me I guess. You know nothing about him.”

This caused you to scoff, a laugh passing your lips, “And you do a background check on every girl you take home with you?”

“That’s different,” he alleged.

“And how’s that?” your patience was growing thin, and you could feel this conversation sobering you up.

“I don’t know y/n, you're just not one night stand material.”

Okay, ouch. Tears began to prick at your waterline.

“Go to hell.” you breathed, pushing past him.

“No, y/n/n. You know that’s not what I meant. C’mon love, hey I’m sorry.” he called after you.

As you approached the group, holding back tears, you took a glance at Austin in front of you and realized that no matter how hot he was you really didn’t even want this. How could you when you were head over heels in love with your asshole of a best friend.

But it was too late now, you would do it. Even if it was wrong. Even if you didn’t want to. Even if it was just to spite Luke.

“Ready to head out?” you questioned aloud, swallowing your hurt.

“Yep, uber just got here.” Ashton confirmed, guiding a hammered Calum and Michael out the door.

You all climbed into the Uber X Ashton had ordered, Luke, Hannah, and Calum in the back, Ashton in the passenger seat, and Michael, Austin, and you in the middle.

As you pulled away from the club, Ashton spoke over the light music coming from the car radio and gave the driver Luke’s address. The group had made plans to all spend the night at Luke’s, like you typically did after a night out.

“We have one more stop actually” you choked out, feeling Austin lean into you, lips attaching to your neck.

You gave the man your address and turned your attention back to the sexually charged man glued to your side. As he moved his kisses up to your jaw you closed your eyes, in order to prevent yourself from breaking down. The constant reminder that Luke had no interest in you, being thrown in your face as Hannah released soft sighs behind you.

Ashton glanced back at you from the front seat,

“You feeling okay, kid?” he asked.

You nodded gulping, and looked up at the ceiling to deter your threatening tears.

His eyes narrowed in concern as he adjusted his body in his seat so he was looking you in the eyes. Luke turned his attention away from Hannah (much to her despair) to the front of the car as Ashton spoke.

“Y/n, you sure? Maybe you and your friend should continue this another night.” Ashton suggested, noticing how you had tensed up and your expression had faltered since entering the car.

Austin pulled off of you and shot him a frustrated glare from his seat. Ashton raised his eyebrows in response, silently challenging Austin to confront him.

Austin moved in centimeters from your ear, “Your friends are kind of cockblocks.” he complained.

You tilted your head away from him and looked out the window Michael was sitting next to.

“Maybe they’re right.” you muttered. “Maybe you should just go home, and we can do this some other time. I’m not feeling well.”

You kept your gaze directed outside of the car, too afraid to see his reaction to your sudden rejection.

“Your kidding right?” he scoffed.

You were becoming more anxious by the second as he rambled on about how you must be joking.

“I’m not laughing.” Luke interrupted flatly.

“Okay, what’s your deal man?” Austin’s demeanor had quickly changed as he turned to face Luke, aggression clear in his face.

Luke held his hands in the air before resting them on the back of your seat. “No deal, she’s just clearly not interested, so maybe you could give her some space.”

Calum and Michael perked up in their seats as the mood in the car shifted. In the front Ashton was talking to the driver, explaining how you would be getting dropped off with the rest of them.

Austin was in a confrontational mood now, one that made you uneasy. He and Luke continued to bicker back and forth. Hannah sat confused and aggravated next to Luke.

You were seconds away from crumbling, feeling extremely upset and overwhelmed. Michael placed a hand on your shoulder, hoping to ease some of your distress as you pulled into Luke’s driveway.

Everyone got out of the car, leaving Austin stirring in his own anger. Ashton patted the top of the car twice before it drove away.

“Well, y/n you sure know how to pick em’” Luke commented.

Calum shot him a disapproving look as you shoved past, running inside.

You had officially reached your breaking point. You couldn’t have Luke but you were in too deep to be with anyone else. Not to mention the fact that Luke seemed to be taking pleasure in your misfortune for the night.

You went straight for the bathroom. All the alcohol and confrontation hadn’t been kind to your stomach.

You hunched over the toilet and began throwing up before you even got the chance to close the door all the way. Your eyes were red and stinging from your tears and your throat was stripped raw. Hugging your knees to your chest you sat with your back against the sink.

Three soft knocks came from the cracked door and you peered up through cloudy eyes to see Ashton looking at you with pity clear on his face.

“Can I come in?”

You nodded into your knees, staring down at the familiar tiles of Luke’s bathroom.

You couldn’t count how many times you had been in this exact spot. Whether it be dealing with the consequences of your unhealthy coping mechanism after a night out like you were now. Early mornings after sleeping over, sitting in the steam while Luke showered because he just couldn’t wait to tell you a story, or late nights he would convince you to paint his nails. All of it was replaying in your head.

“Why can’t he just love me the way I love him?” you whimpered as a sob broke from your throat.

Ashton was quick to wrap his arms around you, taking a seat on the floor.

“It’s okay, y/n.” he shushed. “You’re okay.

“I love him, Ash” your voice muffled from being pressed to his shoulder.

“I know.” he comforted you, rocking your frame lightly. You sat in silence for a bit, trying to control your breathing.

By the time you left the bathroom Calum and Michael were asleep on the couch and Luke and Hannah had gone to Luke’s room. Ashton laid on the couch with the other guys and you made your way to the guest room, falling asleep the second your head hit the pillow.

You woke up early with a throbbing headache and an insatiable craving for iced coffee. There was no doubt in your mind that you were first one awake, the guys wouldn’t be up for hours. You tiptoed through the living room past a sleeping Michael, Calum, and Ashton being careful not to wake them. As you turned the corner to leave you heard a voice from the kitchen,

“Morning,” Luke called, his gravelly voice making it very clear he had just woken up. He was leaning on the cabinet in a pair of sweats, a cup of coffee in hand.

“Oh, you’re up.” you responded still moving towards the door.

“Going somewhere?” he questioned walking towards you.

“Yea I gotta go, I have uh…” your mind was drawing a blank. “ya know, laundry.”

“Wait,” he sprung forward in two big steps grabbing your shoulder. “as urgent as that sounds, I wanna talk.”

“‘bout what?”

“I feel like I should apologize for last night.”

“It’s okay, we can talk about it later. I really gotta get going.”

“Y/n! Will you let me say sorry, please?” he pleaded

“You have.” you replied nodding at him before turning away once again.

“Fine, then can I ask why you tried to take someone home last night. You never do that.”

“No reason.” you lied, opening the front door.

“Really? Cause Cal said something last night about you being jealous or something and then I went to check on you and I overheard-”

“I gotta go.” you panicked, taking a step outside.

Right before the door swung closed and you made your escape Luke stopped it with his hand and spoke,

“Are you in love with me?”

You froze where you stood, squeezing your eyes shut completely mortified.

Slowly, you spun back around to face Luke. He stepped out of the door frame allowing you reentrance and led you to the kitchen. Once you had both sat down he spoke again,

“So is it true? What you told Ashton last night, is it true?”

You placed your hands over your eyes and shook your head.

“Does it matter?” you responded.

“Of course it matters, what do you mean?”

“I mean you have Hannah and it doesn’t matter how I fe-”

“Hannah’s gone.” he interrupted.

“Gone?”

“It wasn’t gonna work out with us. I ended things last night.”

“Why would you end things with-” you paused, eyes narrowing.

Luke looked down, suddenly not wanting to meet your eyes.

“Do you...you love me?”

At this Luke shot up from his seat and started pacing around the kitchen.

“Well, of course I do. But I asked you first, and you can’t just..” he rambled on but you stopped listening after “of course I do”

“Lu,” you said, standing up

He continued talking, not even hearing you over his own nervous talking and fidgeting.

“Lu.” you called a bit louder.

He turned to you, stopping mid sentence his mouth still hanging open.

“I am.”

“You…” he spoke slowly, eyes frozen on you.

“I am in love with you.”

Both of you were frozen in place, terrified that if you moved you may wake up and discover this was all just a dream. You stayed like that for about a minute till you broke the silence.

“I have been, for a couple years now. And I never told you, cause I always thought that-” you were cut off by Luke’s lips.

He had one hand on the back of your neck and the other pulling you closer by the waist. You melted into the kiss pressing a hand to his chest. It may sound cliche but you swore you were seeing fireworks as he ran his tongue along your bottom lip.

“I love you.” he sighed as you pulled apart. “I am so in love with you, fuck I can’t believe-” Before he had a chance to ramble again you pulled him back in for another kiss.

After a few minutes you broke away to catch your breath. Luke moved his hands to cup both your cheeks,

“Hi.” he cooed.

“Hi” you smiled. “I need coffee” you turned away walking towards the kitchen.

“Hey no wait” he whined pulling you back by the waist. “m’not done kissing you.”

“We have plenty of time for that, but I need coffee now.” you teased pressing a swift kiss to his lips.

“Mmm, I know but we’ve got a lot of catching up to do” he said chasing behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist as you walked to the coffee machine.

As you fixed yourself a coffee, Luke's chin resting on the top of your head, you heard shuffling from the living room. When you looked up Michael was walking in with messy hair and eyes puffy from sleep. He glanced at you in Luke’s arms, his expression unchanging and mumbled while pulling orange juice from the fridge,

“It’s about time.”

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silkenstarlight · 4 years

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perpetual motion

Summary: Reader and Bucky are close friends, but they both want something more. Everything comes spilling forth when Bucky lets loose and reader reveals a secret.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Warning/s: fluff, friends to lovers, slight body image issues, kissing

Word count: 2.1k

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Author’s note: had a rough couple of days, so I was in the mood to write some pure fluff. I hope you enjoy!! Also, the song that they slow dance to is “I Don’t Want to Set the World on Fire” by The Ink Spots :))

“Hey, Bucky. Can you grab the brownies out of the oven for me?”

“Absolutely.” Bucky closed the front door to your apartment, kicking off his boots, taking off his gloves, and wending his way to the oven. “Oh, ‘scuse me, need an oven mitt.” You shifted your hips to the left so that he could open the correct drawer. He sheathed his metal arm in an oven mitt and opened the oven, heat wafting towards you, and he placed the pan on the stove.

“Need any help with anything else?” He asked, and you shifted your hips again so that he could return the oven mitt to its correct place. You tried to ignore the close proximity of your small kitchen, the smell of wet rain that had followed him inside, clinging to his jacket and damp hair.

“Oh, I’m almost done cooking, but can you grab me my phone? I want to change the song. It’s on the couch,” you said, grabbing a couple of plates from the cupboard. Once a week, the two of you got together for a movie night, providing you both with some necessary rest and relaxation. Since he had befriended you, he had opened up a little about his past, regaling funny childhood memories about Steve, stories of Depression-era Brooklyn, and accounts of late-night missions with the Howling Commandos. He had also told you about the holes in his memories-- how, try as he might, most of his life was wiped from his brain, his mind a clean slate tarnished by Hydra. He was so full of darkness, but you could see that he was trying to be a man again. You could see that, after you started your weekly get-togethers, he was smiling more, willing to try more new things. You weren’t trying to fix him, by any means, but you wanted to be there for him, to give him a place to go where the nightmares couldn’t reach him. The two of you had become close, but every time he opened that front door, you had to bury the warm beat of butterflies in your stomach, had to ignore your budding feelings for him, for his sake. It would be better for him for the two of you to remain friends.

He walked over to the couch and picked up your phone, handing it to you and bracing his arms against the counter. You skipped a couple of songs before settling on one, turning up the volume so that the sound boomed through your bluetooth speaker.

“Still don’t understand how that works,” Bucky said, gesturing to the speaker, one eyebrow raised in mild confusion.

“Me neither,” you said, smiling, causing his brows to knit together even more. “This song makes me want to dance, though.” You started swaying your hips, stepping your feet to the rhythm. He watched, face softening, and you beckoned to him. “Come on, old man. D’you dance?”

His nostrils flared, a lump rising in his throat. Yes, he did dance. In the before-time, when he was young and carefree, when he didn’t have to carry the weight of a century’s worth of consequences on his shoulders. He would foxtrot and jive every Saturday night, dipping and lifting and turning a rotating cast of sweet, smiling dames. He couldn’t remember any full routines, most of the steps lost to time, corroded by the ever-looming trauma of his past. He hadn’t danced since his last night in the United States in 1943.

But, as he watched you, he began to smile. Your movements were loose and relaxed, though slightly out of rhythm and somewhat erratic. It was unlike anything he had seen a woman do in the before-time, all of their movements planned and robotic. Right now, you seemed so content, completely comfortable in his presence. So, when you took his hands in yours, motioning for him to copy your movements, he obliged. As you both jumped and danced around the kitchen in a fast-paced shuffle, his first instinct was to downplay his joy, to swallow his smile. But, upon seeing the unabashed delight in your expression, he let laughter bubble up in his chest. You finished the song like that, fingers tangled in his, twisting and twirling and laughing.

Your movements slowed as the song changed. “It’s been years since I’ve danced. And never like that,” Bucky said, catching his breath, a smile still plastered on his face.

“How did you dance, back then?” You leaned against the counter, dinner completely forgotten behind you.

“Mostly with choreographed or planned movements. Lots of fast dances, but slow ones, too.”

“Oh. The fast ones sound fun,” you said.

“The slow ones were pretty fun, too. They had the best music,” he said, wistfully thinking of trumpeting Big Band and sparkling piano notes.

“I, uh-- I wouldn’t know,” you said, smile fading from your face.

“What do you mean?”

“I-I’ve, uh… never slow-danced before. With anyone.” You could feel pink splotches blooming on your cheeks, betraying your usual cool, stoic composure. You clasped your hands together in your lap and looked down at them, suddenly unable to make eye contact with Bucky.

“Never?” He asked quietly. You looked up to see his wide eyes and raised eyebrows-- was he surprised?

“Never.” You smoothed your hands over your jeans, trying to calm the sudden onset nerves. “I’m not really the type that men ask for a dance. I mean, look at me.” You gestured up and down your body and laughed, but the smile didn’t reach your eyes. You didn’t want to admit to all of the deep-rooted insecurity that your romance-lacking past had given you. How men didn’t tend to stick around, always moving on to the next woman, leaving you in the dust after they got what they wanted.

He stepped away, grabbing your phone from the kitchen counter to change the song. After a few seconds of scrolling, he smiled, settling on his choice. As he pressed play, the lilting, woody sound of acoustic guitar floated through the air.

I don’t want to set the world on fire...

He approached you, blue eyes ablaze with some unfamiliar expression, something you could only describe as warmth. He held out his hand. You looked at it, slightly confused, eyes trailing up to his, asking for an explanation.

I just want to start a flame in your heart.

“Take my hand.” His voice was low, serious.

Your gaze settled back on his hand, and you felt a little lump rise in your throat. The song he had chosen was pretty, soft sounds filling every corner of the room. You felt your hand reach up and grasp his tightly, the cool metal easing your jumpiness, before he pulled you towards him, leading you past the coffee table and into the center of the room. He wrapped his right arm around your waist. You watched your hand travel slowly up his chest and settle on his shoulder. You began to sway softly.

In my heart, I have but one desire.

You felt him looking at you, but you could only look down at your feet. You didn’t want to step on him; you felt awkward enough as is. This was a pity dance, after all, a friend doing a favor for another friend. Right?

“Look at me.” He whispered, letting go of your hand and tipping your chin up with his mechanical thumb. When your eyes met, you suddenly realized how close you were to him. Your noses were almost touching. You were surprised, but you didn’t pull away, refusing to bury the swarm of butterflies that erupted in your stomach and offered a pleasant, beating warmth.

“What are you thinking right now?” He asked, taking your hand in his again.

And that one is you, no other will do.

“I’m thinking about how much I would have loved for someone to swoop in and save the day like this at my high school prom.” Your voice was quiet, catching on the syllables as you tried to keep yourself tethered to the ground, tried to remind yourself that he was just being nice, that he didn’t return your feelings. But it was so, so hard. The heady musk of his cologne, the slight, shy smile, and the way his eyebrows furrowed when you spoke, as if he were concentrating deeply on every word you uttered, savoring each syllable as it left your lips-- it all stole the breath from your lungs.

I’ve lost all ambition for worldly acclaim.

He chuckled and lowered his head, breaking eye contact. When he straightened back up, your eyes flickered down to his lips. You could have sworn that his hand on your waist snaked tighter, pulling you slightly closer.

“What are you thinking about?” You turned the question on him, smiling.

“I’m thinking about a few things right now.” He answered, a coy smile tugging at his lips.

“Name one.”

I just want to be the one you love.

“Well, I’m wondering why boys never thought to ask a girl as pretty as you to dance with them.”

Your heart skipped and you felt the blush creeping back up your neck. “Pretty, huh?”

“Yes.” His forehead touched yours, but you maintained eye contact, memorizing every detail of this moment.

“Anything else going on in that brain of yours?” You whispered, voice barely audible.

He paused. There were a lot of things, of course. He thought back to the before time, when he was still a regular man with a regular life, and how he would go dancing with women on the weekends. Those dames were all fun-- swinging hips, fast-paced twirls and steps, red mouths stretched wide in laughter-- but he liked the slow steadiness that you provided. Wrapped around each other, slowly dancing round and round in the center of the living room, as if caught in a snowglobe. It was a space of stillness, of deep tranquility, when all his life, it felt like he was stuck in a perpetual state of motion. But you let him be still and at ease. You didn’t want to show off; you wanted to be vulnerable, and he liked that. He wanted to show that to you.

“Mostly, I’ve been thinking about how long I’ve wanted to do this.” He tilted his head forward, and his lips met yours.

He was gentle with you, the kiss soft and warm. He let go of your hand, wrapping both of his arms around your waist as he tilted his head slightly to the side to allow better access. Your hands travelled up to the back of his neck, ruffling his hair as you tangled your fingers in his rumpled locks. He let out a soft groan at the sensation and your heart fluttered behind your ribs. His tongue traced lightly across your lips.

You pulled back slightly for air and he lowered his head, trailing kisses down your neck and along your jawline. A quiet moan escaped your lips and your eyes fluttered open to find him staring at you with those warm blue eyes again. You hadn’t realized how badly you wanted him until tonight.

“You said you wanted to do that for a long time?” You asked.

“Yes. Longer than I would care to admit,” he chuckled. Now he was the one blushing, the tips of his ears turned bright pink. You smiled, glad that you weren’t the only nervous one in the room.

“Well, I’m glad that you were my first dance, and not some sweaty seventh-grader who would have held me at arms-length.” You both laughed and you closed your eyes, resting your forehead on his chest. The song was on its third or fourth replay, but neither of you cared enough to change it.

“I can teach you some of my moves next time. We can incorporate some twirls and dips, if you’d like. You’ll be an expert in no time.” His voice rumbled in his chest. You couldn’t see his face, but you could tell that he was smiling.

“Next time?” You asked, looking up at him.

“I hope-- if you want, of course.” His eyebrows furrowed slightly.

You snaked your hands around his neck and pulled him down for a quick kiss, breaking apart only to answer. “Of course I want there to be a next time.”

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yeojaa · 4 years

Text

stay gold.

pairing. jjk x f!reader. rating. explicit. tags. blond!jk being a good boy? idk. that’s literally it. wc. 3k. beta reader. @hobi-gif, ofc. author note. this was meant to be pwp but i cannot shut up so here is this mess that is neither pwp nor something with a legit plotline. 🤠 blame blondie.

Having a content creator boyfriend is fun. Usually.

You get to go on cool trips, he gives you all of the random shit his sponsors send him, and you get to preen like a cat that ate the canary when his DMs blow up with hundreds of messages.

Sure, there are the downsides. All his stupid pranks - the ones that piss you off when you’re trying to do your makeup, the ones that have him dunking ice cubes on you while you’re in the middle of a shower - and his perpetual recording, camera glued to his hand and if not that, then his phone. There are the rude comments - the oh, that’s his girlfriend? He could do better was a common one - and the long hours he spends editing, holed away in his office; the beyond inappropriate packages he gets in the mail, thongs and other things that he immediately tosses away with a reassuring tilt of his pretty head.

You don’t mind it though. He enjoys it, thrives on it, and you’re there to support him.

But you’d never expected this.

This Adonis standing in the doorway, freshly styled strands pushed back from his forehead, glimmering gold falling across his eyes. He looks, for lack of a better word, unreal.

(You’re not often speechless. Can’t be, when you’re dating someone like Jeon Jungkook and everything he does either makes you laugh or infuriates you. Boring isn’t a part of his vocabulary and you’ve learnt to keep up with his antics over the years.)

(Still, this comes close, stealing all the air from your lungs.)

“Hey, baby.” It’s his usual greeting, offered without hesitation as he crosses the threshold and tosses his keys into the catch-all by the door. Kicks off his chunky sneakers and peels his sweater over his head, effectively tousling the tawny threads.

He’s so handsome it’s outright disgusting, leaving you gaping up at him from your post on the couch. Gives you very little to work with as he shimmies down the hall, grabs an apple off the kitchen island, and then not-so-gracefully plops himself down beside you.

You still haven’t found your words by the time he takes two gigantic bites, flesh crunching between his teeth, big doe eyes sparkling like he’s stepped right out of a Disney film.

“D’you like it?”

Did you? Well, obviously.

You’ve never imagined Jungkook blond. He’d gone through a phase in college, colours of the rainbow rotating through the ends of his hair. Brown, red, orange, blue. You’d loved each hue but this was something else entirely. (Different even from the two months he’d spent as full-on ginger, committing far too hard to his Haikyuu!! Halloween costume.)

This version of him is steeped in some twisted fantasy, a dream crafted by years of bedtime stories and happily ever afters. It screams Prince Charming and has you reaching for him before you know what you’re doing, threading fingers through the surprisingly soft silk that curls over his ears and looks so lovely next to the silver of his piercings.

You mean to be gentle, to comb delicately through flax but fuck. He looks so good you want to devour him. (You can only imagine your face - a lovesick puppy brought home from the pound.)

There’s still apple in his mouth, juice tracking down his chin because you’re really making it quite hard for him to chew when you’ve got him like this, two hands on either side of his face, holding him in place. Inspecting him like a piece of meat as he peers at you, deceptively innocent and amused. “That’s a yes?”

An answer comes in the form of a kiss, of limbs rearranging and settling directly into his lap. Knees wide, chest to chest, you can’t even be bothered by the sickly sticky feel of his skin, the way his hands are too cold to be creeping up beneath the hem of your - his - shirt.

(Where had he put the apple? You know it’s not finished, two bites in and left to roll all over the rug. You’ll give him shit for that later, when you’re not so distracted.)

“You look like Barbie,” you mumble against his lips, into the warmth of his mouth. You ignore the way he laughs, swallowing it down with a pass of your tongue and too much spit swapped, a string of saliva caught between you when you come up for air.

Somehow, you’re still lightheaded, all your thoughts framed into the familiar silhouette of the boy beneath you. Cherry red lips - your fault, from all your biting and teasing and the balm you’d applied earlier - and blond hair. Who would’ve known that was your weakness?

(Deep down, you know Jungkook as a whole is the issue. That it’s your stupid handsome boyfriend with his lopsided smile and bunny teeth, dimples and that scar on his cheek. This is just a new layer to be explored, another reason you love him added to the Jungkook Best Boy jar that sits front and centre in your mind’s eye.)

“Don’t say that,” he groans, equal parts reproach and affection, palms resting where they belong, nestled over your spine. Long fingers toy with the soft cotton of your thong, brushing over the seamless material with small repetitive motions.

You realise then his hands aren’t the only things heating up.

The two of you have an understanding, an abiding awareness of the boundaries of your relationship and the roles you take on. Best friend, occasional sucker for the sake of a TikTok, lover.

