#I imagine he’s always crunched up against the computer and there’s no room for his long legs to go heshe

[whosectype]

wet cat 2.0

#Following in the soggy kitty in wet cardboard box footsteps of our beloved jonathan #I took noodle arms to the extreme #I imagine he’s always crunched up against the computer and there’s no room for his long legs to go heshe #But these are just quick doodles hehe #samama khalid #tmp #tma #the Magnus protocol #tmp fanart #tma fanart #my art #He could play guitar with those hands #tmagp

[fandom-imagines-stories]

Notice Me

Dr. Spencer Reid x Reader

Words: 3843

Summary: A killer leaves Reid’s girlfriend on the steps of the BAU with a message for Hotchner and the team. Spencer’s judgement is clouded and it seems that the killer isn’t finished with you. 

Notes: This is a dark one guys, so please be wary of that. I wanted to do an imagine that kinda felt like a case, but also had the reader involved and everything. This is another one that I needed to split into two parts because I got a little carried away (whoops). As always, please let me know what you think!

Warnings: Trauma, gore, assault, mentions of rape and sexual assault. 

Find Reid and more crime drama imagines: HERE

-

It was late. Later than anyone should have still been at the office and yet J.J. sat in front of a pile of files on her desk. Of course, Hotch was in his office too, both having already tried to convince the other to go home. Feeling like the piles would never end, J.J.’s attention shifted from a case to the flicker of movement just outside her door. At first, the figure standing by Spence’s desk startled her, but she quickly realized that it was you. 

“Y/N?” She smiled to greet you, though her confusion was clear. 

“Agent Jareau, I didn’t know you’d be here.” It was dark, so she couldn’t quite see how strained your smile really was. 

“Please, call me J.J.” She said lightly. Ever since you’d started seeing Dr. Reid, she liked to think the two of you had become friends. You liked to think that too, which was why you had hoped she wouldn’t be here. “Spence went home a couple of hours ago.”

“Is SSA Hotchner here?” You blurted. You didn’t have much longer. Her brows furrowed. 

“Um, yeah. He basically lives here, unfortunately.” She couldn’t get another word in before you rushed past her towards Hotch’s office. It wasn’t until then that she saw how pale you looked. 

It took every ounce of strength you had not to stumble as you walked. You kept your coat closed, partially out of embarrassment and partially because you were afraid that, even now, he was watching. Hotchner was working at his desk, just like he’d predicted. You had to knock to get him to look up. 

“Agent Hotchner?” 

“Dr. Y/L/N,” He set down the notes he was looking over and stared at you with surprise. “What can I help you with?” 

“I know it’s late, but he told me I had to find you.” You leaned against one of his chairs for support. 

“Reid sent you here?” 

“No. Spencer doesn’t know I’m here. He doesn’t know anything.” You winced at the thought. Spencer had no idea. He was probably worried out of his mind. You were supposed to be at his place watching a movie. Everything had changed in the span of one evening. 

You felt something drip off of the tip of your finger. Hotchner’s eyes followed the dark liquid until it splattered on his carpet. 

“Y/N are you okay?” Hotch stood up, noticing the way you seemed to sway slightly. 

“He said I had to come here. If I didn’t, he said that whatever he did next would be my fault. He said he has a message for you.”

“Y/N, who said this?”

“I didn’t know what else to do.” You undid the button keeping your coat closed. It was getting harder to speak. “He said that this is for you. For all of you.” 

You let your coat fall off of your shoulders, revealing your bloody chest and arms. Hotch lunged towards you as you collapsed, finally succumbing to your injuries. 

“J.J. get an ambulance here now!” He screamed, desperately trying to catch you before you hit the ground. The blonde appeared in the doorway to see what was going on. 

“Oh my god.” She gasped, rushing to the nearest phone. 

Hotch’s stomach dropped, taking a closer look at the bloody gashes on your chest. Each slash was deliberately carved into the flesh, forming two words; Notice Me. 

“J.J.!” He called out again. She rushed back into the room. 

“The paramedics are on their way.” 

Hotchner’s panicked face looked up at her. 

“Call the team.”

“Y-yes sir.” Her eyes widened, taking in the entirety of your wounds. Hotch’s jaw clenched. 

“And J.J.”

“Sir?”

“Let me call Reid.” 

-

He checked his watch for the hundredth time and blew out a long breath. On the table in front of him sat the box. The box. The box that had the potential to change absolutely everything. And you weren’t here to open it. He looked at his phone for missed messages, but the last text still read ‘On my way. See you soon.’ 

Spencer nearly jumped out of his chair when his phone suddenly started to ring. He felt his body tense when he saw the number. 

“Hotch?” He answered. Part of him already knew. 

“Reid…” Hotch sighed. “Spencer, you need to get down to the hospital.” Reid closed his eyes, hoping that he was wrong. 

“It’s her, isn’t it?” 

“Something’s happened.”

“I should have known. I should have looked for her. She’s never late, Hotch. Ever. She’s actually early for pretty much everything. I should have had Garcia track her phone or have her-” In his ranting, he forgot to breathe. 

“Reid, I need you to calm down.” Hotchner instructed. He listened to Spencer take a few deep breaths. 

“Is she…”

“The doctor said that she’s lost a lot of blood, but she’s going to be okay.” He paused, making Spencer even more panicked. “Unfortunately, that’s not all we have to worry about. I’ll be able to explain more when you get here. The team is on their way.”

“Wait, the team is coming?” The turning in his stomach got worse. There’s only one reason Hotch would have called in the team. 

“Like I said, I’ll explain when you get here.” 

“Hotch-”

“I’ll see you soon.” Hotch wanted to be supportive, but they were on a time crunch now. This message meant there would be more bodies and soon. 

It took a moment for Spencer to make his feet move. Once he did, he was running. Before he knew it, he was already outside and what he saw made him stop in his tracks. Parked in front of him was your car. Five feet and you would have been inside. 

-

Morgan was the first to meet him. Normally, Spencer would have found his presence comforting, but he knew that he wasn’t just here for support. Hotchner called the team in for a reason. By the look on his face, Morgan already had an idea. 

“What happened?” Reid demanded, trying to look over his shoulder. He tried to push passed him, but Morgan held him in place. 

“We don’t know a lot. But Reid, you’re going to want to prepare yourself.”

“I don’t need a pep talk, I need to see Y/N.” His attempts to dodge around him were unsuccessful.

“He carved a message into her chest with a knife, Reid.” Morgan sighed. Spencer stopped. 

“What?” 

“Come on, Hotch can tell you more than I can.” He led Reid back to a waiting area where a few other members of the team had gathered. Rossi was still on his way, and so was Prentiss., but Garcia, J.J., and Hotch were grouped together in the far corner. Garcia and J.J. were looking at something on her computer while Hotch sat with his eyes closed. 

He was trying to remember every last detail from when you walked in to when you collapsed. He knew something was wrong and he should have acted sooner. He analyzed every single word that you said, trying to piece everything together. 

“He said that this is for you. For all of you.”

Notice me. 

“Hotch.” Morgan called to get his attention. Everybody looked up and saw that he was joined by Reid. 

“Oh my god.” Penelope immediately stood and rushed over to them. She had definitely been crying. Spencer had forgotten that the two of you were friends. You were friends with the whole team, really. She enveloped Spencer in a tight hug. “When J.J. called, I couldn’t believe it.” She took a deep breath to compose herself. “We are going to figure this out and everything is going to be okay.” 

“Babygirl, let the kid breathe.” Morgan gently pulled her way from him. Spencer just stared off into nothing. 

“Her car is outside my apartment building.” He said blankly. “She was coming over to watch…” His gaze fell to the floor. “She was there. She was at my apartment and he took her.” 

“Spence, this isn’t your fault.” J.J. put a hand on his shoulder. “You couldn’t have known that he was out there.” 

Before he could respond, Garcia’s computer made a sound. She seemed almost afraid to look. When she did, her face dropped. 

“Is there a pattern?” Hotch sighed. She nodded, trying to keep calm. 

“Four bodies have been found in Maryland and Virginia. All of them were bound with duct tape, their necks were slashed and they were all raped.” She could barely say all of it without getting sick. She looked up at Spencer frantically. “But none of them had any messages or anything like that so maybe this isn’t the same guy. If it was the same guy, why would he…”

“Why would he leave her alive.” Spencer finished, closing his eyes. He couldn’t stop his brain from picturing every scenario, manifesting every scream. 

“I’m going to go see if the doctors can tell us anything.” J.J. said, giving Spencer a reassuring look. Reid finally looked at Hotch. He couldn’t help but stare at the blood that stained the front of his superior’s shirt. 

“What happened?” He didn’t think anything could be worse than what he already imagined. Hotch motioned for him to have a seat. 

“Whoever did this wanted to send us all a message. He told her that if she didn’t get to my office, that whatever he did afterwards would be her fault. He wanted to make sure I saw what he did.” 

“Morgan said that he-” Spencer took a sharp breath but was able to keep calm, distracting himself by picking at his nails. “He said that she had something carved into her chest?”

“Like I said, he wanted to make sure that I saw.” Hotch sighed. “He wrote ‘Notice Me’.” Everyone fell silent, each trying to wrap their heads around the situation. 

“Hotch,” J.J. returned, her expression betraying her concern, “She said she’s ready for questions.”

“Can you handle it?” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I should stay here and look over the cases Garcia found.” 

“Of course.” J.J. paused before looking at Spencer. “She said she would like you to be there, Spence.” 

“O-okay.” He rose slowly, his nerves barely allowing him to move. Morgan gave him a supportive pat on the back before Spencer followed J.J. to your room. Every step he took made his heart pound harder. He’d heard countless statements from victims, analyzed the most gruesome crime scenes imaginable, but he had never been this paralyzed before. 

The two agents opened the door to find you struggling out of the hospital bed while a nurse tried to get you to lay back down. 

“I appreciate everything, really, but I’m not going to sit here all night. I need to find-” Your argument with your nurse quickly came to a halt. “Spencer.” 

“The doctor said you were ready to answer a couple of questions.” J.J. gave you a small smile, pulling a chair up next to your bed. “He told me you wanted Spencer with you.” She looked back at Reid, who was still standing in the doorway. 

He just stood there and stared. Your face was bruised and a bandage covered an injury on your forehead- probably the blow that your attacker used to overtake you. Bandages covered your arms and he could see more under the collar of the hospital gown. You were shaking, the color from your skin faded and cold. Seeing him made your eyes water. 

“Spencer, I-”

“You were late.” He blurted. He started to fidget with his nails. “I mean, I thought you were late. Even though you are never late for anything. You didn’t call or text me or anything and I still didn’t look for you. I should have looked for you. I-” His words caught in his throat. 

You shrugged off the nurses hands and walked towards him, trying not to wince as you raised a hand to rest on his cheek. He had tears in his eyes and you could tell he was desperately trying to keep them back. 

“Spencer, this isn’t your fault.” You said softly. He leaned into your touch and closed his eyes, trying to stop imagining what happened in that goddamn hour that that man would have had you. 

“Dr. Y/L/N, you really need to be laying down.” The nurse insisted. Spencer opened his eyes and placed a gentle kiss on your forehead. 

“She’s right. Come on.” He took your hand and led you back to the bed, helping to tuck you in under the blanket. He sat in a chair across from J.J. and kept your hand in his. 

“Are you ready?” J.J. asked patiently. You nodded nervously. J.J. smiled reassuringly. “If you want to stop at any point, just let me know, okay?” 

“Okay.” 

“What were you doing before you were attacked?” 

“I was driving to Spencer’s apartment.to watch a movie and have dinner.” You glanced over at your boyfriend. “I parked in front and walked towards the door, but I didn’t get there.” 

“Were there cars already parked when you got there?” 

“I-I think so.” You closed your eyes, trying to envision the scene, but all you could see was his face and with his face came the pain and the terror. “Oh god, I see him.”

“Stay with me, Y/N.” J.J. kept her voice as calm as possible when inside her heart was breaking for you and for the anguished Reid across from her. “Do you remember the cars?” 

“Breathe with me, Y/N.” Spence instructed, kissing the palm of your hand. You calmed down enough and focused on the sound of his voice. “Breathe in. Breathe out.” You exhaled slowly and nodded. 

“There was a van.” 

“What color was it?”

“It was dark, but not black. Blue maybe? I don’t know, I only saw it for a second.” 

“That’s okay.” J.J. said. She exchanged a look with Spencer. Now came the hard part. “What did you do when you got out of your car? Did you see anyone?”

“No, it was just me. I walked towards the door, but something hit me. Someone was dragging me away from the door. The next thing I knew, I was in a van.” 

“Do you see anything?”

“There’s something on the walls. Some kind of padding. A-and on the back of the seat, there’s this jacket. A  women’s jacket. It was red.”

“What else can you see?”

“I see him.” A tear escaped your eye and fell silently down your cheek. “He-he’s leaning over me and he’s-” You paused and listened to the sound of Spencer’s breathing. You wanted to open your eyes and look at him. You wanted to see his face instead of the creature that did this to you. But you needed to do this. “He’s unbuttoning my shirt.” 

“Do you remember feeling the van move at all before he did this?” 

“No. No, he didn’t drive until after.” You felt Spence’s grip on your hand tighten. J.J. watched him carefully, reading the pain on his face. “He said something while he was taking it off. He said he ‘didn’t have enough time’ and he ‘couldn’t do it now.’ He said he wanted it to be special. That I was special.” 

“Was he wearing a mask or a hood?”

“No, I could see his face. That face…” You held back a cry. Spencer held back the urge to wrap his arms around you. “That’s when he took out the knife and started carving this.” You put a hand on your chest. “He said I was his messenger.” Your heart was starting to race and you started to hyperventilate. “He… he kissed each cut as he made them and then he would kiss me.” 

You finally opened your eyes and almost wished that you hadn’t. Spencer was crushed. There were tears on his face and utter horror in his eyes. You had to look away. 

“Well… you know the rest.” 

“You did great, Y/N.” J.J. reassured you. “Do you think you’d be able to give a description to a sketch artist?” Despite your efforts to keep it still, your lip started to tremble. 

“D-do you think I can sleep first? I’m so tired.” You hadn’t realized how exhausted you were until now.  

“Of course. Just let me know whenever you’re ready, okay?” She glanced over at Spencer with a supportive smile before she left to join the others in the waiting room. You couldn’t bear to look at the pain you had caused him. 

“Maybe you should go with her.” You muttered, staring blankly at your lap, more tears threatening to spill onto your cheeks. You had brought him in here because you knew you needed him to get through this, but you hadn’t thought about what it would do to him. 

Spencer tried not to show the hurt on his face, but he wasn’t successful. He let go of your hand and stood up. 

“Let me know if you need anything.” His voice barely came out above a whisper. Any louder and he was sure it would have cracked. You watched the way his shoulders sagged as he walked, like he was carrying the weight of what had happened over his shoulder. You grabbed his hand before he got far. 

“Spence, wait.” You motioned for him to come closer and held his hand against your heart. When his skin grazed against the cuts in your chest, it didn’t hurt. If anything, it eased the sting. “I love you.” 

A small, lopsided smile appeared on his lips. Suddenly the box in his jacket pocket weighed more. 

“I love you too.” 

-

Once Rossi and Prentiss arrived, Hotchner briefed the team on what their next step should be. Reid, however, was nowhere to be found, which had made everybody worry. He sent Morgan and Prentiss to the latest murder crime scene to see if this really was the same unsub. Garcia went back to the BAU, but Rossi and J.J. stayed 

“Do you think she’ll be okay?” Rossi asked, setting down a cup of terrible hospital coffee. It was almost morning now and no one had gotten any sleep. 

“From what she told us, it isn’t over yet.” J.J. sighed. “He told her that she’s special. He’s going to come back for her.” 

“And we will be here when he does.” Hotch stared down at the array of photos from the previous crime scenes. He was usually good about separating his emotions from a case, but this was an attack against his team. This was made to be personal. 

Hotch started down the hall, turning the corner and stopping. He noticed movement in the corner of his eye and turned around. Reid sat on the floor with his back pressed against the side of a vending machine and legs crossed in front of him. His face was sullen and tear stained.

“Hey,” He greeted, immediately stiffening and whipping his face with his sleeve. He stood and brushed off. Hotch noticed the way his hands shook. “Have you guys found anything yet?” 

“Morgan and Prentiss are heading to the latest crime scene. Based on what Y/N told you and J.J. about the attack, it could be the same unsub, but we don’t want to make any conclusions yet.” 

Reid nodded quickly, keeping his gaze trained on the floor. 

“Maybe I should go with them. I might get a better-”

“This isn’t your fault, Reid.” Hotch interrupted. He knew exactly where the younger agent’s mind was. “That is what he wants you to believe, but it isn’t your fault.” 

“I…” Spencer knew that arguing with him was pointless. He just looked defeated. “I have to do something, Hotch.” 

“The doctors will likely release Y/N in a couple of hours. We’ll need to get her somewhere safe. You should stay with her.” Hotch knew how the guilt was weighing down on him. He put a hand on his shoulder. “We’re all here for you, Reid. You and Y/N. We aren’t going to stop until we catch this man.” 

“Thanks, Hotch.” Spencer sniffed. More than anything, he wanted to take you home and never let you leave his embrace. Reid leaned down to pick up his jacket from the floor, wincing when a small velvet box clattered to the tile. Hotch picked it up for him. 

“Reid…” He proceeded with caution, but there was a warmhearted tone in his voice. “Is what I think it is?” He handed it to Spencer who hurriedly stuffed it back into his pocket. 

“Actually it’s a-” He stopped and gave him his awkward lop-sided smile. “I was going to ask her tonight.”

“I didn’t know you were ready to take that step.” 

“Neither did I.” Spencer laughed nervously. “But ever since I met her, I just knew. I knew that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her.” He put his hand in his pocket, feeling the box in his fingers. Tonight was supposed to be so different. Hotch’s usually serious expression broke into a small, proud smile. 

Hotch’s mind returned to the case and he started back down the hallway. Spencer walked towards your room, pausing when his phone rang. 

“Dr. Reid.” He answered. For a moment, there was just breathing on the other end. Before he hung up, a low, raspy voice spoke. 

“I won’t be ignored anymore, Dr. Reid. You all notice me now.” 

Reid took off running. He found Garcia in the waiting area and pointed urgently at his cell phone before continuing the call. 

“You’re right. You have our full attention.”

“I know that little trick. Make me think I’m in control so your pretty little tech can trace this call. I learned from the best.” He chuckled deeply. “You won’t find me until I want you to.” There was a brief pause, like he was stopping for effect. “I was just calling to ask you some questions, Dr. Reid.”

“I’m not nearly as interesting as you are.” Reid tried to keep his tone even as he watched Garcia scramble to trace the call. 

“Could you hear her screaming?” His voice was like nails on a chalkboard. “I want to make sure that those soundproofing panels worked. She kept calling out for you over and over and over…” 

“You want us to know who you are, why don’t you tell me your name?” 

“Tell me, have you had her yet, Dr. Reid?” His suggestive voice made Spencer’s blood boil. “I’m dying to know what it’s going to be like when I have enough time with Y/N.” 

“You won’t get that chance.” He finally spat, losing control. 

“Don’t worry. I’ll take better care of her than I did those other girls. I look forward to meeting you, Spencer.” Just like that, the line went dead.

-

General Tag: @rae-gar-targaryen; @takemepedropascal; @childhood-imagination;  @mylovegoesto; @yellowbadgergirl; @itmejado; @suckmyapplejacks

#dr. spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #aaron hotchner #criminal minds imagines #jennifer jereau #criminal minds #crime show #Matthew Grey Gubler

[gureishi]

Your writing is amazing, and all those prompts are great! :) Could I request number 17 for Saeyoung with a female MC? Hurt/Comfort, and NSFW, please. Thank you so much, have a great day!

THANK YOU! <3 

So here, let me tell you what happened...

I looked at this prompt and I thought about Saeyoung (let’s be real, I’m always thinking about Saeyoung) and my brain screamed CABIN, CABIN, and I realized...oh my god, in all the thousands of words of Saeyoung X Reader fanfiction I’ve written, I’ve somehow never written my version of their (probably) canon first time.

So I DID IT! And it’s long af cause...well, of course it is.

seventeen: i came here for sanctuary

Saeyoung X Reader, E (M/F sex), words: 6930 (!!)

Smut warning, proceed with caution ♡

・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The sun sinks behind the trees, the last streaks of yellow melting from the sky. Gravel crunches beneath the sleek little car’s wheels as it slows to a stop. The only light is from the phone in your hand—you can’t see anything outside the windows but dark, dark, dark.

“Wait,” Saeyoung whispers. “Just a minute.”

He turns off the car and without its rumbling the silence feels louder. You sit absolutely still and your heart pounds.

Saeyoung holds out his hand and, wordlessly, you pass him his phone. He pulls up a new GPS, one you don’t know how to read; zooms in; breathes a sigh of relief.

“Okay,” he says, louder. “We’re safe here.”

With that, he flings open the door, and you realize you must have absolute trust in him after all as you follow suit, stepping out into the unknown.

Outside, you can see a little more. There’s no moon tonight, but the stars are huge here, and by their light you make your way around the car, stand beside Saeyoung as he opens the trunk. He passes your backpack to you and slings the other, larger bag over his shoulder. He does this quickly, quietly, as if it’s a routine. Finding a safe house in the dark, unpacking the car in silence—for him, you suppose, it is a routine.

“Um, maybe we should—” He hesitates, awkwardly holds out a hand to you. You grin.

“Do you still need an excuse to hold my hand?” You slip your hand into his larger, warmer one, and he interlaces his fingers with yours.

“I’ll take any excuse I can get,” he says, winking, and you feel calmer. You’d follow this man to the ends of the earth, you think.

Hand-in-hand, you walk up the gravel path. You can see now that he’s parked beside a smallish cabin—it looks built by hand, the kind you’ve seen in reality shows (“fashionable young couple leaves it all behind for a rustic cabin in the woods!”) You weren’t sure things like this existed. Of course they do, you tell yourself. Stupid.

Saeyoung pulls a ring of keys you’ve never seen before out of the side pocket of his bag and spins it around, inserting a little, unlabelled key into the door. You raise your eyebrows.

“Come here often?”

He laughs and the sound warms you up from the inside: you loved his laugh the very first time you heard it, what feels like a lifetime ago. You love the way he giggles when you tease him and the way he cackles when he’s proud of himself and the way he laughs like this—bubbly, like he finds everything you do and say impossibly delightful.

“It’s actually an old agency hideout,” he says. “I wasn’t sure if it was a good idea at first, but it doesn’t seem like anyone’s been here for years.”

He pushes the door open and you follow him inside; you’re immediately hit by a wave of cold and a damp, musky scent. You don’t mind it—it reminds you of the basement of the home you lived in as a child.

“I think there’s…somewhere around here…” He pushes ahead, muttering to himself, and you wait in the doorway, keeping it cracked so he can see by the lights of the stars. “Ah-ha!” A dim light flickers on.

Saeyoung sighs, turning around to survey the room.

“This isn’t a place for someone like you,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the furnishings—it’s a single room, with an out-of-use fireplace and some boxes full of you-don’t-want-to-know-what stacked in one corner. There’s also a little work station and (you feel a little thrill dance up your spine) a single, slightly lumpy bed pushed against the back wall.

Nice bed. Plenty of room for…activities, whispers a voice in the back of your mind—it’s a gremlin, you think, a silly, horny gremlin, hiding in the recesses of your imagination. Shut up, you tell the gremlin.

“I like it,” you say aloud. “I could live here.” You shut the door and the click echoes in the little room.

You feel Saeyoung’s eyes on you and turn; he’s still standing in the middle of the room, watching you with a sort of reverence on his face.

“You’re amazing,” he says.

Leap into his arms and kiss him breathless, the gremlin says, and you bite your lip, hushing your inner voice. Your neck feels hot.

“You’re the amazing one,” you tell him. For some reason the air in the cabin is reverberating like a plucked string and you’re afraid if you get any closer to him the string will snap. You edge around the outer wall, drop your backpack on the bare mattress, perch on the edge of the bed. “You got us this far.”

He turns to follow you with his eyes, watching as you nervously fiddle with the straps of your bag. There’s a strange expression on his face and you don’t know what to do with your body.

He shakes his head as if to clear it and then abruptly turns from you, crosses to the little desk on the opposite wall, starts pulling things out of his bag with a little too much fervor.

“Will you be okay for a while?” he asks quietly, his back turned. “I just have to…” He waves a hand at the two laptops he’s set on the desk.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

He turns to look at you now, and he’s still got that strange, conflicted look on his face. He starts to say something, stops himself. Swallows.

“You can try and keep yourself warm,” he says. “The fireplace would be too big a risk, if it even still works, but check the closet by the bathroom. I think there’s a space heater in there, and there should definitely be blankets.”

And before you can respond he’s all business again, plugging things into other things; there’s already a low hum emitting from one of the computers.

So you do as you’re told: slip out of your shoes, pad across the unfinished wood floor in your thick socks. Open the closet, start peering into the mysterious boxes there. Find, by some miracle, the old, dusty space heater. Get it going.

You wrap yourself up as tightly as you possibly can in one of the thick, stiff blankets you found neatly folded in the closet and curl up on the bare mattress. And you wait.

Time passes.

The sound of his keyboard is like a lullaby to you, nowadays, and you drift between sleep and wakefulness, your head swimming with thoughts of him: the beautiful curve of his cheekbones as he drives into the sunset, the buzzy delight of his fingers on your thigh, the cautious way he brushes his lips over yours on those brief, stolen moments of rest between driving, driving, driving…

The typing stops and your eyes fly open, blinking at him through the flickering light from the single lamp. His back is straight; his fingers aren’t moving.

You call his name. Repeat it. 

“Yeah?” His voice sounds rough and you untangle your legs from the blanket. You want to ask if he’s okay but already know the answer.

“How’s it going?” you ask instead—vaguely, lamely. You twist the thick fabric of the blanket in your fingers. What a silly, meaningless question.

“We’ll definitely catch up to him tomorrow,” Saeyoung says hollowly. You consider going to him, wrapping your arms around his tense shoulders, but you don’t know if he’ll let you—the physical affection between you is so new, so tenuous. 

“I’m glad,” you say, because it’s the truth.

He twists around in his chair to peer at you. There are familiar dark circles under his eyes, worry written on his soft features.

“You’re not scared?” he asks.

“A little,” you tell him. “But I trust you.”

He sighs, pushes his glasses up, runs one shaky hand over his face. “You have too much faith in me.”

“You’ve given me no reason not to have faith in you.” You unwind yourself more from the big blanket. The space heater has worked, filling the room with smoky warmth. “Are you scared?” you ask.

He cocks his head to the side as if he’s considering it and, with some surprise, says, “Yeah, I think…I am.”

“What are you scared of?” you ask, not sure if he’ll tell you.

He drums his fingers on his knee, looks around the little room as if stalling for time. “Disappearing,” he says at last.

Oh, how you want to run to him. Kiss the lines of worry off his face and hold him till he melts into you.

“I’m not going to let you go anywhere,” you tell him firmly. You’re not sure why, but you feel very confident about this.

“Thank you,” he says. “But…” He’s looking down at his lap now. “I set up my life so I could disappear without a trace whenever I needed to. So if I do…go away…there’d be nothing left of me. It’d be like I was never here.”

That’s it—you can’t take it anymore. You’ve got no more patience—not when he’s got that frightened, empty look on his face. 

“Come here,” you say, and you open your arms. His cheeks immediately flush pink, and you’re relieved to see embarrassment take the place of hopelessness on his face.

“O-onto the bed?” he stammers, and you grin—because the capable, strong man who you trust with your life is also this hopelessly innocent, charmingly awkward boy, turning bright red at the mere thought of letting you hold him.

“Only if you want to,” you say in your sweetest voice, and he quietly groans.

“Who could say no to that?” he mutters to himself, and you try to stifle a giggle as he swings his leg over the chair and stumbles the few feet to the bed. You wait for him patiently, arms open—cautiously, avoiding your gaze, he crawls toward you, and as he nuzzles his head hesitantly against your chest you fold him into your arms.

“Better?” you ask him.

“Yes, and…no,” he says. You can feel his heart pounding through both his t-shirt and hoodie, and it seems like he doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands. One rests just above your hip, just barely touching you, like he’s not sure whether or not he’s supposed to.

“What are you thinking about?” you ask him. With one hand, you play with a stray curl that’s fallen over his face; his skin feels hot on your fingertips.

“I don’t wanna say,” he murmurs.

You brush the hair off his forehead and then, because you just want to, you press a single, soft kiss to his hairline. He shudders.

“Tell me,” you say. Saeyoung has been still as a statue this whole time; now, his hand shifts, putting just the tiniest bit of pressure on your hip. He’s still barely touching you but suddenly you know what he’s thinking, and it’s like an electric current runs through your body and sets your blood on fire. The gremlin chants its encouragement from deep within your mind.

“If…” he says cautiously, and you feel his lips through your shirt as he speaks softly into your chest. Your heart misses a beat. “If tonight is our last night, I just…want to do one thing.”

“It’s not our last night,” you tell him, and your voice sounds too loud, and somehow your focus is narrowing, narrowing so all you can feel is his hand against your hip. You continue working your fingers through his hair, a little more roughly now; he squirms against you and grips your hip harder, harder.

“I hope not,” he whispers. “But if—just in case—can I…be a bit selfish to you?”

You’ve got goosebumps. 

“You can do anything you want to me,” you say, and as soon as the words are out of your mouth you feel you’ve gone too far. The gremlin is roaring.

His head shoots up and suddenly you’re overwhelmed by the intensity of his eyes, his face mere inches from yours.

“Wh-what?” he stammers. His face is flushed and his pupils are huge; he’s looking at you like he’s never seen anything quite like you before. And maybe his shyness emboldens you, or maybe you’re drunk on the burning feeling of his fingers on your skin, but you take a deep breath and plunge ahead.

“You can do anything you want,” you repeat slowly, looking down into his beautiful, molten eyes. “To me.”

He audibly gulps. There’s a hard, desperate look on his face. You’ve caught glimpses of this expression before, when he’s kissed you, hands at your back, breathing hard against your lips—but he’s always pulled away, cut things off before they went too far.

Now, he’s not pulling away.

“I want to kiss you,” he breathes.

“So kiss me.”

And he does, slowly closing the distance between you, brushing his lips against yours with so much tenderness and care. He’s holding back, you can tell—wound so tight he’s barely moving, as if he’s terrified of whatever lives underneath his carefully curated exterior.

You part your lips and he trembles and—keep going, hisses the gremlin—you deepen the kiss, sweep the tip of your tongue over his bottom lip.

“Mmmm,” you hum, relishing the sweet-salty taste of him, and you weave one hand into the base of his messy curls.

This breaks him. He swivels abruptly, crashing his hips into yours, kissing you harder now—clumsy, rough, electric, wonderful. Delighted by his sudden ferocity, you mold into him, raking your hands down the back of his neck.

He pulls back a fraction of an inch, panting, a wild look on his face.

“I…s-sorry…” he pants. “I c-can’t…”

“Tell me what else you want,” you say. You run a hand up his chest and feel his muscles tensing, his body vibrating.

“I—I want to…” His eyes roam your body and he’s never looked at you quite like this before and—oh god, you think, you didn’t know you could want somebody this much.“I want to…touch you,” he says, his voice low.

The gremlin cheers.

“Touch me where?” you whisper. You roll your hips under his and he moans, grasping desperately at your shoulders with bruising fingers.

“N-not fair,” he hisses. Then he’s kissing you again, more confidently this time, lips parted and hands skimming down your arms, across your torso. Your shirt has ridden up and his calloused fingertips graze your bare skin, making you dizzy, so you wrap your legs around his waist, pull him against you—he groans, kissing you ferociously, breathlessly. Every point of contact between you burns icy-hot.

You break the kiss and gasp for air. Saeyoung looks totally undone, his eyes unfocused, pupils blown huge as he hovers over you. More, screams your mind gremlin, and you silently agree. Your fingers rove over his chest, under his unzipped hoodie.

“Can I take this off?” you murmur. He nods, looking dazed and a little helpless, and you slip it easily off his shoulders, run your hands down his arms. He’s got goosebumps, too. “Is this okay?” you ask him, fingers dancing over his torso now, under his t-shirt.

“Yeah,” he pants, following your questing hands with his eyes. “Um, can I…?”

“Please,” you say. You lean back a little and he cautiously slips a hand under your shirt. His fingers tickle—you giggle—his face breaks into a smile.

“You’re so soft,” he whispers, exploring the sensitive skin of your belly with one tentative hand. You moan softly, encouraging him, and his hand slides over your ribcage—pausing when he hits the lacy bottom edge of your bra. He looks down, his cheeks reddening again. “I don’t…know what to do with this,” he mutters. It’s your turn to grin. The genius secret agent slash hacker, taken down by a bra.

“Here,” you say. You pull yourself into a sitting position and he rocks back on his heels; you grab your shirt with both hands and easily lift it off, toss it aside.

Saeyoung looks positively enraptured.

“Y-you are…” he stammers. His awe is adorable and charming but the gremlin yells touch me more, dammit, so you take his hand and guide it to your skin, stroking down from your throat all the way to your belly button.

“Now what are you thinking?” you ask him. You lean back and let him explore you with both hands—he is meticulous, running his fingertips over every inch of exposed skin.

“I’m thinking…” He’s red again. “To be honest, I kind of never thought I’d be in this position.”

You giggle. “S-sorry!” you say. “I just…looking at a girl in a bra?”

He chuckles awkwardly, his hands at your waist, his eyes lowered. “Yeah,” he says. “Exactly.”

“Oh, then boy do I have a surprise for you.” Before he can respond, you throw your arms around his neck and kiss him again. He kisses you back hard, grasping at your sides as if holding on for dear life. You trust his grip and slip your hands behind you, unhooking your bra.

Saeyoung realizes what’s happening just a beat after it happens, and he breaks the kiss, pulling away as if he can’t help himself—eyes unabashedly roaming over your body. You slip the straps down your arms and toss the bra aside. For a moment, it seems as though you’ve rendered him speechless.