He knows how much you hate your dirty laundry being aired - does his very best to never post anything that might be misconstrued, ensures he only ever portrays you in a good light because the internet could be cruel. (Even if he argued with you in the quiet of your home, he’d keep you safe outside of the four walls.)

You know how he needs his quiet time but that sometimes, a night out was unavoidable, a part of his life he - and by extension you - couldn’t always say no to. (Even if you were achy and tired by midnight, glaring down at your phone as he made his rounds, exchanged contact details and rambled about shit that meant nothing.)

He’s learnt to make your eggs the way you love them: soft in the centre, covered with too much pepper. He never washes your clothes in hot water (not after The Great Sweater debacle) and he always makes sure not to use your special memory foam pillow.

You kiss him goodnight without fail and play with his hair until he falls asleep; you bury your face against his chest when he’s had a long day, signing your love with the felt-tip of your lips. You bring him fresh cut fruit when he’s been working for more than three hours and wash his hair when he’s stressed.

Knowing each other was easy; loving each other was like breathing.

This, though, is different. New. Special.

He’s never been like this before, glazed over in the eyes, patience wearing thin. Sat so well, picture perfect beneath you and cornsilk crown lighting his entire expression up like a halo, he’s ethereal.

“Baby,” he whines, grits through his teeth as you roll your hips that much slower, the glide impossibly smooth thanks to the lychee watermelon lube he’d received to his PO box. (One of the items you hadn’t thrown away from that package, together with a handful of other toys that’d come in handy over the months.)

You’re shameless, soothing a hand across his cheek, thumb slipping past his lips. (You ignore the noise of indignation, meet it with a twinkling laugh of your own.) It sweeps over his tongue, pressing down in tandem with the second sound - one that echoes out of his chest, a growl that pitches into a whine and makes your ears buzz. “Hi, baby.”

“Stop teasing.” It’s practically begging - or as close to it as Jungkook will get. It draws a smile and another pass of your thumb, gliding across his gums to slot against the interior of his cheek. You’ve got him fishhooked, immobile, even as he glares up at you.

(He’s so, so handsome. Looks utterly out of it even as he tries to harden his gaze, coerce you into doing what he wants with that stare that makes your heart lurch pathetically in your chest.)

“You don’t like this?”

You know he does - that he loves being pampered. That he’ll rarely ask, instead pouting at you from wherever he sits until you turn to putty under his gaze and smother him in all the love you have to offer.

“I do. I just—” The rest of his words don’t come, stolen by a gasp when you grind against him, swollen head of his cock bumping against your clit. He’s making a mess of you both, back arching, hips rising, hands fisted into the sheets even as he chases friction like a dog does its tail. The warmth between your legs is so close he looks as if he’ll lose his mind, rutting against your cunt like just the right angle might get him what he wants. “Fuck, baby.”

“I’m trying,” you retort, mouthful of teasing that only earns you another glare, some poor semblance of one as he bites into the webbing of your hand, bucks up impatiently.

“Please.” He tries again, a different tactic this time, all sugar-spun sweetness. Strawberry shortcake rather than sour cherry pie, so eager to get what he wants that he’s not above pulling out all the stops. A hand risen from the sheets, digits decorated in ink swimming over your skin, sinking into the meat of your thigh.

(He doesn’t push though. Knows you’ll pull the moment he does.)

“Please?” An echo chamber, endlessly teasing, and a ducked head, lips finding the sweat-slick column of his throat. Just one drag of your tongue has him crumbling further, careful composure slipping with each swivel of your hips, the edge of your teeth. There’s nothing but desperation radiating off him, demand choked back when you drift lower, tracing over his chest, teasing him in the ways you know best.

It’s all so unnecessary, drawing out what he wants until he’s a goner, three seconds from combusting beneath you. You’d give him anything he ever asked for - offer it all up on a silver plate, a meal fit for a king. This is just fun, different and exciting.

You relent with a minor adjustment, settling yourself against him, face dropped into the crook of his neck. “Slowly.”

He repeats after you, uncertain and hopeful; his hand falls further, warmth descending to pull you close, hold you still. As much as he needs this - needs you - he loves the slow burn just as much. The stutter of his pulse gives him away, erratic beneath your touch. He’s a thousand miles above the clouds, floating on cloud nine; every second passed is another tingle of his toes, a tightening of the coil in his stomach.

When he aligns himself against your core, pre-cum pearling over his tip, he does exactly as you’ve asked. Sinks into you at such a leisurely pace you wonder if you might be the one who splinters apart, shatters into a million tiny pieces at the way he splits you open.

“Good?” Jungkook asks so nicely it’s impossible for you to say no, to deny him this tiny bit of reassurance.

(Maybe it’s the way he looks, crowned in glittering gold, painted by Fra Angelico. Or maybe it’s how his smile spills like sunshine, a peachy pink horizon dragging over the apples of his cheeks, burnt red like their namesake.)

(Whatever it is, it’s everything you want, packed perfectly and pouting.)

“Good boy,” you purr, breath hitching once he’s sheathed to the hilt, seated so deeply within that you swear you can feel him in your throat.

You’ve never felt so full before - close to overflow, taunted and taxed by ridges and veins, each flex of his hips that drives him somehow further within your fluttering walls. So full you might burst, that you can’t possibly hold yourself together when he begins to move, fucking you tenderly, as if he can feel the weight of the moment.

There’s something happening. A shift in the air, in the axis of your planet that revolves around him. It falls on its side, spins wildly out of control, and you’re emotional. It’s not just his hair - that gilded crown he wears, heavy heavy heavy like aureate coin - or the impossible dark of his eyes - blown out, an entire galaxy devoured by the supermassive black hole that is his pupils. It’s the things you can’t see, the pieces beneath skin, soft and jammy, the tongue-tart sweetness.

(The thing with Jungkook is that he doesn’t let go, refuses to fully submit, always so careful to regulate his voice when things get to be too much. He’ll blink back his tears, stifle a sob, even as his breath disappears from nothing but a delicate brush of his chest.)

You take his vulnerability as a treasure, hold it close and craft a chest for its home, promise to keep it safe even while you're the one who poses the most danger. When it’s your teeth and tongue that eviscerates the soft of his flesh, makes him keen and gasp, heart pounding like hooves, beat imprinted against, under, into your palms.

When he begs you to move - manages the request in a broken articulation that makes you giggle - you give, swivel your hips in a figure eight, an infinity of motion that never ends.

You take all he has to offer and sing your praise into the wet of his mouth. Lick over teeth and gums and trade spit for love; know there’s only more where that came from, that the fountain begs to overflow as he finally - finally - breaks that much more, gripping your hips gentle as can be. Hands soothe up and down, an unspoken plea in how he thumbs your hip bones, taps hopefully over the small of your lower back.

He doesn’t need to speak for you to hear him.

It’s more than a kiss forming against your skin. It’s a confession of adoration, sealed by the frame of his mouth, cemented by the sting of his teeth. It’s I love you without saying it, plastering the pecks along your spine, placing them safely in all the spaces you’ve created for him.

It’s also an apology, because he’s just torn your castle to pieces, shattered your entire fantasy into smithereens.

He hadn’t expected you to react the way you had, rolling off him as if he hadn’t just been chasing the sweet bliss of release, splitting your walls and making you wail above him. It has him pouting, utilising the one thing that melts you down like candle wax.

“Baby,” he whines, reaching for you, needy and horny and so hard he imagines all the blood has rushed from his head straight to his cock. Everything spins when he moves with you, scrambles across the California king to paw at your hip.

He’d been so good for you - wasn’t that enough?

“Don’t,” you grumble, searing his insides with just one look. (It shouldn’t be as hot as it is.)

“But—” A plea punctuated by groping hands, eager as always, smoothing over the swell of your ass, flesh squeezing between knuckles. He’d normally let this go - fuck into his closed fist in the shower after he’s done something to cut playtime short - but he can’t help it now. He’s been on the edge for so long, lit up in neon that demands to be seen, heard, felt.

“Don’t dye it again.”

Oh?

That has him reeling, laughing, such a stupid grin across his face. It devours everything else, spearing dimples into place as he pulls you against him. You can feel his smile forming against your skin, the wet drag of his tongue as he sucks a welt into the sensitive spot of your shoulder.

“You wanna play with Barbie, baby?” It’s such a stupid line - utterly sophomoric and riddled with teasing and yet the delivery has you shivering in his arms, equally childish huff splitting your lips.

Jungkook doesn’t listen to you often - not about silly things like this - but he figures he can, just this once.

“I won’t,” he chirps, sneaking another kiss, stamping another smooch. It’s working exactly as he wants, stilling your protesting limbs as he cages you to him, slips his hand back where he most wants to be. The glide is perfect, a mixture of arousal and fruity lubricant; he slips a finger in without resistance, grinding his palm against your clit.

“R-really?” Of course you don’t believe him. He messes with you too often, plays too many pranks. (He deserves that.)

His promise comes too easy, driven by how nice you feel, how pretty you sound when he presses another digit in along the first. The scissor of his fingers is languid, exploring for the spots that make you breathless as he hums a noise of affirmation against your neck; he fucks you open as if he has to, as if you aren’t already dripping, eagerly sucking him in. “Really.”

“Put it in then, Ken doll.”

He laughs - and then he does. In bed, with your knee hooked over his, pace slow and sure and sinful. In the shower, bent over with his hands bruising your hips. In the kitchen for a late night snack, another apple in his mouth and your hands in his hair.

Maybe blonds did have more fun.

tag list. @neverthefirstchoice @youwannabelostandnotbefound @codeinebelle

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bangtanfancamp · 4 years

Text

∴ summary: After spending a gloomy afternoon trying to get out of your own head alone , you finally seek out your boyfriend for help

∴ masterlist

∴ one shot

∴ pairing: Kim Namjoon x reader

∴ word count: 2k

∴ rating: pg-13

∴ genre: soft angst, comfort, established relationship

∴ warnings: oc is struggling with something akin to depression, it’s alluded to but not explicitly stated

∴ author’s note: this is incredibly self indulgent and was written in one go. I’ll edit later. I’d rather have it here to share sooner in case anyone needs it as much as me.

─────────────────────

“Joonie, what are you doing? Are you busy?” Your voice comes out small as you peak around the corner into his office, sweater pawed knuckles sneaking around the edge of the door frame.

He doesn’t look up at first. Perhaps you really were too quiet. Or maybe he’s just that immersed in his book. It’s not a cover you’ve seen before so it very well may be the latter. You know how he is when he has a new thing to get lost in. Ever your astronaut adrift, exploring the moons just beyond whatever new world he’s found.

He looks so at home now. Cozy in his den of words and letters. Perfectly domestic amidst lofty thoughts and paragraphs. His skin is mostly bare today, his coordinated tank top and shorts exposing a golden expanse of toned arms, long legs . They’re folded up and crossed, a little boy lost in wonder as he sits on his futon.

His hair is a warm chestnut this week, fringe too long around the lashes but too short to pull back. The way it refuses to cooperate when he brushes it out of his eyes, trickling silkily, stubbornly back into place, exactly where it wants to be, makes you want to chuckle.

He still hasn’t noticed you’re there. Too far gone in whatever his newest philosophy is to notice the way you study the dip of his furrowed brow, how it juxtaposes against the relief of his shadowed dimples, smiling even as he frowns. He finds so much pleasure in being studious— just for fun. No matter how much concentration it takes. You’ve always admired that about him. Admired everything about him really.

Clearing your throat, though you hate to interrupt him, you try again.

“Joonie?”

Somehow it’s even quieter than before, and as he turns another reverent page, you know you’ll have to physically intervene to interrupt him. You sigh. You hate to break the spell. He loves days like this—with the rain trickling down the window’s glass casting shadows on his focused face— he’s so happy to read when it rains.

He leans forward then without looking up to take a sip of his Earl grey, bumbling when the steam unexpectedly fogs his glasses. He laughs at himself, folding his book so it splays across the seat to mark his place and removing his glasses. It’s the first time he’s looked up. He spots you then, his face splitting into the smoothest “there’s my girl” smile you’ve ever seen.

“Hey… how long have you been standing there?” His voices comes low, warm, soothes something in you that desperately needs rest.

“Long enough to see you blind yourself with tea, it seems.” You try to smile back, but it’s a weak, floppy thing. Your cheeks can’t seem to commit so it falls a bit too flat. His brows pinch when he sees it. Something’s amiss.

“Hey… are you okay?” His inscrutable eyes analyze you, and you let him. Too tired to resist or put up a fight.

“It’s not my day, joonie.” Your voice is pitiful, even to your own ears. You’d normally wince at sounding like this in front of anyone else. But honestly, it’s okay. It’s Namjoon you’re with. You don’t have to play games or hide things. Not here. Not with him.

“Yeah?” His eyes catch yours as his palms rub the tops of his thighs. It’s an invitation. You know the gesture by now.

“Yeah… again. There have been so many of these lately,” you say, crossing the room to him, his arms unfolding to welcome you into them. “They come too often and stay too long. They’re terrible house guests. I’m tired of them, joon. I can’t seem to get rid of them.”

You’re scooped against him now, head on the space between his neck and his chest, fingers twisted into his tank top, bum in his lap, knees tucked up til you’re as small as you can get. There’s a broad palm of his on your back, fingertips on his other hand traveling the length of your arm in tender caresses as his cheek rests atop your head.

“Maybe we should start charging them rent. I bet even they can’t afford to pay that in this economy.” He offers the idea solemnly, fully committed to carrying out the metaphor that your mental health really is just an unfortunate airbnb plagued with hideously mannered squatters.

“You know, I love that about you, Joon.”

“My inability to pay rent?”

You nuzzle a sappy no into the heat of his neck,” dummy, your very real ability to never minimize things that are hard to me.”

The dip of his chest as he exhales is oddly soothing. It makes you feel like you’re being rocked and god if you don’t need to be cradled right now. “Things have been really hard lately, haven’t they?” He wonders aloud.

“It isn’t just my perception?” You look up, eyes entirely too pitiful, too round to belong to a functioning adult. No, Namjoon’s heart goes soft as he realizes he’s looking at the eyes of a very scared four year old you. The haunted gaze of an innocent girl who never got told everything would be alright. Even without knowing any more than that, it makes him want to cry.

“No, my sweet girl, it’s not.” Closing his eyes, he presses somber lips to your forehead, scooping you close to shield you— from the world, from yourself, from all the insidious things that took root in you so long ago you’re not even sure how they got in. His wide hands grip you tighter, a feeble attempt to help hold you altogether.

It’s silent then. A few beats of quiet, only disrupted by the clumsy clatter of irreverent raindrops on glass. His caress stays steady against your soft sleeves, his languid fingers perpetually in motion as he attempts to soothe the wounds that sit just beneath your skin.

You look up at him again, unsure what you’ll find.

You almost cry when you see the gentleness in his eyes. No judgment anywhere within them. Just something kind that stretches into the lines his eyes carve as he smiles. How you itch to gently peel his horn rimmed glasses off the tip of his button nose and kiss it. Bless him.

God, you don’t know why he’s so nice to you, but you’re so glad that he is. The smile you give back to him is wobbly, trembly, poorly constructed— but so so sincere that it makes your sad eyes shine. He bumps your nose with his, burying himself against your forehead as you cocoon into him.

You want to ask him what he’s reading, listen intently to him as he tells you all about it, but you know you can’t. You can’t decipher anything today. It all feels too heavy. You can’t carry the weight of anything new with hands already full. At this point, you’ve lived in this soft hoodie of his , the one you stole after his tour two years back because it smelled like him, for the past 3 days. You don’t even have the energy to change. With that kind of retention rate, seems there’s no point in asking your brilliant professor to explain anything.

Still, it’s always so nice to hear his voice. Especially with your ear to his chest like this.

So you ask anyway.

“Will you read to me, Joonie? Life always feels better when you’re reading.” You press your face deep into the copper of his neck, an open mouthed kiss placed against his pulse.

“It’s all kind of theoretical,” he chuckles. He’s bashful. If holding you weren’t occupying his hands, you know they’d be nervously fiddling with the back of his neck. A nerdy boy with a too big brain hesitant to share his discoveries.

“Is it good though? You’ve already read Jung to me, and I stayed awake through that. I think I deserve more credit.” You poke his throat with your nose. You’re not genuinely affronted, it’s just nice to remind him you're competent too. Sometimes.

His sweet chuckle then is earthy and rich, all dark molasses. “True. You actually gave pretty good feedback for that too. Fine. Didn’t mean to underestimate you. Just… bear with me if it feels odd? I haven't read it before. I can’t vouch for it all yet.”

“Fine by me. I’m just here for the cuddles and my Kim Namjoon audiobook.”

He can feel your smile against his skin. It makes him press you just that extra little bit tighter against him, exhaling soft through his nose when he feels you return the gesture.

Scooping up his paperback, he adjusts his glasses where they’ve slipped down his nose, clearing his throat to project like the narrator he claims he’s not but loves to be. He’s quiet for a few more beats. You can hear pages rustling as you sink against his skin. You imagine he must be trying to find where he was when you interrupted, or perhaps searching for a passage that seems apropos. Which he chooses, you don’t know, but you can feel when he settles, just before his caramel voice sweetens the thin air of the room.

“It's the same with the wound in our hearts,” he begins. “ We need to give them our attention so that they can heal. Otherwise the wounds continue to cause us pain. Sometimes for a very long time. We're all going to get hurt. But here's the trick - they also serve an amazing purpose.

When our hearts are wounded that's when they open. We grow through pain. We grow through difficult situations. That's why you have to embrace each and every difficult thing in your life.”

You aren’t sure when your eyes opened, not sure when they began to glaze over or when you started to cry. But you did. And you are. The salty things dripping down against Namjoon’s silken skin. Your sweatered knuckles try to knock them away, but to no avail. Your cheeks are still a wet mess and now his collarbone is too.

“Joon, what is this? What are you reading?”

“Oh… um, it’s— terribly long title but— Into the Magic Shop: A Neurosurgeon's Quest to Discover the Mysteries of the Brain and the Secrets of the Heart. Isn't that a mouthful?” his laugh is self deprecating, small, but still the most beautiful sound.

God, you hate how sensitive and soft you are right now. You don’t want to be sitting here at 4pm in your boyfriend’s lap crying over a paragraph in a book you've never even heard of before, but here you are.

“ is that… what the whole book is about ?”

“You know, I don’t know. I haven’t read it all yet. Jackson recommended it, I’m just now getting to it. Why - do you not like it? I can put this down. Read you something else if this is too heavy. You always like the poetry. I can grab that one anthology you like.”

You can feel as he starts to shuffle beneath you, eager to track down new reading material for you, afraid he’s scared you off, when the fluttering weight of your palm tethers him to his spot.

“No, stay. Keep reading. I want to hear the rest.”

You can practically hear him smile. Relieved. Can feel his dimples manifest without even trying. He kisses your hair, tilts your chin up to kiss you too. The complexity of bergamot and black tea making his supple lips even more bewitching than normal. The window in the corner is cracked open, the humidity it leaks in making your skin sticky as you lean against him.

He’s lovely like this. The rain soaked air mixing with his natural scent, a broad hand on your chin, warm thumb beneath your lip as you mold pliant into his kiss. He ends it with a peck to your lips, a tap of his nose to your nose, before hoisting you so close against him you just may fuse together.

And he reads. He reads until he’s exhausted. Til the rain has stopped, and you’ve drifted to rest pressed against the skin of his chest.

He folds the book shut once your breathing has stilled, his thumb marking the page as he tips you both to lay down sideways. As he extends his pinprick tingling legs for the first time in ages, you hoist yourself around him in your sleep like a koala, and he chuckles. That’s usually his move.

He kisses your hair then, traipsing fingers tenderly through the escaped bits of it that brush across your cheeks. He wonders if you know how madly in love with you he is. How often he’s wondered what he’d do without you. Today, like most days lately, your light was dim, but still kelvins brighter than anyone else’s.

He sends a silent thank you to whatever deity arranged things in such a way that he can hold you to his chest like this as the daylight saving’s darkness floods his studio office. You seemed so sad today, but he knows it won’t last forever. It’ll pass. It always does. He’ll just hold you until it does. And then some.

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olivia-anderson-fanfic · 3 years

Text

Canary, Part 6

First

Tim had been watching her out of the corner of his eyes for a long time. It wasn’t that he was trying to be creepy or anything, he just… didn’t know why she was there. It didn’t make sense. She was relatively low on funds according to what he and Oracle had dredged up, and even Tim in all his billionaire-ness recognized that this place was more expensive than average…

So, why had she come? It wasn’t even close to the motel she was staying at.

The vaguely paranoid -- cautious, he was cautious -- part of him worried that she had somehow known he was there, but there was no way she should have been able to know that. Hell, he hadn’t known he was going to this particular cafe until he’d gotten to work and realized that there were now cameras in the breakroom and his office to make sure he didn’t drink too much.

But, really, it seemed like she was just using the free wifi that the cafe provided to write up a resume.

He relaxed and sunk back in his chair with his laptop while he did his work.

… he didn’t get to work for long.

He picked up on the slight gravel of someone putting on a voice with ease. It was high and sweet, a voice he commonly heard from customer service workers. He chanced a look back at the barista and frowned when he saw her on her phone. Not her, then.

He looked around the tiny coffee shop and cringed a little when he realized what was going on. Shady guy approaches a woman who’s drinking coffee alone? Yeah, that’s never a good thing.

He pushed his laptop into his bag quickly, slung it over his shoulders, put the cap back on his coffee cup so the guy wouldn’t be able to tell that Tim had been there for a while, and rushed over.

He rested his hand on the man’s shoulder.

“Hey, bud, she said no.”

Tim watched both of them tense and their gazes were pulled to him in an instant.

Marinette glanced him up and down once. He watched her eyes lock onto his coffee cup for a second and he carefully turned his hand a little so she could see the name.

She smiled. “You’re late, Timmy. Don’t tell me you got caught up in another meeting?”

He shrugged innocently. “You know how it is.” Then, he split into a grin. “Maybe I should be the one that’s upset, though. Can’t believe you didn’t save me a spot.”

“I tried!” She whined. “He insisted!”

The man chuckled awkwardly. “I see. I’m sorry, I thought you were alone.”

She rolled her eyes. “I told you I wasn’t. Can you move, though?”

“Actually,” Tim said, because he didn’t want to sit in the window where Duke might happen to see him while on patrols. “There’s a free table back this way.”

Marinette tipped her head to the side a little before nodding. “Sure.”

She closed her laptop with a snap, gathered her things into her bag, and followed him back to his table.

That should have been the end of it. Unfortunately, the guy was still watching them. It looked like they weren’t going to be able to do work for a while if they wanted to keep up the pretense that they were friends.

She seemed to know it, too, because she sighed and rested her head on her hand with a small frown. “Guess we have to talk.”

He huffed. “Don’t have to sound so upset about it.”

“Alright. Fine.”

“Not sounding much more excited.”

She rolled her eyes and then brought a bright smile to her face. “Sure, Timmy, sounds great! Can’t wait to have a super fun conversation with you!”

“... nevermind. That’s weird. Why did that almost convince me? I knew it was fake.”

She let herself lean back in her chair, her face falling back to a slightly smug grin. “I’m Parisian,” she said simply.

Yeah. That made sense. Every Parisian Tim had had the (dis?)pleasure of meeting had had an almost unnerving amount of control over the way they presented their emotions.

He snickered. “Why the hell would you move here, then?”

She rolled her eyes. “Our psychopath was so boring. Like, dude, we get it, your wife died or whatever, that sounds like a you problem. Now, a guy deciding to become a jewel thief purely for the gimmick? Way more interesting.”

“Moral grayness is so twenty years ago,” Tim joked.

“Exactly! Give me dumbasses who are evil purely to be evil and good to be good!”

He grinned. “I can see why you like Harry Potter.”

She blinked.

He motioned to her cup. Scrawled across it in the barista’s messy handwriting was ‘He Who Must Not Be Named’.