Then: “Wow,” he says softly.

You grin, propping yourself up with both hands and arching your back, taunting him a little. “That’s all you have to say?”

He chokes on air, lifts his hands to his hot, flushed cheeks. “You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters.

His worshipful attention emboldens you. “Your turn,” you tell him, sliding your fingers up and under his t-shirt again. He lifts his arms—obediently, as if in a trance—and you pull the shirt over his head. It gets caught for a moment on his glasses and he absently tosses them aside.

“Careful—” you start, but he cuts you off.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says gruffly.

The shirt is off—at last—and you explore his torso with eager fingers. His skin is warm and malleable under your touch; you can feel where there were once defined abs, trademark of years of rigorous training. Now, there’s a layer of softer flesh over those muscles, evidence of his more recent lifestyle.

He winces a little as your fingers graze his belly.

“Not much to look at,” he mutters. “Especially compared to you.”

You shake your head vehemently, tracing the contours of his chest with your hands. “You are so beautiful,” you tell him in a reverent voice. And he is—the muscles in his arms ripple delightfully under his skin as he adjusts his position, sits cross-legged in front of you. His body is perfect, you think—firm and yet soft, sculpted and yet supple.

He looks sideways and down, made embarrassed by your scrutiny. You run your fingertips over a long scar you’ve never seen before, cutting diagonally across his chest and onto his shoulder.

“What do you want now?” you ask him, leaning forward to brush his neck with your lips. He’s breathing heavily and he’s got that look on his face again—like he’s just barely keeping it together.

“I want…you,” he murmurs, his eyes fluttering shut, and you’re not sure if there’s more to the sentence than that—but you can’t stand it anymore, so you climb into his lap, wrapping both legs around his waist. “Oh my god,” he hisses as you adjust in his lap; you press your lips to his neck again and graze the gentle skin with your teeth. His hips shudder underneath you and the friction makes your head swim.

“C-can I…” he whispers throatily, “do that too?”

You giggle, because even with you half-naked and straddling him he’s still got that adorable naïveté and you just want to smother him with affection.

“Do what?” you murmur in his ear, and then you catch his earlobe between your teeth. He groans, low and longing.

“I-I want—” he begins, but then you grind your hips against him and his words crumble into another desperate moan. He grips your hips with both hands, tries again. “I want to…leave evidence,” he rasps, and he’s holding you so tight you’re sure there will be fingerprints on your hips and thighs in the morning. Good, whispers the gremlin. “I want to leave evidence on you that I existed,” he says.

Your breath hitches and you don’t miss the unspoken “in case I disappear tomorrow” and you lean back in his lap, baring your throat for him.

“Do it,” you say.

He kisses your lips and then, so slowly, flutters kisses across your cheek, your jaw. He parts his lips and you can feel his teeth on your skin.

“Tell me how,” he whispers.

“Lower,” you say, and you feel his lips drift down your neck. “Open,” you tell him, and his lips part. You stay very still, legs wrapped tight around his waist. “Suck,” you say, and he does, tugging your skin into his mouth. You feel the sharp pressure on your skin and you feel a swooping in your stomach, a neediness at your core. “One…” you count, and he sucks harder, his teeth against your flushed skin. “Two…three. Now.” He pulls back, panting a little, surveying his work with curious eyes.

“It’s red,” he says.

“Good,” you tell him. “Again.”

Without hesitation, he brings his mouth to your neck again, following the muscle that wraps around the front of your throat. He takes your skin between his teeth with more confidence this time and sparks fly behind your closed eyelids.

He meticulously progresses down one side of your neck and up the other, leaving a trail of tender, bruised skin in his wake. It doesn’t hurt much, but the gentle pain is enough to stir up something strong and mysterious inside of you. The gremlin in your mind swims in a sea of pleasure. 

Saeyoung bites you just under your left ear and you can’t keep still anymore, your hips rocking against his, seeking new sensations.

“Saeyoung,” you hiss, and he licks your neck—you know he can feel the way your nails scrabble at his back—your longing has made him bolder. “You’re driving me crazy.”

“Am I?” He nibbles your jaw and grins against your skin as you moan. “Should I drive you crazier?”

You are going to lose it, you think. You are going to topple off the cliff of sensations that are barraging your mind and you are going to fall apart entirely.

"You don’t wanna see what will happen if you do,” you mutter.

“I do, though,” he teases, and then he bites your earlobe—hard—and for a moment you can’t see straight. 

You asked for it, you think, and then—before he can react—you slither out of his grip and dart off the bed. Too late, he reaches for you, but you’ve already found your footing, sliding easily to your knees. You grip his waist with both hands and pull him toward you and he follows, automatically, unthinking. It’s only then that he looks down and sees the position you’re in.

His eyes widen and his face flushes a shade darker than his hair. “You’re…that’s…uhhhh,” he manages. You loop two fingers through the waistband of his jeans and tug him closer to the edge of the bed and he goes with you, letting his legs dangle off the side. He opens his mouth as if to say something else. Swallows. Closes it again.

You run one hand over and around his thigh and then, achingly slow, over the obvious bulge in his pants. He makes a sound somewhere between a groan and a squeak.

“Will you let me do this?” you ask, fingers drifting up to the button of his jeans. He tries to speak but fails again. Instead, he nods frantically, and you undo the button, pull down the zipper. His erection springs free, now constrained only by the more forgiving fabric of his boxers. “Help me with these, babe,” you say, tugging at his pants, and he complies eagerly, pulling his jeans off his hips with shaky hands. You guide them down his legs and then you palm him again, through his underwear, thrilled by the way his cock jumps in anticipation at your touch.

“I wanna taste you,” you whisper, and he mutters a string of incoherent syllables, his hips shaking uncontrollably under your ministrations. You slip his boxers up and over his erection, down his thighs, and bend slowly forward, exhaling onto him. His cock jumps again as if seeking out your lips of its own accord. So you bend over further, bring your lips to his tip, dart out your tongue and lick all the way around.

He groans low in his throat and then his hands are tangled in your hair and he’s pulling your head back.

“No?” you ask, and he whimpers as if stopping you is taking all his strength.

“I…want you to, god I want you to…b-but…” His voice sounds weak and his eyes are shut, his head still tilted back. “If you do that, I won’t…uhhhhh, I won’t be able to…l-last. Very long. At all.” He finally opens his eyes and gazes down at you with such neediness it makes you tremble.

“You don’t have to, baby,” you purr, and he shuts his eyes again with a moan. “Trust me, you’ll…come back around, if that’s what you want.”

He mumbles something and your lips quirk upward as you feel him gathering your hair behind your neck with his hands.

“Then…please,” he hisses, and the gremlin jumps for joy. You round your lips, carefully taking his tip between them; you wrap one hand around his base and slowly, slowly pull him into your mouth.

He utters a totally indistinguishable string of sounds and you suction your lips around him and arch your back, taking him deeper and then slipping away, licking all the way up his length. You grip his base with your other hand and slide your lips over him, in and out, mouth and hand working in tandem. He meant it when he said he wouldn’t last long, you think—his hips have started to shake in a telltale way and so, back arching, you suction your lips around him tighter, rocking forward on your knees. You cup his balls with one hand and breathe in, pulling him further into your mouth—and he comes, hard and fast, wiggling beneath you as he relinquishes control. You open your throat, swallowing everything.

He gasps for air and, gradually, the erratic movements of his hips slow. You pull away from him then, licking the last of the saltiness from his tip, and he lets out a low, hollow moan.

The heat between your legs is almost unbearable now—there was something about making him dissolve in pleasure that completely overwhelmed you and now you feel dizzy.

You pull yourself back onto the bed, crawling to his side and stroking his cheek. His eyes flutter open and he looks ravished, you think, his gaze totally unfocused and his hair beautifully disheveled.

“I…that…” he pants. You kiss his collarbone. “Th-that was…”

“Better than when you do it yourself, huh?” You giggle against his skin and internally beg your gremlin for patience, trying to ignore the steadily growing need at your core.

“I…literally cannot put into words how much better,” he says. “You…”

“Give great head? Are impossibly sexy and cool? Deserve a blessing from God Seven?” You can’t help but scoot closer as you tease him, grinding your hips—still in your pants, dammit—against his side.

“God Seven isn’t worthy,” he says. His eyes rove over your body, and—yes—land on your still-clothed lower half. “God Seven has found a new purpose in life.”

“And that is?” you purr. You shamelessly rub your hips against his side again. You keep your voice level; internally, you’re at the eye of a storm.

He props himself up on his elbows. Maybe he can tell that now you’re the one who’s falling apart; maybe he’s just finally starting to relax (he certainly should feel relaxed, after that, you think)—but you sense that he’s taking control.

“Well.” His tone is commanding, almost intellectual. “The first step is to get you out of these pants.”

“Yes!” you cry, and he chuckles as you enthusiastically undo the button, already pulling them down your thighs. “Finally!”

He waits for you, sprawled sideways across the bed, looking for all the world as if he does this everyday. You wriggle out of your pants and throw yourself onto your back beside him.

There’s a hungry look on his face as he leans forward and runs one large, calloused hand up your thigh, parting your legs. Desperate for him, you lean back into the mattress, breath already coming hard and fast. “You’re so wet…” he says in awe as he reaches your panties and hesitates, his hand tantalizingly close.

“Of course I am,” you tell him. “It’s because I need you to touch me, Saeyoung.”

His eyes go wide.

“Teach me,” he whispers.

You rip your underwear off with one hand and he helps you, pulling it down your legs and over your feet with gentle hands. You catch his hand in your own and guide him up, between your thighs—separating out his long, flexible fingers, bringing the pad of his index finger to your swollen, needy clit.

“Like this,” you murmur, and you flick your own finger over yourself, hot and trembling, unable to repress a moan at finally getting some satisfaction. He watches you with thoughtful eyes and you can practically see the gears turning in that genius brain of his as he memorizes your movements.

Then he copies you, moving his finger softly against your clit—and it’s different when he does it, of course, his fingers nimbler, his skin rougher. He mimics your motions with absolute precision and you let your hand fall away, the mixture of pleasure and desperation and relief threatening to drown you.

He takes note of every response from you: the way you moan as he moves faster, the way your thighs clench around his hand as he experimentally makes a little circle with his fingertip.

“You are…amazing,” he says, and he’s gazing down at you in wonder, and—oh, he’s got a new toy to play with, you think groggily, your head swimming—he’s found another thing he can manipulate with his fingers, and that’s his speciality.

“Thank god for computers,” you gasp, not even sure what you’re saying, the room swimming around you as you forget to breathe.

“Thank god for…computers?” he asks, eyebrows knitted in confusion—but even as he speaks, his movements don’t slow, his finger flitting against you with the same precision and gentleness you’ve seen him apply to his keyboards, or the little cat robot.

You somehow manage to laugh through the blinding heat behind your eyes. “Because…” you gasp. “B-because you’re good at…computers…so you know how to…”

At that moment, he curls a finger inside of you, his eyes growing huge as he realizes he has another weapon at his disposal. You lose track of your words entirely, taken by surprise, stammering out his name as his index fingers continues its endless stimulation of your clit and his middle finger slides deeper inside you. 

Your toes curl. He bends over you and his teeth graze your neck where it’s already tender from his earlier attentions and the heat is blinding, blinding you, and you swear your body actually levitates, the cold, scratchy mattress disappearing entirely as the pleasure swells within you. You come violently, shaking, anchored to reality only by his fingers at your core.

You hear yourself gasping his name as if from outside yourself, and he rides it out with you, pushing you deeper and farther into the bright, hot recesses of your mind.

And slowly, the feeling fades: the mattress is firm and steady beneath you and you grasp clumsily for him, stilling his fingers with your own.

“Fuck,” you say, trying to catch your breath. “Fuck, Saeyoung.”

You try to focus on his face. He’s hovering over you and he looks adoring and thrilled and—proud.

“Am I amazing at that, or what?!” he sings, and you burst out laughing.

“You’re a genius, babe,” you tell him. You still feel a little woozy.

“I know I’m a genius,” he crows. “But who knew I was a sex genius?” He’s all energy now, bouncing on his heels, rocking the bed a little. You push yourself into a sitting position, giggling.

“God Seven, God Seven!” he’s chanting—so you do the only reasonable thing and tackle him, knocking him flat on his back, snaking your arms around his neck.

“There’s still something I wanna try with you, genius God Seven,” you purr into his ear, and his demeanor shifts almost immediately, a little shiver running through his body.

“Yeah?” he murmurs—and all his bravado is gone, and he gazes at you hungrily. You maneuver yourself so your hips are hovering just over his, and you can feel that he’s hardening again, his tip grazing your belly.

“Choi Saeyoung, for the love of god, please fuck me,” you say. He exhales sharply, grasping at your sides with both hands. “I’ve only been imagining it since the day I met you.”

“You have?” His voice is low and throaty and you grind your hips against him, pinning his cock between you. He’s totally hard now, and shivering, that dizzy look returning to his face—like he doesn’t quite know where is or how he got here.

“You have no idea,” he mutters. “But…hang on…I have—” He pushes you off him reluctantly, and you sit back on the bed.

He has…?

It dawns on you, and you watch in wonder as he slides from the bed, practically runs to his bag which he’s left beside the desk. You’re a little ashamed to admit that you hadn’t even thought of it.

He rummages around in the bag and you watch—he has, you think, an excellent butt. Triumphantly, he pulls a little roll of condoms from his bag; you smirk.

“Why do you have those?” you ask, trying to keep the laugher from your voice.

“Don’t…read anything into it, alright?” His face is flushed again as he returns to you, crawls back onto the bed. “I just…you know, need to be prepared. For things. As an…agent.”

“As an agent?” You lean back against the wall, legs long in front of you. You can see little finger-shaped marks already forming on your thighs and the sight alone makes your head spin.

“Yeah, it’s…y’know…safety?” he mumbles, coming to sit beside you. He rips off one of the little packets, tosses the rest aside. His face is still flushed and the dim light from the lamp casts shadows over his prominent collar bones and you just want to bite them.

“Saeyoung, how long have you had the condoms?” you ask.

“Not…long."

“So not like, years, right? Cause they expire, you know.”

He growls playfully and nips at your shoulder; you squeal. “Not years, silly. Like…days.”

Ah-ha. You’re a little relieved to know you’re not the only one who’s been obsessing over getting him naked for the last few days.

“So,” you say, voice low.

“So,” he says.

You turn and kiss the base of his neck and he hisses in pleasure. You trail kisses down his chest, over his belly, his hip. Up the length of his cock, holding it gently with one hand.

“G-go easy on me,” he groans, and you laugh. You reach for the packet and he hands it to you; you tear it open and ease the sticky plastic over his tip. You roll the condom onto him slowly, caressing him with both hands, bending to pepper little kisses around his base.

“Ready, baby?” you whisper, looking up at him. He meets your eyes with his own, dark and dizzy and dazed.

“I-I just wanna…” he mumbles. “Just wanna remind you that I have no idea what I’m doing…so…”

You put both hands on his chest and straddle him. 

“What happened to God Seven, sex genius?”

“He’s…still here, but I…ahh.” He moans as you position yourself over him, using a hand to guide him toward you entrance.

“I love you,” you tell him. And before he can answer, you slide onto him, slowly, gasping at the relief of finally feeling him inside you.

His hips stutter frantically against yours and you still him with a hand on his chest. His eyes are shut and his jaw is fixed, like he’s fighting desperately for control.

You wait for him to take a breath—and when he does, slowly, shakily, you start to move. You lift your hips and he moves with you, lower them and he follows you. You feel a sharp clenching inside you, a delightful explosion of sensations, as you fall into a rhythm together.

You moan and he reaches for you, grasping at your sides, your arms. He’s growing more confident now, rocking into you, and you clench around him, pulling him deeper.

His eyes fly open and you see something snap in him—do it, you think—and he does, using both hands to flip you onto your back, pinning you beneath him. His eyes scorch you as he slips back inside you, thrusting into you a little harder; you meet him halfway, lifting your hips, deepening the angle. He’s panting and you can tell he’s still trying to hold himself back and you want to tell him to let go, it’s okay, but there’s fog swimming in your brain and then a huge wave of feelings crashes over you, breaking around you before you know what’s happening. You come quickly and unexpectedly this time, rays of pleasure piercing your body as you lose control of the rhythm and fall to pieces beneath him.

And through the daze of pleasure you see his face shift as he gives in, lets go, thrusts into you faster and harder and with unbidden need—and so you throw your legs up around his waist and pull him into you. His eyes widen and then he comes, too, chasing you, rocking into you frantically, breathing hard through parted lips.

You come down together, trembling and panting, his beautiful faces inches from yours—and then he kisses you hard. You clench around him again and he whimpers.

“You just did that…on purpose,” he gasps.

“I did.”

He laughs a brand new laugh and this one, you think, is your favorite. He slides out of you and sits back, pulling off the condom with a hiss as his fingers brush the sensitive flesh.

“I don’t wanna be dramatic,” he says as he catches his breath. “But I think I just died and then was born again. So.” He giggles and you collapse against him, pressing a hot cheek to his chest. He wraps his arms around you.

“Do you think,” you murmur, “other agents have also done it in this bed?”

He squeezes you tight, still laughing. “That’s what you’re thinking about right now?”

“How could you not?”

He hums thoughtfully, combing his fingers through your knotted hair. “I kind of doubt it,”  he says. “Secret agents have way less sex than people think we do.”

“You don’t,” you say.

“One time,” he mutters, nuzzling his face into your hair. “I’ve now had sex one time.”

You twist to look up at him: there are curls falling messily over his forehead and his face is flushed and pink and so kissable. You crane your neck and kiss the underside of his jaw.

“I have this strong feeling that you’re gonna end up having a lot more sex,” you tell him. “Probably kind of soon.”

He cackles and dips his head and covers your face with kisses; you squeal as he flips you over onto your stomach, tossing your hair to the side and nibbling the back of your neck.

“…didn’t leave…enough evidence?” you pant, giggling, squirming.

“Oh, I’m not worried about that anymore,” he says, pinning you beneath him and licking the back of your ear.

“You’re not?”

“Nope!” he sings. “I am one hundred percent confident that I won’t be going anywhere any time soon.” His energy shifts as he kisses across your shoulder, down your back. His fingers drift to your sides, caressing you slowly, making you tremble. “I am never,” he whispers into your skin, “going anywhere without you.”

“Promise?” you pant, squirming as his kisses drift lower, lower.

“I promise,” he whispers, his lips burning your lower back, “that I won’t ever leave your side.”

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

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[unholyhelbig]

Title: Centerfold [Pt.2]

Ship: Beca Mitchell/ Chloe Beale

(Read Part one here)

Beca Mitchell’s phone was a box of constant communication. She had her emails redirected so that she could feel every single time she needed to address something at the office, even if she was there and the soft pinging culminated in the very screen she stared at. She had a multitude of contacts and would video chat with the team in Italy, and sometimes L.A.

So, what she knew deep down, was that it was impossible for her not to look at her phone all day. Physically she had to check the notifications to keep her world running. Emily intercepted most of them, keeping her deep stare on her own screen before glancing up at her boss every couple of minutes. They were both on edge and Beca didn’t much appreciate the tension that sparked between them.

She held her breathe each time a new ping sounded off until eventually that lull of anxiety was hushed to a dull ache in the pit of her chest. She went through her morning meets and a new presentation to her team about how their coding for a new watch wasn’t up to parr- they had a few days to fix it before it dropped, and the CEO made sure she knew that.

When the notification from Chloe did finally come through, Beca almost didn’t’ notice. She registered the pink of the logo that slowly shifted to a deep purple. But the name? Oh, the name she hadn’t clocked for a few seconds after that. And even then, Chloe Beale? Her Chloe, actually responded.

Beca lilted the computer screen and frantically looked up at Emily, who was already at her door. She didn’t bother to knock. Instead, she situated the office and closed the blinds and very coolly, but not so coolly, pressed her back against the wood and breathed.

“Dude,” Beca said.

“I know,” Emily said “Did you read it?”

She hadn’t read it. She hadn’t even thought to read it because her mind got stuck behind the massive roadblock that was Chloe Beale and her stupid pun username. She opened the application and hesitated over the message icon. She was supposed to be playing it hard to get like she didn’t’ care if she even got a response. But she did care and apparently so did her assistant because she was right behind her, blindly gawking like her halo fell into her eyes and blinded her from right and wrong.

“If I click this she’ll see that I read it and then there’s no going back.”

“You don’t want to go back, do you?”

“You told me to keep her guessing,”

“Truthfully, I didn’t think you’d even get a response.” Emily shrugged sheepishly “Figured you would forget about it in a few days and… open it.”

Beca frowned but hovered the mouse over the message. She wanted to close her eyes but felt like she was watching a car accident, complete with the red and blue flashing lights and the metallic crunch of metal. Either way, she couldn't avert her stare. She didn’t want to.

Chloe: Hey stranger. I must admit that I was never expecting to hear from you again, big shot manager. I’ve kept my tabs on you… New York is my home, so if you’re serious about coffee, so am I.

Her breath caught in her throat. Chloe Fucking Beale had said yes. Her childhood love had agreed to coffee that neither of them could probably stomach. Chloe Fucking Beale who was a playboy model with more than a million Instagram followers, and Chloe Fucking Beale who she was pretty sure she still loved.

There had been other people, men, and women that she had thought she fell for. She folded into soft touches and stronger commands. She was happy for months at a time and on one rare occasion a full year with a man who ran his own tours of the city. But none of those relationships had ever been like the one she had with Chloe.

Beca pulled in a long breath that filled her lungs with stale coffee and copy paper. She tilted her lid and looked to Emily because she was the expert. And Beca was frozen. That same cold excitement filled her and it also rocked her ever-loving shit. She couldn’t move, she couldn’t think.

Emily looked at the darkened screen, then at her boss, then back at the screen before lunging forward and typing back a reply. Perfect. Are you free this Saturday?

It turns out that Chloe was free that Saturday and if she wasn’t, she didn’t’ say a word and quietly cleared her schedule. The day was quickly approaching and Beca really wanted to know why the New York Branch put her in charge of everything when she could barely figure out what to wear to a simple cup of coffee.

This felt more like a simple cup of coffee.

Emily eventually got tired of the barrage of pictures she was getting and took a cab to Beca’s apartment an hour before the actual date. They settled on black jeans and a blue button-down that Emily pulled closer to her chest for extra measure because according to her “You look good in anything and Chloe won’t be able to make eye contact with you.”

Then she was on a subway that smelled like stale snow and hot morning breath. They picked a small shop downtown that not many people knew about. It was a feat in the city to find a place that wasn’t packed like a sardine can and Beca trusted Chloe’s judgment tenfold.

Beca got there first, and her palms were sweating despite the cool atmosphere that swept through the little shop each time the door opened. It was a meta cross between a thrifted bookstore and a café. People sat and ate and read and the scent of what Beca imagined old magic to be, mingled well with coffee grinds and fresh pastries.

She ordered a simple black americano and settled by the front window, the glass fogged from a warm contrast with the cold of the busy street and curved lettering faced the patrons. There was a simple logo and one barista behind the counter. She chose a random book and pretended to read, but only skimmed the same paragraph over and over again.

Her main focus was on the door and the bell that chimed each time it was opened. One of those times, after a businessman and a hipster kid hugging his laptop close to his chest, it was Chloe. Soft and vibrant compared to the rest of the dim academic setting.

Her hair was pulled behind her ears and a pair of golden framed glasses rested on her nose. She had aged like wine and the wind that blew in behind her carried the sweet scent of southern peaches through the front door. She wore a white sweater with a plaid peacoat and high wasted jeans, and Beca knew she was staring.

Everyone was, they couldn’t’ help it. She overtook the room with a warm and sparked presence. If anyone recognized her they didn’t’ say a thing, out of saving their own face or because the girl in the centerfold of the latest playboy was wildly different than the one standing in front of her. This… this was her Chloe.

She didn’t’ know if she could hug Chloe, if touching was okay, but as she stood to greet her, she was pulled into the warmth of the woman. She was wrapped in overwhelming touch and emotion and she buried her nose into Chloe’s hair as they held onto each other, not quite willing to let go of the familiarity before realizing that it was inappropriate not to.

“Wow,” Chloe ran her hands down Beca’s arms, stopping at her elbows “You haven’t aged a day, have you?”

“It’s the lighting in here, I think it’s one step up from basement overhead.”

Chloe laughed and it was a magical sound. The only thing more intoxicating was her smile, which never seemed to leave her lips as she ordered her own drink, something loaded with sugar and caramel, and leaned forward across the table to get a better look at her date.

Beca sipped her coffee and quirked an eyebrow “What?”

“I haven’t seen you in ten years, I think it’s perfectly acceptable for me to study you.”

“There’ll be plenty of time for that,” She tested “What have you been up to all these years?”

Chloe leaned back in her seat and cupped her mug. It was a russet red and steam rose from the pale liquid that soaked inside. There was a sickeningly sweet odor to it and part of Beca regretted ordering nothing but a black coffee. It seemed like a disservice to the atmosphere of the shop.

“Oh, a bunch of stuff here and there. I used to be based out of LA, I did a lot of acting there. Little stuff like soap operas and a couple of commercials. It wasn’t for me, though so I moved here to pursue modeling and it’s been going well. Really well.”

Beca didn’t’ want to mention the playboy magazine or the curve of Chloe’s legs and the way her skin shown under the bright summer sun. She never returned it to Jason because he never asked for it back. It was an unspoken solidarity between the two.

“That’s amazing,” Beca smiled, feeling excitement in her chest “Anything I would recognize?”

Chloe hummed into her drink “Mm, maybe a few things. It depends on how you feel about Playboy. I never thought you were much of a reader.”

Beca looked down dejectedly at the old spined book to her right. It was true, she hadn’t read the Catcher in the Rye and she barely got through the introduction paragraph because of the nerves and the heartbeat that beat so strongly against the inside of her wrist right now.

“I’m not usually. But I do enjoy looking at the pictures.” Beca flicked her stare back towards the woman across from her “Though, that’s not the reason I reached out to you.”

“Truth is, I’ve always wanted to message you, but you looked like you were doing so well. Like you were so happy. I didn’t want to throw you off or seem like I was chasing something that we used to have.” She said, “So I waited.”

It was Beca’s turn to laugh, “I felt the same exact way. We’re both pretty stupid, then huh? Waiting like this for something we knew… for something we knew we wanted.”

Chloe smiled wider and clinked her mug against Beca’s yellow one, not spilling any of the mostly full drink. “To being stupid. And getting to know each other all over again.”

And that’s exactly what they did. They sat and talked until they were the only two in the coffee shop and Beca even dared to kiss Chloe when they got to the subway platform.  She tasted like caramel and sunshine if such a thing was even possible.

But it was because she had found Chloe. Centerfold Chloe. High school Chloe, and most importantly, her Chloe.

#Beca Mitchell #chloe beale #bechloe #bechloe fic rec #pitch perfect #pitch perfect fandom #pitch perfect fanfiction #Bechloe Fanfic #Bechloe fanfiction #Request #au

[yeojaa]

ANGELS & AIRWAVES (w. jjk)

He's never met you but you know how he sounds when he wakes up from a nap and his greatest fears.  You know the way he sings after a shower and that he could be mistaken for a dying seal when he's laughing too hard.  The best part?  You don't judge him for any of it - including the fact he's a filthy Widow main.  He might just love you.

alt summary.  Jeon Jungkook has a big fat crush on a girl he's never met.

pairing.  jeon jungkook

genre + rating.  fluffy crack.  general, for now.

warning / tags.  long-distance relationship, crushes, canon compliant (ish),  eventual happy ending, gaming, gamer!jungkook, strangers to lovers, friends to lovers, overwatch.  tags are hard.  :( 

reading.   n/a.  a three part one-shot.

word count.  ~2750

part ii.

JUNGKOOK’S ROOM Sunday, 15 March, 2020.  2:01 AM.   

He falls for you in between the tireless teasing, the laughter that sinks into his ears and replays like a highlight reel.  It happens when he leasts expects it, when he's got his face pressed into the velvet of Yeontan's fur and you're cooing over voice chat, whispering sweet nothings to the manic panic pup.  It comes in the moments he's not expecting it to, when he's frustrated and unbearable and you're as sunny as always, spilling yellow paint across the doors he tries to keep shut.  

Bit by bit, day by day, he finds himself thinking of you more. 

First, it's wondering what you're doing while he's half-asleep and on his way to the studio.  Do you look as tired as you sound?  What colour is your hair and how does it stick up when you've just rolled out of bed?  When you yawn, do you stretch like a cat?  He thinks you do, if the sounds you make are any indication.

Then it's asking himself whether you might like the same things he does, from horror movies to carnival rides.  Would you hold his hand as you made the drop, stomachs leaping into your throats?  Would you scream?  Would it sound anything like that terrified pterodactyl noise you make when you're spawn camped by a Roadhog?  He doesn't consider the fact that he doesn't even know if you're in the same city and you'll likely never meet - bound to the servers of Overwatch only.  

He thinks about all the things he'd like to do with you.  Video game nights filled with butter-tipped fingers and spilled popcorn.  Walks with your family dog - Natto - you'd told him about, all fluffy white fur and dark teddy bear eyes.  Sunrises on the rooftop of his building, because you had the worst insomnia he'd ever seen and what better way to spend your endless waking hours than with him.  

Jeon Jungkook knows he'll probably never get any of these things, but he lets himself daydream anyway. 

Like now, for instance, as the two of you sit in another queue at 2 AM.  You just woke up and you've got that tell-tale rattle in your lungs, words sluggish and lacking any real intent.  He imagines you look the way you sound - tired and a little out of it, with barely opened eyes and sleep-loosened limbs.  

"How'd you sleep?"  He asks softly, crossing his legs beneath him and raising his arms high above his head in the same instance.  The bones of his body realign, ridges of his spine clicking into place when he knots his fingers together and pulls taut.  

"You know - the usual,"  you muse, apathetic.  It's always the same.  

He doesn't question it any further.  He had once or twice, when you'd first started talking and he'd noticed the way you were always up at inhuman times.  One grumbling response had told him enough - your schedule was what it was and no amount of remedying could fix it.  

There's a beat of silence before he hears rustling and then the loud, inescapable sound of an electric toothbrush.  You don't bother to mute your microphone, not that he minds.  He simply sits quietly, scrolling through his phone as you go about your "morning" routine.  

"How was your day?"  You're settled back at your computer, he thinks.  The acoustics sound far less like that of a bathroom.  

"I had the day off, actually."  He'd used it to edit some footage and record a cover.  He hasn't posted it to Twitter yet - there were certain times he was supposed to, to maximize visibility - but he's excited for when he does.  It's a song that's been stuck in his head for weeks, all thanks to you.

"Woah - you didn't work today?"  There's genuine surprise in your question, rounded syllables that pop off your tongue in an explosion of shock.

“Right?”  He laughs a little, short and sweet.

Despite his carefully crafted facade, there were certain plot points that just stuck, intrinsically weaved into his day-to-day whether he liked it or not.

His jam packed schedule, for instance. 

To you, it’s the result of stretching himself too thin between teaching at his friend’s dance studio (where he also apparently moonlights as a personal trainer) and working as a videographer for his media-involved friends.  Not that you know any of them.  No, no.  All the work he does is for the little guys - none of those big companies like BigHit or JYP.  Jungkook’s just your average Joe behind the camera.

“What did you do all day then?”  You’re still in awe, little flecks of wonder threaded throughout like glittering gold yarn.  

“Hung out.  Did some editing.  I’m kind of behind.”  That was an understatement.  He’s working on footage from six months ago, trying to get it out before they head on tour and he won’t have the kind of time he has now.  

“Probably spending too much time gaming.”  

“Yeah, probably.”  Not that he minds, or that he’d change it.  He savours the time you spend together, even if it has kind of messed up his sleep schedule.  

“Sorry not sorry,”  you quip, seemingly reading his mind.  

“You should be,”  he retorts with laughter that builds in his stomach and echoes out of his chest.  “I don’t think I’ve had a good night's sleep in weeks.”

If you hadn’t had this conversation a handful of times before, he thinks you might be offended.  Instead, he can practically hear you roll your eyes - imagines your optic nerve nearly severs with the intensity of it - and grins.

“Don’t kid yourself - you know I’m the best thing about your nights!”

You’re not wrong.  “You’ve been lied to.”

“I’m suing!”

“I’ll have my lawyer contact your lawyer.”

“Wait, what?” 

The two of you have done what you always do - talked yourself into a tizzy that has you both laughing, sound crackling across the airwaves.  It’s nonsensical and silly but it feels good.  Your bond shines with it, glitters prettily between you.

Thank god for Overwatch.

You return the conversation to a semblance of normalcy first.  “Did you listen to that song I sent?”

“Yeah.”  The briefest pause.  “It was terrible.  Hated it.”

“Oh, shut up!” 

“I’m kidding.  It was really good.”  Jungkook doesn’t tell you that he’s had it on repeat for the past few days, saved to the private playlist that’s filled with the rest of your song recommendations.  

“I know!”  You’re preening as if he’d just complimented you, clearly pleased by the praise.  He supposes it’s a pretty good endorsement regardless. 

“Got any more for me?” 

“I should just make you a playlist.”

He ignores the way his heart skips a very real beat, mimics the erratic rhythm of his fingers on his keyboard.  Because he’d absolutely love that.

“You should.”

“Really?”  You sound uncertain but maybe - just maybe - a little hopeful.  He might also just be imagining things, as he so often does with you. 

“Yeah.  Why not?”  It comes nonchalantly despite the rushing in his ears, the wave that threatens to drown him.  He can feel emotion in his chest - winged and distracting.  A kaleidoscope of butterflies fluttering away. 

You’re quiet for another second.  It feels like an eon.  “Okay, yeah.  I’ll start one and we can just add to it together.”

BIG HIT ENTERTAINMENT’S GYM Thursday, 26 March, 2020.  6:30 PM.   

“You sound like a meathead,”  you say, off-hand and disinterested.  

He loathes the grunt that squeaks past his teeth as he gently returns the dumbbells to the floor. Cue a generous chug of water and a near death experience when the liquid goes down the wrong pipe. 

Loud coughing crackles through his airpods before he’s addressing you.  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re grunting like a caveman.”

If your first comment hadn’t offended him, this one does.  Jungkook scoffs, tonguing the interior of his cheek as his brow furrows.  Weights are returned to his hands, rotated above each shoulder as he resumes another set of presses. 

“Do you even workout anything other than your fingers?”  He’s making a conscious effort not to make a sound, breath exhaled sharply through his nose.  It’s harder than he cares to admit but he’s also not about to give you an excuse to tease him further.  You already had way too much material.

“Don’t shame me!”  You really don’t sound that indignant.

“So, I’m right?  You’re a big couch potato who’s just jealous of my hot body?”

Now you’re incredulous.  It’s one of his favourite sounds because it comes draped in laughter, dancing around his head in the form of cartoon hearts. 

“Did you just say ‘hot body’, Jay?”

“Maybe I did.  What of it?”  He sniffs - he’s picked it up from you over the months - and your amusement doubles, giggles crashing into each other in their haste.  

“You are so, so weird.”  There’s a tenderness in your voice that he’d like to live in.  It wraps him up like a hug, tugging at his feeble little heartstrings. 

“Weird and hot.”

“You can’t just say that!”

“Why not?”  If anything, you’re the one person he can say it to.  With you, it’s the funniest joke he’s ever made.  It’s playful and silly, with no rhyme or reason.  He doesn’t have to worry about it being misconstrued or held against him. 

“You just can’t!  Only other people can say it.”  You sigh dramatically, from your chest.  “Do I have to teach you everything?”

“Everything but being healthy, probably.” 

“Har har har.”  

He can tell by how the words roll off your tongue, muffled and lacking clarity, that you’re eating.  He wonders if you’ve made pancakes - you’d been complaining about craving them just two days ago.  There are no tell-tale crunching or slurping, so he knows it isn’t your usual double whammy combo of ramyeon and Choco Boys.  

“I’ll have you know I used to run.”  Something about the way you say it makes him believe you, even though he wants to mock you a little more.  

“In gym class doesn’t count.”

“I used to run with Natto, you ass!”  Okay - so that actually sounded legitimate.

“Why don’t you still then?”

“There was an incident once.”  You’re sipping on something - likely coffee with oat milk and two pumps of hazelnut syrup.  It doesn’t matter that it’s dinner time and most people would be winding down for the evening.  “Because of my insomnia, I’d run at odd hours.  One day, some weirdo stopped me while I was running along the river.  He didn’t hurt me or anything—”  A part of him thinks you’re downplaying it but he says nothing, only waiting for you to continue.  “—but he followed me home.  I made the mistake of telling my parents and they freaked out so…” 

“So no more running by yourself.” 

“Yeah, exactly.”

“I’d run with you.”  It doesn’t mean much, but it’s the thought that counts.  

“Thanks, Jay.”  

Not for the first time, he wishes he could hear his name - his real name.  Just once.

“JUNGKOOOOOOOOOOK.”  It eats up every ounce of space of the gym, filling the room with the resounding boom of it.  How it manages to be so loud, he’s not sure.  He wishes it weren’t.  There’s no way you haven’t heard it.  

Especially not when it comes again, deafening even to his occupied ears. 

“JUNGKOOOOK-AH!”  Namjoon now, right as the double doors fly open.

Jimin’s barreling toward the alarmed maknae as he shouts.  “WE’RE DOING A VLIVE!”

Jungkook feels like his insides are melting  - his internal temperature spiking with embarrassment and worry and something that chants oh no! over and over in his head.  The tops of his ears are burning, as is the column of his throat.  A quick glance in the mirror confirms his suspicion that he is, indeed, bright tomato red.

“Jay?”  You repeat once, twice, when he doesn’t immediately answer.  “Everything okay?”

He moves with a speed he doesn’t expect, weights unceremoniously dropped on either side of him before he’s tearing his AirPods out.  “I’ve got to go. Sorry!”

He doesn’t end the Discord call a moment too soon, Jimin upon him in the next instant.  The smaller dancer is draping himself across Jungkook’s shoulders, the widest shit-eating grin on his pretty face.

“Want to join us for a VLive?”  

“No.  I’m busy.”  

“Busy with your girlfriend?”  Jimin’s wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.  He only stops when Jungkook shifts aggressively, tearing himself out from underneath the other.  

“Not my girlfriend!”  

“But you wish she was!”  

He can’t deny that, so he doesn’t bother, instead seizing his discarded weights with an embarrassed scowl permanently etched into the planes of his face.  He’s reracking them - because god, he’s not an animal - when he notices Jimin making his departure, that teasing smile replaced with something soft and edging on concern.

“What’re you going to do when we’re on tour?”

Jungkook blanches then.  You’d become such an undeniable part of his everyday life that he hadn’t even considered what it’d mean when he was busier than now, unable to spend late nights gaming with you. 

But Jimn’s already gone, leaving him and his thoughts alone.

JUNGKOOK’S ROOM Friday, 27 March, 2020.  12:05 AM. 

It’s close to midnight by the team he logs on.  Realistically, he should go to sleep.  He’s clean and worn out and his bed is calling to him like a siren at sea.  But you’re sitting alone in the channel, streaming Overwatch for no one to see, and he can’t just leave it at that.

He needs to say goodnight, like he always does. 

“Coming for my title as Headshot God?”   The quip’s off his tongue before you have a chance to acknowledge him, your laughter the first thing he hears once he’s connected.

“I’ve been waiting in this queue for seven minutes.  Seven!”  

It’s really not that bad.  The rare times you’d both queue for DPS were nearly double that.  

“Patience is key,”  he teases, slumping into his chair as he watches you click through your Hero Gallery.  You’re cruising seemingly aimlessly, roving through the different skins for your mains (Mercy, Ana, Genji, Ashe).  The silence between you is comfortable, interspersed only by the occasional munching he can only assume comes from the carrots you seem to inhale.

For all the junk you ate, you were somehow also weirdly into vegetables.  

“Patience sucks,”  you retort, matter-of-fact. 

“You know what else sucks?”  

It’s a rhetorical question and he knows you know, but because you’re you, you start listing things off just to get under his skin.  “Spiders?  Undercooked samgyupsal?  Not having coffee?  Your jokes?”

If he weren’t laughing so hard, he might’ve given you shit for making fun of his comedic genius.  He really doesn’t understand how you think he’s the unfunny one when all you do is crack puns.  

“I was actually going to say me,”  he finally manages in between those high pitched cackles of his.  

“Wait, why?”  You’re used to him having witty comebacks.

Edge of enamel worries his bottom lip and Jungkook can taste cherry Chapstick and what would be bashfulness, if it had a flavour.  “For earlier.”

You scoff, your own tinkling laughter tearing him out from inside his own head.

“It’s okay, goofball.”

He appreciates how laidback you are, never holding anything against him.  Not even when he hangs up on you or accidentally spams you with memes when you’re trying (and failing) to sleep.  “No.  I’m sorry.”  He says it earnestly, with all the meaning he can muster.  

MATCH FOUND flickers across his and your screen and you’re loading into hero selection.  He knows you’ll be too distracted once the game starts, so he’s grateful when you laugh again, sweet as summer.  

“Nothing to be sorry about.  Just tell me everything’s okay and we’re even.”  

Inhale, exhale.  Try not to tell her you have the biggest, stupidest crush on her,  he tells himself. 

“Everything’s okay.”  And he means it when he says it, though they aren’t the words he wishes he could say.  

“Good.”  

You’ve chosen Genji,  He smiles to himself when you join voice chat and the rest follow, greetings filtering in from your team members.  

“Good luck.”  You don’t need it.  He still likes to say it.

“You have an early day tomorrow, right?”  Leave it to you to remember his schedule even when he doesn’t.  

“Yeah, pretty early.”  

“Then go to bed!  I’ll still be awake when you’re up.”  

He lingers on that fact - holds it tightly in his hands so it can’t slip away.  You’d be there in the morning, just like you always were.  Knowing that stirs those same butterflies in his chest, words stolen by the overzealous beating of their wings.

You read his silence like they’re your own thoughts,  “I’m always here for you, Jay.”  

“Goodnight.”

"Sleep sweet."

notes.  this chapter is set four-ish months following the first, in case that’s not clear.  :) 

tag list.  @teawithbucky​ 

#heartsforbts #ficswithluv #goldenclosetnet #magicshopnet #bts #bts au #bts scenarios #bts imagine #bts imagines #bts fanfic #bts smut #bts fic #bts fluff #jungkook smut #jeon jungkook #jungkook #jungkook fanfic #jungkook fic #jungkook fluff #jungkook imagine #jungkook imagines #jungkook au #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook x oc #jeon jeongguk #jeon jungkook smut #work.zip #angels.doc #jungkook.doc

[staysaneathome]

The Self-Preservation Society (1)

Des’ Daddy isn’t his Daddy anymore.

Des knows this because his family told him so. They’ve been whispering it into his ears, into his skin, into his tummy, with every quiet, soft step they take. Whispers of dusty, of spicy, of preserved, not sweaty and stinky and smoky like Des’ Daddy should be.

He thinks he’d know it even if they didn’t tell him though. Des’ Daddy went off to the wax museum with short hair, dark eyes, a lumpy eyebrow, and a grumpy frown. The man who came to find them and kissed his Mama at the butterfly exhibit has curly hair, freckles, a warm smile, and eyes so green Des’ family wanted to land on them, explore the vibrant flowers within.

But he is not Des’ Daddy, even though Mama likes him more. Even though Mama had got upset when Des was confused. Even though he swung Des up onto his shoulders in a piggyback ride that his Daddy never let him have. Even though he reads Des bedtime stories every night about birds piercing insects and bringing them back to the nest for their babies, even though he kisses Des’ forehead every morning and tells him to have a good day at school, even though he makes Mama laugh and put down the special juice to dance with him in the living room to Abuelita’s old tunes.

He is not Des’ Daddy.

And he knows Des knows this.

Des thinks he knows Des’ family knows this too.

His family whispers, predator, danger, predator, and Des tries to make himself look bigger. He’s messier, doesn’t cover his mouth to cough or blow his nose, doesn’t wipe his face at dinner or wash his hands after playing in the garden. Mama gets mad, and gets even madder when he doesn’t want to take a bath, because this is protection, this is defense.

Look, see how dirty and germy I am. You can’t eat me, or else you’ll get sick and die. Or I’ll taste really, really bad and you’ll wanna throw me up. So don’t eat me. Don’t even think about it.

But Des’ defenses don’t protect Mama. Mama doesn’t have a family like Des does, not yet, and she’s touching him so much to get rid of his protection, and she gets sick. She falls over in the middle of the day and has to be rushed to hospital. Des sits on a chair next to what is Not his Daddy and hears small snippets of big words like “cardiac arrest” and “cardenolides” and “overdose” and “overnight monitoring”.

The man who is not Des’ Daddy straps him into his car seat after the doctor tells him they’ll call with an update in the morning, and begins to drive.

“You did this, didn’t you Des?” He asks, in that mild way he does now. Nothing like the way Daddy used to yell, voice lowering and loudening until it sounded creaky with volume. Des wishes that he’d do that instead of this.

“Didn’t mean to.” He bites out, glaring down at his hands. One of his sisters perches on his clenched fist, opening and closing her wings softly and slowly. She’s very pretty, and her orange and black and brown wings feel like the gentlest kisses.

The man who isn’t Des’ Daddy nods, like this is perfectly normal. Like they aren’t driving past their house and out onto the motorway again, further and further away. “Of course you didn’t. Your mama loves you after all. It’s not your fault you can’t love her back properly.”

Des’s mouth drops open. “I can too.”

He’s very good at loving. He loves, loves, loves his Mama, his real Daddy, his Abuelita, his family. It’s why they came to him after all, when he fell from the big tree in the woods behind their house and everything hurt. They whisper they love him when they’re small and wriggling, when they’re quiet and growing, when they’re big and flying, and he whispers that he loves them too, because he does.

“No you can’t.” The hand that reaches out is faster than a bird.

It doesn’t feel like anything at first, as Des stares at his sister’s limp, crushed form in incomprehension.

Then the pain hits him and he opens his mouth in a wounded howl. It hurt him, it hurt him, the stranger hurt him, the predator hurt him, help, help, help.

His family come to his aid, filling the car, millions upon millions of beautiful orange, brown and black wings beating furiously around him. Protect, defend, beloved, ours, stay away, don’t touch, don’t touch, don’t touch—

The thing that is not Des’ Daddy laughs. It doesn’t even look away from the road as the poison drips down its face, doesn’t even blink as it lashes out and hurts more and more of Des’ family with every sweep of an arm. “You see? With all this inside you, Des, how could you love somebody? How could you love anybody? But don’t worry. We’re going somewhere where they can fix you up and make you aaaall better. Make you into the son Mama deserves, so you can love her properly. Don’t you want that? To love your Mama properly?”

Des can’t stop crying, reaches out and calls his family back to him. He doesn’t wanna go with the predator, but he doesn’t want his family getting hurt anymore either, he doesn’t, he doesn’t.

They’re scared too, he can feel them, even as they whisper beloved and we love you and be brave and ours as they wander over him, as their wings brush his skin in the gentlest of kisses and comfort.

Outside the car is getting brighter, big, big buildings with lots of lights zooming past like fair lights on a tea cup ride or a merry-go-round. It makes his head hurt, as more tears spill from his eyes and he tries to sniff past his runny nose. Some of his family move to the window, blocking out the lights that make him feel like he wants to be sick.

“Ssh, easy Des.” The stranger hushes, tone soothing and comforting, the same as when reading bedtime stories about the daddy bird bringing his babies pretty dragonflies and bluebottles and butterflies to eat. “We’re almost there. You’ll feel so much better once we’ve got all that nonsense out of you and fixed you up. You’ll love your Mama so much. Don’t you want to love your Mama?”

He shakes his head, sobs coming harder. He does love his Mama, but he doesn’t wanna go with the predator, with the Not-His-Daddy, doesn’t want to get hurt anymore, he doesn’t, he doesn’t.

Eventually the car stops. There’s a click from the front. A door opens and slams shut.

Des hopes for a second it’ll be home it’s stopped in front of.

But then the Not-Daddy opens the car door and reaches in to undo the straps of Des’ car seat. He’s smiling gently, soothingly. “C’mon Des. Time to go.”

Des screams.

He screams as the Not-Daddy pulls him out of the car and slams the door, crushing some of his family in the process. As he starts to drag Des towards the wax museum, smiling at everyone who passes by like nothing’s wrong, like Des isn’t wailing behind him.

Nobody even looks down at Des, not even like they do when he cries while in the shops with Mama. It’s like he’s not even there.

“No! No!! You’re not my Daddy, let me go! Let me GO!!” He tries to sit down, tries to drag his legs. His family swarm around him, wings beating furiously as they cling to the back of his shirt, to his ears, to his hair.

The Not-Daddy laughs, yanks him along, like everything he and his family are doing doesn’t even matter—

There’s a noise that can only be described as a Crunch.

Last Christmas, Mama sent Des’ Abuelita a little soldier man for her present. He and Mama stayed up so they could watch Abuelita open it on the computer while his Daddy snored, watch her admire his tufty white beard, his furry black hat, his shiny red coat and black boots. The soldier man had a little flap on his back, and when Abuelita pulled it up, the soldier’s mouth opened. Abuelita had put a walnut into it, and pulled the little flap down, and the walnut’s shell fractured open with a little snap that made Des jump and Abuelita laugh and croon at him through the screen.

That’s what The Thing’s jaws slamming shut on his Not-Daddy’s arm makes him think of, as it shatters the arm like the walnut’s shell.

The Not-Daddy shrieks, high and inhuman like a recorder blown wrong, and drop Des.

He falls back on his bottom, dazed as no longer being pulled along.

Only for the Thing that appeared from nowhere and bit the Not-Daddy to scoop him up and start running.

Des screams again, wriggling and fighting against the too tight too strong grip, screams for his family, for his Mama, for somebody to come save him.

The Not-Daddy is screaming too, yelling things like “STOP!! HELP! HELP!!” and “LET GO OF MY SON!!” Things that make all the people who’d ignored Des before turn around and stare, pull out phones, lunge out to stop the Thing that’s got Des.

But they can’t catch it. The Thing twists under and through grasping arms in a way that can’t be real, can’t be possible, making people slam into each other as it ducks between them to thunder down a set of stairs, Des’ family not far behind.

It leaps over the metal barrier, legs high and graceful like the horses on TV that Des’ Daddy liked to watch on weekends, making his tummy swoop like he’s missed a step climbing the stairs too fast.

It swoops even harder when it leaps and sliiides down the metal bit between the escalators, like Des has always imagined doing. He always thought it would feel like the big slide at the fancy park Mama has to drive to go to, or going down the helter-skelter on an itchy mat at the fair, fast and whizzy and fun with all the people and posters flashing past.

Des hadn’t thought it would be so scary, the down so sharp he’s sure he’ll topple forwards and crack his head open, sure he’ll slip and is falling from the Big Tree again, his tummy flailing like one of his family with a damaged wing, his throat cracking as his screams are torn from it.

He can only whimper once The Thing jumps off at the bottom and is running again, taking sharp turns through the nasty smelling tunnels until a train is in front of them and swinging itself not through the doors into one of the carriages, but up and over and down behind the little wall in front of the space separating them, caging Des in its impossibly bent and tangled limbs.

The train screeches and starts to pull away from the light of the platform.

The Not-Daddy is too far away to stop it, though his screams are still echoing through the tunnels, ringing in Des’ ears.

His family are not.

Des feels like crying as thousands of thousands of butterflies descend onto The Thing keeping him captive as the train whizzes off into the darkness, wings beat beat beating around him in time with their song of protect, defend, intruder, predator, thief, family, beloved, ours, defend, protect, don’t touch, don’t touch, don’t touch.

They cluster as the train picks up speed, clinging to him and to the Thing, gathered so thickly that Des can feel thin droplets of liquid seeping into his hair, into his clothes, onto his skin. He laughs, because this is his defense, his family’s defense, that feels as gentle and soothing as bathwater to him, but won’t to this thing, hadn’t to Mama.

The Thing tenses, muscles locking tight and spasming around Des. In the light of the carriage behind him, Des can see its eyes blinking rapidly, before squeezing shut tightly in pain. Yeah, serves it right for trying to eat him!

The Thing raises a hand and brings it down towards his head—!

Des recoils with a cry, praying that it won’t hurt even more of his family than the Not-Daddy did.

…?

There’s no hurt…?

Instead, it feels like The Thing’s fingers are just…sitting there? On top of Des’ hair? Not even on top of any of his family, trying to trap antennae or crush wings.

The fingers stay flat and gentle even as another spasm rocks through The Thing’s body, even as his family crawl over them to investigate.

Then, slowly, the fingers on Des’ hair begin to move. Back and forth, back and forth, very, very slowly and carefully. There’s no pressing down, no digging in, nothing.

It’s…stroking him? Like he’s a cat, or something?

The train slows down to a stop as it emerges back into the light. There’s a hiss as the doors open and people get on and off. Then a beeping as the doors hiss shut again, and the train speeds back off into darkness.

And through it all, The Thing just keeps stroking him. It doesn’t try to hurt his family, even as its eyes are screwed shut and its body flinches irregularly.

There are brightly colored bands on its wrists, glowing bright green and yellow in the dark. Lots of his family are clustering over them, investigating, seeing if there’s any nice nectar for them there.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” Des shouts. Mama says it’s not polite to shout, but he can’t hear anything over the rushing of the train otherwise, and he’s very confused by this Thing.

The Thing doesn’t reply.

“HELLO?!” Des shouts, even louder. “CAN YOU HEAR ME?”

There’s a moment.

And then the Thing gives a sharp, jerky nod.

“OKAY, SO WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” Des frowns when The Thing doesn’t reply again. “EXCUSE ME, I ASKED YOU A QUESTION! CAN'T YOU TALK?!”

The Thing shakes its head tightly.

Oh. Now Des feels bad, like when Mama told him off for asking why Maisy from the park had that pink plastic thing in her ear, and wouldn’t play tag right unless you really pushed her. “I’M SORRY.” He yells, because that’s what Mama made him say to Maisy.

The Thing’s fingers go back and forth over his head again, so he thinks it’s alright.

“ARE YOU GOING TO EAT ME?!” Des asks, because that’s very important for him to know.

Shake, shake, shake.

Des nods, heaving a deep breath. It doesn’t smell very nice, but it helps make his heart not race, and he slumps against The Thing’s limbs. His family’s wings slow, and the liquid slowly stops dripping down onto them.

It’s okay. He’s not going to be eaten. They’re not going to be eaten. Everything’s going to be okay.

“ARE YOU TRYING TO RESCUE ME FROM MY NOT-DADDY?!”

Nod, nod, nod. The jerks going through the Thing’s body are stopping now, though it’s eyes are still squeezed shut.

“THANK YOU.” Des shouts, because his Mama raised him to be a polite boy. “SORRY ABOUT TRYING TO MAKE YOU NOT EAT ME AND MY FAMILY’S DEFENSE CAR-TE-NO-LIDS!”

The Thing nods again, though its brow has creased more. In pain or confusion, Des isn’t quite sure. It moves its hand back and forth again over his hair though, so he’s pretty sure he’s forgiven.

Des stares at The Thing closely, not that he knows it’s not going to eat him or hurt him.

It’s a very odd looking Thing, almost like if someone tried to make something that looked like a person, but didn’t get all the details quite right. It looks normal enough from the nose up, if a bit grubby and sweaty. It’s also dressed like a person, with a shirt and pants and a backpack and shoes, even if these clothes are very holey and too-big, like when Abuelita sends Des things ‘to grow into’ for Christmas.

The problem is that it’s got these weird dark lines on both of its cheeks that go down its neck, where its mouth can open really wide like Abuelita’s neat little soldier. Its arms and legs also bend a lot past the way Des’ can, like it’s plasticine or Hugo from the Playground’s really bendy Nutcracker Barbie ballerina doll.

His brothers and sisters perched on The Thing don’t tell him of the same dusty, spicy, preserved smells that came from the Not Daddy, but there is a scent of artificial, of not-organic that they communicate to him while wandering over The Thing’s jaw.

Then he notices something behind it.

There’s a tall teenager in the train carriage behind The Thing that’s staring down at them through the window, eyes wide and mouth open. The tall teenager has a big poofy cloud of hair that Des thinks is very impressive, and wants to smush between his hands, like a pile of bath bubbles.

There’s soft, wavy white stuff floating around the teenager, like stuff on top of the bathwater after all the bubbles have gone.

There’s so much floaty stuff that it makes it very hard to see anyone else in the carriage.

“WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT?” Des shouts at the teenager.

The Thing blinks at him, eyebrows raised. It lifts a hand and points to itself, as if to say, “who, me?”

“NOT YOU!” Des yells, exasperated. “THE BIG TEENAGER WITH THE BUBBLE BATH HAIR! WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT?!”

The big tall teenager startles then, and lifts a hand and points to themself, much like The Thing did. The Thing twists its head all the way round like an owl in time to see the teenager with the bubble bath hair mouth “me?” at them.

“YES YOU. HONESTLY!” Des huffs. Why are teenagers and adults so slow all the time? And why can’t he twist his head round like an owl? It’s not fair.

There’s a moment of silence as the train slows down and pulls into the next station.

Then there’s the unpleasant swooping in his stomach again as the Thing hurls them over the train wall and onto the platform, somehow managing not to squish any of his family in the process and takes off running again.

There’s a loud “HEY!!” and over The Thing’s shoulder, Des can see the tall teenager with the poofy hair following them out of the carriage at a sprint, going through people as the floaty white stuff seems to make the people go see-through like ghosts whenever the teenager touches them.

One of his slower brothers, an older brother, is caught in the rapidly spilling floaty stuff as he tries to flutter up after them as The Thing runs up the stopped middle steps of the escalator, barely keeping up, and then—

Des feels cold. So, so cold, like after he fell from the big tree and was crying and no one was coming for him and he was scared.

He can’t see his brother. He can’t feel his brother.

He doesn’t want to talk to the tall teenager anymore.

“THE POOFY TEENAGER'S GAINING ON US!!” He yells to The Thing.

The Thing twists its head around to look again, but its feet keep running at full tilt. Des yelps as they slam into a cleaning man with a big yellow cart full of stuff, making him feel sick as The Thing pinwheels and hops to avoid falling over the now toppled cleaning man, who yells lots of bad words Mama tells him not to say after Daddy says them.

But when his head stops spinning, he watches as the big yellow cart rolls down the stairs, inexplicably gathering speed as it bursts through the barrier and zooms towards the top of the stopped escalator.

The stopped escalator that the tall poofy teenager with the bubble bath hair is just about to come out of.

The teenager can’t disappear through big yellow carts like they can people.

There’s lots of yelling, and banging, and screaming, and clattering, and Des sort of wants to see what happened, because it sounds like something he’d see when Mama lets him watch cartoons on the weekend. But The Thing’s escaped the cleaning man’s anger and run up the stairs out of the station, taking off down one of the brightly lit streets, weaving through crowds of adults in funny, shiny clothes.

It’s so dark, it’s clearly past his bedtime, but Des doesn’t feel sleepy at all.

He just clings tighter and watches his family flutter behind them as The Thing carries him farther and farther away from the teenager and the Not-Daddy that want to hurt him.

#the magnus archives #tma #tma ocs #the self preservation society #fear avatar oc #tma avatars #the stranger #the corruption #the lonely #tma not them #not them #the little stranger #des fuentes macías #frey lukas #tw: child endangerment #tw: kidnapping #tw: heart attack #monarch butterfly #in which des is passed around like a hot potato #and the little stranger does a lot of running #frey was trying to go home and is straight up Having A Bad Time

[ressyfaerie]

Fic request; (sorry if this isn't a personal headcanon of yours) Kai comes out as nonbinary & the team are largely accepting. Tyson takes longer than the rest to understand and pesters Kai with all his questions & general Tyson-ness. Doesn't have to be shippy but would be a nice bonus!

Oh I love this! I’ve read about someone's headcanon being Kai as nonbinary! As someone who also struggles with their gender identity this will be fun to write! I’m excited! But I understand this can be a sensitive topic for some people, so I’ll throw it into a readmore. It’s not my personal headcanon but writing this will be interesting and fun! I’m adding some Ressyfaerie flare so I apologize if it’s not exactly what you imagined! <3

The team had noticed Kai’s subtle attempts to experiment lately.

Wearing clothes that weren’t his normal style, the most surprising was the almost crop top Tyson immediately pointed out. Ray noticed the extra makeup he occasionally wore under his blue shark fins. His dark coloured clothes would occasionally be more pastel. He went to a school across town, so they didn’t see him most of the day; regardless they still noticed a change in his attitude. With each passing day, he became more comfortable with himself.

Today started off as any ordinary training day in the dojo. The team showed up after school and huddled waiting for Tyson who generally showed up late. Kenny opened his laptop in the corner, Hilary showed up with snacks attempting to bribe the team into showing her new blading techniques. Max and Ray stayed close, talking strategy or gossiping about what happened at school. Today Max wore a frilly green skirt overtop of white leggings.

“Hey! I was wondering where that went!” Hilary gasped when she saw it.

“Sorry Hil!” Max shrugged with a smirk.

“When I said you could borrow my clothes I didn’t mean keep them in your closet for a rainy day!”

“Hehe, sorry. I’ll buy my own, I’ll give your stuff back.” She glared at Max, “promise…”

They heard the door open. As good teammates they had all memorized the way their friends did everyday things, opening doors, walking, you name it.

“Here comes grouch of the year.” Max groaned.

“He’s been a lot better lately, give him a break…” Ray patted Max’s shoulder.

The door to the dojo slid open, Kenny looked up from his computer for a moment, “hey Kai!”

“Hey Kenny.”

Kai gave him a look that might have been a smile… or a judging glare… Who could tell at this point.

“Oh! Kenny smiled while pointing at Kai’s hand, “pretty colours!”

“Kai, I love them!” Max bounced over and grasped one of his hands inspecting the nailpolish. “Did you do them yourself?”

“Y—yeah… thanks.” Kai gulped.

Ray looked at them over Max’s shoulder. “Blue and red, good choice, any special occasion?”

“No. I just like doing them sometimes. It… makes me feel good.”

“Hey that happens to me too!” Max’s eyes shimmered.

“I haven’t worn nailpolish in public yet…” Kai looked to the ceiling and looked back down to the group. “I know it’s not normal.”

Ray chuckled, “it’s normal Kai.”

“What is normal anyways?” Max let go of his hand.

“You make a good point.” Kai nodded his head in response while looking at his hand.

The door to the house flung open, they could hear someone kick their shoes off and groan.

Tyson…

They all knew it was Tyson, but Kai worried about him. He was painfully aware that Tyson would have something to say about his new look, even though Tyson enjoyed doing much the same things, he always had to point it out!

The door to the dojo was thrown open, Tyson burst through, “hey guys!” Tyson grew a huge smile while looking at his friends. Then he looked at Kai and his mouth grew into a gasp.

Kai rolled his eyes.

“Look at you, Kai! Someone has been working way too hard to be a pretty boy lately!”

Kai sighed, and Max knit his eyebrows.

Max whispered in Ray’s direction, “I think I get it...”

After a while they drifted into their work. Kenny and Tyson analyzed something on his computer. Hilary badgered Tyson to show her a new move. Kai fiddled with Dranzer in the corner, Max nudged Ray, and they made their way to Kai.

The two of them sat in front of Kai, the hardwood creaked under them. Kai knew they wanted something, but remembered he was trying to be… nicer lately.

“What’s up?” Kai lowered the tiny screwdriver he was working with.

Max smiled at him.

“What is it?” Kai asked again, this time with a bit more attitude.

“You know you can tell us anything right, Kai?” Ray was pressuring him.

“Ray!” Max swatted his shoulder gently.

“Look, I’ve been uh…” Max folded their hands together fiddling with individual fingers. “For lack of better words, gender hopping for a while now. So I guess… What I’m trying to say is… I get what you're laying down.”

Kai blinked a few times, surprised Max picked it up so fast. He wasn’t sure if he was ready… but he knew his friends, he could trust them.

“I uh.” Kai started, then laughed a bit, “wow.” He fiddled with the small screwdriver on the floor, “you just… right on the money, Max.”

Max dropped his hand on Kai’s thigh. Kai wasn’t huge on touching yet, but Max wanted to give him some form of comfort.

“I’ve been thinking for… quite some time.” Kai started, he rubbed the back of his neck before continuing. “About my um… gender identity.”

The room grew quieter. Both Kai, Max, and Ray were aware the rest of the room picked up on the serious vibe and were listening in.

Max went to say something, but Kai continued.

“I know it’s more than what I want to wear, or makeup or nailpolish. Anyone can do that stuff... It’s more than that. That’s why I’ve been thinking so much.”

Max put both hands on Kai’s leg. Kai grinned.

“I think… I might be non-binary—” the room was quiet, “I’m not one-hundred percent sure but—”

Max cut him off, “it’s fine Kai.” Their face practically glowed from how proud Max was of Kai. “You don’t need to give us a list of reasons, we trust you.”

“Thanks.” Kai let a grin slip out.

“Wait, Kai, you’re gay!?” Kenny gasped.

“No...” Kai now worried that it was too soon.

“Kenny! Non-bnary is a gender thing not a sexuality thing!” Max educated his friend as best as possible in the short timeframe.

“Ooohhh , sorry.” Kenny blushed. “I’m not quite… on the gender train yet, but I’m trying.”

Kai gave Kenny a soft expression, “Thanks, Kenny. I appreciate it.”

Tyson turned around, Kai’s heart fell in his chest, “wait… So you’re not a boy, Kai?”

“What are your pronouns!” Max squealed over Tyson’s remark.

“Um.” Kai hadn’t really thought much about it, “like, anything really. He or them? I know you like them Max but I guess…”

“You don’t mind if we call you a boy?”

Kai shrugged, “I don’t feel like… dysphoric about it. Just that you guys know how I feel when you think about me… I think… that’s all I want.”

The room grew quiet for a moment. Max didn’t want to press the situation, but everyone had more questions.

“Do you experience a lot of gender dysphoria?” Max felt the sweat form in their palms, and relieved some of the pressure from Kai’s leg.

“Sometimes.” When Kai admitted it, he felt his shoulders become light. “But I think it really lines up with my trauma. That’s why… I’m still unsure. But I wanted you guys to know.”

“Thanks for telling us.” Ray patted his shoulder.

“I’m glad I did.”

Kai’s words rang through the dojo.

It was Tyson who got up first.

“Anyone want anything to drink? I’m going to go get a soda. Kai, you want anything?”

Kai was unsure what to think, he stared at Tyson, lost for an answer to a basic question.

“It’s not complicated. I’m not asking you to pick a gender or anything, just what to drink.” Tyson’s words seemed almost... angry.

Max ripped their hands away from Kai and spat towards Kai’s rival, “Tyson!”

“Whatever. I’ll get water I guess.” Tyson threw his hands in the air and left through the door outside.

“What is his fucking problem?” Max grimaced.

“He was never this upset when you came out.” Ray side eyed Max.

Ray and Max pushed themselves off the floor ready to go confront him. Kai got up, placing his arm in front of them.

“No, I think I should talk to him.”

Are you sure, Kai?” Ray wore a worried look.

“Yeah. It’s about time we talked.” Kai made his way to the door, opening it and sliding it shut behind him gently.

Outside the sun had just set. The backyard was veiled in twilight. The other side of the wooden deck across the gravel Tyson shut a door behind him, carrying a can and a bottle of water. Kai hopped off the dojo’s floorboards and felt the gravel crunch under his feet. He made his way to Tyson.

Tyson saw him, and sat on the edge. Letting his feet dangle while he looked over the yard as Kai approached him.

“What’s up?” Tyson raised his eyebrows and smiled sarcastically, then went back to a neutral expression.