She relaxed a little, grinning. “I just finished the books so I’m a bit obsessed. Also, every time I tell them that my name is Marinette they misspell it.”

“Don’t feel too bad, baristas are just like that. Heck, they’ve misspelled my name before.”

“... your name is Tim.”

“They spelled it with a y.”

“... why?”

“Yes. Exactly. A y.”

She giggled a little. “No, I mean why would they do that?”

“Oh. No clue. I hope they were just messing with me.”

The barista was wiping down the tables. It was nearing closing time and Marinette was feeling more and more sorry for the poor workers the longer they stayed. She knew that, when she had used to work at the bakery, she had always especially hated customers that were there around closing time.

Only two tables remained occupied.

She sighed when she glanced over and saw the guy was still there.

Oh well.

She looked over at Tim. “Care to walk me a few blocks in a random direction to see if we can get rid of him?”

“Certainly,” he said.

“‘Certainly’? I may not be super great with American customs yet but even I know that’s weird,” she teased.

He huffed a little. “Listen.”

“I’m listening.”

His nose scrunched. “No, wait, you weren’t supposed to call me out on the fact that I didn’t have an excuse.”

“Oh. Okay, we can try again.”

“Alright.” He cleared his throat. “Listen,” he said again, this time in a tone that mocked the one he’d said it in the first time.

Convenient. She was intent on mocking him, too: “I’m listening.”

“You’re the worst,” he complained.

She laughed. “I am so not. Joker exists.”

“You’re worse than him,” he said in his most serious voice.

She laughed harder. “No one is worse than him.”

He grinned. “I thought you liked people that were evil purely for being evil.”

“But he’s not,” she argued. “The man just decided one day that he liked the weird guy who dressed like a bat and figured that the best way to get that guy’s attention was to murder people.”

“Gotta admit, it works,” said Tim.

She shrugged, grinning. “Yeah, it does. Makes me wonder what would happen if the Big Bad Bat didn’t come, though.”

He tipped his head to the side slightly and then shrugged. “I don’t know, actually. He usually stops it in time.”

“I think he’d freak out.”

“Absolutely.”

She grinned and stretched lazily, head tipping back.

“He’s still following us, isn’t he?” Asked Tim.

“Yep,” she said, popping the ‘p’.

He groaned a little. “Great. Looks like we’re heading to the library.”

She raised her eyebrows. “You go to libraries? You could probably buy every ebook in existence and have a few billion left over.”

“One of my sisters works there, I can ask her to get rid of the guy,” he explained. “But I like libraries. There’s something quaint about them.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, it’s nice to see how the common folk live sometimes.”

He returned her eye roll. “Not like that. I spend a lot of time staring at screens, I have a special appreciation for regular old books.”

“That’s nice. I wish I had time to sit down with a physical copy like that.”

“You see, I have this genius strategy for making time: not taking care of myself.”

“Go on, this is intriguing.”

“Well, eating and sleeping, right? Everyone thinks they’re totally necessary things otherwise you’d die or whatever. But, listen, that’s just a hoax made up by the government to perpetuate capitalism.”

She nodded eagerly. “Totally totally totally. What’s your solution?”

“Coffee communism.”

“Yes, you should use your rich boy money to lobby Congress.”

He grinned. “I totally should. But I can’t run it by my family.”

“No way! You never know who's capitalist anymore, they could be plants placed by the sleep industry to ensure that you don’t go through with it.”

He gasped. “No! You think? My own family?!”

She nodded grimly. “It’s always the ones closest to you that betray you.”

And then he broke character, snickering behind his hand. She beamed.

They reached the library and he smiled as he held the door open for her. He asked her to wait while he talked to his sister and she waved him off casually, telling him to take his time.

She pulled out her phone and pressed her lips together thinly as she made a note to head over later that night to give the man -- Henry -- his money. She’d give him a little tip because, for a moment there, she’d almost forgotten that they were just acting. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to purposely trigger herself for the sake of believability but, hey, if she was going to try and dupe one of the smartest businessmen alive into talking to her, she needed to go all out.

Speaking of Tim, she updated the file of Tim’s favorite cafes plus the probabilities of him visiting each one. It was for his oldest brother, Richie Wayne. She didn’t know why Richie was the one to ask for it seeing as he spent most of his time in Bludhaven and therefore likely wouldn’t find much use in it, but no one ever really knew why Richie Wayne did anything. The man famously had almost as much cotton between his ears as his father.

But, Richie Wayne was also just as rich as his father, so… she’d give him his file later that night after checking her math with her favorite graphing calculator.

A redhead in a wheelchair rolled past Marinette and she absently held the door open for her, only to be surprised when she cursed out Henry.

She watched as Henry held his hands up and started backing away from the woman in the wheelchair, and then he ran down the nearest alley.

(… she’d give Henry a bigger tip. The man had just wanted a tiny side job to help pay for his wife and kids that wasn’t being a henchman, he didn’t deserve this.)

She opened the door for the woman on her way back inside and mumbled her thanks. The woman nodded once and continued on her way.

Marinette leaned back against the wall again and scrolled through Twitter as she waited for Tim to reappear. Apparently, Poison Ivy was already back in Arkham. Something about an intern at the botanical gardens watering plants wrong. Wild.

Marinette felt someone sidle up beside her and, after a quick glance confirmed that it was Tim, pocketed her phone.

He smiled at her, a tote bag over his shoulder.

“Did you go grocery shopping while I wasn’t looking, somehow?”

He hesitated before holding it out to her. “It’s the French dubs of the Harry Potter movies.”

She blinked as the bag was thrust into her hands and looked down at it. Yep, that was Harry Potter in French. She also, vaguely, noted the tiny slip of paper his phone number scrawled across it.

She slung the bag over her shoulder.

“I’m never going to return these. You’re going to rack up so much debt.”

~~~

NightwingsAss9384: does anyone know why nightwing and canary hate each other?

ScareCrane: She stabbed Batman once on accident and somehow got away with blaming it on him

Daylightwing: She refuses to let B adopt her.

RiddleMeThis: They think it’s funny when their stans fight.

SignalOfficial: They said ‘I’m the only flippy bitch allowed in New Jersey’ and have been fighting ever since

Yummmmmm: He has to or else Robin will get jealous because he’s the only stabby sibling allowed

Oracle: They’re fighting over who gets to change their name to ‘The Dodo’ first.

DeadHood: Nightwing is jealous that Canary was the first one of us to think to have a full-on bird mask.

TheBetterCanary: every time i go into the batfam tag to try and avoid them all i see is his fancams

SpoilerAlert: they’re both convinced that they’re the hottest bachelor/bachelorette in gotham

NightwingsAss9384: im beginning to think no ones going to tell me.

BlackBat: :)

~~~~~

Perma taglist: @nathleigh @peachmuses

Canary taglist: @jayjayspixiepop @unoriginalmess @miraculousfanfic127 @probably-a-hologram @iloontjeboontje

#if i did a kofi would anyone donate #probably not #canary #maribat #timmari #timari #timinette #shutterbug #marinette dupain cheng #ladybug #tim drake #red robin

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recurring-polynya · 3 years

Note

i’m gonna try out my luck for the renji bday thing😭

- renji being a mediator between rukia and ichika(idk why i feel like rukia and ichika would get into rly dumb arguments and just fight like they’re the same age)

- renji and ichika get a tattoo

- jealous rukia(of course)

- anything that takes place in inuzuri, i loved your ‘dumb teens stealing kisses’ snippet so much 😭

- more of the tattoo artist renji falls for a client AU

I hope you’ll forgive me for cheating a bit, but when I saw this, I said, “what if I just gave you more of the dumb teens stealing kisses” fic? because honestly, it’s just sitting here.

For people who don’t obsessively follow my incoherent ramblings about my own WIPs, this is an excerpt for i can’t believe i found you in that town, a story that takes place during Renji and Rukia’s last year in Inuzuri. Two out of their three friends have passed away, their powers are growing steadily stronger, and they are starting to face the fact that they aren’t children anymore. I have two more parts of Heart is a Muscle to get through first, so I never work on it, but it is very close to my heart.

PS: This is not going on ao3 at this time, because I really do intend to finish it eventually, so consider this a Tumblr exclusive.

❄ ❄ ❄

In a strange confluence, all three of them have found gainful employment at the same time.

Renji is guarding crates. He does not ask what is in the crates. He does not want to know what is in the crates. He stands next to the crates and his size deters most people. Occasionally, he is called upon to punch someone in the face. It’s good work.

Fujimaru got him this gig, actually. Mameji was good with numbers and he taught Fujimaru a lot, and now Fujimaru has a gig keeping the books for the guys who own the crates. That seems like pretty good work to Renji, too. Fujimaru says he wishes it involved more punching people. Renji wishes his job involved punching fewer people. Everyone’s got complaints.

Rukia has found work in a shop. This is charming and hilarious to both boys. It’s a pawn shop that paradoxically seems to buy about three times as much junk as it sells. It’s obvious that the only reason the owner hired Rukia is because the clientele likes to come in and look at her, but the fact is, she’s an amazing bargainer, and she’s making him a ton of change.

Renji stops in one late afternoon when his own shift is over, and watches her sell a man a knife that looks like it will break if he looks at it funny. She offers to throw in a shitty ball of twine and the man agrees to pay what is easily four times what the knife is worth, and leaves smiling. Amazing.

The shop owner eyes Renji warily. Renji never starts trouble, and he’s even stopped it once or twice, but at the same time, his presence is cramping the appeal of the pretty shopgirl.

“I’m off,” Rukia tells her boss.

“See y’tomorrow,” the seedy man grumbles.

“You don’t get paid every day?” Renji asks Rukia loudly. “I get paid at the end of every shift.”

“She gets paid at the end of the week,” the shopkeeper grouses.

Renji flexes one arm experimentally, admiring his own bicep. “It’s nice getting paid every day. Makes you want to come back the next day, y’know.”

“She comes back every day so she can get paid at the end of the week.”

Rukia’s eyes dart between them.

“Ah, you must be a great boss, very trustworthy,” Renji comments, stretching his back. “Although gettin’ paid every day is a nice way to show trust, too. Hey, Ru, you wanna stop at Takahashi’s on the way home? I heard they got in some dried mackerel and I,” he winks at Rukia’s boss, “got paid today.”

“Pfft,” Rukia huffs, wrapping her shawl around her shoulders. “I’m sure it’s a scam. We need rice, though, and more water.”

“Hey, girl,” Rukia’s boss spits out. “You had a good shift! Here’s your pay for today, as a reward for doing so well. Come back tomorrow, okay?”

“Of course,” Rukia agrees, taking the coins with a sly smile.

As they head out of town, she jabs him in the ribs with her elbows. “You’re so obvious.”

“Got you paid, didn’t I?”

“You did, thank you. He hates you, you know.”

Renji sighs dramatically. “How can I live with myself?”

Rukia snorts. “He’s gross, I hate him. I hate that whole job. Smiling at people. Acting kind to horrible people. It’s so fake. I don’t know why you like working so much, I’d rather just steal.”

“I’ve seen you working, what you do is not much different from stealing.” Renji rubs his hands together. It’s getting cold, especially with the sun setting. “I appreciate the effort, though. I mean, we do. Me and Fujimaru. I like this. Having money, that is. It’s nice.”

Rukia regards him out of the corner of her eye.

“Do you? Do you appreciate it?”

Renji frowns. “Yeah, of course I do. I know you don’t like it.”

Rukia stops walking and turns to him. “C’mere.” She gestures toward herself and makes the pointing motion she does when she wants him to bend down to her level. Even though this results in a cuff to the back of his head more often than not, Renji obeys. “If you really appreciate it, I think you should do something nice for me.”

Renji should know by now to be wary of such an ominous statement, but he falls for it anyway. “Sure. Name it.”

“I want to kiss you again.”

Renji tugs at his ponytail. “Again? Really?”

It was probably six years between the first and second time she had wanted to kiss him, but the second time had only been a few months ago, last spring, after he broke his arm saving her from a large, angry man she had attempted to pickpocket.

“You said you were open to the idea,” Rukia scowled.

“I...did,” Renji stammered. To be fair, he had been in immense pain at the time and probably would have agreed to just about anything. He could have used that as an excuse. It seemed like Rukia was thinking the same, he could tell she was already getting herself wound up to be hurt at his rejection. That stung a little, the idea that she expected so little of him. “No problem. Anything for you. Go for it.” He bent his knees a little deeper and squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for impact.

“You gotta relax a little, man, it’s not a punch in the nards,” Rukia scolded, grabbing ahold of his ears and laying one on him.

Renji didn’t fantasize about kissing girls. He liked girls well enough, but he liked guys more. There was one exception to that rule, and that was Rukia. He liked her more than anyone. It wasn’t right to fantasize about Rukia, though, in his opinion, because he lived with her and it wasn’t respectful and also… also, if he spent too much time thinking about things like kissing her, he might want to do it. So, he avoided the slippery slope of girls in general, and restricted his spicy kissing fantasies to the lean, knife-eyed Rukongai punks that hung out on street corners and had really sexy ways of saying “heeeeeey.” Renji was perpetually working on his “heeeeeeys.”

But Rukia was kissing him now, and it seemed equally disrespectful to pretend she wasn’t. Her lips were soft against his, and curious. Her fingers relaxed their painful grip on his ears and snuck around to rest on the back of his neck. She must have been keeping her hands in her sleeves, because they were warm, and they felt so good and this was good, this was so, so good and it occurred to Renji that maybe he was meant to kiss her back, she had never mentioned anything about--

“There, that wasn’t so bad, was it, Abarai?” Rukia was saying.

It was over.

Renji blew air out his cheeks. “Naw, it was fine. Ah, did you, uh… was it everything you hoped and dreamed?”

“It was okay,” she shrugged, but her eyes twinkled. She started walking again and Renji had to do a little skip and a jump to catch up. “Fujimaru’s probably home already. How come he didn’t come with you to pick me up?”

“Oh, there were extra crates today, so he’s working late. But we can have the rice ready and surprise him!”

“Mm, yes, that sounds nice,” Rukia agreed. She hummed a little as she walked. “Hey, Renji?”

“Yeah?”

“Back at the shop-- did you call me Ru? What was that?”

Renji made a face. “I dunno. I thought it was cute.” You’re cute, his brain added, and suddenly, he couldn’t unsee it. She was unbearably cute, wrapped up in her shawl, that little piece of hair hanging between her eyes, those beautiful eyes. “If you don’t like it, I’ll--”

“You’ve known me for nine years and you decide, just now, to give me a nickname?”

He shrugged. “Things can change, right? Even out here in the ass end of Rukongai?”

She regarded him for a moment. “It is cute. I will allow it, but only from you, and don’t do it around gross people like my greasy boss.”

“Yeah, no prob,” he agreed, squeezing his hands under his armpits. He had a bad feeling that they were in for a brutal winter this year.

“Hey!” Rukia said, and he realized she was holding out his hand to him. Gingerly, he took it, hoping she wouldn’t mind his own cold fingers. She didn’t seem to.

#renji's birthday 2k21 #my writing #i was strongly tempted to do another chapter of the tattoo artist au on top of this #except that the next chapter doesn't even have renji in it #it has rukia and orihime TALKING ABOUT renji if that counts for anything #and then i ran out of time #i know i have posted an excerpt of this excerpt before i am sorry i just love it TOO MUCH

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kisskissbanggang · 4 years

Text

What You Don’t Know

[15Min Read/4.5K Words - College AU - Jisung x Female Reader - NSFW/Smut, 1/3 Plot - Femdom, Dom/Sub, Finding Kinks, Hair Pulling, Sub Awakening, Drinking Buddies, Friends to Lovers(?)]

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It's not like you hated Jisung when you met him. It wasn't like you liked him, either. Really, you didn't anything Jisung the first time your friends invited their new roommate out for drinks. All Minho had mentioned was he was a bit of a nerd and a bit of an introvert, but he definitely didn't seem that way when you got to the bar after work. Jisung was slamming a shot with your friends and laughing in only the way you can when it's not your first of the night, and you were already vastly indifferent to him.

The only person who showed any extraneous interest in him was Stephanie, the group’s very own groupie. She'd slept her way through their whole house, starting with Felix back when they still lived in the dorms, and now they could never really shake her. Stephanie was fine, she was pretty and smart, but she didn't bring much else to the table and she certainly never made any efforts of her own to become friends with you as the guys suggested you try yourself at multiple points. Lately, she'd had her eyes set once again on her original goal: Chan, the name on the house’s lease and the first of them to graduate -- but to perpetually no avail. You had to applaud the arrogance in such a venture. Chan would be too busy with work for the foreseeable future to humor a girl like Stephanie, but she tried nonetheless.

Until Jisung moved in. Now she had her sights set on him, and none of the guys interfered as this near rite of passage took place. Presently, she was sitting hip to hip with him in the booth, completely oblivious to his discomfort and trying hard to crack through his inhibitions enough to do anything resembling flirting. You and Minho had simply watched, amused, judging from the other side of the booth and sipping your drinks.

What wasn't nearly as amusing was catching sight of your professor's new TA when you walked into the first class of your last college course. Jisung definitely made eye contact with you, but froze in a way that convinced you that he either didn't remember your name or desperately didn't want to socialize with you, both options suiting you just fine. Jisung didn’t say anything during class, he barely interacted with students, and he mostly kept to himself as Professor Brown droned.

For the first three days.

Finally, once Friday hit, the boys invited you back to the bar and you knew you shouldn't be surprised to see Jisung there. You and Minho watched as Stephanie tried and tried and tried to get Jisung to dance with her, until she finally gave up and cajoled Felix into doing it. And, once Minho left to get you a second round, you found yourself sitting next to the mousiest, quietest boy you’d ever met. That stumped you, seeing as he was just fine with the guys. You didn't feel jealous because, of course, you didn’t anything Jisung since you knew next to nothing about him, but it was interesting to watch him switch gears from friends to strangers.

“I liked your outline.”

“What?” You asked, whipping your head around to find Jisung quickly averting his gaze back into his beer. He coughed up a little more confidence.

“I liked your outline that you turned in.”

You blinked, impressed that he could actually make a move to just be nice to you. “Thanks,” you smiled genuinely, “it’s something I've been thinking of writing for the last year or so.”

“I look forward to reading your draft,” he said with a small grin. You were able to prod him after that, really pick his brain over the better parts of your outline and how to best represent that in your draft. “So,” he began one more beer later, now much more loosened up and relaxing back into the booth seat, “how do you even know these guys?”

“I met Chan in sophomore year,” you thought back, “and we almost got together, but you know Chan. He’s too busy for anything, even then he still was.” Jisung choked on his beer for a second but motioned for you to continue despite his quiet coughing. “So Chan and I are friends, and I sort of just became friends with everyone else, but especially Minho.”

“They’re good guys,” Jisung nodded into his drink.

“What about you? You just moved in but aren’t you graduating soon, too? How does that work?”

Jisung shrugged. “Tired of the campus apartments and finally had enough money to move out. It’s like a nice transition from college to the real world.”

“So you're enjoying it?”

“Yeah,” Jisung smiled his small smile as he looked at you, “I'm loving living off campus. And it’s great opening up my circle of friends.”

Becoming friends with Jisung was incredibly easy. So now you liked Jisung, but not much else. He was friendly now to the point of occasional annoyance, but who didn’t have their moments? He waved hello during class and would sometimes hand you back assignments with little non sequiturs or drawings scribbled on post-its stuck to the back. Every once in a while, he could be convinced to hang out in the cafe on campus if you caught him walking by.

It was really easy to be friends with Jisung, until Stephanie decided she was tired of just being friends and wanted to begin her conquest. Now you had to deal with her tagging along everywhere, constantly cooing over Jisung and dressing him up and parading him around. The first time he showed up to the bar with a scarf, you knew better. It was March. You stood up, grandly asking the boys to give you their attention as you made Jisung face you in all his confusion until you whipped his scarf off, revealing a giant hickey the hue of black cherries. The boys all groaned in unison and proceeded to razz Jisung for joining their de facto club all night until, of course, Stephanie showed up. You and Minho grimaced as the night went on and, sure enough, three beers later Stephanie had climbed into Jisung’s lap in the booth and proceeded to make out for twenty minutes.

You weren’t jealous, of course. You just missed when Stephanie wouldn’t constantly be around. She didn’t even really know how to be with Jisung. Every time he reached his arm under hers to hold her hand, she shuffled him around to put his arm around her shoulder. Every time he went to kiss her cheek, she insisted that he kiss her lips. She was always getting him to hold her by the hips or waist when they were out at the bar or at parties, but he always seemed so compliant, so bored, so underutilized.

One night at your usual booth, you were squished in between Minho and Jisung, fighting with Min over how you were very much a switch, and he was a liar for insisting he wasn't as well.

“I’m a bottom,” Minho shook his head defiantly.

“No, you’re not! What about the cute guy from your art class in sophomore year?”

“A phase,” he shrugged.

“What about the tall girl from the volleyball team last summer?”

“A different phase,” he insisted.

“You’re a liar and a fiend,” you laughed. “You’re a switch through and through.”

“What’s a switch?” Came Jisung from your other shoulder.

“What?”

“What's a switch?” He laughed, practically pushing off Stephanie who was still trying to steal all his attention.

“You know,” you searched for the words in the bottom of your beer, “there’s tops, and bottoms, and switches. Where they can be either.”

“Well Jisung is absolutely a top,” Stephanie insisted, stunned as you laughed out loud.

“Jisung?! A top?!”

“Babe,” Minho jokingly warned behind you, trying to calm you down before you got too rowdy. You patted his hand off of you.

“Jisung is not a top,” you shook your head firmly. “Jisung is a switch, too, and a total sub to boot.”

“Oh, come on!” Jisung laughed boisterously, “And a sub?!”

“Jisung is not a sub,” Stephanie whined.

“You’re too busy telling him what to do to notice,” you guffawed, “Jisung is a sub. Watch.”

You curiously watched your own hand move before you even thought, outside yourself as your fingers ran up the back of Jisung’s neck and into his hair to firmly grip him at the root before manhandling him around to look into your eyes as he leaned into you. And you would've been mortified that you made such a rash decision, if Jisung didn’t compound this whole thing by his surprised yelp coming out sounding a lot more like a moan. His bright eyes drank you in as you both sat in the booth, your fingers still tangled in his hair until Minho grabbed your hand.

“Beer,” Minho grumbled behind you.

“Beer?”

“Beer, come get more beer with me.” Minho tugged you out of the booth and right into Chan as he finally entered the bar, his work bag still slung over his shoulder.

“Hey!” He smiled wide as he clapped a hand on Minho’s shoulder. Chan looked at you now, eyebrow raised as he noticed something. “You’re red. What happened?”

“Caligula here just dommed Jisung in the fucking booth, in front of Stephanie.”

Chan blinked and he immediately grabbed your hand. “That’s not great. That means it’s time to get you home.”

You stubbornly shook your head, “No, no no, you just got here.”

“Good. I'll take you home before I start drinking.”

Chan marched you out and expectantly held open the door of his dumpy little commuter car, waiting for you to give up and get in.

“So you did what now?” He asked as he revved the engine.

“I don't know!” You insisted. “I was just playing around but I, you know, pulled Jisung’s hair.”

“Hot,” Chan smirked, “but I'm sure Stephanie hates you now.”

“Oh,” you rolled your eyes, “like she didn’t already.”

“She doesn’t, but you and Jisung are just friends, and you’ve been known to make trouble like this.”

“That was one time!”

“Yes,” Chan nodded exaggeratedly, “and we almost slept together.”

You slouched in the passenger seat, watching streetlights as they passed overhead.

“You’re right, of course.” Chan remarked offhandedly.

“What?”

“Jisung is such a sub.”