“Are you okay?” Kai looked him up and down trying to find out what the problem was.

Tyson handed him the bottle of water with a friendly gesture. Kai took it, and unscrewed the cap, he chugged it.

Tyson opened the can, the only noise other than bugs and the slight splashing of fish in the pond.

“You know…” Tyson took a sip, “I like makeup, dresses, and nailpolish as much as the next guy. But I’m not like you guys.”

“That’s okay.” Kai sat beside him a few feet away. He leaned against one of the wooden beams, “we never said you had to be.”

Tyson scoffed slightly, “I get Max, I do. But you’re such a manly guy. Why?”

“It’s hard to explain if you haven’t felt it yourself but… It’s not just about wearing more… feminine things. There’s a mental aspect to it. And besides…”

Kai used his water bottle to gently bash it against Tyson’s leg, “I’m not that manly.”

“I’ve seen you in a suit…” Tyson shook his head while grinning.

Kai took a breath, “why does this upset you so much? You never had a problem when Max announced his gender reveal—”

“A thousand times.” Tyson finished his sentence.

They both laughed.

A few insects jumped off the pond and reflected the setting sun in their fluttering wings.

“Why does this upset you so much?”

“First of all, I’m not upset. You can do anything you need to do, Kai.”

“If you’re not upset, then what are you?”

Tyson gave him his full attention, the eye contact made Kai’s hair stand on end.

Tyson wasn’t answering, so Kai continued, “I’m still the same person I’ve always been. Nothing has changed, but now I can be more comfortable, and true to who I am.”

“I know that, and I’m proud of you.” Tyson shook the can in circles with one hand.

Kai was starting to lose patience now, “so what the hell is up?!”

“Nothing.” Tyson avoided the question while staring into the distance.

“There’s got to be something if you’re acting like this—so what the hell?”

“It’s fine, Kai. Let’s just forget about it—”

“No.”

Kai was stern, making sure to stay true to his emotional truth.

“Excuse me?” Tyson layed down the can with a loud thud.

Kai threw the water bottle beside him, still holding on to it, his whole body stood still in a white anger.

“You’ve been picking on everything I’ve been doing lately, pointing out every change, in my personality or appearance. You’ve been hypersensitive to me changing, now you have to tell me why!”

Kai’s intense words made Tyson raise his voice louder.

“Because! It’s so annoying! I was so confident in my sexuality but now—if you’re not a boy then I guess that doesn’t make me fully gay like I thought and now I have more soul searching to do! And that pisses me off!”

They challenged each other for a moment, until… Tyson noticed what he said, he could feel his face going red, and he drank out of the can while turning away trying to hide his expression.

Kai wasn’t sure if he heard him right, but what else could he have meant?

“Tyson…”

“Shut up.”

Kai let go of the bottle, it fell and rolled away from them, ignoring it he pulled himself closer to Tyson.

Tyson leaned away, his body felt like it was on fire out of embarrassment, he just wanted to turn and run.

“You don’t have to put yourself in a box. Just live. Figure it out as you go. That’s what I’m doing.”

Kai’s voice was—as always, honey to Tyson’s ears. Tyson shivered, unsure what to do or say.

“It’s alright, Tyson.” Kai wore no expression, but Tyson knew everything he wanted to express.

Tyson stared down at his blue and red nails, smiling at the colour choice.

“I’m proud of you for telling us about your gender Kai… and I’ll support you anyway I can.”

“Thanks, Tyson. That means everything to me.”

#This was fun! #ressyfaerie #fic #ask

[cecilspeaks]

175 - The October Monologues

[static] [slightly distorted] The trees are dying again. You know it, I know it. The trees know it. They have known it for decades, centuries in some cases. The shiver of cyclic, symbolic death. A rattle in the cold night air. A rustle in the footsteps of a hungry deer. It is October and something is different. It is October and the trees draw the crackling red and orange curtain in the year’s final act. It is October, and so listeners, dear listeners, Night Vale community radio is proud to introduce The October Monologues.  

Faceless Old Woman: I am lonely. Oh, I see people. I see lots of people every day. I see you right now. I see you, Caleb, sitting in your rolling desk chair, hunched over your computer. I am a faceless old woman who secretly lives in your home, watching you download yet another video game, Caleb.

But seeing people and being with people are different things. Different ideas altogether. I miss touch most of all. A father’s hand, a friend’s arms. A lover’s chest. I still touch, am touched, but it is not the same. It is not a mutual touch. My touch is unwelcome, unfriendly, unwanted. Yet I touch because I love.

And I love you, Caleb. I do. I know you don’t believe me after what I did to you tonight, but I do. My love is not romantic nor maternal. It’s not platonic, either. I love you the way a deer loves a cornfield. It is safe, it is nourishing. It is in its DNA to want to be there, to hide, to eat, to play. You’re very much like a cornstalk, Caleb. You are loved and you are benign. Better than benign, you are a contribution to this world. The cornstalk is unaware that a deer loves it so much that it will bend it and stomp it until its edible morsels spill out from its crumpled empty husk. The cornstalks, there are so many cornstalks, do not understand that they are so loved by the deer as to be devoured.

You’ve seen a kitten before, Caleb, I know you have. Sometimes kittens are so cute. So so so so cute that you wanna put them in your mouth. Do you understand that kind of love, Caleb, that kind of touch? You do not, no one does. And this is why I’m lonely. But I think you know that. You’re different. You’re lonely too. That’s not what makes you different, we’re all lonely in our own way.

You’re different, Caleb, because you know I am here. You see me even when I do not want to be seen. No one has been able to do that in at least 200 years. Sometimes you speak to me. Not in terror, not in rage; I’ve heard many of these voices in my life from those who feared and detested my presence. No, you ask me my name. I won’t tell you, not yet. You tell me about your day, I’m sorry your new boss is so mean, I will rectify this. And last night, you prepared a dinner for me. You’re not a good cook, I can smell that much, but it was your gesture of generosity that touched me. You made cashio e pepe, a recipe you learned from TikTok, and you prepared a bowl just for me. You waited to see if I would appear, and when I did not, you told me you understood wanting to eat alone, so you left it for me on the dining room table, as you went to play the new flight simulator.

Few men have ever been this kind to me before being frightened into it first, or without using their kindness as a disguise. I think you genuinely understand your own quiet desperation among the mass of men. And in turn, you understand others too. I don’t trust the kindness of men, Caleb. I don’t trust the kindness of women, either. Or anyone else’s kindness, to be truthful, but I especially don’t trust men’s kindness. There are exceptions. Andre, whose kindness was loyalty and honesty, and Albert, although his was a much different kind of kindness.

But Caleb, 23-year-old, unshaven, video game loving, boss hating aimless Caleb, your kindness frightens me. I’m scared of what you want, what it is you plan to take from me. Kind men have stolen my childhood, my morals, my money, my love, my life, and my family. What will you take from me, Caleb, that I have not already lost? I’m afraid. I’m afraid to respond to your gentle bait of friendship, because I am afraid you will take my loneliness from me. I am lonely, and that is a choice I have made for myself.

One day, Caleb, you will die. I know exactly when. It will not be of my hand, although I will do nothing to stop it. It is my fate, my path, to know such things. And in your death, you will return my loneliness to me, and it will be a horror to behold, bloody and misshapen. My loneliness, not recognizing its former owner, will howl an unholy and unceasing cry, and I will not be able to bear it.

This is what I fear, Caleb, and this is why I took the bowl of cashio e pepe you left for me and hurled it against the wall, just missing your cheek. I’m not sad that you screamed at me, I’m happy that you did so. This is how it has to be. We are not enemies, Caleb, no no. I love you deeply. Deeper than you can know. I am your deer Caleb, and you are my corn.

Cecil: The fiery flash of fall leaves stuns us, captivates us. Fireworks in slow motion. Or the crackling embers of a finishing flame. Upon the leaves are written instructions for how to make oxygen, how to give life, with every exhalation. How  to find flair in fading grace, and how to raise new life by falling to your death. The leaves know they will return again, so much will return again. We return now to the October Monologues.

Michelle Nguyen: There’s this new song I like, but I don’t wanna tell you what it is. I find it kind of embarrassing. Usually I love to talk about my favorite music. There was that summer I was obsessed with the new single by Saint Vincent. The single came in the form of a glazed vase containing three blue flowers. Only one was ever made, and I got the only copy. I found it very catchy, but the flowers eventually died. Or the year I spent listening over and over to that new Janelle Monae album. I forget the name, but the cover was a black and white picture of a well, and if you didn’t share it with someone else in 7 days, you would die. Of course no one ever died, because the album was so good, people just couldn’t stop telling their friends to listen.

My favorite song of all time is a blank cassette tape still in its plastic wrapper. It was owned by a man named Gary Joy. He was a real estate lawyer, reasonably successful, but he always dreamed of being a singer/songwriter. He dreamed all the time of quitting his job and writing songs, but he had never even written one song. Then one day, in a fit of optimism and energy, he bought this cassette, intending to make his first memo. But the day got away from him, and then the week, and then the rest of his life, and he never quit being a lawyer, and he never even wrote one song. This blank cassette tape, still in its wrapper, contains the potential of all the songs he could have written but never did, which is better and more powerful than any song anyone’s actually managed to write. The potential of the thing is always more perfect than the reality of the thing. However, and this is the crucial drawback, the potential is absolutely useless and the reality, however imperfect, can be quite useful. Anyway, I like to hold Gary Joy’s unwritten demo and imagine what it would be like. Hold on, sorry. There’s a customer.

[bell dings] Welcome to Dark Owl Records. What? No, no. No. No! No. OK, bye! [bell dings] Sorry about that. Some people are so unreasonable. I don’t even know what a Taylor Swift is.

But there’s a new song I like, and it’s not cool like my other favorite songs. It’s not a song that fits the kind of image I like to project. When I put on my mirrored leggings, my extra long jorts, and my really big hat, people expect something from me. They expect me to be on the cutting edge. They expect me only to be into bands that aren’t popular yet, or will never be popular, or that frankly don’t know how to play their instruments very well. And the song I like now is not any of those things. It’s… ordinary. It’s… popular. I don’t wanna say what it is. Remember when I only listened to the sound of beez buzzing? That was a good summer. Of course I got stung once or twice or 30 times. [sighs] Hold on, sorry, there’s a customer.

[bell dings] Welcome to Dark Owl Records! Hey. Hey! Hey! Hey! HEEEEY! Thanks, nice to see you again. [bell dings] Sorry about that.

I’m tired of being cool. I was going to say trying to be cool, but trying implies the possibility of failure, and there has never been a moment when I’ve failed to be cool. But here’s the hard truth I’ve come up against: being cool is a young person’s game. And that’s not because young people are better or more interesting than older people. God no. God no. God no! It’s that coolness itself is a concept tied to youth. Coolness is a reactionary manifestation of insecurity. The more insecure you are, the cooler you need to be. It’s colorful plumage. But as I’ve gotten older, I no londer need flashy plumage. I just wanna sit in the comfort of who I am, and not worry about what that looks like from the outside.

Anyway, I can’t stop listening to “Karma Police” by Radiohead. It’s just… a good song, you know? Hold on, sorry, there’s a customer.

[bell dings] You! You’ll never catch me alive! [sound of running] [bell dings]

Cecil: An abundance of words, words falling, fluttering to the earth. Words crunching beneath our feet. They were beautiful once, the words. Now they are beginning to rot, to wilt, to compost, to ferment new growth. To fertilize new words growing upon great trunks of paragraphs and chapters, but not now. Those will come later. Now the words sputter and drop in spiraling arcs to the ground. Here, then, are the final few brightly painted words falling upon you now. The October Monologues.

Steve Carlsberg: What does it mean to be believed? I’ve always known that Night Vale isn’t like other places. As long as I can remember, I could see that. I could also see that no one else could see it. I was alone in my knowledge. Knowledge may be power, but power is often lonely. My grandfather knew. He could see that I was like him. “Steve,” he would say, “us Carlsbergs have always been the town pariahs, but just because they hate you, doesn’t mean they’re right.” I would sit at night as a kid and listen to Cecil on the radio. He was the same age as he is now, and at the time he seemed so wise. But I would hear him dismiss what I knew shouldn’t be dismissed. I would hear him cover up what should be uncovered, and I would know with a child’s certainty that it was wrong. I loved him still. Everyone in town loves Cecil. It is possible to love someone who you know is doing wrong. It’s terribly easy, in fact.

What does it mean to be believed? As a teenager, I started trying to express what I saw about the world. I gave a presentation in my social studies class called “Night Vale – there’s literally nowhere like it”, and I thought it was informative. The class all plugged their ears in unison. The teacher stopped me a minute in, glancing nervously at the 8 surveillance cameras monitoring the classroom. “Are you trying to get us all killed?” the teacher hissed at me. I remember that her breath smelled like Strawberry Jolly Ranchers, and there was a lose crumb of mascara in the sweat of her temples. “No,” I said. I didn’t know what to say. It’s not the kind of question that demands a sincere answer. The report earned me a trip to the principal’s office, and then the re-education pit, which honestly is not as bad as its name. I mean, almost not as bad. It’s pretty bad. It’s a pit, for re-education. So, certainly learned something from that re-education. I learned that you’re equally likely to be punished for being right as you are for being wrong.

What does it mean to be believed? I was a young man entering the workforce, and I had long ago learned to hide away what I knew about my city. I had learned the handshake and the smile, the nod and the necktie, all the signifiers that hid what I truly signified. All of life is a code, and I had been thought the key against my will.

I got a job as a bank teller at the Last Bank of Night Vale. I studied with great interest the townsfolk who came and went there. I learned about their lives and their secrets, and what kind of money they made for the whispered deals out back of quiet parking lots just before the sun went down, pulled up next to a black Sedan that contained their handler who they only knew by a false first name. but I couldn’t forget what I knew, even if I learned to playact that I had. What I know shapes who I am. I can’t close my eyes, not to this town I love. This weird and secret town I love.

What does it mean to be believed? Then I married into the family of Cecil Palmer, host of Night Vale community radio! And he hated me, because he could see that I knew. And after all these years, my mask had slipped a little. I’d lost my interest in hiding. I wanted to speak the truth as I knew it, nothing could be more threatening to Cecil. His life and livelihood depended on speaking the truth as the City Council wanted it. Or as the Vague yet Menacing government agencies crafted it. And here I was, pointing out to him the sky. There are glowing arrows in the sky, there are dotted lines and arrows and circles. The sky is a chart that explains the entire world! I tried to tell him, and this only made him hate me more. I tried to share who I was with him, and this only made him recoil. 

Abby listened to my stories, but she never shared my enthusiasm for the truth. “Let it lie,” she would say, “let it lie.” But that’s he point, I can’t let it lie and I can’t lie! We’ve done that for too long! We’ve let our town sit heavy under the weight of euphemism and half truth, and unless someone just said what they saw for once, we would be crushed eventually by that weight!

And then it all changed. I wasn’t alone. The others saw that we lived in a weird place. And you know what? We kept existing. Our world didn’t end merely because we dared acknowledge it. Cecil and I are friends now. I haven’t forgotten how he treated me, but I understand it and I forgive it. Forgiveness and understanding are not the same as forgotten.

What does it mean to be believed? It means everything. It means all.

Cecil: And as the leaves are done, so are the October Monologues. All that can be said has been said. And all that can be said will be said again.

Today’s proverb: Listen, it might seem like everything’s bad right now.

#welcome to night vale #welcome to night vale transcripts #episode 175 #the october monologues #sorry again for being so tardy #was swamped at work #but here it is

[lovehugsandcandy]

Jump (Colt x MC, RoD)

A/N: This was a request from @shondideaira-blog of Colt/MC getting pregnant young; thank you so much for the request but this is the reason that no one should ever ask me because 1) it will take 75 years and 2) it’s probably not what you want anyways. Thank you again for requesting this, I am so sorry it took so long, and I hope you enjoy it!

Length: ~5,400 words

Rating/Warnings: R (Swearing. Unplanned pregnancy.)

Summary: Colt’s path has taken some sharp turns but somehow, it takes him to the right place anyways.

Colt Kaneko is 42.

Colt is 42, and he feels every single one of those years bearing down on him when he slouches into his desk chair. Hours spent wrenching on an import have made his back tight, and even the sultriest of massages hasn’t loosened the knot that’s lived for weeks between his shoulder blades.

He rolls his shoulders, shaking out the crick in his neck, and squints at the numbers on the screen. Right as he focuses on the first row, his cell phone blares and he reaches over, grateful for the distraction, picking up before the second ring.

“Hello.” His voice is gruff, and he stands, pacing the 15 steps to the office door.

“Hey, Pop.”

“Well?” He paces the 15 steps back. “How’d it go?” Jackson sighs on the other end, and Colt’s heart lurches. “Well?”

“I…” The tone of his voice shifts, and Colt can hear the smile breaking over his son’s face. “I got the job!.”

“I knew you could do it.”

“I mean, I still need to finish my thesis so I really need to hunker down , but… I got it. Don’t tell Mom yet, ok? I wanna call her after she’s home from work.”

Colt smiles fondly; Jackson’s studious nature definitely wasn’t from him. Colt would have bailed on a thesis faster than he bailed out of university. He wasn’t the one who fought tooth and nail to graduate university; he wasn’t the one who would write out flashcards in one hand while rocking an infant in the other. “I won’t.” 

He looks at the darkened phone screen for long moments after his son hangs up. Every single one of his 42 years has been both eternal and fleeting; he can only shake his head with a chagrined smile as he turns back to the computer.

~~~~~~

Colt Kaneko is 6.

Colt is 6, but he’s not deaf and he’s not dumb, either. He knows his parents are fighting just behind the closed office door. His leg swing, clanging against the toolbox he’s perched on, and he drums anxious fingers against the metal beneath him.

He waits, watching the mechanics bustle around, watches the other people who work for his dad (they aren’t mechanics but he doesn’t know what they do but he knows enough to avoid them when they storm through the shop lugging briefcases and boxes). Every so often, he can hear raised voices, shouts from the office before the bitter tones become unintelligible. He doesn’t know what they’re fighting about, but it’s probably about him.

This weekend, he was supposed to stay with his dad but, as soon as his mom caught sight of the crowded shop floor and gleaming new sports car, she stormed right up to Pop and dragged him to the office by his wrist. His staff looked on in shock, like they couldn’t believe this tiny pipsqueak of a lady could force the great Teppei Kaneko to heel.

He wasn’t shocked at all.

People fear his dad. It’s obvious in the terror in their eyes, the way they rush to do his bidding and agree to his every suggestion. Even the mechanics who work the floor here, they stay out of Pop’s way, especially when he is angry. He’s seen his dad batter walls, slam wrenches into windshields, and, on one memorable occasion, punch someone in the jaw before he realized that Colt had crept downstairs. 

He still remembers the crunch of fist against bone.

It’s power, how his dad uses his brain and his brawn and his anger to force others to bend to his will, and Colt wants it, bad. He wants more than anything to be like his dad.

The door slams open, and his mother rushes from the office; her eyes are livid, wild, and Colt watches as she whirls on Pop again, stepping close to snarl up at him.

His mom is never scared of Pop, not even on his worst day, and, as he hops down off the toolbox and saunters to her side, he can’t hide the awe from his face. Her eyes narrow and she delivers one last barb, words so low Colt can’t hear them, but he catches the shock flitting across Pop’s face. It must have been something brutal.

“Colt, come on.” His mother gestures to him, and he frowns.

“But-”

“Colt, now.”

He bites his tongue, shooting one last wounded look at his father before following her past gleaming cars, out to the lobby. There, the receptionist sits, burly and oversized in a tiny desk chair, his one eye staring down where stubby fingers fiddle with metal, soft cloth rhythmically swiping over dark steel.

“Jesus, Rocco,” his mom growls. “Colt is right here.”

“Sorry, ma’am.” Rocco looks down at him, and Colt takes a step back. The man is hardened, imposing, tattooed biceps as big as Colt’s head and eyepatch covering a crater of puckered skin that haunts his nightmares. However, as fearsome as he is in darkness, now Rocco just nods, shuffling the metal into a giant lockbox; Colt can’t see what he was cleaning before he closes the lid, clang heavy and loud in the small room. “I’ll put it away.”

His mom nods and briskly walks out the front door; Colt follows, shooting a cautious glance behind her, and he needs to hustle up the street to catch up to her.

“What was that, Ma?”

“What do you mean?”

“What did Rocco have?”

She stops, turning away from the shop window to bring a soft hand to his forehead, running her fingers through his hair affectionately. “Nothing, baby. You don’t need to worry about him.”

He studies her, and her dark eyes glow warmly. He can’t help but smile. His mom’s not scared of Pop, and she’s not scared of Rocco either.

His mom’s not scared of anything.

Maybe Colt actually wants to be like her.

~~~~~

Colt Kaneko is 19.

Colt is 19 and his world is ending.

“What do you mean?”

“Colt, you heard me, come on.” Ellie bites her lip and stares at him, eyes imploring, and all he can think is that his life is over.

Technically, his life already is over. When his father immolated himself in front of his eyes, when the shop burned to the ground, when legacy and past and future all disappeared into raging flames that scorched his eyebrows and scorched his soul, it ended, in a blaze as hot as the anger that races through his veins.

But now he is cold, freezing, the shock chilling him to his core; when he exhales, he’s surprised that his breath comes out clear, not floating in grey tendrils through the air.

He always has a plan. Hell, he always has multiple plans, one to execute and then a few backups, and each of those plans has multiple escape routes. Fuck, half the time his backup plans have backup plans, timelines and contingencies mapped and traced in advance. He can leave nothing to chance. Nothing can be open to interruption. Every second, every step, hell, every breath happens precisely according to plan. 

But it’s hard to plan for something that, in your wildest dreams, you never, ever saw coming.

That Ellie Wheeler is standing in front of him is a shock. That she just said the three words he thinks she said is an absolute catastrophe.

“I can’t… I can’t have heard you correctly.”

“Colt! For crying out loud!” Her fingers pull through the curls surrounding her face and she looks uneasy, uncertain. Her eyes pool with tears and he would, he should close the distance and pull her into his arms, but his leaden feet won’t fucking move. “I’m… I’m pregnant.”

“How…”

She rolls her eyes. “You know how, I don’t think you need a recap.”

“But… mine?”

“Are. You. Kidding. Me?” Her eyes flash dangerously and he is reminded, for not the first time, that no one should underestimate her. Her brain and her fire attracted him to her most; to see them turn on him is disorienting in an already unsettled conversation.

“But… Logan?”

“Are you…” She trails off and it’s as if her fight dissipates into the night air, slim shoulders falling. “Colt….” She peers at him imploringly, shimmering eyes reflecting the moonlight. “I’m pregnant with your child.”

He continues to gape at her, mouth open, mind frozen, and when that continues for far too long, he shuts his jaw and stares at his feet. Somewhere in the distance, a car backfires, echoing like a shot against the concrete, and still he studies his boots, the scuff marks on his left toe, the shoelace on his right unraveling.

He doesn’t know what she wants him to say. He doesn’t know what he wants to say.

“What are you gonna…”

The fire in her eyes flares, positively scorching. “What am I gonna what…”

“Ellie, come on.” He rakes a hand through his hair; his stomach is dropping and the concrete floor underneath his feet spins. Colt makes plans; that’s what he does. It’s in his brain, his blood, but all of his quick thinking leaves him now (he imagines a toddler stumbling around the shop floor, he imagines a child being caught in the crosshairs of a rival, he imagines image after image after image and every single scenario flying through his head makes him sicker and sicker). “This… I… we can’t really…”

“We can’t really what,” she spits out.

He rocks back on his heels. “Ellie, I’m building up the crew. This isn’t exactly the time for-”

“Don’t you think this changes things?!?” Her voice cracks at the end, breaking pitch, and Colt winces. “Don’t you think this changes everything?”

He blinks at her, numbly; his plans have plans and he can see them all sliding away from him, slipping from his grasp while he stands there gaping. His plans of rebuilding the shop, brick by brick and board by board. His plans of rebuilding the crew, regaining the reputation and influence of his father and his father’s father and his father’s father’s father.

He can see all of them falling through his fingers like ash, grinding into the concrete at his feet.

She’s sniffling, tears welling and spilling over, streaks of moisture dripping down her cheeks, her jaw, skin he’s touched and caressed and kissed, now marred with sadness that he caused. “This messed up my plans too, but it’s like you don’t even think about that, it’s all about you and the crew-“

“All I fucking do is think about you!” He shouts and grimaces when her eyes widen; it seems far too close a reveal to scream raw into the night.

“If that were true, we would be together.”

“Ha. Like it’s that easy,” he scoffs. “Are you gonna stay here, build up the crew with me?”

“With a child?!?”

His eyes fall to her stomach; she looks exactly the same, but everything has changed. “With the future legacy of the Mercy Park Crew.”

“Ha. No.” She crosses her arms over her chest, chin raised. “I’m not staying, not letting that be our baby’s path, our baby’s life!”

“Then I guess you decided.”

“I guess so.” She gazes at him; her tears have dried and now something cold and hard fills her eyes instead. He shivers.

He watched her walk away before, returning to her sheltered life and her sheltered school and her sheltering father, but that hadn’t felt as final as this moment. Back then, he swore that she would realize her true path, and he was determined to build a legacy for her to return to.

But now, watching her walk away, it feels like the end-of him, of them, of every dream he had been working toward, of any legacy he wanted to leave, of every plan he wanted to run.

There was no fire here, but the wreckage was worse.

~~~~~

Colt Kaneko is 26.

Colt is 26 so, through his 26 years of life, he has developed a well-honed understanding of what he likes and what he dislikes.

And Colt hates camping.

He’s a city person, at home in a concrete jungle; the blare of frantic car horns and the savory aroma of food trucks are comforting, familiar. He’s in his element among traffic and skyscrapers and crowds of people bustling around; his blood flows like the transit system, racing with the practiced turns of Inglewood, flying down Western until the Pacific stretches in front of him, wide blue expanse of waves roaring and roiling.

He is not at home here. The woods are too still, a grim silence that is only occasionally punctuated by a forlorn bird call. The landscape is unchanging, trees and bushes immobile and dull, and both his brain and his limbs ache to go, to move, to act.

Ellie had insisted they do this. The first time she asked, he said no, along with the second and the third. But finally, she had worn him down, and the hope and excitement radiating from her almost made it worth it.

Almost.

Because here in the silence and the stillness, his thoughts are too loud and there is nothing-no car, no motorcycle, no job, no plan-nothing to distract him from the voices screaming in his head.

All he can do is sit with the thoughts and regrets, failed plans and shitty jobs running through his head, and he pouts, leaning against a fir tree and crossing his arms.

Across the field, Ellie and Jackson don’t even notice. They are huddled together on a chair intended for one, but his knobby knees and gangly arms bend and contort so he can curl onto his mother’s lap as she tries to get a burnt marshmallow off of a stick. Jackson giggles and Colt’s breath catches. The campfire in front of them wafts smoke into the night sky, embers dancing and floating until they disappear amidst the skyline, and the flickering flame lights Ellie’s face in a warm glow.

He can’t stop staring.

He’s not blind, he knew she was attractive the second he saw her, but she’s fucking gorgeous here, completely at ease, hair undone and tendrils curling around her beaming face, campfire reflected in her brown eyes.

Apparently fire doesn’t always destroy; it can illuminate, too.

When he inhales again, the smoke from the fire mingles with pine behind him. The branches over his head move softly in the breeze.

So he sits.

And watches.

And breathes.

And when Ellie motions to him, eyes sparkling and dancing in firelight, he smiles and wipes his hands on his jeans before he stands.

It’s warm by the flame, his son splaying out next to him while he gathers his wife in his arms. 

Soon, the fire burns down to ash, red glow still peeking through the soot next to him; Ellie dozes, nudging him with a cold nose, but he only watches the fire dim and dim until there is nothing.

~~~~~

Colt Kaneko is 19.

Colt is 19 but his fake says he’s 23, so it’s easy to slip into this dive bar and slide over to the bar for a shot of the strongest whiskey they have. He swallows it down, and it burns, caustic on his tongue and in his throat before angrily churning in his stomach.

“Another.”

The second shot goes down easier, as does the third and the fourth, and he’s debating another, head resting on an unsteady fist, elbow heavy on the grime that coats the bar top. The edges of the world are swaying and the bartender slides a bowl in front of him, free popcorn an obvious insinuation that he’s worried about Colt’s sobriety. He’s just about to ask for another drink out of spite when his phone dings. Again.

He pulls it out of his jacket pocket, two fingers unsteadily reaching in and easing it out as if it might bite him. The black case gleams in the dull bar lighting and his reflection shakes, his trembling fingers dropping it on the bar top as he stares at the blue notification light.

The liquor is starting to hit; he can feel the din of the bar recede, static in his mind growing louder, but it’s no comfort. That notification light is the reason he sped to the nearest dive, the reason he had to dull the ache with a succession of precisely poured shots in tiny glasses.

He doesn’t drink often; liquor numbs his mind, turns the world into blurry shades of grey, and he needs his mind: his focus is perpetually on the next job, the next hit, the next score. There is only time for action, movement, not feelings, and alcohol dulls his motions and brings emotions to the surface, intrusive and unbidden in the haze of this bar and his brain. 

Is he worried? Fearful? Longing, desperate amidst the solitude, and missing the one person he understands more than anything else in his life? 

Craving the one person who understood him?

He opens his phone and sighs. It’s only a text from a contact; the words sway in front of his eyes. Even though he squints, the text is unintelligible, and he needs to drop the phone on the bar, screen down.

Even though he can’t see it, he can still see the Instagram image every time he blinks, back of his eyelids taking the shape of Ellie’s smile, her arms clasped tightly over the shoulders of her college friends, stately building in the back, ivy crawling up over the bricks. And the tiny swell of her stomach, invisible to anyone else, everyone else. But he knew. He knew her body like the back of his own hands, knew every single inch, every single curve, concave and convex, head to toe, and everything in between.

She beams through the image, from his screen to his retinas, indelible and permanent; now that he has seen her, he has seen his child growing from thousands of miles away, he can’t think.

For once, Colt is unsure.

He had always made his plans and executed his plans, schemes piling up and winding down, cars delivered, reputation rebuilt, brick by brick, car by car. He could see his moves weeks in advance, opportunities unfurling in his mind like moves on an ever-shifting chessboard.

But now, all he could imagine was Ellie, alone at school, then juggling studies with an infant, then someone taking his place. 

All he could imagine was him, alone, consumed by job after job, hit after hit, eventually ending in a flaming blast.

And here, at this shitty bar, liquor clouding his mind, drumming his hands on the grainy bar top in front of him in a tense pattern that jostles the uneaten popcorn and the last drops of amber, that future was untenable, unacceptable.

All he wanted was a tiny hand nestled in his, a toddler with Ellie’s curls and his eyes digging into toolboxes and pretending to wrench on cars, a child with his drive and Ellie’s spirit upending his world in the most profound of ways.

All he wanted was her, in whatever way she would have him, wanted her under him and over him and by his side, always, their orbits paralleling each other through plans and schemes... and now a child.

And so he realizes, in this shitty bar with its shitty liquor and the world swaying around him, he knows. Regardless of his plans or his crew and his best scheming, without his input, his path had changed.

~~~~~

Colt Kaneko is 12.

Colt is 12, and this is the farthest east he’s ever been. The drive is never-ending; they left LA two days ago and it has been miserable every second. He hadn’t muttered a word as they inched through the city traffic and left the smog in the rearview; his throat still ached from the yelling, he wasn’t even sure he had a voice left, and apparently his words meant nothing, anyway.

He didn’t even get to see Pop before they left.

And then, they had just left, fled the city, rolling through mountains and motels and endless miles upon miles of concrete, on-ramps and off-ramps and potholes infinite as they drove further and further away from everything he cared about. 

The emptiness of the farmland mocks him; he crosses his arms over his chest and glares out the window, sullen and quiet, slouching as far into the door as his limbs will let him.

His mother sighs from the driver’s seat. “Do you want to play a game? ‘I Spy’?”

“No.”

Another sigh. “Do you want to pick the radio station?”

“No.”

“Come on, Colt,” she sighs and her fingers tighten on the steering wheel. He watches the divots deepen in the leather before he petulantly shifts in the seat until he can only see the endless rows of corn beside him, endless blue above. The car is small, stifling next to the expanse of the plains, and he is even smaller, insignificant, powerless, on this dismal drive.

“Can I pick where we stop tonight?”

“Sure!” His mother brightens momentarily, and a bitter flush of victory works its way from the knot in his chest.

“Back home.”

She sighs, her most aggrieved one yet, and his victory is short-lived. They drive in silence for a minute, maybe two, miles of corn fields passing in front of his eyes. The tears prick at his eyes and he blinks them away, focusing on the sway of gold out the window.

Finally, she reaches over, slowly, tentatively, as if calming a skittish animal, patting his forearm and gliding fingertips up to his shoulder before nestling in his hair, rubbing the short strands at the back of his head in a comforting pattern reminiscent of his childhood, when her hands were tender but Pop and the shop and Gramercy Park were anything but.

“I promise you, I promise… you will understand one day.” She sounds tired, exhausted, like the drive has aged her prematurely, like the miles they are speeding by have cost her years of her life. It’s only been 20 hours of driving but, for him, it feels like he is leaving his entire life behind, all 12 years, packed into the truck of this shitty Civic, rolling across the interstate. Her next words are forceful, sure. “You’ll know what it’s to leave everything behind for someone you love, I promise you.”

He wonders what his mom left behind and stares at the fields whizzing by.

~~~~~

Colt Kaneko is 19.

Colt is 19, so it’s been seven years since he made this drive, through Utah, Colorado. Nebraska seems like it will never end and, when he gets to the smaller states in the Midwest, he has no idea where he is, speeding past highway signs so fast that the text blurs in front of him and the only direction he can think is east, east, east.

He had called Ellie, three times in Nevada, four in Colorado, and on the chirp of her voicemail at his tenth call in Iowa, he threw his phone into the cheap motel room wallpaper, sliding against the wall until he plopped onto the floor, head in his hands next to the shattered glass and metal littering the taupe carpet. Once he finally makes it to New York, he’s exhausted, ass numb and knuckles cramping, but he still whips the bikes down the cross-streets and perpendicular angles until he slows to a growling stop in a back alley. He’s lucky he memorized the address, the high-rise dorm that served as his North Star over two thousand miles, and he glides past the loitering smokers armed with grim determination and a winning smile, through a propped emergency door and up four flights of stairs to a nondescript door, exactly the same as the seventeen he stormed by save for who was inside.

He takes a deep breath and knocks.

The rustling inside grows louder, but he’s still not prepared when the door is thrown open, all the words drafted on his interminable drive sailing from his mind when he sees her again.

Her greeting also dies on her lips when she opens the door, jaw dropping, and he uses the second of surprise to look her over. Her hair is thrown back in a sloppy ponytail secured with a felt-tip pen; while her features slide easily into a glare, he catches the exhaustion under her eyes, in the corner of her frown. She’s clad in pajamas, baggy t-shirt covering her torso, and his fingers itch to reach out to greet her and his child, but he’s lost that right; hell, he’s lost all rights.

“Ellie.”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“I wanted to talk to you.” She crosses her arms over her chest and makes no motion to slide away from the doorframe. “I wanted to apologize.”

“You? Apologize? I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say that in your life.”

He has to avert his eyes from the beam of her glare, laser-hot on him. “I apologize when I have something to apologize for.” Her gaze doesn’t soften and her stance doesn’t change. Fuck. “Ellie…” She raises her eyebrow. Fuck. “Ellie, I’m sorry.”

He waits.

She says nothing.

“Ellie…” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “I needed to… I needed to think. I was an idiot.”

“Was?”

“Seriously?!?” He glares, anger flaring. “Are you gonna be a jerk or are you gonna listen?”

“I’m the jerk here?!?” He waits as they stare each other down, both strong-willed and head-strong and he doesn’t know if he’s ever loved her more. “Talk,” she growls

He takes a deep breath and rocks back on his heels. “You surprised me and I needed… I needed some time to think. I… I’m building up the crew and this completely changed my plans. I was focused on avoiding the cops and rebuilding and then I got…”

“Scared?”

“What?” He looks up sharply. “I’m not scared.” She stares through him for so long he fidgets before finally glancing away, abashed. “I was taken by surprise… Surprises aren’t really good in my line of work. I was shocked… and worried… and…” He trails off. The knot in his chest defies words, a tight coil of fear and uncertainty and worry, thick and throbbing.

“Colt...” She crosses her arms over her chest. “It’s ok. I was scared too. But it was worse when you freaked out. I...” Her arms drop, eyes falling to the floor, and what’s left of Colt’s heart crashes. “I felt alone.”

“I know what that’s like,” he mutters, eyes flickering to her torso. “But you’re not. We’re not. Not anymore.”

“Well, I knew that. But you apparently just needed a little reminder.”

He cocks his head, and when the realization hits, his shoulders drop. “You posted that picture on purpose.”

“Of course I did. Colt, I know you. I know how you are with the people you care about. With me.”

“I hate everyone.”

“You love me,” she fires back and he can’t find the strength to deny it. “I know we never talked about it but… I’m scared about a lot right now but I’m not scared about doing this with you.” She blinks wide eyes up at him and takes a deep breath. “You’re a better man than your dad ever was.”

“Not yet.” He once knew his path, could see every single step clear as day. Every move. Every steal. Every job. “But I will be. I fucking swear, I will be.” Now, the path wavers, blurring in his mind.

“Then…” The smile breaking over her face speaks of hope and contentment and love, everything he wants for himself, for his child, everything he ever wanted.  “You’re ready for a baby?”

He crosses his arms. “Are we ready? I don’t know if anyone really is. But sometimes you can’t get ready. Sometimes you just need to jump in.”

And, apparently, Colt can change his plan; now that he has a plan, a direction, a goal, there’s only one thing left to do.

She sighs, fingertips curling tight around the doorframe, but a glimmer of hope shines in her eyes. “Does this… does this mean you’re doing this with me?”

~~~~~

Colt Kaneko is 8.

Colt is 8, so he is just learning about acceleration and metric units of distance and the undersea ecosystem below his feet; however, he knows that the drop is long and far and dark.

“I don’t…” He peers over the edge, leaning forward as far as he dares, and pulls back when he feels slightly unsteady, as if the magnetic sway of the ocean could draw him forward into the abyss. “I don’t want to.”

“You will.” The lighter clicks and illuminates his father’s face in flame as he draws it close, taking an inhale to light the cigar, and a plume of exhale floats caustic and smoky around his face. For an instant, with the shadowed moon overhead and the flickering light in front of him, his dad looks more demon than man, smoke rising around him and eyes glowing impatiently in the darkness.

Colt swallows hard. “I can’t-“

“You will.”

“But Pop…” He hazards another look over the edge; he can make out the pale spray of the waves battering the cliff but, deeper into the Pacific, it’s only darkness, inky black, ready to swallow him whole. “I can’t see what’s down there.” His voice comes out as a whine and his face flushes; he sounds like a baby, weak and pathetic. He feels weak and pathetic.

His father slowly puffs the cigar, bud flaring in the night. He is calm, measured, certain. “Often, you know not what is before you. All you know is that you must leap.”

“What does that mean?”

His dad thunders, “It means jump, Colt!”

Colt pauses for a second, fingernails curling hard into his palm as the harsh command echoes through him. The darkness below is scary, but his father is terrifying.

He takes a deep breath.

And he jumps.

~~~~~

Colt Kaneko is 19.

Colt is 19, and he’s standing in the doorway of a dorm in New York City and the girl he would speed and fight and kill for stands before him and he doesn’t know how their life became so messed up but he knows that there isn’t anything that would pull him from her side, from his child’s side, no path more important than the one laid out for him by a girl in pajama pants and a baggy tee.