It was pretty easy to avoid Jisung outside of class, but you did, admittedly, miss him. You kind of missed talking about movies, or sitting and watching dumb videos online, or sharing music back and forth. You sort of missed how he brought you snacks and complimented your outfits and always tried to mind your feelings even when he was critiquing your work. So it sort of sucked when Minho asked you to run to the house before coming to the bar because he forgot his wallet.

You prayed and prayed and prayed that Jisung was already at the bar, but of course he was the one to open the door.

“Hey,” he greeted awkwardly.

“Hey,” you stiffly returned his nod, “Minho forgot his wallet.”

Jisung stepped aside to let you into the old house, and was a couple steps behind you as you made your way up the creaky stairs. “Following me?” You laughed.

“Oh, excuse me,” Jisung giggled, “I’m just trying to get back to my room to finish cleaning.”

“You? Cleaning? Lies.”

Jisung jokingly scoffed and passed you to head into the door opposite Minho’s. You set about looking for the lost wallet, finally finding it having fallen off his nightstand and almost under the bed. You stood up, dusting yourself off and cracking your back before you turned, gasping to see Jisung in the doorway.

“Is it dumb if I say I missed you?” He admitted, almost shy with his small smile.

You jokingly gasped. “How dare you have emotions?”

“Because I did,” he shrugged. “I've missed you. Just thought you should know.”

“Oh, Jisung,” you grinned affectionately, “I missed you, too. Hurry up with your cleaning and we can go to the bar together.” You squeezed his hand as you passed him in the doorway, taking a quick second to toss your arms around his shoulders and give him a quick hug.

The hug lingered, just a beat longer than usual to not surprise you when you noticed Jisung breathing you in from the crook of your neck. You let yourself pet his hair for a moment before you began to pull away, but Jisung caught you, his hand snaking back to yours on his hair. Even as he stood a little taller than you, Jisung’s eyes were bright as they silently implored you, and you couldn’t keep resisting the curious urge you were feeling.

Your fingers wove into Jisung’s hair, letting him feel everything before you firmly gripped him by the root again and pulled him in, making him have to hold back where he was, leaning in from the door frame and his lips hovering moments away from yours. And then you came back to your senses.

“Wait,” you croaked, quickly relinquishing him and dipping away, “wait wait wait, I’m sorry, this is great, I want to, but Stephanie -- and you know -- I’ll see you at the bar.”

You spun on your heel to get downstairs and get the hell out, wishing more than anything your racing heart would calm down.

“I broke up with Stephanie on Tuesday,” Jisung piped up behind you.

“What?” You stopped in your tracks, your hand still on the railing.

“I said I broke up with Stephanie on Tuesday.”

You slowly turned to look at Jisung at the top of the stairs. “No one ‘breaks up’ with Stephanie.”

Jisung sighed defeatedly. “I know. I told her I don’t want to fool around anymore and then she said whatever and implied I don’t know how to use my dick.”

“So you chased off Stephanie on Tuesday, but you didn’t tell me?”

“No. None of the guys know. I mean, except for Minho. Stephanie is fine, she’s pretty but talking to her is like trying to make a bonfire out of toothpicks.”

You stared at Jisung’s obliviousness. “You chased off Stephanie on Tuesday,” you emphasized, “and you didn’t tell me?”

Jisung shook his head, big eyes still curiously watching for your reaction, and widening as you stormed back up the stairs. You picked up right where you left off, only now hopping up to wrap your legs around his waist as you tangled your fingers back into his hair and finally kissed him.

“Should I have told you?” He meekly chuckled against your lips.

“You should've told me. Bedroom, now.”

“Bedroom? Why the --”

“Bedroom or else I'm going to fuck you right here in the hallway.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Jisung fell back against his bedroom door with you in tow, your fingers gently tugging on his hair as you kissed him hard. Your tongue provoked his own to respond in kind, Jisung hungrily licking into your mouth and his moans sounding more like whines in your ear. He pushed open the bedroom door, sending you both stumbling in as he carried you to bed. You were set down softly and you caught your breath for a moment. You briefly took in the sight of Jisung’s side of the room, smirking at the piles of books and CD’s heavily contrasting with Felix’s much tidier side.

“This is clean?”

“Well,” Jisung floundered despite (or in light of) your devilish grin, “it’s cleaner.”

Jisung leaned down to join you in bed before you pushed him back off of you. He stood up straight and waited, patiently wondering what you were up to.

“Strip.”

“What?”

“Don't pretend like you didn’t hear me,” you laughed, “take off something, and I’ll do the same. Got it?”

Jisung nodded, eyes wide again for a moment before he decided to first kick off his shoes and socks, waiting to see if you followed through. He watched intently as you did the same. Next, he looked you both over before sliding off his jacket and letting it drop to the floor. His Adam's apple bobbed as you did this as well, dropping your jacket off the side of the bed. You watched as Jisung openly switched between the hem of his t-shirt and the waistband of his jeans, unable to decide just what to do here before settling on his shirt. It was nice seeing him like this, not seeing his body like this for the first time in bed, but playing around in the dimly warm light of his bedroom. His chest was smooth, not sculpted but still defined, and the faint lines of his hips leading your eyes down to his jeans before you remembered how the game was supposed to work and to slip your top off as well. Jisung watched, caught up in the way you undressed, in the way you looked as you unclipped your bra for him and dropped that off the side of the bed, too. He gulped, almost comically, before he unbuttoned his jeans and dropped them. You didn’t hide how you stared at the growing bulge tenting his briefs as you unbuttoned and slid off your jeans as well. Jisung’s fingers wavered as he went to tug his underwear down over his erection, standing tall and blushing against his neatly trimmed hair. You crooked a finger to him, beckoning him closer as he stood naked before you in the room.

“You do this part,” you smiled sweetly, laying back on his bed. Jisung nodded and leaned down to slide his warm hands up your thighs and pull your panties down. You gently cupped his face before you couldn't resist tugging on his hair again, loving the soft whines it made him produce, how it made him wince and shiver just a little when you were less intense. Your lips met again as you brazenly reached for Jisung’s rigid cock, massaging his length in your hand as you finally pulled him into bed with you. “So you’re already plenty good at listening,” you teased, “what else are you good at?”

“Whatever you want me to be,” Jisung smiled breathlessly.

“What did I tell you,” you giggled, “you’re such a sub. Now lie down and call me ma’am again.”

“Yes ma'am.” Jisung eagerly lay down beside you, surprised yet again as you climbed on top of him, the heat of your bodies enough to blanket you in his cozy bedroom. You softly kissed his lips and he watched patiently, obediently, as you kissed his forehead next and moved up to ultimately perch yourself on his chest, your exposed pussy on full display in front of his parted lips. A smirk preceded you pushing Jisung’s head back as he instinctively leaned forward to lick you.

“Ask first,” you gently warned him.

Jisung licked his lips, his throat dry from how much he’d already whined for you. “Can I?”

“Can you what?”

“Can I lick your pussy?”

“I don’t know,” you cracked a mean smile, “can you?”

Jisung threw his head back in the pillow with a laugh. “Come on, please, may I lick your pussy?”

“Yes, baby, lick my pussy.”

“Yes ma'am.” You stroked your fingers into Jisung’s hair as he closed his eyes and dove into your glistening folds. He more than deserved some encouragement from just how eager he was, moaning as he tasted you and laved at your clit. In fact, he was good enough that you predicted you would have to be careful to not cum too fast. You lightly pulled Jisung off of you, standing up over him and giving him quite the view as you turned around to reposition yourself to face his feet instead. “May I continue?” Jisung breathed, and you were impressed. He just wanted to please you and play by your rules. You couldn’t see a disobedient bone in his body, and if he had one he didn’t give any hints of it.

“Yes, baby, you can continue.”

Jisung hummed contentedly as he began licking you again, his hands pulling at your thighs as he moaned against your pussy. He jumped as your hand closed around his hard cock again, lightly stroking his length that had the smallest curve upwards. His moans against your clit drove you wild, and it provoked you to stroke him harder until you could hardly stand it. You finally dipped his length into your mouth, stroking his cock as you sucked on him as well. Jisung apparently couldn't control his small thrusts into your mouth until you spanked his thigh to calm him down, and his hushed whimpers were an amazing undercurrent to the room. The faint taste of precum was coating your tongue. All of it -- Jisung’s licking, his whines, his cock in your mouth -- was serving to create an orgasm that you refused to have yet. You dipped Jisung’s hard length deeper into your mouth, almost into your throat, and loving how he had to stop licking you for a moment from the force of his moan before you rolled off of him.

The both of you caught your breath for a second, chests heaving as Jisung absently reached his hand under yours to interlace your fingers together. You smiled softly, leaving over to kiss his brow.

“Are you good to keep going?” You asked quietly, almost proud of Jisung’s eager nod. You climbed back on top of him, the entrance of your pussy set right on the head of Jisung’s cock. You could've sworn Jisung held his breath as you firmly mounted him and took his length inside you. He watched, rapt as you took your time rocking your hips on his. “Why aren't you touching me?” You teasingly purred.

“I'm sorry, ma'am,” Jisung rasped, and quickly set to stroking your clit while intermittently fondling your breasts as you rode him.

“Is it good, baby?”

“So good,” Jisung choked out between moans.

“Be grateful,” you gently reminded him.

“Thank you, ma'am,” Jisung whimpered as your tight depths massaged his length, “thank you for letting me fuck you.”

“Of course,” you smiled warmly. “Now do you think you can make me cum?”

Jisung let out a loud groan at your words, his thumb on your clit becoming a little more earnest.

“Say it,” you lightly chided as you pinched his hand currently on your tit. You lit up at his small yelp from the pain.

“Yes ma'am,” Jisung struggled.

“Louder,” you encouraged.

“Yes ma'am!” Jisung moaned louder now, his hips now also rolling along with yours to drive his length harder against your spot.

“Good, baby. Now remember it’s not your turn yet, alright?”

“Yes ma'am,” Jisung groaned, fully wrecked by now as your moans grew a bit more desperate.

“Fuck me, Jisung,” you mewled, “fuck me and make me cum.”

“Yes ma'am,” Jisung breathed, his other hand now holding onto your thigh as he bounced you hard on his cock in tandem with his stroking thumb. He watched, enraptured, as you threw your head back and came with a cry, your pussy clenching and shuddering around his throbbing cock.

You took a moment to breathe and come back to earth, the thin sheen of sweat on your brow likely matching Jisung’s as you collapsed onto his chest. “Ready to keep going?” You panted.

“Are you?” Jisung chuckled. “You just orgasmed, after all.”

“That’s when it’s best,” you assured him with a grin as you absently stroked his chin. “You’re doing so good. I feel so good. I need you to finish.”

“Yes ma'am,” Jisung nodded gravely. “How do you want me?”

You leaned over to kiss his cheek as you reached for his hand and pulled him over to face you, ultimately pulling him up and between your legs on the bed. “What a quick learner,” you praised, “you’re so well-behaved. Now fuck me. I bet you're cute when you cum.”

Jisung shivered at the condescension as he buried his leaking cock inside you. He already filled you out so well, so satisfyingly, but you wanted to see how far he could be pushed.

“Come on,” you taunted, “don’t be afraid to get a good angle. Actually fuck me.”

“Yes ma'am,” Jisung groaned, invigorated to hoist one of your legs up to drive into you deeper. Actually, after a few thrusts like this, Jisung paused, grabbed a pillow from the head of the bed, and gently manhandled you to slide it under your ass. With this improved angle, Jisung got your leg back up and easily slid back inside you, the proudest grin on his exhausted face as you cried out and gripped the sheets from the way he filled you up now. In fact, he was hitting your spot in a way you hadn’t encountered much, in a way that could maybe make you cum again if you weren’t so worn out. “Please ma'am,” Jisung begged sweetly, “may I cum?”

“Yes, baby,” you pleaded, “please cum.”

“Yes ma'am--!” Jisung grunted out a strangled groan as he clutched onto you, bucking hard into you and screwing his eyes shut as he came.

It was Jisung’s turn to collapse onto you and suck in lungfuls of air, his cock still throbbing deep inside you with your legs finally easing back against the bed as you held him close.

“That was so good,” you softly praised, kissing the top of his head where he lay on top of you. “Have you ever done anything like that before?”

“Never,” Jisung exhaled a chuckle onto your chest, his breath lightly tickling your skin. “Never eaten pussy before, either.”

“What?!” You blurted. “You had me fooled. Was it good?”

“So good,” Jisung laughed softly against you. “You taste amazing.”

“And how was it? Letting someone have control?”

“Everything I didn’t realize I'd been daydreaming about for years. I expected you to be rougher, honestly.”

“You should take it slow,” you shook your head. “Besides, there's always next time.”

“Next time?”

You patted Jisung's shoulder to signal you wanted to sit up and he let you, rolling onto your side. “Yeah, next time. If that’s what you want?”

“Of course I do,” Jisung smiled giddily as he finally rolled out of bed to get dressed again. He threw you your jacket and clothes. “By the way, jog my memory: what did you originally come here for anyway?”

“Minho’s wallet,” you shrugged, pulling it out of your jacket pocket to show him. Jisung blinked hard at it.

“That’s not Minho’s wallet.”

“It isn't?”

“Not his new one, anyway. I saw him put his new one in his pocket on his way out to the bar.”

You thought hard about it before sighing out a laugh. “He's waiting for me to say something, then. Do me a favor and don't mention this at all when we go to the bar.”

Jisung cracked a sly grin for you. “Yes ma'am.”

#skzsmutnet #kprose-net #han jisung x reader #han jisung x you #stray kids fanfiction #han jisung #stray kids jisung #SO UH. this is my first 24 hour turnaround #like created the doc and posted #GO ME

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byorder-fanfic · 4 years

Text

Heaven Hears

Summary: After coming home from war, John has a second share of pain when Martha dies. Hopefully, his little sister can try and help.

Word count: 1759

Warnings: Death, grief, Christianity (is that a warning? I dunno I’ll keep it)

Authors Note: I’m sorry. This one is a little bit sadder than my others, but I SWEAR it has some fluffy bits in it! This is set in early 1919, so before the events of Season 1. Thank you so much for your continued support, I appreciate and LOVE you all for it xx

War was Hell, but the aftermath wasn't much better. For John, he wasn't sure if he'd rather crying in the trenches with his wife's letters pressed closed to his chest (to keep them safe from bullets and water) or now. With a soft sigh, he brushed his shaking finger over the creased paper. The ink hadn't worn away, still looking as fresh as the day they were written and, despite the wrinkles that embedded in it, the letters still survived, longer than the woman who wrote them. Martha. Each time he remembered her name, a new wave of grief and wanting hit him. Even in the bitter winters without thick clothes, huddled up in mud and men, his arms had never felt so cold. Pain seared through his throat but no tears rose. He had been crying solidly for a few weeks now. It seemed as if he's run out. His house was too quiet. Ada had taken the kids out for the day, giving him that longer-than-usual-"I'm sorry for your loss" kind of hug he was getting far too often before she took Jack and Katie's hands, letting his eldest Louise hold onto little George. Katie looked just like Martha, and Jack kept on asking when mummy was going to come home. And John was breaking. Coming home was supposed to be a celebration, and it really was for a while. He had his kids in his arms, wife by his side, and nothing was gonna stop him. Suddenly, a rapid series of knocks on his door forced John out of his thoughts. Stumbling a little, he made it to the porch, swinging open the door to reveal Polly. Her severe expression was immediately replaced with concern. John didn't look good: his hair was a mess, face so pale she could swore his freckles had darkened a few shades, his clothes wrinkled and stinking of whiskey. "Have you seen Y/N?" Polly asked, looking down at her nephew's raggedy appearance with a furrowed brow. "Nah," he said, suddenly feeling a jolt of worry displace his misery. "Why? Is she missing?" Y/N was only ten years old, and more protected by her brothers than the King of England. If she managed to slip away, the whole of Birmingham would be called to the streets soon. That is, if Polly didn't find her first. "She said she was going to see you." Polly's pursed lips reminded John of a simpler time, when she'd scold them for playing too rough with Michael (just a baby then!), and lecture them all when they got into fights. Or, more recently, when the two Shelby twins made mischief in Small Heath. In an instant, John grabbed his coat from the hook and pulled it over, somewhat hiding his dishevelled clothes, and obscuring his unkempt hair with his Peaky cap. "Let's go looking then," he said simply as he shut the door behind him. Polly held her hands up, forcing him to pause on his rampage. "I can find her by myself, you need rest." He hadn't heard that since he got the flu at fourteen. The same age he met Martha, the bitterness soon settled back in. "I need to find Y/N," John tried to stop himself from sounded stroppy, looking at Polly with conviction. "And I need a distraction." With a sharp huff, Polly grabbed onto the crook of his elbow as the two ventured down the grimy streets of Small Heath, listening for the girl's squeal of laughter and quick footsteps, looking in every corner for a hint of the troublemaker John called sister. They looked in all the usual places: the Cut and the stables were empty, neither Uncle Charlie or Curly had seen her, the Garrison hadn't had a Shelby in it all day according to Harry (much to both of their surprise), and she wasn't hiding away at a friend's house. Accepting defeat, the two decided to trudge back to Watery Lane to tell Tommy and Arthur that they couldn't find Y/N and thus force every Peaky Blinder awake or otherwise to join a search party for her. Until, Polly stopped in front of the Church, forcing John to stop in his tracks too. "What the Hell, Pol," he began before turning to follow his aunt's gaze. In the steps in front of the Church sat a familiar figure. Thirteen year old Isaiah Jesus was hunched up, a cigarette loose in his hands and smoke surrounding him. Both the Shelbys walked up with kind smiles, always happy to see the preacher's boy. As soon as Isaiah heard the familiar march of Polly's heels, he stumbled to stand up, dropping the cigarette and stamping it out. He brought his sleeve (that was getting shorter on his long arms every time they saw him) up to rub his nose, a motion that irritated both of their parental instincts. With a small sigh, he waved at them. "Hello Mrs Grey," he said politely, although a little hoarse. Getting closer, they could both see his eyes were slightly pink, his dark skin shining with recent tears. It seemed as if he didn't just come away from his father's view to smoke. "Are you alright, Si?" John asked softly. Isaiah pressed his lips together, preventing the tears in his eyes from spilling in front of them as he gave a hesitant nod. "Yeah, um, Y/N is in there," he swallowed thickly, pointing behind him. He refused to meet their eyes. "She's talking to my...my mum, and uh Martha too." John froze at the name. He hadn't heard it spoken in so long, except for the incessant chanting in his head. But Isaiah wasn't afraid to say her name, he knew all too well about grief. They remembered how much smaller he was then, his black sleeves and trousers needed to be rolled up as he walked alongside his mother and baby sister's coffin. In an instant, John walked into the Church. The sound of the door made Jeremiah, sat in the back pew, turn around. With a warm smile, he brought a finger to his lips, then pointed ahead of the three of them. In front of the altar, Y/N was sat on the floor - despite the multitudes of empty chairs surrounding her - as you looked up, illuminated by the light. Although the Birmingham sky was perpetually grey, the stained glass window shone in gold and pinks. "God, I think it must be nice for Mrs Jesus to have Martha," your voice rung through the stone building, as you chattered on, as conversationally as you would speak to Finn. "I mean, little Delilah must be..." you paused, and John knew you were doing that scrunched up face you and Arthur had when you were trying to do sums. "Five? I think. Well, Polly said we were all a right menace at that age, so Martha'll be there to help her." John looked from Jeremiah's joyous expression to Polly's uneasy one, not sure which side he related to more. "Martha really was the best mother." You said it a little bit sadder. "The kids all miss her, and John's..." He took a step forward, craning to hear what you had to say for him. "He's in so much pain, and I don't know what to do. God, please give me some of it for him. He's already got so much going on in his brain, and Polly said that I've got an empty head, so I wouldn't mind carrying some of it for him. I know Tommy or Arthur would do the same, but their heads are still messed up from the War, and I guess John's is too. He just has more important stuff to think about." For what felt like the first time in a while, John smiled. He walked down the aisle and placed a gentle tap on your bent head. Startled, you looked up. Seeing John, you gave him a big grin as he came to come sit down next to you, cross-legged as if he was back in school and Mrs Changretta was reprimanding him again. He supposed that's what the presence of God felt like to him- a disappointed authoritarian. He held onto his sister's hand, as you looked back up to the intricate window. "Martha, I'm gonna hug John for you now." You moved over to wrap you arms around him, only reaching up to his shoulder as you nuzzled your head against his coat. He knew it was itchy for you, so he pulled you into his lap like he'd do when you were so much younger. Smiling wide, you rested against him like you were still that toddler. "Hey Y/N-" he didn't get to finish his sentence, as you gave him an annoyed arch of your eyebrows as you brought a finger up to shush him. Sitting up, she looked back up to the window. "Sorry God, I'm going to speak to John now. I'm sorry I got mad at Finn this week, and mum I swear I didn't mean to push him in the Cut, please help me make everyone smile again, and..." you gave a look of pure concentration as she held onto your hands tighter. "That's it! Amen." You snuggled back down into John's arms, looking at him expectantly. "You can talk now," you told him sweetly. Despite himself, John laughed loudly, giving you a toothy grin. "Oh, can I?" He sounded teasing, and it made Polly beam at Jeremiah as they saw, for the first time in weeks, his happiness that once radiated from him. "Well, Y/N, I just wanted to say it's sweet what you said the big man about me, but you don't have to take on my pain for me." "I don't have to," you repeated sternly. "I choose to." "Even so," John smiled again, the feeling somehow foreign on his face. "The pain I feel is just a reminder of how much I love her." He couldn't say her name, it choked in his mouth, but you understood, nodding your head dutifully. "And it will get easier to handle with time." He looked up to the window, the eyes of a Biblical hero he couldn't name, that seemed to listen to each word. "And, Martha, when that happens, the kids' and I, we'll smile every time we think of you cause of how much we love you, right?" "Amen," Y/N said softly.

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jubilantwriter · 4 years

Text

It’s Free Real Estate

AO3

Summary: Every entity needs a host, and each chooses their hosts with different means. For the Transmission, it goes about the route of using and reusing the same host as much as possible. How it gets its host is another thing - luring them over tends to work, but only if it can manage to snag onto their deepest desires.

If only it knew the proper wording to use lure its prey over.

Perhaps it should reconsider the fact that children of this era don't know what "real estate" actually means.

Word Count: 2035

////

There’s something the Transmission and the Maw had in common - they both needed hosts to keep them running. Their forms had to be enticing, promising a homestead to house their hosts until the end of their allotted time. Granted, the Maw was much better at preparing itself for its incoming host - it actually provided rooms, kitchens, space to thrive and grow in order to have their host fully accept them.

The Transmission was… less adequate at providing. It focused more on luring and trapping their host, like a rat drawn to a suspended bit of cheese only to find - surprise! They were stuck in a perpetual spinning wheel that they must keep running. And run they shall, until the end of their allotted time. The Maw found this method particularly wasteful, but the Transmission didn’t care. It made itself into the shape of a tower to broadcast its power over the city, as opposed to the oddly shaped ship the Maw found itself as. While the Maw allowed its host to be drawn in with the promise of comfort and sanctuary and power, the Transmission offered nothing more than a forceful grab of attention that wouldn’t end until its needs were met.

Still. They both needed to toss their lures into the proverbial waters, so to speak (though less so for the Maw).

The Maw tosses out flyers, posters bragging of the comforts it has to offer. Food - endless food! Food just for you, just come here! This offer is meant for you, just for you! Silent as it is, the words catch and grab at the attention of certain passersby, and it catches either prey or host. Mostly prey, of course, but nothing goes to waste in the Maw.

The Transmission is… less subtle.

“Psst, hey.” Its broadcast rings loud and clear, and the boy with the paper bag flinches at the sound. “C’mere, we’ve got a message for you. Aren’t you tired of running? Don’t you want a place to rest your little feet on something comfortable?”

The boy groans, his hands covering his ears as he hunches over in pain. “Leave me alone…”

A small girl follows after the boy, also hunched in pain, but noticeably less so than the boy. No matter, the message wasn’t meant for the girl. The Transmission makes itself louder as it forces the boy closer.

“A home! Finally, someplace that truly welcomes you. It’s got so many rooms to explore, of course. No rugs or furniture, unfortunately, but! It’s perfect for a growing boy like yourself. No other deals come like this to anyone else - it’s even, dare we say, free!”

“What does that even mean,” the child mumbles, but he’s trudging closer to the screen and- yes, yes! He’s touching it now, tuning its transmission as if to quiet the loud message it blares. It allows him to twist and turn the broadcast, the enticing hallway straightening enough to make use of the boy’s powers and soon enough, he phases through the screen and lands in the hallway. But of course, the current occupant is being a little troublemaker and making it difficult for the child to progress forward. He moves at a frustratingly slow pace as the current host manipulates the space around him to keep him from reaching the door.

And just before the boy even makes it to the door, that girl yanks him out of the screen and the broadcast comes to an abrupt end. No matter. The Transmission’s walls tremble in frustration, but no matter. There are plenty of televisions it can manipulate. Its current host lets out a dry chuckle at the Transmission’s failure. How annoying. This was why the Transmission needed to replace him with the younger host.

This old one was starting to get on its nerves.

////

It can sense when the boy is close to an idle screen. Pretty simple, really - his power is strong, brimming under the surface as he tries desperately to keep it under control and hidden away. But it won’t let that happen, no no. The Transmission needs his powers - a source of energy, a tool it can control, a middleman it can exploit to strengthen and manipulate its broadcast to each and every Viewer - and the boy just didn’t seem to understand the potential he held.

The television switches on as it blasts its broadcast straight at the boy, making him hunch over in pain as the sound of an untuned transmission audibly pains the boy as it shouts its message loud and clear.

“A free home! We’re practically giving it to you! You can customize it, optimize it to your own personal tastes! Look, you got the key right there to open up the door to your new home!”

The boy looks down to where he normally stashes his keys, but there’s nothing there. Instead, the television procures a static-like key that slowly twists and turns on the screen for the boy to reach in and grab.

“No adults, no monsters, no nightmares - just a nice, free home for you to stay in! There’s even a space in the back for a friend to stay!”

The boy perks up at this, eyes trailing over to the girl as she once again hesitantly follows the boy towards the television. She’s wary of the Transmission, of how the boy approaches the television. No matter; it almost has the boy in its grips. He leans forward and presses a hand against the screen and tunes the Transmission. It lets him do as he pleases, the key disappearing to allow the hallway to reappear.

The child tunes and tunes and tunes, this time taking a little longer than usual. A bit of irritation trickles through the Transmission. Of course - that old battery it owns is meddling again. That won’t do.

It’s only a little bit of meddling, after all. The hallway straightens with a little nudge from the Transmission, and the child falls into the space with little fanfare. Again, it tugs at his being, tickling his curiosity as he tries to run towards that door that hides the older tool. But the child runs slowly, as if he’s stuck in a dream as he struggles to make any headway in the hallway. The meddling old man continues to stall, warping the space around the child to slow him down. And just like last time, the little girl manages to pull its prize out of the screen once more.

It howls in rage as it is foiled once more. The man laughs from where he sits, sneering as the once stone walls turn to flesh, and the Flesh Walls begin to converge on him for his punishment.

Allowing him to keep his free will was such a foolish idea, after all. Of all the iterations it had to deal with, this one was the most stubborn. He remains stockstill as the walls press against him, head held high as he stares up at the ceiling.

“Even after all this time, we still make a good team, huh, Six?”

The man doesn’t get a response. No matter. It’s not as if anyone would answer with his old name. That belongs to his younger counterpart. The walls smother him, stifling his breathing as the Transmission goes back to searching for the young one.

This is what it gets for allowing him so much freedom. It’ll learn from its mistakes to ensure the younger one won’t get so willful and cocky. But for now, it must find him again.

////

It tries a different method. It tries the boy’s name this time.

“Mono!” The boy flinches at the use of his name, the girl close behind him. She tugs at his hand, seeing the bright screen light up the dark room as he begins to curl over in pain. “It’s a free home - yours to claim and make your own! Fully intact with no signs of damage AND no adults around to wreak havoc! It’s already ready for you - you just need to come and claim it!”

“Shut up…” He tries to cover his ears, but it’s useless to do so. There’s only one way to end the message, after all. He shuffles towards the screen with a hand reaching out as if to stop the broadcast. The waves mingle with the boy’s power, amplifying the white noise into legible words that only the boy can hear. After all, the message is meant solely for the little Mono.

“It’s a free home! With your name - Mono, yes that’s right! - on the deed!”

“What’s a deed...”

“It’s for your home! To show that you own it for good! And it’s free for the taking- your taking! Mono, you don’t need to search anymore when we’ve done the searching for you! Free. Housing. It makes us tremble with excitement! Could it get any better than this?”

“Shut up!” By now, the boy presses his palm against the screen and begins to tune the transmission. It nearly trills with excitement as it blares its message once more for him.

“It’s free real estate!”

“I don’t even know what that means!” He yells with frustration as the image straightens out. Luckily, the old battery can no longer interfere. The older man is fitted with his hat now, the outfit complete as he stares blankly ahead. It even took it upon itself to tune the old tool just right - his anger was amplified, need for revenge finely tuned to take priority over everything else, and a single memory is looped on repeat for him to focus on. No interference from him now.

The child breaks through the screen easily and runs towards the door unhindered. He reaches the doorknob and yanks the door open with a quick leap and heave and-

Ah, yes. The old tool is removed, moving forward of his own accord as the child screams and runs away. But there’s nothing any of those creatures can do now. The events are set in motion, as it always has been.

It’s only a matter of time.

The Signal Tower is empty once more as the hunt begins.

It’s only a matter of time.

////

Maybe he should’ve expected this. Maybe he should’ve known that the voices from the Transmission weren’t lying to him as he sits on this lone chair, a room so empty that it reminds him of the aching void in his chest.

Maybe he should’ve known that he was doing exactly what the Signal Tower wanted him to do by tuning the Transmission like he did. At least now, he has access to all sorts of shows to ease his unfortunate boredom. All these shows meant that he knew what all sorts of big words meant.

A term he finally understood was “real estate”. It meant something like… land that someone owns with one or more buildings. He thinks.

But it makes sense now, doesn’t it? When the Transmission kept trying to tell him that it was giving him a new, free home. Apparently, adults used to have to spend “money” to “buy” new homes. The concept escapes him - he doesn’t actually know what a home is. But according to the shows he watches, it means a place that wants him. A place where he can stay safe and sleep in.

A new, free home. He looks around the room he’s trapped in, stuck in the Signal Tower as it continues to control everything in the Pale City and the residents that live within the city.

Land with buildings.

The Transmission keeps him here, where it wants him. Where he can stay safe and sleep in.

A home.

He curls up on his single chair, the only thing that had kept him safe from the fleshy floors until there was no more flesh, and cries silently to himself. Maybe Six knew what was waiting for him and dropped him here so that he could stay safe? Because this was a place that wanted him?

Maybe that was it.

Maybe this was supposed to be a good thing.

(He didn’t like it one bit.)

New understanding has him burying his face against his knees.

“It’s free real estate,” he whispers.

#little nightmares 2 #ln mono #ln thin man #ln the transmission #ln six #she's kinda just mentioned tho #i posted this to the WRONG BLOG #and woAH im writing for a new fandom??#don't worry guys i'll still write camp camp #i just need these out of my system #anyway my original thought process was like #hey what if the transmission was like blasting IT'S FREE REAL ESTATE #but mono hates it #sorry its not as funny as i wanted it to be but boy did i try #crackfic sorta #don't take it seriously please

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von-posts-stuff · 3 years

Text

Hyacinth

Dedicated to @dead-bones

Synopsis

When Wilbur sends Technoblade his plea for help, he sends it much too late for it to be of any use. Two months later, Technoblade arrives in the Dream SMP after an error with his communicator and comes upon a bloody revolution being fought with no resources and little chance of success. It gets worse from there.

(Takes place in an alternate universe, where Minecraft is its own reality with its own rules - demigods and their vassals, servers with supernatural sponsors that act as small pocket dimension, and a more fantasy take on Minecraft game elements - and there is a lot more going on in the dream smp than just a Hamilton a/b/o fanfiction nock off. This chapter (one) is 11k ish words!)

• Chapter One •

The encroaching heat he felt permeating his skin was a comfort in a way only he would understand. Constantly, he felt this stirring in his chest, a feeling which drew him closer to the sweltering heat of summer and the feeling of molten rock just meters from his grasp. Feelings which spoke of warm, dry nights curled into crevices to hide from the fan ends of the outside world, or sweltering trips to foreign villages where local residents would gaze at him and see either prey meant for the hunt or an abomination meant for the pit. These feelings, memories and instincts all neatly wrapped together, were stronger when he gazed upon the few surface lava pools which littered the fields around the home of his — Father? Brother? — friend, or noticed how the clear, blue skies of above held a source of burning which many overlander’s viewed as a burden. He actually quite liked that light source, so much like the glowing stones of his homeland, and yet so different. It reminded him of home, even if he rarely truly missed the harsh weather and unfriendly company of the Underlands.

Instead, it was a feeling of instinctual longing, perpetuated by the cacophony of voices echoing through his head like an audience yelling from the seats of an amphitheater. A feeling he couldn’t quite explain in either his tongue, or his dear friend's tongue. There was no descriptor for it. It just... was.

A lot of things about Technoblade just were.

His arms swung in a rhythmic motion, striking up and down with trained precision. The open field he occupied was blistering, the sun beating down against his bare skin — he still didn’t quite understand the concept of layered clothing — in a way that was both uncomfortable and deeply satisfying. Rarely was it this sunny in the mountain wilderness of the land his friend occupied; land he now occupied.

That was also a strange concept to him, land in which he belonged. Land which belonged to a person. The lands only belonged to the higher beings, ownership couldn’t be given away without permission and it would never truly belong to a single individual. He had lived in his homeland, a world scattered with fire and brutal tribes, and yet no single race owned any land. It all belonged to their patron.

He wondered idly when this concept of ownership came about, and what granted these overland dwellers such arrogance to think they weren’t subjected to these laws.

The gold blade in his hands made another swing down, stopping just below his waist. He had been out here for hours, practicing with the aid of his voices. Listening to instruction, adjusting his grip, imagining his enemies being cut down by the sword which had been with him for as long as he remembered. This practice was cathartic, something he did to maintain the illusion of routine in this new world. His friend always told him how he should sit down and relax, not understanding that it was something he needed to do.

(Swing your sword properly, don’t get distracted Technoblade, you need to focus, keep your shoulders back, that was awful form, Blood for the Blood god-)

He needed to focus, needed to fix whatever was wrong with him, square his shoulders, and somehow, someway, ignore that comforting heat against his skin and the dark desire to slice and kill-

“Techno!” A voice cut through the symphony of noise screaming at him from all directions, in a way which separated it from the sounds in his head. It made him pause mid-swing, causing his entire body to tense in reaction to the shout. The voice was bright, extremely young, and a couple pitches lower than his own. The name, his name, on the almost-stranger's lips was poorly pronounced as well, sounding like a warped version of his native tongue — like a child mimicking an adult with no real understanding behind that repetition. The pronunciation was irritating; too sharp, with no accent. It made the voices wail with injustice, frustrated and angry at the disrespect which was being given to him, their vessel. Technoblade didn’t care much. After all, he didn’t quite grasp the common words those overworlders spoke yet.

The little Wilbur Soot, his friend's son he learned. He had been there for only a few days, and yet he could only recall three things about the boy. One, he was extremely attached to Technoblades friend and his even younger second son; two, he was irritatingly chipper and endlessly excited about artistic hobbies; Three, he was quick to get attached to Technoblade and now spent his days wishing to pester the underworld native.

It was a weakness, to become and stay this attached to people. Something that Techno was constantly reminded of when the echoing voices called for the blood of the feeble child. It would be so, so easy to snap his neck, or to bring his golden blade down on the small beings neck, rendering him incapable of babbling endlessly at him-

(Kill, kill the disrespectful one, he doesn’t deserve to live after giving you such cheek, no don’t, the blond one will be sad, hes irritating, destroy him, don’t Technoblade-)

Technoblade was a child as well, but it never really felt like that. He felt so much older than his age, aided in his education by hundreds or even thousands of warriors and fighters. Techno could never enjoy the music which was strummed out of a guitar, or how the wild flowers littering the hills made beautiful flower crowns. He would never understand that simplistic beauty that could only truly be seen through the lense of an innocent child. He’d seen too much of this cruel world, and how sentient beings abuse each other.

Wilbur, the bright child with dark coloring and a love for the artistic, ran up with such vigor to Technoblade. He looked excited, willful and joyful. It was clear the small human with mildly pointed ears - maybe his fathers hybrid blood peaking through? - was on a mission, and Techno took a guess that the mission was him. More than a few voices called for him to take the gold sword which was now dropped to his side, clung in his right hand, and drive it through the child’s jugular. Techno had learned it was best to ignore the voices in this new, colder world when they wanted him to kill and maim.

“Techno, Techno! Dad wants you to come back in for dinner!” The child ran up the hill, stopping just before the pink haired warriors formed, panting heavily. He took a minute to catch his breath, before standing up straight and giving Techno a light smile before continuing with what was clearly on his mind. “We are having pork, freshly caught from a pair of wild boars-“

There was a pause, where Wilbur’s face fell. Technoblade felt his ear twitch, passively raising an eyebrow at Wilbur’s sudden hesitation. He idly wondered if Wilbur had stopped. Was having pork of any kind some sort of taboo in the overworld? Technoblade didn’t quite know what pork was, but he did know that wild boar was a species of hog. He was sure it tasted fine.

“That, uh”, Wilbur wring his hands in front of him, a sign of nervousness about a topic (weakness, it’s a weakness, exploit it Techno, use it-), “that isn’t, like, cannibalism or anything for you right?”

The eyebrow which was raised went even higher, the look on Techno’s face transferring into a deadpan which he was sure caused Wilbur’s heckles to rise. He had no way to express himself with his broken common, but he was positive his expression delivered his utter disappointment in the question. How would it be cannibalism? He wasn’t a wild hog, or a boar. He was a piglin, a hybrid. He wasn’t anything like Wilburs pathetic, weak overworld livestock. He was sure that these tusked pigs were more like the violent hoglins than anything like the piglins Technoblade was barely similar to.

“Hey! Don’t look at me like that, how would I know? You are part piglin, which is like… a species of boar or pig right? At least that’s what Dad told me.” Wilbur took a moment to pause, staring at Technoblade with dismay and stubbornness. “So it only makes sense right? I’m not crazy.” Wilbur crossed his arms, a defensive stance in his small posture. The hybrid noticed how his lip jutted out and he tried to square his shoulders to appear taller. It wasn’t working as intended. The child was still tiny.

(Small, small, so small, easy prey, easy to kill, so easy to destroy, consume him Techno-)

Technoblade shook his head, unsure whether it was to inaudibly tell the voices off, or in response to Wilbur. It communicated his message effectively either way, as the kid before him brightened at the action, grinning wide at the hybrid-who-didn’t-quite-feel-like-a-child. His easy acceptance of Techno’s nonverbal answer mildly surprised the piglin hybrid. The warrior had thought for sure that the child would become angry or frustrated at being wrong. But he only brightened in response, uncrossing his arms and reaching out towards Technoblade with excitement.

Rushing forward and grabbing Technoblade by his free hand, Techno almost dropping his golden blade in the process, Wilbur yanked on the piglin hybrid with all the vigor of a distracted toddler. It was like Wilbur was a pet, whining and touching for attention, beckoning Technoblade to come with him. It caused Techno to tighten his grip on his sword, irrationally afraid it would be ripped from him, leaving him alone and defenseless in a world that was so much colder, with monsters just as dangerous as his homelands native species, and left afraid and without anything to defend himself, left weak-

(Never defenseless, always here, we are here, Techno is never alone, you will never be defenseless, the blood god is with you, we are with you, you are strong, strong, strong, powerful, you will be-).

His fears were only slightly abated with Wilbur’s large grin and wide innocent eyes. He looked so happy to just hold onto the hybrid warrior, dragging him from his practice with extreme vigor. Wilbur wouldn’t take his sword — he wouldn’t be able to, he just couldn’t. Technoblade was too strong for him, too powerful. He could take him apart with a wave of his hand, there was no need to panic.

Staring at his hand held in Wilbur’s grasp, Technoblade felt himself warm in a different way. The heat which came from inside of his chest instead of from the blazing sun. It was a strange sensation, one which he didn’t quite want to explain. It was as if the moment he came to the realization that Wilbur wasn’t going to harm him in any way, he had relaxed in the child's hold.

(Strange, this shouldn’t happen, destroy the child, it's comforting, let him take you home, don’t go with it, this is nice-)

“Come on!” Wilburs tug became even more insistent, “Dad and Tommy are waiting, and you know how much Tommy hates waiting! He’ll probably bother us, asking about training, or what we did today, or asking questions about-“ Wilbur continued to go on and on, pulling harshly on Technoblades hand as he led him south to the home his friend and Wilbur’s father stayed at. This time, Wilbur succeeded in moving him out of the wide flower fields and into the direction of the homely cottage with little to no effort. The child didn’t need to exert force with Technoblade so willing and compliant.

After all - for some odd reason - the voices quieted while Wilbur rambled on and on, and that desire for the heat of his homeland and the feel of boiling blood against his skin slowly drifted away as it was replaced with a new heat in his chest.

Warmed spread through him, and his grip instinctively tightened on his blade, grasping it for dear life. He wasn’t used to this need, this feeling of being...wanted for small and insignificant things such as commentary. Maybe this is what his friend (Phil, Dad, Father, Brother, Phil is friend) meant when he told Techno about the meaning of a home, and the meaning of family. Maybe this was what it was like to have a place to belong.

The voices let Technoblade have a moment of silence as Wilbur continued to ramble on. The silence in his head brought Technoblade nothing but comfort.

———————————————————————

The blistering heat of the uncovered sun irritated his skin and made him long for winter nights and dark shade. It was sweltering, irritating in a way that he had grown to know. He instead wished for those shaded days and winter nights where he and his closest allies made the world their own. The sun, as it was on this balmy day, high in the sky indicating noon time, caused him immense annoyance.

Once upon a time, he would have found the light beating down against his skin, causing him to sweat extensively, a comforting feeling, reminding him of his homeland and his patron.

Now it only served to frustrate him as he plowed and tilled his vast fields of potatoes, his shirt soaked against the front of his chest and back. He had even had to hide his tail, the sensitive skin becoming blistered in the blazing heat. With barely any plant variations for natural herbal protections on Hypixel’s large sky island fields he had claimed as his own, there wasn’t much he could do to protect himself from his greatest annoyance.

His native lands had long since ceased being home to him, and his patron god was a fickle master whom Technoblade viewed with more negative skepticism than any other. Unlike other demigods, such as the grand Hypixel and the flashy Beast, the Blood God never graced the mortal world with his presence. Instead, much like the God of Destruction and the missing End God, the supreme being sat on his metaphorical throne, watching the runes of his lands suffer under exploitation and limited innovation. Now, unlike when he was younger, Technoblade was more bitter than he liked to admit.

Bitter enough to grow a resentment for the heat, despite how the cold bites at his skin, and to avoid battles and blood sports after the downfall of his own state by hiding away in self-imposed isolation, only pulling himself from his loneliness to briefly placate the ghosts which lived inside him.

Technoblade had been in Hypixel for over a year now, specifically the Hypixel sky islands generated for personal use for much more wealthy and adventurous clients, and he had still not gotten used to the scheduled weather controls which served as part of the territory's famed functions. It wasn’t scheduled to rain, or to even overcast, for another few days if the ruling he had read in town a few weeks back was to be remembered. That didn’t change his current situation though. Technoblade was still blistering in the heat.

(Heat, heat, warmth, we like the warmth. Home, when are we going home, It's boring, why don’t we fight, lets go, battles to be won, wars to fight, kill, kill, maim, destroy-)

Technoblade ran a clawed hand over his sweaty brow, narrowing his eyes in concentration as he tried to determine if there was any relevant or important information being spewed at him. Turns out, like usual, there was nothing. “Chat”, Technoblade called out, talking at the blank space of air in front of him as he swung his farming hoe and let it casually rest on his shoulder, “shut up. You aren’t contributing anything useful”.

Like usual, the reprimand only served to irritate the cacophony of voices in the piglin hybrids head, causing them to screech even louder, rattling his brain with their bombardment of noise. With a groan, he took the same hand he used to wipe his brow and pressed it tiredly against his face. First the damned heat, reminding him so callously of the nether, now Chat was acting up and shouting opinions left and right. He still had another whole field to till before the night hit and he would have to defend his crops from wayward spiders and baby zombies, he didn’t have time to get distracted by the voices in his head.

Technoblade has been in this section of Hypixel for over a year now. He had first come to this land, this new territory of the Hypixel demigods' personal server, as an escape. The demigod’s vassale, Simon, had even hooked him up with all he needed to maintain a boring and nonviolent (for him) livestyle. Sure, there were small skirmishes which broke up the monotony - he still couldn’t understand how he had come about battling Squid Kid of all people in potato farming - but he had mostly kept to himself these past months, cutting contact with the outside world and staying away from tournaments, competitions, events, and anything in-between. He did not want to be involved with any state authority anymore, to be used and then discarded like a blunt weapon when his opinions and beliefs no longer align with the majority. He had no desire to spend time underneath the thumb of an oppressive regime, whether it be someone else's or his own.

He needed to be as far away from the Antarctic Empire and its bloody history as possible, and with all communicators and cameras turned off, he found himself desiring more and more of the peace brought about by the simplistic lifestyle of a farm on a private island. So, he obtained a prime piece of land, used his funds to get himself started, and then grinded dungeons in the territory's inner city to make ends meet - all while hiding himself from the public eye. He had dropped out so suddenly from the campaign event within Earth that it was inevitable that he would have to hide as the whole thing blew over. After all, his popularity had skyrocketed during that campaign, and the empire he and… his friends had built gained a completely absurd amount of notoriety.

Hiding was inevitable, and this quiet life was something Technoblade found himself desiring.

(Lies, utter lies, you miss it, we miss the carnage, we miss the grand battles, we miss Phil, battles and honor, glory, blood spilt in honor of the patron, blood for the blood god, blood for the blood god, blood for the blood god-)

This amphitheater of voices moved to a crescendo, echoing around him, shouting from all sides. The chant echoed and repeated throughout his mind, invading each and every one of his thoughts as it became louder and louder. Technoblade began to tremble, the hybrid's hands shaking before dropping the farming hoe. It wasn’t because of any fear or nervousness, but rather the voices channeling their feelings and desires through Technoblade, forcing him to feel the need for bloodshed and the need to destroy. He grabbed his shakiest hand, the one which dropped his farming hoe, with his decidingly steadier one. Clutching at it, he took three deep breaths, inhaling and exhaling slowly as he tried to calm his body's reaction to what was being echoed around him.

It wasn’t the first time something like this had happened during his long vacation, if he could even call it that. They, Chat, had been getting more and more agitated and angry with him in recent months. He had stopped visiting the dungeons to take out monsters and mobs three months ago, had stopped interacting with other community members four months ago after he had won the potato harvest against Squid Kid. Techno had taken his routine seriously, falling into it easily. Get up at dawn, eat the harvested crops for a meal, go out to till and sow the fields, maintain his crops until noon, eat his harvested vegetables, go back out to remove any dead crops and replant more, head in at sunset, consume more harvested foods, go to sleep. It was a routine he had stuck to for almost three long months. No visits to the outside, only the occasional spiders or zombies invading his expanded floating island, barely any signal for his communicator to give him updates, just the same old steps repeated day in and day out.