And he jumps

~~~~~

Colt Kaneko is 42.

Colt is 42 and his wife is 41 and, when he collapses into bed next to her, he feels like he has both lived for centuries and was born this morning. He rolls over to slide under her arm, breathing sleepy breaths against the warmth of her skin.

She looks up from her book, eyebrow raised. “Why were you working so late?”

“Urgh, crap day.”

She sighs, closing the book so she can thread calming fingers through his hair. Gradually, the tension ebbs from his shoulders, his mind, and all he can feel is loved. “Jackson called me,” Ellie says, breaking the silence and stilling her hand.

“Did he?”

“He told me about his new job.”

Colt smiles, lips dragging against the soft curve of her breast. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. He’s so excited.”

“I know.” His mind gets heavy, and it becomes harder to pull his eyelids open again.

“Are you sad he doesn’t want the crew or the shop?”

He glances up. “Maybe a little.” He drags his arm around her stomach to trace hazy shapes against her side.. “But this day was always gonna come; he wasn’t interested in the crew, the shop.”

“Yeah,” she hums, free arm dropping her book on the nightstand. “He was always interested in following his own path.”

“Yeah… he was...” Colt blinks. While his own path meandered and changed, wandering in and out of misbehavior, it had always wound its way back to her open arms. He watches her, settling into the sheets, curling into his arms, and her eyelashes flutter, movement slowing and finally stopping as each tiny lash lay featherlight against her cheek. 

His son always had been intent on blazing his own trail.

And just like Colt, that path would lead him just where he needed to be.

.

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#playchoices fanfic #colt x mc #colt kaneko #ride or die: a bad boy romance #amy writes

[alpacaparkaseok]

Where you should be

7. Habromania

Genre: Hobi x oc

Warnings: this series contains stalking, blackmail, and similar stressful/fear inducing situations. Also unrequited love, which is perhaps the most terrifying of all.

Word Count: 3.2k

a/n: A song you might want to be familiar with for this chapter is ‘Puma’ by TXT. First off, because it’s a freaking bop. Secondly because Sunny has a bit to do with it and it sets some of the tone for the second part of this chapter. Thanks guys! And, as always, feedback/questions is always welcomed and encouraged!

Habromania (n.) delusions of happiness

“We can be sneaky, can’t we?”

I snort at Hobi’s question. “I can, not you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?!” He feigns offense, stealing his hand away from mine as he clutches his chest. It doesn’t take long before its back, though, running his fingers over my knuckles. The other hand remains on the steering wheel.

“You’re horrible at being sneaky. Imagine having to be sneaky around your boss.”

Hoseok sighs. “You’re probably right.”

“...but?”

He glances over at me before turning his attention back to the road. “But, I think I can do it. It’s important. Sure, it’ll be hard. But worth it, don’t you think?”

Giving his hand a tight squeeze, I smile out the window. “Yeah.”

As soon as we left the small restaurant, the both of us received a text from Bang PD instructing us to be extra careful and keep our distance from each other. The last thing we need are more photos.

Which left us with one question: what now?

“I feel kind of cool,” Hobi says, his heart-shaped smile making me grin. “Like we’re secret agents or something.”

I chuckle. His idea was to essentially have a secret relationship. I agreed to it, not seeing any other options, but only after Hoseok told me again and again that he had a plan and that this secrecy would be temporary.

“I give you less than two weeks.”

“Really?” The car begins to slow as we reach my apartment building. It’s barely 1 in the afternoon, but Hoseok did tell Bang PD that he was going to take me home. It’d look a little strange if we strolled back inside the Bighit building.

I give him a long look, delighting in the way his lips form a little pout. I force myself to look away before I can lean over and kiss him. Knowing him, he’d probably crash the car.

“Maybe three weeks.”

Hobi laughs as he turns into the parking lot. “How generous. And what? You think that you can do better?”

Winking at him as he parks the car, I slowly take my seatbelt off. “Oh, without a doubt.”

It’s quiet in the car as I contemplate getting out. Even though I know that I’ll see Hobi at work, I don’t know when I’ll get to be with him again like this. He seems to be thinking the same thing, killing the engine as he sits back with a sigh.

“What are you going to do with the rest of your day?” He keeps his eyes on the building, but I know what he’s thinking.

“Come inside.”

He blinks at me. “Wow, so forward!”

Groaning, I hit his shoulder. “You know that’s not how I meant it!” Hobi’s laugh only makes me more embarrassed as my cheeks heat up at the insinuation in my words. “Yah! Not funny!”

Taking both of my hands in his and placing a delicate kiss atop them, his laughter finally subsides. “I can dream, can’t I?”

I’m pretty sure my eyes are popping out of my head as I throw the door open, internally screaming and making a beeline for the entrance. Hobi gets out of the car as well, trailing after me and chuckling darkly.

By the time we make it up to my apartment, I feel like I may melt through the floor at any given moment from the way Hoseok’s eyes are practically undressing me. His fingers dance along my shoulders, getting lost in my hair as he peppers kisses along my jawline.

Fumbling with my key, I silently curse myself for feeling as giddy as a teenager with something so simple as Hoseok’s eyes. I don’t miss the way he smiles against my skin, making me huff in annoyance.

Since when did he become so bold?

I practically slam the door shut as we enter my apartment, Hoseok breaking away from me to look around the room in awe. I can’t help but laugh at his reaction.

“What, have you never been inside a girl’s apartment before?”

He rolls his eyes. “This is...this is your apartment.”

“So?”

He shrugs, wandering back over to me. “It’s nice. I like it.”

I frown, looking around the apartment. It’s a decent place to live; I’ve tried my best to make it look like a home. But in comparison to the immaculate place that Hobi calls home, I hardly see anything to marvel over.

“Why?”

Standing in front of me and looking over every square inch of my face, he gives me a smile so soft that I find myself sighing in contentment.

“It feels like you.”

♟

April 2020

Work falls into a familiar pattern. Granted, I have to avoid Hoseok like the plague, but Bang PD keeps everyone busy enough that it isn’t too difficult.

That, and the meetings we hold every day in Bang PD’s office, trying our best to sort out the entire situation.

“You’re telling me he wants either 1 billion won or a position here?” Bang Si-hyuk sputters out, looking absolutely appalled. “This...this is blackmail!”

Hobi chuckles beside me, Namjoon sitting on his other side and looking none too happy to be a part of this meeting. However, he is the leader of the group.

“Yes, well, I think he did actually state that this was blackmail,” Hobi remarks. “Are you really that surprised?”

Fixing him with a glare, Mr. Bang’s veins look like they’re about to burst. “You’re one of the people that got us into this mess, Hoseok. I’d save the snide comments for later, if I were you.”

These meetings have been going on for a couple of weeks now, and everybody's reaching the end of their patience. Any time we attempt to negotiate with Jihun, he spirals out of control and comes back with a higher demand.

It’s becoming rather tedious.

“Why can’t we just give him what he wants?” Namjoon asks gingerly. “At the end of the day, as long as he leaves us alone, it’s fine, isn’t it?”

Mr. Bang shakes his head. “No. There is no way I’m giving him that much money, and we all know that I would never let him be employed here. He’s a pimp. We don’t do business with his type.”

I stare down at my hands as I wince at his words. While I’m grateful that he isn’t considering giving him a job here, I can’t help but pity him. If what Jihun told me was true; I’m part of the reason his marriage failed.

“He has a daughter,” I mumble under my breath.

“What was that?”

I blink up at Mr. Bang. “He has a daughter.” When he just continues to stare at me with a confused expression, I do my best to articulate my thoughts. “He’s a human being. I mean, don’t get me wrong, he freaks me out. I don’t support any of this, but he’s desperate for something to help him and his family survive. We shouldn’t be making him into some sort of monster-”

“As the two of you made clear to me, this is my company that’s in trouble, so I will treat this threat as I would any other.” Bang PD sits back in his chair, squinting at his computer screen. “Or have you forgotten that your job is also at stake here?”

Clenching my jaw, I see Namjoon laying a hand on Hobi’s shoulder. “Then fix this.” Rising from my chair, the strict tone of Mr. Bang’s voice stops me.

“What?”

Turning to face him fully, I struggle to keep my voice level. “Fix this. Quit talking about it so much and do something. I have work to do.”

Striding out the door, I barely catch Bang PD’s incredulous words. “It’s a good thing she’s talented-”

Namjoon cuts him off. “So what’s our plan of action? Sunny’s right, this has to end.”

♟

I’m staring at the monitor in front of me, only half-listening to what Yeonjun is saying to me as my blood boils.

Or have you forgotten that your job is also at stake here?

I have to fold my arms in order to hide the fact that my hands are currently clenched into fists. Yeonjun and Soobin are talking to both Pdogg and I, going over a track that we’ve been preparing.

“I really like the feel of this all so far, but I feel like we need something a bit more...edgy?” Soobin frowns, looking down at his phone where he compiled his notes. “We really want to have a sharp album, you know?”

I nod, finally returning to reality. “Has anybody come up with any ideas? Lyrics, melody?”

Yeonjun shakes his head. “Actually, I was going to ask if either of you wanted to help us come up with something. I know that we’re dropping the album in May, but-”

“I can do it.”

Pdogg and Yeonjun raise their eyebrows. “That was quick.”

Pdogg shakes his head. “I think Yeonjun is talking about creating a track from scratch, Sunny. That means that after you finish the music, you’ll need to write the lyrics, too. Right?” He looks to Yeonjun for confirmation.

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “Honestly, if you want to do it, I won’t stand in your way. I’m just happy that you want to with such short notice.”

“You think you can crunch it? This is your first time through the entire process, it’s ok if you want to try the next time around and have more time.” Pdogg reassures, still looking confused at my sudden change in attitude.

I shake my head. “No, I can do it. I need to.” The thinly veiled threat on my job pushes me forward, desperate to show Bang PD that I’m not the kind of person that runs away under pressure.

“Alright,” Soobin says, looking at Yeonjun with a shrug. “I guess...do you need us for anything? When can we expect to come in and take a look at the song?”

Ignoring Pdogg’s stare, I glance at my calendar. “Soon. Give me the rest of the week?”

♟

My desk is a flurry of notes, post-its, and discarded ideas. After a brainstorming session, I consulted Pdogg in the next step of the song process. He helped me solidify my idea, offering a couple of tips and pointers.

He’s in the middle of saying goodbye when there’s a light knock on the door.

“I’ll grab it,” he says. I turn back to my monitor, trying to make sure I get everything put together before I forget it.

Muffled voices at the door don’t bother me as my fingers fly across the keyboard. Line after line appears, forming the first verse of the song.

“Hey.” Hobi grabs the chair that Pdogg just vacated. “What’cha working on?”

I glance at the clock, realizing with a start that it’s already 8 o’clock. “New song for TXT.”

“Hm.”

We sit in silence as I continue working, Hobi knowing better than anyone not to interrupt my creative process. He knows how hard it can be to get back into the zone.

It isn’t until nearly nearly thirty minutes later that he finally breaks the silence, but not by speaking. Bringing a gentle hand to rest atop my own that has stilled over the keyboard, he intertwines our hands together.

I lean back against my chair, sighing. Hobi chuckles lightly beside me, completely understanding the feeling.

“It looks like you got a lot done,” he mumbles, using his other hand to tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear.

“I think I did,” I whisper, still unable to tear my eyes away from the screen. I’ve been completely sucked in, my mind loud with the sound of the beat and the lyrics I’ve written down.

“Should I take you home?”

I shake my head. “No. I’ll take the bus.”

Silence. He raises my hand to his mouth, dusting light kisses over my knuckles. “We’re paying him off.”

Startled, I finally shift my gaze to Hobi. My breath falls short as I see his hair swept back, styled to make him look like some sort of CEO. He must have had a shoot today that I forgot about.

“Really?” I breathe out. He gives me a soft smile, pressing one more delicate kiss atop my knuckle before lowering my hand and enveloping it in both of his.

“Really. Bang PD will just have to swallow his pride.”

I chuckle lightly, shaking my head. “How’d you convince him?”

He shrugs. “I can be persuasive when I want to. We won’t have to worry about him anymore.”

While his words are intended to give me comfort, I find myself doubting them. Something tells me that this mess is far from over, but I smile at him nonetheless. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

Hobi gets up from his seat, embarrassed as he starts heading toward the door. “C’mon, I’ll take you home.”

I look back at my screen. “No, I think I’ll stay here for a little longer.”

“Oh, well then I’ll st-”

“Go home, Hobi,” I turn my chair around to face him. “Don’t worry about me, I just want to finish some of this up. I won’t be long.”

“Good. That way I won’t have to wait long.” Stubborn as ever, he sits back down. “Should I order some food?”

Giving him a long look, I fight the guilt gnawing at me for making him stay even longer. But I really just want to get as far as possible with this project…

“Let me split the cost?”

Laughing darkly as he holds his phone up to his ear, he winks. “In your dreams.”

♟

“I really, really like it, Rin-ah.”

Fidgeting with my hands, I chew on my lip. “Really? Is it too much? I don’t what to overwhelm-”

Cutting me off with an incredulous look, Hoseok shakes his head before pulling my chair away from the computer. “Yes. Positive. They’ll love it. I mean, it’s such a cool idea. You said it was based off a true story?”

I nod, reaching in vain for the desk, I groan as Hobi keeps pulling my chair away. He laughs at my expression.

“Do you have a title idea?”

I shrug, finally giving in and allowing myself to be pulled away. “I’ll probably just keep it simple. Like, ‘Puma’ or something.”

Hobi throws away all of our food containers, nodding to himself. Tossing me my coat and making sure everything is saved and shut off, he opens up the door. “They’ll think it’s amazing.”

Shutting off the lights, Hobi makes a show of double checking that the hallway is clear before grabbing my hand and making his way toward the elevator. It’s only when we’re in the confines of the elevator that he asks me a question.

“What made you want to do it? This usually isn’t your style.”

I let out a long breath, instantly remembering my outburst with Bang PD earlier in the day. “I want to be good at everything. I…” I lean back against the wall, looking up at the ceiling. “I know that sounds stupid, but after Bang PD said that about my job, I felt like I had to do something more. Prove myself to him.”

“Mm.”

“It was time for me to expand. Try something new. And I was already pissed off, so when the boys asked for a more edgy track, I felt like I could do it.”

“Well, you’ve done very well with it.”

I see that Hobi also has his head angled upward toward the ceiling. From this angle, I wonder how I can see him so often and still feel like it’s the first time I’m looking at him.

He looks golden in the dim elevator, the lights picking out the paler shades in his hair and setting them alight. With his hands clinging to the railing at his back and his eyes falling closed, I wonder for a moment if this is right.

“How did I get so lucky?”

I ask the question more to myself than to him, but he hears me nonetheless. Ears perking up and tilting his head to look at me almost with the same mannerism as that of a golden retriever, Hoseok shakes his head.

“I wouldn’t call this luck,” he murmurs. “We’ve fought for this, haven’t we?”

At his words, I feel the exhaustion of the past few weeks sinking in. Sneaking around and hiding our relationship from everyone hasn’t been easy. Trying to navigate a brand new relationship without being able to actually spend much time together is tricky, especially when we are still healing from the hurt we’ve caused each other over the past few months.

Closing my eyes against the reality of our situation, I tuck the image of golden Hoseok in the elevator into the corners of my mind. “Do you think that we’ll ever get to rest?”

It’s quiet for a long moment as Hobi ponders my question. We both know what I’m really asking: will we ever stop hiding?

“Someday.” His voice is solid as he answers me. “For now, I think the seconds between floors 8 and 1 are enough to keep me pushing forward.”

For now, standing side by side and quietly speaking on the elevator, basked in golden light and listening to the whir of the machine are all we need.

However, will there ever come a time when this is no longer thrilling? When Hoseok decides to just leave early rather than hanging around with me?

What if I’m not enough?

Indeed, peeking over at Hoseok who currently resembles some sort of fallen deity who’s basking in the golden light, I can’t help but wonder what it is that keeps him coming back.

Now that I’m finally giving in to his pursuit, will it be over?

The ding of the elevator reaching the ground floor does little to pull me out of my daze, and it isn’t until Hoseok is looking back at me from the other side of the doors that I push off the wall and follow him out into the night.

That night as he drops me off outside my apartment building and pulls me in for whispered ‘I love yous’ and stolen kisses, I can’t find it in myself to bring it up. How do I begin telling him that I’m not sure I’m worth the trouble when he’s sure to write it off as some sort of crazy idea?

As I go to open the door, he grabs my hand, looking at me with a concerned expression.

“You sure everything’s alright? You seem...off.”

I lean across the console, watching with delight as his eyes widen. Swooping around, I kiss his cheek before retreating, laughing a little at his deflated expression.

“I love you.”

He gives a contented sigh. “I love you, too.”

Walking into my apartment building, I hope that he doesn’t realize that I completely avoided his question. I kick my shoes off with a sigh as soon as I enter my apartment, turning around to flick on the lights and lock the door. Making my way toward my bedroom, I don’t see the dark figure resting on my couch until their dark chuckle reaches my ears.

“You were out late tonight.”

Whirling around and stumbling backward until my back hits the wall, I stare in horror as Jihun turns on the lamp beside the couch. He holds up a wine glass, giving me a saccharine smile.

“Come sit down.” Filling the glass to the brim with red wine, he extends it to me. “We’ve got a lot to celebrate.”

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[shebitfirst]

Imagine;

Summer in devil dom- The R.A.D’s students are out of school for 3 weeks.

It’s the first day of the season; throwing on your favourite white satin dress and sandals for a stroll in the gardens.

It’s still the AM the sun and its beams graze your skin for the first time in months. You remove your sandals to feel the grass in between your toes. 

Unknowingly; a pair of eyes quietly observe you. Fem!MC & The 7 Demon Brothers - Subtle Implied Smut, Fluff/Flirting ---------------------------------------

Couldn’t sleep and still in the midst of working on chapter 1 for Our undoing; Wrote this in my insomniac state, inspired by the glaring hot sun and trees outside my bedroom window. I attempted to experiment with various types of reactions that MC could give off not sticking to just being shy and reserved but also playful and occasionally bold- I apologise if this is not 100% accurate to the gameplay of Obey me! As I’m barely halfway into the game and I’m trying not to spoil myself for the storyline! So all this is just based off what I’ve made up in my head, fully. (Psa, if someone could direct me on a blog or forum on how to edit your tumblr blog- that would be helpful! I’m so lost!) All my love,

Angel. ------------------------------

Lucifer

“Yes, have a good summer to you as well, Diavolo. I’ll be heading back to the council room to pick up the remaining pieces of documents for the ter-term.”

His heart swells, spotting you in the gardens from 2nd floor; hair down to your waist, satin fabric hugging your figure as you soak in the heat, hands carrying your sandals as you stroll through the gardens. Lucifer’s presence often made you nervous- rarely revealing a carefree side of you. You’ve always struck the Avatar of Pride’s curiosity but through the semester he has never witnessed you this way. 

“Hello? Lucifer? Are you there?” Diavolo says at the end of the line. “Diavolo.” His voice cuts through the line. “My apologies but I have a.. matter to tend to. I will drop you a message.” 

He hangs up the line to take in the sight of you running your hands against the flowers, laying under the sun while your thighs cushion the grass. “Hmm..” Lucifer whispers as he pauses to admire you once more. You spot a rose in full bloom; you bend over to reveal your white panties. He quirks an eyebrow and chuckles. “I’ll head to the council room in the evening.”  Lucifer makes a mental note. He adjusts the uncomfortable tightness in his pants before joining you. As he reaches the bottom of the stairs- turning into the garden. He notices you’re still picking at the roses. Making sure both of you were alone. “Stopping to smell the roses... As they say?” Lucifer’s stern voice startles you, immediately turning to hold down your short dress. “L-lucifer!” Smiling, he walks over and snakes an arm around your waist- slender fingers softly dipping into your hips, travelling down to your thighs. “I..” You whisper. Heart, pounding rapidly in your chest. His eyes starring intently at you- so close that you could feel his breath against your lips. “Would you allow me to indulge in you this morning, my dear?” All you could manage was a nod. “Good girl.” ------------------------------

Mammon

“Ahhhhhhhhh! It’s so warm! I just want some A/C up in here! Gah. I can’t keep complainin’ Where is Lucifer? I gotta get some cold air in my room or I wouldn’t be able to sleep the whole summer long!” 

He whips out his D.D.D and drafts a long message to his eldest brother as he approaches the garden, the sun rays cover his face.

He holds a hand up to block out the sun; spotting you.

Stopping dead in his tracks- he sees you laid out against the grass, thighs exposed, chest slowly rising and falling with your every breath.

“Y-ya... Human.. isn’t she gonna get sunburnt..”

He wants to go wake you from your nap- but stopping himself the second time to admire you for another moment. Tossing and turning, you lay on your side. Your short dress rides up along your hips outlining the shape of your ass. The Avatar Of Greed traces over your figure with wanting gazes. He hears indistinct chatter from the hallway and steps quickly towards you. “Tsk, it’s the first day of summer and ya’ already causing me problems! Who told you to just lay here this way!!” “M-mammon! I was taking a nap!” You protest while he drags you by the arm back to the House of Lamentation. “Why are you taking me back! I want to stay outside!” You struggle against his hold. “I’m gonna put some short- No! Some pants on ya! There are other demons around here ya know!! Not just me and the others!” “I just wanted to take a nap!” You scream at the white-haired demon. “Then nap in my room!” Mammon raises his voice, pushes you inside and locks the door. ------------------------------

Satan Dedicated to spending the summer studying new medicine and hexes. Needing a few flowers from the garden just outside the House. He makes his way. Upon arrival, noticing the roses and lilies were short this time. “Huh.. they were full bloom yesterday when I was here.” On closer look, he spots that they were ripped off. “This early... In the morning. On the first day of summer?” Puzzled, he follows the trail of flowers. “Oh?” Satan spots you; elbows propped up with books spread across the grass- Flowers in your hands as you weaved them together- creating what looks to be a flower crown. He goes around the garden- wanting to know what are in those books. So engrossed in weaving flowers- you failed to notice the blonde demon a few feet behind you. You shift on your knees- frustrated. Shaking his head and wanting to assist you, he takes in your figure. Rarely seeing you out of your student uniform, his eyes swallowing your slow movements and how your hips sway. Breaking his thought process He clears his throat- causing you to shift your gaze, “Oh, Satan!” You purr- making him blush. Asking for if he wasn’t busy to help you. Sitting down beside you and explaining how each flower and its colour are used in potions for various purposes. Noticing how plump your thighs were as you kneeled before him. And how the satin material hugged your chest tightly- He mentally reminds himself of his summer research. And.. maybe one more.

------------------------------ Leviathan After being repeatedly told off by Lucifer to try spending the summer other than glueing his eyeballs to multiple computer screens. The simplest activity that wouldn’t require much energy was to take a walk outside of the House of Lamentation. Mindlessly he walks into the garden- Leviathan sulks around the garden, swatting the flowers and picking at weeds. He subconsciously kicks them aside almost walking over them before he hears a giggle emerging from the bench deeper within the garden. Irritated, knowing that he was not alone to get at least get peace of mind by himself. You stretch yourself out on the grass and softly moan as the sun heats up your cheeks. Ignoring the subtle noises of leaves crunching until a shadow looms over you. “Levi?” He scoffs. “What’re you doing here, normie?” You prop yourself up as he slumps down beside you. “It’s the first day of summer, Levi!” You radiate of light and the Avatar of Envy stares deadpan through you. “The sun is out and the flowers are in full bloom! Have you ever seen the sun so up close!” You notice his cheeks flush. “Oh? I guess your pale skin isn’t used to the heat out here in summer compared to us, humans.” You giggle at his red complexion, leaning into him. “What! N-no! Stop laughing at me ya Normie!” Moving away from you, trying to hide his face reassuming brooding. Hmm... Has he been up all night again? You thought. You pluck a daisy and tuck it between his purple hair gently. Let’s hope this wakes him. Snapping a picture on your D.D.D. “Wha..what? Did ya just take a picture of me! Hey!!” Attempting to grab your phone- you stand up, bending over slightly to lower your phone. “But you look so cute!” Before he manages to spit back, he notices how tight your dress hugs your chest and how you’re not wearing anything underneath too. Gleefully, you turn your back to send the image in the House of Lamentation chat. His D.D.D rings in his pocket- snapping him out of his thoughts. As he was about to scold you for your little prank, he looks up to find that your short dress barely covers your ass- let alone your panties. “H..hey.. Uh..” Before he makes out a sentence you cut him off. “Nah uh. I’m not gonna delete this! No matter what you say- or do! Even if it’s to tell Lucifer.” You stuck your tongue out, teasing him.

Later at night- you receive a text message from Leviathan. “I’m coming to your room! How could you post that picture of me on devilgram!” Oops. ------------------------------ Belphegor 

Sleepy eyes hit the sun for the first time in months; Reluctant to leave his room but to avoid the commotion his brothers were causing in the dining hall- He retreats along with a pillow in hand in the search for a comfortable spot away from the noise. Spotting that the gardens were empty- flowers swaying with the wind, plush grass. “That’ll do.” Contently, he places his pillow under a spot beneath the shade. About to lay down- he notices a silhouette from a smaller tree across the garden. Quietly stepping over, Belphegor sees you asleep. Curled up tightly as the tree’s shade blankets you from the morning sun. Your cheeks tinted pink from the summer heat- hair fell across your face. As sleepy as he is, the demon returns for his pillow and kneels down before you; lightly tapping your forehead. “Hey..” He whispers as you open your eyes. Smiling, he’s used to your energetic and excitable nature- but appreciates how your lips are slightly parted and droopy eyes in a daze staring back at him. Belphegor slides the pillow underneath your head as you lay back down, you reach out to hold his cheeks. “Sleep with me.” He quirks a brow. How bold of you he thought, but he was not to resist seeing you in this state and accepts your request, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as you nuzzle into his chest. Both of you enjoy the moment of silence- taking in the summer heat against each other. “What were you doing here, MC?” He breaks the silence as you stretch your legs. “I like the sun, the heat. I don’t often get it when we’re in R.A.D.” He glances down at you, noticing your heated cheeks and how well this white dress wraps around your hips. “Is that so?” He says after a pause. Warm hands make it’s way down and cup your thighs- closing any gap between you two. “Belph-” You barely make out his name. A hot tight feeling began to coil in your stomach- heartbeat picking up. “Sleep with me…” Your own words against you. ------------------------------ Asmodeus 

The heat spilling into his bedroom- covering the floor in gold light- Summer is finally here, isn’t it? Asmodeus thought to himself. He looks to the flowers placed neatly in a vase on his bedside table. Frowning as he notices them wilt away. Remembering how beautiful the roses will be in full bloom- He prepares to head to the gardens. The sun is at it’s highest by the time he arrives. Placing an empty basket down, he gets to work on carefully selecting his spoils for the day. Entering deeper into the garden, he notices a patch of roses were cut off. Questioning who other than him would need at least a dozen roses to themselves! Or maybe was it for their lover? “Asmodeus?” Your voice rings like melody, he turns to see you in your short... short white dress- bare feet digging into the grass as you carry the missing roses in your hand. “What are you doing here? Picking flowers?” Walking over to join him, you kneel beside him and offering one rose. Asmodeus- as this rarely happens, was rendered almost speechless by you. The Avatar Of Lust has always deemed himself the jewel of the world but he questions this statement, especially seeing you in this scene; Fresh green grass, flowers full bloom surrounding you- and here you are, kneeling before him. “Ah! Yes, my love. Yes, I am. What do you need them for? Oh, no! Please don’t tell me you want to give them to someone else! There is no one other than I who deserves a bouquet from you!” You giggle at his worried expression as he pulls you into an embrace. He notices how warm you are, noting how long you’ve been in the garden, 

under the sun by yourself. “I would’ve come sooner.”  He whispers into your hair. He throws his head back feeling your breathing against his shoulder- Temporary bliss? No. He fights his thoughts. “Silly, I was just getting these for my room. I love roses, they’re my favourite.” You slightly pull back taking in the sight of his light hair and yellow eyes, not realizing how flustered you got. “Oh! My love, are you as captivated as I am? And I’m not talking about myself for once, today.” Your cheeks deepen in colour at his response. “W..what! No!” Taking the roses from your hands and into his basket, he turns back to you leaning in close. “You know my love, we have all summer to pick flowers and what not... But.. just spend one night with me, hmm?” He exclaims whilst wrapping a hand to the back of your neck, steading you. “Asmo... I..” Hearing your voice hitch in your throat, his yellow eyes deepen as his hand travels down toward your chest. “Is that a yes.. my love? tell me.” Hands grip your waist tightly- almost worried you’ll disappear if he blinks. “Yes.. Please.” ------------------------------ Beelzebub

He spots your homemade chocolate pudding in the fridge with your name written on it. He shouldn’t be rude but he can’t help himself. Beelzebub remembers the retreat and how good the pudding was, causing his stomach to rumble, again. Asking for you and stopping by your room, he tries to step outside to look for you. You’re not answering your D.D.D As his stomach growls louder, he starts wandering off with the pudding at the back of his mind. “Oh no.” His brow furrowed, “I’m getting hungrier.” He spots a nearby bench in the gardens and takes a seat before attempting to call you again. Just as he dials your number, a vibration can be heard from under the bench. “Is this....” Yes, your D.D.D along with a pair of sandals. Picking it up and placing it in his jacket’s pocket. Worrying about you and how could leave your belongings behind. Grunting, he carries your sandals and peeks into multiple greenhouses for you. Famished when he started- he could chew off the bark of the trees at this point. Not wanting to leave the idea of you barefoot and without a point of contact. He returns to the main garden to wait and in turn, you come back for your belongings. He sees you approach the same time as him. Waving and smiling, he was right. Barefoot but holding roses in your hand. “You forgot your shoes and D.D.D.” Beelzebub warmly smiles and helps you slip on your sandals. Thanking him, you explain how you noticed the roses in full bloom and how you would brew him some rose tea for lunch. You were half his height- having to block out the sun with your palms to get a good look at him. “How’d you find me, Beel?” You ask as you lay ontop the grass, taking in the sun for a moment longer. Before getting to answer, he realises how short your dress was, hicked up to your hips. Often he only sees you in your student uniform- not taking the time to admire your womanly figure. He notices how long your hair has gotten since the first day you arrived. You notice Beelzebub in a daze. “Beel?” You move over in front of the bench he’s seated on and lay a hand on his thigh. Ugh. He thinks. Your messy hair and pink cheeks. How delicious. He notices a fresh cut on your finger, still bleeding. It still stings you tell him, from when you were picking the roses without proper scissors. “Go on, Beel. I know you’re hungry. Just have a taste.” You slide in between both of his legs and raise your finger to his mouth which he gladly accepts. Licking it clean, you hear his stomach grumble. “I suppose that’s it for the garden.” His eyes darkening as he gathers your belongings. “Yes.. we can go back for lunch. I know you’re starving.” Adjusting your sandals as you slip your hand into his. He kisses the inside of your wrist, taking a whiff of your scent. “Not for food anymore.”

#obey me #obey me x mc #obey me x reader #obey me imagines #obey me scenarios #obey me! shall we date? #obey me mammon #obey me lucifer #obey me leviathan #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphie #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus

[boonki]

something there, something more

a little continuation of a fever prompt, the first part here and the second part by @sonderwalker here! from this prompt list 

Cheers to our pining boys stuck together in the snow

______

The email he had been anxiously awaiting for dings his phone, and in the early morning light of his room, only a single lamp to illuminate the intimate space, he rolls over in bed to fumble it from the nightstand, blinking at the bright screen. 

To the University of Washington community, 

For the safety of our students and staff, classes have been cancelled for the day due to the snow conditions and road closures. Please wait for updates from your teachers on how best to proceed with assignments and exams. Updates on future cancellations will be issued nightly no later than 7 pm. Best, 

President Palpatine 

The same giddy relief that once met him as a college student still worms its way into his heart as a professor, an unexpected day off, no plans ahead of him, just hours and hours of free time. Except, he supposes, a quick email out to his students to continue their essays as normal and wait for the update on Friday’s class. He isn’t sad about losing the day’s lesson plan, it had mostly been a filler class. 

He hums lazily, a sleepy grin pulling his lips back. 

For the first time in weeks, he clicks the lock button and rolls over, stuffing his face into his pillow, and falls back asleep. 

___

Hours later, the sun already cresting in the sky, hidden behind layers and layers of clouds shedding snow, he pads around his kitchen, pulling ingredients out of his fridge and pantry: carrots, chicken, celery, chicken broth, some garlic, an onion, and some noodles. 

When he was younger, his mom had always whipped together chicken noodle soup on the colder days, and when she passed away when he was a teenager, he kept the tradition alive. In the silent, airy space of the kitchen, he feels closer to her cutting up the ingredients and carefully dropping them into the pot, can feel her gentle hand guiding him. The ache of her death has long since passed, but Obi-wan can’t help but wish she were here with him, oiling the stove for the chicken and passing him the garlic to press. 

Somehow, in the many, many years since her death, the habit of cooking for two hasn’t left him; every time he makes this recipe, he ends up with days worth of leftovers. 

The wood floor is cold beneath his bare feet; he didn’t think to put warm clothing on before coming downstairs, head still foggy from sleeping past noon. He knows his hair is sticking out in every direction, and that he could probably use a quick beard trim, but there isn’t anyone to judge him here. No pets, no roommates, just him and his big empty house. 

The smell of the soup bubbles up at him: rich and inviting. He takes a spoon and sips on the broth, using his teeth to grab a very hot carrot that mashes easily in his mouth, a good sign that he can turn the heat down to let it simmer while he gets ready for the day. Some small part of him knows his destination, but the majority of him is still in denial. He has so much soup to share, though. Why let it go to waste? Besides, it’ll be a quick drop off so he can come home and finish the blanket he’s knitting, maybe read a few chapters of his library books. There’s something about an expected day off that makes the mundane feel enthralling. 

He pads back upstairs, lost in thought as he goes through the motions of pulling a sturdy wool sweater over his head, brushing his teeth, combing his hair back, ignoring the shoddy state of his beard. Anakin had looked so horrible the other day, all pale skin and hollowed out eyes, his voice catching on itself, and god, his cough. Worry pangs Obi-wan’s heart, did Anakin have anyone to take care of him? Make sure he doesn’t die of a fever? He can’t go out in this weather to get take-out, and there’s no way he would be cooking with the state he’s in. 

In the back of his head, Obi-wan knows there are very large excuses he’s making for the car crash of the truth: he wants to go see Anakin. 

When he gets back downstairs, the soup is perfect. His mom would be proud. 

___

Snow cakes the road ahead of him, and what should have been a ten minute drive turns into a forty minute one. Obi-wan thinks he has at least six different knots in his back and neck from sitting so close to the steering wheel the entire time, peering intently through the fast-paced windshield wipers as if the effort of looking harder would have any effect on his ability to see in front of him. When he finally pulls up in front of Anakin’s apartment building and finds a neat little spot to back his car into, he lets out a deep breath and slumps into his seat. Maybe this was not as good of an idea as he had hoped it would be. 

He hadn’t even texted. Should he text Anakin? Is showing up at his door, soup in hand, too much? Too forward? Obi-wan is already anxious about pushing the bounds of their relationship too far; what if Anakin thought he was trying to groom him, thought he was a creepy old man with nothing better to do?

Obi-wan hits his head against the steering wheel. 

The weird thing is, he doesn’t mind how inappropriate their relationship had become. Obi-wan had liked coming to his building, liked texting him about casual plans. He just worries his enthusiasm is one-sided. 

It’s been so long since he’s had anything resembling a relationship, so he feels brand new to it again; it’s like riding a bike: the skill will never leave you, but if you take a ten year gap, you might need to wobble a bit before you glide. Obi-wan is wobbling. 

Because he does have a crush, doesn’t he? Isn’t that why he’s here, sitting in his cooling car with homemade soup, outside of some boy’s apartment building? Why else would he go to such measures- especially on his day off? God, he feels so juvenile. 

He hits his head on the steering wheel again. 

The cold is starting to seep through the seams of the car, so he takes a deep breath, grabs his soup, and steps out into the snow. It crunches underneath his boots, leaving a trail of footprints all the way to the door of the building, which swings open easily for Obi-wan. 

He fishes his phone out of his pocket. Anakin had texted which one he lived in, but it had felt too… like too much, last time he came. He hadn’t wanted to intrude on Anakin’s personal space.

#344. 

The elevator ride is both too short and too fast, his anxiety rising with each floor. What if Anakin didn’t like chicken noodle soup? He definitely should’ve texted. But the doors glide open and the wide expanse of the hall looms in front of him, stretching for what seems like forever in both directions. The floorplan seems to be circular; a little guide that reads “301-322 left, 323-344 right” with arrows points him in the right direction, so he sets off to the right, each step waking up a new butterfly in his stomach. 

When he reaches 344, he stares at the door for a moment, considering the fact that Anakin is on the other side of the thin wall, completely unaware of Obi-wan. Something yanks at him to turn back, but Obi-wan would feel even more pathetic if he went home with a full bowl of soup, and Anakin does probably need it, so. Here goes nothing. 

The bell ding-dongs from the interior, the sound muffled. Obi-wan hears nothing, and then slow footsteps and a lock being unlatched. 

Anakin is wearing his sweater. 

“Obi-w- Professor Kenobi, hey,” Anakin rasps out, eyes wide open, clearly startled, and sounding a bit better than he had a few days ago, but not by much. His bangs are held back by a little clip, shooting a tuft of hair straight into the air. “Sorry if I missed your text, I’ve been asleep-” 

“Ah,” Obi-wan shuffles in place, embarrassed. “I didn’t text, which I realize now that I should have, but-”

“No,” Anakin cuts in, “that’s okay.” 

They stand there in awkward silence before Anakin points at the bowl Obi-wan is clutching to his chest. 

“You brought soup?” 

Obi-wan looks down to the container like he’s never seen it before, cheeks burning like lava. “Yes! I, well, you see my mother and I always made soup when it snowed, and I always make extra, so I thought you’d, well,” he chances a peek at Anakin, whose features are slackened in a soft smile, “I thought you could use some given that you’re sick and it’s snowing.” 

“Have you eaten yet?” Anakin asks, ignoring his bumbling explanation. 

“No,” he thinks back, “I didn’t get the chance.”

Anakin drags his door open and steps back, gesturing for Obi-wan to come inside. “Let’s share, then.” 

Obi-wan balks at the open door, because he knows once he crosses that threshold there is no going back between them. He’d have officially been in Anakin’s apartment, sharing homemade soup with Anakin, taking care of him while he’s sick. The intimacy of seeing how someone lives, to see all the details of their existence on display, who they are when no one else is around… that sort of intimacy frightens Obi-wan. 

“I don’t want to be an imposition,” he starts, only to get cut off by a particularly nasty sneeze from Anakin. “Bless you.”

“You’re not, so come on.” Anakin reaches forward and tugs on his arm, and really, Obi-wan has no choice. 

While he had never actively imagined Anakin’s living space, he had always assumed it would be something akin to a sparse bachelor pad, dirty and meant for college students who couldn’t afford any better. But this is a pleasant surprise: a black rug and couch sits neatly against the wall of a tidy and cozy living room, branching off to a kitchen and a door Obi-wan assumes is Anakin’s bedroom. There are a few mirrors behind the couch, and a few (fake?) plants spotted around the room, even a candle on the coffee table. 

Anakin leads him into the kitchen and Obi-wan sees now this is where the mess lies; computer parts, nuts, bolts, tools, and loose wires scatter the counter, leaving little room for anything else save the sink and a hand towel. He stands there and waits for Anakin to clear a space for the bowl, muttering about how he didn’t know company would be over otherwise he would’ve picked up a little. 

Obi-wan doesn’t know if he even wants to ask what Anakin is making. 

The bowl is transferred into the microwave, cooking for a few minutes on low to properly reheat, and Obi-wan sets out to find some spoons so he’s not left in awkward, still silence. 

“Sorry there’s no table, I never really have anyone over and it takes up so much space, so,” Anakin is blushing, either embarrassed to have someone over or still running a fever. Maybe a bit of both. “Oh, here, in that drawer,” he motions to Obi-wan, crowding into his space to pull open the drawer. Obi-wan stiffens at their proximity; he can feel the heat pouring off of Anakin, and he grips the spoons like his life depends on it. 

They perch by the counter, listening to the hum of the microwave. 

“What are you doing during winter break?” Anakin asks him, breaking the quiet. 

Obi-wan breaths in, thinking of his answer. “I’m not sure, probably just relax. Maybe work on my library books, plan for winter quarter.” 

Anakin scoffs, and it turns into a full blown hacking spree. When he’s done, he winces. “Sorry, your plans are so sad my whole body freaked out.” 

He snorts. “My plans aren’t sad. What are you doing, then?” 

“Well, now that I’ve graduated, I suppose I should be looking for a job, so probably that.” Anakin stares up at the soup rotating in the microwave in contemplation. 

Something small and sad tugs at Obi-wan’s heart. He had forgotten that Anakin wouldn’t be around anymore. No more impromptu office visits. 

“But,” Anakin continues, “it would be nice to have help with my resume and interviewing.” He glances at Obi-wan out of the corner of his eyes. 

The microwave beeps: the soup is finished reheating. 

“Of course, I’d be happy to help.” Obi-wan says, warmth flooding his tone. He’s grateful that Anakin still wants him in his life, still wants his help. 

Anakin sniffles and splits the soup into two bowls, handing one to Obi-wan, who is still holding both their spoons. 

“You wanna watch something? We can sit on the couch.” Anakin says, and motions for Obi-wan to follow. Obi-wan tentatively settles into the couch, which is surprisingly cushy, as Anakin flips open Netflix and pulls up The Great British Baking Show. 

“Is this okay? It’s kind of addictive.” Anakin looks suddenly self-conscious about his choice in television, grabbing a set of glasses from his coffee table. They are way too big for him and nearly slide down his nose in seconds. Obi-wan might combust. 

“I didn’t know you wore glasses.” 

Anakin shifts. “Only to see long distances, I mostly just use them for watching things.” 

Obi-wan nods at that, and throws a hand up in the air towards the TV screen. “This is fine, I like cooking shows.” 

“They’re definitely my guilty pleasure, I’ve always wished I was better at cooking.” Anakin blows on the soup on his spoon, eyes glued to the TV.

The hosts introduce the challenge, and Obi-wan looks down at his soup, stirring it all absentmindedly. “I can teach you, if you want. My mom passed a lot onto me before she, well.” Obi-wan smiles at him. “I’d like to think I’m a pretty good cook.” 

Anakin pushes his glasses back on his face. “If the soup is anything to go by, I believe you.” 

He chuckles, shifting his attention back to the TV. Helping Anakin find a job, teaching him how to cook- they’re both just trying to find excuses to stay in each other’s lives. It’d be endearing if it weren’t so sad. 

The episode drags out, a winner is named and someone gets sent home, and Anakin and Obi-wan are long finished with their soup, the bowls having been discarded onto the coffee table a while ago. When the credits roll, neither of them get up, and the next episode autoplays. Obi-wan hopes he isn’t overstaying his visit, but Anakin seems comfortable and relaxed. Anakin offers him a blanket, and Obi-wan drapes it over his lower body, slouching further into the couch. 

Over the next few hour long episodes, they seem to inch closer, fully lounging now. Jokes are made, laughter is shared, and Obi-wan keeps handing him tissues, grateful that he isn’t wiping his snot on the sweater’s sleeve. 

He still can’t believe he’s sitting here on Anakin’s couch, watching a cooking show, while Anakin sits next to him wearing one of his sweaters. 

Maybe he is the one with a delirious fever? 

The fourth episode draws to a close, and Obi-wan spares a glance at one of the windows, where the afternoon had faded into evening. “I still don’t think she should have won, did you see the state of her frosting?” He stands up and stretches, sighing in relief when a few of his bones pop, laughing when Anakin’s do the same. “I should probably get going, though, it’s getting dark.” 

But when the pair make it to the window, they are greeted by glistening white, snow almost completely covering the cars parked outside. There’s no way he can drive home in this, and they both know it. The air seems to thicken between them. 

“Hey, you can crash on the couch and drive home once the snowplow has been through?” Anakin, though standing right next to him, seems miles away, his tone small and unsure. 

“Surely not, you’ve already let me stay long as it is. I’ll…” he trails off, thinking. 