So, Chat was upset with him. But they were always upset with him, when he ran from his responsibilities with the determination to hang his sword and axe up for good. They wanted him to go out and provide exhilarating fights, battling for honor and fortune. They wanted him to slay his enemies, or anyone else who got in the way, and consume the world as if it was his to devour. They wanted the world in the palm of his hand, so that they could see how it felt to hold it. Technoblade supposed that was just in their nature, being shades and ghosts of people who had long since passed, who had forgotten what it meant to be people as they were trapped within the vassal of the Blood god.

That would be him, far in the future. A cursed existence set to live out his afterlife trapped within the next poor soul who would be chosen upon birth to represent the patron.

Shaking his head, Techno looked out at his field pulling himself back together. “Chat, I need to work. I don’t have time for this.” His words incited another loud round of chattering, but at least they weren't chanting or channeling their wills through him, undermining his own personal freedom of choice. Reaching down, Technoblade picked up the farming hoe from the ground, swinging it a few times as he rolled his shoulders and looked out to his fields. He had almost finished the west field, its crops - potatoes and melons - almost ready to be completely harvested. Looking to the sky, Technoblade made note of the time as he put a hand up to shade his eyes. The sun was still relentless and glaring,but he noted how it seemed to be just past its highest point. He supposed he could take a break now, after all, he'd been in the field for hours at this point.

With a pointed sigh, Technoblade turned away from his farm lands, ignoring the cheering of his Chat in the background, and headed towards his small house over the hills. He had built it out of wood and stone, acquired through both natural and material means. It wasn’t home, per say, but it was a house he was comfortable with. The piglin hybrid wasn’t sure if he would ever have another home again.

Climbing up over the hills, using his beaten dirt paths and carved markers to tell which way he was going despite the fact he knew this land like the back of his own hand, Techno saw his house in all its glory. Heading in its direction from the west field, the trek was only ten or so minutes before he was standing in front of the structure he had seen at a distance. At closer inspection of his temporary home, he noticed the worn cracks along the cobblestone and the rot that was beginning to set into the wood. He needed to start maintaining renovations for the place, it was turning into a disaster. It might just fall apart on him while he slept.

Entering his home, Technoblade felt the rush of cool shaded air hit his overheated body, instantly chilling him. It was nice to be away from the heat. Not only was the cool shade pleasant on his body, but it also calmed his nerves and his agitation. No longer was his mind being subconsciously brought back to the nether of all places. The cold air and the cool colors of his small farming house dragged his thoughts away from bright reds and burning flame. This wasn’t his homeland, and it never would be. He was in the overworld, only his own personal choice could force him back into the fires of the underworld.

Moving through the house and winding in-between furniture, Technoblade headed for his kitchen, determined to get something to eat. He had long since given up maintaining or taking care of livestock after one too many incidents with kept bovines, but he had an abundant supply of pumpkins, melons, potatoes, and other various fruits and vegetables. It wasn’t as good as a steak or even some golden carrots, but it was nourishment enough for him to keep his physique and continue his work.

Roaming from one side of the kitchen to the other, the hybrid began rummaging through his cabinets, looking for any kind of stock base to use to make himself some sort of soup, when he saw it out of the corner of his eye.

A lit up communicator, sitting square in the middle of his crafted table.

The communicator had been dark for almost a year, the occasional message from Phil checking up on his notwithstanding - he never replied to those, eventually seeing their decline and cancelation. A lit up communicator meant an emergency then, either with the server he was occupying or with his… family.

Was his family in danger?

Moving quickly from his spot, Technoblade dashed forward to the communicator, grabbing it with a clawed hand and ignoring how his tail twitched in nervousness and worry. He hadn’t spoken to his family in years, besides Phil, and even those communications had been cut off and discarded with his lingering resentment towards the crow hybrid. He hadn’t even seen Tommy or Wilbur since the fateful day he and his dear friend (father, Phil, dadza, Phil is dad, Phil is your father, Techno-) had left to enter the campaign. That was nearly three years ago, Tommy would be almost seventeen now.

(Small Tommy, sweet Tommy, very rambunctious, Wilbur too, we miss them, why not go visit, they could be injured, maybe even worse, anyone who hurts our brothers must perish, we shall destroy anyone who harms them, did they get caught up in a scheme, where were they-)

Were they hurt? Did something, anything, happen to them?

Reaching forward, grasping at the old modeled communicator, Technoblade looked at the screen, desperately searching for the name of the sender. His eyes wandered from letter to letter, seeing but not completely understanding or grasping the situation.

Wilbur.

It was from Wilbur.

Why would Wilbur contact him now? They hadn’t seen each other, hadn’t been on the best terms even before he had left in pursuit of greater things. There was nothing for them to talk about, no acknowledgement needed between them. Wilbur wouldn’t contact him, not unless he truly and desperately needed him.

Opening his communicator up, he read the message out, noting how it sounded on his lips as he mumbled the letters and scanned the page.

“Techno”, he began to read the words, starting with the address sent by Wilbur, “ We haven’t been close in a while. We haven’t even spoken in… years.” Techno didn't know why that declaration stirred something inside him, igniting his soul with an ache he could only describe as longing. Had his absence in Wilbur’s life these past years affected him so much? Why did he contact him now then?

“Tommy and I found a place for ourselves, on a server created by a minor demigod and his vassal.” Subconsciously, Technoblade ran through the list of demigods and demigoddesses he knew of with territory. Hypixel, The Beast, The Hermit, and of course all the minor demigods and admins working for the Mojang Corporation, partnered with the God of Creation - Notch. There shouldn’t be any unregistered celestials, especially not young and minor ones, going around and creating servers with unregistered vassals. Already, the situation was beginning to worsen in Technoblades mind. Even he was registered as the Blood Gods vassal.

Technoblade continued on, ignoring the voices screaming out names and locations and threats of violence as he did so. “We created our own place, a community for ourselves. Just like you and Phil did, years ago when you left.” That gave him pause, before he continued on. “Our place has been taken from us now.”

What did Wilbur mean by ‘a community’ for themselves? Like what he and Phil did? What they had done, years ago, was enter a campaign organized by the major companies, a competition where communicators would broadcast the creations and the empires built from nothing on a server created to mimic the original Earth. It was a glorified television spectacle, with real world empires and bloody battles and death which could be permanent. His and Phil’s ‘place’ was an empire they had built from nothing and used to take over the entire campaign, securing their victory over a two-year long event. It wasn’t a home, certainly not after how Technoblade was betrayed. Certainly not now. He hoped to the gods that Wilbur and Tommy - little Tommy who was still a child by his calculation - were out there creating countries and starting wars. What kind of brother would he be if it was true, and he had abandoned them for years while they went around recklessly without his protection? Had running from his responsibilities really backfired this much?

He ignored the unanimous “yes” being echoed throughout his head.

Techno paused as he read the next part. “A tyrant has come to rule it, exiling us from our own home. We-” Techno took a steadying breath, before continuing, his chest alighting with injustice.

“We need you, Techno. We need help.” Techno stared at the paper in front of him, reading out the very last note before Wilbur had signed it.

“Please. For your brothers.”

How did it come to this? Where Wilbur would send such a desperate note, pleading for Technoblades help instead of just asking him. Techno did not need his brother to beg for his help. He didn’t need an emotional note filled with explanations and traced with sorrow and repressed anger. The hybrid would have come, even without all of that, if Wilbur really needed his help.

… He would’ve, right?

The piglin hybrid thought back on what he had been doing for the past year, hiding away and participating in harvesting competitions of all things. No, no he probably wouldn’t have left, would he? He was too content, too scared of facing Phil after up and leaving their empire to the dust, too desperate to get away from blood and death and fighting. Now, his brothers were fighting against the corruption of a failed empire - something which hit far too close to home fr comfort - and they needed him.

He needed to leave.

Putting his communicator up to his pointed ears, Technoblade was desperate to hear Wilbur’s voice. He didn’t know when this message was sent, he didn’t know if it had come through late or if it was an alert that came through today. He needed confirmation with Wilbur, needed to tell him he was on his way - he just needed to know where to go.

The communicator rang. And rang. And rang.

No answer.

Technoblade tried again and again, nearing twenty times before Chat started insisting it was useless and to stop wasting his time. Wilbur was not picking up, either indicating he couldn’t get through because of the distance between them, this server Wilbur talked about and it's whitelist settings, or there was damage on either of their ends. That worried the hybrid immensely. He needed to get into contact with someone who knew what was going on, who had an idea on where to start to get information about Wilbur and Tommy and what they were doing. Without getting the facts from the original source, Technoblade could only think of one person who may have the answers the piglin hybrid was seeking.

He needed to see Phil.

A feeling of dread and frustration filled his being as Chat began to scream Phil’s name around him. He didn’t want to speak to the other hybrid, he had been avoiding him for so long that he wasn’t even sure if their relationship would survive. Six months or more since the last message, a year since the last phone call and it had ended in a screaming match where Techno had accused Phil of betraying their friendship. He didn’t want to face that again.

He had no choice though, if he wanted to figure out what was going on with Wilbur and Tommy.

His palms were sweating as he narrowed his eyes at his communicator. The heat had begun to creep its way through the farming house yet again, causing him to grow warm in a way he hated. It was too warm, too balmy. It was overwhelming in a way only he could truly feel, in a way he couldn’t put to words. It just was.

Too many things about Technoblade just were, and he hated it. Pushing his communicator to his ear, he heard it ring twice before a click was audible and Techno knew he had reached who he was looking for.

“Phil, we need to talk”.

———————————————————————

Leaving Hypixel was easier than he thought it would be.

All he had to do was pack up a travel bag, grab all the important things littering the house and place them in an ender chest, and head out immediately to the ruined portal. Fixing the portal itself - which would take him to the hub town for the floating islands territory - took only an hour at most, and then he was in the small town center heading to the bustling city of Hypixel’s main territory. Another portal jump, and he was there, looking out at the vast tournament arenas, the large number of tourists and competitors which littered the expensive shops and restaurants, and the few residential areas usually kept for the more famous warriors and influencers. Technoblade used to have an apartment in that area, having been one of the largest earners all throughout his teenage years before his anarchist beliefs and bad experiences sucked all the joy out of corporate and nation sponsored tournaments.

Occasionally, on his way to the main server hub, he would witness crazed fans cosplaying competitors and fighters whom they enjoyed, and Technoblade even saw a costume depicting his own signature crown and cloak. It gave him a mild start, at first. He hadn’t known he was still relevant, not with his year long break from the public eye and his status as a hybrid. Usually, there was only begrudging respect given to those of mixed races on the sponsored public servers. A prejudice - especially against aggressive mob hybrids - which Technoblade remembered all too well with a shiver.

From the sector which took rich tourists and residents from the sky islands territory, it was easy to hide his more distinct features. Covering his sharp, downturned ears with a cloak hood, and his protruding tusks and piglin-like eyes with a plain bone mask. His tail was tucked into his trousers, and he made a point of keeping his hands - more specifically his sharp claws - out of obvious sight as he moved through the busy roads and occasional back alleys. He reached the Hypixel server hub soon, making sure to stay out of sight and not cause trouble. The only individuals who would know he left the server would be Simon and his admins, since Technoblade needed to enter his residents key to leave and enter Hypixel. He trusted Simon to keep his departure out of the public eye.

(Leaving, leaving, we are leaving, finally, are we going on a road trip, now the interstate is paved- be quiet-)

Shaking his head, Technoblade let out a sigh as he looked for an unassigned portal, where he could enter a personalized whitelist code. He needed a portal without a locked teleportation key to get to Phil’s small residential server. Noticing an unlit, unattended, unlabeled portal near the back of the Hypixel server hub, Technblade entered his residence key and headed to the back, ignoring the wide-eyed look that the admin on duty gave him.

From there, he entered the whitelist code for his- for Phil’s home into a transportation portal, and watched as it was lit, admiring the deep purple shade of energy and particles. Portal technology always baffled him, ever since he had entered his first one as a young child, searching for any way out of his homeland. They functioned off of the energy created by the servers, connecting them in a web of essence and almost-magic. A supernatural device which admins, vassals, and demigods have perfected the creation of, though Technoblade himself didn’t know any inner workings behind portal creation. Then again, he didn’t have his patron god present to guide him like many vassals did. His patron was too elusive and never present. A cruel, toxic master in some ways, leaving his blessing upon his vassals at birth and leaving them to figure out their purpose and allegiances alone, with only the previously dead vassals for help. And they were all decidingly unhelpful shades of their past selves.

Still, the portal was lit.

It was all too easy to enter the bright veil of spatial energy, feeling himself warp and bend and tear apart as he was deconstructed and reconstructed at the designated spawn point. Landing smoothly, Technoblade heard a small ping on his communicator, letting him know his arrival had been sent out in an alert in the small servers public channel.

It was too easy to come here, to enter the portal and arrive at the center of the small world which Phil had claimed his own. There was no grand entrance, no feast or welcome waiting for him. There was nothing to stop his pursuit either, the entire process of portal jumping entirely painless and normal. In the back of his mind he knew it would be like this, knew how easy it would be to get to this point, but the hybrid had expected it to be at least a little harder. It didn’t feel right to Technoblade, with how vehemently he was avoiding this place and its single occupant. He was expecting more.

It made him feel foolish for ever avoiding Phil in the first place.

Taking a look around the center of the server, Technoblade noticed how the once barren field had been cleaned up, decorated with wood and stone. A nice, clean path had been installed, heading in the direction of the home he remembered from his youth. In the distance, Technoblade could see the flower fields he used to train on, back when he had first arrived in Phil’s small world and came under his care, back when he wouldn’t let go of his golden sword and his language skills left much to be desired and he longed for the intense heat of his homeland. Oh, how far he had come since then.

Beginning his trek down to the cottage, Technoblade chose to listen to the ramblings and ravings of Chat as he tried to take note of every difference and change, trying to decide if he was happier with them, or distraught that everything didn’t look exactly like he remembered. He moved from the open clearing of the small plains biome to the spruce forest, following the path set forth by who he assumed would be Phil. Even the forest had grown, in its own way. What did that say about Technoblade, so caught up with the past to move forward?

Technoblkade shook his head at those thoughts, not wishing to get caught up with his own grievances when he was here for someone other than himself. He needed to know what was going on with Wilbur and Tommy, and Phil is the only one whom he could speak to about it.

He trekked along for another ten or so minutes, before the trees began to slowly decline in their frequency, indicating he was close to his… to Phil’s home. He saw it then, coming up to the tree line. A medium sized cabin, beautifully built and maintained, surrounded by gardens and small farms, and looking exactly like Technoblade remembered it. Everything else in this place had experienced some sort of change, from the trees to the land, but not this cottage. It looked exactly like it did when Technblade was first brought here, huddled sick in Phil’s arms, only knowing him as a friend instead of a father. It looked exactly the same as when Technoblade left - the second time - only to not return until all these years after that fateful day. The piglin hybrid didn’t know how to feel about the fact that it remained untouched by time, not carrying on to depict any of the bad memories he had gathered after he had left. With a sigh, Technoblade walked up to the oak door and banged on it twice.

“Phil! It’s me.”

He heard a muffled bang, as if someone had crashed into a piece of furniture, as the sound of footsteps hurried to the door. Anxiety began to push its way into Technoblades chest, bubbling up from the pit of his stomach as he began to worry. Was it a mistake, coming here? Would Phil turn him away, now that he stood at his doorstep? Would Phil even speak to him, would Phil even miss him if he turned around now and went straight for the portal at the center of this server, or would he watch with cold eyes and whisper good riddance while watching his back? Did Phil even want him here? On the communicator, during their call, he had only told Phil he needed to speak to him in person and all Phil had said was a simple and pleasant “okay, mate”. This was a mistake, this was a mistake and before Phil (Dad, Phill, Dadza, Crow Father, where’s dadza, we miss him, we want him, you want to see him too Techno-) answered the door, before he messed up, before his anger took over and he ruined his already damaged and strained relationship with his truest friend, his father-

The door was yanked open with such force, that Technoblade found himself flinching at the action. In the doorway was a heavily breathing Phil, looking up at Technoblade with wide eyes, standing in the doorway looking like he bolted for the door the minute Techno knocked. It made Technoblade gulp nervously, raising a single hand in a half-hearted wave and opening his mouth to greet the crow hybrid with a pathetic greeting. “Hey, Phil-”

Technoblade flet the embrace before it completely registered. Philza reached up, grabbing Technoblades tall form and bringing him down to him with the deceptive strength Phil hid from most of the world. The piglin hybrid didn’t register the action at first, eyes wide as he froze mid sentence, unsure what he was supposed to do. Instead, he waited for Phil to make any sort of additional reaction, holding him close in an embrace which provided so much more comfort than Technoblade would ever be willing to admit.

“Techno”, Phil spoke softly, barely above a whisper as his arms tightened around Technoblade, “welcome home.”

The hybrid tensed, before he instinctually relaxed into Phil’s arms. He was home, wasn’t he? Why had he refused to come back, why had he avoided his problems? His arms cautiously moved up, gently holding Phil back being careful to avoid the large wings protruding from his back. He didn’t want to ruin whatever this was, not yet. He needed it, needed the comfort and feeling of easy acceptance Philza was giving him. The slow burning anger in his chest that he remembered holding onto like it was his lifeline, the feeling of betrayal and angst, the denial and avoidance he dished out to the winged hybrid… it was all entirely pointless, wasn’t it?

His anger wasn’t with Phil, it never really was. Pete was the one who had instigated the decline in the Antarctic Empire, had started consuming their resources to start pointless wars and used their advantages to destroy their competition with extreme prejudice, and who used Technoblade as a weapon to point at the territories they would then take over. Pete was the instigator; Phil just did nothing at all to stand in the way as it happened. Too consumed with his own wanderlust, filled with too much desire to begin moving once again to catch or care about what Technoblade was going through.

Technoblade never told him either, did he? He had never communicated with Philza - about how much his actions hurt Technoblade, how the fact that the piglin hybrid was constantly being sent out to reclaim and take territory, to expand the empire they started together, and how it made him feel less like a person and more like a ticking time bomb. He had never talked to Philza, only taking his anger out on him when it was convenient and running away when it mattered most. It wasn’t Phil’s fault, not really. The Antarctic Empire was doomed to fail from the start, its power set to corrupt anyone at its head from the very beginning.

And as Techno stood there in the doorway, holding Phil and letting the winged hybrid to hold him in turn, he realized he didn’t want to be angry with Phil anymore. He just wanted to be able to come home, to spend time with the person who had taken him in and raised him when he was broken and warped beyond measure. Technoblade just wanted his family back, all together.

The realization snapped him back to reality, letting him pull away from the other hybrid's warmth as he looked down at him. For a few seconds, there was a stretch of silence as Technoblade fought to find the words for this situation. Phil, for his part, was giving Techno a soft smile, looking at him with joy in his features. It made the fuzzy feeling in his chest even worse as the voices cooed and chattered in the background.

“... hey Phil”, Technoblade hesitated, before steeling himself and continuing, “I’m home”.

———————————————————————

“So”, Phil started, handing Technoblade a cup of herbal tea of some variety, “Wilbur contacted you?”

The piglin hybrid took the tea cup, lifting the drink to his nose and taking a smell of the fragrant concoction. It smelled of Lemon and Honey, a flavor he favored. Taking a sip, Technoblade hummed to Phil’s question, nodding as he closed his eyes to savor the taste. “Yeah, and I now can't get a hold of him. No calls are getting through, no messages. It’s weird, I don’t even know how long ago this message was sent.”

Phil let out his own hum, looking off to the side as he set his own tea cup down on the coffee table, not bothering to take a sip as he folded his hands in his lap. His gaze was off, looking at the fireplace with a strange intensity that Technoblade recognized as remembrance. It was never good when Philza drifted off like he was now. It usually meant melancholy reminiscence, or bad memories. Technoblade could never tell when either was happening.

Setting his own cup down, Techno turned more fully in Philza’s direction, clearing his throat to get his attention. The action caused Phil to flinch slightly, as if startled by the noise, to which Technoblade raised an eyebrow. In response, Phil sent a warm smile in his direction, still that sad recollection in his eyes. “I’m alright, Techno. Just a lot on my mind.” Technoblade couldn’t help the tilt of his head as he gave Philza a more discerning look.

“What kind of things are on your mind?”

There was hesitance in Philza’s stance as the piglin hybrid raised an eyebrow at him, silently insisting he continue. Technoblade needed everything that Phil knew, especially with Wilbur being awol and Tommy without a communicator number that he knew or had saved. He needed information, and their touching moment early notwithstanding, Phil had that information and Technoblade would do anything he could to obtain it. The hybrid had let go of his long standing grudge, but that did not mean all was forgiven. Though he figured that was the case on both of their sides. The Angel of Death was notorious for holding a grudge.

“I am only thinking.” Technoblade could tell he wasn't telling the whole truth, instead choosing to continue giving Phil a narrowing look until he caved. The silence stretched between them for a few seconds longer before Phil let out a long sigh as he picked up his ceramic tea cup and took a long gulp, nearly finishing the drink in one go. With a satisfied breath, Phil closed his eyes and took a breath, finally electing to look at Technoblade. “Fine, you win. I may have left out some information-”

“-Great! So, you just tell me and I-”

“But”, Phil continued, putting an emphasis on the but, “It's personal.”

Technoblade let out an irritated sigh, his impatience getting the best of him. Usually, he was the epitome of collecting, taking the principles of Sun Tzu as seriously as he took his potato farming. But, with Phil, his more childish side always seemed to come out, and this was one instance where his irritation was mostly justified. He needed to get to Wilbur and Tommy, and this delay was not helping him, or the loud chorus of voices in his head, achieve their goals. Quite the opposite, actually. He had yet to get any useful information about Wilbur and Tommy’s wearabouts and what server he needed to get whitelisted on to go and find them. For all Technoblade knew, they could be dead. And that was a thought which scared him.

“Phil, just tell me.” Technoblade practically growled the demand. Even Chat was beginning to get frustrated, and when the voices were collective about something there was usually very little Techno could do about it and how it affected him and his emotions.

(Tell us, we need to know, Wilbur and Tommy could be in danger, we need to kill, we need to go, patience is a virtue, enough patience has already been exerted, just tell us Philza-)

Philza gave Technoblade a hard look, his eyes narrowing before he exhaled his breath sharply and stood from his seat on the cushioned couch. Watching him closely, Technoblade noted how he headed straight for the fireplace, picking up a small box which sat on the mantle. He hadn’t even noticed the wooden container, its form blending seamlessly with the burgundy background. What could possibly be in it? Why would Phil get that specific box in response to Technoblades question?

Sitting back down on the couch with a sort of grace only he could achieve, Philza’s wings shuffled as the box was placed in his lap. Looking up from his locked gaze, Philza’s eyes met the piglin hybrids, giving him a serious look. Whatever Phil was about to show Technoblade was of serious importance to the crow hybrid.

“Wilbur”, Philza began, stopping only briefly to steel himself, “he had been sending me letters.” Technoblades own eyes widened at the statement, his eyes immediately darting to the box with a hungry look. That was the key to getting more information about this situation, to get more of an explanation than a brief plea for help. This was the key; he needed to see what was in the box.

Philza continued, pointedly ignoring the glint in Technoblades eyes. “He had said to me, in his first letters, that communicators were known to act up where he went. Cases of people not being able to contact the outside too effectively. So,” Phil gestured to the box, “he began sending me letters.”

Technoblade felt his hand reach out in the direction of the box, only for Phil’s grip on the container to tighten. Giving the bird hybrid a curious look, Technoblade tilted his head. “I need to see those letters, Phil. I have no information on where Wilbur and Tommy are, how to get there and who to talk to. I need this, in order to help them.” Technoblade paused for significance, giving Phil a serious look. “They could be injured, Phil. Or dead. If what you told me is true, then we have no way to ascertain when the message I got was sent.”

With a pained look in his eye, Philza tightened his grip once again, before loosening it with a sigh and the sagging of his shoulders. “I just… mate, I promised Wilbur I wouldn’t share them. And you know how I feel about promises.”

Technoblade did know. Philza Minecraft, in all his years as an adventurer and a survivalist, an entertainer and even a father, had broken many promises. He had promised his late wife he would take care of his sons, and he had broken that promise. He had promised his boys, all of them, that he would be there for them, and yet that promise was abandoned when he abandoned him years ago. He had promised Technoblade he would never betray him, and yet their entire relationship was strained by Philza’s presumed betrayal. Promises, when made by Philza Minecraft, the Angel of Death, were always inevitably broken. And Technoblade knew just how much those broken promises ate at Phil, keeping him away from sleep late at night and causing him to chase after adrenaline and adventure as a means of avoiding that pain. Though, during the late nights when Techno would meet Phil out in the cold, gazing up at the stars above the stronghold base of a young Antarctic Empire, Phil had confided in him how much he regretted the need to travel and the need for the rush of excitement. How he had always wanted to be a better father, how he felt he had failed his wife by choosing personal gain over familial commitment, and while in a way this was for Wilbur and Tommy, it still ate him up inside to leave the two boys. At the time, Technoblade had no answers for Phil, instead just lending him a hand which rested on his shoulder in comfort, sharing his worries in silence. It was an eye opening moment for the younger Technoblade, who had put Philza on a pedestal, not quite realizing how flawed he really was.

Now, Technoblade knows better. Now, he understood the worth of a promise to Philza, after so many times getting it wrong. And so, it pained him even more to ask Philza to share the letters.

But Wilbur and Tommy’s safety was more important. And Phil seemed to think so as well, because when Technoblade began to let out a resigned sigh, Philza closed his eyes and ran a hand over his own face, before loosening his grip completely on the letter container.

“You need this information, for Wilbur and Tommy. Just… let me tell you what I know. Don’t read them yourself. I want to keep at least that much of my promise.”

It was a vow Technoblade was more than happy to agree to. With a vigorous nod, Technoblade felt himself give Phil a smile. “Thanks, Phil.”

Philza for his part nodded seriously at Techno’s thanks, the bird hybrid still all business. “Sure, mate. For Tommy and Wilbur.” Technoblade nodded along, his own face growing serious. The voices had even quieted enough for Technoblade to expertly ignore them, their white noise fading into the background as he focused completely on the conversation in front of him.

“What can you tell me?”

Phil looked to the box, and with a single combination, it was open. Taking out a few of the worn letters - written on parchment of all things - Philza quickly gave them a brief glance over, most likely refreshing his memory of Wilbur’s writings and ramblings. “Wilbur and Tommy had ended up in a server owned by a man called Dream, apparently the server was supposed to be used for a campaign event but it was scrapped and opened as a regular community server.” Shuffling through a few papers, Philza read out more information. “Wilbur, Tommy, and even Fundy - Will’s own son, all grown up now - had gotten into the business of creating nations.” At this time, Philza paused briefly, eyes locking with the worn old letters.

Technoblade took the moment to wait, before speaking. “What does it say, Phil?”

“Oh,” Phil seemed to snap out of whatever was bothering him, shuffling the papers before continuing after clearing his throat, “he- uh, Will, I mean, said he created his… L’manburg as a way of proving his worth.” Phil seemed to stare off into space for a second, his next words seemingly breaking through without his consent, “he never needed to prove himself, not to me...”

Technoblades own features softened at Phil’s words, ignoring the screaming Chat telling him to get up and embrace the avian hybrid. “Wilbur wanted to go with us to the campaign event, remember? He even followed us halfway there, Tommy sneaking along right beside him, together like they always are.” Techno felt himself look away for a moment. “I think I called them kids, and told them they’d never make it in the real world. Pretty ironic, at the time, coming from the guy who was a year younger than Will. He may have taken it as a personal challenge.” Turning and locking his gaze with Philza, Technoblade gave him a meaningful look. “You aren't at fault, Phil. Wilbur isn’t the same kid we left behind when we went to Earth. He’s a grown man, with a kid of his own, a grown kid. His decisions are his own, but he's also still… family.”

Phil nodded, eyes still gazing periodically at the letter he had set aside, steeling himself as he picked up another piece of parchment to continue. “Sorry, mate. Got lost in the head there for a moment.” Phil let out a cough, as if clearing his throat. “Well, Will also mentioned an election. He wrote that he won, but he and Tommy moved away and were now creating a new home, almost like a side project… no, that can’t be right. He told you he was in danger, right? Exiled from his own community? There was a serious look of concern in Philza’s eyes, as he locked his gaze with Technoblade.

If Wilbur’s letters were to be trusted, then Wilbur and Tommy wouldn't need Technoblade help. The voices in Technoblades head began screaming at him, calling out for Wilbur, calling him a liar, and yet Technoblade needed to confirm for himself. Taking out his communicator, he scrolled through his messages with Wilbur, rereading it to varify its contents. No, it was right.

The letters message, and Technoblades recieved plea for help, were completely different both in tone and story.

Technoblade looked up from his communicator, and stared into Philza’s eyes. “No, the communicator message is right. Its a cry for help, which means…” Technoblade trailed off as his eyes fell to the letter, along with Phil’s. Wilbur had lied in his letters to Phil, and for a purpose Technoblade had no knowledge of. The piglin hybrid was sure it wasn’t for innocent reasons.

“Maybe there was a mistake, mate. Will wouldn’t lie,” Phil continued to look at the letter like it was completely foreign to him, “not like this.”

Technoblade looked at Phil, and in a steady voice, spoke evenly. “We don’t know what Wilbur was thinking, but that still doesn’t change the fact that the message I received speaks to something a lot more sinister going on than you thought.”

Phil absently nodded, gripping the parchment piece tightly before setting it to the side. With a deeply conflicted look, he picked up another letter and continued on from where he left off, an unsure look crossing his features. “Wilbur talks about the server in this letter. Dream needs to whitelist everyone who enters, there isn’t much Will seems to know about the patron god who sponsors the land, and it seems Dream is a rather elusive figure.” Phil paused then, looking to Technobalde. “Does that name ring any bells, mate? Dream.”

A sigh escaped the piglin hybrid, his thoughts racing through the long lists of fighters and influencers he knew from his Hypixel hay-days. Dream didn’t ring any proper bells, though. Unless…

“Does Wilbur mention a mask at all when he talks about this Dream guy?”

Philza shuffled through the letters, bringing a couple more parchments out and scanning each of them carefully. His brow knit in concentration and Techno saw his lip curl as he read through the words. His eyebrows then lifted, a look of astonishment on his face as he turned back to Technoblade. “Yeah, right here, mate. Dream wears some sort of strange smiley face mask according to what Will says.” Technoblade couldn’t help the curse which escaped his lips at that confirmation. It just had to be that Dream, didn’t it? It couldn’t have been any other Dream someone he didn’t have a previous acquaintance with. “Techno, do you know this guy?”

Sighing, Technoblade let the agitation bleed into his voice, “yeah, I do. He’s an old competitor of mine, we've got a casual rivalry. He’s, uh… a bit much. But I know where to find him and how to get a hold of him.” At that declaration, Phil’s face lit up, a bright smile crossing his features.

“That's fantastic!” There was a moment which passed between them, where Phil’s bright smile dulled into a sardonic grin. “Though, I don’t know how much help that’ll be. From Wilbur’s letters, he seems to be a bit of a problem. You sure you know how to handle him?”

Technoblade nodded, humming softly. He knew exactly how to deal with Dream, especially after their duel almost two years ago. The hybrid had bested that mask wearing weirdo before, he could do it again if need be. No matter how strong he had gotten over the last few years. Technoblade knew how to take care of his type, the type who always schemed and who always seemed to yearn for control. Keeping him in check would be easy. It was finding him which was the hard part.

Looking at the cold tea, still sitting on the coffee table, Technoblade felt his voices yelling excitedly in his head. Last they had seen of Dream, it was just after the battle in The Beasts sponsored arena. It was a grand tournament, where Technoblade and the green clad mask wearing fighter had fought in a ten round competition for fame and fortune. The fight had ended then, in Technoblades favor, but it was a hard battle. Six to four is nothing to brag home about, even if Tommy had been singing his praises after that win. Even then, Technoblade had sensed something about Dream which unsettled and intrigued him. He had the same aura that Technoblade got from Simon and Mister Beast, the aura of a vassal.

And that made Dream incredibly dangerous.

Even if he found him, and somehow convinced the mask-wearing warrior to let him into his territory, Technoblade would still have to worry about how much Dream is a threat to his family. And if he could be turned into an ally, or a business associate.

(Dream, Dream, will we fight Dream again, can Dream be our friend, we should destroy him before he destroys us, hes unsettling Technoblade, don't trust him, that smile is the work of the chaos god for sure-)

Still, that could wait, if only a few more hours. With Phil here, and so much to talk about between them, Technoblade didn’t want to leave even with the urgency of the message he received. The piglin hybrid needed to talk to Philza, needed to explain and to clear the air between them, to reassure him that he still thought of him as his family, that wherever Phil was would be home. Because Techno had missed him, this past year. And it wasn’t until he had seen Philza, who had embraced him for the first time since the Antarctic Empire, that he realized how much he was missing by holding onto his anger.

Dream could wait, just a few more hours. Technoblade needed to take care of his father.

#Von Writes Stuff #Hyacinth #dream smp #dsmp au #dsmp fanfic #found family #sleepy bois inc #alternate universe #canon divergence

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tracybirds · 4 years

Text

Bad Things Happen Bingo #2 Virgil + Hearing Loss

for @fictivekaleidoscope (EVIL!! EVIL THAT WAS!!) Had to get it out of the way early or my heart would have gotten all cowardly xD

What it says on the tin, so hope you enjoy it!

Edit: hi, my brain is tired, I must also shout out @gumnut-logic for helping me with the ending and reading things through

—————————————————————

The door at the end of the corridor was all the mattered. John is telling him to move, his voice getting sharper and sharper, the intervals between that same instruction being issued getting shorter and shorter. As though he was simply ignoring that one simple direction.

If he had focus to spare, he’d be yelling right back at his brother. He’s running already, he can see the display in his helmet just as clearly as John can. The hydrogen level is rising. The fire is getting closer.

He doesn’t intend to be in the room when they meet.

Steam is hissing from the pipelines, and he lifts his gloved hand to wipe away the condensation. He can’t get at the sweat, dripping down his nose. He can’t escape the heat.

He’s lifted off his feet before he registers the sound, the shockwave blowing through the building.

A sharp crack and the display in front his eyes flickers and dies. His breath quickens, making the most of the oxygen spilling out between the polymer seal in his helmet.

A wave of dizziness keeps him on his knees even as he spots the fire on the ceiling above him.

The pressure is building, his ears screaming against the change in equilibrium.

Virgil has just enough time to recognise the danger and pull himself into a protective ball when the second explosion hits.

Heat seeps into his helmet, the rest of his body strangely cool in a room filled with orange and yellow flame.

He can hear all his brothers now, indistinct as the pain in his ears flares.

It’s the last thing he hears.

Yellow and orange fade to black.

***

Awareness returned with a ringing nausea. Virgil could just make out the strains of muffled conversation bleeding into his consciousness. Blearily, he tried to open his eyes and a deep groan escaped him. He could feel a frown forming even as he shifted to find a more comfortable position.

Something felt off. Beyond the way the ground had changed from hard concrete to soft mattress. Beyond the way his head protested at the slightest movement. His senses were too dulled by exhaustion to work out what had changed.

A hand lightly touched his arm and he flinched away, eyes flying open to see a room filled with harsh sunlight. A silhouette sat next to him and the muted words seemed to take on a more urgent tone.

He peered at the figure, and Scott swam into view, his eyes drawn together in a frown.

“Hey, Scott,” whispered Virgil, the sound getting lost on the way.

Scott made no reply, only frowned more deeply, and Virgil felt his attention start to wander. He didn’t recognise his surroundings, not warm enough for the island and not sterile enough for a hospital.

A sharp tap against his shoulder drew his eyes back to his brother. His lips were moving and Virgil stared at them, trying to blink back the fuzzy feeling in his head.

Scott shook his head, the frustration evident in his sharp actions.

Virgil closed his eyes, struggling to comprehend what he was trying to communicate.

Too soon, he thought. He was rapidly sinking under a wave of exhaustion and the persistent buzzing was starting to wrap around his head in a dizzying manner.

A gentle pat pulled his eyes open one last time and he smiled dopily at his brother’s worried face as he slipped back into unconsciousness.

***

His awareness slowly returned to the sight of silent moonlight spilling over the covers. Every part of him ached and he had vague memories of being thrown across a room. His breath felt tight in his lungs, but worse than that was the dial tone ring that accompanied his every waking moment thus far.

It was starting to get annoying.

“Oh, hey, Virgil,” came a slurring voice out of the dark.

A shadow leaned across the bed, and he scrambled away, unsure of who was in the room with him.

“Hey, hey,” said the voice again, slightly louder now. “It’s me, it’s Gordon.”

The light at his bed clicked on and he stared wild-eyed at his younger brother.

The motion had done little to help his cause, and the buzzy sentences were starting to overlap like two people speaking over each other, arguing and pushing against his own frustration that the world didn’t sound right.

And he still felt sick.

“Wha’ happened?” he rasped, releasing the covers from his grip.

Gordon’s response was rapid, seeming to slice right through him as he tried to untangle the start of the sentence from the end.

“Double explosion.”

Virgil closed his eyes from the effort, no longer interested in the rest of the sentence he had missed.

“I feel it,” he mumbled. He brought a hand to his face and winced as he prodded a strange, goopy substance.

“Yeah, let’s leave that,” said Gordon, pulling Virgil’s hand away. “You want that where it is.”

Virgil stared at his brother, concentrating on the sounds.

“Your voice is weird.”

Gordon’s perpetual smile dropped and his eyes grew tight.

“Yeah?” he said, slowly and clearly over that incessant buzz. “Tell me how, big guy.”

Virgil slowly rocked his head back and forth.

“You’re all muffled. And the timing’s off.” He stared at Gordon, expression pleading. “Keep talking.”

Gordon’s lips quirked, but he obliged without question. Virgil couldn’t make out the content, already his attempts to process the sounds were wearing on him, but he needed to know what had changed. There was a reason he’d mistaken his brother for a stranger. There was a reason his brother sounded like a conversation with a meaning just beyond his reach.

“I can’t hear it,” he snarled, shaking his head.

Instead of replying, Gordon grabbed a tablet and began to type.

Virgil stared at him, emotions welling up within. Gratitude that his brother had noticed his distress warred against the hateful feeling of helplessness, that things might have forever changed.

The tablet made it too real.

You ruptured both your eardrums. Grandma says they can run tests tomorrow. Your brain scan was registering some weird stuff. No need for hospital, so Lady P offered a room.

Virgil read the text in silence. The frustration that had so freely bubbled up only moments before faded away, leaving only exhaustion.

There was one more thing he needed to know before he would allow himself to rest easy.

“Why here?”

Gordon shrugged.

“In case we needed to launch.”

His brain offered up the sound he’d stopped registering, hearing it in his memory as if for the first time. He inhaled sharply, squeezing his eyes shut at the phantom pain.

“Aw crap, Virg, hang on.”

Gordon ducked into the ensuite and returned with a damp flannel. Virgil took it gratefully and cradled it around his ear, warmth chasing away the steady ache.

He could feel himself relaxing, sinking down into sleep once more.

“Yeah, go to sleep, V,” said Gordon, settling into the chair next to his brother’s bed. “I’ll see you on the other side.”

***

He was pretty sure it was the incessant talking that woke him next.

He rolled over, dragging the covers with him in the hopes his family would get the hint that he was still firmly asleep.

There was to be no such luck as Alan pulled the covers back with a blinding smile.

“Virgil! You’re awake!”

The response in the room was deafening, the sounds overwhelming as they all tried to grab at his attention. The ringing increased, syllables overlapped and all the while Virgil’s brain tried to sort through the mess of sound, to try snatch any kind of meaning from the burst of chatter. But no matter where he turned, only a jumble of noise was left behind.

It would be easy to lose himself, he thought, watching his brothers pile words upon words on top of each other. The world had turned into a foreign soundscape, muffled calls, sentences slurring and sliding into each other, and dissonant voices he could no longer align with his memories.

“Boys! Enough!”

Sharp and discordant in a way that tugged on his ear, Grandma Tracy cut clear through the cacophony. The buoyant white noise subsided until he was left with just one sound. He was ready to gouge out his inner ear than continue to deal with that particular annoyance.

He didn’t catch what was said, still unused to the energy required to partake in conversation, but he watched his brothers leave without protest.

Grandma’s cool hand brushed against his flushed cheeks and she smiled softly.

“Now,” she said. “Tell me how you’re feeling.”

Virgil knew that fever was setting in, knew that the ache deep in his bones told a tale of injuries more serious than ruptured eardrums, but he saw his Grandma and his defences fell to their knees as she brushed the hair away from his forehead.

“Grandma, I can’t hear right.”

“I know, hon,” she soothed. “Your left ear’s got an infection, we couldn’t keep it out. There’s a course of antibiotics waiting for you and it’ll come back, right as rain.”

“The world…” His breath caught in his chest. “The world sounds wrong.”

He wouldn’t cry, not here, not now. Not over this.

“Tell me how, sweetheart.” Her fingers ghosted over his skin. “It’s okay, just tell me.”

The tears pricked against his eyelids.

“You don’t sound like you should. Like there’s two of you talking.”

“That can happen, that’s your ear infection messing with your sound perception.”

“Everything’s making the wrong sound. I can’t hear the pitch anymore.”

Virgil sucked in a breath and bolted upright, staring at Grandma Tracy in terror.

“Grandma, I won’t be able to play.”

Her steady hands found their way back to his cheeks and she pulled him close, careful to avoid the burns across his face.

“You will when you’re better,” she said, slowly and clearly, making certain he couldn’t mistake her meaning. “There’s been no damage to your inner ear, it’s not going to be permanent.”

He relaxed against her, folding into the hug.

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely.”

She smiled softly as he sank back into the pillows, before straightening in her chair, eyes firm as she looked him over.

“Anything else to tell me?”

Virgil shook his head.

“Sore. Tired. The usual.”

“Good,” she said, patting his shoulder. “This could have been a lot worse. In a few weeks, your ears should be healed and you can go home to work through the duty checks.”

Virgil smiled weakly. He didn’t want to sit around listlessly, with sounds blurring together and two-toned. He wanted to be up and moving, impatient for health and the world vibrant again.

Grandma Tracy leaned forward, and her lips moved with a murmur that couldn’t penetrate his ears.

He’d heard it enough times that it didn’t matter. His brain conjured the sound in her place and lulled him to sleep. At least he could still hear in his dreams.

***

The days went by and Virgil could stay awake for longer and longer periods. The antibiotics took care of the infection and the overlapping voices that had plagued his hearing. The tinnitus faded to almost nothing following a visit to a specialist who had patched his eardrums. Even his bruises had yellowed and started to fade.

“You’re sure you’re up for this?” asked Scott, hovering anxiously. “You’re meant to be resting.”

“I’ve rested plenty,” said Virgil. “I’m fine, a short walk won’t kill me.”

“Yeah, but if your not, it’ll be my head Grandma come after.”

“Stop worrying and help me tie my damn shoes.”

“Sure,” muttered Scott. “Can’t even reach down to tie his shoelaces, but no, Virgil Tracy is fine, just peachy.”

Virgil kicked him.

“I liked you better when I couldn’t hear you.”

“Not like it matters, seeing as you ignore me either way,” shot Scott back at him. “You ready?”

Virgil nodded, grasping the offered hand and hauling himself upright.

They walked in silence for the most part, no need for words between them. With no chatter in his ears, Virgil could focus on why he’d needed to get outside – he’d needed this. Needed to feel fresh air on his skin, to feel the warmth of the sun sink into his bones. To hear the birds chirping their songs.

He stopped and grabbed at Scott’s arm.

“Do you hear that?” he whispered, hardly daring to interrupt the joyous sound.

“Hear what?” Scott jumped to attention, slipping in front of his brother and eyes roaming the garden.

“The birds, Scott. I can hear the birds.”

“Oh,” said Scott, relaxing. “Yeah, man, I can hear them too.”

Virgil closed his eyes and listened, a smile creeping up from the hope blooming in his heart.

Scott grinned as he watched, his own spirits lifting with his brother’s discovery.

“I guess you’ll be able to hear the mouse in your room now too.”

He opened one eye and glared at his brother.

Scott’s lips curled just a fraction.

Virgil shoved him off the path.

#virgil tracy #scott tracy #grandma tracy #gordon tracy #thunderbirds are go #sometimes i fic #bthb card

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gusu-emilu · 4 years

Text

Cantatio: Chapter One

Ships: Lan Zhan / Wei Ying (POV Lan Zhan)

Summary: Lan Zhan and Wei Ying romp around the Cloud Recesses and bother each other.

“Well…it’s just that…” Wei Wuxian leaned toward Lan Xichen and lowered his voice. “I don’t think Second Young Master Lan likes me very much.”

Lan Wangji furrowed his brow. At least this boy understood the position he was in. This was exactly what Lan Wangji wanted to hear.

Lan Xichen smiled. “Then perhaps you should win his favor, and he might give you a lighter punishment.”

Cloud Recesses Academy AU, Rated T - read on AO3

Ch. 2 > | chapter list

Three years ago, Lan Wangji watched his older brother pass under this stony white arch and disappear into the mist of the Cloud Recesses. He was proud of his brother for attending the most prestigious cultivation academy in the land, the only school to bridge every major sect. Yet there had also been a tug of envy, buried within Lan Wangji’s juvenile heart just like the reclusive Cloud Recesses Academy was tucked away in the mountain fog.

Of course, Lan Wangji was well trained in quelling his mind, and that bit of envy had been quickly overtaken by anticipation—anticipation for this day. Today, Lan Wangji would watch Lan Xichen pass under the arch once more, and this time he would be following. He would be a student at the Cloud Recesses Cultivation Academy.

Not that Lan Wangji was unfamiliar with the Cloud Recesses. He grew up on the outskirts of Caiyi Town in the valley below, from which the Cloud Recesses was only a short hike up the mountain. Although its elegant architecture was not visible from Caiyi Town, its spiritual energy overflowed into the riverside village, granting it a tranquil sense of security. Lan Wangji and his brother absorbed this tranquility until it ran through their blood. In Caiyi Town, they lived to a perfect schedule. They spent their mornings meditating at the rocky banks of the river, their days drilling swordsmanship through thick heat or gentle snow, and their nights memorizing the teachings of the Lan Sect.

Every three months, their uncle Lan Qiren came down to evaluate their cultivation skills. Although children were rarely allowed in the Cloud Recesses, a few of Lan Qiren’s visits ended with a treat: an overnight stay at the secluded academy…and a strenuous exercise for the Twin Jades to grow their discipline.

Yes, Lan Wangji knew the Cloud Recesses. But he had never entered the Cloud Recesses while classes were in session. This was his opportunity to fully refine his skills, and he even had the privilege of being selected as a head disciple for his class. He was ready to work his hardest and bring honor to the Gusu Lan Clan.

He lifted his chin and strode under the arch. Immediately, the air tasted crisper and fresher. Pebbles shifted under his feet with a faint, satisfying crunch as he glided forward to his brother’s side. The lush vegetation and bubbling creek filled Lan Wangji with—

“Wei Wuxian!”