“What, walk home?” Anakin supplies, shaking his head. “Absolutely not, you can stay. I don’t mind,” he places a hand on Obi-wan’s arm, “really.” 

“You��re right, I don’t have much of a choice.” Obi-wan laughs under his breath. Still, if he did have the choice, he’d want to stay. Not that he’d ever admit that to Anakin. 

Anakin takes the few steps back to the couch, grabbing a blanket and wrapping it around himself like a cape. “Well, should we finish the season then?” 

_____

It’s midnight by the time the pair are too tired to stay awake, drifting off into separate spaces. 

“Can I borrow something to sleep in?” Obi-wan asks Anakin, who is standing in the doorway to his room. From what Obi-wan can see, it looks a lot like the living room, all blacks and soft fabrics. 

Anakin’s eyes widen. “Uh, yes. Hold on.” He disappears into his room and comes back with a blue flannel pajama set. “Here, the bathroom is just across the kitchen.” 

Obi-wan takes the little pile of clothing from him with a soft thanks and retreats to the bathroom to change. The pants are entirely too long on him, and the shirt hangs on him, clearly meant for someone who has a little broader shoulders. But the set smells like Anakin, and Obi-wan wants to breathe it in forever. 

When he comes out, Anakin bites back a smile, holding his lower lip between his teeth. He doesn’t say anything though, and Obi-wan is both disappointed and relieved. 

“So there’s a bunch of blankets on the couch for you, let me know if you need anything else.” He says, backing into his room. 

Obi-wan clears his throat. “Of course. Goodnight, Anakin.” 

Anakin dips his head and closes his door. “Goodnight.”

In the dark of the living room, Obi-wan shakes the blankets out so they lay flat over the couch, and slips his legs under them to get comfortable, laying on back to stare at the ceiling. 

What a day. 

If someone had told him this was what his snow day would’ve looked like, he would’ve laughed in their face. Just under two weeks ago, they had been huddled together in his office, working on Anakin’s paper like normal. And now, he’s spending the night at Anakin’s apartment. And while Anakin technically isn’t a student anymore, and certainly not his student any more by a long shot, there’s still a sticky and uncomfortable unease sitting in his gut; he doesn’t know how old Anakin is, but Obi-wan is surely much older than him. Plus, he doesn’t know if there’s a power play at hand, what if Anakin just thinks he’s being a creepy old man and feels obligated to let him stay? 

But he thinks about the way Anakin’s flashed with happiness when Obi-wan laughed at one of his jokes during the show, the way they inched towards each other, Anakin’s face when Obi-wan came out of the bathroom in his pajamas. 

Needless to say, Obi-wan doesn’t get much sleep. Instead, he thinks about the fact that Anakin is also lying down, just a thin apartment wall in between them, and watches the large snowflakes drift down in silent waves outside. 

Obi-wan wonders if Anakin is sleeping in his sweater. He hopes he is. 

#obikin #fever prompt #boonki writes #someday theyll quit pining and actually get together #someday

[ve1vetyoongi]

Operation: Love Letters | 06

💌 CHAPTER INDEX 💌

♡ ⇢ pairing: ot7 x reader.

♡ ⇢ chapter word count: 4k

♡ ⇢ genre: mystery, college!au, romance, fluff, eventual smut.

♡ ⇢ warnings/rating: none, PG.

♡ ⇢ summary: When every student on campus is going crazy about a survey that claims to make true love bloom, your best friend manages to convince you to join in on the fun — except you’re disappointed to find out that your results just seem to be lost causes. That is until a love letter from a mysterious secret admirer turns up and you find yourself on a mission to find the person behind the pen — but you quickly realise it’s going to be a lot harder than you initially thought when you have 7 possible bachelors to investigate, right? Operation: Love Letters a-go!

♡ ⇢ schedule: updated every day at 5pm GMT in the run up to Valentine’s Day 2020!

💌 A/N: so here it is! the finale of OLL :,( i’m immensely sad to see it come to an end but also so so proud of it! just wanna say a huge thank you to everyone who screamed with me in my inbox/replies over the mystery and everyone who theorized and discussed the clues, it made me SO FREAKING HAPPY you’ll never understand <3 i love you and i hope you guys have an amazing valentines day!! let this be my gift to you! p.s i hope the reveal is satisfying...lemme know! 

"Yoongi?" You splutter, mouth dry when you turn and find him leaning against the door frame with a confused expression. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you guys the same thing." He gestures between yourself and Jimin. "I saw you guys come in here earlier and wanted to see what was up. Now answer my question." He points to the laptop. "What is my name doing on the screen?"

"Is it true?"

"What? That my name is Min Yoongi, yeah—"

"Don't be an asshole right now, Yoongi." He jolts when you slam a hand down against the desk, swallowing hard to force the sour words to leave your lips. "Is it true that you knew we got matched in the Love Calculator?"

He sucks in a sharp breath and it's like the whole room has been drained of oxygen. "How did you find out?"

His admission makes your stomach drop and you're suddenly overcome with a sorrowful concoction of humiliation and heartbreak. "Because it was you who sent me all those letters, right? It was you all along."

"Y/N let me explain—"

"How could you?" Your voice wavers and you have to bite back the tears welling in your eyes. "Was it just some big joke to you? A prank?"

"That's not how it is." Yoongi rushes forward to reach for you, but his hands fall to his side helplessly when you step back. "It was never like that."

"What? So I'm supposed to believe that you meant what you said in these stupid letters? You're always so cold around me Yoongi, you treat me like shit at the best of times. Why should I believe you?"

"I'm sorry." Yoongi's own lip trembles now, and his eyes are wide. "I...I don't know what else to say."

"Sorry because I'm so undateable you had to lead me on so you could laugh at me while I searched for my fucking non-existent secret admirer this whole time?" He looks pained when you stare at him with cold eyes. "Not cool, Yoongi."

"Y/N wait! Let's talk about this at least—"

"Don't bother." Hot tears spill down your cheeks but you're already rushing out into the hall before anyone can see them. "We're never talking ever again."

"Tell me why I should listen to what you have to say?" Jimin says as he slides into a seat opposite Yoongi at the local coffee shop, turning his nose up at the matcha-soy-latte-no-ice he had already ordered for him. "My best friend is locked in my apartment eating ice cream and crying to re-runs of Friends after you just dropped the bomb of the century on her and you've dragged me out here to get coffee why?"

"Please." Yoongi sighs, jerking forward in his seat and spilling coffee on the table in his attempt to stop Jimin from getting up and leaving as quick as he arrived. "Just hear me out!"

"Fine." Jimin leans back into his seat with narrowed eyes, crossing his legs and gesturing for Yoongi to talk as he eyes up the latte after all. "I'm listening."

"The letters weren't a joke." Yoongi says simply. "I meant what I said."

Jimin chokes mid sip. "Come again?"

"I said, the love letters were real. I really have feelings for Y/N." He rakes a hand through his hair, cheeks burning when he sees Jimin's disbelieving eyes.

"Well damn," Jimin shakes his head woefully, finally understanding Yoongi's true predicament. "You royally fucked up, huh?"

"I know." Yoongi's shoulders drop and his head falls into his hands pitifully. "I didn't mean for things to turn out like this, Jimin. She was never meant to find out this way. Or at all, actually."

Jimin let's out a sigh, protective best friend guard softening as he leans in closer. "Why didn't you just tell her they were from you in the first place?"

Yoongi shakes his head, bottom lip tugged between his teeth, self loathing evident in his voice. "I don't know. It was dumb and I see that now and she'll probably never want to speak to me again so that's it I guess."

"Hey." Jimin extends a hand to pat Yoongi's arm reassuringly. "There's still time to make things right. You both did things you didn't mean. You just have to clear up the misunderstanding."

Yoongi looks up hopefully. "You really think she'll hear me out?"

"Absolutely." Jimin smiles. "Besides, I've always thought you two would be a good match. A girl needs a man who can tolerate her best friend, too."

"Who says I tolerate you?" Yoongi grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest and averting his eyes.

"Me, because I'm about to save your ass." He grabs his phone from his back pocket and dials up your number, lifting the device to his ear as he points to the exit. "Now go! You have a relationship to save!"

"Yoongi?"

There's no answer from your roommate when you throw off your shoes and rush up the stairs of your apartment without even bothering to shut the door behind you, out of breath and desperate to confront him before you go crazy with the concoction of shock and realisation buzzing through your veins, as the puzzle pieces of Operation Love Letters finally fit together and you let the truth sink in.

Min Yoongi is your secret admirer. And deep down, you think a part of you knew it all along.

Jimin had called you from the car after his talk with Yoongi to fill you in, practically yelling at you to go make things right immediately, so that's how you find yourself searching your apartment high and low for Min Yoongi.

You've lived together for so long that you're used to hearing the sound of him throwing beats around on his computer in the lounge or cooking up a storm in the kitchen when you get home, but the couch is absent of his usual pyjama clad presence and the abnormal silence that shrouds your shared apartment makes your chest tighten with nerves.

Maybe he was just asleep? Nothing would surprise you. The guy needed at least 13 hours to function, so you check his room first.

"Are you in here?" You knock his door three times, but end up barging inside of your own accord when you hear no groan of protest from the other side. Much to your disappointment, Yoongi's bedspread is neatly made, with no human-shaped lump starfished in the centre like usual. His laptop is switched off on his desk, music equipment abandoned beside it and defeat feels like a blow to the stomach when you finally accept that Yoongi is no where to be found.

You perch on the end of his bed and let your eyes drift around the room, from the pile of laundry in the corner to the Polaroid pictures of the two of you pinned to his wall. Could Yoongi really have been your secret admirer this whole time?

Now that you think about it, Yoongi has always been there. Whether it was comforting you after Hoseok blew you off, taking care of you at Seokjin's party or saving you from Taehyung's clumsy ass at the kissing booth, Yoongi was always the one person who stuck by your side no matter what.

You think of all the times Yoongi was there to hold your hair back when you drank yourself sick or how he picked up Chinese food on his way home when he heard you had a bad day or how he never complained when he had to take cold showers because you used up all the hot water.

Yoongi always loved you, in his own way; through quiet late night words of reassurance and small actions of kindness that you ignorantly put down to obligation, rather than a spark that ran deeper for Yoongi than you ever realised before. Whenever you needed him he was there, despite the half assed protests and the grumpy facade he pretends to uphold.

Even while you were too busy pursuing a stupid fairytale to see that the person who cared for you most was right in front of you, Yoongi loved you. And It didn't matter how many clues you followed. You were just too blind to see the truth all along.

Guilt suddenly wracks your conscience. The Yoongi who wrote those letters was so gentle, so sincere in his confession. You can't imagine how much it must have hurt him to watch you write him off so easily, see you run around searching for the author when he was in plain sight the whole time.

God, how could you have been so dumb?

You get up from the bed, ready to head out, but something catches your eye on his nightstand. It's another enveloped letter and you're unsurprised to see your name on the front in Yoongi's stupid pink pen when you take a deep breath and break the seal with your thumb.

A tear slides down your cheek as you re-read the same three words Yoongi wrote in his messy scrawl over and over again. I love you.

Could it be true? That all this time you've been blind to what was right in front of you?

You know where to find me...

You wipe your cheeks with the back of your hand and wrack your brains for an answer. What could he mean by that? Where was he waiting for you?

Squeezing your eyes shut in thought, you flop onto the bed, only to hear a quiet crunch where your butt collides with the mattress. A memory flashes across your mind and with shaky hands you retrieve the screwed up sticky note from your back pocket that your secret admirer — Yoongi — pressed into your hand at the kissing booth.

You check your watch. 11:55. If you left now, you could just make it in time to stop Yoongi from giving up on you. To open your eyes and see the real him for the first time.

But not before you flip the page and rip the cap off a pen with your teeth, letting your heart pour out through your fingertips in a string of words that were ready to be written now you finally knew who your heart had been addressed to all along.

Without a second thought, you grab your keys and head towards the roof with a belly full of butterflies to see the one person you should have suspected all along.

Min Yoongi.

12:17

"Shit, shit, shit!" You breathe as you grip the stitch in your side and bound up another flight of stairs towards the rooftop garden.

As if in slow motion, you crash through the door and squint through the orange glow of the setting sun for the familiar face you hadn't realised just how much you cherished until you were faced with losing it forever.

Your hands grip the metal balcony rail, glancing around at the hanging baskets of fragrant wild flowers that sway in the afternoon breeze and the sun's golden reflection in the water fountains where tiny birds splash their wings. The garden is like a fairytale, an almost enchanted escape from the bustling city below.

But there's no sign of your prince. No sign of Yoongi to be found. Are you too late?

You're about to give up when a wind chime rings out nearby, and you follow its song beneath an arch obscured by leafy rose plants and sweet smelling jasmine to a hidden wooden swing that rocks gently back and forth to a stand still, occupied only moments ago by the boy who rakes a hand through his blonde hair with a sigh and heads towards the steps with a pained expression of defeat.

Yoongi. Your Yoongi.

"I came!" You call out breathlessly, hair whipping around your face in the wind. "Please don't go. I'm here."

Yoongi freezes when he hears your voice, head slowly turning until his eyes land on where you stand watching him. There's a bouquet of vibrant sunflowers in his hands, his knuckles white he clutches them so hard, a sigh of simultaneous relief and elation leaving him when he realises he isn't seeing things. You're really here. All for him this time.

"I waited for ages." He swallows hard, voice a tender whisper. "I thought you weren't coming."

Hesitantly, you take a few steps towards him. He seems so fragile now as he looks at you with wide eyes, no trace of the tough guy you were used in their stare. "I'm late because I'm an asshole. And I don't just mean late to meet you here, I mean late to seeing that...it was you all along. You were my secret admirer."

"Don't be an idiot." Yoongi laughs pitifully and shakes his head, scuffing his shoe against the tarmac. "I'm the asshole. It's just like you said. I couldn't confess to you in person so I hid behind letters like a coward."

You reach out to gently take his face in your hands, a small smile tugging at your lips. "It's okay, Yoongi. We both messed up, but we're here now. We're both here. And that's all that matters."

Yoongi's eyes light up with a mixture of relief and elation, glinting in the soft amber light. "Really?"

"Really." You nod, and Yoongi pulls you tight to his chest, your cheek right above where his heart beats uncontrollably just like yours, chin pressed to the top of your head like he never wants to let you go. His embrace feels comforting, like home, and in that moment you realise just how right it feels.

"There were just all these things I wanted to say and I...I couldn't." He whispers into your hair. "I'm so sorry I couldn't."

"Like what?" Your arms curl around his waist and you feel him smile. "Tell me now."

Yoongi pulls back to search your eyes for any sign of hesitation, then wets his lips before words spill out of him on the wave of a harmonious laugh of relief, like he can't hold them inside any longer.

"I wanted to tell you how much I love it when you steal my hoodies from the laundry basket. And when I come downstairs to find you dancing around the kitchen and microwaving spaghetti at 3am. Or when you make me soup when I'm sick or how you drag me along to all your dumb operation thingy-ma-bobby missions — what was it, again?"

"Love letters," You giggle, dizzy on the emotion swelling in your chest at his sincerity. "Operation love letters."

"Know what? It doesn't matter because I even love when you correct me about every damn thing." He rolls his eyes but you can tell there's no malice behind it as he shares your elated laughter now, smile growing bigger and bigger as he finally releases the feelings he's been bottling up for so long. "I love how you cry when you laugh and how you always forget to water the house plants and how your hair sticks up in the morning and how you never ever give up on anything. How you never gave up on me." Yoongi pauses, reaches for your hand and links your fingers together. He uses his knuckle to wipe away the stray tear that has slid down your cheek. "But most of all? I love you, Y/N. And I know it's taken me a long time to say it but...I mean it. I love you."

There's a moment of brief silence, just Yoongi taking heaving breaths and your heart thumping in your ears as you let his words sink in.

Yoongi is your secret admirer. Yoongi your annoyingly-smart-effortlessly-handsome-grumpy-but-thoughtful roommate. Yoongi loves you.

"I...I don't know what to say." You manage to stammer. "I had no idea. This whole time it was really you?"

The hopeful look on Yoongi's face disappears in a flash, his posture wilting. He takes a step back, head bowed, cheeks burning even as he tries to keep his cool. "Are you disappointed?"

"What? No—"

"You don't have to say anything I...I don't expect you to feel the same way, I know I'm not like those other guys it's just — God," Yoongi's voice cracks and he looks down, hands wringing around the bouquet. "I know you'll never love me back but...if you knew how hard it's been not being able to say I love you out loud like that until now..."

He staggers back, flustered and nervous. You take a step forward and grab his hand before he can get away. You feel how the callouses on his hand fit perfectly with your own when you squeeze it lightly, reaching up to brush the hair out of his eyes with a smile. "Then tell me. I want to hear about it all."

"Really?" His own eyes get glassy when you nod harder than you ever have in your life and although he tugs his bottom lip between his teeth to stop the tears spilling over, you can still see the traces of a smile in his eyes. "Where do you want me to start?"

You throw your arms around his neck, smushing your chin into the place between his shoulder with a contented sigh. You can't help it. You're overwhelmed with a funny fuzzy feeling and all you want to do is hold him close. It just feels right.

Yoongi must feel the same because his arms curl around your waist like they've done it a hundred times before, lifting your feet off the ground to spin you around elatedly.

"From the beginning," You whisper, dizzy with a promising bliss. "Tell me everything."

"So," Yoongi starts. You're both curled up on the swing beneath his jacket, him at one end and you at the other, alternating between gazing out over the view of the city which is bathed in the rose tinted glow of sunset and the permanent flush atop of Yoongi's cheeks that burns just as bright. "You're not mad at me any more for not telling you?"

You avert your gaze, embarrassed at your earlier leap to conclusions. "No. And I never should have doubted you, when you said that you meant what you said in the letters. I see that now." Yoongi's hand is still tenderly linked with yours and he runs his thumb over your knuckles reassuringly, telling you to go on. "I just couldn't understand why me. I still don't. You usually act so grouchy around me that I thought the letters were too good to be true."

Yoongi looks away wistfully before he sits up seriously, tugging your hands into his lap. He swallows hard, like he's had this speech prepared for a long time. "Listen, I know that I've been kind of weird around you in the past. But the truth is, I've liked you ever since I found out we were going to be roommates." There's a sincerity in his eyes that makes your heart skip a beat, and you nod breathlessly at his confession, filled with emotion all over again at hearing the words leave his lips instead of reading them on paper. "But the feelings were so strong — stronger than I've ever felt for anyone — and I guess I just got...scared. So I thought it would be easier if I acted cold around you so you'd leave like everyone else, but you never did. And I couldn't make myself ask you to go, so I just bottled up my feelings instead."

You tilt your head, gently nudging him. "Until?"

"Until I did that stupid Love Calculator thing. Honestly I only filled out the survey because I thought it might help me get over you." He shrugs. "But then I got your name. 100% compatible. And it just felt like some big joke from the universe telling me that no matter how hard I tried, I'd never have a chance with you and all the feelings I repressed came rushing back and I kinda spiraled I guess."

"So why didn't you just tell me?"

"Taehyung convinced me it was better to write you a letter. Ya know, to get out all my feelings so I could let them go for good. I was never going to send it to you." He suddenly exclaims. "But Taehyung must have found it in one of his notebooks and I guess he thought he was being a good friend by sending it to you...but then you started looking for the secret admirer behind it and I just panicked! I didn't know how to tell you it was from me, or how you'd react, so it was easier to just go along with your plan."

You run your fingers over a flower petal from the pretty bouquet that sits in your lap. "What made you change your mind?" You ask. "You could have gotten away with it. I never would have suspected it was from you."

Yoongi sucks in a deep breath. "That day at the kissing booth. I guess someone told Seokjin the truth and he rigged the raffle so I would win the grand prize and...I couldn't resist. I kissed you. And kissing someone has never felt like that before. Not like you. And I just knew...I knew I wasn't over you. And I owed it to myself to tell you. So that's why I slipped you the note to meet me here. That's why I decided to reveal my identity."

"Speaking of secret admirers," You fumble around in your jacket pocket, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper that you jerk towards him. "There's one thing I need to ask you, actually."

"What is it?" There's a curious glint in his eyes as he unfolds the note and reads the message inside while you hug your torso and anxiously swing your feet back and forth.

You feel his eyes on you again before he says anything else. There's a small smile on his face when he finishes reading and you can't help the way your own lips curve upwards. "I know it's a few years late, but better late than never right?"

Yoongi lets out a deep chuckle, eyes soft and crinkled at the edges like he's looking at the whole world when they take in the light blush caressing your cheeks. "I think you know what my answer is."

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him in cheekily so that the tips of your noses brush lightly. "I want to hear you say it anyway."

"Of course I'll be your Valentine Y/N." The brightest smile you've ever seen appears on his face and he links your fingers together before connecting your lips in a tender kiss that makes your heart soar. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

#btswriterscollective #bangtanarmynet #bts smut #jungkook smut #yoongi smut #taehyung smut #jimin smut #namjoon smut #seokjin smut #hoseok smut #jungkook x reader #namjoon x reader #seokjin x reader #yoongi x reader #hoseok x reader #jimin x reader #taehyung x reader #kwordsmiths #bts angst #bts fluff #bts scenario #bts fic #bts fanfic #bts fanfiction #bts imagine #bts reactions #if ur reading this i love u!!!!! <3

[booksandseventeen]

School Project with Tsuki

☾ ☽Tsuki X Reader! ☾ ☽

The teacher stood with her hands on her hips, looking every student in the eye, “This next project is worth 50% of your grade.”

The classroom groaned. 

“You will be partnered up and during these last 6 weeks of school, you must go to 6 places neither of you have ever been before. Search the wonders of Miyagi and write a paragraph for each place you visit.” The teacher claps her hands together, “Consider this a great experience you can enjoy outside of school, as long as the places you visit was informational, I dont care where you go.” 

Tsuki sighed, his fingers twitching to put on his headphones and drone out the rest of this dreadful project. Partnered project were his least favorite part about school, but at least he could just tag along while Tadashi did the work, he could practically feel his friend vibrating with excitement behind him.

“Oh and before I forget, your partner will be the person that sits to the left of you~!” 

Tsuki blinked before glancing to the left. 

Empty. Of course his partner wasn’t even at school today. He raked his brain to try and think who sat to the left of him but he kept drawing a blank.

“Tsukishima, your partner isn’t here today but I trust that you can bring her the needed materials and tell her about the project, hm?” The teacher walked to his desk and set down a binder filled with information.

He pushed his glasses up, “Tch, what a burden.”

☾ ☽

“tell your partner I said hi!” Tadashi waved goodbye as they went their own ways, Tadashi to go home and Tsuki to visit your house, a torn out piece of paper with your address written on it. The paper fluttered in the wind and he sighed before continuing on.

The gate creaked when he opened it, weeds sprouted from the ground and a gnome broken in half welcomed him as he stepped on the overgrown stepping stones that led to your home. 

He knocked on the door and took a wary step back, unsure of who would answer the door. 

“COME IN!” The scream made him jump and he looked behind him almost as if the yell was meant for someone else.

He narrowed his eyes, felt his fingers tighten on the binder. All he wanted to do was drop off the stupid papers and hope his partner was fine with doing the project by themselves. 

Slowly, he turned the doorknob and stepped inside. The lights blinded him, a tv was playing on a random channel, a radio station played some sort of upbeat tune and he heard the thumping of feet above his head.

“up here!” the voice came from above. 

He took one more glance around before taking the steps two at a time, the hallway was just as lit as the living room, every door he passed had the lights on and he finally stopped behind the only closed door, music playing from a speaker somewhere inside.

The door opened, “Mom, did you-” she stopped suddenly. 

Tsuki stared down at the girl in front of him, she wore an oversized sweatshirt and joggers. Her hair was piled up on top of her hair. She leaned against the door frame, “You’re not mom.”

“Do I look like your mom?” he deadpanned

“Well, you got the condescending look down.” she smirked, “You’re in my class, what are you doing here?” she crossed her arms and looked him up and down. 

“Here.” He pushed the binder into her hands, “We’re partners for a project in school. It’s all in there, due in 6 weeks.” He turned to leave. 

He got as far as halfway down the stairs when the shock wore off and she thundered down after him.

“wait wait wait! You come to my house, tell me that we are partners for a project, and you expect me to do it all my myself?” She slides down the banister until she stops in front of him, making him come up short. 

“what else needs to be explained, shorty?” he looked down his nose at her. 

“You’re gonna pull your weight with this project, jolley green giant.” 

his frown deepened. “I don’t do partner projects.” 

She smiled up at him, “let me get my jacket.”

“what for?” he called after her.

“Because we might as well start now! You can borrow my sisters bike!”

☾ ☽ Week 1

It was on the tip of the tongue. Questions upon questions, but he bit his tongue, he refused to talk first. Instead the words just tumbled over and over again in his head. 

She biked beside him, a green jacket thrown over her hoodie and her bag thrown across her body. The full moon was the only light they had and the summer wind threw back her hair and he glanced at her to find that her eyes were closed. She was the most peaceful when her eyes were closed. 

He couldn’t take it anymore, the silence.

“Where are we going? You know we have school tomorrow.” his voice seemed unnaturally loud.

she looked over at him, the moon causing her eyes to seem brighter than usual “you’ll see.” 

Finally, they came to an overlook and parked their bike under a sakura tree. 

The ground crunched beneath their feet as they came to a railing. Tsuki stopped short and she reached up to close his mouth with her fingertip. 

It was a 360º view of Sanriku, the rhododendrons flowers blanketed the side of the mountain for as far as the eye could see, the sweet smell of flowers overwhelmed him.

she leaned with her elbows on the railing. “You know whats cool? These flowers are actually a blushing pink color. But at night, under the moon, they almost look violet.” she looked up at him. 

“some things look different in the dark.”

☾ ☽ Week 2

He woke up to the sound of his phone ringing, without thinking he blindly searched for it and answered, before he even brought it to his ear he could hear the notes of music.

“hey! you’re awake, skyscraper?”

“What the hell do you want, hobbit?” he grumbled and blinked blearily at his alarm clock, “it’s almost 2 am.” 

“Well I have another idea for our next location! But we gotta do it now, we can get in for free under the cover of night.” 

he could just imagine her. Walking up and down her room, lights on and music playing, twirling her hair around her finger, probably looking for a hoodie.

“I’ll take your silence as a yes! I’ll come pick you up after I find a hoodie.....”

☾ ☽

“Are you kidding?” he deadpanned.

“What? it’s perfect! Now help me push this thing.” she bent down and grabbed the end of the kayak, moving it only a couple of inches before she gave him a pointed look.

Sighing, he bent down and helped her move the kayak until it was even with the dock and she could jump in. 

“Come on! This is a two person thing.” 

“Why did I let you talk me into this?”

the moon reflected her profile into the still water, a fish flicked the surface and her face rippled. He took a step into the kayak.

She smiled at him and tossed him a paddle.

They glided through the water, him paddling on the right and she on the left. He sat behind her, his legs splayed on either side of her so he could fit. 

Again, the silence bothered him.

“Do you ever sleep?” he asked suddenly.

If he wasn’t paying so much attention to her he would have noticed her back stiffen. 

“why do you think I dont?” 

He shrugged but realized she probably couldn’t see that. “Oh I don’t know, maybe because you always seem to be up in the middle of the night, I’ve never seen your house without any lights on.”

She stops paddling but he keeps going. He can’t see her face, and for once, he wishes she would turn around.

“I...just don’t like to sleep.”

“who doesn’t like to sleep?”

she picks up the paddle again, disrupting the surface one stroke at a time. “someone who has too many dreams.” 

☾ ☽ Week 3

It was a Saturday night and he hadn’t heard from her all week. He turned off his computer and looked at his phone. This was peak time that she should be calling him, but what if she didn’t call? Then they would be a week behind the project. He paced his room, his phone clenched in his hand. He clicked on the buttons angrily.

No answer. He tossed his phone on the bed and laid down. Ten minutes later he was pacing again. He cursed and grabbed his phone and jacket. Silently making his way out of his house.

☾ ☽

*tap, tap tap*

She awoke with a start, her lights momentarily blinding her before he realized where she was at. She leaned out of her window and stared down at Tsuki, his arm cocked back to throw another rock.

“what are you doing?” she half whispered half yelled.

“Tch, idiot, I don’t want to be behind on the project so grab your hoodie and come on.” he walked away, leaving her to stare at him open mouthed. 

“where are we going?” she asked him as they grabbed their bikes and walked down the road. 

“you didn’t answer your phone.” he said, ignoring her question. 

“I had it on mute, hoping to catch a few Z’s.”

Immediately he felt bad, he had woken her up. But then he remembered that she had also woken him up before as well. “i’m sorry.” he heard himself say anyway.

She shook her head, her hair piled on top of her head, “don’t be. I’m thankful you woke me up, I was just starting to dream.” 

the rest of the ride was in silence until he finally brought them to their next location.

“a park.” she said with a smile, getting off her bike the rest of the way.

Before them lay a green field, a playground that was surrounded by strange, different styles of twisting metals and granite rocks chiseled to reveal a figure.

“A statue park.” he corrected, “artists all over Miyagi enter their statues and art in hopes of getting picks to have it displayed here.” 

Together they walked through the swaying grass, the silver of moon casting the statues faces into grimaces and sneers. She shook her head in wonder as they walked among the stones and metal.

“I like this one!” she said, pointing at a woman with a ring of drums around her that acted like a skirt. Tsuki watched as she played an offbeat tune on the statue. He laughed.

“look over there!” she suddenly pointed and grabbed his hand, running towards an exhibit. He looked down at their joined fingers, his large palm easily overwhelming her small one. He tightened his fingers. 

A large, plush cushion lay suspended in the air by a steel tractor type, a gossamer fabric hung over the top. The two of them climbed into it. “I think i’m supposed to unlatch something.” he heard her say, but he was too busy looking at the fabric laid over top. 

faint, dark lines were carefully drawn through the fabric, making it so that he could see the constellations in the sky. There was a loud click and he was suddenly thrown on his back as the large cushion suddenly swung in the air.

“WOOHOO!” he looked over to see her wobbling on her legs, the air rushing to meet her face.

“this is so cool!” she gasped, and slowly made her way over to him as the cushion swayed like a pendulum. She laid down beside him, her head on the his shoulder and his arm immediately went around her. 

“Im afraid to fall asleep.” she whispered after they had been laying down together for while, he had honestly thought she had fallen asleep.

“go ahead.” he grunted, he felt her shake his head.

“I can’t...I might dream.”

“what do you dream about?”

“...someone.”

he tightened his hold on her. “It’s just a dream, if it looks like your dreaming, i’ll wake you up.” he promised. his lips brushed against her hair, not hard enough for her to feel it, but close enough for him to close his eyes and inhale her scent.

And that’s how the workers of the park found them the next day, curled into one another, the cushion still swinging, the morning light not bothering either of them.

☾ ☽ 1 day later

He stood in front of her house, the flowers he had picked up on the way there dropped from his hand. 

A red, ugly foreclosure sign was the only thing he could see. 

She was gone. 

☾ ☽

Part 2

#hq #haikyu #haikyuu #haikyū!! #tsukishima kei #tsuki x reader #tsukishima x reader

[justlightlysedated]

this one is called, are we destined to burn or will we last the night, a fic where alex hacks into caufield before they go on their roadtrip and notices a very familiar pair of eyes on one of the captives, and realizes that it’s michael’s mom:

It had been dark when Michael got home so he doesn't immediately realize that he isn't alone when he parks the truck beside the Airstream and leans his head down on the steering wheel.

He feels exhausted, but he knows he's not going to be able to fall asleep for a while still. 

He's still worried about Isobel even though she seems to be getting more and more like her old self despite the circumstances, and since he can't drink himself into oblivion at the Wild Pony, because he's giving Maria some space, he's been getting less sleep than usual.

A sharp rap on the truck window startles him hard enough that the truck jumps with him.

He looks up to see Alex and feels equal amounts of relief and dread.

Alex looked concerned, and while Michael knows that he wouldn’t be here without a good reason, he really doesn't want to deal with whatever it is that Alex has to say. 

At least not without copious amounts of alcohol.

He motions for Alex to move back and opens the door.

Alex steps back accordingly and steps into the light cast by the closest lamp post and Michael gets a good look at his face and sees that he's not the only one who's been sleeping badly. 

Michael had been trying really hard not to think about Alex since he walked away, again. After saying that he was tired of walking away.

If Michael is being one hundred percent honest with himself, he's been hoping that Alex would come across something alien related that he would need Michael's help with, so that he would come back.

But he hadn't let himself really think about it.

"What are you doing here, Alex?" He asks when Alex just stands there watching him as though he's in a trance. 

"I expected not to see you again for another six weeks at least," he continues when Alex just blinks at him.

The words seem to spark something because Alex's face loses that dazed look and shakes his head before he steps forward again, looking a little manic.

"I'm here because I don't want to keep secrets from you, either," he starts and Michael freezes, looking at him with wide eyes. "And there's something that you have to see."

***

They spend ten minutes arguing over taking Alex’s car or the truck, and then ten more minutes arguing over who is driving, until Alex sways and has to reach out to catch himself on the side of the car, and Michael just tugs the keys right out of his hand and snatches them out of the air.

Alex looks at him accusingly, but gets into the passenger seat of his car.

They drive in silence for about five minutes after Alex tells him to head towards the old Air Force Base, until Alex sighs and seems to lose whatever strength was keeping him sitting upright with perfect posture, like Michael was a stranger instead of someone he’s gotten naked with.

He moves and Michael can see him out of the corner of his eye settling himself so that he can see Michael, as much as the seatbelt lets him move.

He leans his head against the headrest and Michael can feel Alex’s gaze on him.

He swallows hard and clenches his fingers around the steering wheel.

“Kyle got these letters that my father has been desperate to get his hands on from Jim, written days before he died. They were in code, but we managed to break it.”

Michael clenches his jaw, and his knuckles go white, and he can hear the engine of the car revving even though he hasn’t stepped down on the gas.

“You and Kyle, huh?” and he can’t help the way his voice goes a little brittle.

He can feel Alex rolling his eyes. “Yes, the keyword to break the cypher was something that I would’ve never been able to figure out on my own.”

“So we’re just forgiving him for the hell he put you through?”

He hears Alex scoffing, but he can hear the smile in his voice when he talks. “High school is ten years to the left, Guerin. There’s more important things to be worried about, like the old abandoned prison, Caulfield, that’s maybe not so abandoned.”

Michael darts a look at Alex, who is looking back at him with eyes that aren’t hiding anything at all.

He must be more exhausted than Michael thought. 

Michael looks back to the road. “Don’t tell me. More alien secrets. Let me guess. The actual remaining pieces of the ship, stripped bare. Its technology being what has advanced technology in the US for the last seventy years?”

Alex stays silent, and when Michael looks back at him to see that he’s staring out of the windshield and to the stars.

“Alex?” he says, licking his lips.

Alex inhales deeply, clenching his jaw.

Before he says anything a phone rings loud and jarring in the silent car.

Alex tugs his phone from the front pocket of his jacket and sighs.

“What is it, Kyle?” he answers leaning back in his seat and closing his eyes as he listens to whatever Kyle is saying.

“I’m not going back to the bunker tonight,” Alex says and it sounds like he’s repeating what Kyle is saying.

“I’m not lying,” Alex says sighing. “I’m not going there alone, I promise.”

He scoffs and Michael can just see him rolling his eyes.

“I always do,” Alex answers whatever Kyle asked, and then hangs up the phone.

He inhales deeply again. “I think that maybe I’ll wait to tell you the rest with proof.”

Michael darts a look at him, at the way that he’s refusing to turn back and look at Michael and just pushes the car over the speed limit.

***

“I went to Caulfield,” Alex says when Michael turns the car off and plunges them into darkness.

Michael swallows hard. 

"And found above human average heat signatures."

Michael feels like all the air has been punched out of his lungs.

"No way," he says immediately knowing where Alex is heading with this. "You can't mean-"

"We both know you run hot, Guerin."

And Michael can't believe that he actually said that, but he ignores the teasing tilt to his voice and concentrates on the rest of the conversation.

"There's no way. We would've felt something."

"I figured you'd say that. That's why we're here," Alex says and then gets out of the car before Michael can ask what he means. 

Michael follows behind him as he heads towards a rusty door that would lead down into a bunker, and turns him around before Alex can lean down to open them.

"What did you do?"

Alex looks at Michael and bites down on his lip before he inhales deeply and speaks. 

"I found that my father is keeping everything within the family, and people who he can either blackmail to work with him or scare into working for him, so it wasn’t that difficult to figure out the weak point to exploit. I hacked into the system from here and gave myself access using my brother's username and password and have been looking through the files and the security footage, because I wanted to confirm it before I told you anything."

Michael lets him go and Alex just nods once before he's leaning back down to open the doors.

Michael follows him down into the bunker, trying not to feel like he's being led to an execution, but it's difficult when he thinks about what this bunker was probably used for back in the day. 

Alex leads him into a small room, the space mostly taken up by a small conference table and the multiple monitors of a desktop that are all on. Some are crunching data and numbers, decoding and copying files too fast for Michael to actually read anything and others flashing through different camera footage, some live, some from the archives, once again everything is being copied into the servers here.

But the one thing that catches and traps Michael's attention is the piece of shimmering glass on top of the table. The biggest piece that he's ever seen besides the one he's been attempting to assemble his entire life.

He takes a step towards it and Alex makes a noise in his throat. "That's mine. Don't touch it."

Michael halts and turns to Alex who looks back at him steadily.

Michael's brow furrows and Alex just raises an eyebrow. 

"I found it, so I get to keep it."

Michael gives Alex a look of disbelief.

"And besides, I think you're going to find this much more important than that."

Michael sighs and then walks to where Alex is sitting down in front of the computer, looking at Alex trying to figure out what he's playing at.

"Don't look at me like that," Alex says as he turns towards the screen in front of him. "You know I'd do anything to keep you on this planet."

Michael sees how the back of his neck and ears goes red, which means that he hadn't meant to say any of that.

"Can we just ignore that and concentrate on this?" 

He makes a motion towards the monitors, and while Michael really wants to talk about that comment, he inhales deeply and looks towards the monitors.

"What am I supposed to-?"

Alex types something on the keyboard and one of the bigger monitors changes to a single camera view of the inside of an empty cell.

Michael distantly notes that the date is from 1947, but his heart starts beating rapidly in his chest when a woman is thrown inside of the cell. He can’t hear what she’s saying, but she’s slamming her hands against the glass doors, and he can only imagine that she’s yelling.

He moves closer, and feels Alex moving the chair to the side, before he clicks on the keyboard and the footage starts cycling through faster.

Michael watches as they drag her out and back over and over again, and how she rages and fights until one day she comes back and seems like a shell.

She doesn’t move, lying down on the cot for several days, and then it’s almost like she notices the camera for the first time.

She looks at it, and comes closer, and Michael’s breath catches painfully in his throat, and he steps even closer, a hand reaching out as the image pauses on her face.

“I know her,” Michael says, feeling like he’s having an out of body experience.

“You have her eyes,” Alex says voice soft and shaking.

Michael blinks several times, and he looks at Alex who is looking at the monitor with a sad expression on his face.

Michael looks back to the image, and he can see it, and other similarities, the shape of her mouth, and the arch of her brow.

“What are you trying to say?” Michael asks out of breath.

“I think she’s your-” Alex starts and trails off, swallowing hard.

“My mother,” Michael finishes for him. “Is this live?”

Alex doesn’t respond, only presses the keyboard again, and the image flickers and changes and Michael sees the red blinking light in the corner and the date and time stamped on one edge.

He can make out her form lying down on the cot, looking out of the glass. 

Her eyes are closed and she looks so frail, and so much older.

Michael’s breath shudders out of him.

“How many?” he asks voice just barely shaking.

“Currently there are twenty two cells under constant surveillance, but there’s no way of knowing for sure, until we go there ourselves.”

Michael nods his head, and darts a look at Alex, who is looking at him, eyes red rimmed and bloodshot, “Then what are we still doing here?”

Alex sits up at that. “Guerin, we can’t just-”

“You mean you can’t,” Michael says sneering in Alex’s direction, and feeling a small stab of satisfaction when Alex looks away. “I’m not tied to the government or to the man in charge of that facility. I don’t have any obligation to just sit around and-”

“I’m not just sitting around doing nothing,” Alex snaps standing up and making Michael take a step back, startled. “But we can’t just go guns blazing, Guerin! There are security measures that we need to consider, and-”

“There is literally nothing that can stand in my way,” Michael says waving a hand to the side and sweeping the table and the other chairs towards the back of the bunker.

“It’s not that simple-” Alex starts taking a step towards him.

Michael takes several steps back, shaking his head. “It’s as simple as they’ve been trapped for decades and I refuse to let it go on any longer.”

Michael turns and heads towards the exit.

“Guerin!” Alex calls out to him, and Michael speeds up when he hears him walking down the stairs that lead up the monitors.

He makes it out of the bunker, and is almost at the car, when Alex tackles him to the ground.

Michael is just angry enough to fight back, but Alex overpowers him easily, trapping him on the ground on his back with his hands wrapped around his wrists keeping them above his head, with his knees on either side of Michael’s hips, the weight of his body keeping Michael on the ground.

“Listen to me,”Alex says as he leans over him.

Michael pants and pulls against Alex’s hold, only for Alex to tighten his fingers and lean even heavier against him.

Michael bucks his hips up and Alex just rolls with the movement, pressing in even closer. Until Michael just expels a sharp breath and glares at Alex mutinously. 

"Are you done?" Alex asks, and Michael just sighs and looks away from him.

"I know what this means to you," Alex starts, fingers going tight around Michael's wrists before he lets go and sits up, making Michael's gaze snap back to him.

"I was going to wait until I had it all figured out to tell you. I've been working day and night since I found out trying to figure out how to counter the security measures and how to disable the bomb that will go off if you try to open any cell without using the passcode, but I-"

He swallows hard and shakes his head not looking away from Michael, "I couldn't not tell you after I saw her face, and knew what it could mean."

Michael can't seem to find it in himself to speak, but Alex just sighs and looks away.

"You can hate me afterwards if you want," he says. "But I'm not going to let you go there alone, and I'm not going to let you kill yourself trying to get them out. I want to save them too, but we're going to do this right, okay?"

He looks back down at Michael and Michael exhales and shakes his head. 

"I don't want them to be there any longer, Alex. This ends tonight."

Alex stares at him for a long moment and Michael doesn't know what kind of face he makes, but Alex nods his head after a couple of minutes.

"Okay," he says, and inhales deeply before he moves, getting to his feet and turns and heads back inside of the bunker.

Michael inhales deeply, looks up at the bright twinkling stars, and then exhales harshly.

He pushes himself up, and follows Alex.

***

Michael doesn't realize that he's fallen asleep until he feels Alex's fingers gently tugging on his hair and sliding down the back of his neck, a soft caress to rouse him.

Since the last time that Alex had woken him up by shaking him, Michael had almost punched him in the face.