“Pig head!”

“A-Xian! A-Cheng!”

Lan Wangji winced. He had never heard such chafing voices, not even from the butcher’s wife in Caiyi Market, never mind in the sacred Cloud Recesses. Lan Wangji turned around, and his brother mirrored his fluid motion.

A group of disciples in purple robes was headed toward the gate, led by two bickering boys and a dainty-framed girl. The slimmer boy’s side bangs flew into his face as he swerved out of reach of the other boy, who nearly tripped while trying to snatch something from the slender boy’s hands.

Lan Wangji clenched his jaw. These were the Yunmeng Jiang Clan’s best disciples?

“Give me my chestnuts back!”

“Give what back? You practically ate them all already!”

“Yeah, because they’re mine!”

The chestnut thief dodged with a jump that propelled him onto the rock wall lining the path, swiped the tip of his sword across the rocks, then leapt down out of the other boy’s reach. A shower of pebbles pelted the enraged boy left underneath.

The trick was not impressive or clever in the slightest.

The young woman folded her hands in front of her and shook her head with a tired smile. “A-Xian, that was unnecessary. And A-Cheng, just let him have a few, we’re about to enter the Cloud Recesses.”

“Haha! You heard her, Jiang Cheng! They’re mine now!” The slimmer boy cocked his head and stuck out his tongue.

“Wei Wuxian!”

Lan Wangji could not bear to watch this level of impertinence any longer. The Cloud Recesses was a hallowed enclave of the Gusu Lan Clan that Lan Wangji felt honored to enter, and these boys were fighting over snacks without an ounce of respect for their surroundings.

Lan Wangji lunged forward. In a flash, he was behind the two unruly Jiang Clan disciples, trapping each of their forearms in his iron grip just as they were about to smack each other.

“Shouting and fighting without permission are prohibited in the Cloud Recesses,” Lan Wangji said.

Wei Wuxian wriggled his arm, but Lan Wangji only tightened his grip. If he had not been staring directly ahead, Lan Wangji would have noticed that this young man possessed a wild, intrusive handsomeness that Lan Wangji resented very much. But he did not notice that.

Wei Wuxian gave Lan Wangji a bewildered smirk, looked him up and down, then glanced over his shoulder at the other disciples.

“Who’s this grandpa, eh? We aren’t even in the Cloud Recesses yet! How can you already try to impose these rules on us?”

Lan Wangji felt a spark of heat in his cheeks. He tightened his grip even more.

Grandpa?

“Ow, ow, ow! Easy, easy!”

“Be quiet,” said Jiang Cheng through clenched teeth.

“I believe we can trust them to follow decorum once they are properly in the Cloud Recesses. Wangji, you may let our friends go,” Lan Xichen said. He had finally sauntered down the dirt path to meet them. He bowed to the Jiang Sect disciples.

Lan Wangji released the two boys’ wrists and stood shoulder-to-shoulder with his brother for another round of bows. He hoped for one more round to sift the air and cool the hotness surrounding his face—or was he imagining that?—but Lan Xichen remained still.

“Young Master Lan, Second Young Master Lan. My apologies for our misdemeanor,” Jiang Cheng said.

“Not a problem, Young Master Jiang. I am glad that the journey to Gusu has not been too tiring for you and your peers,” Lan Xichen said with a hint of mirth. He then turned to the young woman and smiled. “Lady Jiang, it is a pleasure to see you again. Madam Jin informed me that you would be assisting her for your graduate studies. Congratulations.”

“Thank you, Young Master Lan. I’m looking forward to hearing about your upcoming apprenticeship in Ancient Texts,” Jiang Yanli said.

“I’d be happy to fill you in,” Lan Xichen said. He tilted his head. “Where are Clan Leader Jiang and Madam Yu?”

As Lan Wangji listened, his gaze drifted over to trace the fidgeting outline of Wei Wuxian’s shoulder. The boy was rocking back and forth with his hands clasped behind his back and his chin held much too high. His heels carved crescent-shaped dents in the dirt.

Lan Wangji snapped his focus back to the conversation.

“My father came across an old acquaintance in Caiyi Town and wanted to pay respects to the man’s family, so my parents sent us ahead to get settled in the Cloud Recesses,” Jiang Yanli replied.

“Alright, then. We look forward to their arrival. Follow me,” Lan Xichen said.

Lan Wangji and Lan Xichen walked side-by-side to guide the Jiang Sect disciples, who thankfully were now silent, to pass through the gate once more.

A cracking sound jolted through Lan Wangji’s ears. He listened to the footsteps behind him to calculate the opportune moment, then whipped around and caught Wei Wuxian mid-bite. The side of his mouth was chomping down to break the shell of a chestnut. With a huff, Lan Wangji snatched the chestnut out of Wei Wuxian’s mouth with one clean swipe.

“Hey! So rude! You can’t just take my food like that! What if you broke my teeth?”

“No eating in the nature reserves of the Cloud Recesses.”

“I’m not in the!—oh wait. Hehe, oops.” Wei Wuxian craned his head to peer up at the white arch that lay just inches behind him, then flashed Lan Wangji a coquettish grin. “Okay, you caught me. I’ll listen to you, Lan Er-Gege.”

“Boring.”

Lan Wangji set his jaw and rejoined his brother at the front of the troupe as they followed the winding path through the misty forest.

In a low voice behind him, Wei Wuxian said, “See that, Jiang Cheng? In one move, he did what you’d tried to do forty times! You’ll have to be careful around here.”

“You should be careful around me, because unlike the Lans, I would knock your teeth out.”

Lan Wangji ignored the smirk he could sense growing on his brother’s face, just as easily as he ignored Wei Wuxian’s gleeful chuckling. And with even greater ease, he ignored that he had no idea what to do with the soggy chestnut in his clenched fist.

Littering was prohibited in the Cloud Recesses.

* * *

Lan Wangji had hoped that he and his brother would be the first to arrive. Lan Wangji wanted nothing more than a few hours to himself in the Cloud Recesses at its quietest and emptiest, with free time to peruse the rare collection of its legendary library. However, not only had the noisy Jiang Clan disciples arrived at the same time, but the Nie Clan and a few other Lan disciples were also waiting for them in the main courtyard. There were more clans yet to arrive. It looked like for the rest of the day Lan Wangji would be stuck in a perpetual cycle of meeting-and-greeting. If only Lan Xichen hadn’t spent such a long time chatting with residents of Caiyi Town or brushing his hair, then they could have arrived in the early morning.

Still, just seeing the exquisite design of the Cloud Recesses brightened Lan Wangji’s mood. The white gravel paths were accentuated with prim patches of grass and interlocked with dark, polished wooden pathways. The buildings had elegantly curved roofs and a perfect balance between rich mahogany panels, sleek ivory walls, and embroidered sky-blue banners. Past the roofs were foggy outlines of peaks adorned in greenery. The air was clean and crisp. It was as if the mountains and clouds themselves had been carved just to house this academy.

After a short detour to dispose of the disgusting chestnut, Lan Wangji joined his brother at the center of the courtyard, where the Lan Clan, Jiang Clan, and Nie Clan disciples stood with their luggage in a scattered circle in front of the Main Hall.

Everyone performed the customary greetings. Lan Wangji noticed that two people were missing.

Lan Xichen also realized at least half as much. “Mingjue, where is Huaisang?”

“Eh? He was just here,” Nie Mingjue said as he swung his head around. “HUAISANG!”

Numerous disciples flinched at Nie Mingjue’s baritone roar, including the usually stoic Nie Clan members.

Since last year, Nie Mingjue had been the leader of the Qinghe Nie Clan. Even before he assumed this position of authority, every disciple feared his hot temper, brute strength, and giant saber Baxia. Because Lan Wangji’s older brother happened to be best friends with Nie Mingjue, Lan Wangji was familiar enough with the clan leader to not fear him outright, although he did prefer to keep him an arm’s length away. But other than Nie Mingjue’s inability to use an inside voice, Lan Wangji thought he was a man of integrity.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Brother, I’m over here!” a voice called from the woods.

Nie Huaisang emerged from behind a tree at the edge of the clearing. His hands fiddled with a closed fan.

“Ge, I was just introducing myself to Young Master Wei, but he accidentally scared my bird out of my robes…now he’s helping me catch it,” he said.

“WHO?! BIRD IN YOUR ROBES?!”

“Wei—"

“Me! It’s me! I’m helping him!” chimed someone above Nie Huaisang.

Wei Wuxian was halfway up a tree, climbing toward a yellow-bellied songbird perched at the edge of a branch. He grinned and raised a hand to wave as he announced himself.

“Wei Wuxian, get down from there!” Jiang Cheng said.

“HUAISANG! You’re chasing after a bird instead of greeting the other disciples? I thought I told you not to bring that lousy pet!” Nie Mingjue yelled.

“Don’t worry, I’ve almost got it!” Wei Wuxian said.

How many rules had Wei Wuxian broken in the last fifteen minutes? And now four people were shouting in the Cloud Recesses! Lan Wangji felt his stomach drop as he realized that the amount of trouble this boy caused seemed to increase exponentially.

Wei Wuxian leapt several feet upward and landed on the bird’s branch. The bird startled and flew away, but Wei Wuxian pounced into the air with outstretched arms and soared right over the disciples’ heads in pursuit of the bird.

“Don’t hurt her!” Nie Huaisang cried.

Wei Wuxian cupped his hands around the bird, flipped four times in midair, and landed at the foot of the Main Hall. His back knocked into a potted penjing on the walkway. He looked over his shoulder in concern at the small wobbling tree, but it remained in place.

Several disciples chattered in amazement. Even Lan Wangji almost gasped.

Wei Wuxian cheered with triumph and raised the bird above his head, purposely making a show out of his success.

“Hahaha! I hope I didn’t scare you all!”

He was agile, charming, and arrogant. He acted as if the world were made to bend to his will, and the world was so delighted to do so that it would risk snapping itself in half as long as Wei Wuxian commanded it to.

Thoroughly intolerable. Someone had to keep the world from falling into pieces at his feet. Lan Wangji had come to study in a civilized learning environment, thank you very much.

Wei Wuxian started sprinting over to Nie Huaisang, but Lan Wangji blocked his path.

“Running is prohibited. Climbing trees is prohibited. Performing stunts without permission, celebrating shamelessly, and disrupting walkway decorations are prohibited.”

“Then how was I supposed to catch the bird?”

“Catching birds is pro—”

“Wangji, Young Master Wei.” Lan Xichen placed a firm hand on each of their shoulders. “Let’s make our first priority returning the bird to Huaisang. After that, we can discuss appropriate behavior for the Cloud Recesses.”

Lan Xichen glanced at Nie Mingjue. He was in the midst of loudly scolding Nie Huaisang, who wavered between cowering from his brother’s shouts and standing on his toes to peer at Wei Wuxian. Both of these actions further enraged Nie Mingjue.

Lan Xichen sighed. “Even the best of us could use a reminder of proper conduct sometimes. Young Master Wei, come with me.”

Lan Wangji’s shoulders tensed. He knew his brother was prone to being lenient. When his uncle returned to the Cloud Recesses from the outskirts of the reserves, things would be handled differently.

They approached the Nie brothers. Wei Wuxian walked with a sharp, insolent swagger that swung his annoying black ponytail and its red ribbon behind his back. Yet his hands cradled the bird with a delicate tenderness.

“Mingjue.”

“What is it, Xichen?”

“It is up to you whether Huaisang can keep the bird, but at least allow him to receive it from Young Master Wei. And please, lower your voice.”

Nie Mingjue exhaled and let go of his brother’s arm.

“Is she okay?” Nie Huaisang asked.

“She’s perfect! Not a scratch, just like I promised.” Wei Wuxian slid one hand to the side to reveal the songbird’s confused face.

“Oh, thank you so much, Wei-xiong! You’re too awesome!” Nie Huaisang held the bird to his cheek, where they both cooed to each other.

“Next time, let’s just use birdfeed instead of heroics,” Lan Xichen said.

“Understood,” Wei Wuxian said with a grin.

Then he skipped away to join the rest of the disciples, brushing past Lan Wangji without a second thought.

“Hold on, Young Master Wei,” Lan Xichen said.

“Hm?”

“As Head Disciple Wangji pointed out, you’ve broken quite a few rules of the Cloud Recesses.”

Wei Wuxian rubbed his nose. “Ah, yes, about that. I didn’t really know the rules in the first place. I was just trying to help! I won’t be punished for doing a good deed just because I broke a few rules I’d never even heard of, will I?”

Lan Wangji glared at him. “Gusu Lan Clan rules were assigned reading.”

“Second Young Master Lan…” Nie Huaisang said, “no one really does assigned reading before school starts.”

“Huaisang!” Nie Mingjue snapped. “You told me you read—”

“E-E-Except me! Except me! No one reads them but me and Lan Wangji, right?”

Lan Wangji stared at the white pebbles on the ground.

“So, if that’s settled then, I’ll leave you all be,” Wei Wuxian said.

“Not yet.” Lan Xichen smiled. “Wangji, since you have already confronted Young Master Wei for his infractions, and you are head disciple, I will let you decide the consequences. Young Master Wei may be informed of his punishment tonight.”

Wei Wuxian’s mouth dropped. “Him? He gets to pick? Isn’t that a little unfair?”

“Why would you think so?” Lan Xichen asked.

“Well…it’s just that…” Wei Wuxian leaned toward Lan Xichen and lowered his voice. “I don’t think Second Young Master Lan likes me very much.”

Lan Wangji furrowed his brow. At least this boy understood the position he was in. This was exactly what Lan Wangji wanted to hear.

Lan Xichen smiled. “Then perhaps you should win his favor, and he might give you a lighter punishment.”

And with that, Lan Xichen strode away with Nie Mingjue, leaving Wei Wuxian with a quivering lip and Lan Wangji with a bitter taste in his mouth.

* * *

To Lan Wangji’s relief, Wei Wuxian had only stayed behind long enough to bother him with a few shameless remarks, then hurried over to the rest of the disciples with Nie Huaisang. They welcomed Wei Wuxian with praises and patted him on the back. Except Jiang Cheng, who rolled his eyes and overpowered the others’ voices to berate him instead.

Lan Wangji stood at a distance from the rest of the disciples, motionless and dignified. He emptied his mind by meditating and connecting with the atmosphere of the Cloud Recesses. With each breath of the cool air he drew in, he felt greater harmony with the placid lake of spiritual energy that surrounded him. However, his attention kept being pulled toward the crowd of disciples. Not to that energetic disciple from the Jiang Clan that he expected to scurry over at any moment to ‘win his favor,’ but for some reason didn’t. Not him. Just the group in general.

He changed strategies and passed the time by making mental lists of his upcoming studies instead. This proved to be a more effective distraction.

While Lan Wangji was preoccupied with noting the auxiliary founding texts of the other clans that he might have to read, Wei Wuxian popped up at his side, startling Lan Wangji—at least, as much as Lan Wangji could be startled.

“Lan Er-Gege! Whatcha up to?”

Lan Wangji flicked his gaze away to stare at the farthest point from Wei Wuxian.

So the troublemaker had come to kiss up to him after all.

“You know, we haven’t properly introduced ourselves yet! I’m surnamed Wei, my name is Ying, and my courtesy name is Wuxian,” he said as he bounced to the other side of Lan Wangji.

Lan Wangji stiffened his shoulders and averted his eyes once more.

“What about you?”

“Surname is Lan. Name is Zhan. Courtesy name is Wangji.”

“Wow, you’re bluer* than the sky! Lan Zhan, that’s a cool name! Can I call you that? Lan Zhan? You can call me Wei Ying too, no need for formalities between us.” (*蓝 “lan” and 湛 “zhan” both mean “blue”)

An unwelcome warmth filled Lan Wangji at the sound of his birth name.

“No.”

“Ah, alright, Lan Er-Gege. You know, I’ve heard about you before. You’re the strongest swordsman of our generation! My shijie graduated from here with your brother, she said that Lan Xichen was amazing at swordfighting, and that he told her that you were even better.”

Wei Wuxian winked and rested his arm on Lan Wangji’s shoulder. Lan Wangji flinched at the touch.

“That must mean you’re the number one swordfighter here!”

Wei Wuxian flashed a bright smile. He placed his hand on his hip and gazed at Lan Wangji with grey eyes that twinkled with admiration. It seemed genuine.

“Best or worst is inconsequential. Ranking one’s skills is vanity,” Lan Wangji said.

“I suppose you’re right. Then I look forward to sparring with you in class, since it won’t matter to you when I beat you!”

This caught Lan Wangji off guard.

“…You are trained in swordsmanship of the Jiang Clan,” he said.

“That’s right!”

“Then you cannot win.”

With long, quick strides, Lan Wangji set off toward his brother.

“Hey! Hold up!”

Lan Xichen had been spending his time fluttering around the courtyard to chat with each of the disciples, and therefore Lan Wangji had not been able to use him as a shield for incoming social interaction. Now his brother had finally settled in one place next to Nie Mingjue, just in time for Lan Wangji to escape Wei Wuxian’s pursuits.

However, Wei Wuxian was fast, and he soon cut in front of Lan Wangji.

“Hey! What makes you so sure? Isn’t it a little vain to underestimate an opponent?”

If Lan Wangji was being honest, as he visualized Wei Wuxian’s previous acrobatics, he had to admit that it may be a tough fight. But he was indeed sure that he would win. He understood Jiang Clan sword techniques. Moreover, Wei Wuxian had proven that he was impulsive—a characteristic easily exploited in battle.

“An arrow shot at the right crack can topple a fortress.”

Wei Wuxian scoffed. “So I see you’re the type who likes to speak in riddles. I have riddles too! I’ll share some fun ones with you."

Upon realizing that hiding behind his brother would not be enough to shake this pest, Lan Wangji sharply pivoted his feet and speedwalked toward another side of the courtyard.

Wei Wuxian panted as he kept pace. “Okay, listen up! A baby is perched in a tall building of the palace grounds, overlooking an arched entrance. I am not that baby, and I have no connection to any palaces, yet this scene has great meaning to me. What is it?”

Lan Wangji was offended by how nonsensical and self-centered this riddle was. He changed his walking direction again. The milky white gravel crunched under their feet in a brisk rhythm as Wei Wuxian closed the distance between them.

“Can’t figure it out?”

“Hmph.”

“Come on, Lan Zhan, you know the answer. Just say it!”

“Your name*.” (*魏 “wei” is just a surname but it can also mean “a tower over a palace gateway,” 婴 “ying” means “infant”)

“That’s right! I’m Wei Ying! Okay, another one. A muddy puddle of water became transparent. At the same time, a poor man learned that he no longer had to pay his debts. The same thing that happened to the water also happened to the man’s debts. So, what happened to the water?”

This play on words barely required a thought to solve.

“It was cleared.”

Wei Wuxian gasped. “Lan Zhan! Is it true what you’ve said? ‘Your name,’ ‘it was cleared.’ My name is cleared! So I’m off the hook for breaking the rules? Oh, Lan Zhan, thank you so much! I knew you wouldn’t punish me!”

A nerve twinged in Lan Wangji’s neck as heat rushed to his cheeks. He disliked Wei Wuxian more with every second.

“Boring.”

“Hahahaha!”

“Wei Wuxian! Stop bothering Second Young Master Lan!” Jiang Cheng scolded as he punched Wei Wuxian’s arm.

“Ow! Okay, okay, I’ll come with you!”

Lan Wangji would have told Jiang Cheng that hitting was prohibited in the Cloud Recesses, but he felt that in this particular instance it was justified. Finally safe from Wei Wuxian, he marched over to his brother and Nie Mingjue.

“Hello, Wangji. Have you been enjoying your conversations with your classmates?” Lan Xichen said with a flicker of amusement.

“Brother.”

“Yes?”

“You can assign Wei Wuxian’s punishment.”

The corners of Lan Xichen’s mouth twitched upward. “I think it would be more fitting for you to choose. You will be spending more time with your classmates than I will. It will be your responsibility as head disciple to keep them in line when your seniors are occupied.”

“You are not occupied.”

“I will be soon. Just think of it as practice.”

Before Lan Wangji could reply, a hum of voices came from behind him.

“The Jin Clan has arrived,” Nie Mingjue said.

The golden-robed Jin Clan was the largest, wealthiest, and most regal of the clans, but also the most conceited. Even Lan Wangji thought so. The Jin Clan disciples approached the edge of the courtyard from the wilderness path, headed by Clan Leader Jin Guangshan and his wife Madam Jin. Surprisingly, the leaders of the Jiang Clan—Jiang Fengmian and Madam Yu—were also at the front of the troupe. They must have run into each other in Caiyi Town. Knowing that Madam Yu and Madam Jin were such dear friends that they arranged a marriage between their children, it made sense that the two women would insist on traveling up the mountain together upon seeing each other.

The stern-browed Madam Yu and the full-figured Madam Jin were deep in animated conversation. Their colorful robes and clinking jewelry rivaled each other in opulence. Jin Guangshan stood in front of them with a haughty expression, pointedly ignoring whatever his wife was discussing behind him.

In line after the two women were Jiang Fengmian and the Jin Clan Leader’s son, Jin Zixuan. Jiang Fengmian appeared to be making an awkward attempt at conversation with the young heir, who nodded and mouthed a few terse replies with even greater awkwardness.

With an air of intimidation, Madam Yu and Madam Jin turned their heads over their shoulders periodically to check that the two men were still talking to each other.

Once the Jin Clan arrived at the center of the courtyard, another round of obligatory greetings rippled through the crowd. Lan Wangji let himself fall into autopilot as he bowed, bowed, and bowed. At least Lan Xichen was at his side to redirect any personal inquiries.

At his other side, he noticed Jin Zixuan greeting Jiang Yanli, whose face looked as white as bone. Jin Zixuan opened his mouth to say something, then jerked away without speaking and approached a Lan Clan disciple.

“How is he a blabber-mouthed peacock all the fucking time, but when it comes to Shijie, his fiancé, he doesn’t even speak to her?” Wei Wuxian said.

“Because he’s a dick,” Jiang Cheng grumbled as he crossed his arms.

Lan Wangji shot them a glare that said, Swearing is prohibited.

Wei Wuxian grimaced and gave a sheepish wave. “Well, looks like our tally of offenses just increased.”

Lan Wangji turned his attention back to Lan Xichen, where a short, timid young man bowed before him. Lan Xichen clasped the boy’s hands to intercept his bow.

“Guangyao, it’s been too long.”

“Xichen-ge, I’m glad to see you,” Jin Guangyao said.

Meng Yao—now known as Jin Guangyao—was the bastard son of Jin Guangshan. For his entire childhood, he had been scorned by his father and treated as a laughingstock, until in a turn of fate he was taken in by the Nie Clan, had his reputation built up by Nie Mingjue, and then was recruited to the Jin Clan by the father who had once kicked him down the stairs. Lan Xichen had met Jin Guangyao during his visits to Nie Mingjue and had always viewed him fondly. Since Jin Guangyao moved from Qinghe to Lanling last year as a servant to Jin Zixuan, Lan Xichen had complained that he missed seeing the young man.

Lan Xichen and Jin Guangyao smiled warmly at each other.

“Oh my god!” Nie Huaisang cried.

Some disciples looked at him with concern, but many ignored him. Everyone who knew Nie Huaisang was used to him causing a scene.

“What is it?” Wei Wuxian asked.

With wide eyes, Nie Huaisang pointed a shaky finger toward the forest pathway and whispered, “It's the Wens.”

* * *

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#mdzs fanfic #mdzs fanfiction #the untamed fanfic #wangxian #wangxian fanfiction #mdzs #the untamed #cql #lan wangji #wei wuxian #lan zhan #wei ying #cantatio #the untamed fanfiction #wangxian fanfic #emilu talks

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