Michael leans into the touch for a second, before he remembers where they are and what they're doing.

He sits up a little too fast and Alex's fingers catch a little painfully in his curls before he manages to pull his hand away.

Michael feels dazed for a second trying to clear the fog of sleep from his brain. 

He remembers coming after Alex and deciding against sitting at the table to drop right on the floor next to Alex, eyes trained on the single monitor that didn’t change from the view of the cell of the woman who Alex called his mother.

Michael had gathered his knees to his chest and had rested his face against them trying not to think about it too much because then the rage would take over with no target besides the obvious.

And besides he had to save all of that rage so that he’d be strong enough to help when Alex figured out what to do.

He remembers moving too much, because he was full of restless energy, until Alex had asked him how good he was with rewiring and Michael had scoffed and grabbed the box of different parts that Alex had obviously been using to create some sort of handheld transceiver.

The task was mindless for Michael, and it always helped to do something with his hands, always seemed to calm the restless energy in his mind to focus so entirely on fixing or creating something instead of worrying about things that were out of his control.

He’d finished and had felt gravity tug at him until he leaned his head on top of Alex’s thigh, and had sighed wrapping a hand around his ankle, fingers pressing into the cool skin.

Alex had jumped a little, but had settled a hand on Michael’s hair, petting him almost absently.

Michael must’ve fallen asleep sometime then.

He looks up at Alex now, and feels his heart start to race at the look on his face, the wild look in his eyes and how his lips are stretched into a smile.

“I figured it out,” he breathes, and Michael’s heart starts beating even faster.

“Yeah?” Michael asks moving so that he’s kneeling bseides Alex, whose smile widens even more.

“Definitely,” he says, and there is a strange catch to his voice, but Michael is too busy feeling the surge of adrenaline pouring through him as he pulls himself to his feet using Alex’s chair, and then tugs him out of the chair in one movement, while Alex yelps and grabs on to him to find his balance, to actually pay attention to it.

“Wait,” he says as Michael makes to drag them both out of the bunker and to the car. “There are a few things I have to get.”

Michael stops and stares at him and Alex rolls his eyes.

“It’ll take like five more minutes,” he says and pulls away from Michael to walk over to the table.

Michael rocks on his heels watching as Alex grabs the black bag leaning against the table and starts to pack it with stuff that had scattered and clattered to the floor earlier. 

It takes him exactly five minutes to grab everything, including the two handheld transceivers that Michael had put together and swing the bag over his shoulder before turning to him.

Michael gave him a look, and Alex rolls his eyes. “It never hurts to be prepared.”

Michael shrugs and turns.

Alex scoffs walking after him. “Not all of us can move things with our brains, or contact others with our brains, or take people out with one single shocking touch, okay?”

Michael rolls his eyes, and tries not to let the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth stretch across his face.

This time Alex doesn’t fight him as he heads to the driver’s seat. He just gets in the car and sets up the GPS.

The roads are dark and silent, and the closer they get to Caulfield the more the restless feeling inside of Michael calms down.

Alex doesn’t say much as he studies the tablet in his hands with an intense look of concentration, tapping something occasionally. 

Michael’s eyes dart to the time on the dashboard and realizes that it was almost five in the morning.

His eyes dart back to Alex, who is squinting at his tablet, and thinks about him working nonstop for the last couple of hours just because Michael said he wanted it over with tonight, and thinks about the fact that Alex admitted to working on this nonstop for days.

“When was the last time you actually slept?” Michael asks and Alex jumps as though he had forgotten that Michael was there.

He looks at Michael and blinks at him several times. 

“A little under seventy five hours ago,” Alex answers and then looks back at the tablet. “But don’t worry. Kyle made sure I took a nap yesterday, granted it was only for an hour, but it helped. I can go longer without sleeping and it won’t affect my ability to correctly interpret information. It does, however, affect my brain to mouth filter, as you already know.”

Michael licks his lips and opens his mouth to tell Alex that he should sleep for at least the twenty more minutes it was going to take them to get to Caulfield when his phone rings.

He sighs and pulls it out of his pocket. “What is it now, Kyle?”

Michael turns to look back at the road as Alex makes a face at whatever Kyle said.

“That’s because we’re on our way to Caulfield right now.”

And then he sighs, and Michael can hear Kyle yelling.

“I know I promised-” Alex starts and stops when Kyle cuts him off.

“No, I’m not doing that,” Alex snaps. “We have one shot at this and I’m not going to miss it waiting for you. Get there if you must, but we’re doing this now.”

Kyle says something before Alex can hang up the phone, and Alex exhales harshly. “I get it okay? But all the information you need to know is right there at the bunker on the drives. I’m not going to sit down and just watch when there’s something that I can do about this.”

Alex hangs up and then turns his phone off and throws it into the glove compartment.

He sighs and shakes his head.

“Kyle is on his way,” he says, and Michael darts a look at him to see him rolling his eyes as he looks down at the tablet.

“What do you mean we have one shot?” Michael asks instead, and he can feel the way that Alex freezes a little before he inhales deeply.

“There’s a shift change at five thirty, a small window of opportunity where we can get inside undetected, and once we’re in the rest will fall into place, easily.”

This time Michael’s eyes narrow at the strange hitch in his voice.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

Alex is quiet for long enough that Michael feels the dread spill through him.

“Flint is going to be there,” he says, and Michael can tell that that’s not it, but before he can ask, the GPS sounds out jarring them both, letting them know that they are five miles away from their destination.

Michael decides to let it drop for now, and steps harder on the gas.

Once the building appears in their line of vision, Alex makes Michael turn the car lights off, and they slow to a stop several feet away from what looks like an abandoned school bus.

Michael turns the car off and looks at the building. It’s dark and quiet and looks abandoned, but Michael knows better than anyone that things aren't always what they seem.

Michael closes his eyes, inhaling deeply and concentrates and trying to see if he can sense anyone.

His breath caught in his throat as he feels a wave of something that feels like an amalgamation of at least thirty people just like him, screaming and crying out in pain.

He opens his eyes when he feels Alex's hand on his shoulder, and turns to him, and he can feel how wet his eyes are, so he can only imagine the face that he must be making.

"Okay," Alex says after staring at him for a few minutes. "Are you really sure you want to do this? I can always wait for Kyle and wait for the next shift change."

Michael looks at Alex as for a beat and shakes his head, before he gets out of the car without saying a word.

He walks until he's right next to the bus, and Alex follows after him after taking a few seconds to get his bag.

"Okay, we've got a few minutes, so just follow me, and we'll be fine."

Michael just nods his head, trying to tamp down the restless jittery feeling that started to overwhelm him.

"Here," Alex says and Michael turns to him and Alex hands him one of the handheld transceivers with an earpiece. "I've already paired them, just turn the dial and we're set."

Michael gave him a look, and Alex just smiles a little before putting his own earpiece into his ear and tucking the radio to his pants.

Michael does the same, and Alex nods his head before he pulls the tablet back out from his back and moves so that he’s rounding the front of the bus.

Michael follows after him, watching as Alex gets into soldier mode, how his posture straightens out, how his feet are shoulder width apart, how even his breathing evens out steadily where Michael can hear it echoed in the earpiece he’s wearing.

“Okay,” Alex says again, and looks at his watch before he looks at Michael. “Remember follow exactly the path I take. We’re using the camera’s blindspot, just in case there is anyone in the control room.”

Michael nods his head, and when Alex moves, he follows right behind him.

They get inside easily, and Michael becomes distracted as the feeling that overwhelmed him in the car gets stronger to really watch where he’s going so he bumps into Alex when Alex stops in the middle of where the hall branches out into three corridors and a set of stairs. 

“Look,” Alex says, wrapping a hand around Michael’s arm and turning him towards the stairs. “Go up three flights until you hit the N corridor, that’s where they’re keeping everyone. Wait for my signal, and don’t freak out if anyone walks by, just hide. They do a cursory check right at the beginning of the shift, but I doubt they’ll enter the room since it’s too early for anyone to be awake yet.”

“Wait,” Michael says as Alex turns to head towards the corridor in the center. Alex stops but doesn’t turn to him. “Where are you going?”

Alex takes a second before he turns to him, and Michael knows that he’s hiding something. 

“I have to get to the control room. It’s the only way to disable everything. It shouldn’t take long, and you have a direct line to me at all times.”

He points towards the earpiece, and Michael relaxes minutely, because he has a point, but there is still something that Alex isn’t telling him.

Alex seems to realize that Michael isn’t completely placated, because he sighs shaking his head, before he gives Michael a serious look.

“Trust me, Guerin. I know what I’m doing.”

“I do trust you,” Michael says immediately. 

“Good,” Alex says nodding and then points towards the stairs with his chin. “I’ll see you later.”

He turns and Michael grabs him again, turning him around, and Alex looks at him startled.

Michael exhales roughly, and squeezes his arm once before he lets him go. “Just, be careful.”

Alex swallows hard and licks his lips, eyes darting to Michael’s mouth and away. “Only if you are.”

Michael huffs out a breath and shakes his head. “I’m going to do exactly what you said. Wait for your signal.”

Alex nods his head. “I promise we’ll get them out of here before the sun rises.”

Michael gives him a long look before he nods his head and turns towards the stairs.

He hears Alex’s footsteps as he walks down the corridor before he’s climbing up the stairs and can’t hear anything else but his own footsteps and Alex breathing in his ear.

Finding where everyone is kept isn’t that difficult, what is difficult is the psychic wave that sweeps through him that tells him he found them. These are his people. His people in cages.

It's hard to not do something, and he must make some sort of noise without realizing it because Alex speaks, startling Michael.

"I know it has to be overwhelming," he says sounding sympathetic. "Seeing something for yourself and not behind a screen always is, but please wait for my signal. I’m almost there.”

Michael opens his mouth to speak when he looks over at one of the cells and his entire nervous system just shuts down.

The feeling is much, much, much more overwhelming in person.

He moves almost like he’s hypnotized, until he’s touching the glass that prevents him from entering the room.

She sits up immediately staring at him with wide shocked eyes and Michael needs to get into this cell right now.

"Guerin," Alex's voice is a warning and a reminder, that Michael really wants to ignore.

Until the sound of gunshots echo through the earpiece and Alex makes a low, pained hissing sound, and mutters a heartfelt, "Fuck."

"Alex," Michael says looking away from the glass and turning his face to the side he has the earpiece in like that will help him see what's going on.

"I'm fine," Alex says, grunting in pain. "Give me a sec."

Then Michael hears another low grunt that doesn't sound like Alex followed the sounds a short scuffle, and then something hard and plastic cracking against someone's skull.

Alex exhales roughly then, and Michael hears him drop whatever he used to knock the guard out to the floor.

"Okay," Alex says. "If they know I'm here, they probably know you are too. Protect yourself by any means necessary, Guerin. I'm at the door to the control room, the lights will start flashing as soon as I unlock the doors. Ignore them."

He's panting heavily by the time he finishes talking which makes it hard for Michael to concentrate on what he's saying.

 "Alex," he starts again, and he can hear the worried edge to his tone.

"Trust me, Guerin," he says. "I've had worse injuries. I'm fine."

There is a rapid beeping noise and then the sound of a door unlocking, and Alex making a low noise in victory at the back of his throat.

Michael feels a low throb at the back of his neck, like someone is tugging on a line directly connected to his brain, and he inhales sharply, turning towards the glass door again.

She has her hand pressed to the glass, eyes wide open and full of tears as she watches him like she's drinking him in. Her palm starts glowing a soft red as Michael watches her, and Michael steps closer, pressing his hand to the glass.

The connection snaps between them automatically like it was dormant in his brain and just waiting for the right person to come along and bring it to life.

His eyes fall shut as he inhales sharply, and he could see her clearly in his mind just like she looked when she was first thrown into the cell.

--Once Michael gets everyone out, he asks Alex where he is, and Alex tells him that he's been stalling the bomb to give Michael enough time to leave.

--Goodbyes and ANGST

--When it seems like all hope is lost, Mara steps up and shows Michael that he can convert the energy expelled by the bomb into energy that can sustain him.

--He does what she says, and saves Alex who passed out because he'd gotten shot, he saves Alex.

--He staggers outside with him as the sun starts peeking over the horizon, he staggers to his mom, who helps him to the ground, along with Alex, who is still breathing, but weak since he lost a lot of blood. Michael only lets himself pass out when he hears Max’s terrified, “Michael!”

#malexunfinishedfics #another fic with sleep deprived alex #i think the first scene i ever wrote for this fic was when they walk into the bunker and alex is all #that piece of the spaceship is mine and you can't have it

[themurphyzone]

Nova Ch 3

Ch 3: Planet 

Hi-ho, hi-ho, it’s off to Earth we go!

New Selenian Date 3015.4.13

After several months of grueling labor, the Conquistador is finally complete! We’re proud to consider it our magnum opus for now. Of course, taking over Terra will replace it as the crown jewel of our achievements later.

Currently, we’re in the process of loading the vessel with a two-week supply of sustenance. We won’t have to ration food, considering our projected route is only a one-week journey. I imagine we’ll get tired of canned maza pods rather quickly though. It’s nutritious, but the flavor is lacking.

Good riddance to this barren rock. Unlike the spineless, cowardly Selenians, we’re leaving for the right reasons and with an objective in our brilliant minds.

You won’t have to wait much longer, Terra. We’ll be arriving soon enough.

Signing off for now, the Brain.

o-o-o-o-o

Despite the excitement of leaving behind his old life of a lowly mos on a failing colony, he also felt some unwanted trepidation at leaving Penumbra Lab completely. He wouldn’t have the thrum of the holographic projector under his fingertips, the hidden pathways he traversed to avoid the non-enhanced mos, and most importantly, the sight of Terra through the large, weakening glass windows.

Terra wouldn’t appear as a colorful marble in a black void once he was on the planet. He’d have an entirely new perspective.

Exciting, yet daunting.

There was also the small matter of domination, of course.

“My, somebody’s ready to depart from this miserable rock,” Snowball chuckled, flicking Brain’s ear. It twitched against his will and wrecked his concentration. Did Snowball really think the magnet gun was going to work on its own? Somebody had to keep a constant electromagnetic field going so they wouldn’t have to manually load the canned maza into the ship’s pantry!

Brain batted Snowball���s hand away with the handle of the magnet gun and ignored the reproachful glare he was given. “I’m always ready to depart from miserable rocks, condemned labs, and irritating aisam who can’t keep their hands to themselves,” he said, regaining control of the magnet gun and bringing the last of the canned maza into storage.

“You wound me, Brain.” Snowball clutched his chest with his non-bruised hand. “Your barbed words are tearing me apart from the inside. The internal bleeding is quite agonizing.”  

Brain rolled his eyes at the theatrics, turning the gun off and storing it inside a hidden panel on the wall. There were four similar panels with weapons aboard the Conquistador, courtesy of Snowball. He’d acquired the parts from other labs and cobbled them together in his spare time, much to Brain’s disapproval.

Snowball argued that they needed self-defense measures in case Terrans tried to attack as soon as the Conquistador landed. Brain had created a hypnotizing belt to cover that particular issue, but Snowball didn’t think it was effective enough.

There was a cold gleam in Snowball’s eyes when they had that particular argument. Brain relented because he’d assumed the constant solitude was affecting Snowball’s mind and he’d back to normal soon enough.

However, the normality was still missing.

But he couldn’t dwell on that now. There were many preparations ahead, and he needed to focus.

“We have plenty of maza pods. The overabundance worked to our advantage,” Brain said. “And all important files have been transferred to the Conquistador for our perusal. There isn’t anything else we require, unless you believe we neglected something.”

“You’ve covered the essentials,” Snowball shrugged. “Sadly, I seem to lack…ah, how do you say it—a certain personal attachment to our current location.”

Brain bristled at the mere suggestion of having an attachment to this bleak prison. Terra just happened to be visible from his usual haunts and peripheral vision, and the holographic projector was an extremely useful device, but Snowball clicked his tongue before Brain could protest.

“If you’d allow me to finish, Brain. Penumbra Lab’s stocks of certain items were never replenished after its abandonment. I can’t blame you for being somewhat embittered about it. Rather a confusing paradox, don’t you think?”

“I’m above such pettiness, Snowball,” Brain scowled.

“Of course. I never meant to insinuate such a thing.” Snowball held his hands in what was meant to be a placating gesture, though it was more smug than true appeasement. “Now, while you were busy with the necessities, I took the liberty of leaving a surprise in your private room. I know, I’ve heard the ‘I hate surprises’ spiel a hundred times, but it wouldn’t hurt you to humor me every once in a while.”

“Forgive me for not indulging your odd sense of humor more often,” Brain said dryly, but he allowed Snowball to lead him through the corridor into Brain’s expanded room at the back of the Conquistador.

The door to his quarters automatically slid open as they approached, which Brain was grateful for. Brain expended far too much energy trying to crack open Penumbra’s heavy titanium doors. Motion detector lights illuminated the left, providing just enough light for his work without disrupting the sleeping area on the right. A monitor was linked to the systems in the control room, which would alert him if anything that required his urgent attention cropped up. The earpiece and filter for his transmissions rested on a computer that contained important files related to Terra.

But what really caught his eye were the ten packets of blue, star-shaped seeds on his bed. Brain picked the nearest one up, the seeds crunching against his hand as he thumbed the plastic lining. He hadn’t eaten these since he was a child, though his mind had retained the memory of a sweet flavor mixed in with the blandness of a lab creature’s usual fare.

He popped a seed in his mouth, the sweetness exploding across his palate and reminding him of a bygone time before his enhancements enabled him to recognize the lab for what it was truly was.

“Snowball, how did you find rusuphri?” Brain asked. He’d meant to demand, but his voice sounded more breathless instead, much to his dismay. “Penumbra doesn’t carry these anymore. I’ve searched.”

“Oh, just a chance finding during one of my supply runs to Eclipse,” Snowball replied. “Only the best for a dear friend. Wouldn’t you agree, Brain?”

But Brain’s antennae receptors only sensed cold electricity, and if there was an undercurrent of warm electrons flowing through Snowball’s neurons, it vanished before he could pick up on it. He was used to this sort of output from Snowball though.

Meddling receptors. Brain flicked them out of annoyance, the red orbs bobbing in and out of his vision. He loathed Eclipse Lab. It wasn’t a secret. Snowball must’ve known that his gift could’ve been rejected because of where it came from.

A risky gamble on Snowball’s part, but Brain couldn’t bring himself to hate the rusuphri at all.

He and Snowball had eaten these seeds all the time as children. Before everything became complicated and machinery and silence. Perhaps it was the nostalgia factor, but Brain only felt a rush of gratitude.

“Thank you, Snowball.” Brain held the rusuphri to his chest like a lifeline, unable to stop his lips from quirking up at the corners.  

If Snowball was surprised at the rare show of appreciation, his mask of nonchalance hid it well.

o-o-o-o-o

New Selenian Date 3015.4.14

Snowball and I are departing New Selene at last! We have no reasons that shall keep us from leaving this forsaken abyss!

I will continue sending transmissions from my private quarters on the Conquistador until our triumphant arrival on Terra.

Signing off for now, the Brain.  

o-o-o-o-o

“Thrusters are warming up. A little light on your feet today, Brain?” Snowball smirked as Brain buckled himself into his cushioned seat in the control room. He’d just finished securing his transmission equipment so they wouldn’t float away and accumulate damage. It took him several minutes longer than he would’ve liked since there weren’t many handholds available to keep himself from knocking into the ceiling.

Brain’s patience wore thin from all this disorienting levitation, and he punched the buttons on his side of the control panel to work off his frayed nerves. “Keep practicing and you’ll be a showstopper for comedy night.”

Every lab contained an artificial gravity field to counteract New Selene’s weak pull, which was child’s play to duplicate into the engineering of the Conquistador. It was necessary to disengage the fields for the ship and lab to avoid overworking the engines during departure.

Brain couldn’t wait to get out into space. The Conquistador would operate on autopilot for most of the journey, they’d have their artificial gravity back, and Terra beckoned for them to come and save it from slow-minded ignoramuses. His thoughts were much clearer when his two feet were firmly planted on the ground.

“Oh please. I wouldn’t provide nearly as much entertainment as those simpletons during a Lor Altal.” Snowball wrinkled his nose in disdain, mist trailing from his claws. He pulled a lever and brought the supporting systems online. “Swapping hearts indeed. Bah!”

“Yes. A true disappointment. We won’t ever have the pleasant sight of Selenians exchanging a dripping yellow mass of cardiac tissue with each other,” Brain said.

He kept his tone neutral, but Snowball was too preoccupied with inputting their takeoff trajectory into the computer to notice Brain’s ears and antennae falling limp. Brain was painfully aware of the sensation, how his appendages dangled uselessly, and the nonverbal signs of weakness they screamed to the world.

Lor Altal was an intriguing ritual, purely from a scientific standpoint. How Selenians valued science and discovery, yet held their sentimental stories in high esteem was beyond Brain.  

Hypocrites. They were hypocrites and if Brain had to listen to one more fictional sordid affair between royalty of warring planets...

Well, he could hardly share his opinion on how to improve those particular plotlines with Snowball. He’d believe Brain actually derived enjoyment from those sorry excuses of storytelling.

Brain punched a button with more force than necessary. A gauge flickered to life, signaling that all power was being diverted to the thrusters. The floor trembled, the engine’s roar overwhelming his eardrums.

Snowball bared his sharp teeth in determination, gripping the launch controller at his station with both hands. He made an impatient noise in the back of his throat, and Brain glared back. Abandoning a deserted colony wasn’t something a mos did in a typical day. Brain’s hands nearly slid off his own launch controller, his palms slick with a thin layer of sweat.

This wasn’t a crazy dream. It was reality, the payoff from months of backbreaking labor. Snowball’s salvaging trips provided the materials. Brain’s engineering skills transformed them into a vessel that would carry them beyond the confines of New Selene and into territories unknown.

With the Conquistador as their trusted ship, they would conquer Terra and raise humanity to new heights!

“NOW!” Snowball bellowed.

They yanked the controllers toward their bodies, their heads shoved against the backs of their seats as the thrusters propelled them into the black void above New Selene. For one brief moment, Brain thought his internal organs were being scrambled inside his body, and he was pretty sure his stomach had dropped to lower intestine level and his lungs had somehow taken up residence in his cranium. Snowball wasn’t faring much better, though he was obviously in denial about needing the vomit bag under his seat.

With one final boost, the Conquistador straightened out, Brain and Snowball sliding forward as much as their straps and buckles would allow. Then they were snapped back, and everything went still.

Leaving New Selene orbit. Engage artificial gravity? a program asked.  

“Still…catching my…breath…” Snowball wheezed. His limbs hung off each side of the seat, completely limp from the thrill. He slumped against the headrest, pink eyes wide and tilted to the ceiling. His chest heaved with every quick, frantic breath.

Brain’s throat was far too dry and tight to work properly. With some effort, he reached over and tapped a key, confirming the program’s request.

Artificial gravity engaged.

The weightless feeling vanished, and they sank into the cushions in relief. Brain undid his straps and slid to the edge of his seat, carefully testing his weight on one foot while gripping the chair.

Once he was sure he wasn’t in danger of floating away, he hurried to a side window. New Selene was just a dusty, barren pebble in the distance. Had New Selene truly been that small the entire time? The landscape seemed so endless on the surface.

But there was no use dwelling on it. Their life on New Selene was an artifact of the past.

Ahead of them stood Terra, welcoming and ripe for the taking.

Anticipation flooded through him, and his excitement was so overwhelming that he forgot himself entirely and embraced Snowball. The aisam pawed at Brain’s head in a vain attempt to get him off. But Snowball’s needlelike claws couldn’t pierce through Brain’s newfound sense of purpose.

“I hope you’re amused, Brain,” Snowball muttered. “This bombastic display is ridiculous for any rational being.”

But it was the liveliest electrical current Brain had ever picked from Snowball.  

Later on, Brain would agree with him. Yet they’d accomplished their daring escape together. Now they would achieve the impossible through their combined intellect.

And he let himself revel in the triumph.

o-o-o-o-o

New Selenian Date 3015.4.18

Four days since we’ve left New Selene. We’ve placed the Conquistador in autopilot mode for the most part, though Snowball and I take the helm every few hours to make sure everything’s in order.

The Selenians have plotted many theoretical routes to Terra, and our programs are currently synthesizing that information for the fastest path there.

In less than a week, it will be worth it.  

Signing off for now, the Brain.

o-o-o-o-o

Transmissions were easy to complete and send now that the lab’s structure wasn’t here to obstruct his frequencies. True, he’d never received a reply, and the vacuum of space was still a hindrance, but at least he didn’t have to cart his equipment around and hope the non-enhanced mos left him alone.

From the information he’d gathered about Terra, transmissions would be even simpler on the planet’s surface. An atmosphere composed of a mixture of gases would enable sound to carry without the need for a voice-to-radio-wave filter. Communication mediums that sent messages in the blink of an eye.

He was feeling generous enough to give credit to the Selenians. They selected their topics of study well.

The door opened as Brain secured his equipment to the floor. Snowball strolled in, helping himself to several rusuphri seeds and snacking on them while he skimmed over the file left open on Brain’s computer.

“Research going well, I presume?” Snowball asked. He clicked through the pictures of various Terran landmarks and surrounding areas from a satellite’s view. “Huh. Are we sure there’s no official authority in charge of the entire planet? These images are incredibly thorough.”

“Perhaps if you’d knock first and not touch my things, I’d be more inclined to share my findings,” Brain scowled. He was willing to let the rusuprhi slide because Snowball put in the effort to locate it, but Brain had been reviewing the images of a structure aptly named the Great Wall of China and he didn’t appreciate losing his place.

Snowball pouted. “Come now. Is that any way to treat your colleagues, Brain?”

“If they pride themselves on being a nuisance, then yes.” Brain shoved Snowball aside, then held down the arrow key until he found the number of the image he’d been on. “Now, if you’re finished being an irritating scrik, I might be willing to share some details.”

“Oh, alright,” Snowball sighed. “But if any of this involves locating precious metals for certain accessories…“

Brain minimized the satellite image and brought up a surveillance report on the Terran global structure. He held a preference towards this particular author, since she had the most useful information by far. Her coworkers only put in the bare minimum, which consisted of observations about shiny buildings and how colorful everything appeared.  

Selenians had low standards for scientist qualifications.  

“According to this report, there isn’t a formal power invested in any particular being or organization for authority on the entire world, but Terra is divided into many countries and territories with complex local and international political structures. Some areas have more land, resources, or people, which leads them into conflicts with others.”

“And what about this…Google?” Snowball’s brow furrowed at being forced to say an unfamiliar, nonsensical word. “I’ve seen that name on many of the images you’ve found.”

“A major corporation,” Brain replied. “They have considerable influence in Terran politics and communications, including surveillance.”

He scrolled the report, skipping over the sections about various affiliates. Snowball’s eyes darted back and forth, gleaming with interest.

“Technology capable of reading one’s mind in their own homes,” Snowball mused after reading through a section that outlined other forms of Google’s technology. “How fascinating.”

“If such speculation is true, it’s creepy and a complete invasion of privacy,” Brain retorted, shuddering at the mere idea of his thoughts being broadcasted with just the push of a button. “Terrans are not only squandering their potential, they’re also using it for sinister purposes.”

“It’s a resource. If it’s there, it’s beneficial to us,” Snowball said with a long-suffering expression, like he was explaining a basic addition problem. His eyes widened in mock surprise. “Don’t tell me you regret our little voyage, Brain?”

Brain hated the condescension. He wasn’t a child tottering around on unsteady legs. And his name seemed like an oxymoron whenever Snowball pronounced it.

“In case you’ve forgotten, Snowball,” Brain growled, pacing around the room and making his displeasure known with every step, “I spent many sleepless nights pondering, researching, and building. This vessel was built out of dedication to our goal. I want to rule Terra just as much as you, and I refuse to let my effort be wasted!”

Brain pounded the wall with his fist to emphasize his point, a strange, hollow clang echoing from the section he struck. Just to be sure he wasn’t hearing things, he gave it another experimental knock. Then he noticed the thin, rectangular lines indented in the wall that indicated a hidden panel, one that wasn’t accounted for in the blueprints.

Brain pushed the panel aside, revealing a green blaster strapped to the inside wall. Its yellow handle was polished, and the trigger invited any weapon enthusiast to give it a test run. The sleek design promised swift and deadly force, the barrel spiraling into two sharp, triangular points with a red plasma knob in the center to focus its threatening beams on anyone foolish enough to be on the receiving end.

The blaster was small, but that only meant its power was concentrated tenfold.

Several orange plasma cartridges laid underneath the weapon, the fluids swishing lazily in their containers as if they weren’t waiting to be loaded.

“Why?” Brain asked, his mouth dry.

While his mind struggled to process the plasma blaster’s existence, Snowball sauntered up to him, hands clasped behind his back while he awaited Brain’s judgment.

“Your counterarguments aren’t rooted in logic, Brain,” Snowball explained with that condescending patience Brain hated so much. “We have to be prepared to conquer through force if necessary. Or suppose we need to defend ourselves? If a Terran attempts to kill you, do you truly think asking nicely will convince them otherwise?”

“How naïve do you believe me to be?” Brain snapped. “I told you before that a hypnotizing belt will suit our purposes just fine. You underestimate the power of suggestion.”

Snowball jabbed a claw into Brain’s chest. He stumbled back as white mist coated Snowball’s claw and left spiraling trails of frost across Brain’s jumpsuit, its insulation doing nothing to stop the chill creeping through his body.

“I believe you are being so incredibly, foolishly naïve,” Snowball growled. Brain tried to look Snowball in the eye and challenge him back, but his receptors were numb and the electron current was frigid. “Suggestion won’t guarantee results.”

It felt wrong. Movement generated heat. It was a basic principle of science. But Snowball’s electrons were sluggish even though his neurons were always firing with new ideas and cold where they should be warm.

“You self-sabotage your desires with your burdening attachments.” Snowball’s pink eyes narrowed. “I’m only trying to help you overcome that weakness. Why can’t you understand that?”

Brain latched onto that tiny amount of heat in the current. Enough fuel to burn away the cold, enough outrage at the implied lack of comprehension to break free of his daze.  

“I have no want or need for your so-called help, Snowball!” Brain snarled, slapping Snowball’s hand away. A chill shot through Brain’s palm, but he gritted his teeth and bore the pain as best he could. “If you have nothing remotely intelligent to contribute, then leave!”

Snowball’s face became an impassive mask.

“Very well, Brain,” he said with no inflection in his voice. He turned on his heel and walked out.

And Brain was left alone with the lingering frost, the blaster, and several packages of rusuphri that no longer tasted as sweet as they once did.

o-o-o-o-o

New Selenian Date 3015.4.21

Though our voyage through space was more volatile than I expected, we’ve successfully approached Terra’s exosphere. Under other circumstances, it would be cause for celebration, but…

Well, Snowball has only spoken to me for essentials during the past few days. Usually so he can update me while he raids the pantry for maza or to catch up on sleep.

Our argument has only served as a reminder that we’re not…as united in our mutual goal as much I want to believe.

It must the length of the journey. Access to only four rooms in a one week period can give anyone a serious case of cabin fever. He’ll get better once we land on Terra’s surface, I’m sure.

Signing off for now, the Brain.

o-o-o-o-o

Terra was absolutely impressive up close. Long white swirls decorated the blue oceans and greenish-brown continents far below, and Brain committed the sight to his memory forever. On New Selene, Terra was just a strange marble floating in a dark abyss. Not even the only marble. Just one of billions of celestial bodies out there.

And it would soon be their world to rule, to mold, to improve.

Selenian files claimed that Terra had explored more of space than the depths of their own planet, and since Terra hadn’t progressed far enough to send humans past the moon, then that lack of drive to discover was something Brain sorely needed to fix.

“Are you seeing this, Snowball?” Brain asked, pressing himself up to the window so he could drink in the wonderful view surrounding them.

But Snowball only yawned without bothering to stifle it. Then he typed commands into a computer, only looking up to watch a satellite drift past the Conquistador.

Brain saw his reflection’s ears droop. Scowling, he reached over his shoulder and tugged his left ear up, holding it in place until it stayed upright. He looked ridiculous, but the only one who could take notice never said anything, not even a sarcastic quip.

Terra-gazing suddenly didn’t hold much appeal anymore.

Sighing, Brain shuffled over to his computer and brought up a program that would chart a landing course for them. The program locked onto their current position, somewhere above a continent called North America. Brain only tapped keys when a command prompt appeared, finding it difficult to concentrate on where they’d end up landing, but he quickly sat up and shook himself out of his stupor.

If he wasn’t careful, he could send them plunging straight into the depths of Ohio. Before the colony’s abandonment, some hapless sociologist in Zenith Lab went stir-crazy from being assigned Ohio for a research thesis. After that, he became the topic of all conversations after his little stunt with the maza can and screwdriver was recorded for all of New Selene’s viewing pleasure. Brain had no desire to end up like that poor sap.

So he typed away, flicking his left wrist to get rid of the cramping sensation that was starting to build up. Coordinates, relative position, and preferred angle of descent all factored in to selecting their destination. He inputted the numbers he’d memorized back in Penumbra, hit enter, and let the program do the rest of the work.

It would take several minutes to run the numbers and configure the best trajectory, so Brain reclined in his chair and watched Terra while he waited.

Funny how the planet appealed to him again after he’d finally turned his attention elsewhere. He just couldn’t stay away from its ethereal glow.

“Brain.”

Brain startled at the sound of his name. It had been a while since Snowball pronounced it without a sneer. Snowball approached, casually slinging an arm across the back of Brain’s chair as green slowly inched across the progress bar on the computer.

“You’ve been working,” Snowball said.

Short sentences were better than nothing. But even so, the obvious didn’t need to be stated.  

“Really? What gave it away?” Brain asked.

Snowball glanced at the ceiling and tapped his chin, taking his sweet time to voice his opinions.

“Consider it a hunch. I couldn’t help but notice that you appear a little…as they say, down.” Snowball put his hand against his large cranium, then let his hand hover an inch above Brain’s head, flattening his antennae. Sadly, antennae didn’t count in accurate measurements of height.

Brain scoffed. “You have a keen sense of observation, Snowball. As anyone with half a retina can see, I’m one of those unfortunate organisms without a genetic makeup that favors height.”

“Yes, that does seem to be a…small issue,” Snowball smirked at his own joke, and Brain buried his face in his hands. Being poached and experimented on wasn’t terrible enough for the universe.

Whoever was in charge of the place just had to torture him with a terrible comedian for a companion too.

Brain hit a key in rapid succession as if it would make the progress bar fill any faster. “Are you going to do something productive or do you still insist on tormenting me for your own amusement?”

Snowball glanced at the computer. The progress bar had been halfway filled with green for the past two minutes, with no signs of progression in the foreseeable future.

“We’ve made it, Brain,” Snowball declared. “Soon Terra shall have our names emblazoned on golden banners everywhere.”

Golden banners. Parades in their honor. People bowing for miles and miles as far as the eye could see.  

For such a grand vision, their arrival appeared rather lackluster.  

“I was expecting this to be the grandest moment of our lives,” Brain admitted. “Yet nobody’s responded to my transmissions, and our journey was spent flitting between controlling the ship and taking care of necessary functions for life. It’s rather underwhelming.”

“Yes, there does seem to be a certain lack of fanfare,” Snowball mused. “But who said we couldn’t add a little flair of our own?”

Brain shrugged, dragging his hands down his face when the progress bar halted yet again. “Depends on your idea of flair. We never packed materials to host our own welcome party.”

“Perhaps not. But moments of imminent triumph demand food consumption. Unless you couldn’t resist the allure of delicious rusuphri, of course. We should have some before making contact with the surface,” Snowball said, poking Brain’s stomach.

“It’s rude to comment on a mos’s weight, Snowball,” Brain muttered, pushing the aisam away so he had room to stand up. “But partaking in a victorious toast with rusuphri just before we begin our descent is not without merit.”

“All of my ideas have merit,” Snowball said, following Brain to the door. Snowball waved his paw near the motion sensor, the door opening with a pneumatic hiss. There was little point to chivalry when it came to advanced technology though. “Don’t keep me waiting too long, Brain. I’m rather famished.”

Brain shook his head as he stepped into the corridor. “Yes, I’m sure you’ll be feeble and emaciated in the three minutes it’ll take me to retrieve a packet.”

Snowball only smiled in response, like he found starvation amusing. Then he sat in Brain’s chair, the door closing before Brain could yell at him to get out.

Resigned to having his designated spot occupied, Brain walked past the pantry and Snowball’s room, the latter only used for the bare essentials. After a week of limited accommodations, Brain would never again question the luxury of wide open spaces.

Once he got to his room, he dug the packets out from between the wall and his bed.

He didn’t tell Snowball that he’d only eaten two packets of rusuphri during their entire journey and left the rest untouched. The treat had become tainted after their argument, and the usual sweet flavor just hadn’t been there. Maza didn’t taste like anything, so he had to live with the lack of stimulation for his taste buds over the past few days.

As a test, he crunched one of the blue seeds between his teeth, and the sweetness coated his tongue once more.

The perfect treat for their victory.

Clutching the open packet to his chest, Brain rushed to the door, remembering belatedly that he should at least try to conduct himself with a dignity befitting a world emperor and-

He slammed into the door.

The impact left him seeing stars, and he shook his head to rid himself of the dizziness. Then he kicked it, but he was forced to abandon that after a few strikes because his heel began to throb.

It was automatic. If there had been an issue with the Selenian design for automatic doors, he would’ve caught it long before this point.

“Useless hunk of metalloids and wires,” Brain growled at the door, like it had emotions to hurt.

The lights flickered once, twice, then shut off completely, bathing the entire room in darkness. And while Terra was still visible from his small window, its azure glow only lit the window and two feet beyond that. Not nearly enough.

Clutching the packet of rusuphri to his chest, Brain hurried over to the monitor, his heart pounding wildly out of his chest.

He hadn’t come this far, spent months toiling on this project, just to succumb to a poorly timed malfunction!

Brain smacked the monitor with his palm, the screen refusing to display anything.

“Snowball!” Brain shouted. “Snowball, answer this instant! This blackout has caused our automated system to trap me in my room!”

He banged on several keys, in case there was an off-chance that audio still went through.

His channel wasn’t reaching its destination.

Snowball was still in the control room. Was their alert system for mechanical trouble still online? Was their main source of power breaking down?

This was impossible. They were destined to rule Terra. That dream had driven them through many hard nights, arguments, and impasses.

“Aren’t you supposed to be a mighty king someday? Why are you so afraid, Brain?”  

Whether it was Snowball or his own voice taunting him for cowardice, he didn’t know. But he was going to prove it wrong.

The walls creaked ominously.

The orbs on his tail and antennae vibrated with nervous kinetic energy, distracting him until every last thread of logic slipped through his fingers. Brain dropped the packet, and the seeds scattered across the floor.

“Snowball?” he called, trying to sound demanding, but his voice came out weak and tiny instead.

Then he remembered the blaster he’d been so insistent on not using. Well, he wouldn’t be using it for the purpose Snowball intended, but he didn’t have many options.

Brain’s trembling fingers couldn’t grasp the panel without sliding off, and it took him several tries before he was able to shove it aside.

Focus. Load the cartridge. Shoot door. Escape room. Check controls. Find Snowball.

Brain chanted his mental checklist over and over in his mind, his hands missing the blaster’s handle as he tried to tug it free from its secure position.

There were straps. He needed to unstrap it from the wall first.

The prospect of failing was causing him to lose concentration.

He was going to lose his opportunity to rule Terra. He was going to lose the vessel he’d toiled to build.

And he was going to lose Snowball.

While they’d had plenty of disagreements, Snowball was the only companion he’d ever known. Even if Snowball wasn’t always there to be a companion with how often he traversed New Selene.

No, he wouldn’t lose Snowball to some inopportune mechanical issue.

They would be crowned co-emperors, attach their names to major establishments, let their legacies be renowned for centuries after their inevitable deaths!

With that vision spurring him forth, he undid the straps of the blaster and pulled it free, snagging a plasma cartridge with his other hand.

The Conquistador jolted.

Thrown off-balance, the cartridge slipped from his grasp and shattered on the floor, orange liquid and metal shards pooling around his feet. Brain took a step back in an attempt to right himself, crying out as a particularly sharp piece of metal cut into the sole of his right foot. He was lucky it didn’t go in all the way, his jumpsuit mitigating some of the damage, but it stung fiercely whenever he tried to move.

Outside the window, colorful Terra swallowed the black void of space. Then he was thrown against the ceiling, the metallic roof hot against his back.

Brain tried to peel himself off, but his energy was spent just trying to avoid the unsecured shards and turning his head so the plasma didn’t splash against his mouth. The blaster and rusuprhi seeds bounced uncontrollably against the monitors, his body, and the walls.

If panic hadn’t overtaken his intelligence, he might’ve remembered that the paneling was fortified to prevent them from burning up in Terra’s atmosphere.

His mind claimed otherwise.  

Here lies a mos from the dilapidated colony of New Selene, intelligence and the natural properties of his species enhanced by the so-called greatest scientific minds of the century. Burning in Terra’s atmosphere to follow a grandiose dream.

If some miracle allowed his charred body to crash into the surface, perhaps someone would find the ship and his cadaver inside.

Ha. His body oh-so generously donated to science after his death without his opinion factored into the matter as it had in life. How was that for poetic injustice?

Another jolt. A sudden pitch to the left.

Falling.

A three-ounce mos falls at the rate of Terran terminal velocity from a height of six thousand miles. Calculate the rate at which his failure to achieve anything worthwhile plummets into the planet’s surface.

Just like a quantum physics equation. Brain almost laughed. A weak, rueful laugh was all he was capable of producing.

It might’ve been an eternity. Or eighteen hours. Or just a few milliseconds.

One more plunge. The metal shrieked and groaned as it impacted something solid and immovable.

Brain tumbled to the ground, pain shooting through his foot when he smacked it against the unsecured bedframe.

The blaster rolled to a stop against his left hand. The seeds stilled. The walls fell silent.

Brain gasped and caught his breath, his heartbeat roaring loudly in his ears. He tried to stand, but his back was uncomfortably hot and he couldn’t bear weight on his right foot without the harsh sting, and he was forced to lay on his stomach so the pain didn’t become completely unbearable.

He wondered if Snowball had made it out unscathed.  

That was his last coherent thought before darkness crowded his vision.

AN: Brain. You’re extending the word count with your angst.

Oops. I’m sorry Brain. I love you I swear. Why doesn’t he believe me, guys?

Rusuphri: Sweet blue star-shaped seeds. 

Lor Altal: Literal translation-sharing hearts. Oral storytelling between Selenians. 

This chapter was a doozy. The first two were short just cause I was introducing everyone. Idk if they’re all going to be this long. I’m not aiming for word count here. They’re as long as they need to be.

#pinky and the brain #patb nova #patb snowball